As If It Was the Last
Part 1
Inside the rear of the transport truck, Sister Bernadette pressed herself tightly against the back wall to stay out of the way of the men carrying a stretcher between them. With the second injured soldier now lying beside the first, the men clambered out of the truck, letting the canvas flaps shut in their wake. With no other source of light, she was plunged into darkness until she switched on the torch she carried in her hand. Before she could bend down and assess the condition of the men, the truck flaps opened once more and she looked up to see her companion, Lt. Patrick Turner, hoist himself up in the truck bed. He brushed his left hand back through his short-cropped hair, now damp from the raindrops that had begun to fall when they arrived at the airfield and nodded to her. "Ready to go?"
"Just these two men? I thought there was a third," she said, recalling the briefing she'd received before they left the hospital.
"Died in transit," he explained matter-of-factly. Then, he took five steps forward and sidled past her in the tight space before pounding his fist twice against the interior wall of the truck to signal to the drivers that their patients were loaded and they were ready to make their way back to the hospital.
A few seconds later, Sister Bernadette heard the engines turn over and she lowered herself to the ground so she would have a stable position in which to ride—and one that would enable her to better assess the patients. After all, that was the reason she was sent on that mission, which normally would have involved neither doctor nor nurse, but they were informed these men were doing so poorly that their injuries needed assessed in route. She was all too happy to volunteer, especially after discovering Patrick would be the doctor joining her.
Five months earlier, shortly after the fall of Rome, Sister Bernadette and the order of nuns she traveled with had been welcomed into a newly opened hospital run by the Allies. Though they were not members of the military, they were qualified and willing to help, which seemed to be the most important thing to the Allied leaders at that point in the war. She had spent the prior nine months traveling the Italian countryside doing humanitarian work, focused on her vocation of midwifery, but not limited to that. As much as she enjoyed helping women and babies, she was not sad about the new assignment, as being constantly on the move through the war-torn country was rather tiresome.
While Sister Bernadette found her work at the hospital, which was a mixture of general nursing care and other needs such as laundry and cleaning, to be enjoyable, her enjoyment increased exponentially a few weeks after her arrival when she discovered that Patrick had been assigned as one of the RAMC doctors rotating through the hospital. They had briefly met the year before through a most unusual circumstance. He'd been captured by the Italians while she had been hiding out among them, trying desperately to find her way back to the Allies after being separated from her fellow nuns on the wrong side of the war. To protect herself, she masqueraded as a mute Italian village girl while working in the kitchen of a hospital where Patrick, as a prisoner, was forced to perform surgeries on injured Italian men. Due to his mistreatment, he was nearly killed, until, through the grace of God, she'd been able to help them both escape. They'd been separated during their surrender to the Americans, and she had never expected to see him again so the coincidence of them working at the same hospital again was most welcome.
Though she was quite glad to see him again, Sister Bernadette quickly realized that Patrick's return to her life was not simply happenstance, but from the guidance of God. After his time as a prisoner and many months spent in a field hospital near the front lines of the war, Patrick suffered greatly from battle exhaustion. She made it her mission—along with her work caring for the ill soldiers being treated at the hospital—to assist him with his struggles. She talked with him and eased his mind and soon found herself spending a little bit more time with him each day, mostly in the evenings as the sun was setting over the hospital's garden. In that time, she'd grown quite fond of him. Perhaps even a little bit more than fond of him…but those were feelings her mind was not yet ready to address.
As the truck trundled along the roads leading back to the Allied hospital, Sister Bernadette and Patrick began assessing the condition of their two newest patients. She propped up the torch in between them so they would both have an adequate amount of light and began examining the man to her left. His most urgent wound was an obvious one since a piece of metal still protruded from his lower leg. She delicately pulled back the cloth wrapped around it to hold it in place and quickly determined based on its location that it was imbedded in at least one if not both of his lower leg bones. She frowned, unsure of why the field surgeon did not amputate the lower limb upon sight of it, for surely his bone was damaged beyond recovery. Now, she supposed, that task would be Patrick's. From the time they worked together, she knew him to be quite familiar with the surgical amputation process so while she would still pray for the patient in front of her, she knew that he would be in good hands.
"How's he doing?" Patrick asked her as she did her best to cover the leg wound once more.
