[Finally, the other main character can make an appearance! It took me a lot longer than I'd hoped to get this part out, and I sincerely hope it won't take nearly as long to get the next one ready for posting. My apologies to the OP for the delay -- and thanks to those who are reading and commenting!]
They'd had to dig him out.
Or rather, he guessed that they'd had to dig him out. He didn't -- couldn't -- remember exactly what had happened. The first time he came to, it was all flashing, dancing spots behind his eyelids and a terrible high-pitched howling in his ears, the thick taste of dirt coating his tongue and a slick bloody feeling at the back of his throat, someone moving his head and something cold and wet being pressed to his lips like a foul, sodden kiss, and it was almost a mercy when a sudden jolt sent a flare of pain exploding through his head --
(whizz-bang)
-- and he crashed back down into darkness.
The second time he came to, it was much calmer. The awful noise that had filled his brain to bursting was gone, and his mouth no longer felt like it was full of blood and grit. He was lying down on some kind of bed or cot, and something soft and cool and damp was covering his eyes, resting on his forehead and the tops of his cheeks. Breathing hurt, but as long as he kept each breath careful and shallow the pain never went above a heavy, deep throb. Yet each new lungful of air brought with it the smell of a battlefield hospital -- the lingering stench of the wounded and dying that not even the powerful odour of carbolic acid could overcome -- which made his head and chest throb with an entirely different kind of ache.
All the same, he knew that it wouldn't do any good to dwell on the pain. It was by no means the first time that he had woken up in a field hospital or a surgeon's tent, and he had learned that in situations like these the first few moments of awareness were best devoted to helping himself ease back into his own skin. So he began to take stock of his body, one piece at a time, starting from the bottom and working up.
First were his toes, which he could wiggle -- and were attached to feet that were still in boots, too, which meant that he couldn't have been unconscious for that long. Feet were followed by ankles and leg muscles, all of which he was able to move and stretch without too much soreness. Nothing was missing, nothing was broken as far as he could tell. His knees and hips seemed mostly all right, though it felt as if they had been thwacked repeatedly with heavy sticks. But next came the stomach muscles, and that was where the struggle to breathe properly really made itself known. The left side of his chest felt worse than the right, with the worst pain of all concentrated in his upper ribs and his left shoulder. He would have to wait to explore that further; his right arm was next on the list.
As he moved his right hand, preparing to check every joint, he let out a soft, surprised hiss when his fingers closed around an oddly-shaped tangle of wire resting in his palm. Glasses, he realised, as his thumb brushed over the gap where one now-shattered lens had been. The other lens was still in place, though it was probably scratched to hell. But it was nice to know that they hadn't been lost for good. He found it strangely comforting to think that someone had taken the trouble to put them into his hand, even with the chaos of everything else that must have been going on around him at the time.
His right wrist and elbow felt cramped and stiff, as did his right shoulder, but none of them gave him any major problems. He was just about to move on to his left arm when he felt the vibrations of footsteps coming closer to him. He turned his head, trying to locate the source of the approaching footsteps -- only to choke on his own breath when his neck, back, and left shoulder spasmed with a crushing pain that felt as if someone had put his entire chest in a vise and turned the crank hard.
Abruptly, the cool damp cloth was whisked away, and the first thing he saw when his eyes flew open was a strange woman's face, framed by the white cap that completely covered her hair. She was talking to him, saying words that he couldn't quite understand, but when she bent over him he was able to follow her movement with his eyes --
-- and that was one dislocated left shoulder. Right out of the socket, by the look of it.
His breath was still coming short, so he gritted his teeth and did his best to grin up at the nurse hovering over him. Her eyes were wide with concern, and he wanted to tell her that it wasn't anything to worry about, that he could pop the old joint back into place himself in a jiffy, but the words didn't seem to want to come out of his mouth. Not in any way that made sense, at least. His first attempt was nothing more than a weak moan; his second attempt sounded like gibberish. And he was all prepared to make a third attempt, because he knew that he had the right words in him somewhere, but his head hurt, and his chest hurt, and his arm hurt, and it was so much easier to just lie still and close his eyes again and not say anything at all.
He didn't want to slip back into unconsciousness, so he tried to concentrate on the nurse's voice. It was soothing, intended to comfort him, but most of the words she was saying kept slipping past his ears, skimming over his mind like stones skipping across a pond. As he grew more accustomed to the sound of her voice, though, he managed to catch at least one group of words that seemed familiar.
