COMBAT MEDIC
"MEDIC!"
He must have heard that cry more than a dozen times. The earsplitting scream of a dying man or his comrade attempting to help him. It always made his stomach sink every time those words were shouted out in agony. The way the men would scramble around the ground and squeal like dying animals always brought in a wave of grief and sadness. But that was all a part of the job description when it came to being an NCR combat medic.
Atop the great concrete structure dubbed, "The Hoover Dam", a battle raged between two differing ideologies. One being a democracy loving, yet corrupt, nation akin to pre-war America, and the other being a cruel dictatorship run by a mad, yet brave and smart, man known as Caesar. Most people would avoid both of the groups but for many, there was no choice.
Years of tension and small scale engagements were finally leading up to this climactic battle. Along the roadway of the dam, dozens of NCR and Legion troops alike clashed into each other like a tidal wave. More blood was being spilt in this single battle than in all of their previous engagements combined.
The NCR fought bravely, in an attempt to drive these "invaders" from their home. They battled for every inch of the dam and they would stop at nothing to keep it. The Legionnaires fought ruthlessly, trying to take this dam from the corrupt forces that called themselves "heroes". Although most were only equipped with hand to hand combat weapons such as spears, machetes, or combat knives, many of their best soldiers were armed with hunting rifles or assault rifles, as well as a few shotguns sprinkled here and there. The majority of the NCR forces only had rusty old hunting rifles or the standard issue combat rifles, which packed a punch but were not very accurate.
But none of this stopped the combat medics from doing their jobs.
With great speed, one of the few remaining medics, quickly maneuvered his way towards the source of the cries. He went from barrier to barrier, moving speedily yet keeping on eye on where he stepped, and where the battle was moving. It wasn't long before he came around a bend to see two men, one hunched over the over, behind a concrete roadblock.
The medic slid in towards the two soldiers to assess the damage.
"What happened?", he called out to no one in particular. The man hunched over the other leaned back to reveal an enormous blood stain on the stomach of the other soldier.
"I'm not sure. One second we're firing at the legion's lines, the next I hit the deck with blood pouring out of me", the wounded man explained through burning tears. "Please help me, Doc!" He shouted out.
The Medic, or Doc if you will, nodded slowly and then reached his hands down onto the young man's uniform. He didn't recognize this soldier, but apparently the soldier recognized him as he knew him by "Doc", which was only what men in his unit called him. He hadn't been called by his real name since basic training back at Camp McCarran. Sometimes, in the heat of battle, he forgot it all together. But he didn't let these thoughts overcome him as he tore the soldier's uniform around the waist.
He ripped upwards to reveal two gaping bullet holes placed in the center of his stomach by what seemed to be an assault rifle. He grimaced at the sight, as blood began to pour out and stain his already blood-stained hands.
"Well? What's the matter Doc?!" Shouted the other soldier, who he happened to know already. His name was Davis, or at least his last name was. He was a replacement who arrived in the unit only a few weeks prior. A rookie to combat, this was most likely his baptism by fire, and by the looks of his ammo pouches, he had barely even fired a shot yet.
"Never you mind what's the matter!" Doc spat out while reaching below the wounded soldiers body, to see where the bullets went. "All right... Mitchell", he said as he eyed the name tag of the wounded trooper. "You've been hit by two bullets from an assault rifle, but both of them went through, so you're lucky on that front."
As he finished up that statement, he heard more cries for a medic coming from further on up the roadway. "There isn't a lot of bleeding in the back", he stated as he removed a bandage from his medical bag. "So I'm going to wrap this bandage around your stomach and ask for your friend here to help you keep pressure on the wound."
Mitchell nodded as more tears began to run down his face. "Got it Doc"
Doc began to wrap the bandage around the length of his stomach. He had done it countless times by now so he had it finished in seconds. He secured the bandage by tying it up into a ball on Mitchell's right side and then patted him on the shoulder. "You're gonna be just fine Mitchell", he said, referring to him by his real name which he had found added comfort. "Now just keep pressure on the wound and the bleeding will stop soon."
He once again heard more cries from a wounded soldier. "I gotta go but you'll be just fine as long as you keep pressure on the wound!" He shouted over gunfire and the clashing of weapons and bodies.
