Sanctuary By
Susan M. Ballard
Explosions rocked the woods. To the east and west there was nothing but clouds of thick gray smoke fueled by burning trees and the ankle-deep fallen leaves of autumn. To the south advanced a line of German Infantry. The only hope of escape was north.
Hanley fumbled his helmet back on. His ears rang from close range artillery bursts and the back of his head felt like he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. He couldn’t have been unconscious long yet all around him the woods, once teeming with soldiers, were empty of all save the dead and wounded and precious few of the latter.
Pushing up to his feet, Hanley glanced around, slowly, to keep the dizziness at bay, searching for his men. He prayed he wouldn’t find them and he didn’t, except for Saunders.
He’d seen Saunders catch it as he’d scrambled for position through the trees, just off to Hanley’s right. An explosion caught the non-com, tossing him into the air as easily as if he’d been made of feathers instead of flesh and bone and blood. There hadn’t been time then to check – to be sure Saunders was dead – to take his dog tags – to say goodbye. There was no time now either, but Hanley made some, moving off with leaden steps to where he’d last seen the sergeant. Wind came up, blowing smoke across the churned up ground, like a fog bank rolling in off the North Sea. It was eerie and caused Hanley’s skin to crawl. Half expecting to hear the ghostly moans of the dying, he wasn’t surprised when he did, but it wasn’t the sound of a dying man, it was the sound of one fighting to live. It was Saunders.
Lying on his back, the sergeant had one arm across his eyes and to Hanley, searching the body for wounds, he appeared untouched, that is until he came to the left leg. It laid at an odd angle, badly broken, the bone protruding from a rent in the trouser leg just above his boot-top. Saunders fought to come awake. Somewhere deep inside, the soldier in him knew he had to wake up, had to move out and that to give in and rest, to stay was to die.
The lieutenant shook the sergeant by the shoulder, none too gently. Saunders groaned, but moved slightly, the arm coming down and the eyes opening, “Lieutenant?”
“Yeah, it’s me. We gotta move, Saunders. The krauts can’t be far behind. We gotta move.”
Saunders raised his head up just enough to see his leg. His stomach lurched and it took all his will power to keep from vomiting. “Needs a splint,” he observed with far more calm than he felt.
Hanley thought as how that was the understatement of the day, but how to splint a leg with a compound fracture in the middle of a war zone with no pain killers, no disinfectant, no bandages and no splints was the question.
Splints were the least of the problem. Tree limbs lay scattered about and some were actually straight and of the right diameter. His belt and Saunders’ would secure the makeshift supports.
Just moving the leg enough to get the splints around it had Saunders spitting out expletives while fighting to remain still; wiping tears from his eyes back across a tattered sleeve.
To ward off infection, Hanley dusted the protruding bone and surrounding area with sulfa, loosely tying a bandage around it. “Better than nothing,” he murmured to himself.
Saunders’ Thompson was nowhere to be found, tossed aside, like its owner, by the explosion. Hanley slung his rifle, bent low and pulled Saunders upright. The sergeant turned deathly pale, but there was nothing to be done. Hanley lifted him up over his shoulder. There was no resistance; the non-com had fainted.
Struggling through the woods, a man slung over his shoulder, back aching, fear dogging every footstep, every sound a German, left the lieutenant physically and emotionally exhausted after less than a mile.
“A few more yards…just a few yards,” Hanley urged himself onward. Breaking through the trees, he drew up short. Before him stood a stone house, although it resembled nothing if not a place of worship with a high stone turret and massive double wide oak doors flanked by a pair of stained glass windows.
Gil thought a moment, but only a moment before moving forward. He didn’t remember seeing the structure on any map, yet here it was and how could it have been missed? There were no sounds at all aside from the odd bird call, his own labored breathing and an occasional choked off moan from Saunders.
Steadying his burden with one hand, Hanley knocked at the doors. His knuckles thumping against the ancient oak was akin to the scratching of a small animal. Again he knocked, this time banging with his fist. Sweat ran into his eyes despite the cold; his knees were weak from fatigue and his head felt twice its size and throbbed with each beat of his heart.
“For God’s sake, let me in,” he whispered.
Both doors swung wide. Before the startled Hanley stood a priest who beckoned him inside, quickly pushing the doors closed and sliding home a heavy bolt.
“Lay him here, by the fire.” The priest opened out a heavy blanket which he spread over what appeared to be an animal skin rug directly in front of the hearth. A fire burned hotly in the grate and a kettle hanging over the fire steamed with enthusiasm. “This is a place of God. Here is sanctuary.” The priest’s expression could only be described as paternal.
Hanley had read “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” and for a moment he wondered if perhaps he needed to actually say the words. He figured why not. “Then we claim it,” he murmured, “sanctuary.”
“Granted,” the priest replied, his expression unchanged. Without asking, he went about examining Saunders, unwrapping the broken leg, scrutinizing the injury up close in the flickering light of the fire, the only illumination in the room, unbuckling, unlacing and removing the boot and sock. Already the foot was purple shading to black and grotesquely swollen. With a gentle hand he pushed blond hair away from the sergeant’s forehead and felt for fever. Rising, he walked from the room, cassock rustling in the quiet, shoes tapping softly against the tile floor.
