A/N: Like any texts regarding a world war, aspects of this story will likely be gruesome and will explore some confronting aspects of human history. This chapter deals with some unfavourable topics, mainly the aftermath of a major battle injury. Just a warning that it will contain blood, gore and other medical procedures in detail.

9.

Brooklyn, New York

July 14th, 1942

It seems like any ordinary July day when Isabel shows up for her shift at the hospital. Outside, the birds sing in the trees and a hot wind blows steadily through the streets. Children play in the playground and run along the footpaths, enjoying the freedom of summer break.

However, as soon as Isabel steps into the hospital and makes her way to her rostered ward, she feels the depressing atmosphere of the hospital, and one that generally relates to a terrible injury. It sits heavily in the air and on the faces of the nurses. She looks around carefully as she makes her way to the locker room. Gertrude, the nurse in charge for the shifts, follows her in, using the privacy and silence of the small room to converse.

"Isabel," she greets, closing the door behind her. "Your schedule for today has been altered. You're rostered to care for one of our newest patients, and that man requires extra attention, so I've designated one of your rooms to another nurse," Gertrude tells her as Isabel pins her nurse's cap to her hair. "It's bad, Is. Really bad. And it's going to be tough for you to care for him. If you need a time out, come and find me and I'll get someone to cover you."

Isabel looks confusedly at Gertrude, who leaves the room, stopping at the nurse's station. "This is a hospital, it has its share of bad injuries. What's so unusual about this one?" Isabel asks.

At the desk, Dorothy looks up from her paperwork, her expression one of distress. "Oh, it's terrible. I'm so glad I'm not caring for him. The poor, poor man."

"He's a soldier. Got caught in a landmine his first day in the field. They treated him over in Europe, then sent him back here once he was stable enough, since Brooklyn is home for him. But it doesn't look good. Every day he gets worse, not better."

"A landmine?" Isabel asks. "So, he has some amputated limbs?"

"You could say that," Gertrude replies solemnly, handing her the patient chart. "He's lost both legs, one arm, half his torso, and most of his skin. Most of what's left is burnt, third degree. The remaining skin is necrotic. The fire burnt his lungs and throat, so he can't talk and he's also currently relying on an iron lung. Also, he has severe burns to his eyes. The doctors say he'll most likely never recover his sight. Poor fella, has no quality of life. I don't even know how they've kept him alive."

"It sounds horrible, but it really would've been nicer for him if he'd passed on," Dorothy agrees solemnly.

Slightly disturbed and anxious to see her patient, Isabel spends quite a few minutes reading over his charts. Overnight, his heart rate was slow, but his blood pressure was risen, as was his body temperature. He'd received multiple bags of fluids through an IV, and was on fluids only as a source of food.

She waits another two minutes until the clock strikes ten, the time for her shift's first rounds of medication dispersal and vitals, before walking into the man's room. At the sight of him, she has to hold in her gasp, pausing in the doorway.

Most of the patient's upper body is hidden within the iron lung. His only remaining arm is free and visible, but both of his legs are missing, the blankets abruptly falling back to the bed just below his hips. What's left of his skin is wrapped in thick bandages, stained a horrible yellow from the fluid leaking onto them. His face is covered by the mask of the iron lung, but from underneath the clear plastic, Isabel can see burns extending up his neck to his face and eyes.

Isabel must have been staring a bit, because a loud sigh from the corner of the room makes her jump. Her eyes flick to the corner where another soldier sits at the man's bedside, dressed in his formal uniform with an arm in a sling that's been amputated at the elbow. Even if he'd been in civilian clothing, Isabel would have been able to tell from his posture and from the look in his eyes that he's a returned soldier too.

She makes her legs carry her from the doorway and enters the room, making the soldier look up and meet her eyes expectantly. He stands respectfully, offering his left hand to shake since his right is missing.

"Sergeant Miller, at your service, ma'am," he greets her, his voice steely but solemn.

"Nurse Isabel Barnes," Isabel replies. "I'm assuming you know Sergeant Daley?" She asks, referring to the patient on the cot.

"Yes, I do. Very well," Miller says with a sigh, sitting back down in his chair. "We served and trained together, but we've known each other since high school. I suppose you know what happened?"

