The Ghost of Him |WWII Frerard AU|

-49-

The next morning brings nothing but sorrowful melancholy, aching bodies, and broken spirits, and it hangs in the air like toxic vapor.

Operation Market Garden was a pathetic failure.  That part is obvious enough, but it's the scars it left behind that's really getting underneath my skin.

Mark is still unaccounted for, and it's unlikely he's even alive at this point.  Mikey sprained his ankle trying to escape.  Dallon suffered a minor head injury when a bullet pinged off his helmet and rattled his skull--thank God he was wearing it, though.  Thomas got his calf slashed open by a piece of debris, and although it isn't serious in the slightest, he still won't be able to put all of his weight on it for the next couple of weeks.

And this is just in our regiment.  Lord only knows how many injuries and casualties the others suffered.

Now the lot of us are stuck in a small clearing down the road, far away from the burning town that left us all wounded, whether it be physical or emotional.  We're not sure where we're going next, but I can only hope and pray that it's somewhere miles away from this place.

I'm in desperate need of a change of scenery.

I barely slept a wink last night, haunted by torturous visions of what had happened in the town.  Brendon's whimpers and sobs echoed inside my head all night long.  The enemy tank never left the corner of my warped vision, and not once did my heart stop hammering against my ribs.  It was like I was reliving the nightmare all over again, and no matter what I did, I couldn't get it to go away.

To say I'm absolutely exhausted is a bit of an understatement.  After tossing and turning under the stars for hours on end, I finally dragged myself to my feet as soon as I saw the sun beginning to peek over the horizon.  It's still early in the morning now, and yet the entire makeshift camp is bustling with anxious activity.

I think it's safe to say we're all itching to get out of this place.

I haven't seen Brendon since we set up in the clearing last night.  I wonder how he's holding up after yesterday's harrowing events.  My heart aches for the poor guy.  He was so broken up over what had happened, and I can't even begin to imagine what was going through his mind.  He doesn't deserve that kind of distress.  No one does.

God, I hope he's okay.

Well, speaking of yesterday's atrocity, in my aimless wandering around the little camp, I spot Jack sitting on a box of supplies.  His vacant gaze is staring a thousand miles out, his demeanor completely stiff and unnaturally rigid.  He almost looks sinister, sitting on that box near the edge of camp, but it doesn't take an idiot to realize why.

I should probably try to talk to him, shouldn't I?

Here goes nothing.  Taking a deep breath, trying to shake the nerves out of my system, I cautiously approach the silent man sitting on the box of supplies, heart slamming against my chest.  "Hey, Jack,"  I greet softly, unsure of how he's going to react to my presence.  "How are you holding up?"

Alas, he doesn't even acknowledge the sound of my voice, just keeps staring at the tall trees in front of him without a single word; I'm not sure what else I expected.  He's undoubtedly plagued with grief.  I should probably leave him be, but something in the back of my mind is telling me not to, and I find myself listening to it.

"I'm sorry about what happened yesterday,"  I go on.  His silence is unnerving, and yet I still keep rambling on.  "I know that probably doesn't make you feel any better, but I just want you to know that we're all here for you.  Delta and Serpent have your back.  We'll get through this together.  I promise."