Heed the warnings! (And sorry for that kind-of-cliffy) Betalove to reynardinepttr.
Head nurse Minerva McGonagall clicked her tongue disapprovingly. Her brother had just asked her to release Oliver early.
"Love, you have to understand! We need him in this manoeuvre! He developed the strategy and only he will be able to change it in a way that it still works if needed," the Colonel said agitatedly.
"I understand, but his wounds have not yet closed and it would be rather unbefitting for a major to suddenly collapse on the battlefield from blood loss!" Minerva McGonagall said sharply and her younger brother recoiled visibly.
Oliver wondered idly whether they would ask his opinion on the matter or not. McGonagalls tended to be stubborn as mules and he knew that both his colonel and the head nurse were excellent examples of that trait. They were probably the pride of their clan.
"Colonel, to be frank, I have to agree with you, Sir," Oliver said sitting a bit straighter. The combined glare of the two McGonagall siblings was hard to bear but he bravely held it. "The mission probably wouldn't collapse without me, but it would be safer for the success if I led it as planned."
"Major, your zeal is recommendable, but Minerva is probably right, your injuries should be healed before you go back into action," the Colonel said with a glance at his sister who smiled smugly. "Is there any way he could join us without straining his injuries too much?"
"A tight wrapping around his arm and side should help, and a glove for his hand," the nurse said, her annoyance obvious. She was most likely the only person allowed to speak to the Colonel like that.
"Then we will do that," Colonel McGonagall said, and his sister gave a short nod that spoke of her irritation.
When the Colonel had left, McGonagall called for Ginny to help her. The red-head came over immediately and started preparing the bandages.
"How is it, Major, that you tend to injure your left side?" she asked while wrapping his upper arm.
Oliver hissed at the pain. The cuts had been deep and while the stitches had been removed last night they weren't healed yet. "That's a very good question, Miss Weasley. If I don't watch where I go nothing much will be left of that side," Oliver said through clenched teeth, raising his hand where only three fingers were left. Well luckily he still had his right ring finger.
"Well, just make sure the enemies don't get on your right side then," Ginny joked and Oliver laughed.
He was aware that he was exceptionally lucky to have started as a Lieutenant in the war. Those soldiers who were fighting directly at the front had less luck. Most died, those who didn't were crippled. Since the Germans had begun with the gas attacks many had gone blind. Grenades and bullets had ripped away faces and limbs, and while the men would sometimes survive they were outcasts when they came home. Losing parts of his arm and hand, and his shrapnel wounds were really the most the higher officers would probably suffer. They weren't in direct combat and it wasn't very often that they were hurt badly.
After thirty minutes of excruciating pain, Oliver was allowed to sit up and dress. Ginny gave him some bandages to put into his glove and he thanked her with a smile. She was one of the few nurses who weren't gone after their first year in the war and he admired her resilience.
"Miss Weasley?" he called when she turned to go.
"Yes, Major Wood?" She turned around and he saw how tired she was.
"I just wanted you to know that you are one of the bravest women I have ever seen," Oliver said with a little salute.
Ginny smiled. "Thank you, Major."
She left to tend to the other inhabitants of the sickbay and Oliver stood up slowly, leaving the barracks. He was happy to be finally away from it. The last week had been awful. He was sure that he would hear the cries of the dying for the rest of his life. Together with the sounds of the drumfire.
Sighing, Oliver lit his fag. Another thing he had missed in the sickbay. McGonagall said the smoke was bad for her patients and Oliver did believe her to a point. He walked towards the office building and went inside his office, just to find Major Johnson there. After he had shown himself to be a capable leader last Christmas, he had been promoted by McGonagall after a few more tests.
"Johnson, it's good to see you!" Oliver said with a bright smile.
"Likewise, Wood, I see you managed to injure yourself once again?" Johnson said standing up and shaking his hand.
