Chapter Text
The days do not pass quickly.
Each mile east feels longer than the last, as though the road itself resents their presence. The closer they get to the German border, the more stifling the air becomes around them. Fewer and fewer areas are left untouched, and though the towns still greet them when they pass through—bread pressed into hands, water poured into canteens, children waving small, uncertain flags— the relief in those gestures has begun to thin. Gratitude remains. Hope does not always follow.
Dennis has decided that he was an idiot before for wanting to walk instead of letting his muscles atrophy into nothing.
His feet are blistered raw beneath regulation boots, the skin along his neck permanently scorched despite every effort to shield it. Not that he ever voices any of it-- Trinity walks beside him every day crossing the same miles he does in her regulation heels, stubborn as scripture. She had been told she could ride in the trucks if she wanted to, but she refuses every time.
She has to prove herself more than he does, he knows that; a woman in uniform must prove herself twice—once for competence, once for legitimacy. But he cannot pretend that his feet don’t ache even more seeing her blistered and bleeding toes every evening when they finally board the truck.
There’s a town in the distance, partially hidden under the thick, late-morning mist of the countryside, and their orders are to set up camp there for a bit while the armored division keeps moving to scout the road ahead. It will be a couple of days, during which he plans to make Trinity rest and care for her feet.
“I cannot wait to get horizontal. Like-- fully laid out asleep. Preferably for a century,” Samira Mohan preaches. They had started walking together intermittently two days before, after Mel had introduced them. She’s an amazing first lieutenant on her third deployment, two of which had been with the 112th. She’s one of the most empathetic people Dennis has ever had the pleasure to meet-- when he talks to her, it feels like he’s the only person in the world.
She’s also a favorite of the commander, as it turns out. While he’s prickly and distant with most of the regiment, he opens into a completely different person with those he’s decided to care about. Colonel Robby. Captain Evans. Captain Ellis. Captain Shen. Lieutenant Mohan.
Another thing that Dennis won’t ever admit out loud-- he longs for the same care and devotion. He has never been good at asking for care. His father had never been one to show any kind of love or care towards his children if it didn’t also come with a lesson-- whether that lesson be learned through words or aching backs from hard labor.
He was taught that love has to be earned- to be endured.
He sees the easy camaraderie the senior medics have with each other, and he yearns to join in. To get side hugs and calls for him to join them in their tent or in the same truck after a long day of walking. He’s finally made some friends, sure-- he and Santos are practically attached at the hip most days. Javadi, who is young and sweet, but also achingly smart, practical and curious.
Mel’s steady friendship had been a welcome surprise-- once she had spent more time around Trin and learned how she worked, she was a near-constant walking and conversation companion. Samira’s quiet attentiveness drew him in immediately, and now he can’t imagine his circle of friends without her.
But, and although he felt terrible saying it, they were all women. Not that he had a problem with women, of course! He just… hasn’t known many throughout his lifetime. His mother and some other ladies from the church where he grew up, and nobody else for miles. Until he had enlisted, he hadn’t known much at all about women in general.
So although he loved hanging out with them, it was… sometimes difficult to relate. But they had made space for him, and he wouldn’t give that up for the world.
They’re within half a mile of the town now, and Dennis can see, suddenly, that it’s not a stubborn mist graying the skyline, but smoke. It billows in thick, gray columns from shattered rooftops, rubble spilling into the streets.
“Oh my god…”
Javadi is on Samira’s other side, hands over her mouth and eyes wide in shock. The catastrophe looks to have happened only a couple of hours beforehand- it’s the closest Victoria has been to the violence of war so far.
Colonel Robby stands upright in the jeep at the head of the column, already shouting directives. Units peel off with purpose, boots pounding into cobblestones as they flood the village. The armored infantry continues forward, doggedly, trusting in the medical battalion’s ability to handle the situation alone.
Dennis moves forward, eyes on the village and the people trying desperately to get into a collapsed house. His shoulder collides with a soldier moving too slowly in the opposite direction. The impact jars him hard enough to stagger.
“Watch where you’re going, shithead!” The soldier growls at him angrily, standing up to his full height and glaring down at the younger man.
“Corporal Driscoll. Stand down.”
