I own nothing here but the people and places created by my own imagination. I dont know this is going or how it will end but plan to enjoy the ride, and hope others will enjoy it with me. Since Doc's first name was never revealed to the best of my knowledge, I picked a popular male name of the time. Any inaccuracies, mis spellings, or gramatical errors are entirely mine and I appologize. Battle Fatiuge or Shell Shock, or as it is known know PTSD was and is a very real problem. In WWI and II it was considered simply a cowards way out and carried a harsh stigma with it. Doctors didnt understand what caused it or how to treat it. This is a story for as far as it goes, of how one man with the help and faith of his friends can find his way back
Broken
Chapter 1 (Present)
He sat among the smoking debris of what had once been a town center. Blood ran down his face from a long gash that ran from just below his left eye to the point of his jaw, a momento left by shrapnel. A thin line of now dried blood had traced a path from his left ear canal down his neck and inside his shirt. There was a blankness in his expression, a look that would go on to be called the thousand yard stare. The look of a man who had seen too much, too much fighting, too much blood, too much death. The sun struggled through the smoke and dust to strike sparks from the spent shell casings scattered around his feet. A Tommy gun dangled forgotten from one hand by its strap, the other hand clenched unconsiously in a white knuckled fist rested on a bloody thigh.
Smoke rose from ruined buildings, the smell of burnt wood hung heavy in the air, along with the cries of the wounded and dying. Feeble crys of "Medic" and "Help me" went unnoticed by the still camo crowned figure while others scramble amoungst the rubble in answer.
Members of his squad gathered nearby, most bearling marks of recent battle in the form of bullet burns, shrapnel wounds and in the case of one, a dislocated shoulder, of the dozens that had assulted the town, they were part of the minority of survivors. Faulty intelligence had led to the slaughter of close to sixty men before artillery in the form of a trio of tanks had come to the rescue and of those only one remained.
Doc had tended to the physical wounds of the squad memebers, but there was nothing he could do for his Sargemt. He had been by the blonde soldiers side for everything from a minor skirmish to an all out assult and had only seen the man break once, and that was the loss of a young french girl who had dreams of being a nurse. When the child had died after triggering a tripwire Saunders had wept openly over her small broken body, it was a sight he never wanted to witness again. The sarge was their rock, a man made of iron will and steel nerves, wrapped in a combination of fearlessness, common sense and compassion. He never gave up and never backed down from a challenge. Now the blank, dead look on the man's face worried the medic more than any physical wound had. Patting a wounded man from another squad, he got to his feet, grabbng his med bag as he did so and headed toward his squad leader.
Approaching the seemingly oblivious man he called to him. "Hey Sarge! Let me take a look at that gash." Saunders never looked in his direction or acknowleged his call. In fact he made no move at all, just continued to look off into the distance at something only he could see. Coming to a halt in front of the oblivious man Doc squated on his haunches and without touching him and spoke softly.
"Here Sarge, let me look at that wound." Once again he waited for the man to acknowledge him. Finally his patience was rewarded by the slow turning of the mans head in his direction. The gaze however continued out over his shoulder, looking away into the distance, at something only he could see. Pulling out a packet of sulfa powder, standing Doc gently tilted the Sargeants head slightly and sprinkled the yellowish powder over the wound to help stem the blood flow. "Looks pretty deep, I think you might need a few stitches. We should get you over to the real doc's" He took Saunder's right elbow urging the man to rise to his feet, the forgotten Thompson banged against his shins. Doc grimmaced and looked back where the rest of the squad were resting. "Hey Caje! Come give me a hand here!" He called to the dark haired, whipcord lean man from Louisianna.
Trotting over Caje looked curiosly in Doc's direction, "What you need Doc?" his words colored with concern, as well as the slight Southern U.S./French accent associated with the peoples of southern Louisianna.
"Take the Sarge's Thompson for me would ya, he doesn't really need it right now."
"Sure Doc," Crouching slightly to take the weapon, his eyes never left his sargemts face. "Hey Sarge, let me take this for you, I'll make sure it's safe." Grasping the barrel he began to lift it away from the other mans grasp. If he had not been watching, the sargents sudden surge to life would have rewarded him with a face full of gun stock. As it was he barely jumped back out of the way with a surprised shout of "Doc!"
The motion of the gun being taken from his hands triggered an almost instinctive reaction. With a roar of anger, Saunders swung the polished wood stock of the gun in an upward arc, just missing Cajes' face Doc was momentarily thrown away from Saunders side, but recovered quickly and grabbed for the raging man. Angels and pure luck were on LeMay's side as the muzzle of the Thompson swing back in his direction and the firing pin fell on an empty chamber repeatedly.
Members of the squad had jumped to their feet and started in the direction of Caje's shout, but came to a halt when the medic threw out a warning hand.
"Stay there! You too Caje, just stay put!" Doc shouted. Turning back to Saunders he spoke with a calmnes he did not feel. "Easy Sarge, just take it easy. No one's gonna take the gun..." With a forced confidence he slowly stepped back to the wild eyed soldier. "How about we just sit back down here for a minute and take a rest."
Whether it was the words, tone, familiar voice or a combination of the three, something was understood and the man slowly sank back to his former position on the lip of the fountain. "Caje, walk – dont run, just walk and get a doc or nurse who ever is available and bring them back here."
The dark haired man nodded one and stood slowly. "Hey Sarge, I'm gonna run an errand for Doc here. I'll be right back. Okay?" Taking a a couple of steps backward from his squad leader and then then turned and headed in the direction of the hospital tents that had been set up at one end of the town near the smoldering ruins of a rather large church.