When I read through my journals from that time, I see traces of myself in some entries,most of it sounds like the thoughts of an entirely different person.

I see a man,could be me,lost a leg during the war. To him the war was over,thought he had a career,now he can only be a spectator, lost all.

As he lay there,man in the next bed was near the window,looking out of it for hours on end. He asked what he saw as he couldn't see for himself.
He described the oak tree hundred years old. The Daffidils,tulips,crocus all around. The flow of the waterfall cascading down,changed by so many years of ownership.
Man in the bed closed his eyes and saw all but said no more.
For days they talked and the man at the window gave hope with the beauty he saw.
One day the man at the window said unexpectantly,"going home tomorrow." Then he stroked where his right arm had bee..
Next day he had gone.
Nurses were making the bed.
"He gone home then?" the man asked
Nurse looked tears in her eyes.
"He died in his sleep."
All was quiet.

"Could I have the bed near the window?" he asked
Hoping to see the beauty that had been described to him.
"Yes." said the nurse frowning as to why he wanted to move.
"Nothing to see though."

The man knew there was lots to see he had been told.
When he moved,eagerly to see the outside. Shuffled his body higher,causing him much pain to do so.
There was nothing.
"Thought there was an Oak tree out here,the man said there was".
Nurse smiled.
"He was an artist,blinded by a bomb,lost his arm as well."
"He said he saw it all,"
"What he saw was his home in Chatsworth."
She turned away so he couldn't see the tears rolling down her cheeks.
"Perhaps he is better dead. Would never have seen, nor painted again." She walked away leaving the man alone.
He had said he was going home today and he has. Not in body,but in mind and spirit.