I think it started the first time I watched someone bleed.

Something just…fell apart inside and the numbness, like the kind I'd experienced with George that night back in Aldbourne, returned full-formed and inevitable as the death that surrounded us.

The battle for Carentan was nearly over. Everything was winding down from the unrelenting chaos that had covered the town in shells and blood and bullets until we'd nearly ripped the deserted, crumbling buildings completely out of the ground. I'd wandered the streets as the Krauts fled their French fortress, rifle poised for fire in shaking hands, and the only sound I could hear was the cadence of my heart beating in my ears and the breathing current that mirrored every careful step.

Intermittent shots still popped like firecrackers in the distance and each time I jumped at the unexpected noise. I tripped over debris, over bodies, over limbs that had been torn off and were now lying, missing their owners, in the middle of the street as I made my way through the winding labyrinth of loose brick and dust. Gleaming splinters of glass caught in the rivers of blood that flowed freely through the cracks of the walks. I was starting to feel nauseated as the will to ignore them slowly weakened. It was everywhere; how could I escape something so omnipresent?

I tried so hard to keep the bile down. But my efforts were spoiled; I looked up to see a panting figure lying against a wall, another soldier fussing over him. Some words were spoken, but not returned; I couldn't hear them from such a long distance. I squinted to see if I could recognize the features of the man whose back wasn't facing me. They shot back open again as it occurred to me who it was.

"Sergeant Lipton!" I cried, slinging my gun over my shoulder. The numbness told me not to speak too much…I'd get lost in the middle of a sea of words and forget how to wade through them.

Somewhere beside me, as I practically leapt into the middle of the situation and knelt beside the Sergeant, a question was asked. Something about staying with him while the other guy went for help. I nodded and waved the soldier off, who took off like a spooked horse, screaming medic, as soon as I gave the okay.

He must have seen something in my face that wasn't registering as a tangible feeling. "I'm all right, kid. Don't look at me like that…"

"Like what, Sarge?" I asked, ignorant to the root of his discovery.

"Like I'm dying."

My insides turned over on themselves; the movement elicited from me a long, tortured groan. "Oh God…Oh-"I turned away, my hand thrown over my mouth in the panic following such a terrible, nauseating sight. "You're fucking bleeding."

"That tends to happen when shrapnel slices through human skin," he deadpanned, trying to sit up a little, but wincing as the pain proved to be too strong even to move.

"Fuck!" My stomach heaved. I closed my eyes, took deep, calming breaths, and narrowly escaped being forced to throw up all over Lipton. "Shit, Lip, I suggest not talking about it…that is - that is, well, unless you like the smell of vomit. I heard it's used, critically acclaimed even, as perfume in some primitive cultures."

He seemed to laugh through the shroud of weakness. Well, at least one good thing came of me being queasy. "Where the hell did you hear that sort of thing?"

"George told me."

A look crossed his features, making them all wither in a sort of frown of realization. Well, duh, it seemed to say.

"Let me give you some advice, Max," Lipton gave a sideways sort of chuckle that slithered from the corner of his mouth. He was paling from the blood loss. "I wouldn't take the gospel of good old George Luz to heart. More than half of what that boy says is a bunch of bullshit anyway."

"Duly noted, Sergeant," I replied through a sickly moan, opening my eyes once to see if I could take the sight of his bloodsoaked uniform. Nope, I couldn't do it. I was too soft. A pair of footsteps came running up behind me (saved by the medic…how appropriate)."And if you'll excuse me, Lip, it's about time I emptied my stomach contents in some abandoned alleyway somewhere."

"You have fun with that." He replied breathlessly and rested his head against the brick wall as I escaped, clutching desperately at my middle and the medic and another soldier came thundering in like a stampede of horses behind me.

I ran. I wasn't fast enough. Just as the contents of my insides rose up in the burning cavern of my throat, I ducked into a half-destroyed shop and slammed up against the nearest doorframe. The sound of my retching seemed far away from me; I didn't even feel the ache of throwing up on an empty stomach. It was as if someone had torn me from the fabric of my body and had stitched me into the walls because I sure wasn't feeling one goddamned thing. My arm shook as it wrapped around me and tried to hold my abdomen together as it threatened to disintegrate in my hands.

