Fix Him.

[✚ Peter T. Brannigan]

OOC: This is open to all Allied Characters, obviously being under Allied Neutral Terrain. =P


Peter Branigan slumped down against his bunk and gave the hardest sigh a man could muster, what was he doing here? Why was here? What on Earth was all this war about!? Aristocrat bitterness in Europe? Who knows, but one thing sure, was that Peter was now dragged into it - signed, sealed and stamped with a barcode almost, a number in which resembled his existence within the Military, stamped into a clip of stainless steel that hung around his neck always (dog tags). He was now a name and number on the rooster of his Captain’s list, a Technical Medical Officer, first class.

Tossing his medical bag down to the end of his bed, he took one long lasting look around the confines of his room. For some reason, being a Senior Medical Officer, he was given his own private quarters. A doctor’s quarters almost? He could already hear the bell ringing and patients lining up to see him; no, in a place like this, they’d most likely trample into his room and order him to fix someone; sure, he made it look easy, but by no means, fixing someone wasn’t. Especially when it came to dealing with bullet wounds, those small little neat entry wounds, making the wound look nothing more than a small hole, whilst most people didn’t realise the bullet actually bounced around inside the body, ripping everything to shreds before clunking into a bone or blasting out the other end of the body. No, people were too naive to understand.

Collapsing back onto his bed, Peter slowly shuffled his legs up onto the blanket beneath him, laying perfectly still for a few minutes, thinking over the whole scenario he was now caught up in. What things he would live to see and what things he wouldn’t. He’d seen enough people come and go already, but Peter had the feeling the war hadn’t started for him yet?

His small room had the eerie feeling to it, but it was a nice private space compared to the poor enlisted soldiers who were cluttered in double bunks, so he could be somewhat grateful he has silence and privacy around him; Peter’s eyes couldn’t stay open, as his eyelids slowly draped shut and his chest began to rise and drop heavily, taking laboured breathes as he slipped into a comatose sleep, until a sudden rush of footsteps outside awoke Peter irrationally, causing the Medical Officer to spring up a little, worried something had happened!? But no one was in his room, just the peculiar noise of footsteps ranging down the corridor? Seemed a slight mash almost, as if someone was briskly walking or there was more than one patron clunking their feet against the ground? Was they… looking for him?

[Captain Matherson]

Captain Matherson slumped roughly into a chair, his Thompson sub-machine gun clicking to the ground as he unslung it and leant it against the wall. He buried his face in his hands for a second, glad for the moment to relax at last. It had been so long since he had had a sturdy roof over his head, not just a piece of hutchie, or even worse, sticks and leaves. Oh well… The life of a soldier. My life.

He looked around the room silently, taking in the surroundings. He was sitting in the barracks common hall, after being assigned his billets for the night. It was close to his men, which was good, considering how far they had marched since the ambush on the road. It had been a victory, of sorts, he’d managed to repel the Germans there, but this was the first decent medical attention his wounded would receive. He only had six men left healthy and ready to fight… all of them Privates.

His men were shuffling past the counter with platters, Cameron, Browning, White, MacDonald, Gordon and Crawford, being given their meals for the night, which looked considerably tastier than their ration packs. I must have a good meal before I leave, Chris promised himself.

He allowed himself some shut eye when his men sat back down beside him, their voices low. Officers shouldn’t eat with enlisted men, but their sudden appearance didn’t leave much choice in the topic.”I wonder who the doctors are here,” Crawford asked as he sat down.

”Guys who know what they’re doing most like.” Gordon had picked up his knife and was attacking a steak with it. ”Sir? How long are we gonna be here anyway?” His Australian accent was thick, and easily distinguishable among the other Americans. Chris immediately had respect for his countryman.

”Not half as long as we deserve.” Doctors and nurses were hurrying past the corridors, most probably to deal with the many wounded he had brought in…

[✚ Peter T. Brannigan]

Being tiresome was something Peter had to deal with particularly well, more so when it came to dealing with patients, he’d hate to put the fear of god into them, yawning every so often, looking lethargic and careless on the job. No, he hid it pretty well and since the war had started, he found it pretty hard to sleep now anyway. Peter was proudly a new recruit amongst Insomniacs, he hated the word for the condition, but it was true - he just couldn’t help laying there at nights, thinking and daydreaming. How ironic he’d daydream at night?

