Pulling Through

Aid Station, after the Patrol Attack

Yahzee leads the others back, not having any difficulty. The Japanese bayonet really did no serious damage, easily tended with a bandage by Kappedal.

Annabelle was sitting outside the aid station on the beach, notebook in hand, but looks up and rises when she sees the boys coming back. She eyes the group with concern.

Jenkins lights up a cigarette as soon as the tents are in sight. He puffs away a few steps behind the others. Stopping short of the aid tent to sit down on the still warm sand and look up as the rest of the group organises themselves.

Yahzee stretches, "Good work, everyone. We pulled through, Woods." and smiles back to the little fellow. "Some hit, but none left behind." as if to brief Annabelle, nodding to a few of the wounded.

Kappedal trudges 'home'ward with the rest of the group, muddy as anyone. His pack's got a few blood smears on it, one buckle unfastened, and he opens it up as he slips into the tent. "Ma'am," he greets Annabelle, as he heads for the supply crates. Always refill.
Woods trundles up himself, after a moment, holding a paper carefully, looking around. Hmmm. He smiles at Yahzee, following along behind the taller fellow. Disadvantage of shorter legs. "That we did. I'm glad," He murmurs.

Yahzee offers over to Woods in a more lowered voice. "Me, I gotta wash off. Swamp muck." and motions down his soaked and muddy uniform. The radioman offers Woods a friendly pat on the back, seeming pleased all around with the return of the entire squad.

Annabelle nods to Yahzee's report. Tucking her notebook under an arm, she starts heading back into the tent. "Glad you lads are all right. Anyone hurt?" she asks, eyes passing over the assembled group. There's blood but nobody acting overly injured.

Jenkins glances to Annabelle a moment. Something clicks in him and he grimaces, a look at Woods, well it took him long enough to get there. He stands again and catches up with him. "Think we should have cleaned up after ourselves?" He asks, rather belatedly. "You know… there." He doesn't really have the voice for quiet conversation.

Yahzee moves on, towards the old wash basins set near barrels of fresh water.

"Slayback caught it in the chest," Kappedal says, as he crouches down by the medical supplies. "Jeep's not back from the forward line yet."

Woods looks to his own uniform, which is a bit splattered and icky itself. Such is the hazard of wielding a submachine gun. He smiles, at the pat on the back. He returns it carefully, with a grin. A pause, looking to Jenkins. "…" A wince, and he whispers, "No… it's alright."

Yahzee grins back, but soon is gone around the corner where the men wash.

Jenkins shrugs helplessly, taking a long breath of tobaco. "You know best Vince." He gives a short nod then looks about him, nothing to do. He stands agaisnt the tent wall, looking a lemon.

Annabelle nods to Kappedal. "I'll let the doctor know, then." He could do it just as well, but she figures he could use a break. The exchange between Woods and Jenkins gets a curious look, more for the expressions since she can't really hear what they're saying.

Woods pauses, "Maybe I should tell her in case she goes back?" Vincent looks a little worried. "I guess I should… and hah, I'm not that wise." He smiles at Jenkins, "But I'm glad you had my back."

Jenkins glances over at Annabelle. "I don't know her, but don't people." A pause, his mouth hanging half open. "Don't people like that get…" He trails off. "I don't know her." He finishes lamely. A flickering smile in return. "You did a good job looking out for the all of us. Though I can't help suspecting we just slowed that Tavua man down." A lopsided grin at that.

Kappedal runs his hands through some water once his packs are refilled, and shakes them off. It's to his personal things he goes then, pulling off his helmet and scratching fingers through his hair. He sets his white kippah on the back of his dark curls, pinning the side of it, then starts riffling through his bag for something else, his expression drawn pensively. His eyes flicker to Woods.

Annabelle spares Woods and Jenkins a brief glance, but it looks like a private conversation so she just moves off as promised to tell the doctor about Slayback. She comes back to see Kappedal's expression. "All right, Ben?" she asks in friendly concern.

