[Doctor Who/Torchwood] "Christmas Eve, Marne-sur-Meuse (12-24-44)" (PG-13)
Author's Note: Written for tamingthemuse's prompt 386-nerve gas, also adventchallenge's "snowflake's chance in hell". Set during World War I, featuring Jack Harkness in a tight place.
Nerve gas attack on a warren of trenches near the village of Marne-sur-Meuse, and in the ten years that she had served in the Red Cross, Irene Long had never seen it so bad. Her young partner, Molly something -- Rider? Ryder? -- kept turning her eyes away; normally Irene would nudge her to keep looking, but this time, she could not bring herself to do it.
"Looked like a goddamned charnel house," McKern, their lead, said, as they went down the row of bodies laid out in the snow. Two chaplains went down the row, checking the dog tags of each soldier: British and American and a few members of La Resistence mingled together.
"No survivors?" Irene asked. Usually they found one or two, an Ishmael snatched from the depths, but not tonight, of all nights. Just tonight, please, just this one night. She heard Molly at her side let out a soft whimper, and she could not help but feel the sound came as much from her own heart as the newcomer's.
"None we could see," McKern said. "I got Slingsby and that Irish bloke double checkin', but it looks like they got hit that one time they had their masks off."
Christmas Eve, and it felt more like Good Friday, worse than Good Friday. Someone had said there are no atheists in foxholes, but she wondered now if there are any believers in charnel houses?
She could barely bring herself to look at any more of the faces, so many young men snatched away in the prime of life, a generation losing its best. She only hoped, in some unholy fashion, that the enemy had experienced a similar loss.
Revenge, had she sunk to that level? War made cynics and monsters of us all, even in a just war such as this.
"Just one..." Molly whispered. "Please, God, just one..."
Irene looked up to the night sky, the ragged, dirty clouds above the Red Cross tents, the flashes of distant artillery, even on this night, the booms and crashes in the distance, like hell's symphony... Just one. Just one...
Then a rustle and a gasp from far down the line. McKern lifted his grizzled head. Molly gasped, gripping Irene's arm. "There's one," Irene said, slipping her arm loose and following the sound.
"Ugh... any of you folk got a warm blanket?" a voice asked. Irene dropped to her knees before the man who had spoken up. He lay sprawled on his back, blinking up at them.
"Molly, get this man a blanket," Irene ordered. Molly and McKern hurried away, one for the blanket, the other for a stretcher. "Can you hear me?"
"Ears are muzzy: gas bomb went off five feet away from me," he said, trying to sit up. "Give me a moment till the hearing's back online."
Irene pushed him down, gently but firmly. "You're in no condition to move."
"Captain, as in Captain Jack Harkness."
"Very well, Captain," she said. McKern and Molly returned at that moment. Irene helped him to move the survivor onto the stretcher, while Molly laid the blanket over him.
"Handsome outfit y' got here. Plenty o' pretty people," Captain Harkness observed, as Molly arranged the blanket over him.
"Oh, I'm just a nurse," Molly said. Irene could tell she had started to blush, even in the dark.
"Never such a thing as just a nurse," Captain Harkness said, grinning up at her as McKern and Irene lifted the stretcher. "You're lifesavers."
"That will do, Captain," Irene said, starting to feel her own cheeks grow warm.
"Right, keep my strength and all that," their patient said, settling down under the blanket, as they carried him to the hospital tent.
One life. A snowflake's chance in hell that he could have survived that, but he had pulled through it and stayed lucid. With the sort of flirtatious remarks he kept making, Irene wished they had saved the life of a more respectful man, but they had found one man alive. One man, on this night of miracles. One life. One star in the sky that had not fallen. All that Molly had asked for, and all that she, Irene, had hoped for. A strange Christmas present, but this man would go home to his family or his loved ones.
Nerve gas attack on a warren of trenches near the village of Marne-sur-Meuse, and in the ten years that she had served in the Red Cross, Irene Long had never seen it so bad. Her young partner, Molly something -- Rider? Ryder? -- kept turning her eyes away; normally Irene would nudge her to keep looking, but this time, she could not bring herself to do it.
"Looked like a goddamned charnel house," McKern, their lead, said, as they went down the row of bodies laid out in the snow. Two chaplains went down the row, checking the dog tags of each soldier: British and American and a few members of La Resistence mingled together.
"No survivors?" Irene asked. Usually they found one or two, an Ishmael snatched from the depths, but not tonight, of all nights. Just tonight, please, just this one night. She heard Molly at her side let out a soft whimper, and she could not help but feel the sound came as much from her own heart as the newcomer's.
"None we could see," McKern said. "I got Slingsby and that Irish bloke double checkin', but it looks like they got hit that one time they had their masks off."
Christmas Eve, and it felt more like Good Friday, worse than Good Friday. Someone had said there are no atheists in foxholes, but she wondered now if there are any believers in charnel houses?
She could barely bring herself to look at any more of the faces, so many young men snatched away in the prime of life, a generation losing its best. She only hoped, in some unholy fashion, that the enemy had experienced a similar loss.
Revenge, had she sunk to that level? War made cynics and monsters of us all, even in a just war such as this.
"Just one..." Molly whispered. "Please, God, just one..."
Irene looked up to the night sky, the ragged, dirty clouds above the Red Cross tents, the flashes of distant artillery, even on this night, the booms and crashes in the distance, like hell's symphony... Just one. Just one...
Then a rustle and a gasp from far down the line. McKern lifted his grizzled head. Molly gasped, gripping Irene's arm. "There's one," Irene said, slipping her arm loose and following the sound.
"Ugh... any of you folk got a warm blanket?" a voice asked. Irene dropped to her knees before the man who had spoken up. He lay sprawled on his back, blinking up at them.
"Molly, get this man a blanket," Irene ordered. Molly and McKern hurried away, one for the blanket, the other for a stretcher. "Can you hear me?"
"Ears are muzzy: gas bomb went off five feet away from me," he said, trying to sit up. "Give me a moment till the hearing's back online."
Irene pushed him down, gently but firmly. "You're in no condition to move."
"Captain, as in Captain Jack Harkness."
"Very well, Captain," she said. McKern and Molly returned at that moment. Irene helped him to move the survivor onto the stretcher, while Molly laid the blanket over him.
"Handsome outfit y' got here. Plenty o' pretty people," Captain Harkness observed, as Molly arranged the blanket over him.
"Oh, I'm just a nurse," Molly said. Irene could tell she had started to blush, even in the dark.
"Never such a thing as just a nurse," Captain Harkness said, grinning up at her as McKern and Irene lifted the stretcher. "You're lifesavers."
"That will do, Captain," Irene said, starting to feel her own cheeks grow warm.
"Right, keep my strength and all that," their patient said, settling down under the blanket, as they carried him to the hospital tent.
One life. A snowflake's chance in hell that he could have survived that, but he had pulled through it and stayed lucid. With the sort of flirtatious remarks he kept making, Irene wished they had saved the life of a more respectful man, but they had found one man alive. One man, on this night of miracles. One life. One star in the sky that had not fallen. All that Molly had asked for, and all that she, Irene, had hoped for. A strange Christmas present, but this man would go home to his family or his loved ones.