southern wisdom. | bull randleman

                                    

                                          
as requested by  Angelica_writes_ 
                          
***
                          
There was always something about Sergeant Bull Randleman that sat right with you. 
                          
Prior to the war, he hardly paid any attention to you, one of the company's medics. He was always too busy making sure each man under him was being taken care of and was acting right. You looked up to him for that.
                          
The first time he had ever spoken to you was during the assault on Carentan. He had carried a wounded soldier to you through all the debris and the gunfire. Crouched beside a fallen soldier, you checked for the man's pulse, your ears ringing. Sergeant Randleman called for a medic, and you saw him running to you through your peripherals.
                          
"Doc Y/L/N," he said, breathless, placing the wounded man gently on the ground, "You got this? I gotta go back." The man was unconscious, his leg completely blown off, and you were stunned for a couple of moments, staring down at him. "Y/N," Sergeant Randleman said gently, placing a hand on your shoulder, "You got this. You got this."
                          
Sergeant Randleman ran off, his words playing in your head, and it was enough to get you back to work. Throughout the rest of the battle, you continued to repeat his words of encouragement to yourself, tending to each wounded man you came across.
                          
Sitting in a bar back in England, you hardly touched the whisky on the table in front of you. You weren't a drinker, the farthest from it, in fact, but you were slightly shaken up from what had happened back in France. 
                          
"You okay, Doc?" Sergeant Randleman's thick Southern accent drew you from your thoughts, taking a seat in front of you, "What ever happened to that soldier? Never got his name. A mighty shame." You shrugged, lifting the glass cup to your lips and taking a sip. The drink was bitter against your tongue, and you made a face. Sergeant Randleman chuckled, taking out the cigar between his lips.
                          
"He's okay," you managed to say, your voice hoarse. You haven't spoken to anyone much since you got back. "He's going home. All thanks to you, sarge," you said, lifting the glass cup in faux cheers. The man smiled at you gently, staring down at the drink in his hand.
                          
"You didn't answer me though. How are you?" he repeated his question, taking out another cigar to offer you-- Where he got it from, you had no clue. His face was serious.
                          
Kindly shaking your head, you shrugged. It was tough being the only woman in the paratroopers. You had to wrangle for respect, and once you had it, there was always a certain reverence to it. It was hard when you were still just a young woman, also snatched up by circumstance.
                          
"I'm okay," you replied, your voice cracking a bit.
                          
Sergeant Randleman shook his head, ordering you to stand up. "Don't piss on my leg and tell me it's rainin, Doc," he frowned, his face extremely serious despite how ridiculous his expression was. You couldn't help but laugh. "Walk with me, Y/N."
                          
You followed him out the door, wrapping your arms around you, the wind cold. It was always cold in Europe, and despite only being here for a short while, you missed the warmth of home.
                          
"So, what's on your mind?" he asked, stuffing his cigar in his coat pocket. You looked up at him, realising then how much taller he was up close. After all, this was the first time you had ever actually spoken.
                          
You shrugged, rubbing your hands together for warmth. "Just seen some stuff," you whispered, looking around to avoid his piercing stare, "Heard a lot of stuff, sarge."
                          
"Like?" Sergeant Randleman was patient, his voice coaxing you to keep talking. You knew the other men often came to him for what they called his 'Southern advice,' but there was no advice that would change how you felt. "You can call me Bull, ya know."
                          
You smiled at him, your breath coming out in little puffs. "Their last call is either their mama or a medic," you swallowed hard, looking back towards the dark horizon, "That's not something I can ever get to terms with. That they were calling me before they bled out."
                          
Bull nodded, rubbing your shoulder sympathetically. "I never expected to have another man's blood running down my back as well," he scratched the back of his neck, "But here we are."
                          
He was right. They were all making sacrifices. "It's a shame we were born too early, huh?" you grinned, trying to brush off the swell of emotions in your chest.
                          
Shaking his head, he stuck his hands in his pockets and stopped walking. "My momma always said the two most important days in a person's life is the day they are born, and the day they find out why," he said, facing you, "I know why. And I know you do too. We were born to do good."
                          
Tears swelled in your eyes, and unable to stop yourself, you wrapped your arms around him. Bull hugged you back, his hands rubbing your back slowly. "Sorry, Bull," you muttered, pulling away from him, "But I think your momma stole that from Mark Twain."
                          
Bull chuckled, turning back towards the pub. Though the conversation felt like it went on forever, they were only a few steps away. "Thank you," you said to him, giving him one last hug, "I'm doing good, and that's what matters."
                          
"Ya know, Y/N," he suddenly said, looking down at you, his cigar now between his lips again, "Are you sure you aren't a Southern woman? You have the strength and gentleness of one." He pushed open the pub door for you, letting you in first. You blushed, hiding your face with your hair. 
                          
"They were right about you, sarge," you replied, sitting back down on your seat as he turned away to watch the other men play darts. He looked at you with a tilt of the head and a questioning look on his face. "You might just be the smartest man in the entire company, Southern wisdom and all."
                          
***
                          
a/n: i absolutely loved writing this. i bet bull had the best advice to offer anyone and it'd always come in the form of southern sayings. 
                          
thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoy this one.
                          
with love, 𝓖.