They came pouring in to the medic tent one by one. Some badly wounded while others appear to be in a state of shock. The room spun like a never-ending merry go round, and all I could do was stand there and watch as men lay crying and screaming, covered in blood and fear.

A young man, no more than eighteen, tugs at my arm. Blood sprouted from his stomach with his bowels bursting through the wound.

“Make it stop!” He begged.

I nod quickly and try to weave my way through the moans and the cries.

“What are you doing?” The doctor yelled.

“That boy needs morphine!” I said.

He looked over at the boy still screeching in pain, and observed the wound in his stomach. He walked over and listened to his heartbeat.

“I’m afraid there’s no helping this young lad,” he said.

The young boy looked terrified.

“So we are just going to let him suffer until he’s dead?” I cry out.

“We have to save the morphine for the soldiers we can mend!” Said the doctor.

I looked down at the boy, his eyes pleading. There was nothing I could do for him.

“I want my mama!” He cried.

The words shattered my heart, and before I could even mourn for his suffering, the doctor pulled me away instantly to help another wounded soldier.

Florence American Cemetery and Memorial – San Casciano Val di Pesa (FI) Italy – April 3, 2015 via photopin (license)