It was a searing, burning pain. One that made sleep impossible. And yet, the young medical doctor was in a state of what you could call sleep. If the troubled, twitching, drug induced coma was something you could call rest. He had been rushed in to the medical tent earlier that afternoon. Bleeding heavily and still feebly trying to rise from the stretcher as if in his weakened condition he could still do something for the poor soul he had been so desperately trying to save before the ambush.
When terse orders were given to resist treatment, the doctor's head fell back on the pillow and he cried. Unabashed tears that for a soldier were unsightly. But this man had never been the fighting type. True, he wore the uniform, carried the weapon and knew the routine, but his manner was one of a more gentle type. One that soothed and healed, not corrupted and destroyed.
After the tears were gone, the limp doctor weakly gave out instructions on how to treat the wound. The nurses smiled slightly at his instructions. Ever the doctor, he couldn't bear to let others treat something he could easily fix himself.
After the bandages, the doctor finally gave out and fell into a state of dream like exhaustion. His mind constantly echoing with the horror of battle.