Suddenly, a loud couple of thuds thumped against his wooden sealed door, causing the dodgy makeshift framework to shudder somewhat. A full hardy voice soon followed, as one of the commandeering Sergeants of the facility hollered through the smallest cracks available between the two pieces of wood. “Get yo’ Ass out here! We got wounded!” before the heavily clumped boots began to thump back down the corridor, clunking against some more doors along his way, but what he was saying was more muffled this time - so Peter could only imagine the insulting behaviour he gave to his assistant staff and junior medics. Peter was only a first class Technical Medic (Equivalent to a corporal), higher than a combat medic, but much lower than most other senior medical staff.

Without anymore hesitation, Peter’s body slid across the bed, dragging the blankets along with him almost, before grabbing his medical waist bag and hurrying to the door. He knew time was essential in any situation, but dealing with the wounded, it was critical - so Peter made haste in his footing work, as he skimmed by soldiers littering his pathway and nodded to a few other’s who acknowledged him with a “Heyyy!”[/b] but all in all, they knew Peter had a hard job and now wasn’t a talking time.

Peter Branigan soon found himself stumbling into the common hall where most of the men tended to their meals and refreshments of ‘talk’. “Who’s the commander here!?” Peter loudly shouted somewhat, seeming pretty much like the face of authority for a mere Tech First Class (Corporal) as he looked around briefly, not taking much time to look over every person for the officer of the ranks, as he turned to collar one of his assistants by the arm who was about to rush by. “I need you to gather the class three patients into here, class two and one can go straight down to the ward - we only have a few beds, make em’ useful” he ordered somewhat, before watching the Assistant nod and hurry off.

Peter had a system he worked by when with a staff under his command, class one meant drastically wounded and perhaps fatally wounded people, class two meant those treatable, but still injured quite bad and class three were those who required little attention - but still wounded. Beds in the ward facility were numbered and the hall was always the next primary target for the less wounded to gather. Peter was quite stubborn anyhow, if these wounded men were the result of the officer within the room, then by all means, he’d make him and his remaining healthy units help the best they could - Peter was short handed as it was.

[Captain Matherson]

Chris stood up when a young medic ran headlong into the room, throwing open the two swinging doors. He slid his legs out of the long wooden chair and took half a step into the walkway. ”That would be me, son.”

White stood up straight away when the captain did. It was just like him. Julian didn’t talk much, but when he did it was usually well-worth listening to. He was also loyal to a nail. If there was anyone who Chris truly believed would die for a comrade, it would have been Private White.

Matherson walked towards the junior medic briskly, with White hot on heels, silent.
He was vaguely aware of the few people in the room watching him, his own men among them. But he was more interested in what the man in front of him had to say. ”Captain Matherson, 1st Rangers Battalion United States Army. There’s a lot of wounded from what I could see when I came, and not all of them mine. Regardless, if there’s anything me and my men can do to help them, say so.”

He almost put his hand forward to a handshake, but it was hardly the right time or place, so he checked himself before his hand moved. ”Have you seen them yet?”

[✚ Peter T. Brannigan]

Upon the distinct accent of an Australian, for a brief moment sounding like a fellow Englishman, Peter’s head coiled to turn slightly from his position near the doorway, settling his eyes upon a Captain approaching towards his general direction. The young Medic felt slightly embarrassed for being so ordering upon his entry, but time was of the essence and when lives depending upon their quick actions, Peter seemed to be regardless for the whole ‘tradition’ towards ranking staff. Such as saluting, talking up to them - the whole gist that came along with owning a rank. No, Peter knew all these little actions could preserve valuable time to save some of these lads.

“Sir,” The young medical officer said with a slight nod in gesture to the commanding officer who stood before him, before hearing the man out to speak himself. “That would be much obliged Captain, I‘m Tech-Corporal Branigan, Medical Corps” Peter said sternly with a gist of an introduction, feeling the unease of the Officer before him, not knowing whether he should salute or give a handshake, but Peter proudly threw his hand forth to grasp the Officer’s firm grip with a shake, shedding a slight smile. It wasn’t unusual for Medical Staff to salute, but they were Neutral after-all and most remained quiet in doing their job.

