Disclaimer 1: I do not own facts or the rights to the Hacksaw Ridge film. The OC is my own and no identification with actual persons living or deceased, or with other details associated with him (apart from the very real Corporal Desmond Doss) are intended or should be inferred.

Massive thank-yous to: Elanorelle (aka Hobbit of Narnia, on ff) and Kristi at The Lion's Call for being willing to read this more than once and offer encouragement and pointers. Couldn't have finished it without you!

Disclaimer 2: The film Hacksaw Ridge is R-rated for gory war violence and other elements. While I did enjoy the film, please do not take this to be a whole-hearted recommendation for the film. Viewer discretion is strongly advised and consultation with PluggedIn's review is highly recommended.

Broad green leaves whispered overhead, their movement causing dots of yellow sunlight to dance over the laps of the other children and across the Bible in Mr. Graham's hands. Charlie tugged a little at the tie Momma had secured around his neck for the occasion, then carefully clasped his hands behind his back and began to recite. "'He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in Him will I trust.'"

A deep rumble interrupted Charlie's recitation and he looked up in bewilderment. A dark cloud forced the dancing sunlight away and the leaves' chatter intensified as the wind whipped through them. Great raindrops found their way through the canopy to sting his cheeks. Charlie pressed himself against the great tree. What was happening? Where did the storm come from? The tree cracked with a sound like thunder and –

Charlie woke with a start. There was no tree, no rain, no leaves, no Sunday school class. But there was a cloud. An acrid, black plume that dissipated into the blanket of foul grey above. Another crack filled the air and a flaming comet landed only a few yards away before the resulting explosion pelted him with dirt. The sharp pattering that followed was drowned out a moment later by another thunderous clap. Reality set in and Charlie wished to goodness he'd instead woken up to the tree from his dream on his chest.

How long had he been out? Seconds? Minutes? Charlie grimaced as a shot of pain commanded his full attention. He tried to raise himself to find the source, but his body refused to cooperate and ordered him to try something – anything – else. His left arm would not be persuaded to move more than a little, so he sent his right hand to investigate. His upper arm burned like fire when his hand brushed against it, but he forced himself to feel the area until he decided on a diagnosis of a broken bone. In a panic, he patted his face, chest, belly, and what he could reach of his legs without triggering another spasm of pain. His hand returned red with blood, but his mind was too numb to remember where it might have come from. An attempt to sit up again threw him back down on the ashen earth, gasping.

Medic. He needed a medic. Where were the medics? For that matter, where was anyone? Would they hear him if he called out? He needed a medic. Would one come for him? Would another soldier take him? Would an enemy soldier get to him first? Would a bomb find him instead? Where were the medics?

Another shell exploded to his right, though not close enough to rain down debris. What was close to him on that side was a face, open-eyed and open-mouthed. Charlie yelped and tried to scoot himself away, but he was already cornered by the walls of earth against which he lay. The lifeless eyes merely stared back. Charlie screwed his eyes shut and turned his face away. Oh, God…. He retched, sending another wave of pain through him. His face was wet with tears he didn't know he had. God… God, please get me out of here. Send a medic. Please, God.

The only answer was the booming of shells. Charlie huddled up as much as his yet-unidentified wounds allowed. He covered his ears and tried to return to his shaded Sunday school memory. "'He shall cover thee with His feathers, and under His wing shalt thou trust –'" He cringed as another shell screamed overhead. "'Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day….'"

x.X.x

Shells and gunfire wove in and out of Charlie's consciousness until he finally found himself able to think again. Had he fallen asleep at all? It sure felt like it. If nothing else, he didn't recall feeling any pain for the last while. Of course, it all flared right up again when he shifted his position. He started again at the sight of his fallen comrade – Butch Campbell was his name, Charlie recalled now. Butch of the broad shoulders and even broader grin. Butch of the keen eye and steady hand. Butch, strong in body and even stronger in heart. Butch Campbell, the man who saved Charlie's life, perhaps at the cost of his own.

