Drunken Blade

[Deleted]

The game had ended well; Sam had walked away with a tidy little sum of $200 witch he now intended on spending at the bar. It was smiles all round as he leant against the counter and waited for the barkeep to finish serving the other customers. Greg was standing opposite him, mimicking Sam’s stance and shaking his head.
“They didn’t look to happy about losing.”
“Tough luck for them, that’s why it’s called gambling.”
“Maybe you should cut back a little.”
Sam smiled and waved the winning notes in front of Greg, “Cut back? Hell no mate.”
At the sight of the money the barkeep skipped the next person in line for the bar and came straight over to him.
“What can I get you sir?”
“Wasn’t that bloke next?” Sam said, pointing to the man who had been skipped. Sam recognised him as one of the men who had been playing the game.
“I’m sure he can wait.” The barkeep said without giving the other man a second glance. Sam shrugged and turned back to face Greg.
“Two glasses of rum on the rocks.” He said and the Barkeep dashed off quickly to put the drinks together.

Knowing that Greg was going to keep pestering him to give the gambling a break, he decided to change the topic to something he knew Greg couldn’t resist talking about.
“Hey did you catch sight of that B-25 in the hanger before we left?”
“The Mitchell? Yeah I spotted that. I had a chat with the servicemen just as we where leaving. She’s in for engine repairs.”
“Do you know what she’s running?”
“Twin Wright R-2600 Radials.”
Sam let out a moan. “She didn’t get shot did she? Those Germans have no respect for the beauty of our engines.”
“Don’t get yourself worked up, its just some general repairs, wear and tear sort of stuff.”
Sam was looking worried, he loved working on aircraft engines even more then he loved gambling.

The barkeep returned with the drinks and put them on the counter, Sam payed him and took a sip of his rum. In his mind he was running over the engine parts of the R-2600. He could almost see the pistons and cylinders, the pipes and leads. He wondered what version of R-2600 they where, wether they had a Stromberg PR48A downdraft carburetor or something new that he hadn’t seen yet.
“Do you know who’s working on it? Please say its not Joe, he isn’t fit to fix a lawnmower engine.”
Greg laughed and nodded. “Yeah, its Joe. He’s the only one who could fit it in.”
Sam drained his drink in one swift movement. “Like hell that sorry excuse for a grease monkey is going to be getting his paws on those engines!” He made a quick exit towards the door with Greg following close behind, laughing.

He was almost there when someone stepped out in front of him. “Ssso. You think you can take my money and skip ahead in line at the bar and get away with it aye?” The words slurred out of the drunks mouth, clearly he had enough money to keep himself drinking.
“Take it up with the barkeep mate. Move, I got some place to be.” Sam said as he tried to dodge around him. Quicker then Sam expected the drunken man pulled a knife from his belt and slashed it at Sam. Sam jumped back and looked at him in shock as the drunk made to swing again. Just as he had raised the knife up Greg stepped forward and delivered a hard straight right punch to the drunks chin. The drunk crumpled to the ground, out cold with Greg standing over him.
“Holy shit man, I think you where right about cutting back on the gambling, some people are just bad losers.” Sam said between deep breaths. Greg looked back at Sam and his face fell, he pointed to Sam’s belly. “He got ya.”

Sam looked down at his shirt, blood was pouring down his belly from a long cut. Sam hadn’t even felt the blade hit him, and was surprised by the sight of his blood drooling out of him. Suddenly the pain burst through his shock and he let out a cry as he fell back against a table. Greg moved in and supported him while Sam put pressure on his belly. Sam tried to speak but the words just wouldn’t come out and Greg half carried him out the door.
“Its ok man, there’s a medic’s station in the base. Its not far from here, you can make it.” Together they stumbled out into the street and made their way towards the base.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

John took off his cap as he entered the hospital. He was here to visit a friend—a Lieutenant Daniel Zimmerman—who he had served with in the 101st. His jeep had gone over a land mine on a reconnaissance mission and he was in pretty bad shape. Zimmerman apparently had found out that he was stationed near the hospital he was staying in, and had asked to see him. Under any other circumstance, he would have been overjoyed to see his friend. Both of them were from New York, though he from Queens and Zimmerman from the Bronx. Both had enjoyed hunting, baseball, and football before the war. They both came from relatively wealthy families. It was no wonder that they became fast friends.

However John was apprehensive about meeting his friend because he realized that he may be near death. He hadn’t learned too many details, but he knew that a speedy recovery was out of the question. He was ashamed to admit it, but when he’d been transferred to the 3rd Infantry Division he had barely considered the fact that his comrades could die. It was something that was always in the back of his mind of course but he had a new unit, and new men under his command. It was his job to worry about them and not old friends. Besides he’d come to the conclusion that they were good men and they could take care of themselves.

Unfortunately the reality of war was that no matter how skilled you thought you were, no matter how much training you had, no matter how well-equipped you were—anything could happen. Anything. Of course you could heighten your senses and stay sharp, but those things only gave you more of a chance to survive. In John’s experience luck was all there was to it. No matter what he did he could be killed at any time. The only thing a soldier could do was his job. We’re all living on borrowed time anyway.

What had happened to him? Cheery bright-eyed Jack McCreary? What happened to the optimistic youth that led the football team and wanted to see the world? He had died in some field in France. Then he’d died again somewhere in Holland. War hadn’t taken his body yet but it’d taken his soul. He was no longer the man he was, the man he wanted to be. He was an empty shell, a killing machine whose only aim was survival. ‘Kill or be killed’ were the words he lived by.

John walked down the aisles of hospital beds, trying not to look at the wounded. However he could still feel the hollow eyes boring into his face, his back, the thin twill of his greenish fatigue uniform. Some of these men might never see home again. Did they envy him? Did they hate him? He’d never been seriously wounded and confined for a hospital bed for more than a few days. They were never enough to cause him to contemplate whether or not he’d live. But now that he thought of it, he preferred a quick death on the battlefield, no matter how grisly, to just waiting, waiting for it all to end.

He glanced over at a nurse holding the hand of a dying man. Next to them was a chaplain reciting a prayer. He could see the tears rolling down the kid’s cheek. He looked pale, gray. It wouldn’t be long now. The man began crying for his mother and John turned away quickly, his fists clenching momentarily. Kraut bastards, he thought, closing his eyes briefly and taking a deep breath to regain control. Self-control was important for an officer, no matter how trying the circumstance, he must always possess self-control—for morale, for efficiency, for victory. Even when he wasn’t in combat. He kept walking, keeping his electric blue eyes straight ahead. Something in his peripheral vision fazed him and he half-turned in surprise.

