They'll Never Understand
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"They'll never understand..."
What's a medic to do?
What indeed? When there were no more wars to occupy a soldier's time. When there was no one left to heal. When the bandages had run out, and the morphine had disappeared. When bombs ceased their descent, and bullets no longer flew by faster than you could blink. When a foxhole was a thing of the past, and you no longer had to crouch down and hope to God you didn't get hit.
What happened when you went back home, and faced your friends and family? What did you say to them? How could you explain what you did and had to do? They'd never understand. They had never seen war and it's individual horrors. They hadn't heard the things you heard, felt what you felt, or saw what you saw when you were there, on the battlefield.
They could never understand.
They didn't know what it was like to lose a buddy. They didn't know what it was like to feel helpless. They didn't know what it was like to sit in a hole you dug yourself, watching the lines, and knowing that, out there, someone really wanted to kill you. They didn't know what it was like waiting for death. Waiting each day for the inevitable 'luck of the draw.' You were lucky if you escaped unharmed.
You were damn lucky.
But most of them, your friends, your family away from home, hadn't escaped unharmed. Sometimes their number was up, and sometimes, there was just nothing you could do about it. How could anyone understand what you were all about now? After seeing all that, how could anyone think to step into your shoes, and see what you saw?
They wouldn't know the cries of the wounded. They wouldn't know the silence before the storm. They could never know the inspiration of a leader, or the hurried commands of a friend, or a superior. They would never know what it was like to be there. They could never understand the way you thought, before and after.
They just hadn't been there, they just hadn't seen or done what you did.
Imagine how they might feel if they knew they had killed someone. The person you killed could have had everything in common with you. He could have liked to fish, he could have liked to hunt. You could have been good friends, the two of you. But he was dead, and you were alive. It could never be.
They didn't know what it was like to lose someone on the table. They didn't know what it was like to have blood stained hands, and know, that if you'd have tried harder, or gotten there faster, you could have saved him.
They hadn't heard those dreaded words, "There's nothing you can do," whispered in their ear as they were left to stare down at a lifeless friend. They didn't know what it was like to feel helpless.
They didn't know how many you had lost…
During a war, you did your duty without question. You couldn't stop to think about the man at the end of the bayonet, or the terror of those eyes behind the bullet. You couldn't stop to help a buddy who was shot down, lest you be taken out as well.
You'd have to go on, knowing you'd come back for him later. You had to rush into the field, dodge the bullets, and pull that man to safety. But it was worth it. You couldn't think, you couldn't form a coherent thought. There was only one thing you could do, and it was keep moving forward.
Keep moving forward, and pray to God that you didn't run out of morphine...
"They'll never understand..."
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