Where Death Sings

ten // astrid

I rush through the church with a bucket filled with a soldier's blood-mixed vomit in my hands. I can't waste any time, because time is very precious right now. For some reason someone made the decision to transfer half of the nurses to some other temporary hospital, and they all left a couple of days ago. We were already overwhelmed by work before the decision, now it seems like any of us can break any second. We hardly have time to take a couple of deep breaths when we need it, let alone help all the wounded soldiers.

   As soon as I exit the church I dump the bucket's content into the mud next to the entry before I turn around and take the necessary steps back to the wooden door. For some reason, one that I can't really explain, I lean back against the huge doorpost instead of walking back inside. I just can't get my feet to cross the threshold. Instead I give in as my body forces me to take a short break. I wipe away some sweat from my face with the back of my hand before I exhaustingly let my head hang. I don't think I remember the last time I had a good night's sleep. Every now and then I manage to get a few, two or three, hours of sleep, but that's about it.

   Suddenly a distant roar reaches my ears, and my gaze is automatically directed to the other side of the square. As soon as the truck appears, quickly making its way towards the church, my heart starts beating faster in my chest. Panic arises in me, and for a moment I'm sure that I am close to breaking down. I don't know how we are supposed to be able to handle another truckload of wounded men, but just like my body a moment ago had forced me to rest, it now guides me back into the church. I announce the arrival of more wounded soldier before I run back outside, with several more nurses close behind.

   The truck stops in front of us, and in the corner of my eye I see how someone steps out from the passenger seat of the truck. I turn my attention that way, and find myself looking at a man. His features are strong and hard, and he looks comfortable and at home in the uniform he's wearing. And his grey eyes lock with mine. He motions me to come over.

   "Can I help you with anything, sir? Are you wounded?" I ask.

   "We have a German soldier truck. I want you to put him as far away from our boys as possible." He says.

   "Sorry, sir? A German soldier?"

   "Yes. I need you to patch him up so he can be transferred to a POW camp." He replies and lights a cigarette. "He will be gone in a matter of days. Just make sure he can survive the transfer."

   "Of course, sir"

   I walk over to the back of the truck, where only one soldier is left. The German one.

   "Edith," I say and wave her over. "Can you help me get him inside?"

   "Sure."

   We step into the truck and put down a stretcher next to the young, German soldier. Carefully, we move him over to the trencher and get him off the truck. He groans and stirs slightly as we move, but he never opens his eyes.

   We take the wounded soldier to the most isolated part of the church, the far right corner of the nave, where we can place him on a bed away from the English soldier. While Edith leaves, I sit down next to the soldier. He's the first German soldier I have seen during my stay here. I'm not quite sure what I expected, but other than the uniform, he looks just like the English soldiers; too young to be fighting a war.

   My eyes rest on his bloody uniform for a moment, the whole left side of his jacket is dark, soaked in blood. With steady hands, I unbutton his jacket and shirt underneath, and his battered skin becomes visible to me.

   "Alright, alright." I say quietly to myself. "He's going to be alright."

   I notice that the soldier has opened his eyes, and is now looking at me. His eyes have the same colour as leaves in spring time, and they are filled with pain and confusion. I try to smile, but when I don't quite succeed, I move my eyes back to his wound.

   "I'm not sure if you understand me," I say. "But you're going to be okay. I will make sure of that."

   I stand up to get some equipment, but I don't have time to leave before the soldier grabs my wrist. My eyes meet his. He looks so scared. I don't blame him, I probably would have been too if I was in his position. He lies badly wounded in the hands of the English, and he has no idea what is going to happen to him. Even the bravest soldier would be scared at this point I believe.

   "I'm just going to get a few things. I'm going to help you, alright? I'm not here to hurt you." I say as calmly and reassuring as I can. "I will be right back."

   The soldier's eyes linger on me for another moment, observing every feature of my face, before he lets go of my hand. There something about the pleading look in his eyes that makes me what to stay, not take a single step away from him, but I have to leave him to be able to help him.

   I do my best to be back at the German soldier's side as quickly as possible without forgetting to bring something. As soon as I reach his bed again, his eyes are on me. And as I work they follow my every movement. Only occasionally will he close his eyes and clench his teeth together in pain. And for a second, while his eyes are closed, I can't help but to observe his face a bit more. His light skin is covered in dirt and bruises, his lips are a mixed colour between purple and dark pink, and every feature on his young face is kind. He looks nothing like the media portraits the German. His face shows kindness and youth, not heartlessness or cruelty.

   I look away just as he opens his eyes again.

   "What's your name?" The German soldier asks.

   "What?" I say, then aback by the fact that he speaks English. "Astrid. What's your name?" I add quickly.

   "Friedhelm."