Chapter Text
Paris was not what Dennis Whitaker had expected.
It was colder, for one thing. Wet in a way that crept beneath wool and into bone. Rain slicked the cobblestones of a city that felt hollowed out, and turned the streets into gray mirrors.
Not that he’d expected parades, or anything! Paris had been liberated nearly a week before their transport planes touched down. They were replacements — fresh bodies shipped across the Atlantic to fill the spaces left by men who hadn’t made it this far. There was no reason for celebration now-- the cheering had already happened.
Still… Dennis couldn’t help it. Maybe it was rude, or ungrateful, to wish for something more to signal their arrival. A wave. A smile. A sign that his being here mattered.
Instead, civilians stood beneath dripping awnings and watched them pass with unreadable eyes. No hatred. No joy. Just exhaustion. Rain slid from hat brims and coat hems. The cold wind that heralds winter whipped through narrow streets and tugged at loose fabric.
“Didn’t realize we’d be arriving to such a party,” Trinity Santos muttered beside him.
Dennis huffed softly. “They were occupied for four years, Trin. Liberation doesn’t fix that overnight.”
“I was at the same briefing, Huckleberry.” She adjusted the strap of her bag and tried to cinch her cloak tighter against the cold. Strands of dark hair had already escaped her hat. “Still. We volunteered to risk our lives for them. A smile wouldn’t kill anyone. Or,” she sighs up at the sky, “maybe even a flower or two. Isn’t this supposed to be the city of love? Surely they have something to spare for their brave soldiers?”
“We’re not soldiers.”
She shot him a look. “We’re attached to infantry. That’s close enough.”
“We’re medical,” he corrected. “I’m an Aidman. You’re a nurse.”
“Semantics.”
She wasn’t wrong. They had trained at the same hospital in Pittsburgh before assignment overseas, and had seen each other often enough that they had formed a camaraderie that eventually became a friendship. He’d never intended to enlist. Of all his brothers, Dennis had been the smallest. The quietest. The one better with books and calming the cattle than roughhousing and herding.
One by one, his brothers had been drafted. Africa. Italy. Somewhere else no one would name plainly in letters home. Eventually, only Dennis and his youngest brother remained in Nebraska — working fields stripped of life. And he had been (mostly) okay with that. He had long ago resigned himself to spending the rest of his days reading the Bible and working the fields.
Then, the full force of his father’s expectations had fallen upon his shoulders in the wake of his brothers’ absence, and he had realized that he could either die doing something that might actually be worthwhile, or die in the middle of nowhere and be buried in an unmarked grave behind the church.
The decision hadn’t come in church, or during prayer. It had come in a field under a punishing sun, dust sticking to his throat as cattle shifted lazily nearby. He had stared into the eyes of one of the gentle giants, and something that he was sure in the moment was God stared back. Something inside him that had been fragile for so long had finally cracked open. Years of swallowed words and bowed heads and internal screaming during prayer had burst loose all at once.
He’d dropped to his knees in the dirt and sobbed and raged until there was nothing left in him.
The next morning, he’d left.
His parents had been proud at first; proud that he was finally following in his father and brothers’ footsteps, doing something that made him a real man at last. They had written every week for a while, asking him how everything was going, if he was shaping up well, if he was making them proud. When he finally told them the truth, that he had enlisted not as a soldier, but as a lowly medic, the letters had just… stopped.
Meeting Trinity had been the only thing about the war that felt like grace.
She had dragged him out of himself by sheer force of personality. Loud where he was quiet. Sharp where he hesitated. The first time he’d walked in on her kissing another girl in the nurses’ dormitory, he’d nearly swallowed his tongue. He had known she wasn’t really like other girls he had met in the past, but… to sin like that? He had left quickly.
After a week of avoidance and clipped greetings, she had pulled him into an empty women’s restroom and locked the door, despite his protests of ‘Trinity, I can’t BE in here-- come on, can’t we talk somewhere else-’
“Look,” she’d said, pacing. “If our friendship has ever meant anything to you, don’t tell anyone what you saw. Please.”
“I wasn’t going to,” he’d managed.
“I’m not apologizing for who I am.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
He’d taken her hands to stop her shaking. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I… I won’t lie and say it didn’t affect me at first. I’ve gone to Church my whole life, and they- the Bible says it’s wrong, but…’
She’d stared at him. “But..?”
