[BoB: Easy daemons] Medic, heal thyself (1265 words)
If I don't post this, I won't be able to stop thinking about it. Plus it's stupid to worry so much about whether it's "early in the day" fare or not.
skew_whiff very kindly provided a second set of eyes on this; it's thanks to him you've been spared a much more overwrought ending, for which I imagine we're all very grateful. Thanks again, Skew. <3
* * *
They broke away from the other soldiers early and stood apart for a while watching them stream back to their tents. Gene kept his silence while Clementine just sat, sniffing the air. He hugged his elbows, face pinched and pale; some of the troopers glanced at him as they passed, at the white band around his arm, but they were glad for the reprieve and surged away from the landing field, all noise.
“Wish I could throw my watch away,” Gene said at last. “Not like it’ll change when they tell us to leave.”
“You get a day,” Clem answered, the too-late sunset setting off the red in her coat. “Nothing you can do about it. Let’s say we make the most of it.”
“Most of what?” He shook his head. “I hate waiting.”
Clem bumped her shoulder against his thigh. “Take a turn with me.” His eyes didn’t quite meet hers, but he nodded and began to walk. She fell into her easy gait, rolling bloodhound lope at odds with the stiffness in his back and legs. No more words passed between them.
Some Easy men stood clustered together, smoking and laughing near the opening of a tent. Alley’s crow cut a sharp profile against the dimming sky; McClung’s puma crouched low to the trampled grass, eyes shining. The men all gave Gene a nod, which he returned before continuing. Clem murmured their names to herself as they passed, every one, soldier and daemon. Two years they’d been together, some of them: she couldn’t help but know them all.
“You stop that,” she snapped, out of the blue. Gene looked down at her. “You know what I mean,” she continued. “We’re ready for this.”
“Never gonna be ready, Clem,” he sighed, hands in his pockets.
“You said that before we got our wings.”
He huffed. “I don’t want to have to think about that either. You strapped on my chest, your legs all up in my face.” One corner of his mouth quirked, though, and Clem’s tail swung from side to side.
“Bet you wish I was little.”
Gene’s face slackened with surprise. “Why would I want you anything else?” Clementine leaned against his knee again, and he dropped one hand to hook beneath her ear. “Wasn’t what we came for,” he murmured, brow still knitted.
“It’s what we trained for,” she murmured back. His lips thinned. “It’s what we were sent here for,” she said, more firmly. “Now let’s go find some people.”
Gene frowned. “What people?”
“Any people. Get your mind off this if you can’t focus on what’s important.”
He laughed, softly. “Aren’t you bossy tonight.”
Clem tossed her head. “You can’t think, I’m gonna do it for you.” She set back her shoulders and trotted ahead of him. He called her name but she ignored him, working her way down the rows of tents. Hoobler pushed past them, yelling after Perconte; his raccoon daemon hurried behind, her fur all on end. They passed Gordon and More standing together, heads bowed over cigarettes: Gordon’s chickadee kept fussing over her feathers; More’s coyote scraped idly at the mud. Without warning, Clem nosed aside a tent flap and strolled inside. Gene swore and followed.
Luz, Tipper, Dukeman and Lieutenant Compton stared at them, Compton trailing off mid-story. “I’m sorry,” Gene said quickly. “My mistake, wrong tent.” He began to back away when Compton stepped forward.
“No, Doc, hang on, I had wanted to talk to you, actually.” He turned to Luz and clapped him on the back. “Hey, why don’t I see you fellas down at the picture. Save me a good seat, huh?” The three enlisted men filed out, muttering greetings to Gene as they passed. Compton’s daemon, a splendid golden retriever, stretched her neck out toward Clem and wagged her tail. Clem returned the courtesy. Gene tried not to watch.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Smoke?” Compton asked, holding out a rumpled pack. Gene thanked him but refused. Compton put the cigarettes away without taking one for himself. “So,” he said. “No jump tonight.”
“It seems it’s for the best, sir.”
“True. Still.” Compton’s daemon twisted to scratch behind her ear. Compton shook his head. “Wish we could just get it over with.”
