Summary: Alfred portrays what a medic goes through during the Normandy invasion of 1944. Based off the first 27 minutes of the awesome movie "Saving Private Ryan" and parts of the awesome series "Band of Brothers." One-shot.
A/N: This is my first fan-fiction. I am completely new. Please be nice, okay? English is not my best subject. I do no parings.
Disclaimer: Also, I own nothing.
Morning of June 6, 1944
This was it. This was the long-awaited moment that they were all trained for. They were headed to the beaches of France. Some were nervous, and nearly the entire trip to Normandy was silent. Not a single word was spoken. Everyone was lost in thought.
What's going to happen? Will they live, get wounded, or die? Will they have a painful death? What will they see? Will this operation fail? These are the questions which made the soldiers anxious. None of them wanted to be here, getting seasick while riding on the LCVP. None of them wanted to see what will happen once they land on the beach. And none of them, of course, wanted to die. They were normal guys from civilization and then they were dragged into this mess. They had families and friends to go back to. They have a life back home. But how would they ever live the same after this?
"Thirty seconds!" Someone on a higher level of the LCVP yelled. Only thirty seconds were left, yet it didn't feel anything like that. Time went by too soon. For many, this will be their last moment living. Most were quietly praying while holding a rosary or pocket Bible. Others were clutching onto their dog tags that hung around their necks. Some were simply vomiting over the edge of the boat or, sadly, in the boat. Few stood, doing nothing but watch the rest of them.
A young medic with the bluest eyes and sandy hair stood near the center of the landing craft, surrounded by his comrades. The water of the ocean sprayed onto his uniform and helmet as the boat swayed, causing him to look up. The sky was gloomy today… He wished he could at least see a bit of blue. He would have something to be happy about if he were to get shot. His friend next to him gave a small nudge with an elbow.
"Are you alright, Alfred?" Private First Class Kirkland asked with a British accent. He was Alfred's most trusted buddy. They met at West Point, and even though Arthur's family lived in England he volunteered with the Americans because he already lived in America for four years.
"Yeah, I'm fine," The medic calmly replied. But on the inside, he was terrified.
"Fifteen seconds!" The man yelled again. Alfred was scared, but did he ever show it? Never. Medics were the heroes that saved the wounded. Being a medic meant you had to stay calm, no matter what the circumstances were. He kept to himself all the time. Even when he wasn't okay, he always looked okay. He did not show others how he felt. But there was a bad feeling he had lingering in his head. And it wasn't from seasickness.
The air was salty, and the gunfire was loud. Ahead, large booming artillery was raining down on the beaches. Every now and then, an explosion occurred in on the waters. The other landing craft to the right blew up in the water, killing all soldiers aboard that boat. More water was sprayed. A few looked over the side to see it go down.
Their landing craft was nearing the shore. The lieutenant in the front turned around to face the men, yelling over the noise, "Whatever you do, just keep on moving! We need to get to the sea wall fast!"
Suddenly, the boat came to a halt. "Get ready," said the lieutenant. The hatch slowly came down, revealing the murderous chaos. "Go! Get out of the boat! Move! Move!" Machine guns instantly killed the first group of soldiers before they even left the vehicle. Luckily, the lieutenant lived. The others began exiting the boat as fast as possible, stepping over the bodies of the deceased. Alfred followed behind them, hoping not to get killed. His legs were now in the cold ocean water, dragging through the shore and onto the dry sand of Omaha beach. Arthur was beside Alfred, just getting out of the shallow water until a bullet ripped through his helmet and in his head. Alfred heard it, and glanced to see his friend drop in the water with a bleeding hole in between his lifeless green eyes.
He couldn't go back to help him. There was nothing he could do for his best friend. Arthur was dead, and all that could be done was wish that he was in heaven.
Alfred continued moving, leaving the body of his well-known friend. There were other things he needed to be thinking about right now. He needed to focus. If he took even a second to think about Arthur at the moment, his emotions would overwhelm him and he would not be able to function as a soldier. He took cover behind one of the metal tetrahedrons planted in the sand, seeing that the other men were also crouching behind those to prevent the bullets from hitting them. Other than that, there was no other kind of cover. Dead bodies lay everywhere, either shot or blown into bits by artillery. Men were shouting orders to push onwards and another LCVP burst into a heap of flames as it arrived on the beach. Some troops escaped the boat, already covered in fire, before collapsing onto the low French tides.
As Alfred squatted low behind the large metal structure, with bullets clinking on the metal and whizzing past his head, someone was calling for a medic. He knows he must go and help. He knows that he must move forward. But the Germans wouldn't let him. The machine gunners up in the bunker saw him move, and Alfred rolled back to his spot just in time before a row of bullets were fired at where he once was.
"Medic!" He heard the desperate scream from the distance. "Medic!" He had to go. People needed him. But the Krauts prevented him from his objective. Alfred gritted his teeth in frustration, stood up from his cover, and sped across the battlefield, heading to the sea wall. The voice was coming from there. The bullets from the machine guns were threatening to kill almost anywhere. Craters in the sand were spread out, made by the shells that were zeroing the allied forces. Smoke was accumulating as more firepower poured down on them, and the ground shook like relentless consecutive earthquakes. Alfred vaulted over American corpses. His heart was racing faster than his speed. Bombs exploded all around him. The racket of war raged on, but he could only think of getting to the injured person without getting himself killed. He did not notice the men around him being shot. He did not want to think about it.