He returned with a medic’s knapsack, several clean cloths draped over one arm and flat splint-like lengths of wood. With a sharp scissors he cut away Saunders’ trouser leg, giving complete, unobstructed access to the wound.
Hanley rested back, watching closely, curious, but grateful that someone, someone who appeared to have medical knowledge was taking over for him, a novice. “Pour some of the hot water from the kettle into that pan,” the priest instructed. Hanley jumped to the task. “Now pour some disinfectant into the water.” Gil uncapped the brown bottle he took from the knapsack, dumping fully half the strong smelling stuff into the water. Again he sat back and watched.
The priest removed a morphine ampoule from a small tin box, also from the medic’s knapsack and injected Saunders. Within moments the sergeant relaxed back into the blanket and the priest quickly went to work cleaning the injury, meticulously removing any and all visible extraneous matter, though how he could see in such dimly lit conditions Hanley did not know, and setting the break. Once again the lieutenant was brought into play.
“Kneel behind him. Hold him beneath the arms while I set the bones. Hold him tightly.”
For a man who appeared slight, the priest had the strength of two men as he pulled, twisted and aligned the bones back into their proper position. He had not even broken a sweat, whereas Hanley’s shirt was soaked through.
Once more the priest delved into the knapsack, producing a needle and a small vial of amber liquid. “This is more valuable than gold,” he murmured as he drew the contents up into the syringe and injected the sergeant.
“Penicillin,” Hanley ventured.
“Penicillin,” the priest agreed.
“Are you priest or doctor?” Gil asked, awed by the man’s competence. Swiftly, the priest bandaged the leg, applying the splints to hold the bones securely.
“I am both. My first vocation was that of physician; my second was priest.” He looked up and into Gil’s eyes. Hanley’s expression must have conveyed puzzlement, prompting the priest to inquire, “Aren’t you two separate entities, Lieutenant? You are not a soldier by profession, only by fate. Am I correct?”
Hanley nodded.
“What is your real vocation, Lieutenant, your real work? The work you chose and which did not chose you?”
Fair enough Gil thought. “I’m an architect,” he replied.
“A good vocation, an artful one,” the priest folded his hands in his lap.
Figuring the need for his assistance to be over, Hanley got to his feet, every muscle aching. He was bone tired and it showed. “I have to stand guard. The Germans should be here any minute. In fact, I can’t understand why they haven’t shown up before now.”
“That isn’t necessary, Lieutenant. The Germans have never come here before. I can not imagine why they would make an appearance now.” The priest shrugged, also rising to his feet. “You’re tired. Let me prepare tea.”
“Father, they weren’t a mile behind us. They have to pass this way because it is the only way to their objective – the American lines to the north.” Gil grabbed up his carbine and helmet. “I’ll be just outside, if you need me.”
“As you wish, Lieutenant. When tea is prepared, I’ll bring yours out on a tray.” The priest turned and left the room.
Hanley shook his head, confused. “He just doesn’t get it,” he whispered. He wished Saunders was awake so he could talk things over with him. This priest gave him a whopping case of the willies or perhaps it was just the feel of the building itself, cold despite the roaring fire, empty, alone and lonely and almost deathly silent.
Tea was indeed served to the officer on a tray. There was no sugar or lemon, but cream and a thick slab of bread slathered with fresh butter. It was delicious and as the priest had said, there had been no sign of the krauts, not a sound aside from those usual to the forest which left Hanley perplexed. Still he watched and waited.
Saunders woke to pain, but nothing compared to what it had been. Warm tea was held to his lips and he drank it down without stopping, without even opening his eyes to see who served him. He knew. As out of it as he’d been when the lieutenant carried him in, he was just coherent enough to make sense of the dialogue between Hanley and the other man…the priest. “Thank you, Father,” he whispered.
“You are most welcome, my son,” the priest replied, “but don’t speak. Save your strength.” A cool hand rested against Saunders’ forehead, moving to pick up his wrist and feel for the pulse.
Saunders didn’t listen, slowly opening his eyes. The soft glow from the fireplace was non-threatening. “Father, where’s Lieutenant Hanley?”
“So, that is his name? Your lieutenant is outside, acting as sentry even though I told him he had nothing to fear from the Germans. They will not come here.”
“Why…why won’t they?”
The priest’s expression was that of an indulgent parent. “They won’t because they never have,” he replied with a slight smile. “Rest now. We’ll speak more later.”
Saunders stared up into the priest’s face, attempting to understand his reasoning, to read something in the somewhat inscrutable expression, but there was nothing to read. Neither old nor young, the man seemed ageless, unruffled, calm and living in a dream world. Even his voice, soft and melodic, had no accent by which to place him.
“They’ll come, Father. Nothing stops them…like a plague,” Saunders murmured. “We have to leave here…me and the lieutenant. While we’re here, you’re in danger.” It was all Saunders could do to finish the sentence. Suddenly he could no longer hold his eyelids open. Darkness followed and he slept. -----
“We can’t stay here! If the Germans come we have to fight! If we fight, the father could die!” Saunders was up on one elbow, his argument with Hanley heated; the lieutenant’s expression unyielding.
