Pool_2

His name was Doctor Rockwell, and those were troubled times.

His name was Rockwell, and it was Rocky who made us laugh.

Without provision for the sustained madness of such weight as was on us, we were up to our hair in blood and guts, unable to linger for sanity. Call, ceased. Surgical theaters - all of them - were furious in seamless action, a continuum of emergency , day after night after day. Anyone able to remain standing was working and numb.

You couldn't run. You couldn't even lean. There was no space. Rooms for two stretchers had eight. We climbed over wounded to get to other wounded.

You could not see for the same reason you could not breathe. Crowd control. Mace attacked our eyes and lungs with the rapacity of locusts on wheat.

Time didn't just waver, it involuted, melted away in the LSD of reaction to priority. We forgot to eat. We showered only when urged by the nurses who were urged by others. Intravenous infusion after collapsing from dehydration was just a quick snack. That’s how it was.