I sit on the stairs outside a church in a small, French town. The hard surface beneath me is cold and damp, and I will probably get a cold if I stay out here for too long. The building of worship behind me is beautiful. The dark stone walls create an elegant yet a monumental church standing in the centre of the town. I spend most hours of the day in there. It's my workplace. However the church no longer contains silent prayers, and I haven't devoted my life to God. The prayers have been replaced by the painful cries of dying soldiers, and I have devoted my life to life.
The gothic church had its interior removed a couple of weeks before I arrived in France. The rows of benches were replaced with rows of beds, which soon were filled with wounded soldiers. The church is the last stop before the soldiers, those who survive, are moved to a Base Hospital. Most days there are too many soldiers and not enough nurses. It's almost impossible to keep track of all soldiers, all injuries and all treatments. We try, though. Every day we try, and we hope that the soldiers will walk out of the church on their own legs, but that is often not the case. Instead they fall silent in their beds and never speak again.
I look down at my hands resting in my lap. They still have some blood on them. It's not my blood, it never is. It's the blood of a dead solider, another life that couldn't be saved. Blood is a common sight in war. Blood is everywhere. Sometimes there's so much blood that the floor in the church get slippery. I have noticed that blood is something you can get used to, but the source of the blood is harder to get used to. The battered bodies, the blown off limps, the open wounds.
I sigh and let my eyes rest at what lies beyond the town. Even though it's located a few miles behind the front, it's still possible to see the flashes of light and explosions over by the horizon. And unless the wind is blowing east, it's possible to hear the distant, hammering sound of artillery fire.
Just as a few raindrops hit the ground where I sit, the sound of trucks approaching and the soft melody of singing soldiers reaches my ears. The voices are filled with emptiness, sung by broken boys and men with scarred minds and hearts. It's a company coming back from the front to get a few days' rest.
I stand up, staring at a street leading into the square, and then I wait. The singing slowly comes closer. And I get ready for what might come. Sometimes the wounded come alone, sometimes the soldiers come alone, and sometimes they come back from the front at the same time.
The next moment the first trucks roll into the square. I observe them, waiting for them to drive towards the church or to make a turn and drive towards the houses used by the soldiers. They don't make a right, they drive straight towards me where I still stand outside the church.
For a short moment, as the trucks pull up outside the church, there's a moment of stillness lingering around me. A few seconds of calmness, and a few seconds to prepare yourself before the chaos breaks out.
Shouts and commands fill the air around me, and nurses come running out from the church to collect the wounded soldiers. And I stand there, staring. They are so many wounded. There is so much blood. There's a hurricane of bodies around me, and a push from someone finally wakes me from my trance. I do as I have done so many times before. I rush towards one of the trucks and help a soldier down. His leg is badly wounded and his face tells me how much pain he is in. I say a few comforting words, but I'm not sure if he can hear me in the midst of chaos or in the midst of his own suffering.
I put his arm around my shoulders before putting my own around his waist as I try to carry some of his weight. I struggle to get him to the church, something that must be noticeable because another solider approaches me and helps me.
"Put him down here." I say.
We carefully put down the soldier on a stretcher. He groans. I stroke his hair out of his face and whispers that he's safe before I stand up and stare at the soldier who helped me. The soldier is young, not much older than myself. His pale skin is covered in dirt and blood, but he seems to be fine; at least as fine as someone can be in a war. His blue eyes have the same colours as the creek back home, but they are not as wild. Instead his eyes are empty and shallow as they look at me.
"Thank you." I say with a smile and place a hand on his arm.
He gives a small nod in return before he disappears into the chaos that has broken out in the church. I can't help but to wonder what happened to the company who just returned from the front, why they have so many wounded with them, but I force myself to push the thought aside. In moments like these you don't have time to stand around and think. You have to help them. Save them. Comfort them. Give them your full attention, let them know that you won't let them die.
I take a deep breath as I walk through the church. Cries of agony and the repeated attempts of getting help has filled the nave. A small group of nurses are running back and forth between multiple soldiers trying to stabilise and help as many as possible at the same time.
Suddenly someone grabs my wrist. I stop. A young man, lying on his stomach, stares at me with helpless eyes. There's blood around his mouth and on the sheets. And although I wish it wasn't the case, his whole uniform jacket is darkened with blood.
"Please." It's not more than a whisper. "Please."
