by David Healey
She looked at the growing pile of homemade bandages, then compared that in her mind’s eye to the number of soldiers locked in the church, many of whom were wounded. “It’s not enough,” she said, and stripped the sheets off the priest’s bed as well.
“Father Jean is going to get quite a surprise when he returns and finds that all his sheets are gone. We’ll have some explaining to do.”
Sister Anne Marie said in an innocent tone, “What is to explain? The Germans took them, obviously.”
“Sister!” the other woman said, scandalized that the nun would make up a lie. But then she smiled. “Those Germans will stop at nothing!”
“You finish up the bandages and I will see what else I can find that will be useful.”
As the shepherd of a relatively small flock, Father Jean lived modestly. He was not a bad man, but a weak one, having fled rather than staying to guide his flock. His greatest extravagance, besides a shelf filled with beautiful old leather-bound books, was an open bottle of brandy in the study. The books were useless, but Sister Anne Marie took the brandy—if nothing else, the alcohol might serve as an antiseptic. The kitchen provided a block of cheese, some stale bread, and a bowl containing half a dozen of the small and bitter local apples.
“Unless Jesus arrives to perform some miracle, this won’t be enough,” Sister Anne Marie said, gathering the food into a basket.
The other woman opened her eyes wide, indicating that she was a little shocked by the comment. Her expression seemed to say, first a lie, now blaspheme!
Sister Anne Marie smiled gently. “Thank you, Madame Tolétte. You have a good heart. Now, if you will go to check on the villagers, I will take the bandages and food to the church.”
“Do you want me to go with you?” she stammered.
Sister Anne Marie shook her head. “If there is trouble with the Germans, I don’t want you to be hurt.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
Sister Anne Marie considered the question. Of course, she felt frightened. Who would not? However, her fear was outweighed by her sense of duty. She smiled. “What should I fear, when I have God?”
But left alone, crossing the short distance to the church, Sister Anne Marie knew that her words had been bravado to put the other woman at ease and perhaps to bolster her own spirits. Having cut the parish priest’s sheets to ribbons, however, there was no turning back now.
The door to the church stood open. Sister Anne Marie called to the guards before stepping inside. They had lifted their weapons, but lowered them when they saw her nun’s habit.
“What do you want?” one of the guards asked.
“I have come to tend to the injured Americans,” she said.
“Go away!”
“But please—”
“We have orders to let no one in, not even a nun.”
She could see that there would be no arguing with the stone-faced guard. She reached into her basket and took out the bottle of brandy. Madame Tolétte had seemed to think that Sister Anne Marie was already on the road to hell, so what was one more transgression?
“I wasn’t just thinking of the Americans,” she said. “I brought this for you.”
The guard took the bottle and smiled, his glance lingering on her face. Although she had turned her back on such things, the sister was not immune to the fact that men found her attractive. She managed a smile in return that bordered on flirtation, but what harm would that do if it helped get her inside? With relief, she saw that her bribe, together with the smile, might just work.
“All right, go ahead. But be careful. I would not trust any of them.”
“Bless you,” she said.
The guard lifted the bottle in salute.
Once inside, she moved among the POWs. Seeing their wounds and injuries, some of them still barely dressed and shivering in the chill inside the church, she suddenly felt overwhelmed. What had she gotten herself into? Perhaps Father Jean had the right idea, after all. She stood stock-still for a long moment, not sure what to do.
“Here, Sister. Let me help you,” said a soldier, reaching to assist her with the basket.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I’m a medic,” he said. “It looks like you brought us bandages. Thank you. We can use them, that’s for sure.”
“These are just bedsheets. I have a small bottle of mercurochrome and some ointment.”
“That’s great. I’ve got to say, I didn’t think those Kraut bastards were going to let you in.” He seemed to catch himself. “Sorry, Sister. What I mean is—”
“I know what you mean,” she said. “We are all God’s children.”
“If you say so, but the jury is out on the Krauts, if you ask me, especially that Kraut sniper. Did you see how he shot that kid on the church steps? That wasn’t war. That was murder.”
She shuddered. She had witnessed the shooting. It was not a sight that she would forget anytime soon. “What is your name?”
“Corporal Moore.”
“All right, Corporal. You are a medic, so why don’t you take on the worst cases? I can assist if you need it. Meanwhile, I will help the less severely wounded.”
Moore nodded. “Sounds like a plan to me, Sister.”
One of the first soldiers that she moved to help was the one who had been clubbed in the head outside the church. The rifle butt had opened up a nasty gash in the young man’s scalp. Most of the bleeding had stopped, leaving behind an ugly wound.
“Let me help you,” she said. “I am Sister Anne Marie. What is your name?”
“Joey Reed.”
“Well, Joey, let us bandage that head of yours.”
“Thank you, Sister.”
Although she was not a trained nurse, it was not unusual for her to help the sick and injured of the parish. Her experience so far ranged from helping with childbirth to assisting the town doctor in setting broken bones and putting in stitches. She had prayed at more than one deathbed as well. As a result, she was no stranger to pain and suffering.
