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✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲
The day was unbearably hot for the end of autumn. Rivers of sweat streamed relentlessly down my body. My clothes clung to my skin, making me feel as though I were wrapped not in light fabric but in a heavy fur coat. Although it was late November—a time when Tunisia is usually cool and damp—the weather could not have been further from that expectation. Fighter planes carved through the sky, skimming low enough to unleash bombs upon buildings and the people below.
Uniformed soldiers raced across the ground with automatic rifles in their hands, helmets on their heads, and faces streaked with dark green and black camouflage paint. Tanks rumbled through the streets alongside military jeeps.
Yes, you understand correctly.
There is a war.
The Second World War—a conflict in which soldiers and innocent civilians are wounded every passing second. And that says nothing of the countless senseless deaths. Millions perish.
The guilty.
The innocent.
You are probably wondering how I found myself caught in the midst of the Second World War.
In 1934, I graduated from medical school in Boston. I believed that once my studies were finished, I would begin the career I had always dreamed of, following in my beloved father's footsteps. But that dream burst like a balloon the moment I was ordered to join a medical unit bound for Tunisia, where my colleagues and I would care for wounded soldiers on the front lines.
Still, I cannot complain too much. In a way, my dream of becoming a medical professional did come true.
Just not in the way I had imagined.
Immediately after graduating and submitting my application to work as a nurse, I was transferred to a military training camp. It was there that I learned I had no choice but to become an army nurse serving the United States and its Allied forces.
I had heard the rumors spreading across the world about another great war, but if I am honest, I never truly believed them. I could not imagine anyone possessing the power to unite the world's industrial, economic, and scientific resources, to erase the line between civilian life and military purpose simply to prove unquestionable dominance over the world.
Nor did I believe that anyone would ever wage war through large-scale partisan tactics, the bombing of civilian targets, or the widespread use of rockets, radar technology, tanks, submarines, and weapons capable of destroying entire cities.
Then the news spread that a devastating conflict had erupted between the Third Reich and Poland. Soon afterward, France and the United Kingdom declared war on Germany. The United States would later join the Allies as well.
Yet even before September 1, 1939—the day the Second World War officially erupted and eventually engulfed nearly sixty nations—other wars had already scarred the world. Italy had fought Ethiopia. Japan had waged war against China.
Those conflicts were merely a prelude to the inferno that followed.
No one imagined that humanity would witness horrors beyond its darkest nightmares.
I was one of those people.
Now, in 1942, the United States, the United Kingdom, and France had combined every military resource they possessed. Alongside their soldiers came countless newly trained medical workers of every age because there were simply not enough volunteers left.
If I had been married to an officer fighting somewhere on the front lines, I would have wanted some young woman—fresh out of medical school, whether by choice or by duty—to care for him if he were wounded.
I have never been the kind of person to place my own needs above everyone else's. As long as I can remember, I have always been willing to sacrifice myself for those around me. So when I was assigned to military hospital service, I did not protest. I obeyed my orders without hesitation, boarded the aircraft, and was flown to Tunisia with the rest of the medical staff.
I have lived here for several months now.
Enough has happened during that time to fill an entire lifetime.
Blood itself has never frightened me, nor the sight of torn flesh. But every time another wounded soldier—or several at once—was brought into what had become our makeshift hospital, the moment I saw open wounds pouring blood or intestines spilling from shattered bodies, I would vomit.
Then I would wipe my mouth, steady myself, and return to work.
There was no time to be weak.
No time to fall ill.
No time to give in.
At a time like this, my own health mattered far less than the lives of the men we were trying to save.
"Elze... El... Elizabeth!"
One of my colleagues screamed my name as she ran toward me with her arms outstretched.
I stood leaning against the front of a military jeep, a bottle of whiskey hanging loosely from my hand, staring at the smoke-filled crimson sky.
Even at night, the darkness never truly came. It almost felt as though the land existed beneath endless white nights. At first glance, it might have seemed beautiful—almost romantic—if not for the fact that the Second World War raged on and the heavens themselves were torn apart by rockets and falling bombs.
The sight of the bombers overhead brought back the memory of the day I had boarded one myself—the day I was chosen to serve as a military nurse.
