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If you were a war bride, the author would appreciate it if you would answer her QUESTIONNAIRE---QUESTIONNAIRE (auto. format).

"Mary Rose O'Donnell"
Love Under Fire, The War Brides
by

Alice Bateman

CHAPTER SEVEN

It's dark, I'm writing by the light of the full moon.

I never thought I could be so dreadfully homesick! What I'd give right now to walk in the back door, the one that gives off the kitchen, and smell Auntie Flo's Irish Stew and dumplings! And hear my Mother calling, "Is that you, our Mary Rose?" To be wrapped in that warm, sweet-smelling embrace... Even amid the foul odors of this place, I can still sometimes imagine a faint whiff of the lilac dusting powder Mother always uses. And to think I'd sometimes be impatient with her dear sweet hugs! Oh, what I'd give for a cup of hot sweet 'home' tea, and just a quick squeeze.

Sorry for the little delay, Diary, I had to blink the tears out of my eyes, it's hard enough to see with the total blackout in effect at night. Thank God there's a full moon tonight, because I don't often get time during the busy days when I could write.

I didn't tell you the other day how worried I was about getting accepted by the Red Cross, having no formal training as a nurse or anything. But after being here for so long now, I've realized that no one could possibly be 'trained' to deal with a war. Nothing in any school or hospital could possibly prepare anyone for the horrors we have to face every single day.

The word 'face' just made my stomach turn. Every time another boy comes in here with his face shattered, I can only think of Theo, of how he must have looked. In less time than it takes to write it down, though, I banish these thoughts. But in the quiet moments, those few minutes after you close your eyes and before you go to sleep, these faces float past my awareness. Much too often, with the remaining parts of Theo's handsome and beloved face, instead of any of the boys we treated.

Maybe it would have been better if I had seen him, damaged as he was. It might have been better than my restless imaginings!

The young doctor I mentioned the other day ---- I've been looking away from him every time he glances at me. Theo is still much too present, much too alive, within my heart. He said yesterday he is being 'moved up,' closer to the lines. He had a pleading look in his eyes as he said it, but I just remained aloof and only mildly interested. I have the feeling that he was a little hurt, but I need time to sort out how I feel.

I want to write down here what it's like where we are, a little. No geographical stuff, of course, in case our papers should 'fall into the hands of the enemy.' Sometimes pronouncements like this make me want to cover my mouth with both hands and giggle like a schoolgirl. After a year and more of this war, I sometimes still think it must be a horrible nightmare, and I'll wake up in my own room at home. Sweating and screaming, but safe.

God only knows what possessed me to come over to the Continent, closer to the fighting. {Theo, of course, I know.} I said earlier that it's dark - but that's not really true. Explosions in the distance light the sky, flames leave a reddish glow we can see for miles. Nor is it quiet - the planes are always droning overhead, night and day, from one direction or the other.

One day last week there was a tremendous fight between two of the airplanes, right overhead. They were both separated from their patrols I guess, spotted each other, and started firing. They chased each other for what seemed like a long time, around in circles, one then the other in the lead, then the German plane finally burst into flames, and the British one limped off to the west. We all cheered! A small victory, but every one of the enemy that is killed is one less that can attack us.

You know, it's getting harder and harder to remember what 'normal' life was like. This is becoming normal to me, and to far too many other young people. 'Normal' to hate another race so intensely that I want to kill every one of them, just to make sure that I get the ones who killed my brother, and my Theo. A horrible way to think, to feel. Already I'm worried that I won't be able to just abruptly stop these feelings when this war is over. Am I going to look at every German person, for the rest of my life, as the enemy? I've told myself over and over that it's not the people, it's their leader. But, when a German prisoner of war is brought here for medical help, I seriously have to force my lips into something resembling a smile. We're all under orders to treat the prisoners the same as any other patient, but that's next to impossible when you know this very soldier could have fired the bullets that caused at least one of our own boys to die! Or worse!

Maybe I'd better stop talking, Diary, I'm getting really angry, as much with myself as with this situation!

I used to be a law-abiding, God-fearing Catholic girl, and now all I can think of is killing. Well, not only killing, dying too. About how it must feel to be these boys, torn apart, torn from their lives at a time when they are just reaching manhood, as I am just becoming a woman. So many young lives, cut down before they even have a chance to experience anything! What kind of monster is this Hitler with his stupid little mustache and his even more stupid straight-armed salute! How can he live with himself, with so many thousands dying because of him? His own people, too, not just the ones he considers his enemies!

To think that war is a 'natural' state for the human race... or so it seems, at least! There have been wars througout history, throughout the world, and this - not world domination or anything real or lasting - is the result. Death, blood, gore, screams of the wounded and dying, screams of an airplane going down, one of our own, while you frantically pray for the crew to bail out. And swallow your pain when no parachutes open.... and go on to tend the next boy that can merely be patched up - certainly not healed, not cured.

I've seen the doctors close to tears in their frustration. There are never enough drugs. Amputations and surgeries too often have to be done with nothing to cushion the boy from the pain. Infections take some lives that we thought we had already saved. I've heard them talking, the four doctors, about how they sometimes feel more like butchers in a slaughterhouse than healers. And the 'bedside manner' that they've been trained to believe is so crucial? The most words they exchange with these patients are, "I'm sorry, son, but we had to remove that leg......" or whatever other part of the young man's anatomy is gone. And then the doctor rapidly turns away to leave me or one of the other girls to try to help the boy adjust to their new reality. Which as often as not means holding him while he screams or cries, physically putting ourselves between the boy's eyes and the missing limb.

We learned to do this after one young man, early on, started pounding on what little was left of his leg with his fists, and caused severe hemorhaging. He died, we couldn't stop all the blood that spurted out of him, so fast, getting on everything, including my own uniform. That was one of the times I had to stop myself from screaming. There has to be a firm guard dog on my own emotions and reactions, because we have to always try to be 'nice' for the soldiers. Less than human, and more than human at the same time. A very difficult balance some days!