War is Hell

[Ambrosia_64]

"We've got a group coming in!" The warning shout blasted from the front of the tent, sending the miniature white army into action. Even the new recruits had orders barked at them-and Rachel was no different. "Get this guy to surgery now." The head nurse commanded, shoving a gurney into her soft stomach before turning to handle another case-a whirlwind of chaos as injured men were routed to various beds and locations within the large, semi permanent burlap tent.

They were losing the war. Everyone knew it. And yet Rachel had still enlisted in the Red Cross against her father's wishes, had still come out here to help the growing number of injured soldiers. She looked down at the injured man before her, unsure if the crimson caked onto his skin was due to his injuries-or someone elses. Pushing him across the shoddy tile flooring, she rested a hand on his shoulder as a form of comfort, even if she wasn't sure he could even process where he was and what was happening to him.

All he'd see were the shaking lamps hanging from the canopy ceiling, halo-ing the dark red haired woman above him. Her nurse's smock was pristine and pressed, the pill box hat slightly askew but no less lovely-a young and concerned face offering him the simplest of comforts through simple phrases and assuring words.

Except...they weren't words in his language. And as she pushed him behind a divider to take his pulse and clean him up for the surgery (he had something embedded in his right arm), he might start to realize her uniform was not the double breasted blue coat of his country...but the medic's white smock of the enemy.

Just as he might be realizing as such her hands were flying down the buttons of his ruined, crimson stained coat, expertly but carefully slipping him out of it-and pausing when she uncovered an metallic symbol that wasn't...quite...

"Oh my God." Her breathless, shocked tone and face betrayed her surprise and dismay. Somehow, they had brought one of the others into the tent! She hurried to the edge of the divider, peered out-but hesitated to call attention to it. Would they still help him if they knew? Glancing back, Rachel bit her lip. He was hurt, he needed help.

It didn't really matter which side he was on, not...not right now. Lifting a pair of scissors from the wall, she returned and quickly cut his jacket entirely free from him, balling it up and shoving it deep into a nearly empty laundry bag before she knotted the top. She would get rid of it. No one would have to know, he'd get his help-and then she could work out what to do afterwards.

Was he...was he looking at her?

The doctor rushed in, blood spattered but with fresh gloves-a harried looking man that had been here from the start. Rachel backed off as two more experienced nurses sailed in behind him. Hazel, green flecked eyes on her smuggled patient, she pressed her index finger to her plush lips and mimed for silence. Don't talk.

With one last, nervous smile-however unsure she was-Rachel slipped from the space to dispose of his uniform jacket.

 

[throwawaypenpal]

Everything happened so fast for Alex. He held the rank of Major and was the commanding officer of the 1st Battalion in the 101st Airbone Division. The tip of spear as far as his nation's military went, so it was no wonder that they were given the most difficult missions every time. They had dropped behind enemy lines, a good fifty kilometers ahead of any friendly unit. That was fine, paratroopers were trained to fight surrounded. Their mission was simple, assault the enemy artillery bays that were giving hell to their troops that were trying to push forward.

The big guns had been a huge problem since the beginning of the invasion. The enemy had accurate spotters hiding in the hills, ready to direct the shells onto any advancing unit. The invasion has been stalled for over a week now, and Command was getting antsy. They had no expected such resistance, and were afraid that the enemy were rapidly reinforcing their ranks, making the invasion impossible if they did not act soon. That was where Alex and his men came in.

In the cover of night, 600 of his countries finest fell out of the sky into enemy soil. The anti-aircraft guns shot down several planes before the men could jump. Alex could never forget the sight of the plane beside him burst into flame, barely holding altitude for a second before careening towards the ground like a massive fireball. He only hoped that they crushed some of the bastards on the way down. When his plane had reached the designated drop zone and the pilot gave the green light, Alex was out the door. As an officer in the Airborne Corps, he would always be the first boot off the plane, and the last boot off the battlefield. How could he expect his men to follow if he didn't lead?

The wind was bad that night, completely unpredicted by the guys up at intelligence and his men were scattered in the wind like sticks in a storm. He landed a good kilometer off from his designated drop zone without a single friendly in sight. He realized that as he was taking off the parachute that the back lash from the jump had ripped his weapon strap right off his body, and now he had no rifle or sidearm. Just a knife. This night was just getting better and better.

He made his way towards the rallying point, as silent as he could be. But it seemed like his ill luck was not over that night. CRACK. He stepped on a small twig and suddenly the forest around him erupted with shouting in a foreign tongue. Fire opened up on him from all sides, and Alex duck, getting as low against the ground as possible. His hands clutched his helmet as the bullets whizzed on by, and he prayed to whatever gods there were that he would make it through this. Just as he finished his makeshift prayer, he heard an all too familiar thump next to him. Grenade! He pushed himself to the side but it was too late. The explosion threw him into the air, and flash of white and a burst of pain, and then nothing.

Alex woke up, his eyes blurry and ears ringing. Where was he? People were bustling all around him, talking in some language that he couldn't understand. Then the gravity of the situation hit him. The enemy's shock trauma unit. The nurse attending him had clearly noticed that he did not belong among them, judging by the distressed look on her face. "Please...", he begged, his weak voice barely more than a whisper, "Help me..." His head began to swim again and he fell back into a stupor. His life was in her hands now.