"I need a cigarette..." [Open: 1/2 Slots]

[✚ Peter T. Brannigan]

OOC: This thread is only open to one or two people, I want to keep it small and brief if possible. For those that don’t know, this is PuNk! (Admin) and Peter is one of my role playing characters. So I hope you understand why I’d like to keep this thread small, as I do have some updates to crack on with, nevertheless I would like to role play a little in the meantime.

Conditions: Overcast & Heavy downpour
Time:[/b] 2045hrs (summer season; just got properly dark)
Terrain:[/b] France; a small town on the outskirts Rouer, near Paris.

Notes:[/b] This thread is taking place behind the frontlines/push into France, so it’s not a hostile RP and neither should there be any immediate danger. The town’s a rally point for supplies and wounded being shipped back and forth to the front.

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The heavy downpour of rain thumped hardily against the stonemason buildings of the small village now occupied by American and British forces; the French civilians were few and far between however, most having fled at the frightening appearance of flak fire and Lancaster’s skewering the blue sky after the eventful Allied landings, perhaps they were wise or just foolish to make such drastic endeavours of fleeing, as little resistance harboured their hometown and the Allies were far from hostile to the French inhabitants. The only thing Peter did know, was that either direction they fled too, they’d be met with one side of the war for sure; Paris laid but miles from Rouer, where the hefty conflict surged on and the coastline laid busy with Allied activity flooding into the country through a large gap punched through Axis lines. There was no escape from facing this war.

“I need some fuckin’ forceps here!” Combat Medic Donald Hoyt yelled out from across the room to Peter, who’d just literally finished dealing with a young soldier who’d obtained a multitude of laceration wounds across his chest and what seemed to be major contusions along the man’s abdomen, which worried Peter to sever internal bleeding, but time was of the essence and Peter grabbed his black marker-pen from out of his shirt pocket, by the blooded tips of his fingertips and quickly wrote a ‘M’ on the man’s forehead, before glancing to his wristwatch, where the face was smeared with dry blood and continued to write ‘8:50pm’ for the time of dosage, so no-one overdosed the poor lad by accident. “Get him out of here and into a bed - he may have internal bleeding, so make sure you check his deposit, I’m not opening him up unless I really have too” Peter ordered to a couple of assistants lingering close-by, who quickly nodded and got to work on removing him from the backroom they were in.

Immediately, Peter grabbed the closest thing to be used as forceps, whilst removing his plastic gloves and hurried across the corridor into the next room where Donald Hoyt was buried in blood up to his elbows. The young soldier was stone cold on the wooden table, his chest cut open, but blood was spewing uncontrollably from the man’s body. “Peter!” Donald called with a needing tone, the young medical assistant in the room pale a sheet from the sight of so much blood, frozen like a rabbit caught between the headlights of a vehicle. “There’s no clean forceps, we’ll have to use this…” Peter said in a wisp of bad news, approaching the table quickly with a wooden spoon he’d grabbed off the work surface from the room he’d just come from. Donald stared a little shocked for a moment, but didn’t complain, as he wedged his hands up either side of the young boy’s chest for Peter to protrude the wooden spoon inwards to hold it open. “Christ Peter…” Donald mumbled, not believing what he was seeing, but equipment and supplies were few and far between, they had to improvise to the best of their advantage.

