Author's note: This chapter features Sebastian, who works in the Royal Army Medical Corps on the front. I've tried to balance keeping it realistic, but not very gory. There is mention of blood, wounded soldiers, men dying, and thoughts of self-inflicted injury. If you have any concerns, please send me a PM on this site or a message on Tumblr. No anons please - I will only answer privately as I don't want to spoil it for others.

There is a two-month time jump from the previous chapter.

September 1915, near Loos, France
Sebastian

"Corporal Smythe, use your hand to keep pressure on the wound! I don't want him bleeding any more before I can apply the gauze."

"Yes, sir!" Sebastian looks down at the soldier as he applies more pressure. He is relieved that this patient is unconscious. He can't bear to see their terrified expressions. Soon, the gauze is wrapped around the soldier's leg.

"Move him on out! Tell triage that he needs urgent attention."

"Yes, sir!"

Sebastian and the other stretcher-bearer carry the wounded soldier through the trenches. There is still artillery fighting, so he keeps his head low, careful to avoid the soldiers that are still firing. Sebastian accidentally steps into a puddle and can feel the water seep into his boot. "Bloody hell! There must be more to life than this," Sebastian mumbles to himself.

*BOOM!*

A bomb explodes nearby, and knocks them off their feet, making them drop the stretcher. Sebastian lowers his head between his legs to avoid the dirt that is raining down into the trench. He's breathing hard, but he tries to slow it down before he has another panic attack. He can hear the heavy footsteps of his immediate officer approaching.

"You all right, Corporal Smythe?"

"I think so. Yeah, I'm all right." Sebastian opens his eyes and sees his sergeant check the soldier they dropped.

"He's dead," the Sergeant states.

"W-was it because we dropped him?" Sebastian asks with a trembling voice.

"That leg would have had to been amputated. I doubt that he would have made it through the surgery."

A new round of German machine gunfire begins, and a soldier drops dead right in front of Sebastian. Not for the first time during this war, Sebastian wishes that he was anywhere else but in a bloody trench.

"Get these bodies away! Come on, Corporal Smythe!"

"Yes, sir!"

Twelve hours later, the firing ceases. Sebastian thinks it was pointless, because neither side has made any advance on their position. After he has lifted the last stretcher and placed it in the field ambulance, the Sergeant comes over.

"That's the last stretcher for our shift. Get in the truck and head back to the Regimental Aid Post."

"Yes, Sir, Sergeant Karofsky."

When they arrive at the Regimental Aid Post, the other stretcher-bearers immediately go to the dormitory to sleep, but Sebastian knows he's too wound up to fall asleep anytime soon. After retrieving his haversack, he heads to the mess tent to have a fag and a cup of tea.

Once the water has boiled, he fills the tin teapot and sits down at one of the empty tables. He takes off his boots and dries his feet with a rag. He's seen enough trench foot to know what awful things can happen if he doesn't keep his feet dry. Sebastian pours himself a mug of tea, takes a sip, and closes his eyes.

"You look very comfortable there, Corporal Smythe."

Sebastian turns around and sees Sergeant Karofsky standing in front of him. He immediately jumps up and stands to attention, giving a hand salute.

"At ease, Corporal. We're finished for the day."

Sebastian picks up the tin teapot. "Would you like some, sir? I've got condensed milk and sugar."

Sergeant Karofsky nods. "I won't ask how you managed that."

"I know a guy, who knows a guy…" Sebastian smirks.

"I bet you do."

While Sergeant Karofsky prepares his tea by adding milk and two teaspoons of sugar into the mug, Sebastian takes a good look at him. He doesn't know much about the new sergeant, who started working in his unit a few days ago, after the old sergeant was shot leaving the trenches.

Sebastian notices that Sergeant Karofsky is a big man - not only tall, but bulky like a rugby player. He looks a few years older than him - probably in his mid-twenties. At times, the Sergeant's manner is gruff, but he certainly knows his stuff. He's excellent at giving first aid in the field and managing the stretcher-bearers to transport injured soldiers to the bearer posts quickly.