"You're a life saver Doc!" Davis shouted after him as he threw his hands down on Mitchell's stomach.
"Now on to the next patient", Doc whispered to himself as he crept forward towards the cries. Although his job was far from pleasant, it was much safer than being a normal infantryman. He was never in the thick of the battle or at the front of the advance, rather he would follow up and help the wounded that were left behind or check the dead for dog tags and supplies. In this particular battle, he was a good fifty yards or so behind the actual fighting. That always did ease his anxiety during skirmishes.
"Hey Doc!" A lone soldier shouted. "Over hear!"
Doc turned to see a soldier lying behind another concrete fortification of sorts. She was clutching her left hand and was swaying back in forth, writhing in pain. Doc ran over to her and jumped into action.
"A Legion sniper got me in the hand", she said, already answering the question Doc had for her yet didn't ask. "Fucker took off two of my fingers, she said, nudging her elbow in the direction of two fingers lying on the ground in a small puddle of blood.
"Take your hand away for me, will you Hawkins?" He knew her name for sure as she had been a member of his unit since basic. She sluggishly pulled her hand back from her wounded one to reveal a blood-stained, three-fingered hand. But this didn't worry Doc as this wound was one of the more common ones he saw throughout his tour of duty. He went through the same routine every time.
He removed a smaller bandage from his bag and wrapped it around her hand in the common fashion of most finger injuries. "Okay, you know the drill Hawkins. Keep pressure on the wound and stay down", he began. "Don't move unless you have to, got it?"
She nodded, patted Doc's back and he continued forward, looking for more wounded soldiers.
He stepped forward, out from the safety of cover, to see a body sprawled out across the ground. He shuffled over to the motionless figure and placed his fingers on the soldier's neck in an attempt to find a pulse. After not feeling any rhythmic beat, he checked the man's wrist. Nothing. He sighed. Sometimes it was too late to save a man.
He slipped his hand underneath the dead soldier's uniform and ripped the dog tag from his neck and stuffed it in his medical pouch. He didn't even bother looking at the name. He already knew who it was. Private Becker of 2nd Squadron. A man he had tended to countless times before for minor injuries, had finally met his fate. He sighed once more.
With a sudden blast, Doc was knocked from his feet and he fell hard on the concrete surface. Dirt and tiny pieces of rubble rained down upon him like a hail storm, and he could feel pieces of shrapnel pierce his skin. He leaned up and forward in a daze and nearly fell back down again. Well, he would have had it not been for an arm looping under his shoulder to support him. He didn't see who it was at first, but he knew it was friendly as it was helping him rather than killing him. Within seconds, they were back behind cover and Doc turned to see just who had come to his rescue.
To his surprise, he had know idea who it was. By the looks of his uniform, he was a sergeant in some sort of reconnaissance unit, yet he didn't know which one. His name tag seemed to have been shredded off by either bullets, shrapnel or a blade. It could have been any of them or all of them.
There was an awkward pause between when they got to cover to when they first spoke. The sergeant was the first to brake the ice. "That was a bloody howitzer!", he spat. "Where the hell did they find that thing?!" The sergeant peeked over their piece of cover, only for a bullet to come whizzing past his head. He turned back down towards Doc who was still in a state of confusion and shock after being nearly torn to bits by artillery.
"Th... Thanks", Doc murmured.
"Don't mention it trooper", the sergeant replied. "Now we got to get back in this fight. I'm moving up towards the thick of it, you look for wounded!"
And with that he was off. He dashed forward, and sprinted past the bodies and rubble that had accumulated on top of the dam, and soon he disappeared into the smoke.
Doc just shook his head in awe. That was quite the soldier if he'd ever seen one, charging head on into battle like that. He couldn't imagine doing that himself. But Doc soon realized that he had been doing that in every engagement, just with a different objective. He was trying to save lives while the other soldiers like the sergeant were trying to take them.
Doc had been serving for two years and had never taken a life. He had never even fired a shot. That was the kind of man Doc was. He was a life saver, not a life taker.
And with those thoughts running through his head, Doc rose from the ground and charged back into the fray. He was brave, he was strong, and he was a combat medic.