“It’s the subclavian vein that’s pissing blood!” Peter acknowledged, realising he hadn’t put on another set of gloves, but knew it was now or never. Reaching in, Peter grabbed the broken vein and clenched tightly with his thump and finger, turning his head away quickly as the squeezing caused a spray of blood to squirt out against Peter and Donald’s face and chest. “The vein’s retracting Peter… I can’t reach it” Donald said worrying, trying to grab the other end of the vein that was disappearing into the boy’s chest through the wade of blood and internal organs. “Hurry Donald, this boy’s dying!” Peter yelled, clenching his teeth as he held back the anger in not letting the boy go without a fight. Whilst Donald tried to find the slit vein, Peter forced his free hand up against the boy’s throat, leaving blotched blooded prints against the young man’s pale throat, as he felt for a pulse, knowing he wouldn’t last much longer at all with the barbaric fashion they’ve had to fall too in saving the young boy’s life. “He’s dying Donald, fucking find that vein!” Peter yelled angrily, barely feeling a pulse anymore, until it faded quite quickly. “Fuck! No!” Peter bellowed out, letting go of the vein he was clenching onto, to quickly press both of his hands against what plain of his chest he could to try and massage his heart back to life. By now, Donald had stepped away and stopped what he was doing, just watching as Peter attempted to bring the young man back to life in a fierce fashion that showed he wasn’t about to give up…

“Peter…” Donald said softly, before reaching out to grab him by the arm “Peter he’s gone”[/I] Donald repeated, taking a long breath as he looked to the young boy who they couldn’t save. “Fuck… FUCK IT!” is all what Peter could come out with, as he thumped his fist against the table, before noticing the young medical assistant just standing there, which in turn angered Peter even more. “It’s your fault! If you didn’t just stand there, we could’ve saved this boy!” Peter yelled across the dead soldier to the medical assistant, grabbing at the wooden spoon used as a makeshift pair of forceps to yank out and throw at the useless man across the room, splattering blood across his immaculate uniform. By now, Donald was pushing Peter to the door, trying to calm him down; “Peter, take five…”[/I] he asked nicely as a friend, trying to calm him down, but Peter just walked out in favour of his friend’s request, storming through the church’s hall to the main doors, where dozens of wounded soldiers were bedded and nurses wandered randomly treating the minor wounded wandering in.

Pushing through the two large wooden doors, Peter stumbled down the steps to the church entrance and into the rain, wiping a formed tear away from the corner of his eye in the process. Peter's uniform was drenched in blood, even though he wore an apron/gown across his front - which ironically only soaked through to his uniform beneath. Weary and trembling with mixed emotions, Peter slumped his back against the church wall and inhaled deeply as the rain swept across his body, washing patches of blood away from of his skin, forming a small red pool about his feet...

[Andrew J. Ryan]

The sudden gunshot came without warning. Ryan and his unit had been pulled back from the frontlines and given the simple task of defending a major town along the frontline's supply route as well as medical center. They were in almost no danger whatsoever, with the boys fighting so hard ahead of them. So, why the hell was someone shooting? Ryan could only speculate as he sat within the cover of a porch roof, smoking a first class cigar in the chilling downpour. Without hesitation, the Sergeant Major was galloping down the street like a damned race horse hell bent on finding out what the hell had gone wrong in the quiet French down. Arriving near the scene, he could hear some faint whimpers and heart wrenching screams. Rounding the last corner, he came upon a few men gathered around in a half circle.

"What the hell seems to be the problem here, boys?" Ryan harshly hollered at the small group of Privates. One of the Privates turned around to face Ryan, before slowly approaching the Senior NCO in shame. Ryan folded his arms, almost ready to knock the man to the ground and see what the hell happened first hand. "It's, uh, Private Davis, sir. He... he stumbled on Corporal Johnson... and... well, look for yourself." His fierce gaze watched over Davis , the man was curled up against a wall bawling his eyes out and whimpering. Lightly taking a few steps forward, he looked down over the kneeling men... and watched over them in horror. Johnson's near-lifeless body was sprawled out on the cobble stone road, his blood pouring out of several bullet and bayonet wounds from a M1 Garand. It became obviously clear to the man. Davis, distracted and fearful, had stumbled on Johnson suddenly in the rain. The result, was a desperate attempt to murder a Kraut invader.