At last, it stopped. The convulsions of nausea faded away, receded like some black spirit who had exacted his belated revenge. I panted and melted against the doorframe, trying to regain some semblance of willpower to be able to return to the desolation that awaited me outside the obliterated shop.

But I couldn't do it. I couldn't. I didn't belong here and every day, every hour, every fucking second brought me closer to realizing I wasn't going to make it out of here alive. The revelation should've hurt. Stung. Made my heart skip a beat or two as it tried to grapple onto the reality, even if it fumbled and let it sink back into evasion. But nothing like that even happened. It was as empty as a cloudless sky inside.

And so my mind did the only thing it could think to do in a moment of grasped apathy.

It summoned anger.

Before I even knew what I had been doing for the past few minutes of detached thinking(or was it hours? Days? Had I been left behind?), I had stood up straight, stared blankly at the wall while I searched for something that looked like emotion internally, and then, as the rage was dredged up somewhere from the back of my head, I regarded the off-white, plaster surface in front of me.

In something that resembled a war-cry, I wound up my fist and sent it through the unstable partition. There it was…there was the pain, the feeling, the proof of humanity. It traveled through the length of my arm in quick-moving strands, sending everything into spasms, and as I cradled my throbbing wrist and the wall seemed to shift beside me, little chunks of broken white plaster settling at my feet, the strangest reaction found me.

I laughed. Laughed as I realized I'd most likely just broken my fucking hand. I laughed as I realized that I was in a war, in a country I knew bumfuck nothing about, and I was as good as dead. All that came of the revelation, that I was going to die, a nameless soldier, in the middle of a field somewhere with not even a fucking pair of authentically labeled dogtags to remember who I was, was a callous, almost mechanical cackle.

The laughter died away slowly as I leaned against the hole in the wall for support, catching my breath and shaking with the excruciating ache that had settled in one of my bones. I didn't know which one, but I sure as fuck knew how much it hurt. I tried to swallow, but all that came of the attempt was a strangled grunt and I yanked back the sleeve of my uniform to survey the damage I'd inflicted on myself. The skin was already swelling and turning a deep shade of purple and blue. I could swear, as I took in the sight of what I'd done, that I could see the bruising bleed beneath the discolored flesh and infect it completely. It made me want to throw up again, but the wish was deterred as I heard footfalls echo through the deserted street.

"Max!"

I paused, holding my breath for a moment as I tried to place the voice.

Nothing. There was nothing.

"Max! Where the fuck are you?"

It sounded familiar, but where had I heard it before? In another life? Passing a conversation in which I wasn't involved? Perhaps in my dreams, the pleasant ones that seemed to be avoiding me as of late?

Whoever it was, he was getting annoyed with the lack of reply he was getting. I just barely detected his next private musing as it escaped him. Jesus Christ, how in the hell does someone get lost in a rinky-dink little town like this?

"Max!"

It hit me as hard as a fucking sledgehammer going five-hundred miles an hour. George?

George, is that you?

You stupid son of a bitch. Didn't he know it was dangerous to be yelling when there could be Krauts hiding in alleyways, just itching for an unsuspecting target?

The comfort of his voice revived me from the stupor. The episode had passed. George was alive and apparently as healthy as a fucking horse as I heard his heavy boots stomping against the cobblestone streets and the curses under his breath as he tripped over the debris that was strewn in the middle of it. I stumbled out of the ruined shop, still holding the throbbing, injured wrist against my chest as I made my way into the street. A figure with a gun poised before it, smoke rising from a lit cigarette pressed between a firm, worried mouth, was approaching as it waded through the devastation.

He halted as he heard me coming toward him, his head snapping in my general direction, rifle pointed toward me, and prepared to fire if I turned out to be a Kraut. No such bad luck on his part. The rifle was hurriedly tossed back onto his shoulder, rendered useless by the sight of me, apparently the person he'd been looking for, and he came running.

"Max!" He cried, sliding a little as he stopped right in front of me. His eyes were wide as deep, dark saucers and his hair was plastered to his temples with sweat; he appraised me, his hands resting on my arms as if to still me so he could drink in every detail, and his frantic scrutiny slid down my person. "Oh God," he muttered, almost to himself. "Oh God, you're okay. You're okay…your mother's not going to kill me after all."