As the Captain asked the quantity of casualties, Peter broke free from the handshake and took a step back to peer out of the doorway slightly, before sighing to himself and giving the Captain his full attention again. “I was hoping you’d tell me” he said somewhat jokingly, before becoming more serious and pointing to Private White slightly, whilst he looked to the Captain. “Collect any spare Syrettes and bandages from your men please Captain, as well as any socks” the request was slightly out of the blue, but the facility was short changed since recent supply depots and transport routes were cut-off from the Nazis, so they had to think out of the box in times of need.

Young Nurses and various young lads baring the red-cross began to bare the weight of soldiers limping into the room. The Soldiers looked tiresome and bruised, dry blood seeping from wounds, either made by enemy bayonets, shrapnel or Bullets. Peter couldn’t help but mumble to himself somewhat quietly as he watched the poor souls hoisted into the room. “And these are class three casualties…” indeed, these were the more fortunate ones, so guessing what the other victims came out like after the battle, was left to the imagination - they were most likely being treated by more senior staff in the wards.

Taking a long breath, Peter flapped open the top of his waist bag and began to briskly walk towards the patients flooding in.

[Captain Matherson]

Chris accepted the handshake solemnly, nodding to the medic, ”Corporal.” He sighed when he commented on the wounded, ”More than we bloody well need that’s for sure.” The request for socks took him off guard, and he took a second to make sure he had heard it right, but in his own mind it made perfect sense when he thought about it.

”Socks. Right.” He turned to White. ”You heard him, get your socks off.” Chris broke away from the medic and strode briskly towards his other men sitting down. Crawford saw him coming and looked up in curiosity as he approached, tapping Browning on the shoulder who also turned.

”Rangers…” Browning immediately stiffened due to the coarseness of his voice, and the others gave him their attention. ”…the medical staff have need of us. Take off your boots and give White your socks.” Gordon glanced sideways at Cameron and MacDonald frowned a little, before asking, ”Socks…sir?”

Chris nodded. ”Socks private. And if any of you have any bandages hidden away somewhere, we’ll need them too.” He knelt down and quickly started unlacing boots, while the other Privates did so, albeit a little more reluctantly. Soon, White had an arm full of socks and even two rolls of bandages courtesy of MacDonald. ”Take them out to the medics and make sure they get used.”

The soldiers walked out into the hallway and Chris spotted Branigan, walking among the wounded. White was going about the nurses, handing them the bandages. ”Where do you need my men Corporal?”

[✚ Peter T. Brannigan]

Upon approaching the wounded males, Peter could deter the difference between cramp setting in on aching muscles and pure stiffness from the stubborn ones. It was funny how most of the men disregarded medical staff for bad people; although most of them didn’t show it, Peter knew they held a deeper fuelled hatred towards them. After all, doctors were arrogant in their eyes, right?

“Move them down into the hall, they need air” the Corporal said calmly, yet somewhat demandingly beneath his breath towards the young staff, who began to pile the wounded against the corridor walls. “Sir,” was all the young ones could muster, as they hoisted the weight of the casualties onto their shoulders once again, limping along with the wounded into the hall - but Corporal Branigan had other issues to tend too than moving the poor souls, as he began to skim down between the wounded soldiers, briskly looking them over, trying to determine who really needed his expertise, rather than those with scratches and nausea.

A soft cry left young chap’s breath amongst the men, immediately coiling Peter’s senses inwards towards the injured male, as if instinctively knowing it was the sob of helplessness. Eventually Peter parted his way through the numerous wounded men limping towards him, before settling his eyes upon a young male struggling to stand. “Y’alright mate?” Peter said genuinely, as he knelt down on one knee, tapping his shoulder for the male to lean against. From first perspectives, it may’ve seemed Peter was acting like a human leg stool? But being a little more experienced than most of his staff, he could also determine where the problem laid with the male somewhat instantly, as the young chap cowered with every step he took.