Colonel Robby’s voice cuts clean through the smoke. A hand lands on Dennis’s shoulder, and Colonel Robby follows it forward to stand beside him. Corporal Driscoll sneers, but stands at attention. “I believe I ordered your unit to the town well, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why is it you’re still standing here?”
“Sir, this boy wasn’t watching where he was going and he nearly shoved me over. I-”
“I believe if you had been moving at the appropriate pace to follow the orders given to you, you wouldn't have been in his way. Would you, Corporal?”
Driscoll grinds his teeth before answering, “No, sir.”
“Then in the future I expect you to practice a style of more directed and expedited movement. Dismissed, soldier.”
The Corporal turns on his heel with a reluctant salute and stalks toward the well-house in the middle of town. Dennis can’t bring himself to say anything-- he wasn’t completely sure why the Colonel had come to his defense in the first place.
“We all move quickly, Whitaker, but we need to remember to also remain aware. Keep an eye on where you’re going, but also never forget to watch for the dangers coming in from the sides.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Colonel Robby nods, gaze shifting to the collapsed house as he starts off at a jog, calling behind him as he goes, “Whitaker, with me.”
----------
The rubble is still warm.
They work the first pile in silence, calling out. Nothing answers.
The second yields a sound—a low, hoarse cough from somewhere beneath stone and timber.
Dennis lowers himself into the narrow opening they carve, dust swallowing the light behind him. It’s suffocating. Under the collapsed roof is a man cradling a young girl in his arms.
“Hi-- I’m Dennis Whitaker,” he introduces himself gently. “U.S. Army. Do you speak English?”
“Ah,” the man lets out a harsh cough that makes Dennis’s own lungs ache, “oui. Some. Ma fille?”
Dennis reaches forward, trying to assess the daughter’s condition from where she’s resting in her father’s grip. He finds a limp arm and checks for a pulse; moves his hand and rechecks, desperately. Nothing. The girl’s wrist is already waxy and cold, stiff in a way living skin can’t replicate.
“Ahh…” Dennis shoots a look up to Colonel Robby, who’s leaning over the hole he’s in and gives the tiniest shake of his head, feeling tears threatening the back of his eyes. The Colonel nods, and then reaches out his hands, “Pass her up, Whitaker.”
“Sir?” Dennis leans closer to the father again, “We’re going to lift her out first,” he says softly.
The man presses trembling kisses into his daughter’s hair, mumbling in hushed French to her, before easing her forward. Dennis takes her carefully, even knowing she cannot feel it. She is lighter than she should be, and he passes her upwards with reverence.
For a fleeting second, he thinks of his only younger brother.
Would George be heavier than this at this point? When he had left, the boy hadn’t yet turned 15 and weighed about as much as a newborn sheep, despite how much he managed to eat at every meal. He should write to him again. It had been so long.
He pushes the thoughts aside.
Dennis crouches next to the man still buried in the rubble, and gives him a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder.
“Do you hurt anywhere?” Whitaker asks, trying to assess without moving him too much.
“Ah… non. Ma fille? Is… is she… okay? Will she… ah. Viv….”
Dennis cuts in before the man can struggle through more broken English, “Let’s just focus on getting you out, okay? Then we can worry about your daughter.”
He shuffles over until he’s crouched beside the man, working on shifting some of the debris as best he can, “Can you tell me your name?”
“P-Pierre… ma fille s-s’pell… Lisette.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Pierre,” Dennis shifts a larger slab, and everything else shifts with it. Dust rains down, wood groans, and both men freeze, barely daring to breathe until the rubble settles again. Pierre begins to tremble.
“Whitaker, you good down there?” Colonel Robby calls.
“Good here, sir! Just shifted something too quickly.”
“Be careful, we don’t need to be rescuing you, too.”
Dennis nods, even knowing that his commander can’t see him, shifting in his own uncomfortable sweat. If it’s hot outside, it’s sweltering here. Pierre is whimpering, hands grasping at nothing around him.
“Lisette… Lisette? Ma lumiere… Desole…”
Dennis takes his hand, giving it a firm squeeze, “Hey now, none of that, okay? We’re gonna get you out of here.”
