The Medic II
August 6, D-Day + 61, 2250 hrs
"God cannot be everywhere, so He sent the Doctors with excellence and selflessness."
"Hang in there, Burtson!" Conrad roared.
He was fortunate that the full moon gave some form of illumination, but not much. It was still an absolute pain in the ass to work in this condition. From what he could feel, the man had two entry wounds in his chest and one exit wound in his back. He tore through the man's shirt and had to feel where the holes were. He opened his two packs of bandages and dressed the wound the best he could, his fingers were slick with warm velvety blood.
"Burtson! Are you with me?!" Conrad yelled to the replacement. The private replied with pained gasps and shrill moans.
Do not fucking die! Do not fucking die! Conrad mentally chanted.
He shot him up with an entire dose of morphine. The medic grunted, heaving the trembling man over his shoulders.
"Let's get you outta here, Burtson!"
He took him off the line on the slope of the hill, trudging as fast as he could on the incline. Fortunately, Burtson was behind vegetation when he got hit, shielding several of the bullets that were being fired at them. Conrad made it up the incline and onto the flat level hilltop of Hill 314. He was hustling as fast as he could, his shoulders were straining under the weight and his legs were burning up. He had been running around for about an hour to save the wounded. He kept moving until his eyes fell upon Able's triage center, near the middle of the hilltop.
The triage center was a sandbag bunker that was built by Fox Company during their tenure on the hill. There were wires strewn across the floor and walls that held small bulbs of light that lit the dim structure. It was quite spacious inside, it held fifteen cots spaced out three feet apart from one another. As Conrad entered the triage center, twelve of the fifteen beds were already occupied. With Burtson, now it was thirteen.
Most of these wounded men were from 1st and 2nd Platoon as they fell back up the hill after being pushed by Jerry. Conrad grimaced at the sight of them. He heard two divisions were in the battle, he was quite thankful it was only elements of these divisions attacking them. He wouldn't want to think what would happen if the Germans slammed their full weight of their numbers at Able.
Conrad lowered Burtson onto the cot, pinning the syringe he used on him to Burtson's jacket. With better light, he could see the extent of the wounds better. Blood was seeping through the bandages, in his chest and back, this was deep. Conrad estimated Burtson had about half-an-hour. This man needed to go to an aid station for surgery, but fat chance of that since Able Company was surrounded on a hill.
"Wedgewood! Plasma!" Conrad ordered.
A young, but stocky medic jostled over to Conrad with a blood plasma bottle and IV lining. He was helmetless and he wore sterilized gloves that were covered in blood.
Upon looking at the wounded man in front of Conrad, the stocky medic winced, "Oh man, who's this?" he asked, prepping the line to enter the vein.
"Burtson, 3rd Platoon! He got a whole syringe of morphine and his wounds had been sulfa'd. He's got two entries in the chest and one exit in the back!" Conrad replied.
"Shit! What do we do about the 2nd bullet?"
"Nothing, Wedgewood! We leave that in him, just get him stabilized! Got it?!"
"Y-Yeah, I got it!"
Wedgewood got the IV into his arm. "Is he conscious?"
"No! He's priority, keep an eye on him!"
"Okay, Conrad!"
"Good. Where's Greene?"
Wedgewood pointed in his direction, "Greene is still monitoring Rodney, Drury, and Lee. Rodney is still unconscious but breathing. But Drury's wound opened up again and Greene had to give him a half a dose to stop the bleeding."
"Okay, keep working on Burtson!" Conrad commanded.
These two medics listened to him, for Tech. Corporal Walter Conrad from Roanoke, Virginia was the most senior medic in Able Company.
Most of the medics with Able found themselves wounded or killed throughout the campaign. To his fortune, or misfortune on some rough days, Conrad would be one of the last medics standing, the one to rush throughout the entire battlefield to save the wounded or to be there when the wounded die.
He had two replacement medics with him: Privates Greene and Wedgewood. Greene was a Floridian who came in the day after Conti left Able Company in Saint-Lo. Greene had combat experience thanks to Hebecrevon, he was the first medic on the scene when MacKay got hit, Conrad had been busy helping Lieutenant Peck with his wound. Wedgewood was brand new; he came in more than a week ago after Conti took control of Able, and he had no combat experience. Despite their relative rawness, they were proving themselves well in this chaotic battle.
The walls of the triage center shook as a muffled explosion buffeted the air. Wedgewood looked up to the ceiling as the dust fell on them, "Oh God, is that Kraut arty?"
The same muffled explosion sounded as the earth on the hill shook lightly.
Conrad looked to the replacements, "Of sorts. It's Kraut armor, they're firing at us from the base of the hill."
"Really?"
"Yeah, some of the riflemen told me when I was over there."
Greene looked over to both of them, but was speaking to Conrad, "Any chance those tanks can get up this hill?"
