Men's Business

“War was men’s business, not ladies’” 

                                 -- Margaret Mitchell, "Gone With the Wind"

Carnage.

Underneath the layers of blood and mud which engrain this once lush, verdant plain, there is nothing. This land belongs to no-one. Who would have it? Who but the dead? The dead did not choose their resting place. Every day is more of the same – relocation, setting up camps, dealing with inordinate amounts of young men whose faces are rendered unrecognisable with snarls of pain and the deathly pallor of diseases they no longer have the will to fight. I am not remarkable. I do my duty. I would not rush into the line of fire to help a soldier – I have pulled the eyelids down over too many glassy eyes to believe there is any worth in putting myself in danger. We can only do so much. 

It’s still light as I pick my way across the field. It is rare that we leave the hospital to look for patients. I do not welcome the change. The early evening sky is stained red, the sun almost hidden beyond the horizon. I am not alone, but my companions and I do not talk. We appear a regiment, business-like, tight lipped and cold eyed. The truth is simple, obvious – we do not want to talk. How can one talk without thinking? I do not think. I do not feel. I do my job.

We are looking for survivors – a loose use of the word, most of these unfortunate souls will die sooner or later – out on the battle ravished field. It’s hard to tell amongst the fallen who is alive and who is not. The only colour that stands out is the red of blood. Some of the new nurses baulk slightly at the sight of so much bloodshed.  Every so often we will happen upon a soldier, bloodied and groaning, and our group becomes one fewer as someone rushes to tend to him. And again. And again. The number of casualties is never ending. One particularly hysterical young nurse screeches, clutching her heart and staggering at the sight of the battlefield. Six months ago and I would have sympathised with her. I would have been sickened, horrified by all these wasted lives. But now, it’s all I can do to block out thoughts and ignore it all – I am here to look for life. I am not here to feel. The dead do not concern me. I make sure to hold up my skirts out of the way as I look around and scour the field.

I bend to check pulses, pull up shirts to investigate wounds. I press fresh swaddling to red crevasses and ragged holes left from the bite of a bullet. I call for a stretcher. I stand up and catch my breath – staring at the darkening sky – before setting off again. And again.

A small groan alerts me to the person at my feet. I look down. Not far from where I stand, I can see the soldier lying on his back on the ground. His hands are twitching slightly, and I know he is alive. In the late dusk light I cannot tell the colour of his uniform, but the large dark stain seeping through his jacket tells me immediately that my help is needed. Carefully, I crouch down to feel for a fever. It is not until I get a good look at the man’s face that my heart almost lurches. I have seen a variety of men pass through my care over the course of the last year, but I don’t believe I’ve seen any of them as fresh faced as this one. His face, waxy and pale, bears no sign of facial hair at all. Not even the wispy scruff I’ve seen on other young men. The boy’s youth is shocking.

I have to check his wound.

Taking a deep breath and readying myself for the worst, I fumble with the buttons of his jacket and pull it off. When I tug his shirt open I am met with the sight of bandages. The blood seeping through them, however, looks fresh. There is no evidence of a previous injury, and for a moment my well-organized thoughts are clouded by confusion. The young man’s eyelids flutter slightly.

And then, with a gasp, I realise.

I reel backwards, barely needing to remove the bandage to confirm my suspicions. Bile rises up my throat, and I battle to keep from dry heaving. Suddenly my head hurts and I feel like weeping. My mind is racing and everything suddenly is so much more real.

“Can you hear me?” I ask. I can hear the urgency in my own raspy voice. “Darlin’, can you hear me?”

There is no answer. Instinctively, I rummage in my bag to find a clean swab and some iodine. But whatever life is left in those half closed eyes is fading fast. I know it. I don’t know what to do. I want to save this life; I need to save it. I still haven’t even registered the colour of the jacket. Blue or grey? I don’t know. I don’t care... Either way, I can’t do it. I can’t get carry a person back to the hospital on my own, especially not someone as badly injured, but if people knew, oh God if they knew. I’m screaming inside, but in reality I’m crouched in the mud and the blood and I’m just shaking. Just shaking. Do something! For God’s sake, do something!

I have to do it. I don’t know what will happen when we get there... I can’t turn my back now.

“Stay with me, darlin’! Stay with me!”

But it’s no use.

I’m still kneeling in the dirt as I weep over the body. The woman.