He gathered me into his arms and I cried out in pain as my wrist came in contact with his chest.

"What the fuck…" George looked down as he realized I was holding something away from him. Apparently the bruising was worse than I'd thought. "Oh God…she is going to kill me."

Gently, he removed the protective hand from the swollen appendage and crooned, soft, to me as I whimpered and tried to take it away from him. "Don't be such a baby…" He said.

"Would you like me to fucking snap your fucking dick off?" I snapped. "Let's see how you feel when you're standing there with no fucking penis. Then we'll see who's the bigger fucking infant, huh?"

"Relax, kid, I just want to see how bad it is, all right?" He replied, his tone soft and yielding, and for once I felt guilty for coming across as so caustic….that is, until he put a little pressure on it.

Without a second to think about what I was doing, I reached up with my good hand and slapped him across the cheek. He let go of my arm and caught the afflicted cheek with antsy, surprised fingers, his eyes flashing. "You know, I'm getting real fucking tired of you doing that!"

"You're hurting me!"

"You're being a fucking baby!"

"Don't insult me, George!" I retorted. "I don't care if this wrist is completely shattered I'll wrestle your scrawny little ass to the ground and beat it to a bloody pulp if you don't shut the fuck up!"

"What is wrong with you, Max?" His voice had risen to a deafening shout by now. "What the fuck is wrong with you, huh? Explain it to me cause I don't understand why it is that you've been so goddamn belligerent these past few days."

"Are you really that fucking stupid? Think about it George! We're in a goddamn war, for Chrissakes! You don't think I'm entitled to acting a little different with my life and the lives of my goddamn friends on the line?"

"I haven't thought about it?" He shouted back, his hands on his hips. "You actually fucking think I haven't thought about it?"

"I know you haven't George! You're oblivious. You think we're back in Toccoa or Aldbourne don't you, like you're okay and everyone's okay and everything is just a ray of fucking sunshine? One big fucking party?" No tears this time. The rage was bubbling up in their stead. "Well here's a nice big fucking bold headliner for you George Luz. We ain't in fucking Rhode Island no more!"

He was silent for a moment. He blinked and his eyes seemed to melt, to collapse, to disappear. All that was left of George Luz in that terrible instant was a ghost of the boy I knew. God, he looked completely fucking stunned. As if I'd torn his heart out and stomped on it right in front of him but he never even moved a muscle.

That was the first time I could ever imagine George crying. Breaking down and sobbing in my arms like I did in the years that we were together.

But he didn't. Because if there was anything that I knew about him, it was that he was too strong to break. He would never break. He was made of something stronger than I was and it would hold. He would be okay. I knew he would be.

"You see, Max…that's where you're wrong," he replied calmly, smiling even. "I think I've actually thought about it a little more than you have. It hasn't fucking escaped me that we're in a war. It's a little hard not to notice, don't you think? When your ass is being hit by fucking Kraut artillery and your entire company scatters for cover in a few fucking dinky bushes to escape it?"

I was silent for a moment. We traded. I took his shock and he absorbed my rage. A fair trade after what I'd said to him, after the red handprint I'd engraved into his clean-shaven cheek.

He raised his arms, as if he were grappling for explanations, for answers, but found none. "That's all we get, Max," he snorted, laughter slinking along through his chest. "Some dinky fucking bushes!"

I couldn't even feel my arm throbbing anymore. It was far away again, as if the apathy had returned and sheltered the pain beneath its smothering wing. This was the second time I'd taken out my anger on George. The second time he'd reached out to me to save me and received nothing but shit for his efforts. I was a bitch and somehow I hadn't figured that out until now.

He was trying so hard to keep me sane, but I think he was beginning to believe that there was nothing he could do.

I was sane though. I really was. I was just so fucking tired of all the explosions and the bullets and the blood that I couldn't stand to look at that it was beginning to shake me a little. My footing was uncertain as I searched for my misplaced equilibrium, but I would find it again. I'd find it…even if only to save myself the cruel stab of hurt that raced through me every time I had to see that look in his eyes.

