In what seemed like a few swift moments, the sun sank beneath the horizon, leaving splashes of orange, red, and purple across the sky, I walked along the battlefield, soldiers lying almost motionless on the green and red-splotched grass. Then, I heard a loud cry. “Mary! Mary, my sister!” Other soldiers laid on the ground, their eyes glazed over, pupils heavily dilated. The young man was still shouting. Faint gunshots were heard in the distance, though the battle was not there. It took me a few seconds to register that the boy thought that I was Mary. Spotting him from his voice, I hurried to meet him. Immediately, I told the doctors following me to turn off the lamp. Soon, darkness enclosed us. In a few quick seconds, I was by his side, wrapping
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I was astonished that some of them were barely teenagers. It had seemed like only a few moments when the sun rose, but I’d stayed with the boy all night. Every few minutes, he’d whisper something about Mary, who I had become. One moment I was Clara Barton, and the next I was Mary Johnson, sister of Hugh Johnson. The sun was up, dragging morning with it. The cool and crisp air surrounding the battlefield.
The young boy took a simple glance at me with frosty eyes. You’re not my sister? His pale blue eyes seemed to say. I inhaled, the smell of blood, sweat, and grass filled my senses. “Please, please, please take me back to Washington. My mother will find my body and bury me properly,” He begged. I knew this was impossible. He would likely be buried in a mass grave with thousands of other soldiers who died fighting.
Meanwhile, the surgeons and doctors hurried around the battlefield tending to other soldiers and to one another. All you could hear were light voices and the steady whisper of the wind through the trees. Usually, the occasional moan or cry would sound through the air, sending a shrill feeling through the spine. Not soon after, I lingered through the thick air back to the large tent where a small hospital was set up. The damp grass soft beneath my
I was astonished that some of them were barely teenagers. It had seemed like only a few moments when the sun rose, but I’d stayed with the boy all night. Every few minutes, he’d whisper something about Mary, who I had become. One moment I was Clara Barton, and the next I was Mary Johnson, sister of Hugh Johnson. The sun was up, dragging morning with it. The cool and crisp air surrounding the battlefield.
The young boy took a simple glance at me with frosty eyes. You’re not my sister? His pale blue eyes seemed to say. I inhaled, the smell of blood, sweat, and grass filled my senses. “Please, please, please take me back to Washington. My mother will find my body and bury me properly,” He begged. I knew this was impossible. He would likely be buried in a mass grave with thousands of other soldiers who died fighting.
Meanwhile, the surgeons and doctors hurried around the battlefield tending to other soldiers and to one another. All you could hear were light voices and the steady whisper of the wind through the trees. Usually, the occasional moan or cry would sound through the air, sending a shrill feeling through the spine. Not soon after, I lingered through the thick air back to the large tent where a small hospital was set up. The damp grass soft beneath my