Gene nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Doc?” Compton dropped his chin, looking right at him. “What is it you have to do over there?”
Clem sat down; he knit his brow, puzzled. “After I get to the assembly area?”
“In general.” Compton smiled, his eyes wandering over the inside of the tent. “I know everything about what the rest of the men do. I know how to command mortar squads, machine gunners, riflemen and radio ops. But all I know about medics is you’ll come if I yell for you, and I have to do anything you tell me.” His daemon stayed on her feet, watching Clem intently.
Gene swallowed. “That’s about all you do need to know, sir. You need me, I take it from there.”
Compton nodded, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m off to see Lieutenant Meehan. You going anywhere, or would you mind walking with me?”
He hesitated a moment, but then Clem stood up again, and he shook his head. “No, sir. I’m just killing time.”
“Mm.” Compton smiled again, fleetingly, and headed out into the evening. The sky was murky and the air field was on light discipline. Few soldiers passed them on their way. “Did you volunteer for it?” he asked as they walked. “Being a medic, I mean.”
Gene glanced up at him. “No.” He shrugged. “No, they just picked me. I signed up to fight like anybody else.”
“It’s funny.” Compton’s mouth twisted. “I can’t see you carrying a gun.”
He bowed his head. “Not since Toccoa.”
“What a way to go through a war.” Compton’s daemon nosed his hand; he glanced down, and Gene watched as he twined his fingers through the fur on her neck. “What do you do about daemons?” he asked. “How’s your training on them?”
Gene took a breath. “Clem takes care of them if she has to. I don’t touch them except in dire cases.”
“Have you practiced that?” Compton’s eyes stayed straight ahead.
“Yes, sir,” Gene said, surprised by how calm it came out. “It’s my job.”
Compton stopped. “Yes,” he said. “Yes it is.” He turned to Gene. “I’m glad to hear it, Doc. This is my stop. You got somewhere to be?”
“Not really, sir.”
Compton adjusted his hat. “Well, they’re showing a movie down by the mess. Laraine Day and Cary Grant, it’s a good show.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He saluted. “Thank you, lieutenant.” Compton returned the salute and ducked into the tent.
After a moment, Clem looked up at him. Gene stuck his hands in his pockets and began walking again. “I’m right,” Clem said quietly. Gene didn’t answer, and she didn’t press it. The camp was emptier now, subdued since most of the soldiers had found something to do with their extra time.
“It won’t be this foggy tomorrow,” Gene said, after a while.
“No,” Clem agreed. “We’ll go tomorrow.”
He took a deep breath and stopped to pull up a crate. She circled as he leaned his elbows on his knees, and sat down facing him. “We’re going to have to get used to this,” she said, head tilted.
Gene clasped his hand over his left wrist. “Not for one more day.” Clementine said nothing, but stretched her nose forward and peeled his fingers off the face of his watch.
* * *
Notes: In her Band of Brothers/Memphis Belle crossover A Laying on of Hands, eudaimon has this amazing line about Eugene Roe: At Toccoa, he'd grown narrow, shrunk to his most useful size but he still remembered being loud, remembered bursting out of his skin. This is pretty much my favorite sentence written about Doc Roe ever.
Because I like having photo references for things I'm writing (and because writer's block is a pain in the neck), I dug up a number of pictures of bloodhounds. I feel like Clem would be a very dark brindle, with deep reds and plenty of black: see here, here and here. I've also totally got a great picture of her in action mode, which is useful; then again, there are also other moods to consider. It's ultimately the eyes that really get me, though. (As a lifelong lover of basset hounds, I also feel the need to link to this. Failsafe smile-maker!) Also, Clementine means "merciful, gentle."
For the interested, I also found some great resources on WWII combat medics, both of which seem to share most (though I suspect not all) of the same copy: WWIICombatMedic.com and what's probably the previous incarnation of the same.
Though these will probably all be vignettes without much in the way of actual plot, I swear the next one will have some action in it, or at least exuberance: either way, it's definitely featuring Bill Guarnere.