Woods shrugs, then replies quietly with a weak smile. "People are pretty tough to understand… I'll just explain it's not a safe place to go." And NOT mention the gore parts maybe. A look to Kappedal and he tilts his head. Then a grin to Jenkins, "Ditto. He's pretty good. Seems like a nice fellow too. Likes the parrots."

Kappedal looks up, distracted from whatever thoughts by someone talking to him. "Oh, yeah." He's got some long white-and-black cloth pulled out of his bag, fringes dangling at the ends that drape over his knees as he rests it on one leg. "How's your arm? You look like you're moving better."
Jenkins nods, right now it's none of his business. "Sounds like a plan." He draws another smoky breath. "Haven't seen those two since I left the aid tent. thought of a name for the other one yet?" Differant conversation, his grin widens.

"Aye, it's still a bit sore but it's much better," Anna replies with a glance at her arm. Out of the sling at least. She looks out at the treeline they came from and notes with a slight frown. "It's so strange hearing all the gunfire 'round here."

"Franklin Liberace. It's kind of silly, but," He smiles. He nods at Jenkins, acceptingly. Woods doesn't seem to be bothered at all. He even grins after a bit. "They're great. I love to have them there when I'm around the aid station. I hope I can keep them."

"Yeah," Kappedal replies to Anna, as though he still found it rather strange himself. "But they're doing their best to keep it from getting any closer, promise you that." He hears Woods talking about the parrot names and sends a crooked grin in that direction before looking back at Anna. "Was everything okay here?"

Jenkins repeats. "Franklin Liberace." A shake of his head. "Right I'm not even going to try to remember that." A pause to think about it. "Doc doesn't seem to mind, wouldn't tangle with Doc if I were an officer."

Annabelle nods, "Oh, aye, and doing a fine job of it," she says with a note of gratitude. "Sure the Nips won't take kindly to you lot taking over their airfield." A slightly pensive frown betrays her worry. She nods to the other question. "Everything was all right here." She rattles off a few details about some patients, including, "Morris' fever was up a bit but he's still doing all right."

Vincent grins back at Ben. Good ole parrots. "Just call 'im Frank for short," He murmurs. "And Doc's a good guy. Shouldn't rile him up though. Slayback did…" Shakes his head. Woods looks awkward and quiet after that, bright green eyes flickering. "Well, it's bad luck to anger medics."

Poor Morris. Kappedal glances towards the cot of the soldier in question, then back to her. "I'm sure he is." Then he shrugs, and offers her a really faint grin. "As for the airfield. Well, they just got to deal with it, don't they. Last I heard Marines don't share too well."

Jenkins pauses a moment. "What'd he do?" He questions. "Ans why?" A frown. "Doc's more like us than the rest of the officers." He offers, as if trying to convince the absent Slaybacks. "Right Frank. Frank's good." He repeats just to make sure he gets the name.

Annabelle smiles slightly at Ben's remark. "Oh, nonsense. They're the epitome of graciousness." She grins a bit, then shakes her head. "We're in good hands, to be sure. Someone said you're not a marine, though, you're in the Navy?" she sounds curious.

Woods looks uneasy. "Grabbed Doc, kinda got mad since Doc almost had to send him home over his finger." A deep frown. "But I wouldn't go around repeating that story," Woods' glance flickers. "Right?" He smiles to Jenkins. And then a nod. "He likes to show off. He was doing figure 8s the other day. And waggling."

"Yes, ma'am." Kappedal nods once. "Tried the Marines, but they were kind of…" He scratches his nose as he chooses his words. "…selective. But I don't suppose it matters very much, seeing as we're all here."

Jenkins takes the story in frowning. "Right, I'll forget it, don't want to argue with that knife." He shrugs. "Knows some stuff though." He murmurs "Course he can be a bastard sometimes." He catches a moment of the conversation a little bit along. "Good thing too, if you weren't packing all that medical stuff around I'd be…" Wait he doesn't want to say that. " 'M glad you're a medic is all." He finishes, a good deal more softly.

