"We’ll soon be there," says the comrade soothingly, holding my head. But the drive continues. Finally we reach the tent of the col-lecting point. They carry me in and put me on the operating table. Rafael, the battalion medic, cuts open my clothing, examines the wound, and bandages it neatly.
"That is nothing," he says in a confident tone. "In a month you’ll be back with us."
I know him and his habit of saying that to any man who is seriously wounded. I have often brought him wounded comrades! But still his words calm me. I am a child again. I w-a-n-t to believe him, so I believe him.
"Give me some morphine," I beg him.
"That’s just what I am doing," he says and injects me with some-thing. The pain doesn’t stop. Was that really morphine he gave me?
We start a crazy drive. We use the road the Egyptians constructed. But they didn’t finish the job and it is now in a terrible condition. The vehicle jumps around and with each bump the pain gets worse.
"Slower!" I beg the driver. He is a friend. He slows down a bit, but after a few minutes it is the same as it was before. He knows that he is causing me pain. But he also knows that my life depends on how quickly he can get me to the hospital.
That awful journey is never-ending. The medic who is accompa-nying me tells me several times that we will soon reach the better sec-tion of road. I don’t believe him any more. The shaking is endless. At last the village of Iraq Suweidan appears. Here the main road begins. The bouncing reduces. The pain too. We are driving along the main road. How many hundred times have I already driven along this road? One after another the familiar villages. The pain too comes and goes. I become apathetic.
There is the crossing. Not far from the hospital. Just a few minutes.
The vehicle stops. Whispering outside. The door opens. Medics in white slide out the stretcher.
In the reception ward they lay me on a bed. Nurses in white come and go. A medic asks me some questions. They remove what remains of my clothing, wash me, and shave the area around the wound.
"You will be operated on soon," says a medic. "You are in luck. Our doc is wonderful. A specialist for stomach wounds. In two weeks you’ll be fit again!"