War looks like the A&E surge list hitting double digits when the air raid sirens start overseas and the news goes quiet for three hours. It looks like arguing with a twenty-year-old trauma cleaner about PPE because the hospital trusts bought the cheap masks again. It looks like my colleague Dave, who did six months in Afghanistan with the army medics, sitting in the breakroom staring at nothing after a blast injury comes in. I don’t care about flags or speeches. I care about the kid with shrapnel in his thigh screaming for his mum, and knowing this is just a dry run for what’s coming when the next war comes home.
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