"Yes, I've been informed of the basics," Isabel says.

Miller nods. "I got caught in the same landmine, hence this," he says, holding up his arm.

"I'm sorry," Isabel says quietly, unsure of how to address such a comment. "How long ago was it amputated?"

"About two weeks, now."

"Any pain, bleeding, swelling?" She asks.

"No, ma'am. It just has an odd sensation. It feels like it's still there. If it wasn't in a sling, I think I'd try to use it to pick things up," he says, experimentally moving the arm in its restricted confines.

"That's normal. Unfortunately, it's likely you'll have those feelings the rest of your life."

"They told me," Miller agrees.

"If you ever want me to have a look, just ask," Isabel offers. Her eyes flick away from the Sergeant to her patient's still form, and she takes a steadying breath. "Do you know if he can hear us? Does he respond to speech?" Isabel asks, coming closer to the sick soldier. The iron lung is loud, whistling with each expansion of the machine.

"Not sure, miss. He doesn't do much of anything, other than lay there and breathe. Though he isn't really doing that anyway, is he? He hasn't done anything since the accident happened a few weeks ago. I try to talk to him, just in case, so he doesn't get lonely."

"Good, that's good," Isabel says.

"Do you think he can hear me?"

"It's hard to say. An obvious reaction to speech would make the situation clearer. You know, if he moved his hands or tried to communicate. It depends on how his brain is responding to the trauma. Whether he's conscious or in a coma."

Miller nods. "I'll keep talking to him anyway."

"Okay. I, uh, I need to change his bandages. It most likely won't be pretty and it will be rather confronting. If you don't feel comfortable, feel free to leave. There's a set of seats along the wall outside where you could wait, and a cafeteria in level one. You need to remember to take care of yourself, as hard as it is," Isabel tells him. She drags a trolley of supplies closer, checking everything is in place.

"I appreciate the concern, but I'm good, ma'am. Brother's stick together, through thick and thin," Miller replies, dragging his chair just a bit closer to his friend and putting a hand on his, a comforting presence. Isabel is immediately reminded of Steve and Bucky, and nods her understanding.

She quickly checks his vitals, checking his heart rate, blood pressure, and so on. Everything remains constant, as it had through the night, which is a relief. She gives him another dose of morphine and connects another bag of fluids, waiting a few minutes for the medication to start working before she starts removing the layers of bandages.

Luckily, Sergeant Daley is in a private room, because just the sight of the body is enough to make Isabel feel physically sick. What's left of him is wrapped in gauze, but still, blood and water continues weeping through the bandages like a disturbing painting on the bandages. She moves the iron lung upward slightly to be able to reach the man's torso and arm easier. As she unwraps the bandages to change them, his exposed arm and hand are charred black, resembling hunks of meat with no skin left on it at all. His bodily fluids run out of him like a tap, dripping steadily into a small bowl underneath his hand and soaking into the sheets. The IV bag set up to feed water back into his system struggles to keep up, so Isabel must work quickly.

Isabel cleans the wounds, keeping them moist. The little remaining dead skin is, unfortunately, spreading rapidly, killing off the skin that is undamaged. Isabel has to get a cloth with clean water and disinfectant and scrub at the dead skin to remove it, leaving the already burned skin raw and chaffed. She feels a terrible guilt settle in her heart for causing the man more pain than he's already in; she just hopes that the fire has singed his nerves and pain receptors so he can't feel anything, and that the morphine is enough to dull the feeling. Unfortunately, this also takes a long time, so before she can quickly re-wrap them to stop the fluid leakage, he's already lost a lot of blood and water. At the rate he's losing water and dehydrating, Isabel is surprised he's still alive. However, the heart monitor continues to beep in the corner, indicating a steady but very weak heartbeat.

Isabel throws out the bloodied, soaked bandages and cleans up the bed sheets, trying to soak up the fluid. Just as she plans to check Daley's eyes for any signs of recovery, Miller stands. She jumps, almost forgetting the man was there because he was so silent, watching her movements with a calculated, appreciative stare.

"Can I ask you something?" He asks quietly, leading Isabel to the doorway and out of hearing range. "Daley, Harry. He's my friend. I- I need to know. Will he live?"