“You can’t just walk out of here on that leg, Saunders!” Hanley pointed to the splinted limb. “Walk? You can’t even stand! And if you’re thinking I’d leave without you, you’re a damned fool!”
The priest entered the room just in time to comment. “Not damned, Lieutenant, but a fool, yes.” His paternal gaze settled on Saunders who frowned blackly in return. “As I stated before, none of us are in any jeopardy from the Germans. Your argument is moot.” He folded his arms and smiled that enigmatic little smile of his that was really starting to grate on Saunders’ nerves.
Another day passed and another. Saunders slept and fought a rising fever and Hanley worried – about the sergeant, about the priest, about his other men, about the war in general. Gray hairs multiplied at his temples like, well… like hares. He paced; he smoked; he drank pots of tea; he waited. On the third day his perseverance, if not patience, was rewarded. A truck pulled up in front of the dwelling – a truck half-filled with Canadian soldiers, a truck with room to spare for a couple of wayward Americans.
“This place wasn’t on no map! We found it on accident and good enough for you that we did, Lieutenant! The krauts are spread out for miles just to the south of this position and they’re making a second push.” The Canadian sergeant turned to the two men loading the injured Saunders into the back of the truck. “Careful there now, boys! And hold some room for the father!”
‘So, the first push had come to nothing,’ Hanley thought just as the priest emerged from the building, Saunders’ jacket in hand. “The sergeant might need this later.” He passed the garment over to the officer. “I won’t be accompanying you. I shall be staying here.”
Gil wondered if the Canadians would be able to convince the priest any easier than he or Saunders, but they seemed reluctant to try. Maybe they knew more about the nature of priests than Americans; maybe they just recognized stubborn a little faster.
“Thank you, Father. I have no doubt you saved Sergeant Saunders’ life.” Gil held his hand out and the priest shook it warmly.
“That means a great deal to you, does it not, Lieutenant Hanley?”
“Yes, it does and for that reason I ask you for the last time…come with us.”
The priest shook his head, “That I will not do. My place is here and where would your sergeant be had I not been here to treat him? The Germans will not come. I need not fear them. Goodbye, Lieutenant. God bless you and the sergeant.” -----
It took Gil Hanley an entire twenty-four hours of solid, uninterrupted sleep before he felt anything kin to human again. The days and nights of worry at ‘the church’ had drained him to where he could barely put one foot in front of the other. He’d been ordered to bed by Captain Jampel and orders were orders and these were gratefully obeyed.
Lying in a field hospital bed, Saunders passed the long hours staring up at the ceiling – counting the cracks in the ancient plaster or the black spindly-legged spiders which wove their lacy webs between those same cracks. When Lieutenant Hanley walked in, Saunders could barely maintain decorum at the unexpected break in the monotony.
Hanley pulled up a stool and sat by the bed, lighting up a smoke and handing it to Saunders. His demeanor was sober. Saunders felt the gladness seep out of him. Something wasn’t right. Lying back on his pillow, drawing on the smoke, Saunders said nothing. He waited.
“I was in a convoy yesterday afternoon. We drove by the church…you know, the stone house.” Hanley shifted uncomfortably on the stool, stopping to light himself a smoke. “We’d had a couple artillery rounds fall short. One of them must’ve hit the church dead center. There was nothing left but rubble.”
“We had? WE had?” Saunders leaned toward Hanley, the cigarette dropping from his fingers onto the floor. “Did you…did you look? Did you find anything?”
“I looked. There was nothing…no one. Maybe he got out, Saunders. Maybe he….”
It was in the way Hanley turned his head aside, not looking at Saunders, not meeting his gaze that cued the sergeant in - the lieutenant thought nothing of the sort. The priest was dead, killed not by the enemy, but by friendly fire. He had been correct all along. There had been nothing to fear…from the Germans.
Saunders collapsed back onto the cot, all the strength drained out of him. Staring up at the ceiling he saw nothing, his sight turned inward. “How did he know? How did the priest know?” he asked, not anticipating an answer, yet somehow not surprised when Hanley provided one.
“Maybe God told him.”
Saunders faced Hanley. “I don’t like your answer, Lieutenant. It stinks. If God told him that much, why didn’t He tell him to get outta there, save himself? Why?”
“He wouldn’t have gone. He felt it was his place to stay – his job, his vocation, his life. He wouldn’t have gone. One of the last things he said to me was ‘where would your sergeant be if I had not been here to treat him?’”
“So…it was my life for his, is that it? Is that the way God saw it?” Saunders was angry and hurt. “I don’t see the exchange as even, not by a long shot.”
“You’re taking too much on your own back, Sergeant. Your life or the next man who needed him…to the priest there was always that next soldier, that next life to be saved. I’m sure he thought the exchange more than fair. Besides, it’s a moot point now.”
“Yes sir, Lieutenant, it sure is that,” Saunders agreed bitterly …”a moot point.”
END