âThatâs probably for the best,â Sinclair replied, her voice uncharacteristically soft, caring. There was really no explanation for the empathy that the blonde was showing, nor the rich ripples of concern that invaded through her stomach each time she considered the amount of pain that the younger woman must have been experiencing; and no spare doctors to attend to her battle wounds. âMoving it could further damage any injured muscles or nerves.â
Something stirred within the officer â a fragment of one of her reoccurring nightmares, one that felt more like a memory than a dream. The image of a young recruit, his brown uniform splotched with dark crimson. His eyes were haunted as his friendsâ ghosts lingered. Sweat beaded, pouring from every pore, Sinclair bit down tightly. âPrivate, you need to let me wrap your shoulder. Moving it could further damage any injured muscles or nerves,â she spoke firmly, but her own voice was shaky, shadowed by the auxiliary noise, the shaking of the earth as tanks and bombs met face to face. Theyâd been here for too long. For weeks now. The Argonne Forest was once a beautiful region of France, Sinclair had visited once as a child. But now, the grounds were dyed by the dying soldiers. She carefully extracted the young privateâs arm, ripping the bottom of her brown jacket to serve as a makeshift splint; medical supplies were far and few these days. âI have to, I have to go back, I have to get to Berthelot,â the private cried, his fingernails clawing into the trench wall. âWe have to take care of you,â Sinclair urged, using a firm hand to hold him in place, in face of his heartbreak.
âWe have to take care of you,â Sinclair voiced aloud, the image of the private flickering back to the young girl as the hospital settled around her and the battlefield vanished. The cries of pain and the barked orders from doctor to nurse was still reminiscent of the trenches. The blonde flinched, her eyes shutting for a moment as she attempted to ground herself in the here and now.
Lightly ghosting her fingers over the injured arm presented to her, Sinclair found that the injury was nowhere as urgent as Private Mathiasâs was; the man from her dream, not memory. Sure, he felt real. And sure she knew things like he later died due to putting his rifle in his mouth, a note scribbled hastily, addressing her. And sure, she remembered bringing his dog tags back home to his mother, whose despair felt as deeply as her own. But, they were just nightmares.
âJust keep your arm in that position, supporting it with your other arm,â Sinclair guided as she leaned over the girl, placing a triangular bandage across her chest. âWhatâs your name?â Talking was important, she needed to keep the conversation flowing.Â