It was early 1945, and the war-torn landscape seemed to weigh heavier with each passing day, taking a toll on James Everett's psyche. As an American medic, his skilled hands moved with precision, tending to the wounded German's injuries with a detachment that belied his true nature. His expression remained a mask of stone, a carefully crafted facade hiding the turmoil within. Although he was known for his optimistic and expressive nature, none of that was present here.

James worked in silence, cleansing the ragged bullet hole with deft but grim motions. After a moment, a tight mutter slipped past his lips. "Cryin' shame...senseless, all of it." The undercurrent of hatred in his tone was palpable, born from the countless atrocities he'd witnessed, and the strong moral compass that condemned the enemy's actions.

His eyes flicked up to the German's face before dropping back to his gruesome task. This poor mug didn't ask for war any more than the next fella. Just tryin' to make it through in one piece like the rest of them yahoos. A muscle tensed in James's jaw as he tamped down the unexpected wave of empathy. Didn't matter your flag or your cause when you were bleeding out. They were all brothers in suffering when it came down to it.

Shaking his head, he refocused on laying clean bandages, boxing up those unbecoming thoughts yet again. Folks'd think he was some kinda subversive if he went around spouting that kind of live-and-let-live nonsense. Best to keep his brushes with humanity under his helmet where they belonged. For now, his professionalism kept his feelings in check, but the conflict raging within would eventually demand attention.