COMBAT! JOURNALS 2007

© 2007 Doc II’s Combat! Journals for the contributors

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any format without the express consent of the publisher or, in the case of art or fiction, the consent of the artist or author. This is an amateur fan publication not intended to infringe on any known copyrights.

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This publication is dedicated to Combat! fans everywhere, especially those who dwell in the foxholes of Combatfanfic and who keep the spirit of the squad alive in their stories.

Cover designed by Pywacket Text Formatting supervised by Thompson Girl and White Queen

The publisher wishes to thank the authors, readers, lurkers, and all the various and sundry members of the Combat! fandom.

3 4 Table of Contents

Crisis of Conscience by DocB...... 7

True Calling by Albert Baker...... 41

A Promise Made by Miss Maquis ...... 47

Luck of the Irish by Cajun Puddin' ...... 73

Common Ground by Nana ...... 77

Once Upon a Time by Ash ...... 91

To the Victors go the Spoils by Ricochet...... 101

C'est La Vie by White Queen...... 121

R & R by Alice A ...... 127

A True Friend by CCK ...... 189

The Lonely Mile by Thompson Girl and White Queen...... 199

The Long and Winding Road by Kingfisher ...... 205

Turning Point by Albert Baker ...... 231

Working Together by Mel...... 239

Judge Not by KT...... 255

Visitor to Hell by DocB ...... 261

Forbidden Angel by Cajun Puddin' ...... 283

If the Uniform Fits by Thompson Girl...... 295

Fallout by Albert Baker...... 303

Witness by Doc II...... 321

Links...... 347

5 6 CRISIS OF CONSCIENCE

By DocB

Foreign language denoted by < >

7 The slightly musty smell of rotting vegetation was intoxicating. Sunlight arced, bright above the lush canopy, but barely penetrated through the interwoven branches of tropical growth. In the shadowy bog-world below, heat radiated in waves shimmering with humidity. Thick gray masses of Barbe espagnole dangled from overhanging branches of live oak and cypress, brushing the surface of the marshy ground. The flutey songs of the cardinals and the gurgling "oak-a-lees" of the carouge a epaulettes were soothing against the harsher cries of the eagles and hawks. The songbirds perched on swaying fronds of palmettos and stems of marsh grasses. Wildflowers sprang from the decaying trunks of fallen trees, and edible mushrooms grew out of the willows. He loved the boggy swamp behind the house and knew every inch of it. He shivered with delight as the cool mud squished between his bare toes. Alternately clenching and relaxing his toes, he pulled one foot up, listening for the sucking sound as the reluctant morass released its grasp. He was lean and black-haired, and the heritage of his French forefathers was apparent in his deeply tanned complexion. Little boy features were slowly giving way to manly good looks, and his chiseled jaw was already darkening with its first fuzzy beard. Once-skinny arms now showed ropey muscles rippling under the skin and across the chest. His runner's legs were long and lean and carried him effortlessly across miles of marsh. He had an easy grace, due in part to heredity, but in larger part due to hours of observation and imitation. The bayou had taught him well. He had learned the fundamentals of survival here, had sharpened his instincts on the dangers lurking in the swampland. He could sit, virtually motionless, for hours, just inches from an alligator's viselike jaws, and stare the beast in the eyes until it slithered its scaly body into the water in search of more promising prey. A cloud of mosquitoes haloed his head, their tiny needle probosci probing the softness at the nape of his neck. He barely noticed them as he flopped down onto a hummock protruding from the mire. Drops of sweat collected between his shoulder blades and tickled their way down his spine, finally getting caught by the waistband of his drawers. A whisper of sound, out of place in this muggy paradise, caught his attention. He turned his face into the breeze and listened intently. A sly grin replaced his look of concentration, and he slipped down into the marsh grass. He peered through the stalks and waited, flattened against the moist earth. Swish, drip, drip—he poised himself—swish, drip, drip—and watched as a rowboat rounded the bend of the river. He slid into the water in the wake of the boat, gliding noiselessly under the surface until he felt the rough wooden hull. Then, heaving with all his might, he shot out of the water, overturning the small craft and dumping its lone occupant into the murky depths. He scrambled for the hummock, dragging the tiny craft with him. Sputtering and cursing filled the air behind him. He turned and laughed, then reached out to grab the arm of his struggling companion and pull him onto the shore. "Paul, I don't know how you do that." The young man was indignant. "I never hear you coming!" "Ah, T'eo, you try too hard to sneak up on me!" He chuckled. "You forget to be quiet! You must listen to nature, to what is natural and what is not. Listen to your own breathing and see how loud it is. Watch the gator and learn patience and silence!"

*****

"Caje!" Littlejohn whispered, shaking the dozing man. "Caje, wake up! You're on sentry duty next!" A cold surge of primitive fear swept over the Cajun, and he jerked upright. Pleasant dreams of home were instantly banished from his exhausted mind. He knew, emotionally, at gut level, that something terrible had happened, but for just that instant he couldn't remember what it

8 was. Adrenaline raced through his veins as he struggled to orient himself. Littlejohn... the squad... D-Day... Normandy... Theo... My God! Theo! Wild-eyed, he glanced around, knowing that his worst fear was true. Theo was dead. Caje's dream-fogged brain finally remembered—Theo had been killed on D-Day, right in front of him. A searing white heat flashed through his chest, squeezing his breath away as he relived that terrible moment. He saw again the bullets that ripped through Theo's body and sent his lifeless form crashing backwards down the cliff. "Caje, c'mon!" Littlejohn's urgent whisper cut through the scout's haze. Caje sat motionless for a few more seconds and willed his pounding heart to slow. He sucked in a great gulp of air as the pressure in his chest eased. The ache of loss was like a raw nerve end throbbing in his gut, intensifying with each thought and dream of his childhood friend. Finally, wiping the fatigue from his eyes and the dreams from his mind, he grabbed his Garand and crawled out of the foxhole. He'd had no time for sleep, let alone mourning, in the three days since they'd come ashore at Omaha. The squad had been constantly on the move, slogging through the flooded bocage country. They were damp, filthy, and hungry. But above all, they were tired. And scared. The battalion was bivouacked in an apple orchard for the night. Lieutenant Hanley had ordered fifty percent alert when they had bedded down after a fifteen-mile march in twenty hours. The men were so exhausted that they had been able to do little more than halfheartedly scrape out a few shallow depressions to use as cover before collapsing into them. The soil was rocky and full of roots, difficult to dig with their entrenching tools. Just one more indignity to add to a growing list. Caje settled himself behind a thick screen of undergrowth at the top of the hedgerow. The moon was playing hide-and-seek—but mostly hide—behind rain-fat clouds that scudded overhead. A cold drizzle had turned the dirt to viscous red mud that had sucked at the boots of the men as they dragged themselves along. He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch and saw that it was 0245. He'd slept for barely an hour, but his mind had traveled thousands of miles in that short time. Funny, his feet couldn't even manage a mile right now. A shadow shifted in the Cajun's peripheral vision. He stiffened and his eyes narrowed. He was accustomed to the heavy bayou nights; he could see the striations on a fly's wings at fifty paces in the deepest gloom. Picking off a man crawling up a hill on a cloudy night was no challenge. He eased the Garand up to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel, and felt the give of the trigger beneath the gentle pressure of his index finger. The sharp crack of the rifle was nearly simultaneous with the "thud" of hot metal striking soft flesh. The muzzle flash seared Caje's retinas, momentarily blinding him. He shuddered, grateful that he couldn't see the crimson spurt of blood that erupted from the tiny hole in the German soldier's chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for his vision to clear. "Caje, are you all right?" Saunders' harsh whisper interrupted the silence left in the wake of the gun blast. The NCO slipped and scrambled up the side of the hedgerow. "What happened?" "Saw someone crawling through the brush down there." Caje pointed in the direction of the road. "Check it out." "Right, Sarge." The scout slid down the other side of the bocage to the figure sprawled in the brambles. He rolled the man face-up and stared down at him. The German was young, too young to shave every day. Blond hair tumbled out from under a too-big helmet. In life, the child-man would have tilted the helmet back and impatiently brushed the hair from his eyes. In death, the hair riffled in

9 the damp breeze and settled back over still eyebrows. Caje knelt next to the young soldier and gently touched his face. He imagined that the boy smiled. He wanted the boy to breathe, wanted to see his chest rise and fall. He wanted to see him run and hear him laugh. He didn't want to know that he had killed this child on the brink of manhood; had snuffed his life out with one shot. He didn't want to know that this youngster's blood ran out to mingle with the rain soaking the soil beneath him. "Caje...." The scout felt Saunders' hand on his shoulder. He looked up, his face a stony mask covering the turmoil inside. "He's just a kid, Sarge," he whispered. "He's a soldier, Caje, an enemy soldier who would have killed you or someone else in the platoon tonight if you hadn't stopped him. Just remember that." "Does it ever get any easier? Killing people, I mean?" the Cajun asked. "No, not easier. Just different. It becomes a reaction, not a thinking action," Saunders said. "Do yourself a favor, don't look at their faces. Just check the bodies to make sure they're dead." The scout nodded, not convinced. The sound of engines shifting gears drifted to them from a distance. Saunders held up his hand, cautioning the scout to silence. They both listened, trying to locate the source. "Ours?" Caje whispered. "I don't know," Saunders replied. "They're to our rear, so they should be ours, but maybe we'd better check it out just to be on the safe side." "Okay...." They crept through the ditch bordering the road, keeping as low as they could. As they neared the end of the hedgerow where a dirt lane intersected their road, they dropped flat and inched to the edge to peer around the corner. At that moment, with a loud roar, an automated gun erupted, dragon-like, belching fire and smoke. The shrieking of the shell soaring overhead was ear-numbing, and ended with a great earthshaking explosion. Shell after shell poured into the field bordered by the bocage, sending dirt and rocks, tree limbs and human limbs skyward. Shrapnel showered down, piercing unprotected bodies. Exhaustion was replaced by panic as men ran for the nearest ditch or culvert. Many tried to scramble over the bocage, only to be mowed down by machine gun fire. Bodies were tumbling into piles, or were being blown into bits unrecognizable as human. Seasoned soldiers and green replacements huddled in their shallow foxholes, screaming prayers to an unseen deity for the chaos to end. Caje flashed back to the shelling three days earlier, when he had given in to his panic and run. He felt his terror rising again, and only Saunders' measured look held him motionless. Saunders tapped him on the forearm and pointed, showing him the location of a German machine gun nest at the top of the bocage a few yards away. The machine gun was aimed at the field on the other side of the hedgerow, chattering nonstop. Tracer bullets zinged across the field, most connecting solidly with flesh and bone. "Let's go," the sergeant whispered. "You got grenades?" Caje nodded, his eyes focused on the machine gun. "You want me to get it?" he asked. "We'll get as close as we can, and I'll cover you while you toss one in," Saunders replied. This was something the Cajun knew, something familiar. He pictured an alligator in his mind, slithering, stalking, silent, and his panic lessened. He became the animal and slid through the ditch toward his prey. The barrage covered the sounds of their approach as they edged forward through the brush. The night sky was ablaze with fiery explosions, rivaling the Independence Day celebrations back home. They positioned themselves about fifteen yards from the machine gun, at the bottom of the hedgerow. Caje's concentration was total, blocking out all distractions. He no longer heard the

10 screams and groans of the wounded and dying. He didn't notice the flashes and bursts of shells. He kept his eyes on the machine gun and watched the tracers streaking out of its barrel. He counted the men around the gun, memorized their positions as he rose up out of the ditch and heaved a grenade. ...three, four, five... echoed in the scout's subconscious, as he dove down and covered his head. Knowing what was coming didn't stop him from wincing as the blast sliced the air. Shrapnel and dirt peppered his back and arms, but he didn't look up until Saunders tapped his shoulder again. The sergeant motioned the private up the hill, and they scrambled up the slope together. Brambles caught at them, snagging their clothing and gear and gouging at their skin. They reached the mangled machine gun and Caje counted the bodies. He didn't bother turning them over; he didn't want to see their faces. He could tell from their contorted limbs that they were no longer a threat to anyone. "What now, Sarge?" the scout asked. "Now we go after the cannon," was Saunders' grim reply. "How are we going to do that?" Caje peered down the road, where he could see the muzzle flashes from the mechanized gun. The roar of the cannon lagged by milliseconds, and he could tell that the weapon was positioned over a mile away. "We'll figure that out when we get there." The NCO shrugged. They slid back down the hill to the relative safety of the sunken road at the bottom and crouched into a trot, kicking up clods of mud as they ran. They were startled by a soldier who stumbled and fell, crashing through the brush on the downhill slope of the bocage. The man rolled nearly to the bottom before he was stopped by the grasping brambles. He tried to stand, but collapsed into a heap. Saunders and Caje saw the man at the same time, and they both raised their weapons instinctively, dropping to their haunches in a firing position. "Hold it," Saunders whispered, grabbing Caje's arm. "I think he's one of ours." They could make out a rounded helmet as it tumbled from the soldier's head and landed in the middle of the muddy road. "Cover me," Saunders said as he crawled toward the fallen man. Concern overcame the sergeant's caution as he recognized the man. "Grady! Are you all right?" "Sarge...." the drained soldier gasped. "What are you doing here? I thought everyone was dead. They're all dead!" He tried to struggle to his feet but Saunders held him down. "Take it easy, Grady. Lie still and catch your breath. What do you mean, they're all dead?" "Sarge, it's horrible. The shelling... it came out of nowhere. We were all out in the open under the trees. They cut us to ribbons...." The exhausted soldier's voice trailed off. "I know. I saw. Are you sure they're all dead?" "I don't know. I tried to get to the ditch but the machine gun was cutting everyone down. I don't know what happened to anyone else." Caje picked up the man's helmet from where it had landed in the road. He held it out along with his own canteen. "Here, Long, take a drink. You'll feel better. Are you hurt?" the scout asked. Grady gulped the warm liquid and choked. He doubled over, coughing and wheezing. When he could finally talk again, he shook his head and tapped his helmet into place. "Just a few scratches," he managed to say. "I caught some shrapnel but I don't think it's too bad." Saunders assessed him with a practiced eye. "We're going after that mechanized gun. Do you think you can make it?" "Give me a minute. I think so." Grady stood on wobbly legs, then looked around for his BAR. It had landed in the brush a few feet away, and Saunders retrieved it. "You sure you're okay?" "Yeah, Sarge, let's go get it. Caje snaked his way to the top of the bocage, where he peered through the underbrush into the ditch and the field beyond. Bodies had been tossed around like rag dolls, and blood

11 glistened in the wavery moonlight. The rhythmic whoomp of the big gun accompanied shouts and moans from below. The field was square, a mile on each side, and he could see the flashes from the cannon at the end of the opposite mile. He turned and crawled back down to the sunken road, then knelt and drew a crude diagram in the dirt. Saunders held a shielded cigarette lighter over the makeshift map while Caje pointed out the gun's position. "It's going to take us awhile to make our way over there, but we gotta at least try," muttered the NCO. "What is it, about a mile and a half, Caje?" "Yeah, about that, I figure." The private nodded. "And who knows who else is on the road between here and there." "Grady, can you keep up?" "Yeah, Sarge. No problem." The BAR man stood from a crouch and stretched his back. "Just a little stiff after that fall." "How many grenades do you two have?" the sergeant asked. Caje patted the front of his jacket and reached into the right side. "I've got three left," he said. "I've got four," Long announced. "I've got two. Give me one of yours, Grady." Saunders held out his hand. The BAR man palmed the heavy pineapple and tossed it to the sergeant. "Okay, let's go. Caje, point." Caje melted into the night, sensing rather than seeing the road. The ground vibrated, sending trills up his legs as the cannon continued its deadly assault. He eased his way along the base of the hedgerow, keeping to the low brush at the bottom. The eight-foot high mound of dirt, trees, and scrub did little to dampen the horrifying sounds on the other side. Laughter, obscene and out of place against the cries and screams, froze the trio into a living triptych. Caje listened, gauging the distance and direction. He turned slowly, so slowly that he appeared to be standing motionless, and tilted his head until he was looking at the top of the hedgerow. His eyes narrowed to slits, and he held up two fingers, then pointed. Saunders nodded and stooped to pick up a rock. The scout and the BAR man drew bayonets from their scabbards, then all three flattened themselves into the shallow ditch. Saunders sent the rock skittering across the road and into the opposite hedgerow, where it struck a sapling and loosed a shower of debris. Above them, startled grunts replaced the laughter. Rustling bushes and rattling stones signaled the rapid descent of the enemy combatants. The two young soldiers, chagrined to be caught off guard by their superiors, tumbled into the road and prepared to meet with a tongue- lashing. Too late they realized their mistake, as bayonets pierced vital organs and their lives drained away. Caje grimaced as he felt the resistance of warm flesh against the cold steel of his knife. A single thrust drove the blade deep into the German's chest cavity, ripping into the left ventricle of his heart. The soldier was dead before the knife had stopped its forward momentum. The scout shoved the limp soldier away with distaste, and the man fell onto the road. Caje's bayonet, its blood channel full, quivered in his hand as he jerked it from the man's body. He shuddered as he swiped the blade on the uniform jacket of the dead man. No amount of wiping could erase the sensation of thick liquid, hot on the blade, running down his hand and dripping from his wrist. He sheathed the knife and turned away as his stomach lurched. "Get them into the ditch!" Saunders' hoarse whisper jarred Caje. The private struggled to swallow the bile that filled his mouth. With shaking hands, he tried to pull the dead German into the shallow depression, but his legs were suddenly too weak to support his weight. Grady, sensing the private's distress, grabbed the dead soldier by the back of the collar and heaved him into the ditch, while Saunders did the same with the other German. Caje sank to his knees, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he tried to regain his composure. He brushed the

12 sweat from his eyes, realizing too late that he had smeared the German's blood across his face. "Don't think about it," Long murmured as he handed the scout a grimy handkerchief. "You'll get used to it." "Will I?" Caje croaked. "How do you get used to putting a knife in a man's back and draining his life away?" "I don't know. You just do," Grady replied. The lanky BAR man, veteran of the Italian, Sicilian, and North African campaigns, spoke with assurance. "You just do what you have to do and don't think about it. It'll get easier." He tapped Caje on the back. "You're doing fine," he said. "Just try to pull yourself together. We've still got work to do!" "Hey, I don't hear the cannon firing anymore!" Saunders exclaimed. From a distance, the sound of engines revving drifted to them, muted against the cries of the wounded. Then they heard the creaking of heavy equipment starting to move. The machine gun had gone silent, although sporadic rifle fire still echoed from the field. "Let's go!" Saunders forgot caution as he broke into a run. The gun placement site was still nearly a mile away; they would have been there already if they hadn't run into the outlying sentries. Now, the shifting of the equipment was taking the behemoth away from them. After a half-mile sprint, the trio finally gave in to the realization that they weren't going to catch the cannon. Collapsing alongside the road, they panted, gulping in great quantities of air. Grady leaned back on one elbow, chuckling to himself. He took a sip from his canteen. "What's so funny?" Saunders asked. "Sarge, we haven't run like that since... since that old Bedouin sheik chased us out of his 'hareem' waving his scimitar around his head! You were trying to make time with number one wife, remember?" "As I recall, he shouted something about making me a eunuch!" the grinning NCO replied. "Gave wings to my feet!" "I bet you would have caught that gun if he were chasing you tonight!" Grady laughed. "Yeah, the gun...." Suddenly subdued, Grady shifted the weight of the BAR on his shoulders. "Well, what do we do now?" he asked. "Let's go clean up the mess," Saunders sighed.

*****

"You want my man to do what?" Hanley held the phone receiver away from his ear and stared at it in disbelief. A tinny, disembodied voice rattled through the speaker. Hanley scowled, then clapped the handset back to his ear and nodded his head. "Yes, sir. I understand, sir. One hour. Right. I'll have him here, sir." The officer slammed the receiver back onto the cradle. He debated picking the whole apparatus up and tossing it across the tent, but thought better of it. "They're never going to believe this," he muttered, shaking his head as he lifted the tent flap and strode out.

*****

Kirby opened bleary eyes. He had crawled back to the tent late last night and had fallen onto the cot fully clothed. He had been immediately asleep, snoring softly and dreaming of the cute blonde, the bottle of booze, and the winning poker hand that he had left behind. Now his head was splitting, his stomach was rolling, and his mouth tasted like a mouse had crawled into it

13 and died. He tried to stand and the floor rose to meet his face. Moaning, he collapsed back onto the cot and buried his head in his hands. Last night, two days after half the platoon had been wiped out in the apple orchard, ol' William G. had celebrated his temporary reprieve from the afterlife by getting rip-roaring drunk. This morning, in the grip of a massive hangover, he wasn't sure which was worse, the hereafter or the here and now. Grady wandered into the tent, freshly shaved and toweling his damp hair. "Up and at 'em." He grinned, snapping Kirby with the towel. "We've got work to do." "Owww, not so loud, fer cripe's sake," the private mumbled, sounding every bit as miserable as he felt. "How was your night out?" Littlejohn called from across the tent. "When you're feeling this bad, that usually means you had a great time. Maybe you can remember enough about it to tell us what you did!" "Fat chance," Kirby groaned. "I can't remember nothin'—'cept a tall blonde and a tall bottle!" He sat up and fished in his pockets. Extracting a few francs, he threw them onto the bed. "And this is all I have to show for it—I must be losin' my touch with the cards...." He looked distracted. "I coulda swore I won a hundred bucks...." He pulled his pockets inside out, but found no more bills. "I bet that blonde is a hundred bucks richer this morning!" Grady laughed. "Was it worth it?" "Oh, yeah," Kirby sighed. "Least, I think it was... I can't really remember...." His voice trailed off as his stomach lurched again. Morosely, he stumbled outside, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight. He knew he should get some hot chow while he could, but he didn't think his protesting stomach would be happy with powdered eggs and lukewarm coffee. Maybe he'd feel better after he got cleaned up. If he looked half as bad as he felt, he'd have to stay away from the burial detail or they might mistake him for one of their clients. "Lieutenant Hanley's tent, twenty minutes, Kirby." Sergeant Saunders ambled past. He had a feeling it was going to take the private longer than twenty minutes to pull himself together, judging from his squinting bloodshot eyes and the yellowish cast to his skin. "Here's coffee—drink up. There's more where that came from." "Gee, thanks, Sarge." Kirby took the tin cup gratefully. He cautiously sipped the hot dark brew, and found to his surprise that his stomach didn't rebel. He blew across the steaming surface of the liquid, then rapidly drank it down. His hangover was no match for the strong injection of caffeine, and two cups later he was able to walk a relatively straight line. He went back into the tent and rummaged around until he found a razor and his toothbrush. He threw them into his helmet and made his way over to the pump in the middle of the yard where the squad was bivouacked. A small polished metal mirror hung askew from a tree limb, and Caje was using it to inspect several razor cuts to his chin. "Well, look what the cat dragged in." The scout spun the words with sarcasm. "You sure were having a good time last night." "Was I? I don't really remember." Kirby smirked. "Oh, yeah, the barmaid. What was her name? The one you were chatting up when I came in." "Yvette. Her name was Yvette, Kirby," the Cajun said. "And t'anks a lot!" Caje turned to leave, but Kirby stopped him. "Hey, what's eatin' you?" The scout's fists balled at his side, and he spun around to face the private. He spat, "Stay out of my way, Kirby. Just stay out of my way!" Without another word, he stalked away, leaving Kirby, mouth agape, staring after him. "Ah, grow up," Kirby mumbled as he started to lather his face.

*****

14 The corpulent S-2 captain settled his considerable bulk onto the only available stool in the tent. He was a short, rotund man in a uniform many sizes too small for his rolls of fat. The OD wool shirt was stretched taut over his enormous belly, and the pants threatened to split at the seams if one more ounce of flesh was forced into them. As he sat down, a button popped off the straining placket of his shirt, pinging against the table and rolling into the dirt beneath it, but he took no notice. Sweat stains darkened the back and underarms of the now gaping shirt, while fresh rivulets of salty liquid washed down his face, dripping off his nose and chin and adding to the stains on his shirt. "As I was saying, Hanley, your platoon will hold its position here for the next forty-eight hours, until the supply lines can catch up." "My men will be glad to hear that, Captain Miller, sir," Lieutenant Hanley replied. "They've been on the move since Omaha, and they're exhausted." "We're all exhausted, Hanley," the captain snapped. "Just have the men ready to move when the trucks get here." "Yes, sir," Hanley said. "Well, where is he?" Captain Miller demanded as he drummed sausage-like fingers on the table. "I think he was just getting cleaned up, Captain. I'll go check, with your permission." "Make it snappy, I haven't got all day," the S-2 man growled. Hanley exited through the tent flap and rolled his eyes. He was feeling claustrophobic, as though the very presence of the paunchy S-2 man had sucked all the oxygen out of the tent. After a few deep breaths of fresh air to steady himself, he bellowed, "Kirby! On the double, my tent!" In the distance, an echoing "Yes, sir," floated back, and the slender private rounded the corner of the neighboring tent. "You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?" Kirby was still trying to get himself together. He had shaved, but his unsteady hand had caused several nicks with the razor. Pieces of tissue clung to his chin like confetti stuck to wet pavement. His shirt was buttoned, but he was trying to stuff the tail into the waistband of his pants with the belt fastened. "In the tent, Private," Hanley ordered. "Uh, did I do somethin' wrong, sir?" Kirby turned a questioning look to the lieutenant. "Inside, Private."

*****

"Hey, Sarge, where'd that goldbrick get himself off to now?" Grady asked. "He's supposed to be helping clean the BAR and reloading the magazines." "The lieutenant wanted to see him," Saunders said. "Don't worry, he'll be back soon." Grady sat cross-legged on the ground, a cleaning cloth in one hand and the disassembled BAR spread out around him. He finished polishing the firing mechanism and reassembled it. "Yeah? What'd he do now?" the BAR man asked, one eye squinted as he peered through the dirty muzzle. "I don't know. I guess if the lieutenant wants me to know, he'll tell me." Saunders shrugged and settled himself against a tree trunk. His bucket of .40 caliber ammo rattled as he placed it next to a stack of Thompson magazines. "Any patrols today?" Grady ran a cleaning rod down the muzzle. "Nope, just R&R," Saunders replied. "Regroup and reload." Grady grinned. "How long we gonna be here?" "I don't know. A day or two. Maybe less. Depends on how long it takes the supply line to get this far." Saunders began snapping cartridges into an empty magazine. They had an effortless camaraderie, honed over months of fierce battles covering two continents. The deserts of North Africa had brought them together, and they had served in the

15 same squad ever since. Grady Long had joined the squad to replace a fallen BAR man in the battle for the Casserine Pass. In the same battle, Saunders had deliberately disobeyed an order issued by a ninety-day wonder. He had sensed that the order would end in disaster for the platoon, so he and his squad had peeled away and fought their own war for an afternoon. When the reports were in, the brass found that Saunders' decision to disobey had saved his own squad, but he was still busted to corporal for the act of disobeying. The rest of the platoon had been wiped out, save for the lone lieutenant, who insisted that he had been right in issuing the order, in spite of the outcome. The "second looey," in the wisdom of Army brass worldwide, was promoted to captain and given a desk job. A battlefield promotion in Italy had given Saunders back his stripes and command of the squad again. "Have you seen Caje?" Saunders asked. "I'm worried about him." "Yeah, he was wandering over toward the church a little while ago," Grady answered. "Maybe he's trying to make his peace over there." "Maybe. I hope he does it soon, otherwise he's not going to be of much use to the squad." Grady nodded sympathetically. "Just takes some guys longer to get used to it," he said. "Think back to your first battle, how killing another human being made you feel. It's not always easy."

*****

"Is this how you present yourself to a superior officer, Private?" Captain Miller snarled as Kirby ducked into the tent, still trying to stuff his shirttail into his waistband. Kirby's head whipped up and his eyes darted around the dim interior of the tent, looking for the source of the caustic question. He stopped in his tracks when he spied the obese captain staring at him, and he raised his right arm in a tentative salute. When he realized that his salute wasn't being returned, he dropped his arm back to his side. "Uh, Private Kirby, sir. William G., that is...." His voice faded away. The captain's peculiar waddling gait propelled him forward until he was nose to nose with Kirby. He leaned close to the private and sniffed the air around him like a bloodhound on the scent. "Are you drunk, soldier?" His tone implied disbelief. "Well, technically, sir, I ain't been drunk fer..." Kirby glanced at his watch, "three hours, ever since I got back from my pass," he answered, taking a half step back as the captain's bulk overflowed into his personal space. "Is this how you run your squad, Lieutenant?" The captain turned accusingly toward Hanley. "Allowing your men to be presented to a superior officer while under the influence?" "Well, sir, he was on pass, and you did call out of the blue this morning...." Hanley's voice dripped sarcasm. He knew he was treading on thin ice, but he chalked it up to oxygen deprivation and perhaps a little to the instant dislike he had felt for the captain the moment he met him. "That's enough, Lieutenant!" "Yes, sir," was Hanley's crisp reply. "Now, Private," the captain turned back to Kirby. "What do you have to say for yourself?" "Whaddya mean?" Kirby stammered. "Sir...." "Do you know why you're here?" "Uh, in this tent, or in France... sir?" The hapless private looked bewildered. "We've heard about you, Kirby. All the way up to S-2, we've heard about you." The captain's voice was suddenly a purr. Kitten or wildcat, Kirby didn't care to find out which. "Beggin' your pardon, but heard what, sir?" Kirby's alcohol-fogged brain was having trouble understanding what was going on. Had he done something terrible last night? And been so drunk that he didn't remember?

*****

16 Caje sat, slump-shouldered, in the back pew of the church. His head was bowed in a posture of prayer, but his eyes were wide open and he was staring at nothing. The church was quiet, but his mind was alive with the sounds of shelling and shooting and shouting. He subconsciously rubbed his hands on his pants, as if the rough fabric scraping against his palms could dull the remembered sensation of blood, warm and sticky on his fingers. His Garand leaned at a perilous angle against the pew in front of him, and his helmet was upside down on the floor where he'd thrown it as he'd bolted into the cool sanctuary after his encounter with Kirby. He had stood for a moment just inside the door, savoring the odor of the incense and burning candles, and let the hush of the holy place wash over him. Guilt, terror, sorrow—the emotions had been threatening to overwhelm him for the last five days. He was so despondent that he didn't hear the soft footsteps that approached from the side room of the chapel. A hand touched his shoulder, startling him, and he jumped up and lunged for his rifle. In his panic, he accidentally kicked the M-1 and sent it clattering into the aisle, where it lay out of his grasp. Heart racing, he reached for his bayonet, yanking it out of the scabbard and turning, all in one motion. A black-robed priest drew back in alarm and made the sign of the cross. <"My son, I am here to help!"> the priest cried. <"I do not want to hurt you!"> Caje froze, his left hand holding the bayonet only inches from the priest's chest. Time seemed to stand still as blood thundered in his ears. Dawning comprehension of this near-disaster caused him to lose his grip on the knife, and it dropped from his suddenly numb fingers. "Mon père!" he cried, horrified. <"My God, I almost killed a priest!"> He sank to his knees and tears welled in his eyes. <"I almost killed a priest...."> he repeated to himself, his words no more than a choked whisper. With a touch as gentle as spring rain, the priest placed a hand on Caje's bowed head. <"My life is in God's hands, my son, not yours,"> he said. The scout lifted his tear-streaked face and gazed into the serene eyes of the holy man. Peace seemed to flow from the priest, enveloping Caje in its warmth. The distraught private allowed the priest to ease him back into the pew, and his distress gradually subsided as the priest murmured softly next to him. <"Tell me what is troubling you, my child."> Under the priest's compassionate ministrations, Caje gradually began to talk, haltingly at first, and then with an urgency that deepened the accent of his patois. More than once the priest had to stop him. <"Slowly, my son, so I may understand."> The priest listened with sympathy, watching the emotions which knotted the scout's body. Caje's long, tapered fingers were clenched into tight fists and he repeatedly struck himself on the thighs as he emphasized some particular horror. The muscles of his face were taut and his eyes burned with passion. He relived the terror of D-Day, the strangling helplessness of watching Theo's death, the shame of his own desertion during the shelling. He felt the fatigue that had plagued the entire squad for days, the bone-weariness of constant movement without adequate rest. He shuddered as the faces of enemy soldiers, dead at his hands, floated into his memory. His stomach was gripped with an aching hunger caused by eating nothing but tasteless rations and fetid drinking water for a week. His skin itched again with the chafing of clothing and boots wet from rain and swamps. Finally, exhausted, his voice faded away and he hung his head and wept.

17 *****

"Kirby, where you been? Just like you to show up when the work's almost done!" Grady laughed. "Ah, the lieutenant wanted to see me. Some joker from S-2 was here askin' questions. Miller, I think his name was. Captain Miller." Saunders and Grady glanced at each other. "Couldn't be," they said in unison. "Couldn't be what?" Kirby asked. "What's this Cap'n Miller look like, Kirby?" Grady paused from snapping ammo into magazines. "Well, he's... uh...." Kirby paused and scratched his head. "I guess there's no other way to put it—he's fat! I mean huge! Rolls and rolls of...." He became uncomfortably aware of a presence behind him. Saunders and Grady had slowly risen, their faces expressionless, and were giving languid salutes. Kirby turned deliberately. He could smell trouble a mile away, and this time he had landed right in the middle of it. "Cap'n Miller," Saunders acknowledged the officer. "Well, Saunders, I see things haven't changed much where you're concerned!" The captain's voice was acid-edged. "You never did run a very tight ship. That was always your problem." "Whatever you say, sir," was Saunders' quiet reply. His tone was mild, his face placid, and his stance loose-jointed, but there was no mistaking the air of menace swirling outward from his core. "And you, Long, I thought you'd be dead and rotted by now." "Sorry to disappoint you, sir," Grady smirked. "I can't say I'll try harder, though...." "Silence!" barked the captain. "I didn't ask for any of your lip!" Kirby watched the exchange uneasily, wishing he could slink away unnoticed. The thought had no sooner entered his head, than the officer's eyes, mere slits in the chubby folds of his cheeks, zeroed in on him with deadly accuracy. "Don't you have work to do, Private?" The captain's scathing tone sliced the air. "Elsewhere?" "Uh, yes, sir, I guess I do, sir." Kirby snapped a quick salute, turned on his heel, and scurried into the nearest tent. Captain Miller turned back to the NCO and BAR man. "Get your gear together," he said. "You're coming with me." "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but where are we going with you?" Grady's smirk had turned to a frown. Anxiety flitted around the corners of his mouth. Past experience had taught him to be wary of any plan involving this officer. He looked helplessly at Saunders, who shrugged and bent to pick up the Thompson. "What gear do we need... sir?" Saunders asked, his hostility barely concealed. "A day's rations, double load of ammo, grenades... that should cover it." Captain Miller pointed at the jeep. "In the jeep, five minutes." "Just us? Not the rest of the squad?" Grady asked. "Just you, Private. And you, Sergeant. You're such hotshots, you shouldn't need anyone else, am I right?" "Pick up your ammo, Grady." Saunders' quiet voice calmed the BAR man. "I'll go get the rations. And let the lieutenant know what's going on." "Right, Sarge." Grady hastily reassembled the BAR and gathered the magazines, along with a pocketful of loose shells. He ambled over to the jeep, where he propped the rifle against the back tire. Saunders returned with rations and a bucket of grenades. He was closely tailed by Lieutenant Hanley, whose face was dark with fury. "Just where are you taking my men, sir?" he demanded of the captain. "Nothing was discussed with me!"

18 "I believe Captain outranks Lieutenant in this Army, and I don't have to discuss anything with you, Hanley!" snapped the officer. "I have a mission to complete, and I require these two... soldiers... to do it!" Contempt ripped through his words. Hanley's eyebrows shot up. "A mission, sir? What mission?" "I'll make sure you get a copy of the report when the mission is completed, Lieutenant!" With that, the paunchy officer wedged himself into the jeep. His belly was pressed tightly against the steering wheel, while his legs barely reached the pedals. "Well?" he sneered, looking at the junior men. "Are you just going to stand there?" Saunders glanced at Hanley, who lifted his hands helplessly. "Sorry," he muttered. "Be careful." "Always, Lieutenant, always." Grady and Saunders scrambled into the back of the already moving jeep, which roared away, leaving Hanley choking in a cloud of dust.

*****

"Wow, he sounds like a real...." Billy stopped, unable to find a polite word to describe the captain. "And he knew Sarge and Grady?" "Yeah, I couldn't believe it either," Kirby said. "They didn't look very happy about seeing him." "Where'd they go?" Littlejohn asked. "I don't know. I saw them get in the jeep and leave with the captain. The lieutenant sure was mad!" Kirby scratched the back of his neck. He had a lot on his mind and he wished his head would stop pounding long enough to think. Maybe a little hair of the dog.... "Hey, you guys wanna go scrounge a bottle of wine at that little shop? Maybe we'll run into some of them 'fahms' while we're there!" he asked, ever hopeful. "You mean women, Kirby? Your French is terrible!" Billy laughed. "Ah, you knew what I meant, di'ncha? Whaddya say? C'mon, it'll be fun!" He started out of the tent. "Wait, Kirby!" Littlejohn said. "You can't go without your gear! We're still in a war, remember?" "Oh, yeah, gear," Kirby mumbled. He'd forgotten to clean his Garand. It lay next to the cot where he'd dropped it the night before. And his bedroll was still in disarray. He sighed. "You think the Army would give us a maid if we asked real polite-like?" "Keep dreamin', Kirby!" Doc Walton laughed. "You're prob'ly right." Kirby bent and picked up the rifle. At least he didn't have to take care of the BAR today. Grady was religious about keeping a clean and oiled rifle, and Kirby was the one that usually got stuck doing it. An hour later, after giving a final polish to the Garand, Kirby slung it over his shoulder and strolled toward the main street bisecting the town. The squad had been lucky to find anything in this town still standing, after all the shells both sides had been lobbing at each other for the last few days. The Germans had pulled out in haste, leaving the town wide open for the hard-pushing Americans. Avranches was a fair-sized burg on the map, or had been before it was practically knocked off the map. Any building with more than one story had been reduced to piles of brick and mortar. The debris of day-to-day living—pots and pans, mattresses, bicycles, clothing—was mixed with the rubble, half-buried and barely recognizable. A few hearty souls were digging through the

19 mounds searching for salvageable mementos. The door of the corner shop stood open and welcoming. The proprietor had made an effort to clear the sidewalks in front of the shop of dust and rubbish, and a few unbroken chairs were tucked under the sides of a plank table set on sawhorses. Yvette flicked an imaginary mote of dust away with a grubby bar rag and covertly watched Kirby make his way down the street. A small smile of anticipation brightened her face as she smoothed her hair and tucked stray ends behind her ears. She straightened her apron and wet her lips, then glanced at her reflection in the window. Satisfied, she turned toward the approaching private. "Keerby!" she trilled, giving a dainty wave. "Mam'zelle Yvette! How do, how do!" His crooked little-boy grin was charming and well- practiced. He knew the effect of that smile on women of all ages; he'd been using it to his advantage most of his life. Yvette pulled a chair out and motioned for Kirby to sit. "Wine, Keerby?" she asked as she caressed his arm affectionately. "Oui, oui, mercy!" His mispronunciation was deliberate and calculated to be endearing. As she turned to go into the shop for the wine, he patted her lightly on the bottom, earning him a giggle. He settled himself at the table and reached into his pocket for a crumpled cigarette. It was the last one in the pack and was bent nearly in half, but he tapped it on the table and placed it between his lips anyway. He patted his jacket pockets, looking for his lighter, before he remembered that he'd lost it in a poker game last night. Ah, well, no big loss, he decided as he shrugged his shoulders. After all, he'd won it in a poker game just last week. "Hey, Yvette, got any matches in there?" he called to the barmaid. He stood and strolled into the shop. With the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, he leaned his elbows on the counter and watched as Yvette stooped to retrieve a bottle of wine from a low shelf. "You're lookin' real pretty today," he complimented her, taking the cigarette from his mouth and stuffing it back into a pocket. "Thank you, Keerby," the barmaid smiled. She blew dust off the bottle and read the label. "Oh, I think you will like this one," she said. "This was a very good vintage. My father's uncle grew the grapes that went into this bottle." She set the bottle on the counter in front of Kirby, and reached for the corkscrew. "Bone, bone," Kirby chuckled. "Now you've heard all the French I know!" "I will teach you more." Yvette glanced at him, then looked quickly away. A delicate shade of pink stained her cheeks. "If you would like...." "Oh, I would, I would," Kirby leered. He cocked one eyebrow at her and said, "You can teach me anything you want!" "I will teach you how to open a bottle of wine like we French do!" she declared, twisting the corkscrew into the cork. With a deft turn of the wrist and a quick pull, she popped the cork, then poured out a glass of the rich burgundy liquid. "And I will teach you how to drink wine as we do, too! You must let it fill all your senses." She held the glass up to the light and said, "See how the sunlight glows through the goblet? The wine shimmers and twirls, like a graceful dancer in a flowing red gown, captivated by the music of the light." She set the glass back onto the counter. "That is your first lesson, Keerby. Look at the wine, see it, sense it visually. Let it fill your eyes with its color and its shine." "It's like looking into a deep pool," he said as he gazed into her eyes. "There is more!" She lifted the bottle and poured a few more drops into the goblet. "You must listen to the wine, so you will know the quality of the drink. Do you not hear the soft spring rain dripping on the grape vines and soaking into the fertile soil to reach the roots? The moisture must be just right—not too much, and not too little. Not a driving rain—that will cause damage to the young grapes. But more than a mist, for the vines are thirsty. What do you hear?" "I hear the heartbeat of a young woman picking the grapes, tasting one and thinking of her

20 lover." Yvette nodded her approval, then picked up the wineglass again. She held it under her nose, eyes closed, and inhaled delicately. Kirby was mesmerized by the look on her face. "Ah, the scent of the soil, the sweet savor of the fruit of the earth," she murmured. "Sniff the wine, Keerby. Let its aroma fill your nostrils." She held the goblet to him. "Can you smell the bouquet?" His hand touched hers, encircled around the stem of the glass. Their eyes met again, and he stroked her wrist lightly with one finger. She came around the counter to stand close to him. "It's like perfume," he whispered. "Yes, perfume." Her voice was soft and throaty. "There is one more sense before you taste the wine. The sense of feel...." She touched her index finger to the surface of the liquid. A deep red drop of wine clung to the nail, and she let it fall onto Kirby's parted lips, then lightly stroked it. He moaned and closed his eyes as she leaned forward and gently licked the wine from his lips with the tip of her tongue. "Did you feel that?" she breathed into his ear. "Oui," he groaned. "When is your unit leaving? Will you be here tonight?" "Oh, oui, tonight." He sighed. "We're not pulling out for two more days, till the First Battalion relieves us...." His finger traced the softness of her jaw line as their lips met. He could feel a shiver run through her body as the kiss intensified. "Do you know where you will be going when you leave here?" she whispered. "I will worry for you." "We're going to be mounting a campaign...." "Kirby!" The pair jerked apart at the accusation in Caje's voice. Fury flashed briefly in Yvette's eyes as she turned toward the intruder, but it was replaced with embarrassment so quickly that Caje thought he had imagined it. "Kirby, what do you think you're doing? You're not supposed to be fraternizing with the civilians, or telling them military secrets!" Caje growled. "Aw, I'm not fraternizin', just kissin'," Kirby grumbled. "And besides, it's no secret we'll be pullin' out in a coupla days anyways...." "The lieutenant wants to see you. Now." Caje turned on his heel and stalked back out the door. "Keerby, I will wait for you tonight. You must go now. Do not make your lieutenant angry." Yvette kissed him lightly on the cheek as he left. She watched from the doorway as he trotted down the street, a satisfied smile tugging at her cheeks.

*****

Saunders swiped at a drop of sweat rolling down the side of his nose. The afternoon had turned uncomfortably warm and humid after the incessant rain of the last few days. The grit being churned up by the jeep wheels thumping into craters and potholes settled on their damp skins and clothing, turning all three men a uniform, albeit ghostly, gray. He wondered if the captain was a superstitious man. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the trees around them. The air was still and heavy, too muggy even for the birds to sing. His Thompson was cradled in one arm; his feet were braced on the floorboard in a desperate attempt to keep himself upright and in the vehicle. His helmet bounced up and down on his head, adding to the dull ache behind his eyes. He absently rubbed at his eyes with thumb and

21 forefinger, then squinted again into the sunlight, scanning treetops for snipers. "You do know that this is unsecured territory and there have been reports of snipers in the area, don't you, Captain?" he asked the superior officer, as they jounced into a rut caused by a tank. "Don't get your panties in a bunch, Saunders. You always were a little yellow. Don't think you're getting out of the mission that easily!" the captain retorted, swiveling malevolent little piggy eyes toward the NCO. "What is the mission, Captain? Are you going to fill us in, or just let us wander around blindly, hoping we'll get ourselves killed?" Grady had no patience for being yanked around, literally or figuratively, and he was getting mightily tired of both the jeep ride and the captain. "While that is a tempting offer, Long, in the interest of protocol I suppose I'll have to tell you sooner or later what you'll be doing." The jeep lurched as it struck a deep pothole, and Miller struggled to keep the wheels straight. Grady was thrown forward and his BAR jabbed the captain in the back. "Oops, sorry," the private smirked. "Sir...." "You did that on purpose!" the captain sputtered. "I'll have you up on charges... again!" "Captain! The mission?" Saunders' voice was low, a sure sign that he was nearing the end of his rope too. Captain Miller's face took on a dreamlike quality. "This mission is my baby," he preened. "I came up with it myself and presented it to the General Staff, who approved it wholeheartedly. I would have carried it out alone, but they thought I would need logistical assistance, which is where you two come in. They told me to pick whomever I wanted, and when I saw you both sitting there doing nothing, I decided you were the perfect ones. If you're killed in this operation, it will be no loss to your unit or anyone else." He was almost gleeful in this pronouncement. A sudden chill passed over Saunders, and he glanced back at Grady. Long's face had paled under the gray coating. If there had been any doubt before, now they knew for sure where they stood. Saunders wondered if either of them would survive the day. Like a religious zealot, Captain Miller seemed to be welcoming, even inviting, a martyr's death, and he apparently didn't care whom he took with him to the great beyond. They continued on in silence, jolting and bumping over the heavily rutted road, and soon they could hear artillery fire in the distance. Grady and Saunders tensed, wary, weapons at the ready. Plumes of smoke rose over the treetops as whistling shells exploded; Captain Miller drove at kidney-busting speed right toward the target area. "This barrage will be over soon, and we have to be there when it ends," he muttered, half to himself. "The whole plan hinges on being nearby when the ground attack commences." "What plan, Captain?" Saunders repeated. "You still haven't told us what we'll be doing." The captain jerked his thumb toward a canvas bag stowed between the seats of the jeep. "Everything we need is in that bag," he said. "Everything except...." "Except what?" Saunders wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer. "Except a body." Stunned, Saunders twisted toward the driver like a marionette whose strings the captain had just jerked. "What...!" "Oh, don't worry, Sergeant," the Captain sneered. "Not yours. But your reaction was worth the price of admission!" "Then whose body?" Saunders snapped. "I don't know whose body in particular, Saunders, but I'll know when I see it. Yours," he looked over his shoulder, "and yours, Long, are much too... enlisted. I need someone who can pass as an officer." "Begging your pardon, sir, but why not just volunteer the use of your body?" Grady snickered. "Because, Long," the captain sighed with exaggerated patience, as though dealing with a

22 feebleminded student. "The body needs to be dead." "I don't see the problem," Grady muttered under his breath. The jeep crested a hill, became briefly airborne, then skidded to a jarring halt. In the valley below, the battlefield was cloaked in a haze of cordite smoke, giving them the impression that they were peering through a Vaseline lens. Lines of troops were intermeshed and rifle fire was indistinct. The scene was chaotic, dreamlike, deceptively surreal. "Ah, perfect," Captain Miller said. "We'll wait here for some of the fighting to lessen, then we'll make our way down there. I know we'll find the perfect candidate." He heaved his bulk from behind the wheel of the jeep and stood, then reached back into the jeep to retrieve the canvas bag. Cradling the bag like a baby, he gently set it on the hood and opened the flap. With a flourish, like a magician producing a rabbit from a hat, he removed a thick, official-looking envelope and waved it toward Saunders. "This is what it's all about, men. This is the basis for my plan." Saunders and Grady sat silently, staring at the officer. When Captain Miller realized that they weren't going to ask about the envelope, he became annoyed. "What happened to all that curiosity? Don't you want to know what part you're playing in this vital mission?" The fire of fanaticism burned in his eyes and a fine spray of spittle misted the air in front of his mouth, so intense was his speech. "Well, I'll tell you...." Extracting a map from the envelope, he motioned for the men to join him in front of the jeep. He spread the map open and pointed to lines intersecting a few miles from their present location. "This is a map of our next major offensive," he told them. "And these orders," he removed more papers from the envelope, "outline our plans of attack, troop positions and strength, units, everything. It's all here in black and white." "Are we going to be delivering these plans to someone? Is that why you brought us along?" Saunders asked, confusion overcoming his reticence. "Yes, you're going to deliver the plans to the Germans!" the captain said. "The Germans, sir? That's... treason!" Saunders exclaimed. "And suicide...." he added as an afterthought. "Bah!" Captain Miller slammed his fist down on the map. "It's only treason if the plans are real!" "These are fake plans?" Grady's mouth dropped. "How are we going to deliver fake plans to the Germans? Sir?" "That's where the body comes in, Long. Use your imagination. Be creative. You plant these plans on a dead major, the Krauts find him when they come to pick up their dead and wounded, and voila! They think they know what our next move will be!" "But how are we going to find a dead major, sir?" Saunders asked. "You're not, Saunders. At least I hope not! Think about it for a minute...." The captain paused, and looked expectantly at the duo. Then he upturned the envelope over his open hand and caught a set of major's clusters as they dropped out. "You don't need to find a dead major, do you? You just need to make the Krauts think they've found a dead major... get it?" Comprehension dawned, and Saunders and Long eyed each other with consternation. The captain fondled the clusters as his gaze softened and became unfocused. He muttered to himself, as though the rest of the world had faded away. "It's perfect. I'll finally be vindicated," he murmured. "No more 'fat boy' this or 'incompetent' that.... No more enlisted men questioning my authority and judgment. They'll finally accept me as worthy of the rank, and follow me to hell and back...." "Sir? Did you say something?" Saunders asked. Captain Miller's attention snapped back to the present. Giving the clusters one final caress, he dropped them back into the envelope, then refolded and replaced the map and orders. "Let's go," he ordered. "On foot from here on out." Saunders shrugged and motioned with his head for Long to take the lead.

23 *****

The hot sun beat down on the bare head of the young private. His back was slouched against the rough bark of an elm tree, his knees drawn up to support his elbows. He leaned his head back and let the sun wash over his bronzed face, reveling in its brilliance. The dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves danced across his closed eyelids, and if he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, he could imagine that he was looking through a kaleidoscope of terpsichorean colors. A dark green fritillary floated on the air currents, unafraid of the human in its path. It landed, as delicate as a fairy kiss, on the private's cheek and the man's eyes opened. The two creatures stared at each other for a moment, until the man could no longer hold his breath; then his exhalation wafted the butterfly back into the air. The private watched as the currents carried the exquisite nymphalid away. His eyes drifted closed again and he was lulled toward a light sleep by the meadow sounds of buzzing insects and the melodies of chaffinches and bramblings. In the twilight between sleep and awake, his mind toyed with the picture of Kirby and Yvette. Kirby—brash, brazen, loud—didn't fit his ideal of what a friend should be. The obnoxious private was always complaining, goldbricking, or just plain goofing off. He was the antithesis of Theo, the best friend a man could ever hope to have. And yet, Caje's wandering mind seemed to be playing tricks, superimposing Kirby's face over Theo's. As much as he tried to reject Kirby's image, it kept floating through his subconscious, taunting him with its sly grin. Yvette was a beautiful girl, and even though he was upset with Kirby for stealing her affections, Caje had to admit to himself that his own efforts at wooing her had been half-hearted at best. What he had witnessed between them this morning might have been nothing more than innocent flirting, as Kirby had suggested, but he couldn't discount the look he thought he had seen in Yvette's eyes. It had been the cold and calculating look of a predator, a manhunter. He'd seen that look in the eyes of creatures in the bayou too many times not to recognize it. He couldn't ignore it when the lives of his squad mates were at stake. Kirby, for all his faults, was a good soldier. Caje didn't understand why he would throw caution to the wind and whisper military secrets to the first pretty face that came along. He was supposed to know better than that; even Billy Nelson knew better. Maybe Kirby just didn't realize that telling little things, like when the squad would be moving out, could be harmful. Caje sighed and shifted his legs. Why was this his problem? Maybe he should take it to the lieutenant, let him deal with it. Maybe then he could get some much-needed rest. And maybe he was just so sleep-deprived that he had imagined the whole thing.... The private groaned and rubbed his head. He was beyond exhaustion, his emotions were wrung dry, and now he was doubting his own sanity. This was something he'd have to deal with later. He had no extra energy to expend on it right now. The best he could do would be to try to keep Kirby in his sights and out of trouble. Using his pack as a pillow, he curled up on his side at the base of the tree. The Garand was within reach, loaded and ready to fire. He willed his muscles to relax, and the heat of the sun was like a gentle massage on his shoulders and back. Tension and stress seeped away, evaporating like the morning dew, and sleep claimed him.

*****

"Anything to report, Private?" Hanley knew it was too soon to expect results; the question was merely a formality. "No, sir, not yet." Kirby's boot scuffed the floor of the tent. "Lieutenant Hanley, sir...." "Yes, Private, spit it out." "Well, sir, I was just wonderin'...." His voice faded and he shrugged his shoulders. "What I mean, is...."

24 The private was clearly embarrassed and having difficulty putting his thoughts into words, not a problem from which he generally suffered. "Ye-e-e-s?" Hanley had to stop himself from imbuing that one word with all the irritation he'd felt over the course of the morning. "Well, what if someone else in the squad was to overhear me or somethin'? Can I tell 'im what's going on?" "Absolutely not, Private. You heard the captain— this is highly top secret and confidential! You haven't said anything to anyone, have you?" "Uh, no. No, sir, I was just wonderin'. That's all." "Dismissed. Get back to work." "Yes, sir." Kirby gave a half-hearted salute, then turned and sidled from the tent.

*****

The Browning machine gun was suddenly silent. Its barrel was red hot, and the private feeding the magazine shoved his blistered hands deep into a worn pair of thermal gloves, knowing even as he did so that the heat of the barrel would work its way through the mesh to find his tender palms. He screwed the new barrel down and backed it off three clicks, then stripped the gloves off and returned to feeding the ammo belt through the chamber. The Americans were being squeezed hard by the advancing Germans. They had been flanked on both sides, and now they were slowly being pushed back down the middle like a funnel. The machine gun team was the last outpost between some semblance of a battle line and a complete rout. Desperation kept the two-man crew firing, though they could see panicked GIs all around them fleeing from the encroaching enemy. The private at the machine gun reached for a fresh belt, but found only empty ammo boxes. He tapped his companion on the helmet and motioned with his thumb toward the rear. They rose together and scrambled from the emplacement, armed only with pistols. The crack of a K-98 rifle was lost in the din, but the shot caught the private in the shoulder and spun him around. He sank to his knees as pain overtook him. His companion turned back and, tugging at the private's arm, tried to get him upright and mobile again. Somewhere behind them a crouching German soldier took steady aim.

*****

"Hold still, Littlejohn. You don't want me to cut your throat, do you?" Billy asked as he wiped soap and whiskers from the straight razor onto a towel. "How many fellas already used that razor, Billy? Doesn't seem very sharp to me. You keep nicking me!" Littlejohn grumbled, trying to tighten his facial muscles. He felt like a ventriloquist with the effort, and his chin was raw and burning. "Okay, okay, hold on," Billy said. He carefully wiped the soapy residue from the razor again, then bent and stropped the razor against the dirty leather of his boot. He inspected the blade, then checked its sharpness by trimming the hair on his forearm. Satisfied, he tipped Littlejohn's head back and ran the razor across his Adam's apple. "Ow!" Littlejohn's head jerked upright as he grabbed at his neck. "You really did it that time, Billy!" he howled. "Sorry, Littlejohn," the youngster apologized. "Didn't I tell you this was the first time I ever used a straight razor? I don't shave yet!" he grinned. "Look, there's not even very much blood.

25 Stop whining or I'll never get finished and you'll be walking around with half a beard!" "Better than walking around with half a head!" the big man grumbled. "Give me that razor!" Braddock strolled over and held out his hand. "I'll finish for ya, Littlejohn," he offered. "No way." Littlejohn recoiled in mock horror. "You're as bad as Billy... maybe worse!" Braddock nudged Billy with his elbow and they both grinned. "At least I've a used razor before." Braddock laughed. The mournful sound of a harmonica playing "O Danny Boy" drifted across the yard. Brockmeyer sat with his back against a crumbling stone wall, legs outstretched, blouse unbuttoned over a torn undershirt, blowing into the small mouth organ. He stopped and looked up as Doc Walton strolled into the yard, carrying his pack. "Hey, Doc, you still got that sewing kit from the Red Cross?" Brockmeyer asked. "Yeah, why?" "I need to fix my unmentionables," Brockmeyer laughed, hooking a finger through the hole in his shirt. "Since the maid that Kirby ordered never showed up, I figured the seamstress that I ordered isn't gonna show, either, so I'm gonna have to do it myself!" "Good idea," Doc agreed, tossing the small packet to the man. "Just save me some thread, okay? I've got a hole in my sock that I need to darn." "Sure, Doc. Thanks." "Ooo-eeee, will ya look at that!" Braddock wolf whistled. Four pairs of eyes turned in the direction that Braddock was staring, and four jaws went suddenly slack. Across the street, the doors of the church stood open. The priest had been cleaning dried mud from the front steps, but now he leaned against the broom and chatted with a young woman. His head was bent down to hers and they spoke in whispers. Her eyes darted around, making sure no one was within earshot. "Wow, who'd'ya suppose she is?" asked Braddock. "She's a real looker!" The woman wore a dress of white viscose dotted with bright red sprigs of flowers, and a matching red hat was perched on the back of her chestnut curls. Her lips had been painted with red lipstick, but the natural blush of color in her cheeks didn't need any artificial highlighting. She stood twisting a pair of red gloves in her hands while the priest murmured to her. As though sensing their looks, she turned toward the soldiers with insouciance. Her cool gaze took in the five men, seeing at first glance nothing to pique her curiosity. They were like five apes all staring at her. Where was the dark brooding one, or the wisecracking Casanova? These five, with their drooling leers, would not do. "That's Yvette, Kirby's girl," Billy said. "She sure cleans up nice!" "Look, here she comes!" Doc whispered. The men scurried to resume their previous activities, while Yvette swept imperiously across the street. "Afternoon, ma'am," they all acknowledged her presence. "Bonjour," she replied, nodding at them. "Je m'appelle Yvette. Enchanté." "Uh, beggin' your pardon, ma'am, but we don't parlay voo, if you know what I mean," the squat man in camouflage pants said. "Of course, Private, is it?" She glanced at his sleeve and noted no stripes. "I am sorry. I said, hello, my name is Yvette, and I am pleased to meet you." "Well, hello, Yvette. I'm Braddock. The rest of these jokers you don't want to know. Why don't you and me go sit over here and have us a little tet-ah-tet, huh?" He touched her elbow to guide her away from the others, but she resisted, ever so slightly. "I am afraid I cannot stay, Private Braddock. I am just passing by. I was hoping to find Private Keerby. Do you know where he is?" "Now why would you want Kirby, when you've got me?" Braddock chuckled. "Ain't I twice the man he is?" "Oh, yes, I will agree with that," Yvette said, eyeing his midsection. "At least twice. But I

26 really must go. Will you tell him that I stopped by?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned and hurried away from the men.

*****

The sounds of rifle fire and shelling had receded as the battle moved away. The Nebelwerfer's screaming meemies had faded into the distance, but the smells of gunpowder and blood hung heavy in the air. The fallen machine gunner lay huddled and motionless next to his dead companion. He gripped his burning shoulder and bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a moan, which managed to seep through clenched teeth anyway. He heard a faint rustling in the trees, but didn't dare turn his head to find the source. The woods were crawling with German patrols; better to play dead than to be captured. He slowed his breathing and relaxed his facial muscles into the slackness of death. With the acute hearing that a surge of adrenaline produces, he listened to the tiny sounds around him. Flies buzzed, feasting on the dead; a twig snapped under a poorly placed foot; blood rushed in his ears, keeping time with his racing heartbeat. English words floated to him through the haze of pain, quiet but impatient words. "Over there... I think he'll do. He has the look of an officer. Strong face, aquiline nose, aristocratic lines. Yes, he's the one. Let's get to it before the Krauts come back this way." He felt himself being rolled onto his back, felt a rough hand on his face. Calloused fingers brushed dirt gently from his cheek, while another hand reached under his shirt and pulled his dog tags out. He heard his name read aloud, "Private Thomas Weston," then his serial number. "Take them off." His head was lifted as his tags were slid from around his neck. "Put these on him." He heard the jingle of the tags as a new chain was slipped over his head. The chain brushed his eyelashes and the blink was involuntary. The man kneeling next to him gave a sharp intake of breath and pried one of his eyelids open. "Sarge, he's alive!" the GI exclaimed. "What? He's not dead?" the obese man with captain's bars snapped. "No, I saw him blink. He's breathing. Hey, Mac, can you hear me? Open your eyes," the private said. "I thought you was Krauts," the machine gunner groaned. "Can you help me? I hurt awful bad." He struggled to sit up, and grabbed his shoulder again with the effort, sinking back into the dirt. "Sure, we'll help you. I'll take care of that pain right now," the captain wheezed. Saunders had joined Grady, kneeling on the opposite side of the injured man. He reached for his canteen and held it to Private Weston's lips. The injured man's shaking hand grasped the canteen, but he was too weak to hold on to it. The cool liquid splashed into his face, and he sputtered as it trickled down his throat. "Stand up, Saunders. You, too, Long." The two soldiers looked up in surprise. Captain Miller stood at the foot of the injured man, with his .45 dangling from one hand. His other arm was loose at his side, and his feet were spread as he stared down at the trio. He gestured at them with the pistol. "I said, stand up." "Hey, just a minute. What are you going to do?" Saunders asked. "Stand up now or you won't live to find out!" The captain's angry voice lashed at them like a whip. Saunders and Grady looked at each other for a long moment, then, placing his hands on his knees, the sergeant rocked back on his heels and pushed himself upright. His Thompson was hanging behind his shoulder and he thought about swinging it to the front, but the captain seemed

27 to read his mind. "Don't try it, Saunders. I won't hesitate to cut you down, and you know it! Drop the Tommy. Gently." The NCO obeyed wordlessly, holding the Thompson by its strap and slowly lowering it to the ground. His face betrayed no emotion other than a slight tightening of the lips to indicate his anger. Grady had placed his rifle on the ground when he knelt next to the wounded soldier, and now he eased his hand toward it. "Ah, ah, Long. I said stand up! Leave the rifle where it is!" the captain barked. "Get over there next to Saunders. Now!" Grady jerked his hand away from the rifle as though the words had set it ablaze, and wiped his palms on his pant legs. Rising from a crouch, he walked around the injured man, stepped over the Thompson, and stood next to Saunders. An insolent sneer appeared on his face as he said, "What'cha gonna do, shoot all of us?" "Quiet, Grady," Saunders cautioned, placing a restraining hand on Grady's arm. He never took his icy glare off the captain. "Don't give him a reason to." The injured machine gunner struggled into a semi-upright position, using the last of his strength to prop himself up onto his elbows. His eyes widened and his pallid face took on an edge of panic. He darted a confused look between the captain and the subordinates, as his pain- numbed mind tried to focus. "What's... what's happening?" he whispered. "I thought you were Americans...." His voice trailed off through fear-paralyzed vocal cords. "We are Americans, and I'm going to make you a hero!" Captain Miller mocked. He suddenly raised the pistol and fired once, striking the private in the chest and knocking him backward. At the sharp report, Grady flinched and swore, but couldn't tear his horrified gaze away from the red blossom that appeared on the machine gunner's chest and spread outward from the tiny hole where the bullet had penetrated his flesh. Saunders' steely eyes narrowed, but never left the captain's face. The wounded private stared at the officer for a long moment, before uttering one last word. "Why?" he whispered, and then his clouded eyes became vacant and soulless. "Well, what are you waiting for?" the captain growled at Saunders and Long. "Finish what we came here to do!"

