Medic. It calls.
Death. It was all around me. My friends and comrades lay dead on the sand while the red sea, discolored by blood, washed on them. Gun shots and screams of the wounded echoed throughout the beach. And also, in my head.
Calls for a medic broke my thoughts. That's me. The medic. My gear weighed me down as I ran towards the poor, wounded soldier who was crying out to his mother as blood ran out of his mouth. I tried to stop the bleeding, I really did, but the wound to his coronary artery and stomach was too much for the young boy.
The life in his eyes flashed for a moment, and then was gone.
He was dead.
Another shout. Again for a medic. That was my job. To try and save the wounded. Little did I know that after that day on the beaches of Normandy, that the calls for a medic and the screams of the dying would haunt me forever. In my dreams, and even in my thoughts. Death. It was all around me. In my waking nightmares. Medic! Medic! Medic! It calls. Taunting me. Never to leave. Always to drive me insane. Medic. Medic. Medic.