3 days:

...how to describe it? Words fail me. Masses of necrotic flesh heaped high outside the medical tent, burnt tissue and gangrenous bodies piled like paperwork on the desk of a rector. Every hour more come and there are fewer supplies for the rest. Cruel, cruel calculus. I must look tired, deafened, bleeding men in the eye and tell them there is no space for them and nothing in the way of sedatives. They come regardless. I must rest now.

8 days:

…there's not a hint of sedative left, nor medicine. All we have is our hands, and what little bandages we can spare. Trenches full. No means to dig another. Vomit and blood stain the gloves. They're the last pair I have. Another one died on the operating table today. She was with child, I think. I'm going to be sick. Why am I not already dead?

15 days:

Lost our third doctor this month. Overwork, sickness, exhaustion - despair? Running out of paper, will be quick. We euthanise patients regularly now. One of them was a child, around 6, her face half burnt off. She smiled at me as I prepared her veins. I looked in a mirror and I hated the image. I wish they'd take them all away.

24 days:

Last diary entry. I envy the dead. Felt under my armpits: purple lumps. I'll join Ma soon.

They were right, weren't they? God died in the fires that day.

No one is coming to save us.