The shifts were changing in the hospital. The lights had been dimmed, and most of the patients slept. The older nurse, coming off duty, stood at the desk, filling out the last of her charts.
“How are they doing today, Frau Kuchler?” The pretty young nurse removed her own cloak and flashed a gleaming smile. So much to learn, thought Frau Kuchler. Well. Within a few months perhaps she would look less like a Hollywood movie star.
“The usual. Watch out for the new patient at the end of row five. They just brought him in this afternoon.”
The young nurse glanced at the chart. “Good lord, he’s older than my father. He may be older than my grandfather! One of the Volkssturm?”
Frau Kuchler chuckled. “He’s a pilot.”
“No.”
“Yes. It has come to that, I’m afraid. He’s badly burned. He was in a fight with American fighter planes today.”
“Why should I be careful of him, then?” The young nurse knew that while the burn patients were among the most seriously injured, they were usually passive.
“When he isn’t sleeping he’s delirious. He talks about ‘Grits.’ I think that must be a person, possibly his commander? I gather he thinks this Grits assigned him a dangerous aircraft.”
As if on cue, the bandage-swaddled patient at the end of the ward suddenly sat up, flailing his arms against the restraints. “It’s a death trap, Grits. They’ll murder me. Why do you want to murder me, Grits?” He was quiet.
Suddenly he screamed, a scream that jolted all the other patients awake. “I’m not flying that frigging A8 again!” And he collapsed.
The young nurse, plainly shaken, looked at Frau Kuchler.
“Don’t worry about it, dear. Perhaps he lured those Americans away from one of our good pilots. I’m sure it’s all for the best. Enjoy your shift.” And she walked out the door.
