I am on my vantage point – a bed made up of a couple of rough, scratchy war-issue blankets in the Medic’s tent. I could see the men, broken and bloody, filing back from the frontline. I had been ordered to stay put until my services would be required – although in every fibre of my being I felt a longing to be out there greeting the men – comforting them, giving them hope, but their pain for now was too great and needed services of a different kind.

I felt every single man’s pain and sorrow and always listened to their sad laments. I would let them put their arms around me and if they didn’t have both arms I would lean against them, my healing spiritual warmth flowing into their bodies – some – the last warmth they would ever feel as their last moments ticked by.

I would communicate to them through my touch and taste and I know that in those last few moments they found profound peace – no pain – just a gentle warm release and with some, a serene smile would fleetingly touch their lips as they say, “Good on ya cobber.”