For some reason, the battlefield was blue. 
The noise of bullets bended in air. 
Missiles were searching for a place to shatter 
and splint, the tailing waves of sound 
followed loyally to add a final thump to impact.

I would patch the wounds under these streaks.
For some reason, I believed if I ignored the bullets, 
they would overlook me. As I pressed on the blood,
I let the wounded hurtle scream after scream into the sky.
If yelling helped them, I’d let them. 
There was no reason for war; 
why should I think there was any rationality left?

You’d be amazed what I would do 
if we ran out of bandages. 

For some reason, blood reminded me of geraniums.

We would bring back anyone wounded. 
Death does not discriminate, so why should we?

Sometimes, the grass was blue while I carried men back.
The grass was high and thick pain, 
slowing my progress through places ignored by reason.

I would return, find some more, bring them back.
I was a metronome. 

Not everyone survived, either on the field or in operation.
However, there would always be some who survived. 
If I helped some to live, they were one less body for Death.
And I returned, irrationally, into the blue deadly light.