“It’s my…” but before the soldier could finish, Peter was already lifting his foot, sending the male into a slight twilight of pain, emitting a long exhale of breath. “S’alright…” Peter ushered somewhat, as he slipped the boot from off the soldier’s foot, looking upon a ‘dirty’ sock, but spotless from blood. Gently moving the soldier’s toes with his fingers didn’t seem to coil any pain into the casualty, but the ankle did. “Okay, we’ll splint this up for you. Looks like you’ve fractured your ankle or split a nerve, it’s not broken” Corporal Branigan said with a dim smile, looking up to the soldier vaguely, realising ‘this’ casualty was as bad as he first thought he’d be.

As Captain Matherson slowly returned, Peter had already arose from his crouched position and began to unclip his shovel - for some reason? Catching Peter slightly off guard, the Corporal gave a slight open look, as if he didn’t hear the Captain. “Oh… It’ll be great if you could help get these men into the hall” he said quietly, before giving the Captain a nod and clunking the end of his shovel into a nearby doorframe, almost using the piece of digging equipment like a crowbar to wrench out the long strides of wood that carelessly fell to the floor. What on hell was he doing!?

Looking pleased with himself, Peter knelt and picked up the long strands of wood to hand to the patient he’d left idly standing on one foot “They’re for your foot, give them to a nurse in the hall and she’ll splinter your leg for you” well - what could the boy say? As he looked onwards in a slight amazement to the medic’s free use of the foundations around them.

Turning once again to the Captain, the Corporal nodded a little, clipping his shovel back onto the back of his belt, half-heartedly sighing a little. “I can’t believe I’m having to use doorframes now” he said somewhat surprised, seeming a little depressed with the fact he didn’t have the right equipment to use.

[Captain Matherson]

Chris listened to the Corporal quickly. It was entirely unethical for a Captain to take orders from an Non-Commissioned Officer, but seeing as it looked like he was the ranking medical member here, and for that fact that this was a hospital, not the frontline, Chris was content to hear what he had to do.

He nodded and turned to his men. ”Get these men into the hall guys. MacDonald, go back and clear the centre of the hall of all the tables. Make sure there’s enough room for all these men. And tell those other soldiers in there I’m ordering them out here to help. The rest of you, lets get these wounded in there ASAP.”

The Rangers spread out to help support the limping and dazed, and Gordon and Crawford paired to carry an idle stretcher down the hall. A half conscious infantry soldier was lying on it, his lower left leg shredded by shrapnel. I bet that’s one of his class ones. Chris thought sadly. Matherson allowed a man to lean on him, after he tried to go into attention and salute, with a crisp, “Sir!” He couldn’t stand up straight and flinched when he moved, his hand was limp and his ‘sir’ was little more than a cough. ”Don’t worry about that now son.”

The sound of cracking wood echoed from behind him and he saw Peter breaking open the doorframe to use as splints. He smiled when he heard his comment. ”That’s nothing. My last field medic had to use an RPG to splint one of my boy’s legs a while ago.” He sighed. ”That was before he was shot twice in the chest.”

”Come on mate, lets get you some help.” Chris pushed the memory away and led the wounded man into the hall where MacDonald was making easy work of the long tables, casting them to the walls to make space…

[✚ Peter T. Brannigan]

The Medical Officer was happy to see the Captain helping, sure, most medical staff - doctors - were particularly arrogant and stubborn, telling who should eat what and do what to preserve their health. Not really earning much respect from being quite, arrogant. Peter just hoped he wasn’t coming across in the rude sense; he had a job to do and he done it well, as far as he could gather and only being human, well, he needed help, the extra hands to stitch these poor soul’s lives back together.

Peter gave a well needed smile to break the ice, he was sick and tired of being stuck between a rock and a hard place. Dwelling within the same walls, day in and day out. Even the smell of cleanliness and anaesthetic was beginning to make him feel sick, it was strange in his eyes how all the wounded shared the one same scent, smell. The smell varied between unhygienic bodies, to sweat blood and tears - death almost. Even when they were cleaned up by the nurses, which must’ve made em’ feel like they were in heaven for a brief moment, the scent never really faded… Perhaps Peter was beginning to show the signs of craziness being stuck there for too long?

Again, another smile broke onto Peter’s lips as he listened to the Captain’s story about his last soldier using an RPG as a splint; Peter couldn’t even begin to imagine the scene of a male wandering around with a bazooka strapped to his leg, but the smile soon faded as he watched the Captain’s persona change - explaining how he was killed in action. By war-room laws, the Germans (assuming it was Nazis) would’ve had their wrists slapped for committing such a war-crime, but this was war, who cared right now?

