The situation looked bleak, at least that’s as much as Eugene had been told when it was first mentioned that Easy was going to be sent out on a recovery mission to assess just how bad a tank had gone down at the crossroads the night before. While Eugene didn’t know too much about tank units as a whole, the idea of one being sent out on its own wasn’t something he had normally heard of happening, so he was wondering what had caused this tank to think they could take on an entire battalion of SS on its own.
The truck was loaded with a sufficient amount of men just in case they ran into any trouble, Eugene sitting at the end next to Heffron, his gaze focused on the dust that the tires spat out as they moved quickly across the white gravel. And while some men fell silent, contemplating just how long this was going to go on, others like Luz and Perconte kept their thoughts on everything but in a way to somehow displace themselves from the reality they found themselves in.
“Hey Gene, what’cha think’s gonna be out there?”
Babe’s voice broke the medic from his trance, dark hues moving from the road over to the man who sat beside him, brow furrowing as he contemplated the question. Truth was, the medic had no idea what to expect. But what was even scarier to him was the fact that nothing could surprise him anymore. He’d seen far too many horrors for this one lifetime and was just hoping that God would be nicer to him in the next, and let him have nothing but a calm peaceful life to make up for this one.
As the tank came into view in the horizon, the conversations that filled the truck fell silent, each man leaning in whatever way he could to somehow get a better view of the wreckage. Whispers began to move around when the bodies came into view, the smell of death filling the air shortly after, and Eugene couldn’t help but wonder just how many of them still were clinging to life.
When the truck stopped, the men were quick to grab their rifles and move out, the medic following in the middle on account of him not having a weapon. And as they moved through the bodies, Liebgott was quick to assess the situation with a quick, “Christ, they’re all SS.”
Moving to the tank, Sisk was in front of Gene, rifle at the ready as he threw open the hatch to see what remained inside. And as the stench filled his nostrils, he coughed before looking over to the medic momentarily before dropping down into the tank to see if there were any survivors. It only took him a moment before he desperately clamored out of the machine, stating that they were all dead.
“Hey, uh, Doc. You might wanna come take a look at this,” Perconte announced, causing the medic to turn on his heels and move down the tank to where Perconte was situated. The man was crouched down, his eyes under the tank as he swore he had only bent down to tighten the laces on his boot. But when Gene moved down next to him, the sight was enough to make them all snap into action.
“We gotta pull him out,” Gene said quickly, not sure if the man was alive or not. But he was soon about to find out.
The voices are muffled, but they’re near; balled fists soon fell limp, when his head realized they were speaking English, but the breath of his pyrrhic victory still hitched in his throat. At least laying in the frozen mud, underneath the cold, body mostly numb, he could pretend for a while that he didn’t exist; he could pretend the amplitude of his grief wasn’t as bad; that maybe when he stood back on his feet again, his boys would still be alive. But nobody, not even the rain nor the snow could lift that burden off his shoulders; instead, actual hands grabbed at him, two pairs on each shoulders tugged him from the dirt and lifted him up.
Ocean blue eyes shot open, almost in a manner which indicated that he’d forgotten what the sky looked like. It wasn’t clear skies, outside, like yesterday, when he was with the boys; right now, even God himself, from above felt Don’s grief, for the skies were painted as lifeless as he felt. A thick layer of clouds hid the rays of the sun, and hope, along with them; the levity in the air, and spring temperatures had declined to the bitterness of wintertime. And he didn’t realize how cold it was until someone draped a blanket over his shoulders, making him conscientious of the fact that he was shivering.
Slowly, his body ignites again; there’s thoughts in his head, once more; eyes are used to the light, and ears begin to pick up the countless mix of praise and well-being uttered at him. So many questions flood before him; but the jist was that they were all asking if he was okay. Physically, he’d been shot in both shoulders, and still held to surprise that he hadn’t bled out before help had arrived. However, he could justify that as being “okay”; bullets could be taken out, skin could heal, blood would be regenerated by the body eventually. But he wasn’t okay-- the stink of the corpses hung heavy on his nose, and it still took two men to keep him steady, for the chokehold of grief made it hard to breathe.
Praises are carelessly thrown by his saviours, which also burdens Don; he could have picked the safe route, running away from the crossroads with the boys, as their original plan, and ditching the god damn tank. But that sensation of home, and devotion to the crossroads kept him chained there, and eventually, his boys as well. Their laughter still echoes in his head, and hands don’t even dare to search for a cigarette, knowing the kiss of nicotine couldn’t better this.
“’M shot-- both shoulders; lost some blood. Other than that, I’ll b’fine.”
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