I hate it. I hate it all. I hate the white walls. I hate how everyone around me seems to be in a critical state all the time. I hate how I can see, smell, and even hear and taste death in here. The room is stained red within minutes of the nurses cleaning it. I watch the nurses flutter around and try to tend to everyone's needs. Sometimes the nurses don't even bother cleaning the room at all. Fuck it, I reckon. Why would you bother cleaning the blood off of the white walls if they're simply going to be splattered red again? What's the point? Sometimes some of the nurses come and talk to me. I find it quite comforting, and I think they see that. I haven't spoken to a woman in almost 2 years, and I find it hard to speak now without cursing my brains out every time I open my mouth. The nurses don't seem to mind the swearing, though. They hear enough of it every day, so I guess they've had to kind of get used to it.
The man in the bunk next to me died the other week. He was an amputee, lost his leg to a grenade. He was the bravest and strongest man I've ever known. He had jumped in front of a 16 year old kid to save his life, not once, but twice. I asked him why one day. Why had he saved the stupid boy? His response? He said "Currahee, my friend. We stand alone together". He was fit, the only thing he was ever good at in his life was fighting the Germans and playing Baseball. With no leg, he had told me he had no reason to go on. He had gotten depressed and lonely, sick of the white walls. The only highlight was a letter from his sister. She had asked if he thought he was going to be home for the holidays. He responded with "I'll be home for Christmas, my dear, if only in my dreams". That one sentence has stuck with me, long after he killed himself. He was just another young, innocent man being captured by Old Man Death.
The hospital was so full that they had nowhere to move his body. I slept next to his rotting corpse for the next 2 days and 3 nights. The smell was putrid, searing my nostrils still today, but there wasn't anything anyone could do. The man that slept on the other side of him was sick the first night, the smell being too much for him to bear. I felt sorry for the man, but not as sorry as I felt for my friend. The loss of his life under his own hands was a tragic mistake that was made by overworked and overtired nurses, and too many patients to look after to possibly know if one was missing.
I received a letter from my girl yesterday evening. She told me of the love she has for me and how she misses me so. Then she asked if I would return to her before the ending of the holidays. I wrote back the only thing that crossed my mind- "I'll be home for Christmas, my dearest Grace, if only in my dreams". I knew it was a lie, as soon as my wounds were 'healed' they were sure to throw me back on the front line again, but I had to say it for her sake. In war, the only hope you have is to accept the fact that you're already dead, so you can function the way a soldiers supposed to function. But back home? Back home, hope is the only thing they have left.
My dearest Grace, I pray that you hope for the both of us. For I shall be seeing you at Christmas, if only in my dreams.