He spotted a pilot judging by the way he was dressed—with another man helping him enter the aid station. He raised a dark eyebrow in thought, trying to recall where he’d seen the injured man before. “Coller? Sam Coller?” he asked, recognizing the man from the base’s mess hall. His paratrooper boots swiftly crossed the floor and it was then that he realized how badly the man was injured. "We need a medic over here!" he called, raising his voice into the throng of medics and nurses rushing about the station.

( OOC: Sorry for power-playing a bit towards the end, I wasn't sure if you wanted them in the hospital yet. I can edit of course if this isn't the case. )

[Deleted]

(OOC: The Mess Hall…? Wishful thinking. Oh man I’m sorry about not replying to that, I spaced on it completely, if you want I can post to that too after I write this post?)

The walk seemed to take hours and Sam was losing blood quickly. One arm was wrapped around Greg for support while his other arm clutched at his stomach as if he was trying to hold his guts in. He didn’t know how bad the wound was, but he knew it wasn’t worth the wad of notes his had in his pocket. Strangely enough he found his mind drifting back to the hanger where the B-25 was still sitting, probably being molested by Joe the so-called mechanic, but every couple of steps he was forced back to the street they where walking along by the pain in his gut.

“You’ll be ok man, the base isn’t far off.” Greg kept repeating. Sam was looking up the street to see if the base was in sight yet, but he could barely see four meters in front of him. The further away things where the more blurred they became, a cold shiver ran down Sam’s back as the idea that be might actually die crossed his mind. His stomach gave a lurch and seemed to twist into a knot at the thought. He didn’t want to die yet, not like this; he wanted to die in the air, shot down by an enemy fighter. A true warriors death; there was no way he was going to die from some drunken losers knife.

“No need to worry man, we’re almost there.” Sam was grateful for Greg’s words but he was beginning to annoy him. He tried to tell him to stop saying he was going to be ok but all he could manage was a mumble. Why was speaking so hard all of a sudden? Maybe be was hurt worse then he thought, his vision was blurry and he was feeling quite woozy, it almost felt like he was floating. His footsteps became heavy and his feet where dragging, Greg hefted him up and took more of his weight as he continued ever onward.
“Tell me the specifications of the R-2600 Radial engines, come on man, and stay awake. Tell me the specs.”
Sam forced his mind to concentrate, the R-2600 specs? That was easy done.
“14-cylinder….” He began muttering, “supercharged… air-cooled… two-row…” He trailed off, he knew what Greg was doing, and he could hear the panic in his voice as he tried to keep Sam awake.

It was with a cry of victory that Greg passed through the gates of the base and dragged Sam into the aid station, the place was filled with medical personnel and wounded soldiers, many of whom would not make it through the night. They had barely gotten through the door when someone was calling out Sam’s name. He tried to raise his head but only managed to raise his eyes; he could just make out a person coming towards him, saying his name. As the man got closer his face came into focus, a name floated through his mind and linked to the face.
“Jack…” Sam groaned out. “Pushrod-actuated…” He was trying to tell Jack about the engine while Jack was calling for a medic. Sam had lost a lot of blood, where someone to go outside they would be able to easily follow the trail back to the bar where it had started.

The medics and nurses swarmed down upon him, taking Sam from Greg and laying him down onto a rolling bed. The place was packed and rather then moving him to an already crowded room they ripped open his shirt and examined the wound. The doctors started giving orders to the nurses.
“We’ve got a linear laceration to the abdomen, sever blood loss…” They rattled on while a nurse ran off to get the gear the doctors would need. All the while Sam was still trying to recite the specifications of the engines he so loved. The nurse came back with a field medics bag, the medic had generously loaded her the equipment. While she opened the bag and placed the contents onto a bench, the Medics and doctors where pressing down on Sam, trying to slow the loss of blood, one of the nurses checked Sam’s tag for his blood type and raced off to get a bag.

Greg was standing back running his fingers through his hair and watching helplessly. He looked at the man who had called over the medics; the one Sam had called Jack. Greg tried to explain what had happened.
“The drunk, he lost the game… Oh man, come on Sam. The drunken dude cut him for winning. All over a game.”
“We can’t use morphine, he’s lost too much blood.” One of the doctors said, as the nurse was about to give Sam a hit of morphine. The other nurse returned with a blood bag and needle, the doctor jabbed the needle into Sam’s arm and the nurse held the bag above him.
They managed to stop the bleeding and started to stitch him up, Sam had been awake the whole time, holding back most of the screams that wanted to burst out of him, and he was now watching the doctor’s stitch up his stomach. Greg had started to gag and raced off to find a place to throw up, he had never been able to watch people being put back together.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

“Yeah it’s me, your buddy Jack.” John replied with a smile. He was responsive—that at least was a good sign. Sam began speaking again, and at first John was worried because it initially sounded like gibberish to him, but then he realized that he was talking about some kind of machinery. “That’s right. Keep telling me about it, Sam.” Just then the medical personnel arrived and he stepped back to let them do their job, while keeping a close distance so he could see if everything was alright.

He looked over at Sam’s friend as he explained what had injured him. “Drunk guy…tell me do you remember what he looked like?” he asked. If he could get a decent description of Sam’s assailant, then maybe the MPs could catch that guy and bring him to justice. A man like that deserved to be punished, drunk or no, especially if Sam…

He couldn’t bring himself to consider the possibility of the man’s death. It angered him. There were tons of people dying on the field, and now they were dying when in reserve. Like there isn’t enough of this shit from Jerry. He listened in on the medics and nurses as they diagnosed Sam and began treating him. The other man had backed away and was looking extremely worried. John joined him after a while and watched as one of the doctors inserted an IV into Sam’s arm.

He’d never really ever been queasy over the sight of blood. He’d hunted wild deer and skinned rabbits for ages. He’d admit he had been taken aback the first time he saw a man get killed, but he’d recovered and moved on. He’d become numb to that sort of thing. If he ever survived this lousy war he wanted to go on to medical school and save lives to make up for the ones he’d taken. He didn’t regret a thing and he loved the Army, but he didn’t want to kill anymore. War was barbaric and senseless, there was no way around it.

He'd be so wrong to think otherwise. Before the war, even while he was still at West Point, he'd seen it as a way to achieve glory. He'd envied his father. Then he'd envied his best friend Frank when he was on Guadalcanal. He'd wanted to be there with him fighting the Japs, earning medals, saving the day. He'd thought it was all a grand comic book. And then the book had ended when Frank was killed. War was no joyride, he'd discovered. He'd found this out the hard way in Normandy.

