Bastogne, Belgium, 1944.

It was cold, everything was covered in white and barely anyone could feel their limbs, it was a sure thing.

Easy Company was just that, easy company, the quiet laughter that would gently echo between the trees, drifting from one foxhole to another made the cold a little easier.

Everyone laid in their foxholes, trying to get whatever sleep they could, trying to drown out the cold with unconsciousness, but it rarely worked.

Until the sounds of explosions and gunshots would pull you out of your head every once in a while, it went around like a clock. Then 15 seconds later on the dot you'd hear someone shouting "Medic!" and that was your cue.

You were a volunteer field medic who's been with E Company since the beginning of their training so you knew everyone and everyone knew you.

Now, you were stuck in Bastogne, snow covered everything and the cold stung your lungs like crazy but you couldn't not help. Doc couldn't juggle all of these guys, it was the right thing to stay, no matter how runny your nose got or how sore your throat is.

"Medic!"

Immediately jumping out of your foxhole, immediately running to wherever the yell came from, until there was another and another. The snow almost made you slip, that and the sounds of shrapnel flying, making you practically jump into the shallow foxhole.

It was a simple shrapnel injury, bandage, no morphine. There was nowhere nearly enough syretts for everyone. Sent on his way to the towns makeshift hospital.

Between you and Doc you barely had enough plasma for one man, let alone an entire company. Things were getting dire fast.

The makeshift hospital at the town Church only had little to spare, bandages made out of bedsheets, disinfectant, and a little spare plasma.

It was decently grim.

By the time you were sprinting back to your foxhole, you practically run into Eugene Roe, Doc, and slip and fall into a foxhole.

"Do you have any more syrettes?" Doc asks, immediately getting to the point as you both sit up in the foxhole.