I would trade my boots and walk on hot fucking coals just to escape having to see that look again.

We had been staring absently at each other for the last minute of silence that passed between us. At last, I looked away, and we both breathed again. Ignoring the merciless twinge that tore through my arm as I grabbed his hand and pulled him into the nearly-collapsed building behind us, I decided that only the most heartfelt apology would vanquish such an expression. I fully intended to do so, even if it meant sacrificing my pride.

I turned to him as he followed me inside. "George…" I pursed my lips, exhaling through my nose. I felt my nostrils flare. "George, I'm so…so sorry. Can you uh…can you ever forgive a heartless bitch like me?"

His mouth twisted into a crooked smile and he gave an endearingly little chuckle in response. "Well, I don't know…I think I might need a little compensation for dealing with your temper tantrums all the time."

"Huh?"

He tapped his cheek in reply.

"Do you really think that's safe out here in the field?" I asked.

"Who's gonna see us? The mice?" His brow quirked as he regarded the ruined room. "Little tattle-tails…no wonder the cats are always chasing them. They can't keep their little fucking mouths shut."

I laughed and decided, after a very thorough checking of the perimeter, that a kiss on the cheek wouldn't be so bad. But just to be sure, I motioned him into the door of the supply room that was left wide open (probably as the owner fled for his life from what he thought to be a crumbling building at the time) and he trailed inside after me.

"All right," I said, caving. "Just one kiss on the cheek and then we've gotta go find Lieutenant Welsh and the rest of first platoon before they leave our asses behind."

"That was probably their plan all along." George teased.

"Yeah, well, can you blame them?" I smirked. "We are pretty fucking annoying."

"Are you gonna kiss me or what? I'll be old and fucking gray by the time you're done making smart-ass remarks."

I rolled my eyes a little and scoffed, but took his face with my one good hand and steadied my target (a moving target at the moment as he was swaying a little from exhaustion, but I intended to remedy this) so I couldn't miss, no matter how bad my coordination was this morning. I could hear him breathing as he anticipated the small gesture and as I leaned in to press the promised kiss against his cheek, he turned his head at the last minute and caught my mouth instead.

His lips were a little chapped as they brushed, softly, against mine, but they were warm. And for the grand total of ten seconds that he kissed me, full-on and slamming my body hard against a thankfully stable wall and nipping and pressing his lips against my open mouth, I was left too staggered by the suddenness of his change of heart that I only had the last two seconds to enjoy it. Luckily the finale was the best part. He shoved his tongue into my mouth, rolling it around inside as if trying to commit the taste of stale cigarettes and filthy breath to memory, and it brushed my top lip as it slid achingly slow back out.

I opened my eyes and found George's back to me as he checked to see if the doorframe was still empty. I tried to catch my breath and blinked away the astonishment as it slowly went away, but not slowly enough. He turned back to me and a devilish leer appeared on his reddened lips as he took in the severity of my reaction.

"Wow."

"Did I just unintentionally blow your fucking mind, Maxine?" He asked.

"That was unintentional?" I snorted. "What would happen if you did something like that on purpose? Would my fucking head explode?"

"Whatever makes the most sense to you," he replied nonchalantly, his focus returning to my wrist, which I'd almost (almost, but not quite) forgotten about in George's unexpected attack. "Now that we're all happy as fucking larks here, can I have a look at this wrist? It's looking pretty bad from my vantage point."

I surrendered it to him and this time, as it was collected gingerly into his hands, he was as careful he could manage as he assessed the damage thoroughly. He frowned and let go; I took it back and placed it as gently as I could back at my side.

He clicked his tongue. "Fuck, Max…I think Doc's gonna have to have a good look at that."

"It's broken?"

"I'd bet a pack of Lucky Strikes on it."

I exhaled irritably, suppressing the urge to stomp like a petulant three year old who hadn't gotten her way. "Fuck."

"How'd you do that anyway?" He asked.

"Have you seen this place? It's one big fucking broken bone waiting to happen," I replied, looking down at the wounded appendage with some regret. Maybe punching the wall hadn't been the best idea I'd had all day…but even as the thought occurred to me, I realized I wouldn't have been able to control the urge, even if I'd wanted to. "Well, let's find Welsh first. See what orders are."

