This fic is set at the beginnign of WWI. The descriptions and such are based on the war books I read during high-school, especially "All Quiet on the Western Front".
This isn't a happy fic, but it isn't as dark as it could have been.

The large room was dark, but his bed was luckily by on of the two windows, so he had no problem getting there. There were a few soldiers preparing to leave in another corner, quietly getting their uniforms on. When he first arrived here, dispatched from another camp up north, he found it unnerving. So many people sharing the same room, each of them leaving at different times.

Sometimes, a group of soldiers would leave in the middle of the night, preparing for some recon mission. The next day, they were either congratulated in front of the officers for their acts of bravery, or have their names read in front of the other soldiers, with their age and home town. Usually, the lieutenant would also mention who was to take their beds.

Carson slowly sat down on his bed, glancing out the window. They had a very strange position on the front. Not close enough to the enemy lines to be in constant danger, but close enough to be involved in fights each day. One way or another, he would always have wounded soldiers in his small infirmary.

The patrol officer was just passing by, longingly looking at their building. It seemed that here, no matter what people were doing, they would rather be somewhere else, doing something else. No doubt the young man outside would rather be in his place, preparing for sleep, while he would give almost anything to just wander through the camp, get himself physically tired enough to be able to sleep.

He arranged the rough blanket and put his head on the hard pillow. Sometimes he wondered why they bothered to give them pillows. They were hard, had odd shapes and did nothing to help them sleep better. Truth be told, there were few things that could make someone sleep better in their war camp, and all of them were medicines.

After ten more minutes of twisting and turning, waiting for sleep to come, he decided to go out for a walk. Maybe at this late hour, there wouldn't be any officers around to preach to him about the importance of staying in his little box. Just when he was about to get up, he heard from the bed on his right:

"Can't sleep?" The man's voice indicated an older man, probably over thirty, who had a faint English accent.

"Not really." He adjusted his blanket for the tenth time that night, turning on his right so he could speak to the man.

"My name is McKay. I'm working on topography and maps." Carson had met many people, more so since coming on the front. He met some who were anxious to talk, no matter who their dialogue partner was, or what the topic was. There were others who enjoyed listening, or who enjoyed hearing themselves talk. The man in front of him seemed to be a combination of these types. He obviously wanted to be involved in a dialogue, but didn't seem too eager to talk himself.

"I'm Carson Beckett, medical doctor."

"As if there are any other kinds of doctors around here." There was a twinge of irony in the man's voice, but Carson chose to ignore it. As odd as it sounded, it was hard to find someone to talk to on the front. The soldiers were too young to see things from a similar perspective, and having a conversation with an eighteen year old boy who called him 'sir' felt strange. The officers were too proud to talk to a mere doctor. That left the other doctors and the few almost-civilians who were working in the camp. This McKay fellow was the first one he'd met since coming to this camp a week before.

"You're new around here," the man said after a few moments of silence.

"Aye, came from another camp, up north. Can't remember the name."

"It's unimportant. Why did you come here?" McKay asked on a tone resembling that of an interrogator.

"I was sent here. They said they needed another doctor and I didn't quite fit in there, so..."

"Fit in! Like this is some social arrangement." Carson was sure that the man was glaring at him.

"What about you? What are you doing here?"

"Me? Well, I make the maps they use when they attack the enemy. Hopefully, they'll discharge me soon."

"Can they do that?"

"Well, I have a decoration, for a thing I did once, and if I get another one... they'll discharge me." The man sounded optimistic, more than Carson considered him capable of.

"Hope you get it, then."

Silence settled between them and a few minutes later, Carson heard McKay softly snoring in the bed next to him.

He hated this country, with its muddy terrain, cold weather and endless cloudy skies. He could hardly imagine enjoying a sunny day in the middle of the war zone, but this downcast weather was too much to take. As they were slowly moving through the field, he could feel the mud sloshing, displaced by his boots.

The order came early in the morning and they had to pack everything and advance. The front line has moved with five hundred meters and their camp followed. The other two doctors, as well as all the nurses, had helped with the patients and packing of the medical equipment they had.

