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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I can hear the shouts of celebration of joy outside my window, people steaming the streets, crying in happiness, holding one another, this has been the way for hours, since the simple message that the Great War was over, parents, brothers and sisters lining the streets, waving, shaking hands of neighbours, with the news of victory and those returning home. Trying as I may, I am not sharing everyone’s excitement, been laying here since I arrived home from Broodseinde, fighting chills, fever, or infection, never all at the same time, that would give a day of rest, I do not have that now. Most of my days are spent moving from bed sores, blisters given to my back from the sweating of fever, not being able to move from this dirty, soiled bed, in this warehouse called a hospital, that has bed after bed lined one after one, with bodies worse than mine, the stench, at times, let us know, when another will not be woken up, only to be replaced the next day. The poor nurses cannot be blamed for our conditions, there are so many of us lined, laying here, that losing track is common occurrence, so we rest in our own filth, as yelling for cleaning does not help, many voices of high screams or low moans, just get lost in the echoes of the high ceilings. My leg is now gone above the knee, because my cries were silenced by others, tingling of gang green taking more and more, doctors have removed these pieces twice, I pray they find no more and the would closes. From the outside, most would believe I am fortunate, I am alive and not screaming towards death, like those around me with deeper cuts and burns, I have skin where other soldiers no longer have theirs, they even say that one day I will be able to leave here, not like some countrymen, carried home from Broodseinde. September 19, 2011 © Andrew Scott – Just a Maritime Boy 2011
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