I move closer to the soldier and haunch down next to him. His eyes follow my movements, as if he's making sure I'm not leaving him. I give him as small smile before I move my gaze to his back. Something is imbedded in his uniform and skin. I move closer to get a better look. It's a shell fragment, and by the looks of it one that has managed dig its way deep into his body.
"Can you tell me your name?" I ask
"O- Owen." The boy replies.
"Okay, Owen. I'm going to remove one of your boots," I say calmly. "Will you move your toes for me when I've done this?"
Owen nods.
I carefully untie one of his boots and pull it off his foot. I wait for his toes to move, they don't, not even when I ask him a second time to wiggle his toes back and forth. Just as I'm about to ask him to bend his leg by the knee, his upper body is thrown over the edge of the bed as he starts coughing violently. More blood escapes his mouth.
I quickly move to Owen's side. I take his hand in mine as he continues coughing. After a while the coughing stops, and he lies exhausted with his head hanging over the side of the bed. He takes a few more struggling breaths before he falls silent.
Carefully I move his body up on the bed again, and lay his head on the pillow. His grey eyes are still open; distantly looking into an endless emptiness.
Owen hasn't been dead for a minute before I am startled and pulled from the floor by someone. In front of me stands another soldier, a live one. His face is filled with fear.
"You have to help him." The soldier says, pointing at a bed not too far away. "You need to help him now."
The soldier pulls me towards the bed, and doesn't stop until we both stand next to a wounded, young boy. The boy is as young as one can get in a war, but the war has swept away a lot of his youth. The face that once must have been soft and rosy has hardened in the trenches. And behind all the dirt and blood there might be a face very similar to the soldier who asked me to help him. Brothers maybe?
I move closer to the bed, and remove the blanket to reveal the boy's chest. A blood-soaked dressing is wrapped around it. I take a few deep breaths before I carefully remove the dressing. The limited movement of the soft material makes the boy cry out in pain.
"Hey," I say and place my hand on his cheek to calm him. "It's okay. I'm here to help you."
I want to tell him that everything will be alright, but if it's not something I can promise I try to avoid the words. Just a quick glance at the wound lets me know that the boy won't be okay. He will only leave the church when his skin is cold and his eyes are empty.
"Do something." The brother says, begging me to save the young boys life.
"I will be back in just a few seconds." I say, looking at the brother. I try to stay as calm as I probably can as I straighten up and leave to get what I need to at least make the boy's death as painless as possible. The thought of another death weighs heavy on me, and my heart is beating painfully in my chest as I rush over to one of the cabinets.
When I get back to the bed, the boy is crying and his brother has moved closer to his side. The older soldier is stroking his brother's hair back, and whisper something that is inaudible to me. The scene of the soldier trying to confront is dying brother fills me with even more sadness.
I look at the two of them for another second before I give the wounded boy some morphine and place some new dressing over his wound. The dressing is to no use, it's drenched in blood in a couple of seconds.
"Mommy." The wounded boy suddenly whispers. It's the first thing I hear him say. "Mommy."
"Yes, you'll get to go home and see mother." His brother says.
"Mommy." The boy repeat this numerous time, his voice growing weaker each time he says it. "Mommy."
"You'll be okay. You'll me okay, I promise." The soldier rambles. "He will, won't he? Be okay?" he adds, and turns his head to me.
I give my hands a quick look. They are once again covered in blood, blood from a soldier. And in this case, the blood from a soldier whose brother might have to watch him die.
I turn my gaze back to the older brother. I even open my mouth to say something, offer some comfort, but instead my gaze is drawn to the young boy. His silence has caught my attention. The young wounded soldier is dead, and he will never see a better tomorrow. His last memory will be that of pain, and suffering, and death; his own and others. And he will leave an older brother behind.
"Jack?" The soldier asks. When he doesn't get the reply he desperately needs he wraps his arms around Jack and presses him close to his chest.
"No. No, no, no. You were supposed to be okay. You were supposed to live." The soldier rocks back and forth as he cradles his dead brother in his arms. Then he screams, a heart breaking scream filled with sorrow and pain. It echoes in the church. "You weren't supposed to die. I promised mother to get you home safe. I promised."
Sadness and quilt fills every part of my body, every cell. I couldn't save him. I couldn't save Jack. Jack is dead, and I couldn't save him.
Suddenly I can't breathe. The church feels very small, and I need to get out. I can't breathe. I can't breathe and I can't stay. Every part of me tells me to run, and I do. I push myself through the still very busy church, and I don't stop running until I reach the fountain in the middle of the square. Finally, by the fountain, I slump to the ground.