July 12, 1949
Tomas died today.
There was no morphine left to ease the terror of dying. He cried for his wife for some time, and as the light began to spirit from his eyes he cried for his mother instead - between horrid, wet, rattling gasps of air. We could do little more than hold his hands and attempt to comfort him; I cradled his head close to my chest, where he could feel my breathing, hear my voice, and wiped away the blood that bubbled from his lips.
It was several bullets lodged in his ribcage, coupled with a gaping shrapnel wound in his back. The result of a frantic, half-mad ambush near sunset.
I still remember the kind, empty words that we were all speaking, all at once. Trying to stave off the bleeding with what poor medical knowledge was shared between us - he was too frantic to give instruction.
Simonas rifted through Tom's pockets until he found a damp photograph of his family. By that time he was losing consciousness, but we folded his smiling wife and son in one of his hands and his rosary in the other and gathered him up close. I recited a once-forgotten prayer as what was left of our medic bled through our fingers, baptising the earth with his life.
I commend you, my dear brother, to Almighty God,
and entrust you to your Creator.
May you return to Him
who formed you from the dust of the earth.
May Holy Mary,
the angels, and all the saints
come to meet you as you go forth from this life.
May Christ who was crucified for you
bring you freedom and peace.
May Christ who died for you
admit you to his garden of paradise.
May Christ, the true Shepherd,
acknowledge you as one of his flock.
May you see the Redeemer face to face,
and enjoy the vision of God for ever.
Amen.
