She was one of the nurses on the base, pretty and independent, also extremely foolhardy. I was one of the people who had many close encounters with being in one of in command. She tended to me and time passed as she fell in love with me. Unfortunately I did not return her feelings, true she was polite and considerate, however she was everything I despised. She was attention seeking and most of all foolish. During the war there came a time when I was bound to my bed by my in numerous bruises and wounds not fully healed yet. Then during mid-afternoon the Germans attacked us, shooting whatever bullets they could spare. I searched for some one, anyone I knew without any success. Then a scraggy looking German faced me, he was injured and so was I. Still I was weaker and more susceptible to injury, the German shot at me as my eyelids shut and I saw that I was not hit. It was Eleanor, she died on the spot and I took advantage of the Swine’s confusion and attacked. Next I found myself a hovel to hide in till the bloodshed ended. The guilt still haunts me today.
The memory caused goose bumps down my spine. Then for the first time I noticed a war ridden soldier with an amputated leg on the bed next to mine. The sight was especially gruesome. His bloodied hands lay on either of his sides; his mouth was set in a painful grimace, the expression told a story of its own. I was feeling curious by the time the nurse came over check on us. The man grinned every time a person looked his way. As if to say that he had a secret, something deeply amusing to him—like Mona Lisa’s mysterious smile—that no one knew. Curiosity drove me to converse with him. I carefully framed my questions in my mind and then I spoke. I was amazed by how hoarse my voice sounded, I felt as if it were some one else speaking.
I spoke not too loud as to break the silence—I enjoyed it, it reminded me of my late grandma’s glassware collection and the way she called our attention to it every time we went to London for Thanksgiving. I casually begun the conversation, he replied in a rather raspy, rough voice. I guessed he had been suffering from a disease for the past few days, not that it helped his condition. A sudden surge of pity went through me. I asked him how he ended up in the hospital in his condition. He told me it was long a long story and I probably wouldn’t want to hear it. Being as stubborn as I was I insisted and with a sigh he began.
His voice shook as he told his account of what he had endured. What I had expected was a tragic tale about how he had lost his wife and children, how his London home had been burnt down. Nevertheless, he proved me wrong. His tale was one of valour and bravery, the kind you find of a mother for her children, of a fisherman for his boat and for a man like him the burning desire to save HIS homeland from the German scoundrels. It started during the German night raids, he had hid like a coward—that is what he led me and himself to believe. After the first few raids he and his friends had started to get agitated. The emotion is his voice was unexpected, moving the emotion had absolutely no name. Slowly, as the seconds ticked by he was getting more and more into his story; it was as if he was reciting it for his benefit and not mine, to convince himself, to assure his brain that the events had taken place in reality. His voice had raised an octave and he continued his sorrowful tale.
“It was like every other night in my lonely home in London. Then I heard my neighbour knocking on the door, curious I walked towards the door and opened it wondering what the cause was for this late night visit. He blurted out about the crisis, which alarmed me. I knew my house was safe being situated comfortably away from civilization. I had trouble falling asleep that night, nevertheless the following morning I darted out of that house for a safer location as if I were being chased by a blood hound.” He chuckled at his own joke, I wondered if the situation had driven him insane. Such cases were not unusual; he himself was feeling quite down since returning from the battlefield. He had a pleasant many days to recover, yet he still had trouble in this unfamiliar atmosphere. His sentence interrupted my thoughts and I turned to face him urging him to go on. “I hid at a friend’s motel; of course I had to pay rent, a friend indeed!” He grimaced at his leg as spasms of pain shot throughout his leg. With a flinch he began again, “I hid like a coward; I waited until the threat was a bare minimum and prepared to leave. Unfortunately that same night the Germans attacked the motel.” His was filled with distaste and loathing as he explained my curiosity augmented. “I took my most precious belongings and fled from the room, as the flames licked the walls unable to satisfy their immense hunger. I exited the room with ample stumbling on my part and I heard a dog barking. I followed the sounds to their source and came upon dog covered with black soot from the burning fire.
I was about to turn back when I heard frill cries of help coming from inside the room the dog had been facing. Immediately on impulse I threw my body into the flames ignoring its cries of pain and begun to search for her. I saw her body that lay limp upon the floor, one look at her face and I was incapable of looking away. Her pale blond hair glinted due to the light cast by the orange inferno blazing around us; she looked most beautiful even in the blackened dress she wore. I took it upon myself to rescue her. I gently put her onto my shoulders and dragged myself out of the room as the air was scarce. I walked out of the motel with the dog following me close behind. For the first time I felt as if everything was going to be alright.” A tender expression flitted across his dark features as he spoke and it suddenly disappeared to show what he was now, a broken man. “I was walking north towards the city when a plane passed overhead. It was too late to seek shelter I threw us to the right, a shrapnel landed on my leg mortally injuring me. I was determined so I sneaked towards the farm and into the fields as my energy drained and I felt my muscles being torn apart. I was slipping into the abyss of unconsciousness as the dog barked beside me to warn of a stranger. I was sure I heard Saint Peter call my name. Then the next thing I knew I was in the hospital and my leg was chopped off.” He sighed as if it explained his weariness of mind and body. I lowered my voice and asked him of the girl. He looked away and answered, “They told me that she was long dead before I reached the farm.” I was sure I hadn’t imagined the crystal tear that fell on his thin, bare, white blanket.