As far as he was concerned, moving an entire camp a few hundred meters had nothing to do with morale. Tired soldiers wouldn't fight better. Tired people would not work better. Of course, the news back home would announce a 'big victory' on the front, but that wouldn't help them, either.

"Need help with that?" Carson looked to his left and saw a man, dark hair, height about the same as his, carrying a pile of papers. Judging by his voice, it was McKay.

"No, thanks, I'm fine." He moved his backpack on his other shoulder, and kept moving. His eyes drifted over the man's uniform, down to his boots. They were torn in several places, and Carson was almost sure there was enough room for water to get through.

"You need a new pair of boots."

"I'm fine. Have these since we came here, five months ago. They have sentimental value." The man smiled, a small, almost shy smile.

"Can't be good for your health."

McKay ignored his comment, remaining silent for a few minutes, then he said, "I'm so happy we're finally advancing." McKay seemed really happy, probably seeing a few opportunities to win that second decoration he needed.

"At least one of us is," Carson mumbled.

"Don't you see it? If we advance at this rate, we'll reach the city in two months. If we manage to conquer the city, we'll be the best in this county." He could hear excitement in his voice, and he found it unnerving.

"Is this all you see? For us to get to the city, we have to defeat them."

"That's why we're here, isn't it?" McKay seemed a bit surprised by Carson's reaction.

"I'm here to help those boys who came here to fight without knowing what awaits them. And from all I know, there are boys on the other side, just as young, inexperienced and innocent."

"Here's how I see things, Beckett. If it weren't for those 'kids', I'd be home, taking care of my house and my cat. As long as they're there, I'm stuck here. I don't want to be here, so them disappearing -"

"You mean dying."

"...Is what's gonna get me home."

Carson stopped, looking at the Englishman with a deep frown. "Is that all they are to you? Numbers? Names on a list?"

"That's all they are to all of us. You're letting your imagination come up with the rest. If you want to keep your sanity, stop doing it."

"You're a heartless man."

The weather was worse than ever. A fast, cold rain was pouring, and he could hear every drop fall on the military tent's roof. This box was smaller than the concrete one he previously occupied, but it was just as impersonal, the blanket and pillow were just as uncomfortable.

With a soft thud, McKay sat on his bed, next to him. "Hey, you okay?"

"What would you know about it?" His tone was harsher than he intended, but the day really got him down. At noon they received three waves of casualties, and now, six hours later, he wasn't happy with the outcome of the surgeries. They managed to save a few, but the vast majority were injured too bad for them to be able to save them. Some died on the ground, in front of the infirmary, before the doctors had the chance to even see them. Others would live for the night, or maybe even one more day, but not more.

"I know we had a lot of casualties and that you care." McKay seemed genuinely concerned for his well being.

"I'll get over it. The captain said they'll attack in the morning. I'll have more things to worry about then."

"I'm sorry."

They sat there in silence, thinking about the days to come. No matter what they did, there would always be another day of war, with more casualties and no progress.

"I thought about what you said," McKay said after a while.

"Oh?"

"Calling me heartless... I suppose I am, in a way. But this isn't my war, I didn't come here because I wanted to be a hero, I came here because I had to. And while I'm here, I'm gonna do my job as well as I can. And to be honest, I'd rather it be their kids that die than ours."

"I heard some of them talk today. One of their friends was injured, and they were keeping him company. They told him about what they did out in the field, how they killed three enemies who were running back to their camp." Carson paused for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts. "They were proud... they were happy they killed those men." When he heard them, he stormed out of the infirmary. He couldn't listen to them any longer.

"What if they would have let them get away, only to see them two days later? What if two days later, one of these enemies would have killed ten of ours?"

"This is so wrong..."

"That's why I want that damned medal. I want to get away from this hell hole."

The small nurse looked at him with sadness, taking away the half empty food bowl. "I'll be back later, Doctor."

"That's gotta be bad for your health, Beckett." McKay's voce echoed in the small room, receiving a few more or less polite requests to be quiet. Unfazed, he sat down on the chair next to Carson's bed and looked at him. "You should eat. If you don't, they'll think you've lost your will to live and they'll ship you to god knows what hospital."

