Random Writing

Dog Tags

A drabble from a series I'm writing set during WWII. Charlie is a British paratrooper, Oliver is a French medic, and Milek is a Polish medic. They are all part of Bravo Platoon, a ragtag group formed over the duration of the war. These characters probably won't make sense to outside readers since it's toward the end of the series timeline, but here you go anyway. Enjoy :)

***

The battle had come to a painstakingly slow end, leaving Bravo and anyone else who was still alive to deal with the aftermath. There wasn't much Charlie could do now- guns were his thing, after all, and so was surviving off of dumb luck- but he still tried to make himself useful. He couldn't just sit still; he never could after spending hours on end shouting, killing, trying not to die. It left him jumpy, adrenaline still lingering in his system.

So, that's why he was still up and about, being careful (as careful as Charles could get) as he collected the tags of those who had fallen. He kept his gun in hand, gripping it tightly as if he'd be ready to use it at a moment's notice, and he was subconsciously gnawing on his bottom lip. Dirt and blood caked his face and arms, some of it cracking and falling off every time he grabbed a new tag. Most of the blood wasn't his, but his knuckles were scraped open, and the tips of his fingers (which were just now showing signs of fingernail regrowth) were bloody and stung every time the air hit them. But Charlie didn't care. His small bouts of pain meant nothing compared to literally everything else going on in the world.

And, even though he knew he shouldn't, Charlie couldn't help but glance down at each tag he collected- Alexander Lenkov, Jeremy Frazier, Símon Fernandez- some names he'd caught wind of in passing, some he'd never heard of, and others he'd gotten to know personally. And, with each new name came a growing anger, a familiar frustration that came with every battle.

Charlie gritted his teeth, putting tag after tag into his pockets, and he swore in that moment that each new name meant one new enemy that he would shoot down.

Just as he was adding another name to the pile- Antoni Gavinski- a flash of movement from the edge of his gaze caught his attention. Charlie immediately straightened up, gun raised and ready to shoot. However, he realized he recognized the face of the person running by. It was no enemy, but rather a medic, and he was running across the field, shrouded in bodies and smoke, and that was when Charlie spotted it- the M24 that the medic was heading straight for.

"OLIVER-" He was speaking without even processing it, and all he could do was watch as the grenade went off, sending his comrade flying through the air... his body going one way, his leg the other. Charlie wasn't thinking anymore, his legs carrying him toward the mess that now laid before him.

Oliver looked dead, and suddenly the metal in Charlie's pockets felt like it was lead, weighing him down.

If it wasn't for the shallow, hardly noticeable rise and fall of Oli's chest, Charlie would have found himself collecting another name. Instead, he sank to his knees beside the limp form of his friend, his brother. Charles dropped his gun, frantically ripping off his coat, the tags inside clanging together, and he lurched forward, pressing the cloth against the shredded skin where Oliver's leg had once been. Blood soaked through far too fast, spurting and sticking to Charlie- his face, his hands, 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚.

"MEDIC-" His voice was frantic, and he hadn't even noticed as tears began to fall. "Fuck- FUCK- MILEK! MILEK." Charlie's words cracked as a sob wracked his body. He kept both hands on his coat, pressing into the open wound. It was then that Oliver's breaths began to sound gurgled, a familiar red spilling from his mouth.

Charlie's eyes went wide, breathing erratic as he tried to remember how the fuck he was supposed to help. Luckily, it hit him: turn Oliver onto his side.

Letting go of the jacket, Charlie reached forward, grabbing Oliver and rolling him over so that he wasn't on his back. Some blood trailed from the man's mouth now, but Charlie swore he felt his heart stop as he noticed the red in the dirt below. With now-shaking hands, the man grabbed his coat once more, placing it back over the largest wound. It was then that he'd also braved a look at Oliver's back.

"MILEK-" The sight had him yelling again despite his throat being raw, shrapnel and debris from the ground had found themselves embedded in Oliver's skin, some looking deeper than others.

Charlie didn't have time to process any of it though, as it was then that help actually found its way to them. He felt himself being ushered back. There were a few voices- one more recognizable than the rest- but it felt as if he were underwater, unable to discern a single thing being said.

Instead, all he could do was stumble back until he fell, hitting the dirt and watching as Oliver barely held onto life.