"Well, their loss," Anna says, with a typically British harrumpf at the thought of anyone rejecting Ben. Defensive of her pal, she is. "Though I'm sure it worked out for the best."

"Eh, best not to bring up old arguments anyway," Woods shrugs. Then a smile. "That he does." Woods pauses. A wince. "Um. There's … something I should mention before I go hand this map over," Vincent fidgets, looking a bit uncomfortable. He's addressing Ben and Anna now. Best to get this out early.

"Thanks," Kappedal looks over at Jenkins, giving him a sincerely grateful grin. "I just sit out there and try not to scream like a gir-…uh." He looks back at Annabelle, sheepishly. "Like a…girl that's nothing like Ms. Clark." He gives her a quick nod at the notion of everything turning out for the best, then looks at the tent entrance. "Jeep should be here any second…" Eyes lift to Woods, curiously.

Jenkins nods, once to Ben and once to Vince. He takes a moment to process where the conversation is going and grimaces. The smoke is thrown to the floor and smashed while he holds his hands to his waste, doing a good impression of an aprehended child. He stands a pace behind Woods, looking at his feet.

Fredricks has connected.

Annabelle grins distractedly at Ben's backpedaling. "Aye, well, I've screamed," she admits in amusement. Though oddly more with spiders than with bullets. Go figure. She looks over when Woods addresses them, head tilting a bit curiously. "You all right, Vince?"

Woods nods, "Yeah. I'm fine… I just - we fought more Japanese near the chapel. And I figured it would be unfair not to mention that, in case you ever needed to go back. Since it's um, a chapel." And thus, likely important to a missionary. Woods' brows furrow, "They like to hide in it. And pop out." He doesn't elaborate on WHERE they fought in or near the chapel, notably. He just blushes. "I'm sorry." And a smile at Ben, "Yeah, we're grateful to have you around." Nodnod.

Fredricks comes into the Station, looking about, looking rather rested. He rubs the back of his head, pausing to listen a moment, "Hi. More action, hmm?"

Whatever that white cloth is, Kappedal keeps it tucked gently into the crook of his arm, neatly folded. The mention of fighting near the chapel makes him tilt his head slightly. "You mean…" His mouth opens to continue, but if he were about to finish the question, Fredricks briefly distracts him and he reports quietly to the doctor, "Slayback's been injured. The Jeep was bringing him in, should be here any second."

Jenkins nods adding, "And when the fighting dies down over there, we'd like to ask your permission to go and fix up the place. Leaky roofing, things like that." Right where was he, oh yes he was supposed to be keeping his mouth shut, he looks up at Annabelle, then he looks down again quickly.

Annabelle is at first confused why Woods would be so embarrassed about a soldier hiding out in the chapel, but then she puts two and two together. Horror, anger and sadness jumble together in an odd mix on her face, all without a word spoken. She shakes her head slowly, expelling a breath. "'Tis no matter. No worse than what's already been done there." Her tone speaks otherwise, but she's trying at least. "Thank you for telling me." She looks to Jenkins then. "'Tis very kind of you to offer. That would be quite nice, aye, though…" She shakes her head again. "That would be quite nice."

Fredricks looks to Kappedal and nods, moving in towards the equipment. He pauses, listening to the things about the Chapel. ooo. He goes to prepare for incoming wounded. Shot up Slayback, right.

"Y-yeah, sorry," Woods blushes, looking thoroughly abashed. "I didn't feel quite right, not telling you," He admits. Squiiiiirm. "I'm sorry. I think I'm going to ah, help fix that up later and … see about finding some coconuts and chores," Fret. Woods' eyebrows furrow and he looks ready to run away. "Thanks you guys. I'll see you."

«Game» It is now dawn.

