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Sharpe's Sergeant	By : Sable899 Category: S through Z > The Sharpe Books Views: 1683 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Sharp series of books that this fanfiction is written for, nor do I know Sean Bean. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. This story is fiction.

Chapter List
- 18
- 19
- 20
Chapter 19 A Fine Mess

As the Range Rover came into sight, Sharpe felt the sickening wave of nausea that precedes passing out. It was a familiar sensation as he had suffered his fair share of thumps to his head over the course of his Army career. The sight of the strange iron and glass contraption that the woman was leading him to did nothing to help his already-throbbing head and spinning eyesight. As much as he struggled to stay conscious, he just couldn't win the battle, collapsing as the woman opened a door to the contraption and allowed him to slide into a cushioned seat.

As Camden rushed the vehicle over the packed gravel road towards the field aid station out on South Boundary Road, she repeatedly tried to contact Smitty on the radio, but all she got was a lot of static. Trying Range Control got her through to the dispatcher and at least let her leave a message to be relayed to Smitty to let him know what was going on and where she was headed.

By the time Sharpe came to, the medic had just finish tying off the last of three stitches at the back of his skull. He was lying on his side on a firm cushioned couch of some sort, turned to face the olive drab wall of a tent. It felt quite strange to him that he couldn't feel anything were the gash was on his head and his first reaction was to reach for the spot.

“No, Sir, I'm not quite finished yet,” informed the young soldier with the same American accent as the woman as he stopped Sharpe from touching the wound.

“The woman, the one who musta' brought me 'ere,” Sharpe asked, a twinge of alarm in his voice as it dawned on him that he was in some sort of hospital, “Where'd she get off to and where in blood-eh 'ell am I? An' what the fuck did ye do to me 'ead? I can't feel a blood-eh thing back there.

“There, all done, Sir,” the medic announced, “You’ll have to take it easy for a day or two. You hit it pretty hard on something jagged, but there’s no fracture. Let's get you on your feet and check your balance now.”

Rolling over and sitting up did nothing for Sharpe's headache and seeing a small audience gathered around staring at him just added insult to injury. When a camera flash went off directly in his eyes, his first reaction was to draw the sword that the medics had not been able to take from the death-like grip he had put on it just before he passed out. The second was to launch into a series of the foulest Yorkshire curses mixed with a smattering of distinctly French swear words and a couple of Spanish oaths thrown in for good measure.

Before the sword cleared its scabbard, a gentle hand gripped his wrist. Turning, he immediately recognized the clear blue eyes of his rescuer. She didn't say a word to him, but her command of “At ease!” stilled the small crowd gather round him. Blood-eh 'ell, she be in charge 'round 'ere! A woman? A blood-eh woman?

“Let's leave him alone, people!” Camden ordered, “I'm sure he'll be in a better mood to meet and greet when he comes back to get the stitches removed. Now, back off and get back to what you were doing. Show's over.”

Sharpe found himself spellbound by her crystal blue eyes and soothed by her firm yet gentle voice, relaxing enough to let his half-drawn sword slide back into the scabbard and leaning back against the exam table as a bit of dizziness hit him.

“Sorry about that, but it's not everyday that a field aid station gets to work on the legendary Richard Sharpe,” Camden apologized with a glint of amusement in her eyes, “You're going to have to sign autographs and stand still for pictures when you come back.”

“Excuse me, Sergeant Cantrell,” the attending medic interrupted, softly, “Is there anyone to stay with him tonight? There's no fracture according to the x-rays, just a mild concussion, but somebody needs to keep an eye on him for the next twenty-four hours.”

“Consider it arranged,” Camden quietly confirmed, “Oh damn! He's supposed to be at some big cast party in about an hour.”

“It took just three stitches, but whatever made the cut scraped the bone of the skull. He's going to have a hell of a headache just as soon as that Novocain wears off in another twenty, thirty minutes,” the medic warned, “and the dizziness will last probably for a couple more hours. He may be a bit disoriented, also. And, he really needs to stay awake and off his feet. No alcohol, either.”

“That's all quite doable, everything except the no alcohol bit, I can assure you, Corporal,” Camden grinned widely, “I’ll do what I can, but I can't guarantee he’ll cooperate.”

When Camden turned around, Sharpe was still leaning against the exam table, his head slightly tilted towards her, hooded green eyes brooding, listening intently, every muscle in his body tense as if he were preparing to fight his way out of the aid tent. Thankfully, the rest of the staff had gone back to their business, leaving them alone.

“Okay, let's get you back to my place and get you out of that bloody jacket,” Camden, speaking softly, suggested, “Maybe if you got out of that uniform you might be able to get out of that character. You're really starting to freak me out with all of this Richard Sharpe business.”

Sharpe, knitting his brows in puzzlement, wasn't sure what she meant by that. His head was spinning, but not because of his injury. Something just wasn't right. This place, the people, all the things lying about, and all the bright lights the likes of which he had never seen before. He felt himself starting to panic until he caught himself in the soothing coolness of her eyes. The longer he looked at her, the more tension flooded out of his body until he let out a huge sigh, ran his fingers through his disheveled hair and reached a hand out to touch hers.

“Sorr-eh, lass, a bit out 'o sorts,” Sharpe admitted, rubbing his eyes.

“Let's get out of here,” Camden suggested, taking his hand and pulling him after her through the maze of the aid tent, emerging into the cool evening air.

