I'm trying my hardest to keep a monthly release schedule, but holidays, family, work, is not always a great combination.
I'd like to thank Lastman for the edits like always.
--
The Chinese had finally withdrawn, allowing the Americans and their French allies a deserved rest. It was a short pause, because they immediately shifted their mission to casualty support operations. Men were pulled from foxholes, dead, alive, or too petrified in fear to readily identify a difference. The severely wounded were carried by helicopter to transport them to the rear for desperately needed medical care. Triage was established to stabilize the ones whose wounds were not immediately life threatening. Lastly, the dead were collected and lined up.
Lieutenant Hugo Arsenault was amongst the officers tasking men and assuring the wounded were found quickly. Hugo carried men himself. He dressed wounds. His uniform was soiled with sweat and blood after twelve hours of work without rest. Many French officers could never be lowered to such a task. These were no average Frenchmen. The French Battalion was all volunteers. The officers fought and bled with their men and their American allies. General Ridgeway and already spoken highly of these men, stating they had proven themselves the greatest soldiers in their national history.
At first the wounded were being pulled out by the dozen, but after half a day, that number was trickling down to only three in the last hour. Hugo relayed to his men it was time to start collecting the dead, and to move any survivor they happen upon. By the day's end the soldiers were amazed how low their casualty count was. The wounded were in the hundreds, but the deaths were only fifty-two. Dozens were missing, but everyone knew some would never be found. A direct hit from artillery rarely ever left much to be identified. Birds, bugs, and beasts had already begun to feast on the over one thousand Chinese dead. Their corpses littered the battlefield, dead to a ratio of twenty for every one they killed. The Chinese seemed to be keeping to their ancient tradition, hoping they had more bodies than the enemies had bullets.
Hugo pulled identification tags and tied them around the big toes of the dead. They were covered in a small sheet or blanket to offer the smallest protection for the elements, and to preserve some dignity. He pulled the blanket off the face of a man, more a boy, and saw his tags were destroyed. Shrapnel had butchered his torso. Shards from the size of razorblades to baseballs had stuck into his chest and stomach. Hugo only prayed the boy died instantly.
Hugo searched his pockets to hopefully identify him. In his right pocket he found a tin case for cigarettes with seven remaining. In his left pocket he found a deck of playing cards. The cards featured pinup girls in various poses wearing revealing feminine styles of military uniforms. Some even had revealed breasts and the beginning curve of pelvic regions. He slipped the cards back into his pocket but kept the cigarettes.
He marked the blanket best he could to show the body couldn't be identified as is. Perhaps someone would recognize his face, frozen in the shock of sudden death, but still untouched from what killed him.
Taking a cigarette, he crouched down to light it with a match, forming his body in a ball to protect the flame from the wind. Once lit, he inhaled deeply and looked down at the face once more.
"Repose en paix." The boy's eyes burst open, and the Frenchman jumped back in shock. "Merde!"
The boy shot up to a seated position, breathing erratically, before falling to his back in agony. He screamed in pain and tried to hold his chest and groaned as he felt the sharp pieces of metal protruding.
"Medecin! Medecin!"
Americans heard Hugo's cries but were confused as to his request. Hugo tried to think of the words he needed in English.
"Survive! Survive!" he shouted. "Doctor! Doctor! Help!"
"Get a truck ready, one of the stiffs is still breathing!" An American shouted, and suddenly the area was swirling with activity. A combat medic ran over and knelt next to the soldier. He couldn't believe the extent of his injures. At first, he believed it was a death rattle. Those final spasms and twitches before rigor mortis sunk in. Unless the dead tried to pull shrapnel out of their body while men held him down, this boy was still amongst the living. He thrashed about, landed closed fisted blows to several of his fellow soldiers. "For fucks sake, stop before you make it worse!"
"Shut up!" the boy shouted.
"What?"
"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"
"Weren't not even talking to you..."
"...don't bother, he's snapped. Shell shocked."
The boy pushed his palms against his ears and gritted his teeth. Besides the normal sounds of running engines and the breeze, there was no sound causing such a response. He acted like he was under the muzzle of a machinegun.
The medic opened his kit and removed the morphine syrette. He pulled up the boy's shirt and injected him in the stomach after pinching it to loosen his skin. He then pinned the small tube, so the MASH knew he had already been medicated. Morphine didn't work immediately, but it gradually stripped him of his fight.
"Jesus, finally," the soldier holding his shoulders said. "How the hell is this guy alive?"
"You just said it. Jesus. Guys got a guardian angel somewhere."
"What are you doing here, little girl?" the boy mumbled, as the morphine clouded his mind.
"Morphine's kicking in. Wrap what we can. We'll get a helicopter and get him to the MASH."
The boy was evacuated to the landing zone as carefully as possible. As the medic tended to him, the boy kept babbling as if in a fever dream. His eyes were fixed to thin air. There was no little girl. The fact she wasn't there didn't stop him from reaching out to her.
--
Timothy's companion from his previous night's escapades had departed before he woke up. She left no note, and true to his routine, he couldn't recall her name. Thankfully it didn't appear she stole anything either. They both knew last night was only casual fun. Forgotten as quickly as a dandelion blown into the wind.
He stretched himself loose, immediately noticing that unlike the morning, he wasn't soaked in sweat. The room was cheap, but at least the air conditioning worked. The digital clock on the nightstand told him he slept longer than he intended to. He owed his exhaustion to the events of the previous evening. It was almost ten in the morning.
"Damn," he said aloud.
"She left hours ago," the girl said, sitting on the chair next to the television. Timothy turned to her and sat up slowly. "She stole the Jeep."
"What?" Timothy asked. He leaned over the edge of the bed and picked up his pants from the floor. She missed his wallet, but the keys to the Jeep were gone. Timothy grabbed the pillow and shoved it into his face. "Fuck!"
"Looks like you're walking."
"Why didn't you wake me up?"
"I'm not a clock. I can be. It would get dreadfully annoying though," she said. She then made continuous clicking noises with her tongue, creating the sound of a ticking clock with two notes.
"Please stop."
Tick, toc. Tick toc. Tick toc.
"Alright, stop!" Timothy shouted, throwing the pillow at her. It landed on the chair, and the girl appeared to teleport, sitting cross legged on the small table next to the window.