Sebastian decides to start a conversation. "You won't believe it, but when I was back home, I thought, 'Medical Corps. Not much danger there.' How wrong can a man be?"

Sergeant Karofsky chuckles, "I think it comes down to luck. If a bullet's got your name on it, there's nothing you can do. If not, you thank God you're alive."

"Ah, but to be alive in a trench? I'm not so sure," Sebastian quips.

"The good news is that we'll be relieved by another unit. We have one week of training and work at the field hospital, one week on the front, and then one glorious week off for rest."

Sebastian sighs, "I can't wait. So, where are you from, Sergeant Karofsky?"

"Essex. Left school when I was 16 years old and became an orderly at the local hospital. I was interested in medicine, but hated emptying chamber pots and other shit like that. A couple of years later, the RAMC were recruiting in the area. They promised to train me as a medic, so I enlisted. That was a couple of years before the war."

"Now I understand why you are so good at your job on the field. I know if I'm injured, I'd want you by my side, administering first aid."

When Sergeant Karofsky's cheeks pinken, Sebastian realizes that his remark came off as a bit flirty, but the Sergeant isn't angry. How interesting...

"So what's your story, Corporal?" Sergeant Karofsky asks with a gruff voice.

"I'm from Devon. Like you, I left school when I was 16 years old, but I went into service. Started as the hall boy and worked myself up the ladder to become the first footman. I would have been promoted to valet if it weren't for the war."

"Good family?" Sergeant Karofsky asks.

"As good as upper-class families can be, I guess. I worked for the Earl of Westerville. The butler expects a lot, but he's fair, I'll give him that."

Sergeant Karofsky slides his empty mug across the table. "I'm heading off to get some shut-eye. Thanks for the tea. Now that I know that you're a footman, I'll make sure that I crook my pinky finger when I next have a cup of tea with you."

Sebastian laughs at the joke, and Sergeant Karofsky joins in. He can see the Sergeant's eyes crinkle, and his face soften as his body shakes with hearty laughs. Sebastian wonders whether this is the Sergeant's true character, a strong contrast to the one who barks orders in the trenches. Sebastian knows one thing for sure: he wants to find out more about Sergeant Karofsky.

Sebastian groans, "Please tell me that this is the last box we have to bring in. My back is killing me."

Sergeant Karofsky inspects the back of the truck. "Yes, that's the last of the delivery. Take ten, everybody, then meet me in the mess tent. We'll practice bandaging."

Although Sebastian prefers working in the field hospital to the trenches, the days are still long and tiring. They're responsible for moving the injured to and from the hospital on stretchers, and bringing in new supplies that are delivered. Any spare time is spent training.

Sebastian uses the communal latrine before going to the mess tent. He sits down with the rest of the medics on one of the benches. Corporal Wilson, the unit's Medical Officer, starts the training session.

"Time is of the essence. Your first aid must be quick so infection doesn't set into the wound, so that the casualty doesn't bleed to death. Their survival depends upon you to quickly get them to someone with specialized knowledge or with specialist equipment. Abdominal wounds, for example, need to be operated on within six hours in order for the patient to survive."

Sebastian looks around the mess tent, and notices that many of the other medics aren't paying attention, which is normal during Corporal Wilson's long-winded lectures.

"We've adopted the French system of triage. Simply put, triage is a system for first responders to prioritize treatment of the injured. It's our job to divide the injured into three groups. Slightly hurt soldiers receive immediate attention from you, and are sent back to fight. Those needing greater care are transported by you on stretchers, and taken to one of the field hospitals near the front lines. The last to be seen are soldiers deemed to be beyond help."

Sebastian stifles a yawn. Corporal Wilson always starts his lectures with explaining triage.

"Attention!" Sergeant Karofsky shouts.

All the medics immediately stand to attention.

"I see some of you nodding off. This training could save lives. I want you to take a good look at the person next to you."

