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.