Women of War - A Band of Brothers Story

Wounded upon Dead

A/N: Hey folks! I originally planned on uploading this chapter tomorrow morning. But since my week hasn't been bountiful in terms of sleep (read: lousy), I figured I might as well post this now and hope to catch up on the sleep I lost thanks to my stomach being an absolute sissy...

Anyways, I hope you enjoy the chapter and I apologise in advance for the abrupt ending. (You can't exactly call it a cliff-hanger because we all know what happens)

Also, thank you all so much for your votes and comments!! And as always - if you have any ideas or suggestions, don't hesitate to get in touch ;)

Morning brought another artillery barrage. Trees exploded into a hail of javelins left and right and the earth shook and bucked. NCOs were bellowing orders for everyone to stay low and take cover. Screams for medics rose above the pandemonium.

Then the shelling stopped, the last echoes tapering off like thunder rolling in the distance. Heavy breathing filled the air that was thick with uncertainty and apprehension. Was it over? Was it safe again?

Ana María coughed, the smell of ash and burnt snow stinging in her nostrils. The dry, hacking cough attracted the attention of her foxhole partner, Forrest Guth.

"Jeez", he commented, wincing in sympathy, "that sounds bad."

"Thanks", the radio op retorted between a few weak coughs that heralded the end of the fit. "It feels bad, too."

"Are you okay?"

She cleared her throat and gave her friend a smile. "Yeah, I'm alright. Don't worry, it's only a cough."

Guth seemed to accept that, because his good-natured features lightened with humour again. "Well, it can't be that bad", he reasoned with a teasing glint in his eyes. "You're not cursing a blue streak in Spanish yet."

Snickering, Ana María stuck her tongue out at him. "That was nothing", she said, flicking a few broken branches and pieces of charred bark out of their foxhole.

"Really, you should have heard me that one time in basic when I fell off the monkey bars and sprained my elbow." She grinned. "My mamá would have whacked me with una chancla..."

***

While Ana María discussed cultural intricacies of growing up in a Hispanic household, two jeeps were travelling towards the besieged town of Bastogne. Their passengers: one medic and one patient each.

Skinny's leg was riddled with what could only be described as half a tree's worth of splintered wood. He had met Gene's reassurance of "Ain't that bad" with a breathless, incredulous laugh.

"Ain't that bad?", he had repeated, caught between disbelief and hope while he was clutching his battered appendage with blood-slick hands.

Despite the immense pain, though, he had refused the offered morphine. "Save it, Doc", he had told the Cajun through panting breaths, "I can make it."

A few miles behind the first jeep followed the second one, carrying Mia and the wounded Hayes. The replacement had been running for the nearest foxhole when he'd been struck by flying shrapnel. The syrette Mia had given him was just enough to take the edge off, but he was still in a world of agony, whimpering with every other breath.

"You'll be okay, Hayes", the young medic repeated again and again until the frightened kid dropped into unconsciousness, the pain and blood loss taking their toll.