Ficly

Hardtack

The doctor wound the bandage round and round the cut. The field hospital was silent save for the intermittent zombie-esque moans. He told the wounded soldier how lucky he was, as his arm was over his arm when the shot hit him. The solider just smiled with his loaded gun by his side.

They chatted into the night, sitting by the fire. They traded their views on life, on art, on the war, on everything. It was Christmas. They knew they wouldn’t be back home for awhile, and even though most of the army was asleep inside their warm tents, the two braved the cold in order to find a type of comfort through it all.

Before the doctor headed back to his quarters, he looked the solider in the eye and asked him for his name.

The man smiled and spoke softly.

“Adolf.”

They shook hands, and walked in opposite ways.

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