*****

Even in his sleep, Caje's subconscious sensed the subtle change in nature's legato chorus. The lullaby had paused for a beat before resuming pianissimo. The meadow song was now staccato and disjointed, as though each creature was following its own score. Caution pricked at his brain as he resurfaced into awareness. With his eyes closed and his breathing easy, he listened for the sound that didn't belong. There it was—the snic and snap of a match being struck, a few feet to his right. Cigarette smoke wafted around him; he had a nearly insatiable need for a smoke. His muscles coiled, preparing to spring. With one fluid motion, he rolled away from the intruder, brought his rifle to his shoulder, and came up on one knee, prepared to fire. "Wondered how long you was gonna sleep!" Kirby grinned. "Coulda been a whole army march through here while you was out!" "What do you want, Kirby?" the scout growled, lowering the Garand. "Did you come to gloat about your conquests? Well, you can just save it. I told you to leave me alone and I meant it. Now beat it!" "I didn't come to gloat, Caje. I came to... ah, hell, I don't even know anymore why I did come here." Kirby rubbed the back of his head, the grin replaced now with a frown. "I guess I just wanted to say...."

28 "Wanted to say what? I'd like to hear what you wanted to say. Go ahead, Kirby, tell me." "Sarcasm does not become you, Caje," Kirby snapped. "I just wanted to say that what you saw earlier isn't what you think. I can't tell you right now what's going on, but I'm not a traitor, and I'm not a letch, and I'm not... well, I'm not all those other things you think I am. That's all. That's all I wanted to say." The two men, one dark and brooding, the other lean and wiry, glared at each other for a moment. Kirby was the first to look away, his eyes following the arc of his cigarette butt as he flicked it into the dirt. Then he leaned back against the tree and glanced once more at Caje. "And I wanted to say, uh... that I'm real sorry about what happened to Theo." The slight man shook his head. "Real sorry. It shouldn'ta happened that way." Stunned and speechless, Caje stared at Kirby, who was obviously uncomfortable voicing this expression of condolence. Apparently the audacious man had depths that the scout hadn't recognized. Kirby stuck his hand into the pocket of his jacket and fumbled around, finally retrieving a half-pack of crumpled cigarettes. Shaking one out, he leaned forward and offered it to Caje. "Truce?" he asked. After a moment's hesitation, the scout nodded and reached for the cigarette.

*****

"You didn't answer him, Captain. You owe him that much. Why?" Saunders fought to contain his fury. "You could have chosen any other body within a mile radius. Why did you have to kill him?" "He was a liability, Sergeant, just like you and your sidekick are becoming. Now move!" the captain roared. As Saunders and Grady finished transforming the dead private into a major, Saunders' mind whirled. His eyes darted around, seeking a weapon, knowing that if he reached for his sidearm, his fate would be sealed. As long as the captain still needed them, the pair was relatively safe, but as soon as they finished this gruesome task, Saunders fully expected to be on the receiving end of the next bullet. Grady Long, always the impulsive hothead, tried desperately to rein in his emotions, trusting that Saunders would come up with a plan. His hands shook as he pinned the clusters to the collar of the dead man's shirt. He was a hairsbreadth from attempting a frontal assault on the captain, but the look on Saunders' face held him back. "Hande hoch!" Saunders' head snapped up at the sound of the guttural voice. The NCO had been so preoccupied trying to formulate a plan that he hadn't heard the Kraut patrol creeping through the woods. He cursed silently, berating his own failure, and glanced at Grady, who was staring openmouthed at the captain. The sergeant's self-chastisement turned to surprise as he realized that the captain was conversing with the leader of the patrol in flawless and unaccented German. The obese man was waving the fabricated documents in the air, occasionally jabbing an accusing finger at the dead machine gunner. He pointed his pistol at Saunders and Grady and motioned for them to stand and raise their hands, while he continued what appeared to be a detailed explanation of his presence with these American soldiers. The German sergeant approached the pair that was still crouched on either side of the

29 dead American. "So you are attempting to retrieve vital orders and maps from this man, your superior officer?" the German asked. "How is it that he was killed and you are still alive?" "That's what I've been asking myself for the last twenty minutes," Saunders muttered as he and Grady slowly rose. "Maybe you should ask him." He motioned with his chin toward the captain. "Please remove your pistol, Sergeant, and throw it on the ground, and the knife, Private," the NCO's German counterpart demanded. "Then place your hands behind your heads and move over next to the captain. Slowly." Well, what choice did they have? What choice had they had all morning? None, that's what. Saunders tossed the pistol on the ground with considerably more force than was necessary. It was the only outward manifestation of his inward frustration. What was going on here? Why was the captain suddenly speaking fluent German and buddying up to the Krauts? This just didn't make sense, but what had since the captain had shown up today? "I was just telling the sergeant here that I found you two rifling through the pockets of the major, looking for God knows what. Lucky I found the plans and maps before you did. Things will go better for you if you just cooperate with the sergeant and his men, as I'm sure you well know, given past experience in Italy." The captain smirked at Saunders and Long, holding the half-grin for just a shade too long to be anything more than comical. Saunders felt a sudden urge to laugh hysterically—this whole day had been a farce. Please tell me that's what it is—a farce. Tell me it's all a joke, he pled in his mind to all the gods of the universe. There must be one god—Pan? Pandora? Zeus?—in charge of this ridiculous day. One god who was sitting on his/her throne somewhere cackling at how s/he could control these puny humans and force them into such impossible situations without them even realizing it. "Well, it's been nice knowing you boys. Enjoy the rest of your war... if you can!" The captain's triple chin jiggled as he snorted. His shallow eyes, pouched in pillows of quivery fat, burned with hatred as he turned and began waddling away, accompanied by one of the German soldiers. "Where are you going, Captain?" Grady called. "Or should I say Herr Captain? That's what you are, right? A Kraut? A lousy, stinkin' Kraut? Runnin' us through hell not once, but twice! God, how could we have been so stupid! Just wait until I get my hands around that doughy neck of yours! Then we'll see who's enjoying the war! Just you wait...." "Easy, Grady, settle down. So he's a Kraut. We gotta think of ourselves right now. We need to think about how we're going to get back to the camp and warn the lieutenant!" Saunders whispered, putting a restraining hand on Grady's arm. The German sergeant had watched the exchange with a hint of amusement. He motioned his two remaining squad mates to guard the Americans as they began walking. They moved in a different direction than the captain had taken. "I know you are curious, Sergeant. I would be also, if the situation were reversed," the German leader said. "This 'captain' of yours tells us that he is actually one of ours, but I'm not sure I believe him. His German is too perfect, if you understand my meaning. Not colloquial, as one who grew up speaking the language. More like one who learned it in school, as I learned English. My man is going to escort your captain to headquarters for confirmation, while we escort you both back to our camp for questioning."

*****

A light rain had begun to fall, misting the landscape into a Van Gogh watercolor. The sun had given up its valiant fight against the clouds and was descending below the horizon, brushing the sky with shades of violet and indigo. Caje trudged through the quiet town, bypassing the bivouac area, although he could hear snatches of a song about mud lilting from one of the tents, and sounds of young men unwinding after so many days of hardship.

30 The church windows were dark, but the door was unlocked and swung open on well-oiled hinges. A single candle lit the altar, casting a radiant glow on the burnished marble face of Mary. Caje resolutely approached the altar, laying his rifle and helmet on the front pew. He knelt before the statue and crossed himself, his genuflection an inbred habit. He rose and dropped a franc note into a basket next to the altar, chose a slim taper, and held its wick out to the feeble flame of the altar candle. It sparked and caught, adding its flicker to the dim light. Holding the vigil light in one hand, he knelt again and murmured a prayer for Theo's soul. A ragged sigh escaped his lips, and his candlewick sputtered, then caught again. The Cajun planted his taper in the "candle garden," the sand-filled box holding long- extinguished tapers commemorating other dearly departed souls. Each candle represented someone who had been loved and was sorely missed by others. Caje briefly wondered how many of them had been killed in the war. Natural death seemed like a foreign concept, nearly forgotten after the horrors of the last few days. Choosing and lighting another taper, he dropped a coin into the basket and knelt once more. His head drooped and his shoulders sagged under the weight of memories of all the men whose souls he had sent into an eternal abyss this week. How many "Our Fathers" must he whisper to absolve himself of the blood guilt that stained his conscience? How many candles would have to burn before he could face his own soul again?

*****

"Mam'zelle Yvette, I heard you was lookin' for me!" Strain lines around Kirby's eyes belied his cheerful words and quick grin. "The fellas said a good-lookin' dame came around, and I figured it was you. I haven't met no other dames as good-lookin' as you in this town!" "Keerby! I am so glad you came to the café now. I missed you. Let me tell Monsieur Colicourt that I am leaving and we will go to my place. How are you, chéri?" "Bone, bone. Trays bone." Kirby grinned again. "Better, now that I've found you." She looped her slim arm through Kirby's and led him out of the café. "Come, we will talk, and share some wine." She smiled. "I will see what kind of pupil you are, how well you learned the lesson that I gave you earlier!" The private was nestled into the softness of the overstuffed divan, conscious of how grubby his clothing was. He reached for the wineglass that Yvette offered, swiping his palm against his pant leg first. He held the glass of amber liquid up to the light and watched it sparkle. Glissading bubbles, choreographed in the bottle, slid their way to the surface of the wine, bursting out of the glass with noisy wet hisses. He inhaled the aroma, nearly sneezing from the tickle of the bubbles. Swirling the golden brew, he sipped a tiny bit and let it roll around in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing it. "Mmm," he sighed. "This is good. What do you call it?" "I am pleased that you like my selection," Yvette smiled. "You learn very quickly. This wine is called a Riesling, from the Rhine River area of Germany. It is nice, no? I acquired it from... a friend, let us say." "A friend?" Kirby's eyebrows shot up. "A German friend?" "Why, yes, Keerby. This town was occupied by Germans for many months before you Americans came to liberate us. I had some German friends. Does that bother you?" "Just how friendly were these friends?" Kirby asked. "Friendly enough to share a bottle of wine, nothing more, I assure you, chéri. I think you are jealous!" She touched his cheek. "Come now, my friendly Americain, a little smile for Yvette? You are not angry, are you?" He caught her hand and stroked the fingers. Sheepishly, he ducked his head. "Naw, I'm not mad. Just surprised is all." "Surprised that I would have friends?" she teased. "German friends," he corrected. "That's all."

31 "Do not let that bother you, Keerby. That was another time. They are all gone now, thanks to you wonderful Americans. Soon we will have our lives and our town back and will be able to get on with our everyday business. How long do you think you will be here? Did you say your unit is moving out in a few days?" "Oh, that." Kirby released her hand and took another sip of wine. "I think the plan has changed. I heard we're leaving late tonight, and we're supposed to meet up with an artillery unit west of here for a big push inland tomorrow." "Oh, dear, that sounds dangerous. Are you sure you will be leaving? I am enjoying your company. I do not want you to go into battle so soon." "Don't worry about me. I always come out on top!" "Where will you be? In case I want to... write you a letter." "I think a place called Mortain, that's what I heard." "Ah, I know of it. Well, I hope your way is smooth, as smooth as this wine!" She clinked her glass with his, and they both sipped, content to let the war pass them by for a short time. The rain had slowed to a drizzle as Kirby exited the doorway to the apartment building. He finished tucking in his shirttail and zipped his jacket, then stepped off the curb and into a puddle. "Damn!" he swore under his breath. That was the last pair of clean, dry socks he had. Ignoring the sudden chill in his toes, he hurried across the street and around the corner. Glancing back and seeing no one else, he hid himself in deep shadow between two buildings. He pulled his collar up to meet the back of his helmet and folded his arms across his chest against the cool dampness which penetrated the wool liner of the jacket. He had barely settled himself when the click-clack of high heels alerted him to an approaching pedestrian. Yvette, hidden beneath a large umbrella, passed him without a glance, hurrying down the street toward the center of town. He followed at a discreet distance, trailing her silently until she approached the church. As she started up the steps, he ducked into an alcove, peering out to see her shake the raindrops from the umbrella and scan the street before stepping through the doorway and into the narthex.

*****

The evening had turned unseasonably cool after the muggy heat of the day. Clammy tendrils of fog wove through the trees and oozed along the miry ground. Puffs of damp wind rattled the leaves, sending fat droplets of rainwater tumbling through the air to plop on the heads of the men passing below. Trees swayed in a slow moonlight dance, accompanied by the sighing of the branches. Grady and Saunders had been force-marched for miles through the forest, stumbling over tree roots and against each other, unable to catch themselves with their hands tied behind their backs. The stumbling had become more frequent as night approached, until finally the German sergeant called a halt to the march at a small isolated farm. The farmhouse was nothing more than a burned out shell, with crumbling walls and shattered windows. Rodents scurried for cover at the intrusion of jackbooted feet, scampering under debris to find new hiding spots. Most of the outbuildings had been leveled, leaving great mounds of masonry and wood heaped within stone foundations and scattered to the edges of the yard. One tiny building remained unscathed, a lone sentinel in a corner, standing guard over the broken dreams and lives of the former inhabitants of the farm. The German sergeant pushed the two Americans into the building and untied their hands. He tossed a canteen on the floor and said, "Pleasant dreams, gentlemen. We will resume our march tomorrow morning. Rest well!" With a chuckle, he turned and strode out, slamming the door behind him. Saunders could hear him issuing orders to a sentry outside. Grady rubbed his wrists, wincing at the raw pain where the bindings had abraded his skin. "Where do you think we are, and where do you think they took the captain?" he asked

32 "I don't know," Saunders replied. "But it's a bet that we're moving away from our lines and away from him." "Got any ideas?" Saunders shook his head, a gesture that was lost on Grady in the pitch blackness of the small enclosure. "Did you see anything before he closed the door?" the sergeant asked. "Anything that might be useful?" "No, I was concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Sorry." Saunders reached one hand out and touched the rough wood of a wall. Holding his other arm out, he was able to brush his fingertips against the opposite wall. "Wonder what this building was used for?" Grady asked. Then, "Ooph" as he tripped over something and landed on his bottom. Saunders flicked his cigarette lighter open and rolled the thumbwheel. A blue-tipped flame lit the room. "You okay?" Saunders asked. "Yeah, I'll live," Grady grunted. "Looks like this was the well house. Used to have electricity running to it, from the looks of it." He pointed to the primitive electric pump that he'd tripped over. Pipes ran from the pump through a hole in the wall. "Any ideas?" Saunders looked at the flaring lighter in his hand, then at the canteen that the German had thrown into the room with them. He stooped and picked up a handful of pea gravel from the floor and let it tumble through his fingers to rattle back onto the gravel floor. "Maybe," he mused. "Do you still have that lighter you bought in Sicily?" "The one with the naked...." Long grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, I've still got it. Why?" "We might need it," Saunders replied. He let the flame die on his lighter and stood in the dark, waiting for his eyes to adjust and thinking. "You thirsty?" he finally asked. "Yeah, I guess I could use a drink. Got anything besides the water in that canteen?" Grady laughed. "No, but drink up. We're going to need the canteen—empty and dry. Might as well drink it as pour it out." "What do you have in mind?" "I'm gonna make a grenade." Saunders flicked his lighter again and handed the canteen to Grady. "And tear me off a strip from the bottom of your shirt—we can use it as a candle. It won't be much light, but it'll be better than nothing." Grady ripped a length of fabric from the hem of his shirt and watched as Saunders scooped a depression from the gravel and dirt floor. The NCO coiled the cloth into a wick and laid it into the depression, then lit one end, holding the lighter against the fabric until the blue flame cloned itself and the shirt hem began to burn. He and Grady shared the canteen, drinking deeply of the tepid water until it was empty. Shaking out any wayward drops, he tipped the container and held it over the meager flame of the fabric until he could hear the sizzle as the metal heated and evaporated the leftover drips. "Give me your lighter," Saunders said, holding his hand toward Grady. The private dropped the ornate lighter into the sergeant's hand. "You're not gonna... ruin her, are ya?" Saunders glanced at him and noticed his wry grin. "No, you'll still be able to stroke her... assets... any time you want!" he replied. "I just need what's inside." He unscrewed the bottom and carefully removed the fuel-soaked batt, dropping it into the dry canteen. To this he added a handful of the pea gravel from the floor. Then he screwed the top back on. "Now I need another strip of your shirt," he said as he pulled a rusty nail from the wall. "See if you can pull some more of these nails out of the wall, too." He used the nail to drill a small hole in the lid of the canteen, then stuffed the short strip of wool from Grady's shirt into it to act as a wick. Grady handed him a handful of nails that he'd been able to pry from the walls, and he dropped those into the canteen before replacing the lid.

33 "Wow—where'd you learn how to build a grenade? The Boy Scouts?" Grady said with admiration. "I don't know yet if it's going to work. And there's no way to test it, so we're just going to have to take our chances. We'll let the batt sit overnight and the fumes will fill the canteen, so theoretically when I light the wick and it burns through the lid, the whole thing should explode. I hope." "How are you going to keep it from rattling while we're walking? If you stumble or something? That Kraut sergeant is no dummy." "I'll just have to be extra careful." Saunders paused. "This place isn't very big, but we might as well try to get some rest. It's likely to be a long day tomorrow."

*****

Caje's candles had burned down to nubs, extinguishing themselves in the sandy box. The nave lay in deep shadow, with only the flicker of the altar candle calling up phantoms from his memory. He sat motionless, staring into the hypnotic flame, and the creaking of the old church echoed Theo's name. Sibilant whispers pulled him from his reverie, and he shook himself mentally, wondering how long he'd been slumped in the pew. The dimness of the church's interior had cloaked him in secrecy, hiding him from curious eyes. He caught snatches of quiet conversation from an alcove at the side of the church, near the confessional, and recognized the priest's voice. <"Are you sure he said tonight, Yvette? Absolutely sure? We must pass this information along if that is true. It's very important."> <"Yes, Father, I'm sure. Private Keerby told me that his unit is moving out tonight, heading to Mortain with an artillery unit. That's all I could get from him. Is it enough? He is very stupid, I don't think he knows any more."> <"No, you have done well, my child. I will radio our contacts immediately to give them time to prepare for the Americans. Go, now, and be careful. You were not observed coming here, were you?"> <"I told you, Private Keerby is stupid. He got what he wanted from me, and then was too tired to care whether I stayed in or went out. I know he did not follow me. I will go home now."> Stunned, Caje could barely breath. He listened as the dainty footsteps faded and the door slid closed. His world felt like it was crumbling around him. He had blamed Kirby for revealing secrets, but now he realized that he had done the same thing with the priest. He tried to think back, tried to remember what he'd said to the priest in his moment of weakness. How could a holy man of God be a collaborator? Didn't he realize what the Krauts had done to the French people? Were still doing to those who disagreed with their ideals? Indecision glued him to the pew. Should he confront the priest? Or talk to Lieutenant Hanley? Find Kirby and blame him for something that he himself had also done, albeit unknowingly? As he pondered his options, Yvette's words suddenly struck him. Mortain? Tonight? What was she talking about? The unit wasn't moving out for days yet, two or three at least. No one was going anywhere tonight, least of all to Mortain, right in the heart of enemy territory. And even if they were, how would Kirby know that? He didn't know any more than any other grunt in the squad. Like a high-speed film, clips of the past two days raced through Caje's mind. The confrontation with Kirby over Yvette, the interrupted love scene between Yvette and Kirby, the

34 conciliatory gesture that Kirby had made after waking Caje... it was all starting to make sense. He had to find Kirby, talk to him and let him know about the exchange between Yvette and the priest. He gathered up his equipment and rose from his seat. After a quick genuflection (sorry, Holy Mother, due respect next time...), he turned toward the door, but a small noise behind him froze him in mid-stride. What was that hiss and squeal? It sounded like the static of a radio receiver, hidden in the chancel. He ducked back into a dark corner, listening, and heard the murmur of the priest's voice. The chancel was nearly dark, its back wall hidden behind a heavy crimson velvet drape. The noise was muffled, and Caje thought there must be a door behind the covering. He crept across the cold stone floor and lifted the edge of the curtain, peering through the shifting gloom at the back wall of the chancel. A single door was hidden in the corner and stood ajar, and now he could clearly hear a metallic voice responding to the priest. An amber glow outlined the door, and Caje tucked himself between the drape and the wall, next to the door, to listen. <"Yes, Mortain is what he said. Tonight they will be moving. They are to meet an artillery unit and move to Mortain by morning,"> the priest said. <"We will try to confirm that with the three prisoners,"> the metallic voice answered. <"The officer has tried to make us think he is one of us, and he is convinced that we believe him. We may be able to get more information from him. He has already been most useful in supplying us with maps and troop movements. So far, his information seems to correspond with what you've said. As for the other two, we will move them to the rear in the morning and interrogate them there,"> the disembodied voice rattled through the radio speaker. <"Good. I am sure our source here doesn't suspect a thing. In fact, he's an idiotic lothario who couldn't find Paris on a map. By this time tomorrow, he will be nothing but an amusing memory."> The priest signed off and disconnected the radio, prepared to return it to its hiding place. "Get into the room, now! And keep your hands up!" Startled, Caje whirled, but saw no one in his hiding place. Then he realized that the words had been spoken from the other side of the door. Risking a peek into the room, he saw a helmetless Kirby being shoved from behind by Yvette, who was holding a revolver against his back. <"Look who I found lurking outside!"> she spat. <"He was trying to get in the side door as I left. Idiot!"> <"Why did you bring him here, you fool? This could ruin everything!"> the priest exclaimed. <"What was I supposed to do with him? Take him home and seduce him again, letting him think he had seduced me? I'm sick of being used as a plaything to get information from these pigs of soldiers! He obviously suspects something, or he wouldn't be nosing around outside. He's certainly not here to have you hear his confession! What are we going to do with him?>" <"Give me the gun."> The priest held one hand out toward Yvette. Reluctantly, she handed the weapon to him. Relieved, Kirby let his arms drop to his sides. "Boy, I'm glad she gave you the gun. I was afraid she was gonna pop me one. What's she so mad about, anyways?" "What are you doing here, Private?" "Hey, you speak English! Good! I was just tryin' to explain to Yvette here that I was lookin' for a buddy o' mine who's been spending most of his time hanging around the church. Maybe you know him. Caje is his name. Have you seen him?" "No, Private, I'm afraid he left here hours ago. I haven't seen him in quite some time," the priest answered. <"Stop making small talk and get rid of him! He can't be allowed to leave here!"> Stress made Yvette's voice shrill. <"Do not give me orders. You will do well to remember who is in charge of this cell,"> the priest said quietly. <"I will do what I think is best for the Fatherland."> Calmly, he raised the pistol and a single shot rang out. Kirby ducked and fell to the floor.

35 <"No!"> moaned Yvette as her legs lost their strength and she fell atop Kirby. Blood dripped from the single hole in her forehead, staining the back of Kirby's field jacket. "You may get up now, Private," the priest ordered. "Slowly, with your hands raised." Kirby pushed against Yvette's inert form, freeing himself from her suffocating death embrace, then stood and faced the priest. "What do you want with me?" Kirby asked. "I told ya I was just looking for my friend. Why'd you have to kill her?" "Oh, I'm sure you were looking for more than that, young man. Now, please tell me what the real plans of your unit are or I shall kill you at once." "Real plans? I don't know what you're talking about." "But you do, Private, you do. And you will tell me, or I will count to five and you'll be dead." He aimed the pistol at Kirby, slowly drawing back the hammer until it clicked. "One... two... three..." Kirby tried to maintain eye contact with the priest, even as he saw the door behind the priest swing open. "...four... five..." The priest's finger tightened on the trigger, and once more a single shot echoed through the room as Kirby dove behind Yvette's lifeless body. Surprise widened the priest's eyes and his mouth opened in a gasp. Blood gurgled from his lips, then he crumpled to the floor in a heap of cassock and crimson. Behind him, Caje was wiping his bayonet against the curtain outside the door, his back turned to the priest. "Caje? You okay?" Kirby slowly rose from the floor, sparing a glance at the two dead collaborators. Wordlessly, Caje resheathed his bayonet, gathered his helmet and rifle, and without looking back, pushed aside the curtain, strode through the church and out the front door.

*****

Grady Long shifted his weight from one hip to the other, scraping his arm along the rough plank wall in the process. The pea gravel on the floor was biting into his thighs and buttocks, and he was cramped into an uncomfortable position. Sleep was impossible. The dark was complete, and though he couldn't see Saunders, he knew the sergeant's head was tipped onto his chest with his helmet over his eyes. His rhythmic breathing was soft, punctuated with an occasional snore, and Grady wondered how he had managed to relax enough to doze off. In the distance, muffled by the humidity hanging in the air, continuous shelling sang a strange lullaby. For a moment, Grady thought the rain had started again. Then he realized that the sentry was urinating against the outside of the building next to Grady's head. Disgusted, Grady tried to shift his position again, only to bang his knee against the pump cover. "Damn," he swore softly under his breath. "Take it easy, Grady, we'll be out of this soon enough," Saunders cautioned. "Try to get some rest." "Easy for you to say. You can fall asleep anywhere, always could," Grady grumbled. "Me, I need a nice soft bed with clean sheets, else I just toss and turn all night...." He grinned. "Hey, think the Krauts'll give us clean sheets where we're going?" "Don't start, Grady. I'm not in the mood." Long's grin faded and he said, "Must be nearly sunup, you think?" Saunders snapped his lighter and glanced at his watch. "Yep, 0440. I expect they'll be coming to get us soon enough." He had no sooner spoken than the door opened, and the German sergeant shined a flashlight in at them. "Rise and shine, gentlemen. I trust your night was restful. We have a long way to go today, so we'd best be about it." The two men rose stiffly from the floor and stood meekly while their hands were tied, this time in front of them. Saunders had managed to stuff the canteen into his jacket pocket before

36 bedding down for the night, and now he nudged it with his elbow to make sure it was still in place. Then he gave Grady a small nod. The sun was just showing pink over the treetops as the men trudged from the farmyard. They walked single file, with one German soldier in front, one behind, and the sergeant moving back and forth along the line. "Where are you taking us?" Grady asked after they'd been walking for an hour. "Can't we stop for breakfast? Or at least a little water break?" "Curiously enough, gentlemen, we are passing near the American lines. Or at least what were the American lines until late last night. We've had information that your comrades were driven back as they advanced on Mortain during the night. Perhaps some of your squad mates and friends were involved, no?" "Perhaps, or maybe not." Saunders shrugged noncommittally. "Come now, Sergeant. Surely you knew that your unit was involved in a push toward the town of Mortain last night?" "How could I know that?" Saunders asked. "I've been with you all night." The German sergeant chuckled. "Ah, you won't give up any information easily, will you. Well, we shall see." He signaled for a halt, and the men collapsed against an embankment. "Can we smoke?" Grady asked. "If you have cigarettes, by all means. In fact, I've been craving the taste of American tobacco all morning," the German sergeant answered, holding his hand out. Grady fished in one of his jacket pockets and pulled out three cigarettes. He reluctantly handed one to the German, then turned and handed one to Saunders. "Sorry, I seem to have lost my lighter," he muttered. "How about a light, Sarge?" Saunders silently lit all three cigarettes, then inhaled deeply, savoring the tang of the tobacco as it burned into his lungs. The German sergeant turned and walked a few steps away to confer with his subordinates. He spread a map on the ground and was pointing out their route when Saunders removed the canteen grenade from his jacket pocket. A fabric wick protruded about a quarter of an inch through the lid, and he held his lit cigarette against the fabric until it started burning. Grady watched the Germans, then lifted a finger to signal Saunders. A careful toss sent the canteen skittering to the ground on top of the map, and Saunders and Grady scrambled backwards up the embankment away from the Germans. Surprised, the German sergeant reached for the canteen while one of the soldiers lifted his rifle and aimed at the Americans, calling for them to halt. With a dull pop, the canteen burst in the sergeant's hand. He screamed as the hot metal lacerated his palm. Shrapnel pebbles and nails pelted the Germans, distracting them from the Americans. A rusty nail shot into the face of one of the privates, narrowly missing his eye. Blood ran from the injury, obscuring his vision. The third soldier flinched and ducked instinctively as he was pummeled by the debris. Saunders and Grady wrenched the ties off their wrists, then stood and began running. Behind them, the Germans shook off their confusion and pain, re-gathered their weapons and set off in pursuit of the fugitives. Shots rang out, singing over the Americans' heads as they raced through the woods. "Saunders! Over here!" The familiar voice startled the two Americans. Lieutenant Hanley waved an arm from behind a tree. "Over here! Hurry!" Grady and Saunders dove into cover just as the Germans came into view. "Hi, Lieutenant. What took you so long?" a breathless Saunders asked. The roar of automatic weapons fire from multiple rifles drowned the lieutenant's smart answer, but his grin said it all.

*****

37 "A grenade made from a canteen? Unbelievable." Hanley shook his head. "I wouldn't want you leading any Boy Scout troop that my son was involved with!" Saunders ignored the pseudo-insult. "What about Captain Miller? You knew he was a Kraut?" "Well, according to headquarters, he's not exactly a Kraut or a traitor. He's more of an... um... unbalanced individual, if you get my drift. S-2 can't let on that he's a traitor, it'll make them look bad for not recognizing and flushing him out sooner. So they're going to call him Section 8 and give him a dishonorable discharge. If they ever catch up with him, that is." "If I ever catch up with him, there won't be enough left of him to discharge," Grady vowed. "At least he succeeded in diverting the Krauts' attention toward Mortain with those fake maps and plans. The battalion is moving in the opposite direction from Mortain, successfully so far." The squad was returning to Avranches after rescuing Saunders and Grady. Low-hanging clouds filled the sky, dulling the day to a pewter softness. Grady was once again carrying a BAR, and Saunders' Thompson hung in its rightful place on his shoulder. The squad had set out during the darkest part of the night after confirming with headquarters that the captain, sergeant, and private had all been captured. Specific instructions had been issued—find the captain first, worry about the sergeant and private after that. But Hanley had conveniently misunderstood, claiming that he believed the captain had already been safely escorted back to S-2 headquarters. They had stumbled across the place where the three had been captured, found the jeep, and retrieved the weapons. Kirby had been strangely silent on the patrol. Subdued. No wisecracks, only sideways glances at Caje. The scout hadn't uttered a word about what had happened in the church, and Kirby wasn't sure whether to mention it or not. Now, as they wove their way through a verdant field, he uttered one word, for Caje's ears only. "Thanks." Simple, short, heartfelt. No explanation necessary. Caje's mind was in turmoil, and he almost missed it. No fanfare, no display of emotion. A quiet thanks, the way Theo would have said it. He turned his head and looked at Kirby, assessing him solemnly, taking his measure of the man. Finally, satisfied with what he found, he nodded. Kirby would do. Seeds of a new friendship were sown. A crumbled building perched behind a crumbled wall, and both teetered on the slope of a small hill. Tall grass like poorly-barbered hair spilled down the hill and merged with the ripening grain of the field through which the squad patrolled. Hanley debated bypassing the area, and had just signaled a change of course, when machine gun fire erupted from the ruins, scattering them at the base of the hill. With sparse cover, the squad returned fire but was hopelessly pinned down. The machine gun was out of grenade range, and the crew was well-hidden in the ruins. Hanley looked around, finding each squad member, gauging the distance between each one and the big gun. "Long!" he bellowed. "Can you get closer with the BAR?" Grady waved. "I can try, Lieutenant." He crawled toward the hill through the high stalks, until he was on the upward slope. Then he stood as Hanley yelled for covering fire and marched toward the machine gun, firing his BAR nonstop. The barrel was hot and smoke was pouring out, yet he continued his slow advance. The chatter of the BAR was nearly drowned by the roar of the machine gun, but Grady continued on. Just as he reached the wall, a piece of lead tore through his helmet, shattering his skull. The helmet flew off his head, landing on the ground and gathering speed as it bumped and rolled down the hill. Grady Long was beyond caring. He no longer had a use for the helmet as he collapsed into the weeds. At the same moment that Grady was struck, a grenade sailed behind the wall and exploded, killing the machine gun crew. Silence descended, save for the clatter of the rolling helmet. Then it, too, rocked to a stop at Hanley's feet. Smoke drifted up from the field, meeting the lowering clouds and casting a pall over the survivors. Hanley picked up the helmet, and he and Saunders stared at

38 the holes piercing the metal. As if in sympathy, the clouds opened up and the rain fell.

*****

A Madonna and child watched over the somber ceremony as Hanley looked on, grim-faced and frowning. The simple wooden cross read, "Pvt. Grady Long," and the private's helmet dangled from the upright support. Rain continued to fall, mixing with the tears that Saunders refused to shed. He pulled his collar closer to his neck, huddling inside his soaked jacket. "He'll be okay here." Hanley touched Saunders' elbow and the sergeant turned away from the resting place of his best friend. The Thompson hung from his shoulder, as heavy as the weight on his heart. His face was a mask, betraying no emotion, but his eyes were full of sadness and loss. As he turned from the makeshift grave, his eyes locked with Caje's. They were both part of the brotherhood now. They knew what it was to lose someone who understood them better than a brother. They felt the void that was left, as though someone had ripped half of their soul from them. There was no time for mourning, no time for sorrow, no time to rest. Today was another patrol, and tomorrow, and the next day. They'd be moving through another tiny town, then another, and another, till there were so many that they all blurred together, the names forgotten in the distance of time. Perhaps, with the passing of so many towns and so many days, the aching loss would dull, the searing anger would cool. Perhaps. "Peace has gone for awhile, but these days will likewise pass, and we are young. It has been good to be here in the presence of high courage and to have learned a little in our youth of the values of life and death." (Leslie Buswell, Ambulance No. 10, Personal Letters from the Front)

end

39 Defining Moment – Doc

Bridgehead

Hanley: Now where do you think you’re going?

Doc: I wan' a rahfle.

Hanley: You what?

Doc: I wanna get in this shootin’ war. I wan' a rahfle. Now I have had it up to here with bandages and aspirin. Now I wan' a rahfle!

Hanley: Now you know that’s impossible.

Doc: Why, because of the rules? I don’t shoot anybody an’ nobody shoots me? We’re so civilized we even got rules to kill each other by. Boy, that’s what I call organization!

Hanley: Well don’t knock it, organization got us this far, all the way from Normandy. Now he does his job, I do mine, and you do yours.

Doc: That’s fine, Lieutenant, but I’m beginnin’ to think I’m gonna be all by myself when this thing’s over, now the killin’ is getting’ way ahead of the fixin’!

40 TRUE CALLING

by Albert Baker (Claudia)

Dedicated to our own Major Doc B, M.D.

41 How far have I walked today? The medic had no idea. He tried to concentrate on heading west, but sometimes the trees blocked the sun, and his exhaustion dulled his reasoning. Twice, he had noticed a familiar rock or tree stump, finding he'd walked in a circle. Although he had managed to stem the bleeding, his shoulder pounded with pain, making each step more difficult to take. He stopped for a rest in an area of thick brush. The sun was getting lower in the sky and evening promised to be cold and still. His hope of finding the squad was dying. Doc lay on the hard ground, wondering where he would find shelter and if he would make it back to the American lines. Within five minutes, he fell asleep. The medic didn't know if it was the sound of the German 88s flying over him or the bone- numbing cold that woke him. The darkness told him he'd slept for hours. His body felt stiff and his shoulder ached. He pulled himself to his feet, trying to get his bearings. Squinting into the blackness, he saw a flicker of light in the distance. He grabbed his rucksack and moved out of the brush. The faint light continued to glimmer. I'm not gonna last out here alone. Even if there are Germans over there, I'd have a better chance as a prisoner than I will tryin' to go on like this. The thought saddened him. He was reminded of his experience with German SS Captain Steiner when the entire squad was taken prisoner. The Sarge had gotten him out of that camp. But I'm alone now. Doc walked through the woods, winding slowly around trees and trying not to trip on the underbrush. He realized that the 88s had stopped and that the light he followed was growing larger. A fire caused by the shelling. Must be a building burnin'. He shook his head. I can't believe I'm walkin' into another shelled village. Banking on the chance that there were still Americans in the town, Doc took a gulp from his canteen and moved toward the fire as quickly as he could. He was no expert on troop movement or battle strategy, but he had seen enough in this war to know that it was unlikely the Germans would advance until morning. Twenty minutes later, Doc arrived at the edge of the village. He collapsed in the dirt, his legs finally giving out. The cool earth against his cheek felt somehow reassuring. It would be so easy to just remain there and sleep forever. For a moment, Doc considered it, but his eyes jolted open as something brushed past his head. He lifted himself up onto an elbow and made out the silhouette of the creature, illuminated by the fire. A rat! Lord, I hate rats! Motivated by his repulsion, Doc dragged himself up to his feet and moved forward once again, using whatever was available in his path to hold himself up. Rounding a corner, the light provided by the fire waning, Doc was able to discern a familiar sign. The medical cross on a tattered banner was hanging awkwardly over the door to a damaged shop. An aid station. Maybe some bandages or morphine. Doc made his way resolutely to the doorway and, grabbing the doorknob, fell into the attached room, landing unconscious on the wooden floor.

*****

"Here, drink this." A man in a dimly lit room spoke to him. The medic's head was lifted and he sipped the water. Doc began to focus and made out the man's face and white jacket. "You're a doctor!" The medic's hoarse voice clearly expressed his surprise and relief. "That's right, Joe Sullivan's the name... and you're a medic, and a wounded one at that. Luckily, the bullet went through cleanly. There shouldn't be any permanent damage. I cleaned that wound while you were out, but I still need to finish bandaging it." The doctor turned to get more bandages from a box. "You want to tell me who you are and how you got here?"

42 "I'm John Malcolm. My squad calls me Doc. I'm with the 361st, King Company. I got separated in a firefight when I got hit. I guess nobody saw me fall, and I was out awhile. When I woke up, I bandaged myself best as I could and started walkin'." The medic gasped as Sullivan worked at bandaging the shoulder wound. " "Sorry, Doc. I'm almost done. I'd give you some morphine, but I'm out." Grimacing, Doc surveyed what he could of the room. There were a couple more cots along one wall. A line of wooden shelves leaned against another, holding boxes marked as medical supplies. Most of the boxes were tipped on their sides and were empty. Sullivan's eyes followed Doc's. "They had to leave in a hurry. There were a couple of badly wounded GIs in here that they carted away in an ambulance." The doctor nodded toward the area behind Doc. "He couldn't be moved." Doc twisted his head to see another cot. On it, a blanket completely covered the still form of a dead man. Sullivan sighed. "He died right before you got here. Poor kid didn't have a chance." Doc frowned and looked up at Sullivan who was already concentrating once more on the medic. "You took care of this yourself?" Sullivan asked as he finished re-bandaging Doc's shoulder. "Well, I did the best I could." "Looks like you did a decent job, and considering you did it one-handed, I'm impressed." Doc laid his head back onto the cot and stared at Sullivan with concern. "They left ya back here alone, Dr. Sullivan?" Sullivan chuckled softly. "It was my choice to stay behind. I've only been in the ETO a week but I'm already tired of hospitals at the rear. And I'd prefer you call me Joe. I'm not much on formality." "But you're a doctor. I don't think I could call ya Joe," Doc said matter-of-factly. "I feel pretty ridiculous havin' you call me Doc, too." "Being a doctor is just a job. That's all. Back home I mostly dispensed aspirin and cough syrup. I'm not a god. I get reminded of that everyday." He turned again to stare at the blanketed body. "His name was Daniel Dorgan. He was eighteen years old. From Nebraska. They thought I could save him, and so did I... for awhile." "Well, they all can't be saved. I guess the...." Doc stopped talking as the sound of vehicles entering the village drew their attention. Sullivan ran through the door to the left and into the entry room to the shop. He stood to the side of the window in front and peeked out. The lights of a line of vehicles entering the village were visible. A German staff car was in the middle of the small convoy. Sullivan ran back into the room where Doc waited. "Germans! We need to get outta here!" Sullivan blew out the lamp in the room and grabbed his rucksack. Doc struggled to get to his feet and swung his arm around Sullivan's shoulder. The two men went into the shop's main room, staying low to avoid being visible from the street. "There's a back door that opens to an alley. I think we can make it out of town." "Doctor Sullivan, I don't know that I can make it very far. Maybe it'd be best to leave me behind and try an' get yourself outta here." "No way. Let's get going. Come on, the sun's coming up soon."

*****

43 Sullivan dragged Doc along the outer walls of the buildings, hiding in shadows and stopping to rest every few minutes. Luckily, the shop where the aid station had been was close to the edge of the village. Doc looked up and made out the tree line beyond a small field. "We should be okay once we cross that open area and get into those trees. Hang on and we'll start making our way over there." Doc clung to Sullivan, trying to maintain an upright position while the two men moved as quickly as possible through the grassy, open space. Halfway across, the Americans heard the sound of several Schmeissers opening up. "Hit it!" Doc cried and let go of Sullivan as both men fell to the ground. Sullivan froze, face down on the ground. He turned his head to Doc. "Were they firing at us?" Doc lay on his side holding his wounded shoulder. "I don't know, but I figured it was time to duck!" The firing continued for a minute, but seemed to be coming from the other side of the village. The familiar sounds of M-1 and Thompson small arms fire joined the Schmeissers. "Sounds like quite a firefight. Hard to tell which side is winnin'." Sullivan frowned and looked at Doc questioningly. "You can tell from the sound which side is winning? " "Well, I can tell if the last guns firing were ours or German Schmeissers. I guess the sound doesn't tell me who's holdin' the gun. Over here you git to know a lot of things ya never thought you would." "We better get out of here in case the Germans win." Sullivan rose to his feet and helped Doc stand. The two men continued across the opening and into the trees. Stopping to catch their breath, they slumped to the earth in unison. "Well, Doc, looks like that way is west," Sullivan said, pointing toward the woods. "I suggest we take five and then head out." "Wait a minute, Doctor Sullivan. What if our guys are wounded out there?" Sullivan looked at Doc with concern. "You opened up that wound when you fell." He pulled out more bandages from his rucksack and applied them to the wound as Doc sat with his back against a tree. "Let's say we wait here for awhile. Then, I'll circle around and see who won the fight over there, and if anyone needs medical care." The medic nodded and exhaled with a sigh. "Thanks. I'm sure glad you were at that aid station." Sullivan smiled. "So am I, Doc." He reached for his rucksack. "Hey, you don't happen to have any water on ya, do you? My canteen's empty." "I'm sorry, Doc. Guess I'm used to nurses taking care of my patient's food and water. Here you go." Sullivan handed Doc a canteen and watched as Doc took a drink. "Well, you don't look like you're developing a fever." "No... just thirsty from all the walkin'." Doc handed back the canteen. "How long you been a doctor?" Sullivan sat down and leaned back against a small tree. "I finished my medical internship about a year ago. I was practicing medicine in Toledo before I decided to join up." "Toledo, Ohio? Is that where you're from?" "No, I just ended up there. I'm from Wisconsin." "No kiddin'? I remember takin' a trip to Wisconsin with my folks when I was a kid. Beautiful country." "Where're you from, Doc? I can tell by your accent it's not the Midwest." "I'm from Arkansas. Eureka Springs—one of the prettiest little towns you'd ever wanna see." "So, what did you do before the war, Doc?"

44 "Nothin' long term. I was a bouncer, a grocery clerk, did some farm work, lots of odd jobs. I guess I wasn't real sure what I wanted." Doc studied Sullivan curiously. "What made you decide to be a doctor?" Sullivan stared at Doc. "You did... or rather men like you who are medics in wartime." Doc looked at Sullivan wide-eyed. "No kiddin'?" Sullivan continued, "My dad was a soldier in World War I. He used to talk about the war— well, if I hounded him enough, anyway. It was clear that the men who impressed him the most were the medics. I guess most kids grow up thinking of heroes like Superman or Sergeant York. Not me. I grew up dreaming of being a medic in a war. As it turned out, my interest in medicine led me to medical school and now I'm a doctor." Doc cocked his head and spoke seriously. "You know, I've seen a lot of lives saved in aid tents and field hospitals. Men like you make a real difference. All we medics can do is try to keep the guys alive 'til they get to you doctors." "Yes, but you get to go out with the squads and be right in the thick of things!" Doc shuddered. "Yeah, you can see what bein' in the thick of things did for me," he said, looking at his shoulder. "You know the Germans don't always see the red cross on the helmet, and some of them probably don't care about it one way or the other." "I guess you have a point there, Doc." "Joe, you said back there that bein' a doctor is 'just a job'. Well, I've never been a doctor but I've worked close to 'em and I've seen what they can do. I say you're wrong, Joe. At least out here, bein' a doctor is holding a guy's life and hope and dreams all in your hands. Even the ones ya can't save have hope till the end just cause you're here. It's a lot more 'en just a job." Sullivan rubbed a weary hand over his forehead, considering the medic's words. He then started to rise, brushing the forest debris off his clothing "I'm going to leave you here and circle around to see who's left in town. Here's the canteen. If I don't come back in a half hour, you should probably try to make your way west and find our lines." Doc put the canteen by his side and looked up at Sullivan. "Stay low and don't get too close unless you're sure they're Americans." "Got it."

*****

Sullivan circled through the trees and back toward the far side of the village. He wasn't a tall man and by crouching very low he was able to sneak into the village undetected. Soon he came upon several dead bodies. Most were Germans. He found himself methodically checking for pulses while still trying to remain undetected. "Hold it!" a gruff voice sounded from off to his left, making Sullivan turn with a start. An American sergeant with a camouflage-covered helmet stood before him. The sergeant held a weapon at ready and looked considerably dangerous. "Where did you come from?" the sergeant asked. "I'm an American doctor. Joe Sullivan's the name. I was here with Able Company before they had to evacuate. I stayed behind with a wounded man." The sergeant studied him for a moment. "Where's your wounded man now?" "He didn't make it. But there's another wounded man in the woods on the other side of town. He wandered in before the shelling. He's a medic." The sergeant's eyes reflected a special interest at Sullivan's words. "This medic say what outfit he was from?" Several other GIs were beginning to gather around the two men in the street. All eyes were on Sullivan. "Yes, he said King Company, I believe. Said his name's John Malcolm."

45 "Hey, he found Doc!" A small, wiry GI smiled widely and grabbed the elbow of the large, dark-haired private next to him. "You said Doc's wounded. How bad?" the sergeant asked, still not moving. "He should be all right with some better care." Sullivan turned to survey the group. "So, you're Doc's squad?" The sergeant grinned. "That's right. I'm Sergeant Saunders." Gesturing with his hand, he introduced the other men. "The rest of these guys are Kirby, big guy is Littlejohn, that's Caje, and over there is McCall." "The town looks clear, Sarge," Caje reported. "I found a dead GI in the aid station." Saunders nodded. "Okay, Barker's squad is on the way. Let's go get Doc and head home." Turning back to Sullivan, Saunders asked, "You want to go back with us, Doctor?" Sullivan smiled. "Yes, if there are no wounded here, I definitely would like to head back with you. Come on, I'll show you where Doc is."

*****

The squad moved through the village and Sullivan led them quickly to Doc, finding the medic asleep under the tree where the doctor had left him. Sullivan knelt down by Doc's side and gently shook him awake. "Hey, Doc, time to wake up and go home." Doc opened his eyes to see his squad standing behind Sullivan. "Well, I'll be.... Looks like you found some Americans, Doctor Sullivan." "How are ya feelin' Doc?" "We've been lookin' all over for you." "Don't worry, Doc, we'll get you back okay." The words poured out from every squad member at the same time, bringing a grin to Doc's face. Sergeant Saunders pulled a map out of his field jacket. "Looks like we should be able to make it back in less than an hour. Caje, Littlejohn—rig a stretcher for Doc." Doctor Sullivan sat down next to the medic and breathed a heavy sigh. "Quite a squad you got there. Seems like they're pretty attached to you." Doc broke into a wide grin. "They kinda grow on ya." Sullivan leaned back against the tree and nodded. Doc turned to him with concern. "Say, you're not still wishin' you were runnin' around with a squad, are ya?" Sullivan stared back at the wounded man. "No, Doc, you convinced me I'm needed elsewhere. Thanks for the wisdom." Pushing himself to his feet, Sullivan offered Doc a hand. "I think your sergeant's ready for us to start moving again. I need to get you to a hospital." "Just what I was thinkin'," Doc said with a grin.

end

46 A PROMISE MADE

By: Miss Maquis

Special thanks to: White Queen for translating the German scenes Sergeant Ginette for keeping my French straight KT for making sure Sarge was correctly portrayed and for her insightful and very helpful beta!

The poem used in the story was written by codemaster Leo Marks for Violette Szabo, a Special Operations Executive agent serving in France.

47 The rain drizzled down, making the alley cold and foreboding. A shadow was pressed against a wall, waiting. The sound of marching footsteps was getting closer, boot steps muffled on the wet street. Still waiting, the shadow held its breath and readied its weapon, a heavy wrench. Almost time. The town clock struck midnight as the shadow struck the first German sentry. The second sentry rounded the corner and the shadow knocked him unconscious as well. A second, smaller shadow merged with the first, and the pair dragged the limp Germans into the darkness of the alley. Working rapidly, the sentries were stripped of their uniforms, gear, and boots, and then neatly gagged and trussed. The two shadows dressed themselves in their newly acquired clothing and stepped out into the gloom. The clock was now ticking against them.

*****

It had been a week of rain. The precipitation had turned the dirt roads into endless stretches of mud which clung to everything. The falling rain created new mires and failed to wash away the already established muck. Even the vast army of men and machines could not defeat nature's most depressing element. To make things worse, when the sun did appear it brought along energy-sucking humidity. During this depressing weather, First Squad from the second platoon of K Company had been sent out on a recon patrol in German territory. They had been lucky on this assignment and were making their way back to their lines with the needed information. Sergeant Saunders held the point position, followed by Caje, Brockmeyer, Doc, Littlejohn, and Billy, with Kirby bringing up the rear. Estimating their position, Saunders figured they would reach their lines if they continued going through the night, which was approaching fast. It would be a tough stretch, but they could make it. Images of a dry place to sleep and a hot supper made the long, wet push worthwhile. These thoughts came to the sergeant while he also kept a constant watch of the landscape surrounding them. In a few more hours, the squad would be safe in Allied territory, but until then Saunders wasn't about to let his responsibilities slacken. The patrol was moving along steadily through the wet, muddy forest. As they rounded a bend, Saunders saw something that momentarily threw him off his guard. Apparently the pair of Germans were just as surprised. The enemies stared at each other for half a second. The Germans sat frozen, motionless on a fallen tree, holding their partially eaten rations. Saunders was the first to react. "Hands up!" he hollered, his Thompson leveled on the two. Saunders was unsure of what happened next, but the closer, larger German suddenly moved, thrusting his companion to the ground. Finger tightening on the Thompson's trigger, Saunders fired. The first German jerked as the bullets smashed into his body, and then he fell backwards to the earth, legs bent over the log. The squad surrounded the Germans in record time, rifles ready. "Don't move!" Saunders barked to the second German. "Nicht schiessen! Nicht schiessen!" the voice squeaked with urgency and fear. "Caje, Billy, see if there are any others," Saunders ordered. The two soldiers nodded and quickly moved out. With Kirby, Brockmeyer, and Littlejohn covering the Germans with their rifles, Saunders removed the pistol from the wounded German, threw it into the brush, and then jerked the smaller German to his feet. Roughly, he took the Luger out of its holster and tossed it after the first pistol. Two Mauser rifles

48 were also propped on the log, which he unloaded before throwing into the brush as well. Turning back to the standing German, he started to search for any other weapons. Trying to twist away, the German exclaimed, "Hands off, you bloody Yank! I don't have any other weapons!" Keeping a firm grip on the soldier's shoulder, Saunders knocked the German's helmet off with his other hand. The German was female. Pale, angry eyes glared out from under a fringe of cropped, dirty blond hair. "What in the blazes!" Kirby stared with mouth agape, but the Browning Automatic Rifle never wavered. The prisoner and Saunders locked glares as if in contest, light blue against ice blue. Acknowledging the first round, the German broke the silence first. "We are both subjects of the British Empire." The clipped English accent was slow, heavy. "We need your help." "Like I'm supposed to believe that," Saunders growled. His grip tightened. "Fine," she snapped. "Don't believe me. But let your medic look at my partner!" Her head jerked over to the shot German. In the silence that followed, the wounded man's ragged breath could be clearly heard. "Doc," Saunders spoke after the lengthy pause. The medic started from the sharpness in Saunders' tone, but he moved over to the wounded man. Kneeling down, he gently pulled back the uniform from the blood-soaked chest, and then rummaged in his rucksack for bandages. "Thank you," the woman said, in a voice that was a few degrees milder. Saunders grunted, and then finished his interrupted shakedown. The woman's face turned scarlet, but she bit her lip and didn't speak. Not finding anything, Saunders took a step back, locking gazes again. "Satisfied?" she asked through clenched teeth. Ignoring her question, Saunders shifted to his medic. "Doc?" "He's bad, Sarge," Doc said softly. "I'm trying to stop the bleeding, but he's losing a lot." Nodding, Saunders told him, "Patch him up the best you can." "Well?" the woman demanded. Saunders' arm shot out and grabbed her shoulder and pushed her down to the log. "Just you sit there and don't move," he growled threateningly. A frown tugged the corners of his mouth downward, and his countenance showed that the sergeant was contemplating his next course of action. Fingers moving of their own subconscious accord, Saunders performed a tactical reload by replacing the half-empty magazine with a full one from his pocket. After giving Saunders a final glare from her seated position, the woman in the German uniform turned her attention to the wounded man. The medic was applying sulfa powder and bandages liberally. Most of the uniform jacket had been cut away, showing three bullet wounds high on the German's chest. The man's breathing was laborious, his face ashen, and he appeared to be unconscious. "May I help you?" The woman's low voice cracked with worry and apprehension. Doc glanced over his shoulder and received an affirming nod from the sergeant. There was no apparent harm in letting her help. "Hold this bandage in place," he instructed. Caje and Billy returned at that moment. Shaking his head, the scout reported, "No sign of other Krauts." "All right. Caje, watch the perimeter." Saunders had made up his mind on what to do next. "Littlejohn, Nelson, you two build a stretcher—we're leaving as soon as Doc's done." Caje nodded and circled around the squad. His dark eyes had taken in the scene before him, yet he did not comment on the peculiarities that presented themselves. However, Billy couldn't help exclaiming, "A girl? How the—" "Get going, Nelson!" Saunders wouldn't stand for idle gawking. Billy followed Littlejohn to help him cut two saplings they could use for stretcher poles.

49 "What's going on?" the young private inquired in a low tone. Littlejohn shrugged his shoulders. "Sarge was shaking down that smaller German when she suddenly hollered out that she was a Brit and to take his hands off her. Sarge ignored her request, and then told Doc to patch up the wounded German. I guess we're going to take them with us since we're rigging a stretcher." Billy's young eyes were wide with suspense and excitement. Chancing a glance toward the prisoners, he wondered aloud, "Do you think they're spies? I've never been this close to a spy before!" Littlejohn tried to hide a grin. "Could be. Whole thing seems strange." He unrolled his rain slicker and folded it under and over the two sapling poles. "Help me button this up." Continuing to stand guard with Brockmeyer, Kirby voiced the thoughts that were running through each man's head: "Sarge, what are we going to do?" "We're going to report back to Company and deliver our prisoners," the sergeant stated. He had been scrutinizing a map and when finished, he folded and placed it back in his jacket pocket. Letting a quiet sigh escape from his lips, he absently pushed his helmet on the back of his head while surveying the working medic and two prisoners. No two ways about it, Saunders was unhappy about this new situation. He couldn't shake the nagging feeling that there was something running deep below the surface appearances. Though he couldn't place his finger directly on the problem, a well-trained sixth sense was alerting him. Trouble lay ahead that was connected to this pair Germans, whoever they might be. Before the squad and its two additions could move out, Doc approached Saunders. In his outstretched hand were several folded papers. "I found these inside the man's jacket. She saw me take them but didn't try to stop me." "Thanks, Doc." Saunders accepted the papers and rifled through them quickly. One was a map, oddly unmarked, and three or four other papers were filled with a cramped script. Saunders couldn't make out the foreign writing, so he quickly refolded them and stuffed them inside his jacket pocket. The papers could wait until he had a more suitable time and place to examine them further. He was anxious to be underway again as soon as possible. Ten minutes passed before the squad left the area. Caje was on point, followed by Billy, the woman, Saunders, Doc, the stretcher carried by Brockmeyer and Littlejohn, and Kirby closing the rear. The group was moving as fast as possible, but the night would overtake them soon. Calling for a brief rest, Saunders glanced up at the sky. The darkening clouds promised more rain, and soon. He sighed and pulled out his map to estimate their position. Stuffing the map back into his jacket pocket, he watched Doc and the woman prisoner check the wounded man's bandages. After finishing his ministrations, Doc looked at his noncom. The sergeant's blue eyes were constantly moving, searching over and through the landscape for threats and looking over his resting squad. Then Saunders' gaze always returned to the two Germans and the problems they presented. Leaving the pair of prisoners under the watchful eyes of Kirby and Littlejohn, Doc walked over and crouched besides Saunders, knowing full well that the news he had to share was not going to be well-received. Doc stated bluntly, "Sarge, we need find a place to spend the night, or that guy isn't going to make it." "Your point is?" The sergeant's words revealed to Doc that the prisoner situation had gotten under his normally thick skin. "It would cut our problem in half." Doc shook his head; it was no use discussing matters when Saunders was in this frame of mind. "If we keep going, I don't think the man will make it through the night."

50 "Doc, we have to get our report back," Saunders explained. "So the prisoners are expendable?" Saunders sighed and did not directly answer the question. "Look, I don't buy that cock-and- bull story she tried to sell us. Our mission is what's important." He paused a beat. "We'll continue on." Doc saw the determination in Saunders' eyes, and he knew there was no use continuing the conversation. He returned his position at the head of the stretcher. Saunders gave the order and the squad moved out.

*****

They hadn't gone very far when it started to rain. While the rain dropped at a steady pace, it appeared to be just a passing shower. Slickers were hurriedly pulled on by the men. The German lady was already wrapped in her slicker, which looked about two sizes too large. Her head was bowed, and her arms were crossed on her chest hugging the slicker close. The wounded German's slicker was tucked around him. The falling rain pooled on the prone man's form, running over him and finding a way to sneak its cold fingers down his neck. Doc attempted to pull the oilskin closer in an effort to ward off the infringing water. Soon afterward, the rain tapered off and stopped. The soaked, cold soldiers and "spies," as Billy silently referred to them, were pushing along in the ever-present mud when the scouting Cajun ran back signaling for cover. Muscles acting on their own accord from months of familiar movements jerked their owners to the cover of brush and fallen logs. A tense anticipation touched each person as everyone willed their breathing to cease and trembling limbs to stay still. One accidental brush of crackling slicker against a foreign object, and the game would be up. As soon as he saw Caje's signals, Saunders grabbed the woman and hustled her behind a couple of close-growing bushes. Pushing her down and kneeling behind her, Saunders kept his left hand firm on her shoulder and elevated his Thompson at her. The look of disgust on her face made it clear to him that his silent message had been received: "any noise and you're dead." Having made his point, he looked ahead to Caje, who raised two fingers and then pulled a thumb back. There were two Germans heading toward their position. The slop and suck of mud on boots announced the arrival of the patrolling Germans. In the darkening twilight, the pair were shadows until they grew closer. One was routinely scanning the dark woods around them with rifle held ready, while the other was banging a long, metallic object in the palm of his hand. As they drew near, their foreign conversation could be heard. "Funktioniert es noch nicht?" (It still does not function?) asked the one with the rifle. "Nein," his companion answered, giving the object one last shake. "Die Batterien sind hin." (The batteries are dead.) He placed the flashlight in his coat pocket and unslung his rifle from his shoulder. "Glaubst du, dass sie so weit gekommen sind?" ("Do you think they have gotten this far?") questioned the first German. "Ich weiss nicht. Aber, wann so viele soldaten suchen sie, koennen sie nicht entfliehen. Wie weit koennen zwei Englaenderen gehen?" (I don't know. But when so many soldiers seek them, they can't escape. How far can two Englanders go?) "Nicht so weit wenn das Gestapo sucht. Es gefaellt mir nicht unseren Platz zu verlassen um zwei ermoerderliche spionen zu suchen." (Not so far with the Gestapo seeking them. I don't like leaving our posts only to seek two murderous spies.) "Meuller, sprichst du nicht. Sei ruhig. Die Baeume haben Ohren," (Meuller, do not speak. Be quiet. The trees have ears,) the one with the flashlight cautioned. "Ich sah was mit Hans Brenner und Karl Liest geschehen ist. Es war nicht angenehm. Ihre Haelse waren gebrochen." (I have seen how Hans Brenner and Karl Liest died. Their necks were broken. It was not pleasant.)

