A child’s eyes lost in pools of tears, bloody face and pins sticking in his leg-bones. I helped deliver babies, without medical kits.
Do soldiers practise killing children?
Whistling bombs and the tat-tat of gunfire were deafening. I became immune. I stopped asking how far away.
Boss insisted I take a break. ‘Compassion fatigue,’ he said.
Angry at rampant vainglory, I was tired of walking on war debris with weary feet. Where was the triumphant word ‘why?’
I flew home to Martha.