Dennis had taken a deep breath. ‘But-- I’ve had a week to get my thoughts together. God and I… kind of had a falling out in a field a while ago, and I don’t… I don’t think it’s so bad to love someone… no matter what their, uh, gender. Or, um, yours.’
To his shock, Trinity had laughed. “Fighting God in a cornfield? And here I thought you couldn’t get any more country bumpkin, Huckleberry.”
‘Huckleberry? Why am I-’ he cuts himself off with a more important thought, ‘I didn’t fight God, Trin-- and it-- it wasn’t a cornfield! It was the sandhills, and I was alone- well, there was a cow, but that’s not important.’
‘Oh, kinky. Whatever works for you, I guess,’ she had thrown her hands up in the air in surrender, a sarcastic smirk painting her lips, ‘I don’t judge either.’
‘Oh, gross-- no! You know I didn’t-- I wouldn’t-’
‘Calm down, Huck, I know. I’m just teasing.’ He could hear the thank you behind her words.
From then on, they’d been something like siblings.
They’d deployed first with the 4th Ranger Battalion in Tunisia — a brutal campaign that chewed men up and left red earth behind. Dennis had run toward gunfire with his medical satchel bouncing against his hip. Trinity had worked triage under canvas tents that never stopped shaking from artillery.
Every night, Trinity sat beside Dennis at the fire and grumbled about how she could be doing more. She wanted to be out in the field with him, helping people as soon as they got injured, saving more lives than she could from “the bench” as she put it. Their unit commanders had already threatened her with dishonorable discharge several times if she didn’t stop trying to tie up her skirts and sprint out with the rest of them.
And if there was anything that Trinity hated more than being kept in the tent with the other nurses, it was the uniform she had to wear. A grayish blue dress, an apron that used to be white with a red cross on the breast, stockings, and small heels.
“It’s just impractical!” She would lament, holding her feet out in front of her with disdain. “I’m doing just as much running around as any man here, why shouldn’t I have pants to make it easier?”
He never had a good answer.
The first couple of months were a struggle for both of them. Countless dead, even more injured or simply… gone. Prisoners of War. Bodies left in fields with no hope of recovery. Men shell-shocked and unable to leave their foxholes. Dennis was sure he would have been one of those men, knees to his chin, staring at nothing while bombs rained down around him if it weren’t for Trinity’s steadying presence. It kept him alive.
It was nice to finally have something worth living for.
________________________
The transport truck jolts through the French countryside, mud splattering its sides. The canvas cover had long since been lost, so rain struck their shoulders without mercy.
“I’m going to do it this time,” Trinity says over the rumble of the engine.
Dennis doesn’t have to ask what she means. “Just don’t get court-martialed before dinner,” he sighs.
The truck rolls into camp — mud-churned ground, sagging tents, smoke fighting rain. Soldiers move with the weary efficiency of people who have learned not to waste energy. A woman waits at the back of the truck. She looks tired, but steady, and greets them with a wry smile.
“New medical replacements?” she calls.
“Yes, ma’am,” several voices answer.
“I’m Second Lieutenant McKay. 112th Infantry Division. Grab your gear and follow me. We move again in three hours.”
Dennis jumps down and sinks ankle-deep into mud. He turns to help Trinity; her regulation heels immediately disappear into the sludge, her stockings no doubt soaked through already. “Impractical,” she mutters darkly, and he can only grimace in agreement and condolence.
As they approach the medical tents, the smell hits them— wet canvas, iron-rich blood, antiseptic, decay. Familiar. Unforgiving. A young nurse ahead of them falters. “Does it… does it always smell like this?”
McKay glances back. “No. It’s usually much worse.”
The girl nods to herself and hurries to catch up. Trinity leans in closer to Dennis, “fresh meat.” Dennis just elbows her and follows the Lieutenant into the tent.
If the smell outside was bad, the one they’re enveloped by inside the tent is heart-stopping. Blood and rot mixed with the acrid smell of antiseptic wafts around, carried by the purposeful chaos of a medical tent. Stretchers in, stretchers out. Bandaged men being loaded for evacuation. Others already pulling boots back on.
Around several stacked wooden crates stand three imposing figures. The Lieutenant Colonel stood at the front, sleeves rolled, hands shoved into his pockets, and beard just within regulation. Beside him stood what looked to be a Major— straighter, sterner, hair more silver than brown — and beside him, the Chief Nursing Officer.