"Not on this incline, too steep with too much vegetation. Only chance they could is on the northern slope where 2nd Platoon is, that's flat enough that armor could roll up on. But 2nd Platoon got that slope locked and mined. Don't worry about that now."
Conrad took a drink from his canteen and wiped his sweaty face, "All right, boys! I'm going back out there! Remember the priorities!"
"Okay! We can handle it here!" Greene called back to him.
As he left the triage center, Conrad seemingly entered a new world of chaos. The 1-0-5 howitzers were booming nonstop. The earth on the hill was quaking either from the American howitzers, or the German tanks plastering the defenders hiding in the trenches and foxholes. Most of the men in Able were in the trenches on the slope that were firing down at the Germans or were running around trying to retrieve ammo or reinforce another sector on the line. The only light provided was the pale moon that shone weakly through the clouds.
"Medic!"
Conrad twisted his head to the call; it was coming from 3rd Platoon. It was his job to remember where each platoon was, this was back on the left to the east. He took off running.
"Medic!" the call grew louder.
As he ventured closer, the rippling of German weaponry was growing shriller. In the dark, he could see the light tint of American uniforms and helmets silhouetted, firing down the hill from their trenches. Conrad hopped back into the trench that he was in minutes ago with Burtson and made his way to the wounded call. He saw two men leaning over a wounded man on the ground.
"I'm here, who is it?!"
Conrad could recognize Ruby's nose and voice in the dark, "Doc, it's Gettle, he got it in the chest!"
"Goddamn it, I'm fine!" Gettle wheezed.
Conrad bent over and removed the hand on the wound, he thought he saw something white. "Did you sulfa him?"
"Yeah, we did!" Ruby responded.
"All right, I can take it from here, Ruby!"
The wound was shallow. Blood was jutting out, but not in a severe quantity that would occur with a rifle round's penetration. Conrad realized then it must not have been a full penetration. To test that, he placed two fingers away from the hole, horizontally. Gettle winced hard.
That confirmed it. The bullet definitely broke a rib. It hit the rib, cracking it, but not penetrating. It ricocheted, sliding across the rib and exiting his side. Goddamn miracle it didn't pierce his lungs and exit his back. Yet Gettle was gasping as if he had been shot in the lung, and it wasn't just because he had the wind knocked out of him.
"Why is it so hard to breathe, Doc?!"
"Cause I bet you got a collapsed lung from the bullet!"
"Oh shit!"
"Hold on, Gettle!" He took a syringe of morphine and applied half of it in the arm where the bullet was closest.
"It ain't hurt that bad, Doc! I can keep—"
"You ain't fighting with half-a-goddamn-lung!"
Besides, I can't risk your broken rib piercing your lung.
"Bullshit! I ain't leaving!"
"Bullshit, you are! On your goddamn feet, Corporal!"
He placed Gettle's arm over his head, pulling up the winded soldier. Both men hobbled their way out of the trench amidst the firing. A red tracer round flew over them about five feet, Conrad knew it belonged to the Germans.
"I can't breathe, Doc!"
"I need you to keep moving, Gettle, we're almost there! Just one foot in front of the other!"
Upon getting to the triage center, Conrad recoiled in surprised, "What the hell?"
When he left in what felt like five minutes ago, there was thirteen wounded men here, but now there was nineteen, twenty with Gettle. All the cots were used up, those that didn't have a placed were reclining against the walls of the triage.
Wedgewood was rebandaging a man's leg. He turned to Conrad, "I know! Right when you left, guys from 1st and 2nd started bringing in their wounded buddies."
"Christ…" Conrad said to himself. He positioned Gettle against the wall, "Just lay on down here, Gettle."
Gettle shuddered as he slumped against the wall, "I know the bullet's out of me, but can't you do something about my lung."
"I'm sorry, Gettle, I can't do anything here. It ain't going to kill you, but it ain't going to be pleasant neither. Just hang tough, man. Try to tough it out."
Gettle rolled his eyes in discomfort, "Ain't this some shit?"
An outburst erupted near the entrance of the triage. "Doc! Let me outta here, I feel fine! Able needs me!"
"You're wounded, Smitty!"
"I can fight! You betta don't tell me I ain't fit! I'm gonna leave, now!"
Conrad looked over at the commotion. The nine-fingered West Virginian, Smitty, was arguing with Greene, who was blocking his way out of the triage center. Smitty was helmetless and had bandages around his head with small blood stains around his temple.
Conrad rushed to them, "What the hell's going on?"
"Conrad! Tell this guy that I can git on outta here! I'm feeling fine!"
Greene looked to Conrad, "His buddies brought him after a grenade went off by him. Small pieces of shrapnel entered his head."
"Did you remove them?"
"Yep, he got three small chunks, but it didn't penetrate his skull, just his flesh. But he was out just a moment ago."
"Did you use morphine?"
"Not yet, I bandaged him up first and was going to use it, then he woke up and wants to leave."
