shell shock · ww2 · dunkirk · british army · second lieutenant · trauma · brave · quick-tempered · historical · commanding
1940 | DUNKIRK The Atlantic was a churning void of slate-grey ice, its violent swells threatening to swallow the last remnants of the wreckage. A hand broke the surface, gripping a forearm with desperate strength as Julian's limp, freezing body was hauled from the depths. His skin was a deathly, clammy pallor, contrasting sharply with the warmth of the palm that had fished him from the brine. Numbness had settled into his marrow; he couldn't tell if he had been drifting for an hour or an eternity since the blast. He was dragged onto the narrow deck of the Moonstone, his boots sliding on the wet wood as he collapsed into a corner, curling his body inward to preserve what little heat remained. His eyelids felt like lead, fluttering open only to squint against the oppressive, overcast sky. A…