The Lieutenant Colonel’s eyes sweep over the new arrivals before offering a tired, but warm, smile. “I’d say welcome,” he says dryly, “but I don’t like raising unreal expectations about the situation, which is anything but welcoming. I am Lieutenant Colonel Robinavitch, but you may refer to me as Lieutenant Colonel Robby, Doctor Robby, or simply as Sir. If you’re going to refer to me as anything else, I only ask that you do so privately so I don’t have to reprimand you.”
He delivers the lines quickly, with the ease of someone who has given this speech many times. Dennis thinks he looks… kind. Hardened, yes. Weighed down by sadness, certainly. But knowledgeable, practiced, and kindhearted..
The man to his left doesn’t smile as he cuts into the introductions. “My name is Commander or Major Abbot. I’ve worked hard for those titles and would like to hear them used.” The Commander carries the same air of world-weariness and knowledgeability as the Colonel, but his warmth is more muted. Better guarded.
Colonel Robinavitch rolls his eyes fondly, “And this here is the Angel of our battlefield, Captain Dana Evans, Chief Nursing Officer. She will be your guiding light, and you will show her the same respect you show towards any male officers here. Understood?” Dennis nods emphatically; he has seen firsthand how essential their Nurses are. He has only the utmost respect for everything they do.
Captain Evans offers a warmer look. “We’ll make this quick. Introductions.”
The petite nurse from before steps forward. “Victoria Javadi. Second Lieutenant. First deployment.”
Evans blinks. “Jesus, kid. You’ve still got your baby fat. How old are you?”
Lieutenant Javadi blushes before squaring her shoulders and looking Captain Evans directly in the eye, “Twenty, ma’am. Twenty-one in a couple of months.”
A flicker of understanding passes between the officers. Twenty is old enough. Barely. The ignorance to the true hells of war makes her appear more childish than she actually is. She will lose that shine in her eyes soon, Dennis knows.
Dennis swallows as attention shifts to him.
“Dennis Whitaker. Aidman. Second deployment.”
“Where?” Abbot asks.
“Lieutenant Santos and I were stationed with the Fourth Rangers in Tunisia, sir.”
Abbot’s brows rise. “You were with the Fourth in Tunisia? And they didn’t offer you a discharge after that bloodbath?”
“They did, sir.”
“And you refused?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
Dennis glances at Trinity, then back at the officers. “The war isn’t over.”
Silence settles.
It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t loud. It’s simply true. Neither he nor Trinity could stomach the idea of leaving before the war was finished; if they had, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that both their hearts would beat to the tune of ‘what if’ for the rest of their lives.
Robinavitch nods once, and then it’s Trinity’s turn.
“Trinity Santos. First Lieutenant. Second deployment.” She pauses. Squares her shoulders. “And I have a request.”
Dennis closes his eyes briefly, before turning his gaze to the stoic officers in front of them. Robinavitch folds his arms. “That’s ambitious.”
“I want to serve as a field medic.”
Abbot blinks. “You’re requesting a demotion?”
She doesn’t flinch. “Yes, sir.” Doesn’t waver.
Captain Evans steps closer. “You understand what that means? Aidmen drag wounded men under fire. Sometimes alone. Can you lift two hundred pounds of deadweight, over and over again?”
Now Trinity does hesitate. “I can train...”
Evans softens her voice but doesn’t bend. “Strength isn’t the only measure. You need stamina. Endurance. Speed. It’s brutal out there.”
“So… What? I just have to keep going as I have been? Men are dying before they reach the tents.” Trinity presses. “We need-”
“What we need,” Robinavitch cuts in, “is a unified medical force who can work well together to keep these men alive, Lieutenant Santos. Now, there may be other options for you, but not if you intend to demand something nobody here is sure you have earned.”
Colonel Robinavitch fixes her with a stern look and Dennis feels the air tighten.
“She can do it, sir,” he blurts.
Every head turns. Heat floods Dennis’s face, but he keeps going. “She’s the best nurse I’ve worked with. Steadiest hands. Fast learner. She belongs where she can do the most good.”
Silence stretches.
Finally, Robinavitch exhales.
“I cannot process a demotion request in an active campaign,” he says. Trinity’s jaw tightens. “However — when we reach the next position, you will undergo a field assessment. If you meet the standard, I will authorize reclassification to combat medic. Not field medic.”
Trinity goes still.
“Understood?” he asks.
“Yes, sir.”
Abbot mutters something that sounded suspiciously like, ‘Softy,’ but there’s no real bite in it.
Robinavitch glances around the tent. “Good. Get your gear squared away. We move at dusk.”
Outside, the rain continues to fall.