"Yes, sir!" the men shout. Sebastian looks at the medic to his right.

"This man could be the one that saves your life. Do you want him sleeping during training?"

"No, sir!" the men shout.

"If I see anyone not paying attention, everyone's pudding rations will be withheld for a week. At ease."

Corporal Wilson interrupts, "Thank you, Sergeant Karofsky. Let's get the supplies out and we'll practice bandaging gunshot wounds to the legs."

Sergeant Karofsky does a quick count. "We have an odd number. Corporal Smythe saw me do this the last time we were at the front. I'll pair up with him and see how much he remembers."

Sebastian picks up the supplies before approaching his Sergeant, who is lying down on the floor waiting for treatment. "The first thing I should do is rip your trousers to expose the wound, and use the carbolic lotion to wash your injury."

"Let's pretend that's already done," the Sergeant replies.

Sebastian pretends to soak the gauze in the carbolic solution.

"And what should you do if there is excessive bleeding?" Corporal Wilson calls out.

Sebastian uses both hands to apply pressure to the Sergeant's upper thigh. He can feel the well-developed muscles flex against his touch. Sebastian can't help but use his thumbs to gently stroke the area. It's been nine months since he joined the RAMC, nine months of no sex. Lord knows he wants it - needs it - but buggery is a serious crime in the military.

"Now it's time to wrap the gauze around the injured area. Make sure that it's tight enough to stop the bleeding, but not too tight to cut off circulation," Corporal Wilson instructs.

Their eyes lock together, and Sebastian carefully winds the gauze around the Sergeant's thigh, making sure to smooth it down on every pass. And if his hand slips and moves further along the Sergeant's leg, no one is the wiser. Although the Sergeant's expression is unreadable, Sebastian can see his cock stiffening beneath his trousers. He smiles, knowing everything he needs to about Sergeant Karofsky's sexual preference.

At dusk, the RAMC unit piles into a truck, headed to the front. The infantry plans to make a move that night to advance their position. Sebastian is sitting next to Sergeant Karofsky along the bench, and he can feel his thick muscular thigh press against his.

"Do you hear from back home often?" the Sergeant asks.

"No, my parents can't read or write. I do get regular care packages and letters from Westerville Abbey. Now you know how I get condensed milk and sugar. It's hard to believe that the abbey has been turned into a convalescent hospital."

"I bet the Countess teaches them to drink tea with their pinky finger crooked," Sergeant Karofsky chuckles.

"I'm curious, Sergeant. Do you think I could ever get a transfer back to the abbey's hospital, seeing as it's war work?" Sebastian asks. He's been trying to figure out how to get away from the front, and the abbey hospital might be the answer.

Sergeant Karofsky thinks about it before answering, "Well, you'd have to be sent home from the front first. And then you might have to pull a few strings. But no, you couldn't get a transfer from the front to work at the abbey unless something happened to you."

The truck stops, and the men get out. Sebastian puts on his helmet and throws his first aid haversack across his back. The fighting hasn't yet started, so the medics take positions along the trench. Sebastian finds a lonely spot and lights a fag. The silence and waiting start to get to him. This could be his last day of his life.

If the British Army is making an offensive move, they'll be 'going over the top' - climbing out of the trenches and keeping low, until they reach the enemy's front line trenches, where they will attack them with rifles or bayonets. Sebastian's been through this before, and there are so many things that can go wrong. As soon as the soldiers are over the top, they're in the enemy's field of fire. Their machine guns can mow down hundreds of men in no time at all. There are also complex networks of barbed wire that are difficult to see in the dark. Sebastian shudders to think of the number of injured men he's tried to release from the barbed wire with clippers from his haversack.

Sebastian hears a round of machine gunfire whistle above him. Pretty soon, he'll have to go over the top himself to treat and retrieve the wounded soldiers. He can already imagine their wailing cries, their horrified faces, and mutilated bodies. And as usual, he'll be a sitting target with no weapon. Machine guns can't see the white cross insignia on his coat sleeve.