Stepping outside, it took a few seconds for Sharpe to adjust his vision. All around him there was noise, unnatural noise; big whining boxes with blinking lights, cables and ropes running everywhere, hulking dark shapes clanging along the nearby road, a cacophony of beeping, humming, whining, banging. The smell of the air in the apparent military encampment was tinged with a black smoke, fumes that smelled like coal oil, many scents he had no words to describe. There must have been a dozen tents, each three times the size of anything he had ever seen before, all with a sort of netting stretched over and around them, softening their outlines in the faint moonlight, gently rustling in a slight breeze. Soldiers in the green mottled uniforms were all busy tending to equipment and carrying supplies about.

“Wait, lass. I'll not go a step further 'till ye' be tellin' me what the blood-eh 'ell is goin' on 'ere,” Sharpe demanded in a hoarse whisper, not wanting to draw attention to them. He jerked Camden to a halt, his grip crushing her hand as he twisted her arm around to the small of her back, pinning her against his chest. His other hand grabbed her throat just under her chin, immobilizing her head against his chest.

The faint light in the encampment came from what spilled from the tent flaps and the scattered spotlights that illuminated the work areas around the generators and the glow from a nearly-full moon. It was dim, but sufficient for Camden to see Sharpe's face quite clearly. Looking up into his glaring green eyes for the first time since she had found him out on the range, she sucked in a deep breath of shock. His face was hard, his lips drawn into a near snarl, eyes cold, hard, dangerous, nostrils flaring and his breathing deep and hard. She could make out a half moon-shaped scar just under his right eye, high on his cheek. The hand that gripped hers was crushingly strong, hard and rough. His Yorkshire accent was thick and gravelly, difficult to understand. With her chin pressed against his chest, she noted traces of horse sweat and leather. She had watched Sean shave that morning, but now there was two days worth of stubble on his sculpted chin. His hair smelled of cloves and bay rum, not of the shampoo from her shower. This isn't right. He's not Sean. But what the hell is happening? Sharpe's a work of fiction. Or is he? What am I thinking? Either my imagination is getting the better of me or this is a goddamned nightmare….

“You’re hurting me. Let go,” Camden growled authoritatively, her eyes locking on his with an icy stare, her anger rising even as she cringed with apprehension, “We can’t talk here. Too many people about who might recognize you.”

“Me? Why would anybod-eh bother ‘bout me ‘round ‘ere? I’ve known one buggerin’ American in me whole life,” Sharpe protested with a hiss, “I want te know who the fuck you are?”

“I’ll tell you what I can, just not here,” Camden explained through clenched teeth, her anger diminishing as he dropped his hand from her throat.

“Awright, Sergeant. Move,” Sharpe ordered, turning her loose to walk in front of him.

“Is this wha’ ye brung me ‘ere in?” Sharpe asked, reluctant to get into the Range Rover.

“Yes, and you’re just going to have to trust me and get in the damn truck,” Camden instructed, impatiently waiting for him to sit down in the Range Rover before she started the engine. Just as he was moving to sit, a nearby firing battery touched off a volley of live artillery rounds. Sharpe nearly went ballistic on hearing the great thunderous clap of eight big guns going off in unison. Banging the top of his head on the roof did nothing to improve his humor, launching him into another colorful burst of cursing and swearing. Camden, almost glad she could barely make out any of his heavily accented words, tried and failed to choke back an audible chuckle only to elicit another round of cursing and swearing from him. Fortunately, he didn’t notice the sound of the starting engine as the battery fired off another great volley.

“Who in blood-eh ‘ell are ye fightin’?” Sharpe nearly shouted, rubbing the top of his head, “the spawn o’ ‘ell itself?”

“Believe me, you haven’t seen anything yet,” Camden assured, “That was small potatoes compared to what’s going to follow.”

“Tell me, jest who’s fightin’ who?” Sharpe asked. His wariness was starting to subside, exchanged for shock as the vehicle started to move and his hands, white-knuckled, grasped the dash.

“Nobody is fighting anybody,” Camden started to gently explain, moving the Range Rover out onto South Boundary Road, “this is just training. A night fire exercise.”

Passing close to a column of Abrahms tanks, Sharpe was completely distracted, staring in wide-eyed, open-mouthed awe at the monstrous beasts roaring by, dwarfing the Range Rover. The scene was repeated every mile or so as they passed first a battery of multiple launch rocket systems just as the giant rockets fired off into the dark, trailing their colorful flames behind, then came a battery of large artillery field pieces shooting off huge flares to light up the night sky. They passed by convoys of trucks and oversized ammunition transports, armored personnel carriers and more tanks and more firing points until finally they turned off onto the main road that would take them into the town. Stopping at the intersection that sat on the crest of a hill, Camden suggested he look out the rear window of the Range Rover.

“Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” was all that Sharpe could say as he turned just in time to see an artillery barrage reach its target in the distance, the night sky shattering with a brilliant orange glow. A couple of seconds later, the noise of the simultaneous detonations of all that ammunition reached their location with deafening thunder. As soon as it rumbled away, another wave started all over again, and again, and again.

They sat there for what seemed like hours, time standing still, until Sharpe turned back to Camden, pain and sadness washing away his amazed expression.

“I thought I’d seen me last of ‘ell an’ its fury at Waterloo,” Sharpe softly spoke with pain in his velvety voice, his guts twisting in one huge knot for what he was witnessing, “Tell me true, lass, what honor be there in such war as this?”
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Sharpe's Sergeant