KABUL — One week before his wedding, on a day when his fiancee picked out a gold-plated necklace, when his father borrowed silverware for hundreds of guests, when his mother waited for her son to return from the front lines, Sgt. Masiullah Hamdard stepped on the bomb that tore off his legs and left arm. When he regained consciousness two days later at Kabul’s military hospital, no one had to tell him the wedding was postponed. He remembers looking down at his stumps covered in bandages, and wincing. And then, the 19-year-old howled. “What is there left for me in this country?” Hamdard was wounded in May, at the beginning of the bloodiest fighting season in the 12-year-old war against the Taliban. The Afghan army had just inherited the conflict that the United States had started, and the hospital bore the proof: two floors full of amputees and a morgue with a stack of plywood coffins. Over the next six months, a dozen Afghan soldiers and police officers would die on average each day. Even in a country with one of the world’s highest proportions of amputees, the newest generation of war-wounded Afghans has emerged so suddenly that the government is overwhelmed. Hundreds of American troops lost limbs to bombs placed by the same insurgents. But Afghan soldiers face an even more dubious fate. Will their government support them? Do their sacrifices mean anything in a country inured to war? Hamdard doesn’t dwell on such sweeping questions. When he joined the Afghan army two years ago, he had never heard of 9/11. He wanted enough money to support a family and the chance to strike back at the Islamist extremists in his native Konar province — the men with long beards who once slapped him for not wearing a prayer cap. Now, as he recovered in a hospital bed, a juice carton filled with plastic flowers beside him, as spring turned to summer and then autumn, his questions became highly specific. “Am I going to walk?” he asked his doctor. “Are we going to get married?” he asked his fiancee.