Chapter IV:

The next day he awoke to more sounds of misery. He had to hold his head against the throbbing all the noises were causing. Opening his eyes only brought on a burst of bright light, as well as a shock that made the headache increase. He tried again, this time gradually opening them. The place was a mad house... nurses everywhere. The night before, almost all beds across the way from him had been empty. Now, they were all filled with bloody, screaming men, and even more had been squeezed in to hold more patients. He looked over the men, or what was left of them, and tried to see if any of them came from his platoon. He was almost able to sit back in relief, until he spotted one three beds down from his own. John Allerdyce.

His heart fell in concern, and he turned quickly, scanning the room for his nurse. Dammit! What was her name? She'd never told him, had she? Where was she! None of the other nurses would tell him anything about the other patients. It went against the policy. But his own nurse wasn't afraid of that, she told him about anyone and everyone.

At last he spotted her, coming in his direction. "Hey! You!"

"Tha only thing worse than bein' called "hey you!" is "woman!" Ah should just give you mah name."

"Quit foolin' around an' listen to me!" She didn't flinch at his nasty response, but instead raised an eyebrow and looked at him. He was troubled. His brow was wrinkled and there was a great deal of emotion being held back behind his dark blue eyes. "What happened to that kid?" He jerked his head sharply to his left, and she followed it, looking.

"You mean that boy there?"

"Who the hell else would I mean?" She bit her lip to keep from laughing. He really was amusing when he was upset.

"He was involved in an ambush. His group was misinformed. He has multiple gunshot wounds, not to mention bayonet wounds on top of that. Ah hate to admit it, but he's not goin' to last all that much longer... we've done all we can, an' nothin' is workin'." She watched his face fall and his head sag slightly. "Is he a friend of yours?"

"He was in my platoon... when we first stormed that Normandy beach..." He rubbed his forehead, and she frowned more to see how troubled he was.

"Let me get you somethin' for your pain..."

"No!" He reached out to grab hold of her arm, but she pulled it away, in reaction. "Look... just... can you get me over there?"

"You're not supposed to get outta bed..."

"You're not supposed to bring me beer either, yet lo and behold, that's just what I found this morning with my breakfast."

"It was wine. And it was to ease your suffering."

"Yeah right, seeing as how much I'm suffering, considering I don't have any wounds!"

"All right! Just shut your mouth already, will ya?" She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, looking back and forth and trying to think of what to do next. Moving over to the table beside his bed, she grabbed hold of his shirt and tossed it to him. "Pull that on. Ah'll be right back." She moved away quickly, and headed into the back room to get a wheelchair.

He was frantic, due to his impatience, and would have paced, if he weren't stuck in bed. What was taking her so long? At last she came back, pushing a wheelchair in front of her. She pulled it up beside his bed and made a real big show out of helping him into it. "You blow this act, tell tha world you ain' hurt, an' we're both in a lot of trouble." She unfolded the extra blankets she'd brought and draped one around his shoulders and the other over his legs. Quietly, she pushed him three beds down. "Hey there handsome... Ah brought you a visitor..."

"What... ?" He turned slowly, then broke into the biggest smile he could manage, considering the whole left side of his face was covered by a bruise. "Sir..."

"Hey kid..."

"Ah have to go do a few things, so he's gonna keep you company for a while." She turned to Wolverine and whispered to him, just low enough so John couldn't hear. "If anythin' happens, you call right away, you hear me?" He nodded his head, and she seemed content enough with that to let them be.

"Wow..." Wolverine turned his attention back to John, who was, with great effort, trying to pull himself into something resembling a sitting position. It was useless, of course, and was probably for the best.

"Don't move, Allerdyce... you'll just make things worse off for yourself."

