The War that Saved My Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley

days without food or water.
The men on that first ship who could walk had carried their severely
injured comrades into the town hall, the place where I’d stood on evacuation
day, waiting for someone to choose me.
When I got to town I saw a woman in a WVS uniform go inside the hall. I
followed, pushing open the door.
I gagged. The smell of blood hung across the room like a heavy iron fog,
but worse than that—people don’t tell you, they don’t write about it and they
don’t put it in the newsreels—when men are horribly injured, they lose
control of their bowels. They mess themselves the way babies do. The stench
made my eyes water and my stomach churn.
The whole room was filled with wounded men on stretchers. I saw Dr.
Graham working among army medics and the WVS. I saw Lady Thorton, her
face streaked with blood. I saw Susan, who looked up and saw me. “Get out
of here,” she barked.
Already I could see what some of the women were doing—peeling away
the soldiers’ pants and cleaning their naked backsides. They wouldn’t want
me helping with that. I nodded to Susan and slipped back outside.
The street was full of less-injured men. Townspeople directed them into
the pub, the library, any building with open space. Men stumbled, collapsed,
cried. “Miss,” said one, looking up at me. He sat on the curb with a bloodsoaked
leg held stiff in front of him. “Water?”
I went into the pub. It was full of soldiers and people from the village. If
anyone noticed me, they didn’t care. I tossed my crutches and pillowcase
behind the bar, found a pitcher and filled it, grabbed a mug, limped to the
street, and gave the water to the soldier. He drank until the pitcher was empty.
I went back and forth, carrying water. Eventually the publican’s daughter,
who seemed about my age, came out with a heavy bucket. “You stand here
with the mug,” she said. “I’ll bring buckets back and forth.”
Soldiers clustered around me, reeking, stinking, filthy, their uniforms
crusted with sweat and blood. They drank and drank. Cracked lips, haunted
eyes. Another bucket of water, and another. The publican’s daughter brought
more mugs, which I dipped into the buckets and passed around. When the
flow of men who could still walk ceased—I later learned that if they could,
they went on to the train station, and then to an army base north of us—I went
into the pub, and tried to help the soldiers there. It was the same with them as
in the hall: blood, filth, exhaustion. Daisy—that was the publican’s daughter’s
name—and I went down the rows giving out drinks, water first and eventually