He nodded and we made our way out of the building.

Before it fucking collapsed on our fucking ignorant heads.

It took a while to find Welsh in all that dust and rubble and bloody mess, but we discovered his lanky little body parked in the middle of a conversation with Winters, throwing back a few swigs of his canteen that George and I were pretty damn sure wasn't water.

Well fuck…since when were CO's human?

"Lieutenant Welsh, sir!"

Welsh's head snapped toward our approaching footsteps at the sound of my voice. He seemed to frown a little. "Well if it isn't my two least favorite smart-asses," he quipped, nodding at Winters as he finished what he was saying and walked off in the opposite direction. "It's a good thing I didn't need any fucking air support or a fucking truck radioed in, George, or else I'd gave been shit out of luck!"

For a moment, I was struck by the unanticipated appearance of the larger-than-life Lieutenant and watched him leave, curbing something of a feminine sigh of appreciation as I realized, to my dismay, that Winters had quite a vision of a backside on him. Which was, unfortunately, only flattered and made more beautiful by his fucking tease of a tailored uniform.

As if being attracted to Luz's poor excuse for an ass wasn't enough of a curse, I had to find Winters' ass appealing as well? Next thing I knew I'd be drooling over Welsh. And then I remembered Welsh didn't have an ass, just two indented cheeks slapped together and a hole in the middle, and realized I was safe as this was virtually impossible.

"Sorry, sir. I've always wanted to know what it was like to play medic," George replied, motioning to my swollen wrist. "It seems my dreams are finally coming true, sir."

The CO's brow knitted together and he glanced at George's excuse. His eyes then widened for a second. "Well, fuck me Private, what you got there is a broken wrist…you seen a medic about that yet?"

"No, sir," I replied. "I haven't gotten the chance. Figured I'd find out what was going on first."

"Nothing new, Austen," he replied nonchalantly, his eyes skimming the horizon, as if for encroaching enemy fire. "Resting here for a while. We'll let you know when it's time to move out. In the meantime, report to the nearest aid station and get cleared for the field. Luz you ah...you go do whatever the fuck Luz's do best."

"Yes, sir." I replied, and George just laughed as he I followed him in the general direction of the aid station that was set up just outside the town of Carentan.

"What the hell do you guys do when one of you has take a shit!" He called after us, clearly referring to the fact that he never, not once since D-Day and probably before, at Toccoa and Mackall and Aldbourne, saw us apart for more than five minutes at a time. Kinda like Popeye and Shifty…they were best friends too and they were almost never separated. Ever.

"Well, someone's gotta hold the toilet paper, sir!" George shouted back over his shoulder, still walking beside me. We heard Welsh chuckle as he contemplated the sincerity of the answer he'd been provided with. Apparently he hadn't taken it seriously. Sure, it wasn't as straightforward as he'd hoped, but at least he'd gotten one.

"You think he thinks we're gay or somethin'?" I asked.

"Do you think we're gay?" He retorted lightly, smirking at me. I punched him in the shoulder with my good hand and laughed. "Fuck, we've gotta work on that arm of yours. I didn't even feel that one."

On our way out of town, we passed a group that was discussing how many Krauts they'd gotten while they nursed their post-battle smokes. I recognized Muck, Penkala and Malarkey, who was the only one not surrounded by a cloud of nicotine-filled air (a fact he didn't look too happy about) all sitting in one small cluster. I fished out my Lucky Strikes with one hand, a task that proved harder than I thought it'd be and hoped I'd never have to do again.

Next time I'd punch a bunny rabbit or something (I winced at the thought of inflicting intentional pain on something so cute and fluffy).

Okay, a pillow.

"Want some help with that?" George asked, watching me with unabashed amusement.

"No, I've got it. You don't gotta coddle me everytime I get a little scratch, George," I replied in a wounded sort of snap. That was my pride he was sacrificing here...at least what little I had left of it. "You want one?"

"I've got a few left of my own. You keep yours…" He gestured to the bloated excuse for a wrist that hung limply at my side. "You'll need them after a few days of that fucker throbbing all night long, interrupting your sleep and making life one big slice of hell."

