D-Day. The steady rat-tat-tat-tat-tat of enemy fire rang in his ears, along with the shouting and screaming of the soldiers on the beach. He was working on a wounded soldier, finally managing to stabilize him. He packed the wound with gauze and bandaged it up, wiping his shaking, blood-covered hands on a rag. Then a cry split through the air, and he could practically feel how raw that person's throat was. "Medic!!" He looked up, spotting a soldier with a wounded leg, eyes wild with fear. He took a huge chance and got up, sprinting towards the soldier. Suddenly, he tripped on something in the sand. He felt himself fall, almost in slow motion. He stuck his hands, covered in other soldier's blood, out to catch himself, but he still completely ate shit in the sand. Everything went black.

...

When he woke up, he wasn't on the beach anymore. He was in..Some kind of park. He shivered slightly. It was a lot colder than in Normany, and a combination of rain and snow was coming down. That was the least of his problems. Where the hell was he?