51 Having not noticed the hiding Americans and their prisoners, the searching Krauts continued on their way. Silently rising, Saunders signaled for the group to move out, but on a course that lead north from their previously western path. He kept everyone moving at a quick pace for fifteen minutes before allowing a pause. "Caje, Littlejohn, watch the parameter," he instructed. Turning back from giving the order, he found the woman standing directly behind him. "Sergeant," she spoke in a hurried tone, "listen to me. Those two Germans who passed us are looking for us. The Gestapo has called in the regular troops in an effort to capture my partner and myself before we reach the American lines. You have to keep us safe." Saunders glanced behind the woman to where Brockmeyer stood. The German-fluent private nodded his head once. "Please, Sergeant, just get us to your company headquarters." It was obvious the woman rarely begged for anything, yet she was desperately pleading. While studying the woman in the drowning light, Saunders held his racing thoughts to himself. He was saved from making a definite answer when the wounded man whimpered a pain- filled moan. The woman was at his side in an instant, moving quickly but with the silence of a stalker. Tightly holding onto her partner's hand, she anxiously watched as Doc checked and replaced bandages. Turning away from the medic and the prisoners, Saunders walked out of their earshot and over to Brockmeyer. "Well?" he questioned. "Everything she said was right. The Krauts are looking for two Brits. But she held something back; one Kraut called them 'murdering spies.' Apparently the Gestapo organized a search including the regular army because two soldiers named Brenner and Leist were murdered." "That would explain where they got their uniforms from," Saunders replied in a low tone. Brockmeyer shot a glance at the prisoners. "Yeah, hers doesn't fit well, it's way too big." Saunders resettled his helmet, a habit he had adapted and unconsciously did frequently. "Get Caje and Littlejohn back, we're going to start out again," he told Brockmeyer. "Right, Sarge." Brockmeyer moved off to locate the two sentries. Saunders went back to the remaining members of the group. Billy was standing guard with his M-1 ready over the two prisoners. Doc had finished the bandage-checking and was holding the semi-conscious man's head up so he could swallow a couple aspirins with the help of a canteen's contents. Easing the man's head back to the stretcher, Doc looked up to his leader. Saunders recognized the look in Doc's eyes immediately: Doc still wanted to stop somewhere. Standing there looking at the prisoners, a jumble of thoughts ran through the sergeant's mind. He sought to coolly and logically put each one in its own place. This could be a trap, albeit an elaborate one, but a trap nonetheless. Just because the woman in German clothing had the same story as the two searching Krauts didn't verify the tale. Naturally the two tales would coincide if they had been concocted previously. The searching Germans had made a lot of noise as they moved through, with the repeated banging of the flashlight. On the always-present other hand, the woman's story had the remote possibility of being true. The two could very well be fleeing from the Germans. But why be British subjects? And why take the pains to murder two Krauts and masquerade wearing their uniforms? And why exactly did the woman insist on being taken to company headquarters? If she was working for the Resistance,

52 why didn't she say so? Of what particular use was all the cloak and dagger business? Did she really think he'd immediately trust them blindly? However, what if they did have important information for S-2? And if so, would the man survive the fast pace and bad weather of the now-present nighttime? Shaking his head, Saunders wanted nothing more than to be rid of the gnawing problem. It would be easier to leave the two Germans behind while he and the squad returned with their vital observations. Instead, he continued to issue orders to pull out. "Billy, help Doc carry the stretcher." Turning to the rest of the squad who had arrived, he reassigned positions. "Caje, front; Littlejohn, me, Doc and Billy, Kirby and Brockmeyer watching the rear. He pointed at the woman. "You, between me and Littlejohn." He met Doc's eyes and stressed his point from earlier: "We'll go a little farther." Doc didn't answer or nod his head. His lips thinned as he suppressed whatever he wanted to say. Taking his place at the foot of the stretcher, he remained silent as the men moved out.

*****

The rain continued to fall down in fits. The clouds emptied like a bucket that had been kicked over and then there was nothing, like the bucket was waiting to be filled. The unpredictable showers and the coldness of the night were taxing the rest of Sergeant Saunders' thin patience to its end. Caje had reported another small patrol of Germans, but luckily these two were moving westward while the squad kept pushing north. At least something is going right tonight, Saunders mused with irony. And "pushing" was exactly how he would describe the squad's progress. Each step was becoming a harder effort. The mud refused to leave the men's boots, and tired muscles strained to hold the body upright. The rain bucket was full and was pouring its contents down with intensity on any unfortunate soul that had been caught out in it. The wind added its part to the storm by sending water slashing sideways, severely reducing visibility in the dark gloom. After picking their way forward, Saunders brought the squad to a halt. The miserable group gathered together in a rough circle to hear Saunders. Glancing at their tired faces, Saunders saw that Doc was right, they needed to find shelter. "There's no use trying to make it back tonight," Saunders started. "We've moved far north to avoid the patrols and with the little detour we had to take, it'll take twice as long to make it back to our lines. We also can't see anything, so we'll find shelter and wait the night out." Doc looked instantly relieved, and Kirby asked the obvious question. "Where are we gonna find shelter?" It was too dark for Saunders to look at his map, but he didn't have to ruin his night vision by using his lighter for illumination. The map had been committed to memory, and he answered Kirby's question by placing the sheet of paper before his mind's eye. "There is an abandoned farmhouse not far from here if my memory serves me right. We'll head toward it and spend the night." Another bit of luck played their way; the farmhouse was closer than Saunders had expected. The barn had been completely decimated but the small house, minus one wall and the roof, was standing. Among the ruins was the entrance to an enclosed cellar, and the squad piled in. Saunders posted Kirby as sentry in the almost barren shelter of the old house. Broken furniture and boards littered the cellar floor. A couple of odd candles were found and lit. The small flames valiantly beat back the dark shadows. Clearing space, the stretcher was set down and Doc immediately started to check the German's condition. Without a word, the other prisoner sank down next to her comrade and watched Doc. The cellar was rather dry, except for a small corner where rain leaked in from the floor above. The only way out of the cellar was up the shaky steps that led into the house. After shaking the water off their slickers and ponchos, the men settled down among the

53 rubble. Remembering the papers Doc had given him, Saunders extracted them from his jacket. He spread them on a table to study under the feeble light of a candle. Parts of the map looked vaguely familiar, but he was unable to reference the positions with his own map. The four other papers were written in what appeared to be French, so Saunders called Caje over to the table. "Look at these," he said, handing two papers to Caje and shuffling the others over on the table. "Can you make anything out of them?" The lean scout accepted the papers and bent over them, scrutinizing them in the candle light. After a moment, he spoke. "It's some kind of poem...

The life that I have Is all that I have And the life that I have Is yours.

The love that I have Of the life that I have Is yours and yours and yours.

A sleep I shall have A rest I shall have Yet death will be but a pause.

For the peace of my years In the long green grass Will be yours and yours and yours."

When Caje had finished reciting the lyrics, he paused. "It doesn't make any sense why this is included with the papers." "Must be some sort of code," Saunders guessed. "The other papers have similar poems as well." Caje had looked through the remaining papers and picked up the last one on the table. "This one is different; it's not a poem. Instead it's just a lot of random, meaningless words. I wonder what they mean." "Yeah," Saunders agreed as he looked across the room to where the woman was crouched next to her wounded companion. Caje followed Saunders' gaze, but the woman seemed oblivious to the examination. "Yeah," Saunders repeated as he picked up a piece of the coded paper and then tossed it back onto the table. He let out a sigh and then gathered, folded, and stored the odd papers. The maps were still spread on the table. "Thanks, Caje." "Sarge." Caje's voice was hushed to a whisper. "Do you think I should go and try for the lines? We need to get that information through." Saunders thought for a moment, and then shook his head. "No Caje, not yet. We need you here." Caje nodded and left Saunders alone. The sergeant looked around the dilapidated cellar as each member of his squad was settling down for an uncomfortable night. Glancing over to the hospital corner, Saunders saw Doc was checking the wounded man's bandages. After finishing, Doc approached Saunders. "How's he doing?" Saunders nodded to the German. "His chances will improve now that we're in shelter." Doc tried to be optimistic but the strain was catching up even to him. "I don't know how long he'll hang on." "You're doing fine, Doc, don't worry." Saunders tried to soothe the medic as he directed his attention to the captured map on the table.

54 "I guess that means I should start saving my bandages for our guys," Doc bitterly blurted out. "I didn't say that Doc." Saunders' low voice cut hard. "I'm sorry, Sarge," Doc sighed. "I wasn't thinking. I guess I'm just edgy." Saunders relaxed and reached out a hand to touch Doc's arm lightly. "We're all tired, Doc, but we're going to make it back." "‘We' meaning the squad, or the prisoners as well?" Doc pressed his point one jot further. "We all are." The last three words were so low that only Doc heard Saunders utter them. They were earnest, a promise. The look in Saunders' eyes was one Doc had become accustomed too. Saunders was determined to carry out the original mission and bring the German prisoners back safely. Doc knew that Saunders was human, but when he spoke like he did, whatever he promised usually came true. "Right, Sarge." Doc nodded and walked back to his patient. Only after making sure there was nothing else he could do to ease the man's pain did Doc attempt to wring out his soaking jacket and shirt. Then he sat down, leaning his back on the wall. Finally giving up trying to make sense of the map, Saunders looked around the room at his men. All had looked up and listened when Doc was talking to him, and now they hurriedly returned their attention back to their previous tasks. Littlejohn was searching his pack for rations while Brockmeyer, Caje, and Billy were drying their rifles off. Then Saunders' gaze moved over Doc and fell on the two prisoners. The man was still lying on the stretcher, breathing laboriously. Sensing his gaze for the first time since entering the cellar, the female looked up and locked eyes. A mass of emotion exploded through her eyes: anger, tiredness, grief, and accusation. Suddenly the air in the cellar grew close and the responsibility of the eight lives entrusted to him settled heavily on the sergeant's shoulders. Keeping his face an emotionless mask, Saunders coolly refolded the maps, shrugged back into his poncho and picked up the Thompson. "I'm going to check on Kirby. Nelson, you'll relieve him in an hour. Meanwhile, everybody try and get some sleep." Leaving the shelter, Saunders climbed the stairs, thinking about what he had promised Doc. However, there was no comfort in dwelling on what course of action he should take in the morning. It was going to be a long night.

*****

It was well past midnight when Saunders was relieved by Caje. The falling rain kept the air chilled, and the dampness seeped into everything. Rubbing his cold hands together, Saunders was glad to get back to the shelter of the cellar. Casting a glance around the room, he saw that five occupants were asleep. Billy, guarding the prisoners, was fighting back massive yawns. Saunders waved at him to go to sleep, which the private promptly did. Settling down with his back against a steamer trunk, Saunders felt his tired eyes drawn to the German prisoners. The candle near to them had been replaced, casting its light on their figures. Wrapped in the folds of a wet slicker, the woman was lying down curled into a ball near the man's head. The man's shallow breathing was nearly drowned out by the rest of the squad's gentle snores. Digging out a cigarette, Saunders lit it, drew a breath, and exhaled slowly. They'd be moving out when dawn came, no matter what fell from the sky. Contemplating the journey back, Saunders knew it would be full of Krauts, no matter which path they took. He also knew it wouldn't

55 be easy going back with two prisoners, if the man made it through the night. Also there was something about the pair of Germans that wasn't right, but he couldn't put his finger on it. A small sound tugged at his ear, bringing him out of his thoughts. Glancing around, he saw that its source was the woman. She was muttering and twitching, as if fighting an invisible battle. Saunders couldn't catch the words she was mumbling, and he was about to move to wake her when the woman bolted up abruptly—scared awake from the dream. She looked panicked, not remembering where she was. Staring at the flickering candle as if it were a lifeline back to reality, recognition dawned and she turned to the wounded man. Silently, Saunders watched. Taking a wet handkerchief, she gently sponged the man's forehead. The hardness and anger were gone from her eyes, and her touch was tender and careful as she stroked him with the cooling cloth. For the first time all day, Saunders got a chance to really look at her. Marked with dark circles and pale cheeks, her face was not overly pretty, but almost haunted as well as haggard. In better circumstances, the sergeant doubted she'd stand out in a crowd of people, but seemed the type who could easily move on and leave behind only a faint remembrance. This ability would have been perfect, had it not been for the woman's expressive eyes. Saunders had already received their burning intensity of anger, and yet now he saw the light blue irises soften and fill with love as they gazed down upon the feverish face of her wounded partner. The touch of the wet cloth on his forehead and cheeks must have roused the wounded man from his sleep, because he stirred for the first time since arriving in the cellar. Slowly moving his head, the prisoner searched for the source of his awakening. "Qui est là?" The feeble voice reached Saunders' ears. "It's me, Johnny." The woman reached for the wounded man's hand, holding it tightly. Her eyes were now anxious, but she tried to keep a smile on her lips. She looked tired, scared, and lost, but put on a brave show for the wounded man. "Lisette, pourquoi parlez-vous en anglais?" the man focused on the woman's face, and it was clear he didn't remember the day's earlier events. "Because we're with friends, Johnny. It is safe," she answered and assured him. "With friends?" Johnny's voice cracked. "Yes, we're with Americans. They're taking us to their headquarters." "Lisa." Johnny's voice came stronger with a barely noticeable English intonation. "Lisa, you have the information?" The woman smiled for the first time that day. She hadn't heard that name in a long time. "Yes, I have it." Satisfied, Johnny closed his eyes. "Good. Don't forget it." He trailed off, entering a world in between sleep and wakefulness. "I won't, Johnny," Lisa whispered. But one last imperative thought pulled the wounded man back to the reality. "I'm sorry," he asked for forgiveness. "For what?" Lisa softly countered. "For not being able to protect you better. These uniforms, the running, and now this." He feebly gestured to his bandage-swathed chest. "It's all right; we'll make it through," she promised him. But Johnny was now asleep, and she held onto his hand for a while before slowly releasing it. Even in the dim light, Saunders could tell that during the conversation the woman seemed to be stronger. But now, after her partner lost consciousness, the strength seemed to crumble. It appeared that the slightest mishap would send her over the edge. "How's he doing?" Saunders asked quietly. The woman jumped at the sound of his voice. Surprised fear rose in her eyes and then was quickly masked. She saw the sergeant was the only one awake. "He's sleeping now. That will help the fever." She spoke matter-of-factly, neatly brushing the sergeant off as she turned her

56 shoulder to him. Saunders felt anger stir at the blatant dismissal his prisoner had given him, but he was determined to keep the building steam under control. He knew that the best way to combat the prisoner was to not let her annoying barbs penetrate his carefully built defenses. So, he pulled out something from another jacket pocket, rose, and walked over to the prisoners. Offering her the tin of K-rations, he said indifferently, "You better eat something." Grudgingly, she accepted the container of cheese, but didn't open it. "Thank you." She added a question that came across as a challenge to the turning sergeant who already had his back to her. "You heard us?" "Yes." The affirmative word was just that, nothing less or more. She sighed, and then opened the ration. She knew he had to be as curious as a cat, but was too stubborn to say anything. "Perhaps I should tell you. I doubt you'll believe me though." Interested, but still cautious, Saunders sat down, his Thompson across his knees. He was close to the prisoner, but there was still ample room between them should he have to move quickly. He lit a cigarette and waited. Keeping her voice low so as not to disturb the sleeping soldiers, the woman began. "My name is Lisa Martin, and as I told you earlier, I'm British. The organization I work for is top secret. We're called the Special Operations Executive; though I'm sure you've never heard of us. Along with basic espionage skills, I was trained to code messages and operate a wireless radio. I successfully completed all my courses and tests and was sent to France to work as a courier." She shrugged her shoulders as if to give the impression that it hadn't been a big deal. "This is actually my second and longest mission in France; I've been here for nearly two years. Circuit leader Johnny Parks, radio operator Douglas, and couriers William and I were responsible for setting up a circuit that worked with the underground to carry out subversion, generate sabotage, and relay information to London." Here she paused, wiping down Johnny's forehead with the wet handkerchief. Saunders shook out another cigarette. Lisa looked up at the sergeant. "Finding this hard to swallow?" Her blue eyes dared him to make a statement to the affirmative. Saunders glanced over the flame of his lighter but refused to be goaded into a battle of words. "Go on." Lisa inclined her head to the sergeant and then looked down at Johnny's silent form before continuing, "Our circuit was successful in its raids, sabotage attempts, and distribution of firearms. One day last week we made a particularly heavy strike against the Germans. William and I were to rendezvous with Douglas so he could radio our success to London, along with information concerning planned troop movements. I stayed in the town of Vaccon, but the radio was kept in a farmhouse close to St. Monique. "Since William lived in St. Monique, he should have been there before me. However, when I arrived, I found no one. The houses had been searched and the radio found; somehow the Germans had found out. "The only thing I could think of was that I needed to get back to Vaccon to find Johnny. I was scared and tried very hard not to panic. Once I found Johnny, then everything would be all right. Johnny always knows what to do. "Somehow I made it back through the woods to the village, and by now it was early evening. I was still upset, but I found Johnny. Leaving me inside the house, he went out to see if he could gather any news from the villagers. "When he came back almost as soon as he left, I knew the news wasn't good. Johnny had talked with one of our circuit members and learned that the Gestapo had acted on a tip and found our hideout. William and Douglas had been tortured, shot, desecrated, and left in the town square as a demonstration. Continuing their destruction, the Gestapo in St. Monique were tearing apart the village in attempts to find other Maquis. The Germans soldiers in Vaccon were starting to do

57 the same. "Johnny decided we needed to leave. The information I was taking to be radioed to London is very important. They're in your possession now, and the poem is the key to the code." Lisa broke her narrative to emphasize: "Hundreds of lives will be saved if it reaches Intelligence on time." "How did you leave the village?" Saunders changed the subject. "Johnny killed two patrollers, and we took their uniforms. We were able to blend in and reach the forest. That was two days ago. Our intent is to reach your lines and make radio contact with our headquarters in London." Lisa completed her story, but then added a postscript before growing silent. "I don't know what I'd do without him." The silence grew and, once again, Saunders could hear the gentle snoring of his men contrasting with the ragged breathing of the wounded intelligence agent. Lisa again took the damp rag to wipe sweat off Johnny's pallid face. Her hand was noticeably shaking and not being able to tolerate the tension filled silence, she implored, "Please, Sergeant, get Johnny to your headquarters so he can receive treatment! I know your medic is doing everything he can, but Johnny will die because he's losing too much blood. Our information is accurate and it's imperative that it reaches London in time! Please believe me!" However, it appeared that her pleas fell on deaf ears. Saunders remained silent as he contemplated the burning tip of his cigarette that hung loosely between two fingers. Going from anxious to angry, the woman waited a full minute before speaking up. "Do you even intend to bring us back to your headquarters alive?" Her voice slashed the air like a well- honed blade. Saunders reacted to the accusation like he had been struck across the mouth. His head jerked up while he slowly tensed his left hand into a fist. Again the battle of glares flamed between the two. "I made a promise to Doc that we would make it back to Company." Saunders couldn't restrain the animosity from his tone and his next words were harder than granite. "All of us." Red patches blossoming on her cheeks, Lisa listened in prickly silence as Saunders gave his promise again. "And," Saunders gave reply to her earlier plea, "it's not my place to believe your story. That falls to the higher-ranking brass." Once again, Lisa's face flooded with color, but this time it wasn't from embarrassment. "I knew you wouldn't believe me!" she angrily retorted. Twisting around so her back again faced the sergeant, she once more lay down next to Johnny's stretcher, ending any attempt for further conversation.

*****

Roughly two hours after the conversation with the woman prisoner, Saunders awoke when he felt someone touching his shoulder. Immediately alert, Saunders snapped his eyes open, reached for his Thompson, and sat up. "Dawn's starting to break," Caje informed him. "Good, we'll move out in fifteen minutes." Saunders was on his feet with a yawn as he ran a hand through his unruly hair. Caje added the weather report before going back up the creaking wooden stairs. "Looks like the rain stopped, but it's going to be hotter than a brick oven." Nudging Brockmeyer awake, Saunders told him, "Get everyone up and ready to go." "Right," the burly corporal rolled to his feet, strapped on his gear belt, collected his helmet and rifle, and started going around the room. Saunders hid another yawn as he replaced and tightened his belt and did a perfunctory check on his equipment. Brockmeyer had awoken the occupants of the crowded room and was

58 now making his way back to the sergeant, stepping over broken furniture and around stirring limbs. Kirby's loud, exaggerated yawns filled the cellar; Littlejohn shuffled to his feet to stretch his arms wide, cracking his back in the process. Billy looked sleepy and was rubbing his face absentmindedly. Doc immediately moved to his patient once he was up. Lisa was also awake and sitting next to Johnny as Doc tended to his wounds. Smoothing a hand over his jacket, Saunders felt the weight of the papers in his pocket. Pulling them out, Saunders again scrutinized the meaningless French papers and the doubtful coded rhyme. He looked up when Doc walked over and said a low voice, "Sarge, that German, he's pretty bad." "How so?" Saunders asked in an equally quiet voice. "He's really weak, lost too much blood yesterday and last night. I doubt he'll make it a few more hours." "Isn't there anything more you can do?" Lisa left Johnny's side and interrupted. "More medicine or something?" Doc replied patiently, but it was evident that he had exhausted his meager remedies and limited skills. "I've put fresh bandages on his wounds. I'm not going to give him any more morphine, he's already had two and one more might be too much. I can't do anything else." But before another word could be said about the patient, Caje swiftly re-entered the room. "Krauts!" he warned, and then was back up the stairs. The single word sent everyone into a controlled frenzy. Saunders shot up the stairs on Caje's heels while the men bumped into and tripped over the cellar contents in an effort to get back to their rifles and equipment. Doc was back by his patient's side in a flash. Lisa was the only one who stood stock still in the middle of the cellar. If anyone had chanced a look at her face, they would have noticed her ashen countenance and fearful expression. But no one bothered to glance at the woman prisoner, and she was back beside Johnny's side making an effort to control herself. Above the cellar among the wreckage of the house Caje quietly pointed out the approaching Germans. Saunders observed the enemy who fanned out in a staggered parallel line, obviously searching for something or somebody. Counting eight enemy soldiers, Saunders wondered how many others the woods concealed. "Are there any behind us?" Saunders whispered. "I didn't see any," Caje replied. Saunders nodded. He had seen enough, and a hundred thoughts, plans, and worries were racing through his head. "Stay up here until I send Kirby up." "Right," Caje answered, his gaze never wavering from the moving line of Germans. Ducking back into the cellar, Saunders caught everyone's attention. "Kirby, take Caje's position. The Krauts haven't seen us yet, so stay low." Kirby acknowledged the order with a jerk of his head and was gone. Within seconds, Caje rejoined the group. Brockmeyer voiced the question everyone in the room had: "What are we going to do, Sarge?" "We're pulling out of here. Those Krauts will be on top of us in minutes, and this cellar is the perfect barrel for shooting fish. Caje," he turned to the scout and handed him the papers he had hastily pulled from his jacket, "take these to Lieutenant Hanley. My map is in there too; go southeast, it's the most direct way. Billy will go with you. The rest of us will head northeast and then cut over to our lines. You'll probably get there before we do, and we'll try to keep the Kraut's attention away from you two. Got it?" "Yes, Sarge." Caje slid the papers into his own jacket pocket. "Then get out, and good luck." Saunders didn't watch as Billy followed Caje up the stairs; he was already starting the cellar evacuation. "Doc, Littlejohn, get the stretcher. Brockmeyer take point, Kirby and I will be in the rear. Move out!" "Sarge." Doc's voice was quiet but authoritative. "Sarge, he can't be moved." "What?" Saunders spun around to his medic was standing by the patient's side.

59 "He can't be moved," Doc repeated. "He's so weak that the slightest jolt will kill him." "Doc, we have to go now, or none of us are going to make it," Saunders insisted and turned to the stairs. "Wait!" Lisa cried out in a half-strangled voice. "You can't just leave him here!" Looking back with incredulous eyes at his medic and the two prisoners, Saunders saw something that hit him with the impact of a high velocity shell. Doc meant to stay behind! He didn't audibly state his choice, but his face was set and his mind was made up. "No," Saunders whispered. The invisible tension snapped and flexed, writhing around every person in the cellar. No one dared to breathe; the slightest movement would set off the inevitable explosion. "Sarge, he'll die if we move him," Doc restated. He neither pleaded nor demanded, he stated his case plainly. "I'll stay with him while you all make a run for it." "Are you crazy Doc? What do you think the Germans would do to the both of you when they arrive? There's no way they'd miss you." Saunders vehemently shook his head. "Littlejohn, get the stretcher with Doc. We are all leaving, and we will all make it back." The end of the standoff concerning the movement of the prisoner was swift when Kirby's harsh whisper was heard. "Sarge! The Krauts!" The three little words sent shock waves that pushed everyone back into action and up the stairs in close semblance of the order Saunders had prescribed previously. As the sergeant cleared the steps and motioned for Kirby to precede him, Saunders glanced over his shoulder and knew that the chance to escape detection was probably shot over the moon. The Krauts were close, and the rising sun cast its beams upon the American soldiers' backs. Just when Saunders thought their thin luck had held, one of the Germans raised the cry. Twisting and crouching so fast that he felt his knee muscles scream in pain, Saunders snapped off a couple bursts from the Thompson in reply to the German's bullets. That'll hurt later, he thought as he pushed off his twisted knee to move further back. Kirby was also returning the Krauts' fire as he worked his way back. The Thompson and BAR sang in deadly symphony as Saunders and Kirby took turns leapfrogging away from the Germans. Two of the enemy soldiers were hit and went down, and the rest were forced to duck for cover. The two GIs were finding it difficult to move due to the lead rain that was falling. The rest of the squad with the two prisoners had moved ahead so that they were now unseen and hidden in the dense forest. Hurriedly exchanging his spent magazine for a fresh one, Kirby caught a glimpse of one of the Krauts. "Sarge!" he shouted above the battle noise. "They've got a radio!" "Take it out!" Saunders hollered. Chambering the round, Kirby lifted the BAR and took an extra second to get a clear aim before squeezing the trigger. He wished Caje was here with his M-1; Kirby was no sniper and he knew it. However the numerous .30 caliber rounds found their target, and Kirby saw the radio man reel under their impact. When Kirby had eliminated the German, he heard Saunders shouting for him to pull back. Firing one last time, Kirby ducked down and moved through the brush while the sergeant covered his back. Turning to provide cover fire so Saunders could move as well, Kirby saw him momentarily stop firing, reach into his jacket, and pull out a grenade. Reloading the BAR again, Kirby kept such a continuous rate of fire that the remaining Germans were forced to keep their heads down. Eons—which were actually seconds—later, the grenade thrown by Saunders exploded in the midst of the enemy. Not bothering to make individual

60 body checks to ensure each German soldier was dead, Kirby and Saunders left the battle scene with haste to find the squad.

*****

When Saunders and Kirby caught up with the squad, they didn't stop to catch their breath, but kept pressing farther into the forest. Everyone was moving at a ground-eating, muscle- straining lope. Pushing the hard pace, Saunders finally called for a brief break when even his well- trained body was starting to feel the strain. Breathing heavily, Saunders attempted a quick compass check as the men fanned out on the grass. Doc was bending over the patient while Lisa was collapsed to her knees, trying to catch her breath. After thrusting the compass back into his pocket, Saunders wiped away the sweat on his forehead, massaged his aching knee, and glanced at his watch. He decided to chance one more minute of rest before moving out. Turning his head when he heard Doc give a weary sigh, the sergeant asked offhandedly, "How is he?" Doc's pause was so long that Saunders twisted around to view the medic's face. "He's dead, Sarge," came the quiet statement. Saunders didn't say anything but sat motionless on the grass, his face impassive while the torrent of thoughts surged through him. Doc's voice had been low, but the squad had heard him clearly and each glanced around at the others. It seemed like the only person who didn't have an immediate reaction was Lisa, who was stock still. Then, she stated in an apparently calm yet unconvinced tone, "No, you're wrong. He can't be dead. Johnny can't die." "I'm sorry, but he's dead." Doc's soothing voice also had an air of finality. "No!" This time her voice was pitched higher and her body jerked with conviction. "No, Johnny wouldn't leave me! He is not dead! Do something! Give him some more medicine, bandages, anything!" "I can't." Doc's tone was full of the pain from trying and being defeated. "He's beyond my help. I can't bring people back to life!" "You can't say that! He's not dead!" she cried, tears streaming down her face. With a scream of grief she leaned over the dead body of her partner to pound her fists into Doc's chest. Doc merely stayed in his kneeling position, taking the vent of frustration from the hysterical woman. The rest of the men started forward in alarm, and Saunders jumped to his feet and pushed Doc away, interposing himself between the medic and Lisa's slapping hands. Bending down to her level, the sergeant grabbed her arms, holding on with an unbreakable grip. "Stop it!" he growled, shaking her back and forth. "It's your fault! You killed him!" Her eyes brimmed with hate as she gave a vehement cry. "Stop it now!" He added one last shake which caused her head to snap back and forth. Catching Saunders' glare through her tear-filled eyes, Lisa was overcome by the heat and fury in his eyes. She froze as her own hate was replaced with fear. "Do not scream again." The woman jerked a nod and tried to suppress the sob that rolled through her throat. Saunders released her arms and she settled back on her heels looking scared and lost. Immediately, her attention was drawn to the dead man in front of her, and she started shaking uncontrollably. "Johnny, no," she whispered as she bent forward to touch the body. "I can't live without you." Tears welled from her eyes, rolled down her cheeks, and splashed onto the uniform of the dead man. The men stood in awkward silence as they watched the woman grieve over her dead friend. Saunders rose slowly and backed away, his anger dissipating as fast as it had come upon him. After a moment or two, Saunders cleared his throat. "We need to get going before the

61 Krauts get here. Brockmeyer, check if everything is clear. Doc...." He paused, meeting the medic's eyes and silently asking for help. Doc nodded. He walked around the body and knelt down next to Lisa. Gently placing a hand on her shoulder, he began to speak in a soft tone. "We have to go." The woman shook her head and began to tense under the pressure of Doc's hand. "I am not leaving him." "We have to. If we stay longer, the Germans will find us. Johnny would have wanted you to make it safely back." She again shook her head in opposition. "I can't leave him behind." "We'll send someone back on burial detail. But if we don't leave, burial detail will have to take care of us." Lisa didn't reply. Her head was bowed, and she was trying to calm down. Her tears were still falling, but the sobs and shaking had ceased. Then she uttered softly, "All right." Doc gave her shoulder a final pat, stood up, and stepped away. "Let's move him over into the brush," he intoned to Saunders. However, before Saunders could move, Brockmeyer rejoined the squad. "Krauts coming up behind us, Sarge. They're getting close. While everyone's attention was focused on Brockmeyer, Lisa saw she and Johnny were temporarily forgotten. The expression on her face changed, from one of mourning to that of one who was aware of her surroundings and was fully in control of her emotions. Reaching her fingers into the dead man's left boot, she deftly withdrew a small folding knife. Then she casually brought her hand inside her pocket to slip the knife inside while masking the movement by searching for a dry handkerchief. Guessing she was unable to find a handkerchief, Doc pulled out one of his own and handed it to her. Lisa jumped guiltily at Doc's movement, but she took the offered cloth. The numb and blank look returned to her face when Saunders stepped over to help Doc hide the body under the brush. The hurried task completed, Doc returned to Lisa to help her to her feet. Taking her arm lightly, he guided her as the squad started forward again.

*****

"How's your ammo, Billy?" "I've got a couple more clips." "Okay. Merde, they're everywhere!" the scout exclaimed and then snapped off a few rounds at a flash of gray material. "We're so close to our lines, I thought we had left the Germans behind us," Billy woefully commented. "I guess not," Caje said dryly. He mentally ran through their options. The Germans had them pinned down on three sides. The only way they could wiggle out was to turn and head back into the woods, deeper into German territory. Caje was sure he and Billy were nearly on top of the American lines; he couldn't have read the map wrong. In all the Western movies the Louisianan had seen, this was the time when the cavalry rode to the rescue. Almost as if on cue, the sound of firing M-1s and shouts of surprise from the Germans reached Caje and Billy. Within minutes, most of the Germans had been dispatched and the rest fled back into the woods. "Identify yourself!" a voice rang out.

62 "Privates LeMay and Nelson," Caje replied. "Anyone else?" "No, just us two." "All right, step forward." Billy and Caje rose together and watched as four other Americans also showed themselves. One wore corporal stripes; his had been the voice giving the commands. "What's the password?" Caje inwardly rolled his eyes, but calmly replied, "Catfish." The corporal shook his head. "That's the old one." "We were on a recon and delayed a night." Harrumphing, the corporal decided what to do. "I'll have to clear this through my superior. This way." "Our recon information is very important and Lieutenant Hanley needs it right away," Caje urged. "I'm sure if you are who you say you are, it won't take long." The pompous corporal smiled thinly. "We're wasting time, let's go." Caje and Billy had no choice but to fall in between the corporal and his men.

*****

With Johnny's body left behind, every member of the squad was pushing through the forest. The muggy air was close and still. Each person's nerves were tight and muscles poised. "Cover!" Saunders shouted. Ramming into Lisa, the sergeant pushed her to the earth and landed on top of her. "Stay here!" he hollered in her ear as he moved away. Even if she had wanted to move, Lisa found that she couldn't. Her breath completely knocked out, all she could do was lay still and vaguely watch the skirmish through brush that obscured her view. Eventually the iron bands clamped around her chest began to loosen and her wheezing breath began to circulate more oxygen. The pounding in her head lessened and as her vision cleared she could see that Saunders was off to her left firing his Thompson from a prone position. Not sure how long she had been aware of anything besides her inability to breathe, Lisa wondered how much time had passed since the fight started. She could hear the deep reports from the BAR, but wasn't able to distinguish if more than one M-1 was being fired. Slowly piecing this information together, she was about try to move her limbs when she caught something out of the corner of her eye. Her skin crawled; she knew someone was behind them. Willing her tense muscles to work, she twisted her head around to see something that made her freeze harder than marble. She was looking down the barrel of a small, but very effective Walther P38. As the muzzle blossomed with fire, she jerked to the side and felt the bullet rip across her arm. "Saunders!" she screamed. The sudden movement and scream told the sergeant he had been flanked. Turning with his Thompson ready, Saunders saw the enemy soldier not ten feet away. With his finger pulling on the trigger, one of Saunders' worse nightmares was coming true. The Thompson was jammed.

*****

"Good job with the recon information, Caje. Now where is Saunders?" Lieutenant Hanley had waited long enough and was impatient to know what happened to the NCO and the rest of the squad. "We captured some spies, sir," Billy eagerly chimed in. "Spies?" "We captured two people in German uniform," Caje hastily filled in. "One was a female and

63 the male got wounded. The lady claimed that they were British secret agents and were running from the Germans. Doc found these papers." He handed them to the lieutenant. "I think this poem is a code key." Hanley ruffled through the papers and then picked up his field telephone. Speaking briefly into it, he hung up. As he rose and gathered the papers, he spoke. "Let's go. I want you to tell Captain Hill in S-2 everything that's happened." "Yes sir," Caje and Billy responded together. Within half an hour, the story had been cross- examined, repeated, and retold to the S-2 captain. Satisfied that the privates had given him everything they remembered, the captain said, "Well gentlemen, I think that covers it. You were right in bringing them straight to me, Hanley. Oh and, one more thing before you go." He motioned to an orderly who escorted in a man dressed in dirty clothing and a faded beret. A ragged beard was growing on his face and uncombed hair peeped out from under the beret. The man also had a stoop in his shoulders that attested to a lifetime of hard work. Captain Hill introduced the Frenchman. "This is Michel, a member of the Resistance who has worked with the British agents. I want you to describe the man and woman your squad captured. Caje obliged and finished with an observation, "The woman seemed very fatigued. It was odd, one moment she would be arguing with the Sarge, and the next she was silent and listless." Michel the Frenchman listened in rapt attention. "Oui, it could be them," he said in accented English. "Mon Capitaine, it sounds very much like them." "Who, sir?" Hanley questioned. "Michel worked closely with a group that was run by a man and woman. Their French aliases were Jean and Lisette, but they were British agents named John Parks and Lisa Martin. Parks and Martin sold out to the Germans and the entire underground cell was executed. Michel was the only one who escaped and he's been looking for the two traitors." Captain Hill paused. "Sounds like your sergeant found them." "You say the man was wounded?" Michel asked. "Yes, badly," Caje replied. "And la femme, you said she behaved strangely?" Caje hesitated before answering. "Well, I think she had a lot on her mind. One minute she would act angry and the next she was kind and caring." "Yes." The Frenchman stroked his chin thoughtfully. "These agents are put under a lot of stress and things become worse the longer you're on the field. The lying, the hiding, the never- ceasing surveillance and reconnaissance missions; it is dangerous, hard work. It breaks you down and makes you easy prey to the enemy." A brief silence filled the room. Michel shifted uncomfortably and then spoke again. "I must go. Thank you for calling me in, Capitaine. Please let me warn you to be careful. Jean and Lisette, or rather John and Lisa, are very dangerous people. They will lie and kill if they have to." "Thank you, Michel. I'll be in contact with London and we'll be ready whenever Saunders arrives. The word will be passed to the line sentries to look out for the squad; we don't want them delayed with old passwords." The captain stood, signaling the end of the interview. "None of you are to remember this conversation. Dismissed"

*****

The German was temporarily ignoring the sergeant and was aiming the pistol at Lisa for the

64 fatal shot. Not having time to clear the jam, Saunders reacted with the first action that came in to his mind. He threw the Thompson at the German. The eleven pounds of wood and metal connected with the German's arm just as he was squeezing off the shot. The flying Thompson knocked the pistol out of the German's hand, sending the bullet ricocheting off into the woods. Leaping forward, Saunders tackled the enemy soldier with force that would have secured his place on any football team. The two combatants landed heavily on the forest floor, each trying to gain the upper hand. Punches and blows were exchanged, and then the German settled his hands around the sergeant's throat and started to squeeze. Trying to pry the man's hands off, Saunders was also kicking up with his knee. Grunting from the pain, the German tried to shift away from the knee blows, but maintained his death grip around the noncom's throat. With his breath coming in shorter gasps and his throat burning in the hand vise, Saunders knew he had precious few seconds to do anything. Flinging his right arm out and balling up his fist, the sergeant attempted to inflict damage on the German's left kidney. His ears full with the rush of his blood, he vaguely heard a voice calling his name. Then as he pulled his fist back for another blow, something hard and metallic smacked his knuckles. Clutching for the object, he felt the cold, smooth metal slide into his palm. It was a knife, and his anxious fingers found the release catch. With a snap, the three-inch switchblade opened. Thrusting the knife into the German as hard as he could, Saunders pulled his knee up and kicked the attacker off him. His arm outstretched, the sergeant pushed off the ground, grabbed the dropped Walther, and spun back to face the German. The speed in which the movement had been executed was unnecessary; the knife was buried in the man's upper left side. With arms flared out the side and the blond head lolled over, the enemy was dead. Saunders looked down at the body of the man he had just killed. The black gabardine uniform was stained darker with blood, and the jagged runes on the man's collar stared back at him. Raising his head while massaging his aching neck, the sergeant looked at Lisa. "He's Gestapo!" Saunders croaked. Shocked, she stared back at him with her mouth hanging open. That he had uttered the statement clearly floored her, and a couple seconds passed before she was able to stammer a coherent word. "Of—of course he is!" she was getting over her shock and warming into indignation. "I told you that the Gestapo was after us!" Her good arm gestured with wild exasperation. "By the prime minister, we are spies! Don't you understand?" Her tirade didn't have any effect on Saunders. He was unhooking his canteen and gingerly trying to swallow without spitting up the refreshing water. Bruises in the shape of fingers were forming on his neck. Taking a breath and pausing, her eyes grew dark and she stood down her defensive posture. "We are spies," she repeated and then finished in a lifeless voice, "and Johnny is dead. Slowly, Saunders reached his hand forward and lightly touched Lisa's shoulder. "Even with the Gestapo hunting us, we will make it back to company." However, the long-awaited words of belief didn't seem to touch her. She sat on the ground with the air of an automaton. Saunders noticed the bullet wound on her arm, and he started working on it with sulfa powder and bandages. The brush around them cracked and parted to admit Brockmeyer and Kirby. "Just finished checking the Germans. It was a small patrol," Brockmeyer reported. "Sheesh, what happened here?" Kirby asked and then hollered over his shoulder, "Doc!" "Coming!" "You all right?" the concerned private asked the sergeant. Saunders nodded. His neck would ache for days, but he didn't think any damage had been inflicted. Lisa had gotten the knife to him in the nick of time. Meanwhile his rescuer seemed unaware of the wound she had received, even though Saunders knew his poor bandaging attempts must hurt.

65 "C'mon, Doc," Kirby harangued. "What's taking so long?" "Littlejohn had a bullet graze his leg," Doc explained as he came through the trees. "He's okay, though how in the world a bullet hit him while he was lying down facing the Germans, I don't know." "Well the big ox does have long legs!" Kirby laughed, trying to lighten the atmosphere. Saunders moved away so Doc could kneel next to Lisa. The medic tidied the bandage that was already in place and then supplemented pieces of his jacket to form a sling. When he finished, Doc checked the sergeant. "Take these," the medic offered some aspirin Saunders swallowed. "How much farther do we have to go?" Doc questioned. "It looks like her arm muscle got hit, so she needs to see a real doctor." "Not far," Saunders wheezed as he bent over to retrieve his Thompson. "Good," Kirby muttered within earshot of Brockmeyer. "'Cause that girl gives me the creeps." "There's a first for everything," Brockmeyer slyly countered.

*****

It was late afternoon when the squad made it back to American lines. Leading the tired troops was Kirby, then Brockmeyer and Doc assisting Littlejohn, and closing the rear were Saunders and Lisa. The sergeant was supporting the spy, who to all appearances had practically shut down. Her face blank, her steps wooden, she was past the point of caring. Having been forewarned, the sentries let the squad pass. A radio call was put in to headquarters announcing their arrival, and two jeeps were driven over. Saunders should have suspected something was up when he saw two Military Policemen riding in the jeeps. However, he was more tired than he realized and the significance of the MPs' presence didn't quite register. "We're under orders from Captain Hill of S-2 to take charge of the prisoners," one of the policemen spoke. "Where is the other?" "He didn't make it," Saunders informed them. "We'll take her to the hospital first. We can give your man a lift as well." The MP gestured toward Littlejohn. Saunders nodded. He was ready to make his report to Hanley and find a place to sleep. Littlejohn was helped into the back of the jeep first, then Doc and one MP perched themselves next to him. Saunders assisted Lisa to the passenger seat and then turned to get into the other vehicle. "Sarge...." The medic intended to make Saunders go to the hospital as well. "I'll report to Hanley and then go straight over," the sergeant replied as he climbed into the front passenger seat of the jeep where Kirby and Brockmeyer were already waiting. Knowing this was another point he couldn't win, Doc relented. The two vehicles lurched forward, one following the other through the town until the road split. Riding behind the jeep carrying the wounded, Saunders suddenly saw Lisa twist in her seat, staring at a native on the lane. Even through the dust the jeeps were kicking up, Saunders could tell that something had startled her out of her stupor. Following her stunned gaze, the sergeant saw a man in dirty clothes and faded beret who was looking back at Lisa. His expression looked a little surprised, but then indifference filled his features. Tucking his head down, the man turned and shuffled off in the opposite direction down a side street. The entire thing had happened in seconds, but it was enough to let Saunders know that the two knew and recognized each other. Saunders' thought was cemented to fact when Lisa suddenly jumped from the moving jeep. Landing lightly on the cobblestone road, Lisa sprinted down the alley. The Frenchman took

66 one glance over his shoulder and then was off like a track star. When the MP driving the jeep saw Lisa exit, he jammed the brakes and skidded to a stop that nearly threw the rest of the occupants out. The other jeep narrowly avoided a collision and was still shuddering to a halt when Saunders leapt out as well. The two MPs were a fraction behind him as they joined the pursuit. Dodging debris and broken masonry, the hunt ended when the street suddenly stopped in front of a large, gated courtyard. There was no way to turn as the connected row of houses stopped at the tall courtyard walls. Knowing he was backed into a corner, the Frenchman spun around and fired off questions at Lisa. "Qui êtes-vous? Que voulez-vous? Pourquoi m'avez-vous suivi?" (Who are you? What do you want? Why did you chase me?") "William! Don't you recognize me?" "Who is William?" The man switched to broken English. "My name is Michel. Who are you?" Saunders and the MPs caught up at this point in time to hear the Frenchman's answer. The policemen moved in to take custody of Lisa, each grabbing a hold of an arm. Seeing Lisa was taken care of, Saunders turned his attention to the man she had been chasing. "Hey!" Saunders raised his Thompson to cover the Frenchman who had been looking for an escape while Lisa was diverted. Knowing he couldn't get away yet, he stood still, nervously tugging on his beard. "Easy on her arm! She's been shot!" Doc's voice sounded angry; Saunders realized the medic, along with Kirby and Brockmeyer, had followed them down the alley. The MP holding Lisa's left arm glanced down and saw the blood starting to seep through the bandage. Letting go, he stepped back but brought his rifle up. Lisa ignored the policemen. Staring intently at the Frenchman, she exclaimed, "I thought you were dead, William! What happened? Johnny said the Gestapo killed you and Douglas." Ignoring Lisa's questions, the Frenchman focused on Saunders and protested his innocence. "Thank goodness you are here! This femme folle chased me. I was just walking down a street!" "Saunders, this man is William, I know it is!" Now Lisa was pleading with the sergeant. "Look lady, I don't care who it is, don't try to run from us again!" one of the military policemen spoke roughly. "We're going back to headquarters now." The two started escorting Lisa down the lane with Doc following them. The Frenchman relaxed. "Merci, monsieur. I must be on my way." "Not so fast." The Thompson didn't waver in Saunders' hands. "You're coming back with us, too." Kirby and Brockmeyer had their weapons ready and trained on the Frenchman as well. "But monsieur!" A touch of fear briefly showed itself. "Move out." The two words left no room for argument. Knowing he had better comply, the truculent Frenchman slowly walked in front of the three soldiers. Back at the jeeps, they saw found an anxious Littlejohn and the curious driver. "What happened? Is everything okay?" Littlejohn asked. "Everything is under control," Saunders replied. He watched quietly with Thompson ready as everyone climbed back into the jeeps. The MPs were not taking chances again; one sat behind Lisa with his rifle trained on her. Saunders did the same thing with the Frenchman, and the vehicles resumed their journeys to the different destinations.

*****

"I don't see why we had to let him go!" "We have no proof this man did anything and have nothing to hold him on." Hanley tried to be patient with the stubborn NCO. He could understand Saunders' frustration and knew that the

67 sergeant was tired as well, but the lieutenant's hands were tied. Saunders shook his head and pushed his helmet back in annoyance. He and Hanley had just exited Captain Hill's office and stepped out onto the street. After reporting the events of the patrol and the capture of apparent spies, Saunders had listened to Hill's brief summary of Michel's tale. The captain congratulated him on sending the coded papers back to him. "Parks and Martin didn't destroy them because there were Allied positions and movements marked as well. The Germans would have loved to get their hands on them." Nevertheless, the sergeant could barely contain his surprise and anger when Captain Hill dismissed Saunders' suggestion that Michel be detained until either his or Lisa's respective stories could be verified. Once released, the Frenchman had burned a path to the door in his haste to get away. "There was no reason to let him walk away!" Saunders refused to relinquish his point. "She recognized him and that S-2 captain won't look past his own special theory for new ideas." "Now just a minute!" Hanley answered sharply. "Captain Hill knows how to gather intelligence without your opinion. That woman betrayed her own people to the Germans and you're defending her." "I don't believe that." Saunders was adamant. "She is not a traitor." Kirby and Brockmeyer were waiting outside as well, and they drifted silently toward Hanley and Saunders in an effort to catch everything they were saying. Glancing at each other in surprise, they couldn't believe Saunders' complete change in attitude toward the prisoner. Hanley checked his angry rebuff. He had come to trust the sergeant's intuition; past experience had usually proved Saunders to be right. Instead of pulling rank and reprimanding the noncommissioned officer, Hanley merely talked to his friend. "Saunders, go get some rest. The situation is out of your hands. You've done the best you can do." Pursing his lips, Saunders slowly huffed out his breath. He readjusted his helmet again and glanced down the street. When he spoke, it was in a soft voice that outwardly masked his anger, but didn't fool Hanley. "All right." Saunders started walking down the street, but not in the direction of the barracks. He was heading for the hospital.

*****

When Sergeant Saunders arrived at the field hospital, it took him some time to locate Doc and Littlejohn. He found the squad mates together. Littlejohn was comfortably relaxed on a cot while Doc was seated on a camp stool. "You doing okay, Littlejohn?" Saunders saw the private's leg was bandaged. "Sure am, Sarge." Littlejohn grinned cheerfully. "It wasn't a bad wound and the nurses here are nice." "That's good." The sergeant briefly smiled back. "Doc, have you seen Lisa?" Doc wasn't happy when he answered. "She's in an isolated place under guard." "Where?" Doc pointed him in the right direction, and Saunders threaded his way around cots, orderlies, and medicine trays. He reached part of the hospital tent that was partitioned off and where a policeman was stationed. It was one of the two MPs who had earlier escorted the prisoner in. "Can I help you, Sergeant?" The MP kept his voice neutral. "I'd like to see the prisoner." Saunders posture was defensive, waiting for any argument. The MP gave him one. "Sorry, but no one is allowed in. Orders from Captain Hill and the doctor." "Five minutes?" "Sorry, Sergeant, but I can't." Turning away, Saunders gave up. He knew the MP was doing his job. Maybe Hanley was

68 right, perhaps there wasn't anything he could do to help. As the sergeant left the hospital, he felt the fatigue of the past few days settle on him. What he needed now was sleep.

*****

The next morning dawned, and Saunders was surprised at how soundly he had slumbered. Though up with the sunrise, he felt refreshed. Gathering his equipment silently so not to wake the rest of the snoozing squad, Saunders left the building they were assigned. Following the delicious aroma of coffee, he found a mess hall and got a cup of the dark, hot joe. After a quick breakfast, the sergeant started asking soldiers and villagers if they had seen the Frenchman Michel. However, he soon gave up the search when he realized that it would be useless to attempt to search for one man in a town that was so full of people, vehicles, and the general busyness that accompanied the Army headquarters where ever it went. Saunders had a hunch that if the Frenchman really was William as Lisa claimed he was, the spy would eventually return to where she was. Thus instead of spending his off duty hours searching for a lone man, Saunders decided to let the hunted come to the hunter. And if William or Michel failed to show, then perhaps the story Lisa had recounted truly was a tall tale and she was the traitor S-2 intelligence believed her to be. Finding a camp stool and situating himself in front of hospital where the prisoner was kept in isolation, Saunders settled comfortably with his Thompson beside him and another cup of coffee. From his position he could look out onto the bustle of the camp and had an easy view of the main approach to the hospital. As they woke up, the men of his squad drifted over to the hospital. Littlejohn was to be released later that day. Billy and Kirby sat with him to entertain him and to flirt with the nurses. It was midmorning when Hanley arrived. Having heard rumors that his NCO of first squad was camped out in front of the hospital, the lieutenant wanted to see for himself what exactly Saunders had in mind. After having his greeting returned, Lieutenant Hanley quietly surveyed the sergeant. Then, he offered a tidbit of information he had picked up. "They'll be moving the prisoner today. A transport is coming to take her back to England." Saunders nodded; if the supposed Frenchman would show up, it would be when they were moving Lisa. He knew something would happen then, though he wasn't sure what it would be. Receiving no verbal response from Saunders, Hanley knew his next words probably wouldn't make a lot of difference. "Be careful Saunders, whatever it is you're planning on doing." "Yes, sir." A small smile accompanied the reply. Looking at his superior, Saunders knew that Hanley had just given him the silent "go ahead," but with the warning that the lieutenant would be unable to help if the situation blew up. Hanley wished he could put the endless paperwork on hold and stick around to see if anything would happen. He glanced across the street and saw Caje and Brockmeyer reclining in the shade of a building, and then Kirby came out of the hospital tent. Lighting a cigarette, the BAR man shouted something to the guys about the new nurses "didn't know a good thing when they saw it." He sauntered across the street to join his squad mates who were snickering at his failure. Hanley smiled; it appeared that Saunders had plenty of back up. Saunders had also seen his men gather around in a loose, offhanded manner. He couldn't quite describe the feeling, but he was glad they were waiting with him. They might not understand the sergeant's reasons, but they voluntarily came to watch his back. As the sun climbed over head, Saunders shook out a cigarette and lit it. Doc stepped out of the hospital to join his sergeant. "I heard the MPs saying the transport should be here soon," Doc informed him. "Good." Removing the cigarette from his mouth, Saunders exhaled. Doc went back into the hospital. Shortly after Doc had left, an open jeep pulled up. Inside

69 were two more well-armed MPs. While looking outwardly calm, Saunders felt his nerves begin to tighten in anticipation. It would come soon. The arrival of a jeep caused little excitement among the passing GIs and townsfolk. Vehicles were constantly arriving to pick up or drop off patients. The presence of the MPs was odd, but no one stopped to question or comment. The only natives Saunders saw walking down the street were a French couple who passed through the scrutiny of his three men. The man and woman were each carrying a bucket of water and moving at a steady pace. Dressed in neat but patched clothes, the man was clean shaven and walked with good posture, so Saunders turned his attention away when an MP stepped out of the jeep with rifle ready. Watching the door, Saunders saw a third MP exit the hospital. Lisa stepped out between the two guards. Without calling attention to themselves, the MPs quietly guided her to the jeep. Her face was as pale as the bandage that encased her arm, yet she seemed to have enough strength to walk without support. She appeared resigned to her fate as the MPs motioned her into the passenger seat. Saunders hoped they had been informed about the jeep jump stunt she had performed yesterday. As he watched the loading process, Saunders caught something from his peripheral vision. The couple he had noticed earlier had split up, the woman was continuing down the street holding both buckets of water. Caje let out a shout, and Saunders saw the man was close to the jeep. Holding his left hand around his right arm as if something were hurt, he was about to pass by the passenger seat where Lisa was sitting in a frozen stupor. Saunders could see the Frenchman was hiding a knife in his right hand, and the sergeant knew it was William. Caje's shout had alerted the MPs, but it had also spurred William into action. Leaping forward, the spy rammed into one policeman which sent him sprawling into another. The two MPs knocked out of the way, William was thrusting his knife forward when Saunders jumped him from behind. Saunders struck William squarely on the back, and the would-be murderer dropped to the pavement. Going down with William, Saunders landed on his bad knee and grimaced in pain. Nevertheless, he kept a hold on the man's shoulders. When he tried to rise, Saunders grabbed a handful of hair and slapped William's forehead onto the paving stones, knocking him out cold. By this time the MPs had recovered and two were yanking Saunders off the unconscious form of the spy. The two policemen in the jeep had rifles squarely aimed at Lisa while the driver was ready to swing the jeep around at a moment's notice. A crowd of startled townsfolk, GIs, and hospital staff started to form around the jeep and the squad rushed up. Questions filled the air as people inquired about what had happened and eyewitnesses tried to fill the others in. Unsure of what to do, the MPs were holding Saunders securely when a shout to clear the area was heard. "What is going on?" The angry tone clearly sounded as the S-2 captain pushed his way toward the jeep. Lieutenant Hanley was right behind him, anxious to find out what had happened. Saunders answered the irate captain's inquiry. "William came back." He nodded to the still form of the man. "He was going to finish the job he started, selling out and murdering his fellow agents. He tricked you into believing Lisa was the traitor when it was him all along." While the speechless Intelligence captain assimilated this information, Hanley ordered the MPs to release Saunders. The sergeant continued, "My guess is the story he told you about agents cracking under pressures is exactly what happened to him." He rolled William's limp body over and confiscated the knife. "But this man isn't the person I talked to!" the captain finally formed words. "Any agent worth his salt can alter his appearance in minutes," Hanley interjected. "This man had all night." Captain Hill nodded and made his decision. He spoke to the MPs, "Arrest this man." The two complied, pulling the groaning man off the street as he started to come to.

70 Turning to Saunders, Hill finished with, "Good work, Sergeant."

*****

After the verbal pat on the back, Captain Hill requested that another jeep be brought so he could personally accompany the British agents to the transport plane and hand them over. He wanted to be rid of the complicated problem and have no more backfires. Saunders had started to leave with his squad when he stopped and walked back to the jeep. Lisa hadn't spoken at all, and she stared at the floorboards without seeing them. Stopping by the jeep's side, the sergeant pulled an object out of his pocket and held it out to her. It was the switchblade that he killed the Gestapo man with. "Here. I forgot to return it." Lisa's hand uncurled and Saunders gently dropped the knife into her hand. Walking away, he had taken a couple steps when Lisa called him back. Pulling out another cigarette, Saunders turned back to the jeep. "Thank you," Lisa whispered as tears filled her eyes, "for believing me and for stopping William." Saunders nodded. "Have a safe trip," he said as the jeep pulled away. He knew it would be a long journey for her, though. It would take time to recover from the wounds of betrayal, the loss of her fellow operatives and Johnny, and the mind-breaking dangers of espionage. As the jeep rounded a corner and sped out of his vision, Saunders was silently thankful to be a part of the fine group of men in his squad. He knew he could always rely on and trust each individual. In return, he intended to keep the promise he made every time he lead the squad out. He intended to do his utmost to safely bring the men back and to keep his pledge to them. Rejoining his squad, Saunders was glad the mission was truly completed. The squad was home, and any new assignment would wait until tomorrow. Today was a promise fulfilled.

end

71 Defining Moment – Kirby

Next in Command

Littlejohn: Sarge says to hurry it up with that gun. Kirby: Annnh. Ever get the feeling we do all the work around here, Caje? I mean, squad needs a new machine gun, so who goes and gets it. Us. Thing's all full of grease, who's gonna clean it. Us. Littlejohn: Don't you ever get tired of griping, Kirby? Kirby: Sign of a good soldier, boy. Ain't that right, Caje? Caje: They say that. Kirby: Annnh. I leave the bowing down and bucking to you guys, Littlejohn. Extra stripe on my sleeve don't mean nothing to me. Littlejohn: You were busted once, weren’t you, Kirby? Kirby: Twice. Never was entered in my service record, though, 'cause I was just an acting squad leader Caje: I just can't picture you as a noncom, Kirby. Kirby: Why not? Caje: I just can't. Kirby: I had the best squad in the outfit. Littlejohn: Then why'd you get busted? Kirby: It was politics. Look, it ain't what you know in this man's army, buddy, it's who you know.

72 LUCK OF THE IRISH

By Cajun Puddin'

A very special thanks to my Twisted Sisters. You know who you are.

73 "Now that just tears it!" William G. Kirby was not a happy man. His Ma used to tell him that bad things happen in threes and, from the way his luck was running lately, she just might be right. First thing this morning, there was that little 'accident' with Fitzpatrick. Oh, sure, Fitz didn't mean to drop that canteen on Kirby's bare head. Or so he said. The way that punk had laughed, Kirby had his doubts. And Caje had been no help either. The squad was in division reserve, so they had a couple days of goof-off time for a change. The smooth-talking scout was enthralled with a little French mamzelle who had the longest legs that Kirby'd ever seen. And she was a redhead to boot. Man, some guys had all the luck! If he hadn't been so busy letting Doc bandage the cut on his head and brooding about Fitzpatrick, she just might be in his arms, not Caje's. It didn't matter that he didn't speak the language; some things were just understood, without words. A grin crept across the BAR man's face at that thought. "Hold still, Kirby! How do you expect me to bandage anything with you squirming like that?" "Geez, Doc. What're you trying to do up there? Take the rest of the hide off?" Doc laughed at this, but Kirby wasn't finished yet. "Can you believe that creep, Fitzpatrick? Heh, I'll just bet it was an accident. Now Caje is over there making time with that dame, and all I've got is a headache and dammit, I'm out of smokes!" This day just keeps getting better, Kirby grumbled to himself. "All right, listen up." Saunders waited as the squad gathered around him. "Our orders are to take out an OP. Intelligence says that it's located somewhere on the road that leads to Bayeux. Let's move out."

*****

As they neared the German OP, a machine gun opened up, forcing the Americans to take whatever cover they could find. The action was fast and furious. Although there were only five Krauts trying desperately to hold their OP, they were giving it everything they had. "Doc!" came the shout from across the way. "Caje got hit!" Paying no heed to the bullets that were zinging past him, Doc ran full-bore to answer the cry for help. Sliding in beside the injured man, Doc was already pulling a sulfa pack and a couple of bandages from his bag. "Lemme see that arm, Caje." The scout held out his right arm. Blood was oozing from a graze in his bicep. "It's nothing, Doc. Just a scratch, I'll be fine." The Cajun watched the battle that raged and pushed Doc down as a German head popped into view. Caje kept firing at the German who was trying to flank them. A cry sounded from the woods just to the scout's left. One down, four to go, he thought, pausing only to reload his Garand. "Kirby," Sarge called to the BAR man. "Try and make your way to their right side. I'll give you cover. Go!" The chattering of the Thompson was like a song to Kirby, the staccato bursts soothing his nerves. Kirby crawled alongside the fallen tree, stopping only when something brushed his hand. Looking to his left, he saw a chain with a small rabbit's foot attached, the fur matted with dried blood. Guess you didn't bring your former owner any luck, he thought. Good thing I'm not superstitious. As he neared the clearing, Kirby saw his objective: a rather large Kraut who was keeping Kirby's squad mates pinned down with exceedingly accurate fire. Checking the magazine in his rifle, he sized up the soldier in front of him. William G. Kirby was no stranger to a good brawl, but most of them had involved him and just some regular Joe, not someone with as much combat experience as he had, maybe more. Staring death in the face day in and day out did something to you. Made you tougher, harder. Tightening his grip on the BAR, Kirby moved closer to the soldier. But as he brought the

74 weapon up to bash the back of the man's head, the Kraut turned around. Swinging wildly, he knocked the rifle out of Kirby's hands. He lunged for his Mauser, which was on the ground, where it had fallen when Kirby surprised him. But Kirby tackled him before he even got close. The two men struggled to get the upper hand. Several hard, well-placed blows by the Kraut left Kirby gasping for breath, but the scrappy GI wasn't ready to give in just yet. Sticking his thumb in his opponent's eye, Kirby scrambled to his feet, putting a little distance between them. Not caring that the German soldier had at least three inches and forty pounds on him, Kirby charged, burying his shoulder in the surprised man's midsection. Grabbing the BAR, Kirby swung just as the Kraut went for his knife. The butt of the rifle connected with the taller man's temple, and he fell to the ground, motionless. Wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, Kirby started when someone lay his hand on his shoulder. "Merde," came the soft murmur. "Are you all right, Kirby?" Caje looked at the German on the ground, then back at his friend. Kirby's right eye was beginning to swell and he had a busted lip. Grinning, the scout jerked his thumb at the fallen man. "Hope he looks worse." Saunders and Doc walked over to the two men. "Kirby, you just can't catch a break today, can you?" Doc grinned at the scowling soldier. "All right, saddle up. Let's head for home." Sarge slung his Thompson over his shoulder, and turned to his scout. "Take the point." Caje nodded, and led the way back to the village where King Company's HQ was currently located. As he followed the others, Kirby stumbled over something half hidden in the tall grass. A creative epithet split the morning air as his boot came into violent contact with the object. Falling to the ground and grabbing his ankle, he spotted the cause of his distress. A horseshoe. Of all the.... Caje and Doc were the first to reach the fallen soldier. Kneeling by Kirby, Doc unbuckled his boot. Kirby's ankle was already swollen and starting to turn blue as Doc removed his sock. "He ain't going nowhere on this ankle, Sarge." Doc squinted in the bright morning sun. "We're gonna need a litter for him." "Aw, c'mon, Doc. It ain't that bad. See?" Kirby tried in vain to stand and put pressure on his wounded ankle. Caje caught him before he fell to the ground again. Walking over to the machine gun nest, Saunders took two coats from the dead Krauts, while Caje and Doc looked for some tree limbs to finish the litter. Satisfied that it was sturdy enough to hold him, Kirby limped over to the litter, leaning heavily on Caje. With a little help from Doc, he climbed up onto the litter, and they slowly made their way home.