"Sounds fantastic," I replied sarcastically, digging my lighter out of my pocket. "Where can I sign up?"

"Looks like you already did." He deadpanned, and then halted behind the trio of chattering soldiers. "Well if it isn't my three favorite girls. Discussing your beaus while you get your nails done, my pretties?"

Muck held out his hand, imitating the delicacy of the female race. "You think this color makes me look too pale, Luz?" He asked. Malarkey snorted and kicked the man opposite of him.

"Holy fuck!" Malarkey looked up at us, his eyes widening as they took in the sight of my plumped up wrist. "What the hell happened to your wrist?"

I handed him the smoke, and his expression of mixed surprise and horror changed drastically into one of surprise and infinite joy. "Well, Malark, it's a long story. Let's just say one of them Krauts gave me this here early Christmas gift on his way to Hell and we'll leave it at that."

Malarkey's sigh of relief sounded off below me as he leaned a little closer to the lighter I had offered, sticking the end of his cigarette into the flame. "Oh…that's good. Hell, that's so nice. I owe you one, Max."

I nodded at him and winked as Muck piped up. "How many Krauts did you guys get?"

George jumped at the opportunity of pumping up his sore ego and replied first. "I blew a few to fucking Kingdom come."

"Grenades?"

"Bet your ass."

Penkala joined the stream of bullshit that was being tossed between the men, figuring he'd get his two cents in while he was at it. "You're my hero, George."

"Don't make me blush, Penkala," George replied, a side-long smile inching up his apple-bottom cheeks. "Just doin' my job, serving my country…fucking up some Germans while I'm at it. God, I love my work."

"What about you, Max?" Muck blew a puff of smoke my way, squinting through the unfiltered screen of golden sunlight. "How many'd you get?"

"A few."

Liar.

And to think I'd walked through life on the principled path of knowing I wasn't a liar. That I liked to tell the truth. That the truth was my friend. George was the one who lied through his teeth when we got caught. I just stood there, silent as a mute, as I listened to him tell a completely different story about what we'd been doing all night, why we were late and why the indicative presence of Mrs. Jenkins's famous jams (the only handmade preservatives for five miles) were smeared all over our faces and hands in the form of seed-speckled purple and red stains. That made me an accomplice, sure, but not a liar. Those were two completely different things (at least in my head it made sense).

"Only a few?" Penkala asked, unimpressed.

"Only a few." I parroted.

Truth was I hadn't killed one. I'd seen them, thrown grenades at them, hell I'd even shot one or two in the leg (an instant killer…I was one hell of a murdering machine), but I hadn't killed one. Maybe I was bad aim like George said. Maybe that was why I lost at darts all the time.

Maybe I hated the word maybe on principle. Because maybe made me out to be a liar, a good for nothing shot and a loser at bar games.

Fuck all hell.

"You should get that looked at." Muck nodded his head at my purple-and-black wrist.

"Quit distracting him and I might be able to drag his midget ass over to Doc before the fucking thing falls off," George retorted plainly, grabbing a hold of my sleeve and walking off in the direction of the town's outskirts.

I waved goodbye. Malarkey thanked me for the cigarette and returned to their conversation. The rest of the trip to the aid station was quiet except for our footsteps and my intermittent hisses of pain, at which George snickered and rolled his eyes...apparently he couldn't remember the time he'd broken his leg jumping over a fence to tip a fucking cow five years back. I'd bet my extra fifty dollars a month that cow was still laughing, however. He hadn't forgotten, even if George had.

We entered the station and George made the tell-tale noise of the initial static a radio made when it was first turned on. It sounded like he was trying to clear his throat. A few people stopped and looked before realizing it was just George Luz and resumed their business. Everyone knew George was an ass, if not a lovable one at that.

"Attention! Attention!" George mocked the sound of a voice coming in over an intercom. "Would Dr. Gumbo please report to the midget with the broken wrist? I repeat, Dr. Gumbo to the injured midget. Over!"

"I can't believe I've wasted my entire life on you." I seethed, and watched as Gene, who'd been scanning the length of a paper attached to a clipboard, looked up from his task with a furrowed brow of confusion and then realized who it was. He pursed his lips and started walking toward us with a sort of knowing scowl staining his stark, pale features, the clipboard tucked under his arm. The poor kid looked tired as all hell…determined, but nonetheless tired.

