He was back in the fox hole, surrounded by people he thought he knew. Alone in the dark, surrounded. He'd been wearing the same clothes since he didn't know when, forgot to shower among all the chaos that came in and out of his way. In his down time he would try to sleep, all attempts being just a waste of time. His brain would never settle down, thinking about anything and everything. The quickest way to stop bleeding, the weight of the tools of trade in his hands, if all the supplies were ready for the next bout of insanity.
He hoped someone would notice. Notice the hours he had been putting in, notice that he hadn't really slept in days. He hoped they'd do more than notice, that they'd do something about it. Sit him down and say, "Go in there and rest." or "You're done for now." He'd insist that he was fine, yet he was hoping that they'd be persistent and stop him from himself before he was too worn out to function. He was indirectly asking for help. Wanting to scream "I'm not okay, not in the slightest." But instead he kept calm and sharp as he could manage and he tackled the task and patients at hand. Hoping that someone would see through his shield and stop him from himself because he didn't have the strength to do it.
When he finally stopped to think about it, field trauma work wasn't different from hospital trauma work. Not in the least bit.