Breakfast was a piece of wormy, black bread about two by four inches—a loaf of bread a day for eight to ten men. Lunch was a small bowl of potato-peeling soup with sometimes a little rice in it. If they didn’t finish it for lunch a little water was added to it, and that was their supper. They were shaved sometimes once a month, rarely oftener. Once a month they got a clean sheet. Blankets were never changed nor laundered. If they vomited in bed, it just stayed there with them….

Our troops had by-passed this village, leaving behind one lone GI who had become separated from his company. From their window, some patients saw him crouching at the corner of their building, rifle in hand. They sneaked out, brought him in, and showed him their horrible conditions. Finally he slipped out, found his company, and returned with them to liberate the hospital.

As American rations poured in, the men cried. The corridors were stacked with cartons of inappropriate food for these starved men and their shrunken stomachs, but I guess that was all that we had to give at that time. All those who could eat, stuffed themselves so full of rations that most everyone became nauseated. The walkers would go outside and vomit and then gorge themselves and vomit again. It was just for the taste of the food going down, they didn’t worry about the return trip.

When an American died, the Germans wouldn’t touch him. They’d make the GIs who were able to walk carry him out and dispose of the body. If one of the men died before he could eat his ration of black bread and slop soup the remaining fellows would fight over it but end up giving everyone a nibble.

You should have heard the joyous shrieks when the men saw me walk through those sad, louse-ridden wards. I went cot to cot. They had dozens of questions, everyone talked at once. Some talked to me until they were hoarse. Others just stared in disbelief, some touched my cheek, my hair, my hands. Still others touched my rough, wet fatigue sleeves like they were made of gold cloth and satin. Tears ran down our faces. Everyone wanted to share their recently acquired cigarette and C rations with me…or they’d say, “If you can just wait a minute, we’ll make you some coffee.” The lump in my throat nearly choked me. It was difficult being carefree and gay. But they wanted laughter, and female chatter…and I tried. Blarney comes in handy.

A priest in the village had a secret radio on which he’d listen to the American broadcasts. He’d relay any news to the American doctors who in turn would whisper progress-messages to the men at night, when they made their rounds.

Most people will never be privileged like I was tonight. Exhausted but exhilarated,

June

Wandrey returned home in late 1945 after receiving eight battle stars for campaigns in North Africa and Europe. She died nearly two years ago, at age eighty-five.

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