Chapter Text
A ragged half feral look on a hero was gazed at by the sights of many soldiers laying on cots, who dragged them out of the hell. When no one was coming to save them he did. The man had saved nearly a hundred soldiers on that battlefield. Never once did he fire a shot or touch a gun.
The medic was shell shocked that was for certain to many of the older soldiers and medics in the room who had fought in more battles than him. He moved slowly, staring at each soldier. A soft murmur of a prayer falling from his lips.
The injured soldiers patted his arms and hand when they settled on the cot acknowledging his presence. Those who were merely sleeping were considered more by the medic determining if they needed anything.
Blood stained his clothes, face, hands. He did not care, Desmond Doss did not care. What he cared about at that moment was checking on the soldiers he saved, praying over them. It was in his religion to pray for healing and restfulness to those who fought an unwilling war.
“Desmond,” a gruff familiar commanding tone called, spooking the scared medic. Desmond turned, staring at the cot in the corner of the room. Sergeant Howell was inclined in bed, his gaze was sharp. He nodded to the two soldiers he just finished praying to and hurried over.
“Sir,” he said, standing at a parade rest, his hands behind his back. “Is there something I can do for you? Sir.”
Howell huffed a breath. “Is there anything you could do for me? He says,” The sergeant muttered. “As a matter of fact, yes you can.” The medic perked up staring at his commanding officer imploringly. “You will get washed up and changed immediately. That is an order, you hear me?”
Desmond was about to interrupt, but two hands from behind grabbed his shoulders. A massive flinch escaped the medic. The two hands did not remove themselves from their grip. Doss turned his head, his eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Teach.
“Don’t worry Sarge, I’ll make sure he’s cleaned up before he comes back,” the previous bully said gently, pulling the war medic out of the medical tent without so much of a struggle. It told much about the exhaustion and adrenaline crash Desmond was experiencing or is coming off from the high of it.
“I need to go back,” Desmond tried. He wiggled in the stronger man’s grip only for him to wrap an arm around his waist to prevent any slips the medic could attempt to escape but failed miserably.
“Not so fast. You need to freshen up and stop scaring the patients,” Teach replied. A groan escaped Doss accepting his pitiful defeat.
They entered the cleaning tent, there were no more showers or anything running. It was a basin and cold water dragged from who knows where. Teach grabbed clean undergarments and what would be considered comfy clothing for sleeping. He motioned for him to strip. Another groan of annoyance made itself known when Desmond realized the older man was not turning around for the sake of privacy.
“I’m not going to run, you know,” Doss snipped. Removing the uniform was painful, fibres sticking to wounds
Teach huffed. “I said I was going to keep an eye on you.” He grabbed the medical kit, sitting down on a stool. “Come here, those wounds are not going to heal on their own.” The medic settled on the opposite stool, reaching for the med pack only to have it snatched away with a sharp tusk of a breath. “Absolutely not, you are tired and about to drop. You can't hold a needle to save your life, man.”
A resigned sigh was all he got in reply. It wasn’t a no, he was still going to take it as a yes. Desmond sat perfectly still, if Teach wasn’t paying close attention to his breathing he would assume the man was dead. The slight emotion in his eyes before had vanished, now it was just an empty and blank slate.
Many soldiers had the exact same look, one that shook people who never fought and witnessed the worst of the war. In two days they will be charging Hacksaw Ridge and capturing it. With the injured soldiers who now lived, it will be essentially plausible for them to win. The Japanese were ruthless, but they too were wearing thin of soldiers and materials to sustain themselves.
Doss hissed when he poured an antibiotic to a deep wound that needed stitches. “You know you would think I could handle a little bit of pain after the crap I went through.”
“Well, you're having an adrenaline crash after running all night. It would be painful to even the strongest soldiers with hundreds of scars.” Teach pulled the thread through. Desmond fell quiet again settling on the steady rhythm of the stitching. He grabbed a rag, slowly beginning to clean the blood and dirt from his face.
A huff of laughter escaped the younger man. “You know what this reminds me of?” A hum from Teach implied he heard him. “Reminds me of the time you helped stitch me up after the attack in the bunk room.”
“Yeah,” Teach paused before finishing off the suture. “Oh how wrong we were when you pulled our asses off that fucking ridge under gunfire, never shooting once.”
Laughter echoed before a groan of pain was heard. Teach helped the medic into undergarments, he didn’t care about modesty. The man was injured and needed help. “So tell me Doss, is there a woman back home waiting for you?” Teach asked.
“Yes, my wife. We married before I was shipped off for active duty.”
“Wow, consider me oblivious. No wedding ring?”
Desmond pulled out a ring from under his shirt, it was a beautiful gold band. “I keep it close to my heart, so I know who I am fighting for when I get back home.”
Teach smiled, brushing down the collar of the medic’s shirt. “You have to be in tip-top shape if you want to make it back to her.” He motioned for the injured man to follow him. “Howell is probably wondering why it’s taking so long. Besides, you need fluids in you, you're dehydrated, and it’s showing on your skin.”
Desmond followed Teach back into the med tent, sickness wafted to the medics senses. It caused him to tense, looking for ways to help. Before he could act, a hand guided him back to their Sergeant. Howell looked better than a couple of hours ago with some rest.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? You look a hundred times better,” Howell commented. He motioned to the cot beside him. Teach pushed Doss to sit.
“Stay.”
Desmond watched him go, he slumped, kicking off his shoes to settle in for the long haul. He knows better than to disobey his sergeant. “How are you feeling, sir?”
“I feel like shit, but that isn’t new. Lay down, kid, I got watch.”
The medic smirked as he settled with his head on the pillow. “Sounds like you care.”
Howell laughed, shaking his head. “Very funny, get some rest, you need as much as you can get. Those, who are not as injured as the rest of us, are in the infantry. You siege in two days.”
The medic fell into a doze, half asleep, half awake. He needed to be awake for when they put in the IV. Before they could get to his cot, Doss fell deeply into sleep.
A scream fell from Desmond’s lips as he shot up in bed. Sweat beaded his forehead, he turned to stare at the IV line that was connected to a bag of fluids and some blood. Did I lose blood?
“Just a precaution,” a tired, gruff voice said. It sent a jolt of surprise through the younger man. “You lost some blood, so they had to refuel you. Tell me why they had to go through two bags of fluids. This is your third one.” A shrug was the only answer Doss was able to give. The logistics of him saving as many men without dropping once had to be considered inhuman.
“C’mere.” Howell patted the space beside him on the cot.
“Sir, there’s not enough room.”
“Does it look like I give a shit?” he paused, waiting for an answer. “No? Then drag yourself and that IV stand over here.”
Desmond lifted his exhausted body off his cot, his legs shook, dragging himself over to Howell. It wasn’t that far, just two steps, but it was a lot for an exhausted war tired man.
The sergeant grabbed his two forearms and pulled the shorter, smaller man into his arms. He was mindful of the injuries. “Go to sleep, kid. Don’t worry about anything.”
Alright. Thank you Sarge.