After he'd realized that, he'd had to continually reassure himself that all this violence, all the killing, the bloodshed--all of it had a purpose. A meaning. It was for a better world. He encouraged his men to think the same way. It kept them calm, it kept them sane. They were fighting to preserve their nation as well as the world's freedom. And if they won, if they survived, maybe, just maybe he could live the rest of his life out in peace just like he wanted.

Would Sam have that chance? They all deserved that chance after all the hell and misery they’d gone through. He frowned in alarm when the doctors indicated that they couldn’t give him morphine. Without anything to dull the pain he could pass out… Suddenly Sam’s colleague ran away, looking awfully green as if he were going to throw up. John glanced after him sympathetically before his eyes returned to the scene in front of him. He could see Sam was struggling not to make any noise.

He tried to imagine himself in his position: having a needle and a thread poked in and out of you without any morphine. If it was him he'd probably be thrashing about like a madman and yelling insanely. All that pain with no respite. All that because of a single goddamn drunkard. A careless, angry, frustrated young man had cut up a man because of a game of cards. He was determined to find the guy and have him court-martialed. He'd dealt with guys like that before. A few drunken GIs had tried to lynch a German-born soldier in his unit once. He and the private had beaten back their attackers and emerged unscathed, but this just reinforced the fact that not everyone was that lucky.

He couldn't stand it anymore. Seeing how much pain he was in, John stepped forward without a thought. The war had changed him but he hadn’t lost all of his humanity. He knelt down next to the bedside, ignoring the stunned looks on the nurses' and medics’ faces. He had to help him help him to somehow keep his mind off the plane. Remembering the piece of machinery, John asked softly, “Tell me about that thing you were talking about before.” He thought back to a few moments before the doctors had started working on Sam, trying to recall what he’d said. “Pushrod-actuated…?”

( OOC: Oh yeah sure, no problem, man. Take your time. )

[Deleted]

Before Greg ran off to throw up he managed to give John a description of the drunken man, he also told him that he had knocked him out just before helping Sam to the aid station, it wasn’t long after that when Greg ran off to throw up. As a pilot he wasn’t use to seeing the blood and gore that a field soldier was, he was use to fighting from the air, never seeing the full effects of what his bombs and bullets did. In that way they where lucky, Sam and Greg, and all pilots for that matter. While they flew high above the death and horror, with Anti-aircraft guns as the only worry, the real soldiers where fighting and dieing in mass amounts on the ground.

But still the pilots served their purpose, there was one mission where Sam had flown a squad of special forced into enemy lines and his escorts had bombed half of the German front line before Sam made the drop, if it hadn’t of been for the planes the men would have had to leg it into battle and they would have faced a much greater force. But the pilots still rarely got to see in the medic’s tent, and the shock of seeing Sam cut up was just too much for Greg to handle.

Meanwhile a fresh blood bag was being hooked up and the drained one discarded, Sam’s vision was beginning to clear but all that did was let him see what the doctors where doing and feel the pain even more, he couldn’t stop the groan that rose up out of his throat. He wanted to pass out, he just wanted to jump into the darkness and leave the pain behind, but a voice cut through the pain. He snapped his head to the side and looked at John. Sam could barely remember where he had met him, but the man had a friendly face and was speaking to him, trying to get him to talk about something. “ “Pushrod-actuated…?” The engine! Of course, Sam had been trying to tell him about the engine, tell him or Greg, he couldn’t remember whom.

“It means…” Sam started talking between grunts of pain; he closed his eyes tight in an effort to force his mind to focus on the engine. “It means… the camshaft, is in the cylinder block… Uses rods to move… the poppet valves.” He looked down at the doctor who was trying to stitch him up; a nurse was wiping away the excess blood. He continued talking, trying not to think of someone pushing a sharp piece of metal through his skin.
“It also… is a simpler design… not so complex… no chains… smaller… best used for… high performance engines… like fighters…” He inhaled sharply and looked back at the doctor as he made the last stitch.

Greg made a reappearance, still looking green but not throwing up.
“Hows he going?” He asked to no one in particular. The doctors where beginning to clean up, washing the skin around the wound and applying gauze that was taped down to Sam’s belly. They would have to get him out of the blood soaked clothes and they started to wheel him away. As he was going Sam reached up and touched the nurse’s arm, “Can I get up?” She shook her head and took hold of his wrist, putting it back down onto the bed. Sam didn’t want to be lying in a hospital while the drunken bloke who cut him was probably wandering around free.

They wheeled him into a crowded room and put him against the far wall, hooked his blood bag up and left. Greg had followed and stood by his side.
“Greg, Jack’s a good bloke. Maybe the two of you could find the bloke who did this?”


(OOC: Is it against the rules for you to hang with Greg while Sam's healing... I didn't really think this through when I started it. Lol. I'll start a reply to Wishful thinking too... again I'm sorry about spacing on that.)

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

( OOC: I'm not sure XD. I guess we can just assume that they can? And no worries, man, take your time )

John nodded as Sam gave him the specifications of the machinery. He wasn’t sure at all what he was talking about, but he needed to keep him talking, and keep him focused on something other than his stomach. He’d watched men die, and he knew Sam wasn’t going to because he was thankfully taken to a medic soon enough after the injury, and he’d comforted them by trying to keep their mind off the situation at hand. The same went for any injured man. It was the least he could do to help him stay calm.

“High performance engines.” he repeated after Sam had spoken. So it was some sort of part of a plane. John knew virtually nothing about planes. Sure he knew how to identify German planes and Allied planes—most everyone knew that—but he was only good at fixing cars. His friend Tony from West Point had joined the Air Corps because he’d loved the prospect of flying. John preferred jumping out of planes to staying in them.

Sam’s friend had come back, and John glanced up at him before rising. “He should be fine. The doctors just finished the stitching.” he explained in a low tone. He looked down at Sam amusedly as the nurse kept him from getting up. “Hey take it easy, Sam, you’re lucky—you get to stay in bed for awhile with all these fine young ladies attending to you. She was quite a looker, too.” he joked with a grin, nodding over at the nurse as she left. That was pretty much the only good thing about the hospitals—the nurses and the fact that you were no longer on the front lines. He’d only been taken to a medical station once for a gunshot wound to the leg in Normandy and he was only there for a couple of days—hardly enough time for a romance.

