Farewell Francais

As I drifted off to sleep, sirens wailed and explosions shook dust from the walls. In a nearby room, a stack of plates fell from an open cupboard and shattered on the floor. Flashes burst through the windows—lightning from the unnatural storm that raged in the skies above us. The man next to me coughed and blood trickled from his mouth onto the bandage that covered his chest. 1

I waited for the nurse to come swishing across the room, her dress clearing the dust from the floor and leaving a trail as clean as her paling face. But I knew there would be no more hushed whispers or smell of bleach. No quiet lullabies to forget the pain. From where I lay I could see her white dress crushed and stained under a pile of debris near the door. 2

The bombing had been the worst of the war and the hospital had been destroyed, survived only by us few in the north wing. LaMonte, the elderly man in the farthest bed, cried out for water but his voice broke and fell in a gasp. Another groan rose from the lips of some poor wretch who had lost his legs to shrapnel. Many more cried aloud with what voices they had left; some praying to God, others cursing His injustice, and a few shouted out to lovers who had either died or safely escaped the terrors of war. 3

Just as the cries grew louder, a haunting voice rose higher than the pain we all felt. The bombings ceased and a shrill voice echoed through the room. It was the young boy who had arrived just a week ago from the farms outside Arnhem. He hadn't breathed a word since they brought him back from surgery, but now his youthful voice rang against the walls and brought peace amidst the chaos, La Marseillais, the song of my country. As I listened a bright light shone softly through the doorway.4

People say to stay away from the light, but I wonder if they have ever seen its beauty. I wonder if they have ever known what it's like to die.