Isabel sighs, looking contemplating at Daley. Miller giving the man a first name makes it all the more real. "I can't say. We can continue to monitor him, try to stop his injuries from worsening, stop the fluid loss, but the chances aren't good. Sergeant Daley is twenty-five and was in good health before the incident, but he has severe burns to approximately sixty-five percent of his body, if you include his legs. We figure out a person's odds for recovery by taking their age and the percentage of burns from one hundred, which unfortunately leaves Sergeant Daley with a five percent chance of recovery. While some people do pull miraculous feats of recovery, that percentage doesn't consider the loss of his limbs, eyesight, and the possible hearing and brain damage. Even if he does make it…"

"His quality of life would be limited," Miller finishes.

"He wouldn't have a quality of life, Sergeant. It's hard to admit, but your friend could likely be in a vegetated state, or have some form of brain damage. He will never recover from that. He cannot truly live, but right now, with what we are doing to keep him stable, he is being prevented from dying."

"I understand," Miller says, rubbing a hand over his face, his face creasing as though he might cry. When he looks up, his expression is schooled again. "Thank you for being upfront, ma'am. As sad as it is, it feels good to finally know the truth. The doctors seem to want to beat around the bush."

"Well, I'm not a doctor, Sergeant Miller. Nurses are known more for their bedside manner, but that also means my words may not always be correct. No matter what I say, take it with a pinch of salt. But I'm glad I could give you some sort of closure. Sometimes, it's necessary," Isabel agrees. She puts a comforting hand on the Sergeant's shoulder. "I really am very sorry. I can't even imagine."

"Thank you, miss," Miller says warmly. "Just do what you gotta do, nurse."

Isabel nods, moving away and back to her patient.

"I'm going to check his eyes, see if there's any improvement," she tells Miller as she unwraps the bandages, revealing the man's burned eyes. Not only are his eyelids and the surrounding skin blistered and red raw, the eyeballs themselves are burned, distorted in shape as though they'd been melted. The corneas were diagnosed as burned as well, taking away any chances of sight regeneration. Isabel sighs.

She gets a clean bandage, ready to re-wrap his injury, when suddenly, the soldier beneath her rapidly starts banging his head against the pillow, frightening Isabel enough that she flies backward away from him.

"Oh my God," she breathes, hurriedly pressing the emergency button on the wall to call for help. She hovers over the man's head, wondering whether he's having a seizure or feeling pain. She has no idea whether she should try to restrain him or let him flail his head.

Gertrude comes running into the room a second later. "Isabel, is everythi–" Gertrude's eyes land on the flailing man, her eyes widening. "What's going on? What's he doing?" She asks, running to the patient's other side.

"I have no idea," Isabel answers, checking his vitals. "He's fine, there's nothing different with his blood pressure, so it isn't pain. I only gave him another dose of morphine not even twenty minutes ago."

"He's communicating," Sergeant Miller suddenly says, slowly moving closer to his friend, his brows furrowed. "He's using Morse code." The Sergeant watches carefully, counting out the number of head bangs and writing random letters on a small notepad on the bedside table.

"What? How do you know?"

"Everyone learns Morse code at basic training. Daley was a communications specialist, he excelled at it. He's telling us something." The headbanging ceases suddenly, the nurses stare wide-eyed at the now silent, still soldier. "He said 'nurse'. He knows you're here. He can hear you."

"Yes, I'm here, Harry," Isabel reassures. "I'm going to look after you." She addresses him by his first name, though it goes against protocol, hoping its use will reassure him he's in a safe place, away from the conflict.

The headbanging continues. "No use… I think he's saying it's no use looking after him. He's beyond saving," Miller says sadly, his eyes not leaving the paper. "That isn't true, Harry."

Bang, bang, bang, the banging continues. "Nurse, family… He's asking if you have any family?"

"Uh," Isabel stammers, walking closer to her patient. "Yes, I do."

Bang, bang, "Brother? Do you have a brother?"

"Yes, two. Bucky and Robbie," Isabel replies, putting a comforting head on the man's forehead.

