It was almost morning when Elizabeth had bullied him to take some rest, it gave him about 2 hrs of shut-eye before he decided to help again at the aid station.
Elizabeth wiped the sweat from her brow, exhaustion gnawing at her, but she refused to let it show. The small aid station, set up in a shell-ridden barn just outside Sainte-Mère-Église, smelled of blood, sweat, and gunpowder. The moans of wounded men filled the air, but for now, there was a lull—enough time to take stock of supplies before the next wave of casualties arrived.
She glanced up as footsteps approached. Eugene Roe stepped into the dim light, his helmet casting a shadow over his face. His uniform was stained, his hands dark with dried blood, but his eyes held the same quiet steadiness she had come to recognize in him.
"Roe." Elizabeth straightened, rolling her sore shoulders. "How bad is it out there?"
He exhaled, glancing back toward the door as if he could see the chaos beyond. "Bad. We're movin' on Sainte-Mère-Église soon. There's been heavy fire… lots of wounded." He looked her over, his gaze lingering on the dark smudges under her eyes. "You should rest."
She scoffed sharply, crossing her arms. "And you should mind your own business, Roe. Rest isn't exactly on my list of priorities."
His lips twitched, almost a smile. "Guess that means neither of us will."
The brief levity was shattered by a new round of artillery fire in the distance. Elizabeth straightened as a soldier stumbled into the barn, supporting a bleeding paratrooper. Without waiting for instruction, she stepped forward, her movements swift and decisive.
"Put him on the table," she ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Roe was right behind her, his hands steady as he helped. "Got him?" he asked.
She shot him a look. "Obviously."
They worked in silence, a well-practised rhythm forming between them. Roe handed her a set of forceps before she even asked, and she guided them into the wound, pulling out a jagged piece of shrapnel. The soldier bit down on a rag, his body shaking with pain.
"Stop squirming," she snapped. "I can patch you up, but not if you make my job harder."
When the worst of it was over, she wiped her hands on her already filthy uniform, exhaustion pressing down on her again. Roe studied her, his quiet presence grounding her in the chaos.
"Be careful when we move out," he said finally, voice low but firm.
Elizabeth met his gaze, her expression hard. "I can take care of myself, Roe. You just make sure you don't get yourself killed."
Something unspoken passed between them. War left no room for promises, but in that moment, she knew—if he made it through the night if she did—she would find him again.
"For now," she added, turning back to her supplies, "we've got work to do."