He followed Greg and Sam into the room they’d wheeled him into. He watched as they hooked up another IV and listened quietly as Sam spoke to Greg. “I’d be more than willing to catch that guy. It’s what I had in mind from the beginning.” John stated affirmatively. He was by no means a strict disciplinarian, but he commanded respect from his men. And this was out of line. Whoever did this was certainly in for it.

He thought back to the description Greg had given him and mentally wrote it down. He had an excellent memory, something he prided himself on. It was something a soldier had to have. In battle you always had to keep your wits about you and make note of everything—the environment, the location, the scenery. In war you used everything you had to your advantage. He’d learned that lesson at West Point and again in Normandy. He’d been separated from his unit, like most paratroopers on that day, and had formed a small band of soldiers with troops from the 82nd and a few from his own platoon. The Germans had the numbers, the logistics, the firepower—everything was in their advantage. But John and his men had used hit and run tactics and had managed to cause some mischief—taking out Flak 88s and AA gun emplacements in the countryside.

It’d all been so beautiful. He’d been to France shortly before the war broke out, as a graduation present from his father. He’d only really seen Paris, and definitely not the Norman countryside of the Falaise. Little had he known at the time that in less than three years the whole country would be overrun by Krauts. He’d remembered hearing about the occupation of Paris on the news and it had angered him, despite not even being French. He’d vacationed there, which made him have a sort of connection to the city and to the country. He was a bit of a Francophile, enjoying learning about the language and reading the literature—Hugo was incidentally one of his favorite writers, though his favorite contemporary writer was Hemingway—and even though he’d enjoyed learning German as well, he wanted to fight them. He wanted to fight and kill as his father had during the Great War. Of course back he was young and inexperienced and had no idea what war was like. When he’d made his first combat jump he’d gotten a rude awakening: war was hell.

[Deleted]

Sam smiled at John’s response, he wanted to laugh but knew it would hurt too much. He tried to sit up but belly screamed at him to lie back down. He gave in to what his body was telling him and slumped back against the bed. He wanted to get up, he wanted to go out and find the bloke who cut him. Hopefully he was still unconscious from Greg’s punch or had only just woken up. Maybe someone at the pub had already called the MP’s and they where taking care of it? Who knows? Sam sure as hell didn’t.
What Sam did know was that John was right about the nurses. A busty young brunette with milky white skin came in and checked on Sam’s blood bag, they had only just hooked it up though, why would she need to be looking at it again? Then Sam saw the syringe in her hand.
“The doctor says you can have some morphine now, but it will only be a small dose. Ok?”
Sam’s face lit up and he nodded slowly to the nurse who put the needle into his belly around the wound. Almost instantly the pain dulled down to an annoying ache.

“Cheers love.” He said to the nurse as she left. Greg watched her go before turning back to Sam.
“Don’t worry mate, me and Jack will get him. You just take it easy.”
And with that Greg turned and left the room. He waited outside for John to follow. Once John came out Greg lead the way out of the aid station and into the street. He didn’t look at the ground cause he knew he would see a trail of blood; he didn’t need to follow it to know where he was going. On the walk he tried to start a conversation with John.
“So where did you meet Sam?” It was a simple question, but Greg knew from watching Sam that the simplest questions often got the best answered.

Greg and Sam had been flying together since joining; most of their first runs had been simple cargo transport, but that didn’t mean they where safe. On one of the runs they had been ambushed by a German fighter that was probably out looking for an easy kill. Thankfully Sam and Greg had been transporting a load of machine guns and a few soldiers. The soldiers where able to set up a machine gun out the exit hatch of the C-47, then Sam did a little fancy flying in order to get the German fighter onto the left side of the plane. All he had to do then was watch as the soldiers gunned down the fighter. They had been luck of course, if the German pilot had been expecting the cargo plane to fire back at him, he probably would have taken better evasive actions.
Since then they had dropped paratroopers into the field and flown some more cargo. Greg knew Sam was getting sick of the transport game, Sam wanted to go into battle, the “Ultimate Gamble” he called it. Damn Sam and his gambling.

Meanwhile back at the aid station Sam was looking around the room at the other patients. One man was missing a leg and had the stump wrapped in bloody bandages, he was out cold thankfully. Sam wouldn’t like to think of the noise he would be making if he had of been awake. In truth, Sam hated people who went on and on about their wounds. Sure it was painful, and sure losing a leg or other limb would be terrible, but wounds healed, and the loss of a leg would probably be a small price to pay to get out of the war early. Give a limb keep your life. Sam just hoped he wouldn’t be sent home for his cut. He shook his head at the thought; of course they wouldn’t send him home. People have been shot and blown up and been sent back in for more, they wouldn’t send him home for a scratch on the belly, no way.

A nurse came back in and gave the man with the missing leg an injection. So they where keeping him out cold? He wondered if it was at the mans request or if they where doing it just too keep him quite. Aside from the occasional cries of pain and discomfort, the room Sam was in was relatively quiet, most of the wounded people where either out cold or sedated enough to be able to deal with the pain. Sam had always been able to deal with pain well. His father had never shown any sympathy for his cuts or bruises when he was a kid and if he cried all his father said was “Toughen up Princess.” He felt a pain in his gut and chest as he thought of his father, who had died not too long ago. It still hurt to know that he wasn’t around, and Sam found himself using his healing time to think about his Mother and sister back home. Wondering how they where doing, what they where up too. He called out to the nurse and asked if he could get a pen and paper. If he was going to be stuck in the bed he may as well use the time for something.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

John nodded in agreement with Greg. “Yeah, you just relax and we’ll take care of that son of a bitch, don’t worry.” he assured the pilot. If the man was as drunk as they said, then he was probably passed out in some alley close to the bar. He certainly hoped he was, since he wasn’t in the mood for a repeat of the last time he’d disciplined a drunken GI. He’d ended up with a black eye and the drunkard was dragged out with a broken nose. He wasn’t keen on using violence unless it was necessary. The war had stripped him of his youthful romanticism of fighting. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to pick up a shotgun again.

He was about to leave with Greg when he remembered why he’d come here in the first place. “I’ll be right there, I have to take care of something.” he explained before re-entering the aid station. After some walking he finally found a nurse who wasn’t busy. “Excuse me, ma’am, could you relay a message to a patient named Daniel Zimmerman?”

“Certainly. What’s his rank?”

“Second lieutenant.” John answered, waiting patiently as the young woman looked through her medical files. He was suddenly struck by a wave of guilt. What if Daniel had died while he was talking to Sam? He’d never found out the soldier’s status, only that he ‘wasn’t looking good.’ He’d become disillusioned with the thought of death while at the front. He couldn’t dwell on it then, he was too busy worrying about his own survival. You didn’t think. You kept your head down and used your instincts. In the midst of battle man became an animal, resorting to the most barbaric means necessary to kill his fellow man. It was horrible, yes, but it was a reality.

