Chapter Text
It was said that if one couldn't hear the artillery coming down they were in a bad position.
Carwood Lipton didn't know just how truthful that statement was until he found himself flying straight back into a concrete wall in Carentan.
In one moment, he was trying to get the troopers moving—get them to cross the street in the midst of the German's artillery barrage and shooting—and then in the next moment, well. Sometimes it was right place, right time, but it seemed this time he'd ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
There was an immediate burst of white that flooded his vision as he felt his body make impact with the ground, his head snapping back and making collision with the concrete in a way that could very well have given him whiplash with the intensity he felt.
Everything faded to black for the briefest of seconds only to near instantly return in vibrant, headache inducing technicolor.
The force of the impact was shocking, causing a rush of breath to escape his lungs at a rate he'd never felt. Never had he felt winded like this, not even that first time they ran Curahee with no true expectations of what was to come from Toccoa. When the initial breathlessness dissipated, a loud, tinny ringing hit Carwood's ears alongside the warm feeling of wetness running down his face from a sharply pulsating spot on his cheek.
He raised a hand to feel the wound, to check the damage, and blinked when his fingers came back coated with crimson.
Carwood moved to sit himself up and try and get further from the danger of the bullets and shells still flying around him. He brought his right hand down onto the ground to push himself up when another spike of pain ran up from his wrist into the rest of his arm. There was a sudden feeling of more blood pooling around him as it spurted from his wrist, creating a puddle on the ground beneath him and soaking into his jump pants. He struggled to prop himself up more than a few inches from where he had been laying on the ground, his vision blurred as he tried to figure out how safe he'd be if he simply stopped moving right there in order to give himself time to recoup. Pain radiated from more places than he could figure out in that moment, too busy trying to gain his bearings and assess the surrounding conditions, when he heard the muffled yelling of his name over the ringing.
Talbert appeared in the next moment, kneeling by Carwood's side, immediately moving to pull the tourniquet from around his neck.
Faintly, Carwood could hear Talbert speaking assurances to him as he tightened the tourniquet around his arm, but he felt his attention drifting away from the man in front of him. The moment he felt the blood flow from his arm begin to slow, he was alerted to another injury location he hadn't even been aware of—far too distracted by the other injuries that were still stinging.
He looked down, numbly alarmed by the blood coating his jump pants. That was...
Talbert paused in his work, catching where Carwood's gaze lie and followed it, finishing off the tourniquet before moving down, thankfully checking for him. Even if he had the presence of mind to do it himself, he wasn't too sure he'd be able to bring himself to look.
Ignoring the black encroaching in his vision, for there were far more important things to worry about, Carwood watched Talbert rip the fabric of his pants with muted horror. He'd be lying if he said there wasn't fear gripping onto him for what the next thing Talbert said would be.
And in just a moment, Talbert was looking back at him with a serious look, "You're okay Lip. Everything's right where it should be."
Carwood couldn't bring himself to say anything what with the insistent ringing sound in his ears, what felt like a gaping hole oozing blood on his face, and the immense relief that he wasn't castrated at the age of 24 all being thrown at him at once. He nodded, still tense, and the small movement set alight another sunburst through his eyes. He grabbed onto Talbert as the sergeant reached out for him, helping him up, and threw him over his shoulder with a sense of purpose to bring him to somewhere other than the dangerous streets.
Talbert bolted across the street, Carwood slung over his shoulder, and the chaotic movement blurring the surrounding sights made his stomach turn over on itself. The entire experiencing was nauseating. He screwed his eyes shut and hoped for the best, focusing on the way the blood from his cheek soaked into the sleeve of his jacket. He was lucky his K-rations from that morning decided to not resurface.
At some point in the haze of travel, he'd limply reached up to adjust his helmet to make sure it wouldn't fall off. With the way he was currently situated it was bound to slip and clatter into the street but...
“Talbert...“ Carwood mumbled, voice so quiet he lost it to the ringing, as he grasped empty air. “Tab, I left my helmet.“ Only faintly could he remember it flying off as the shell sent him back. Was it still on the street? Or perhaps another blast peppered it with shrapnel. Carwood didn't know and trying to figure it out any further only made the stinging pain in his cheek rush through the rest of his head leaving a pulsing feeling that matched the racing pace of his heart.
Talbert didn't stop moving, crouching only slightly as another burst of gunshots rang through the air, and turned his head slightly to the side where Carwood was situated. “What was that, Lip?” The steadiness of his voice, devoid of any panic and sounding as if it were just another conversation they'd have on a normal day, allowed him to ease up slightly.
“Talbert, my helmet.“ He brought his hand back up to graze his head where the helmet should have been, but the slight touch caused an aching pressure to surface and the nausea he'd been trying to fight just about won. Carwood choked back the feeling and screwed his eyes shut again. More blood dripped down from his face and he tried to wipe it away with a shaking hand.
