Author's note/Disclaimer:
THIS FANFICTION CONTAINS SEGMENTS OF STRONG WAR VIOLENCE/GORE ALONG WITH HARSH LANGUAGE. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. I DO NOT OWN THE CONTENT OF WARHAMMER 40K OR ANY OF IT'S LIKENESS.

The Memoirs of an Imperial Combat Medic

Chapter 1:

Feels Like the First Time

"Keep that fucker steady! I am not losing another wounded man to blood loss because some rookie gets squeamish around blood!" called my primary surgeon to one of the assistants inside.

They were operating on a fresh wounded man. Based on what I saw when they pulled him in it looked like his guts were torn out. I saw sharp segment of shrapnel torn into his Flak jacket and under the standard shirt. All of this was happening while I leaned against a tent having a smoke, waiting for a bed to be free. As much as I wanted to help him, I couldn't.

As far as I was concerned, I was more skilled than those primary assistants in there right now. This may have only been my second tour and they may have freshly graduated training with their textbooks fresh in their minds, but I doubt they can handle seeing a Chimera driver in this bad of shape and save him. They're too shaky.

"I agree." someone said, hearing me talking to myself.

Out from the tent walked another one like me, wiping sweat off his brow. This guy, unlike me, was well-built. I was a little guy. The wars aged him, scarred him, wrinkled him. I was still fresh as far as he knew. His medical bag was open, some of the contents removed for surgery on the man inside. My bag was still zipped and full. He still had gloves on. I took mine off so I can smoke easier. He was dirty, grimy, sweaty. I was fair-skinned. He had facial hair growing around his cheeks and upper lip. I was a cue ball; completely shaved. He was Sgt. Garret. I was Lcpl. Cyrus.

I looked up at him.

"They couldn't save him?"

He shook his head, taking off his helmet and sitting on it.

"Fucking fresh meat are killing our wounded."

I smirked and retorted.

"As if there were that many we can save."

He let out a loud laugh.

"More than you think, buddy. Tau may think they're better than us, but I've seen more casualties fighting Chaos cults."

His remark reminded me of my first time in the field.

It was close to a year ago, the anniversary was in three weeks. My company was in a trench, aiming our rifles down what looked like an empty valley. Our rifles were loaded, armed, prepared for whatever was coming up that hill. Next to me was a young Pvt. His name was Jessop. He was a young guy, on his first tour like I was. He was a ginger; pasty skin, blue eyes, a little bit larger, but he was friendly enough. He gently nudged me with the butt of his lasrifle.

"Hey buddy. First tour?"

I nodded.

"Yeah, same here. You think we're gonna kill anything?"

I nodded again.

"So do I. Parents told me that I gotta kill as many of those sons-of-bitches as I can."

I was silent. Then, I heard him prepared to say something, but the sound of his voice was replaced by loud gagging. He was our first casualty against a large force of cultists, driven by the word of Chaos.

"Open fire!" cried a Lt. from down the line, the entire company firing on the ascending forces. I helped Jessop into my arms, in a position where it'd be easier to carry him. I kept his rifle strung over his midsection, swinging mine behind my shoulder so I wouldn't accidentally discharge into him and kill him. He was gasping for air, even with a shell fragment right in his throat. When I saw him on his feet, he had a jovial expression, waiting and preparing. Now, on the ground, his face contorted to that of something horrible, begging and pleading me to save his life. I wanted to, so I dragged him through the soggy trenches (rain was falling hard, making the soil we were standing in soggy and muddy).

We were out of the trenches and away from our front line, but we weren't out of the woods yet. The medical tent was still a good 150-200 meters away. I lifted the dying man into my arms, getting him in a comfortable position and one easy to carry him. With that, I ran for my life, making my way inside of the tent in good time.

I shoved the tent flap away making my way inside, laying the first casualty on the closest bed. This made our closest surgeon and several attendants stand up as they surrounded me as I hooked an IV into his arm, shooting him up with morphine. As much as I knew, he was unconscious. The doctor tapped my shoulder, a young Captain by the name of Derrik. His voice was hoarse and aggressive, worried about our first man down.

"What happened?"

"Single round through his trachea, clean puncture."

"How long did it take for you to get here?"

"Approximately 3 minutes."

The captain nodded as he looked to his attendants.

"We have no fucking time to waste! We have a man down and we're going to save his life!"

His attendants saluted him, surrounding me as I fastened a neck brace for him, holding his head up. As my first procedure, I was scared for him. The captain pat my shoulder."

"Fresh combat medic I take it?"

"Yes sir." was how I responded, cleaning the area and holding pressure on the wound.

"You're doing damn fine, son. Move your hands for me, please, I want to suck some of the blood from the wound so I can get that bolt out."

I agreed, moving my hands away, still holding pressure as he took a single plastic tube, moving it beside the bolt as loud sucking began, sapping the blood from the open wound. With a swift movement, one of the attendants handed me a pair of pliers, the captain looking up at me as he handed me a face mask for my other hand.

"You're doing fine. Put that mask on and I want you to take it out."

I agreed, fastening the mask as I moved their hands away, noticing a now dark-silver object. I sent the pliers in, clenching them around the debris as I slowly removed it from his neck. An attendant held a platter to hold it on, taking it away to go through proper disposal. The doctor shoved me away gently.

"You're one hell of a medic, I'll tell you that, but I doubt you know the first thing about surgery, let alone how to repair a man's trachea. Your job is done. We have more wounded out there."

I began to leave as he told me one thing that I still remember to this day.

"Kick ass, medic."

It was motivating as I ran out there, assisting the men in pushing back a large influx of our enemies, forcing the cultists into a retreat, cutting them down with no effort. However, as the standard infantry fought on, long and hard, I walked upwards, back into our own lines. I looked into the trench I stood only about an hour earlier to a grisly site. Out of an approximate 150-man company, there were around 20 bodies right in front of me, dead. People I could've saved. However, I looked up, on the way back towards the medical area established, noticing that there were other wounded being saved there. It was an assuring feeling, saving my first life. It may have been a simple thought, but I had a feeling that Jessop would forever be in my debt. I saved him, after all. I may never know; he can earn a commission, a position of leadership, command of a weapons team, possibly even a regimental guidon. It was something to think about.

"Hey, at least your first casualty you've saved. That's kinda rare, knowing how much worse combat medics are getting with each class." Garret told me, his hands in his pockets.

"I guess so. Was your first guy saved?" I asked. Garret shook his head.

"Nah. Granted, his injuries were worse and much more difficult to save. Live grenade landed a couple feet away and blew out part of his skull. He suffered irreparable brain damage and the doctor voted to take the guy out of his misery."

I nodded sadly. I've had deaths on my hand, but the motivation that helped save my first keeps me going strong. Every day, I think about that one time, that time someone laid their lives in my hands and I saved him. No matter who dies, it was the hope of saving a life that kept me going hard.