"Funny how no one bothered to think about my will to live before all this." In the five hours that passed since surgery, McKay was his only visitor. Not that he expected too much, but still...

"That's nonsense. You'll be out of that bed in no time."

"You don't know what happened, do you?"

"No," McKay admitted. "I was in my office, working on the maps when I heard two guys talking outside. They said you were injured, so I came to check on you. What happened?"

"We were told some of our guys were on the front line, injured, so I took three nurses and a few soldiers and went there to get them. Apparently, they were expecting us to do so, because they ambushed us as soon as we got there. Still don't know how we managed to coem back alive."

"Well, that's a good thing." McKay tried to sound optimistic, but he really didn't have what it took.

"I could lose my right leg." It was the first time he said those words, and something inside him broke when he did.

McKay turned his head to the other side for a few seconds, then looked back at him, with a mixture of regret, compassion and anger. "Is there anything that... you know..."

"Just wait and see."

McKay slowly rose from the chair, clearly not knowing what to say.

"Listen, McKay, you should take my boots. They're almost new and I'll -"

"You'll be fine! You can't think like this!"

"Even if I keep my leg, by the time I'm able to walk again, they'll be useless."

"I can't."

"Please. You know someone else will take them, anyway."

"I'll... I'll think about it. Get well, Beckett, okay?" McKay left, giving him an awkward smile.

It was six months after the war was over and the propaganda was as strong as ever. Yesterday's parade was a total fiasco, with a few soldiers talking about the importance of war and the great services the mothers and sisters of the country had done during their absence.

The mayor had come to ask him if he wanted to 'say a few words', but left quite soon and with an unhappy face. It wasn't his fault that the man had no knowledge of what war was like or how much he had lost.

He could still remember the welcoming committee and their meaningless words. 'Mr. McKay, thank you for your services.' He had laughed at them, telling them they knew nothing about what happened, nor could they ever imagine. The little women frowned at him, taking their cookies and leaving.

A soft knock at the door stopped his thoughts.

"Leave me alone!" he shouted across the living room. A few seconds later, another knock. He opened the door in one swift motion, prepared to teach the intruder a lesson.

"Haven't lost you charm, McKay." Carson Beckett was in front of his door, dressed in light-colored civilian clothing and smiling.

"Beckett, come in." He almost wanted to hug the man. Seven hours after the Scot came out of surgery, they shipped him to one of the hospitals they had away from the front. He never heard a thing about him again.

"You're a hard man to find, McKay." Beckett was slowly limping towards one of the couches, relying a great deal on a wooden cane he had in his right hand.

"You found me," McKay said, a small smile on his lips.

"Aye, I should have been a spy. Would have ended up a national hero."

"Right. A cup of tea? What happened to you? How did you find me?"

"Aye, tea would be lovely." Carson smiled, finally able to sit down. "I met one of the officers we had at the camp. He told me about you and your 'ungrateful attitude towards the people of this nation'. I had to come see you."

"I'm glad you did." Rodney handed him the steaming cup, and sat down opposite him, on the other couch. "So, what happened to you?"

"I kept my leg," he said smiling. "I was shipped to a hospital, where I recuperated. After a while, they figured they could use another doctor, so I spent the rest of the war there." He sipped a bit of tea, then continued, "It was peaceful there. No bombings, no more moving in the middle of the night."

"You must have felt better there."

"Strangely enough, no. All they knew of war was what they read in other people's reports. The patients were... Some of the front doctors were nothing more than butchers." They both cringed at the words, knowing how true they were. "I tried to fix what I could and hope it would be over soon."

"I waited for three damned years for that medal," McKay said, with bitterness in his voice.

"I take it it never came?"

"No. I was discharged when the war was over, just like everyone else."

"I'm sorry."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, quietly drinking their tea.

"You didn't take my boots," Carson finally said.

"No," McKay replied with a satisfied smile on his face.

"What did you bribe them with?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he replied, same smile on his lips. He had given the transport nurses a watch, a new uniform and a bar of chocolate, respectively, to make sure no one would take Carson's boots.

Carson smiled, "Thank you."