' -- le Médecin-major -- '
Lay. Medicine. Major. It sounded like English, though the accent was all wrong...and then realisation clicked into place. You're still in France, you dolt, of course she'd be speaking French. He was so caught up in this revelation that his concentration started to slip, and he had to fight to keep the rapid-fire French from blurring back into meaningless noise again. This time, however, he was helped by a word that was intimately familiar to him in any language.
'-- americain, M. le Major -- '
'Americain?' That was a different voice, a man's voice, much sharper than the nurse's calm tones. 'Leave him to me. I will see to it.'
America inhaled sharply through his nose, not even caring about the prickly stinging that the sudden movement caused in his chest. The man's words had shifted from French to English -- no, not English. A human might mistake it for English (or French, or German, or Russian, or whatever language he or she was expecting to hear and understand), but there was no way that any nation could hear it and fail to recognise one of their own.
With effort, America opened his eyes, blinking and squinting by turns until he could bring the world into focus. The first thing he saw was a long white smock, the material fading into grey from too many washings. On one sleeve, there was an uneven reddish splotch that he initially took to be a large bloodstain, but when he had blinked a few more times the splotch revealed itself to be two stripes of red fabric sewn onto a white armband, forming a slightly uneven cross. As he looked up, he blinked once more at the sight of a fringe of fair hair and a pair of narrowed green eyes -- not England, his mind quickly supplied, though it took another moment of staring before he could identify the nation standing before him.
'Dislocated left shoulder,' Switzerland said. His face was impassive, and he was looking America up and down as if America were a complete stranger to him. 'Presumed fracture of one or more ribs, with possible associated lung trauma. Superficial abrasions to the head and upper torso, no shell fragments or penetrating wounds. No signs of gas, no notable blood loss.' He turned his head just enough for America to realise that he had been speaking to the white-capped nurse the whole time. 'Not a case for further evacuation; treatment will be attended to here, followed by discharge to the care of the American Expeditionary Force's medical authorities.'
Startled, America tried to push himself up on his good elbow, but a wave of dizziness made his arm wobble. Only Switzerland's quick move to catch him prevented him from toppling out of the bed.
'None of that, now.' Switzerland's voice was stern. He guided America up into a sitting position, one hand supporting America's head and neck and the other planted firmly in the middle of his back. 'That shoulder needs setting first. You will only make it worse if you try to move on your own. American or not, you are under my orders here, and you'll do as you're told and no arguing, do you hear me?'
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Sans Frontières [2a/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-05-26 05:18 am (UTC)(link)They'd had to dig him out.
Or rather, he guessed that they'd had to dig him out. He didn't -- couldn't -- remember exactly what had happened. The first time he came to, it was all flashing, dancing spots behind his eyelids and a terrible high-pitched howling in his ears, the thick taste of dirt coating his tongue and a slick bloody feeling at the back of his throat, someone moving his head and something cold and wet being pressed to his lips like a foul, sodden kiss, and it was almost a mercy when a sudden jolt sent a flare of pain exploding through his head --
(whizz-bang)
-- and he crashed back down into darkness.
The second time he came to, it was much calmer. The awful noise that had filled his brain to bursting was gone, and his mouth no longer felt like it was full of blood and grit. He was lying down on some kind of bed or cot, and something soft and cool and damp was covering his eyes, resting on his forehead and the tops of his cheeks. Breathing hurt, but as long as he kept each breath careful and shallow the pain never went above a heavy, deep throb. Yet each new lungful of air brought with it the smell of a battlefield hospital -- the lingering stench of the wounded and dying that not even the powerful odour of carbolic acid could overcome -- which made his head and chest throb with an entirely different kind of ache.
All the same, he knew that it wouldn't do any good to dwell on the pain. It was by no means the first time that he had woken up in a field hospital or a surgeon's tent, and he had learned that in situations like these the first few moments of awareness were best devoted to helping himself ease back into his own skin. So he began to take stock of his body, one piece at a time, starting from the bottom and working up.
First were his toes, which he could wiggle -- and were attached to feet that were still in boots, too, which meant that he couldn't have been unconscious for that long. Feet were followed by ankles and leg muscles, all of which he was able to move and stretch without too much soreness. Nothing was missing, nothing was broken as far as he could tell. His knees and hips seemed mostly all right, though it felt as if they had been thwacked repeatedly with heavy sticks. But next came the stomach muscles, and that was where the struggle to breathe properly really made itself known. The left side of his chest felt worse than the right, with the worst pain of all concentrated in his upper ribs and his left shoulder. He would have to wait to explore that further; his right arm was next on the list.
