Whispers
The blond youth muttered a string of curses as he lifted himself from the mud. Brilliant.
"Hey Don, need a little help?" Ah. This was just brilliant.
"No." But he took the hand that was offered absently and with aid eased himself up.
"What the hell happened?" Don fiercely wiped the mud from his face, and briefly contemplated if he should tell the truth.
"I tripped." Thomas barked out a laugh and lightly tussled Don's hair.
"Should've known. You are one clumsy Ducky." A small frown appeared upon the blonde's face at the nickname.
"Remind me to thank Henry later for the nickname next time I'm working on one of his gun shot wounds." Thomas chuckled.
"You were practically begging for it, what was your mother thinking…Donald Mallard?" Don had to smile at that, he was constantly teased about his name, it really didn't bother him as much as he made it seem.
But the nickname still drove him mad.
"With a last name like mine, my mother did not have much of a choice. I suppose she decided to go for the full effect."
"Great woman, your mother?"
"Lovely." He spat out some mud from inside his mouth as he said this, and so at Tom's smirk Don lightly bowed his head. "Really…I mean, she raised me after all."
"Yea? Good relationship then? You visit her often?"
"Visit? Currently she is my roommate whenever I have the joy of returning home."
"You still live with your mother?"
"I have no money!"
"Lord Ducky, if you don't watch it, you'll be seventy and your hundred year old mother will still be looking over you shoulder telling you to pick up your clothes." At this Don put on a look of horror.
"Do not even joke! And I'll have you know, she would never tell me to pick up my clothes, unlike you, I happen to know how to do it on my own."
Tom snorted at the comment, and looked away from his companion and back towards the camp. There was a calm silence, in which an eerie chirping decided to sing, and it was here where Tom spoke up.
"We should be heading back." He whispered. "We're setting off tomorrow." Don raised his eyebrows as he tried to keep up with Tom's brisk pace.
"So soon? Then men are still wounded…they still need more time to heal-"
"Time is something we don't have Ducky." Tom spat forcefully, in a tone which said there would be no argument. So there wasn't. The pair lapsed into silence once more.
"Why did you volunteer for this Don?" If Don was surprised at the sudden shift of subject, he didn't show it, and he answered with ease.
"Because, the food here is great." Don's eyes twinkled, he would never share his true reason, he would get laughed at. It had taken him so much trouble to fit in, and to reassure the foreign men that he was qualified with helping them heal, that though he looked young he had much experience with such injuries. He could help, and he did.
"Hah. Right, all right, forget I asked." But of course, Donald couldn't, he couldn't help wondering himself. Just exactly what was he doing here? What was it exactly, that drew him here? All it really was a string of coincidences, pulls and tugs. He couldn't really pinpoint it. But he was here, and what did it matter? He would save the lives of men when he was able to; he just hoped he didn't lose his in the process.
His true reason? The hopes of living up to his father's name, the hopes of seeing pride in his mother's eyes…even though he was not actually fighting, killing, but Don preferred it that way. He liked to imagine, that his father would've liked it that way too.
They reached camp, and Don had to blush at the amused glances the company was sending him. He could only imagine that he must be a sight, but then, with Ducky, everything was humorous. So they set back to their business, except for Henry who shot a sneer of a smile in Don's general direction, and then continued on with his tasks.
Don didn't understand why Henry couldn't stand him. That was why the nickname Ducky ruffled his feathers as it were. Henry did not call him so to be kind, to say it as a friend, but out of pure anger and spite. Don had saved his life, and he didn't rub it in Henry's face, never, but Don couldn't help wondering why Henry held such a grudge against him after doing so.
He, after all, knew that Henry enjoyed life as much as the next person, that once healed he was able to chortle and dance as he used to, but ever since then he had called Don Ducky, had teased him whenever he could, embarrassed him, put him down, in essence made Don's life a living hell. And Don couldn't help but feel a sort of hatred towards Henry. He often thought what it would be like if Henry had just died, if his hand had accidently slipped just an inch…and his artery would be cut.
But such thoughts were not professional.
And such thoughts were not decent.
So he pushed them away whenever they came prodding. He focused on his work, on helping others, and would ignore Henry's attempts to get him to rise to the feeling of anger.
Again, he had no idea why Henry was doing it. Could be fear. Maybe. It almost usually always is.
"Hey Ducky! Aren't you smart enough to know to go swimming in water?"
Whatever it was, it was bloody frustrating.
And as Don opened his mouth to retort, a loud whistle sounded, and then there was a great blast of heat, and Don fell forward, face landing in the mud once more.
Shouts and panicked curses were heard from all directions, from the ground he heard footsteps rushing past him, the loud firing of guns as they managed to get their weapons into readiness. Donald sat up quickly, got his bearings and rushed off to help the fallen next to him.
It was Sam.