Now that he was in reserve, he’d had time to think about all the things he’d done and seen. He’d had time to take stock of his life, and to think about all the comrades and friends he’d lost. He thought of home and his family, and often wondered what they’d been doing the past few months. He did, like many GIs, receive letters from his family, mostly from his mother and sister. They kept him posted on everything going on back home. It’d been two years since he’d seen home. Most of it had been spent in England training for Overlord, some had been spent in France and Holland. In the latter two countries he doubted whether or not he’d make it back alive.

Had he been scared? Of course. But he never showed it. He couldn’t. He was an officer, officers were to lead. Officers were to serve as examples to the enlisted men. They all were scared, but he was to be the voice of reason. His fear had been replaced by determination—determination to survive and to win. That was what allowed him to kill so easily, to become so cold and indifferent to the deaths of others. It was terrible, but it was necessary.

It felt so strange having such gruesome thoughts running through his mind so often. It felt even stranger that all he could think about was the war when he was in the presence of a perfectly beautiful woman. He used to be so outgoing in college, and now he just felt so…disconnected from everyone else. His letters to his family at first had been so full of optimism and youthful pride, but every time he went into combat he found it harder and harder to stay positive. What could he say to them? What could he say to anyone who hadn’t gone through what he had? Damn this war.

He noticed that the nurse was waiting for him to reply to a question she’d asked, and he racked his brains trying to recall what she’d said. He’d become so spaced out he hadn’t heard. It was a common trait of men like himself, men who’d seen death. His case wasn’t as bad as others. He’d seen men break down in the middle of battles, he’d seen officers cower under fire. He didn’t consider these men cowards, he considered them casualties. The war had killed them in a way. It had killed their souls, and it was slowly eating away at his own.

The nurse repeated her question politely and John’s eyes refocused. He’d been staring at the same spot on the wall for exactly fifteen seconds. “I’m sorry. Please tell him that I was going to visit him, but I had to deal with a disciplinary problem and I’ll be back to see him soon.” After thanking the nurse he rejoined Greg outside. He walked with him in silence until he asked him where he’d met Sam. “The mess hall. It wasn’t really all that long ago.” he replied after a while, sliding his hands in his pockets to keep warm. It was one of those late autumn days that was not quite chilly and not quite frigid. He’d thought about bringing gloves but had refrained, seeing as the medical station was only a few minutes from the officers’ barracks.

“What about you?” he asked out of curiosity. From what he could tell, the two seemed pretty close. Greg had looked awfully worried about Sam’s condition, and once one was accustomed to seeing death and destruction, that was a rare thing unless the wounded man was your buddy. He’d seen lots of soldiers die. He made an effort to remember each and every one under his own command who had been killed in action. It was hard not to—he was the one writing the letters home to their families. He’d loved writing—always had since he was a child—and yet every time he sat down to write those letters to those men’s ( and sometimes boys’ ) parents or wives, he had no idea what to say. How does one tell someone that their son or husband won’t be coming back? It was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. Yes, writing those letters was even harder than killing other human beings.

“We’ll probably be able to get there faster by jeep. Mine’s parked over at the company garage that way.” John suggested, pointing towards the garage.

[Deleted]

The mess hall? Of course, Sam often met people on his Victory Dinner’s after an all night game and he always sat with people, not to gloat about his victory or count out how much he had won in front of them, but just for the company.
What about you? Greg inhaled slowly, thinking of his friend lying in a hospital bed with a cut across his gut.
“I’ve known Sam for years, we’ve been flying together since all this started.” He waved his hand about in the air, as if with that meagre gesture he could indicate the whole of the war. “We’ve rarely been separated, always looking out for each other, always keeping an eye on each others back.” Greg was clearly shaken by the whole ordeal, pilots weren’t meant to be stabbed, they weren’t meant to be in hand to hand combat, they were meant to descend from the clouds on wings of fire like the fallen angels they were.

Greg barely heard John when he said he had a jeep, his mind was flashing through the years that he and Sam had spent together and he found himself wondering if they would still be as close after the war, or if being in the mere presence of each other would only bring up painful memories. Yes, even Pilots had those. No doubt they were trivial and more like dreams compared to the memories ground troops would have, but they would be painful nonetheless. The words a jeep finally made it through his thoughts and realised that while John had veered off and made his towards the waiting jeep, Greg had still been going straight. He corrected his course and picked up his pace until he was walking next to John again. He followed him to the jeep and climbed into the passenger seat.

Sam stared at the blank sheet of paper, wondering what he should write. It had been a while since he had written home; he hadn’t sent anything off since he had received the letter about his fathers passing. He truly didn’t know what to write, his mind was blank and numb, probably from the morphine the nurse had finally given him. So he sat there, looking at the sheet of paper, the whiteness of it somehow comforted him. It was clean and smooth, no creases along it, no ink splotches or any other for of imperfection. He smiled to himself, the morphine must be kicking in; he was admiring a piece of paper! Strange, Sam thought she had only given him a small dose, only enough to relieve the pain in his stomach, yet his arms had a tingly feeling when he moved them, as if they weren’t really a part of him. How could he be so detached from his own limbs?

Panic started to rise in him as he thought that the nurse might have overdosed him, he had lost a lot of blood and maybe…. That was it…. He had lost blood. He looked up at the blood bag that hung over his head, watching it slowly draining down into his arm, he had lost blood, that was why the low dose seemed to be so high. He relaxed back into his pillow. Forgetting that he had wanted to write a letter.

(Sorry for the short post… bit brain dead at the moment.)

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

( OOC: Looks great to me. Sorry it took so long to reply to Wishful Thinking, I've had really bad writer's block lately. )

John nodded silently when Greg explained that he’d known Sam since the beginning. He knew what he meant by them watching each other’s backs. He’d had a few friends like that when he was in the Airborne—Zimmerman was one of them. If he had a penny for every time he’d saved Zimmerman’s life and vice versa, they’d both be rich. They’d first met at Fort Benning, Georgia after John had graduated from Infantry School. He’d requested transfer to Jump School for parachute training and had met Daniel at the Officers’ Club. The two met up in Normandy and led a small band of paratroopers in blowing up some AA guns and engaged a large force of Germans defending St. Mere-Eglise. They’d fought together at Carentan and in Holland.

