In Times of War

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-One

“Tie that tourniquet tighter!”

   I do as the doctor says. The stench of blood, body odor, and stale urine doesn’t bother me anymore. It’s been one year since I left home. I’m in France right now, and that’s about all I know. I’m in France that’s it, I don’t know the name of the ruined town or anything, only that there are men all around me that are trying their hardest to die on me. I help another nurse move the man in front of me from the makeshift stretcher to the operating table. Then I move to help the never ending flow of injured, battle weary soldiers that are coming into the hospital tent.

   “Put him here.” I order to the soldier carrying his comrade in. The soldier is laid on our last empty cot and I begin my examination by taking off his pack and then his helmet and jacket. He had a bullet hole in his side and it was bleeding a lot. I put my hands over the wound and apply pressure. The man squirms and moans.

   “I know it hurts and I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta stop the bleedin’. I can’t do that if you’re squirmin’ around like a worm on a hook.” The man grabs onto the blanket and squeezes his eyes close. He yells as I increase the pressure. The blood oozes in between my fingers.

“How bad is it?” He asks shakily.

“The bullet’s still inside you so we’ve just gotta wait for an operating table to open up so we can take it out.”

“Will I live?” He asks, his face gaunt.

   “You’ll be fine.” He will be fine one way or another. I try to never answer the question of whether someone will live because I’ve watched many men die. I look back in the direction of the makeshift operating rooms. I see one man on a stretcher come out and I call another nurse over to help me. Together we manage to struggle back to the operating rooms with the man on a stretcher in between us. I don’t do the best in the operating room; I’m much better helping men when they first come in. I go back to helping the men with the most serious injuries.

   By now the stream of men has slowed down to non-surgical injuries. I bandage up a gash in an arm, set a broken leg, and start to make my rounds among the men. My olive-colored pantsuit is covered with blood and other, assorted bodily fluids. I’m relieved when I get to walk around checking on the men instead of putting pressure on wounds.

   I place the back of my hand on the forehead of a sleeping man with dark hair. He’s sweating and his skin is very hot. I take a clean cloth and wipe the sweat off of his face then I take a damp cloth and put it on his forehead to help his forehead. I’m starting to turn to check on the next man when the man suddenly sits up and grabs my wrist in a vice-like grip.

“Dead! Everybody’s dead! We’re all gonna die!” I turn back around and look in his eyes. He’s terrified and panicked. I put my hand on his arm to comfort his and to gently remove his hand from my arm.

“No, we’re alive, you see? I’m alive and you’re alive. You’re in the hospital.” I soothe, gently removing my wrist from his grasp.

“No! We’re all gonna die!” He insists, and it’s obvious that the fever is making him delusional.

“No, c’mon tell me your name, soldier.” I try to get him off the subject of death. He seems to relax a little bit.

“Driscoll. Finn Driscoll.” I ease him back so he’s lying down again.

“My name’s Maria. Where’re you from, Finn?” I grab a cup of water from the bedside table and help him drink some.

“Kentucky.” He pants, his eyelids start to droop.