Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲
Inside the United States military aircraft there were only a handful of proper seats, occupied by the highest-ranking officers. The rest of us—medics, volunteers, and those like me who had been drafted into service with little choice—sat on the metal floor. Passenger safety amounted to nothing more than a reminder to fasten the belts bolted to the aircraft's walls.
The moment the engines roared to life, a deafening vibration surged through the cabin, rattling every nerve in my body. As the aircraft gathered speed and lifted heavily from the ground, an invisible force pressed against my chest and clogged my ears. Soon I could hear nothing at all except my own desperate wish for the flight to end.
The cramped compartment reeked of burning fuel, the fumes scorching my nostrils and throat until I felt as though I might either vomit or lose my sense of smell entirely.
And then there were the air pockets.
Whenever the aircraft hit a patch of turbulent air, it would suddenly plunge several feet before jerking violently upward again. It felt less like flying and more like being trapped on a carnival ride that never stopped lurching between earth and sky.
I regretted eating before the flight. My stomach rebelled against every violent drop and climb.
I knew that in wartime there was little room for sterility or perfect order, yet I could not change who I was. For as long as I could remember, I had been painfully meticulous, determined to do everything as perfectly as possible. Perfectionism was woven into my very nature.
The aircraft did not take us all the way to Tunisia. Instead, in the Mediterranean Sea, not far from the coast, we were met by a United States naval vessel. Four other aircraft had already landed on its deck. Soon we were escorted off the plane into smaller boats, ferried to the harbor, and loaded into military trucks that carried us to an Allied ground forces camp established inside abandoned farm buildings.
Even days after the flight, I still felt as though I were being tossed through turbulence. I could barely eat; every bite threatened to make me sick, and more than once I barely managed to keep myself from vomiting. For several days I spoke louder than necessary because I could no longer hear my own voice. It seemed the drone of the engines and the relentless vibration of the aircraft still echoed inside my ears.
Pulled back from my memories, I turned toward the blonde woman calling my name.
Her shoulder-length curls had been pinned back with clips, though stubborn strands had escaped around her ears and down her back. Life in the Tunisian desert left none of us with the luxury of proper grooming. We considered ourselves fortunate if we were allowed to rinse ourselves with cold water once every three days.
She wore the white nurse's cap with a red cross embroidered onto its folded brim and the regulation uniform—a fitted, one-piece garment resembling a short-sleeved dress beneath a medical coat. White stockings covered her legs, and light brown leather shoes with rounded toes completed the outfit.
That was the standard attire worn by all of us serving as military nurses.
I, however, usually avoided it whenever possible, preferring the practical uniform issued to combat medics: a simple short-sleeved shirt, camouflage trousers that allowed me to move freely, and lace-up combat boots reaching halfway up my calves.
The traditional nurse's uniform was generally favored by women who were not afraid to accentuate the graceful lines of their figures—something I had never possessed. Perhaps because of that, I had always preferred clothing that drew as little attention to me as possible.
The blonde nurse's once-pristine uniform was no longer white. It was stained with sand, mud, and what looked like fresh blood.
She placed a hand gently on my shoulder.
Instinctively, I wanted to pull away, but instead I forced a small smile and lowered the whiskey bottle hanging at my side. Meeting her gaze with silent curiosity, I waited for her to catch her breath.
"We need you, Elizabeth," she gasped between breaths. "We... need... your... help..."
Removing her hand from my shoulder, she inhaled deeply, swallowed hard, then began backing away while frantically motioning for me to follow.
"Hurry. Quickly. Come on!"
For some reason, everything about her movements seemed strangely slow, almost unreal, and I nearly laughed aloud. I blamed the whiskey.
I slapped my forehead, killing a mosquito that had just tried to feed on my blood.
Taking one final greedy swallow from the bottle, I set it beside the wheel of the military truck without giving a second thought to the possibility that the vehicle might drive away at any moment, crushing the glass beneath its tire.
Then I followed my colleague into the building where the wounded were being treated.
The structure resembled an enormous barn. I imagined it had once belonged to farmers who kept livestock there, but those days were long gone. There was no trace of its former purpose anymore.
We simply called it the ward.
Following the blonde nurse inside, I stopped beside one of the beds.
A young man lay there.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, every breath a struggle. I found myself staring into his brown eyes, wondering why it was his gaze that held my attention when I should have been focused on the gaping wound in his abdomen, where blood poured freely and his intestines spilled from his body.
"Ten rolls of bandages," I ordered, though I tried to soften the command until it sounded almost like a request.
My colleague hesitated for a precious moment before catching the reproach in my eyes and hurrying toward the supply area where our medical equipment was stored.
"What is your name, son?" I asked, hoping to distract him from the agony consuming his body.
Perhaps I could tell him some harmless story—anything to ease his suffering.
I deliberately avoided looking directly at his wound. The fact that the sight of blood could make me vomit was nothing new, but I refused to let this soldier see my weakness. What astonished me most was how composed he remained. Why wasn't he screaming? Why wasn't he even moaning?
His abdomen had been torn apart, most likely by a blast that had detonated too close.
Or perhaps by something else.
I could only guess.
I had no intention of asking.
"James, ma'am," the owner of those brown eyes answered politely.
I placed one hand gently against his forehead, then his cheek.
His skin was drenched with sweat and burned with the heat of molten lava.
With my other hand, I pressed layer after layer of bandages and gauze against the open cavity in his abdomen—the supplies Scarlett, my fellow nurse, had just rushed back with.
She did not step away.
She remained beside us, silently watching what would happen next.