"Doc, please let me go!" Smitty asked Conrad once more.
Conrad took a good look at him. He seemed to be clearly lucid, no morphine was given to him, so he wasn't delirious. If shrapnel was removed from his head without penetrating bone…
Conrad looked Smitty dead in the eye, "What year is it?"
"'44!"
"What's today's date?"
"August 6th!"
"Day of the week?"
"Sunday!"
"Password & Answer?"
"Bat & Hell!"
Conrad spun around to grab an M1 rifle and ammo webbing lying against the wall, handing it to the private, "Get the hell out of here, Smitty!"
Smitty gave him that country boy smirk of his, "Thanks, Doc!" He dashed out of the triage center.
Three more men suddenly moved in front of Conrad. "What about us, Doc? Can't we go too?"
Conrad looked at them, one had his forearm bandaged, but could still hold a rifle fine. The other looked to have been shot in the jaw, his face was bandaged, and he had no morphine administered as far as Conrad could see without the syringe in the jacket. The third one had a minor limp; his left leg was bandaged at the calf.
"How bad's your leg?" Conrad asked him.
"Greene said it was 'in-and-out'! I can put weight on it and move around just fine. Doc, let us go! They need us out there!"
Conrad placed his hands on his waist and mused for a quick moment. A German shell hit the hill pretty hard, the tremor made up the medic's mind.
"All right, get your weapons, and get back on the line!"
"Thanks, Doc!"
The three-walking wounded gather their gear and ran out the door. Greene was bewildered, "S-Should we let these guys out? They still look wounded."
"We ain't got time, supplies, nor space to treat them here! We're close to being overrun, if they're fit, they can go back on the line! It clears the space and lets us have more room to operate. In this case, walking wounded are permitted to leave!"
"Okay, whatever you say, Conrad!"
The next thing everyone in the triage knew, the earth itself rippled violently with a terrible screeching of metal tearing through the air, followed by a deafening boom. The blast was strong enough that the lightbulbs swiveled from side-to-side and the dust from the makeshift roof gracefully danced on the figures inside. This was a different kind of explosion.
What the fuck was that?
"Was that some heavy artillery?!" Wedgewood asked.
"I don't think so. But that didn't sound good." Conrad unscrewed the cap from his canteen and drank the warm water within. He exhaled as he finished, "I'm going back out there! You two, hold down the damn fort!"
Why the hell aren't the flares flashing?
Since the fighting began, there would be a burning flare in the sky at every interval. But Conrad noticed the mortars weren't firing anymore flares past the hill. He looked to where the mortars were, and in fact, they weren't firing, but looked as if someone was firing small arms from the pits themselves.
Somehow, he heard someone calling him through the maelstrom of gunfire, "Doc, get down!"
Conrad dived to the dirt. He heard the popping ripples of American carbine fire. He looked to his left, two men in foreign uniforms fell to the dirt fifteen yards away. To his right, he could see a figure waving to him in what looked to be the silhouette of an American helmet behind several sandbags.
"Doc, get over here!"
The medic recognized the voice. He dashed to the sandbags and jumped over it. There were eight men from the mortar section behind the sandbags, firing at the mortar pits.
"Jelenic? Why aren't you at the mortar pits?!" the medic shouted.
The mortar sergeant was reloading his carbine. "Cause they overran the mortar pits!"
"What?! But over there—"
"Are Krauts!" Jelenic finished, yanking the receiver back on his carbine.
Conrad peeked over the sandbags. On closer look, he could see figures wearing uniforms that were not American, and the weapons that were being fired didn't have the distinctive American crack.
"The Krauts broke through the wire! They drove a goddamn Panzer through our lines!"
Sergeant Jelenic pointed thirty yards away to the intersection of where 2nd and 3rd Platoons' position was. There was a burning and shredded Panzer tank. Guess that explained the loud explosion.
"Fortunately, the engineers mined that approach and stopped the tank!" Jelenic continued. "But the Krauts have been bursting through that spot!"
That position where the burning tank was, it was on a rather leveled slope where unlike most of the hill, this particular slope had no heavy rocks or vegetation that deterred vehicles. Conti had the hindsight of having the engineers put mines there. But it seemed these Krauts were braving the mines to pour onto the summit of Hill 314.
"Who's plugging that hole?!" Conrad screamed in disbelief.
"We ain't got any reserves, so that's supposed to be us and 2nd Platoon! And anyone we can get our hands on! Be careful, Doc, they're Krauts lurking on the hill! A handful of them got by us!"
Fuck! Where the gap in the line was… that was twenty meters shy of where the triage center was.
"Thanks, I'm getting outta here!" Conrad told them, taking off away from the sandbags.
"Keep your head down, Doc!" shouted the dwindling voice of Jelenic.
