Welcome to chapter one of my third Combat! Fic. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own them, just messing around with em!

Thunder cried out in the skies above, sounds similar reflected upon the scene below. Canons shot endless rounds of fire and smoke and nothing imminently visible- until the explosions happened. Then it was evident that more than just fire and smoke had come from those death machines.

Below, several men crouched into pits, hiding behind only dirt and their rifles. One man rolls on his side, checking another, who is hit in the leg. That first man doesn't carry a rifle; he's a medic.

Another man ducks lower, pushing his helmet forward to shield from flying dirt.

"Fall back! Fall back!" he screams.

Something hits his head, gashing up under his helmet across his forehead. Dazed, he stared ahead for a moment. Someone cries his name, tells him to get down. He stares ahead into a blur of fire and death, a story of his days written in blood.

He doesn't remember losing consciousness, or falling backwards.

"Keep him still, keep him still…what the devil, Gerald? I told you to keep him down! Keep him- here, never mind you take his hand, hold his hand Rossley. He needs to know you are here. Good, like that, so."

"Sir? Morphine?"

"Medic, hand me that knife, please. No more morphine, it's too soon. Thanks. Alright, hold him."

The voices were British.

"Right."

There was pain, so fast and sharp that he almost remembered nothing of it; again he blacked out.

"Lieber Gott, rette diesen Soldaten, er ist sehr schwer verwundet, und er wird sterben, du mußt ihm helfen, so daß er deinen guten Willen sehen kann, Vater, Sohn Heiliger Geist, amen." More voices, but not American. Not Britsh. He fell into a deeper, softer sleep with the peirce of a needle.

There wasn't pain. Not at first, but a numbness that faded too soon proved that the agony would not hesitate to flood his senses any moment. His vision was blurred, colors running into each other. There were only two colors that he could make out at first. White, and darker brownish black. The white was in the center, and it seemed to take on the shape of some familiar object. A person. Slowly, but surely, he knew that that was what it was. Lightning flared across his vision when he tried to open his eyes. He writhed and felt a cold feeling on the small of his back as it arched and the cold air hit the sweat gathered there. He didn't feel the hot tear sliding down his face. The pain had come.

Somebody was talking to him in German. His head lolled on the thin pillow, which hinted strongly to being not a pillow but a folded blanket. As feeling returned to his limbs he found that a hand was clasping his, tiny and feminine.

"Hello." She whispered.

Her accent was thick. German. He blinked.

"You are in a British field hospital. You are very badly hurt, and so you must stay still. I will get the water."

She lifted a glass to his lips. He gulped at it greedily like a young puppy, anxious that it would dissapear.

"How does it feel?"

"It...feels." he tested his voice. She smiled, stroking his hand. "You are German."

"Yes. The Germans have captured this hospital. You are American, so I speak to you in your language."

"Oh." He glanced down at himself, only to blush. He was shirtless. His dog tags stuck to his skin, and he had to peel them off. Reading the name, he frowned.

"These aren't mine. That isn't me." He told her, panicking.

"Who are you then, Soldier?"

Just then it struck him that she was the one speaking in german to him earlier, when he'd been out of it.

His face slowly changed from confusion to fear. Shock took hold of him, seizing his ability to speak. He tried to push himself up, but she eased him back down.

"Don' know." He felt like crying. Something broke inside him, images, thoughts, piled up in there, but he just couldn't read them. "I don't know who I am. Oh God, who am I?"

The woman's grey eyes peered around. "Careful soldier, you should be calm."

Easy for her to say.

"I can't remember. I don't know who I am!" He grabbed her arm, not paying attention to whether or not he was hurting her.

"Medic!"

A man with graying brown hair and a red cross strapped to his arm came over. He ran his hand through his hair and made a grim noise of questioning.

He noticed a ring on the medic's hand. So he was married.

"This man does not know his identity."

"Oh?" Medic sat down and felt his pulse, checked his eyes. He sat, emotionless, shocked. "He has amnesia." The medic was British.

"And?"

"And nothing. There is very little we can do for him. He has to come out of it by himself. Until then, we'll sedate him so he can heal. When he wakes up we will ask him again." The man left. He was left lying on his back, limbs growing fuzzy. He hadn't felt the needle in enter his vein. And he didn't feel sleep till he was dreaming.

When he woke up there was silence. He let himself sleep again, too afraid to face the nothing.

As the days went by he learned that he had also sustained a shrapnel wound to the midsection. He told the people around him nothing. That was because he knew nothing. His brain was tired, his arms and legs, and face and hands and shoudlers and back, and every part of him was tired, forgetting. Someone gave him a mirror several days later, and he didn't stop looking at his eyes and face for a very long time. They were not his eyes. It was not his face, or hair. But those eyes, they watched him. They cried tears. Not his tears. He was nobody, for he knew nothing of what he had been. He felt that he had never been. And if he had never been, he was nobody.

The German woman flounced about the tent all day, talking to soldiers in English, German and even French. A man with small, black eyes, and a balding head often came over and spoke to him sharply in what he somehow knew was German.

But the Germans were people. What was wrong with this? He knew there was something, the way the others spoke to them and looked at them. What was wrong with the Germans? What had they done?

And why was there a war anyway? Was he on the right side? Was there a right side?

So many questions, and every time they lead to the question, who was he?

The woman, who he now identified as Lady, for she gave him no name by which to call her, gave him a title.

"Sandy."

Thats what she called him, Sandy. When he woke up, soemtimes she was there, chestnut curls gleaming, grey eyes flashing, bright lips smirking into a smile, not always so bad.

Sometimes it was the bald man. But mostly it was the Medic with the graying brown hair. He spoke softly, checking 'Sandy's' eyes. His pulse, his wound. Wounds. There were three, two physical, and the one mental. Sometimes the Medic, who was called Rossley, would sit and talk to him, gently probing his memory for signs of some recollection of his past. There was nothing.

Days passed with slow succession. Soon he could sit up and stand. Eventually, he could walk with help, and after some time he could roam about alone. In all, thirteen days had passed since he'd been brought there. The Germans, who had apparently taken over the hospital, didn't move out; German lines had moved up, past the hospital, which was an event of great consequential depression for the others. For him, well, he didn't know either side. He felt nothing. He was nothing.

She prayed for him, the Lady. In German mostly, like that first time. He knew she was praying, because always she'd cross herself at the end. It made him smile.

He learned that he had 'fine eyes' from several other people there, who often complimented him on them. He didn't like them; clear, emotionless. Not his eyes. Never his eyes. What had he seen with these eyes that he couldn't remember?

Sometimes he looked at his hands, too, and studied them. What had they done? How many had they killed?

Then he looked at his feet. Where had they gone? What places?

And where would they take him?

Chapter 1 people! Thanks so much for reading, please take five seconds to review, it would really make my day... er, night, its 9:17 right now. See you in the next chapter, and let me know your guesses on which soldier this is!