*****

As they entered the village, Brockmeyer and Billy were sitting against a wall, cleaning their rifles. "Hey, Kirby!" Nelson called out. "What'd you do this time?" Brockmeyer gave a snort of laughter at this, prompting Kirby to sit up on the litter and respond to Nelson's question with a phrase that caused the young GI to turn purple with embarrassment. Saunders grinned at this exchange. "Caje, you and Doc take Kirby on over to the aid station; I'm gonna go find the lieutenant." Caje nodded and the two of them made their way over to the building where a temporary field hospital had been set up. After Caje and Doc left him, Kirby lay there on the cot, thinking about his day. And what a day it had been. So lost in his thoughts was Kirby that he didn't notice the nurse who stopped by his cot. A

75 cool hand lifted Kirby's, two fingers slipping around his wrist. Looking up, he saw the owner of that hand and gave her a smile that had charmed the women of France ever since its owner had landed on Omaha Beach. Lifting his dog tags, she ran her fingers over them, reading the information out loud. "Kirby, William G." She looked down at the private. "Where are you from, William G. Kirby?" Straightening a little on the uncomfortable cot, Kirby answered, "Chicago. And you?" "I'm from Arizona. Phoenix, to be exact." She smoothed the blanket, then sat down beside him. "My name is Katherinn, but my friends call me Katie. Do you go by William?" "Nah, everybody calls me Kirby." Again, he gave her a smile. But this one was a genuine smile, not the one he normally favored a pretty girl with. The sun was setting when Katie finally left his bedside, and Kirby was as happy as he could ever remember being. Ma always said that bad things happen in threes. But she forgot to tell him that the fourth thing was wonderful.

end

76 COMMON GROUND

by Nana

"Well may the wheat and sugar beets grow Green and lush upon its gentle slopes, for in that half-forgotten summer The best blood of Canada was freely poured out upon them." Quote by Capt. Tim Fletcher

Notes from Nana

This story is based on fact. Operation Goodwood happened in July 1944. The Canadians were flanked by American troops, as part of the battle strategy, after several days of fighting for Verrières Ridge. Most of the Canadian wounded were evacuated before the main force moved on. Some, inevitably, got left behind and were found later by the advancing Americans.

Dedicated to my husband's uncle, Yvon Robichaud, a retired lobster fisherman from New Brunswick. One of the finest men Harvey and I have ever known.

A big thank you to DocB, whose ideas and encouragement were such a tremendous help. Also, thanks to Doc II for her wonderful beta-ing skills and continuing support.

* The British derogatory word for a German soldier was "Jerry."

77 Bouctouche, New Brunswick, August 1985

At dusk, as had been their custom most evenings during this beautiful, warm summer, the elderly man and his eleven-year-old grandson walked together along the wide, sandy beach. Behind them, across a narrow strip of gravel road, lay their family's homestead near the small village of Bouctouche, on Canada's far eastern coast. They walked until their home was only barely visible in the distance. It was a sturdy white clapboard house with gray cedar-shake roof and a wide, inviting verandah. Its outbuildings were pleasingly weathered by time and salt air and surrounded on three sides by the tall stately pines and majestic maple trees planted by their Acadian ancestors two hundred years before. It had a sense of permanence, of peace and tranquility, and of being well loved. As they watched, the sun set in all its gold-tinged, red glory, spreading fiery tendrils across the far horizon and making a bright pathway on the gray, breeze-tossed waves. They chatted about anything and everything, occasionally pausing to examine half-buried shells or a piece of wave-carved driftwood. This was a very special time for each of them, just Len Cormier, retired lobster fisherman, and his eldest grandchild, Luc. Often their talk began with Luc saying, "Pepère, tell me again about when you were rescued by the American GIs!" and Len answering in mock admonishment, "Not again, Luc! You must know the story off by heart by now!" He turned his head so that the twinkle in his eye could not be seen. The little boy's huge brown eyes stared up at his tall, gray-haired Grandpa and he continued the game they played. "Please, Pepère! I love to hear that story. It's the only one you will ever tell me about your time in the war," he added quietly. Len, feigning reluctance, said, "I know, Luc, but awful things happen in wartime and it's very sad to bring back bad memories. I will tell you the rescue story again so that you will know that good things sometimes take place during a war too." "I know, Pepère," said Luc solemnly, black, curly hair bobbing up and down and earnest face flushed with excitement, confident that his Grandpa would repeat the story for him yet again. Smiling indulgently, Len began the familiar tale. "Well, son, it was like this...."

*****

Normandy, July 1944

First Squad slogged miserably through the sodden woods, mud-encrusted boots slipping and sliding on the rain-slicked ground. Water dripped off their helmets, pooling uncomfortably around the collars of their ponchos and then soaking their clothes down to the skin. The tree branches and thick undergrowth hung limp and heavy, splattering even more moisture onto the hapless GIs as they brushed by. Despite the warmth of the afternoon, the raw dampness made them shiver and sink farther into the scant protection of their uniforms. To Kirby, it seemed the day had been years long. He kept up a constant litany of muttered curses under his breath. Was the Sarge never going to call a halt so we can rest for a few minutes? Why did it always have to be First Squad that was sent out on all the rotten missions...

78 wasn't there some kind of law or something? After yesterday's heavy fighting, they deserved a break, didn't they? Huh? "Hey Sarge," he called out to Saunders, who strode a few feet ahead. "Ain't we close yet?" adding almost inaudibly: "Bet we ain't gonna find ‘em, anyway!" "Just keep walking, Kirby, and shut up!" Saunders whispered. "The lieutenant said there were reports of Kraut SS patrols out here searching for stragglers and wounded." Littlejohn loped quietly along behind Kirby, content to just put one foot in front of the other and go where Caje was leading them. The big GI's mind was not on what he was doing. Billy lay back there in a field hospital with a bullet in his leg, and Littlejohn couldn't prevent himself from worrying about how his young friend was faring. Bringing up the rear, Doc kept his eyes glued to Littlejohn's back, fearful of losing sight of his squad mates in the pouring rain that effectively obscured all but a few feet in front of him. With this new misery to cope with, yesterday's action seemed to pale by comparison. American forces had staged a massive breakout from their tenuous Normandy beachheads and, as planned, successfully flanked the earlier Canadian offensive to the north and moved farther inland. The German resistance had been ferocious, and Saunders' battle-hardened squad was with the spearhead force that took the brunt of the amassed German defensive tactics. Billy was wounded in a fierce skirmish with an infiltrating Kraut mobile machine gun patrol that took the lives of several enemy soldiers and cost Second Squad their sergeant and two riflemen. The squad had managed very little sleep during the previous chilly wet night and had just finished a cold C-ration breakfast when Lieutenant Hanley sent for Saunders at first light that morning. When the sergeant, rain streaming off his camo helmet in rivulets, stepped into the field command post a few minutes later, Hanley acknowledged his friend with a curt nod. "Saunders, get your guys ready. We just got a request from the Canadians who're dug in north of here. They've asked us to send a patrol out to look for some of their wounded. Six men and a medic were left behind near Fontenay-le-Marmion when their unit moved on a few days ago." He held up his hand to stop Saunders' protest. "Yeah, I know... your squad has had a rough time in the last couple of days! I've got no choice. I need Caje's scouting and your squad to back him up. They're the most experienced men I've got. The Krauts are counterattacking all along the line, and the Canadians are so hard-pressed to hang on to the territory they've gained over the last week that they can't spare anyone to go find their guys." He settled the matter by adding, "Captain Jampel told them we'd do our best." Saunders shrugged resignedly and, tight-lipped, listened to the lieutenant's explanation of where the Canadians might be. Pocketing the rough map he was given, he asked, "If we find 'em, Lieutenant, how do we get 'em out? We can't carry 'em in this weather. We'll need transport." "I'm aware of that, Saunders. Radio in, and we'll try to get a couple of trucks through. It might take them a while, though. The ground's too soggy for them to go across country, and the only road that S-2 says is relatively clear of Krauts takes a meandering route through May-sur-Orne and St. André before getting to Fontenay-le-Marmion. "Yes sir," Saunders growled. "Anything else, Lieutenant?"

79 "Yeah, Saunders. The Canadians are counting on us to rescue their men before some Kraut patrol finds them. Avoid contact with the Germans if you can and stay away from the main road heading to Caen. The 188th Panzer Group and an elite SS division have regained control of that whole area below Verrières Ridge. Leave as soon as the squad is ready." As the noncom nodded brusquely and turned to leave, Hanley added with a faint grin, "Oh, and Saunders... watch yourself, huh?

*****

After leaving Lieutenant Hanley's CP, the small group of GIs passed abandoned dwellings, their gaping roofs and scarred or toppled walls stark evidence of mortar strikes and small arms fire. Some were reduced to piles of smoldering rubble. Discarded military paraphernalia lay strewn in ruined churned-up fields and among the shattered remains of what had once been mature fruit orchards and vineyards. Cluttered farmyards held the gruesome bloated bodies of animals and men. Saunders and his men stumbled into deserted Kraut machine gun nests, their wrecked weapons staring sightlessly at the sky, and squeezed carefully past a shell-blasted Churchill tank on its side across a water-filled ditch. Derelict vehicles of every description littered the winding farm lanes and made the squad's progress painstakingly slow. It was almost sunset and still raining hours later when the sergeant finally called a halt. The previous hour had been spent struggling up a densely wooded hillside and then downhill where the enveloping trees and thick bushes started to thin out, gradually giving way to a landscape of antiquated farms, their quaint stone houses and clustered outbuildings surrounded by fields ripe with wheat and sugar beets. From a distance, it seemed an idyllic scene of pastoral gentleness; however, before Saunders motioned the squad into the shelter of a rickety wooden shed, it had been only too clear that this area also had recently been a bloody battleground.

*****

Under the slight protection afforded by the badly leaking lean-to structure, Saunders and Caje hunkered down in a corner to pore over the Sarge's map, while the rest of the squad looked around for a relatively dry place on which to sit and rest. Perched precariously on an upturned barrel and wringing out his soaking socks, Kirby grouched, "Will ya look at them feet! If we don't find them Canadians soon, Ole Kirby here's gonna have toes that look like prunes!" Smirking at the disgusted look on the querulous GI's face, Littlejohn gratefully eased the radio off his back. He lowered his bulky frame onto an empty feed bin and sat down, carefully propping his rifle beside him. "Why don't you just stop moaning about your feet, Kirby? There's a lot of guys much worse off than you are!" he muttered, glaring. He was silent for a moment, and then quietly added to no one in particular, "I wonder how Billy's doing?" Doc glanced up from checking his bag to make sure his medical supplies had escaped the rain. Sensing the worry behind his big friend's words, he answered, grinning wryly, "Don't worry, Littlejohn. He'll be okay. Trust me. He sure is a lot more comfortable back in that aid station than we are out here... at least he's dry!" Littlejohn smiled slowly. "Well, that's somethin', huh? Wish I coulda checked on him before we left this morning though... he was bleeding awful bad after he was hit." "He's gonna be just fine, Littlejohn," Doc interrupted reassuringly. "You can go see for yourself when we get back." "If we get back, ya mean," the squad's malcontent chimed in. "The way we're goin', even if

80 the Krauts don't get us, we're all gonna get drownded!" Littlejohn's angry retort was cut off sharply by Saunders, who spoke from the corner. "That's enough Kirby!" then added to the rest of his men, "Okay, listen up. It looks like we're in the vicinity of Fontenay. Caje—take a look up ahead, huh? The rest of you sit tight and keep your eyes peeled. And Kirby... quit bellyaching and put your boots on. We may need to move out fast!" With a nod, Caje slipped silently away, disappearing immediately into the curtain of driving rain. He returned just as soundlessly in a few minutes, breathing heavily and with gaunt features flushed with exertion. "There's an abandoned farm up ahead, Sarge. Just north of here... might be the place. I'm gonna check it out, okay?" "Okay, Caje. Signal if you find anything."

*****

Peering inside the darkened barn, Caje could just discern the shadowy shapes of farm implements scattered haphazardly about among bales of musty hay. The fetid smells of blood and vomit mingling with the reek of animals seemed to hang in the stifling heat of the building. The cloying stink of the place assaulted his senses and, nose wrinkling in disgust, he had to fight down a threatening wave of nausea. He sucked in his breath and crept forward, ever-vigilant eyes darting from side to side and straining in a futile attempt to see more clearly. The dirt floor muffled the sound of his careful footsteps, and the only noise he could hear was the quiet whirring of the bats that swooped among the rafters above him. As he reached the stone foundation walls, he found several empty rough stalls, their tramped-down floors covered with mildewy fodder. Here and there muddy puddles formed on the barn's uneven floor where rain dripped through badly patched holes in the shingled roof. The pale rays of light the gaps reluctantly admitted allowed him to pick out the shape of a dilapidated wagon. Hanging on hooks from the huge hand-hewn loft supports were leather harnesses and yokes used, no doubt, by the impoverished French farmer who relied mostly on horsepower to work his land. What few windows there were appeared opaque with grime, and they only added to the murkiness instead of alleviating it. Cobwebs draped the corners and hung in wisps from blackened tackle stacked in the loft and between the bales of hay. Suddenly, he heard a low, anguished moan, followed by a muttered oath—in English! The Cajun froze instantly. Squinting into the gloom and tightening his finger on the trigger of his Garand, he yelled, "Who's there? Come out where I can see you!" Only silence answered. He crept forward without a sound and found himself standing in front of a heavy wooden door. It was slightly ajar and, crouching low, he gingerly nudged it open with the barrel of his rifle. At first, he could see nothing in the inky blackness. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the interior, the silhouette of a man emerged, and gradually Caje realized that it was an Allied soldier. Legs planted firmly, arms stretched wide, the unarmed man was determinedly blocking Caje's way into the room. In the tiny flickering light of a solitary candle, the Cajun could just distinguish several other men sprawled on the floor or leaning against posts, quiet and still. He wiped a trembling hand over his mouth as the fear drained out of him and relief flooded in. Lowering his weapon slightly, he eyed the man warily. Exhausted brown eyes stared out from a face gray with lack of sleep and shadowed with several days' growth of beard. He was tall and hefty, or seemed so to the shorter and thinner GI. Dark, unruly hair was plastered to his sweaty forehead and a

81 bloody field dressing partially covered a long angry-looking laceration over his eyebrow. The whole left side of his dirty face was mottled with purplish bruising. His khaki uniform, or what was left of it, was filthy with mud and bloodstains. Caje caught sight of the man's shoulder flash that read Canada, and above it, his unit's name South Saskatchewans. On his left arm, a grubby and torn Red Cross armband was just visible below the double chevrons of a corporal. Peering closely at him, Caje realized that the Canadian soldier was struggling to stay on his feet; he was swaying slightly, one hand clutching the door jam for support. Grabbing the big man's arm to buoy him up, he said quickly, "Hey, take it easy, Canada. My name's LeMay, PFC Paul LeMay, 361st United States Infantry. It's gonna be okay now." The Canadian's taut jaw and defiant scowl gradually relaxed into a crooked grin. Medical corpsman Corporal Len Cormier felt almost euphoric in his relief. Maybe his guys would finally be getting the care they so desperately needed. The Americans were here! The sheer relief seemed to sap the waning energy out of him, and he was grateful when the GI grasped his arm to steady him. Len quickly introduced himself, his French-Canadian accent more apparent in his exhaustion. "I'm Len Cormier, South Saskatchewans, 2nd.Canadian Division. Oh, mon Dieu, je suit très fiere de vous voir!! I've got some wounded guys here... out of morphine and bandages... not had anything to eat and not much to drink since yesterday and precious little for two days before that... Je croiyais que les allemange nous vions trouver...." His voice trailed off as he realized he was babbling both in English and his native Acadian French. "Sorry... I'm wasting time... you got anyone with you who could help me get them back? They're in a bad way." "I know, Corporal," Caje said, patting Len on the shoulder soothingly. "We've been looking for you. There's a squad of guys waiting out there. We'll get you out of here, don't worry." Aware that Len's accent was similar to his own and attempting to distract the man from his obvious agitation, Caje queried, "You've got a French accent. You from Québèc? Before the war, I used to spend some time there, skiing." Len answered, smiling, "Naw, LeMay. I'm an Acadian from the East Coast... little place called Bouctouche in New Brunswick. We speak French around there." It suddenly dawned on him that the swarthy American soldier crouching in front of him also spoke in French-accented tones and had the same dark Gallic looks of many of his own relatives at home. "Are you a Cajun?" Grinning, Caje nodded confirmation. "Yeah, from New Orleans," adding inquiringly, "What's a guy from the East Coast doing in a prairie regiment?" Len's drawn features split into a tired smile. "Hey, the Canadian army is no different than armies everywhere, eh? They all make a habit of doing things that don't make any sense... at least they got one thing right though—I wanted to be a medic when I volunteered!" They grinned at each other, both singularly pleased that here in an isolated rain-soaked French farmyard, thousands of miles from their respective native land, two total strangers had found common ground.

*****

Within a few minutes, First Squad had responded to Caje's signal and filed into the barn at the double, while Len re-lit several candles and an old oil lamp that he'd hurriedly doused on first hearing Caje's footsteps. Rain-slickers and helmets were quickly doffed, weapons propped close

82 at hand, and then the newcomers hastened to follow Doc's quiet instructions on how to help him with the wounded Canadians. Each man was carefully examined, wounds assessed and re- dressed, and morphine injected. Littlejohn followed, offering rations to those able to eat and gently helping others to drink from his canteen. Len had immediately levered himself to his feet and began, unbidden, to deftly assist the American medic. He had a smile or a reassuring remark for each of the men, and a quiet confident manner. Watching him, Littlejohn couldn't help thinking how much Len reminded him of First Squad's own medic. Finally satisfied that he'd done all he could to make the injured Canadians more comfortable, Doc turned next to their corpsman, whose worried look had eased somewhat when he saw his injured men were getting the care they needed. Eyeing him, Doc could see that he was almost out on his feet. "Hey, you don't look so good yourself, Corporal. You better let me take a look at that forehead of yours." Len shook his head. "I'm okay, Doc. Just tired, that's all," he said as he busied himself clearing away bloodied bandages and straightening blankets. "Mebbe so, Len, but come and sit here anyway," Doc said firmly. "I oughtta change that bandage at least." While Doc gently replaced the bloody and dirt-caked bandage on his forehead, Len quietly explained to the Sarge that he and the six wounded South Saskatchewans in his charge had been involved in the Canadian forces' attempt to capture Verrières Ridge as part of the Allied offensive code-named Operation Goodwood four days before. In torrential rain, the battle had raged back and forth on the grassy slope and among the surrounding wheat fields and apple orchards. The Canadians' three-inch mortars and light Bren guns were no match for the full-strength German panzers. The screaming hail of 88mm shells and deadly mortar fire from unseen vantage points along the road to nearby Tailleville caused heavy losses among the advancing Canadians. Somehow though, they had managed to repel several counterattacks by small groups of crack German troops. Len's grim face reflected his painful recollections. "We took lots of casualties right away. Our guys were being cut down everywhere by rapid fire from well-camouflaged and entrenched Jerry* machine guns which were hidden on Verrières Ridge. It's only about fifteen hundred feet but it gave them a clear view of every move we made. It was chaotic for a while—no one seemed to know what was going on!" Taking a deep breath, he continued, "There were dozens of dead and wounded, ours and German, lying out in the open while the fighting carried on around them. Me and a couple of other corpsmen managed to drag a few of the wounded together into ditches or shell holes so that we could give them first aid, but we couldn't get to them all—we were under such heavy shell and machine gun fire most of the time... there were so many...." Gratefully accepting Kirby's wordlessly offered cigarette, Len paused and swallowed convulsively. "At one point, one of our tanks from the Sherbrooke Fusiliers couldn't manouvre around so many casualties lying closely together and was forced to run over some of them. It was the worst thing I've ever seen...." His shaky voice became inaudible, weary brown eyes staring unseeing into the dark recesses of the barn. Consciously pulling himself together, Len continued diffidently with his narrative. Although he did not say in so many words, it was clear to the intently listening GIs that he had spent that

83 terror-filled day slithering, under murderous fire, from one downed soldier to another. For some, those who were still breathing, he had frantically fought to staunch bleeding and provide water and then pull them to some semblance of safety in soggy shell holes or the drainage ditches so common in the French countryside. For others, it was too late for his help by the time he managed to reach them. He had kept going tirelessly until his exhaustion was a tangible thing, the mêlée around him all but unheeded in his single-minded quest to help the wounded. Late in the afternoon, he was knocked almost senseless by a bullet graze to the temple. Someone hastily slapped a field dressing on the bleeding wound, and he'd shaken off his dizziness to carry on his grisly task of finding those who needed his aid. Sunset brought a lull in the fighting and only sporadic fire from both sides continued. Len used the opportunity to press a couple of buddies from his unit into helping him get six of the more seriously wounded into the barn. Within its comparative safety he had been able make them fairly comfortable on hastily gathered piles of straw and cover them with blankets from his companions' packs. About the same time, the regimental aid post had transported some of the severely wounded away to a field hospital in the rear, but Len and his group were not among them. Instead, he was told by his CO to stay with his patients and wait for evacuation. Outside, the sounds of combat soon resumed and eventually moved farther away. The promised relief never came.

*****

That was four days ago. Since then, he had tried to keep the men quiet, tend to their hurts as best he could, share out the few rations they had, fight his own exhaustion and fear... and wait. Several times, he heard the sound of heavy vehicles rumbling by and crept to the door, hopeful of rescue, only to see the ominous black crosses on the armoured German trucks and tanks. Sometime during the second night he'd detected the guttural tones of enemy voices coming from the road in front of the farmhouse and had almost resigned himself and his patients to certain capture. Surprisingly though, the probing Germans had not entered their hiding place and the Canadians were left alone again. Medical supplies and rations had run out the day before yesterday. Even earlier than that Len had been giving most of his share of food to the others, figuring they needed it more than he did. Water became dangerously low and he was contemplating trying to sneak out and refill the canteens from the well in the farmyard when he'd sensed Caje's stealthy footsteps. Thinking the Germans were back, he had motioned the wounded to silence, hoping against hope that their presence wouldn't be revealed. When Taylor, the young private from Saskatoon who was suffering horribly from a bullet wound in the stomach, moaned loudly, Len had been sure that discovery was inevitable. He knew that lack of sleep and hunger had rendered him weak and vulnerable, but he hadn't hesitated. Dizziness and exhaustion shoved aside, he'd taken a defensive position behind the door, determined to shield his comrades with his own body.

*****

Once the Canadian finished his story, Saunders lost no time in reporting in to Lieutenant Hanley and, on providing the map coordinates of their position, had been assured that transport would be sent immediately and should arrive just after dark. The Sarge ordered Littlejohn to stand watch for the first hour and his other two men to take a rest while they could. Caje and Kirby settled down gratefully. Not sleeping though. They simply kept vigil, watching Doc work over the wounded. Len had slumped down nearby, finally surrendering to sleep.

84 "Think we can get ‘em out, Caje?" Kirby asked quietly, removing his sopping wet poncho and boots and leaning his BAR close by. "I dunno, Kirby. By the looks of a couple of them, if that transport doesn't come soon, it'll be too late." "Yeah, I know. We gotta try though, huh? That medic's kept ‘em alive despite all the odds against him, and I ain't about to let ‘em die now!" Kirby hissed vehemently. "When them trucks get here...." Kirby's adamant words were abruptly swallowed by a sudden cacophony of earsplitting noise. From a distance the sounds of gunfire and exploding shells rent the air and the two GIs, immediately alert and wary, simultaneously leapt to their feet, instinctively grabbing for their weapons. They moved to the open door, where Sarge had already taken up position, Kirby struggling to put his boots back on as he hopped clumsily on one foot, then the other. Doc stayed where he was beside the wounded, ready to do whatever was necessary to protect them, and Corporal Cormier, shaken awake by the din, climbed shakily to his feet and joined him. Sarge crouched down, pushed the heavy door open slightly, and chanced a quick look outside. In the dripping semi-darkness, it was almost impossible to see more than a few feet, but behind the shadowy shape of the stone wall surrounding the farmyard fifty yards away he could easily observe the brilliant glow of distant flames leaping wildly into the night sky. He sensed the oily black smoke as it billowed and spread in an ever-increasing cloud, and could smell the pungent reek of burning rubber. "You think the Krauts found the trucks, Sarge?" Caje whispered, as he anxiously peered over Kirby's shoulder. The sporadic gunfire seemed to have come to a halt and a momentary stillness descended. Then the grating squeak of tank tracks against sprockets and the muffled whine of spinning jeep tires could easily be heard as they rattled farther and farther away. "That's what it looks like," Saunders gritted through his teeth, his tired eyes roaming the farmyard in a vain effort to see more clearly. "Where'd Littlejohn get to?" Kirby, sham annoyance covering his anxiety about his squad mate's fate, muttered, "I just hope the big oaf didn't get hisself caught up in that mess!" Settling his helmet firmly on his head and grabbing his Thompson, Saunders barked, "Shut up Kirby! We're gonna find out what's going on right...." A sudden low warning from Caje interrupted him, "Sarge! There's movement out by the roadway... I can't see what it is!" As he spoke, the Cajun was already swinging his Garand up into firing position, expertly aiming it into the dense shadows where he'd fleetingly glimpsed something moving. His ever-vigilant hazel eyes continued scanning the area constantly. Saunders leapt effortlessly into defensive mode, Thompson ready. Finger on the trigger of his BAR, Kirby balanced the heavy rifle on a front window ledge, prepared to fire instantaneously. Both men's eyes joined their scout's search. At the rear of the barn, Doc and Len hastily dragged several bales of hay to make a barricade of sorts in an attempt to provide more protection for the wounded. Tense seconds passed. Then, all three men took relieved breaths and lowered their weapons when they recognized the huge bulk of Littlejohn as he appeared out of the gloom not twenty-five yards away. He was running full pelt toward the barn. Staggering inside with his homely face flushed and chest heaving, he slowly bent over, bracing his hands on his knees, as he frantically tried to catch a mouthful of air.

85 Steadying hands clutched at him and then Doc was there beside him. "You okay, Littlejohn?" The medic's concern went unnoticed as Littlejohn, intent only on reporting to the Sarge, managed with supreme effort to get his breathing under control and find his voice, and blurted out, "Sarge! There's Krauts out there. Looked like maybe a squad of infantry... and a tank. When I heard the firing, I ran up the road to see what was happening. They must've ambushed the trucks the lieutenant sent! Everything was burning when I got there. Didn't see any Krauts around... looked like they'd taken off. I figured I couldn't do anything alone so I didn't waste any time—got back here on the double. We gotta go help our guys, Sarge. Quick!" Saunders briefly clasped Littlejohn's still-heaving shoulder, saying, "Okay, Littlejohn. Take it easy, huh?" Turning to his waiting men, he issued abrupt orders. "Caje and Kirby, you're on me. Littlejohn, you stay here. Get on the radio and let the lieutenant know what's happening. Len, you wait with the wounded and Doc, you keep watch with Littlejohn. We're gonna check out the trucks. We don't know where those Krauts are so keep your eyes open!" As the three men left the barn and melted into the night, Doc and Len turned anguished glances on each other in tacit understanding, knowing they were thinking the same thing. Dammit!! If we don't get these guys back soon, some of ‘em ain't gonna make it.

*****

The relentless rain had turned into a sullen drizzle as the three GIs cautiously felt their way through the sinister darkness until they felt the firmer surface of the roadway under their boots. Retreating a few feet into the lee of the dry-stone wall along the road's edge, they followed its dim ribbon of gravel for a few hundred yards until Sarge, in the lead, caught sight of a thin glimmer of flame and the ghostly outlines of two U.S. trucks. He held up his hand, and all three men swiftly crouched down in unison. "See ‘em?" Saunders whispered. "They're ahead in the middle of that crossroads. Let's check it out, huh? Caje, you swing around to the right. I'll take the left flank. Kirby, you stay here by this wall and cover us. Got it?" "Right, Sarge," Kirby answered quietly as he lowered himself into position behind the piled up stones and readied his BAR. No sound came from Caje, but Saunders knew he'd simply nodded and inaudibly crept away in response to his noncom's order. As they circled the trucks, it quickly became obvious that there were no Germans remaining in the vicinity. There was no movement anywhere; the only sounds were the sputtering and hissing of the dying flames. Their pale iridescent light spasmodically illuminated the deep tank tracks that traversed the roadside ditch and disappeared through a trampled hedgerow into a neighbouring field. One of the American trucks lay on its side in the flooded ditch—bullet-ridden, ruined and silent. Caje came across its lifeless driver, barely visible a few feet away. The man was sprawled on his back, rifle still clutched in his dead hand, his field jacket stained black with his blood, and dark sightless eyes staring out from his pallid youthful face. Smoke was still lazily spiraling up from the other vehicle, now just a burned-out shell. The wreckage stood in the middle of the road where a tank shell had blasted it with a direct hit.

86 Grotesquely crumpled inside lay what was left of the driver, hideously burned beyond recognition. Shaking his head, Saunders gently removed the soldiers' dog tags and carefully pocketed them. He and Caje pulled the bodies to the side of the road, covering them with blankets they found in the back of the ditched truck. Seconds later, Kirby trotted up to join them and all three GIs stood for a moment, heads bowed, before turning back toward the farmstead. It was instinctive for each of them to offer at least this small act of decency when a man gave up his life for his country. A few minutes later they were back in the barn, recounting what they'd found. With a look of disappointed consternation on his face, Doc drew closer to Saunders and asked in a lowered voice, "What're we gonna do, Sarge? The lieutenant told Littlejohn that they can't get any more transport through to us yet. They've had reports of Kraut recon patrols and roadblocks all around here. Until they're cleared, nothing can get through to us." He looked back at the wounded soldiers lying in the alcoves of the barn and added, "They all need a hospital now, Sarge!" "Yeah, I know. Tell me about it, Doc!" Saunders growled, irritably dragging off his helmet and running his fingers through his tousled fair hair. "We gotta come up with something to get them outta here." He glanced around at the small group of men who had moved to stand expectantly around him, fully aware that they were confident that he could find a solution to their predicament. They trust me to find a way to get home. God, I just wish I knew how! Pretending a confidence he didn't feel, Saunders took the initiative, telling Caje to scout out the area and his remaining men to keep vigil out by the farmyard walls. Without a word, the Cajun slipped away, while Kirby and Littlejohn hoisted their weapons and went out into the drizzle. They'd been gone several minutes when Len rose to his feet from where he'd been kneeling at Private Taylor's side and walked over to Saunders and Doc. "Sergeant Saunders, the Orne River is nearby, eh? I think it flows northwest of here through Caen. Our guys took that area a week or two ago. If we could just find some way to use the river, we might have a chance to get there." No one heard Caje slip back into the barn, and they were startled when his softly accented voice said, "That could be our only option, Sarge. It's pretty hard to see much out there in the dark, but I could hear Kraut voices down the road to the west, so I skirted around to stay away from them and ended up stumbling down a river bank. I'd say it's about two hundred yards south of here. I scouted along the bank for any sign of more Krauts, but it looks to me like it's clear... couldn't see any kind of boat we could use though." Running a hand over his face, Saunders shook his head and said, "It's pretty risky, Caje. Even if we could find something that would float and could hold all of us, we gotta do it before dawn. It'd be suicide to try it in daylight. For all we know there's Krauts all around us." Len and Caje looked at each other, a similar idea forming in their minds. Len spoke first, voicing Caje's thoughts precisely. "Ya know, Sergeant Saunders, when I was a kid down home, we didn't have much money for store-bought toys so me and my friends spent a lot of time making and floating rafts down the river to the sea." He grinned at Caje, who was nodding his head and smiling at the memory that had suddenly popped into his head. "I bet you did the same thing in the bayou, eh, Caje?" "Yeah, I sure did. Got good at making 'em too!" Sarge, blue eyes now alive with hopeful interest, interrupted their conversation. "Caje, the canvas roof and tires of that truck in the ditch looked in good shape. There's an old wooden wagon in here, and there's sure to be rope and maybe nails. See if you and Cormier can build a raft, huh?"

*****

Bouctouche, New Brunswick, 1985

"So, that's what we did, Luc. Caje and me, well, we made a couple of trips back to that

87 truck and cut some canvas from the roof. We used a wrench we found in a toolbox in the barn to get the tires off and carried them back. After a bit of a search, we came across a big pail of spikes, an old sledgehammer, and some rope in the barn, and then we set to work. Being as quiet as possible, we used the heavy oak planks from the wagon for the bed of the raft, roped the tires underneath, and used the canvas to make a low covering to protect the wounded from the weather. When we'd finished, Littlejohn helped Doc and me to wrap blankets around the guys and carry them down to the raft. We surrounded them with canvas that we rolled up into balustrades to stop them from being dumped into the water if the river got choppy. Then we used stripped branches to pole our way through the shallows along the riverbank. Caje and me and Littlejohn handled the poles, while the sergeant and Kirby stood guard, watching for Jerries* on the riverbanks. It was kind of nerve-wracking, I'll tell ya! The river was high 'cause of all the rain, and a couple of times we had to just drift downstream until the poles could touch bottom again. We expected the Germans to see us any minute, and boy, we were sure glad when we finally made it to Caen. Just in the nick of time too, with only an hour or so left before sunrise." As the story ended, the little boy looked up at his grandpa, knowing there would be a faraway look in his faded brown eyes as he gazed out to sea. There always was, no matter how many times he recounted this tale. "Are you sad when you think of the war, Grandpère?" he said, wise beyond his years. The old man affectionately ruffled his grandson's tousled hair and answered softly, "Non, not sad, Luc. Just reminiscing about some of the finest men I ever knew." Luc gently placed his small hand into his grandpa's much larger calloused one and said gently, " Let's go home, Grandpère. Grandmère will be waiting."

*****

Caen, Normandy, France, July 1944

The cool mist-shrouded dawn was long gone as Lieutenant Hanley climbed out of his jeep and headed across the debris-littered street. Billy had been transferred here an hour or so ago, and Hanley had decided to see how the likeable young private from First Squad was doing. He spied Saunders languidly lounging in the entrance to the makeshift hospital. He grimaced as he looked at the small shell-damaged barbershop that housed it, but he knew there had been little choice. It was one of very few usable buildings left anywhere in the medieval city of Caen. Constant bombardment prior to the city's recent liberation by the Allies had reduced the once beautiful place to a soul-destroying wilderness of ruined edifices. Liberated or not, it was now a still-smoking hell for its weary population. Clutching an almost empty cup of strong black coffee, the benignly smiling sergeant was eyeing the small group of soldiers clustered around Billy's cot in the cramped space of the little shop. Curiously following his friend's amused gaze, Hanley took in the scene. Billy, appearing a little wan and tired but with a cheerful grin on his boyish face, was sitting up in his bed listening gleefully to the good-natured bantering between Littlejohn and Kirby. Seated on a chair beside him, Littlejohn was looking both relieved and delighted to see his little buddy again. Balanced on the end of the cot, with a battered unlit cigarette sitting limply at the side of his mouth, and brandishing a dog-eared pack of cards in his hand, Kirby had evidently been trying to entice them into a poker game. On receiving a dual resounding "No!" he had made one of his inimitable glib wisecracks. Everyone in the room

88 had suddenly burst into loud guffaws, and Kirby was looking decidedly pleased with himself at their reaction. Caje, Doc, and Len were huddled nearby, talking quietly while seated on the shabby wooden chairs they'd pulled into a cluster by the door. Doc leaned back so that his chair rested only on its two back legs and listened, with a patient expression in his blue eyes, when Len and Caje occasionally absentmindedly lapsed into their own particular French patois. The atmosphere of camaraderie was unmistakable. Saunders turned to glance at his friend beside him. "Common ground, huh, Lieutenant?" A wide grin slowly spread over Hanley's lean face. "Yeah, right, Saunders. Common ground!"

end

89 A Squad Moment from "Fly Away Home"

Kirby: Hey, uh, how about me next, Pulaski?

Pulaski: Oh, sure, if we get time before the lieutenant gets back.

Littlejohn: Hey, Pulaski, don't take too much off the sides.

Pulaski: Sure.

Kirby: Yeah, last guy who cut mine took too much off the top too.

Caje: Hey, Kirby. Don't blame the barber now. (He laughs) Hey, Sarge. Did the lieutenant tell you anything about the mission?

Saunders: No, just that it was something special.

Kirby: Hey, guy was telling me about a good deal he had once. He was escorting a bunch of them USO chicks around. Heh-heh! Who you gotta know to get a job like that, Sarge?

Saunders: USO chicks.

(Hanley arrives in jeep)

Hanley: Men, this is Sergeant Keeley. Sergeant Saunders. Caje. Littlejohn. Kirby. Pulaski.

Saunders: What's the mission, Sergeant?

Keeley: Escorting me and my pigeons.

(Laughter from all except Keeley)

Kirby: Hey, we wanted some chicks, and we got pigeons.

(Pigeon truck pulls up)

Kirby: Pigeon service! Well, Lieutenant, are they kidding? What is this, some kind of joke?

Hanley: No joke, Kirby. You and the pigeons are going to be infiltrating deep behind enemy lines.

90 ONCE UPON A TIME

By Ash (Susan M. Ballard)

91 Kirby swore soundly and tossed the butt of his smoke aside, glaring daggers at Caje as he moved over to sit next to Littlejohn. Much to Kirby's disgust, the big PFC got up from his comfortable spot in the warming spring sun and went to sit next to the Cajun. "You're a jerk, Kirby, you know that?" Littlejohn said. His tone wasn't accusatory, and the soft-spoken Nebraskan wasn't really pointing fingers. He was just stating fact. "Yeah, yeah, I know! I know, you don't hafta rub it in," Kirby replied sarcastically. Ever since he'd joined up with King Company and in particular, second platoon, he'd felt like an outsider, but then hell, Kirby had always felt like the fifth wheel. Littlejohn shook his head. "You don't even try to fit in." "Why should I?" Kirby shot back. "You just gimme one reason why I oughta try to fit in with this group a losers? Huh?" His dark eyes glittered with pent up anger, his wiry body taut with unreleased energy. Kirby was a ticking time bomb. "I'll tell you why, Kirby, if nobody else will." Sergeant Chip Saunders walked into the clearing, obviously the worse for wear, his field jacket ragged and torn, his boots mud-caked, and with dark circles ringing bloodshot eyes. As he took his ease among his men, his shoulders rounded from fatigue, he shivered in the freshening breeze. "Aw, go on, Sarge, spit it out," Kirby replied rudely. Saunders ignored the sarcasm. He knew how Private William G. Kirby felt. He knew and he understood. It was his job to understand, but also to correct his second-newest replacement's feelings of being a loner. The sergeant dropped down next to Kirby, sharing a seat on the fallen log. Saunders removed his helmet and ran a hand through his tousled hair before laying the helmet on the ground and turning to face the private. "There's no room for a loner in war, Kirby. Either you learn to fit in with your fellow soldiers or you'll die. It's that simple. They rely on you to watch their backs, keep ‘em covered, get the job done and get it done right. And you rely on them. There can't be any shirkers in a squad, in this squad. We all," Saunders indicated the men clustered around him, "do our share of the dirty work and that will include you, Kirby. Understand?" The wiry private shrugged. "Just ‘cause I didn't volunteer to dig holes for the new latrine, that don't mean...." Caje quickly interrupted. "It was your turn, Kirby, your turn, and you try to weasel your way out of it by bullying the new kid, what's his name, Littlejohn?" "Nelson, Billy Nelson," Littlejohn replied. "Yeah, you try to bully that Nelson kid into it!" Caje rose to his feet, his menacing posture not lost on Kirby. "Threatenin' to beat him up! Big man!" Kirby jumped to his feet, fists clenched, ready. "Mind your own stinkin' business, you damned frog!" Saunders came between the two men, his solid presence quickly defusing Caje's anger, but not Kirby's as a stream of vividly descriptive expletives were directed at all present. The sergeant pushed in close to the spouting Kirby, coming inches from grabbing the man by his lapels and shaking the living daylights out of him. "If you're itchin' so much for a fight, private," Saunders said, "there's plenty of Germans out there just waiting for a chance to take you on." The sergeant's voice grew softer, calmer and he backed slightly away. "Show the Krauts what you can do, Private. Show them what you've got."

*****

92 Caught in a vicious crossfire, Saunders lay flattened to the ground, unable even to rise up enough to return fire, even if he had any more ammo. Company had been ordered to take the high ground at any cost. How many times had the veteran sergeant heard that one? And now he lay, helpless, both Tommy gun and .45 automatic out of ammunition, his men scattered around him in whatever cover they could find in an area already decimated by days of pounding by both Allied and enemy artillery, mortars, and small arms. Even huge trees, probably hundreds of years old, felled by the relentless barrage, were left splintered, reduced to kindling and offering no cover, no relief. Beside him lay Kirby shivering in the wet mud, cold, scared and also out of ammo. But to his credit, the private offered no real complaints over the situation, just the odd muttered curse to which Saunders was quickly becoming accustomed. For a while there, Saunders wondered where Kirby got such a well-rounded vocabulary of truly spectacular swear words. When the sergeant actually got around to asking, Kirby had replied, "Hell, Sarge, I collect ‘em! You know how some guys collect like stamps and stuff?" Saunders had nodded. "Well, I collect swear words!" Saunders had stood silent for a moment before breaking into a most unaccustomed laugh. He remembered laughing so hard it actually hurt. Kirby had laughed, too, and that was the beginning of the chink in the private's armor. Progress was made that day, but progress remained slow in the coming. Kirby still had a chip on his shoulder and a fire in his belly. But now, in the middle of a pitched battle, was not the time for Saunders to dwell on that particular problem. Suddenly, all firing stopped. Saunders cautiously lifted his head for a quick look around. What he saw sickened him. Dead and dying soldiers littered the ground while Germans walked among them, poking and prodding, on the lookout for survivors. Those soldiers still alive were forced to their feet and taken prisoner. "Ditch your rifle," Saunders ordered. He shoved his Thompson nose first into the deep mud. His pistol followed. "No need for the Krauts to get ‘em." Beside him, Kirby ignored the order. "They ain't takin' me prisoner," he gritted, lifting his bayonet halfway from the scabbard. Saunders reached over and grabbed Kirby's arm. "Don't be a fool. You'll get yourself killed." The sergeant sighed deeply. "It's over... for now." Kirby nodded, allowing the bayonet to remain sheathed. "You're right, Sarge." If Saunders was surprised at how easily the private gave in to his reasoning, he soon found out why. Getting up into a crouch, Kirby bolted to his feet, Saunders too late to pull him back. Thinking quickly, the sergeant got up, his arms raised. "Hey Krauts, over here!" Without waiting for the Germans to acknowledge him, Saunders jogged toward the nearest group, hoping, praying, their attention focused on him and not Kirby who'd booked it to the nearest meager cover. The Germans were not thrilled at Saunders' maneuver and naturally began looking around for the reasoning behind his sudden and vocal appearance. When they noticed nothing out of the ordinary, they turned their attentions on the sergeant. A well-applied rifle butt to the side of the head instantly put Saunders out of commission. He woke, bound hand and foot, in what appeared to be a cellar, a large one with hard- packed dirt floors, stone walls, and dank, foul air. And he was not alone. At least a dozen GIs littered the floor, tied as was he, most silent and still, others whispering among themselves, their voices too low to carry. "What the hell is this place?" he murmured, not expecting an answer, but getting one nevertheless. "We're in the basement of a castle. The Krauts thought I was out when they brought me in. I wasn't." There was a slight pause. "What's your name, buddy?" Saunders was leery and refrained from answering the question. He didn't know what to make of the man's accent, which he couldn't pinpoint—not Southern or New England, not Midwestern either, but then he didn't pretend to be an expert on regional dialects of the U.S. He'd been taken in before by soldiers pretending to be American and who turned out to be Krauts infiltrating the lines. "You, first," Saunders replied.

93 The soldier laughed. "Me, first? Hell, you might be a Kraut tryin' to get information outta me." Again a moment of silence and the sound of the man shifting on the hard floor and then movement, the motion, what Saunders could actually see in the gloom, snakelike writhing, crude but effective as pretty soon the GI was almost eye-to-eye with Saunders. It was the sergeant's turn to laugh, though he restrained himself under the circumstances as best he could. The GI, another buck sergeant, was a Negro. "I'm Saunders, 361st," Chip volunteered. "I'd shake hands, Saunders, but as you can see..." the black sergeant waggled his fingers, his hands, like his counterpart, tied tightly behind his back, "...I'm Washington, no relation to George." He smiled. "I'm with the 784th Tank Battalion, straight outta Wyoming to boot camp to here. Just an ole cowboy, heart and soul. Saunders turned serious. "Since you know where we are, you got any idea why we're here and not in some POW facility?" "I know." Washington's smile vanished. "We're here to play a game." "What kind of game?" Saunders rolled onto his side and forced his body into a seated position. After a moment of effort, Washington joined him, leaning in close and sharing his knowledge in a confidential whisper. "There's a Kraut officer, some big game hunter type. Been on safari, shot lions, that sort a thing. Seems there's nothin' worth hunting over here so this officer, he made up his own game, his own safari. This here colonel..." Washington paused, swallowing hard. "This here colonel hunts men." Saunders shivered. Of all the atrocities he'd seen in this war, and there were plenty, of all the cruel arts perpetrated one man to another, this game took the cake. "Like there's not enough killing going on. This colonel's gotta be one bloodthirsty bastard," Saunders replied. A door burst open, flooding the cellar in blinding light, and an order was barked out: "All right, you men, on your feet!" Around him Saunders heard the moans and complaints of the other prisoners as they struggled to obey. Filing past the armed German guards, Saunders found himself, along with Washington, pulled out of line. The two sergeants stood shoulder to shoulder, watching as their comrades were herded down a long dark corridor. It was the last Saunders would see of the other prisoners. He and Washington exchanged puzzled shrugs; their confusion wouldn't be of the long-lasting variety. Forced to hurry down their own stretch of dimly lit, narrow corridor and up a flight of steep stairs, the sergeants found themselves somewhere inside the castle. Saunders found little energy to be impressed by his surroundings. He'd seen castles in Europe before, had bivouacked in several, finding them to be too much opulence for the time and place—huge piles of cold stone, offering little comfort and certainly no homey atmosphere. This castle proved no different to Saunders. In fact, it offered nothing aside from an eerie feeling of chilly indifference. The Americans were led into a high-ceiled library that had obviously been turned into a German officer's command post. But instead of the usual photos of "The Fuhrer," the walls were literally covered with trophies, the heads of a seemingly endless array of wild animals, both common and rare, while the floors were thickly littered with animal skin rugs. Saunders felt his stomach lurch. He didn't need Washington leaning over to whisper, "Told you," for him to come to the conclusion that what the Negro sergeant told him in the cellar was not just rumor, but fact. The Kraut officer, a full colonel, was certainly not what Saunders expected in the way of a

94 big game hunter. Certainly not imposing in appearance, Colonel Strasser was a smallish, bespectacled man, balding and potbellied, with a voice so soft as to be almost a whisper. Yet when the colonel did speak, his men jumped to do his bidding. What was it Mom always said? ‘You can't judge a book by its cover.' Saunders wondered why mothers always seemed to be right, for Colonel Strasser's looks and manners would ultimately both prove highly deceiving. Strasser sat behind the massive oak desk, his eyes large and gray behind thick-lensed spectacles, as he oh-so-casually appraised the two soldiers who stood before him. He smiled slightly, but there was no warmth in the gesture. "You come before me today just two noncommissioned officers. You will leave here the chosen ones." Strasser leaned expectantly forward. "You will be allowed a bath, a good meal, and new clothing. You will be given a head start of fifteen minutes. Your deaths will not be meaningless—lost in a war you can not win." Sweat dampened Saunders' shirt collar, itching his scalp and running down his back. This couldn't possibly end well. Beside him, Washington nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "You're gonna hunt us down, like animals," Saunders said. Strasser shrugged and his smile broadened. "But sergeant, you are animals." Swiveling around in his chair, the colonel reached behind him and brought out a bolt action rifle. Saunders knew nothing of sporting weapons, but even he could tell the rifle was a fine example of its kind. The stock glowed with a hand-rubbed finish and when Strasser pulled back the bolt, it slid soundlessly into place. Saunders felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. "You will be immortalized, Sergeant... Sergeants," Strasser corrected. Handing the rifle off to one of his minions, the colonel unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk and removed a flat wooden case. He laid it upon the desk top where he proceeded to unlock it. He beckoned the sergeants near, but not too near. Within the velvet-lined case were mounted at least a dozen dog tags. "Originally, I preferred to hunt only officers, but then I discovered something which made me change my mind. It seems officers, perhaps due to their higher educations, or perhaps their more pampered childhoods, lacked the noncommissioned officer's devious thought processes, their more advanced instincts for survival. And I also found that the Negro sergeant appears to have the most basic survival instincts of all. Perhaps that is due to his not so distant past as a savage." Beside Saunders, Washington tensed at the slur, but remained silent as if not to give the Kraut the satisfaction of seeing he'd struck a nerve. Saunders felt his respect for the black noncom rise accordingly. When Washington caught his eye, Saunders nodded his approval. Saunders turned his attention to the colonel, eyeing the man up and down with contempt while not disguising the fact he was doing so. Even the sergeant's posture took on a relaxed and anything but respectful stance. Saunders slouched, all his weight on one foot, shoulders hunched. He resembled an insolent punk hanging out on a slummy city street corner. All he lacked was a half-smoked cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. "And what are you gonna do if we decide not to play this game of yours?" If Colonel Strasser was taken aback by Saunders question, it wasn't visible on his face or in his demeanor. The officer actually chuckled before answering. "Why, I'll have one of my men kill you outright." It was Saunders turn to chuckle. "That's against the Geneva Convention. We're prisoners of war." Strasser moved his eyes, just his eyes, and one of the guards in the room walked briskly to the door of the library, opened it, and prodded a very frightened and extremely young GI into the room. Strasser opened the door of his desk and removed a Walther pistol. Before Saunders or Washington could protest the action, the Kraut colonel aimed the weapon and fired a bullet into the brain of the youthful American private. The body fell with a sickening thud. Strasser glanced from

95 the body at his feet, blood already flowing precariously close to one of the colonel's prized animal rugs, to Saunders, a smug grin on the evil face. "This prisoner attempted escape. I was in my rights to prevent that action." Saunders' cocky behavior had gotten him nowhere. In fact, it had resulted in a soldier losing his life. He felt sick, sick and defeated. He stared down at the dead soldier, at the boy's face, eyes wide, mouth slack, freckles vivid against the bloodless complexion. The colonel's gloating fell on deaf ears as Saunders stood still and uncomprehending. As he and Washington were herded from the office, the Negro sergeant had to take Saunders by the arm and lead him down one meandering corridor after another until they reached their destination, just another nondescript room in the castle. However, this one had a bathroom, with a large tub, towels, and a change of clothing for each man. Saunders sat, straight-backed, staring at the wall before him, waiting his turn for the bathroom under heavy guard. He didn't want to play Colonel Strasser's game, but he had no choice. Dying a meaningless death, a death afforded the young soldier earlier, would accomplish nothing aside from placing a temporary damper on the colonel's pleasurable activity. Another GI would be procured and Strasser's game would go on. Saunders would not die without a fight. He'd play the colonel's game, but the outcome would not be the one Strasser expected. He laid any feelings of guilt to rest. His actions had not caused the death of the young soldier. The burden of guilt rested on Strasser alone. Saunders put aside his feelings of helplessness and indeed grief while strengthening his resolve. Later... he would grieve later, when this hellish situation had been resolved. He would live, and if he had anything to do with it so would Sergeant Washington. He couldn't promise the same for Colonel Strasser. A hot bath, clean clothes, and a decent meal did much for Saunders. His thoughts cleared, and he knew without a doubt the path he must follow. When he and Sergeant Washington were blindfolded and bound, led out of the castle and shoved headlong into the back of a truck, his mind raced, working out scenario after scenario, working every possible angle. As his plans solidified, Saunders chuckled to himself. "Um, Saunders, you all right?" Washington's voice held more than a hint of concern. After all, he'd seen how the young soldier's death had affected his fellow sergeant. A rough stretch of road temporarily kept Saunders from replying, the bumping and jolting not only noisy, but painful as the two GIs banged up against the inside of the truck, each other, and the legs of their Kraut watchdogs seated within. "Yeah," Saunders answered in a whisper. Then, "Yeah, I'm all right," he confirmed, his voice stronger, his tone full of conviction. A sharp kick to the ribs dissuaded Saunders from any further attempts at communicating with Washington and soon the truck ground to a shuddering halt. Obviously, their destination had been reached. The sun was high in the sky when the two American sergeants were brought before Colonel Strasser. With blindfolds removed, the GIs blinked painfully in the bright white light, Saunders' hope for rain or at least an overcast day dashed. How much easier to elude capture, or the most probable end, death, with at least clouds to couch your escape? I'll make do with what I've got, Saunders thought as he stood before the imperious colonel. Strasser sat before a tent sipping a cup of coffee, his orderly standing just back and to the left of the officer, at strict attention. Fragrant steam rose from the delicate china cup and Saunders thought how he hoped the Nazi bastard choked on the stuff. But no such luck. Strasser handed the cup off to his orderly, directing his attention to the Americans. "The

96 rules of the game are simple," he said, blotting his lips off against a linen napkin. "You two have a fifteen-minute head start." Saunders and Washington exchanged glances. "What about our hands?" Washington asked, turning slightly to show the colonel that his wrists remained tightly bound with cord, as were Saunders. "Your hands remain bound." Strasser glanced at his gold wrist watch. "Your time starts now." Saunders took off, his loping gait designed to put as much distance as possible between him and the colonel. He knew affecting a dead run would accomplish nothing. He'd be exhausted in no time. Washington had no trouble keeping up with him, both sergeants extremely fit and used to covering a lot of ground in a little time. They headed, unerringly, to the woods. Since Saunders figured the colonel would cut him and Washington no slack, he'd begun working at freeing his hands while still in the truck. The thin cord afforded him few breaks and in no time his abraded wrists were slick with blood. The two sergeants plunged into the forest, moving deeper into the protective canopy of trees. Saunders stopped and sank to the ground, the surprised Washington dropping down beside him. "What the hell you doin', Saunders?" the noncom wheezed. "We've gotta make time!" Sweat beaded Saunders' forehead as he concentrated on his task. With one final valiant effort he slipped free of his bonds. Washington needed no prompting to turn his back on Saunders so the sergeant could work on freeing him as well. Within seconds, Washington, too, was loose. The sergeants were quick to their feet and off. Soon the sounds of pursuit reached Saunders' ears. Where he and Washington entered the woods, so too the Germans entered, and by the noise the Krauts made no effort to muffle, there were a lot of them. Saunders remembered something he'd once read, probably in National Geographic magazine, and this memory brought him no joy. In India, men, aptly named beaters, pounded the brush to drive game, tigers or such, toward the waiting hunters. "Stop." Saunders grabbed Washington by the shoulder and pulled him to the ground. "We're headed in the wrong direction," he gasped, taking a moment to get a lungful of air before continuing. "They want us to run this way... toward Strasser. The bastard's probably already waiting for us. We gotta go back." Saunders jerked a thumb in the direction from which they'd come and from which the sounds of pursuit grew ever closer. Sergeant Washington looked skeptical. A frown wrinkled the otherwise smooth forehead. "You sure about this?" Saunders thought before answering, his tone rock solid, his conviction less so, although he wouldn't allow Washington to tune in on it. "I'm sure." The GIs circled back the way they'd come, outflanking Strasser's beaters and exiting the woods the way they'd entered. Before them, seated on a magnificent sorrel stallion that stamped one foot in anticipation of action, was Colonel Strasser, his fine rifle resting across one arm, its muzzle pointed in the Americans' general direction. "Something told me you were not stupid enough to fall for my little ploy; a ploy which I might add has worked brilliantly in the past. Somehow, Sergeant Saunders," Strasser nodded toward the noncom, "and you, Sergeant Washington," another nod, "I knew you would prove smarter prey than most. However, it appears I outsmarted the both of you." The officer sighed. "It would have been nice had you been just a bit more of a challenge." Saunders sank to the ground. This scenario was not entirely unexpected. Washington dropped down beside him. "What now?" Washington whispered. Saunders shrugged. "We take him." Washington smiled even as the colonel raised his rifle into firing position. Suddenly, Strasser's horse sidestepped, doing a bit of fancy dancing and requiring the

97 colonel to shift his attention from his prey to his mount, the horse drawing closer and closer to the soldiers. Washington took immediate action, with Saunders following the other man's lead. Washington threw up his hands, yelling as he raced toward the mounted Strasser while wildly waving his arms. Saunders mimicked the actions. The stallion panicked, throwing the off- balance colonel hard to the ground, his fancy rifle flying from his hands. Saunders threw himself onto Strasser as the colonel sought to draw his pistol from the holster. A solid right to the officer's jaw put an end to the struggles, permanently. The sergeant rolled the officer over onto his belly and found the reason his single blow had such devastating effect. The back of Strasser's skull had been caved in. Only feet away, in a jumble of exposed rock, the colonel's blood colored several of the stones deep crimson. Saunders patted down the dead man's pockets hoping to find something of strategic value, but came up empty. He rocked back, the colonel's Walther pistol in his grasp. At the frightened horse's head stood Sergeant Washington, reins in hand and cooing softly to the distraught animal. The sergeants exchanged relieved expressions. "Nice work, cowboy," Saunders acknowledged. Washington tilted his head toward the dead officer. "I could say the same." "Yeah, well, I can't take credit for that, but what's done is done. Time to beat a hasty retreat." Saunders got to his feet. After smashing the colonel's fancy rifle to a battered pulp against the nearest tree, Saunders stepped up behind Washington on the spirited stallion's back. "Any idea where our lines might be?" Washington asked as he got the big horse into an easy lope. Saunders took a fast look around, attempting to judge their position. "North, due north," he replied, "but can't this horse go any faster? The colonel's men gotta realize something's wrong...." Before Saunders could finish the sentence, Washington kicked the sorrel into a run. It was all the city-bred Saunders could do to hold on for all he was worth. "Damn cowboy," he swore against Washington's back, but there was a smile in his voice that the Wyoming cowboy couldn't help but notice.

*****

Back at his own lines after a lengthy debriefing, Saunders was shocked at the changes that had occurred in his relatively short absence. Not only was Kirby sitting next to Caje, the two were sharing something tasty out of an open box on Kirby's lap, and Caje was laughing. Saunders scratched his head. "Maybe I've been gone longer than I thought." "Hey, Sarge is back!" A chorus of greetings followed, and Saunders was soon engulfed by his men, most of whom he thought never to see again in this world. He was confused, especially about Kirby since when he'd seen the private last, Kirby was high- tailing it to deep cover, seemingly without a thought to those left behind. "What happened to ya, Sarge? Where you been, huh? Were you captured? How'd you escape?" Saunders sighed deeply, found a place to take a load off, and bummed a cigarette off Caje. Lighting the smoke, he inhaled deeply. "You first." He pointed at Kirby. "Aw, Sarge... why me first?" Kirby whined and for a minute Saunders figured things in second platoon, King Company, hadn't really changed at all. Kirby hung his head, and if Saunders wasn't mistaken, the gesture seemed like one of embarrassment. Okay, so maybe things had changed.

98 "Kirby don't wanna talk because he's a hero, Sarge. He just don't wanna talk about it no more is all," Caje replied, slinging an arm about Kirby's thin shoulders. Saunders sat back, the cigarette dangling precariously from his bottom lip, his expression one of deep shock. "Kirby... a hero?" "Yeah," Littlejohn replied. "He made it all the way back to our lines. Brought reinforcements. Kirby saved us all from a POW camp. Lieutenant Hanley's gonna put him in for a Bronze Star. Can ya beat that?" Kirby blushed red all the way to his ears and a sheepish grin lit his face. He shrugged. "Well... well, I'll be damned," Saunders replied, reaching a hand out to Kirby. The private shook it. "What happened to you, Kirby? What happened to that loner?" Again, Kirby shrugged. "Don't know, Sarge. Guess he just realized that fittin' in was easier than always bein' the outsider, and ol' William G. Kirby always takes the easy way, you know that, Sarge." Saunders nodded and Billy Nelson piped up, "The lieutenant's makin' Kirby our new BAR man, too, Sarge! Is that neat or what?" "That's neat," Saunders echoed. "We can use a good BAR man." The squad's former rifleman, Grady Long, was sorely missed by all, though no man missed Long more than his friend, Chip Saunders. Nelson plunked himself down on the ground near Saunders' feet. "Your turn, Sarge. What happened to you, huh?" Saunders took a deep drag on his cigarette and settled comfortably back. "Well, I spent time in a castle, met a big game hunter and a Negro cowboy from Wyoming and escaped a bunch a Krauts on a huge red horse." To a man every soldier of Saunders' squad raised their eyes skyward in disbelief. "Aw, come on, Sarge, tell us what really happened!" Kirby pleaded. "Okay." Saunders blew a smoke ring skyward. "Once upon a time...."

end

99 Defining Moment – Saunders

The Walking Wounded

Captain: Look, Sergeant, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I ran out back there. That I'm a doctor, and I left that man to die. Saunders: Didn't you? Captain: The convoy was wiped out. I didn't think we had a chance. Saunders: You were wrong. Captain: What about the others? Saunders: I'm not talking about the others. Captain: I am. If I'd stayed to save one life, I might have thrown away three others doing it. Who'd have been to blame then, Sergeant? Saunders: I'm not talking about blame, neither. I'm talking about turning your back. Captain: On a dead man. He doesn't have a prayer. He never did. He'll be gone by the time we get him to Jeroen. Saunders: I'm not going to Jeroen. I'm going to Layell. There's a field hospital there. It's only half as far. Your driver told me. Captain: Did he also tell you that we'd have to run the Germans' flank to get there? Saunders: I know that. Captain: We'd never make it. And even if we did— Saunders: Look, Captain. You may be willing to sit back, play God, and let that man die. But I'm not. I'm going to Layell.

100 TO THE VICTORS GO THE SPOILS

by Ricochet

101 Clambering up the side of a steep, grassy rise, the sergeant almost made it to safety. Then the sledgehammer blow of a rifle butt slammed into his spine. Forks of fire soldered his nerves, stole his strength. Sprawling heavily forward, Saunders felt tears flood his eyes, and his cramped fingers dug furrows in the dirt. Momentarily paralyzed, he dimly felt a hand latch onto his leg and start to drag him downhill. Ignoring the excruciating pain of the action, Saunders twisted around and kicked as hard as he could into his captor's face. The stunned Kraut reeled backward and shook his head, but didn't release his grip. Instead, Sarge saw the flash of a bayonet in the smoky sunlight. "Do not tempt me," the German said in a harsh, guttural voice, his bruised face streaked with blood. "I am not allowed to kill you just yet!" The Hauptmann's orders mentioned nothing about mutilation, however. Grunting, the big Kraut thrust the blade into Saunders' thigh, a cruel smile curling his lips at the American's raw bellow. Constricting in agony at the burning stab wound, Sarge fought the enveloping darkness. "God—!" he choked. Reaching out desperately, he grasped the gnarled, exposed roots of an ancient tree. His fingers were slippery with blood, and his arms trembled under the strain. The hillside began to crumble, loose pebbles and dirt raining down upon both men. The German glared up at his quarry through narrowed eyes. Hauptmann Jaeger's orders were to capture the noncom alive, yet in his estimation, the prize seemed hardly worth the effort. There was no film or map in his possession. Still, the German did as he was told. And after all, this part of the job held its own particular allure. The American's fair hair was wild with travail, his blue eyes glazed with shock, but it was apparent he would not willingly submit to captivity and interrogation. He would have to be forced. And he would die of it. He must have something very valuable to hide.... With a frustrated curse, the Kraut sheathed the bloody bayonet and climbed after the fleeing prisoner, using his free hand to grip Sarge's jacket. He watched in amazement as the American slipped out of the ragged garment and clawed clumsily uphill, collapsing frequently as his bleeding leg folded under him. Teeth showing in heartless mirth, the German grudgingly admired this stalwart warrior. It would be a pity to kill him. "Where are you going, sweetheart?" the Kraut cooed softly, his mocking words foreign to the stumbling sergeant. "Off to pick edelweiss in the Alps?" Gasping, Saunders responded with a phrase that needed no translation. The German's lips tightened with rage. Lunging forward, he grabbed Saunders' leg again and gave a tremendous tug. Off-balance, both men fell, bruising themselves on jagged stones as they tumbled to the base of the steep hill. Only the sound of their harsh breathing filled the silence as they lay tangled in an antagonistic heap, dazed to inaction for the moment. Then the moment was up. Biting back a moan, the sergeant dragged himself painfully to his feet. From the corner of his eye, he saw the huge Kraut slowly recover. Looking around wildly, Saunders searched in vain for a weapon: a branch, a rock, anything! Gripping his hemorrhaging leg, he staggered toward the river below. He knew he might not make it, but neither would he simply surrender to this maniac. His mouth went dry at the sound of the German's relentless pursuit. With the lumbering agility of an enraged bear, the Kraut cornered Saunders, his beefy arms outstretched to crush Sarge in a lethal embrace. Dodging at the last second, the sergeant evaded the German, only to trip over a protruding root and tumble headfirst down a muddy slope into the rushing water. The river roared in his ears, choppy waves slapped his face. The landscape was a blur as rapid currents sent him on a wild and disorienting excursion. Tossed downstream like a discarded rag doll, Saunders flailed about uselessly, unable to grasp the slick rocks. Battered by cascades of churning water, he was half-drowned by the time he became ensnared in the drooping branches of a tree.