Daemon master list | Webster and Lucy, Toccoa, Georgia, 1942
skew_whiff very kindly provided a second set of eyes on this; it's thanks to him you've been spared a much more overwrought ending, for which I imagine we're all very grateful. Thanks again, Skew. <3
* * *
They broke away from the other soldiers early and stood apart for a while watching them stream back to their tents. Gene kept his silence while Clementine just sat, sniffing the air. He hugged his elbows, face pinched and pale; some of the troopers glanced at him as they passed, at the white band around his arm, but they were glad for the reprieve and surged away from the landing field, all noise.
“Wish I could throw my watch away,” Gene said at last. “Not like it’ll change when they tell us to leave.”
“You get a day,” Clem answered, the too-late sunset setting off the red in her coat. “Nothing you can do about it. Let’s say we make the most of it.”
“Most of what?” He shook his head. “I hate waiting.”
Clem bumped her shoulder against his thigh. “Take a turn with me.” His eyes didn’t quite meet hers, but he nodded and began to walk. She fell into her easy gait, rolling bloodhound lope at odds with the stiffness in his back and legs. No more words passed between them.
Some Easy men stood clustered together, smoking and laughing near the opening of a tent. Alley’s crow cut a sharp profile against the dimming sky; McClung’s puma crouched low to the trampled grass, eyes shining. The men all gave Gene a nod, which he returned before continuing. Clem murmured their names to herself as they passed, every one, soldier and daemon. Two years they’d been together, some of them: she couldn’t help but know them all.
“You stop that,” she snapped, out of the blue. Gene looked down at her. “You know what I mean,” she continued. “We’re ready for this.”
“Never gonna be ready, Clem,” he sighed, hands in his pockets.
“You said that before we got our wings.”
He huffed. “I don’t want to have to think about that either. You strapped on my chest, your legs all up in my face.” One corner of his mouth quirked, though, and Clem’s tail swung from side to side.
“Bet you wish I was little.”
Gene’s face slackened with surprise. “Why would I want you anything else?” Clementine leaned against his knee again, and he dropped one hand to hook beneath her ear. “Wasn’t what we came for,” he murmured, brow still knitted.
“It’s what we trained for,” she murmured back. His lips thinned. “It’s what we were sent here for,” she said, more firmly. “Now let’s go find some people.”
Gene frowned. “What people?”
“Any people. Get your mind off this if you can’t focus on what’s important.”
He laughed, softly. “Aren’t you bossy tonight.”
Clem tossed her head. “You can’t think, I’m gonna do it for you.” She set back her shoulders and trotted ahead of him. He called her name but she ignored him, working her way down the rows of tents. Hoobler pushed past them, yelling after Perconte; his raccoon daemon hurried behind, her fur all on end. They passed Gordon and More standing together, heads bowed over cigarettes: Gordon’s chickadee kept fussing over her feathers; More’s coyote scraped idly at the mud. Without warning, Clem nosed aside a tent flap and strolled inside. Gene swore and followed.
Luz, Tipper, Dukeman and Lieutenant Compton stared at them, Compton trailing off mid-story. “I’m sorry,” Gene said quickly. “My mistake, wrong tent.” He began to back away when Compton stepped forward.
“No, Doc, hang on, I had wanted to talk to you, actually.” He turned to Luz and clapped him on the back. “Hey, why don’t I see you fellas down at the picture. Save me a good seat, huh?” The three enlisted men filed out, muttering greetings to Gene as they passed. Compton’s daemon, a splendid golden retriever, stretched her neck out toward Clem and wagged her tail. Clem returned the courtesy. Gene tried not to watch.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Smoke?” Compton asked, holding out a rumpled pack. Gene thanked him but refused. Compton put the cigarettes away without taking one for himself. “So,” he said. “No jump tonight.”
“It seems it’s for the best, sir.”
“True. Still.” Compton’s daemon twisted to scratch behind her ear. Compton shook his head. “Wish we could just get it over with.”
Gene nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Doc?” Compton dropped his chin, looking right at him. “What is it you have to do over there?”
