Stark
Doc Eugene Roe, G

He realizes, sometimes, that he sees things which others don't.

Of course he has good eyesight - that was one of the few requirements, at least, that they made sure he had before assigning him the title of "medic." But Eugene feels, sometimes, like it's not all about the eyesight. It's his perspective.

When he was a child, his perspective forced him to look up. To see adults, to see the sky, to reach his mother's pastries cooling on the counter-top, he had to look up. As he grew older (and taller) the point of view changed. He could look people in the eye, when he felt like it, or let his gaze wander out the window, thinking of places he'd rather be, things he'd rather be doing. It took Eugene a while to realize that perspective was more than just a matter of where you are in relation to another person, object, or place. Complexly, it was the matter of who you are in relation.

This is what he remembers, more and more often these days.

...

When they offer him food, or help, or conversation, Eugene almost always declines. It's not that he doesn't want to be friendly, or doesn't appreciate companionship as much as the next man. He just knows where he stands, in relation to them. He knows what they think, and doesn't blame them.

Whenever a shell explodes in the snow nearby, or machine gun fire peppers the stark, limbless trees at the front of the lines, everyone looks to see who's been hit. (Of course they dive for their own foxholes first, every man for himself, of course of course it's only sensible, this may be war but they're not stupid) Heads pop up throughout the woods, regardless of orders to stay down. Looking to see if there's anyone they can grab and help, but also looking to see who's been hit. Who it is that's screaming "medic."

When Eugene runs by the men ducking in their holes, he knows exactly what they're thinking. He'd be thinking the same thing if he were one of them - 'thank god it isn't me.' One by one, they thank their stars that they aren't the man who just got hit. The thought changes, though, and soon they're just as thankful that they aren't the poor sap who was picked to be medic. There's someone else on whom to lay the blame for the fact that the man who just got hit will probably die.

They need someone to blame, just like he does.

...

Being that he is, in fact, the company medic who has managed to keep himself from getting killed this far into the war, he knows the men. More than just the stories of entrenchment and courage that he can hear people passing around when he goes to Bastogne for supplies, Eugene knows the individuals. He can match each face with a name and a malady. So-and-so has the worst case of trenchfoot in the company, this man hasn't been able to keep down anything but water for a week, and so on. This, too, widens the distinction he sees between himself and the others. Even the officers have stories to match with each individual soldier, but all he has are illnesses, wounds, diseases.

He suspects that they think he doesn't talk because of the pain he feels. Oftentimes it's simply that he has nothing to say to them.

...

In the end, it comes down to a matter of balance. While he rarely speaks with them, he bandages their wounds. He saves their friends. He tells no one about the time one man almost has a breakdown, staggering in the direction of the German lines, intending to run right into their fire. He doesn't whisper of the men he's seen who sleep closer than compatriots in their foxholes. Eugene keeps their secrets.

And he stands away from them, keeping his.