102 With the last of his strength, he struggled to the riverbank and collapsed. He blacked out for a time, he wasn't sure how long. Too long.... The German Shepherd's bushy tail swept the air, and bright, unblinking eyes stared into Sarge's. A droll voice spoke from above. "It seems my hound has discovered a dogface." A richly polished pair of black boots entered the sergeant's field of vision. "What sport we shall have with him, eh, Kaiser?" As Saunders watched, the dog whined impatiently and licked it's chops in anticipation of the game to come.

*****

Kirby scowled at the wounded guy. He felt somewhat soiled for thinking bad thoughts about a man who might die, but he couldn't help it. Limping through the woods, he wished Gerard had gotten killed instead of Sarge and the lieutenant. The dumb-ass froze when he should've been firing. This was a bad patrol from the beginning. Kirby remembered the uneasy crawl of gooseflesh on his arms as the squad reached their objective. Glancing up, he saw the airman's remains dangling from the branches of a high tree, his tangled parachute billowing in the breeze. The flyboy's neck was turned at an odd angle, his face blue. As Caje climbed up to cut him loose, it was obvious they were too late to save him. They were too late, period. Drawn to the smoke of the wreckage, the Krauts were on them in a flash. With no time to spare, Saunders ripped open the pilot's flight jacket and snatched up a map case and a small cartridge of film. He turned to Hanley and tossed him the film. Snagging it out of midair, Hanley tucked it in his jacket and nodded at Saunders. "Good luck," he said shortly. As the lieutenant took off to the rendezvous point, Sarge turned to Kirby and pressed the map into his hands. "Get this back, Kirby! You hear me?" Before the BAR man could even acknowledge him, Saunders turned to the men and shouted: "Cover me!" Rising and dodging in the opposite direction of Hanley, Saunders scrambled across the grassy glen, drawing Kraut fire. The last time Kirby saw the lieutenant and Sarge was just as the Krauts boiled out of the bushes behind them, their Schmeissers coughing a hail of bullets. The sounds of crazed battle rang in Kirby's ears. He dimly heard Hanley's cry of pain, and saw the tall officer fall among thick foliage, then rise unsteadily and keep running. The BAR roared to life, mowing down the unsuspecting enemy. They turned as one, veering like a well-trained tide toward the decimated squad. Yanking his head around, Kirby saw Gerard curled in a ball, his gun silent. "Gerard!" he shouted. "Fight, damn you—!" The private didn't move. Rushing through the break in the hail of bullets, a Kraut raised his rifle and aimed at Hanley. Suddenly a burst of Tommy gun fire cut him down. Kirby whirled, the map crackling dryly in his pocket. Saunders was running and firing continuously, but his ferocious glare caught Kirby's eye and his final words resounded in his ears. Get this back... you hear me?! Twisting around, Kirby shouted at the squad. "We gotta fall back! Take better cover an' divide these creeps! Give Sarge and Hanley a chance to get away!" The men vaulted over fallen logs and ducked behind hillocks, rolling and crawling for cover. Using the advantage of heavy underbrush to hide their movements, they further fragmented the German troops, ultimately catching them in a lethal crossfire. The air was foul with cordite, and the treetops trembled with gunfire. When it ended, Littlejohn was badly hurt and Gerard was bleeding from a bullet in his back, but the squad made it to the safety of the river. Following the tumbling water to their prearranged rendezvous point and not finding the two men waiting, Kirby wordlessly watched the shadows grow longer, feeling desolation invade his heart. Determined not to let his fear show, he waited until dark and then doggedly forged a trail

103 back to Allied lines. As the squad moved through the treacherous night, he kept his growing uncertainty to himself, but he knew the others felt the same way. What if Sarge and Hanley weren't dead? How could they just leave them out here without being sure? Doc's soft voice halted the squad in their tracks. Behind them, Littlejohn folded and sat heavily on a log. Blood saturated the bandages beneath his jacket. "I'm okay. Let's keep goin'..." the tall man whispered tightly. His broad face was slick with sweat, and he visibly shuddered in the cool night air. Kirby and Caje lowered the makeshift stretcher to the ground. Kirby's arms ached so badly he could barely lift them. It seemed they'd been walking for weeks, yet it had only been a few hours. At this painfully slow pace, it may take them until the end of the war to get back to their lines. Winded, the BAR man braced his hands on his knees and watched the medic. "He'll be okay, won't he, Doc?" Packing Littlejohn's wound with more gauze, Doc spared Kirby a grim glance. "He needs a hospital, not a hike." He gestured at the surrounding woods. "All this walkin' is gonna kill him." "Gerard's dead," Caje announced with no inflection in his voice. The men looked at him, then at the litter. Reaching over with an arm that felt boneless, Kirby patted Littlejohn on the shoulder. "Looks like you're in luck, pal," he said hoarsely, indicating the suddenly available conveyance. "Let's saddle up." The words choked him as they left his throat. Caje drew a sharp breath, and the color washed from Doc's face. Littlejohn wordlessly rocked in place, but Kirby felt the lanky shoulder hunch in sorrow beneath his hand. Lowering his head to escape their wounded gazes, Kirby cursed softly in regret. Dumb ass....

*****

Hanley staggered through the deepening twilight, the bullet burning in his flesh with each step. Attempting to navigate both the unfamiliar terrain and the slippery slopes of delirium, he inevitably got lost. Coming upon a settlement, he waited as dusk fell and candlelight glowed in the windows of the buildings before approaching. Clutching a sapling for support, Hanley wavered dizzily on the edge of the town commons. He was in desperate need of help, yet he had to see who the inhabitants were before attempting contact. He could discern voices, but not their speech; he had no idea whether the village harbored friend or foe. "Das Essen ist fertig!" a voice shouted, summoning several German soldiers to dinner. Hanley felt his spirits fall. He had accidentally wandered into an enemy outpost. His head drooped in defeat. "God..." he breathed, seeing no chance out. He could backtrack, but frankly he was astonished he'd made it this far through German lines. And he was so tired. Blood seeped down his trouser leg in a steady rivulet, filling his boot. In moments, it would stain the grass and lead the Krauts right to him, wherever he went. Hanley scanned the grounds in the waning light. Across the weedy commons, a large gazebo lay demolished, its charred beams forming a crosshatch over the buckled deck. As shelter, it was barely adequate, but it was his only chance. If they found him unconscious in the forest, they would quickly discover the film. He clutched the canister protectively. Lowering himself to the tall grass, the wounded lieutenant crawled to the collapsed

104 structure and squirmed under the splintered boards. The few troops he spotted seemed to be more interested in getting fed than in guarding the OP from intruders. Hanley wondered about their commandant; was he this lenient or oblivious, or was it a trap? Maybe he could use that knowledge to defeat him. As the lieutenant pondered the maneuvers and machinations of war, unconsciousness came to claim him. His big frame relaxed fully, and he closed his eyes, surrendering to sleep.

*****

The German sergeant had interrogated enough Allied soldiers to know he'd have to beat the information out of them. He could usually distinguish between those who would cooperate eventually, and those who'd die before betraying some arcane code of honor. This soldier counted among the latter. "Gott in Himmel!" the Feldwebel swore, backing away from the prisoner and clutching his bleeding fist. Behind the desk, Jaeger smiled coldly in amusement. "I told you to wear leather gloves...." The Feldwebel kicked the wooden chair, jarring the limp prisoner roughly. "Screw him!" In the shadows, Jaeger chuckled and rose to his feet. "Save your strength," he told the Feldwebel consolingly. "The man is insensate." Jaeger strolled around the unconscious sergeant, studying him. With hounds, it was often true that the more mixed the breed, the more resilient and resourceful the animal. They were not as elegant as the purebreds, but they often outlasted them. "Americans..." the Hauptmann muttered scornfully. The mutts of the globe. And how ludicrously proud they were of that fact. It was infuriating that they were winning the war! Jaeger scowled, remembering the phone call from Headquarters this morning. Film had been smuggled out of a top secret weapons laboratory two days ago and was making its way across German-occupied territory to Allied lines. The information the film contained was priceless, and the commandant of the secret compound, Colonel Esterhaus, had fallen into a state of near mania at Berlin's unwanted glare. At the theft, the Gestapo came out of the woodwork like roaches. In an attempt to affix blame elsewhere, Esterhaus tried to tarnish the reputation of every loyal Nazi in his circle. Yet his efforts at evasion were useless. The Gestapo was poised to descend upon the colonel.... Then a suspicious plane was spotted flaming into the thick forest only miles from Captain Jaeger's outpost. Seconds before ejecting, the civilian pilot broke radio silence to report his position. He may as well have sent an engraved invitation to the Wehrmacht. Now, desperate to redeem himself and eager to escape punishment, Esterhaus was on his way to the remote outpost with troops to either find the film or point the finger. Jaeger did not intend to be a target, nor would he let this opportunity pass. He would recover the precious film first and deliver it personally to the Fuhrer! "Wake him up," Jaeger ordered shortly, turning his back on the unconscious prisoner. As the Feldwebel started to argue, the German captain wrenched around and snarled: "Awaken him!" The sullen Feldwebel complied without another word. Shoving the sergeant upright in the chair with one hand, he reached for a ladle of water with the other. Flinging the cold water into the captive's face with more force than was necessary, the German sergeant straightened and threw the ladle at Saunders. The American stirred sluggishly. Convulsions wracked his body as dense agony replaced airy limbo. If he hadn't been bound to the chair, he would've crumpled to the floor. Cold eyes gleaming, the Hauptmann approached the bruised and bloodied man. How much longer could this mongrel American endure the Feldwebel's fists? It would be interesting to see, and part of him almost hoped the soldier wouldn't talk. "We know about the reconnaissance plane that went down near here. We know that its

105 pilot parachuted in," he said in a flat tone. "We found his body in the woods. We also found evidence of a film canister and map case." He neglected to mention the loss of two entire German squads; no need for this GI to know that only a scant half-dozen soldiers remained to protect the OP. Until the colonel arrived with troops, they were helpless in the event of an attack. Jaeger strolled around Saunders' chair, pulling on a pair of leather gloves as he spoke. "Since you were captured nearby and we did not find the film on you, there are only two other possibilities: you hid it, or your accomplices have it. Either way, it is imperative that I know!" Jaeger stopped directly before Saunders. His gloved fist shot out and tangled in the thick blond hair, yanking Sarge's head back viciously. "Tell me where the film is, and I promise I will select only the finest marksmen for your execution." The unreadable look in the American's eyes reminded Jaeger of an animal, lacking horror, hatred, cunning, or judgment. The sergeant simply withstood the duress, as strong and stoic as an ox fitted to a plow. And no doubt as stupid as one, Jaeger thought, his disdain clear in his haughty glare. "I want that film, do you understand?" he snapped. He shoved the prisoner's head forward roughly, then turned to the Feldwebel, his accent clipped with rage. "The moment he tells you where it is," he growled. "Put a bullet through his heart."

*****

Despite his bitching and moaning, or perhaps because of it, Kirby was a superlative soldier. Literally pressed into service by the sergeant, he'd reluctantly assumed the squad leader's duties, noting everyone's confidence with distinct unease. He'd been a squad leader before, and he never liked the reasons for it, but he didn't fear it. His reticence sprang from the simple, sane fact that he didn't want to be responsible for other men's lives. This time, as always, he had no choice. "Littlejohn, how ya feelin'? Think you can move?" he asked the wounded private, his voice soft with concern. Doc scowled up at him. "Kirby, don't ask him to walk. He'll do it even if he can't make it." "I'm all right..." Littlejohn gasped, holding his side as he attempted to rise. He didn't make it. Sitting down was the worst thing he could've done: now he couldn't stand. "We need to carry him, Kirby," Caje observed in a whisper, glancing around the rustling woods. "I was meanin' to carry him!" Kirby said hotly, reminded again of why he'd lost his stripes in the first place. That temper never held very long. "I just don't know how far I can go, that's all!" It was true. Littlejohn was the biggest of them all, and Kirby was at the limits of his energy reserves. If they were going to make it, they'd better plan on riding. "You know what we need?" Kirby said, glancing sideways at the scout. The uncanny Cajun seemed to read his thoughts. "A truck?" With an upward tilt of one dark brow, Caje aimed a thumb over his shoulder and grinned at the BAR man. "You saw those lights back there, too?" Growing alarmed as the implication of their words hit him, Doc rose to his feet. "Wait a minute, you're not seriously considering goin' back through enemy lines, are you?" "Aw, Doc, we don't know where enemy lines are," Kirby retorted. "Hell, we don't know where we are. We could be halfway to Churchill's house, by now!" "You said it yourself, Doc, there's no other way," Caje said reasonably. "You told us Littlejohn can't make it."

106 The medic's face was stricken as he looked down at the wounded soldier, then at Gerard's lifeless form. There was no other way, and his protests died on his lips. Yet dread settled over him like a dark shroud. He'd become accustomed to the danger, the misery, and the fear, but he would never grow used to the vagaries of destiny. Every time Doc bid farewell to a friend, he never knew if it would be for the last time. Kirby took a sip from his canteen, then capped it and held it out to the medic to bolster his water supply. "Don't worry, Doc, we'll be back so fast you won't have time to miss us." Doc watched in surrender as the two men hid Gerard's body, then got to work building a shelter. Fashioning an alcove under a pile of boulders, they maneuvered Littlejohn in and made him as comfortable as they could. With Doc seated next to him inside, Caje and Kirby camouflaged the opening with fallen branches and thorn bushes. When it was done, Caje leaned down and spoke through the brambles and darkness, his accent lending a touch of elegance to the fateful message. "Doc, if we're not back in a few hours...." His words trailed off. They all knew what to do in this senseless corner of the world. Survive. "Good luck," Doc responded softly, though the two men had already gone.

*****

Reviving sluggishly, Hanley lifted an arm that felt like a ton and squinted at his watch in the dim light. He'd succumbed to exhaustion at a crucial time; now his plans had to evolve. How much longer until daybreak? He craned his head back to look at the sky. He had to escape while he was still able. His weakness was growing hour by hour. Rolling over onto his belly, Hanley peered through the slats of the crawlspace beneath the deck. In the gray dawn he saw a sentry patrolling the opposite side of the courtyard. Cursing softly, the lieutenant knew that meant there was a sentry on this side, as well. To try now would be suicide, but he had no choice. Willing his trembling arms to obey, Hanley slowly gathered the strength to drag himself to freedom. The blood pounded in his head, and he felt nauseated from the pressure inside his skull, yet his unwavering stare was focused intently on the single route of escape. A hole in the slats revealed a grassy expanse leading to the trees beyond the gazebo. How he'd traversed it last night was a mystery. The shaggy, untended commons seemed a mile wide, but if he hugged the ground, he might make it to the protection of the woods undetected. Even as he began to move, it was too late. The clouds blushed peach with morning light, and he heard a bustle of activity in the courtyard. Halting, Gil peered through the slats. His eyes widened at what he saw, and his heart turned to heavy ice that beat coldly in his chest. With typical efficiency, an armed German squad assembled in the courtyard while an austere captain strolled from his quarters and waited under the drooping branches of a neglected tree. As the sun's rays touched the grim courtyard with gold, a prisoner was brought before the firing squad. "No—" Hanley choked in quiet anguish, his fists clenching involuntarily. Shambling unsteadily across level ground, Saunders looked pulverized. A fetid bandage bound his thigh, the gauze stiff with brownish blood. Even from his distant vantage, Hanley could see the pallor of Saunders' skin and the sheen of feverish sweat across his brow. Battling torture and infection, the sergeant was losing both campaigns. The lieutenant watched the German captain light a cigarette and stroll toward Saunders. He spoke to the dazed noncom, but received no response. Hanley couldn't tell if Saunders was ignoring him on purpose or not. Gil flinched as the massive Feldwebel strode forward, obviously unable to tell the difference himself. The captain delayed him with a few words and an idle gesture. Saunders' impending beating was interrupted by the arrival of a large German Shepherd.

107 The Hauptmann walked away from the suffering man to greet the dog fondly. That one action told Hanley more about the Kraut captain than a thousand dossiers and debriefings ever could. Hanley's worried gaze shifted back to Saunders. Somehow he had to let his friend know he was here. He had to find a way to stop his execution without getting captured as well. His fingers traveled over the film. He knew he didn't have the strength to survive their torture, but neither could he just lie here and let Sarge die! Just as the lieutenant prepared to knock the slats out with the heel of his hand, he saw sunlight gleam in Saunders' blond hair as he raised his head slightly. Gil caught his breath and leaned as close as he dared. The sergeant was looking at him! "Saunders..." he whispered. There was no earthly way Sarge could've heard him, yet a small smile crooked the side of his mouth, cracking open his split lip. He turned away and shook his head. Swallowing hard, Hanley read his message loud and clear. With the courageous sergeant, it was always the same: the mission came first. The film was more important than either of their lives. Hanley knew it as well as Saunders did, but that knowledge did nothing to lessen the unbearable torment of the moment. Lying there, watching the tragedy unfold, Hanley prayed fervently for intervention, begging God to let him switch places with the sergeant. Suddenly another voice interrupted. The Feldwebel prompted his superior to return to the task at hand. The German captain reluctantly patted his dog, then turned sharply on his heel and strode back to the shade tree. The Feldwebel tied a rag around Sarge's eyes, then retreated to his master's side, as obedient as the canine on the leash. "Ready!" the Feldwebel shouted, his voice loud in the still morning air. Six German soldiers raised their rifles. The Hauptmann shifted his weight, his tone oily and conniving. "Any last thoughts, Sergeant?" A cruel smile thinned his lips. Saunders' voice was gravelly with thirst, nearly inaudible, yet Hanley heard it clearly. "Hazel liked me best...." The German captain frowned, confused. In the crawlspace, Gil pressed his forehead to the slats and stared at Saunders with a miserable, green gaze. He'd never felt so sick and helpless in his life. Sudden tears blurred his vision, and he dragged the back of his hand over his eyes. The canister of film pressed against his ribs accusingly. "Aim!" A heartbeat before the final order, Lieutenant Hanley turned his face away, unable to bear the sight of his best friend's death. "Fire!" A sob tore from Gil's throat as the sharp report of six rifles shattered the dismal dawn.

*****

"October's a creepy month," Littlejohn said slowly, his voice slurred. "I never much liked it. It's beautiful, but...." He shook his head. "I don't want to die in October." "Don't talk like that," Doc whispered tersely. "No one said you're gonna die." Unconvinced, Littlejohn nodded accommodatingly. "Okay," he sighed. He shifted uncomfortably in the tight space. The ground was cold and his muscles hurt and, for just a moment, dying didn't sound half-bad. His eyes drifted shut as he listened to the sounds of the awakening forest. For too long, all he'd heard was the harsh clamor of conflict. The sweet chorus of birdsong ringing through the branches felt like heaven to his ears. "Don't go to sleep, Littlejohn," Doc nudged with his voice. "Caje and Kirby'll be back before you know it." The remark sounded just like what it was: wishful thinking. Reaching out to check Littlejohn's pulse, Doc frowned in concern at how clammy his flesh felt. "Stay awake, you hear

108 me?" he told the hurt soldier gently. The big man's eyes opened and he stared at nothing, his thoughts worlds removed from this cold stone alcove. In his mind, he was striding through the tall, yellow grasses of Nebraska, talking and laughing with his Pa as they hunted pheasant for supper. At home, Ma was baking a pie in the big iron stove and humming gospel tunes.... "Littlejohn!" Doc's voice was sharp. In the watery light, the medic's face seemed pale and worried. Littlejohn watched him shove the thorn bushes away from the hidden alcove, then climb out cautiously. "What're you doing?" the private asked in confusion. After checking the area for Krauts, Doc knelt beside Littlejohn and helped him sit up in the sudden freedom. "We gotta get you to a doctor. You're gonna die if we wait here much longer!" "Oh..." Littlejohn said weakly. For a moment there, he thought it was something serious. Standing with a grunt and leaning heavily on the medic, Littlejohn stared down at his feet and concentrated on putting one big boot in front of the other. He lost count of the plodding steps long before they reached the lumber road. And he lost consciousness shortly after that.

*****

Impeccably attired in a clean, crisp uniform, Jaeger waited in the first rays of dawn as the bedraggled prisoner was brought before the firing squad. Interrogated all day and through the night, the sergeant moved with the unsteady gait of the very old, hobbled by pain. Dried blood left a caked trail from one ear to his collar, a testament to the Feldwebel's brutal attempts at persuasion. Jaeger hoped the prisoner wasn't too brain-damaged to enjoy his own execution. The German captain watched dispassionately as guards bound the sergeant's hands and shoved him against a bullet-scored wall. The rumpled GI didn't react at all; he seemed remote, uninvolved. Perhaps it was shock. Jaeger frowned. The prisoner must be fully aware of his impending death. Strolling forward, he lit a confiscated Lucky. Inhaling deeply, he made a vast show of pleasure at the aromatic tobacco. "American cigarettes," he murmured, exhaling languid ribbons of smoke. "I am forced to concede their superiority to ours." With a charming smile, he leaned closer and said quietly, "Tell me where the film is, and I'll let you live." When Saunders remained mute, the hulking Feldwebel strode across the courtyard, fist poised to strike the disrespectful prisoner. Jaeger stopped him with a small gesture, his voice soft as he examined the beaten, silent sergeant with a critical eye. "After a time, physical force becomes ineffective. Remember your training." The gates of the courtyard swung open with a squeal. Turning, Jaeger's expression brightened and he walked away from Saunders without another thought. "Kaiser!" he called as the dog was released from its leash. Racing forward, the magnificent animal leapt and yelped like a puppy, delighted to see the Hauptmann. Man and beast collided in a happy romp. In a way, it was almost innocent. Sickened, Saunders turned his face to the side. He couldn't reconcile what he saw with how he felt. The inhumane torture inflicted upon him had been sanctioned by that manicured hand—the hand that now patted and stroked a dumb animal with tender affection. Across the commons, a young cat sauntered over the uneven deck of a wrecked gazebo, its fur golden in the hazy morning sun. Reaching a particular point on the boards, it sat and curled its tail around its paws and focused its unblinking gaze on Saunders. Sarge stared at it through drifting vision, envying the cat's freedom. Suddenly a small movement caught his eye. Directly below the cat's perch, barely visible

109 between the lattice of woodwork, a familiar green gaze stared back at him. Sarge felt an almost overwhelming rush of relief, and he struggled to remain strong. Until then, he'd felt utterly alone, certain his death would remain a mystery. Hanley's presence was a final, comforting reminder of home. It hurt to smile but he did anyway, a fleeting grin easily mistaken for a grimace. Saunders' eyes stung as he looked away, not wishing to draw the Krauts' attention to the lieutenant. Knowing Hanley's gaze was locked on him, he shook his head in an almost imperceptible message of failure and regret. "Herr Hauptmann—" the burly Feldwebel spoke shortly, reminding the German captain of his prior commitment. The prisoner awaited his attention. "Ah, yes," Jaeger smiled regretfully, ruffling Kaiser's fur. "Duty comes first...." Straightening, he strolled back to his shady shelter and idly gestured for the Feldwebel to commence with the execution. The German sergeant pulled a soiled handkerchief from his back pocket and tied it around Saunders' eyes. Fear built in the absence of sight; blind panic, it was called. Yet the GI didn't seem panicked. Eyes narrowed in suspicion, the Feldwebel glanced at the captain. Jaeger nodded curtly at him to hurry with the proceedings. Stepping away from the prisoner, the German sergeant cleared his throat and called loudly, "Ready!" Six rifle chambers rattled, the metallic sound echoing sharply off the chilly cobblestones. "Perhaps you have some last thoughts, Sergeant?" Jaeger smirked. This was a game he enjoyed immensely. Saunders canted his head and spoke the first thing that came to his mind—the one thing that would reveal to Hanley the fullness of their friendship, the bond they'd begun in England many lifetimes ago. The silly woman over whom they'd competed suddenly gained immense importance. At the Hauptmann's final, impatient gesture, the German sergeant shouted, "Aim!" He gave a silent signal to his men. As they raised their rifles, the Feldwebel paused briefly, then shouted: "Fire!" At the roaring volley, the only visible reaction from Saunders was a slight constriction of his shoulders as he braced for the expected impact of six bullets ripping into his chest. That killing blow never came. Neither did the anticipated collapse of the American soldier, the dropping to his knees or the hysterical weeping that the Feldwebel had seen other prisoners succumb to under such treatment. The Kraut's heavy brows drew together in bewilderment. Too furious to speak, Hauptmann Jaeger angrily dismissed the firing squad and stormed back to his office, leaving the German sergeant standing alone with the prisoner. "You must be mad..." the Feldwebel muttered to his captive counterpart, though he knew Saunders didn't understand him.

*****

Dragged back to his cell and literally thrown in, Saunders pressed his inflamed cheek to the cold stone floor and shuddered with pain. He'd refused to reward his torturers with moans or tears, but now he revealed his agony to the darkened cell. Despite his own ravaged condition, he worried about Hanley. Surely the lieutenant had seen the trick, the way the Krauts had shot into the air to draw him out of hiding. Or had he looked away? Concern helped fan his fading resolve. Saunders was determined to escape, or die trying. Hours passed and still no one came to loosen his bonds. His hands became numb, and his wrists ached with the abrasive pressure of the ropes. Unable to rise, Sarge lay still, the formerly soothing touch of cold stone growing intolerable as time crawled by. Stiff and feverish, he fell into a restive sleep, his pain following him even there. Sunset came quickly in October. As the cell grew dark and damp in the late afternoon, a

110 small shadow detached from the rest and darted across the stone floor. Encountering the sergeant, the cat hesitated, then approached his shirt pocket. A few crumbs of a cracker hastily eaten on the battlefield remained there, and the tawny stray reached in, braving the depths of Sarge's shirt to scavenge. Although still a kitten, the skinny feline had a voracious appetite. When he finished with the crumbs, he went in search of more tasty morsels. Placing his paws on Sarge's arm, the cat stood and inspected the unconscious man for hidden treats. Suddenly two bloodshot blue eyes opened as the sergeant lifted his head and stared around groggily. Darting away, the cat sat just beyond reach, its bright gaze focused intently on the sergeant. Whiskers trembled as it sniffed for food. Driven by hunger, it didn't advance and it didn't retreat, it just sat and stared at Sarge with the patience of the Sphinx. "Sorry, pal," Saunders said in a parched whisper. "I've got nothin' for ya...." Laying his burning forehead back down on the cold stone, he shut his eyes. He felt himself losing consciousness, and he struggled to stay awake. When he looked again, the yellow kitten was still there, but slightly closer. Could it sense his dire predicament? Saunders didn't have time to ponder the question further. Footsteps approached, stopping before his cell. The heavy door swung open, and the Feldwebel stepped in and dragged Saunders to his feet. The sergeant saw the cat dart back into the shadows as the Kraut wordlessly severed the cords binding Sarge's hands. The Feldwebel drew a wooden chair over with his jackboot, and Saunders winced as he was roughly shoved down onto the hard seat. Every inch of his body hurt. He felt bruised from head to heels, and his leg was aflame with infection. It wouldn't be much longer before he wouldn't be in any shape to tell the Krauts anything of value. Somehow he knew the German captain was aware of that. Nothing much seemed to escape that keen, cruel gaze. The next sound was unmistakable, the click of claws across stone. Saunders squinted painfully as a bare light bulb suddenly illuminated the dreary cell. Through blurred vision he saw the Hauptmann enter, followed eagerly by his dog. From a dark corner behind him, Sarge heard a soft hiss of feline alarm. "It has been two full days, Sergeant," Jaeger said without preamble. "Obviously your cohort did not escape, or we would have had Allied guests by now." Neither expecting nor receiving a response, the German captain indicated the Feldwebel. "My sergeant wagers that he is dead and the canister lost. I accepted the challenge, and I don't like to lose bets. Perhaps now you would be so kind as to inform us as to the location of the film?" Jaeger clenched his jaw at the American's unbroken silence. Every minute brought Colonel Esterhaus closer to the outpost. Facing execution or banishment to the Eastern Front for his error, the disgraced colonel was desperate and dangerous. Calamity was on the horizon unless Jaeger found that film! The German captain stepped closer to Saunders, crowding him. Killing the American at this point would be unwise, especially so close to achieving their goal. Yet suppressing the urge to wrap his hands tightly around the soldier's neck made his fingers tremble. "This time it is not a ruse, Sergeant," he snapped. "This time I intend to have you dragged before a firing squad and shot! No one will ever know your fate and the film will remain lost—of no use to anyone! Your spies have failed; you have failed! Is this what you fought so hard to achieve?" The GI tilted his head back at the captain's heavily-accented words. Cracked lips parted, and Saunders spoke slowly and calmly, almost his only words since his ordeal had begun. "No," he murmured. "I still have to kill you." Jaeger stared at him for a moment, stunned to silence by the insolence. Then his face

111 grew ruddy with rage, and he wrenched his holster open and withdrew his Luger. Aiming it between Saunders' eyes he snarled: "Mutts like you should be drowned at birth." Just as his finger tightened on the trigger, an abrasive hiss erupted from the corner. With a thunderous bark of outrage, the German Shepherd burst between the two men and attacked a scrawny cat attempting to escape into the shadows. Scratching and spitting, the cat's insane yowl rose to an earsplitting pitch. Unbalanced by his dog and the sudden bedlam, Jaeger stumbled and fired, the blast of the gun and the howl of the injured animal tearing through the air in a single nasty note. "Kaiser!" the captain cried in alarm. Abandoning all pretense of superiority, Jaeger fell to his knees in shock beside the whining, wounded dog. In the chaos, Sarge lunged from the chair like a charging lion and drove a shoulder into the Feldwebel's belly. As the big man buckled in pain and surprise, Saunders bludgeoned his fist across the Kraut's jaw with the full force of his unspent wrath. The blow broke the German sergeant's neck. Before the body hit the ground, Sarge snatched up the wooden chair and swung it at Jaeger. The gun went off a second time, then skittered across the stone tiles, knocked painfully from the German captain's grasp. "No!" Jaeger cried, scrambling for the weapon. His fingers tightened over the gun and he rolled onto his back just as the chair swung again, shattering the bare light bulb and plunging the room into darkness. There was a blinding flash and a deafening roar, followed by the dry crack of splintering wood. Silence settled, broken only by the sound of ragged breathing; eventually even that ceased. In the still, bloody cell, a young cat cried abjectly for rescue.

*****

Kirby ran the knife in up to the hilt. The Kraut died noiselessly, and the BAR man lowered the body to the ground. In that gory moment, the oddest thought crossed his mind: he had to write to Ma and Ruthie soon, or they'd worry. He was already working on a diversionary tale to amuse his mother and sister, some falsehood from the front meant relieve their anxiety, when Caje called to him in a low tone. The scout crept through the underbrush to his side. There wasn't a drop of blood on him, yet he'd dispatched another German just as thoroughly and quietly. As the BAR man cleaned his knife, Caje looked down at the dead Kraut. "Just a kid," he remarked, his expression unreadable. Kirby scowled and shoved his bayonet into his scabbard with a snap. "Yeah... I hear Hitler used to be a kid, too," he said sourly. Bending to retrieve his rifle, Kirby inadvertently glimpsed the dead boy's face. He paused only a moment, but the image burned indelibly into his mind. The Kraut wasn't a day older than Ruthie, with the same spill of freckles across his nose. Rising, Kirby hefted the BAR and forged on through the forest without another word. He seemed to have already forgotten the incident, yet his tread was somewhat stiffer as the awful necessity of his actions absorbed into his soul. It was early afternoon when Caje and Kirby neared the settlement. They ambushed four more Krauts patrolling the perimeter. Two of the Germans were old enough to be grandfathers. Deafened by years of Allied ordnance falling around them, they didn't hear a thing until it was too late. "Where the heck is everybody?" Kirby whispered, clutching his BAR to his chest as he and Caje crouched in the thick foliage. He scanned the deserted village with worried eyes. "Think it's a

112 trick?" Caje shook his head; he'd already removed his beret, now he firmly snugged his helmet into place. "I dunno. But that's what we came for...." He pointed at a car half-visible beside the grandest home in the small township. Kirby snorted at the sight, pleased by their sudden good fortune. "Now we just gotta figure out how to sneak down there and get it." When Caje didn't answer, he glanced at him. The scout's sharp gaze darted over the village commons, settling on a wrecked gazebo lying only yards from the car. "Kirby, we encountered six Krauts on the way here, nearly all of them alone or green." Caje spoke without turning. "Doesn't that seem strange? If you were the commandant, wouldn't you have the woods crawling with crack German troops if you had them?" Kirby frowned in thought. "What are you sayin'... that's all they sent out 'cause there ain't nobody else?" He followed Caje's gaze and scanned the village square. "You think all the troops are gone?" Caje considered Kirby's words. "I dunno, maybe. This village is off the beaten path...." Kirby scoffed. "Listen, Caje, when a spy plane goes down in your neck of the woods, the whole world beats a path to your door!" He turned and scanned the settlement again. "Maybe there's more comin'..." he said slowly, the wheels in his mind turning. "There's gotta be." The two men waited until dusk settled, then rose and cautiously descended the hill to the village. They were halfway to the staff car when suddenly they heard a distant gunshot. It seemed to come from inside the large dwelling. "Hit it!" Kirby hissed, diving for an opening in the bombed- out gazebo. Caje followed. A second shot rang out. "Cripes!" Kirby yelped, nearly invisible in the deep shadows. Caje quickly shushed him. "No!" Kirby whispered insistently. "Look!" He grabbed the scout's hand and slapped it down on something soft and yielding. "It's the lieutenant!" The Cajun grasped Hanley's shoulder. The flesh was warm; the officer was still alive, but not responding. Twisting around, Caje caught his breath as a third shot split the air. It grew silent after that. Waiting and watching, their suspicions were confirmed when no one ran to the building to investigate. The German OP was deserted... except for the owner of the gun, whoever that might be. Personally, Kirby didn't plan to stick around and find out. "Let's go," he told Caje quietly. "You get the car and pull it up over here. I'll cover you in case of trouble." Just as they prepared to break out of the crawlspace and steal the vehicle, the faint sound of racing engines echoed off the stark brick walls of the township. Up the road, a staff car and a troop truck sped toward the German OP, their headlights weaving among the trees. "Let's get out of here," Kirby said urgently. "Caje, grab the lieutenant's arm and help me!" There was no time for stealth. The soldiers dove through the opening and dragged the unconscious officer roughly to his feet. Staggering under their ungainly load, the two smaller men barely made it to the shelter of the tree line before the village was invaded by a shouting armada of tyrants. The German troop truck pulled up right where the Americans had been standing moments ago. It was the tightest race Kirby had run in a long time. Hanley chose that moment to revive. Dangerously dehydrated, he moaned and raised a shaking hand to his temple. Deaf to his men's pleas to remain silent, he tried weakly to stand on his own, growing angry when that proved impossible. "Lieutenant, sir, with all due respect... will ya shut up?" Kirby whispered desperately in his

113 ear. "There's about fifty Krauts right in front of us wavin' their guns in th' air!" Grasping a tree trunk in both hands, Hanley steadied himself, but didn't speak. Clamping his eyes shut, he shook his head to clear it, then blearily focused on the Kraut-infested courtyard. "Saunders..." he rasped. Caje fixed a hard look at Kirby over the lieutenant's shoulder. Could it be—? Almost on cue, a voice rose above the others. "Oberst Esterhaus... ein Americaner!" A stern-faced German colonel stepped from his staff car and crossed the courtyard quickly. Caje and Kirby exchanged amazed looks as two soldiers exited the large house, supporting a staggering prisoner between them. Saunders could barely keep his head up, and fresh blood stained the sleeve of his field jacket. Confronting the sergeant, the German colonel barked questions at him, but to no avail. The American simply stared at him blankly. Ripping open the soldier's filthy field jacket, Colonel Esterhaus tore Saunders' shirt in his haste to find the stolen film. The colonel was nearly irrational with panic, and he bellowed for Captain Jaeger. Several troops exited the building, four of them carrying the dead captain and Feldwebel and the fifth cradling a pitifully mewling cat. The soldiers' bodies were deposited on the cobblestones at the colonel's feet. Even from their hiding place dozens of yards away, the Americans could see the color drain from Esterhaus' face. The colonel turned slowly in a circle, his gaze sweeping the windows and doorways. He looked down at the dead German captain and sergeant, then up at Saunders. His gaze narrowed in fury, and he shouted at his troops to ransack the buildings. As the courtyard emptied and the sounds of breaking furniture and glassware could be heard from every house, the colonel approached Saunders, his rigid posture exuding hatred. When he was just inches from Sarge's face, he snarled, "What you felt before was only a gentle diversion compared to what I have planned for you." The sergeant's lucent, blue eyes flickered once, yet he remained mute. Esterhaus jerked his head toward the troop truck and brusquely ordered his soldiers to take the American there and wait. Then he stormed to the dead captain's headquarters to join the search for the film. The three hidden GIs watched the German soldiers prod Saunders across the courtyard. The mauled sergeant trudged to the truck through the fog of shock, half-blind, his wounded leg dragging. "God," Caje said softly. Kirby clutched the BAR in a white-knuckled grip and cursed under his breath. "Easy, men..." Hanley whispered weakly. The Kraut with the cat gently carried the animal to the passenger's seat, speaking in soothing tones. Another soldier hurried ahead and dropped the tailgate with a clang while his companion shoved the prisoner forward. Unable to withstand any more abuse, Sarge collapsed halfway to the transport vehicle and mercifully passed out. The Krauts hauled him into the back of the truck and left him to join in the looting, confident that he was in no shape to run off. "Are you kidding me?" Caje whispered incredulously as the Germans abandoned the vehicle and Sarge. He rose to get a better look, followed by Kirby and Hanley. Once more, impossibly, the courtyard was deserted. "We can make it..." Hanley croaked, weaving on his feet. He indicated the truck with a jerk of his chin. "Caje, you drive. Kirby, gimme a hand." Without wasting another precious second, they hobbled quickly from the forest's edge to the nearby troop truck and climbed in. Hanley crawled to the unconscious sergeant's side, doing his best to protect him from the battle to come. Caje fired up the engine, and Kirby raised and latched the tailgate as a shield. "Stay down!" Caje yelled at the men as the truck lurched out of the village square and lethargically gathered speed.

114 German troops poured from the houses like rats from a disturbed nest. Foreign voices shouted in alarm, and purloined treasures were flung callously to the ground, forgotten. A thousand bullets traced hot paths through the air, peppering the tailgate and shredding the canvas roof of the escaping truck. "Kirby!" Caje shouted over the straining engine. "The staff car!" German soldiers raced to the colonel's vehicle. Kirby leaned out as Caje drove past the staff car, then pumped the elegant sedan full of blazing rounds of lead. The heat and blast of the explosion knocked the BAR man backward. With increasing speed, Caje took them safely away from the village. Running after the troop truck on foot, the colonel's men soon gave up. Slumping against the rails, Kirby dragged a hand down his face and turned to Hanley with a weary grin. "We made it..." he gasped. The lieutenant didn't answer. He'd shut his eyes and sunk into unconsciousness next to his best squad leader. Staring at Hanley and Sarge with an enormous sense of relief, the BAR man took a deep breath and released it with a whoosh. "We made it..." he repeated in vast satisfaction. Now that the immediate danger was past, he felt fatigue turn his bones to lead. Sighing, he reclined on the hard bench and closed his eyes. A split- second later, a bullet embedded in the wooden slat where he'd recently rested. Kirby's eyelids wrenched open, and he suddenly found himself on the floor as instinct took over. Several more shots rang out, and he winced as sharp splinters stung his neck. "Caje! " he shouted helplessly. "Step on it!" Cursing, the BAR man rose to his knees and opened fire on the Krauts pursuing them at a breakneck pace. The truck rattled as Caje attempted to coax more speed from the heavy machine. The lighter vehicle gained on them quickly, as nimble as a thoroughbred outracing a draft horse. The slats on the side of the truck seemed to spit sparks as bullets flew wildly over their heads. Jostled back to consciousness by the rough ride, Hanley surmised the situation immediately. Shifting his weight with a painful grimace, he grasped the window of the cab and pulled himself up. "We need to keep the film out of their hands!" he shouted at the Cajun. "Ram them!" Hearing this, Caje nodded ferociously, then glanced back at the men. "Kirby, get Sarge away from the tailgate," he shouted. "Hurry—hold on!" With no time to explain, he gritted his teeth and slammed on the brakes. Squealing, the big truck locked its wheels on a sharp downward incline. With no warning, and not expecting the fleeing soldiers to decelerate, the German car slammed into the steel bumper of the troop vehicle at full speed. At the impact, the driver of the sedan flew through the windshield and was cut to ribbons. The two vehicles swerved wildly across the road, their frames welded together. Slapping the steering wheel as he fought centrifugal force, Caje glanced in the rearview mirror as two of the three remaining German soldiers were ejected from the car. They hit the pavement with bone- cracking speed and tumbled, then didn't move again. The scenery was a blur as the truck fishtailed out of control. Finally the entire frame of the vehicle jolted as the sedan struck a tree and broke away like a damaged appendage. With a stinking, screaming screech of its tires, the big troop vehicle finally came to rest backward on the road. Through the cracked and dusty windshield, the smaller sedan could be seen wrapped around the thick trunk of a tree like a slain dragon, all gleaming yellow eyes and steaming nostrils and hissing breath. In the dizzy aftermath of the accident, nobody moved for long moments. Then Caje half-fell from the cab and wobbled to the wrecked car. He leaned over the unconscious officer in the front

115 seat, then stood and called to Hanley: "It's the German colonel! He's still alive!" With a humorless chuckle, the lieutenant nodded. "That's good," he said hoarsely, savoring the victory. Looking down, he patted Saunders' shoulder gently, wishing the sergeant were awake to see this. "That's good...."

*****

The medic had passed the breaking point miles ago. When Littlejohn collapsed a final time, Doc sat down next to him in the middle of the road and didn't get up again. Drained and trembling, he half-listened for approaching vehicles, wondering if he'd have the strength to drag Littlejohn off to the side before they were both struck. Somehow he had to force himself to care. Doc glanced at Littlejohn. The private's complexion was ghastly pale, his skin icy. He was dying, and there was absolutely nothing the medic could do. Doc's chin quivered as tears of despair and frustration stung his eyes. Hugging the empty rucksack, he buried his face in its canvas folds. Exhausted, he wept as much for himself as for his lost friends. Suddenly, a rugged noise reached his ears. Raising his head, Doc held his breath and listened intently. The noise grew quickly, becoming the unmistakable sound of a vehicle headed this way, its driver in a hurry! Flinging the useless rucksack into the woods, Doc rose on wobbly legs. He grasped Littlejohn's wrists in an attempt to drag him to safety, but the unconscious private was dead weight and barely budged. "C'mon, Littlejohn," the medic gasped. "Help me out!" Teeth gritted, Doc tried again, his back bowed with the effort. It was no good: Littlejohn was too big and Doc was too tired. Listening to the vehicle race through the turns, the medic knew he was taking too long. At this rate, he would barely have time to save himself. Yet he persisted, even when he knew it was hopeless. Even when the hot headlights lanced around the final curve and caught them in their blinding beams. The medic threw himself over the wounded private as the nerve-shredding sound of screeching brakes filled the air. Closing his eyes and turning away, Doc was grateful Littlejohn would die quickly and without panic. The final moment came and went, and when the medic found himself still in one piece, he looked up in amazement at the figures approaching him, trying to make sense of the words he heard: "What're you tryin' to do, Doc, get yourself killed?" Doc squinted into the headlights. "K-Kirby...?" he stammered. "Caje?" He never thought he'd be so glad to hear the BAR man's voice again, and he pushed himself to his feet and staggered into his friend's supporting arms. The soldiers spent little time on greetings. They lifted Littlejohn and carried him to the back of the truck, sliding him in next to Sarge and Hanley. A bound and gagged German colonel glared at them from the corner. With a cursory glance at the Kraut, Doc returned his attention to the lieutenant and Saunders. The joy of seeing both men alive renewed Doc's flagging energy, and he clambered aboard. "Home is just over that ridge." Kirby had to raise his voice to be heard above the rumbling engine. Doc looked at him, and the weariness and latent fear he felt must have been plain in his face.

116 "Relax, Doc," Kirby told him with a gallows grin. "I'm ridin' shotgun." The seating designation was more than figurative; they still had miles to go in uncertain territory and the BAR was their main defense. At the medic's grateful nod, Kirby latched the dented tailgate firmly, slapping it with the palm of his hand. Climbing into the cab with Caje and bracing the BAR against the dashboard, he kept his gaze and the big weapon trained on the road ahead. As the battered truck groaned into gear and headed back down the lumber trail, Doc immediately bent over the wounded men in concern. He had no supplies with which to tend their injuries. His only salve for their pain was his pity. Yet when Littlejohn revived and greeted him with a weak smile, Doc knew without doubt they'd been blessed. Kneeling among the injured soldiers, the wind whipping through his hair, the young medic shut his eyes in silent thanks.

*****

Hanley folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope as he heard a nurse give directions to Saunders' room. Tucking the pages into his pocket, he looked up just as three familiar faces grinned at him from the doorway. "Heya, Lieutenant!" Kirby called cheerfully, unmindful of the man asleep on the cot. When Doc dug an elbow into his ribs and Caje kicked his boot, he had the grace to look abashed, and he lowered his voice to a loud whisper. "How's Sarge doin'?" Hanley gave the BAR man a flat stare. "Better," he said shortly. "Doctors say it'll be awhile before he comes around." The Germans had nearly beaten Saunders to death. One more hard blow to the skull could've crippled or killed him. "We got something for him," Caje grinned. "It escaped from the truck after we arrived here, tried to follow Sarge into surgery." Opening his jacket, he reached in and pulled out a skinny young cat. The animal had bandages wrapped around it's head and one paw, and yellow fur stuck out at crazy angles between the gauze. "Yeah... Doc patched him up," Kirby offered as explanation. "Looks like a dog got 'im." "A German Shepherd," Hanley murmured, and the irony was not lost on the men. A Kraut dog. When the cat saw Saunders, it let out a thin mewl and struggled to escape Caje's hands. The scout lowered it to the floor, and the cat promptly hopped up next to the sleeping sergeant, moving awkwardly on its injured paw. Prowling the narrow cot like a tiny tiger, it soon curled up under Sarge's chin and shut its eyes with a contented purr. "That's what I call a couple 'a cool cats," Doc half-whispered, a jaunty grin on his face. "Heh... they kinda look alike!" Kirby pointed out gleefully. Next to him, Caje grinned, noticing the ruffled resemblance. Saunders' tawny hair stuck up in tufts from his bandages, too. After the last few terrible days, it felt wonderful to smile. Informed that Sarge and Littlejohn's injuries weren't permanent, the men quickly dissolved into hushed laughter and relieved joking. Finally Hanley broke it up. "All right, fellas, why don't you go bother Littlejohn?" he said kindly, though not quite in jest. He watched in amusement as the smiling men waved and piled out into the corridors of the field hospital to track down their large buddy. A free-floating fiesta of good will, they filled the halls with their happy banter. After they departed, Hanley reached for the cane leaning against the wall and rose gingerly on his aching leg. He crossed the few steps to the side of the cot. Saunders rested heavily against the pillow, his temple discolored with bruises beneath the stark white of the gauze. Besieged yet unbroken by a ruthless enemy, the sergeant seemed bold even in his sleep. Taking the letter out of his pocket, Gil scanned the lines he'd written, searching for any

117 omission or exaggeration and finding none. To him, the Medal of Honor wasn't even good enough, but this would have to do. Gil raised troubled eyes. He was still profoundly affected by the events of the past few days. Reaching down, his fingertips idly ruffled the cat's golden fur, then brushed the sergeant's shoulder. Staring at a man he felt privileged to know, missing the sound of his voice, a breath of pain escaped the lieutenant's lips. He'd seen Saunders die. For a brief, horrifying moment, Hanley had believed it, and it didn't matter that it wasn't true. In the murderous echo of a firing squad, Gil had forgotten to breathe at the shock of what he had done. He'd sacrificed Saunders for a roll of film. He'd traded the sergeant's life for a secret no one would ever know, because neither of them would get out of there alive. At the very least, Hanley should've destroyed the film. He should've stood next to Saunders before that scarred stone wall.... "Lieutenant," the voice of the doctor interrupted Gil's recriminations. Swallowing hard, Hanley busied himself with tucking the letter back into his jacket pocket. "Yes, Captain?" The physician was an older man, his face lean and careworn. He was as much a combat veteran as his patients were, and as he stepped closer and extended his hand, his intuitive eyes seemed to see the phantom blade buried in Hanley's heart. The doctor opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Some wounds he could do nothing about; some wounds had to heal on their own. Settling on small talk, he bent over Saunders to check his pupils and pulse. There was no evidence of lasting trauma, the soldier's mind had simply retreated for repair, knowing better than all the doctors in the world the proper course of therapy. Restorative rest was still the best medicine. Straightening with a sound of satisfaction, the doctor scribbled a notation in Sarge's chart. "There's no need for you to stay, Lieutenant. Your sergeant will probably sleep through the night." "I'd like to be here when he wakes up," Hanley said quietly. "That is, if it's permitted." "Sure." The doctor nodded without looking up. "Of course, if you insist on beating yourself to a bloody pulp in contrition, I'll have to ask you to take it outside." Now it was Hanley's turn to fall silent. Embarrassed by the transparency of his emotions, he looked down at the floor, but it was no use. Under the older man's piercing scrutiny, he found no place to hide. Sighing, the doctor tucked Sarge's chart under his arm. "Look, son, we all play the hand we're dealt in this lousy war, whether we like it or not—" Immune to the customary platitudes, Hanley interrupted. "Captain, with all due respect, I'm not in the mood for—" "That's the best thing about being a captain," the doctor said in a pleasant tone. "You get to finish your sentences." Properly chastised, the lieutenant clamped his mouth shut. It seemed the Army would not allow him to brood. The doctor gestured at Saunders, indicating the multiple scars marking his body. "Your sergeant obviously doesn't need the rules of war explained to him. Do you?" Hanley breathed out hard, feeling the embers of resentment warm his cheeks. "No, sir." "So you don't need to be told that the enemy doesn't play fair, or that the tenets of common decency don't apply in a war zone?" The doctor's inquiring tone was suffused with flint. "Perhaps you've heard that a soldier's life is abbreviated at best?" At Gil's stiff affirmative response, the doctor continued. His voice never rose above a personal pitch, but it staggered Hanley as though he'd shouted. "I don't know what happened to you two out there, so I won't presume to know how you feel, but you're not doing your friend any favors by piling your guilt on him. He's been through enough without taking on your problems." Staring at the physician, Hanley felt the impact of his hard gaze. It was as though the older

118 man could see that cold October courtyard reflected in Gil's eyes. "I should've—" The words left Hanley's lips before he could stop them. At the lieutenant's obvious distress, the doctor's stern expression softened, and he shook his head wearily. He'd witnessed some of the most hideous wounds ever committed by man, but among the worst was self-inflicted dishonor. It was like a grenade going off in a soldier's skull. It destroyed something vital in them, extinguished a spark. Eventually the war caught and killed them. Sighing, the physician reached into his pocket for a cigarette, offering one to Hanley. "Lieutenant, I've walked a million miles in your shoes. I've had to let men to die in order to save the lives of a dozen others. It's never easy." Extending a light to Hanley, he admitted quietly, "However, I've never sacrificed a friend. I've been spared that." Lighting his own cigarette, the doctor glanced at Saunders over the flame. Tough as leather, the sergeant had defiantly survived torture that would've killed most men. Some indefinable force had given him the strength to endure. Sensing the tall lieutenant's presence next to him, the doctor thought he understood what that force was. Snapping the Zippo shut, the doctor went on thoughtfully. "After each patient's death, I told myself the same thing: the war killed them. It's a solid rationale, and it's supposed to help us sleep at night, but you and I both know better than that, don't we?" "Yes, sir," Hanley answered, his faint response nearly lost in the soft background bustle of the hospital halls. "I'll spare you the clichés, Lieutenant. Except for one," the doctor said in the same low, firm tone. "War is hell. Yet every once in awhile, Heaven intervenes on our behalf. You both could've died out there and you didn't, that's what you need to remember. That's what I prescribe for you: a good dose of reality, and a shot of gratitude." Brought to his senses by the surgeon's sharp words, Hanley looked at him. For just a moment, the doctor saw in that haunted green gaze the memory of all the men the lieutenant had lost, all the times fortune hadn't favored them. But this wasn't one of those times, and the older man was relieved to see a slowly dawning appreciation of that fact. Counting on a soldier's resilience, the doctor nodded and stubbed out his cigarette, tucking the unfinished butt in his pocket. Whatever these two men had gone through, they'd survived together, and they would recover together. Giving Gil's shoulder a fatherly pat, he turned to leave, then paused at the door. His next words lacked the sting of reproach. "Lieutenant, that man over there is alive and it's plain he's beaten the odds many times. Somewhere along the line, you must've had something to do with that, so put down the cup of hemlock." A tired grin lifted the lined features. "Better yet, give me an hour to finish rounds, and I'll buy you a beer. Looks like we could both use one." Cured of his pain by the doctor's deft but unrelenting aid, Hanley returned the encouraging smile and nodded. Left alone again, he glanced down at Saunders. In all the commotion, the sergeant hadn't moved a muscle. Sleep held him in a snug embrace, smoothing the lines of stress from his brow. He looked the same as when Hanley first met him, six months and a world war ago. Feeling ancient, Gil longed to return to those uncomplicated days before France. Using the cane, Hanley pulled a chair over to the side of the cot and sat stiffly. The young cat stirred at the movement and blinked drowsily at the officer. Gil desperately wanted to talk to Saunders, but what he had to say could wait. For now, the two soldiers possessed something rarely found on the front lines: the luxury of time. Reaching over, Hanley gently picked up the kitten and cradled it against his chest. Stroking the soft golden fur, he smiled and cocked his head and spoke to the sleeping sergeant, his voice a warm murmur of remembrance: "What was the name of that café in England where we first met Hazel...?"

end

119 Defining Moment – Braddock

The Prisoner

Hanley: Do you like being my runner, or would you rather go back in the line with your squad? Braddock: Well, I'd like to be where I'm most valuable to the platoon, sir. Hanley: Where do you think that is, Braddock? Braddock: Well, it's for the lieutenant to decide. Hanley: No, I want you to decide this one. Braddock: I don't understand, sir. Hanley: It's very simple. Do you think you ought to be here as my runner? Or do you think you oughta be back in the line with your squad? Where do you think you'll be of the most value? Braddock: Well, I'd like to be your runner, sir. Hanley: Good. Braddock: Oh. Yes, sir. Hanley: Now, here's our situation. We're stuck here. We can't go forward, and we can't go back. I have to advise company. We can't use the telephone because the line isn't in yet. And we can't use the radio because the batteries are dead. Braddock: The batteries are dead in the radio, sir. Hanley: Well, that only leaves me one thing to do, and that is...? Braddock: Send a runner! Oh, I think I see what you mean, sir. You mean... send a runner. Hanley: You're very smart, Braddock, you're going to go far. Braddock: You mean I'm going to go far in the Army, sir, or do you mean I'm going to go far through that rough area back to Company? Hanley: Well, whichever way you do it, you're going to find an easy way. You've got ten minutes to get ready to get out of here. I'll draw an overlay of our position. Braddock: Listen, if the lieutenant would prefer, sir, I'd go back to my squad, if it'll help you out, sir, I mean.... Hanley: You've got ten minutes, Braddock. Braddock: Me and my big mouth. Hanley: You and your big mouth who? Braddock: Me and my big mouth, sir!

120 C'EST LA VIE

By White Queen

Acknowledgements: Thanks to TG for beta-reading and encouraging me to explore my humorous side more often.

121 Saunders halted his squad at the edge of the French village Dutrouz. It was a small village, with one main street and four side streets, and before the war it had probably been a sleepy hamlet, full of farmers and gossips. The Germans had only sideswiped it on their way through, hitting it with a little artillery, but not enough to destroy more than a few buildings. They hadn't even bothered to occupy it at all. Dutrouz wasn't large enough to mean anything to them. This lack of destruction made it the perfect spot for the American Army to send men on R&R, which was precisely why Saunders and his squad stood on the outskirts of Dutrouz next to a neat white picket fence that was missing only a few dozen slats here and there. "We meet back here in twenty-four hours," Saunders said, looking each man in the eye to make sure they were all listening. "That's eleven hundred hours tomorrow morning." He crossed his arms and added, "I don't have to give you the usual rundown, do I?" "Yeah, yeah, we know." Kirby rolled his eyes. "Be nice to the locals, stay outta the way of the local constables, and don't bother the barmaids." Under his breath he added, "Much." Caje grinned. "We got it, Sarge." "All right. Dismissed." The squad split into three groups. Caje, Kirby, and Braddock headed toward town, intent on cramming as much fun into twenty-four hours as the law would allow. More, if they could. Billy Nelson and Littlejohn trailed behind them, savoring the freedom of ambling instead of marching. Grady Long stayed next to Saunders as the others scattered. "Whaddaya say, Saunders?" He punched the sergeant's shoulder playfully. "I'll buy you a drink." "No you won't." Saunders shook his head. "Not until I've bought you one first." Grady chuckled. "Fine. Every other round as usual." They followed the rest of the squad, taking their time and enjoying the absence of booming artillery, gunfire, and the other sounds of war that usually filled their lives. Kirby, Caje, and Braddock halted when they noticed Littlejohn and Billy tagging after them. "Hey, three's company, five's a crowd," Kirby said, hands on hips. "This is the only street into town," Littlejohn pointed out. "We can walk here if we want to." "Where're you guys heading?" Billy asked quickly, hoping to avert yet another Kirby- Littlejohn spat. "Nowhere you'd be comfortable," Braddock assured him. Caje tapped Braddock's shoulder. "Hey, maybe it's time we let the kid join us." "No way!" Kirby said. "One look at him and the girls would stay miles away." "Don't worry, Billy," Littlejohn said, glaring at Kirby. "Well find some nice, quiet place to relax, where we won't be annoyed." "Good plan," said Braddock. He and the other two Rover Boys hurried off without another word.

*****

"Well, look who's here!" crowed Littlejohn from his seat at a ridiculously tiny table he and Billy shared outside a cheery café. "What's the matter, fellas, run out of red paint already?" He made a big show of checking his watch. "It's only twelve hundred, that didn't take long." Braddock, Kirby, and Caje plopped into three chairs around the other minuscule table occupying the sidewalk. "Some town," Kirby complained. "One restaurant. Bet this joint doesn't even serve booze." Billy nodded toward the café. "Sarge and Grady are inside drinking beer," he reported. "I think they have wine in there too." Kirby was not appeased. "Well, I haven't seen one pretty girl in this whole town!" Littlejohn chuckled. "Oh, just wait 'til you see the waitress." "Yeah?" Caje sat up, interested. "Yeah." Littlejohn curved his index finger and thumb into the OK sign and winked.

122 Billy giggled. Braddock shook a finger at him. "See, this is why you couldn't come with us," he said. "No giggling!" "Here she comes now," Littlejohn announced. Three pairs of expectant eyes turned toward the café's entrance. Out stepped a dark- haired woman who inspired one word in their minds: plump. Quite plump. Maybe a little beyond plump. Possibly bordering on ample. She was well-endowed, no doubt about that. Well-endowed everywhere. The waitress started to say, "Bonjour, Monsieurs," but she stopped halfway through monsieurs, threw up her chubby arms, and shouted, "Robert!" With a squeak of delight, she plopped onto Braddock's broad lap and flung her arms around his neck, uttering a torrent of joyous French. Braddock instinctively put both arms around her middle and looked very pleased with himself. "Well, hello, yourself," he chortled. "Hey, Caje, what's she saying?" Caje looked a little confused. "Uh, she says—" The waitress drew away from Braddock a little, shook her head until her curly dark hair bounced enthusiastically, and said, "Robert! You do not recognize me? It is your own Madeleine!" Braddock shook his head. "Nice to meet you, Madeleine, but uh—I'm afraid we've never met before." She laughed. "Silly Robert. Not in real life, of course. But in my dreams, oh how often we have met there!" "In your dreams?" Braddock now looked thoroughly confused. Littlejohn and Billy were trying very hard not to laugh out loud, although the effort to contain their mirth resulted in red faces for both of them. Billy kept making little splurting sounds, as if his giggles were trying frantically to escape. "Of course! I am—how do you Americans say it?—psychic? I have dreamed about you for so long now, my darling, and here you are! Of course, you do not look exactly the way you did in my dreams, but that can be remedied." She removed Braddock's knit cap and ran her plump fingers through his hair. "Dearest Robert, how long I have waited!" "Uh, I hate to disappoint you, Madam-oh-zel Madeleine," Kirby broke in, "but his name ain't 'Row-bear'." "Not Robert?" Madeleine's eyes widened, and her lower lip trembled. "How can you say this is not my Robert?" "Because—" Kirby started again. Braddock interrupted him. "What's in a name?" He smiled at Madeleine and gave her a squeeze around her middle. "A rose by any other name, and all that." Madeleine pinched his cheek. "You are my sweet Robert!" she exulted. "Exactly like in my dreams." Caje whispered to Kirby, "I've heard you should dream big, but...." Kirby snorted. "If I was a girl and Braddock showed up in my dream, I'd call it a nightmare." Madeleine gave Braddock an audible smooch on his cheek, right where she'd pinched it a moment before. "I am so happy you finally arrived." She gazed deeply into his eyes. "I have so many things to tell you; there is so much to talk about." She hopped off Braddock's lap and seized his hand. "Come!" she ordered, pulling him to his feet. "Where're we going?" Braddock asked, amiably allowing her to haul him away from the café. "To my home! Come, there is no time to lose! I have waited too long already for you."

