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Eugene Roe is a sincere man, if nothing else.
Sincere in his demeanor; sincere in his advice. Sincere in his anger and the brief, rare moments when he needs to reprimand a man. Sincere in his desire to help and sincere in the comforts he gives to the dying.
And sincere in his faith, too.
Which is understandable; the man's from Louisiana. Southern and soft and a true believer. Something that even those most estranged to the church can recognize and admire. And understand, hopefully.
If the man wasn't a medic, Don thinks he might have made a good chaplain.
He gets pinged in Holland and he's convinced it's Purple Heart worthy. He's no Smokey Gordon, giving medals away like he's growing them in his garden, but he's pretty sure this isn't just a usual scratch. Maybe it'll be worth a million dollars.
If it doesn't kill him first.
Or maybe he's just being over dramatic. It's not an idea that's lost on him, even as something collides with his chest and the world turns on its axis. Houses and mottled brickwork tilt to the side as he falls, back to the dirt as a cloud of dust muffles his shout.
The feeling over his heart reminds him of one of Guarnere's punches; heavy and sudden and lacking in all hesitation. That's nothing compared to the burst of pain in his leg, a stab of hot fire and a peppering of warm liquid sending a shock up his spine. He's gasping for air as strong hands clutch at the webbing over his shoulders, gripping his harness with a determination he's so grateful is sent his way.
Stones scrape at his back as he's dragged away from the scene, cursing and machine gun fire falling into a distant throb as he's quickly removed from the road. A shadow swathes over his vision as the side of a house becomes his shield, the men who pulled him away laying him to rest behind the wall's protective cover.
His helmet's pulled from his head and yet he still can't breathe, chest shaking under a pressure that just won't leave his lungs. Drawing in air seems impossible, even as a familiar pair of faces loom over his vision, calling for him to answer, to describe what's wrong. They're frantic and panicked, demanding to know where he's hit, why he can't seem to speak, if he can feel the pressure their hands are putting on his thigh.
It's all surreal, amongst the gunfire and orders being barked from the background, and still he just can't seem to breathe.
The pair of faces are pushed aside in what must have been only seconds, Skip and Penkala vanishing from his upwards view of the clouded sky.
This sets a deeper sense of panic alight in Don's mind, something that hadn't been there with his two friends still in view. A spark of fear that they were leaving him, or worse; they'd been hit themselves. Breathing hits the inconceivable mark then, between the terror of being alone and the pounding bruise blooming over his heart.
Another face appears instead, leaning over Malark with a frown that shows both concern and concentration. An interesting mix, one that few men could pull together at the same time.
Doc Roe's hand is on his shoulder, his words cutting through every other sound in the enveloping war zone.
"Alrigh', Malarkey, it's alrigh' - Look at me now, tha's it." Don feels something leave his thigh - it's Penk's hand, he realises - and be replaced by a firmer grip, fingers feeling for the wound there. Eugene barely glances down to make his assessment, brow creasing further as Malark fails to respond to his comfort.
He addresses Penkala next, huddled over his friend as Skip watches from the edge of the wall, crouched low as their loyal sentry. "He's winded - Penkala, help me get'im upright!" And damn, Don's never seen Penk obey an order so fast, nodding frantically as he fumbles with the redhead's harness.
With Doc there - and the added help of Skip - they get Malark into a sitting position, resting against the brickwork as Easy's faithful medic squats over him.
"A'righ' now, Malarkey - Deep breaths. In through y'nose - Tha's it. Keep goin'. Count 'em slow, okay, I'm gon' take a look at tha' leg."
Don decides he takes it back, as his lungs kick back into gear and his chest stops trembling and starts rising - Eugene Roe wouldn't make a good chaplain.
The man's a medic, through and through, and nothing less than flawless at it. A miracle touch, he remembers Skip joking, not that anyone can deny it.
Nimble fingers tear open the fabric of his jump pants as Malark draws in his thirtieth breath, the world back to normal and his chest moving back into a steady rhythm. The pain in his thigh is but a dull sting as Roe wraps it up with lightning speed, his precision mesmerizing the pair of soldiers huddled watching.
"I got 'im, Penkala." Eugene says plainly, not looking up from Don's leg as he gestures back towards the distant firefight, "He's gonna be fine. You 'n Muck go on - I got 'im." Malark lets out a grunt as the medic tightens the knot around his thigh, though the noise sounds uncomfortable rather than pained. "Might even be able t'walk back."
"You sure, Doc?" Skip asks, peering around the man to look at Don instead, "He's gonna be fine?"
"Why, Skip, you lookin' t'be a hero?" The redhead calls, grinning over Eugene's bent head, inspecting his bandage work, "Carry me back bridal-style?"