They’d bonded over simple stuff too. Daniel had kept a pinup poster of Rita Hayworth in his foot locker and was always bragging to all the other junior officers that he’d marry her after the war. He and Daniel had been the biggest Yankee fans among the officers. One of the other officers, Lieutenant Steven York, was from Boston, and naturally the three of them had always gotten into heated arguments over which team was the best. At one point the argument had escalated to a challenge: New Yorkers vs. Bostonians in a baseball match. Daniel had been a star hitter when he was in college, and had helped lead the New Yorkers to victory.

As he remembered all these things about his friend, he realized that Daniel Zimmerman might die. Happy go lucky, boisterous, fun loving Zimmerman might die. He’d gotten used to loss, but he hadn’t expected to have to deal with it again right after transferring from his old unit. When he had been in combat he hadn’t really considered the fact that his closest friends as well as himself might die—yes, he’d always been aware of it in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t dwell on it then. He couldn’t dwell on anything—not imminent death, not how many men he had killed, not all the destruction of human life he’d seen all around him. Instinct took over feeling in combat.

He knew he was being silly—he didn’t know the man’s status. All he could do was hope for the best. When was this all going to end? Why didn’t the Krauts just surrender? Hell, why didn’t the Japs just surrender? Even if the war in Europe ended he’d probably get shipped off to the Pacific along with everyone else. That’s if he even made it out of Europe alive. He just wanted this all to be over and done with. He wanted to go home.

Would everything be the same if he got back? Would he be the same? No, no I’ll never be the same. Once you step on a battlefield for the first time it changes you forever. He’d never look at life the same way again. He’d never look at death the same way again. People would ask him about his experiences during the war and he didn’t know if he’d be able to tell them. If he did get out of this he wanted to forget, he wanted to move on and get on with his life. But he knew that was futile—he’d never forget. No matter what he did he’d never forget. He couldn’t. He take all he’d seen and done here to the day he died. No one back home could ever comprehend what he’d been through. He’d seen the propaganda, he’d even listened to some of it on the radio. War was nothing like what they thought it was.

John settled himself into the driver’s seat of the jeep and keyed the ignition. Backing out of the garage he made his way onto the main road that left the base. As he drove he asked Greg, “Where’s this bar you were at?” He figured they could pick up some of the MPs at the checkpoint ahead so they could intercept Sam’s assailant. Hopefully the guy hadn’t gotten too far.

[Deleted]

(Hey man, no stress here. Take your time with it.)

A nurse walked into the room to examine another wounded solider and Sam caught her attention.
“When can I get out of here?” He said groggily, his morphine soaked mind was back at the hanger, where he was sure that Joe was butchering the beautiful B-25 with her R-2600 engines. Damn that Joe, how many times had Sam had to go over his work and fix it up? He shouldn’t be in the hanger; he wasn’t even fit to fix a lawnmower. How could he be trusted to work on engines that would have to keep a planeload of people in the air? Criminal is what it was, he was so distracted that he almost didn’t hear the nurse’s reply.
“We’re going to give you some more blood and some antibiotics to fight off any infection. You should be able to leave sometime tomorrow morning if it’s urgent, but we would like to keep you here a few days.”
TOMORROW MORNING!?
That was not good enough for Sam.

Using his poker skills he hid his frustration from the nurse and nodded to her before resting his head back on the pillow. He was angrier about not being able to work on the plane then he was about being cut, the rage cleared his mind and he tried to sit up. His belly screamed at him to lie back down and he obeyed it immediately, letting out a small groan of defeat. He would have no choice but to wait for it to heal. He had only been lying here for a few minutes and already he wanted to leave and get back to work. Damn Joe to hell if he messed up those engines.

Meanwhile out in the car Greg was finding it hard to sit still. His leg was bouncing in anticipation; he wanted to know if the drunken knifeman was still in the bar. Silently he urged the jeep to go faster as they reversed out and pulled onto the road. John asked where the bar was, and Greg had to actually think about it for a second. “It’s called Dropkick Murphy, it’s not far off; when you leave the base head left then take the second right. It’s halfway up the block.” Greg was about to add, ”Just follow the trail of blood.” but decided not too. It was a trail of his friend’s blood who was now lying in a hospital bed with a massive slash across his gut.

He looked at the MP’s as they drew up to the checkpoint and waited patiently until they climbed into the back of the jeep. This was getting good, the drunken bloke wouldn’t be able to fight off John and himself let alone two extra MP’s, this guy was going to get messed up. As they continued down the road Greg repeated the directions as they came to the corners, not that he didn’t trust John to remember the simple directions, but he was just anxious to get there, as they travelled.

Once they had pulled up outside Greg climbed out of the jeep and almost marched over to the door, he waited till John and the MP’s were with him before pushing it open and stepping inside. The first place he looked was where the drunken bloke had been on the floor after Greg’s punch. Unfortunately he was not there. He peered around the pub, he didn’t know how this investigation stuff worked and didn’t know wether John and the MP’s had specific questions to ask people in order to find things out, so rather then jumping the gun and treading on toes he just scanned the faces of the patrons, until with a disappointed sigh, he discovered that he wasn’t there.


(Sorry If I god-modded anything, just wanted to move things along. You can put in how we find out where he is if you want. I was thinking he could have left just before we got there and we can chase him down in the street?)

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

John drove the vehicle at a brisk pace—fast but not too fast. He’d been branded a reckless driver by both of his parents as well as his older brother, but it had come in handy not too long ago after an air raid on the base. It’d been costly on both resources and men, the latter more so, and it led him to once again consider the shortness of human life. Roger Allen, the brave private who’d taken control of the machine gun in the back of the Willys Jeep he’d commandeered, had been killed in action during a strafing run. He would have turned nineteen two weeks after the ordeal. He hated war. He hated it with a passion. It took away men and boys from their homes and sent them to die in lands half a world away. He knew what they were doing was necessary, but they had never asked for a fight. They had all come over here to do their bit to end this mess the Germans had started. He didn’t hate the German people, but he despised their regime. He hated the Wehrmacht, the SS, the whole damn lot of them for invading Poland. To a degree he had to see them as the vile monsters the press portrayed them as. How else could he live with himself after killing human beings?

He nodded when Greg gave him the directions to the pub. He’d never heard of it—he wasn’t one to refuse a drink now and then, but he’d chose to spend most of his time on base, training his men and running through tactics. It had surprised him that he had such a mind for the planning stages of operations, and how cool and collected he could be under fire. He’d always loved challenges to the mind, and strategic planning was one of them. Of course when the bullets actually started flying, everything was different, but thanks to the training he’d received he was able to conduct himself accordingly.