Sebastian startles when a rat races over him, scurrying to find a crumb to eat. This is a bloody nightmare. I can't do it anymore!

He takes out another fag and his lighter. Before he flicks the flame, he gets an idea. It might be crazy, but if he did it, he wouldn't have to go out there again, and he could return to Westerville Abbey. If he flicks his lighter and holds the lighter above the trench line, the enemy would surely shoot. His hand would be injured, and he would have to the leave the RAMC.

His fingers tremble and it takes several attempts before the lighter has a flame. He slowly raises his hand and…

He feels someone grab his wrist and throw his arm down.

"Don't do it," Sergeant Karofsky hisses. "I know how you're feeling, we all get tempted at one time or another. But it's not worth it. You're important, and I'm not going to let you do it to yourself."

Sebastian's body starts heaving, and he somehow manages to suppress the sobs caught in his throat. No one has ever told him that he's important before. When his breathing returns to normal, he looks at Sergeant Karofsky and says, "Thank you."

"Are you going to be all right, Corporal?"

Sebastian nods. In the distance, he can hear the command for the first unit to go over the top.

"Stay in the trenches and deal with the injured here. Under no circumstances are you to go over the top. Understood?"

"Yes, Sergeant Karofsky."

Sebastian sits alone at a corner table in a bistro, nursing his pint of beer. His unit has been given a week's rest after seeing combat action in the Battle of Loos. They were dropped off in some nondescript town west of Loos - a place where British soldiers usually take their short leaves.

After filling their bellies with mediocre food and ale, the rest of the unit left for a well-known whore house. While they urged him to join them, Sebastian feigned fatigue. He knows that they won't have whores that would cater to his sexual preference.

Sergeant Karofsky sits down next to him and slides a fresh pint of beer in front of him. They lift their mugs and say "Cheers" before taking a sip.

The Sergeant wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "That tastes so good. Where are the other lads?"

"They've gone to Madam Barbier's around the corner. It seems that nobody wants to die a virgin," Sebastian replies.

"What about you?"

"Do I look like a virgin?" Sebastian smirks. "Besides, Madam Barbier's won't have the type of person I'm looking for. Will you join them, Sergeant?"

Sergeant Karofsky shakes his head and takes another sip of beer.

Sebastian decides it's time to make his move. He leans forward and whispers, "Do you like dick?"

"What's it to you?" the Sergeant answers gruffly.

Sebastian licks his lips. "I think your dick could mean a lot to me, especially if it's in my mouth...or ass...or both."

Sergeant Karofsky quickly downs the rest of his pint of beer. He sets down the empty mug and stands up. He whispers, "Room 24," before leaving the bistro.

Sebastian lights a fag and waits an additional 15 minutes so that no one can make a connection between the two of them. He returns to the hotel and climbs up the stairs. The corridor is quiet and Sebastian knows that the men won't return until the early morning, when they've run out of money and the whores kick them out.

He knocks on the door to Room 24. When it opens, Sergeant Karofsky quickly pulls him in and slams him against the door. Clothing is quickly removed and flung onto the floor, and their entangled bodies flop onto the bed. Firm hands roam his body and make their way down to his ass. Sebastian wants this so badly, he feels like he's about to burst. After quick and rough preparation, that's just on the right side of pleasurable pain, Sebastian feels the blunt head of the Sergeant's cock enter him and bottom out.

There's no small talk - Sebastian's ears are filled with panting and grunting, and the slap of balls against his ass. The Sergeant is pounding him into the mattress and the friction on his cock feels all sorts of right. Sergeant Karofsky pulls him up by the hips so that Sebastian is on all fours. The pounding intensifies as the Sergeant slams into Sebastian's prostate with every thrust. It's exactly what Sebastian needs. He needs to blot all wartime images from his head and just feel… to remember what it feels like to be alive. The Sergeant wraps his hand around Sebastian's cock and strokes in time to the thrusts. Sebastian clenches his ass when he climaxes, and the Sergeant quickly follows suit.