123 Madeleine tugged him down the street and around a corner before any of the others could say a word. A shocked silence settled over the two tiny tables. Billy Nelson was the first to speak. "Can she do that?" he asked, eyes and mouth wide. "She just did," Caje said. "No, I mean, can she really dream about some guy and then he shows up?" "You ever had your palm read at the county fair?" Littlejohn asked him. "Well, yeah." "What'd they tell you?" "That I'd get an important job and go on long business trips." Littlejohn looked around them, at the few buildings along the main street of Dutrouz. Billy frowned. "Are you saying you think psychics are for real?" Littlejohn smiled and shook his head. "I'm not saying anything one way or another." "Aaannh," Kirby said. "It's all just a bunch of hooey. Don't listen to him, kid. He don't know what he's talkin' about." "Kirby." Littlejohn held up his hand, palm out toward the scoffing soldier. "See this?" He pointed to the middle of his palm. "Yeah." "I predict this will make very close contact with your face if you don't shut up right now." Kirby scowled, but Caje laughed. "Real or not, that woman sure believed she dreamed about Braddock." He smiled, gazed down the street toward the corner where the portly pair had vanished, and sighed. "C'est la vie, eh?"

*****

"It's almost eleven," Billy Nelson said the next morning, pacing back and forth in front of the white picket fence on the edge of Dutrouz. "You don't think Braddock could be in trouble, do you?" Kirby chuckled. "If only I was in that kind of trouble." Despite having been unable to spend his twenty-four-hour pass passed out in an alcoholic euphoria, he was in a remarkably good mood. Maybe it was because for once, he didn't have a hangover. Grady Long shook his head. "Well, if ever there was a matched pair, it was Braddock and that waitress. Two peas in a very large pod." Saunders nodded. "But if he doesn't get here before the truck does, he's going to wind up a creamed pea." As if to emphasize his words, a truck's engine growled down the road that led out of town. It jolted into view and lurched to a stop a few yards from the picket fence. Expectant soldiers poured out of its back, two more squads hoping to find a little fun on a quick pass. Saunders and his squad had been so distracted by the arrival of the truck, they didn't notice Braddock approaching until he stood right behind Kirby. "Just in time," he panted. They turned to look at him, and even Saunders couldn't resist a grin. Braddock's uniform was unprecedentedly clean, his hair was washed and slicked down, and he looked as if someone had polished his skin until it shone. "Hi," he said with a sly grin. "Look at you!" laughed Caje. "Did she run you through her wringer-washer?" "Practically." Braddock shook his head. "That is one determined woman." "But you convinced her you weren't Robert?" Billy asked. "Eventually." Braddock winked. "But not until after breakfast." Kirby cackled and was about to make a characteristically ribald remark when from down the

124 street came a familiar cry. "Robert!" Madeleine was rushing toward them with more speed than one might have expected, her ample form jiggling in an admittedly pleasing manner. "I thought you'd convinced her," Caje teased. Braddock shook his head, looking bewildered. "I thought I had." As Madeleine came closer, however, she veered around Saunders and his squad and made for the group of men behind them. A deep, husky voice said, "Hey, what's the idea?" The squad turned to see a soldier who looked remarkably like Braddock, only with darker skin and curly black hair. He looked slightly shocked as Madeleine clasped her arms around his neck and crowed, "Robert!" "Hey, how'd you know my name?" the stout soldier asked, trying to duck out of her embrace. "Have you not dreamt of me too?" she asked, pulling away a little and pouting. "Well, not that I recall." Robert eyed her up and down, then smiled. "But that doesn't mean I won't from now on." "My dear Robert!" Madeleine threw her arms around him again and kissed his cheek. "Come, you must meet Mama and Papa!" She broke away and grabbed his hand. While Robert's friends hooted their congratulations, she tugged him toward town. As they passed Saunders' squad, Madeleine looked over at Braddock, shrugged, and said, "C'est la vie, Braddock!" "And the same to you!" Braddock smiled and waved, then sighed. "You know, for a while yesterday, I was almost tempted to change my name?" Grady laughed and clapped him on the back. "I don't think even Madeleine could handle two Roberts." Braddock shook his head. "I wouldn't be so sure." Grinning, he followed the others to the truck. Once they were all aboard, the vehicle lurched away from Dutrouz, Braddock gazing out the open back as the town faded from view. "I wouldn't be so sure at all."

end

125 Defining Moment – Billy

The Celebrity

Billy: You know that guy that got hit today? Jones? He sure is lucky. Littlejohn: Lucky. Billy: Yeah. I heard Doc say he got hit just bad enough to get a one-way ticket home. The same thing happened to Charlie Price the day we hit the beach. Littlejohn: Who? Billy: Charlie Price. We came from the same town. We joined the Army together. Littlejohn: Got shot? Billy: Right in the canteen. They were picking tin splinters out of his rear area for two weeks. He got sent home a hero. Good ol' Charlie. You had to know him to appreciate him. He was... he was a terrible soldier, terrible. Littlejohn: Like you. Billy: Worse! I had to lace his leggings every day at basic training. And when he'd try to break down his M-1, he could never get it back together again. He kept losing parts. Like little springs and things. Littlejohn: And he went home a hero. Billy: He wrote me how it was. He said that he'd never have to pay for a drink in a bar and the girls were always falling all over him, and how he'd walk down the street and everybody'd look at him. Every once in a while he'd put on a limp to show off. It sure makes you think. Littlejohn: It does? Billy: Yeah. Littlejohn: What about? Billy: About figuring out a way to get out of this man's Army. Going home. Littlejohn: Hm. Billy: Well wouldn't you like a purple heart and a ticket stateside? Littlejohn: No, neither would you, Billy. Billy: I wouldn't? Littlejohn: Nope. Billy: But why? Littlejohn: Look, I haven't been sleeping, eating, and walking alongside you day in and night out for the last two months without getting to know something about you. Billy: Well, what's that supposed to mean? Littlejohn: Well, it means you wouldn't leave this outfit for anything in the world Billy: Why? Littlejohn: Because you like being a soldier, Billy. Billy: I do? Littlejohn: You wouldn't be happy anywhere else. Billy: I wouldn't? Littlejohn: Nope. Billy: I never knew that.

126 R & R

By Alice A.

Dedicated to my beta reader White Queen, in gratitude for her superlative grammar and punctuation skills, her patient tolerance of my infinite ellipses, and her gentle slap on the wrist for my naughty language. You're gonna make a great mom, WQ!

127 Prologue

Quantum physics theorizes that there are millions of worlds in thousands of alternate universes seeded throughout the cosmos like cinnamon bits in a sweet roll. These worlds may branch off from historic events such as King John refusing to sign the Magna Carta or Columbus sailing over the edge of the world or even from differences at the quantum level, such as worlds where laws of magick rather than science dictate the shape of reality. Whatever their origins, such worlds do exist and the walls between them sometimes grow thin. Especially on fields of battle, where conflict and violence unravel time and space, and individual soldiers—or even whole squads—go missing in action.

Chapter I

Pulling up the collar of his field jacket against the late autumn chill, Captain Mark Jampel struggled to open the door leading into the abandoned farmhouse that currently served as King Company's makeshift HQ. A sharp gust of wind yanked the door out of his hand and slammed it against the wall, startling his clerk and scattering the pile of paperwork accumulated on his makeshift desk like leaves in a hurricane. Jampel wrestled the door closed as he grimaced at the young corporal trying to gather up the reports and requisitions and put them back into some sort of order. "Never mind, Sperling. Forget the damn paperwork. I need to locate Sergeant Saunders, one of Hanley's squad leaders. From Second Platoon?" "He's here, sir. Been waiting for you while you were up at Battalion HQ." "Oh damn." Jampel scrubbed a hand though his thinning hair. "I forgot I told him I had an update on Hanley's condition. Well, where is he? Battalion's got a wild hair up its ass and we drew the short straw. I need to brief him...." Jampel's voice trailed off at the clerk's somewhat nervous look. "Don't tell me he's been giving you a hard time?" Ever since Hanley had been sent to the rear with three broken ribs from a jeep mishap, Saunders had picked up the slack without a murmur of protest. "No sir," the clerk mumbled. "He ducked into the kitchen to get out of the wind so he could smoke. But I heard snores a few minutes ago and checked on him. He's got that Thompson in his lap, with a finger on the trigger...." Jampel laughed ironically. "And you'd hate for your parents to receive a telegram stating that you died in the line of duty, sitting behind a desk." The captain ducked into the ramshackle kitchen where Hanley's sleep-deprived sergeant was napping and stared down at the soldier's tired, dirty face. Even with lines of pain and exhaustion that two years of war had carved into it, the young sergeant still looked like one of the boys that Mark Jampel had scrutinized so carefully when they came to call on his daughter, Eleanor. Still, he knew better than to startle a soldier with the battle-honed reflexes of the sergeant and placed his hand on Saunders' shoulder, shaking gently as he spoke. "Time to get up, son. It's burnin' daylight." Saunders shifted and muttered sleepily, obviously recalling happier times. "Jus' five more

128 minutes, Dad. That lawn will still be there...." His eyes fluttered open, his face momentarily relaxed and at ease, then reality hit and his expression closed down, eyes going distant. He looked up at the captain, struggling to his feet as he mumbled an apology for dozing off. Jampel kept his hand on the young noncom's shoulder, in an effort to reassure him. "Dreaming of happier times, Saunders? I don't blame you." Coming to attention as he saluted Jampel, Saunders had his duty mask in place. "You wanted to see me, sir?" Jampel returned the salute briskly. "You can tell the rest of the platoon that Lieutenant Hanley is making a speedy recovery and should be back next week. Until then, Sergeant, you're acting platoon leader." Saunders' face remained neutral, not protesting the increase in his responsibilities because he'd automatically assumed them as soon as Hanley had been shipped to the rear. That was the one thing about Saunders that both pleased and aggravated the captain. The noncom was the kind of soldier who got the job done, no matter how boring, dangerous, or difficult, but had refused a battlefield commission more times than Jampel could recall. The last time the question arose, after blowing the bridge at Chalons, Saunders had shrugged it off with casual disregard. "I'm good at being a sergeant, sir. Doing what I'm told and keeping my men alive. Being an officer and telling other sergeants what to do, I don't think I could hack it." He'd pushed his helmet back on his head and given Jampel an exasperating cocky grin that left the captain torn between wanting to shake him until his teeth rattled or slap him on the back and congratulate him for his common sense. It had been a long time since he'd seen that cocky grin. Not since St. Lo, for sure. Certainly not since the company had been pushing into a region of France plagued by a ruthless band of SS troops. Over the last two weeks, Jampel and King Company had seen more rotting corpses, brutalized women and children, and burned out villages than they had in the rest of France. It wasn't just the dead that bothered them, but the shocked and empty faces of the survivors. They hadn't caught up with the raiders responsible yet, but Jampel knew it was just a matter of time. Only now someone up at Battalion had sent down orders to capture them alive so HQ could find out if this was just random outrages or a deliberate change in tactics. That was reason he'd sent for Saunders and First Squad. He trusted Saunders to keep his men on a tight rein, even if they came across the SS unit doing their worst. They would follow orders to the best of their ability and were smart enough not to get themselves killed in the process. Saunders had the best chance of bringing the SS troops in alive for questioning and would not give in to his impulse for revenge, no matter how much they deserved it. He gazed into the sergeant's face once again, seeing the strain of barely healed wounds and long-term exhaustion. But Saunders wasn't the only man in King Company driven beyond his limits, and Jampel had no choice but to send these soldiers out into the field again. This area was crucial to Allied plans and probably would be the site of the bitterest and most savage conflict of the war. The Germans were losing and they knew it, which meant that their counterattacks would be brutal, virtually suicidal. These bloodthirsty renegades had to be stopped before the Americans crossed the German border, or their actions might trigger a wholesale bloodletting among German civilians that could give the American troops a black eye they'd never recover from. It was a dangerous, difficult job. The kind of tactical special action that Saunders' squad excelled at, which was why he was sending them out. But he wanted—no needed—to know if the squad was up to the mission. With Saunders walking the thin edge of exhaustion, could his men still operate as effectively as they had in the past? Grabbing his helmet, the captain shrugged at Saunders. "It's been a while since I've seen your squad, Sergeant. Let's go give 'em the bad news." Though the farm's outbuildings were in slightly better shape than the main house, the barn

129 where most of Saunders' squad were catching up on their sleep wasn't exactly cozy. Doc had built a small fire just inside the doorway and was attempting to brew some coffee. Littlejohn had burrowed under a stack of loose hay with only his feet sticking out, while Billy was wrapped in his blanket, rubbing his red nose as he tried not to sneeze more than five times a minute. At the wall farthest from the door, Kirby snored, twitching nervously like a dog pestered by flies, while Caje slumped beside him, his helmet tipped over his eyes, fitfully dozing. Doc glanced up as Jampel and Saunders approached, his gentle blue eyes taking in the CO's grim expression. "Care for a cup of coffee, Sarge? Captain? It's not good, but it's hot." "I'll pass, Doc." Jampel gave the medic a weary smile. "Just had a cup of that paint stripper HQ calls coffee." "Off and on," Saunders rousted his squad, getting them up and moving. "Captain Jampel's got a mission for us." "At ease." Jampel raised his hand in a casual acknowledgment of their weary salutes. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em." As he lit one of his own cigarettes, Jampel studied the men intently through the rising smoke. They were tired, dirty, and on edge but there was more to it than that. Even at ease, there was an alertness about them, a watchful quality he couldn't quite put his finger on. Then he recalled exactly where he had seen that vigilance before. It was in one of those nature films that Eleanor was always begging him to take her to see. A pack of wolves, well-fed and not feeling threatened; otherwise the cameraman would have been dinner. But they still remained wary and alert, watching and waiting until their leader signaled them about danger, food, or just moving on. Saunders was that leader, no question about it. Even when he wasn't doing the briefing, they watched him, waiting to see his reaction. Needing to know what he thought about their chances for survival. Jampel glanced over at Saunders, noting his acceptance of that responsibility, despite his exhaustion. He wore that mantle as casually as the Thompson slung over his shoulder or the easy swagger of his stride. Saunders was a natural leader, one of the brave men expended by the thousands to stop the threat of German Fascism and Japanese Imperialism. Shaking his head grimly, Jampel unfolded a rough map of the area. "I know you men have heard what's been happening to some of the villages in this area. About the SS troopers who've been sweeping in, raping, killing, and burning. G-2 has reason to believe that their base camp is located in a secluded valley just beyond the ridge. It's isolated, virtually uninhabited according to the local villagers, though there are rumors the region is haunted." "Ghosts don't bother me," Kirby muttered. "It's them live Krauts with mortars and machine gun nests that can get a fella killed." Saunders' icy glare silenced him. "Aerial surveillance has been impossible because of tricky air currents in the area, but the few maps the locals have show narrow, winding trails only a mountain goat could climb. HQ doubts the Germans have any heavy weapons defending their camp, since they seem to be relying more on hand weapons and terror tactics." "But their CP could be dug in, with much heavier defenses," Saunders pointed out. "That's a possibility," the captain agreed reluctantly. "But Battalion wants this group captured and brought in for questioning." Saunders glanced at the map Jampel handed him, then folded it and stuffed it into his jacket. "Yes sir." "Look, Saunders, this mission is HQ's bright idea. While I agree we can use any intelligence this group can give us, if it looks like you're in over your heads, just mark their position and 'get the hell out of Dodge'. You understand?" "Yes sir." Saunders saluted. Jampel returned the salute before turning to leave, with a final warning. "I mean it, Saunders."

130 "Yes sir." The faintest ghost of the cocky grin was back, and the captain breathed a small sigh of relief at the improvement in the odds that grin indicated. As soon as the captain was out of earshot, Saunders ordered, "Draw extra ammo and grenades. Then fill your canteens and grab some rations." "But the captain said we could bug out if things looked bad, Sarge," Kirby protested as usual. "This may be the last chance we get to stop this SS unit before they cross the border into Germany, and I don't intend to let them escape. Otherwise a lot more innocent people are going to wind up paying for their crimes." Kirby looked like he was about to protest further, but caught the sharpness in Saunders' gaze and subsided. The others exchanged knowing glances before gathering their gear. Captain Jampel might have offered Sarge the option of coming back empty-handed, but they knew he had no intention of failing this mission. For most of the war, Saunders had avoided developing a vindictive attitude toward the enemy, considering them soldiers doing their duty like himself. But the rape and slaughter committed by these so-called "soldiers" had left him determined to stop it... at any cost. Bringing that SS unit back for questioning would be a difficult mission, but a worthwhile one. Especially if they could learn about any change in tactics that might affect the Allied advance. Thirty minutes later, the squad was headed up the narrow defile, into the unknown. Saunders glanced around at the treacherous terrain, noting with relief that the captain had been right that the Krauts likely wouldn't have been able to get anything bigger than a mountain goat up these winding switchback trails. Still, he hadn't survived this long by making easy assumptions, so he signaled the squad to stay on alert. Though it was still daylight, a thick, gray mist began to float out of the woods and valleys, surrounding the squad and muffling their voices, making it virtually impossible to see more than a foot in front of them. Saunders hated to have the squad bunched up, so close that a single mortar round could take them out, but he also didn't want anyone falling off the trail either. Kirby sidled up behind him. "Damn, what a mess, Sarge. We didn't have pea soup like this even back in London." "Fall back, Kirby," he muttered. "Warn the others to spread out as much as they can without losing their bearings. And keep your ears open." The fog thickened until Saunders could barely see the narrow footpath in front of him, though he sensed the steep side of the mountain looming overhead, absorbing the noise around them. As a clammy mist oozed down his face and neck, he heard strange sounds in the distance. Raising his hand for silence, Saunders peered into the mist, wondering at the source of those inhuman noises. Could their quarry have taken prisoners to torture and amuse themselves with on their last raid? Or were the noises just cries of wildlife native to this area? He needed to determine if their enemy was preparing for another raid or resting up from the last one. Reluctantly he waved Caje forward to check out the situation. He didn't like sending the scout out blindly with no hint of what he expected, but whatever was going on, Saunders didn't intend to stumble into it like a green recruit. The fog surged even more thickly around them, until Saunders couldn't even see the Thompson he was carrying. The heavy mist had the uncanny effect of muffling some sounds while magnifying others and as Saunders listened, he felt a sense of unease that left gooseflesh creeping up his arms. He'd fought in battles from Tunisia to Sicily, up the Italian boot and thru the bloody carnage of Normandy Beach, but had never encountered sounds of conflict like he was currently hearing. If he could believe his ears, their SS renegades seemed to be currently engaged in a battle, as though one of the villages they'd attacked had resisted strongly and then followed them back to their CP. But there was something very odd about these sounds of battle. There were the usual sounds of weapons' fire, small explosions, shouted orders, and screams of pain. But there were

131 other sounds too. Odd noises that didn't belong in this time and place: the clash of metal like swords against shields, along with inhuman, almost bestial howls that sounded they came from one of those Flash Gordon movie serials Chris used to love. Sounds that didn't belong in the real world but on a Saturday matinee movie screen. Too uneasy to wait any longer for Caje's report, Saunders inched forward. Peering down into the fog-shrouded hollow where his map indicated that the German raiders had their camp, he pulled out his binoculars, determined to see just what was happening. The fog had thinned out and, as it did, the strange noises faded away as well, leaving him to wonder if he was losing his mind, creating imaginary foes rather than face a real enemy. Shaking his head to clear it, he stared down into the encampment, somewhat surprised to see everything so peaceful looking. There were several tents with sandbags piled up their sides for extra warmth and security, and a dilapidated cabin which, judging by the Nazi flag hanging limply from a makeshift flagpole, was the CP and likely quarters for the group's commanding officer. As he surveyed the relatively deserted camp, along with the bits and pieces of uniforms hanging on lines strung between the tents, it looked like their band of raiders was taking the day off. But Saunders had survived too many ambushes to be deceived by this relatively peaceful facade. He focused his binoculars on a smaller tent which appeared to have been dug out below ground level with sandbags surrounding it, deciding that must be their main ammo dump. Catching Caje's eye, he waved the scout back and they joined the rest of the squad. As Saunders unfolded the map, he pointed various locations within the campsite that each squad member would focus their attack on. Pointing Billy and Littlejohn to the edge of the camp, he ordered, "Take your grenades and toss them into the ammunition tent. They may have some weapons in their tents, but I'm betting most of them will make a run for the ammo dump to try to salvage whatever they can. Keep 'em pinned down. "Caje, Kirby, and I will attack the CP and try to capture one of their officers or noncoms. Keep laying down heavy fire so none of the raiders can make a break for it. We should be able to grab at least a couple of prisoners then. But if we don't make it out, do your best to blow the camp to hell. Whether HQ gets anyone to question or not... these raids stop now!" Doc looked into the noncom's face, seeing the cold determination in his eyes that filled the rest of the squad with an equal resolve. The past months, they'd followed the sergeant from the Normandy beaches almost to the German border and would follow him into hell if he gave the order. Considering the savage conduct of the Nazi raiders they were after, Doc thought that might be an apt description of the battle ahead of them. Groping for the security of the rucksack under his arm, Doc hoped he would not need its critical supplies, then pulled his helmet down as he heard the first grenades explode. On the far side of the clearing as the ammunition dump went up in a sheet of flame, Sarge, Kirby, and Caje scrambled down into the middle of the smoke-filled confusion in search of a prisoner. Though briefly startled by the suddenness of the attack, the raiders quickly began to return fire, sporadically at first, then growing in frequency. Clutching his supplies, the medic gritted his teeth, knowing there was nothing he could do to help. All he could do was wait for that urgent summons that he prayed not to hear. As the fire and smoke began to spread throughout the camp, the aid man noticed the fog that had surrounded them earlier was back, even thicker and more concealing than ever. And to his surprise, the sounds coming out of that fog were strange, like nothing he'd ever heard before. Not just cries of the wounded or the angry orders of a German officer trying to rally his men, but uncanny, inhuman sounds as some unknown thing wailed like a lost soul. Other strange noises filled the fog, sharp clashes of steel like bayonets in hand-to-hand combat, along with the angry shouts of more men—and even the screams of animals—that he knew could not be in that smoke- shrouded hollow. After setting off the ammo, Littlejohn and Billy poured their fire down into the clearing,

132 determined to keep the raiders pinned down while Sarge's group went after a prisoner. Suddenly the fog that had surrounded them earlier rolled in again, with even stranger noises echoing out of it. Half-blinded, Littlejohn pushed recklessly to his feet, bent on charging down to hold off the raiders hand-to-hand if necessary. As he stood, a massive figure loomed out the fog with a savage roar and grappled with the GI. Behind him, Billy froze, staring in disbelief at a lizard creature that looked like something from one of those monster movies he used to sneak out to see. Overcoming his shock, the young GI lunged forward with his bayonet, determined to do something before the creature ripped his buddy's face off. But before he could reach the grappling duo, a huge shadowy figure pushed him aside, swinging an enormous ax that sent the lizard creature's head rolling down the hillside. The beast fought on for five more interminable seconds, ignoring the inconvenience of its missing brain, then toppled like a tree. Gasping for breath, Billy stared in disbelief at Littlejohn's fur-and-mail-clad rescuer with his outrageous winged helmet, who glared at the two of them with an equally suspicious expression. "I think he's a Viking," Billy whispered. "I saw a picture like that in my history book." "Yeah," Littlejohn panted as he clutched at the deep bloody scratches the giant lizard had raked down his upper arm. "But what's he doing here, in northern France?" Though Kirby and Caje had charged down beside Saunders, the smoke and fog quickly enveloped them, leaving them firing blind, not sure where their targets were anymore. All of a sudden, Kirby heard a blood-freezing howl as a fur-covered thing loomed out of the mist. He fired instinctively, almost cutting the creature in half, then stared down in disbelief at its bloodstained teeth and claws, before kicking the body aside as he muttered, "Gotta be the DTs. But I ain't even seen a beer for the past month." He felt the presence of another figure close beside him, but after hearing a hoarse voice muttering in French, Kirby took his finger off the trigger and called out, "Caje, that you? What's going on here anyway? The Krauts make a deal with the devil, ya' think? Only way I can figger...." His voice trailed off as he caught sight of Caje's face, pale as milk underneath his swarthy tan, his eyes wide as saucers as he crossed himself with slow deliberation. "Le loup-garou, a werewolf." His voice was a ragged monotone. "But it's not real. Just tales the old men told to frighten petites." Kirby stared down at the tattered carcass that had unnerved his buddy. It did look a little like a wolf, a bloody carcass covered in ragged gray brown fur. But the longer he stared at it, the more Kirby realized that the front legs were shaped wrong, more like arms than legs, though it still had savage bloodstained claws where its "hands" should be. He shuddered as he stared at its head, which had human-looking eyes but a wolf's snout filled with bloody fangs. "It may not be real, ol' buddy, but it looks nasty enough to overlook that shortcoming." He glanced around anxiously, suddenly aware of the increasing volume of screams and cries echoing out of the fog. "Dunno where the Sarge has gone, but we gotta stick together if we're gonna get outta here alive. With a prisoner or not." Hearing screams of pain, Doc snatched up his rucksack and made sure his helmet was secure before starting down the hill. Then out of the mist loomed a man on horseback, dressed in a blue uniform and wearing a white Stetson with crossed sabers pinned to its crown, grappling with some kind of creature that looked like it was half-lion, half-alligator. Doc froze in disbelief until the man slashed the creature's throat with his saber. As it dropped to the ground gushing glowing green fluid, its blood splashed the soldier's arm, eliciting a burst of blistering profanity as the man slumped in his saddle. Pausing only a moment to gape at the body twitching at his feet, Doc hurried over to the side of the soldier's mount, reaching up for the man's wounded arm as he grabbed his canteen. "Here, lemme see if I can rinse that off...." The soldier hissed in relief as the water flushed away the bubbling ichor, and Doc stared at the ragged fabric and reddened flesh beneath it. Reaching for a sulfa packet, he glanced up at the

133 soldier's face, noting the startled blue eyes above an impressive blond handlebar mustache. "Umm, you're not allergic, are you?" he asked tentatively. "Hell no." The young man hawked a gob of dark brown chewing tobacco at Doc's feet. "I'm a good Methodist, not one of them heathen religions. Pardon me askin', but what the blazes are you doing here? Where's our healer?" Finishing his rough bandaging of the cavalry officer's burned arm, Doc looked around with equal bewilderment, trying to locate the squad. No longer surrounded by burning tents, he was standing in a small clearing, hemmed in by huge dark trees looming so tall that they almost hid the sky overhead. He looked around urgently for any familiar faces and breathed a sigh of relief as he spotted Littlejohn and Billy crouched together. He felt a sinking feeling as he saw the Viking warrior, complete with chain mail over a fur tunic and winged helmet, who stood over them, holding a battle axe. Billy's eyes were wide with shock and disbelief but that didn't stop him from gamely struggling to wrap a bandage around Littlejohn's wounded arm. Hurrying away from the cavalry officer he'd just treated, Doc tried to push past the hulking warrior and surprised himself with the steady note in his voice. "Put that axe down, fella, and let me do my job." The Viking looked up at the horseman who'd trotted up behind Doc, and rumbled something that sounded like a question. The cavalry officer grunted a noncommittal, "Damned if I know. They look like lost souls who just stumbled through a time breach. I'll tell the Warder." As he started to sheath his saber, the young cavalryman peered along its edge and gave a disgruntled snort. "Well, the damn blade's notched for sure this time. Hope the smith's at the fort when we get back and not making rounds of the villages." Billy's eyes were so wide that his eyebrows had almost disappeared under his helmet. "Doc, what... what happened to the Nazis? Who are these guys? And where are Caje, Kirby, and the Sarge?" "One question at a time, Billy. And to tell you the honest truth, I don't even know the answer to the first one." Littlejohn gazed around at many of the bodies scattered around them, most of them not even human, then said in a hoarse whisper, "I can tell you one thing, Billy: 'Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore'." Swallowing hard as he took in their increasingly strange surroundings, Doc had to agree.

*****

Saunders scrubbed vainly at his watering eyes, trying to pierce the thick smoke from the burning ammo that had combined with the returning fog. He couldn't see six inches in front of his face but he knew the Kraut's HQ was just ahead. All he had to do was kick down the door and go in firing low to blast the legs out from under their enemies. Hearing the staccato rumble of the BAR and Caje's steady firing right behind him, Saunders hoped they were choosing their targets carefully and not firing blind. Charging forward, he slammed through the door and fired a long sweeping burst from the SMG. To his surprise, no one returned fire. He moved further inside, nerves taut, squinting into the shadows and trying to locate an officer or NCO who might have led this murderous band. Spotting three bodies sprawled on the floor, Saunders started to prod them with his boot, when someone lunged out of the shadows with a long knife gleaming in one hand as he tried to slash Saunders' throat. The sergeant fell backwards firing, but his aim was high and the next moment the Thompson went flying from a well-aimed kick. Rolling to his feet, he lunged at the gray-clad SS officer, and as they struggled for control of the German's knife, Saunders stared into that arrogant young face. The officer snarled through gritted teeth, "Verdammt Amerikaner. We will not allow your troops to enter the Fatherland... if we

134 must shed a river of blood to stop you." Saunders gripped the officer's wrist to keep the blade away from his throat and struggled to knock it out of his grip. Hooking his leg behind the German's knee, Saunders dragged the two of them down where they continued to grapple together on the hard dirt floor. As smoke rolled through the door, burning their eyes and setting both to coughing, Saunders kneed the German in the crotch and managed to break away. He staggered to his feet and groped around for his Thompson, but could only find the German's Mauser. He straightened up, aiming at the German, only to discover the clip was empty. Hesitating only a moment, Saunders hurled it at the knife still clutched in the officer's hand, hoping to disarm him, and then tackled the German, using every trick of dirty fighting that he'd ever picked up in a half-dozen years of back-alley barroom brawls. But the German had also learned a few dirty tricks that he used to his advantage, along with a longer reach and the fact he outweighed Saunders by a good twenty-five pounds of solid muscle. The smoke surrounding them grew thicker, almost blinding the two combatants as the sounds of firing and exploding ammo faded away. Caught up in his life-or-death struggle with his German foe, Saunders was startled as he realized that the normal sounds of battle had changed. Replaced by odd noises, roars, howls, and screams that couldn't have come from a human throat. Even his German foe noticed the difference and panted as he grappled with Saunders. "What are you doing to my men, you savage!" Ignoring the distraction, Saunders smashed the German's hand against the ground, hoping to force him to drop the knife. But he momentarily lost his grip, and the German raked the blade down Saunders' side, leaving a long bloody scratch across his ribs. The sudden pain galvanized him to shove the blade away, but the German managed to hold onto it as they rolled over again. This time the German came up on top, giving him the leverage to force the blade of the knife closer and closer to Saunders' throat. As the German officer was about to plunge it down, he jerked upright with an astonished look on his face, then blood gushed out of his mouth as he collapsed, pinning Saunders to the ground. Saunders' whole body was shaking in exhaustion, but he managed to push the body away and climb unsteadily to his feet. He glanced toward the door, expecting to see Caje or Kirby as his savior. Instead, he confronted a tall, gaunt man backlit in the entrance, wearing a mail shirt and coif over tattered leather. As the sergeant struggled to regain his breath, his rescuer pulled his sword out of the German's back then ripped a strip of fabric from the German's coat and wiped down his blade. "Who... who... the hell are you?" Saunders gasped, still trying to catch his breath. The mail-clad man froze, his face turned away as he started to sheathe his weapon. "Saunders?" The voice was hoarse and much harsher than he remembered, and Saunders felt his head swimming as his vision went dark around the edges. This couldn't be true, it couldn't be the man who the voice sounded like. He stared desperately into the weather-beaten face with its angular features and determined jaw. The lines were carved much deeper around his mouth and his penetrating eyes were marked by a webbing of wrinkles, though they were the same forest green. "Lieutenant... Hanley?" Saunders managed to croak from his raw throat. The figure before him pushed back the mail coif, showing hair more silver than dark as he gave Saunders a very enigmatic look. "Actually, it's major, Sergeant. Or at least it was before I took a wrong turn on a dark Ge—dark street—and wound up here." As the sergeant stared at him in disbelief, Hanley gusted out a deep breath, giving Saunders a warm smile as he gripped the sergeant's shoulder. "But we'll discuss that later. How the devil did you wind up here, and who's with you? The whole squad? Or Caje? Or, God forbid, just Kirby?" There was a desperate eagerness to the voice that set alarms ringing in Saunders' head.

135 This man might look like the lieutenant, even sound like him, but how could he be here, older? And dressed like something out of a "Prince Valiant" comic strip? Hanley gripped Saunders' elbow, intending to lead him away from the bodies inside the ramshackle cottage, but Saunders resisted. "No, I gotta check and see if any of 'em are still alive. I promised Captain Jampel I'd bring a prisoner back for questioning." "Captain... Jampel?" There was that same hesitation that had put him on guard earlier, as though his rescuer was not really certain about who they were. He didn't think he could be fooled by an imposter, at least not where Hanley was concerned, but he gazed at the other man with his own uncertain expression. Seeing that wary, watchful look on Saunders' face, Hanley gave a rueful grin. He should have remembered. Saunders was not one to give his trust easily, not even to a familiar face, at least not without some kind of reasonable explanation. Hanley knelt beside the bodies, checking for a pulse. "There are a couple who are still breathing. Though whether they'll make it back to the Stronghold, I can't be sure." "Doc's here," Saunders said in a flatly pragmatic tone. "We're traveling with a healer too," Hanley muttered as he prodded the German officer Saunders had been fighting when he'd intervened. "He's still alive, but with that chest wound I don't think he'll last much longer." Saunders glanced around, watching in disbelief as the walls of the hut where they were standing began to shimmer like a desert mirage. As they abruptly dissolved, Saunders and Hanley were left standing beside the bodies. Smoke and flames from the explosions were also fading, as the German CP they had just attacked vanished into the morning mist. He and Hanley stood in a shadowy clearing, studying the aftermath of battle surrounding them under the dark, overhanging trees. As he bent down to pick up his Thompson, Saunders winced and made a quick inspection of the deep scratch along his ribs. Groping for sulfa and a dressing, he sprinkled the powder on the wound, pressed the gauze into place, then tucked in his shirt, knowing Doc could do a better job later. Right now he just wanted to find out what had happened to the rest of the squad. Then maybe someone could make sense of their current situation. Off to one side, he spotted Caje and Kirby, sitting glumly with their hands on top of their heads, surrounded by a group of armored and leather-kilted legionaries bristling with swords, spears, maces, and other lethal hand-to-hand weaponry. They didn't seem to be injured, for which he was grateful. The officer in charge, judging by the horsehair crest on his helmet, had a smooth, unmarked face that hardly seemed old enough to command his scarred and weathered troops, though he was inspecting Caje and Kirby's confiscated weapons with avid curiosity. As Hanley and Saunders approached, the officer gave a Roman salute—arm across the chest, then raised— which Hanley reluctantly returned. Seeing the similarity to the Nazi Sieg Heil, Kirby snarled, "See, I told you they was Krauts. Even if they are wearing skirts. It's gotta be some kinda weird Nazi plot." "Shut up, Kirby," Hanley said reflexively, and both soldiers stared at their sergeant and the stranger accompanying him. "Lieutenant... Hanley?" Caje's dark eyes widened as he took in the tall, silver-haired, oddly dressed man at Saunders' side. His gaze flickered from the Roman legion to Hanley's medieval armor to the inhuman bodies scattered across the shadowed clearing and shook his head in disbelief. "We're all dead, aren't we... and this is Hell."

*****

Sometime later, after the rest of the squad had been located, Hanley listened as Saunders

136 sketched out their mission. "Company was in reserve when G-2 learned about a band of German marauders in the area, murdering, raping, burning villages." Saunders normally kept his emotions on a tight rein, but Hanley could see the mission had been one he'd taken personally. "HQ wanted prisoners for questioning, so Captain Jampel sent us out. We were ordered to get a prisoner if we could, but stop the raids." Shaking out a cigarette, he lit it very deliberately as he described what happened after they'd found the raiders' base camp. "After setting off their ammo as a diversion, Caje, Kirby, and I hit their CP, looking for a prisoner. Someone responsible for giving orders." Saunders' hooded gaze studied Hanley and the very odd group he seemed to be leading as he took another deep drag, then carefully pinched out his cigarette and dropped it in his pocket. "The rest you know. A thick mist rolled in where we couldn't see anything." He looked up at the lieutenant. "I was grappling with the Kraut, when suddenly he was skewered like a stuck pig... by a man who's supposed to be in a field hospital with three broken ribs." Deliberately squaring his shoulders, Hanley gazed at the squad, taking in those once familiar faces and wondering how much he dared tell them. "I'll give you a bare bones explanation, but save your questions for later. This is dangerous territory and we need to get moving before we're attacked again. You've seen what we're up against." He nodded at the inhuman bodies, some of which were dissolving into foul-smelling vapors. "They aren't the worst of it. As soon as the wounded are loaded onto the wagons, we'll head for the Stronghold." As the squad exchanged questioning glances, Saunders got a stubborn look on his face. "Now look, Lieut... sir, my orders from Captain Jampel were to deliver our prisoner back to HQ. We don't have time to follow you to your... base." Hanley's expression was rueful but determined. "Take a good look around, Sergeant. If you think that even Caje can find his way back to King Company, you're free to leave. But take my word for it, you're a long way from home, and I don't know if we can find the pathway that opened and left you here anytime soon." "Pathway? What kind of 'path' do ya mean?" Doc spoke up this time, with a baffled look. "Ever hear about people walking down a road, turning a corner, and then vanishing into thin air? Or instances where people appeared out of nowhere, wearing strange clothes and speaking unknown languages. Usually they're locked away in insane asylums, but occasionally people listen to the stories they tell of other places, other times. That's what happened to me. I was running down a dark street after midnight, trying to get away from a gang of... cutthroats. As I ducked into an alleyway, I tripped over some loose bricks and fell through a solid wall... into daylight, into Avalon. To make a long story short, I eventually learned that I was in another place, another world, where nature—and history—are very different." He took a deep shuddering breath, staring at his onetime squad. "There's no time for me to go into much more detail, but I eventually discovered that there were paths between this world and others, including ours. They seem to bridge time as well, which is why our troops include Roman legionaries, members of a 7th Cavalry column, and survivors off a wrecked Viking longboat." Hanley watched Saunders for long moments, hoping that he'd been able to convince the sergeant he was telling the truth. But Saunders still had that stubborn look he recognized only too well. Shrugging in resignation, he continued, "Look, Saunders, my troops are escorting four wagons full of supplies that are desperately needed by people I have a responsibility to. I can't order you and your squad to come with us, but the Stronghold is the only place where you might be able to find a way back to your own world and time." "A way back? How?" Saunders asked. "There are people at the Stronghold with unusual powers: adepts, healers, and even seers who can locate the pathways where worlds intersect. It's possible they might be able to find a way back for you and the rest of the squad and your prisoners." "But no guarantees," Kirby spoke up, surprisingly serious. "I'm afraid not." Hanley shrugged, leaving the squad to consult while he ordered his troops

137 to start shifting supplies among the wagons in order to make room to carry the wounded. A slender figure wearing a gray cloak with a hood pulled up so far that her face was in shadow approached him and asked tentatively, "What should we do about the wounded who came through the breach with the other soldiers, Warder? Are they enemies? After we treat their wounds, what are we to do with them?" "I'm not sure, Rhiannon." Hanley's dark brows drew down in a frown. "If Saunders and his men decide to go with us, we'll see what he wants to do." Raising his voice, he called out to the cavalry captain Doc had treated earlier, "How many riderless horses have we got, Jackson? Enough to provide mounts for the sergeant and his squad?" "Looks like maybe ten all told. Though that big fella," he nodded in Littlejohn's direction, "might have to ride in one of the wagons." "Just do the best you can." As Captain Jackson wheeled his mount away, Hanley turned a questioning glance toward Saunders. "Well, are you with us or not?" After the sergeant gave a reluctant nod of assent, Hanley said, "We're going to have to move quickly if we don't want to have another run-in with Kronus's forces." "Kronus? He's in charge of these... creatures?" "I'll try to explain later, Sergeant. Right now we're getting mounts for you and the rest of the squad. One of the supply wagons is being converted into an ambulance, so what do you want to do about your prisoners?" "We can't leave them behind. But I hate to put them in with your wounded." "You think they're dangerous?" "They're still breathing, aren't they?" "All right, we'll put them in a second wagon, but it'll be a tight squeeze." Saunders nodded in agreement. While Hanley continued readying his troops to move out, Doc came over and asked, "I heard that the lieutenant has a healer who's in charge of the wounded. I'd like to help, if it's all right with you, Sarge." "Good idea, Doc." Saunders nodded absently, his attention on the cavalryman Hanley had ordered to select mounts for his men. The captain returned leading the horses, along with several troopers willing to instruct his infantry squad in the basic "dos and don'ts" of horsemanship. As they did so, Saunders noted uneasily that his well-trained and tightly knit squad was rapidly being dispersed among Hanley's troops. Considering their lack of knowledge about the terrain and the current enemy, he reluctantly approved of Hanley's tactics, though he wondered what would happen to his men if they were attacked again. And he wasn't all that sure about his squad being able to keep up with Hanley's people on horseback. He wasn't the only one. Kirby was standing off to one side, his BAR slung across his waist, staring with considerable alarm at the large four-legged steed that someone had led up to him. "Now just a minute here, I ain't no Lone Ranger and this weapon don't shoot silver bullets. You put me on the back of that there animal and there's liable to be a painful parting of the ways somewhere down the line." "Oh, stop complaining, Kirby," Littlejohn rumbled. "Captain Jackson says that these animals are well-trained and almost never throw their riders." "It's that almost that worries me." "At least we don't have to hike wherever we're going." "Where's the clutch on this thing?" Kirby muttered after clambering aboard, shifting the BAR under one arm while he watched suspiciously as one of Jackson's troops showed him how to hold the reins. The Viking warrior Littlejohn had first encountered led over a sturdy mount with broad feet

138 and feathery fetlocks. The soldier eyed the animal appreciatively before gripping its mane and swinging into the saddle. He fumbled with the reins for a moment, nodding slowly as Leif showed him how to guide his mount one-handed, leaving the other hand free to use his weapon. Billy stared eagerly at the horses, grinning like a kid at Christmas, while Caje studied his mount with a resigned look before swinging onto the saddle without touching the stirrups. "Oh wow," Billy said, awestruck. "I always wanted a pony." But Caje must have had enough prior experience to be aware of the downside to becoming a cavalry unit. "Just remember that eight or ten hours from now when your butt's raw from bouncing up and down for the next thirty miles," he warned darkly. More worried about Billy's enthusiasm than Caje's caution, Saunders made a quick decision before turning to the young GI. "Nelson, Doc's riding in the wagons to help with the wounded, but I want you there too, guarding our prisoners." There was a momentary disappointed look on Nelson's face, then he nodded and shouldered his rifle. Given his own reservations, Saunders stared dubiously at the mount one of the cavalry troopers had just led over. He'd ridden once or twice when he was a teenager visiting his grandparents' farm. But those had been sway-backed old plow horses, not the high-spirited animals Hanley's troops were riding. Hitching the Thompson over his shoulder, Saunders put his left foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. The young cavalry officer showed him how to manage the reins, which luckily only required his left hand, making it possible to swing his weapon into action if they were attacked again. He glanced over at Jackson, who sat his horse with an ease that the sergeant envied, and asked bluntly, "If we're attacked, are my men gonna be able to manage these animals?" "Well, they've been trained as war horses not to shy at loud noises. Also to stay in one place if you drop the reins, and some of them will defend a downed rider." Watching off to one side, Hanley was not surprised at Saunders' misgivings, although he was much more confident in the squad's ability to adapt to their current situation. Saunders and his men had been together since Normandy, surviving hedgerows, Panzer attacks, Gestapo prison camps, and the sheer, bloody insanity of war. Hanley knew that they were tough and level-headed, and now he had to wonder if their sudden appearance wasn't the answer to an unspoken prayer. If he could just persuade the sergeant and his men to stay, making this world's battle their own. But there was still a long dangerous road to travel before they reached the safety of the Stronghold. Raising his arm, Hanley ordered Jackson's cavalry troop to take the lead, then waved for Saunders' men to fall in beside the supply wagons. He brought up the rear, pushing the group to as fast a pace as possible given the condition of the animals and their inexperienced riders. Over the next couple of hours, Saunders discovered his beast had four speeds, one slow, one fast, and two medium. Of the medium speeds which kept him abreast of the wagons, one was smooth as silk, while the other threatened to jar his backbone loose. The animal he was riding had the uncommon knack of sensing when he was getting adjusted to their progress and then lapsing into that bone-jarring gait, causing Saunders to jolt along, swearing, until he was able to kick the horse back into the smoother gait for another few minutes. After three hours riding in the direction of their refuge, Hanley called for a brief halt to rest the horses and consult his maps. One of Jackson's lieutenants, who was riding his animal with confidence but not like he'd been born in the saddle, cantered over and introduced himself. "I'm Sam Andrews, 'galvanized Yankee' and kinda new to the cavalry myself. Saw you talkin' with the captain earlier. He means well, but has been a pony soldier since he was knee-high to a grasshopper and kinda forgotten the basics. This jug-headed hayburner looks like he's givin' you a hard time?" Saunders nodded irritably, wondering if he couldn't abandon this four-legged torture machine and try to keep up on foot. "Guess I'm infantry, not cavalry."

139 "So was I, before tanglin' with the damn Yankees at Gettysburg. But these slab-sided mustangs can be useful, if you show 'em who's boss." Noting Saunders' disbelieving expression, Andrews continued, "Aw, it's not that hard. Just hang onto the reins and give him a boot in the ribs any time he drops to a trot, then he'll stay on pace and you won't hafta eat dinner standin'." Saunders nodded, staring at the other man somewhat uncertainly until Andrews stood up in his stirrups. "Ahh, hell, one of the drivers' is signalin' the Warder. Gotta be trouble with the wagons. Just remember, a firm grip on the reins and a boot to the ribs." "Just like handling raw recruits," Saunders muttered to himself as the cavalry trooper cantered away.

Chapter II

Whatever the problem was, it seemed to require more than a five-minute break, so Saunders rode over and took a hard look at his squad, trying to see how they were adjusting. Kirby had slid off his beast, limping around, exaggerating his bow legs, grousing as usual. Littlejohn appeared to be completely at ease, sprawled beside his grazing mount with the reins wrapped around his hand and long legs crossed, seemingly without a care in the world. Caje had dismounted and was sitting on fallen log, smoking as he warily regarded the approach of one their newfound allies. It was the young Roman officer. Marcus, Saunders thought he'd heard someone call him. He had a gleaming metallic bundle draped across the front of his saddle and a determined look on his face. "Sergeant, since you and your men will be riding with us, you'll need to have them put on these mail shirts... in case we are attacked again." Even though he'd agreed to go along with Hanley's troops, temporarily, Saunders balked at taking this junior officer's orders. Especially since he still wasn't even sure exactly where Hanley's current loyalties lay, or what sacrifices he might be willing to make to protect this Stronghold where he was supposed to be leading them. And there were other considerations as well. Saunders lifted the mail shirt with the tip of his Thompson, taking in its silvery sheen and light weight. It hardly seemed heavy enough to resist a small caliber round, much less stand up against the teeth and claws of the creatures they'd battled earlier. Besides, its metallic gleam would make his squad stand out like they had targets painted on their chests, especially against the wooded countryside they were traveling through. Though Hanley and others in the troop wore the same mail, it was battered and stained, blending into the background. He glanced over at Littlejohn, who'd sat up at Marcus's approach and was watching the exchange with a somber look on his face. And... the shirts were all average in size, which meant that none of them would fit Littlejohn. Saunders shook his head. "I don't think so, Marcus. We're used to takin' cover when we run into trouble... and I don't want 'em forgettin' how to duck." "Ah, come on, Sarge." Kirby's distinctive voice could be heard all the way back to the wagons. "Let's give 'em a try. We could be like Superman, with bullets bouncin' off our chests." "And what happens if whoever's firing raises their sights, Kirby?" Saunders gave his usual harsh rebuttal, brought out when someone didn't think things through. "You planning on catching bullets in your teeth?" He turned back to Marcus. "Like I said earlier, we'll pass." "As you wish." The young man shrugged. "The Warder wished to do you a kindness." "Yeah, Sarge," Kirby blustered on, never knowing when to shut up. "Why not let him 'do us a kindness'?" He limped over to where Marcus had dropped the shirts and began sifting through

140 the glittering mail, holding one up to his chest. "Look at me, Caje. I'm Sir Lunchalot, a reg'lar 'knight in shining armor'." Glaring at his BAR man, Saunders replied through gritted teeth, "There's not enough for the whole squad." Ignoring the signs of Saunders' impending blow- up, Kirby sifted through the mail shirts, doing a quick count, then glanced over at Littlejohn and finally realized the problem. By this time, Saunders' gaze was smoldering, and, having felt the full force of that volcanic rage once himself, Caje stubbed out his cigarette and turned his attention to his mount, leaving Kirby alone in the threatening silence. Until Littlejohn stood up beside his horse and came over to Kirby's side, in silent support. "It's all right, Sarge. I don't mind. Heck, I'd sooner see you guys wearing these shirts than feel guilty 'cause you're going without for my sake." "Just shut up, Littlejohn," Saunders ordered. "We're not wearin' those shirts for the very reason Kirby gave. You guys start thinking you're Superman and you're dead! You need to stay alert, keep your eyes and ears open, if you're going to survive this war. Not start to depend on some so-called 'protection' that may not even work. This squad lives together, fights together, and if it has to, dies together. You got that, Superman?" "Got it, Sarge." Kirby stepped away from the shimmering mail like it was kryptonite and clambered back on his horse. Jerking the reins of his own beast, Saunders cantered away, struggling to get his fury at Kirby under control. The BAR man was a good soldier when he didn't let his mouth run ahead of his brains, but in a strange situation like this, he was vulnerable. They all were, even if Hanley was on the level. He doubted the lieutenant was deliberately trying to undermine his command of the squad. On the other hand, he didn't know if he could trust this man the same way he'd trusted and obeyed Hanley since landing at Normandy. Obviously older and warier, the Warder (as his troops called him) seemed to have different loyalties, different priorities than the man Saunders had fought beside for the past six months. Then Hanley had understood the discipline that was necessary for the squad to survive, but now, Saunders shook his head, trying to banish his growing doubts. Pausing just beyond the wagons, Saunders pulled up his mount and let the animal's head drop so it could graze. Propping one knee over the front of his saddle, he fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes, then stared bleakly at the half-empty pack, craving a smoke, but wondering if there might not come a time when he'd need it even more. Remembering the half-smoked one he'd pinched out earlier, he reached into his pocket and retrieved it. From his position at the rear of the column, Hanley had seen the incident between Marcus and Saunders, and wondered if he should talk to the sergeant and try to explain a little more about this world and its people. Maybe then Saunders would understand why he was so determined to protect them. He sniffed at the smoke wafting his way, then jerked the reins of his horse to join the sergeant. Taking in Saunders' brooding look, he remarked casually, "That's what I missed the most my first month here. Not the cigarettes so much as the chance to take a break and gather my thoughts... or just wind down a bit before rolling in my blankets." He gave a rueful chuckle, "Of course, I was smoking East German fags at the time... more floor sweepings than tobacco. I didn't miss 'em much." Saunders didn't bat an eye at Hanley's revelation, keeping his own thoughts hidden as he blew out a long stream of smoke. "Gotta been better than those black Turkish butts that were all you could get in North Africa. Killed my sense of taste for almost six months." He glanced

141 sidelong at Hanley, "Not necessarily a bad thing... given our rations." Stubbing out the cigarette on the sole of his boot, Saunders quickly field-stripped it and let the tiny flakes of tobacco and ash drift away as he placed the crumpled paper in his pocket. "You may be in charge of these troops, Major." Saunders' voice held an icy suspicious note and Hanley did not miss the deliberate emphasis on his rank, or the stubborn resolve on his sergeant's face. "But we're under Captain Jampel's orders. We'll go along with you, and your men, until we can find a way back to our lines. Anything concerning our prisoners or the squad, you ask me first. Got it?" Hanley nodded somberly. "Look, Saunders, whether you believe it or not, I'm not trying to take over the squad. I've got more troops under my command now than I ever wanted, but the choice wasn't mine to make. After I first stumbled into Avalon nearly ten years ago, I wasn't sure whether I'd been drugged by my pursuers or actually cracked under the strain of working undercover. "The man who was in charge when I arrived had found his way into Avalon during a gas attack in No Man's Land years before. He built forts and then gathered and trained troops to defend the local settlers from attacks by beasts, but it was difficult to provide security for the more isolated communities. After he died, I was chosen as Warder and the responsibility of protecting these people fell to me. Since then, we've fortified many of the settlements, joined forces with Cerridwen's adepts, who've showed us how to defend ourselves against Kronus and his monsters. and recruited and trained troops to help in that defense." "Recruited?" Saunders eyes glittered fiercely, suddenly suspicious. "You didn't bring us here deliberately, did you?" Hanley gave a bitter laugh. "Hell, if I could do that, Saunders, don't you think I'd have snatched the Eighth Air Force or a tank battalion instead? Most of our troops come from men who've gone missing during a battle, been lost at sea or in the desert. Though I'll have to admit when Marcus and the remnants of his legion stumbled through a gate not far from the Stronghold with a horde of rampaging Picts behind, I wasn't really sure who to recruit. My history teacher used to say those blue-painted future Scots were the toughest fighters in the world, but since I'd studied Latin rather than Gaelic in high school, I thought I'd have a better chance of reasoning with the Romans. Once Marcus got over the initial shock that this wasn't the Elysian Fields, he's done pretty well, considering his father had bought his rank for him." There was a long uneasy silence as Saunders brooded over this torrent of information, wondering why Hanley had decided to tell him so much now. Was it an effort to regain his trust? Or to convince them to join his forces? He would not meet the lieutenant's gaze. Hanley sighed and then spoke again. "Once we get moving, tell your men to stay with the wagons. If we are attacked, they'll aim for the stragglers and I don't want to lose anyone. We'll try to avoid another pitched battle. A detachment of Captain Jackson's troops is bringing up the rear, with 'special weapons' that I hope will be our best chance of holding off Kronus's forces." "What or who is Kronus?" Saunders arched a skeptical brow at his lieutenant. "According to Cerridwen, our oldest adept, he's a powerful sorcerer who believes he should rule Avalon. He created those beasts we were battling earlier to attack our troops and kill anyone who stands against him. He can also conjure storms in a cloudless sky, call down lightning, even transform men into monsters if they surrender their wills." Saunders stared at Hanley for a long moment, wondering what sort of lunatic world they'd stumbled into. "War may be hell," he muttered to himself, echoing one of Caje's earlier statements. "Just didn't think we'd wind up facing the devil himself. All right." He gave a reluctant nod of

142 acknowledgment. "I'll warn the rest of the squad what we're up against." He pulled up his horse's head and started to rejoin his squad, "But I want to see how Billy and Doc are doing." Hanley nodded. "Tell the others we won't delay much longer. Rhiannon's trying to stop some heavy bleeding in one of Jackson's men." As Saunders started to rein his horse toward the ambulance wagons, Hanley put a restraining hand on his arm. "Just one more thing, Saunders. About Rhiannon, our healer. She's a bit odd. She's one of the adepts I mentioned earlier, but wasn't sent to Cerridwen for training when she came of age. Her grandmother refused to let her go, preferring to teach the girl herself. When the old woman recently died, the village they lived in sent Rhiannon away. No real reason given, just that she's... trouble." "And they wanted her gone." Saunders expression was grim, remembering another girl he'd met who had been unwelcome among her so-called friends and neighbors. "Don't worry, Sergeant. Cerridwen thinks Rhiannon can be trained, even though she's long past the time girls usually enter the Grove. But the girl is scared and maybe even a little angry, so try not to upset her when you check on the wounded." Saunders tipped his helmet back on his head, baffled by the warning, then shrugged it off as he approached the wagon. Doc was standing beside it, with a firm grip on the shoulders of one of Jackson's riders who was tossing fitfully on the wagon bed. Beside the medic leaned a slight figure, cloaked and hooded, who had one hand resting on the chest of the rider while the other clung to Doc's shoulder. He heard a hoarse whisper, to which Doc appended a fervent "Amen," and glowing energy surged from the figure's fingers, sinking into the trooper's chest. Their patient stopped thrashing and took a deep shuddering breath, echoing the ragged gasp given by Doc as he wiped the sweat off his forehead. "You did it, Rhiannon. You stopped the bleeding." Beside him the healer's knees buckled and she would have fallen if Saunders had not slid off his horse and caught her. As he did so, the hood dropped away, revealing delicate features the shade of ivory and auburn hair that fell past her shoulders. His hands momentarily full, Saunders called out to his medic, "Doc, she's passed out." Doc reached over and grabbed her wrist, checking the girl's pulse. "Fast, but regular. She just overstrained herself, Sarge. Let me get up in the wagon and you can pass her...." But before the medic could follow through, the girl's eyes fluttered open and she tensed in Saunders' arms, protesting in a low, husky voice, "I'm all right. I just need a moment to catch my breath." He glanced over at his medic, who nodded his okay, and then set the girl carefully on her feet, steadying her as she swayed. "I'll be fine. There's no need for you to stay." Saunders nodded, then introduced himself. "I'm Sergeant Saunders. The lieutenant... I mean the Warder, said you were in charge of the wounded. I want to check on our prisoners. Make sure they're being kept in secure conditions" Rhiannon studied his face for a long moment before leading him to the second wagon. He lifted the canvas flap and peered in, seeing Billy Nelson squatting watchfully beside six comatose enlisted men. The Gestapo officer was propped up against several bags of supplies in an effort to ease his labored breathing. But Saunders could tell by the gray tinge to his face and the blood that frothed at his lips that the man would not last much longer. In fact, all of their prisoners had wounds likely to prove fatal sooner or later. Still, he climbed into the wagon, intent on seeing whether any of his prisoners might survive the journey. The healer joined him. Billy almost came to attention as Saunders gave him a sharp glance and asked, "How many clips have you got?" "Three, Sarge." Saunders looked down at his holstered sidearm then at the semiconscious prisoners, deciding Billy had enough firepower to keep the Germans subdued until they reached Hanley's stronghold. "You're in charge of security, Billy. Keep a close watch and if there are any problems,

143 signal Doc." "These men are my patients, Sergeant," the healer said, her golden eyes darkening to amber. "And they're my prisoners, Miss...." "My name is Rhiannon, Sergeant," she gave him a tentative smile. "But the others call me Anne." "Anne," Saunders said, closing his eyes with momentary pain as he tried to banish the face of a delicate, dark-haired girl. "Rhiannon," he repeated carefully, resuming his stern expression. "These prisoners aren't soldiers, miss, but butchers. Renegades hiding behind a uniform. My orders are to bring them back alive, if I can. For questioning, so we can stop other groups like them." Rhiannon stared at him for a long moment, before saying softly, "You sound just like him." "Who?" Saunders was curious. "The Warder, the one you call Hanley. Ever since he arrived, he's worked to unite the warring groups and bring peace to this land. He established the Stronghold to protect the farmers, has taken the healers under his shield, and even destroyed many of the unholy places. If you and your men are his followers, then you're most welcome here. We need more warriors of his stature." Saunders turned away from her avid declaration, not really sure he wanted to hear what she was telling him. Hanley was a good officer and Saunders was well aware of his leadership skills, but judging by the ardent look on the girl's face, Hanley was considered a savior, a messiah. That kind of adulation troubled him. He wasn't sure he could trust the lieutenant any longer, not if his loyalties to these people went so deep that he'd actually forgotten the country he swore to protect and defend. With a last warning to Billy to keep a close eye on the prisoners, Saunders jumped down from the wagon. As he reached for his horse, the motion pulled at the wound along his ribs and it began to bleed again. Grimacing, he pressed a hand against his bandage and winced as he felt the blood soaking through. "What's wrong, Sergeant?" Rhiannon asked. "It's nothing." He grabbed the reins of his horse and started to mount. "I have to get back to the squad." But before he could pull himself into the saddle, Doc was beside him, poking at the dried, dirty bandage as he grumbled, "Why didn't you tell me about this sooner, Sarge?" Saunders tried to fend off the medic's attentions, but was unable to avoid flinching at the deft, careful touch as the medic lifted his shirt and pulled away the bloodstained dressing. "Looks like you need some stitches, Sarge, or this wound's going to take a long time healin'." "No time." Saunders grimaced as Doc continued his gentle but thorough examination. "Just bandage it tight and I'll manage." "You will not," Rhiannon interrupted. "The wound has already begun to fester." She pointed to the reddened edges, and Doc nodded in reluctant agreement. "She's right. It needs a good coating of sulfa, and you oughta stay off your feet so it gets a chance to close properly." "Can't do that." Saunders shook his head wearily. "According to Hanley, we've got to keep moving or we risk being trapped here. Kronus's troops are still following us." He glanced up at the increasingly dark sky and lengthening shadows, "Don't how much farther we've got to go, but I have to get back to the squad."