Pierre shakes his head softly, and looks up into Dennis’s eyes, freezing him in place. There’s an understanding there that Dennis himself doesn’t hold yet. He releases Dennis’s hand, and at that moment he realizes that the wetness clinging to his skin isn’t just sweat from exertion-- he’s kneeling in a pool of hot, sticky blood.
“Shit!”
Dennis bursts into action, laying as flat to the ground as he can and shining his flashlight into the darkness, only to see nothing. The slab he had shifted had been the only pressure against a catastrophic wound. Where Pierre’s left leg should be, there is a mass of unrecognizable flesh and bone. Arterial blood pulses freely into the dust and into Dennis’s hands.
“Whitaker! What’s going on down there?”
“Femoral artery is severed in the thigh-- I…”
All other voices fade into the background, all commotion outside of his little cave blurs until all he can hear are the rattling breaths of the man in front of him, and all he can feel is the gush of hot, thick blood between his fingers.
“Lis… ette…”
When Dennis glances up towards the man’s face, intent on checking his awareness, he finds Pierre’s eyes locked on his. They’re clearer than they had been since Dennis met him. His left hand keeps pressure on the vein while his right searches blindly for a clamp in his bag.
“Ma fille… Lisette… she is… how…?”
Dennis can’t stop the grimace from crossing his face, eyebrows drawing in close in sympathy, and he watches as Pierre’s face shutters.
“I could not… did not save her?”
“I’m so sorry.”
Dennis finally manages to get a clamp on the vein, pulling himself up onto his knees, hunched over his pack, desperately rummaging for his sulfa packets and pressure bandages. He freezes when he feels fingers brush his neck, heart racing in his chest.
The fingers hook gently around the necklace that had fallen free from his uniform shirt, pulling the crucifix hanging from the delicate chain closer to himself. Dennis lets himself be pulled, lets his hands forget their aim of finding the life-saving equipment. He knows, suddenly, that there is nothing he can do to save the man before him.
“Here,” Dennis whispers, pulling his grandfather’s rosary out of his breast pocket. It had been one of the few things he had brought with him when he had gone to enlist. Even though he hadn’t felt particularly close to God lately, he still carried it as a reminder of home.
Pierre lets the cross fall loose from his fingers, and shakily grasps the rosary, bringing it to his lips.
“J'ai tout remis entre Tes mains… Que ce soit la mort ou la vie… la santé ou… ou la maladie…” Pierre’s voice trails off, breathy and catching on every other word. Dennis takes both of his hands in his own, holding them gently and securely around the rosary. He understands maybe three words of French in total, but he would recognize the intonation of the prayer anywhere.
“... the beginning or the end. I have entrusted everything into Your hands, for all is well in Your hands.” He finishes for him. Then, looking at the pale, shaky man in front of him, he continues, “May holy Mary, the angels, and all the saints,” he pauses, considering, before continuing, “and Lisette… come to meet you as you go forth from this life.”
Tears mix with the dust and blood on the man’s face as he stares at Dennis through half-lidded eyes, “Merci… merci…”
His eyes don’t close when his final breath comes, so Dennis gently closes them for him. Kneeling in front of the slowly cooling body, he uses the heels of his palms to try and wipe away all of his tears. His fingers end up tangled in his own hair, pulling at it angrily for a moment, before dropping back down into his lap.
Dennis’s head falls backwards to stare up into the thin slice of sky, darkened with smoke and dust as it is, desperately trying to find a moment of peace. Instead, he finds Colonel Robby, still kneeling over the top of the hole he had dropped down into, staring right back at him. He’s backlit by the muted sunlight, sweat on his neck reflecting what brightness there is and making it appear as if he’s glowing.
If ever God had sent an angel to Earth, Dennis thinks almost feverishly, they took the form of the Regimental Surgeon above him.
Colonel Robby’s eyes are tired and sad as he reaches a hand down into the rubble, offering to pull Dennis back up into the fresh air with him. Dennis stares at the hand, unmoving for a moment.
You don’t deserve salvation. Why should you get to live and be comforted when those around you just keep dying? You should stay here and rot with Pierre.
“You coming, kid?”
Colonel Robby’s voice breaks through the one in his head that sounds suspiciously like his father, gentle where harshness had prevailed for so long. Dennis waits for a moment longer; waits for the Colonel to realize that he’s not worth it-; to leave him in this mausoleum. The hand does not waver.