"Don't remind me," Oliver groaned. "I seem to always get hurt around Christmas. Now, what brought you to my office? Did somebody tell you that I would be released today?"
Johnson nodded. "The Colonel stopped by and told me to bring you up to date on the movements of the Germans."
Oliver sat down behind his desk and motioned for Johnson to begin.
Marcus eyed the map in front of him suspiciously. It seemed that the OHL was still displeased with him for this summer. They were definitely using his battalion as cannon fodder and Marcus wondered why they had to punish him by killing his men. But he bit down on his anger and tried to find a strategy that wouldn't get them all killed.
"Major, Major Flint!" Suddenly a yelling soldier broke his concentration barging in without knocking.
"That will be ten lashes for interrupting an officer, Feldwebel!" Marcus barked and the soldier shrank back under his heated glare.
"I'm sorry, Major, but we have a big problem! One of my men just returned from scout duty and it seems that Major Wood will command the attack after all!" the Feldwebel said hurriedly.
"Was zur Hölle! I thought he would be in sickbay for at least a week longer!" Marcus barely refrained from yelling, he didn't want to scare the Feldwebel shitless. That wouldn't be useful.
"It seems they released him earlier so he could lead the attack," the Feldwebel answered with a quivering voice.
"Verdammt," Marcus whispered. If Oliver led the attack his battalion was as good as dead. Over the years the man had learned military strategy to a T and Marcus wondered why he was still only a major.
"What are your orders, Major?" the Feldwebel asked quietly and Marcus looked up from the map on his table.
"Fall out and report for your punishment, five lashes only because the information was important. But you can't just barge in," Marcus said refocusing on his map. They were doomed. They would be lucky if half the battalion survived this manoeuvre. The Brits had tanks and much better artillery than they had. God knows why the OHL and the emperor didn't invest in newer technology.
Marcus heard the door click shut and he allowed himself a pained groan. They didn't even have much chance that anyone would be close enough to step in before they would be destroyed.
He cursed and threw his ink pot against the wall. He needed a cigarette, now. Or even better, some strong alcohol, but even the higher officers hadn't seen a bottle of beer in a month. The whole country was starving while the nobles still attended their lavish parties. Marcus had been to one in early October. He had left within the first hour, sickened by their carelessness. Generalleutnant Riddle had flaunted all he had and Marcus could only think of his pest infected and starving soldiers. After four years of war he hadn't thought he had any conscience left, but he had been proven wrong.
But what could he do to let his soldiers survive? It seemed hopeless. Marcus was devoid of any ideas. Since the last year they were already down to three companies and the men were just as de-motivated as their Major.
They had heard of the revolution in Russia, knew that the Americans had joined the war. While the Ottoman Empire still was their most powerful ally, they knew the others were more and stronger. And while they managed to more or less hold the lines their people at home were starving because everything the country had was put into the war effort. And for what? They didn't seem to be winning anytime soon.
Marcus eyed the revolver on his desk. It would be a coward's way out. His men would still die. Or maybe it would help his frustration to shoot at something. He could take a handful of soldiers and go scouting himself. If he was lucky the landscape would give him hints.
Marcus stood up and took what he would need. His field glasses, weapons. He would get himself the uniform of a Feldwebel and ask the Oberst for leave.
For a moment Marcus thought he didn't care whether he was killed on the mission. Nott was more than capable to take over and he would have less of a problem with the OHL.
On his way outside Marcus lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. He remembered the English stuff he had smoked what felt like ages ago. No time for sentimentality! he scolded himself.
oOo
Two hours later Marcus and fifteen foot soldiers were on their way into border territory. The scouts hadn't seen any British movement anywhere close so they would be more or less safe.
They trudged through the forest, always on the lookout for signs of enemy soldiers or traps. While they encountered a few landmines they were able to deactivate them safely. It would make their trip on the next day easier.