Charlie vaguely remembered bullets tearing into his own flesh, then a shout and a hand pulling him down. He didn't remember what followed; he must have blacked out. But he did know that he was in the open at the time, right on the surface. Butch must have dragged him into this hole for a semblance of shelter before he lost his own life.

The quiet was a relief from the constant noise of war, but Charlie found no comfort in it. There was nothing to concentrate on any more, nothing to ground him. Three places on his abdomen stuck him with invisible needles when he breathed. His eyes followed the thin wisps of sickly grey that blew overhead every now and again. He thought of home, of Pop and Momma, of Steven and Juney, and of Christmas of all things, far away as it was. His broken arm throbbed with every heartbeat. His nose caught the scent of smoke from the burning tree stump a few yards away. He pictured Sarah Gardner's face and determined that if he made it out of here, he'd not only ask her to dance, but to marry him. His right leg, Charlie was sure, would have shrieked at him if it had a mouth of its own, but the best he could do was moan on its behalf. His ears strained for a sound – any sound – besides his own. Butch would have broken the silence, but his open mouth would never again offer more than the humourless chuckle Charlie now laughed for him.

He laughed. Laughed for Butch's wasted fitness and spirit. Laughed for his own pathetic survival. Laughed for the madness that drove men to end each other.

His aches subsided and even his leg's voiceless cries quieted. His eyelids drooped. "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." He remembered that, as a child praying by his bedside, he used to imagine great, white-winged angels carrying the souls of the dead in their arms to Heaven. Now, he allowed for another dark gurgle at the thought. What angel would set foot on the unholy ground of Hacksaw Ridge?

x.X.x

Voices murmured, far, far away. Soft footfalls carried them closer, little by little. The angels had come after all and Charlie was going home, home to Heaven at last. Should he call out to them? No, they would know to collect him. He would wait patiently and simply look upon them until they came for him. But try as he might, Charlie could not pry his eyes open. His eyelids were just too heavy, his will too weak.

The voices were nearly on top of him now, but he could not understand them. Perhaps that was to be expected. Didn't the Apostle Paul speak of the "tongues of angels"? There was a rustle to his right: one of them must have taken up Butch. But no heavenly hand took up Charlie. Their footsteps passed him by. He tried to call after them, but he could not summon his voice. He tried to reach for them, but his arm protested vehemently.

If he was dead, shouldn't he no longer feel pain?

Before he could decide, a shout jolted him from his stupor. The sharp rap of gunfire that followed reawakened every stab of pain his body had to offer. Charlie forced his eyes open.

Opposite him, on the rim of his hole, were a few men whose backs were turned to him. Charlie didn't know what God's angels looked like, but he was certain they didn't look like gun-toting Japanese soldiers. Charlie held his breath, but they continued on their way, apparently satisfied with the result of their gunfire.

His wounds complained at the filling of his diaphragm, but he forgot about them when he turned his head to the right. Butch no longer faced him. He lay flat on his back, empty eyes staring at the smokescreen that hovered above. Angels had not taken him up either; the rustling had only been the sound of his body being turned over. Not only that, the Japanese had just killed another man, one that had been so close all this time. Charlie shuddered to think that the same could have happened to him had he moved or called out.

"'A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.'" The only angels out here were angels of death. And just like the children of Israel all those years ago, Charlie had been passed over.

x.X.x

With each hour that crawled by, Charlie wished he had called out to the Japanese. That would have been preferable to sitting here, slowly dying in the dark. Butch was lucky: death had found him quickly. Even the other fellow, the one they shot, had been put out of his misery. Charlie still had enough in him to convince the rats he was yet alive. If he tried, he could probably make enough noise to draw attention. Perhaps he ought to. It wasn't as though there'd be a moment "too late". Death couldn't come soon enough. Momma and Juney would weep. Pop would bury his grief in the cornfield. Steven would teach on the vapour of life and the eternal glory of Heaven in the adult Sunday school. Aunt Rachel would follow with "Amazing Grace" or perhaps "In the Sweet By and By". And Sarah Gardner… well, at least she would grieve no more than the rest of the congregation. Charlie would be gone from this world and its ills, more alive than ever in the presence of Life Himself.