Dennis takes it.
----------
Trinity thrives in catastrophe.
She moves through chaos like a blade through cloth—efficient, precise, exhilarated. Already so far she has helped get three people out of rubble, gone through all but one of her morphine syrettes, and now she was leaning her full weight onto a puncture wound in some poor sod’s abdomen.
“Gonna need hands over here!” She shouts into the void, hoping someone competent will hear her cries. Within seconds, another pair of knees land across the body from her, already pulling sulfa from their bag.
“On the count of three, move your hands and I’ll apply the sulfa. While I’m doing that, prepare a pressure bandage and tag. Ready?”
If it had been anyone else, Trinity would have balked at being given orders on how to treat her patient. Unfortunately for Trinity’s brain, however, the one to give those orders is a goddess carved from focus and fire, all lean muscle and precise movement. Her hair is curly where it’s been torn from her bun, and Trinity wants to run her fingers through it immediately.
The hands that are preparing to replace Trinity’s are doused in blood, but even through that Trinity can see that even they are lithe, flexing in anticipation of their intended action. When they make eye contact, sharp brown eyes burr deep into her mind, and Trinity knows she’ll dream of them tonight.
“You good, rookie?”
Trinity’s heart does something profoundly inconvenient. “Yes! Ah- yeah. On my count.” Get control Trin.
The woman across from her nods, poised and ready. Her back is tense where she’s bending over the patient below them, muscles taught and coiled and- Not. Now.
“One… two… three!”
In quick succession, the nurse across from her launches herself onto the victim, applying Sulfa powder liberally across the wound and cutting away the excess fabric from his shirt. Trinity rips the large pressure bandage open, unravelling it and readying it above the wound. In perfect sync, the two nurses wrap the leg as tightly as possible and pin it in place, tagging the man for pickup by the litter-bearers, and fall back on their heels to gauge their next target.
“You two good over here?” Commander Abbot is moving past them, but turns to make eye contact as he goes, awaiting their answers.
“All good here. Rookie’s got moves.”
Trinity can feel her cheeks heating under the gaze of both her commander and the nurse across from her. Commander Abbot gives a thumbs up, and keeps moving.
“I’m Trinity-- Santos. Second Lieutenant Trinity Santos. Second deployment”
“Ahh, so not a rookie, hmm?” The woman sends her a wink and a crooked smirk, “Yolanda Garcia. First Lieutenant. It’s nice to meet you, Trinity Santos.” Trinity feels her heart stutter and ache for a moment, before shaking herself out of it.
“You, too. Uh- ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am. Everyone around here calls me Garcia.”
Trinity nods, casting a small grin towards the older woman, “and if I don’t want to call you what everyone else does?”
Garcia huffs out a laugh and looks up at her from below her eyelashes, appraisingly. “Then I suppose we’ll have to get to know each other a bit better, hmm?”
It feels more like a promise than a question.
The cleanup and chaos management has dwindled down to a few straggling patients. Trinity has a clear view of where they’re setting up the emergency medical tent, people rushing about under the canvas, trying to save lives. Her fingers itch to help, but her feet can’t help but stick close to Garcia.
“I’ll be in the medic tent if you need anything, Trinity.”
“I’ll come with you!”
Trinity is already leaping forward in excitement, adrenaline burning through her veins, when a restraining hand lands on her arm. Garcia pulls her back a bit, “They need you out here more.”
“Colonel Robby promised that I could be tested to be a Combat Medic at some point, so I could help with surgeries. What better time than now?”
“Later,” Garcia states, pulling Trinity back again from her path towards the tent, “When we’re not in an active emergency. For now-- the best thing you can do to help people is Triage. Comfort people-- they’ve been through a lot, and they could use a steady hand right now.”
Santos groans, but falls back on her heels with a nod. “Fine, but you’d better keep track of all the juicy details in there to tell me later over dinner.”
Garcia laughs, a tinge of exasperation clear in the line of her lips, before catching Trinity’s eye with a twinkle, “It’s a date.”
“Yes!” Catching herself in her own enthusiasm, Trinity tries to calm down, and offers a way cooler, “Yes. A date. Tonight. Over… dinner.”