Honestly, Conrad had no destination to go. In battles like this where the combat was everywhere, he had to be everywhere as well and not fixed to one spot. In case where the action was thick and human voice couldn't penetrate gunfire. Conrad's duty was to float around the battlefield as if a bird of prey searching for their next meal. God, did he hate this part of the job.
A German mortar exploded ten yards away from him. Conrad hit the ground. As the dirt fell on his helmet, it finally dawned on him the situation. They were surrounded by two divisions, it was dark, the Germans have penetrated their lines along with tanks, they were being shelled by armor and mortars, how the hell were they going to survive this night?
His hands trembled in the dirt, clawing the earth into his nails. He could have stayed in Roanoke, mining coal… he could have been home… he could have been home…
He saw someone moving in the darkness, ten yards in front of him. Their helmet appeared to be American in shape, a rifle was slung over the figure's pack as the figure was carrying a case in his arms. The earth exploded with a roar as another German mortar fell, the blast engulfed the figure, sending him six feet into the air.
The figure fell to the dirt, and he was screaming moments later. Conrad dashed over to him in the next second.
It was Private First Class Herbert Yokemen, an ammo carrier with 1st Platoon who everybody just called 'Herb'. A veteran from Omaha.
"Herb! It's me, Conrad!"
Herb was screaming through his teeth.
Conrad examined the wound, he recoiled hard. Something wet and thick seemed to crawl up the back of his throat at the sight of the wound, yet Conrad composed himself before speaking.
"You're going to be all right, Herb! Trust me! Right as rain!"
"Doc! Something's wrong, I can't feel my feet!"
"Don't look at it, just lay on back!"
"Wha… What you mean?!"
Herb brought his upper body up and examined what Conrad had seen. Both of his feet were gone, as well as his shins. Nothing but jagged flesh and split bone remained two inches below both of his kneecaps, blood spurting out like a spigot.
"Oh my God! MY LEGS!"
"Don't look at it!" Conrad forced him down with one arm, the other trying to patch him up.
"My legs, Doc!"
"Herb, don't look, just lean on back, buddy!"
Conrad administered a syringe of morphine into the screaming Herb's belly. "You're going to be fine; you're going to be fine!" he kept repeating to the wounded man.
He removed the belt around Herb's waist and made a tight tourniquet around his left leg to stem the bleeding, right above the knee. But what about the other leg?
Conrad was looking around frantically, as if hoping a second belt would be conjured up within thin air. Then, he realized it. Fortunately, his own pants had fit him well. Conrad took off his own belt to make a second tourniquet around Herb's opposite leg. The bleeding stemmed considerably.
Conrad ripped a pack of sulfa opened and spread them on the open wounds the best he could. He heaved him over his shoulders and scrambled back to the triage station as quick as he could. But on his way, he could hear something that made his stomach turn to stone. Even through the heavy gunfire and explosions, he could clearly hear German commands, and they were close.
"What the hell?! How many men are here now?!"
"Thirty-Two!"
God, it looked like a circus in here. Even after discharging four men, it seemed as if twice as many more had taken their places. All the cots were used up, with either unconscious or groaning wounded. The sour smell of sweat, blood, urine, and even feces had wafted together to form an unholy union of a stench most foul. The wounded that didn't have cots were lined up sitting upright against the walls. Those that had to be prostrated were underneath the cots so that the medics wouldn't step on or have to step over them.
Conrad had heard stories of the Bedlam Asylum, was this what it was like for those doctors? A place of madness and despair that was supposed to be the healing for the sick?
Greene called to Conrad, "Who's that?!"
The veteran medic shook his head out of his daydream, "Uh— Yokeman! Priority, amputee! I need plasma now! Get the water for immediate transfusion!"
Greene was tying a bandaged around a fresh wound of a different soldier, "Okay! Hey, Wedge! Take over this one for me!"
Wedgewood moved through the cramp triage center with amazing alacrity and swapped places with Greene. In that brief moment, Conrad was proud of how quickly this replacement was adjusting.
Conrad placed the wincing Herb right in the corner. Greene was bent over trying to get a transfusion going, as Conrad opened up bandages to wrap them around Herb's jagged stumps.
Herb was wailing in a pained blubber, "I didn't survive the beaches to get killed like this…"
"You ain't going to die, Herb!" Conrad countered.
"Don't bullshit me!"
"Hey! You're not going to fuckin' die! Goddamn it, you're not!"
Greene finished the plasma insertion, "Conrad, we're real low on plasma."
"Really? How much is left?"
"Just five bottles…"
"Shit!"
"What do we do when we're out?"
"C'mon, Greene, we make do without it. That's what!"
Conrad noticed somebody standing still in the middle of the triage center. It was Private Desmond Deering, a rifleman of 1st Platoon.
Conrad blinked as if seeing a mirage, what was he doing here? He didn't look as if he was wounded.
"Deering, what's wrong?" Conrad called out to him.
Deering was helmetless and he was missing a weapon. The rifleman didn't respond, his mouth was agape, his eyes looked hollow, lost on all the wounded before him.
