Field Hospital - May 3, 1915
I throw the tent flap aside in anger and walk out into a brilliant spring morning. I stop and look up. The sun’s rays warm my face. I take a deep breath. The air is fresh. Birds scurry from tree to tree, singing. Wild flowers carpet the fields. Life abounds. Amidst the flowers is row upon row of white crosses. “In perfect formation,” I mutter under my breath. Death abounds. Heaven and hell have never been closer.Just two days ago we were laughing and making plans for leave. Just moments ago I held his hand as he took his last breath. I’m not sure he even knew I was there. It was sudden. “Oh God! — Alex!” I blurt.
I glance to my left. A uniformed officer is seated at the back of an ambulance. A stethoscope hangs from his neck. I watch as he stares out into the fields. He is holding a pen and some paper. He looks down and begins to write. Occasionally he looks up for a moment or two, then continues to write. My gaze is fixed on him. Twenty minutes pass. He stops. He stares at his page. Then, in an act of impulse, he crumples the paper and throws it defiantly to the ground. He rises and walks slowly back to the dressing station.