It was John's second patrol of the day. He'd returned to base with one group, to almost immediately volunteer to go out with the next. Of course he was tired, but being out on foot was better than sitting and waiting. The boredom and nervous anticipation were unbearable. There had been too much silence lately, and dusk was approaching. It was better than waiting for them to return, afraid of what injuries they might bring with them.
The temperature was dropping; that wasn't unusual, the nights could be freeing. John had already treated far too many children for frostbite... but this cold seemed somehow different. The others footsteps stopped, but John didn't think to look behind him. Instead, he ducked into a small cave, as if it was something he had expected to find on his travel.
"Mitchell," he commented, giving the other man a terse nod. He didn't question it; why Mitchell would be there, why his uniform and weapon were clearly not from the same era as John's. He lowered his weapon, crouched down beside him, and loosened the straps on his backpack, letting the heavy medical equipment drop slightly, taking the pressure off of his shoulders. "It's a cold night," he commented, unperturbed by this new turn of events.