She cringes at her own awkwardness while stalking away to find a hole to die in. Two women are sitting on a piece of rubble in front of a destroyed house, one holding the other while she cries into her hands.
“Bonjour… ah- is there anything I can do for either of you?”
The woman not currently sobbing looks up at Trinity, a frail smile etched onto her face. She shakes her head.
“Her, mm, son?” The woman’s accent is heavy, but her English is good, “‘ee is, ahh, gone.”
Trinity nods in understanding, crouching beside the two women, with a gentle hand on the other crying woman’s knee. “Does she have any other family?”
“Non. No. All gone.”
Trinity nods, and pulls her flask of water from her side, pressing it into the lap of the grieving mother. “Make sure she drinks some of this, okay? Crying will dehydrate her in this kind of heat.”
The other woman nods at her, “Thank you, …”
“Second Lieutenant Trinity Santos, ma’am.”
“Alice. Enchantee.”
Trinity offers another smile, before trying to stand back up, only to accidentally step on her own skirt and nearly fall forward onto the laps of the two women in front of her. Blushing hard, Trinity pulls herself back up, ties the front of her skirt into a knot, nods to Alice, and makes her escape with whatever dignity she has left.
While she’s moving through the village, she spots Dennis being led by Colonel Robby, blood-soaked and distant.
“Huckleberry?!”
The Colonel doesn’t react to the nickname, of course, but Dennis pauses, almost on autopilot, and turns towards her. She crashes into him, a hand on each shoulder while she examines him. His eyes are the cloudy, faraway look he gets every time he loses a patient, blood smudged across his face, neck, and through his short curls.
“What happened?”
She doesn’t really realize that she’s demanding answers from her superior until she really looks at him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Colonel Robby’s tired gaze is locked onto her best friend with concern.
“A man and his daughter were trapped in a bombed house. Neither made it.”
“Oh, Huck…”
Trinity’s hands find her best friend’s face, thumbs gently wiping the grime and blood from his cheekbones. She looks at him dead in the eyes, waiting for the moment that he catches her own to speak again. “Hey there, farmboy. You coming back to us?”
Dennis’s eyes drift past her, hands clasped in a loose prayer while his thumbs pick at the loose skin around his fingernails and lips mumble a quiet string of words. When she leans closer, she can just make out the prayer he’s muttering under his breath, “...hallowed be thy name…”
“Has this ever happened before?”
“Only with civilians,” Trinity defends, “he hates to see innocent people caught in the crossfire of all of this.”
Colonel Robby nods, giving Whitaker’s shoulder another squeeze, “I’ll come find you both later, Lieutenant. For now, take him somewhere a bit quieter and try to get him lucid again.”
“But don’t we need all hands on deck right now to help the people here?” Trinity pauses, “Sir.” She tacks on at the end, realizing how she had gotten too comfortable talking to their commander.
Colonel Robby is already shaking his head, “Captain Shen gave me the report already. The town had been mostly evacuated before the German forces moved through here, according to one of the residents. There were only twenty-two people still here. Of those, there are six dead, eight wounded, and two unaccounted for.”
He nods towards the edge of town, where soldiers are still digging through rubble. “We are of no use searching anymore, we’d just get in the way. Everyone injured is already being looked after, but I’m going to assist with any serious injuries. You’ve done well, Lieutenant Santos, go take a moment to process.”
With those parting words, Colonel Robby turns and jogs to the medical tent, disappearing into the chaos within easily.
“Alright, Huck, you heard him. Come on.”
----------
Dennis is lost in his own mind. Pierre’s icy hands have reached through the abyss of death to squeeze his lungs tight. Lisette’s bloodied curls cloud his vision and whisper to him that he doesn’t deserve to survive.
He doesn’t understand why he can’t just save the people he’s supposed to. Why did he even train as a medic? Maybe Pierre would have lived if it had been someone more competent. Faster. Someone who checked for bleeding before attempting to move pieces of rubble.
Maybe Dennis should have stayed in his fields in Nebraska, laid down amongst the dust and sunlight and let himself waste away. At least there, he could have fertilized the soil. Fed the Earth he had called home for so long.
Lisette is whispering in his ear, curls obscuring the face he had never seen, her breath is cold against his ear.
