“‘Can We Have Leftovers?’—A Whisper in the Cold Turns Into a Stunning Meal of Mercy, Coca-Cola, and Quiet Respect Between German POW Women and U.S. Soldiers”
The question was asked so quietly that at first no one realized it had been spoken at all.
“Can we… have leftovers?”
It wasn’t shouted. It didn’t carry anger or demands. It was barely more than breath—a thin thread of sound drifting out of a cluster of women wrapped in worn coats, their hands hidden in sleeves too large, their faces drawn tight by hunger and the kind of exhaustion that made time feel like a heavy coat you couldn’t take off.
The nearest American soldier, Private First Class Sam Dwyer, heard it only because he’d been walking past at the exact moment the words left her mouth. He stopped mid-step, boot sinking into soft mud that had replaced the snow in places where too many trucks had churned the road into a brown, slushy trench.
He turned.
The women froze the way people freeze when they think they’ve made a mistake—like the words had escaped without permission.
Behind them, the temporary holding camp continued its constant low hum: a generator chugging, a truck engine coughing, someone hammering stakes for more tent lines. The air smelled of smoke, wet canvas, and a nearby field kitchen where something hot was being cooked. That smell was a cruelty all on its own.
Dwyer stared for a second, trying to place what he was looking at—not soldiers, not nurses, not villagers—German prisoners, yes, but not the kind his mind automatically pictured. These were women, most of them young, though hunger made them appear older. Their cheeks were hollow. Their hair was stuffed under scarves or pinned hastily, as if they hadn’t had time to care for it in days.
The woman who’d spoken held herself as if she expected a slap for daring to ask.
Her eyes—gray, nervous—kept flicking from Dwyer’s face to the field kitchen and back again.
Dwyer opened his mouth, then closed it.
He wasn’t sure what the rules were for this.
He knew the official instructions: feed them enough to keep them alive, keep order, avoid problems. The camp was overloaded, supplies were stretched, and everyone was tired. But there was also another rule, unwritten, passed down in the tone of sergeants and the glances of officers: Don’t let your guard down. Don’t blur lines. Don’t get sentimental.
And yet…
He looked at her hands. The knuckles were red and cracked.
He looked at the others. Their gaze was fixed on the smell drifting over from the kitchen as if staring could turn it into food.
Behind Dwyer, Corporal Ray “Hughes”—broad-shouldered, older than most of the platoon, the kind of man who spoke little but noticed everything—walked up and paused.
“What’s up?” Hughes asked.
Dwyer nodded toward the women.
Hughes raised an eyebrow. “They bothering you?”
The woman spoke again, even quieter.
“Just… leftovers,” she said in careful English. “If there is… extra.”
A gust of wind pushed through the camp and made the tent fabric snap like a whip. One of the women flinched at the sound.
Hughes didn’t smile, but something softened in his eyes. He glanced toward the kitchen line, where men in aprons moved like they’d done this a thousand times—ladling, flipping, wrapping, shouting counts to each other over the noise.
“What’re we serving?” Hughes asked Dwyer.
“Burgers,” Dwyer said. “And coffee. They got a crate of Coke in from… somewhere.”
Hughes let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Of course they did.”
He looked back at the women. “You hungry?”
It was a stupid question. He knew it. They knew it. But the woman answered anyway, as if politeness mattered even here.
“Yes,” she said. “Very.”
Another woman stepped forward slightly—barely a movement, more of a sway. She had a bruise along her jaw that was turning yellow at the edges. Her eyes were hard, like someone who had learned not to hope.
She didn’t speak. She just watched.
Hughes turned to Dwyer. “Go get Sergeant Landers.”
Dwyer hesitated. “You think he’ll—”
“Go,” Hughes repeated, not unkindly. “We’ll do this right.”
Dwyer jogged through the mud, weaving around crates and a stack of fuel cans, until he found Sergeant Frank Landers near the supply tent. Landers was writing something on a clipboard, jaw clenched, pencil moving like it was angry at the paper.
“Sergeant,” Dwyer said, catching his breath. “We got a situation.”
Landers didn’t look up. “If someone stole socks again, I’m gonna—”
“Not that,” Dwyer said quickly. “It’s the POW women. They asked if they could have leftovers.”
Landers paused, pencil hovering.