144 "Wait, Sergeant." Rhiannon glanced up into his eyes, then turned away blushing. Hastily she reached into the bag slung over her shoulder and pulled out a small phial. "Just let me apply this, and then your medic can put on a clean dressing." Saunders nearly refused, until a raw ache from his side reminded him of the wound's presence. Shifting the SMG to his other shoulder, he unbuttoned his torn shirt, exposing his entire bruised, bloody side. As Rhiannon smoothed the pale yellow cream along the length of the slash, Saunders shivered, trying to ignore the sensations those delicate fingers were sending along his spine. The coolness he felt as the remedy was applied quickly became a soothing warmth that relaxed the tense muscles. Doc hastily tied on another gauze dressing as smoothly as possible before turning his usual worried expression to the sergeant. "How's it feel?" "Better." Saunders hastily buttoned his shirt and tucked it over the bandage. Littlejohn rode over, with a somber expression on his face as he gestured toward the threatening skies. "If we were home, I'd say we were looking at cyclone weather." Grabbing the reins of his own mount, Saunders scrambled onto the saddle, grateful that his side no longer ached. Taking note of Littlejohn's warning, he glanced up at the increasingly dark clouds and the brazen hue filling the sky. Every combat survivor developed an instinct for spotting approaching trouble and Saunders' was a little bit sharper than most. Kicking his horse into a lope, Saunders headed toward the front of the column, with Littlejohn riding beside him. The GI's long face was grim and getting grimmer. "According to Leif's steersman, those things we battled earlier have called for reinforcements. What do you want us to do, Sarge?" Saunders sketched out the lieutenant's plans. "Tell the rest of the squad to get mounted and stay close to the wagons. Hanley wants to avoid another battle and keep everything moving, even if we're attacked. I want to check on Captain Jackson. His troops are supposed to be bringing up the rear." "Right, Sarge." Littlejohn urged his horse over to where Caje and Kirby were starting to notice the rising wind and uncertain sky. "Get mounted," he shouted against sound of the rising wind. "Sarge says those things we fought earlier are coming back for another round." Kirby was dashing around, the BAR banging against his hip, hunting for his helmet and glowering at the darkening skies. "No rest in this man's army, no matter whether you're fightin' Krauts or 'ghosts and devils'. I swear the next war I fight in is gonna have regular hours and guaranteed coffee breaks." By the time the rest of the squad was mounted, Saunders cantered up. "Hanley's trying to get his people and supplies back to the Stronghold before those creatures we fought earlier catch up and attack again." "Sounds like he needs a diversion." Caje spoke in a darkly grim tone. "It won't be us this time, Caje. According to Hanley, Jackson's cavalry troopers have that assignment. We're just supposed to stay close to the wagons and make sure they don't fall behind." "Whaddaya know." Kirby grinned ruefully. "Somebody else got the dirtiest job for once." He hefted the BAR so he could swing it around instantly. "Still, ridin' flank ain't gonna be no picnic either, Sarge." "Just shut up for once, Kirby, and do like you're told." Saunders' expression was grim. Gesturing for Kirby, Littlejohn, and Caje to take their position beside the wagons, Saunders ordered, "Keep up with the lead column and make sure the wagons stay together. Jackson's men are riding rearguard to hold off our pursuers and keep them from attacking the wagons." "What about you, Sarge?" Caje interrupted. "Where are you going?" "I've still got a few grenades, Caje." Saunders gestured to the explosives hanging on his belt. "Maybe I can help Jackson slow down whatever's following us." After checking to be sure he had a fresh clip in the Thompson and two tucked inside his

145 jacket, Saunders rode over to join Captain Jackson's detail. Hanley had said they were his "special weapons" squad and Saunders was curious about what that meant in dealing with the inhuman creatures they were up against. Making sure the SMG's strap was snug on his shoulder, he drew up his reins and warily greeted the young cavalry captain who'd helped get his squad mounted. "Hanley said you were covering the rear, so I thought I'd see if you wanted any extra help? He also said something about 'special' weapons, and I was curious." Jackson gave a reckless grin as he signaled his troops to fall in behind the wagons. "You lookin' to see what kind of 'hoodoo' the Warder uses against Kronus's beasts. Myrrdin may not be a match for Kronus face to face—yet, but he's showed us a trick or two." "Who's Myrrdin?" "He's a seer and adept, though he hasn't come into his full power yet. He's best at letting us know when folks from elsewhere get shifted through to our territory. He's also alerted us to Kronus's attacks once or twice, though he doesn't have the power to cripple the adept or destroy him. But he's still young." "Do you need any help holding off this Kronus?" "Since we're sorely lacking in numbers facin' his creatures, I'll take any help I can get. Even that peashooter of yours." "What sort of weapons are you using?" Saunders was somewhat surprised at Jackson's scorn for his Thompson. "If rapid-fire was all we needed, I'd have Leif back here on one of the wagons, mannin' the Gatling gun that we were deliverin' to Fort Laramie before we wound up here. But it takes real stopping power to bring down Kronus's creatures. My men used to carry Winchesters until we got hold of some of the old buffalo guns. Now, there's a gun to write home about, with a bullet that'll put a hole in man or beast you can toss a rutabaga through. Some of my troopers carry matchlocks or flintlocks, even a few cap-and-ball Navy Colts. Having to reload makes a man think about where he puts his bullet, plus it's easier to pour shot and mix powder for those single bores." Still irritated at Jackson's attitude, Saunders replied, "So you're saying the Tommy gun won't be much use against the enemy we'll be facing." "Oh, I never spit on a helpin' hand when it's offered. But you'll likely find those explosives of yours much more useful." This time Jackson stared avidly at the grenades on Saunders' belt, leaving the sergeant to ponder the captain's words. That was the crux of the matter. Hanley was eager to keep the squad here, even with the minimum of ammo and grenades they'd brought, but his men weren't trained to fight supernatural foes, not like Jackson's and Marcus's troops. While some of their modern weapons might give his squad a temporary edge, once that was gone.... He did not allow himself to think about the likely aftermath. Besides, their loyalty was to the U.S. Army, and the men of King Company in particular. Fighting their own war against the Germans, their madman leader, and the forces of chaos. The situation facing his squad was complicated enough without taking on "ghoulies, ghosties, and long- leggedy beasties." And he was determined to find some way to convince Hanley to help them get back to that desolate corner of France where reality had somehow slipped off the road map. Saunders tucked his grenades inside his jacket for safekeeping and started to have second thoughts about the impulse that had brought him back to ride with the rearguard. Until he spotted the two wagons with the wounded aboard. He wasn't sure what was delaying Doc and Hanley's

146 healer now, but he intended to put the fear of God in that medic of his, making sure they didn't stop those wagons again. "Doc," he said in the low-voiced growl that usually froze Kirby in his tracks. The medic peered out of the makeshift ambulance over his driver's shoulder. "Sorry Sarge, but Rhiannon had to go check on one of our prisoners. Billy said it sounded like he was wheezin' real hard and couldn't catch his breath." Saunders was too worried to make any idle threats, even under his breath. He just turned his most intimidating gaze on Doc and his driver. "Get this wagon moving toward the front of the main column where it belongs. I'll bring Rhiannon as soon as I can." Reining his mount over to the wagon that held their prisoners, Saunders lifted the tarp and peered into the back, noting with exasperation that the healer was kneeling right beside one of the prisoners, despite his earlier warning. Not only that, Billy had put down his rifle and was following her instructions to put pressure on the man's wound. Both of them totally oblivious to another of the Germans groping inside her bag... probably looking for a weapon. Sliding out of his saddle onto the wagon bed, Saunders shoved his Thompson in the German's face, ordering, "Hande hoch," and watched grimly as the German raised his hands, holding up a razor-sharp scalpel. Billy blanched as he grabbed up his M-1. Saunders did not raise his voice, knowing that Nelson had learned his lesson and would not let down his guard a second time. Instead, he turned his wrath on the healer. "What the devil were you doing? You coulda got yourself killed, and Billy with you," he said in a harsh voice. "It's my duty to save lives." Too angry and pressed for time to argue with her, Saunders slung the Thompson over his shoulder and picked her up in his arms, depositing her onto the front of his saddle. Turning back to the young GI, he growled, "Don't drop your guard again. And sit down and brace yourself. These wagons are going to start moving fast so we don't have another run-in with the things we saw earlier." Billy nodded, his face pale. Saunders dropped into the saddle behind Rhiannon, urging his mount to catch up with Doc's wagon. His arms were wrapped around her slender body during their rush for the other wagon and as he felt her trembling against his chest, he tried to apologize. "I didn't mean to frighten you." He raised his voice to be heard over the pounding of the horse's hooves. "But our prisoners are ruthless. The one I stopped would've cut your throat without a second thought." The tremors stopped and the tension went out of the healer's body as she relaxed within his embrace. All too soon they'd caught up with the other makeshift ambulance and Saunders called out, "Stop, so I can put the healer inside." The wagon rumbled to a stop. As Doc pushed aside the canvas, Saunders lifted Rhiannon and deposited her inside. For just a moment, their gazes locked, then suddenly she leaned over and kissed him. Saunders drew back, his own gaze hooded, startled by the rush of desire jolting down his spine. As Rhiannon stepped cautiously over the wounded, heading toward the front of the wagon, Saunders ordered Doc, "The two of you stay down, no matter what happens with your patients. We've got to keep moving and can't stop, even if it's a matter of life and death." With the sky overhead darkening by the minute and eerie bolts of energy rippling between the clouds, the driver of Doc's wagon used the reins to lash his horses, hurrying to catch up with the main column. Despite its driver's determined efforts to control his team, the prisoners' wagon continued to lag behind. Even as he struggled with the reins, his horses were neighing frantically, eyes rolling and foam covering their necks and chests. Jackson's column headed toward the rear as the young officer circled his arm to form his patrol into two ragged lines. "All right, you yellowlegs. We're ridin' rearguard and you know what that means. Our chief job is to protect the main column... we don't try to tangle with the enemy

147 unless there's no other choice." As his troops moved into a trot before going to a canter, Jackson gave Saunders a sidelong glance. "Not sure how that weapon of yours will affect Kronus's slaves, so stay close. Keep a close lookout for anything that tries to bring down your mount. A man afoot in the middle of this kind of battle is as good as dead." Just ahead, the ambulance holding the German prisoners teetered wildly as the horses wheeled around, charging blindly back toward the forces in pursuit. Saunders stared in disbelief as the frantic driver grappled with the reins, trying to slow down his out-of-control team, but the horses were running blind. Jackson yanked the reins hard, trying to control his mount as it shied away from the careening wagon. "Hellfire and damnation, what's wrong with that driver? He's steering that wagon back into Kronus's clutches, takin' your prisoners with him." Saunders face was grim as he clutched his horse's mane while it danced sideways, startled by the headlong course of the wagon as it passed them. Urging the skittish animal to follow Jackson, they tried to overtake the wagon. The captain quickly realized that the driver was standing up in the wagon bed, pulling back on the reins as hard as he could. But to no avail. "It's not the driver's fault," Jackson gasped, pulling up sharply. "He's tryin' to turn that team, but they're runnin' wild, like they were possessed." His voice trailed off, as he caught the look on Saunders' face. Putting two fingers to his mouth, Jackson gave an ear-piercing whistle. Four troopers peeled off the rear of the column and galloped back to join them. Jackson snapped a quick order before waving one of the men to rejoin his troop. "Tell Lieutenant Andrews to keep the column moving no matter what happens. We're going after that wagon." As Jackson and his fellow cavalrymen lashed their horses into a full gallop in pursuit of the runaway wagon, Saunders clung to his horse's reins as he struggled to keep up with the more experienced riders. Unless they slowed down, he had little chance of using his weapon, even if the enemy was right in front of them. After almost ten minutes of terrifying, bone-jarring pursuit, two of Jackson's cavalrymen pulled alongside the madly racing horses, trying to snatch their reins and turn them back toward the main column. Suddenly there was a loud crackling noise and the sharp smell of ozone as a bolt of energy seared out of the heavens, right in front of them. Rather than stopping the team, it only spurred them to run faster. Jackson screamed, trying to warn the lead man. "Kronus is here. Mathers, look...." But before he could finish, a second bolt struck one of the troopers, leaving nothing behind, not even a scream. Jackson leaned forward, galloping to overtake the second trooper who had just reached over to grab the reins of the runaways. Another bolt crackled right in front of that man, stunning him and causing him to slump across his horse's neck. Attempting the recklessly dangerous "Comanche pick-up," Jackson leaned over and grappled with the barely conscious trooper, slinging him across the front of his own saddle. Weighed down by the double burden, the captain's horse slowed and dropped back from pursuit of the wagon as the third trooper reined up as well. Cursing to himself as the veteran riders fell back, Saunders managed to shift his SMG into firing position, one-armed. Though he didn't have Jackson's skill as a horseman, just maybe he could bring down the leaders of that madly galloping team... and pray against all odds that Nelson and the driver would survive the resulting crash. He urged his mount alongside the laboring horses, but before he could fire, a huge leathery winged beast, part-horse and part-dragon, swooped down directly in front of him. Terrified, his horse gave an almost human scream as it shied, jerking Saunders off-balance in the saddle. Desperately, he kicked his feet out of the stirrups and lunged away from the rearing beast. He'd rolled down enough hills, dodging artillery and sniper fire, that he thought he could go limp and take the fall without shattering every bone in his body. Still, he hit the ground so hard, for a

148 moment he saw stars. As he staggered to his feet, bruised and out of breath, a beam of energy arced down from the beast's rider and struck the wagon, freezing it in a flickering unearthly light. Saunders screamed hoarsely, "Billy. Billy, get out... now!" He stumbled toward the wagon, determined to reach the young soldier despite the beast hovering overhead, its foul breath blowing over him like a wind from hell. Raising his SMG, Saunders fired a burst directly into the creature's reptilian face with no more results than if he'd thrown a handful of pebbles. The beast roared again and flapped its wings, landing directly in front of him. As the air grew close and still, Saunders found himself facing the pitiless, inhuman regard of its master, leader and creator of the forces that had attacked them: the being Hanley called Kronus. At the moment Kronus was wearing a human face and form, though mounted on the monster Saunders had just tried to destroy. A futile effort, judging by the malignant power rolling off the entity in waves. The sergeant swallowed hard and started to fire again. But before he could pull the trigger, the air around his target shimmered and suddenly he was facing Captain Jampel. The apparition had the captain's thinning gray-brown hair, broad forehead and square jaw. He even had the compassionate, yet resolute expression that Saunders had last seen before the captain had sent them into the hills after the German marauders. Even though he knew that Jampel was back at the company CP—some unimaginable distance away, if he could believe Hanley—the focused will of his foe was so intense that it was all the sergeant could do not to drop his weapon and salute this imposter. Kronus nudged his mount forward, gazing down at Saunders. Even the hoarse, battle- roughened voice was the same... almost. "Saunders, what the hell are you and your squad doing, fighting a battle that doesn't concern you, in a world where you don't belong? Get your men together and I'll lead you back." Saunders closed his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek, trying to break through the illusion and its tempting offer. "You're. Not. The captain," he panted. "Does it really matter who I look like, Sergeant? You know you and your men don't belong here. I can open a gate for you. Send you back to your own world, back where you're needed, where your homes and families are." The figure wearing Jampel's face spoke in a sly, cajoling tone, so unlike the captain's usual terse, businesslike voice that Saunders began to shake off its influence Raising his weapon in angry defiance, he repeated his rejection of the offer, against his better judgment: "You're not the captain." An impatient look crossed the fake Jampel's face as he blustered, "Your weapons are useless here. You should know that by now. Gather your men and I'll show you the way back." "No...." Saunders voice went low and menacing. "I don't think so." The captain's eyes were beginning to glow malignant yellow, and with slow deliberation, Saunders lowered his Thompson, reaching inside his jacket. "You always were a weakling, Sergeant. Coddling your men, picking up every stray dog and orphan in the area, making yourself a target, ripe for betrayal. Now do as I say. That's an order, soldier." As "Captain Jampel" urged his mount forward to ride over Saunders, the sergeant rolled out from under the creature's cloven hooves, pulling the pin on the grenade in his hand, then tossing it into the creature's path. Diving away from the blast as it engulfed the creature, Saunders scrambled to his feet only to be slashed across his shoulder and chest by the razor-sharp claws on its wing. He fell to the ground just as the beast vanished in a cloud of foul-smelling smoke. Though his mount was gone, "Captain Jampel" remained, his body rippling like a sheet in a high wind. Suddenly the image transformed into the features of Steiner, the SS captain who'd been in charge of the POW camp that Saunders and his squad had barely managed to escape. "Nice try, Sergeant. Too bad it failed. However, I'm looking forward to a most stimulating conversation with your young comrade, Private Nelson. Too bad you won't be around."

149 "Steiner" snapped his fingers and the beam of light blinked out, along with the wagon and its passengers. All of them vanishing as though they had never existed. Then "Steiner" vanished too, in a thick pillar of black smoke which soon dissipated. Saunders pushed up on one elbow as he heard the bass rumble of the BAR and Caje's Garand firing futilely at the vanishing smoke. He shook his head in disbelief. What were they doing here? He'd told them to stay with the wagons and keep out of this battle. Littlejohn reached his side first and slid off his horse, kneeling at Sanders' side. "What happened to the wagon, Sarge? Where's Billy?" Saunders tried to catch his breath, despite the pain radiating across his chest. Finally, feeling as hopeless and helpless as when they had lost Billy retreating from that French village months before, all he could do was gasp out, "Horses... bolted... couldn't stop them... Kronus... wagon... gone!" He groped dizzily for a dressing pack from his belt, fumbling with it one-handed as his vision wavered in and out. He sensed more than saw Doc's calming presence beside him, easing his head down as the medic took the pack from him, opened it with his teeth and sprinkled sulfa onto the deep jagged wounds. "Take it easy, Sarge. Just lemme get a bandage on that. Rhiannon, get over here. Now." As the healer rushed over, he heard Littlejohn's grim report as the rest of the squad joined them. "The wagon's gone. Vanished, taking Billy with it. And Sarge is hurt... bad." Doc turned his fiercest look on the hapless GI. "Shut your mouth, Littlejohn. You don't know anything." Saunders started to protest weakly, but as Rhiannon knelt beside him, he lost himself in the shimmering green depths of her eyes like a drowning man.

*****

Some indefinite time later, Saunders drifted back to consciousness. He was being jolted along, probably in the remaining ambulance wagon. His whole body felt cold and numb. Doc checked his pulse, then pulled the blanket up tighter around his shoulders, doing whatever he could to ease suffering. Saunders' mind wandered back to the winter he was twelve and had almost died of pneumonia, when such a raging fever had burned through his body that nothing had relieved it. Nothing. Until as a last resort, the doctor had told his family to wrap him in sheets soaked in ice water. He still remembered those hellish hours. How he'd ached so much from shivering that he'd begged his mother through clenched teeth to at least give him a blanket, so he wouldn't freeze to death. She'd wept bitterly even as she followed the doctor's orders, sitting beside him all night, soothing him as she caressed his face, her gentle hands the only comfort in his frozen, feverish world. Doc's square, competent hands were nothing like his mother's delicate fingers, but he had the same tenderness, the same calming touch, the same ability to hold pain and death at bay when all other remedies failed. Saunders struggled to open his eyes, staring into Doc's worried face. "Just try to hold on, Sarge. We'll be there soon. At the Stronghold." "Hanley's base," Saunders murmured, his throat raw. Doc held a canteen to his lips, offering small sips as Rhiannon knelt beside him, raising his head in an effort to help. The healer peered into Sarge's face, her face bleak. "It is not just his wound that worries me, but the fact that Kronus had access to his mind and memories." "Kronus? You mean that thing that made the supply wagon, along with Billy and our prisoners, vanish." The healer clenched her hands as she stared at Doc, her face troubled. "What did you see?"

150 Doc shrugged. "Just some kinda bogey man, all teeth and claws. Like somethin' out of a nightmare." Rhiannon rested her fingertips ever so gently on Saunders' forehead as she closed her eyes and then drew back, shuddering. "The sergeant saw two faces he knew, one friend, one foe. This could be a very bad sign." Doc shook his head, wondering what could be worse than the deep, jagged wounds gouged across Saunders' shoulder and chest. So far he'd been able to control the bleeding and keep the Sarge breathing, but unless Hanley had a skilled surgeon at his Stronghold, Saunders' chances for survival were practically nil. He caught that intense blue gaze resting on him, with the momentary calm and clarity that sometimes came in extremis before a patient lapsed into a final coma and death. "Take care of the others, Doc." "Just take it easy, Sarge. It won't be long now till we get you to proper help." Saunders coughed, a bloody froth showing at the corner of his mouth. "Tell Caje he's in charge. Can trust Hanley... just not too far. Need fighters here. Hanley knows... how good... squad is." Doc answered sharply, "Tell him yourself. We're not goin' anywhere without you." Saunders' legendary temper flared as he gave a weak snarl, "Don't be a fool. I'm done... men can go back. Soon as Hanley finds the way home." "We're not leaving without you, Sarge." Saunders gave him that exasperated look he only used when one of the squad made a particularly stupid mistake. "You know... not going to make it... but the others can... even without Billy." His urgency triggered another coughing spell that left him weak and breathless, and Doc tried to calm the noncom without openly lying to him. "We'll make it back, Sarge. All of us. We're not leavin' anyone behind." Saunders slumped into unconsciousness so abruptly that Doc clutched at his pulse, relieved to find it still there, though weak and thready. He stared down into Rhiannon's face as she knelt beside him, remembering how she'd helped one of Hanley's critically injured men earlier that day and somehow hoping that her powers might be able to keep the sergeant alive. She gazed into his pleading face, saying in a low voice, "If he can just survive until we reach the Stronghold, Cerridwen is head of the Sisterhood. They're trained healers." "But they can't bring someone back from the dead, can they?" Rhiannon shook her head reluctantly. "What about your powers? What you did to help that young trooper. Can't you do the same for the Sarge? Help him to hold on." He gripped her shoulders frantically as she stared at him, her eyes shifting color from green to gold to amber. Shaking off his anxious grip, she clasped his right hand and turned it over so it was palm upward and then delicately laid her own across it. A brief spark of energy flared between their hands. Doc flinched back, startled, and then gazed at his hand, expecting to see a burn mark. But his hand was unmarked, other than its usual scrapes and bruises. Lacing their fingers together, Rhiannon continued in a low whisper, "My grandmother knew I had the power, but did not want me to become one of the Grove's healers, fearing I would give up all thoughts of home and family. Alone I cannot save your sergeant's life, but there is a healing power within you. Like that of the sisterhood, only different. What you are asking takes more power than I have. But if you link your strength with mine, I think we can save him, although it could cost you your life. Are you willing to take that risk?" "What do I have to do?" "Join your hands... and your mind... with mine. We will try to save him." She hesitated a moment. "It might also help if you would hold a picture in your mind of your sergeant, whole and

151 healthy. A time when he was happy, carefree." Not many of those I can recall, Doc thought grimly. "I'll try." Closing his eyes so he could visualize more clearly, Doc let images of the past months spool through his mind like a movie reel at triple speed. Battlefields and patrols. The lieutenant going missing during a heavy bombardment. Blowing up bridges and assaulting bridgeheads. Letters from home. Some with good news, others with bad. Saunders' grim expression as he tried to save a wounded soldier by going with a German prisoner to find a truckload of plasma. Then a sudden flash of the Sarge grinning after Barnarbo located those hot showers in that French village. The image grew clearer. Him, Caje, and the Sarge, luxuriating in the hot water with that bar of finely milled French soap. Laughing, singing, and clowning around, like a bunch of high school boys in a locker room, until that German captain interrupted. Doc felt a sudden stab of guilt until Rhiannon gave him a sharp look. "I have the image in my mind, but why does it trouble you so?" "I had to kill a man... two men... to save Caje and the Sarge. I'm supposed to be a medic, not a soldier." Doc's face was sorrowful. "I understand. I'm frightened too. Using my power without the proper training is dangerous, but it's his only hope. Now concentrate, we must bend our minds to the task of reweaving the frayed cord of your sergeant's life." Taking a deep breath, Doc visualized pouring his strength into the Sarge like pouring water from a pitcher into a glass, and he saw the healer drawing a thread as fine as a spider's web over Saunders' chest. More she demanded in his mind. From a spigot into a pitcher, and the web spun into a silk suture's thickness. More! The voice inside his head grew intense. Using an old-fashioned pump to fill a bucket, Doc saw the suture weaving together into a fine gold chain. MORE! He couldn't hear anything over the shrill voice inside his head until he visualized a fire truck with its manual pump pouring out water on a blaze and as he did, suddenly his mind was filled with an avalanche of images. A small white-framed house on a tree-lined street. A neighborhood full of kids, running, laughing, playing stick ball and Kick the Can. The smell of home-cooking and pies cooling on a window sill. Swimming holes and lazy days spent staring at floating clouds or watching bumblebees wobble thru the clover. A dozen other images spilled through his mind from Saunders' past that Doc tried not to examine too closely, not wanting to violate the privacy that the Sarge guarded so closely. Yet even as he tried to avoid being a voyeur, he felt Rhiannon clutch desperately at those images, braiding them together until they formed a brightly woven cord that faded in and out, shimmering like a rainbow. Barely conscious, the healer slumped across Saunders' chest, pressing that glimmering knot of energy against his bloody bandages. Doc felt numb, half-frozen inside, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. But he fought his way back, fearing that in her efforts to save Saunders, she might injure him further. There was a brilliant flash of light and the cord was gone. Panting in exhaustion and barely able to stay upright, Doc moved the healer gently aside as he checked the Sarge's pulse. To his amazement, it was much stronger and his breathing was even and unlabored. He glanced over at the healer, whose face was as pale as ashes. She struggled to her feet and pulled her hood up, hiding her face in shadow, before turning her attention to their patient. Rhiannon gazed at Saunders for a long moment, then said in a hoarse whisper, "The wound is closed and the damage healed. He should wake soon." Hardly daring to believe, Doc checked Saunders' bloodstained dressings, dumbfounded to see the torn flesh closed, healed, without even leaving a scar. Doc turned to the healer, with an

152 amazed and grateful look on his face. "I don't know how to thank you for what you did to save him." "Let us hope that we both don't come to regret my actions." As Doc moved away from Saunders' side, Rhiannon pulled the blanket a little higher on his chest and stroked his unshaven cheek with surprising tenderness before turning her attention to their other patients.

Chapter III

As they approached the Stronghold, Saunders stirred restlessly under his blanket, his hands brushing against his chest, feeling the absence of bloody dressings. Taking a deep breath, his eyes fluttered open as he realized that he was able to breathe now without the ragged pain he'd felt earlier. As he pushed up on one arm, he looked around for Doc, wanting some kind of explanation for this miraculous occurrence. Shoving the blanket aside, he glanced around the wagon. No sign of his medic, just other wounded troops lying on rough pallets as the healer, Rhiannon, moved among them checking dressings, offering sips of water or just a reassuring word. Saunders made sure he was still wearing his pants before pushing weakly to his feet in search of Doc and the rest of the squad. Rhiannon looked up, her gaze meeting his for a long moment as Saunders suddenly recalled the softness of her lips and gentleness of her touch on his wounded side. He looked away, knowing that he had to bury those feelings. He couldn't get involved with her, not when he had a duty to his men and to King Company, to get back to HQ with a prisoner. Setting his mouth grimly, he whispered in order not to disturb the other patients, "Where's Doc?" The healer pointed to the front of the wagon, and Saunders nodded, then walked unsteadily forward, pushing aside the canvas cover that protected the wagon's interior from the heat and the dust. Doc was seated next to the driver, gazing all around as the wagons rumbled down a dusty road and into a narrow pass. "Hey Sarge, it's good to see you on your feet. How ya feelin'?" "Confused," he answered tersely. "What happened after I passed out? I thought I was done for this time. What did you do that's got me feeling almost normal?" "I didn't do it, Sarge. It was Rhiannon, that girl the Lieut... Hanley... calls a healer. Apparently there's a kind of good magic in this place, besides the nasty stuff we ran up against." "Magic, huh." Saunders shook his head skeptically before gazing around at the countryside they were traveling through. "I can't complain about the results, I guess. Just where are we, anyway?" "Not exactly sure," Doc answered, "except it seems to be the Warder's main base, which everyone calls the Stronghold. Also, according to our driver, it's home for a lot of the folks ridin' with us." Even as he heard Doc's words, Saunders wondered whether he had expected a rough- hewn wooden fort that belonged with Jackson's background or some kind of medieval castle with a moat, drawbridge, and portcullis. As he leaned forward, one hand resting on Doc's shoulder, they watched intently as the wagon rattled through a rocky defile that opened into a welcoming, verdant countryside dotted with fields of golden grain, shadowy arbors, and lush green pastures. The threatening clouds that had loomed overhead ever since his patrol had entered this world finally dissipated and the sun appeared, illuminating the fields below where horses, sheep, and cattle grazed in rolling green meadows, fenced in by low hedges. After all the battles and hardships that they had survived over the last months, Saunders felt the tension in his shoulders

153 begin to dissolve as they drove along the quiet country road. Until he spotted Littlejohn trotting grimly alongside their wagon and remembered Billy wasn't with them. As they rumbled past snug cottages with vine-covered, flowering roofs, the three GIs were momentarily lulled by the peaceful atmosphere. Saunders shook off that sense of a homecoming, determined to confront Hanley as soon as possible about coming up with a plan to rescue Nelson... and then find their way back. "Where exactly are Warder's headquarters? We've wasted too much time already. We need to start planning how to rescue Billy and get our prisoners back, if possible." Rhiannon stepped over tentatively by Saunders side. "I know you are eager to see the Warder, but we must stop at The Healer's Grove first and deliver the injured into Cerridwen's care." She glanced down at the young blue-coated soldier, who was stirring uneasily beside the pallet Saunders had occupied earlier. He was still whimpering in pain from the raw blackened area that ran nearly the full length of his chest. She'd managed to ease most of his pain moments before she and Doc had merged their skills to save Saunders' life. Still, the burn would need careful attention if it was going to heal without permanent scarring. Placing a hand on the sergeant's shoulder, she gave him a troubled look. "And it would not be a bad idea for Cerridwen to examine you as well. Even with your friend's aid, I do not know if we healed your wounds completely. There could still be foul matter from the beast's claws that was not completely cleansed." Saunders stared at Rhiannon, trying to ignore the growing sense of attraction he felt toward her. She's beautiful... and kind, he thought to himself. And it's been a long time since my last R and R. Besides, I'm just grateful for what she's done. Easing the pain from that knife slash and then saving my life with Doc's help. It's gratitude, nothing more. "I appreciate your concern." He ducked his head, not willing to meet her eyes. "But, I need to check on my squad and meet with the lieutenant. I mean, the Warder." Grabbing up his ragged, bloody shirt as he stepped cautiously around the bodies of the wounded, Saunders jumped down from the back of the ambulance wagon. He shrugged into the tattered shirt as Littlejohn's mount trotted alongside and looked up and demanded, "Who's carryin' the Thompson? And my pack?" "Caje has them," Littlejohn replied. "I think he and Kirby were ridin' with Captain Jackson's troops." He reached down a hand, which Saunders grasped and then swung up behind Littlejohn. "Let's go find them before Kirby finds some place to get drunk and start a fight." With a sharp nudge of his heels, Littlejohn urged his mount to catch up with what remained of Jackson's cavalry detachment and Marcus's legionnaires. As they rode through the valley, individual riders broke ranks and galloped off, returning home to their crofts and farms. Saunders and Littlejohn watched somewhat enviously as one of Jackson's blue-coated cavalry troops rode up to a small snug cottage just down a small byway and, after dismounting, was eagerly welcomed with a passionate embrace by a plump young woman carrying a baby in one arm and with another clinging to her skirts. A ghost of a smile haunted Littlejohn's face, "I wouldn't mind comin' home to a welcome like that." But Saunders pushed that domestic scene to the back of his mind. He couldn't let down his guard now, even if this was a safe haven for Hanley and his men. This wasn't his world... and Hanley's battles were no longer the same as the squad's. Captain Jampel had given him a mission: to stop the Nazi raiders. Even though he wasn't that familiar with Hanley's enemies, he needed to get enough information so he'd be able to lead his squad on a raid against them to rescue Billy and recapture his prisoners. He tapped Littlejohn's shoulder and pointed him in the direction most of Hanley's troops seemed to be heading. It led into a busy open area where a tavern, a smithy, and several small shops were clustered on either side of what looked like a cozy boarding house. Hanley's troops were milling around, some of them leading their horses into an open corral

154 between the smithy and main stables. Others were collecting gear and belongings from their saddles before heading for the tavern, the shops, or rooming house. As Littlejohn turned his mount into the courtyard, Saunders was somewhat surprised to see Caje and Kirby standing in front of the tavern, sharing one of their few remaining cigarettes, obviously drawn by the sounds of drinking and roistering, but not quite sure whether they had anything they could use to pay for their drinks. "Think that bartender would gimme a beer in exchange for a pair of my socks?" Kirby asked wistfully. "If they're the same ones I been smellin' for the past week," Caje frowned, "we'd be lucky if they didn't toss us out on our heads." As Littlejohn pulled up his mount, Saunders slid down from behind him and approached the remainder of his squad. "Have you seen Hanley or Jackson, or any of Hanley's seconds? We need to get some answers about what happened to Billy... and how we're gonna get him back." The two soldiers gaped at their sergeant, standing there on his own two feet, miraculously recovered from the life-threatening injuries that had left him pale, sweating, and barely breathing only hours before. Kirby blinked hard, trying to look anywhere but at Saunders' bloodstained shirt. Caje just maintained his usual stoic pragmatism as he handed over Saunders' weapon and pack. "If you don't have a clean shirt, I can lend you one of mine." Shouldering the pack as he slung the Thompson in its accustomed place, Saunders shrugged off the offer. "Thanks, but I've got one in my pack." Kirby fidgeted, clearly uneasy with Saunders miraculous recovery. "Where's Doc?" "He and Hanley's healer were dropping off the rest of the wounded." He paused for a long moment, shrugging irritably before demanding, "Did the troops you were riding with give you any hint about where Hanley's HQ is located? We need to get together with him and start making plans how to get Billy—and our Kraut prisoners—back." Kirby's expression was a mixture of confusion and skepticism as he asked plaintively, "How the hell we gonna do that? That wagon just vanished inta thin air, like some kind of magic trick. How we gonna find 'em after that kind of disappearin' act?" "That's why we need to talk to Hanley," the Sarge explained with unusual patience. "He knows this place and how things work here. He can tell us what we need to know—about Kronus, his forces, and how to fight him." "The hell you say! And just how do you expect the four of us to go up against a whole freakin' army of things that look like they belong in a Boris Karloff movie?" Kirby's expression was dubious and Saunders couldn't really blame him as the BAR man continued with his rant. "You heard what Jackson and the others said. Our bullets ain't no damned use against those... those... things. We might as well have been throwin' spitballs durin' that last round, just after Billy's wagon vanished into thin air." Saunders listened until Kirby finally wound down. Despite his reputation as a whiner and troublemaker, over the last few months Kirby had become a trusted member of the squad. He had a tough, scrappy fortitude that had seen him through some of their roughest battles. But he tended to depend on someone to tell him what to do even in ordinary situations, and this situation was so extraordinary Saunders felt a bit adrift himself. Still, he couldn't let his men lose heart, no matter how impossible their situation might seem. "Hanley and his troops were fighting this enemy long before we arrived and they know what they're up against, even if we don't. I trust Hanley. He'll help us get Nelson back." "Awright, awright." Kirby jerked his head in reluctant agreement. "I guess we can trust the

155 lieutenant—even if he's not our lieutenant anymore—to tell us what to do and how to get home again. Unless he doesn't want us to leave." "Who'd wanna keep you around?" Littlejohn prodded him. "I'm just sayin'," Kirby continued in a skeptical voice. But before they could start to ask any of the local citizens where Hanley's headquarters might be, Captain Jackson trotted up with Doc hanging precariously onto the back of his saddle. "Hell, I thought you boys would already be chuggin' down your second beer at the saloon." He nodded his head over at the tavern next to the stable, which seemed to be doing a booming business despite the early hour. "One of my men was captured, Captain. We want to start planning how to rescue him... and get our prisoners back." Saunders' voice was flat and unemotional, but even Kirby could read the tension in the sergeant's face. "The Warder's got other concerns at the moment, Saunders. But I'm to show you the guest quarters so you can get cleaned up, eat something, and maybe catch a little shut-eye." Correctly interpreting Saunders' closed but fierce expression, Jackson offered a tiny hint of consolation. "He's called a big powwow with everyone who's had any contact with Kronus in the past, from healers in the Sisterhood to Myrrdin and the other adepts. Rescuing your man is the only reason for that gatherin'."

*****

Much to their surprise, the billeting area where they were assigned wasn't a noisy overcrowded barracks like they were expecting. Instead, they were led to a clean, cozy cottage belonging to two plump, somewhat elderly women who greeted Captain Jackson with big smiles and repeated invitations to "have a cup of tea and sit a spell." Politely declining, Jackson gestured to Saunders and his squad. "These fellas are guests of the Warder's, Miss Polly, Miss Kate. They've had a hard time of it, including a run-in with some of Kronus's forces. They could really use a hot bath, a soft bed, and one of your delicious meals." "So I see," said the taller of the two women, whose gray-streaked hair was wound in a coronet of braids. The shorter and plumper of the two, with snow white hair fluffed softly around an angelic face, gave them a warm smile. "You're most welcome to our home." Saunders turned his most intimidating glare on Jackson. "Don't think you can just drop us off and forget about us, Jackson. If I haven't heard from Hanley within six hours, I'll come looking for you." "Try to relax and enjoy these ladies' hospitality while you can, Saunders. As soon as the Warder and his advisors come up with a plan of attack, we'll send for you." He tipped his hat as he wheeled his mount away from the neatly tended yard. "I'll stir up the stove, Kate, while you show them down to the springs," said the gray-haired woman. "All right, Polly," giggled Kate, as she beamed at Saunders. "If you gentlemen will just follow me." The "springs" turned out to be a rough-plank bathhouse built over a deep natural basin filled with hot water bubbling up from a split in the rocks. Pulling off his boots with a grunt, Kirby dipped his toe in tentatively, noting that the water was almost uncomfortably warm. "Man, I'm looking forward to relaxin' in this bath. It's been nuthin' but cold showers ever since we hit the beach." "Just don't use all the soap." Littlejohn sighed as he pulled off his boots and massaged his sore feet, pausing for a moment with a troubled look on his face. "I wish Billy was here. He'd really love splashin' around like this." Saunders spoke up softly. "We're not forgetting about him, Littlejohn. If Hanley doesn't

156 send for me soon, I'll go looking for him. Whether he gives us any help or not, we're going after Nelson." "I know, Sarge." Littlejohn nodded grimly, before making a deliberate effort to rib Kirby again. "Maybe the rest of us would like a chance to scrub some of the countryside off. And soak a little of the dirt and sweat out of our clothes as well." "Now, just a doggone minute," Kirby protested. "I was here first and I'm gonna get a nice hot bath, without sharin' the tub with everybody's dirty underwear." Doc took a closer look at the water and dipped his blood-streaked hands in it, watching as the floating dirt swirled away and quickly vanished. "It looks like used water drains off and is replaced on a constant basis. We don't need to worry about who's first or last, it'll stay clean and hot for everybody." By this time, Caje had already peeled out of his shirt and trousers and plunged into the waters. "Besides, this 'tub' is as almost as big as our swimming hole back home. There's enough room for everybody to soak off dirt and grime without having to wait." Moments later, he was joined by Littlejohn, splashing and blowing like a dolphin, while Kirby sat on the side with just his feet in the pool. "Now just a danged minute, Caje ol' buddy. I spotted it first and that's got to give me some kind of head start on the rest of you guys. So I shouldn't have to settle for everybody's secondhand water." Gliding through the water, his dark hair slicked back, Caje was as sleek and graceful as an otter, while Littlejohn dogpaddled over to where Kirby was sitting and soaking his sore feet. Reaching up, Littlejohn pulled the protesting BAR man into the bath and the two of them engaged in a brief but ferocious water fight. Sitting silently beside the basin, out of range of anything but the most enthusiastic splashes, Saunders put his boots carefully to one side as he peeled off his bloodstained jacket and shirt. He stared at their tattered fronts for a long moment before tossing them aside, still finding it hard to believe that Rhiannon and Doc had miraculously healed those wounds. Running his hands down his chest, he couldn't help but wonder if it had just been a bad dream... until he met Doc's troubled expression and saw the doubt and uncertainty that mirrored his own. Abruptly stripping to his shorts, Saunders made a racing dive into the pool, splashing almost as much water as if he'd cannonballed in. Doc quickly joined the rest of the squad, scrubbing themselves and rinsing out their dirty uniforms. Somewhat surprised to find that clean, warmed towels had been laid out on the benches beside the bathing area, the squad quickly finished washing up, exited the pool, and dressed, though in most cases it meant putting on damp clothes that they had just rinsed out. Neatly pressed clean clothing had also been left for them in the anteroom just beyond the spring-filled basin. Some of it was wool trousers and flannel shirts, along with dark blue homespun uniforms like Jackson's men wore. Kirby pawed through it suspiciously. "Damn, we already been drafted for one army, and I ain't about enlist in another one, no matter whether they answer to the lieutenant or not. He wasn't leadin' the patrol when we caught those Germans," he grumbled. As they hurried up the trail to the cottage, they sniffed appreciatively, savoring the aroma of pot roast with fresh vegetables, just-baked bread, and apple pie. Miss Kate and Miss Polly hovered around the table, bringing second and third helpings, pouring coffee and offering cream and sugar, which Kirby added liberally to his coffee, though the brew that the two ladies served was much better tasting than the paint stripper they had been drinking in the field. The bread was warm and soft with lots of butter, and the fresh carrots, celery,

157 and new potatoes a welcome change from their canned rations. Everyone but Saunders had seconds of the apple pie. After finishing that meal, Littlejohn leaned back on his chair's back legs, chewing on a toothpick, as he sighed. "After a meal like that, I could sleep for a week." "I'll show you to your room." Kate nodded toward the back hallway. "I see you've already washed your own clothes. But if you'll leave them outside the door, we'll hang them on the line to dry so they won't be musty. We can also fix any rips or tears." Her eyes rested momentarily on the tattered shirt and jacket Saunders had brought up from the bathhouse. "Those are a little beyond our ability, I'm afraid. Though we might have some patches somewhere." "Thank you, ma'am." Saunders' gaze was remote. "But I have a spare in my pack." Inside the guest room, the beds had such soft mattresses Doc thought he was going to have to put a blanket down on the floor to be able to get to sleep. However, Littlejohn, Caje, and Kirby were snoring like buzz saws and after only a couple of minutes, he was sound asleep too, settling in between the clean sheets and soft comforters like a bear hibernating for the winter. Only Saunders seemed to resist the temptation of those comfortable beds. Once, he'd been able to sleep through an artillery barrage, but now he lay on top of the covers, his head pillowed on his folded arms, staring at the ceiling, his face haunted.

*****

Still, he must have managed to drop off eventually, because the loud pounding at their door caused him to jerk upright, out of an uneasy doze. As the rest of the squad scrambled to their feet, snatching up pants and boots, one of Jackson's troopers stuck his head in the door. "The cap'n asked me to see if you have eaten and if the food was to your satisfaction?" Sitting on the side of the bed, Saunders rubbed his hands down his face, and glanced over at Doc. "What time is it?" "About half past four." He glanced down at his watch and then over to what looked like early morning light streaming through the curtains. "If that means anything?" Quickly retrieving his helmet and shouldering the Thompson, Saunders nodded at the trooper. "Where's Hanley?" "My orders are to take you to Myrrdin's tower." The squad was sifting through their packs, refilling their ammo belts, but clearly intending to leave most of their gear in the room. Saunders noted that they were planning to travel light and ordered, "Forget about stowing your gear. We take everything with us, grenades, extra ammo, blankets, even rations." "Aw hell, Sarge" Kirby groused. "You mean that after eating home-cooking like this, we gotta go back to spam and cheese and sleepin' on the cold ground?" Saunders didn't argue, but shouldered his own gear and slung the Thompson over his shoulder where he could swing it into firing position almost instantly. "Just get your gear together, Kirby." Saunders' voice was even, but Caje sensed the raw tension just under the surface and hurried the BAR man along. "Don't argue, man," he muttered, as he helped Kirby gather his gear, assuring that all their remaining ammo was easily accessible. With Miss Polly's help, Doc had managed to replace some of his dressing supplies after supper, but he was still low on sulfa and morphine. Saunders' fierce blue gaze raked over his squad, making sure they were ready to march, then he nodded to Jackson's messenger. "Take us to the lieutenant, to Hanley." Though he was obviously more accustomed to getting around on horseback, Jackson's messenger led them to a stone tower covered in lichen and moss, with brightly flowered vines tumbling down from the ramparts. Doc reached up and plucked one of the flowers, sniffing its rich fragrance before he stuck it through the button hole of his jacket. "Whatcha gonna do with that?" Kirby muttered. "Give it to your girlfriend?"

158 Saunders gave both men a sharp look. "Cut the chatter." Their guide rapped sharply on a heavy wooden door at the base of the tower, which was opened by a woman with a stern ageless face, wearing a long gray robe. "Sergeant," her gaze looked directly into his. "You and your medic may come into the Sanctuary. The rest of your men can wait outside, and please leave your weapons in their custody. They have a negative effect on Myrrdin's farseeing crystals." "See, I told ya we shoulda left our gear," Kirby muttered. "Hell, the rest of us could still be sleepin'." "Shut up, Kirby," Saunders said automatically as he handed over the Thompson and .45 to Caje. He fumbled briefly at his belt, then realized his bayonet had been missing for weeks. "You're in charge, Caje," he told the scout. "Try to keep him out of trouble." He nodded over to Kirby before following their guide inside.

Chapter IV

Private Billy Nelson stirred and opened his eyes to almost total darkness. Not sure whether he'd been buried alive, he felt a brief burst of panic bubbling up, threatening to erupt from his raw throat. As he struggled, he realized that his hands and feet were bound and, judging by the rattle as he moved, he was lying on a stone floor, his hands chained to some kind of wall. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes again and muttered to himself, "They wouldn't leave me behind. Especially not Littlejohn or the Sarge." As he sucked in lungfuls of the damp, moldy air, he glanced around, taking in more detail about where he was. Though his hands were manacled, his feet were only bound with some kind of rough hide lashings. Pushing to a sitting position, he struggled with the ties, finally managing to untie his feet. Slumping against the cold, damp wall, Billy dragged himself upright, massaging the pins- and-needles sensation out of his legs as he tried to discover more about his prison. "Stone cell," he muttered to himself. "None of the comforts of home—window, bed, or plumbing facilities." He felt around the floor at the limit of his chain. "Not even a dried crust of bread." Hearing a faint rustling in the corner, Billy pressed back against the wall. "But rats." His voice quavered. "Definitely has rats." To his dismay, there did not appear to be a door in his prison, leaving him to wonder how he wound up in here and if his captors had any plans to feed him and keep him alive. Or if he'd been walled up in a dungeon cell to die. Shuddering, he recalled a story by Edgar Allen Poe that his English teacher had made the class read. What was it called? The Cask of Amontillado. He slumped back against the wall where he was chained, determined not to scream for help like in the story. He was tougher than that. Still, he could not resist tugging hopelessly at his bindings, wondering how he'd been put inside this prison in the first place. As a cold chill ran up his spine, he had the oddest feeling that he was being watched. He jerked around and spotted the one man who could not be there. "Steiner!" Billy staggered to his feet, lurching to the end of his chain, as far away from the apparition

159 as he could get in the tomb-sized cell. "You're dead," he gulped. "Gates killed you. Kirby told me while I was in the hospital recovering. After the others had escaped from the compound, Sarge went back for Gates and Steiner tried to stop him... and Gates shot him. I mean you." The SS officer gave his usual charmingly malevolent smile. "If I am dead, then this must be Hell, Private, and perhaps I've been assigned as your own private demon. Or it just might be Uberlauten Hoffman who has been assigned to make sure you're punished for your sins." Steiner snapped his fingers and the critically wounded officer who had been one of the prisoners in the wagon Billy had been guarding suddenly appeared. Like Steiner, he too was somehow miraculously recovered, no longer wearing the bloody rags he'd had on when the wagon was attacked. Instead, he was resplendent in full dress uniform, complete with medals and awards. Billy swallowed hard, then looked directly into the younger German's eyes, seeing a fear and confusion that almost equaled his own. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he turned his back on the two German officers, "I don't know whether I'm alive and you're some kind of halla... hallu... fever dream. Or if I'm dying and you're part of my life flashing before my eyes. Whatever it is, this place and you, you're not real. And I'm not gonna waste my breath talking to you." Billy pulled himself to the very end of his chain and lay down on the floor, ignoring his two visitors. The Stygian darkness wavered and then dissolved into a more traditional cell with straw- stuffed mattress, barred window and door, and primitive sanitary facilities, though Billy continued to ignore the presence of his two jailors. "Steiner" shrugged and addressed the younger officer, "For the moment his mind is closed to my manipulations. However, considering the lack of mental discipline shown by the American troops, I doubt his resolve will last too long." A brief frown crossed the SS officer's face. "Ah well, come to my office and we'll share a glass of brandy while we discuss your future as a commander of my forces." "That's not possible, Herr Hauptmann," Hoffman protested. "While I appreciate your rescue efforts on behalf of myself and my troops, our duty is to the Fatherland and our mission is to undermine American morale and slow their advance. We must not waver, or our loved ones will be at their mercy." Kronus, who had assumed the guise of "Captain Steiner," stared at the young lieutenant for a long moment, his pale blue eyes flickering briefly into a soul-devouring darkness. "Surely you realize that the Fatherland is lost, Lieutenant? The Fuhrer's divine madness has already burned itself out and nothing remains but the bitter ashes that will be your people's heritage for the next generation. The glorious depravity that he injected into his followers has succeeded in spreading its contagion—massacres and pogroms will soon become the standard behavior in wartime. Anyone different from the national accepted norm will be seen as the ultimate threat and subject to slaughter. Or slavery." The young SS lieutenant felt a chill at the pit of his stomach as "Steiner" described openly what their leaders had classified as Top Secret. Even though it was an open secret among his fellow SS officers, still the goal of eliminating or enslaving all inferior races had not been verbalized so plainly before. It left the lieutenant with a brief sour taste in the back of his throat. "Come, come, Lieutenant, now that your surviving troopers have given in to their true natures and embraced their transformation, surely you must realize there is no return for them. Nor for you either. Your destiny lies here, leading my troops in their attack on the Stronghold. The Warder's time-lost forces cannot stand against them as they rape, pillage, and slaughter until true chaos descends." As "Steiner" gloated, the young SS officer struggled to organize his confused memories and overcome the disorientation that had filled his mind ever since their clash with the Amerikaner squad who had ambushed his elite unit. Dieter Hoffman was the typical Aryan youth—blond-haired, blue-eyed, with fair, pale skin unmarred by a single freckle or blemish. He'd joined the Hitler Youth and excelled in all the proper

160 skills—swimming, gymnastics, marksmanship... and beating up elderly Jews and others inferior to the German Race. When he was old enough, he'd joined the Waffen SS, rising through the ranks slowly but steadily as the German Blitzkrieg had smashed its way across Poland, Czechoslovakia, and the Low Countries. After they'd swept over the hated Maginot line, humiliating the arrogant French who had sneered at them since the treaty of Versailles, Dieter had assumed that the war would soon be over and they would be able to enjoy the fruits of their victories. But that stubborn English bulldog Churchill refused to surrender despite nightly bombing raids that should have broken the British will. Worse still, he had won over that crippled Jew-lover, Roosevelt, and brought the Americans into the war. In spite of their mongrel, 'melting-pot' origins, American troops had actually succeeded in overwhelming the physically pure Aryan forces and defeating the technically superior German-crafted weapons Despite his superiors' denials, Dieter knew that they could not hold out against the Allied Forces much longer, and he wondered what would happen to his family, his neighbors, his homeland? Would it be broken up into satraps, ruled over by depraved potentates? Or, like medieval warlords, would the victors turn the whole country into a Wagnerian funeral pyre, slaughtering the citizens, poisoning the water, salting the earth? Would the few survivors become like the gypsies they so despised, a desperate, homeless, stateless people? Earning a few scraps of bread by rag-picking, fortune-telling, and petty theft? Surely there was something he could do, some hope that he might hold on to, that the German people would not be destroyed. Then he gazed at the desolate landscape surrounding him, recalling how his troops were transformed into subhuman monsters. He'd protested to "Steiner," hoping that somehow the change might be reversed and his troops returned to human form. But the older man had laughed at him. "Do you think they truly want to be human again? After they've fed on their enemies' blood and terror?" Dieter had swallowed convulsively, remembering how his troops had reveled in their inhuman actions against French civilians, the rape, pillage, and slaughter seeming to feed some darker side to their nature. Despite his contempt for the French who often held out one hand for bribes while trying to stab his troops in the back with the other, he did not think that whole villages should be ravaged. But he had his orders... and "Steiner's" words made so much sense. "Embrace your inner wolf, Lieutenant, and eagerly rend the flesh from the bones of your foes. Only the true predator can survive the battlefield. Don't cast out your demons but embrace them. According to the great mythologist Wagner, the Wolf, the Serpent, and the Hellqueen were victors over the gods themselves." "Steiner's" eyes glittered with a feral yellow gleam. "Remember that, Uberlauten Hoffman, and know who your real masters are." Hoffman wondered if this mad self-immolation "Steiner" described was the only future that remained for the German people. If so, then there was nothing left for them to live for, to return to. He and the few survivors of his original platoon owed their lives to "Steiner," and the only way to repay him was life for life and blood for blood. Most of his men had already undergone the necessary transformation, leaving them with odd-colored eyes that glowed red or yellow with slitted rather than round pupils, while their faces had grown wider and longer, changing shape to accommodate fangs and tusks. Others had their hands and arms become thicker, more muscular, as their fingers had sharpened and elongated almost like the claws of a wild beast. Dieter rubbed his hands across his eyes, wondering what change he might have to undergo. His utterly pragmatic nature briefly emerged as he wondered, What if this was all a nightmare, some kind of fever dream? Would he awaken in a clean well-ordered field hospital and all of this blood, savagery, and destruction would have vanished? If only he could believe that.

*****

Hunkered behind a row of gray, spiny undergrowth that bordered enemy territory, Saunders

161 peered down into the shadowy area below, contemplating his warning to Caje a short time before, about keeping Kirby out of trouble. Too bad I didn't have him along to keep me out of trouble, he thought, studying the hostile terrain. Still, if they were going to have any hope of rescuing Billy and recapturing their German prisoners, they had to take this chance, reckless as it might be. He just wished that he could be sure Captain Jackson and Hanley's other allies would go along with their battle plan. Although they seemed to agree that the attack was totally necessary, there was a lot of discussion about actual deployment of their forces. After the cavalry officer's outburst during the final briefing, Saunders wasn't confident Jackson could actually be trusted to do as he was ordered. Judging by the angry words between the two, it was clear that they had been butting heads for some time now and, having clashed with Hanley numerous times himself, he had a certain sympathy for Jackson's point of view. In fact, it seemed like all of Hanley's lieutenants had their own misgivings about this rescue mission. Although most of them were in favor of this all-out attack on Kronus's fortress, they weren't reluctant to express their misgivings. The Viking warrior who'd loaned Littlejohn his horse made a cryptic observation: "It took the guile of the Aesir, along with the sacrifice of Tyr's right arm, to bind Fenris Wolf and delay the final battle with the Frost Giants. Will this sortie sacrifice as much to the same end?" Marcus shook his head in disagreement. "To face Typhon the Destroyer is a sure guarantee of death. I vote against it." Jackson had leaned back, propping his boots on the table as he lit a cheroot so foul- smelling that Saunders didn't even give it a second look. "Seems like goin' after the sergeant's boy is gonna put us up against Kronus on his home ground." He turned a piercing hazel gaze on Saunders. "Are we sure we have enough weapons and troops to do the job right?" Hanley leaned on the table, a determined look on his face. "I appreciate your tactical input, gentlemen, but the necessity for this attack is not open for debate. Kronus's forces have been striking closer to the Stronghold week by week. The assaults on outlying settlements and ambushes of our supply wagons are too frequent to ignore. A direct attack will be extremely costly, but if we divert Kronus's attention with Nelson's rescue, he won't be prepared for a direct attack. That element of surprise will work to our advantage." "Staking us out as the sacrificial lamb, Lieutenant?" "When you and your men sneak in under cover of darkness to rescue Nelson, I doubt Kronus will be expecting you. Once you've found him, stir up as much trouble as you can while bringing Nelson out. That will distract Kronus and divert a large number of his forces before we hit them." "Putting us on the hot seat, until your troops get a foothold." Saunders frowned. "Don't worry, Sergeant. There will be more than enough of us to occupy Kronus's forces while you're making a break for it." Saunders and his squad were supposed to infiltrate past the sentries and make a sortie into the holding area just outside the fortress walls. Most of the prisoners were kept there until Kronus decided what to do with them. He'd balked at first, wondering about the source of Hanley's intelligence as to Billy's location, until Myrrdin had unrolled a shimmering scroll, totally unlike the maps Saunders was accustomed to. He'd pored over the map, which, with its glowing illustrations of beasts and monsters scattered across the surface, looked like a guided tour through hell. After studying it for several minutes, he'd questioned the young adept closely. "What else can you tell me about this area where Billy is located?"

162 "We know Kronus has not imprisoned your soldier inside his main fortress. Possibly because he has some use for him. There's a small chance Nelson will be able to resist the chaotic forces within the holding area for another day, possibly two. After that, the energies within the area will likely shatter his mind. You won't be able to recover your prisoners though, since they will have been transformed into changelings and monsters to replace those he lost in battle." "How do you know that?" Saunders demanded. "It's common practice." Cerridwen spoke up, her silver hair falling loose and unbound to her waist. "Those who have surrendered to evil show their true nature as soon as they enter his influence." Myrrdin continued describing how their enemy would likely respond to Saunders' sortie to retrieve Billy Nelson. "Kronus will almost certainly know as soon as you enter his territory, but will be intrigued by anyone foolhardy enough to try and stage a rescue of one of his captives. While his attention is focused on you, the Warder's forces will attack." "What's to keep him from just blasting us to pieces?" Surprisingly, it was Doc who asked that very crucial question. "By that time, the Warder's troops will have attacked and his attention will be diverted elsewhere." "You hope." Saunders' voice was utterly pragmatic. "We hope," Myrrdin agreed. Saunders looked into the face of the youth Hanley had told him knew the most about the breach they'd come through and whether there was any chance of the squad being able to get back to their own time and place. Myrrdin wasn't much older than the French boy Gilbert who'd wanted to join their fight against the Germans, but when Saunders gazed into the boy's eyes, he'd been shaken by the determination he saw there, and the absolute honesty as well. He might be skeptical of the young seer's skills, but not of his intentions. Jackson's cavalry troops were going to be one arm of the pincer while Hanley and Marcus charged with the legionaries down the opposite side of the valley from Jackson's position. Hopefully, while the battle was in progress, Saunders and his squad would succeed in rescuing Billy and making their getaway. Then before they'd left to gather their gear and supplies, Rhiannon had come over to consult with Doc about supplies they would need on the mission. Saunders protested angrily. "You can't come with us, Rhiannon This will be a major battle. You could wind up captured... or dead." "As might you, Sergeant. Besides, I was sent to the Stronghold to share my skills." Saunders turned to Hanley, hoping he might listen to reason, especially since Doc would be with them, but his friend and former CO had just shrugged, saying, "Cerridwen informed me that it's a necessary part of the girl's training, Sergeant, and in the years since I took command of the forces within the Stronghold, I've learned not to argue with her. Rhiannon's part of the medical complement and I think you'll be glad to have her." Saunders gave a reluctant nod and watched as Doc went over to consult with the two healers about local remedies that might replace his depleted stores of sulfa and morphine. The sergeant could tell that his medic was beginning to feel at home here. It was obvious that Hanley was trying to win his squad's loyalty and persuade them to stay here and join his forces. He'd seen Littlejohn's eyes roving over the green fields and Kirby flirting with the abundance of pretty girls and, despite his strong family ties, even Caje seemed to be tempted by the relative peace of this place. The war had been dragging on for so many months now and things were starting to get very ugly as they approached the German border. Taking off his helmet, Saunders slumped down in one of the chairs as he ran his hand through his hair. He'd been fighting for so long, seen so much war and destruction. So many buddies ripped to pieces by hot metal and so many men screaming in unbearable pain, dying far too young. He just wanted to go home and see his mother, brothers, and sister again, but he'd

163 begun to doubt that he ever would. He'd cheated death too long and likely the dice would stop rolling his way very soon. Why not stay here and help Hanley protect his Stronghold and make a new life for himself? Then he remembered the oath that he'd sworn as a soldier in the U.S. Army... and the obligation that he had to Billy and the rest of the squad. They'd signed up for the duration, all of them, and it was his responsibility to rescue Billy and do everything in his power to retrieve one of his prisoners and report back to Captain Jampel. "Got what you need, Doc?" he asked, before turning his attention back to Hanley. "How long until H-Hour, Lieutenant?" Hanley flashed him the ghost of a grin as he gathered up the preliminary maps and sketches and dumped them into the roaring fire that Saunders thought had been unnecessary given the mildness of the weather. "As soon as we can get everyone mounted and supplied, Sergeant. The saddlers by the Boar and Brew Tavern is our rendezvous spot. You and your men will need steady mounts to get you to Kronus's territory." Although it was comforting to hear Hanley give them those familiar orders in this utterly unfamiliar environment, Saunders did not deceive himself that this mission was going to be like anything he and the squad had faced in the past.

*****

By the time they reached the hills on the edge of Kronus's territory, it was well after dark. Hanley had sent scouts out to determine how close they could approach without risk of discovery. Since some of Kronus's sentries were nocturnal by nature, the Stronghold's troops made sure they were well sheltered by the rocks surrounding them. Even so it was a cold camp, with not even the smallest fire allowed to heat rations or coffee. The troops shared out jerky, hardtack, and the few canned rations Saunders' men had left from the gear they'd brought. Jackson had a bottle of rotgut whiskey stowed in his saddlebags and offered Saunders a slug before passing it around to his men. "Start a fire in your belly, if nothing else." Taking a whiff of the potent fumes, Saunders declined and gave Kirby a hard look as he reached for it. The BAR man shivered, his half-gloved hands tucked into his armpits as he muttered under his breath. "Can't build a damn fire. Now a man can't take a little belt to keep his hands and feet from freezing." "Shut up, Kirby," Littlejohn growled irritably, "and crawl under your blanket like the rest of us. We got a hard day ahead of us, rescuin' Billy. And we don't need you pukin' and whinin' with a hangover." As the squad huddled together trying to keep warm in the damp chill, Saunders hunkered down off to one side, not exactly dozing but in that semi-relaxed state that was the best he could manage in a totally unknown situation like this. His body craved sleep, but his mind wouldn't shut down, haunted by too many terrible images of what might be happening to Nelson. He sensed more than saw Hanley's approach and was somewhat surprised when the lieutenant crouched beside him as though he was settling in for what remained of the night. After a few moments of shifting and settling, he heard that deep, low-pitched voice. "Even if we do rescue Nelson, you realize the odds aren't good for you and the others getting back to King Company?" Saunders did not reply, only turned that piercing blue gaze on Hanley, as though he held the secret that would take them back to their own world. Hanley ignored that look, trying to make his point. "Myrrdin is not a sorcerer, he's a seer. He senses power and its fluctuations, but can't really use it." "Like an artillery observer." Saunders' voice was a harsh whisper. "Only he can't call in a barrage." "Something like that." Hanley nodded, his face rueful at Saunders' insight. "This isn't a bad

164 place to make a life, Sergeant. We have our battles with evil forces, wild beasts, and even inclement weather, but much of the time, things are peaceful. You could do worse, much worse, after the war is over." "The war wasn't over for you, was it, Major?" Saunders still recalled Hanley's words when he first recognized his CO, despite the obvious years that had passed for the other man. "No." Hanley sighed, reaching in his pocket for his long absent cigarettes. "It wasn't over for me." Saunders shook out one of his few remaining Luckies and lit it with his Zippo, taking a brief drag before passing it on to the other man. Hanley gave him an appraising look before sucking the smoke deep into his lungs. "But I'm not going to tell you what happened, just on the off-chance that you and the others do somehow get back to your own time and place. Let's just say, I was caught up in a battle where the lines weren't clearly drawn and when I turned that corner on a dark street in Eastern Europe and wound up here—in Avalon—it was something of a relief." Passing the cigarette back to Saunders, he made his appeal: "I'm not saying this world is perfect, but it's worth fighting for, and you could make a real difference with the kind of natural leadership that Jackson and Marcus just don't understand. I know how you took a bunch of goldbricks, loners, and green recruits, wore down their rough edges and forged them into genuine soldiers. Warriors who obey orders but are capable of acting on their own." He turned his most entreating gaze on his sergeant and his friend. "We need that kind of skill, that kind of leadership, if we're going to survive." Saunders did not respond to Hanley's praise or his desperate appeal, although his gaze did turn toward the light green quilted covering that marked Rhiannon's sleeping place. He gave an abrupt shake of his head as he ground out the cigarette roughly. "You're right, Major. This isn't our world. Or our war. We have families and obligations at home, after the war ends. Besides, we swore an oath when we joined the Army and I've broken too many promises already." Pulling his blanket up around his face, Saunders appeared to have closed his eyes, but as Hanley climbed slowly to his feet and walked away, he could swear that intense gaze was still turned toward Rhiannon.

