Not a single soul breathed

in that muddy field after the shells fell,

and not one complained about the flies

buzzing in silent trenches.

Not one remembered

what a leg without its body looked like,

or smelling mustard after breaking a gas mask.

Not one except for the lone doctor.

Now only memories kept him company.

Images flashed from his shut eyelids. Tourniquets

and sutures and, when all else was lost,

morphine to staunch the final pains.

The doctor was left both needing and unneeded.

Alone. No more shrapnel flew, 

and the tank treads didn’t rattle,

but nobody cheered for peace.

Only the doctor remained in the

tangled wire and abandoned helmets,

each belonging to soldiers now degraded

to nameless statistics.

Some got to go home,

and more were just gone—

but the lone doctor whistled softly

to his comrades that didn’t reply.