by Timothy James

Created on: February 06, 2010

“Am I going to die, doctor?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to answer. I continued to sharpen my knife.

“Doctor,” he repeated, choking on his own blood, “am I going to die?”

I looked up and my eyes met his. There was something so urgent and resigned in the way he looked at me, I had to answer him. Swallowing away the dryness in my throat, I bent consolingly down towards his gashed face, putting down my knife.

“Only God knows when a man will die,” I said. I had planned to stop there, but I found myself going on. “But by my human judgment, you will not survive this night.”

I turned my eyes from him then, stood up, and walked out of the tent for some air. I heard quiet sobbing from inside; another brave man becoming like a young child in the face of death.

“Richard!”

It was a voice I knew well. I looked out into the darkness from whence it came and saw the form of Jacobi approaching my operating tent.

“Jack,” I replied, in a whisper loud enough to be heard but quiet enough not to disturb the wounded, “What’s the word?”

“No word yet,” he muttered, talking lower as he stepped into the light of the tent, “it seems to be as undecided as ever. Plenty of dead and wounded on both sides, but nothing decisive.”

His bloodstained apron told of the number of wounded much better than he could.

“Am I needed elsewhere?’ I asked, trying not to think about the hundreds of unrescued wounded on the battlefield.

“You haven't been requested,” he said, “but I know they could use you.”

“Where?” I asked, stepping back into the tent and securing my tools.

“About fifty yards away,” he whispered, ducking under the tent flap, “beyond the trees.”

“Can you get someone to watch over this good man here?”

“No.”

I was surprised, for it was the man on the cot who had answered me. My eyes met him once again as I repeated his word.

“That's right, doctor,” said the man, struggling past ever word, “If I am to die tonight, I need God to watch over me, not man.”

All three of us said nothing for a moment.

“All right, then,” Jacobi stammered into the silence, “we had best get moving, Richard.”

I nodded and we both left the tent, leaving the soldier’s body to the opium and his soul to the angels.

*         

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