The best that she could do was wrap strips of cloth around the soldier’s head. The first layer soaked through with blood, so she added another, then another. She wanted to wash away some of the blood drying on his face and neck, but there wasn’t any water.
That’s when the sister had an idea. She went to the altar and returned with a small, ornate vessel. This was holy water that the priest had blessed to be used for religious purposes. He would have been aghast at using it for any other purpose.
She said a quick prayer under her breath, hoping that God would understand, then poured some of the holy water onto a strip of cloth, which she used to bathe the soldier’s face.
“Sister, do you think I could have a sip of that water? I’m so thirsty.”
“Here.” She handed him the vessel, and he drank.
“Wow, that was good.”
“Of course it is good,” she said. She smiled. “It is holy water.”
She gathered her bandages and vials, ready to move on to the next soldier. However, the young man surprised her by saying, “Sister, will you take a moment to pray with me?”
She touched his bandaged head gently. “You pray for both of us. I am going to do what I can for the others.”
The young soldier nodded, got to his knees on the hard stone floor, and closed his eyes. Soon, his lips moved in silent prayer.
Sister Anne Marie shot a glance upward, in the direction that she imagined the soldier’s prayers to be ascending. And then she moved on. Prayer had its place, she thought, but so did action.
After a couple of hours, the bandages and the small bottles of medicines had taken care of the more immediate needs of the captured soldiers. Fortunately, there were no grievous wounds.
But as it became clear that the POWs weren’t leaving the church anytime soon, there were other concerns.
“Sister, do you think there’s any way you can get some food and water in here? Maybe some blankets?”
Looking around at
the suffering men, she nodded. The cramped quarters had not done much to increase the temperature. Some men huddled together for warmth.
“I will see what I can do,” she said. “There is not much food, but I’m sure that I can get water and blankets. The hardest part will be getting past the guards.”
“Try finding another bottle of booze,” suggested Corporal Moore, the medic. “That seemed to grease the wheels last time.”
Sister Anne Marie nodded her thanks at the guards and returned to the village streets. Outside, the scene had not changed all that much. The Germans had settled in, ready to defend the town.
So far, no other Americans had appeared to contest the German occupation, but she had a nagging thought. Was Wingen about to become even more of a battle zone? The thought frightened her.
But she had more immediate concerns. The soldiers needed food, water, and blankets. They needed better medicines if there were any to be had. Where would she find these things?
The village shops were closed, but that had not stopped the Germans, who had broken the locks and ransacked the premises. She went from shop to shop, hoping to find something, anything, that the American POWs could use, but the shops had been cleaned out.
In the end, she turned to the parishioners for help. She went from house to house like a beggar, with the villagers sparing what they could. On Corporal Moore’s advice, she also secured two bottles of liquor. Schnapps, this time.
Loaded down, she headed for the church, her mind already whirling with thoughts about where else she might be able to locate supplies.
She had not gone far when a gruff voice interrupted her thoughts.
“Where do you think you are doing?”
Sister Anne Marie looked up from her basket to see a large German soldier blocking her path. With a trill of fear, she realized that it was the same German sniper who had shot the prisoner on the church steps.
“I am going to the church,” she said. “I have supplies for the prisoners.”
“All that is for the Americans?” He sneered. “What are you doing to help our good German soldiers?”
“They are not locked inside our parish church.”
“Whose fault is that? Surely their own,” the sniper said. “They are the ones who allowed themselves to be captured. Why do they deserve anything? If I’d had my way, they all would have been shot. That would have saved us a lot of trouble. Who knows, maybe I will still get my way?”
She looked around for the German officer. Last time, he was the one who had kept the sniper in check. However, he was nowhere to be seen.
“Let me see what you have for the Americans,” the sniper said.
He reached into the basket, tossing neatly folding blankets into the snow. He took out a can of food. “Why waste food on men who are as good as dead?”
The sniper didn’t seem to expect an answer from her. He put the can into his coat pocket. Next, he grabbed one of the bottles of schnapps, which went into another pocket. He tossed a precious vial of mercurochrome away.
“Please,” she said.
“Hauer! What are you doing?”
They both turned to see the officer heading in their direction. Hauer scowled, while she felt relieved.
“I am inspecting these items she is taking to the prisoners,” Hauer said.
“Stop pestering that nun. Let me worry about the prisoners. I need you up in the church steeple. There are reports of American troops headed this way. You and your rifle are going to help hold them off.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sniper gave her one last glare, then moved toward the church so that he could take the stairs up to the steeple.
The officer turned his attention on Sister Anne Marie. His flinty glare softened. She could see that he was younger than he looked at first, and that his face was tight with exhaustion. “Don’t mind him, Sister. Go on and take that to the prisoners.”
She took a few minutes to pick up the blankets, shaking the snow off them as best she could.
As she moved toward the church, the officer shouted a warning. “Look out! Achtung!”
She froze. An instant later, a dark bundle flew through the air in front of her and hit the frozen ground with a resounding thud.
To her astonishment, she realized that a body had just crashed to the ground directly in her path.