Kappedal watches them all a moment while they talk about the chapel, then quietly slips back from the conversation. Outside, there's the sound of a horn being honked, the inevitable interruption of the Jeep returning from the front line with the seriously wounded. His eyes flicker towards the tent entrance, then down at the cloth in his hands, white fringe brought once to his lips. "Barukh attah Adonai, eloheinu melekh ha-olam, asher kiddeshanu bemitzvotav, al mitzvat tzitzit." Murmured under his breath, cloth then set on his bunk and covered with his blanket. "Doc," he calls, pointing to the exit.

Jenkins nods and looks over to Woods, "It's the least we could do." He mutters. Another look at her face, wince. Wait, Woods is leaving? He looks about, right he's thinking fast. "Now I've got um." He goes blank and panics. "Se- sentry duty, that's it, sentry duty. Along the line." Apparently thinking more excuse is called for he tries. "To the east, at dawn." That sounds plausible. "Right, see you." He gives a hasty nod to everyone involved and makes his escape, going in the oposite direction to Woods, whichever that is.

Annabelle nods to Jenkins and Woods at their continued offers. "Take care, lads," she offers quietly as they move off. The arriving jeep gets a look of concern, but there seems to be enough help and she's not feeling so great after the news, and the thoughts it's drug up. She walks off in the direction of the beach to be alone.

Fredricks calls, "Right, have the Bearers bring him in here, to Table Two." He is prepping the table, "Anyone have a Triage report for him?" He keeps working.

"Single stab wound, right side of thorax," Kappedal reports the Fredricks as he moves closer to the tent flaps to help with the stretcher. Blood. Stinks. "Field dressed. No difficulty breathing to indicate any damage in his lungs."

Fredricks listens, nodding, "Fair enough." He moves to the side of the table to wait for the man to come in. "You part of this action, Ben?"

"Uh." Kappedal kind of stares at the chest wound for a second, then looks up at Fredricks. Hem. Haw. "Yeah. Yeah, I…you're going to stay here, right?"

Fredricks looks at the Chest wound, as Slayback's placed, hands up, fingers splayed, gloves on, looking nonplussed. He starts removing the field dressing, looking at the damage. "I thought I would, yes. You have a date or something?" He frowns, "Right between the third and fourth ribs, looks slightly deflected though. It, Ah.." He takes a pair of foreceps, and pulls out, a small white fragment. "Bone fragment. Deflected off the rib. Could have been worse."

Kappedal sticks his hands back in some water, even though he washed them not a few minutes before this. Gloves tugged on, cap thrown on his head backwards to keep his curls from shedding in the poor guy's chest cavity, he sets in to help poke around, peering at the fragment. "Does that happen a lot?"

Fredricks plinks the fragment into the basin, "Deflection stab wounds? Oh, all the time. Nondeflections just slide right in and are generally much worse. Bodys natural protective system, ribs." He's on one side of a massive, unconscious soldier inside the Aid station, working on a stab wound to the chest of the man. Foreceps working. He, is inspecting the wound carefully, "Mostly muscle, really, looks like there's not a lot that can be done other than cleaning it out and closing it. Irrigation, please?"

«Medic Code» Kappedal heals 3 wound damage on Slayback's right chest.

Kappedal picks up a syringe of saline, depressing his thumb on the end to flush the bleeding wound out with clear liquid. He listens as they work, poking and prodding and sewing where Fred lets him, until it's done. And he quickly cleans off his hands and runs off to tend to somebody who wakes up puking. The life of a medic.

Fredricks nods, "Oh, nicely done, Ben." Then the puking guy, "I'll dress this." He says, pleased with how it went. He has Slayback taken to his customary cot to sleep off the happyjuice he was given.

Fredricks finishes the work on Slayback and moves to scrub, and rubs his face as he steps to the tentflap, stepping out to, look over the area, taking in the other tents in the huddle of the base as it continues to be erected. They just landed not too long ago, and therefore are still solidifying their position.

Panting a little bit in the balmy air, Private Tucker "Tuck"(or "TT," as some people have called him) ambles up towards the aid station and brushes a sheen of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He looks back down towards the coastline with a narrow-eyed squint.