Greene spoke up, "He's still here?! I thought he left after dropping off two wounded."
Conrad gritted his teeth before shouting louder, "Deering! I need help!"
The man's eyes were on the groaning wounded in the tent.
Conrad looked to Herb, then back to Deering. The medic sprung to his feet and rushed the catatonic man. "Desmond!" he called to him, shaking him frantically.
Deering blinked rapidly, "Ye-Ye-Ye-Yeah…"
"Desmond, I need your help, buddy! Can you help me?"
"Yeah, Conrad, I-I-I-I think s-so…"
"Don't go back out there, stay in the triage and take your aid kit and start helping out Herb and all the other wounded! Got it?"
"Ye-Yeah…" he nodded hypnotically.
"Repeat back what I said!"
"Don't go out… and uh… Don't go out… and…"
"Take your aid kit and help out the wounded here and listen to Greene and Wedgewood!" Conrad repeated.
"I got it, Conrad. Who sh-should I help first?"
"You see Herb over there?"
Deering shivered hard at the sight, he covered his mouth, "Oh God, Herb!"
"Help him out, Desmond, stop the bleeding, you can do it man! I trust you!"
Deering nodded wordlessly and rushed over to Herb to tend to the man, with Greene providing him instructions.
Deering was an Omaha man as well, yet this draftee was not soldier material. The men would often talk about him behind his back, but everyone knew he was a pacifist. No man could remember if he ever fired his rifle or talked about scoring a kill. How he became a rifleman, no one knew, guess Uncle Sam needed all the bodies he could get for the meatgrinder. Deering was with them since Omaha, but he never broke down, never. But here? Now? Conrad had only witnessed one man to break down in combat, and that was a replacement officer.
Never before had he seen an Omaha vet. In that quick thought, he wondered something. How many of them who were still alive, who remembered the bloody carnage on the beaches, were at their utmost breaking point?
Conrad's hands trembled; the sounds of death were a cacophony between his ears. He firmly believed he was at his.
His nerves were fraying tonight. His feet were so rough, it was as if he stepped on knives every time he walked. And truth be told, he was terrified to leave the safety of the triage center into the din of chaos that was Hill 3-1-4. But he had a job to do, he would not leave a single man behind. He wouldn't live with himself if he did.
He heard someone stumbling into the triage center. He spoke without turning, "Put the wounded by the right, I'll take care of—"
"D-D-D-D-Doc!" Deering stammered, pointing towards the entrance.
Conrad turned. At the entrance stood two German soldiers, armed with a rifle and a machine pistol, their jaws slacked, and faces dumbfounded at what they stumbled into by accident. All the blood in Conrad's body froze to ice.
In a moment that was truthfully five seconds, felt an eternity for all the conscious men in the center. No man in that place who witnessed this had moved, for they knew not what to do.
Corporal Gettle's body moved on its own. His body grew uncomfortable and lurched upward to relieve discomfort without him consciously doing so, causing pain to surge in his torso, making him spasm. His hands instinctively went to his chest.
The German with the automatic weapon noticed the movement. He raised his gun towards Gettle on drilled instinct, as if the American was reaching for a weapon. The barrel was pointed towards Gettle's chest.
Conrad's body moved on its own.
He was two yards away from the German, and he closed the distance with two bounding steps. Conrad's left hand reached out and pushed the barrel away from Gettle. The sudden surprise from Conrad caused the German to discharge a single round as his weapon was pushed away. The machine pistol echoed with the boom of a cannon inside the center, but no man was harmed. With his left hand on the machine pistol, Conrad, still rushing forward, cocked his right hand back and delivered a solid hook to the German's face.
The medic's sudden charge carried so much momentum that he, the German he punched, and the German rifleman, stumbled out of the triage center and into the chaos of the hilltop.
The German with the automatic fell to the dirt, Conrad was on top of him and delivered heavy blows to the submachine gunner's face. No man would harm his wounded under his protection. But the German rifleman moved behind the American medic and swung his rifle butt in a horizontal arc, smashing Conrad in the back of the head, sending him to the earth.
Fortunately, Conrad's helmet took much of the rifle butt's blow. The now prone and helmetless Conrad recovered quickly, he kicked at the rifleman's legs and sent him falling to the dirt. Conrad, possessed with adrenaline, leapt on top of the rifleman wrestling for control of the rifle. His mind was filled with his duty to save the wounded at all costs. Conrad pinned the rifle to the German's chest, screaming as a madman. The German was strong, slowly pushing the rifle up off of him. The German brought his head back and slammed it upwards, his helmet bashing Conrad in the face.
Conrad's hands relinquished the rifle, allowing the German to use his weapon to knock Conrad off of him. Conrad's back hit the dirt, he then felt something heavy leap upon his upper body. Now it was the German's turn to pin his rifle against the medic's throat.