The night continued on and still Charlie made no sound apart from the occasional gasp of pain. "'There shall no evil thing befall thee,'" his Sunday school memory whispered, "'neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling. For He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.'" Please, God. Take me home. Send me an angel. Just please take me home.

A new sound caught his attention. Soft and small as it was, Charlie knew it was not the sound of rats. He peered into the darkness, but there was little light to see by. He strained to pick up the sound. Footsteps. Much too quick to be another wounded man and much too soft to be a Japanese soldier. The footfalls paused frequently, but they were moving in his direction. At last, Charlie could see a vague shape. Thank you, God. Charlie tried to speak, but the most he got out was a croak. He shifted his right arm in hopes that the movement against the dirt would provide adequate noise.

It did. The footfalls approached until the poor light revealed a skinny string-bean of a man, his face blackened with dirt. "'He shall give His angels charge over thee….'" But surely this couldn't be an angel. Angels didn't wear khaki and surely they would not speak with Southern accents.

"Hey, I got you. It's okay," the man whispered. "My name's Desmond Doss. What's yours?" He rummaged around in a bag he carried.

Charlie hissed as his leg was jostled. "Charlie," he managed to whisper. "Charlie McTavish."

"I got you, Charlie. I'm gonna give you some morphine, alright? And I'm gonna get you out of here."

Charlie just nodded. Thin fingers pushed back the sleeve of his right arm and a needle pricked him.

"Can you walk?"

Charlie shook his head. How could he explain that he couldn't even sit up if the words would not form?

The man – Desmond – must not have seen. "Here, put your arm across my shoulders and I'll help you up." Charlie's arm was already in place, held in the pincer grip of those thin fingers. Desmond's other hand snaked under Charlie's back. "Alright, ready? One, two, three."

Charlie's body would not allow him to obey and all of its protestations came out in a strangled groan. "I can't." Before he quite knew what was happening, he found himself hoisted over spindly shoulders.

"I'm gonna get you home, Charlie," Desmond grunted.

The morphine kicked in and Charlie nearly forgot that it was his broken arm that his rescuer gripped or that every step rubbed against his punctured abdomen. His wounded leg swung freely, bumping against his rescuer every so often. He felt his mind grow groggy. "'He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways,'" he rasped. "'They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone….'"

At length, Desmond's staggering steps led them to the edge of the cliff, where he set Charlie down. Had it really been only two days since Charlie had climbed up into the jaws of death?

"'He shall call upon Me, and I will answer him.'"

Charlie felt his eyelids flutter before something stirred him back to wakefulness: that voice had not been his own. He blinked his bleary eyes at Desmond.

"'I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour him. With long life will I satisfy him, and show him My salvation.'"

Charlie watched as the arms that had borne him across the field drew up a length of rope that dangled off the cliff face till two loops signaled the end. Desmond threw these around Charlie, helped him raise his broken arm, and tightened the loops around his chest.

"You gotta trust me now," Desmond said. "I'm gonna give you a push and lower you to the bottom."

Charlie reached to grasp Desmond's arm, but caught his hand instead, rough and raw across the palm. He heard Desmond's breath catch. Angels didn't stumble or feel pain, did they? Charlie pushed the thought aside and simply said, "God bless you, Desmond Doss."

Desmond responded with a tired but genuine smile, then gave him the forewarned shove off the cliff. Down, down Charlie went till at the bottom, two pairs of hands unharnessed him and laid him on a stretcher. As his new guardians carried him away, Charlie noticed that the rope was not drawn back up the cliff face. Desmond must have left it to return to the battlefield.

Thank You, God. Thank You for Desmond Doss.

Before Charlie allowed sleep to claim him, he decided that perhaps not all angels were Heavenly, but that, without a doubt, each and every angel was Heaven-sent.

All Scripture used in this fic is from Psalm 91.

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