"The shrapnel is embedded in the tibia for certain, but I'm not sure how deeply it extends into the leg. Perhaps if it is just in his bone that could be why his bleeding is only minimal. Given its position, I'm not sure the lower leg can be saved. How is your patient doing?"
Patrick gave her a look that clearly indicated the man wasn't doing well. She could see the bloody bandages covering the center of his abdomen, so she supposed that was not surprising; still, it was difficult to see so many men suffer and die at such young ages.
"Give me another moment here and then I will examine the leg wound."
Sister Bernadette sat back on her heels as she waited for him. She briefly wondered how long they had been driving since her focus was elsewhere. She estimated it to be only six or seven minutes, which meant they probably had another twenty or so to go. The airfield was reasonably close to the hospital, which was why she'd gone along on the journey; the trip was only ever meant to be brief, which was good because these men had waited more than enough time to receive the care they desperately required.
Just as Patrick had begun to push himself up in a standing position so he could examine the second patient, the truck jolted as though the brakes had been sharply applied. All four occupants of the truck slid forward in some capacity, with Sister Bernadette needing to shoot her hands out in front of her for balance, narrowly missing the still-protruding shrapnel of her patient in the process. Patrick was thrown into the interior wall of the truck, though thankfully he caught himself with his hands before hitting his head.
Almost as suddenly as the truck slowed down, it sped up once again. The roar of its engine could be heard despite the pitter-patter of rain on the roof, and they surged forward for barely a few seconds before the sound of breaking glass interrupted the engine noise and they were once again thrown forward as the truck came to an abrupt stop.
"What the devil—" Patrick began, but he did not have a chance to finish his thought as it was interrupted by the pop-pop of gunfire.
His reaction was instant. He pushed himself away from the truck wall and rushed for her, straddling the patient with the abdominal injury as he grabbed Sister Bernadette under her left armpit and hauled her up to a standing position. Gripping her arm tightly he hissed, "Run. Run as far and as fast as you can and don't look back."
"But what—" She was unable to finish her thought when two more pops of gunfire were heard.
His eyes wild, he pushed himself past her so that he stood between her and the rear opening of the truck, where nothing but a piece of canvas buttoned together protected them from whatever was looming outside. She felt him brace himself, his back pressed against her right arm where she stood rather stunned, not sure of what to do or how to react—or why they were being shot at when they should have been many kilometers from enemy lines.
Barely ten seconds later, she heard shouts in Italian and her stomach muscles clenched with fear. Before she could react further, the canvas flap was ripped open to reveal the muzzle of a gun. She felt Patrick lean back further against her and spread his arms wide as though he could shield her from view. Seeing as their only escape route was now blocked by a weapon, she didn't think there was anything that could be done, but his response was certainly admirable.
A man with a thick mop of black hair climbed up into the truck, brandishing his weapon. He looked at Patrick and the two soldiers on the ground before turning back to Patrick, leveling his weapon, and telling him to get out of the truck. Whether or not he understood the man Patrick said, "I don't speak Italian."
The black-haired man growled and reached out for Patrick's arm to drag him forward, but stopped, only then realizing that Sister Bernadette was also in the truck. She locked eyes with the man and said as bravely as she could, "This is a medical truck. Don't hurt us." Thanks to all the time she had spent in small Italian villages, she had learned quite a bit of Italian. She foolishly thought the plea in the man's native tongue might save them, but the man appeared indifferent as he grabbed Patrick's arm and dragged him forward. Patrick was then shoved towards the canvas opening as a clear indication that he should get out of the truck and, after glancing back at her reluctantly, he did so.
Once Patrick disappeared, the black-haired man turned back to her and told her to get out as well. She paused for a moment to observe him, taking note of the fact that he appeared to be slightly older than her, but not by much. He was also not dressed in a uniform, which made sense as they were much further south than any Italian soldier could be expected to be. That did raise the question as to who he was and what his purpose was, but she didn't have a chance to ask it. When she hesitated for longer than he liked, he grabbed her arm and dragged her forward. This act made her stumble, and she tripped over the foot of one of the injured soldiers on the ground. Thankfully, she was able to catch herself by gripping onto the edge of the canvas. Before she could recover, though, she felt, most alarmingly, a hand grip on to her ankle. She yelped and before she even realized what was happening, she tumbled out of the truck and into the arms of an unfamiliar man. Due to her distress, she thrashed a bit, which caused the man to drop her to the ground, where she landed on her backside with a grunt.