She gasped, staring down at a dead soldier wearing an American uniform. She realized that it must be the body of the soldier who had been in the steeple earlier; this was the man that the German sniper had shot.
She looked up at the steeple and saw Hauer leering down at her. He had tossed the dead body out of the steeple, clearly intending for the corpse to drop on her head. If it hadn’t been for the officer’s warning shout, she would have taken another step and been crushed by the falling body.
The German sniper had just tried to kill her.
For once, Sister Anne Marie did not offer a prayer of thanks, but a silent curse directed at the sniper above. It was only with a powerful act of sheer willpower, brought about by reminding herself that she was a nun and should act accordingly, that Sister Anne Marie managed not to shout the ugly words that came to mind.
Behind her, the officer had no such compunctions. He cursed at the soldier in the tower, who looked down and shrugged, not looking chastened in the least. Then the sniper disappeared from view as he took up a position with his rifle.
Shuddering with suppressed fear and anger, she hurried into the shelter of the church.
Chapter Eleven
By the time Cole and the rest of his unit finally rolled up on Wingen sur Moder, the town had fallen and was firmly in enemy hands.
“It’s a hell of a thing,” Mulholland said, having gathered the platoon around. “The Germans have taken this village and we can’t let them keep it. You know what that means.”
“Yeah,” Vaccaro said. “It means that we’re going to get our asses shot off.”
“That about sums it up,” Mulholland said. “Happy New Year.”
“New year, same old story,” Vaccaro muttered.
The lieutenant turned his attention to Cole, who sat nearby, wrapped in blankets. He shivered with fever. “Cole, how are you holding up?”
“I reckon I’ll live,” Cole said, his voice raspy.
“You sit this one out,” Mulholland said.
“Like hell I will, sir.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say. I won’t order you to stay put because we can use every man. Just don’t make the medic carry you back.” Mulholland looked around the assembled men. “Any other questions?”
A soldier raised his hand. “Sir, I feel the flu coming on.”
“Me too, sir. Can I sit this one out?”
“Very funny. You want to be as sick as Cole, go right ahead. Doesn’t look like much fun to me. Anyhow, he said he’s coming along.”
Several men nodded. Sick or not, they were glad to have Cole along. “Yes, sir.”
“Word is that this is a small unit in the village. Not much more than a squad. We should make short work of them.”
Lieutenant Mulholland’s prediction would soon fall into the category of “famous last words,” but the squad had no way of knowing that just yet. It would turn out that there were a lot more Germans defending the village than anybody knew.
Quickly, they got organized for the attack. The Americans had approached on the main road through the mountains, which meant that the most direct way into the village was through an underpass that carried the road beneath a set of railroad tracks.
“The Krauts will be expecting us, sir,” the sergeant pointed out. “We could go around the village and attack from another direction.”
Mulholland shook his head. “Don’t think I didn’t already suggest that, Sarge. The CO informed me that skirting the town would take too long. He wants this town captured as fast as possible. Our orders are to attack head-on. If someone had their facts straight and there really aren’t that many Germans,
it shouldn’t be a problem.”
The plan of attack was simple. A handful of men would advance through the underpass and see if anybody shot back.
The lieutenant led the way himself. He had been in enough scrapes since coming ashore back in June that his voice quavered a little as he whispered orders to the men accompanying him. Nobody said anything about it. They knew the lieutenant had plenty of sand. More than a few of them also shook with more than the cold.
Cautiously, the lieutenant moved forward, flanked by two soldiers, Bigelow and Carpenter. For a change, Cole and Vaccaro hung back instead of leading the attack.
At first, it seemed as if the village might be deserted. They emerged from the underpass and started down the road into the village, feeling more confident with every step.
Suddenly, the dreaded rip of an MG-42 machine gun shattered the quiet. The weapon had been nicknamed “Hitler’s Zipper” for the way that the machine gun seemed to tear the air. The Americans’ sturdy Browning machine guns didn’t come close to the same rate of fire. There was nothing like the sound of Hitler’s Zipper opening up to turn a man’s insides to water.
The burst kicked up snow and ice from the road, then caught Private Carpenter and spun him around like a top. Mulholland and Private Bigelow had a split second to dive for the roadside ditch just before another burst filled the air.
From inside the tunnel, the men fired back. More shots came from the village. Bullets pecked at the stones, forcing the men to keep their heads down. It was hard to say just exactly where the Germans were hidden. The buildings of the village offered too many hiding places.
“Get Cole up here!” the sergeant shouted. “We need to take out that machine gun.”
Having been called upon to put his rifle to work, Cole crept forward into the increasing fire. Bullets whacked against the stones around him, ricocheting inside the tunnel. Other bullets kicked chips from the icy road.
If he hadn’t been so sick, he might have paid more attention to the fact that he was advancing when the rest of the men were falling back.
As it was, he felt dizzy. It was hard to focus, too, as if he was crawling through the middle of a dream instead of a snowy road. Every bone ached as if he had already been hit with the slugs coming from the German machine gun. His head throbbed. And yet, he was expected to fight a battle. It was a hell of a thing. It was only the sheer adrenalin of combat that kept him in the fight.