Clem sat down; he knit his brow, puzzled. “After I get to the assembly area?”
“In general.” Compton smiled, his eyes wandering over the inside of the tent. “I know everything about what the rest of the men do. I know how to command mortar squads, machine gunners, riflemen and radio ops. But all I know about medics is you’ll come if I yell for you, and I have to do anything you tell me.” His daemon stayed on her feet, watching Clem intently.
Gene swallowed. “That’s about all you do need to know, sir. You need me, I take it from there.”
Compton nodded, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m off to see Lieutenant Meehan. You going anywhere, or would you mind walking with me?”
He hesitated a moment, but then Clem stood up again, and he shook his head. “No, sir. I’m just killing time.”
“Mm.” Compton smiled again, fleetingly, and headed out into the evening. The sky was murky and the air field was on light discipline. Few soldiers passed them on their way. “Did you volunteer for it?” he asked as they walked. “Being a medic, I mean.”
Gene glanced up at him. “No.” He shrugged. “No, they just picked me. I signed up to fight like anybody else.”
“It’s funny.” Compton’s mouth twisted. “I can’t see you carrying a gun.”
He bowed his head. “Not since Toccoa.”
“What a way to go through a war.” Compton’s daemon nosed his hand; he glanced down, and Gene watched as he twined his fingers through the fur on her neck. “What do you do about daemons?” he asked. “How’s your training on them?”
Gene took a breath. “Clem takes care of them if she has to. I don’t touch them except in dire cases.”
“Have you practiced that?” Compton’s eyes stayed straight ahead.
“Yes, sir,” Gene said, surprised by how calm it came out. “It’s my job.”
Compton stopped. “Yes,” he said. “Yes it is.” He turned to Gene. “I’m glad to hear it, Doc. This is my stop. You got somewhere to be?”
“Not really, sir.”
Compton adjusted his hat. “Well, they’re showing a movie down by the mess. Laraine Day and Cary Grant, it’s a good show.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He saluted. “Thank you, lieutenant.” Compton returned the salute and ducked into the tent.
After a moment, Clem looked up at him. Gene stuck his hands in his pockets and began walking again. “I’m right,” Clem said quietly. Gene didn’t answer, and she didn’t press it. The camp was emptier now, subdued since most of the soldiers had found something to do with their extra time.
“It won’t be this foggy tomorrow,” Gene said, after a while.
“No,” Clem agreed. “We’ll go tomorrow.”
He took a deep breath and stopped to pull up a crate. She circled as he leaned his elbows on his knees, and sat down facing him. “We’re going to have to get used to this,” she said, head tilted.
Gene clasped his hand over his left wrist. “Not for one more day.” Clementine said nothing, but stretched her nose forward and peeled his fingers off the face of his watch.
* * *
Notes: In her Band of Brothers/Memphis Belle crossover A Laying on of Hands, eudaimon has this amazing line about Eugene Roe: At Toccoa, he'd grown narrow, shrunk to his most useful size but he still remembered being loud, remembered bursting out of his skin. This is pretty much my favorite sentence written about Doc Roe ever.
Because I like having photo references for things I'm writing (and because writer's block is a pain in the neck), I dug up a number of pictures of bloodhounds. I feel like Clem would be a very dark brindle, with deep reds and plenty of black: see here, here and here. I've also totally got a great picture of her in action mode, which is useful; then again, there are also other moods to consider. It's ultimately the eyes that really get me, though. (As a lifelong lover of basset hounds, I also feel the need to link to this. Failsafe smile-maker!) Also, Clementine means "merciful, gentle."
For the interested, I also found some great resources on WWII combat medics, both of which seem to share most (though I suspect not all) of the same copy: WWIICombatMedic.com and what's probably the previous incarnation of the same.
Though these will probably all be vignettes without much in the way of actual plot, I swear the next one will have some action in it, or at least exuberance: either way, it's definitely featuring Bill Guarnere.
Daemon master list | Webster and Lucy, Toccoa, Georgia, 1942