Chapter 11

Our neat little tryst didn’t last as long as we hoped, of course. As the weather cleared, we heard the first barrage of enemy artillery and felt its impact. Those motherfuckers were back at it and they likely wouldn’t stop this time until we (well, collectively speaking) were forced to completely annihilate them. Frankly, I hoped that we did. It was time to clean the genepool, and those scum could be among the first to leave it.

“Don’t worry. Our own guns are giving them far more hell, as you know. Rat bastards don’t fucking know how to use forward observers. They miss more than they hit, though what they hit does harm enough,” I pointed out to Anne.

“Plus, those guns of theirs are rather primitive by comparison,” Anne noticed.

“Yeah, I’d say so. Superior shells, superior rockets. Superior mortars for when they get closer. Claymore mines to really deal them some death and misery. Anti-tank guns, RPGs, you get the idea. And that’s before they encounter our heavy-machine gun nests and our armor. And the gunships. Let’s not forget the gunships,” I reflected.

‘And snipers,” Anne added.

“Yeah, those, too,” I agreed, “though as a nurse, I’m torn. I can’t help but think of all of the pain, all the death, the maimed soldiers who will be lame for life. The rest of me thinks, ‘nah, they’re Kluckers, so fuck ‘em.’ That’s the inner conflict inside me.”

“Still, that’s some mother’s son, some sister’s brother, some daughter’s father, some wife’s husband, some girlfriend’s boyfriend. I know that the women are likely every bit as racist as the menfolk, but still. It does pain me at times to have to sew up men who were wounded in action by our folks and whose future now includes a lengthy stay as a prisoner of war. And they’re the lucky ones, the ones not killed in action.

“On the other hand, you’re right. They’re racist blokes, the lot of them, real pricks that are more bollocks than brains. And their wives, sisters, mothers, daughters, etc. are scarcely better to be frank. It goes against my medical training to be too callous about their fates, but I also recall what they probably think of me, which helps,” Anne admitted rather candidly to me.

“Oh, fuck ... oh, fuck ... oh, fuck!” I heard someone shout and looked closer outside the hospital tent where I was assigned.

Already, several medics were busy bringing in some wounded on stretchers, and they were in some terrible shape. I had to put the discourse behind me and focus on the work at hand, just as Anne did. Fortunately, when she was on duty, her laid-back side vanished instantly and a tyrant emerged. She was very much in charge. Somehow, she really compartmentalized to that extent, which made her a very useful person indeed.

“Nope, sorry, love, we have to triage and now! Those three ... I’m rather afraid that we can’t do much for them but ease the pain. Get these two into surgery now! Higgins, damn it, we need to get some IV in there! Walker, love, restrain him ... he needs held down now!” that last command was directed at me, of course.

At that point, I went on autopilot, did as I was told, obeyed Dr. Thorpe and carried out my duties with no thought as to what we had done not long before. At various points, Anne came across as even a little submissive when it came to sex, but Dr. Thorpe was very much the boss. She was very dominant when it came to surgery, and that was a good thing. Someone had to issue orders in the operating room, did they not?

It became a blur, of course, and hours later, we emerged to relieve ourselves and finally take a hot shower (well, if one was first, otherwise, it was lukewarm or cold). We at last got a hot meal. And most of us simply went to bed ... and tried to sleep a little. There would be plenty more to do when we awoke.

I didn’t even want to think about the body count right then, how many we saved and couldn’t save.