His name is no longer Eugene Roe, it is only Medic or Doc, shouted over the clamor of machine gun fire or shells being dropped. It is a name that echos loud and clear over the distances, tinged with deep pain, and he runs towards it.
His hands are no longer his own, they belong to the men who he puts his hands into; elbow deep in rib cages, holding their still-beating hearts in his hands, and taking all of their pain into him. Some days he can save them, other days he cannot and he watches their young blood paint the already red ground.
What was once a gift, a blessing, to be able to heal with just his hands and words is now a curse.
He may not belong to himself any longer, but his guilt is all his own.
They will lay the bodies at his feet and he is the doctor that knows he did his best.
He strips them off their supplies and he is the mortician preparing the body for its grave.
The snow, the rubble, the dust, and the trees become the coffin, but he is the one who digs the grave in the dark of night; his hands soaked to the elbows with blood and guts and vomit and tears.
And, finally, he is the pastor, whispering a prayer over the grave:
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love.
Where there is injury, pardon.
Where there is doubt, faith.
Where there is despair, hope.
Where there is darkness, light.
Where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine Master,
Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;
To be understood, as to understand;
To be loved, as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive.
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
And it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.
Amen.
