Hey folks! I originally planned on uploading this chapter tomorrow morning. But since my week hasn't been bountiful in terms of sleep (read: lousy), I figured I might as well post this now and hope to catch up on the sleep I lost thanks to my stomach being an absolute sissy...
Anyways, I hope you enjoy the chapter and I apologise in advance for the abrupt ending. (You can't exactly call it a cliff-hanger because we all know what happens)
Also, thank you all so much for your reviews! I love reading your thoughts and opinions on the characters and the story. And as always - if you have any ideas or suggestions, don't hesitate to get in touch ;)
Morning brought another artillery barrage. Trees exploded into a hail of javelins left and right and the earth shook and bucked. NCOs were bellowing orders for everyone to stay low and take cover. Screams for medics rose above the pandemonium.
Then the shelling stopped, the last echoes tapering off like thunder rolling in the distance. Heavy breathing filled the air that was thick with uncertainty and apprehension.
Was it over? Was it safe again?
Ana María coughed, the smell of ash and burnt snow stinging in her nostrils. The dry, hacking cough attracted the attention of her foxhole partner, Forrest Guth.
"Jeez", he commented, wincing in sympathy, "that sounds bad."
"Thanks", the radio op retorted between a few weak coughs that heralded the end of the fit. "It feels bad, too."
"Are you okay?"
She cleared her throat and gave her friend a smile. "Yeah, I'm alright. Don't worry, it's only a cough."
Guth seemed to accept that, because his good-natured features lightened with humour again. "Well, it can't be that bad", he reasoned with a teasing glint in his eyes. "You're not cursing a blue streak in Spanish yet."
Snickering, Ana María stuck her tongue out at him. "That was nothing", she said, flicking a few broken branches and pieces of charred bark out of their foxhole. "Really, you should have heard me that one time in basic when I fell off the monkey bars and sprained my elbow." She grinned. "My mamá would have whacked me with una chancla…"
While Ana María discussed cultural intricacies of growing up in a Hispanic household, two jeeps were travelling towards the besieged town of Bastogne. Their passengers: one medic and one patient each.
Skinny's leg was riddled with what could only be described as half a tree's worth of splintered wood. He had met Gene's reassurance of "Ain't that bad" with a breathless, incredulous laugh.
"Ain't that bad?", he had repeated, caught between disbelief and hope while he was clutching his battered appendage with blood-slick hands. Despite the immense pain, though, he had refused the offered morphine.
"Save it, Doc", he had told the Cajun through panting breaths, "I can make it."
.
A few miles behind the first jeep followed the second one, carrying Mia and the wounded Hayes. The replacement had been running for the nearest foxhole when he'd been struck by flying shrapnel. The syrette Mia had given him was just enough to take the edge off, but he was still in a world of agony, whimpering with every other breath.
"You'll be okay, Hayes", the young medic repeated again and again until the frightened kid dropped into unconsciousness, the pain and blood loss taking their toll.
She sat back on her haunches while her hands maintained pressure on the gauze-packed wound in Hayes' upper chest. Her gaze roamed across the landscape as the jeep barrelled down the snow-covered road.
The wind needled through her clothing and snowflakes kept finding their way down her collar, pulling the heat straight out of her body. Hayes' blood that spilled over her fingers was disgustingly warm in contrast, the sensation leaving a clump of revulsion in her throat.
.
By the time they reached Bastogne, Hayes was dead and Mia not the least bit surprised. Sad and resigned, but not surprised. The wounds had been in the wrong places, the wrong shape and size. He had lost too much blood too quickly.
The strange hazy numbness in her chest rose to constrict her throat, spread to curve her shoulders. Er wäre noch am Leben, wenn wir besser ausgerüstet wären.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek and shook her head as if to physically banish the thought. Hayes was dead, period. He'd probably have made it to the hospital if they'd had the appropriate supplies, but they didn't. There was no point in getting angry over their lack of supplies.