As the rain now fell steadily, it took the sister a moment to get over both being stunned because of the firm smack on her backside that rattled the bones in her pelvis and back, and because of the irritating sensation of the rain pummeling her face. She pushed herself into a more upright sitting position, wiped her mud-slicked hand on the skirt of her habit, and then held it up perpendicular to her forehead in an attempt to shield her eyes from the rain. Once she was able to focus on her surroundings, she gasped at the ghastly scene before her.
The transport truck now spanned the road at a forty-five-degree angle, having crashed into a large tree. In the space between the crooked truck and the tree-lined road edge, the two occupants of the cab, the driver and the armed military escort, now kneeled with their hands clasped behind their heads. The driver appeared to have a head wound that caused blood to run down the side of his face and drip off the bottom of his jaw along with the steady rain. A bearded Italian man, who wore a military uniform top and denim trousers, held a gun casually in one hand while gripping onto the back of Patrick's neck with the other. He pushed down on the doctor's shoulder so that he fell in line with the others and, as she watched Patrick slowly clasp his hands behind his head to mimic the others, a whimper of, "No!" escaped her lips.
"Silence," she heard from beside her. Only then did she focus on the third Italian man, that one with a mustache and severely receded hairline. He did not appear to have a gun, though she did spot a rather menacing knife in his belt. Instinctually, she leaned away from him. She swallowed hard, trying to not only process the distressing scene in front of her but to formulate a plan to diffuse the situation.
Before she could think of a reasonable plan to stop the Italian men from hurting any of them, she heard two more pops of gunfire, both coming from inside the back of the truck. She whipped her head towards the noise just in time to see the black-haired man emerge from the truck and hop down to the road, gun still held at his side. Her heart rate jumped into the triple digits as she realized the two injured soldiers in the truck had just been executed—and Patrick and the two other British soldiers were about to suffer the same fate. Nausea rolled through her, but she pressed her lips together and fought it as best she could; she needed to keep her wits about her since she feared she had but one, very limited chance, to save the remaining soldiers.
Though she was not quite sure what she was going to say, Sister Bernadette pushed herself up into a standing position. Immediately, she was faced with difficulty because every muscle in her legs seemed to be quivering and the road was now slick thanks to the mud created from the rain. Her feet slipped from beneath her, but before she could fall back down to her knees, the balding man grabbed onto her bicep and dragged her the rest of the way. His grip on her arm would have been excruciating had she the wherewithal to process it, but she was distracted by the hammering of her heart beneath her ribs and the sick dread she felt as she watched, as if in slow motion, the black-haired men approach the trio of kneeling soldiers.
He stopped just a meter from the driver, observed him for a moment, and then with the casualty of brushing a fly away from one's picnic lunch, he leveled his weapon and shot the man squarely between the eyes. Sister Bernadette let out a scream as she watched the driver's body slump to the ground. She hardly had a moment to process the horrendous event when the guard soldier was similarly executed. Realizing Patrick was seconds away from the same fate, she knew she had to act—and had not one second to spare.
Sister Bernadette had not faced much conflict in her twenty-some years of life. Save the night they escaped from behind Italian lines she had not faced any moments of true peril. Yet, there she was, once again in the position of knowing that she and she alone could save Patrick's life. Unlike the last time, when she'd felt near panicked from the pressure of trying to find an implement to use to cut the chains around Patrick's ankle, she felt a surprising amount of calm. She would save Patrick's life—because she had to. Facing a world without him in it simply was not an option.
She took a step forward while lowering herself towards the ground and shrugging her shoulder forward. This momentum, plus the suddenness of the act, surprised the man that restrained her enough for him to slip from his grasp. She scrambled forward, slipping on the road as she screamed, "No! Stop! He's a doctor!" Then, in Italian, she repeated, "He's a doctor!"
Her outburst succeeded in starting the black-haired man enough to disrupt his plans, which gave her just enough time to throw herself in front of Patrick before the gun was leveled in his direction. Mirroring Patrick's actions from the back of the truck, she threw her arms out wide, completely blocking him with her body as she repeated her pleas in Italian. "He's a doctor; he will help you."
