Hospital Train

Walter lay in his bunk on the hospital train, drifting in and out of sleep, lulled by the rhythmic clacking of the wheels against the rails. It was a cramped, dimly lit space, filled with the low groans and muffled whispers of wounded soldiers, most of whom were lost in a deep slumber. The train was a lifeline, transporting those who had survived the horrors of the front lines back to safety, and Walter was grateful for the small reprieve the night provided.

As a medic, Walter had seen more than his share of suffering and despair. Being of German descent, he had been deemed unfit to carry a rifle, relegated instead to a role that required both compassion and resilience. He poured his heart into his work, stitching wounds and tending to the shattered spirits of young men who had witnessed the brutalities of war. But tonight, exhaustion had finally caught up with him. It had been over 24 hours since he had last rested properly.

Just as he was drifting into the peaceful embrace of sleep, a young soldier’s voice broke through the quiet: “I’m thirsty! I need some water!”

Walter’s eyes snapped open. He hesitated for a moment, the fatigue weighing heavily on him, but the thought of the boy’s parched throat stirred his instincts. This young soldier had been through hell and back, and if he was still clinging to life, then he deserved every ounce of care Walter could provide. He threw off the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bunk, wincing as the chill of the train’s metal floor seeped into his bones.

With determination, he made his way to the makeshift pantry, pouring a glass of water. Just as he was about to return to the boy, a sharp burst of gunfire echoed through the air, followed by a cacophony of chaotic sounds—metal screeching against metal, the panic-stricken cries of soldiers jolting awake. The train had come under attack.

Heart racing, Walter dashed back to the young soldier’s side, delivering the glass of water and scanning the boy’s body for injuries. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice steady despite the fear coursing through him. The soldier nodded, wide-eyed and trembling. Walter breathed a sigh of relief, then turned to check on the others.

One by one, he moved down the narrow aisle, checking each soldier for wounds. Miraculously, none had been hit; they were all safe, albeit shaken by the gunfire. Relief flooded Walter, and he finally allowed himself to grab a glass of water for himself. He needed it to steady his nerves and wash away the adrenaline coursing through him.

As he made his way back to his bunk, he felt a strange sense of calm wash over him, as if everything would be alright. He was almost there when he froze in his tracks, his heart dropping into his stomach. His eyes were fixed on his pillow, and he stood there, speechless, for what felt like an eternity.

Two bullet holes pierced the center of the pillow, right where his head had been only moments before.

Walter’s breath caught in his throat as he processed the narrow escape. If he hadn’t responded to that young soldier’s cry for water, if he had allowed his exhaustion to win, he would have been dead—just like that. A chill ran down his spine, a mix of gratitude and terror at the realization of what had just occurred.

Suddenly, a wave of purpose surged through him. He wasn’t just a medic by chance; he was a guardian for these boys, their lifeline amidst the chaos of war. He would carry on, even when the weight of the world felt unbearable.

In the aftermath of the attack, as the train continued to rumble along the tracks, Walter returned to his patients, more resolute than ever. He would be there for each of them, not just as a medic but as a beacon of hope. And in that moment, he understood that miracles weren’t just found in the grand gestures of heroism but often in the quiet moments of kindness—the simple act of getting a glass of water for a thirsty soldier.