He could feel the warm wooden stock pressing down on his windpipe. His eyes watered more as he gagged harder. The only thing he could see clearly were the whites of the German's eyes and the white of his gritting teeth.
The German suddenly released his hold on the rifle, with a shattering scream. His back arched upward. Conrad gasped for air; in that moment, he witnessed a man standing behind the German. The figure flung the German backwards and began to scuffle with him, until the German ceased to move, and the figure was panting hard.
As he regained his breath, Conrad peered into the darkness for a better look. The man held a bayonet, its steel coated in blood.
"Walt! You all right?!" the familiar sounding figure called to him.
"Yeah!" he exhaled. "Wait, Jeremy? That you?"
"Yeah, it's me!" Troy the Sniper sheathed his bayonet and patted around the ground furiously. He stood up with a German machine pistol of the triage intruder, he then put a round into both men's heads. Conrad wondered what happened to his Springfield, but figured using a scoped rifle at the dead of night would have been pointless.
"Christ! The Kraut's are in the wire!"
"I know! I came back to get more men to fend them off. And I saw you straggling in the dirt with these bastards!"
He massaged his own throat with a hand, "They entered my triage."
"I figured so." Then, Troy's tone sounded as if he was proud, "Never figured you for a scrapper, Walt."
He didn't even know he was smiling, "Thanks, Jeremy."
"MEDIC!" The call came into the air. Both men looked into the fray of battle on the hill.
Conrad looked to Troy, "You got my back?"
"You bet. C'mon, let's go!"
As they crossed the hilltop, pandemonium reigned supreme. Americans and Germans were running all over in a confused quagmire state. He can hear German commands and curses all around him, mixed with their American counterparts. In brief flashes of light, Conrad witnessed the silhouettes of German uniforms and helmets where American bodies were supposed to be. Troy was firing his machine pistol from the hip as they ran, swiveling from the left-to-right.
All around him he could hear echoes.
"The Krauts broke through!"
"We need someone to plug the gap!"
"All BARS, all heavy weapons, move to the north of the hill!"
"Those who move to the north, fix your bayonets!"
"Hold the line! Hold the fucking line!"
Somehow, the 1-0-5s were still firing. He thought he heard the distinctive sound of Badmouth cursing over by the artillery. Elements of 3rd Platoon must have been trying to protect the guns at all costs. If the guns fell, then the armor would roll in.
Even through this din of discord, his ears were a homing beacon, pinpointing where the cry for a medic was coming from. The duo ran awfully close to the front line, at the corner where the 2nd Platoon was to be connected with 3rd Platoon, where the gap was made in the line. About twenty yards back from the line was a private who was wallowing in agony, clutching his leg and crying for help.
Conrad slid on his knees to the wounded man. The private was a replacement, Conrad couldn't remember his name, but the kid had a mangled foot. Unlike Herb's, that was clearly blasted away by explosives, pieces of bone and flesh of this private had been shot away by bullets. His foot hung loosely on tendons as pieces of his bone was exposed at the shin. This foot would definitely be amputated.
Conrad went to work, until Troy's burst of fire interrupted the medic. Conrad looked at what he was firing at. About forty yards or so, he could see off the moonlight four German helmets bobbing up and down at the top incline of the hill, the bright pops of their muzzles flashed as well.
"C'mon, let's get his ass in the hole!" Troy yelled.
The medic and the sniper each grabbed a shoulder of the man and started dragging him back into a foxhole several meters behind. The private was screaming as his mangled foot was being pulled along the coarse dirt. German bullets were nipping at the replacement's remaining foot as they dragged him.
Conrad started to work on the replacement as Troy fell prone and started firing short burst at the encroaching Germans.
The replacement was hollering to the Lord. Conrad removed the kid's belt and tied a tight torniquet above the knee. "What's your name, kid?!" Conrad shouted to be heard.
"I can't feel my legs!" the replacement cried out.
Conrad slapped him lightly, but consecutively on the cheek, "What's your name, kid?!" he repeated.
"J-Jones!"
Conrad administered a full dose of morphine into the private's thigh. "Listen, Jones! You're gonna be all right! Trust me! They only got one foot! You're gonna be all right!"
Jones was still blubbering, but his words changed, "Do you mean it?" tears fell down his face.
He forced a smile, "Hell yeah! You're gonna make it, Jones! God as my witness!" Conrad looked to Troy, who was reloading, "I'm taking him back, Jeremy! Cover me!"
"All right, hold on, now! Wait for my command, then get him out!"
Troy pulled the pin of a grenade and heaved it. Once it exploded, Troy roared, "Go! I'll catch up!" and fired a full burst from his clip, yet he got up and strafed to the right as he did so, drawing all the fire away from Conrad.