Slowly, he looked up.
His eyes were tired, shadowed. The kind of tired that didn’t go away with sleep. He stared at Dwyer for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether this was a trick question.
“They asked what?”
“Leftovers,” Dwyer repeated. “Just… extra food.”
Landers exhaled through his nose. “We’re not running a diner.”
“I know,” Dwyer said. “But they’re—”
“Hungry,” Landers finished flatly. “Yeah. Everybody’s hungry.”
Dwyer waited, not daring to push too hard.
Landers glanced toward the kitchen. He could probably smell it from where he stood. He looked past Dwyer, toward the rows of tents where men were sleeping on damp ground, toward the truck lines where supplies were rationed like gold.
Then he did something Dwyer didn’t expect.
He set the clipboard down.
“Take me to them,” Landers said.
Back at the fence line where the women were being held, Hughes still stood there, arms crossed, looking like a wall. The women hadn’t moved much. They didn’t dare. Their world had narrowed to the space between their boots and the smell of cooking meat.
Landers approached, stopping a few steps away.
“Who asked?” he said.
The woman who’d spoken earlier raised her hand slightly, then dropped it, unsure if she’d done the wrong thing.
“I did,” she said. “I am sorry.”
Landers studied her. “What’s your name?”
She blinked, startled by the question. “Anneliese,” she said. “Anneliese Kramer.”
“How many of you?” Landers asked.
Anneliese looked back, counting with her eyes as if her mind was slow from hunger. “Twelve,” she said. “Here.”
Landers turned to Hughes. “Any trouble from them?”
Hughes shook his head. “No. They’ve been quiet. Just… watching the kitchen like it’s church.”
Landers looked at the women again.
He didn’t speak for a few seconds. And in that pause, Dwyer felt the air tighten. This was the moment, he thought, when Landers would shut it down, when he’d remind them of rules and lines and enemy uniforms.
Instead, Landers said, “You’re prisoners of war. That means you follow orders.”
“Yes,” Anneliese said quickly.
Landers nodded once. “It also means you get fed.”
Anneliese’s eyes widened slightly, hope flickering like a match in wind.
Landers lifted a hand. “Not a banquet. Don’t start imagining you’re at home. But if the kitchen has extra after our men eat, you’ll get it.”
The women stared, as if they’d misheard him.
Hughes shifted his weight. “Sergeant, we got extra buns and patties from the last shipment. They cooked too many.”
Landers grunted. “Then that’s that.”
Dwyer couldn’t help it—relief washed through him so hard it almost made him dizzy.
Anneliese whispered, “Thank you,” but her voice cracked on the word.
Landers wasn’t finished.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice, so only they could hear.
“And you’ll line up properly,” he said. “You’ll eat without fighting. You’ll take what you’re given and you’ll keep your hands to yourselves. Anyone starts trouble, it ends immediately.”
“Yes,” Anneliese said again, nodding fast.
Landers straightened. “Alright. Hughes—take four men. Bring them to the kitchen in groups of three. Keep it orderly. Dwyer, you’re on escort.”
Dwyer blinked. “Me?”
Landers stared at him. “Unless you’d rather be on latrine duty.”
“No, Sergeant,” Dwyer said quickly.
“Then move.”
The kitchen area was brighter than the rest of camp, lit by lanterns and the orange glow of oil drums used as makeshift heaters. The cooks worked like machines, but there was a looseness in their movements tonight—something close to satisfaction. They were feeding soldiers, and feeding soldiers meant they were winning, even if no one said it out loud.
When the first group of women approached, escorted by Dwyer and another guard, conversations paused. A few soldiers glanced over, surprised.
A cook—Specialist Manny Ortiz, apron stained with grease—looked up and frowned.
“What’s this?” he asked.
Dwyer opened his mouth, but Landers was already there, stepping into view.
“They’re getting leftovers,” Landers said. “If you got extra.”
Ortiz stared at him like he’d just suggested serving steak to the enemy. Then Ortiz glanced toward the grill, where several patties still sizzled.
“We got extra,” Ortiz admitted reluctantly. “But—”
“But nothing,” Landers said. “Bag it.”
Ortiz exhaled, then turned back to his station. “Alright. Fine. You heard the man.”