Fredricks is taking in the morning, so he notices the Private approaching, and nods, "Morning, Private." He says with a smile, "Something I can do for you today?" While dressed in Fatigues, he has no clear Rank insignia on him of any kind, though his gear is clearly Marine and his accent is midwestern.

Taft has a bit of a reddened forehead from the sun, and matching color in his cheeks. While naturally fair-complected, it's clear that wherever he's from, he didn't get out to the beach much. That's all changed, though. With a grunt, he stands straight as he addresses Fredericks in an accent that is unmistakably straight-up New England. He could have crawled out of the womb in the middle of Fenway Park, for that matter. "Uh. Doc. I'll get in the back of the line, it's nothing major."

Fredricks looks at the young man, and smiles, "You're the back of the line, son. And the front of the line. You ARE the line." He moves to the side, holding the tent flap open, "Step on in." He points to a medical table, "Hop up there and tell me what's wrong." He pauses, "Doctor Jason Fredricks. Civilian Attachment to the First. 'Doc' works just fine."

Tuck barks a bit of a laugh as his shoulders roll back, grinning goofily with his mouth askew to one side. "Well, Doc, since ya put it that way. It dawned on me, but yannknow, I wondered if someone was hiding around here." The 'here' rolls off his tongue in a harsh, grating 'HEAAAH' sound. "Private Tucker Taft. Pleased to meet ya, Doc." He hops onto the indicated table as asked momentarily and begins working on his sleeve. "I've been watching this grow for a better part of the week. Finally figured it wasn't going to go away with prayer or harsh language." Sleeve rolled up, he points with his good(right) arm and indicates a kind of unappetizing patch of irritated skin on the underside of his left forearm. To the educated eye it would appear to be the makings of 'jungle rot.' Looks like he's been scratching, too.

Fredricks follows Tucker to the table, nodding with a smile, "Taft then, or do you prefer Tucker?" He takes the arm gently in his hands, looking at the area critically. "Mmhmm. Let me guess, itches like the devil and always seems to get mad when you scratch it?" He nods, "Mixing prayer -AND- harsh language is never good. One or the other."

Suddenly, Tucker slaps his stomach. "Don't see the family resemblance, do you? Nah. I wasn't related to the ex-president. He belts out a snicker and then straightens. "Whichever, Doc. Mooshes call me 'Tuck.' That works too, I guess. And you're pretty good at this. It just started burning. Swear to the good Lord I woke up one day and it just -appeared- there." He lets the prayer/profanity bit slide in the meantime.

Fredricks nods, "Fortunately, you don't resemble the ex-president, which is a good thing." Then on to business, "Yeah, well, there's good news and bad news, then Tuck. How do you want it?" He doesn't seem too terribly worried though.

"Damn, doc. Doesn't matter. When the war's over, I'm gonna go back and buy Caroline a house with a bathtub worthy of the name, no matter who I resemble." Tuck's all goofball grins here but the expression fades only slightly. "Uh. I usually ask for the bad news first. Habit. Hit me."

Fredricks nods, "Bad news. You're gonna need a shot." He pushes from the table and heads to the back, "Take off your shirt, please. Good news is, with the shot and a cream and bandage over it, this'll clear up rather quickly." He's moving to the back of the station, getting a syrenge, amuple bottle, tube of something and some gauze, "Provided you don't keep scratching it, but the cream will help the itching just fine."

"Last 'gonna need a shot' story I heard was from a guy who was fighting in Europe and it was a lot more entertaining, Doc." Tucker says, with a thoughtful frown. "At least the lead-up. My brother's over there. Anyway," sounding resigned but not incredibly perturbed, he goes about shrugging his way out of his shirt methodically and drapes it on the bed next to him. "Oh well. At least I didn't see you whip out the bonesaw so I'm doing better than some. Have at it!"