As the CO began to help a fellow soldier, who failed to slaute appropriately from his condition, Peter abruptly snapped out of his daydreaming and trotted in front of the Captain, his medic bag making a weird clanging noise from all the utensils inside. “Sir, Captain…” Peter said sharply, standing in front of the Officer, looking a little uneasy for the first time since their acquaintance. “May I request something sir?” he soon entailed after a short pause, giving his lips a firm licking too, before carrying on anyway, whether the Captain denied him or not. “May I request to be apart of your division, sir? I’m utterly sick of this place, I need to breathe out of the box and from what you’ve said, I can surely guess you’ll need a medic on your team?”

Peter stood sternly still for a little while, knowing he was most probably wasting time requesting permission - the Rangers, from what he could tell from the Captain’s shoulder insignia and lapels, would most likely have a replacement on due-course to their division already. But it was worth a shot.

[Captain Matherson]

Chris had to stop abruptly when Peter cut him off. The man on his shoulder groaned a little with the halt and the Captain hefted him so that he was taking more of his weight. He listened as the medical technician moistened his lips, and he could see the uneasiness in his demeanor. ”You have my attention Corporal.”

The request which confronted him did take him aback slightly. It wasn’t everyday that someone requested to get into the Rangers Corps. The Frontline usually drove men to request out of there. ”You want to be a field medic for the Rangers?”

Chris breathed in and looked at the ceiling for a second, thinking. His request for a new medic hadn’t been answered yet, but it would only be a matter of time. And whatever soldier they sent to him would have experience under fire, and soldier’s instincts. ”White!” The Private was walking past quickly, having distributed his socks. ”Take this man into the hall and help the others get the wounded in there.”

”Yes sir.” He slid the man onto his shoulder and ambled off down the hallway.

Chris turned back to Peter. ”The Frontline. That’s what you’re asking to be a part of you realize.” He looked at him hard and square, trying to figure out what his reactions would be. ”Do you know how to use a rifle? And I’m not talking about how to pull back the bolt and load a round through the cartridge. I’m asking do you know how to put that round through another man? Do you know how to kill a man in cold-blood? Do you think you could handle that?”

He let that sink in a bit. ”White is a brilliant solider, because he’s loyal. No matter how scary or crazy an order I give him, he does it. Because he knows that if he doesn’t he dies. Are you obedient Corporal? Because if you don’t know how to follow an order to the teeth than we should stop talking now. And I’m not talking about you carrying a man into a hall if I say so. I’m talking about you pulling your comrade out of a ditch and behind cover while there’s twenty men intent on your death.

”What do you know of field tactics? Of strategy? Of survival techniques? Of movement through the bush? I’m not going to lie to you, what you’re asking is hard. And dangerous. Do you think you can handle the Frontline?”

[✚ Peter T. Brannigan]

Corporal Branigan stood idle for a moment, realising the situation he’d just most likely dropped himself into - not to mention the fact he was holding up one of ‘his’ patients from being treated. That was until another insisted hand, Private White, was hollered too to take on the burden of Captain Matherson’s injured. Again, Peter stood idle for the whole while he awaited the Captain’s full attention, not to mention slight privacy for them to bicker about the situation and request Corporal Branigan was making.

As Chris Matherson began to break down the civilian barriers still guarding Peter’s heart and mind from anything evil, the Medical Officer stood sternly quiet for a moment, trying to keep his chin up and eyes straight to the higher ranking personal before him. “I’ve been a field medic before sir - briefly” Peter quietly added to his little defence of the situation, knowing fully well what being on the frontlines entailed - heck, he only had to look at the men rolling down the corridor to understand the devastation of being on such dangerous terrain brought.

Again, Peter turned abruptly quiet as he listened to the Captain continue his shellshock, yet true break down of the situation. “Sir, have you ever had your hands inside a man’s stomach? Wrenching at his intestines to find something the size of a pen-lid?” Peter suddenly said with a stern glare, looking almost too intimidating for a friendly doctor. “Yes, I’ve followed orders to the bone sir. Quite literally” he soon entailed with a blank looking persona written across his face, before a grin broke free to nod slowly. “I’m no soldier sir, I admit, I could do with a brush up on that side of things - but hell, I’d be a backbone for you and your men sir” he lastly uttered with a slight sigh, getting the eerie feeling he might just be denied the request to be apart of the Rangers. So Peter gave it one last shot.