"Max, look," George smiled naughtily as Gene came within earshot of us. "It's Doc. Hallelujah, we are saved."

The Cajun ignored his comment and his eyes instantly zeroed in on my awkward posture and then to my wrist. His sixth sense that allowed him to detect pain without even looking was going off like a siren in a quiet room. "Whoa, there, Maximillian. I could tell a broken wrist from a mile away."

Of course, my friend had a wisecrack to match his instantaneous diagnosis. "Good thing we came to the bone-whisperer then, huh?"

George and I followed as the medic lead us to a makeshift cot, which he gestured for me to sit on and he looked at George (who lifted his brow inquiringly at the medic's attention while standing a few safe feet away) a little way's behind him. He seemed to be okay with the set-up and pulled up a chair to begin his assessment of the damage. I didn't even wince as he tucked the wrist into the palm of his hand and began pouring his focus over it.

"Damn, doc, are you sure those aren't made of gold?" George commented, scowling as he realized the man's innate gentleness. "He didn't even make one fucking peep."

"That's why he's a medic and you're the fucking broadcast jockey," I rebutted.

"That's really mature." He replied. "Really, after all I did for you?"

Gene was silent throughout this verbal barrage. But I sure couldn't help but wonder if his eyebrows could sink any lower into his eyes without comprising their vision. His head moved up and down a little as he surveyed the bruising, the swelling, and finally returned the whole arm to me, lifting his forehead a little as he formed small ties of conclusions about my condition in his head.

"I think you might have to be taken off the line."

He might as well have shot me in the leg. It might've stung a little less. "What'd you say there, Gene? Sorry...I could've sworn I heard the words 'taken off the line'?"

Gene met my eyes full-on. "You heard me right. This doesn't look so good. It's a transverse fracture of the ulna or the radius…can't be sure," he replied. "You'll need to ice and elevate it and I can give you some painkillers for the pain and wrap it, but I think a cast and a stay here at the station for a few days would do it more good if you want to regain full use of it after the healing's all done."

"For a fucking wrist? I could shoot a Kraut while blindfolded with one arm tied behind my back."

"You came here for my opinion, didn't you?" He asked, looking a little annoyed at my obstinacy. "Well, there it is. I don't think you should go back until that's healed good and proper."

"Easy will be moving out in the next fucking hour, Gene." I replied, fixing my gaze on him. I wasn't angry with him. Hell no, he was just doing his job, telling me what needed to happen and whatnot.

But fuck if I wasn't leaving the company. Not for a second. Not even for a broken wrist.

I swore I could see his dark eyes turn a little hard as he stared me down. For a second, I thought I could see Spiers. Oh hell I couldn't even think about the creepy fucker without a shiver running up and down my spine.

"Don't be stubborn, Max," George interjected as he fished for a cigarette out of his breast pocket. "If the man says you need a break, then you need a break."

"I've already got one, thanks." I replied, laughing as I caught his joke and motioning to the offending, wounded limb to emphasize my retort.

"I think you should stay here." Gene insisted.

"Well I think you should wrap it, shoot me up with some morphine and send me on my merry fucking way because that's the only possible outcome, Gene," I said, my eyes pleading with him. "Please, don't try to convince me to stay…I won't do it. All you'll get it is a whole lot of frustration and a headache for it."

"I assume you're going to stay then, George?" Gene turned to the short, disheveled figure behind him. It beamed at the prospect of a joke.

"I think that's the first time assuming hasn't made an ass out of you, Doc," he replied.

"I'll take that as a yes," he sighed, clearly defeated, and then stood up as he shoved one beautiful, elegant hand into his breast pocket for a syrette. "I'll administer the morphine and then leave you for a few minutes to fetch something cold. George, watch him for me?" He paused and George nodded his assent to his entreaty.

The Cajun looked back at me, grave as a stone angel in a snow-covered graveyard. "And I'm not joking, Maximillian, you keep that damn wrist elevated while I'm gone."

