I was one of five women chosen to serve our country, fighting side by side with the men, and only some of us had come home. Being surrounded by friends and enemies, having to choose who you can save, who you can love, and how to survive is something...
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By the time Albert Blithe and I reached the backlines outside of Carentan, a med station was already set up for the expected wounded. Upon entering, I helped Blithe sit on the floor near the open door. Scanning the full room, my eyes fell upon a familiar frame, hard at work and I approached him. The moment I neared Doc Roe, his eyes lifted to meet mine. I asked, "Where do you need me?"
Roe looked from me to Blithe, brows drawing together before turning back to me. "What happened to Blithe?"
I glanced over my shoulder at him briefly, turning back to Roe. "He says he can't see."
"He can't see?"
I nodded. "I don't know what happened but..."
Roe nodded, turning his gaze across the room, scanning the men inside. He asked, "Would you mind sitting with Tipper?"
"Tipper?" I repeated, my voice catching on the name.
Roe nodded, pointing towards the back of the building. "He's back there. Make sure he doesn't try to stand up," he told me. "He keeps saying he can walk but..." he must have seen the look of overwhelming concern and confusion on my face because he added, "You'll see when you get back there."
"Okay," I whispered, head tilting in confusion. My heart raced as I navigated through the med station of wounded men in search of Tipper. When I arrived at the corner of the back room, I spied Tipper resting on a sturdy cot.
He was in pretty bad shape - both of his legs were broken and bleeding through the bandages wrapped from his feet to his hips. He suffered a massive head injury, and even though it was bandaged as well, the dried blood clinging to the bits of his exposed face was enough to tell anyone looking how bad he was. Just as Roe stated moments before, Tipper continued to try and prop himself up onto his elbows to look around but the head wrap prevented him from seeing much of anything.
I knelt beside his cot. "Hey, Tip," I cooed, reaching for his hand to hold. He gripped it tight as I asked, "How are you feeling?"
His voice trembled as he spoke. "I'm fine but I want to go back out there!"
"I know you do, Tip..." I began slowly, "but you're not yourself." It was a fine line to balance as he needed to know how badly wounded he was while not breaking his spirit. I questioned whether or not he knew how bad his wounds even were.
"That's what they keep telling me," he sighed heavily, leaning back on the cot, "but no one will tell me how bad it is." I could see the faintest of tears rolling down his bloody face. It broke my heart.
I swallowed nervously, blinking back my own tears, and deciding he had to know the truth. "Well, you have two broken legs and you've got a pretty nasty looking wound on your head." I figured the best way to tell him was to rip the bandage off, so to say. He didn't need the sugar-coated approach in his state of mind, especially since so many already tried that with him and failed.
