TDTLBU Chapter Forty-Seven

Emma dared not pause even for a moment as she passed quickly through the tent. Running shaking, sweaty fingers through her bedraggled hair, she tied the white kerchief tighter on her head as she zigzagged between the rows of cots and stretchers. She drew a deep breath in a feeble attempt to calm her nerves. Never had she even begun to imagine this… this carnage. Of course, she should have expected the surgery tent to be the worst. But when she had first offered to take the first shift preparing patients for surgery, she hadn’t quite realized what she was in for. Now, in her present state of stress and horror, she hardly felt fit to be in charge of anything. But she forced it inside, presenting as calm and collected an exterior as she could.

She reached the doorway of the tent, standing to the side to make way for the medics as they rushed in with another stretcher. 

"This one's not gonna make it," one of the men spoke to her in an undertone. "He's almost dead already."

"Nevertheless, we'll do all we can. While there’s life, there’s hope." Emma led the medics to an empty corner and they carefully lowered the stretcher to the ground. One of the men bent over his wounded comrade and saluted. Emma just barely caught a glimpse of tears glistening on his soot-covered face as he straightened up. He turned heel abruptly and walked away without another word.

“Nurse Stewart, estimate of ten minutes till next free operating table,” a nurse leaned out of the curtained off section where the surgeries were being done. “Have the next patient prepped by then.”

Emma nodded, sinking to her knees beside the stretcher. Along with the others on her team, she had organized the men as best she could into some semblance of the order in which they would be operated on. But she would need to assess the newest patient now. The sight of the man's wounds caused her to clap her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. He didn't seem to notice her presence, staring vacantly at the ceiling with glassy eyes as she carefully unwrapped the crude field-dressings. His torso was ripped jaggedly open, shrapnel protruding from twisted flesh. Emma's heart sank. The medic had been right. There was nothing anyone could do.

“Doctor?” she called out shakily as a surgeon rushed quickly past her. At her voice, he paused and turned back. She hurried toward him, lowering her voice to keep those around her from hearing. “Doctor, this man is in severe critical condition. Immediate operation needed.”

He sighed, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, Nurse. We have many in severe critical condition. We’ll get him in as soon as we can, but all operating teams are currently busy. See if you can get him to hang on.”

She returned to her patient, digging in her pocket for a syringe of morphine. Willing her hands to stop trembling, she injected it into the wounded man's arm. His lips moved and she leaned closer to catch his feeble whispered words.

"I'm going home. I'm going… home."

“I need you to hang on for me, okay?” she forced her voice to stay light and cheerful. “We’re gonna get you into surgery as soon as possible.”

“No.” he shook his head weakly. “No. I’m… I’m going… home…”

She hesitated, but there was no deceiving him with false pretenses of hope. He knew. And he was braver and stronger than she had realized a man could be.

"Yes, soldier." Emma smiled waveringly, her eyes filling with tears. "You're going home. Home where there is no more pain or death or fighting or war." 

"Stay with me." He pleaded, his voice so faint it was barely there. Slowly he reached out to her with a grimy, bloody hand. She took his hand, wincing as he squeezed hers with more strength than she expected a dying man to have. With her other hand, she smoothed the damp hair back from his forehead.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want" she murmured. "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His Name's sake." 

The soldier had been breathing hard, gasping for air. His breathing was slower now… shallow and rasping. He closed his eyes, squeezing her hand again, but weaker this time.

"Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me. Thy rod and staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table for me in the presence of mine enemies, Thou anointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever." 

With the last words of the Psalm, the man drew one last shaky, gasping breath. And with that, he had passed from the land of war and death and suffering to the land of peace. 

"You're home now," Emma whispered, wiping tears from her eyes. Gently she laid his hand on his chest and rose. The doctor had returned, walking up quietly as she turned.  

"God bless you, Nurse Stewart," he murmured, nodding grimly as she moved on.

Long, weary, terrifying hours slowly passed by. Hours during which Emma only paused once to frantically gulp down a cold sandwich and a scalding cup of coffee. She had hardly any sense of time or memory left. Her motions had become almost automatic as she forced herself into a rhythm. She couldn't imagine being more completely exhausted than she was at that moment. But she was stubborn and she was determined. As long as there was a soldier who needed her help, she would help him. To the point that she passed out from sheer exhaustion. It was so much worse than North Africa had been, she could hardly believe it. There were hundreds of them. Hundreds. And they kept coming.

“Nurse… nurse!” The medics were rushing in yet another stretcher, motioning to her frantically.  Her head aching and her vision half-blurry from lack of sleep, she rushed to meet the newest patient, guiding the medics to an empty corner. Wondering vaguely how many patients she must have worked with so far, she bent over the wounded soldier. She was trying desperately to separate them in her mind… to think of each one as a separate human being…but she was so tired, she could barely cope any longer. 

“It’s a pretty bad case,” one of the medics paused to say before rushing out. “He’s lucky he’s hung on as long as he has.”

The man on the cot was half-conscious and delirious, tossing his head from side to side and muttering incomprehensible words. His face was blackened with soot and covered in blood from a deep wound in his head. His coat and shirt were gone, his torso wrapped in bandages stiff with dried blood. He had fallen under machine gun fire, Emma realized as she removed the filthy bandages, glancing over the bullet holes in his body. At that, it was a miracle his heart was still beating… machine gun wounds were the deadliest she knew and most didn't make it. One arm lay across his chest, his bandaged hand clenched tightly in a fist, and she gently pried his fingers open to check for wounds. When she realized what was in his hand, her body stiffened. She could feel her stomach churning as her mouth went dry. It wasn't… it couldn't be… A tiny blue stuffed dog, stained with blood and dirt, with a bedraggled red ribbon tied around its neck. There was no mistaking that little dog. As for the man holding it… could it be possible that she was so tired she hadn't recognized him? 

Her hands trembling almost uncontrollably, she gently wiped the blood and grime from his face. Her mind was still swirling with disbelief, but she couldn't deny what she saw with her own eyes. She gasped out his name in horror.

"Josh… Oh… dear God…"