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( powder )
His hands feel like theirs look. Roe has one foot forward, one foot back, caught mid stride, and it's like he's come up against a wall. Something blew off the rear end of the motorcycle, but powder has covered the messier parts of the destruction - dusted over the tops of eyelids and helmets. It covers the busted bike as prettily as it covers the soldier's busted leg.
The only sound is his own breath. He wonders if he leans in close enough, will he see the faint breath of one of the men on the ground? Is there any chance they might be alive?
He's not sure it would matter. He's a medic, but they're German. Or...they were German.
Roe huffs moisture out into the air. The bodies are as rigid as the steel of the gun and he curls his fingers where they're hidden in the thin pockets of his jacket. They've been stiff for months, never all the way warm, never defrosted, always just one bad night away from looking just like the Germans sprawled on the ground, dusted gently with snow, unnecessary camoflauge. One man holds his leg - just at the knee, as though pawing at a cramp in his sleep, frozen in place. It looks almost as though it still pains him and although Roe doesn't move, he contemplates reaching out to brush frost from the man's upper lip. It's the last remnant of this soldier's life - his breath frozen onto his skin, clinging to him as though hoping to find a way back in. The thought stops him.
His chest explodes with warmth, a sudden burst of fear. Roe turns even as he glances back, gaze drawn to the anguished arch of one man's back, the slump of another's shoulders. This is a graveyard and it isn't death he fears, but ghosts. His boots crunch in the snow as he flees, dread sitting dense and heavy in the very lowest hollow of his gut. The whole forest has become a graveyard and he can't stop himself from looking back again and again, back to the bodies of the forgotten, frozen soldiers, terrified they might follow, looking for help from the company medic.
His hands feel like theirs look. Roe has one foot forward, one foot back, caught mid stride, and it's like he's come up against a wall. Something blew off the rear end of the motorcycle, but powder has covered the messier parts of the destruction - dusted over the tops of eyelids and helmets. It covers the busted bike as prettily as it covers the soldier's busted leg.
The only sound is his own breath. He wonders if he leans in close enough, will he see the faint breath of one of the men on the ground? Is there any chance they might be alive?
He's not sure it would matter. He's a medic, but they're German. Or...they were German.
Roe huffs moisture out into the air. The bodies are as rigid as the steel of the gun and he curls his fingers where they're hidden in the thin pockets of his jacket. They've been stiff for months, never all the way warm, never defrosted, always just one bad night away from looking just like the Germans sprawled on the ground, dusted gently with snow, unnecessary camoflauge. One man holds his leg - just at the knee, as though pawing at a cramp in his sleep, frozen in place. It looks almost as though it still pains him and although Roe doesn't move, he contemplates reaching out to brush frost from the man's upper lip. It's the last remnant of this soldier's life - his breath frozen onto his skin, clinging to him as though hoping to find a way back in. The thought stops him.
His chest explodes with warmth, a sudden burst of fear. Roe turns even as he glances back, gaze drawn to the anguished arch of one man's back, the slump of another's shoulders. This is a graveyard and it isn't death he fears, but ghosts. His boots crunch in the snow as he flees, dread sitting dense and heavy in the very lowest hollow of his gut. The whole forest has become a graveyard and he can't stop himself from looking back again and again, back to the bodies of the forgotten, frozen soldiers, terrified they might follow, looking for help from the company medic.
