Thank you to Azolean for Beta-ing.

I shivered in the pouring rain as I walked. It was freezing. I had only my standard issue uniform to protect me from the harsh elements hitting my face and every other exposed bit of flesh like knives. It was tormenting, agonizing, and downright humiliating. I was a good man, who graduated with high expectations. What was I doing sloshing through mud in the middle of a war zone about three thousand miles from home?

On the outside I was a man, the picture of success with a very noble purpose and a rather selfless nature. Within I was only a child, with my head turned by dreams and hopes that were uncompromising to unfortunate circumstances, wishing I could be of some amazing use to the world as a healer. I dreamed so large that I found out the truth of the world—it took all and gave little.

Support for your dreams is not to be found. Everyone wants it for themselves. For the men who came here because they wanted a lifelong career in serving their country, I have only the highest regard. But I felt born to help save lives, and somehow being forced to do it here was embarrassing. I wanted to be home, working to help the sick and injured and maybe even settling down with a family.

Why I couldn't have parents that would invest in my future was a mystery. They were so busy quarreling among themselves that I learned rather quickly I didn't want them around me. I didn't tell them the exact time I was shipping out. I saved my goodbyes for a note I sent shortly after my departure, saying something about the process being sped up due to some sudden need.

It wasn't as though I wanted to say goodbye. I was still that boy, longing for a father that would let him cry and a mother that wasn't always making me feel guilty. I wanted a real family. I don't need them manipulating me into the middle of their quarrels anymore. I was tired of it.

As I trekked through the grim I found myself longing for my friends. One of my classmates had been married early; and, when I left, he had two small children. I had spent my last evening with them, misty eyed at the sight of the family I so desired.

And a part of me was secretly certain I would never get out of this alive. I was a rugby player, and even had my occasional fist-fight in school; but the thought of an actual battle terrified me. Having to run onto the field even whilst shots were flying over my head.

Worst of all, was the heavy weight of a revolver at my side, ready for me to fire a potentially fatal bullet into a man I didn't know. A man who might have a family. He was someone's son and possibly a brother. He might even be a father. And I was expected to shoot him.

So much for a healer.

I want to cry. My dreams are laid behind me, broken and discarded. They were too heavy to carry after awhile and it was easier to forget about them. Do my job and hope I live to make it home and possibly have enough saved to open a practice.

Or I will die in the attempt.

I looked at the faces of the men behind me and sighed. I loved my comrades. So much so that many of the men we had already lost had been a hard blow to me. I daily prayed for us all to make it home, but I already knew back home forty more families were receiving the news of the losses in the last three days alone from the large company I'd been attached to. It was sometimes more than I could bear, declaring man after man dead.

Dead as my dreams. Dead as my hopes.

I was tired of it all. I was homesick. So perhaps that's why at first I didn't realize we were being fired on. I felt a body slam into mine and I hit the soggy ground. I looked back to see Westwood laying on his stomach above me, his blue eyes looking for a target as he aimed his gun.

"Pay attention, Doctor," Westwood said, sending me a smile.

He was a good friend, and I owed him my life now. Just one more of the debts I could never hope to pay.

He rose and before I could say anything further, he began to lead a charge. Twelve of our men that I could count followed behind him, the rain hitting their faces as they hurled themselves towards the small group of enemies lined up in front of me. I watched, horrified, as a bullet took Westwood down. He clutched his shirt by his heart, his legs beginning to buckle, and fell onto his back.

It seemed to be happening in slow motion and for a moment I forgot to breathe as I stared in horror at the man who was only moments ago pinning me to the ground to save my life. I didn't even think as I headed out to check on him. I reached his side and searched frantically for a pulse.

There was none. Westwood was dead. I wanted to scream at God. Why was he letting this happen? If there was such a being anymore. What sort of deity would let all this happen to the earth? Or maybe he just wasn't powerful enough to stop it.

And suddenly a shadow fell over me and I looked up to see the dark hole of a gun pointed at me. Rain was striking my face, running down my neck in little droplets that seemed to freeze the blood in my veins. It was numbing to stare death in the face, but I knew there was no chance I could possibly react fast enough to save my own skin. Instead I bitterly hoped my parents would realize how horrible they were as they collected my last pay. I hoped everyone would realize how wrong it had been that I had to suffer in this manner when all I wanted to do was heal people. But, it was not to be.

I heard a bang and saw a blur as pain exploded on my senses.

I realized Murray was savagely stabbing the enemy in the stomach with a small Indian knife that he had gotten as a gift from his brother. I sat in a daze as he turned back to me.

"Doctor?" he looked me over and began to help me up.

I realized the injustice of it all. I shouldn't even be here in the first place. I wasn't going to die though; but based on the pain I was registering, this was probably no small injury. I might be dealing with the effects my whole life. As he moved me onto the pack mule I began to cry, either from pain or pure exhaustion, and began to fall into a deep sleep.

It took me running into someone whose mental capability far exceeded my own for me to finally understand all those months of torture. He explained it to me rather simply—and though he'd never admit it—romantically. The sky must be dark before you can see the stars.