And so, while Gene smiled at Skinny's dazed proclamation of "I'm in Heaven, Doc", Mia watched as Hayes' body was carried away, another corpse to be added to the sickeningly big pile in front of the church that served as a hospital.
The young woman sighed, the cold air stinging as it travelled past the back of her throat. German and Allied corpses alike were lined up right next to each other, ice and snow clinging to their uniforms and pale, empty faces.
Taking another breath, she entered the hospital.
The church was brimming with wounded, the stench of blood, sweat and pain overwhelming. Soldiers with relatively minor injuries milled about on the porch and in the foyer, medics flitting about to treat their wounds. Downstairs, every available horizontal surface was covered in casualties, their condition ranging from 'stable and on the mend' to 'on death's door'.
Rationally, Mia had known that the roads were cut, that they were surrounded. But it was only now that the true extent of this fact hit her. At least three quarters of these soldiers should have been evacuated due to the nature of their injuries.
And yet they were still here.
They were surrounded, this was as far as it would go.
Moving to the side to let a pair of litter bearers pass, she found Skinny on one of the tables, propping himself up on his elbow, a glass filled with a yellowish liquid in his hand. A dark-skinned nurse was bent over his bloodied leg, plucking twigs and splinters from his shin.
.
"Doc", Skinny grinned when he spotted her. "My leg's been turned into shashlik."
"It looks like it", she agreed with a smile, stepping closer. "How's the pain?"
He raised the glass he was holding, the silly grin widening. "It's great."
Her eyebrows rose and she asked: "Is that…alcohol?"
The nurse looked up. "C'est de l'alcool, oui", she said, her mouth twisting into a small frown before it smoothed out again. She switched to English, her accent strong but flowing as she added: "It helps with the pain."
Meaning that their supplies were just as scarce as those of the divisions out on the front lines. Instead of morphine, they numbed the pain with the judicious application of hooch.
"At least he's a happy drunk", Mia shrugged, making her tone light-hearted with some effort.
The nurse chuckled. "Dieu merci." She put the tweezers away and dabbed at the blood seeping from the multitude of puncture wounds on Skinny's leg. "What's your name?", she then inquired as she flushed the wounds.
Skinny winced and groaned, the alcohol obviously not strong enough to take away the pain entirely.
"Mia", the young medic answered, pushing her sleeves back and moving to assist. "Mia Arricante. And you?"
"Augusta Chiwy", the nurse said, giving her a smile. "But people call me Anna." Her eyebrows creased in curiosity and she asked: "Where are you from? Your English…it sounds different."
Mia paused to take the empty glass from Skinny's hand and helped him lie back down.
"I grew up in Ulm", she said quietly, starting to bandage the now clean wounds littering her comrade's lower leg. "In Germany."
Augusta – Anna – didn't seem bothered by this revelation. "I'm from the Congo", she offered instead, "but we returned to Belgium when I was a child."
The messy-haired medic smiled in acknowledgement and they worked together in silence to patch up Skinny's wounds as best they could with their limited supplies.
.
Treatment finished, Mia told Skinny: "I'll see you soon", bid Augusta goodbye and headed outside.
There, she crouched down beside one of the countless corpses and carefully pulled off its boots after checking that they were the correct size. Toye had better use for them than a dead man and she had promised to find him a pair.
The brunette straightened just as Gene came out of the church, clutching a box of supplies.
"Mia. Found some boots for Toye, huh?"
She nodded, a smile crossing her tired features. "I see you found some supplies."
"Yeah. 's not much, but it's better than nothing", the Cajun said, corners of his mouth ticking up.
.
They approached the jeep that was parked a few feet down the street.
"Can you get us back to the line?", Gene asked.
"Sure", the driver answered, taking the crate of supplies from him and putting it in the back of the jeep. He slid behind the wheel and started the engine.
Footsteps crunched in the frost-hardened slush.
"Eugene!", a voice called.