"I don't... I don't believe it..." It pained Wolverine to see him like this. He'd met John in the beginning of the year, on the first day of boot camp. He was almost as bad as his friend Bobby Drake, except that Drake was a prankster, and John just had a tendency to tell awful jokes. Wolverine went back and forth between regret and thankfulness. There were times when he was harder on the two of them, no doubt giving them the impression that he didn't like them much. Most of the guys in his platoon felt the same way, because of the way that he worked them. They all couldn't be further from the truth. He had a lot of respect for those guys, each and every one of them, and he was proud that he had the chance to work with them. Sure, he'd been tough, but in the end, he believed they were better prepared to handle this fight than any other men in the army.

"You don't believe what?"

"You're... still... breathin'..."

"Yeah..." He looked down, once again ashamed at himself for having that stupid healing factor. He wanted to suffer... because he knew a lot of guys ten times better than him that were lying on beds, moaning and dying simply because they didn't have the genetics he did. It made him so mad he wanted to kill something... maybe a few more of those blasted Germans that got them into this whole mess. "So... what happened? The others ok?"

"Dang messenger... mixed up the coordinates... led us right into German territory..."

"Easy kid... take it easy..."

"We lost... Worthington. Gambit... got beat up real good..."

"What about Drake and Summers?" Wolverine watched as John tried to chuckle, ending up gasping for air. "Careful kid... don't get excited..."

"Drake... had to wizz... so... Scott decided to wait for him..." He paused for a very long time, smiling proudly when Wolverine chuckled at the story. "We... came runnin' by... tryin'... to shake the Germans... an'... there's Drake... with his pants... down to his ankles..." They each laughed, though John's was by far more strained than Wolverine's, making him wonder if he should make the kid stop while he was ahead. "He ran... pullin' his pants up... stumblin' over the things... all the while moonin' them dang Germans to high heaven..." He at last finished his story and was able to relax against his pillow. The two laughed for some time, Wolverine clearly picturing the kid doing something so crazy. "Hey... sarge?"

"Yeah?" Wolverine watched as John, with painful effort, pulled something from inside his pocket. It was a folded piece of paper, burnt in some places, splattered with blood in others.

"Could you..." He moved his hand, offering it to Wolverine, hoping he would take it. He did, all the while watching John. His face had paled tremendously, and everything seemed to come ten times more difficult to him now. "Copy... copy that over... send it... to my parents?"

"You just wait a few days... you'll be able to do all that yourself." He was lying. To himself, and to John, though he didn't know why. They both knew the outlook of the situation... that it was bleak and downright hopeless.

"Address... is... four... nine... seven... eight... Maysville Rd... Kentucky..." As he spoke, Wolverine could tell his voice was growing dim. He picked up a pencil nearby and leaned in closer to write down the numbers as he whispered them.

"Four, nine, seven, eight, Maysville Rd, Kentucky. Got it. I'll send it..." He paused, after looking up at John. He wasn't moving. A quick glance at his chest verified that he'd stopped breathing. Putting a finger to his neck, Wolverine felt around for a pulse, but was not rewarded with one. Having seen him in all that pain, he was almost grateful that it'd finally ended for him. He sat in silence a while, staring at the folded piece of paper in his hands. Unfolding it, he read the words over carefully, having to guess at some that had been smudged by blood or burnt off. It was a good-bye letter, reassuring his parents that he was better off now than he'd ever been, and that he didn't want them worrying about him.

Wolverine refolded the note and put it in his shirt pocket. He would write it over and have it ready by mail call the next day. Not bothering to wait for help, nor notifying anyone of the boy's death, he quietly wheeled himself over to his own bed and pulled himself back up into it. He didn't have to pretend he was barely able to do it. Something had caused the feeling to seep right out of him. His arms had threatened to give out when he pushed himself up off the seat and slid back onto the bed.

He didn't say anything after that, not even when his nurse came by to talk to him. He'd just stared at the ceiling, too lost in thought to even realize he had company. He didn't know what had him so upset... but something in him felt a little lost... and a little confused. He used to love the idea of war... bein' able to kick major butt without regretting it later. Now... all he wanted was for it to end. He wanted to go home, and forget any of this ever happened. As his eyes closed, he wondered if that would ever be.