He was on his back, in dim shadowy light, on lumpy hard rock. His hand twitched and his fingernails caught dirt. Experimenting, he lifted his arm. It worked. Ached with what was likely a mass of bruises, but it still worked. He held his hand in front of his face. He could see it, his fingers moving in the dim light.
There was no glove on his hand.
Where was his uniform? Uh.
What the hell had happened?
He was in civvies. His usual flannel shirt, grey undershirt. His hand brushed his thigh. Jeans.
He lifted a leg, but was told in immediate and no uncertain terms that it was a bad idea. His leg seemed fine, but his gut screamed loud enough to shut down most of the processes in his brain. The world greyed for a moment.
He forced his eyes open again.
Dust floated in the air.
His head was at an angle enough to see partway down his body. And what he saw was enough to let him know that moving pretty much anything was out of the question.
Something was sticking out the right side of his abdomen. A three-quarter inch thick mangled rod of metal protruded by about four inches. His grey undershirt was soaking up red.