Both medics turned to see a pretty blonde nurse standing there, her blue headscarf a refreshing splash of colour in the washed out grey and drab surrounding them. She tossed something to Gene. "Chocolat", she said, a smile on her lips. "Pour vous."
Staring down at the precious gift for a moment, Gene nodded his thanks with a brief smile.
Then, the two medics climbed into the jeep and the driver eased the vehicle down the road, navigating rubble and bustling personnel.
Mia tipped her head back and inhaled deeply, relishing the feeling of the winter sun on her skin. All too soon, though, they were back in the disorienting fog that swallowed sounds and sunlight and dampened their clothes.
"…et spiritus sanctus, amen", Father Maloney finished mass. "Fight well for your God and your country. God bless you all, stay safe."
Theresa got to her feet, jiggling her legs to get the blood flowing again after kneeling in the snow to receive the priest's blessing.
"That's it, guys", Skip announced cheerily. "If we die now, we die in a state of grace."
"Yeah because we're fresh out of dignity", Malarkey agreed with a snort, earning himself a smattering of chuckles and chortles.
Jess made a show of looking around as if searching for something. "Dignity? Where?", she asked. "I haven't seen mine since June!"
.
Theresa left them to their jokes and chatter while they finished gearing up for patrol.
Luz grumbled about Lt Peacock leading the patrol, annoyance coating his sarcasm as he commented: "That asshole couldn't find a snowball in a blizzard."
She didn't bother stifling the chuckle that escaped her. Peacock was a nice guy and he tried hard, but he was directionally challenged and not the brightest tactician, so once more, it was up to the NCOs.
Letting her gaze roam over assembled soldiers, she noticed Gene jogging over to them while Mia was trudging in the general direction of 2nd platoon's foxholes, a pair of boots in hand.
.
Her attention was diverted when Julian, the pale replacement who shared a foxhole with Babe, walked up to where Johnny was discussing a few details with Peacock.
"Sarge?", he asked, hesitant and eager at the same time.
"Yeah, Julian?", Johnny responded, turning to the kid.
"Let me be lead scout."
Johnny's lips thinned and he shook his head. "Back in line, private", he said, not unkindly. Julian was a good kid, but inexperienced. He'd get a chance to prove himself as a scout, just not on a combat patrol in heavy fog with the enemy within spitting distance.
"That's it, let's move out!", Peacock hollered.
"Tactical columns, gentlemen!", Johnny ordered, voice pitched at a quieter volume than their lieutenant.
.
Double-checking that her rifle was loaded out of sheer habit, Theresa fell into step with Christenson as they began their trek out into the grey forest.
"Herron", she said, glancing back to the new kid that looked so nervous and out of place among the seasoned soldiers, "you're with me."
He swallowed and nodded. "Yes, Ma'am."
Snow gently flurried down from the sky as they headed further and further away from their line. Theresa kept Herron close by while the rest of her squad spread out, Geraghty acting as their lead scout. Apart from their footsteps crunching softly in the fresh snow, it was all quiet. Unsettlingly so. They hadn't heard a peep from the enemy line since the last barrage that morning.
Until gunfire ripped through the forest.
They flinched down, gripping their rifles tighter.
"Up ahead", Theresa said, cursing the infernal fog for making it so hard to localise the fight. "C'mon."
They proceeded with cautious haste, trying to stay as close to the trees as possible while they moved forward.
That changed as soon as their platoon sergeant's voice rose above the rattling MG and carbine fire.
"BULL! CHRISTENSON!" A burst of gunfire. "NOLAN! UP ON LINE!"
Caution took a backseat as Theresa raced towards the gunfire and shouts, blood rushing in her ears. A sickening sense of apprehension flooded her stomach and urged her to run faster. But she stopped herself, instead making sure that Herron could keep up, even though she already knew deep down that something bad had happened.
Bad enough to put that sharp, near-frantic pitch of urgency into Johnny's tone.