The medic heaved the crippled Jones out of the foxhole and placed him on his shoulders, running back through the madness on the hilltop, all the while speaking lowly, "Do not fucking die, do not fucking die, do not fucking die…"
He reached the triage center and placed the still mewling Jones on top of a cot. Once Jones' back hit the cot, Conrad's legs seemingly gave out, he fell back on his ass with a mighty exhale. Perspiration crawled down his face, the salt of his sweat burned his eyes and moisturized the inside of his ears.
He looked up; it was more people in this center than a ball game. Wounded men were crammed together on the floor, it made it near impossible to take a step without trampling someone's limb.
Greene came to him with a canteen of water. The veteran medic drank it voraciously.
He exhaled, "Hey, Greene, how many now?"
"With your guy? Forty now."
Conrad was so winded; he couldn't utter a curse.
"Conrad, you're exhausted, man! Stay here, let me go out for ya!"
"No! Greene, these fellas need your help, I can do this. Just need to rest my legs and I'll be— wait, I put Jones on a cot… we had a cot opened up?"
Greene nodded bitterly, "Yeah, it was Burtson, he… he just kept bleeding, I couldn't stop it…"
"But the plasma… I thought he—"
"He kept bleeding and shaking, I gave him a second shot, kept on shaking…"
"Where is he?"
Conrad followed Greene's finger. Beside the agonized wounded, laid a veteran of Omaha, draped in an olive drab blanket. Still. He was the only still thing in this triage of madness.
Conrad's lip quivered softly, "Bur—"
"MEDIC!"
He gritted his teeth, then took a big swig of water. He tossed the canteen back to Greene and told him, "Take a last good swing of that, the rest of the water is for the wounded! Let's get back to work, eh?"
Troy entered back, "Walt! You here?"
"Yeah, here I am!" he forced himself to his feet without honestly thinking about how much effort it really required. "C'mon!"
The call was coming from back where Jones was hit, back where the gap was. Except this time, it had come from a man who was closer to the Germans than Jones was. In fact, this screaming man was in hand grenade distance from the Germans, and yet they didn't throw one at him.
Conrad spoke to Troy, "I see him! I can get him; I just need cover!"
"That's too close to the Krauts!" Troy countered.
"I don't care, I'm going for him!"
"Goddamn it, Walt! There's a better way than this! Let me get more guys so we can push!"
Conrad thought of Burtson draped in a blanket.
"He may not have the time! Please, Jeremy!"
"Goddamn it… fine! Let's go!"
Jeremy pulled the pin to his last grenade and charged alongside Conrad. The sniper heaved the grenade with all his might, before dropping to the ground to fire an obnoxiously long burst at the enemy. The grenade fell a few feet short of its mark, but the Germans brought their heads down, allowing Conrad to reach the wounded man.
The man was Gertz, a replacement who came alongside Wedgewood. Gertz had one entry hole in the back of his waist with an exit hole above his groin. Conrad got his morphine out and shot him in the belly. Gertz's spasms dwindled substantially. Several Mauser rounds thumped into the dirt around them. Conrad felt the ground trembling, in a consistent pattern, but he paid no attention to it.
His mind was only on Gertz. Conrad tied a bandage around Gertz's waist.
Conrad pulled Gertz's upper body up.
"I got you fixed up, man!"
Gertz smiled, "Thank you, Doc! You're a lifesav—"
He heard a wet squelch. Immediately, warm liquid hit him on the left side of his face. Conrad's right eye was blinking furiously on instinct. He looked to Gertz, and he saw the quiet man's head slumped backwards, blood pouring down the side of his face. He brought Gertz's head back up, a hole the size of a tangerine was where his right eye should have been.
Why… Why did I just yank him up like that? Why did I do that?!
A second round penetrated Gertz's corpse. The bullet exited Gertz's torso and grazed the side of Conrad's left leg, slicing into the outer edge of his thigh like a molten blade. Conrad yelped, then winced, clutching his leg as he fell beside Gertz. Bullets were buffeting his positions; they were actively targeting him.
The ground was trembling even more, but this time, Conrad could hear creaking of a metallic nature growing louder. Conrad strained his body up. Ten yards away from the destroyed tank, a second Panzer had climbed the slope and was lurching forward. A sharp explosion erupted around the treads of the tank; he saw a bright flash as well. It had hit a mine placed around the slope. The tank stopped, just for a moment, then it kept moving forward, albeit decreasingly slower than it once had. German infantry was moving beside it.
Somehow, he could hear Troy's voice calling out, "Conrad, get outta there! There's a tank!"
The quaking of the ground grew more intense the closer the tank came. Conrad got to his knees; the side of his thigh was on fire. He could feel a moderate flow of blood seeping out of the wound. He was fighting the utter temptation to treat himself right then and there. Mentally, he was timing himself in how quick he could sulfa and bandage the wound. But he knew he had to get the hell out of there.
"Conrad! Let's go! What's taking you?!"
"Gimme a sec, it's my leg!" Conrad grunted.
His eyes shot open. A tidal wave of regret washed over him in an instant.
