The all too frequent and all too close gunfire played a staccato rhythm, while the winter wind of France played the hollow melody. What remained of the soldier on the table steamed under the bare bulb. The fading sunset threw torturous shadows on the opposite wall, as Micheal worked on the second soldier on the floor. He was passed out, but still breathing, and Micheal was salvaging what he could of the man's jaw and face. His own mother would never recognize him, but he might live. Maybe. The doctor's own weapons were across the room, leaned against the wall, and the door was closed. His helmet was long gone, lost... somewhere. The cold was seeping into his raw fingers, and the work was becoming clumsy. Suddenly, the man on the floor woke, and tried to scream though ruined vocal cords. Micheal pressed him to the floor, attempting to calm him. The morphine was gone. A moment later, and the man was dead. Micheal sat by him, covered in blood, staring at what was once an 18 year old face. He felt a weight on his shoulder then. He turned to see the man from the table, standing above him, dead eyes unfocused, and blood pouring from his mouth. His side arm was trained on Micheal's head.
He woke with a start to Ben's voice in his head. He had not slept well. After a moment, he stood and stretched, shaking away the last remnants of his dream. He gathered his things with a few yawns and stretches. A moment later and he stepped out the door into the hallway, looking for food.
Last edited by ElComodoro
on Tue Feb 16, 2010 10:37 am, edited 1 time in total.