Combat Medic

Combat Medic

The field hospital, at the foot of the mosque
Where the wind howls, and the faithful chant noon
prayers, a comatose soldier is revived.

A pause, the heart ceases beating
Then starts, stops, starts again; awkward silent gaps
Wavering between life and death


Cool as he seems, the weight
Of his task a great burden, most of it vital:
My prayers envelop him.

But now it is he who pauses
As if the beating heart his own, his hands
Divine instruments of life-giving.

At night, hooded prisoners arrive and
Are processed; the wounded patched, bandaged,
Chained for interrogation.

The morning light, like an ambulance
Lights flashing and sirens blaring, brings new carnage.
A gasping soldier with a chest wound

On death’s doorstep, struggles to survive
My son plunges a tube through the thoracic wall,
Inflates the collapsing lung.

I think of the young boy terrified
At the sight of his own blood dripping from small cuts
When he fell off the teeter-totter

I remember the queasiness, the pale face
As he watched in horror as I extracted a treble hook
from his brother’s bloody cheek

I reflect on a boy who always disappeared
While I gutted and cleaned the day’s catch of salmon
Only to re-appear when the task was done.

These echoes, small wind chimes tinkling
In a gentle breeze, coalesce with boy and man.
A father must accept change.

For now it’s a matter of life or death,
Their fate in his hands, his fate in God’s hands.
Our boys and girls, the weariness of war forever changes.