Why did you think you were good enough to actually help people?
I don’t know.
Why didn’t you save me? Why did you abandon me and papa?
I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.
Why don’t you take a sip of water?
… huh?
Come on Huck, just a sip. You’ll feel better.
“Trin?”
The world sharpens back into focus, jagged but real. A half-collapsed wall and Trinity, leaning toward him from her place to his right, holding a flask in her hand.
“Hey-- there you are Huckleberry,” she smiles at him softly, “and here I thought you’d gone back on your promise and left me here all alone.”
He blinks at her, “What happened?”
Trinity leans back again, gesturing with the water flask in feigned nonchalance, “Some patients died and you had a total breakdown. Lost gaze and everything. Colonel Robby had to deliver you to me like a child.”
Dennis tries to think back, but the last he can remember is taking the Colonel’s hand to pull himself out of the rubble.
“Oh.”
Trinity softens again, handing him the water, “Here. You’ll feel better.”
He takes small sips, leaning back against what’s left of the wall. He thinks about Colonel Robby, who had, apparently, not only pulled him from the depths he was sinking into, but also had decided to… walk him somewhere calmer? Get him to Trinity?
Why?
After a couple more moments of silence, Trinity decides to break it with some levity, “I met someone, by the way. Today. Total badass. And she’s beautiful, to boot.” She sends him a cheeky grin, which he can only return with disbelief.
“You managed to pick someone up in an active war zone?”
“Hey- I could pick someone up anywhere. Anyways- you’ll love her, she’s hot and competent and snarky…”
He manages a weak smile. “Great. There’ll be two of you.” Dennis rolls his eyes, but he feels himself settle into their usual dynamic. She bumps his shoulder with her own, laughing.
“Lucky you.”
The two sit in silence for a bit before a small cough alerts them to another presence in the building with them. Standing at what used to be the entrance, clutching a bundle of fabric to her stomach, is one of the citizens of the village.
“Alice?” Trinity stands up, moving towards the other woman. Dennis pulls himself to his feet, as well, but lingers by the wall. These two obviously knew each other somehow.
“Ah! Lieutenant, I brought you… ehh…gift? Ahh… as a thank you. Marie.. She is alone, and you were kind.”
Trinity shakes her head, “There’s no need to thank me, ma’am. I was doing my job.”
Alice is shaking her head, as well, and leans forward to press the bundle of fabric into her arms.
“Merci beaucoup. Truly. These were… ma fils’. Ee’ is gone now, off to fight. You share a size.”
Trinity lets the fabric in her arms unfold to show… pants. She stares at them in shock, then looks up at the woman in front of her.
“Oh, wow! Alice- Thank you. Uh.. Merci. Genuinely.”
Alice gives her a soft, warm smile. “You cannot run in skirts,” she says. “These are better, oui?”
“Definitely. Thank you.”
Alice pats her gently on the arm, then turns and wanders back out of the ruins. Trinity spins around to Dennis, grinning widely.
“Finally.”
Dennis doesn’t turn around, though he does avert his eyes, as Trinity changes into the pants. They’ve bunked together for long enough that true modesty doesn’t matter to them anymore. They’re a tiny bit big on her, but the length is perfect, and as soon as they’re buttoned about her waist, she starts doing squats to test her new mobility.
“And she gave me three pairs?” Trinity Crows, “She’s an angel. An actual angel, Huck.”
Dennis smiles with true joy for her, “you’ll need a belt to make sure they’re secure, but I think I have an extra one in my bags. I’ll get it for you tonight.”
Trinity laughs and folds her dirtied skirt, “Now, just to find some boots and I’ll be perfect.”
Dennis shakes his head. You already are, he thinks to himself. She’s strong, courageous, and stubborn enough to do what has to be done while still taking care of herself-- well, most of herself. He needs to remind her to treat her feet tonight.
Something steadier settles in his chest.
The world may burn, and children may die in their fathers’ arms, but in the midst of all the darkness, someone will give away their son’s trousers so a nurse can run faster next time.
And maybe that’s what matters, in the long run. Kindness, and the offer of comfort where it can be given. The acknowledgement that things can be better.
The universe is cruel, so I will not be.