The next bangs are significantly calmer, Isabel's hand on his forehead clearly calming the blinded man. The head banging abruptly continues for a few seconds, Miller writing out another string of letters. "Army… He asks if your brother is in the army?"

Isabel gulps. Gertrude looks at Isabel with a worried frown. "Bucky's at basic training now," she says quietly.

There's stillness for a moment, before the head banging starts again, this time going on longer than before. "Daley said 'don't let him go'," Miller tells Isabel, looking up at her with an expression that is both sympathetic and apologetic.

"I can't stop that," Isabel whispers to Miller.

Miller sighs. "Harry has seen things no person should have to, ma'am. We all have. He's just trying to look out for you and your family. He's a good guy, that's what he does," Miller reasons, putting a comforting hand on the top of his friend's head as well. "It's okay, Harry, her brother will be fine. You don't need to worry. I'm sure he can handle himself."

Harry bangs his head again. "No one can," Miller interprets. He looks sad and solemn, his eyes staring down at his friend's pinched, burned features.

Isabel watches, eyes wide and mouth ajar in shock. Suddenly the banging start again, a relentless stream of soft thuds of the soldier's head hitting the pillow. It goes on for minutes, never seeming to end, and Miller isn't writing anything down, despite the fact there should be a whole paragraph by now.

"What's he saying now?" Gertrude asks from beside Isabel, an arm wrapped comfortingly around Isabel's shoulders.

"The same thing over and over," Miller says evenly, his eyes steely. "'Kill me, kill me, kill me, kill me'."

The following day, Isabel pauses in front of Sergeant Daley's room, summoning the courage to enter. Yesterday's experience had seen her up all night with nightmares, imagining Bucky and Steve in the same position, both of them taking turns to be amputated and blind and asking her to kill them. When she'd turned up for work today, Gertrude had offered her another set of patients, but she'd declined. Both Sergeants Daley and Miller were familiar to the nurse, they'd grown a bond yesterday that now tethered them to each other. She knew who they were, the friendship between the two men, and she felt like she was the only one who could help. Gertrude had understood and had given her a small business card with the number of the hospital's counselling service on it. "Just in case it gets too much, or you just want to talk," she reassured, patting her shoulder solemnly.

When she finally steps around the corner, the room is unusually quiet, the heart rate machine in the corner turned off and the iron lung no longer making its whirring sound. Sergeant Miller is nowhere to be seen.

Isabel hurries over to Harry's form, pressing a finger hurriedly to his wrist, finding no pulse. "Harry? Sergeant Daley?" She asks, though it's no use. His body temperature has dropped, cool to the touch. He doesn't breathe, doesn't move, his unseeing eyes hidden beneath the bandages.

She presses the emergency button and Gertrude comes bustling in, freezing at the sight.

"He's gone," Isabel informs her.

"What? How?"

"The heart rate monitor has been turned off, and the iron lung's been unplugged at the wall," she says, holding up the end of the cord. "I, I think –"

"He must have died in his sleep," Gertrude says, rather punctuated.

"What? Gert, the machines were unplugged. This wasn't a–"

"Isabel," Gertrude says, taking Isabel's hand in her own. "He died in his sleep. I know it's hard to lose a patient, especially when the odds are so skewed against you. But this really is for the best. From what Sergeant Miller told you about his friend, Harry wouldn't have wanted to live like that, like a vegetable. That isn't living. But still, I'm sorry."

Isabel nods, finally understanding. They're going to cover for Miller. They're going to hide the evidence, make it all the more better for everyone involved. She opens her mouth to reply, but is unable to say anything past the lump in her throat. She swallows it down and tries again. "It would have been cruel for him to continue living," Isabel mumbles. "His body was nothing more than a prison. We were just keeping him alive in his own personal hell. It's better this way."

"Exactly, love. In some ways, Miller was a blessing."

Isabel nods again. The body is taken to the morgue by the orderlies and Isabel watches it be wheeled away, a white sheet covering Daley from view. She sits a while in Miller's chair in the corner and says a few prayers, making the sign of the cross when she's finished. Then, she gets to work stripping the bed, remaking it with new sheets tucked tightly over the edges. She goes about her daily rituals, moving fluidly through the ward. But no matter how many patients she sees, how many wounds she tends to, how many people she talks to, she can't get the image of the blinded, crippled suffering man out of her head.