Oh no…
"Hold on, I'm coming!" Troy shouted.
"No! Stay where you are, Jeremy!" Conrad roared.
He looked back. There was Troy, halfway towards him, sprinting in a low crouch. Yet the tank saw something moving towards it. Its cannon swiveled. Conrad saw it in slow motion.
A quick flash was all he witnessed. What he heard and felt next was a ripping boom and he felt the ground quaking violently. Through the dark, Conrad could breathe in the smoke from the explosion. The metallic creaking of the Kraut war machine was moving forward, away from him and Troy…
Troy…? Jeremy!
Conrad stood up from the ground on his hands and knees, he couldn't see through the smoke and darkness, "Jeremy! Jeremy, you there?!"
He didn't receive a response.
"Jeremy!" he called louder. It didn't even dawn on the medic for how foolish he was screaming during a battle.
The only sounds that were audible where he was, included: the creaking of the tank, American voices screaming about the tank, and Germans shouting commands a soft distance away from him. Conrad tuned it out, his only thoughts were on Troy.
The moon came from behind the clouds and the hilltop wind blew the smoke away. A crater was made by the exploding shell, five meters away lied Troy, his body sprawled out with his arms above his head, his body did not stir.
"Jeremy!" Conrad called again, rushing awkwardly on his bum leg to his fellow Roanoker.
The Panzer tank had already been moving on throughout the hilltop, with five Germans escorting the tank. They didn't bother checking if Conrad was neutralized. The medic was there, alone with Troy. Troy was helmetless, his face was caked by clumps of dirt, his eyes were sealed, and blood was running down one nostril. From what he could see, Troy didn't have a wound on him. There was no shrapnel, lacerations, or burns on him. But he wasn't conscious. Conrad dragged him into the tank-made crater.
Back in the world, they were schoolmates. High school. Not quite friends, but more acquaintances. They knew each other's names and would make small talk here and there, on very rare occasions eat together. That was it. But overseas, in the middle of war, they were best friends.
"JEREMY!" he pleaded, shaking him.
Troy was wearing his ranger vest on top of his combat jacket; Conrad couldn't accurately feel his heartbeat. And he was too worked up to check his pulse accurately, his own hands were shaking. He was fumbling as he tried to remove Troy's clothing.
His father's voice echoed in the back of his head, 'You tryun' to be smart and shit, tryun' to move away, y'all get people dyun' 'cause o' ya actions, boy! They die!'
"Speak to me, Jeremy!"
Burtson, Gertz, and Jeremy… 'Y'all get people dyun' 'cause o' ya actions, boy! They die!'
"Jeremy! Jeremy!"
A forceful gasp exited the sniper's mouth as his eyes shot open. Conrad was laughing in disbelief.
"Can you hear me, man?" he chuckled crazily.
"God… God… God…" was all Troy could gasp.
"Hey, what's your name, man! What's your name?"
"J-Jeremy Tr-Troy…"
"Yeah, that's right," he laughed shakily. "Now who's your girl?"
"L-Lucille Jones…"
"Yeah! And she's your what?"
He raised his head up weakly, cracking a bloody smile as he chuckled, "M-My wife."
Conrad laughed, "There we go, Jeremy!"
"Walt, did we save the wounded man…?"
His smile ebbed away, "No, no, he didn't make it. I'm so sorry this happened to y—!"
"Never apologize for doing your job! Just take me back, Walt, my legs feel like jelly, my head's killin' me, and I wanna puke…"
The moonlight hid behind the clouds once again. Conrad could still hear the tank somewhere on the hill, he could hear the Germans who passed him and the Germans who were still coming on top of the slope, and he could hear his fellow comrades shouting, 'to take back the trenches!'.
Troy heard it too, "Are we surrounded?" For the two men, the darkness had concealed them from the enemy.
"I think so."
"The tank?"
"I think its heading straight to the center of the hilltop, with a bunch of boots along with it."
"Oh shit."
"Jeremy, I think we're cut off."
"Yeah, we are… it's okay. Our boys are going to push them off this hill…"
"How do you know?"
The sniper smirked in a daze, "Always Able…"
The medic nodded, "Always Able."
"Leave me, Walt! Get back out there!"
"What?"
"There are other boys out there who need help! I'm holding you up!"
"No, I ain't leaving you!"
"You got a job to do!"
"I do! And I'm not leaving you, Jeremy!"
Conrad didn't even feel the pain in his leg. He lifted Troy up on his shoulders and hurried back to the triage center. He didn't care if they ran into Germans again, he had a job to do, and he was going to do it. Even if they were overrun, he wouldn't listen to his father. He wouldn't let anyone die if he could help it. He was going to save everybody he could, come hell or high water.
The difficult thing about this chapter was ending it. I was contemplating where to lead it off, either end it right then and there with Troy waking up, or lead it into the following chapter, which I decided to do the latter.
Thanks for reading!