"Don, help, oh God it hurts, help." Sam arched his back in pain, and Don noticed the missing appendage, his left leg. The same leg he had been playing football with earlier, with a smile on his face, ready to get a real ball instead of the pitiful fruits that were scattered about.
"Ssh, hush, hush" Don slipped his hand into Sam's allowing his friend to squeeze it tightly. Don glanced around, finding nothing but smoke, fire and a rapid scrambling of bodies; he had to get to his tent, to get the tools to help this boy, his friend.
"Fall back! Fall back!" Voices boomed, and then the bodies were scrambling in separate directions, and Don had no choice but to help Sam up, it was difficult to carry him, but suddenly there was a shift of weight, and his load wasn't as heavy.
Don glanced to Sam's other side and noted Henry was smirking tightly at him, Sam was whimpering, and Henry wrapped Sam's loose right arm about his neck and mumbled something in Sam's ear.
Don glanced to the ground and noted with horror at the various fallen bodies scattered about him. It had never been this bad, he had to stop and help those he could. He had to; it was his job, his duty.
"Henry, take Sam somewhere safe, I have to help them." Don shouted over the roar of the whistles and explosions. Henry shook his head forcefully.
"Ducky, they're dead, let it go, you can't save them now."
"I must!" he pleaded, hearing Henry's reasoning, but he couldn't accept that so many of his comrades were dead…impossible.
"Look Ducky, Sammy will die if you don't come with me, he still has a chance, let him keep that chance, and you can come back later to help the others, but please, we need you now." Don was trembling, so much violence, so much fear, hurt, pain. It wasn't right. Don continued supporting Sam and together, he and Henry managed to get through the vegetation. They stopped, set Sam down, looked at each other and smiled tightly.
They were still alive. Suddenly there was a rapid string of fire, and Henry quickly pushed Don out of its path and brought his own gun up to fire in return. The bullets ceased, and Henry fell. Don lifted himself up once more from the mud and he turned to his fallen…friend.
He was still breathing, gasping, but still alive.
"Where are you wounded?" Don quickly questioned, dragging Henry as gently as he could over next to Sam.
"Chest wound, I-I think." Henry winced as Don placed him palm on the wound, searching.
"Clean shot." Don whispered, it was a terrible place to have been hit, almost a sure death wound. They didn't have time. Both Henry and Sam needed help. Now.
"H-How bad isit?"
"Not too bad, just help me apply pressure here." Don's eyes furrowed in pain, just moments before he was hoping Henry would leave him in peace and just shut up, he didn't really want Henry dead. He was a good man, he didn't deserve to die, neither did Sammy, or…Daniel…or Kurt…none of them…
"L-liar, not too bad. H-Help Sammy, he needsit, he's-scared."
"And you're not?" Don's voice shook with disbelief, frantically trying to think of what to do, he had to clean Sam's wound, and Henry's, but there was no water…
"'m never…scared." Henry grinned, and then began to focus his gaze over Don's shoulder. "Spring…there…" It was a miracle, indeed there was a spring, fresh water…Don quickly took off his own shirt, and began to tear it into long strips.
"I'll be right back." He muttered to his wounded friends, and he took his empty canteen from his shoulders, thanking whatever force brought this spring to them, and rapidly filled it with the precious life-saving substance.
He brought it over to them, and noting Henry's adamant refusal in being treated first, he made his way over to Sam, whose breathing was weakening and his eyes were half closed from the pain.
Don began to clean the stump with what little water he had, and then proceeded to wrap it in hopes that it would fend off the infection. Help should be arriving soon, it should be, he had heard Thomas calling in for help, the surprise attack…help would be coming…
After he finished with Sam, doing all he could do for the moment, he made his way over to Henry, who was faring much worse. Henry licked his lips, already dry and cracked; his eyes were bloodshot red from the strain his body was being put through.
"You look terrible" Don muttered in despair.
"Th-anks, for deh hoful outlook Do-oc"
"You'll be fine" Don quickly assured, "I've saved you once, I can do it again, just let me help." Henry let his head fall forward slightly, and Don made his way over, applying pressure to the wound, not letting any chance fall short.
"Thank you." Henry's head was raised again, his eyes shining with a wet brilliance. Don wiped his forehead in anxiety, and he thought the best thing to do was to keep Henry talking.
"I should be thanking you, you saved my life back there…"
"You've saved mine…it was the least I could do…I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" Don chuckled nervously, "Whatever for?"
"The way I've been treating you, I know you hate it." Don dipped the bandage back in the water, and he leaned in closer towards Henry and whispered.
"Then why do you do it?"
"I, I couldn't handle the fact that I had almost died, it's a scary thought you know? That I would never see Linda, she's my wife you know, a beautiful girl, a smile to light the room…"
"Thought you said you're never scared?" Don joked lightly, so much blood.
