A Letter Home

A Story by terriblerosey

For a history project. (WWII)

To my lovely sister, April 19, 1915
I apologize for leaving on such short notice. I felt that I wasn’t doing enough with my life and I hope you’ll forgive me for joining the military. I know I don’t forgive myself. I figured I might as well tell you how I am doing and what I am going through, as long as you aren’t too angry to read.
Before the big attack, I had been working at a front line casualty camp on the Western Front. They gave us pretty basic training, a white uniform and a warning. Since we were all pretty young, that didn’t mean much to us. When we arrived at the front line camp, it was pretty quiet. The nurse in charge told me that there probably wouldn’t be any action for a few days, until we engaged the Germans who were camped right next door. Well that gave me time to settle in and take in my surroundings. It was what I expected. A few tents here, a few tents there. I was then lead to a medium size tent in the back of the camp. Inside were about a dozen beds and shelves upon shelve of tools, medicine, gauze, and various other medical implements. At first I was excited at the thought of using such unique tools that many have only seen in pictures or heard about in stories. Then, I cringed when I saw the huge saw in the corner of the room, glistening with fresh blood stains.
Over the next few calm days, I familiarized myself with the inns and outs of the camp, practicing my green skills on an old (25 year old) grumpy soldier who’d lost a little more than his leg. Although he was mad and delusional, I couldn’t help but laugh. War is a funny thing.
One of my least favorite spots was what my fellow nurses called “The Limb Pit”. The only occupant in the pit was Sergeant Crazy’s leg. I threw an old towel over it when the other nurses weren’t looking. It not only suppressed the horrid smell, but kept me sane until the coming days.
The head nurse woke us at 5 a.m. sharp. I didn’t really care because I’d do anything to get off that hot, lumpy mattress. Also, the night had been filled with the sound of gunfire and explosions so loud they drowned out Nurse Bertha’s snoring. So when we lined up to hear the warnings and the disturbing tales, I closed my eyes trying to catch up on the dreams of home I had missed out on the previous night. Immediately we set to work, preparing the cots, pulling out the jars of pain killers, and sharpening the scarlet saw. As the first wave of wounded burst through the camp, all of my senses went on overdrive and my adrenaline took over. It was as if I had imagined it. The camp went from its normal colors of whites and browns to deep, dark patches of red and burgundy. “The Limb Pit” started to rise and overflow. Earlier, I briefly got reprimanded for tossing a towel over Sergeant Crazy’s leg so I dare not do it again: “We see tons of arms and legs every day and we don’t have enough towels to cover every single one so learn how to cope!” Those were Nurse Marta’s exact words. But the worst part of the day was the screaming. It’s a wonder why I didn’t just start screaming right along with them.
The following days were long and grueling. I started to forget the difference between day and night. The casualties started getting so high there was only room for them in “The Limb Pit”. That’s when I realized the whole towel ordeal wasn’t ever worth it in the first place. One night, in the middle of the night, when the beds were being emptied and the fighting died down, a man was brought in on a stretcher. This was very unusual since the armies had withdrawn and any survivors would’ve already been recovered. But there he was, and here was I. I was the only nurse on call at the time since I slept all that day before. As he was carefully laid on the cot, his dog tag swung about, revealing his name: Curtis Williams, 18 yrs old. Apparently he had been found severely wounded in a tangled net of barbed wire. After a few hours of plucking, sewing, patching and screaming, I left him to rest from the exhausted ordeal.
As Curtis recovered over the next few days, we talked and talked and talked. Since it was my duty to keep the patients happy and satisfied, I made it a point to see him every day. It was definitely a highlight. We talked about our home life, our hobbies, and our plans for the future. The days went by and we became best friends and trusted confidants. But according to Murphy’s Law this was not meant to last any longer.
Curtis quickly recovered and was allowed to return home the next day. After a heartfelt discussion, we exchanged each other’s mailing address and promised to write. And that’s when the bomb hit.
We’d been chatting like we normally do when a huge blast erupted outside. I went to see what the commotion was about only to narrowly dodge a bullet whizzing by my head. Once I saw a grenade roll into the tent, I grabbed Curtis by the hand and we ran from the exploding tent. And that’s all I remember: running and diving under a cliff like overhang. I could feel Curtis’s burly calloused hand and dared not let go. Then I just closed my eyes and waited for seemingly years until the firing had stopped. When it had ended, I opened my eyes, looked at Curtis, and dragged the nearest towel over his empty, expressionless gaze.
I’m now writing to you from the refugee camp nearby. I’ll be back in London in about a week.

Love, Jade