Abby Romero

Bluebirds
Waking up for another day is hard until I think of all the people I can save. This is my passion; it is what I live for. Hopping out of bed, I say good morning to each of the nursing sisters in my room. We get dressed once again in our uncomfortable uniforms which I hope to get accustomed to. It involves a sky blue cotton dress with an unpleasant collar, white apron, sheer white veil, slip-on white shoes, and a name tag in which mine says Alice Boulanger. Many soldiers call us bluebirds because of our uniforms; I quite like the nickname. One soldier once told me, This is heaven. How so, I asked. You beautiful nurses floating around in blue and white like lovely birds. Remembering this makes me smile to know I am impacting their lives. Then off to work for yet another day in which I do not know what will take place. Looking over my shoulder, I see a rush of wounded soldiers coming in. It starts to smell strongly of blood, dirt, and sweat. I can hear the moans and groans of pain which starts to put me in pain. All these soldiers need my help, and I cannot waste any time. I fly from bed to bed, delivering medications, cleaning wounds, dressing wounds, and ultimately making soldiers more comfortable. Hearing a specific soldier cry out, I hurry over to him. He is young like me, around 20 years old. He horridly smells like a mix between a wet dog and vomit. My hand instinctively goes to cover my nose, but I resist it. In such pain his green eyes still glisten and look to me with hope. He wipes away the sweat on his forehead; then he runs his fingers through his dirty blond hair. Looking into the soldiers pleading eyes, I speak with a soft, gentle voice, How are you? Not my best day, says the soldier. I smile out of sorrow and ask him his name. His name is Henri Rousseau and is from France. That is one blighty wound, I say as I am rewrapping it. He groans and says, As long as it doesnt hemorrhage, I will get through it. His optimism surprises me and it instantly makes me smile. He asks for some water as I finish up the wrapping. I go get one for him plus about 5 more and pass them out around. Dorothy Monet, my nursing sister, comes over to me. She walks so gracefully. It must have something to do with her legs; they seem to stretch on forever. Her eyes are ice blue, and her hair is brunette. She was one of my sisters classmates in school, but I never got to really know her until coming here. She is only a little younger than me, but I get the feeling I am like a big sister to

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her. She asks me for help, advice, and support. I give it all to her because I am like her rock. Because she is an emotional one, I feel it is my duty to guide her to have the strength inside to help others. She asks for help with one of the wounded soldiers. As she speaks her hands are fidgeting at her apron, and she is sweating profusely. She fearfully tells me she doesnt know what more to do. He has had his leg amputated above the knee which by looking at the wound, I hope he can make it out of here alive. His distorted leg looks permanently dyed a deep red because the skin is starting to tear and becoming infected. The infection causes a horrendous pusfilled, oozing effect to the wound. I quickly say, You should get morphine from a doctor, it should ease his discomfort. And I will clean and rewrap his wound. Thank you she responds and rushes away. While rewrapping his wound, I ask him a couple things to maybe get his mind off of the pain. I start with, How old are you? 20 years old maam, he states. And did you sign up, I ask. Yes maam, I was proud when I signed up, but after everything I have been through I dont know anymore. I completely understand. Where are you all coming from? Ive come from Verdun and I have noticed many others from there too. The Germans attacked with a constant ten-hour bombardment on the first day. That is when I was injured. It was devastating. I can tell. The hospital has had a major increase of patients this past week. I am afraid we will run out of beds. Dorothy hurriedly comes back with the pain killer and a glass of water. Her unsteadiness has reduced, so I know she will be okay for now. She nurses it to him and gives me the message to start making room for more beds. I get to work as quickly as I can because more beds means more wounded soldiers in need of aid. After making more beds, I am asked to report to the surgery station. This is where I would love to be every day, but we do not get to choose. We simply do as we are told. The doctor says he needs help with the surgeries coming in because two of the usual nurses are on their break. He tells me the patient will need both of his legs amputated and to prep for the surgery quickly. I do as I am told and bring the sleeping soldier to the station. Operations are done only by male doctors, one of which has just walked in. He says the time which is 11:18. That is my queue to remember to keep time and make sure we do not go over. Ultimately, I am just the helper. The doctor calls out orders to me like hand me the saw or lighter. Another of my duties is to keep an eye on the patients reactions, for example his breathing or if he starts wincing. We successfully complete the amputation of both his legs, and as I am rolling him out, he awakes in loopy conditions. He almost immediately notices

