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.