"God dammit! Hang on there, Corporal. Get your asses out of the way and help me lift him!" His hoarse, raspy voice commanded about the few Privates nervously trying to stop the breathing. The men scattered away from the Sergeant Major, before returning to lift the man off the bloodied road.Ryan looked down on the wounded Corporal with disgust as they set off down the road, in search of the medical station. A few of the Private's desperate calls for a medic went unheeded, but some French emerged from their homes and witnessed the grim sight. Johnson was crying now and screaming like a baby as they carried him down the streets. Poor soldier, didn't deserve one bit of the pain or death. "Hang in there, Johnson! You're gonna make it son. You hear me? Hang in there!" Even Ryan was hit with the desperation to save the man's life. He shouldn't die like this. Not here. Not now.

"Doctor! Doc! Can you help us? He needs medical attention!"Ryan shouted at a medic, who was taking a brief break outside the church. They rushed for the man's position as fast as they could manage without injuring the man in their arms. Suddenly, a Private lost his grip and his footing, slipping into a violent face-plant. The sudden loss of the men sent the rest of the men slipping and sliding in the rain. Johnson ended up on his back before the steps to the church, with most of the men scattered along the French street. "Fucking Private!" The Sergeant Major didn't have the time to "disclipline" the buffoon who had managed to send Johnson on a collision course with the cobblestone, as he rushed over to Johnson's side. "One of the men thought he was a Kraut. Can you help him, Doc?"

[✚ Peter T. Brannigan]

Licking his lips, Peter’s body trembled softly against the harsh cold breeze within the rain, his head slumping downwards slowly as he looked to his blooded hands and apron, pulling a disgusted look subtly from beneath his facial expression; then a daunting thought phased through Peter’s mind, how many young men’s blood was on him? He felt like a butcher, not a doctor. Peter couldn’t help but take it hard whenever he lost a young man beneath his wing, because then it wasn’t the Kraut’s fault anymore, but his own… That’s the way Peter saw it.

Rubbing his hands together in the rain, Peter sniffed hard as he tried to get the blood off, attempting not to get upset, but rather attempt to stay strong for those who needed him most. The war was far from over and Peter knew he’d be seeing more bloodshed to come, it was just a matter of dealing with it; then something caught his attention, as if his senses were suddenly heightened to the tone of cries emitting from down the street. It almost seemed like instinct now, a sixth sense when it came to hearing painful cries - Peter’s head slanted outwards slowly, trying to figure out where the cries were coming from, wondering whether they were coming from within the church or not?

Squinting against the rain and raising one of his hands to shelter his eyes, Peter gazed onwards, eventually seeing what seemed to be several soldiers carrying a young man frantically along the street, their boots slipping and sliding against the wet cobbled path, one of the them yelling out towards him, before one of the young men inevitably slipped and caused everyone else to falter within a domino effect. Peter hesitantly stepped forwards onto the path, his own footing slipping against the smooth cobblestones, causing Peter to regain his balance before hurrying over to the floundered squad in the middle of the street.

Approaching the injured man and collapsing to his knees, Peter quickly glanced to someone who informed him about the ‘accident’ and whether and he could help him? Peter huffed out a breath and leant over the wounded man, ripping at his tunic to get it open. “I can only help you, if you help me” Peter replied swiftly, having gotten the man’s tunic open, he peeled back the wet vest underneath to reveal the man’s torso spluttering blood from several puncture wounds. “Christ!” Peter bellowed out in shock, glancing to the numerous men surrounding the wounded man. “We need to get him inside!” Peter ordered, as he fumbled out a pack of sulphur from his pocket beneath the apron, having stuffed his pockets with supplies for treating the wounded in the church. Breaking the pack open right above the man’s torso, a majority of the white powder cascaded over the man’s wounded torso, but a hail of it hit the breeze too, whirling it about the men’s position like a mini snowstorm.

OOC: Small god-modding here, hope you don’t mind!