By how difficult and stubborn the Germans fought, they were serious about defending their post. They must have known about some kind of allied invasion. They showed no mercy for the Americans. The machine guns never stopped firing, and the bombs were taking away lives by the second. Alfred felt useless. Medics couldn't carry guns!
He was dodging the deadly shooting that the Germans gave from their emplacements until a shell bomb blasted a few meters in front of him, kicking up sand, dirt, and metal shards. He fell from the force, his back smacking the sand floor, as if someone pushed him down really hard. At first he hadn't realized what exactly had happened. He blinked a few times to widely open his squeezing eyelids. His ears were ringing, unable to comprehend anything going on. Alfred was stuck in a daze. But as he took in his surroundings, his senses eventually cleared up. Soon enough, he realized that one of the metal shards was lodged into his upper right arm and he had a gash on his shin. It was a miracle he survived such a close attack. His helmet was knocked off and dark dirt blackened his face even more. Although his right arm was in searing pain and his leg was a real bother, Alfred picked himself up, put his helmet on, and headed out again. He tried ignoring the pain that swelled and grew with every step.
At last, he reached the soldier who called out to him first. There were tons of others yelling for help, but he heard him first. What the medic found behind the sea wall was a sergeant kneeled down beside a fallen corporal, in whom the latter's leg was totally blown off by a shell explosion and his lower left abdomen was pouring out blood. The young corporal clenched his teeth, groaning in pain, but endured the horrible feeling and grasped on the hope that the medic would save his life. Alfred took out his supply bag slung over his shoulder, brought out some bandages, and tore open a pack of sulfa.
He hesitated, shaken by the sight of the bleeding corporal. Much flesh was showing from where the leg was obliterated, and even the bones were visible as strings of muscle were hanging loosely. As for the wound on the lower abdomen, the blood seeped through the olive green fabric and stuck to the corporal's hand, which was placed there from the start to stop the bleeding. Alfred began with the bullet. Well, the bullet hole. After he fumbled with the jacket of the uniform and struggled to take it off, he examined it and saw that the bullet went through one side and out the other. At least he doesn't need to remove the bullet anymore. The white sulfa powder was dumped on the wound and Alfred began wrapping it with the bandages.
"Sarge, put this on the leg, would you?" He handed him a pack of sulfa. The unknown sergeant dutifully took it. Alfred turned back to the dying soldier, looking for the name that's embedded on every uniform. His hair was blond and when Alfred looked into his eyes, they were colored in a nice shade of purple. "Williams, right?"
Williams slowly returned the nod. "Yeah…" he choked out a response.
"What's your first name?" Alfred wanted to distract Williams from panicking.
"Matthew. They call me Matt, but only a few know me." He had an accent that sounded Canadian.
"Alright, Matt. That's good… I'm Alfred. Don't worry, okay? You'll be alright. Where're you from, Mattie?" He wished he believed his own words as he wrapped a bandage on what's left of the leg with his bloodstained hands.
"F-From Vancouver," a slight pause. At first Alfred thought he died since he did not respond until Williams went on, taking deep breaths in between words. "I moved to America with my parents a couple years ago… No one ever notices me…" He clears his throat. "Hey… Am I going to die?"
Alfred felt his heart ache. He was not so sure how to answer the question he would probably hear a million times more. But the sight of the young man's sad, painful face made a pang in his chest. He looked not a day older than 17 or 18, too young to die. Frankly, there was a chance that Matthew would end up dead. Then, a dreaded thought crept into Alfred's mind.
What if I fail?
Not this again.
What if I can't keep him alive?
He bit his own lip.
No! He scolded himself. Stop thinking so negatively… I gotta try my best!
"You'll be fine. I got you. I'm here, aren't I? I promise… You'll be fine. You promise me you'll be my friend and trust me?" The comforting words seemed to ease Matthew, his face showing relief. Alfred was glad about that and relaxed, adding a finishing touch to the bandage.
"Yeah, definitely. T-Thanks, uh, Al," he had said weakly with a soft smile before Alfred took out some morphine and injected the syrette on the thigh to fight off all the pain. The patient drifted into a soothing state of unconciousness in a matter of minutes.
Matthew was rushed back near the shore, where all the other wounded was transported for the meantime. A stretcher that the sergeant sent out for safely carried him back. The amount of shelling decreased massively in just a short period of time and the machine gun nest was no longer in action, so Alfred was sure his new Canadian friend would most likely be safe at this point. He prayed he had done enough so that Matthew would live a long life, long enough to forget this nightmare. And maybe he'd see him again.
The cries for a medic continue throughout the battered beach. He knows that his wish to never treat another badly wounded person again will never come true. What he saw with Matthew was just the beginning of a medic's horrors. Just to think about the worst situations possible sickened Alfred to the core. He got up once more to tend another bloody body, because it was his job. And all these horrors come with the job.
The job of being a field medic.
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