When a soldier is wounded, the first thing that he calls out for isn’t his mother or his wife… he calls for a medic.
Unless, of course, his mother is secretly disguised as the company medic.
Somehow, when the morphine runs out, there’s always hot soup and blankets for the cold.
And you never run out of kisses on the forehead, and being told that everything will be alright.
Nothing prepares you for when you have to leave the mortally wounded to tend to those who you can save.
Even if it’s your son, screaming in a pool of blood.