Thoughts of a Medic
Introduction
Technician Fifth Grade Medic Eugene Roe who was otherwise known as simply "Roe", "Gene" or "Doc" bent back his head so that the center point on the top of his rounded military-issued helmet was touching the rim of his fox-hole and so that his faraway gaze was distantly focused on the snow-covered tree branches above and the cloudy sky beyond them.
Small flakes of snow were drifting down from the sky, landing on his upturned face.
His legs were bent and leaning against the right wall of his fox-hole. His bloodstained medic bag was half folded against his left side. Everybody was low on supplies. But the most prominent things that were steadily and noticeably decreasing in quantity were that of unwounded men and hope of moving on and away from the woods.
Like the gloomy, unclear sky Gene could only guess at what was to come. The only clear sure-fire things were the screamed beckoning calls of "Medic" due to the damned random gunfire that was all guesswork on both sides, the mortar shelling and ensuing deadly tree bursts, and then the most predicable and dreaded certainties of blood-soaked snow and swooping Death.
Gene shivered and pulled his grey wool blanket up to his neck. The thin material did little to warm his already chilled body. The thing about the cold was that once it grabbed hold of you it was next to impossible to shake loose of it. Again he shivered. He doubted that he would be able to become accustom to the white flakes and biting wind but then again he did not think that he could get used to the sight of his friends and comrades being wounded and killed. Over time it was easier as he built up a resistance and strayed a little bit further from the small groups within the company, keeping more and more to himself. However, neither did he think that the stench of the crimson blood that seemed to be never ending would ever be anything but revolting. Now it had become the only thing that seemed to urge him to move faster aside from the pain stricken cries and flashing gunfire.
Unable to fend off exhaustion any longer, sleep pulled Gene away from the cold living nightmare into his memories of home and better times.
The sound of crunching snow and running footsteps jolted Gene out of his light sleep. He huffed out a startled breath that turned to steam immediately due to the freezing temperature. It was still dark out but the distant horizon was starting to lighten, unlike the still cloudy sky that would once again have the much needed supply drop delayed. Gene looked up just in time to see First Sargent Carwood Lipton jog past half way crouched over. "Doc," Lipton nodded in passing before disappearing into the frontline fox-hole that housed machine gunner Walter "Smokey" Gordon.
Gene relaxed, the event was common. Lipton was always going from one location to another to help keep up the spirits of the other soldiers or just checking to make sure that everyone was okay. The medic thought him to be a truly good man who went beyond his duties to do what their commanding officer Norman Dike would not do. Foxhole Norman Dike, as Gene had heard some of the other soldiers call him, was never around and next to impossible to find unless he was running off for the Company CP after happening to be back in his fox-hole during an attack. The only good thing about the situation with Dike was that he had a full aid kit that Gene had managed to wrangle from him after a little persuasion.
The rare level of relaxation within Gene dissipated as more footfalls sounded, coming from the same direction that Lipton had just come from. It was one person from the sounds of it. Gene started forward, his hand automatically going to grab at his medic bag as booted feet slid down the edge of his fox-hole and Ralph Spina landed beside him with a brash grin on his slightly rounded face. "Anxious, Doc?" he asked, spinning his medic bag around so that it was on his lap instead of sitting on it and what little supplies laid inside it.
Gene sat up to give Spina more room before rolling his dark eyes.
"What?" Spina asked when he did not get a verbal response from his fellow medic and friend.
"What do you want?" Gene asked before running his thumb over his dry, cracked lips. It had been a long while since his last easy night of sleep without the constant worry of jerking awake and having to run off to face someone wounded or worse. He was tiring of it all.
Spina scoffed, shaking his head. "Wake up on the wrong side of the fox-hole or something?" Gene's tired, borderline annoyed glare unnerved Spina. "Alright, alright, I just came to give you this." Spina dug into his bag for a second before pulling out a small Syrette of morphine and handing it to Gene. "I got it from one of the guys of Dog Company," he explained, "It's not much but it's something at least."
Gene's expression lightened instantly and regret was visibly shining in his dark eyes – his minor annoyance with Spina and his kind-hearted teasing dispelled. "Thank you," he muttered. His low Louisianan drawl was almost non-comprehensible.
"No worries." With what he had wanted to do completed Ralph Spina crawled out of the fox-hole and took off back the way he had come from.
Rotating the Syrette between his fingers, Gene looked at it with admiration that such a small thing of liquid, metal and plastic could be so vital. It could ease the pain of those in agony but in the same turn there was the occasional man who could die from it due to an ill-fated allergy to the numbing medicine. Morphine was hard to come by without the supply drops and lack of supplies overall and subsequently those soldiers with less sever wounds would amaze even Gene as they wave away the painkilling medicine, not even letting him take it out of his pocket. They would fight against the pain with hardened expressions. While he would look on with sympathy and pity that he could not do more than he was able to do for them.
Licking his dry lips slowly, he tucked the tiny numbing agent into his jacket pocket with the only other Syrette that he had left and pulled his blanket up to his neck once more. Along with a great need of Syrettes he also had to find a pair of scissors, sharp scissors. He had tried to ask around but as of yet he had been unsuccessful. In the morning when everyone was awake he planned on asking Gordon if he had one. However until then all he could do was sit and drown in his thoughts.
I have somewhat of an idea where this is going. Possibly a series of one-shots of ideas expanded from this beginning chapter into short tales of their own. It came to me during English class and continued to come somewhat during fourth period Philosophy. Any ideas however as to how to proceed are greatly appreciated as would be reviews. FYI: First timer here…Please be somewhat gentle. Criticisms are good though; anything to improve.
CrimsonStainedAsh