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both of his legs are missing. He begins to sob and yells, Where have they gone? I grab hold of his hand and say, I will stay with you. You will be okay. He nods with big eyes which reminds me of an innocent child. I decide to stay with him because my duty is to save his life, not only physically through medical treatment, but also mentally through comfort and support. I watch his chest rise and fall. This soldier has a look of peace on his face as I am holding his hand. But my face has a look of despair. Before the war, I had hope and confidence that every one of my patients would live, but being here now, I see so much death. I begin questioning if these soldiers, some of my patients, will see the light of day again. On my break around noon, I go sit outside to breathe. So far today, there has been one long rush of badly wounded soldiers being admitted. It is a wicked war. Often, ofcers and soldiers have come in many so blown to bits that they come just to die. Most go straight to the surgery station for amputation of limb or limbs, or to have their insides which have been blown out replaced. It is as if they are to be made a little more comfortable for the few hours left of their life. I always had a motto of hope, but being here in this misery right now, I have started losing it. To make things worse, I have heard from some of the nurses that there are soldiers who have had mustard gas poisoning; it sounds horrendous. I could not do it help someone in that condition of torture. For the first time since I have been here, I feel overwhelmed. The rooms are all filled with agonizing groans and pleadings coming from once strong men. Hundreds of things are to be done at once. From what I have heard, Verdun is very much on its way to desolation and heaps of the dead are lying about all around the town. All this death surrounds me, and it is hard to carry on. I go from bed to bed, shuffling slowly, my mind weary. A couple hours later, a gas victim comes rolling in my room. I go over to him, but I am useless. He moans and groans out of the torture he is feeling. He does not move a muscle other than his arm which itches at his dirty, blistered skin. This causes him to groan louder. The horrifying blisters are all over him forming in his throat, around his eyes, everywhere on his body. I want to look away from these blisters, but I have to show him I am strong. I have to show him I have hope that he can live. Therefore I try my best to stay connected with him, but it is difficult to look deeply into blistered, swollen eyes. In his condition and what he has been through, he will probably be considered one of the lucky ones if he survives. He may permanently lose his eyesight and even his voice, but if he survives, he is lucky. He wheezes as he breathes and speaks in whispers not even a bat could hear. When he starts coughing as I am standing there, I wince out of pain for him. Quickly, I grab some water to give to him, but as I do my hands start to shake. I put down the water and try to comfort him by holding his hand. I am

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about to break down out of despair. I cannot figure out how to relieve at least some of his pain. The one who can always fix and cure a soldier cannot this time. I can do nothing for him. I go on the rest of the day slowly with my head down. At the end of the day, I am wal king back to the nurses huts with Dorothy. How did your day go? she asks. Well what started out as a good day, turned out as one of the worst, I respond. She knows exactly what I am talking about the mustard gas victim. We spend a lot of time talking about him and I absentmindedly start fidgeting with my name tag. He is your weakness, you know. Have strength and dont start to get too attached to him, she tells me. I know I shouldnt, but I dont knowIt is hard to control, I say. She takes a pause and says, Okay, I am going to tell you this once because I care about you. If you dont face the possibility of death here, it will start to take a toll on you. Alright, I believe you, I say, but I wont just settle for the fact that he will die. I will do everything in my power to save him while remembering to have the mindset of expecting the worse, but hoping the best. The next few days go by, and the gas victim is starting to get better. He has gone through the decontamination process which involves removing his old clothing, bathing his body, flushing his eyes, and washing his hair. After this process, he started having mostly good days. He actually got up for the first time today and took a few steps. The other nurses have said he has stayed alive much longer than they expected him to which makes me overjoyed. He might actually make it, and I would be one of the ones to save him. I find out his name is John from the little exchange of words between us. I can tell he is a polite and friendly fellow even though he cannot speak much. He speaks through his eyes and body language which is so powerful. His eyes sometimes gleam and when his mouth forms a sort of grin, I know he is happy and feeling better. Each day I have to give him orders to do. For example, I say, wiggle you toes then stick your tongue out. I do this to make sure his mind and body are functioning together properly. He does each of these actions willingly and open-mindedly even in the pain he is in. As he continues to get better, I continue to get better with my other patients. I was a mess of a person becoming emotional, depressed, and hopeless for the needy soldiers. I feel I am gaining that hope back. I walk confidently with my shoulders back and have grown to fly from bed to bed again helping them quickly but carefully.

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Dorothy comes up to me with a sad, gloomy face. My face quickly changes to match hers, but I do not know what has happened. She tells me John took a sharp turn for the worse, and he has died. I cannot believe it; I am completely shocked. I look at her for a few moments with no expression. Then I crumble to the cold, hard floor to cry. My hands cover my eyes, and I am in a fetal position. I feel I have no control anymore because the weight of the world is on top of me. I feel Dorothy creep over towards me to console me. She embraces me and lets me cry on her shoulder. I look to her and see a few tears roll down her face. She starts to hum to me as if I was a young child, and I fall asleep. When I wake up, Dorothy is there with me. She smiles as I open my eye, and I end up grinning too. I cannot help but smile at a young, beautiful face like hers. I sit up and remember that my dear John has died. I feel I can handle the truth, so I ask her, I tell her, I need to know what happened. She says okay but takes a long pause. It started this morning when he got only a little fever. In his condition, he seemed fine though. None of the other nurses worried, but this afternoon he started coughing. It got worse and worse, but we could not do anything. Because of the scars and blisters in his throat, he could not breathe well. Once he started coughing up blood, we knew that that was it. He had no strength or power left inside of him to stay alive. It tears me apart inside to think of what he went through. He went through torture just to die. At least if he would have lived, all that pain would have been for something. I have no tears left in me, yet I still cry. Dorothy puts her arm around me and says, Everything will be okay. But, I know it wont. I cannot do this anymore. It is like a roller coaster with too many ups and downs for me. All the death is too overwhelming. I rip off my pure white veil and toss it into the corner for all the pure souls who have gotten ruined by the war. Next I unpin my name tag and throw it out the window to show how I, young Alice Boulanger, have been lost. Lastly, I tear off my apron and throw it to the other side of the room for all those I have helped just to watch them die. Parts of me are laying everywhere; I go to sleep sobbing in only my blue gown. Today is the day I am leaving, therefore I must leave my uniform behind. It has been my identity here, but I no longer have the power to wear it. I fold it up neatly and place it on my nicely made bed. Taking one last look around at what was my home for the past few months, I realize I will never see it again. My eyes begin to well up with tears as I hug each of my nursing sisters and say my goodbyes. Grabbing my little suitcase, I simply walk away.