The Afghanistan war and the sun was blazing down. John was a doctor. He was treating one of the soldiers. He looked out of the tent he was in briefly then ran out to the other troops. One of his friends was lying there in pain and John kneeled at his side.
John felt his forehead. His friend was shot twice in the chest. Rapidly, he and another troop pulled him into the tent. John was sweating as he cleaned and bandaged the bullet wounds.
He ran outside again and peered over the wall. The gunshots around him reverberated in his ears.
He gritted his teeth. “I hate this job sometimes,” was all he could mutter out before an explosion forced him to duck. “Stupid grenades!” he cursed. He looked over again, scanning the area. He pulled out his own pistol and let a few bullets fly.
But it only lasted a few moments as he fell backwards from taking a bullet to the shoulder. John refused to let out a scream of pain when it impacted on his shoulder. He looked at the bullet wound on his left shoulder and winces, jumping back into the tent.
A month later and John is at home; alone in his flat, sitting at his desk. He had just seen his psychiatrist about his nightmares about the wars. She did talk to him about the lives he did save. About how he fought through the pain of losing others but still finding the strength to save others.
He was staring at his laptop screen, reflecting on his last session. He remembered all the people he lost in that war – in front of his own eyes – before he was invalided home.
But he wasn’t haunted by the war, his nightmares, the bad memories; he missed it. He missed being able to save lives. It was worth it all in the end. He remembered when he was shot but he still helped the other soldiers before looking after himself. John had decided he’d rather suffer then see his fellow soldiers – his friends – suffer.
In the end, he felt it all came good. He knew he had saved lives through all the pain. John knew he would always carry that into his future with pride.