The huff of laughter from Penkala and following eye-roll from Muck tells Malark he's done the job, the pair gathering themselves together and getting back onto their feet. They make a break from the house's cover soon after, disappearing around the building's wall and back into the dust, leaving Don to smile sadly after them.
"A'right. Le's get you up." Malark doesn't have time to think about his friends disappearing, a strong arm weaving its way around his torso, "On three, now. One, two-!"
They do get up. Make it to their feet, across the road, and back behind the safety of their lines. Hell, they make it all the way back to the aid station with practically no problems.
Eugene bears most of the weight, supporting Don as he limps and tries not to stagger too hard. It's less that he can't walk properly and more that he's not sure where he's heading, making Doc twice the life-saver as he's finally allowed to drop down to the floor with an exhausted groan.
There is no 'aid station' as such - more a couple of tents and a smattering of parked jeeps. The red crosses that mark every surface can't help but give away the places intention, the sheltered clearing of trees a tiny slice of safety from the now far-off gunshots.
A heavy tire supporting an even heavier ambulance serves as Don's back-rest, keeping him upright on the ground as Roe tends to his wounds.
A ricochet, the medic describes. Fractions from a bouncing bullet that caught his thigh. Nothing serious, nothing fatal. A flesh wound, with minimal blood and far more discomfort than pain. Eugene bandages it up properly at record speed.
The curiosity isn't how lucky Malark is to have what's relatively a scratch, though; it's where the ricochet appeared from. The angle's all wrong; what can a bullet bounce off to end up heading straight down to the man's leg? The helmet Eugene had hastily shoved back onto his head is Don's guess, raising his hand to point to it accusingly as Doc pauses to ask what happened.
A closer inspection reveals no dents in the metal and the helmet as completely innocent.
"Well, somethin' hit you." Roe drawls, eyes trailing down in scrutiny to fall on where Malark's heart lies, "Here, lemme have a look at your chest. You was winded pretty bad; whatever little miracle happened, it caught you here." Eugene prods Don's jacket delicately, but even that is enough to make Don wince and squirm away from the finger.
The bruises there have already flowered; a patch of purple just smaller than a man's hand blooming over his heart. Neither of them can see it beneath his uniform, but Malark can feel it. And his company isn't oblivious.
"If you're gonna prod me like that, Doc, I'd rather y'didn't." Don huffs, adjusting himself against the tire he leans on.
"I'll be gentle." Comes the deadpan response, the words unable to keep up with the nimble fingers already prying open the soldier's jacket.
Malark's eyes wander while Roe works, drifting across the surrounding aid station. Stretchers passing by and trucks with red crosses. It's nothing they all haven't seen before. It's a blissful vacation for some and a terrifying purgatory for others, for those struggling with wounds that no man should ever have to suffer. Injuries that nothing short of God should be able to inflict, either.
Roe's hands wander similarly, away from the rectangular bruise that creates more questions than it answers. The mark on Don's skin is as expected - nasty enough to wind him as it did - but it's not what Eugene is interested in. He'd cared for the man's injuries, now he was free to investigate their cause. For curiosity's sake, if nothing better.
The pads of his fingers find the inner pocket of his patient's jacket, a small storage space for only the most personal of belongings. Family photos, letters from home, tangled rosaries; the treasures were unique to each man. Eugene simply didn't expect the weight of Malark's pocket to be so hefty, is all.
The medic's inquisitive hand parts the fabric, intent to lifting out whatever was stored within the lining of Malark's uniform - but a firm grip upon his wrist cuts him short.
A pause to blink, and Roe's eyes rise to meet the intense, near-hostile, stare Don has fixed on him. Simply touching whatever Malark had hidden in his pocket had brought the man back to full alert, watching Eugene with a gaze similar to ones seen during a firefight. Alight, afraid.
And almost threatening.
Roe doesn't withdraw from where he squats, still lent over his patient. Not that he can even if he wants to, the deadly-tight grip of Don's fingers still trapping his wrist.
"If you don't want me t'see what it is," The medic drawls, slow and soft - a man comforting a frightened animal, "Then I won't say no more about it."
He holds up a finger from the hand still ensnared at the wrist.
"But," He continues, his gentle voice assuring each word, "I seen it all before. An' I'm not one t'judge."
Quiet settles for a moment, and Roe waits patiently, knowing he had no need to say any more. He's done his work, the frown flickering across Malark's face testament to that. The man is considering, weighing up his options.
Carefully, he releases Eugene's hand.
"Thank you." The medic says earnestly, flexing his wrist with a small smile.
