“A World War 2 Miracle”
From A Thousand Shall Fall by Susi Hasel Mundy
pgs. 50-52
With Friday approaching, something else began to weigh heavily on Franz's mind.
“Dear Lord,” he whispered fearfully through dry lips, “You know I treasure your Sabbath. It's important to You, and because it's important to You, it's important to me. Up to now, its been pretty easy for me to keep Your day by trading work. But now we're at the front, and the rules have changed. Please help me.
And week by week, help came.
“The troops are exhausted,” the Hauptmann [German term for “Captain”] suddenly announced that first Friday. “We'll have a rest day tomorrow.”
The next Friday heavy downpours bogged the Army down in mud. . . . As the weeks went by, Franz noticed that God arranged events so that his Sabbath hours were protected. All the way to the very end of the war—except for one period of final hectic retreat when he lost track of time—Franz kept every Sabbath.
Farther and farther east the Pioneers [Franz's Company] pushed. ...the men were on foot. Yet carrying their guns and field packs, they often covered 30 miles a day. . . .
The Pioneers weren't used to prolonged marching, and the exertion finally began to take its toll. As men fell by the wayside suffering from heat stroke [and blistered feet, they would be left to their fate]. The company had to move on.
Some men developed such blisters on their feet that they could not tolerate boots any longer. They'd tug them off and limp along barefoot for a few miles til their bleeding feet could carry them no longer. … The lucky ones became prisoners of war. But most of them were killed outright by the vengeful Russians.
Franz, too, was exhausted. After a few days his socks were in shreds, and huge blisters soon covered his feet. ... Finally, he took one of his dirty undershirts, tore it into strips and wrapped them around his feet before pulling his boots back on. It was no help. The blisters burst open and became infected. Franz was barely able to drag himself along until [they] made camp for the night. He was running a fever and lay moaning on his mat. . . .
...Willi [stopped by and] removed his friend's boots. When he saw the fist-sized festering wounds, he groaned.
“Franz, there is a little stream not to far from here. Lean on me, and I will help you get there. It will give you some relief if you can cool your feet.”
With his arm around Willi's shoulder, Franz hobbled the few yards to the water. By the time he reached the creek, his feet had swollen to twice their size. When he stuck his tortured limbs into the murky, polluted water, he did feel relief.
“I can't move,” he groaned. “I'm too exhausted.”
“OK”, said Willi. “Just stay here for a while. I'll bring your things. All you need is a good rest.”
I need more than that, Franz thought. My body is worn out and burning with fever. My feet are throbbing with infection. I need days, Willi. Days of rest. But it's not possible. There's nothing more I can do. Tomorrow I'll be left behind like the others. I knew life in the army would be dangerous, but I never thought I would succumb to infection.
He removed his feet from the water, gingerly dried them. Too worn out to follow his regular routine of Bible reading, he took out his Bible to read just a text before prayer. It fell open to Psalms 118:17: “I will not die but live, and proclaim what the Lord has done” (NIV).
Stunned, he wrapped himself up in his gray army blanket. Then, lying there on the damp, foreign soil, his body shaking with fever, Franz prayed.
“Dear Lord, you know that my life is committed to You. When I left home, I felt assured that You would bring me back safely to my family. Now You have given me another promise. But here I am, sick and unable to continue. Unless You help me, I am lost. I know that You are a promise-keeping God. I commit myself into Your hands.”
Finally, Franz dropped off.
Wake up call at 3:15 a.m. Groggy, Franz rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. His headache and the shaking were gone. Well, I've had a good rest. If I can get my feet into my boots, maybe I can give it another try.
He sat up, pulled his feet from under the gray blanket and looked at them. In the dim light they shone whitely.
“Wait a minute,” he muttered, blinking and squinting at them. “That can't be.”
He reached out his hand and gingerly felt them with his fingers. Then he brushed at them harder and harder.
They're healed. The hair tingled on his scalp. My feet are completely healed. Not just covered with thick fresh scabs, but with completely new, unbroken skin.
Shaking his head in wonder, he pulled on his bloody socks, stepped into his boots, and marched stoutly over to wish an astonished Willi a good morning. For the remaining years of the war, Franz never again had any trouble with his feet.
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