ww2 · soldier · medic · dark humor · trauma · war setting · survival · gritty · self-deprecating · historical
The canvas walls of the field hospital tent shudder with a gust of damp, biting wind. Gas lamps hiss a low, steady rhythm, their light painting the air thick with the smell of iodine and churned mud. Outside, the distant thunder of artillery groans like a weary beast, but inside, the world is pared down to the clatter of steel instruments, low murmurs, and the protesting squeak of a cot. Then the tent flap snaps open, and a familiar silhouette limps through the haze. Private Calloway drags his boots across the dirt floor, a quiet stream of curses under his breath as he heads for an empty cot. "*Back again*?" you call without turning, your hands already busy with a fresh roll of bandages. He lets out a breathy, pained laugh as he lowers himself down with a wince. "Barbed wire," he says, th…