Brooklyn, New York

July 17th, 1942

Steve, of course, tries to enlist again. He forges the papers this time though, because this is his third attempt and he can't keep returning to the recruitment agency as Steve Rogers from Brooklyn, since they'll remember him. He knows it's illegal, but he's getting desperate, hoping to catch up to Bucky before it's too late. He travels all the way to the Bronx to enlist, hoping that the agency there might be less strict on following medical codes. On the papers he makes up an address he wrote down a few streets over, but still asks for his mail to be sent to his mother's apartment in Brooklyn, a plan all worked out for how he'll receive his mail. But still, he's rejected, almost faster than usual, sent home with another slip stamped unfit for service and his ego crushed once again.

The ride back to Brooklyn on the subway seems longer than it had on the way there. Steve sits quietly in a window seat, though there isn't anything to see since they're flying through an underground tunnel. Finally, the train stops at his local station and he emerges from the underground only a few blocks from his apartment. However, instead of heading left toward home, he turns right and walks the block to the Barnes' residence, knocking quietly on their front door when he reaches it.

Isabel answers, seemingly home alone with the twins out with Mrs. Barnes, and George Barnes hard at work. She greets him and lets him in, leading him back to the lounge room. "I was just reading some refreshers," she explains, packing up a medical textbook that she'd been making notes from.

"What for?" Steve asks, unable to get a look at the textbook before she's moving it aside.

"Just about treating extreme burns and amputations," she says. "There's been a few patients lately with large percentages of burns to their body so I thought I'd brush up on my understanding," she explains, her voice tinged with sadness. Steve suspects she may have struggled with a patient. "Anyway, what have you been up to, today?" Steve hesitates, not having made up any excuses about his whereabouts. His hesitation immediately draws Isabel's attention. "Steve?"

"I've just been around," Steve tries. Isabel raises an eyebrow in discouragement of lying.

"You weren't trying to enlist again, were you?" She asks quietly.

Steve sighs, looking away. The rejection note seems to burn a hole into him through the pocket of his shorts. "Maybe."

"Why Steve? I don't understand this fascination," Isabel tells him, frustrated, running a hand through her hair.

"Belle, I gotta do this. I have to fight for the little guy. I have just as many rights as anyone else."

"Everyone has rights, Steve. That doesn't automatically give them the permission or the ability to do whatever they want within those rights," Isabel argues, her voice frustrated. "You've tried to enlist before. How many times is this?"

"Four," Steve admits.

"How can you try so many times? Surely they keep records of who is deemed unfit?"

"They do," Steve agrees. "Like I told you, I change my place of birth and go to different recruiting centers in different boroughs."

"You're still lying on your enlistment forms?" Isabel cries, her eyes wide with shock. "Steve from the Bronx, from Queens, from New Jersey? They'll catch you."

"God no, even I wouldn't associate myself with Jersey," Steve shudders, but then he grows serious again. "They haven't worked it out yet, Belle, it's fine."

"It isn't fine, Steve. They'll find out, and you'll be punished. You could go to prison, or worse, they'll actually send you out to fight." Isabel runs a frustrated hand down her face, standing and pacing up and down the lounge room. "Why do you want to go? I understand the reasons," she cuts in as Steve goes to explain his motives again. "I just don't think you understand the consequences. I don't think you have any idea of what you're trying to get yourself into."

"And you do?" Steve asks defensively, standing up too so that he's the same height as Isabel. She stops pacing and looks at him, her eyes narrowing.

"Yeah, I do. I treated a patient three days ago, that's why I've been reading about the burns and the amputations. He was a soldier, only served one day on the front lines when he and his childhood best friend got caught in a landmine. They sent him back here once he was stable, but he was never going to make it. He lost both his legs, an arm, half his torso, and what was left of him was almost completely singed. He was blinded, his lungs and throat were burnt, and he couldn't breathe without an iron lung. How they managed to transport him all the way back to Brooklyn without him dying is beyond me, he must have been treated very well on the ship. I don't know how he wasn't already dead. His fluids were leaking out of his body just as fast as we could put them back in. I had to wrap and re-wrap his gauze every hour."