"I'm not anymore. I was then, I was scared, and I was a bit angry with you, because for those brief moments, my living and my dying depended entirely upon you. I had no control. You saved me, I couldn't save myself. It scared me."
"And-and why not anymore?"
"Because I saved you." Henry flicked his eyes upward. "It showed me, that I could have control over someone else's life as well. I pushed you. I got you out of the way, I let you live just like you allowed me to live." His gaze then went to Sam, who was still out of it "He'll be fine you know, he'll be all right."
"You will be too." Don insisted. Henry smiled.
"Of course I will. And, with time, so will you. Hey, promise me something…"
"Anything." Don found himself saying, his heart caught in his throat. Something was coming. Something. It frightened the living daylights out of him, because didn't know what.
"Send my body home? Tell Linda I loved her, and that I'm sorry our boy won't have a father."
"What are you saying? You'll be all right, you can't die like this, I'm going to save you, and you will see Linda again, you will, just hold on, please, help is on its way…please…"
A low chuckle came from Henry's throat.
"Ducky, Ducky, you know why I called you that? Not for the obvious reasons, but for to me you were always someone special, someone, I loved like a brother, for you saved me, and I ashamed that it was the only way I could declare my appreciation…Remember that, Ducky."
"You won't die." Ducky repeated, "You won't."
"My dear Ducky," Henry let his eyes fall upon the doctor "You must know that I'm already dead." Ducky's eyes widened in horror, he stepped back, tears flowing gently from his eyes.
"No, no, no." But it was true, already Ducky began to noticed the lack of warmth from his friend's body, how no longer were his eyes warm and inviting, they were void, lost… "It can't be" Ducky whined in desperation. "No, you were alive, you were…." Ducky then turned around and began to throw up, his body constricting, he did not even try to stop the tears, he threw up, over, and over, he gagged, wanting to release the horrid emotion. Wanting to be free, but it didn't help, he could still feel the pain.
"How?" He questioned again, "Why? I was just beginning to understand…" Ducky's mind whirled, when exactly had Henry died? It had to be a while back, his friend's body was no longer warm, he turned to Sam, but he was of no help, he was still unconscious. He would be ok, Henry told him so.
Henry was dead when he told him that. Henry was dead when he told him how he felt, had he imagined it all? He could hear Henry saying the words, he could hear Henry's heartfelt attitude in the words. They must have been true, his mind couldn't imagine Henry saying that to him.
It was all so impossible.
Ducky tried throwing up again, but nothing came. Suddenly he heard voices, voices, calling out for them, wondering if anyone was alive…
Ducky shouted for them, and they came slowly, each one despairing over the loss of their fallen friend. Thomas was alive, his arm was wounded, but otherwise looked alive, Ducky looked up at him with despair clearly written across his face.
"I couldn't save him…"
"You did all you could Don, we'll be able to help Sammy, he'll be fine, Don, you hear me? He'll be ok, Don?" Tom looked at his friend with worry, never had he seen such a haunted look upon anyone's face…
"Please" Ducky finally spoke up, voice cracking "call me Ducky." Thomas seemed to understand, seemed to, and he lightly patted Ducky on the back and helped him up.
"You're a mess…"
"I should learn to swim in water…" Ducky replied distractedly as he watched his companions help Sam up onto a blanket, Sam moaned softly, his eyes fluttering inconsistently.
They made their way out of the thick coarse vegetation, and Ducky looked on as a barren land greeted him, horrid with hours of warfare wracked upon it. He didn't know…it had been so long. Thomas had then proceeded to place a jacket over Ducky's shoulders; he hadn't even remembered his shirt was off. The cold had consumed him; he thought it had come from his heart.
The sight had a nightmare setting, the bodies, that was all Ducky could focus on. The dead. Ducky began to shiver. His teeth began to chatter. They began to talk. He heard their stories, how they didn't want to die, he wanted to help his family, he needed the money, he wanted to go home, she was waiting for him, impossible, he had to grow up. Those of different race spoke the same language, each one of them were saying the same thing...missed opportunities…lost loves, joys, feelings…
Their voices were each characteristically different, they began to overwhelm him, he shut his eyes. Please, he begged, don't…don't…
Listen, they pleaded, listen, for who else will? He opened his eyes back up, his ears open to their cries, eyes still wet with tears. He then sat down on the mud, put his head downward into his hands, and listened.
He ignored Thomas' frantic questions; he had all his life to listen to him. Right now those dead wished to be remembered. They needed Ducky to listen. He clenched his hair tightly, allowing the sobs to escape as their losses became his own, that their missed chances became his, he mourned how they would never be able to hold their family again, he mourned that they had lost so much in such a terrible way. He mourned, and he listened. Just like he had with Henry, he listened, letting each story and final thought enter him.
He listened.
And they spoke.
End.