The women stood in a tight line, eyes fixed on the food but bodies rigid, as if they thought moving too quickly would cancel the offer.
Ortiz wrapped burgers in paper, two at a time. Another cook handed over buns. A third poured coffee into dented cups.
Then, like it was an afterthought, Ortiz reached down and pulled up a glass bottle with a red label.
Coca-Cola.
The camp’s newest luxury, brought in by some supply miracle or some officer’s favor. Soldiers treated it like treasure. More than sugar and fizz, it tasted like home—like a world where people argued about baseball scores instead of artillery ranges.
Ortiz held one bottle up, eyebrows raised at Landers.
Landers hesitated only a second.
Then he said, “One each. If we have enough.”
Ortiz whistled softly. “Sergeant’s feeling charitable.”
Landers didn’t smile. “Sergeant’s feeling tired.”
Dwyer watched the first woman accept a wrapped burger with both hands, as if she was afraid it might vanish if she didn’t hold it firmly enough. She didn’t eat right away. She just stared at it.
Then she raised it to her nose and inhaled.
Her eyes filled with tears so suddenly it looked like something broke inside her.
Anneliese received hers next. When Ortiz handed her a Coke, she flinched, almost stepping back.
“This is… for me?” she asked, voice trembling.
Ortiz shrugged, but his eyes were softer now. “For you,” he said. “Don’t drop it.”
She took the bottle like it was fragile glass from a museum. She ran her thumb along the label, reading the letters as if they were some kind of secret code.
A soldier nearby muttered, “Damn,” in a voice that carried no anger at all.
The women were guided to a small cleared spot near a heater drum, away from the main traffic. Guards stood at a distance—not close enough to feel like intimidation, close enough to keep order.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Anneliese did something so small and so human that Dwyer felt his throat tighten.
She held the burger out toward the woman with the bruised jaw—the one who hadn’t spoken earlier.
“You first,” Anneliese whispered in German.
The bruised woman’s eyes narrowed. She stared as if she suspected a trap.
Then she took it.
And she ate.
Not elegantly. Not slowly. But not like an animal either. She ate with a kind of fierce dignity, as if every bite was a declaration: I am still a person.
The others followed.
Paper crinkled. Bottles hissed as caps were pried off with knives. The sound of swallowing, of breathing, of life returning.
And gradually, something changed in the air.
The camp did not become peaceful. The war did not vanish. The fences still stood. The guards still carried rifles. The night was still cold.
But in that small circle of heat and food, an invisible wall lowered—not the wall of sides, but the wall of hatred that war tried to build in every human heart.
Dwyer found himself watching their faces as color returned to them, little by little.
Anneliese sipped the Coke and stared at the stars above the camp, as if she’d forgotten they still existed.
Hughes approached quietly, hands in his pockets.
“Worth it?” Hughes asked Dwyer.
Dwyer nodded without thinking. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think it is.”
Hughes grunted. “Funny thing. Folks always think kindness is weakness.”
He glanced at the fence, then at the women, then back to Dwyer.
“It takes more backbone than people realize,” Hughes said. “To stay human when the world’s trying to turn you into something else.”
Later that night, after the women were escorted back, Sergeant Landers stood near the supply tent again, clipboard in hand. He looked up as Dwyer approached.
“They okay?” Landers asked.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Dwyer said. “No trouble.”
Landers nodded once, satisfied.
Dwyer hesitated, then said, “Why’d you do it?”
Landers didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were fixed on the dark horizon where distant flashes sometimes lit the clouds.
Finally, he said, “Because if I don’t… then what am I?”
Dwyer didn’t know what to say.
Landers looked at him then, expression sharp again.
“Don’t go writing poetry about it,” he snapped. “We got a war to finish.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Dwyer said, fighting a strange urge to smile.
As he walked away, Dwyer glanced back toward the POW area. He couldn’t see the women now, only the shadowed outline of tents and the faint glow of a lantern near the fence.
But he imagined Anneliese holding that empty Coke bottle, turning it in her hands, unable to believe it had been real.
Somewhere in that camp, a whisper had become a meal.
And a meal had become proof—quiet, undeniable proof—that even in the bitter machinery of war, humanity could still show up like a small flame in winter.
Not loud.
Not celebrated.
Just present.
And sometimes, that was enough to keep a person alive in more ways than one.