His hands gripped the wheel tightly in anticipation. To be frank, he was pissed. The man had been drunk but trying to kill someone over a poker game was inexcusable. Sam was on liberty. It was naïve for him to think so, but when a serviceman was away from the front, he should be able to relax without fear of danger. They’d lost enough men in battle, that’s why it had upset him so much when Sam had been wounded. Even here the bleeding won’t stop. He’d see to it that that swine who’d cut him got exactly what was coming to him. Odds are he still had the knife, but he was confident that the two of them and the MPs could disarm him, and if push came to shove he still had his Colt with him.

They stopped at the checkpoint briefly and the MPs saluted to John. He saluted back and began, “A man at the medical station was wounded by a drunken GI over at Dropkick Murphy. We’re on our way to apprehend him and we’d greatly appreciate your assistance.” The MPs responded affirmatively and two of them climbed into the back seat of the Jeep. John started up the engine again and continued driving. He wanted to hurt that man and make him pay for what he’d done. It was an unhealthy way of thinking but he wanted retribution. The man had nearly killed a comrade, it was deplorable. He’d ensure that he got at least a court martial.

John hit the brakes and pulled up in an empty spot outside the pub, shutting down the engine and clambering out of the jeep. His paratrooper boots landed with a thud and he and the MPs followed Greg to the door. The pilot had entered the bar and was doing a systematic sweep of the room for the perpetrator. John followed suit, carefully seeking the face of the man who fit the description that Greg had given him. He couldn’t see anyone who resembled the man, and he glanced over at Greg to see if he’d had any luck. His expression and countenance indicated that he hadn’t. He turned to the MPs. “Check the perimeter for a man with…” He proceeded to give them a detailed description before waving them off. “Let’s check the surrounding blocks. I don’t think he couldn’t have gotten too far if he was that intoxicated.” He knew from experience. He’d been drunk before, and his friends had driven him home while he was sleeping like a baby in the backseat. He was about to step out the door when he heard a distinct yell.

“You! Stop!”

He heard a gunshot and he ran outside, crouching down behind a barrel next to the entrance. One of the MPs was lying on the ground wrapping a handkerchief around his arm and the other was taking cover in the doorway. “Where is he?” John demanded furiously.

“It came from across the street. He just started running down the next block.” the wounded one answered.

John nodded and looked at the other MP. “Take this man back to base.”

“Sir, it just grazed me. I’m fine.” The man tried to smile but winced in pain.

He could tell the man was lying, and he shook his head. “Without proper treatment you’ll bleed out. Take my jeep, Greg and I will take care of this guy.” Without waiting for them to reply, he rushed after the assailant, ducking quickly into a doorway as the man turned around and fired.

( OOC: This okay? Thought I'd make things even more interesting by giving him a weapon XD. )

[Deleted]

(No.. .its not Okay. Its awesome! Hahaha, I love shoot outs!)

How could he have gotten away? The bloke was out could from a punch in the face, Greg’s hand still hurt from it so the guys head should still be on the floor trying to find the brain and reconnect everything. Greg turned on the barkeep, striding up to the bar and slamming his hand down onto the counter.
“You let him go?!” Greg shouted, his anger obvious. The barman shook his head and was about to speak but Greg cut in again.
“How could you just let him go? He cut up my mate and you just let him pick himself up and walk out of here?”
“We threw him out, okay!” The barkeep retorted, slamming his own fists onto the counter top, it was a useless show of violence that accomplished nothing other then a sore hand, but the men didn’t care, it was what they did.

Maybe that was how the whole war thing started. Way back when man was more of a monkey and the most advanced weapon was a big heavy stick. Shouting and screeching at the other monkeys never worked cause that could go on for hours. Why waist time when you could just bash him with your sick and be done with it? Of course, someone always had a bigger stick.

Greg turned and started making his way back to John when the shot rang out. Instantly John was out the door, and Greg and everyone else in the pub was on the ground, some covering their heads while others just huddled together, waiting for more shots to come, waiting for a gunfight to break out. Greg crawled forward on his belly, he might have been a pilot, but he had done basic combat training. Plus, he had a pistol of his own, and it was in his hand as he reached the door and pushed it open, peeking out into the street to see what was happening.

He could hear the conversation between John and the MP’s. Great, they had brought back up and now they were being sent away. Still, a bullet wound would hurt. Greg continued listening until he could hear the MP’s moving off, he heard John move up then crawled out of the doorway, taking up his old place behind the barrel. Greg’s heart was racing, his eyes were wider then ever before and he could see everything in the sharpest detail. Is this what it was like to be a ground trooper? To be a real soldier trading fire with the enemy? Of course it wasn’t, but to Greg it was the most frightening and exciting time of his life so far. He heard John send off a retaliation round towards a doorway and guessed that was where the gunmen was. He seemed to be a pretty good shot for someone so drunk, maybe the punch in the head knocked some sense into him.

Greg knew how to leapfrog, one covering the other as they advanced, and Greg guessed that it was his turn to advance. He loaded a round into the chamber of his pistol and came around the barrel, keeping his head low as he sprinted past the doorway where John was and found cover behind a parked car. He slammed into the side of it, knocking the wind out of himself and blind fired two shots towards the door across the street. Lets face it, Greg was no ground soldier, all he had was the basic training given to him when he first joined up, the rest of the time he spent in the air. He had never known combat like the soldiers did. But he had heard them talking about it and this was nothing like what they had said. They would laugh and say how they dropped a stupid German who had poked his head out too far and that they overran the enemy, charging through machine gun fire and fragging a dumb jerry, it was all fun and games the way they talked about it.

Greg wanted to give John some more cover to move up, he was the soldier here, he would know how to best deal with this. Greg popped his pistol up over the hood of the car and fired another two shots, wishing he had the balls to poke his head up, but was glad that he didn’t as the shooter returned fire, the bullets ripping into the metal skin of the car and ricocheting about inside the hood. Greg thought of Sam at that moment, thinking that Sam would hate Greg for hiding behind the cars hood and putting the engine in danger, as he thought that, he started laughing, he couldn’t help it, it wasn’t hysterical or panicked laughter, it was easy laughter. As if Greg couldn’t think of anywhere else to be in the world.

[2nd Lt. John P. McCreary]

John stayed put in the doorway, counting off the shots the man was firing in order to predict when he’d reload. It was a 1911 Colt, same as his, which had a seven round magazine, and this guy wasn’t very careful with conserving his ammo. While training in England back in late ’42, he had had to familiarize himself with the sounds of common weapons: both American and German as well as some British, in order to be able to identify friend from foe. He’d had to memorize how many rounds it took for firearms to reload, as that was a signal as to when and when not to move. As soon as the man had fired the seventh round, John sprinted to the other side of the street and fired off three rounds to keep him suppressed. By this time the man had reloaded and was firing rapidly again. He had surprisingly good aim for a drunk guy.