“Let’s get him inside now, quickly! I can’t do jack-shit in this rain!” Peter ordered, taking charge of the situation immediately, as he already began to grab at one of the young man’s legs to lift, watching as a few of the weary men helped lift the wounded man’s body upwards. Making their way up the steps, Peter watched as someone held the door open for them, but having made it barely into the church where a dozen heads turned to face the immediate situation, Peter barked out - “Just put him down on the floor!” he said quickly, as he began to set the man’s body down. “Someone get me my equipment out back!” Peter yelled once again for one of the nurses to carry out the order, a few of them scurrying off to get what they could find.

Looking to the immediate man in charge, who must’ve been the one speaking to him outside, Peter quickly questioned him; “What’s his name!?” he asked firmly, grabbing at one of the Sergeant’s men by the wrists to force the soldier’s hands down against one of the puncture wounds, merely looking to one of the other soldier’s to do the same, whilst he began to break open another pack of sulphur. By now, the wounded man didn’t look in great shape and Peter observed the torso as best he could, noticing one of the puncture wounds was in his chest, which may have punctured the lung or any of the pulmonary arteries/axillary veins running from the heart.

[Andrew J. Ryan]

Ryan nodded quickly at the man's words, watching intently as he ripped open the tunic to get to the man's chest. At the site of the several puncture wounds and stream of blood, the medic was giving orders to get him inside. Although, he was probably of higher rank, he knew the medic would be his new superior for the time-being. Looking at that the rest of the men, they slid their hands underneath the man to support his weight and lift him up in their arms. The medic emptied some white powder on the man's wounds, before they carried him up the church steps and into the entrance of the church. The church was crowded with the wounded and those trying to aide them. Either to save their lives or make their last minutes peaceful. With all the screaming and bloodshed in the makeshift hospital, Ryan hardly saw how that could be possible. Waiting for the medic to lead them to a safe place to operate, Ryan grimly scanned the interior of the church disgusted at what he witnessed.

There was nowhere they could set the man down, besides the floor. And so, the medic was quickly ordering them to set him down on the floor while sending some of the nurses in search for his medical equipment. "Alright, boys. 1...2...3." The Sergeant Major instructed, slowly lowering the man down a little further on each number until he was safely on the ground. Getting down on his knees next to the critically wounded soldier, he found the medic back with them. He asked for the man's name, which Ryan presumed was to make the man more comfortable in his current state of pain. Or some shit like that. The man never had found the time to see how the medics did it. How they coped with so much suffering and still attempted to save each man's life... time and time again. In some ways, they were better than the men on the frontlines. In some ways, they had it worse than the man on the frontlines.

"Johnson. Corporal Johnson." Was all Ryan could say as he dimly gazed at the man laying before him. He didn't look like a Johnson. The cheeky little bastard who liked to play pranks and have fun. The two men never did really see eye to eye, but the man's squirming and screaming had an agonizing effect on his superior. Someone who would take the blame for the death personally, only if to take it over the shoulders of Private Davis. He recognized the medic as a man from the 3ID, but had never met the man or learned his name. He simply followed suit as the medic directed one of the private's hands onto the numerous wounds, placing his clean palms onto the man's abdomen. The skin was pale and moist from the rain and sticky from the blood pouring out of his skin like miniature volcanoes. Some of the powder remained on the wounds, irritating the Sergeant Major's rough hands. To say the least, it was disgusting and demoralizing to stick his filthy hands onto the man's wounds.

Johnson squirmed at the touch, forcing Ryan to apply more pressure both to slow the bleeding and restrict movement. "Johnson, stay still. The medic knows what he's doing. You're going to be fine. No one is dying on me. Especially not you, Corporal." The soldier responded well to his commander's words, knowing that the Sergeant genuinely cared for the man. Even if he was constantly getting cussed out by his superior on nearly a daily basis. But look where his little shenanigans had got him now. Bullshitting around with a frightened private had gotten him in a hellhole. The filthy floor of a church/hospital jammed in with other men in just as much pain. The wounded Corporals head rested in the lap of his best friend, one of the Privates that served beneath him. The man was lightly talking to Johnson, with the intent on calming him down. Looking over at the medic, he wondered what they were meant to do next.