He doesn't attempt another dive into Malark's inner pocket.
Instead, he merely sits back on his haunches, hands motioning swiftly around him to collect up his gear. Instruments strewn around him are packed efficiently away in his medic's bag, his eyes busy with his work and kept from meeting his patient's stare.
Yet, in the corner of his vision, Eugene is aware of Don shifting where he sits.
It takes only a moment, with Roe slinging the strap of his satchel back over his shoulder, before the contents of Malark's pocket is presented to him.
Doc's eyes land of the dull metal plate, resting in the soldier's dirty hand, held out for him to inspect. With delicate fingers, Eugene takes the rectangular object - something he realizes now is, to his surprise, a book. A pile of pages held between two sheets of brass, embossed words gleaming up at him, proudly pressed across the cover.
And, in answer to all his earlier questions, Eugene's finger trace the bullet-sized dent that scars the metal's surface. A blackened wound, spoiling the otherwise flawless brass. Though still dull and dirty, obviously worn and used, in need of polishing even when kept within the relative safety of Don's pocket.
The medic hums his understanding, reaching out to pass the object back to its owner. Nothing about Malarkey ever struck Roe as religious, or even particularly faithful. Yet, why he would keep a Bible in his pocket is less of a curiousity to Eugene than why the Irishman would try to hide it.
As Don's fingers brush the book, Eugene hesitates, stopping the exchange in its path as he shifts the metal in his hands. Malark freezes, breath seemingly caught in his throat. His gaze follows the medic's, moving down, down, until it falls upon the printed letters of the book's cover.
'May this comfort and protect you.'
Roe frowns, and Don shifts uncomfortably against the jeep's tire.
Carefully - quietly - Eugene lifts away the brass and flips the first page. Yellowing paper greets him, worn black print staring back from within. But the words are not what he expects. They are unfamiliar.
His expression softens as Roe recognizes that this is not a Bible.
Across the top of the page spans characters that he cannot read, curved and beautifully executed even under a press. Below, as his eyes pass over the foreign text, the book's introduction merges into English - its title and purpose translated for friends and strangers alike.
TEFILATH ISRAEL
(PRAYERS OF ISRAEL)
Order of Prayers for the Whole Year
Hebrew and English
The medic knows better than to pry. Without a word, Eugene folds the book's cover back over the page, with as much care as he had when opening it. The brass slides from his hands, hastily buried back into the darkness of Don's inside pocket.
Despite his ever-growing fears, the hidden prayer book shielding Don's heart remains exactly that - hidden.
None of Easy discuss it when he limps triumphantly back to the front, and the smiles he is greeted with are as blissfully ignorant as he could ever want them. No jokes, no comments, no remarks. The book continues to be a quiet blessing, the Hebrew words brought out only in solitude - or when just him and Liebgott are present.
Within a week, Don stops worrying about the friends he cares so dearly for discovering why he never attends mass. Or why he avoids meals that include pork, fabricating excuses of having already eaten or just mysteriously not feeling hungry. Or why, when they pass through the decimated cities of France and Holland, his gaze lingers sadly on the remains of certain buildings - ruins that look just like all the other houses to most eyes, except maybe a little more damaged.
After two weeks, he confronts Eugene about it. Though the medic clearly has other thoughts on his mind, far greater things to worry about, he graciously spares the time to sooth Don's confusion.
"Y'see a lot when you're a medic." Roe admits, Malark sat close beside him, "It's not my place to go spillin' men's secrets - 'specially ones from the wounded an' the dying."
The truck they ride in jostles and jolts atop the uneven road. The journey is far from comfortable, but it brings them no sadness to bid farewell to Holland.
"They admit things, the dying." The medic says, focused on his work even in their retreat, sifting through the remaining contents of his bag, "Confess sins, mostly. Tell you their deepest secrets. Confide in you, since y'might jus' be the last man they share words with."
Satisfied with that answer alone, Malark doesn't expect Eugene to turn to him. Fix him with a look as the supplies around them beat against each other and the canvas spread as a roof over their heads trembles in the wind.
"We all need someone to confide in." The medic says, and Don can't help but hang on every word, "Friends, family - doesn't matter. Some things need to be shared. They'll either be discovered with a bang an' you'll regret ever hidin' them - or they'll eat you up inside."
The truck rattles to a halt. Don doesn't move.
Eugene pulls his bag back across his shoulder, a most familiar gesture. He glances at Malark as he stands.
"Dyin' men confide in me 'cause I'm the only one left to listen. 'Cause we all need someone to confide in, but by then it's too late to choose." Jumping down from the truck, the medic leans over the side, making sure Don can hear him.
"Don't let it come to that for you."