Isabel takes a deep, steadying breath, feeling the tears reemerging as they had the last few nights. "His friend was there, hadn't left his side in weeks despite his own injuries. He seemed nice, respectful. He took it well when I admitted his friend would have little quality of life if he lived any longer, that we were keeping him going. Then suddenly, the patient started banging his head, and turns out he was communicating through Morse code, telling me not to let anyone go to war, to stay away, and then asking us to kill him. Over and over. The next day he was dead. I found him, lying there, cold in his cot. We wrote on the official forms that he passed in his sleep, but it was actually a suspicious death. The machines keeping him alive were all unplugged. It wouldn't have been a painful death, just would have been like going to sleep. Someone, and I'm assuming it was his friend because he disappeared, gave in to his chant, put him out of his misery. If you love someone enough, you don't want them to suffer."

Isabel looks away from Steve, burying her head in her hands as the tears fall rapidly. The image of the man lingers in her head, his emotion-less face beneath the bandages slowly morphing into Bucky, Steve sitting beside him in the chair. She sees Steve leaning over Bucky, turning off the switch to the iron lung, saying his final goodbyes…

Steve steps closer to Isabel, slowly, reaching out a hand to her shaking shoulder. "What if that was you? Or Bucky? Why do you want to do that to yourselves?" Isabel cries. As soon as Steve makes contact, she flings herself into his arms, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist.

"Hey, shh," Steve hushes, petting Isabel's hair and allowing her to cry into his shoulder. "Shh, it's okay, Belle. Everything is okay, we're all safe."

"You won't be if you go to war," Isabel whimpers, her nose and eyes running and her voice thick. "Please, stop trying. Don't go. Don't do to someone else what that man did to me as his nurse. Just don't, please!"

"It's okay, I won't. We'll be fine," Steve reassures. He feels guilt settle in his stomach, knowing he's causing these kinds of painful thoughts for his friend. "I'm sorry," he says, leaning his chin on top of her head as she buries her face in his shoulder.

He's got a lot to think about now, he's heard a new side of the war he hadn't considered before. His stomach is uneasy, feeling a little sickened by her descriptions. He can see how it would be easy for Isabel to picture himself and Bucky in the same place, especially with the circumstances of each pair's friendship. It's definitely put him off voluntarily enlisting.

For a while, anyway.

A/N: Here's our first insight into the horrors of the war happening overseas. I can only imagine how frightening it would have been for people who were expecting to go overseas to fight or people who had family fighting after hearing of something like this happening to a soldier.

I was inspired for the story of the injured soldier by Metallica's song "One". It is the fourth track on their album …And Justice For All, and they themselves were inspired by the novel Johnny Got His Gun by Dalton Trumbo. In the book, Joe Bonham, a soldier in World War I, is injured in a landmine explosion that takes away his limbs and face, leaving him prisoner in his own body. He has lost his ability to hear, see and talk, and therefore can't communicate his thoughts to the medical crew that are keeping him alive. The lyrics of the song follow his plea to be put out of his misery. A specific passage from the book is: "How could a man lose as much of himself as I have and still live? When a man buys a lottery ticket, you never expect him to win because it's a million to one shot. But if he does win, you'll believe it because one in a million still leaves one. If I'd read about a guy like me in the paper I wouldn't believe it, cos it's a million to one. But a million to one always leaves one. I'd never expect it to happen to me because the odds of it happening are a million to one. But a million to one always leaves one. One."

The process of Isabel cleaning the soldiers' burns is inspired by the experiences of my grandfather quite a few years ago when he suffered horrific burns in a motor-garage accident. While I don't know every detail and I'm not in the medical field, I can't ensure that my portrayal is entirely accurate, I was just using his stories of his experiences as reference.

As a writer and frequent reader, I've almost become immune to the portrayal of atrocities, so I very rarely bat an eyelid at anything that people can come up with. I'm not afraid to write about topics that are crude and vile in nature, and I don't shy away from blood and gore. Hopefully this will allow me to really give you readers an insight into the character's experiences of war. I am aware that this may slightly narrow my reader demographic and will try to keep it to a minimum to ensure reader enjoyment :)