Fredricks comes back with his things in a metal basin, setting it on the table beside where Tucker's sitting with a rash happily trying to consume his forearm. But it's a smallish, angry looking rash, and Fredricks is merciless to such things. He nods, "Oh yes, well, believe me, I have those injections too, and I've had to give them as well. You're right though." He says as he uncaps the syrenge and draws a measured amount of the clear liquid from the ampolue bottle, "Those stories are far far more entertaining." Taptap on the syrenge, and squirt goes the needle. No air in the chamber. He sets the strenge down and with a cotton ball and alcohol, swabs the area on tuckers upper arm. "Okay, here goes." He says, holding the mans arm, needle at the ready.

"They usually come from some GI talking about local girls in England, an'…" Tucker trails off, with a bit of a rueful shrug. "Yah. You know how it is." Flashing another one of his grins, he just stiffens and holds still. "Wouldn't need those here. 'Sides. I'm a gentleman, yannknow?" He just falls silent again and proceeds to look on towards Fredericks as he performs his appointed task. "So, where ya from if I can ask?" He asks in his harsh Massachusetts accent.

Fredricks lightly squeezes the muscle in Tuckers arm and the needle slides in with a minor pinch, offset by the pressure on the muscle. He injects the clear liquid, and pulls the needle out. Tada! "Iowa." He says, "Ames Iowa, specificly. College town." He caps the syrenge and takes the tube of cream, and starts applying it, soothing the itching, "What about yourself? Sound.. East coast, Boston, maybe?"

"Ahh." Tuck's teeth grit, but it wasn't like he wasn't expecting it and the last thing a marine's supposed to be afraid of is a shot, right? Beyond the light grimace, he doesn't comment, just clutching his elbow as he braces his arm as the ointment is applied. "Is that right? Iowa. Wicked far." He nods his head a little bit as he continues making small talk. "Yeah, you got it. I'm from Worcester," which of course comes out as 'WOOSTAH.' "Third-generation. My gran moved there to live with her uncle and met gramps, started working in the corset factory and the rest was history."

Fredricks nods, listening and places, a light gauze over the cooling rash, then starts wrapping it. "You've come farther, actually. I'm from the middle of the country. They had me in a Naval base hospital in LA for a bit before I shipped out here." He smiles, "You came all the way from the Atlantic coast, so you've got me beat on distance traveled."

"Huh. Is that right?" Tucker exclaims, openmouthed as he just lets the doc finish on his arm. "LA? I heard that place is unreal. Didja see any stars while you were there? And was one of them Miriam Hopkins?" he asks, hopefully.

Fredricks grins, "No, no Miriam Hopkins, mores the pity." He chuckles, tying off the gauze. "Alright." He moves to take a clipboard and starts filling out some paperwork, "Tucker Taft.. Topical infection.. blah blah. I'm going to want you to come back in for a look at that in a day, see how it's doing. You're not on Restricted duty or anything like that." He says, writing, so the rest of the Medicos will know what's up with his arm.

"Really, huh. I'd heard they're just wandering around there. S'pose those are just more of those stories people tell." Tucker rattles off as he inspects the wrapped area before shrugging back into his shirt. "Got a girl back home who's flat nuts about pictures. Maybe I'll mail her some tall tales about it anyway. 'I met this guy who was in LA yadda yadda yadda.'" Trailing off, he shrugs. "Better than the real stories I got. Speaking of which," he clears his throat as he finishes affixing his clothing, "What's the diagnosis? Was this the famous 'Jungle Rot?'"

Fredricks nods, "Mmhmm. There's a goodly amount of skin infections around. Your infection was caught before it got really nasty." he smiles, "And don't worry about the stories, there's certainly enough interesting people around here to make some stories for you to send back." He pulls the paper from the clipboard, "I'll need to file this and make some rounds with the other boys who've caught some Japanese metal, so you're free to go, to come back tomorrow, and be careful out there, Private alright?" He says, smiling.

"Got it, doc. Be seeing ya." With that, Tucker hops off the bed and goes about his way.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 License.