The man was slowly moving down the street while he and Greg were taking cover, and John steadily followed, ducking into doorways or alleys in order to avoid the bullets flying all over the place. Unlike some soldiers, his mind was in a state of calm during combat. As soon as that man had started firing, his brain shifted to combat mode. His heart was pumping rapidly and he could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. This was his element. He didn’t know why he was so relaxed he just…was. This was his job, this was what he was paid for—to fight. He viewed it as any other job, like a carpenter or a factory worker did his very best and took pride in his work, so did he. It may have sounded harrowing but it was true. This wasn’t exactly the same as a real battle but the feeling was there, the sense of duty, the silent resolve to succeed.

He crawled forward a little to get a feel for their battlefield of sorts. There were some cars parked along the streets, which would make excellent cover if needed. There were plenty of houses along the street, and alleyways that the perpetrator could attempt to escape through. He saw movement up ahead in one of the doorways, and then a gunshot. He retreated quickly behind the wall of the building he was taking refuge behind. He glanced backward briefly to see how Greg was holding up. The pilot was behind a car, returning fire with his own pistol. He could tell the man wasn’t used to this, and he knew that he needed to end this quickly before someone was wounded or killed—after all, they were in a town, and although the civilians were wisely staying inside, he didn’t want to take any chances. If there was anything that broke through the walls he built around his heart as a result of this war, it was civilian casualties. They hadn’t asked for any of this. Every time he saw a dead woman or child he thought of his own family and friends back home, and remembered how lucky he was that the war wasn’t being waged on American soil.

John loaded a magazine into his Colt and waited. The man was playing it safe, staying in cover. Perhaps he was sobering up a little. However even if that were the case that was no reason for him to let his guard down. Just like him the man was waiting for his opponent to make a mistake so that he could go in for the kill. He’d been in situations like this before in real combat. In Normandy it had happened in the hedgerows several times at night. He couldn’t see his foe, but he’d used sound, movement, and muzzle flashes in order to spot his target. In combat you had to use all of your senses, you couldn’t rely on eyes alone.

He gritted his teeth and picked up a stone lying at his feet. He tested its weight before lobbing it into the street. Seven more shots rang out, and he got a good look at their man. He was average height, scruffy looking, and most importantly, was exactly three houses away on the other side the street. He motioned over to Greg, who was still behind the parked car, and was about to give a hand signal when he remembered that he was a pilot, and he may not have known them. Instead he spoke. “Enemy sighted just ahead, other side of the street.” He kept his voice low, even though he doubted that the man could hear them. He didn’t want to give away their plan. He raised a fist, pointing slightly toward that area. “Keep up the fire and I’ll move up and get him.” he instructed simply. What they would do was in essence firing and maneuvering, a relatively uncomplicated operation. One person fired on the enemy, effectively providing suppressive fire, while the other either moved up or flanked him. Their ‘enemy’ was outnumbered and John also had a feeling that he was frightened, otherwise he wouldn’t be running from them. He also knew that people who were frightened were more prone to make mistakes. Add in the fact that the guy was drunk and even more mistakes could be made. This man was watching the front, and not his rear, therefore, John was going to sneak up on him from that direction. Hopefully then the man would give up. Regardless of how angry he’d been ( and still was ), he didn’t want any blood on his hands today, especially that of a GI.

[Deleted]

Greg was firing just as badly as the drunken soldier. He still hadn’t found his balls so he could raise his head above the hood of the car. Instead his pistol popped up again and he emptied the clip in the general direction of his target. He was still pulling the trigger before he realised he was out of ammo. He pulled a fresh clip from his belt and reloaded before firing two more shots over the hood of the car. He looked around to see where John was and spotted him moving up to a better spot. Greg heard that the shooter had changed targets, simply because the bullets weren’t hitting the car anymore.

Without thinking Greg moved further down the car and peered over the front door, looking through the windows to try and see where the shots were coming from. It was hard to see though the dark glass, but the flash from the pistol the drunken soldier had stood out more then enough for Greg to notice it. He felt a rush at seeing his enemy, like when a break in the clouds reveals the shape of an enemy fighter. Now all Greg had to do was bring his nose around and open fire. Wait, no, this isn’t areal combat. This was ground fighting, and Greg returned to the hood of the car and took aim at the doorway where his enemy was hiding, he fired off two rounds, these hitting the wall next to his target. Now that he was aiming properly, his shots would hopefully become more accurate. At least he would be, but the drunk returned fire and Greg lost his nerve, ducking down and blind firing again.

He looked over to John and was instantly jealous. The soldier looked calm and in control. Greg didn’t want to think about how he looked, probably panicked. This wasn’t his element, he wasn’t a foot solider, but by god he was giving it a go. He looked at John as he started making hand gestures, did the man want a game of charades? What was he doing? Then he heard John speak, giving orders, his voice calm and smooth, a voice that men could follow. And Greg obeyed without question, simple enough instructions, keep up the fire, that’s all Greg had too do.

He took a deep breath and steadied his hand; he didn’t need to be accurate, just needed to keep the guys attention on him, just needed to make sure that the guy kept shooting at him. A cold shiver ran up Greg’s spine as he realised that he was bait. Most of the time, the bait got messed up. He froze up for a second, trying to wrap his mind around actually wanting to have someone trying to shoot him. The his mind cleared as he thought of the manoeuvres he and Sam had done, when Sam had flow in low and drawn an enemy fighter down onto him, using evasive actions to distract the enemy pilot while Greg dropped down behind him and shot him down. This is just like that, simple distractions, Greg didn’t have to get hit to distract him. He put his pistol up and blind fired a shot, he had a better idea of where the guy was now so his shots would be a little closer then before.

Meanwhile, Sam was still lying in the hospital, his mind wandering through gaskets and gadgets and components of engines when there was a hustle in the corridor, the nurse in the room rushed out and he could hear people speaking. He couldn’t hear much of what was said, but he caught bits of the doctor saying, “…Gunshot wound to the arm… nicked the bone…” and someone else who seemed to be quite angry. “… Snuck up on us! Shot him and ran off!” Sam was wondering what had happened, he didn’t like this injury with his; it couldn’t have been the same guy, right? Sam had been stabbed, not shot. This must be something else. Still, he was curious to know what had happened.