Disclaimer: Marvel Entertainment owns all characters mentioned with the exception of Cat who is my own invention. This is a work of fanfic, no copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note. The inspiration for this story was reading "Icy roads" by "Jo the Phoenix". It basically tells the story of a couple of paramedics that run into Logan. That got me thinking that in the course of his long life, Logan must have had a lot of run ins with the Medical Services, How would they react, especially pre-knowledge of the existence of mutants. This is the result. It will be a series of one shots write and updated when the Muse strikes me. She does however love reviews, so if you want to encourage her (and me), please send lots. Flames are ignored; it's just for fun people!
Hang on
They found him hanging on the wire, surrounded by the remnants of his platoon.
The blood had dyed his khaki a dull red, and the blue eyes that gazed up at them, as they untangled him, were dull and unfocused.
Neither Moley nor his companion expected him to live. In fact neither was quite sure why they even were carrying a man so obviously near death to the Regimental Aid Post.
Perhaps it was because amidst all that death, all the destruction he was still alive, and for that fact alone they had to give him a chance.
The bodies were stacked down both sides of the trench, when they reached it. After reporting their casualty to the station, both walked away to retrieve more.
It was not till much, much later, that Moley passed that way again. The line of stretchers was as long as ever, almost all new faces.
Their wire victim was still there.
"Poor Devil. He's a long way from home" Moley thought, noticing, for the first time the insignia of Canada on his uniform.
It seemed wrong that he should have survived going over the top, survived been shot, lasted hours upon the wire, only to die because there were too many casualties and too few medics. He knelt in the mud beside the man, to see if there was a letter, a photo, anything to send home. To tell someone that he had died bravely.
He steeled himself for the horrific injuries he'd seen early as he pulled back the blanket...and stared.
The skin was unbroken. Filthy certainly, but with no sign of the holes that had earlier graced the chest. The wrists and arms, earlier covered with angry red lines from the wire, were now whole.
He must have gasped or made some sound, for the eyes flipped open. No longer dull and unfocused, they gazed at him with an expression of terror that Moley was sure mirrored his own. He sniffed the air, before muttering
"Water."
Dumbly Moley yanked his own canteen out of its holder, and held the cold metal against his lips as he drank deeply.
"Where am I?"
He stammered out an answer. The man nodded and began to attempt to get to his feet. The rational part of Moley's brain was screaming at him not to let him, that he was injured. But the evidence of his eyes belayed that.
He was short when he stood up, barely five foot three, with black hair too long and too untidy to belong to any British soldier. His face still bore the stubble of a couple of days.
Despite that his movements and attitude spoke of a combat vertan of one of the new units. Not some poor constricted kid, like him. A soldier.
His eyes looked into Moley's like they were boring into his soul
"Don't tell anyone what ya saw, today." The threat in his voice was apparent, but so was the terror in his eyes. He was about to protest, but decided against it. In this time of death and chaos, who was he to judge.
He nodded. The man gathered up the remains of his jacket, and headed off down the trenches. At the corner, however he paused.
"Thanks." He said softly, yet Moley had no trouble hearing him. Carefully he turned back and gathered up all evidence of the casualty, even moving the boy behind him closer down the line.
He then turned and walked in the opposite direction to the man, towards a dugout.
After everything that had happened today, he needed a stiff drink.
#
"Quietly they set their burden down: he tried
To grin; moaned; moved his head from side to side.
"O put my leg, doctor, do!" (He'd got
A bullet in his ankle: and he'd been shot
Horribly though the guts.) The surgeon seemed
So kind and gentle, saying, above that crying,
"You must keep still, my lad." But he was dying.
In An Underground Dressing Station by Siegfried Sassoon
2nd June 1917 (begun in April)
Author's Note. The character of Moley is based on a real person. My grandfather worked as a stretcher bearer during the First World War. His partner, whose real name I will not give out, became a friend of the family, known to them as Moley as that was the role he played in the Christmas Panto, to which he sent them tickets. He and my grandfather were lucky. They made it home.
Stretcher bearers ran the continual risk of been shot by either side, as they tried to retrieve casualties. As a result they were probably the bravest men out there. So this chapter is dedicated to them. Both the lucky and the unlucky ones. As far as I know no stretcher bearer ever had this exact experience, but if someone would like to tell me otherwise, I'd be happy to listen. Please Review, I really put a lot into this story, so even if you're not sure that you like it, please find something good to say.