The battle had ended an hour ago, and the soldiers had retreated to their trenches. Not even sporadic shots could be heard anymore. Yet both the French and the Austrians kept a watchful eye on the battlefield, where a solitary figure was slowly walking. It was Sister Justine.

The petite young woman carefully inspected the fallen, both her own and the enemy’s, hoping to find a spark of life among them. The wounded who had been able to call for help had already been carried away on stretchers by the medics.

The soldiers knew Sister Justine and admired her courage, diligence, and kindness. She was determined to help everyone equally and did so enthusiastically. For her, there were no “us” and “them”—everyone was simply human. Once, a French colonel had scolded her, insisting that she should not care for the wounded Austrians. She raised her head, looked at him calmly with her large violet eyes, and said,

“Colonel, I practice my profession as a nurse according to conscience. I do it as I have been trained. Let me save human lives, and you take care of your duties—the taking of human lives. I do not interfere with your work, please do not interfere with mine.”

The colonel was embarrassed. He opened his mouth to speak, but then gave up. He waved his hand and walked away.

Justine bent down to close the eyes of a Frenchman and continued her rounds. Soon she came across an Austrian corporal who had grabbed his neck to stop the blood gushing from it. The poor man struggled to breathe. She knelt beside him and spoke soothingly in broken German. He blinked, recognizing her.

“Take your hands away so I can bandage the wound,” she instructed.

He nodded and obeyed. Justine skillfully bandaged the wound, then stood up and headed toward the Austrian trenches. Soon, two medics emerged, one waving a white flag diligently. The medics rushed over, placed the wounded on a stretcher, and thanked Sister Justine before heading back to their trench. She sent many greetings to the Austrian doctor she had seen once from afar. He was elderly and rarely left the infirmary to avoid overexerting his arthritic joints.

Justine continued searching for the living. She found a Frenchman, but his abdomen was torn open, and he died of blood loss within minutes. Once she was convinced there was no more work to be done, Justine headed to the trenches. Her heart was heavy with sorrow, tears streaming down her face. She could not and did not want to accept the war. She was on the edge of her physical and mental strength. She had seen too much devastation, suffering, and death, and each day she prayed that this cursed war would end.

Suddenly, a whistle shrieked, followed by a loud explosion. As she walked slowly, head bowed in thought, Justine was hurled ten meters to the side and rolled in the dust like a rag doll thrown by an angry child. Her body twitched a few times and then lay still.