From despair to where?
He was sick, and looked the dreadful. Uniform torn and frayed, blood and mire shaded his features while his cheeks had begun to look sunken. His eyes were shadowed with doubt, and his ribs were poking through his skin. The man was beginning to resemble every photograph sent back home to some unsuspecting sweetheart.
Rubbing his mouth, the medic heard some far off shouts and orders. Perking in self-serving interest, he crinkled his nose. Shuffling to his feet in a lazy fashion, he glanced around for the men. Part of him didn't care if he was found or left to die in this sinking ship war. Sighing heavily, he strained his eyes while beginning to move slowly towards to the wary shouts. Blindly, he fumbled for his trench knife out of habit.
*
Mustering half-hearted chuckles as the men shot sloppy jokes and stories, Thomas snorted while spitting over his shoulder. He found some delight in being whisked away by these dirty beings. They all seemed so hopeful, full of life and certainty this insanity would end. It almost added a spark of life in the mans eyes. Picking up his tin, he threw his head back with closed eyes, downing the diluted water. At least they had ambition.
It beat talking to the dead with his scarred hands and soaked rags.