The black-haired man curled his lip in a snarl. "Move!" he commanded, but she refused. Despite the rain falling into her eyes, she stared him down, blinking only when raindrops forced her to do so.
They stared each other down for fifteen seconds before he gestured for the bearded man behind him to do something about her. She scooted further backwards, pressing her back against Patrick's chest and, when the bearded man came near enough, she swung out her right hand and punched him in the nose. Though the blow was probably more stunning than painful, the bearded man came at her again with more resolve, going lower as he grabbed for her. He grabbed onto the skirt of her habit and began to drag her away, but she shrieked and managed to rotate her body enough to grip Patrick's shoulders. The man continued to try and drag her off, but she kicked at him with her free leg. She felt her foot contact him but could not tell on what part. Thankfully, it was enough to release his grip on her skirt.
"You need to run," Patrick told her softly.
"No, not without you!" She gripped him harder, tightening her muscles and bracing herself for the bearded man to grab onto her again.
"Just go," he said. He sounded defeated—resigned to his fate—and it terrified her. Panick clawed at her chest, her heart, and she banded her arms around him even tighter, grasping onto her opposite wrists to stabilize her hold on him. She felt someone grab at her waist, but she screamed and tried to kick out her legs again, refusing to let go, refusing to give up.
A second man grabbed her arms, forcing apart her grip, which was tenuous due to the slickness of the rain. As they began to drag her away from him, great heaving sobs escaped her lips. "No, please, please," she begged. "Please don't, please, please don't!"
She had lost all hold of her emotions as a single thought circulated in her mind: save Patrick; you must save Patrick. He was her dearest friend. He was her confidant and the only one who had succeeded in making her laugh while they were continuously surrounded by death and despair. She'd made him laugh, too. They were good for each other—better together, always, and she simply could not fathom separating from him under any circumstance, but certainly not by the finality of death.
Now pulled so far away that she was no longer able to touch him, Sister Bernadette cried out one last plea. "Please, no. I love him! Please! I love him!" She cried, straining her arms with every last measure of strength she had, trying desperately to escape their grasp, to find her way back to Patrick, but it was no use; she had nothing to grip onto.
When they had carried her about three meters from him, the man holding her legs dropped them and her shins smacked hard into the ground, but she didn't notice the pain. Her eyes were focused on the black-haired man, who had once again raised his pistol. The seconds began to pass like hours as she watched that gun lift centimeter by centimeter.
Just before the gun leveled out, a horrendous cracking sound was heard from above as lightning crackled around them. She had never heard a storm make such a deafening sound before! Apparently, none of them had, because the man still gripping onto her arms jumped, which allowed her to slip out of his grasp and fall almost flat against the road. A moment later, another sickening crack was heard from above drawing the attention of all five of them to the sky.
From her position on the road, Sister Bernadette could see the very top of a tree now dangling precariously at an angle, presumably from the strike of lightning. She was vaguely aware of one of the Italian men shouting, but her eyes were drawn to Patrick, wondering if he realized what was happening; wondering if he could use the brief disruption to escape. It appeared that he had the exact same thought as she did, for the moment her gaze fell upon him he vaulted himself upwards, his feet slipping once on the muddied ground, and lunged in her direction. She was so stunned; it was all she could do to raise herself up into a half-sitting position.
By that point, the cracking from above had reached an alarming level and she somehow knew the top of the tree had dislodged itself and was falling towards them. Patrick's arms came around her and she buried her face into his chest, bracing for the impact of the tree and the release of death. At least, she thought briefly, it would happen in his arms and his face would be the one burned in her eyes for eternity.
A moment later, the ground shook from the impact and she could feel a breeze brush across her skin, but there was no pain. She gripped tighter onto Patrick, but he was already in motion, hauling them both up from the ground. She was able to glance behind them to see that the treetop had fallen with its trunk less than a meter beside the black-haired man, who was subsequently hit by the tree's extended branches. He'd been thrown to the ground, but she doubted the other two men, who were standing closer to her, had been similarly injured.
"Run! Go! Run!" Patrick screamed at her and somehow her feet reacted before her mind processed what he was saying. With his arm around her shoulders, they took off into the woods beside the road, separating only when forced to because of the terrain. She could hear the pop-pop of gunfire behind her, but she did as he had instructed; she ran without ever looking back.