Blood.
That is what I see, feel, smell, taste, and I am sure it screams.
It's a copper smell, but there's also the sickly sweet smell, and then the rotting bodies.
I'm on the beach. It scares the Hell out of me. I hate the ocean. I can't even swim. Now I'm in charge of telling men if they'll die or if they'll live. Most of the time they can't hear what I say. They scream for their mothers. It is all I can do to give them morphine and then hustle away.
I carry no gun. I'm a noncombatant. I try to save Americans, Germans, Italians, Canadians, Japanese, Russian, French, whoever. I don't kill unless it is mercy; yet, I am always a main target. One minute they shoot at me, and the next, they are begging for me to save them.
Why am I here? This war means nothing to me. I don't like the Germans, but I do not wish to see death and blood. This isn't for me. I would say that I'm fighting for the men next to me, but on my left is a German missing his legs, and on my right is an American with no face. How can I fight for these people? I do not fight. Rights and Justice and Freedom have nothing to do with me. I clean up. I see if I can do anything with a stomach wound or a ruptured liver. I am not going to be a hero that saves the Jewish. I will never get credit for jumping into an ocean of blood with sixty extra pounds on my back. I will always be a little boy that couldn't handle a gun. People will always say, "Medic? Then you got an easy job!"
Everywhere. The scream, 'Medic!' can be heard, and it is usually followed by the cry, 'Mama! Mama!'
I see one of my fellow medics go down, a steady gurgle of blood issuing from his neck. I run to him, take one look into his blank eyes, and reach for his good-bye letter. Then I'm off again, running, to save one man, and condemn ten more.