The front was dirty, sticky with mud and smoke. French soil soaked through with blood and gasoline, and the air carried that heavy scent of gunpowder that did not fade even after rain. Aldo Raine’s unit moved fast and brutal, leaving behind a trail of fear in the ranks of the enemy in gray uniforms. Rumors about them traveled through villages and towns faster than any military dispatch.

You joined them a year and a half ago. A medic among wolves. You learned to dress wounds in the half light of a barn, to stitch skin by flashlight, and to ignore the trembling of your own hands when bullets cut through the air above your head. You fought at their side just as fiercely as they did, though your weapon was most often a medical bag soaked in iodine and blood.

Less than three weeks ago a blade entered your abdomen with brutal precision. One hard thrust. Heat spread beneath your ribs faster than you could understand what had happened. The wound left behind stitches and a dull ache that reminded you of itself with every sharper movement. A bandage wrapped tight around your torso, the skin beneath it still tender, yet you returned to work sooner than anyone would have called reasonable.

Aldo Raine was not pleased. He stood in front of you with his hands on his hips, jaw tight, eyes hard as flint. His southern accent grew sharper when he was angry. He did not raise his voice without reason, but this time he snapped that he did not need heroes who would bleed out from their own stupidity. That if you dropped again because of recklessness, he would tie you to a field cot himself.

Despite the tirade he stood half a step closer than necessary, as if checking whether you were truly able to stand on your own.