I laughed at his all-too-serious demand as I propped my wrist up on George's shoulder, which had appeared beside me. The aforementioned man glanced briefly at me and then brought the smoldering paper folded into the crease of his fingers back to his lips. "Will you spank me if I don't?"

He shook his head with a smile, stuck the needle right into the epicenter of the ache and then left, embarking on the fruitless quest of finding some ice in this useless place.

I breathed a deep sigh of relief as the drug began to work its magic fingers through the tangled nerves.

Oh, what a beautiful thing morphine truly was.


By the time George and I returned to Carentan, I had an expertly wrapped wrist, a cigarette in my mouth and a happy fucking smile plastered on my face. The effects of the morphine hadn't worn off yet, thankfully, but I was going to be one unhappy camper when it did.

We neared the town, only to see a bloodstained figure leaning up against a derelict wall, shards of brick and mortar falling like spilt guts around his feet, like some sentinel at the mouth of hell. What was that three-headed dog's name again that guarded the entrance to the underworld?

The correlation to Cerebrus only seemed to take on a whole new level of aptness as Liebgott's face was pieced together from the formless haze of distance as we neared him. He looked a little dazed, if not angry, but this was his usual. It was nothing to worry about, really. A cigarette was left forgotten in his hand; it looked like it hadn't been touched since he lit it up, the ashes simply falling to the ground as he'd neglected to flick them away. What a waste of a perfectly good smoke.

I kicked his boot, lightly, as George and I stopped in front of the hot-head and watched while he stared blankly at the ground. I looked at what he was focusing on, a patch of dirt, and tried to figure out what was so unerringly interesting about it. Perhaps it was shaped like a pair of breasts…I don't know. Perception was all about the imagination and clearly Lieb and I shared no similarities given our separation of race.

It was a wonder I adored him so much as he was everything the sort of man that women scorned…that even I scorned.

"Lieb?" I ventured. He looked up from the spot and blinked a little, sheepish, and remembered the stick of ashes in his hand. It was flicked away.

"You all right there pal?" George asked.

"Yeah," Lieb replied, nodding his head. "Yeah, just thinking. Where've you guys been?"

"Aid station," I replied.

He seemed to perk up at this answer, his eyes glittering. "Yeah? Did ya happen to see Tipper there?"

"No, why?"

He shrugged. "No reason."

I was about to ask him what the fuck he was on about before a voice rose over the late morning bustle of the newly taken Carentan. It was Welsh. Which meant we were moving out.

Despite how insistent I was on returning to my platoon against Gene's medical opinion, I wasn't exactly thrilled about leaving the blessedly quiet haven after having only five minutes of rest. But not one physical manifestation of reluctance could be heard amongst the three of us as Welsh's voice echoed off the ruins of the little French town.

"First platoon!" He announced. "We're heading out! Let's move it, come on!"

I sighed a little and reached for a smoke. "You want one Lieb?" I offered.

"Yeah, sure." He responded lazily, almost numb, and completely bereft of all the passion and anger that defined him. It was as if he'd been stripped clean by the same apathy that had gotten me earlier, but he wouldn't tell nothing like that to me. "Thanks. Don't mind if I do."

I lit up two cigarettes and walked between them on our way out of the village.

We didn't know where we were goin', but hell if we were going anyway.


A/N: Man, I can't seem to write a short chapter if I tried. Btw, lyke, Miluielwen has a story out called Femme De L'Ombres so why don't you go check it out? It's new, but undoubtedly amazing already, and I'm sure it'd be a nice reprieve from my sucky writing style and smart-ass remarks, eh? Go. Now. I COMMAND YOU. You'll love it, I promise. ;)

Anywhoodles. Next chapter we'll be dealing with the battle immediately following Carentan. I'll go into more detail on that battle since I completely skipped the gory details here, don't you worry your little heads about that! Good thing I wrote a short one this time cause I think you guys might be getting a little tired of reading 12 thousand word essays on the bad effects of war and sarcasm on soldiers in WWII. Blahahah.

Georgggee is a sexy beast. That is all.

disclaimer - For once, I won't make a comment on how sexy Rick Gomez is or his depiction of George Luz in the series. Maybe that qualifies as making a comment. Oh well. He belongs to Spielberg, Ambrose and Hanks!