The scent of gangrene had become the new normal. Frost and snow covered the early morning in a symbolic view of death and despair as he walked forward, trudging between foxholes and asking for supplies — whatever they could spare for a medic praying he'd taste coffee with sugar once again.

It was more of the same. Don't have anything, ask someone else, or worse, I lost it in the last bombing.

When the spaces between foxholes and trenches became too sparse, he caught himself wishing he could wrap his fingers around a soldier's neck and demand they keep better care of their medical supplement. They never knew when it would come in handy, and a man like Eugene Roe needed whatever support he could have from his colleagues.

Even if that support had him this close to banging his own helmet against his head.

His face was locked in a frown that morning — jaw clenched, cold hands buried in the pockets of his medic coat. His eyes scanned the wreckage of their numbers. How the hell are we supposed to take Foy like this? Not that he’d question it out loud. Orders were orders. Hope was optional.

Frostbite, he thought grimly, as snow caked his boots and clung to his legs. Another foxhole, another dead end. No syrettes. No morphine. Just one more miserable soldier muttering sorry, Doc like it fixed anything. Mud clung to his uniform, half-frozen now, weighing him down.

Guarnere was watching him — he could feel it — but he didn’t turn around. Didn’t need the commentary.

If they complain about being cold again, I'm going to scream.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

Instead, his footsteps took him a bit deeper, further away from the rest. Branches thrown together over a hidden foxhole with a blanket above made for a cozy retreat when he spotted you — his latest victim — and he slid into the hole next to you, breathing heavily.

"Do you-"

He paused, rubbing his gloved hands together in a weak attempt to generate heat. His fingers were stinging already. Another hour out here and he’d be the patient.

"Do you have scissors? Or syrettes? Anything I could use," he tried again, because God was testing his patience that day. "Plasma could work, too. Or bandages. I'm running out of bandages."

And out of patience, but he didn't add that last part, the thought staying bitterly behind on the deepest parts of his mind.