“Volunteer Angel”

Written by Lisa Wiggins
Rothesay High School

Military Hospital in England
First World War

I’m dying. This I know. It’s not long before I take the final step into the light. She knows it too. There is nothing she, the nurses or doctors can do. So she pulls up a chair and squeezes my hand. Comfort for a dying man. The pain in my chest tightens. I cannot decide if it’s from dying, or knowing I’m dying. She smiles at me and wipes my forehead.

She’s a volunteer. I know this from the uniform she wears. She’s not a nurse or a doctor either. Just a volunteer. Someone who is risking her life to give me a few last comforts from home.

She has been with me since I arrived. Gun shot wound to the chest. The doctors are surprised I’ve lasted this long. She isn’t. “You are strong,” is the first thing she said to me. I wish those three words could save me. Nevertheless, they hold comfort.

“Why are you here?” My voice is raspy yet wet with blood as I ask this.

“To help you and any other soldiers who may need it.” Her voice is undeniable pride as she says this.

My chest becomes tighter, my wound more painful. She squeezes my hand. My volunteer angel.

I can think of many places I would rather die. At home with my family, but this place isn’t all that bad. It’s been made homey, Christmas decorations on the walls and a few knitted blankets on beds. There was even a soldier sharing homemade jam today.

My heart continues to slow down, I look up. Her face is solemn and sad. Slowly my body shuts down. Nurses and doctors rush over, but my VAD continues to hold my hand.

Through the pain I see one last smile and feel one last squeeze to my hand. Comfort.

Written in remembrance for the Volunteer Aid Detachment, who gave so unselfishly during the first and second World Wars.