A Bitter Truth
“They were, for the most part, shrapnel victims where bursting shells tore through flesh and bone and sinew.We had been warned to prepare for them, and the first inkling we had that they were arriving was an assortment of whistles and jeers and general catcalls, from the English Tommies lying on stretchers or sitting on whatever they could find. It was all good-natured, a rivalry of long standing. And then I heard the most maniacal laughter, so wild and crazed that I went to see what was wrong, ...expecting some sort of head wound. A burst of laughter followed the sound, and at that moment a tall Aussie Sergeant was limping toward me.He greeted me just as I recognized him as the soldier I’d asked for chocolate when the nuns had brought in the five wounded children a few weeks earlier.“Still searching for that little girl?” he asked, one hand gripping his other arm at the shoulder. I could see beneath the hasty field dressings that it was lacerated, deep wounds still bleeding.There was no time to answer—the other sisters were there, and we got the Australian soldiers inside and began evaluating their wounds.The Sergeant insisted that we look at his men before he would allow us to touch him, and as I worked on a leg wound, cleaning it and removing bits of shell, he sauntered over, clapped the young private on the back, and said, “Good lad.”The boy—for he hardly seemed more than that—grinned weakly.MoreLess
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