Zero Two Three One | John Laurens X Reader [Hamilton]

XXIII: One Medic Present

❝I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.❞
—Nathan Hale

Breathe in. Breathe out.

"Three medics are down, General! What do we do?!"

"Leave the injured!"

"What?!"

Breathe in. Breathe out.

"Where is our air support?!"

"Half the planes have been shot down!"

"They still have a goddamn job!"

Breathe in. Breathe out.

"We have to tell the rear not to come."

"We'll die without their support!"

"They'll die if they come!"

Breathe in. Hold it.

It sounded like a simple plan. First, a group of attack aircrafts would fly over the Russian base and drop bombs on the tank lots and airfields. That went as planned. Next, more aircrafts would fly over and deploy Lafayette and his unit onto the base and seize its main arsenal at the Northern tip of the base. That went as planned. Then John and his unit (including me) would deploy on the Southern part of the base, right by the barracks and secondary arsenals. That went as planned.

So how did it go so wrong?

I suppose we expected a little more time to make our way through the base before the Russian soldiers were on top of us, but we were utterly wrong. 

Our mission was to blow up their arsenals, and we were only able to get one down by the time we were getting shot at. 

And now we've been separated and surrounded on all sides.

I'm hiding behind a short arsenal tower with John, Alexander, and Galen (the medic). He's one of the last ones we have left. From beyond our little safe space, I hear constant explosions and the familiar cracking of gunfires. The battle ensuing just beyond our hiding space must be horrific.

The tower we hide behind bears the sign, written in Russian characters, "Missiles".

We have to destroy it, but it's not that simple.

The sky, once grey from the clouds, is now colored red from the firing of several flare guns. Red flares: danger. The flares come from all sides, marking several small groups who were separated from our General during the skirmish. And they are all in danger.

God, we're fucked.

"Your orders, General?!" Galen shouts over the sound of bullets.

John is occupied, pulling out a flare bullet from his vest. He loads it into his flare gun, then fires it in the air. My wide eyes stare at it until it blows up high in the sky, bursting into bright purple colors.

Purple: a request for a status report.

"We'll see," John says, his tone oddly calm. We follow him to the edge of the tower, then peer around the building. A few seconds later, several flares of an assortment of colors are fired into the air from all locations. Pink, teal, indigo, brown, orange... 

They mean all sorts of things, and they give a good report.

This is our communication system. It's complex, but it's better than using radios and letting the Russians tap into our conversations.

"Alrigh'," John says patiently, loading another flare into his gun. "Looks like not all the tanks were destroyed, and we have some soldiers makin' good progress."