Healing Hands At War

• Belinda Schmidt, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2015

19/5/1915
Nurse’s tent 10pm
Gunshots rain through the air and fire blazes nearby. War rages on, and more young men die. Each day as the trumpets sounds, and the cannons fire, injured come pouring in. This war is not being fought on our home soil, yet our young men continue to die in this foreign land. They come here believing it will be some grand adventure, only to die in the horrid hospital tent holding my hand. I help as many men as I can, but sometimes all I can do is make sure that they don’t die alone. I write the name of each man that dies under my care in this book. I remember them in my dreams and hear their cries.
Each day I am tortured by all the pain and suffering, and know not how to escape. I see such wasteful death, and fear shine in each young man’s eyes as his wounds heal and he is sent back out to fight once more. I watch as they walk away, and hope that this will all be over soon. I myself, have lost loved ones in this war, and would never wish such pain on anyone. My brother was one of the first to land here, and his death was one of many. I remember the telegram and its words that shattered my heart. My brother was only nineteen and his brightened each of my days. I remember the empty coffin we buried, and the words I never got to say. My brother was like many of the men who die here each day leaving their families waiting for news. His body lay in a field and I hope someone buried him with care. At least I know he no longer feels pain.
“Nurse!” a young orderly shouts, as more injured stream through.
“Over here!” I shout in reply, as a young man with a gunshot wound to his chest is laid down on my table. “I need you to keep him still while I extract the bullet.”
“No! Please don’t!” the young man cries as I inject him with morphine.
I try as hard as I can to extract the bullet, but it is too deep and has damaged vital organs. All I can do is hold his hand and try to ease his pain. Silent tears stream down my cheek as I look at his young face. I look at the injured men; many of them whom will not survive the night. I try not to look too closely at their faces, as their pain and sorrow always brings tears to my eyes, but they are a long way from those who love them and I am all that is left.
“Don’t cry Miss. I am going to see my mates again,” he smiles gently as the light leaves his eyes.
This is what it is like for a nurse in war. When we sleep, though not often, we know we shall wake to death. Each day, all we can do is try and heal the physical wounds of soldiers, but I know that they will never be the same inside.
Julie Adams
Nurse at Gallipoli