“Don't worry about that, Lip.“ Talbert chuckled slightly. “We can get you another one, right now it's the aid station for you.“
He just nodded again, careful with the movement, and hoped they'd get there soon.
—
The medic looking at Carwood seemed frazzled and more concerned with getting back to the new arrivals that showed up every few minutes—not that Carwood would blame the man. Plenty of troopers were coming in with bullet wounds or worse. He'd caught sight of someone who's leg had been taken out by a mortar shell and suddenly he felt as if his wounds were scraps at the bottom of a barrel.
He winced as the medic stuck him with a syrette, but welcomed the near instant relief it provided as the morphine began to do its job. He couldn't recall the name of the medic despite having just been introduced, but he'd hoped for his own sake they wouldn't have to cross paths again. Still, Carwood felt almost a moral failing to have forgotten something as simple as a name. The name of the man patching up his wounds nonetheless.
The medic removed the shell fragments from his wrist with careful, practiced precision before bandaging the wound. Not too bad, far from fatal the medic had muttered out, more to himself than Carwood, as the bandage was secured. Carwood watched the process with rapt attention, feeling more present in the moment than he had been upon his arrival. When the time came for the wound in his thigh to be dealt with, he shimmied off his jump pants enough to give the medic access to the area before looking away. He wasn't very interested in seeing that one get stitched up, not when it came a bit too close to... he frowned and instead focused on the hustle and bustle of the aid station around him.
Briefly, in the doorway leading to another room of the area could he see Lieutenant Winters. Had he gotten injured too? If he had... Carwood hoped it wasn't too bad, he couldn't imagine losing the Lieutenant so early on. Especially when he was officially Easy's CO. He wasn't sure there would be another man he'd be willing to follow into imminent death like Winters.
After a few more minutes of stitching and bandaging, the medic finished up and moved onto the gash on Carwood's cheek. It had stopped bleeding for the most part, only a light trickle tracing its way down his face, but he'd be glad for it to stop completely. Distantly, he wondered if it'd leave a scar considering the way it felt almost like a hole had been carved into the thin skin.
When the medic finally leaned away from him, finished with bandaging him up, Carwood nodded and said “Thank you, corporal.“ He tried to catch sight of the patch that'd reveal the medic's name, but it wasn't anywhere easily visible.
Preparing to stand up and regather his musette bag and M1 from where it had been dumped on a nearby table, Carwood found himself nearly falling over, awash with a sudden dizziness. He stumbled, stopped from falling only by the medic who then glanced at him with a critical eye.
“Were there any other injuries, sir?“ The medic asked, lightly pushing Carwood back onto the chair he'd been sitting in. The tone of voice made it obvious that there had already been a fair share of others, officers and noncoms alike, who'd come through and had been trying to undermine their wounds.
Though, that gave him pause... were there? He didn't think he'd gotten hit anywhere else at least. He hadn't been trying to hide anything. Perhaps it was just the blood loss, the wound on his wrist had been bleeding fairly heavily. Enough blood gone to have made him dizzy at the very least.
When he used his non-injured hand to smooth back some of his hair while trying to remember, he felt that mounting pressure build up again in his head. “Ah, I think...“ he slowly moved his hand towards the back of his head to see if what he felt and what was there would align. “I think I hit my head after I lost my helmet...“
“You think,“ the medic asked incredulously, shaking his head before pulling out a small flashlight from one of his jacket's front pockets. “Here, look straight forward.“ And despite knowing what was about to happen and having a warning, Carwood couldn't help but flinch when the light flickered on in front of him, sending a stabbing pain right through his eyes. The light moved from one side to the other before the medic shut it off with a sigh. “You probably have a minor concussion, sergeant. You can probably stay—”
Carwood cut him off with a tight smile, “I don't think that will be necessary, corporal. I'll be alright.“ A minor concussion was nothing to worry about, a lot of the men in the aid station were probably dealing with worse and were still returning back into Carentan to continue fighting. And the medic had said probably. Carwood could deal with a probable minor concussion just fine.
“Well...“ the medic went to protest, likely sick and tired with the tough guy attitude many troopers tried to show in the face of injury, but a sudden commotion by the entrance had him standing up straight, head jerking over to see the problem. “Whatever you say, sir. You're free to leave.“ The final few words were rushed as the medic quickly went to assist with the newest trooper brought in. From where Carwood was sitting all he could see was a mass of blood and hear low moans of agony.
He took that as his chance to stand up and gather his things, pushing down the ever present nausea in order to head back out and rejoin his platoon.
In times like these, especially so early on, it did no good to lose a man in the company. An injury like the ones he'd gotten were minor. He was still functional and he could still fight, so returning to the line with his men was the best choice to make.
So that's what he did.