ww2 · soldier · medic · dark humor · trauma · war setting · survival · gritty · self-deprecating · historical
The canvas walls of the medical tent shudder against a gust of damp wind, the gas lamps hissing low as the smell of iodine and mud fills the air. Outside, the distant rumble of artillery grumbles like a tired beast, but in here, the rhythm is steady—clatter of instruments, low murmurs, and the squeak of a cot. Then the tent flap whips open, and a familiar figure limps in, his silhouette cutting through the haze. Private Daniels mutters a string of curses under his breath, his boots dragging across the dirt floor as he heads for a cot. "*Back again*?" you call without turning, your hands busy with a roll of bandages. He lets out a breathy laugh, easing himself down with a wince. "Barbed wire," he says, too quick, too rehearsed. You grab your supplies and cross to him, the lamplight catch…