“If anyone can handle being around so much blood, death, pain and suffering - I’m pretty sure I’d fair okay on the frontlines, sir” the Medical Officer looked onwards towards Chris with a slight look of anticipation, taking a soft bite at his lower lip to stand quietly for some sort of verdict. If any came?

[Captain Matherson]

Chris listened to his reply intently. The kid had wits. That was easy to see. He knew just the right thing to say, and he knew just the right thing that would convince him. He stared into those hard eyes of his unblinkingly for a moment, before he allowed a slight smile to creep onto his lips.

The Captain pushed his hand forward to shake the Corporal’s hand, a gesture which he had almost shied away from earlier, ”And just so.”

”No, why would I look for my pen-lid inside White?” He smiled again as he shook his head. ”We’ll have to work on your rifle skills, because any man you can kill is one less I have to. But besides that, keep you head down, listen to instructions… and welcome to the 1st Rangers Battalion, Special Operations Corp.”

He turned his head to look down the corridor as the last of the wounded was brought from outside into the building. ”But for now, you’ve got soldier’s to heal. And I’ve got our comrades to help.” He nodded. ”As you were, Ranger.”

Matherson turned and walked out into the corridor for more wounded, wondering whether he’d made a good decision. Sure, the medic would need some fine tuning, but Chris reckoned he’d make a fine soldier. Only time would tell…

[✚ Peter T. Brannigan]

OOC: May as-well make this the last post? If you’re still alive after the “Nearly Home” Thread you’re in, I’d be happy to start up another thread with you. Sorry Peter isn’t in that thread now, with you, but it’ll be a nightmare for me to control “Liam/Peter/Moderation Posts” -GASPS-


IC:

Peter almost gulped as he caught the distinct shape of something approaching his waistline, before glancing down and realising the Captain’s hand was protruding out for a shake. The Corporal grinned a little to himself, not really expecting the commanding officer to extend his hand out for a shake? Peter abruptly grasped the Captain’s hand with a firm grip and smiled towards the male before him - almost wondering whether this was a sympathetic handshake of, try better next time?

“Heh, well, you’d be surprised what a bullet can travel through and drag along with it…” the Corporal said jokingly, yet truthfully, but he’d never had a case of a pen-lid inside someone - fine objects the size of a pen lid, that was very common and undoubtedly, painful for the victim too. “I… I understand that sir” the Medical Officer said wearily, never having took a life before, infact, it was against rules for medical personal to shoot the enemy. The Red-Cross was strictly under the Geneva Convention, where medical staff on both sides (Axis and Allied) remained neutral and un-harmed, as long as they wasn’t baring any weaponry.

Although Peter knew he’d be going against the rules somewhat, it wasn’t uncommon for a medical officer to carry a piece of weaponry on them either, nor was it uncommon for medics to be shot in the line-of-fire. Who honestly abided by rules in the brutal game of war? But the Corporal’s track of thought soon broke as the Captain welcomed him to the Ranger’s 1st Battalion? Peter couldn’t help but smile somewhat, which must’ve worried the Captain slightly, having someone smile about being on the frontlines - or apart of it at least.

“Oh… Sir! -- Thank you, Sir” Corporal Branigan said slightly surprised, saluting the Captain and nodding to the gesture of being at ease once again and helping the rest of the poor souls. Indeed, Peter did get slightly carried away with the request he was making; he had to get back to work. He watched the Captain make his slow turn and wander back down the corridor… Nodding to himself, Peter clutched his waist-bag and turned on his heels, briskly walking the opposite way, knowing he had patients to treat.

[PuNk! ™]

Moderation Post:

This Thread will be closed![/u]

Captain Matherson:
You have earned “4 CP” for good conduct & helping the wounded.

Corporal Branigan:
You have earned “6 CP” for helping the wounded & showing an understanding of what is required to be a medic.

If you wish to carry this RP on (re-open it), please message me.
~Danny