Disclaimer: I don't own em, just playing, and then I'll put em back, I promise.
Saunders kept low, burying the toes of his boots into the muddy earth beneath him. On his left, Kirby, firing rapidly, had almost the same belly-down posture, sweating madly. On his right, Doc lay similarly, looking tired and helpless without a weapon, his medical pouch on hand. Littlejohn was somewhere nearby, amidst smoke and screams of the wounded.
Back at camp Lt. Hanley was resting, having taken bullet to the chest and several pieces of shrapnel, three in the back. Doc said he was in critical condition, though the doctor's there suspected full recovery, but it would take time for him to get back on his feet. Time and rest, and lots of it. And so, here they were, pinned down by enemy troops, without the orderly and somehow calming presence of their battalion leader, and it took every strength to keep Saunders from screaming, "Fall back!"
Doc was sure this state of peril couldn't go on for much longer. Hours of it, it seemed, and not much change. Bullets were peppering the ground all around them, digging furrows and tiny holes all around. Funny how that is, such tiny things, bullets are. And yet, one wrong move or twitch of the finger and a man could die. There was no such thing as fear of bullets, not on their own. But fear of death… how was that?
His thought process was interrupted when a thud sounded. Saunders had caught a bullet in his right arm. He was slowly pushing himself around like a broken clock hand, staying close to the ground, till he was facing the right way and could flip himself onto his stomach again. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead as Doc slid forward and tied a makeshift bandage around the wound. A through-and-through. A good thing, to be sure, but it still lacked proper care. If that wound got infected- Oh, thought Doc, there goes the medic in me.
A long time ago he'd been a grocer, in what felt like another life. Tying up packages of meat was sure different from tying up a tourniquet. To save a man's life, well, that was something big. Bigger than his other job, than his other life.
"You gonna be able to shoot, Sergeant?"
"I'm okay. Thanks, Doc." He grimaced. A grenade detonated close by. Too close for comfort, and that triggered the flight instinct in them. After all, there was no "fight" with explosions. But Saunders held fast and though he seemed battle weary enough to drop right then and there, he squeezed off a series of random, un-aimed shots in the enemy's direction.
When a scream and a distinct thud sounded from enemy lines, Doc got a rush of relief and pity. Whoever gave that scream was most likely dead, and if not, going to suffer greatly in future days. Gunshot wounds were far from easy fixes.
Several shots sounded from all sides, adding to the din of surrounding enemies. Smoke, fire- funny thing how war awoken all of the senses, flooding the mind with horrible and beautiful images. Currently, Doc was thinking of a lady who used to visit the grocers often- she had bright chestnut hair…. lovely, lovely brown eyes. Oh, and her small nose. Sometimes she'd come just to see him, to flirt. He hadn't particularly loved her. But as a young boy, he'd had a crush on her, with those scarlet red lips. Red like blood. Like the blood on him. Coming from him. He blacked out.
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