Once the Sergeant withdraws his softened cock, he rolls over away from Sebastian. Soon after, snores are filling the room as the Sergeant settles into a deep sleep. They've had their release, and Sebastian knows it's time to go. He's not a silly romantic like Kurt and doe-eyed Mr Blaine. He quickly dresses and quietly limps out of the room.

The unit stands at attention during Sergeant Karofsky's morning inspection.

"I don't understand why we're repairing a bridge. It's a job for the Royal Engineers," Corporal Brown remarks.

"Just be glad that we're not going to the front," Sebastian whispers.

Sergeant Karofsky walks over to face Corporal Brown. "Some of the roads and bridges to the front have been destroyed. The Royal Engineers are stretched thin as it is, so the RAMC agreed to help out. Our work will help get ammunition and supplies to our boys in the trenches, who are fighting our enemy. Got a problem with that, Corporal Brown?"

"No, sir!"

"Good. Monroe, Brown, Thomas, McMurphy - you'll be taking the new planks from the truck to the bridge. The rest of you will start prying old boards off the bridge."

Sebastian joins the men walking toward the old wooden bridge. It doesn't look fit enough for a pony and cart to cross over it. Wooden planks are dangling underneath, and one side railing has a large gap. He's never been a fan of heights so decides to work beneath the bridge, just before the water's edge.

Sebastian works for hours, systematically yanking wooden debris from the bridge and stacking them in a pile on the shore. He stops to wipe his brow - it's hard work on a sunny autumn day. Sebastian suddenly hears a crack, then feels his head burst with pain, and cold water seeping through his clothes as he tumbles into the river.

A strong hand grabs Sebastian's arm. "I've got you. Just relax your body so that I can pull you out."

Sebastian looks up to see worry on Sergeant Karofsky's face as he wades through the water, and pulls him back to the shore. Sebastian closes his eyes, and suddenly, there is darkness.

Sebastian can hear activity around him, and he slowly opens his eyes. The lights hanging from the ceiling are blinding, so he closes them again. His head is pounding, and when he touches it, he feels the gauze wrapped around his forehead. He moans and a doctor immediately comes over.

"Corporal Smythe. Welcome back. You've been unconscious for five days. How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Two… or three? Don't know. They're... blurry. My head… It hurts. What happened?"

The doctor reads Sebastian's chart. "Your unit was repairing a bridge when a soldier accidently dropped a plank over the side. It hit you, and it caused a serious head injury."

"Huh," Sebastian says, his head still spinning. "Will I... be okay?"

"Yes, but there are long-term effects, like the headache and dizziness you are currently experiencing. The most worrisome effect is delayed responsiveness. You must be 100 per cent alert to do your job as a medic. The RAMC has already approved an honorable discharge. You'll be returning home as soon as you're well enough to travel."

A small smile forms on Sebastian's face. He'll never have to return to the front again.

Author's notes

This is the only chapter in the story that doesn't feature Kurt or Blaine.

Wondering what a latrine looked like during WW1? Go check out my chapter announcement for a photo (assessable from the Westerville Abbey master post on my Tumblr page - HKVoyage). Datshitrandom has also created some photo manips of Rachel as a nurse, and Butler Burt and Footman Kurt in the previous chapter. If you go to my Tumblr homepage (HKVoyage), click on the Westerville Abbey Master Post, and you will find them under the Story Artwork link. Please take a look and give her some love.

Trivia: During World War I, triage was developed to handle the unprecedented waves of casualties pouring off battlefields. It's estimated that on the Western front alone, the wounded that returned to the firing line, represented a manpower saved of 1,600,000.

Many thanks to my fantastic betas, Fearlessly and Lilyvandersteen. I also thank Dblmalfunction, who performed a detailed final review, although all mistakes are mine.I'm HKVoyage on Tumblr.

Next up: Blaine in the trenches.