When they reached the last trees the men went on their knees and started crawling slowly. Marcus thanked God that it hadn't rained in the last few days or otherwise the would have been seen immediately thanks to the trail they left behind.
They were able to crawl behind a small hill with a boulder on it and positioned themselves around it. Marcus took his field glasses and slowly eased upwards to take a look on the British base on the other side of the plain.
The Brits were preparing themselves for an attack as well. Suddenly Marcus frowned. Something wasn't right.
"Major, is everything alright?" the soldier next to him asked when Marcus sunk down on the ground, white as a sheet.
"I don't think they are going to attack tomorrow," Marcus said his voice breaking.
"What?" another soldier asked and Marcus silently passed him the field glasses.
"See for yourself," he said weakly.
"Verdammte Scheiße," the soldier whispered.
So Marcus hadn't seen wrong. The Brits would attack within the day. And they had tanks, at least twenty. Tanks meant there were airplanes lurking somewhere behind the lines.
And right then the revolver on his hip seemed lovely again. But Marcus shook himself out of his shock and commanded his men to start crawling back. They needed to tell the Oberst so it could be decided what they would do next.
Oliver wasn't happy with the situation at hand. They would combine an air strike with a tank attack, a day earlier than planned. They wanted to use the surprise effect and hoped that the Germans would surrender.
But then he had been told that Major Flint was in the base. That he was to be positioned right at the front with his men. Oliver hesitated to give the marching orders but if he didn't do it soon he would be punished for mutiny.
Silently apologising to Marcus Oliver stood up from his spot outside the command centre. He put out the fag under his boot and turned to go back inside.
They would march today at three o'clock and Oliver told his heart to stop feeling. This was war, he couldn't save the other man.
Marcus ran back into the camp at a sprint. The soldiers were behind him as he went right up to Oberst Slughorn and Generalmajor Snape. He saluted trying to catch his breath.
"What is it, Major," Snape sneered.
"Generalmajor, Oberst, we have a major problem. The Brits prepare the attack for today. They have at least twenty tanks and they seldom attack without an airstrike," Marcus whispered to not let the surrounding soldiers hear it.
Slughorn blanched. "Are you quite sure, Major?"
Marcus nodded grimly. "I am. If I was to guess, I'd say they prepare the attack for this afternoon."
Slughorn and Snape exchanged a worried glance. "We will discuss this in my office, Major," Snape finally said, unusually calm.
oOo
Marcus cursed fluently in German. They had decided to wait out the airstrike in the buildings, hoping, maybe futilely, that it would be safer than outside. But by now men had been killed by walls that collapsed on top of them and the attack didn't seem to be waning.
They listened for the explosions, always hoping that this one would be the last one. This one wasn't, this one neither, this one…wasn't. Marcus sat there among the other officers, curled tightly, shaking with fear.
Even Slughorn, who had had to stay while Snape had been called to another, safer, base, was shaking. Marcus thought he heard him praying. But he himself couldn't find comfort in the belief in a god who hadn't shown him any kindness or mercy so far.
He kept his thoughts occupied with the memory of sandy blond hair and hazel eyes. He remembered those eyes gleaming with fire during the football game. He remembered them rolling around in the mud, focused on him, watching him closely for any sign of surrender. He tried not to think of the body falling backwards and being thrown into the air again.
Marcus sighed and closed his eyes, trying to erase the picture of a bleeding Oliver from his mind.
Just then an explosion went off right outside the building, and Marcus's vision became tinted red, every thought reduced to silent screaming. His left side burned as if set on fire and when the dust settled Marcus saw that he was caught under a part of the wall.
Slughorn next to him didn't move, a huge dent in his head. The others seemed to be alive, for the moment. The soldiers sitting there with huge eyes, shell shocked.
Marcus refrained from screaming out loud. No reason to alert the enemy to his presence. Sinking back he thought of the mountains of his home, of the quiet purr of his favourite cat and of smiling hazel eyes. He had to see all this again, he had to.