As he moved his right hand, preparing to check every joint, he let out a soft, surprised hiss when his fingers closed around an oddly-shaped tangle of wire resting in his palm. Glasses, he realised, as his thumb brushed over the gap where one now-shattered lens had been. The other lens was still in place, though it was probably scratched to hell. But it was nice to know that they hadn't been lost for good. He found it strangely comforting to think that someone had taken the trouble to put them into his hand, even with the chaos of everything else that must have been going on around him at the time.
His right wrist and elbow felt cramped and stiff, as did his right shoulder, but none of them gave him any major problems. He was just about to move on to his left arm when he felt the vibrations of footsteps coming closer to him. He turned his head, trying to locate the source of the approaching footsteps -- only to choke on his own breath when his neck, back, and left shoulder spasmed with a crushing pain that felt as if someone had put his entire chest in a vise and turned the crank hard.
Sans Frontières [2b/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-05-26 05:22 am (UTC)(link)-- and that was one dislocated left shoulder. Right out of the socket, by the look of it.
His breath was still coming short, so he gritted his teeth and did his best to grin up at the nurse hovering over him. Her eyes were wide with concern, and he wanted to tell her that it wasn't anything to worry about, that he could pop the old joint back into place himself in a jiffy, but the words didn't seem to want to come out of his mouth. Not in any way that made sense, at least. His first attempt was nothing more than a weak moan; his second attempt sounded like gibberish. And he was all prepared to make a third attempt, because he knew that he had the right words in him somewhere, but his head hurt, and his chest hurt, and his arm hurt, and it was so much easier to just lie still and close his eyes again and not say anything at all.
He didn't want to slip back into unconsciousness, so he tried to concentrate on the nurse's voice. It was soothing, intended to comfort him, but most of the words she was saying kept slipping past his ears, skimming over his mind like stones skipping across a pond. As he grew more accustomed to the sound of her voice, though, he managed to catch at least one group of words that seemed familiar.
' -- le Médecin-major -- '
Lay. Medicine. Major. It sounded like English, though the accent was all wrong...and then realisation clicked into place. You're still in France, you dolt, of course she'd be speaking French. He was so caught up in this revelation that his concentration started to slip, and he had to fight to keep the rapid-fire French from blurring back into meaningless noise again. This time, however, he was helped by a word that was intimately familiar to him in any language.
'-- americain, M. le Major -- '
'Americain?' That was a different voice, a man's voice, much sharper than the nurse's calm tones. 'Leave him to me. I will see to it.'
America inhaled sharply through his nose, not even caring about the prickly stinging that the sudden movement caused in his chest. The man's words had shifted from French to English -- no, not English. A human might mistake it for English (or French, or German, or Russian, or whatever language he or she was expecting to hear and understand), but there was no way that any nation could hear it and fail to recognise one of their own.
Sans Frontières [2c/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-05-26 05:31 am (UTC)(link)'Dislocated left shoulder,' Switzerland said. His face was impassive, and he was looking America up and down as if America were a complete stranger to him. 'Presumed fracture of one or more ribs, with possible associated lung trauma. Superficial abrasions to the head and upper torso, no shell fragments or penetrating wounds. No signs of gas, no notable blood loss.' He turned his head just enough for America to realise that he had been speaking to the white-capped nurse the whole time. 'Not a case for further evacuation; treatment will be attended to here, followed by discharge to the care of the American Expeditionary Force's medical authorities.'
Startled, America tried to push himself up on his good elbow, but a wave of dizziness made his arm wobble. Only Switzerland's quick move to catch him prevented him from toppling out of the bed.
'None of that, now.' Switzerland's voice was stern. He guided America up into a sitting position, one hand supporting America's head and neck and the other planted firmly in the middle of his back. 'That shoulder needs setting first. You will only make it worse if you try to move on your own. American or not, you are under my orders here, and you'll do as you're told and no arguing, do you hear me?'
Re: Sans Frontières [2c/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-05-28 04:40 am (UTC)(link)Re: Sans Frontières [2c/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-05-28 04:14 pm (UTC)(link)