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Roe was out of his foxhole already, rambling across the forest and ducking his head into shallow foxholes, poking at men and asking for supplies he knew they likely didn’t have either, ducking at the noise of hardened metal whizzing over his head from time to time. More out of habit than his own choice, flinching and ducking at the sporadic shelling.
He was doing his daily ritual when it happened, a mortar hitting just right and at the wrong time, with Roe in the crosshair.
Babe hears it first- the smattering of MG’s kicking frozen dirt up, the often-on whistle of mortar plummeting from the heavens to smack heavily, and shard trees and rocks alike. He heard it, just barely, but the yelp and gut-clenching scream stood starkly out from the mechanical noises of Kraut and American machinery. He expected a yelping scream for ‘Medic’ to ring out across the hard permafrost floor if the poor bastard didn’t bleed out before he could do that-
But that scream never followed, nor did Gene’s pattering footsteps in search of the source of the yell.
What followed was muttered curses in French, accent off and not true ‘Parisian French’ , and that’s what catches his attention, the monotony of men being injured being broken up by just a few simple words hissed out between heaving breaths.
It’s what got him scrambling from his foxhole, searching wildly for the shock of black hair that would stand starkly against the snow that fell sparingly from the skies most days.
He found it quickly enough, listening to the almost dog-like whimpers, and the blood seeping into the snow. What he didn’t expect was Gene’s leg being torn to shreds- shrapnel carving cleanly through muscle and sinew alike, gliding through his leg like a hot knife in butter. He also didn’t prepare himself for the tears running down Gene’s face, tears spilling down from his eyes, catching on the long dark eyelashes that fanned across his cheekbones, carving lines across his cheeks and highlighting the windburn that sat high on his cheekbones.
He crouches quickly next to the injured medic, jaw slack in shock, never once did he think in this wretched war that he’d see Roe injured, which seems like a silly thought now, trying to take in stride Gene’s leg, mind slowly catching up in shock to what he sees.
“Medic! I need a goddamn medic!” He yells, waiting for the answering footsteps of Spina or someone else who had goddamn basic medical knowledge. He took Gene’s hand in his, clenching it tightly as Roe sobbed under him, pawing at the snow.
Hearing the clinking of metal and gear he raised his head to see two shadows jogging in their direction, paranoia rising in his stomach and taking hold in his chest over the worry for krauts before Spina came into view, red cross blazing on his arm, though Dick following behind him surprised him slightly, he took it in stride. Not much could surprise him after seeing Roe sobbing like a child.
Spina crouched next to Roe’s leg, skin and muscle stripped apart, dripping slowly and spreading across the cold ground like sickness. His hands flutter unsurely around the wound- he went through the same training as Roe, but Doc was the one to deal with wounded soldiers, Spina just cleaned up or helped soldiers stuck in their heads, unable to break away from the hell their minds conjured up.
What broke him from his stupor was Roe's quiet whimpering, good leg kicking against the ground, heel digging in and scraping off the top layers- “It really fuckin hurts Spina.” So quiet he almost missed the admission, heart clenching at the quiet whisper paired with a hiccup that brought more tears down his face, “You’ll be right as rain once this is over,” He commented, taking the hand not occupied by Babe and giving it a tight squeeze and shake, ignoring how his stomach rolled at the anguish on Roe’s face over being jostled.
Looking at the injured leg Spina recoiled at the look of it, it wasn’t horrible, and Roe would recover in a couple of weeks, but it wasn’t pretty, with skin torn away and pieces of metal and bark embedded in certain areas, messy cuts covering his leg from the knee down.
“Dick, can you uh,” He said, gesturing to his hips, hoping it wouldn’t alert Gene to what will happen next, not wanting him to thrash or move his bad leg, watching as the gears in his head turned over the question before understanding, taking his place at Gene’s waist, crouching to lean on his knees, putting both hands onto his hips and pushing them into the ground. Babe moved up, taking his head into his lap and pushing his shoulders into the frozen ground.
Spina, hurriedly tearing a sulfa packet open with his teeth, poured it into the sluggishly bleeding wounds, wincing when Roe howled at the sting, twitching and writhing against the hands holding him down, “Mon pied est engourdi,” Gene mumbled out, digging his good legs heel into the ground, “English, Doc,” Spina mumbled, focusing on fixing the good Doc up, “My foot’s numb,” He cried, accent thicker over his words, ragged breaths following the admission, “I wanna go home, I want my ma,” Gene ground out, whining as Spina finally pushed the needle of a morphine syrette through his thigh, muscles slowly going lax and head lolling as the warm rush of it hit his system, only quietly grunting and whining as Spina tightly wrapped gauze around what he could.
Dick watched the interaction, worry festering in his chest at the sight of the usually quiet and a war hardened medic cry like a newborn and ask for his mother, he knew it was a normal want, has seen men beg for it before when injured, but to see Gene do it made him uneasy. It made him feel guilty, feel some kind of responsibility for his health swell heavily. He knew Doc from the beginning, when Roe was in training, plucked from the thrum of soldiers. He remembers when he still had baby fat making his face seem softer, and rounder, and had no harsh angle to his brows. He knew him when he still had a tan and smelled of the bayou and his mama’s perfume, sun freckles standing out starkly on his skin, carving miniature constellations out on his cheeks and forehead.
Flicking his eyes to Roe's limp form, staring listlessly into space in the stupor of morphine, before looking at Spina, finally tuning back in from his thoughts. “One of you, get two men and a stretcher, we gotta get Roe outta here ‘fore the Krauts start shelling us sky-high,” Spina muttered, finally taking his role of medic seriously at the moment, directing one of them to get Roe the hell outta this frozen hell hole.
Heffron nodded to Dick, standing up quickly, knees cracking and uniform stained with Roe’s blood, before breaking off to hunt down the half-assed aid station. Coming back soon enough with two men Dick had not seen before (likely Fox or Dog) trailing behind him, carrying a stretcher in their arms.
Spina finally putting his medic skills into use, quickly rattled off Gene’s condition, following behind them once Roe was loaded onto the stretcher, Spina trying to be as careful of his leg, wincing at each low and throaty whimper Gene let out, leaving Heffron and Dick in the wake, both slowly coming back to the situation at hand, pant legs stained with the blood that seeped from Roe’s body, and wet with cold water from the melting frost and snow that cushioned the frozen ground.
Spina waded awkwardly behind Roe as they trailed back to camp, where most men were gathered and looking towards them. Creased eyebrows and lips tugging into frowns greeted their entrance, trailing eyes watching Roe get loaded up, body limp and pliant with the unnamed medical personnel situating him, leg bundled in white gauze slowly bleeding into pink from the seeping wounds underneath.
“Is- is Doc Roe gonna be okay?” Someone pipped up- Toye his mind helpfully supplied , gesturing to the departing jeep,
“He, uh- I ain't gonna lie, it ain’t gonna be tomorrow or next week that we’ll be gettin' him back,” Spina awkwardly replied, trying to supply enough information without making it sound like Gene was dying, itching at the brow-band of his helmet, hating this hell-hole of war even more than before, more than he thought humanly possible.
God did Spina hate having to listen to a twenty-two year old beg for his mother.