Post by Drunken Doctor on Aug 29, 2009 15:18:18 GMT -5
A lot of what I do means taking a seat behind most of my comrades. They fight and die right in front of me while I stand bearing silent witness. All glory to the fatherland they told me. I was so enamored with the patriotic fervor just like everyone else. I was so happy to be doing my part. They never told me of the true horror of what was expected of me. The knowledge that the comrade I am healing will probably not live but a moment longer tears me apart inside. But still I must continue my grim task. As a doctor, I'm given the impression that I'm supposed to help in the war effort. Most times I feel like I'm following my men to slaughter.
What can I do though?
I hit a button and my gun does its work just so my patient can perform a similar task with much more sinister intentions. Instead of healing spewing forth from their weapons only death billows out. Simple it seems - the lion's roar of a weapon belching out bullets into the skulls of its enemies as I, often called a coward, watch and observe the battlefield. The cries of pain and death of men on the brink, the laughter of the gut-wrenching revelry across the barrens..... I think it's the laughter more than anything that bothers me. They enjoy the battle, the conflict. But they never see the consequences of their actions. They never pick up the pieces of their comrades, that grim duty falls to me and me alone. How can I describe the horror of picking up the skull of a man who moments ago saw me as his greatest friend? How can I describe the feeling when he says that when we are done fighting he will introduce me to his whole family as the man who saved his life? Do you understand the joy that can bring me as a doctor? Mention nothing of the fact that he wanted to introduce me to his sister....well I will see her now, explaining that her big brother won't be coming home to give her that hug he promised her when he left.
And where am I in the midst of battle?
Watching bullets glance across their skin behind a wall. Little holes opening up all over their skin followed by a steady stream of crimson. Ducked below in a ditch as a stream of golden red light dances around and closes their wounds and numbs the pain but only for them, not for me. I must suffer to ease theirs....
I've seen a man, no, I'd go so far as to call him a friend, with a complexion darker than night itself covered in flames. He refused to die, that one. His skin peeled away in layers as the flames licked away at his body but still he continued on as long as I was around to put his tattered body together. He was built like a crack head and with a whiskey bottle just as big that he flaunted in front of the grim reaper himself - he could so too as long as I hid behind him!
But can you believe what happened when I took a mild detour to heal another that called for me?
BOOM.
That was all I heard that BLU Aussie nigger say. BOOM and then he took off his cap as I fled.
Oh, you must forgive me. I'm not one that often gets emotional, but sometimes I guess it can't be helped. I have lost so many friends that were calling my name but that story always brings fresh tears to my eyes. I just hope the tear stains will dry.
I don't know how to deal with myself most days.
Most days I'm showered with bits of men I knew in fleeting moments, but in those fleeting moments I was more important to them than their mothers. The joy held in their faces as our eyes met will haunt me forever. Most never knew what they had coming. The bits of them stuck in my hair or on my glasses was disturbing at first. I'm not bothered by it anymore, I don't know what that means. I worry that when this war is over there will be nothing left of me.
I think it takes a certain amount of empathy to be a medic. Or a good one at least. I enter the battle field with one goal in mind, keeping my friends alive. Most men enter the fray with their hearts settled on doing more damage to their opponents - flaying, burning and bombing - it doesn't seem natural. But what about war is natural? What animal other than man goes so far out of its way to cause so much destruction? What monster would do what I have seen committed a thousand times? Who could possibly want to deprive a mother of her son? A daughter of her father?
It takes a certain amount of courage to be a medic. To stand alone, with the bodies of your friends all around, who else could do it besides me? They may call me a coward for what I do, choosing to heal while others choose to kill. But when this war is over I think it will be my name they remember most.
Till another day, diary. Maybe more would listen.
~Doc
What can I do though?
I hit a button and my gun does its work just so my patient can perform a similar task with much more sinister intentions. Instead of healing spewing forth from their weapons only death billows out. Simple it seems - the lion's roar of a weapon belching out bullets into the skulls of its enemies as I, often called a coward, watch and observe the battlefield. The cries of pain and death of men on the brink, the laughter of the gut-wrenching revelry across the barrens..... I think it's the laughter more than anything that bothers me. They enjoy the battle, the conflict. But they never see the consequences of their actions. They never pick up the pieces of their comrades, that grim duty falls to me and me alone. How can I describe the horror of picking up the skull of a man who moments ago saw me as his greatest friend? How can I describe the feeling when he says that when we are done fighting he will introduce me to his whole family as the man who saved his life? Do you understand the joy that can bring me as a doctor? Mention nothing of the fact that he wanted to introduce me to his sister....well I will see her now, explaining that her big brother won't be coming home to give her that hug he promised her when he left.
And where am I in the midst of battle?
Watching bullets glance across their skin behind a wall. Little holes opening up all over their skin followed by a steady stream of crimson. Ducked below in a ditch as a stream of golden red light dances around and closes their wounds and numbs the pain but only for them, not for me. I must suffer to ease theirs....
I've seen a man, no, I'd go so far as to call him a friend, with a complexion darker than night itself covered in flames. He refused to die, that one. His skin peeled away in layers as the flames licked away at his body but still he continued on as long as I was around to put his tattered body together. He was built like a crack head and with a whiskey bottle just as big that he flaunted in front of the grim reaper himself - he could so too as long as I hid behind him!
But can you believe what happened when I took a mild detour to heal another that called for me?
BOOM.
That was all I heard that BLU Aussie nigger say. BOOM and then he took off his cap as I fled.
Oh, you must forgive me. I'm not one that often gets emotional, but sometimes I guess it can't be helped. I have lost so many friends that were calling my name but that story always brings fresh tears to my eyes. I just hope the tear stains will dry.
I don't know how to deal with myself most days.
Most days I'm showered with bits of men I knew in fleeting moments, but in those fleeting moments I was more important to them than their mothers. The joy held in their faces as our eyes met will haunt me forever. Most never knew what they had coming. The bits of them stuck in my hair or on my glasses was disturbing at first. I'm not bothered by it anymore, I don't know what that means. I worry that when this war is over there will be nothing left of me.
I think it takes a certain amount of empathy to be a medic. Or a good one at least. I enter the battle field with one goal in mind, keeping my friends alive. Most men enter the fray with their hearts settled on doing more damage to their opponents - flaying, burning and bombing - it doesn't seem natural. But what about war is natural? What animal other than man goes so far out of its way to cause so much destruction? What monster would do what I have seen committed a thousand times? Who could possibly want to deprive a mother of her son? A daughter of her father?
It takes a certain amount of courage to be a medic. To stand alone, with the bodies of your friends all around, who else could do it besides me? They may call me a coward for what I do, choosing to heal while others choose to kill. But when this war is over I think it will be my name they remember most.
Till another day, diary. Maybe more would listen.
~Doc