Chapter V

In the misty darkness just before dawn, when sentries were usually half-asleep and visibility was at its lowest, Saunders and his squad prepared to skulk down into the central holding area where Myrrdin's map indicated that Billy was likely being held. Despite his own doubts, Saunders was willing to gamble on the seer's supernatural skills, mainly because Hanley believed in him. The one thing that worried him most was their rapidly dwindling munitions supply, including grenades. He felt in his pocket for the two crystalline objects the seer had given him just before they left with the cryptic instruction: "You'll know how to use them when the time comes." Saunders tucked them inside his jacket, along with the map and binoculars. As they crouched, nervous and sweating, behind a thick row of thorny undergrowth, they listened intently for any sign that the sentries might have been alerted to the coming attack. Nothing but silence, without the sound of a single birdsong. Taking a deep breath, Saunders signaled for Kirby and Littlejohn to circle around to the right while he, Caje, and Doc moved up on the left. Slimy debris underfoot sucked at their boots, threatening to throw them off balance and slow their advance but, as they trudged past the squalid shanties and tumble-down hovels, there was a shimmering in the gray half-light and suddenly they

165 were back patrolling the cobbled streets and shell-shattered shops and cottages of Northern France. Saunders froze and signaled for the others to stay low while he consulted Myrrdin's map. To his amazement, it was no longer the gold and crystal-etched scroll he'd been given earlier. Instead it looked like his usual folded and creased topographical chart with scribbled lines and marks showing the position of American troops. His hands clenched and he swallowed hard, trying to overcome the sudden doubt settling in the pit of his stomach. Was this an illusion? Or maybe even some kind of fever dream associated with his earlier injuries? Had the enemy Hanley warned them about taken over their minds and then led them into a trap? He looked at the map again. Though the glowing white light that highlighted Billy's location was gone, in its place was a red circle drawn around a centrally located building identified as the village church. Right in the middle of that circle was an X. "X marks the spot," Saunders muttered to himself, turning his attention to Caje and Doc and raising one blond eyebrow. "Do you see it too?" "You mean how everything changed?" Doc swallowed hard. "I'm not a drinking man, but if I was... I'd be thinking about givin' up the hard stuff." "Me too." Caje nodded. "Want me to scout out the area, Sarge?" Normally Saunders wouldn't have hesitated; sending Caje to check out an unknown area had become second nature. But not this time. "No," he shook his head and then checked that his Thompson was ready to fire. "I wanna see if anything around here still matches what Myrrdin showed me. Stay alert and signal Kirby and Littlejohn to stay back until I find out exactly where we are." As he inched his way down the street, ducking into doorways and under windows, trying make sure he always had a wall at his back, Saunders sensed that he was being watched. He peered warily into every window and alleyway before going past it and kicked in the doors of at least a half dozen shops and stores, finding nothing but shattered windows and scattered merchandise. The uncanny silence, with no insect or bird sounds, began to wear on his nerves. Even more alarming was the utter stillness of the air, without a single breeze, and even the white puffy clouds seemed to be frozen overhead. His throat was so dry that he took a moment to grab the canteen off his belt and gulp down two hasty swallows. After wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Saunders continued to inventory the deserted village, certain this was some kind of trap. Nelson was here, that much he was sure of, imprisoned somewhere in this illusion of a French village that was familiar ground to his squad. The sergeant wasn't fooled by the illusion; he'd seen too many squads ambushed and men killed because they got careless and let down their guard. And that was one thing Saunders did not intend to do. He pulled out Myrrdin's map again, trying to orient himself to how this particular illusion was laid out. Since the village appeared to be abandoned for the moment, with no sign of Germans, monsters, or even imaginary citizens, he signaled for Doc and Caje to join him. As they scurried over, Saunders waved for Kirby and Littlejohn to continue scouting the buildings surrounding the main square, which was where their map was leading them. Although he trusted Myrddin's directions, Saunders wanted to make sure that there were no hostile forces lying in wait, ready to ambush them. The whole village remained silent as a tomb, as if just waiting for the Americans to drop their guard. Saunders peered around the corner into the main square, which had a tinkling fountain in its center. Gazing upward, he took note of the thick stone walls, heavy wooden doors, bell tower and stained glass windows of the village church.

166 Solid. Sacred. It looked like it had been standing there for a thousand years, although Saunders knew that was an illusion. Still, it left him with a knot of uncertainty in his stomach, that Kronus could actually use a church as Nelson's prison. Until he remembered another village and how a German officer, disguised as a priest, had murdered one of Saunders' squad to keep from being discovered before he could blow an important bridge. "If we can believe this map," he muttered, "that's where Nelson is being held." Caje took a deep shuddering breath. "Anyone inside can look out and cover the whole square. But maybe if I sneak up along that alley, I could pitch in a couple of grenades as a diversion?" Sarge shook his head. "We don't have any to spare. No, there's got to be another way in without using explosives...." But before the two GIs could make the attempt to break through the door, they spotted a man wearing a tattered shirt and jacket, waving urgently at them from a shadowed alley across the street. Saunders and Caje exchanged glances. "I'll go see what he wants," Caje volunteered and Saunders nodded in agreement, knowing that the scout would be more likely to understand any of the village's inhabitants. When Caje returned, he had his gun pointed at the head of the German officer who'd commanded the band of marauders they'd been battling before they wound up in Avalon. He'd been barely alive when the wagon holding him and the other German prisoners Billy had been guarding was conjured away by Kronus. Now he was standing before them, whole and uninjured, although his uniform was still ragged and torn. Saunders buried both hands in the German's tattered shirt and pulled him close as he demanded in a hoarse whisper, "Where is he, Kraut? The boy who was guarding you when the wagon disappeared. If you've harmed him...." "Take it easy, Sarge." Doc tried to calm the sergeant. "He's trying to say somethin'... but you're choking him." As Saunders loosened his grip, the German pulled away and tried to straighten the ragged remnants of his uniform, though his voice remained flat and without inflection, "My name is Oberlautner Dieter Hoffman, Sergeant. And I was in the wagon when it was transported to this place where my wounds and those of my men were miraculously healed." Doc was perplexed by the totally unemotional words of their captive as he answered their questions. Something wasn't right about this whole situation and he wished he could pull Saunders aside and warn him to be careful. "What about Nelson?" Saunders demanded. "The private who was guarding you. What happened to him?" "He is the prisoner of the officer who commands this compound, Hauptmann Steiner." Saunders did not bat an eye at that startling revelation, although Caje and Doc exchanged alarmed glances as the scout rubbed almost reflexively at a pale white scar along one cheek. "So, where is this 'Hauptmann Steiner'? And where's he keeping Nelson?" Saunders demanded, his SMG not exactly aimed at Hoffman's midsection, but readily located where it could swing in a killing arc that would cut the German in half. "If you will follow me, I will take you to them." To the Americans' surprise, Hoffman didn't demand that they surrender their guns, guarantee his life or freedom, or even promise not to shoot "Steiner" down in cold blood. Although not a gambling man, this casual disregard left Saunders with the feeling that he was holding a pair of treys while his prisoner had an ace high royal flush. For a moment he almost balked and then realized that this might be their only chance of finding Nelson and rescuing him, even if Kronus decided to appear as the Devil himself. Besides, he had a couple of hole cards that the German wasn't aware of, if he could just

167 figure some way of alerting Kirby and Littlejohn. He signaled Caje and the scout nodded his understanding, ducking down the alleyway behind the church, which caused Hoffman to turn a mildly accusing glance toward his captor. "I said I will take you to see Captain Steiner... and Private Nelson. Where is your man going?" "He's just checking to make sure we're not walking into an ambush or some other kind of trap. I heard of this Steiner fella... and he's kind of tricky." "More than you know." Hoffman's voice held a dark, sinister note as he opened the large wooden door and led them into the sanctuary. Much to Doc's and Saunders' surprise, the room they entered was not a shadowy sacred space, illuminated by muted sunlight streaming through the chancel windows. Instead, they'd been led into the middle of a stifling darkness, surrounded by moans and inhuman screams that sent cold shivers up their spines. Doc wondered if they'd stepped into hell, while Saunders dropped to one knee and swung his weapon around, trying to spot their so-called guide and avoid any attempt to knock the Thompson out of his grip. Without a weapon, there was little that Doc could do except stay out of Saunders' way and offer up a silent prayer: Dear Lord, if it's your will, help us to find Billy and escape this evil place. Amen. In the midst of that pitch-black setting, a figure materialized in front of them, spotlighted from some unknown source. To their shock, it seemed to be Steiner, wearing the same charming, evil smile he'd used to try and break their wills when they were his prisoners. Doc also remembered how he'd also used deceptively cultured tones to threaten and promise, torturing the POWs with their own imaginations as much as the actual beatings his guards had inflicted. But Sarge had stood up to him. Better yet, he'd outsmarted him, getting his squad and Sergeant Akers' men away from that camp using skill, cunning, and sheer raw courage to get all the survivors away. Except for poor Gates. "Looking for something, Sergeant?" Saunders snarled, his eyes as hard as flint, "You know damn well what I want, you bastard. Nelson. Where is he? Or do I have to blow this place to pieces to find him." The SS officer gave Saunders an icy smile. "Don't be in such a hurry, Sergeant. Besides, if you start shooting off that weapon of yours, there's no telling who you might hit." Another bright light flashed, banishing the darkness as it revealed Nelson trapped in its beam, slumped despondently on a metal cot. Sarge's grip on the Thompson tightened as he leaned forward, saying in a hoarse whisper, "Billy." "Sarge. Littlejohn. I knew you'd come. I knew you wouldn't leave...." But before Saunders could reach the young private, the light blinked out. Only to return a second and then a third time. Illuminating Billy each time, but showing his growing doubt and despair, as though days—and not mere seconds—had passed between each display. The fourth time seemed to have been the longest of all. His uniform was in rags, a scraggly beard covered his cheeks as his tears overflowed. "Sarge. Doc. Littlejohn. Where are you guys? I've been here for weeks, and nobody came. Except to bring my rations." He gave a gulping sob. "Thought about not eating, starving myself. Then I found a way to escape. It's just a spoon, but I've been sharpening it on the bed frame. See." He held up a small piece of metal barely longer than his little finger, so the light reflected off its deadly edge. Half-laughing, half-sobbing: "Here's my way out." Doc jerked forward, trying to reach the young private, but could only watch horrified as he used the improvised knife to slash his throat. Sarge lunged as well, determined to stop him, but came up short against an invisible wall. "No!" Saunders' denial was a low growl as he pivoted around, aiming his Thompson into the darkness. "Damn you, Kronus. Damn you to hell." As the blood-splattered scene faded into darkness, "Captain Steiner" appeared with

168 Lieutenant Hoffman at his side, both of them immaculate in their black SS uniforms with the lightning bolt emblem on the high collar and the death's head on their caps. "Temper, temper, Sergeant. Or you might disturb our prisoner's beauty sleep," "Steiner's" smooth voice mocked him. A fifth light shone, showing Billy in his cell, curled up on a bare cot, shivering. His face was pale, but judging by the scant growth on his cheeks, he'd only been there a couple of days or less. Saunders remembered Myrrdin's warning and hoped they'd arrived in time. "Let him go, Kronus." Saunders turned and pointed his Thompson at the two SS officers. "Steiner" gave his usual good-natured chuckle before illuminating the darkness that surrounded them, revealing a legion of monsters and beast-men, some of which retained a bit of their human form, still clad in the ragged scraps of their field gray uniforms. Others had surrendered totally to their bestial nature and brandished a chimerical mixture of talons, claws, wings, and tusks. "I hardly think you're in a position to give orders, Sergeant. They've been ordered to capture you alive, but I won't protest too much if a few bits and pieces are missing—a finger, a foot, or maybe even an eye." His own eyes glittered malevolently as he strutted before Saunders and Doc. "It's surprising what monsters haunt a person's mind. When my beasts first brought Nelson before me, he was more defiant than fearful. A situation that could not be allowed to continue. So I peered into his memories, looking for something or someone he truly feared... and much to my surprise and amazement, 'Captain Steiner' showed up again." "Steiner's" face changed, displaying Captain Jampel's craggy features before resuming the SS officer's somewhat amused expression. "A monster who haunted the minds of two brave men could not be allowed to languish in obscurity. So I 'resurrected' him, with Nelson's help. Fortunately, Uberlauten Hoffman and his brave troopers could give me a little more history about his background and career." Yet in the midst of his gloating, "Steiner's" whole body seemed to ripple and then waver, as though he was an image projected on a movie screen which was tearing and about to collapse. "What?" he demanded of some unseen messenger. "What do you mean we're under attack? That's not possible. My spies would have informed...." Then his image froze completely, leaving Hoffman and the beasts that surrounded the three Americans uncertain and off-balance. Not letting the Thompson waver a single millimeter, Saunders reached inside his jacket and retrieved the two crystalline objects Myrrdin had given him, passing them over to Doc. "Open that cell," he said in a hoarse whisper, "and get Nelson out." Doc stared uncertainly at the odd devices shimmering in the palm of his hand, wondering just how the blazes he was supposed to open something that didn't have a door or a latch. Still, he hurried over to the rectangle of light shining in the darkness. As he approached, it was obvious that Billy was able to see him as he rolled to his feet and welcomed his would-be rescuers. "I dunno where the lock is, or if there even is a lock." Nelson pressed his hands against an invisible wall, staring at the medic. "I've tried scratchin', bangin', kickin', but nothing seems to work." Doc stared at the young soldier's bloodied fingers and then picked up the larger of the two "keys" and ran it down the edge of the invisible wall separating him from Nelson. Nothing seemed to happen at first, then the apparatus glowed and vibrated within his grip. Following its slow meticulous path along the edge of the field, Doc could swear that he saw something tearing or unraveling, but it was slow. Maybe too slow. He glanced over to where Saunders still was holding his Thompson on "Steiner" and his lackey, noticing with alarm that the creatures who had been crouched in the darkness were growing restless and impatient. Whenever one or another would growl or try to move closer, Saunders would swing the SMG so it was aimed at them. For just a moment, Doc wished that the

169 Sarge would shoot a couple of the beasts, just to scare them a little, then he remembered their dwindling ammunition store and knew there were no bullets to spare. The Thompson wasn't a particularly accurate weapon, depending more on rapid bursts to knock their foes down or provide a stream of fire to cover the squad's advance. Saunders usually hit what he was aiming at but was not a sharpshooter like Caje. Besides, he doubted that a single shot from Sarge's weapon would do more than aggravate these creatures. As Doc continued dragging his "key" down the edge of Billy's cell, he looked into the young soldier's eyes and saw the growing concern. "Give it up, Doc," he whispered. "It's takin' too long and Sarge won't be able to hold those things off much longer. I won't let you sacrifice yourself. Just drop that 'key' and make a run for it. Maybe I can use it myself...." "Shut up, Billy," Doc hissed through clenched teeth, as the sweat ran down his face. He could feel the beasts' hungry red gazes raking between him and the Sarge and, while he trusted Saunders with his life, this standoff was beginning to get to him. Though "Steiner's" image remained frozen, his attention clearly elsewhere, the SS lieutenant called out desperately, "You cannot escape. Surely you realize that my men will not permit you to leave this place. They are too fearful of 'Steiner' to disobey his wishes." Saunders called out in a harsh voice, as he glanced over his shoulder, "Speed it up, Doc, can't you? We don't have all day!" Only halfway down the transparent wall, Doc fumbled into his pocket for the second device, hoping it would work a little faster. Only to discover that when the two devices touched, they ignited with the blinding intensity of an electrical arc that sliced through Billy's cell until the whole light-filled cubicle shattered and Billy fell into Doc's arms. As he did so, three of the transformed Germans could no longer resist their impulses and lunged at the two GIs, intending to rip them into quivering, bloody pieces. But Saunders was too quick for them, firing a short controlled burst that stitched down the chest of one creature and across the neck of the second. Blindly Doc wheeled around, still holding out the key, only to gulp back his nausea as it sliced the third beast into two twitching halves. Doc wanted the heave the "key" as far away as he could, but after that blinding burst of energy, it shattered into a dozen carbonized pieces. Propping the shaking Nelson on his shoulder, Doc hurried over to where Saunders still had the Thompson aimed at Hoffman. "How do we get out of here, Kraut?" Sweat poured down Saunders' face, and there was a feverish glitter to his eyes that worried Doc. And apparently "Steiner" had another card to play. "There is no escape." The lieutenant's face was no longer a blank mask but twisted with pain as the wounds that had been miraculously healed suddenly reappeared. "We'll all die here, a glorious sacrifice to 'Steiner's' glory and the rebirth of the Reich." Saunders grabbed Hoffman, who was again wearing only the ragged tatters of his uniform along with the bloodstained bandages Rhiannon had placed over his wounds. Holding the German in front of the three of them as a shield, he glanced over at Billy. "Take my sidearm, Nelson," Saunders ordered. "And try not to drop it this time." "Right, Sarge." Nelson grabbed the .45 from the holster on Saunders' belt. As the beasts circled closer and closer, they heard the deep basso rumble of the BAR along with background of Caje's Garand and Littlejohn's M-1. "Sounds like it's the cavalry to the rescue." Billy laughed nervously "But how'd they get here, Sarge?" Doc questioned. "I know you sent Caje after them, but I was sure 'Steiner' had taken us some place a long way away from the church?" "Don't argue with luck, Doc. I dunno how they found their way here either, but I'm glad to see them." He swung his Thompson around using the shortest burst possible to bring down the beasts closing in on them. As their rescuers charged out of the darkness, swinging their weapons around to cover the beasts surrounding their buddies, Caje's sharpshooting skills brought down monster after monster.

170 "Sarge." Kirby's voice held a desperate intensity. "I just put in my last magazine and this mob o' nightmares ain't showin' any signs of thinnin' out." "I know, I know," Saunders said, feeling a cold chill settle into his chest. "Littlejohn, how much ammo have you got left?" "Five rounds." "Nelson?" "Empty, Sarge." "Caje?" "Down to three." He squeezed off a shot that took out a wolf-like creature lunging toward them. "Make that two." Saunders knew that Doc no longer even had the key Myrddin had given him. He pulled out his carefully hoarded grenades, passing one each to Kirby and Littlejohn and keeping one for himself. "How did you get here, Caje?" Saunders demanded, depending on the scout's superlative sense of direction and hoping the way out was still open. "There." Caje pointed to a slit of light streaming in through a doorway that seemed a hundred miles away. It also seeming like the largest, most ferocious beasts were crouched between them and their exit. Doc was supporting the barely conscious Hoffman, and for a moment Saunders hesitated, wondering if they should abandon the German lieutenant. Then he realized he couldn't leave anyone behind to be savaged and devoured by the half-human creatures surrounding them. "Kirby, Littlejohn, when I give the word, each of you toss a grenade to either side of us, right in the middle of as many beasts as possible. After they explode, Doc and Nelson, head for the door with the prisoner, along with Caje to cover you. Kirby and Littlejohn will follow and I'll be right behind. And don't stop for anything. All right?" Their eyes remained locked on the beasts as they nodded a quick agreement and Saunders pulled the pin on his grenade, pitching it with deliberate care right in the middle of the largest mass of 'Steiner's' fiendish creations. Kirby and Littlejohn copied his actions, then hit the floor, covering their heads with their arms, as all three grenades exploded, creating such terrible carnage that their bestial guards cowered back and almost started to retreat into the darkness. Doc and Billy scrambled to their feet, half-dragging, half-carrying their prisoner as they ran for the doorway. Saunders dragged a forearm across his dust-smeared face, trying to shake off the bludgeoning effects of the multiple explosions in such a confined area. To his relief, he saw that the trio had almost reached daylight, with Caje a scant yard behind still holding his Garand at the ready. Time for Kirby and Littlejohn to make their own break for it, while he held off whatever monsters were still determined to go after live prey rather than feeding on the bloody bits left in the aftermath of the explosions. Waving the two soldiers forward, Saunders just hoped whatever was beyond the door was less deadly than these monstrosities that Kronus had pulled out of Steiner's depraved imagination. Clutching the BAR across his chest, Kirby sprinted for the door, running like a rabbit while Littlejohn charged headlong behind him. Turning his Thompson on the horrific creatures lurking at the edge of the shadows, Saunders emptied the magazine and then zigzagged toward the light streaming through the doorway. They were going to make it! They were going to make.... Then he heard a scream that nearly froze him in mid-stride. Littlejohn's voice was an earsplitting howl of pain that didn't even sound human anymore. Kirby hesitated for a fraction of a second, then pivoted, stumbling under the weight of the larger soldier's body as he barely managed to catch Littlejohn before he hit the ground. Saunders gaped in disbelief as a monstrous hybrid of eagle and lion lunged past its intended prey to buffet him with thundering wings, its claws covered with Littlejohn's blood. He dodged those claws and slammed the butt of the Thompson

171 into the creature's muzzle, barely managing to dodge its thrashing wings as it lurched away, seeking easier prey. Kirby continued his headlong retreat, dragging Littlejohn behind him, ignoring his screams. Half-blinded by the monster's blood that had splattered over him, Saunders staggered alongside Kirby, hoisting Littlejohn's other arm over his shoulder. Together they stumbled into the light, finding themselves outside the village church they'd entered an eternity before. Doc and Billy had been slowed down by the wounded Hoffman and paused some fifty yards beyond the door they'd just escaped through. Littlejohn's cries of pain had subsided to heaving gasps for breath by the time Doc rushed over to hurriedly inject morphine, staring helplessly at the bloody carnage that the creature had wreaked on the soldier's left leg. The beast's claws had raked through muscle, tendon, artery, and vein, down to the bare bone in places, and the torn tissue gushed blood like a faucet. "I need your help," Doc said in a low, desperate voice, tearing open every dressing he had and desperately trying to dam the flood before Littlejohn bled to death. Billy dropped beside him and tried to follow his directions, barely able to choke back his sobs. Kirby staggered into an alley to throw up everything he'd eaten for the past two days, then stumbled back to do whatever he could to help. Caje's saturnine features were pale as wax, and his normally lively hazel eyes looked like holes punched in a piece of paper, but his strong, slender hands adeptly followed the medic's instructions. Saunders stared grimly into the resigned look on Doc's face, pleading for any answer other than the one he already knew. "There's nothin' more I can do, Sarge. The main blood vessels are practically shredded. It's a wonder he's not already dead from shock." Beside them, Billy pleaded, "You can save him, Doc. Just put some bandages and sulfa on until we get home again." Doc's face flushed with frustration as he almost blew up at Nelson. He wanted to scream there was nothing he could do, nothing any of them could do. Nothing the blasted Chief Surgeon of the United States Medical Corps could do. And then he remembered Rhiannon's healing skills and how she'd saved the Sarge. "Maybe there is a chance," he muttered to himself. Maybe the healer could do something to save Littlejohn's life, if not his leg. "Get some branches or sticks. Anything we can use as poles... and gimme your jackets so I can rig a stretcher." Kirby staggered over to Doc and grabbed the front of his shirt, "Are you out of your mind? Littlejohn's as good as dead. That creature practically tore his leg off." "Shut up, Kirby," Saunders growled as he peeled out of his jacket and shirt. "And go get those branches like Doc told you." He didn't believe the soldier had any more chance than Kirby did, but he wasn't about to give up now. Not after they had gone through so much to rescue Nelson. Not when he thought about the subtle sense of power that he'd felt when he met Rhiannon's guide and teacher, Cerridwen... or the miracle that Doc and Rhiannon had worked on him. Checking on Littlejohn's pulse, which was still racing despite the fact he was unconscious from the shock of the wound and the first dose of morphine Doc had given him, Doc decided to inject a second ampoule before sprinkling his last two packs of sulfa on the wounds, tying the gauze dressings as tightly as he could. Fortunately, he didn't have to use any of his supplies for Lieutenant Hoffman, whose wounds were still covered with the same bandages that he'd put on them when they were first treated. Unfortunately, whatever artificial strength "Steiner" had used to animate the lieutenant was no longer present, and he'd collapsed as soon as they escaped the dark prison where Billy had been held. Doc rigged two stretchers for their wounded, though he hoped they wouldn't have to carry them too far before finding Rhiannon, Hanley, and the rest of the troops.

172 *****

For Billy, the trip back to Hanley's stronghold seemed almost unreal. Exhausted and drained by his imprisonment within that dark cell, Billy still wasn't sure the whole experience hadn't been some kind of bad dream—he knew Captain Steiner was dead. Sarge had told him that much while he was still recovering from the wounds he had gotten escaping from the POW camp run by the SS officer. Still, the man who held him prisoner had looked and sounded so much like the sadistic German officer, it was hard to believe that he had not somehow escaped death, even after Gates had shot him three times. But the Sarge couldn't have been wrong, could he? He'd wanted to help carry the stretcher holding his buddy Littlejohn, but Sarge had ordered him to take the point and keep an eye out for hostile forces. Which had been a little silly really, now that Billy had a chance to think about it. The only weapon he'd had was Saunders' sidearm, which had been empty. Besides, he'd been exhausted, practically out on his feet, and any enemy he'd encountered could have knocked him over with a hard look. Still, he hadn't protested, too shocked and worried about Littlejohn's condition. Which was probably why Doc hadn't wanted him carrying the stretcher. So he wouldn't keep pestering him, trying to see if his buddy had regained consciousness. Doc was right to keep him away. He couldn't do anything right, not even help carry his best friend in the world. Billy rubbed his torn dirty sleeve across his watering eyes, only to hear Saunders' low-pitched voice ask him, "You feelin' okay? You wanna take a break, Billy?" "I'm fine, Sarge. Let's keep going. We gotta get Littlejohn back to Battalion Aid as soon as we can, don't we? I'll be okay, don't worry about me." "We're not headed for Battalion Aid, Billy, but Littlejohn will get the best of care. I promise you." By the time they reached the outskirts of the village, Hanley's troops were gathered there waiting for them. Saunders and his squad looked around, taking in the aftermath of the battle. There were over two dozen mounts with bodies thrown across their saddles and an even larger group of "walking wounded," still able to ride. At Doc's direction, a stretcher was rigged between two of the horses to carry Littlejohn as they began the trip back to the Stronghold. Billy was finally astride one of the horses he'd been so eager to ride when they first arrived at this place. But the excitement he'd felt then was gone. Instead he was filled with guilt and worry as he reined his mount as close to Littlejohn's stretcher as he could manage, not wanting to let his friend out of his sight. Doc was mounted too, watching over his patient, although occasionally he would stand up in the stirrups, peering desperately around as though searching for someone. After making sure Caje and Kirby had been given suitable mounts and weren't having any problems keeping up, Saunders went looking for Hanley. He found the lieutenant—Warder, he reminded himself—riding knee to knee with Captain Jackson, listening to the cavalry officer's report. Despite Jackson's initial reluctance for his troops to take part in the mission, it was clear that he was not displeased with the results. "Jes' can't believe that we got past those sentries so damn easy. Like shootin' pigeons on a baited field. We must have killed off at least half of Kronus's changelings and renegades, which ought to put a damper on any plans to attack the Stronghold. Guess you were right after all, Hanley, though I wish the cost hadn't been so damn high. Marcus might have been overeager and wet-behind-the-ears, but those two subalterns of his were steady as the day was long. Not to mention losing good fighters like Leif Ragnarsson, Einar One-Eye and a dozen others." "The cost is always too high." Hanley's green eyes glittered as he caught sight of Saunders, his voice was rough with remembered pain. "Einstein, Chester, Morgan, a hundred more faces whose names I've forgotten though their voices haunt my dreams. Lines drawn on a map are never worth men's lives, but sometimes you have to pay that price, if you want to live in peace." Jackson took a deep shuddering breath, "Maybe you got the right of it, after all. A man

173 wants to know when he plows his fields in the spring he'll still be alive to bring in the harvest." As Saunders reined in his horse alongside the pair, Hanley asked, "How's Littlejohn?" "He's in pretty bad shape and I was wondering where Rhiannon is? Maybe she can help him? Or at least ease his pain." Hanley had seen this desperate, driven expression on Saunders face before and he wanted to take the sergeant aside and try to reassure him. But he had other duties, other responsibilities to other soldiers that he had ordered into this battle. "I think she's back with the rest of the wounded, trying to keep them alive long enough to reach the Stronghold." As he pointed out the healer's location, he gave Saunders a warning: "Just because she saved your life, sergeant, don't expect her to be able to do the same for Littlejohn."

*****

Still riding as close beside Littlejohn as he could, the stress of the past two days caught up with Billy and his head dropped to his chest, half-dozing, although he somehow managed not to fall off his horse. Vaguely he thought he heard two other riders come alongside, speaking in low intense voices that he only half-understood. "...saved my life... can do the same for him..." "...I can't, Sergeant. I don't have the power... not to heal him, and keep the others alive too." Then Billy heard something he knew only too well, the low, sharp edge of Sarge's anger. "Whatta you mean, you don't have the power? You didn't just save my life, dammit, you healed my wounds completely. Surely you can do somethin' for Littlejohn, to keep him alive." "I'll do what I can." Her voice was a ragged whisper. She leaned over Littlejohn and a faint spark jumped from her hand to his chest. As Saunders watched, the rifleman's color improved ever so slightly as his breathing steadied, but Rhiannon's face went chalky and her fiery hair seemed to have faded to the color of ashes. As she slumped on her horse, Saunders caught her up in his arms, his expression a mixture of fear and remorse. Early the next morning as they rode though the Stronghold's peaceful fields and valleys, Doc was not surprised to see a degree of relief on Billy's face, despite his worries about the condition of his best friend. Exhausted and battered as they were, the riders kept to a steady pace as they rode through the pastoral surroundings. But as they approached the Healer's Grove, even though he'd seen the results of Rhiannon's skill and felt the spiritual power that radiated from Cerridwen, Doc was beginning to have doubts that the primitive surroundings had the kind of medical facilities Littlejohn needed if they were going to save his life, much less his leg. Rhiannon had joined them again, although she and Saunders seemed to be deliberately avoiding one another. She reassured Billy, "It's not much further, Private Nelson. Cerridwen has already been alerted about the number of wounded we have and is preparing to give them the best of care." "Thanks, Rhiannon. You can just call me Billy." Despite his efforts to remain calm, Doc could read the fear that still haunted the young private. It was an emotion that he was beginning to share as they approached the grove of trees that was the center of Cerridwen's healing powers. Even though he'd helped deliver wounded soldiers to this place when the squad had first arrived at the Stronghold, Doc still had his doubts about The Grove actually having the kind of medical help Littlejohn needed. He should be in an aid station or even a field hospital, which might just be a tent or rough shack, but it would have a warm cot, with clean sheets and blankets. There would be trained doctors and nurses to debride his wounds and bandage them while he received IV fluids and plasma along with penicillin and other medicines to fight infection and shock.

174 As Doc slid down off his horse and walked under the enveloping branches, he had to admit that there was a certain soothing, comforting atmosphere surrounding him. Then he spotted Cerridwen dressed in a long blue robe, her silver hair unbound from its usual braid and falling to her waist. Her penetrating dark gaze seemed to look right through him as though she read the doubts troubling his mind. When he'd met her at Hanley's Council of War, he'd thought she was old, maybe eighty or more; now within The Grove there was a timeless look about her, neither young nor old, but somehow beyond the mortal constraints that bound the rest of them. A smile quirked the corners of her mouth. "Not quite what you expected, is it?" Doc shook his head bleakly, not wanting to antagonize the woman who Hanley clearly trusted. But to leave the critically wounded Littlejohn to the care of this healer with her primitive poultices and potions left him with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Recognizing the uncertainty on Doc's face, she reached out with fingers as fine and delicate as ivory spindles, touching Doc's forehead just between the eyes. "Can't expect a man to trust in magic he doesn't understand. So, let's see just what kind of healers you do trust." As Doc blinked, suddenly he and Billy were waiting outside a battalion aid station, with Littlejohn in an ambulance behind them, as they saw the healer again. This time she was wearing khaki and a major's oak leaves. Her snow-white hair was up in a practical bun but her penetrating dark gaze was as deep and enigmatic as before. She gestured for the two of them to bring Littlejohn's stretcher into the tent and spoke with a gruff assurance. "Just leave him over here in pre-op, medic. The surgeon's on his way and your buddy is next in line. Don't worry, soldier, Dr. Myrrdin is the best doctor on the front. He'll save your friend. You have my solemn oath." Doc almost balked, hearing the name of Hanley's boy wizard, but the major clasped his hand firmly in hers and stared deep into his eyes. "The lieutenant wouldn't have sent you here unless he trusted our doctor, would he?" Surrendering to that compelling gaze, Doc signaled Billy to help him carry Littlejohn into the tent. Even though it still looked like a regular aid station, Doc could smell trees and flowers and fresh green grass instead of the harsh antiseptics and stink of blood that usually prevailed. Billy took a deep breath and smiled. "Gee, it smells nice and fresh in here. I guess it's the just the right place for Littlejohn to get better." "I oughtta stay with him," Doc tried to argue. "So he doesn't wake all by himself and wonder what happened to the rest of the squad." "I'll send someone to notify you when he's awake," Cerridwen said brusquely, her no- nonsense tone a match for her crisply starched uniform. "Besides, I think you should show this young man where the rest of your squad is billeted. He looks like he could use a good meal and a quiet place to catch up on some much-needed sleep." Though reluctant to leave Littlejohn alone despite the reassuring surroundings, Doc realized that there was nothing more he could do to help the soldier. Cerridwen's skills were their only hope. As they started walking toward the cozy cottage where they'd been billeted before, Doc spotted Saunders impatiently striding toward the "Aid Station" where they'd just left Littlejohn. Doc turned back in order to report to his sergeant and was not surprised to see him turned away as well. Despite that rebuff, Saunders seated himself on a rough wooden bench in front of the station as he settled in for the duration. "Sarge," the medic offered in a reassuring tone, "Littlejohn's gettin' the best care possible from Cerridwen and the other healers. Why not come back to our billet, wash some of the dust off, and catch a little sleep. The lieutenant'll send for us if there's any change in Littlejohn's condition." "No, Doc. I'm staying here." When Billy started to volunteer to stay too, Sarge shook his head. "Go with Doc, Nelson. He'll show you a place where you can clean up and get a little shut-eye. If you see Caje and Kirby, tell them to stay with you too." "Where are they anyway?"

175 "I told 'em they could have a couple of beers, then go back to the cottage." Doc shook his head, doubting that Kirby would be willing to call it quits after just two beers, but trusted Caje would drag him back anyway. He was uncertain about leaving Sarge here alone, keeping watch. Saunders' experience with Rhiannon's magic seemed to have had an unsettling effect. Still, there was no arguing with Saunders when he gave an order.

Chapter VI

"Show me the way to go home. I'm tired and I wanna go to bed." Kirby's off-key voice grated on Caje's nerves. Almost as much as the song he was singing, because the scout still remembered a frightened man who'd been their prisoner singing it as he tried to convince his captors he was harmless. "I had a little drink about an hour ago and it went straight to my head." "Shut up, Kirby," Caje muttered, staring down into his whiskey glass, recalling Saunders had only okayed the two of them having a couple of beers and wondering just where this drink had come from. He glanced up, taking in the presence of their drinking buddies, and remembered just when the "celebration" had gotten out of hand. Lieutenant Andrews, Jackson's second-in-command, had come staggering in about an hour ago, half-supporting one of the Viking warriors that they'd only caught a brief glimpse of in the aftermath of their mysterious arrival in this world. The man was obviously older than most of Hanley's troops, with iron-gray hair chopped off at shoulder length, topped by a metal helmet unadorned by the usual wings or horns. He was also more lightly armed than most of his fellow Norsemen, wearing just a short dagger dangling from his belt, rather than the usual sword, mace, or war hammer. Judging by his wobbly notes and unsteady gait, Andrews had been hitting the bottle long before they stopped here. Though if the Norseman was drunk, he hid it behind a grim countenance. "Hoo-rah, hoo-rah, for Southern rights hoo-rah, hoo-rah for the Bonny Blue Flag that bears a single star." Caje had spotted the pair coming in just as he'd been trying to distract Kirby from his morose attitude as he stared into the dregs of his second (and supposedly last) beer. "It ain't right, Caje," Kirby had muttered grimly. "We already escaped that psycho Steiner one time, when Gates blasted him to kingdom come. Then he shows up again, ringmaster of some blasted monster circus and Littlejohn almost gets eaten alive. It ain't fair, I tell ya, it just ain't fair. Why don't the good guys ever get a second chance? Why can't Grady... or Cross... or Temple come back? Or even that crazy Reb, Moseby?" Andrews wobbled over to their table, breathing whiskey vapors in their faces. "Rebs. Ain't. Crazy, Yanks. They jes' don't know when to quit." "Dunno when to quit," Kirby mumbled, staring glumly at his empty stein. "Whole damn war dunno when to quit. We shoulda mopped up those Germans and been home by... by Thanksgiving. Right, Caje, ol' son, ol' boy? We oughta be home now, enjoyin' a home-cooked meal of turkey and dressing and pumpkin pie."

176 "Right, Kirby. Now finish that last beer so we can get back to quarters." "Last beer," Kirby whined. "A man can't hardly wet his whistle with just two beers, Caje. 'Sides how'm I gonna sing the rest of that song with my throat bone-dry?" "We've had enough of your singing, Kirby. More than enough," Caje answered grimly, trying to wrestle his buddy to his feet and out of the tavern's main room. "Well, what about poetry, then, Caje ol' buddy, ol' pal? I know some great poetry. "There was an old maid of Duluth Who wept when she thought of her youth, The glorious chances She'd missed at school dances And once in a telephone booth." "All right, Kirby. You're a regular Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, now let's get goin' like Sarge told us to do." "But I know some even better ones, Caje. What about this? "There was a young fellow named Dice Who remarked, 'They say bigamy's nice Even two is a bore I prefer three or four For the plural of spouse is spice.'" Kirby half-choked, caught between hysterical laughter and tears. He wasn't actually drunk on two beers, but between exhaustion, worry over Littlejohn, and sheer terror they'd faced the past two—or was it, three—days, the BAR man was practically out on his feet. Caje wasn't much better off, but was determined to drag his buddy back to their quarters before they wound up in the middle of a barroom brawl. "'Tis little more than doggerel," rumbled the Viking warrior as he and Andrews slumped into chairs beside them. "Not like the sagas skalds from my homeland told. Unlettered and tongue-tied I might be, but even Olav Skrathling can weave a better tale than those. Once I wet my throat with a flagon of mead. Innkeeper, bring mead for me... and my companions." It wasn't flagons of mead that the bartender delivered to the table where Kirby had dropped back down into the chair beside the new arrivals. Instead, it was a bottle of whiskey only slightly mellower than the rotgut Captain Jackson had been passing around before the attack. Resigned to sharing a round or two, just so they didn't insult Kirby's newfound friends, Caje settled back in his chair. Before he realized it, they'd finished off almost two bottles while Andrews sang old Civil War ballads in a passable tenor and Olav regaled them with stories of sea voyages amid wild storms and battles against creatures he called "Loki's Children." Now Kirby really was drunk, and Caje was staring grimly at the door, wondering just how he'd be able to get the BAR man on his feet and back to the cottage. Considering Kirby's state of inebriation, he was resigned to the likelihood that the ladies—Miss Polly and Miss Kate—would probably take a broom to the two of them, like his Aunt Margritte used to do whenever Uncle Jacques had sampled too much of the "white lightning" their neighbor brewed in the woods behind their house. At least they weren't likely to run into Saunders, who was probably keeping his usual vigil by Littlejohn's cot until he was out of danger. Come to think of it, Doc and Billy would probably be there as well, which meant he had a much better chance of sneaking Kirby and himself past their two hostesses. Olav was still rambling on some outrageous tale, half in English and half in his native language, while Lieutenant Andrews' head was propped on his crossed arms as he let out a discordant snore. "Come on, Kirby, let's get back to our bunks, before Sarge shows up and we spend the rest of the war diggin' latrines." "Sure thing, Caje, ol' buddy, ol' pal. Just one more little versy-worsy as we swagger off into

177 the sunset. Okay?" Caje managed to stifle a groan, since it was clear that nothing was going to silence Kirby, other than stuffing a grenade down his throat. "An elderly roué named Clyde Wed an eighteen-year-old as a bride. They took the old lecher Out on a stretcher But as he left he was smiling with pride. "Yep, Caje, ol' boy, that's how I want to go, when I'm a hundred and ten, in bed with an eighteen-year-old bride." "Me too, Kirby. Now, let's try to get back before Sarge comes lookin' for us, or we won't have to worry about dyin' of old age."

*****

Saunders started up from his half-doze in front of the Aid Station where they'd carried Littlejohn in some time ago. Twilight was falling and the ground beneath him was cold and damp. He glanced around, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, somewhat chagrined to find the hard bench where he'd been dozing earlier had become a patch of grass just beyond a dark copse of trees. He remembered seeing Cerridwen in the blood-spattered khaki uniform of the Army Medical Corps, greeting Doc and Billy as they'd carried Littlejohn into a battalion aid station. Yet he recalled still another memory of her standing there in a robe the color of the midnight sky, her silver hair unbound, shining like starlight. As he pushed dizzily to his feet, he wasn't sure which image had been real and which was illusion. Until he saw Cerridwen wearing the same dark blue robe, her hair loosely braided now, with Rhiannon standing beside her in a gown of forest green, her hair blowing loose and blending with the setting sun. "Littlejohn?" Saunders demanded hoarsely, his throat clogged with dread. "How is he?" "Your friend will recover, Sergeant. Though, if you continue ignoring your own well-being, you will wind up worse off than he is. Especially if you spend the night on this cold damp ground. Get some rest, young man. Your friend is out of danger, sleeping peacefully, and you can see him in the morning. After breakfast." Saunders nodded and started off in what he thought was the direction of their billet, staggering with fatigue. It was obvious that the sergeant was almost out on his feet so Rhiannon took him gently by the arm and led him toward her own snug cottage. As the early evening air revived him, Saunders began to feel the effects of having eaten nothing all day but the stale ration crackers and cheese he'd choked down before dawn. While he hoped the growls from his empty stomach weren't that loud, he was very glad when the healer motioned for him to be seated in her cozy kitchen. She stirred up the stove, bringing the coffee pot to a boil as she sliced fresh bread and set a bowl of fruit on the table. "There's chicken stew warming and coffee should be hot soon." She glanced up at the cloth-covered dish on the shelf over the stove. "And it looks like Miss Polly brought one of her pies over this afternoon." She sniffed appreciatively. "Apple, by the smell of it." Saunders helped himself to bread and fruit, which took the edge off his hunger, and then dug into the bowl Rhiannon served him, which actually had recognizable ingredients like peas, carrots, and real chicken, unlike the nondescript brown mush the Army labeled as stew. "This is good" He gazed up at Rhiannon, trying to turn his thoughts back to the men in his squad, knowing he had a responsibility to them and to Captain Jampel back at the CP. He intended to finish his meal and then go looking for Hanley, to see he had any new information about how they could return to their own world... and its war. But as Rhiannon brushed against him, refilling his coffee cup and then serving him a slice

178 of the homemade pie, suddenly talking to Hanley was the last thing on his mind. The healer had haunted his thoughts ever since their first encounter and now he felt a growing desire that threatened to push all thoughts of duty aside. He rubbed his eyes roughly, trying to banish those feelings, certain what he felt was just appreciation for her kindness and her skill. Nothing more. Rhiannon was practically a stranger. He'd known her barely longer than the barmaids Kirby was always trying to seduce, or the overjoyed French mademoiselles who smothered him and his men with impersonal kisses after their villages were liberated from their German oppressors. Proximity... and gratitude, that was all he felt. Then he gazed into her amber eyes and lost himself in their shifting shadows, trembling at the touch of her hand on his shoulder and recognizing the tender rush of genuine desire. For too long, sex had been little more than heated gropings in dimly lit back rooms, smelling of stale wine and other men's lust. Which was the reason he'd begun avoiding those brief encounters. He couldn't blame the women, selling their bodies for food or chocolate, or just a chance to fill the empty nights. And soldiers like himself were simply trying to forget the stink of blood and death and war, even if the only substitute was wine and cheap perfume. Even as he tried to draw away, Rhiannon clasped his hand and led him to her bedroom, lighting a single candle before she turned and reached up, looking deep into his eyes as she caressed his face. "I knew as soon as I saw you that we were fated for one another," she said in a low, intense voice. "I can't stay," he tried to protest, even as he was caressing her lips, her forehead, and brushing aside her flame-colored hair to kiss the sweet curve of her neck. "I have my orders. To deliver Hoffman to Captain Jampel." "But he's a raving madman now. Everything he knew is useless, forgotten, buried in the shadows of his mind." Rhiannon brushed back strands of his unruly golden hair, suddenly lost in the depths of his gaze. Those blue eyes whose color was somewhere between sea and sky, so she was no longer sure whether she was floating or flying. "That's not my decision to make. I have a duty...." His words dissolved into a soft moan as her hands unbuttoned his jacket and shirt and wove tender caresses across the muscles of his shoulders and back and down his narrow waist. For a long moment he tried to resist and then looked into her eager face and swept her into his arms before placing her gently on the bed. As she reached up and drew him down beside her, he embraced her fully. Then both of them surrendered to the violent rhythms of passion, until the explosive pleasure of his release left her shuddering in ecstasy, drowned in the sweet musky smell of their joined bodies. Wrapped in his arms, she whispered, "Don't leave. I've waited my whole life for someone like you, tender yet fierce. Risking your life to protect strangers as well as your comrades. The Warder needs men like you." Propped on one elbow, Saunders ran his fingers gently down Rhiannon's face as he stared into her pleading expression. "If it was my choice, I'd never leave you, or Hanley and the Stronghold. But I'm fighting in a war to save my country—hell, maybe even the whole world—from the forces of a madman. I can't give up now, no matter how much I might want to. I have an obligation, an oath that I swore, to protect and defend. My country and my fellow soldiers. I can't turn my back on that oath." She reached up and smoothed back the sandy hair that had spilled across his forehead, "I know about duty too. Cerridwen, the Warder, Myrrdin, all made vows to protect and care for the people of Avalon. Your sense of duty is admirable, but it may not be possible for you to return to your world, no matter how long Myrrdin looks for a pathway. If you are trapped here, don't grieve for what you left behind."

179 Briefly reassured, Saunders took a deep, shuddering breath before wrapping her in his arms once again. "I'll remember, Rhiannon," he said in a low husky murmur. "But if the door to our world opens again, I'll have to go back even if I want to stay." "I know. Because it is your duty."

*****

Early the next morning, Saunders returned to Cerridwen's Grove, determined to see Littlejohn's condition for himself. He was not surprised to find Billy and Doc already at his bedside, but was caught between amusement and exasperation at Caje and Kirby's obvious hangovers. But before Saunders could gather his thoughts to give them the blistering tongue-lashing and punishment they deserved, one of Jackson's troopers hurried over to Littlejohn's cot. "Sergeant Saunders, you better get a move on. I been lookin' for you nigh on to an hour now. Myrrdin and the Warder sent for you just after sunrise. Dunno what's up, but you oughta skedaddle over there." Doc felt a sudden surge of hope at the trooper's words, hope that Hanley and his seer just might have discovered a way for them to go home again. But as he looked over at the Sarge, there was a bleak troubled look on the noncom's face that left him wondering. Then Saunders' expression closed down again as he turned to Caje and Kirby. "Doc and Billy, stay here and keep Littlejohn company. The two of you—come with me. If I can't trust you outta my sight, then maybe Hanley has some ditches he needs dug or minefields to be cleared. The pair of you gotta be useful for something." Caje turned a grim look at Kirby, irritated at being on the Sarge's bad side, but Kirby gave his usual shrug and devil-may-care grin. "He'll get over it," the BAR man muttered as they struggled to keep up with Saunders' brisk jog. "Hell, once we're back at the CP, he probably won't even put us on report." "If we make it back," Caje muttered. "Those gates may only open one way, my friend. And we could be stuck here for good." Caje had only seen that shocked look on Kirby's face once before: when they'd discovered the battered body of his buddy and would-have-been brother-in- law, Eddie Kopacek. He hadn't thought Kirby's ties to home and family were as strong as his, but then all of them had someone or something waiting for them after the war. If they managed to survive. He gripped his buddy's shoulder with a reassurance that he did not feel. "Hey, Kirby. The Sarge and the lieutenant are working together, and they've gotten us out of much worse spots than this." When they reached Myrrdin's tower, Saunders gave them a grim look. "I'd leave the two of you outside on guard duty, but Kirby would still probably find some way to get into trouble." As he gazed up at the rough stone walls, his voice was haunted. "Besides, you have a right to know what we're facing here." When the three of them reached the main room where Hanley had convened the council of war some three days before, Saunders was startled to see that the large wooden table where they'd made their battle plans was gone. In its place was a rough stone pedestal with a brilliant crystal bowl set atop it. Water bubbled up from the center of the bowl as though it had tapped into some hidden spring. "Looks like they got indoor plumbing in this place after all," Kirby muttered under his breath before catching sight of both Saunders' and Caje's quelling looks. "I know, I know. 'Shut up, Kirby.'" Not having been part of the strategy meeting before, Kirby peered curiously around, taking in the brightly colored woven tapestries that covered some of the rough stone walls. Caje seemed more interested in the sigils and glyphs painted on the sections that remained bare. They reminded him of figures he'd seen daubed on the body of the local houngan when he and his

180 cousin had sneaked out one night to spy on the voudoun ceremony being held down on the bayou. They'd both gotten strapped the next day when their fathers found out, but the awed looks of their schoolmates had made the whippings worth it. Hanley was standing behind the young wizard as he gazed down into the bowl. He motioned Saunders over and said in a hoarse whisper, "He's using this pool rather than his usual crystals to see farther. Looking for any power fluctuations within a hundred-mile radius of this valley that might indicate a breach that could get you home. It drains his powers to do this, but he wanted to try it if there was the slightest chance of helping you and the rest of the squad." As Myrrdin looked up at Saunders and his fellow soldiers, the sergeant almost felt sorry for the boy. His deep-sunk brown eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and there were lines of exhaustion carved deeply around his grimly set mouth. "I'm sorry, Sergeant. I've scanned for any sign of a world breach, especially since the attack on Kronus's holding. There should have been major disturbances afterwards due to his followers seeking refuge elsewhere, if for no other reason. But look for yourself." As the three GIs peered over the seer's shoulder into the basin, for a long moment they saw nothing but ripples in the water. But gradually the ripples began to shift and change, showing them mountains, valleys, rich farmlands and groves of towering trees—the landscape of Avalon. "Just what are we supposed to be looking for?" Saunders questioned. Myrrdin pointed to a wooded valley some distance away from the Stronghold which was covered in a golden haze of power. "That's where your squad and your prisoners came through, Sergeant. As you can see there's a power fluctuation there." "Then why can't we just grab Littlejohn and double-time it back there?" Kirby demanded, his face filled with surprising urgency. "Because there isn't a breach there anymore," Hanley answered with surprising patience. "It's only the aftereffects, like the smoke and debris from an artillery blast. And just about as deadly." For long moments the three time-lost soldiers stared at the peaceful but strange landscape that would be their new home. Slowly the ripples faded away into nothing more than a large basin of clear water. With Hanley's assistance, Myrrdin walked weakly toward the door, pausing for just a moment before leaving as he spoke to the three. "I know right now it seems like a terrible hardship to be stranded so far from home, friends, and family. But my training tells me everything happens for a reason, so don't grieve too much. The Stronghold is a haven for the lost, the oppressed, and the forsaken. You can make a good life here if you're willing to try." After Myrrdin left, Saunders and his men continued staring into the basin for a long time, and Hanley realized they were seeking some last vision of their homes and the faces of their families in those rippling waters. Whether holding on to the memories or attempting to say farewell, he couldn't be sure. When he'd fallen through the dimensional rift that led him here, it had been a relief to escape his past and the dark future that seemed to lie ahead. Not just because of his job, but the emptiness and estrangement that had filled his life after the war. Sometimes he almost wished that he had died, too, in that brutal, bitter struggle. As the images from that frozen battleground began to replay, Hanley shook his head in abrupt denial, staring into Saunders', Caje's, and Kirby's features, seeing the uncertainty there. "Come on," he didn't quite order them. "We're done here and I have an office with a fireplace and some comfortable chairs on the next level." His sharp green eyes took in Caje's and Kirby's somewhat disheveled appearance this morning, along with Saunders' ambivalent expression. "I've got a bottle of what passes for Scotch in this part of the world." He gave Saunders a brief rakish grin. "Though it's only been aged about two weeks longer than that swill Jackson was passing around, you two look like you could use a little 'hair of the dog,'" he nodded at Kirby and

181 Caje. "It's a bit early," Saunders said, turning his three-striper glare on the two privates. "Has to be after five somewhere." Hanley shrugged. Saunders made a last feeble protest. "We should go back and tell Doc, Billy, and Littlejohn the situation." "There's no rush, Sergeant. Bad news will keep. Besides, I'd like to have a little discussion with you. About the future." Saunders could say volumes with a single look, or maintain a poker face that was totally unreadable. Though he'd agreed to the round of drinks in Hanley's office, Saunders still maintained an air of watchful suspicion. In the past, they'd walked the fine line about non-fraternization after Hanley's promotion, even though they had still managed to confide in and console one another during their bloody struggle across Northern France. But now, years and uncertainty stood between them, and Hanley had to wonder if he would be able to persuade Saunders to give him that same loyalty once again. If he could convince the sergeant to become one of his commanders, maybe even follow in his own steps as Warder of the Stronghold. Unlike Jackson and the other commanders, Saunders was more than a leader. He'd been able to take green troops, goof-offs, cowards, and outright psychos, wear down their rough edges, shore up their weak spots, and forge them into a genuine cadre. Even when their mettle was too damaged and the men he tried to save shattered in the process, he still had more successes than failures. It was that skill in building soldiers that Hanley sorely needed in the years to come. Despite its name, Avalon was not a paradise, and even though it had the potential to be one, he knew that they would have to continue to defend their crops, houses, and families against the hostile forces that sometimes found their way into this world. With Saunders' help, he knew he had a much better chance of succeeding. After pouring a generous splash of whiskey for each of the three men, Hanley sat back against his oversized desk and asked, "Now that you've had a chance to see more of the people and countryside, what do you think? Even if your arrival wasn't voluntary, this is not a bad place to settle down and make a home. It's certainly better than slogging through the mud and snow, fighting your way across the German heartland." Kirby tossed back his drink in one gulp, then muttered, "You can say that again." But Caje and Saunders sipped theirs more slowly, keeping their eyes and ears open, wondering what was on the lieutenant's mind. "I don't have to tell you how the war ends," Hanley said bluntly. "Even before your squad stumbled into Avalon, it was clear that the German War Machine was on the ropes. They didn't have the troops, the equipment, or the leadership to hold out against the Allied advance." He took a long sip of his own whiskey. "But it's a hard, bloody road to Berlin, with thousands more Allied troops dying or being maimed during those last months. I can't, I won't tell you about the battles ahead for King Company. All I can say is that you've already earned a warm welcome in the Stronghold and we can use your skills as soldiers, or in whatever other field of work you might choose." There was a prolonged silence as Saunders and his men pondered their supposed good fortune at escaping those last bitter conflicts, then wondered if this place was really as idyllic as Hanley was trying to portray it. Did they really want to spend the rest of their lives here, forever cut off from friends, family, and the world they had known. "What about taxi drivers?" There was a hard edge to Kirby's voice that drew Saunders'

182 attention to his one-time goldbrick and troublemaker. This might be an idyllic place to get drunk and chase the girls, but Kirby was no farmer or shopkeeper. Even Caje seemed dubious about the golden fields and meadows, so very different from the creeks and bayous of his Louisiana home. "Will we ever be able to see our families again?" Abruptly Hanley realized that he might have made a critical misjudgment, trying to win Saunders' cooperation so soon. He should have waited and let the squad start to come to terms with the fact that they might not be returning home. He should have asked them to help in the fields or had them take part in training his troops in modern infantry tactics. He should have asked for advice from Rhiannon on how to fit them into the community, so they didn't feel so much like outsiders. Only Saunders was not as troubled as his two squad members. In fact, there was almost a look of relief on his face. But then Saunders had been in this war since North Africa and even if he did have family and friends to go home to, they had changed, as he had changed, more than he probably realized. Home might not be as welcoming as he once had hoped, and he was damned tired of fighting, more tired than any man should be who wasn't that far past his twenty-fifth birthday. Saunders put his glass aside, the whiskey barely touched. "Thanks for the drink, sir." He gave a jerk of his head that signaled Caje and Kirby to follow him and as they left Hanley's office, Saunders turned to his former CO. His face was in shadow, but Hanley could see the burning intensity of his gaze. "You know who made it home... and who didn't, don't you?" Hanley shook his head in denial, his iron-gray hair falling across his forehead, but he would not meet that inquiring gaze. "I got transferred after recovering from those broken ribs. To another company far away from the 361st. I tried to find out what happened to my platoon afterwards, but the records were jumbled and incomplete. I'm sorry, Saunders."

*****

Over the next three weeks, the squad slowly began to resign itself to the likelihood that they would not be returning to their own world. With Billy's reluctant assistance, Littlejohn helped Miss Polly and Miss Kate spread compost to prepare the ground for their kitchen garden. Caje joined several of Captain Jackson's men on the scouting parties that regularly patrolled the Stronghold's perimeter to locate any signs of Kronus's followers or other raiders. They usually brought back venison or other game that was butchered and dressed, then distributed among the community. After that initial blowout following the attack on Kronus's fortress, Kirby had managed to stay surprisingly sober. He'd helped Billy and Littlejohn in the garden, gone on hunting parties with Caje, even joined Saunders in training and drilling with the Stronghold's defense forces, but had not yet found a place where he could really fit in. On the other hand, Saunders had become so much a part of the community that it felt almost like coming home. Initially, he'd expected resentment and protests from Captain Jackson and Hanley's other surviving leaders, but instead found an almost universal camaraderie. None of the Warder's subordinates had any doubts about their own abilities or their place in the world. As a result, Saunders found that he was able to take orders from Jackson, training as a cavalry officer in the morning, while giving the captain instruction in infantry tactics in the afternoon. Then there was his relationship with Rhiannon. After their initial lovemaking, he'd been afraid that she might draw away from him, demanding some kind of formal vows or promise of commitment that he could not in good conscience make. Instead, she remained as tender and welcoming as she had on their first night together. Occasionally, she would be absent from their bed because of her training demands or other responsibilities within the Grove, but she always left a note on the pillow and a meal warming on the back of the stove. Saunders had almost forgotten his other life, his other responsibilities.

*****

183 It was after midnight and someone was pounding at Rhiannon's door. Saunders started up, groping for his weapon, then realized where he was. Sliding out of her embrace, he groped around the room until he found his pants, and after pulling them on, stumbled to the door. "All right, all right," he muttered. "I'm comin'. Just keep your shirt on." As he jerked open the door, he was surprised to find Billy in the tattered uniform he'd been wearing when they'd come through the gate, helmet on his head, and M-1 slung over his shoulder. "The lieutenant sent for us. Myrrdin's found a way back into our world, but he doesn't know how long it'll stay open." Saunders felt a cold sinking feeling in his chest as he glanced briefly back toward the bedroom where Rhiannon lay sleeping, then the combination of training and instinct that had kept him alive for so many months took over. "Has the rest of the squad been notified? What about our prisoner? Is he able to travel? How far is the gate?" Saunders' voice held its usual cool ring of authority, so much so that for a brief moment Billy just stood there with his mouth hanging open. Then he remembered who and what he was and passed along as much information as Hanley's runner had given him. "Kirby and Caje were out, but Littlejohn was at our quarters when we heard and he's still getting his gear together. The lieut... I mean the Warder... sent word to Doc and Cerridwen as soon as Myrrdin informed him. I guess they'll have to bring the German on a stretcher. They didn't say, but I don't think the gate is that far away." Saunders had shrugged into his shirt and begun lacing his boots by the time Billy finished his report. Reaching for his helmet, he looked at the door to the bedroom once again, knowing that he couldn't leave Rhiannon without some kind of farewell. Billy saw a brief agonized look cross his sergeant's face, then his features settled into their usual resolved expression as he picked up the Thompson, checked by habit for ammo, even though he'd used the last of it weeks before, when they'd rescued Nelson. As he slung it over his shoulder, he gave Billy his orders: "Check the tavern and drag Kirby out whether he's sober or not. I'll locate Caje and we'll rendezvous at Myrrdin's Tower. Unless the Warder said otherwise?" "No, Sarge." Billy shook his head. "But the runner said Caje was already with the lieutenant, plotting the breach's coordinates on a map." "All right," Saunders said, his voice trailing off as the door to their bedroom opened and he saw Rhiannon standing in the shadows. "Just find Kirby. I'll be there shortly." As Billy hurried away, he cast an uncertain look back at his sergeant, wondering whether he would go with them back to the war or stay. Saunders was wondering that himself as he looked into Rhiannon's eyes. But to his surprise, there were no tears or pleading on her face. Rather she was clad in a dark-gray, full- length robe, her glorious hair bound up in a knot and covered by a hood which put much of her face in shadow. "Rhiannon, you heard what Billy said. I have to go, it's my duty...." "I know," she said. "Cerridwen sent word as soon as the gate was opened because I've been chosen as one of the Guardians, to keep watch until the gate is sealed. Your world is at war and those horrors must not spill into our peaceful valley again. Especially not those who carry such darkness in their souls that they can become monsters at Kronus's bidding." Saunders stared at her for only a moment, feeling an emptiness where his heart used to be. "I understand," he said huskily. "War's an ugly business and this place is a haven." He gave her a faint quirk of a smile. "Don't worry, Hanley will keep it safe." Her stern resolve faltered for a brief second, and she threw back the hood and embraced Saunders with a heated fervor, then drew away, pulling it up again so her face was in shadow. "We must hurry," she said urgently, glancing up at the stars wheeling overhead. "You and your men must go through so Myrrdin can make sure nothing follows. The patterns are already shifting." As the squad gathered in a shadowy vale approximately five miles beyond the Stronghold, the moon was down and a heavy ground mist had begun to rise, giving all of them a ghostly

184 appearance. To Saunders' amazement, Kirby was stone cold sober. "I just had a couple of beers swappin' stories with that Lieutenant Andrews fella. Do you know he fought at Gettysburg and he said it wasn't nothing like the history books tell it." "Most battles aren't," Saunders answered grimly. "Maybe if more people knew how terrible war is, there'd be less of it." He knelt beside Hoffman's stretcher, his gaze taking in the wounds still covering the German's body, then he turned a questioning look at Doc, surprised at the man's condition after weeks in Cerridwen's care. "Cerridwen and the other healers have tried their best to help him, but those wounds just won't heal. They think it has somethin' do with Kronus's effects on his mind. Shell shock. Maybe even somethin' worse." The medic's clear blue gaze briefly darkened. "Whatever it is, even if he survives, I doubt he'll be able to pass along much information." "It doesn't matter, Doc. We had our orders to bring a prisoner back and stop the attacks." Saunders shuddered for a moment, recalling the bestial transformation of the German raiders. "We did that." Nodding to his men, he continued, "Doc, Littlejohn, pick up that stretcher." He noticed with amusement that the worn but intact trousers Littlejohn wore were a shade too dark to be government issue. As Littlejohn took in Saunders' appraising look, he tried to explain, "They belonged to Miss Polly's son and she wanted me to have them. I don't think anybody will notice, Sarge." "Probably not," he agreed. "Just don't let the quartermaster catch sight of them or he'll want 'em back." Hanley was standing at Myrrdin's shoulder, watching intently as the seer peered down into the large mirror clasped between his hands. The mirror did not reflect his face or even the stars shining overhead, instead it shimmered with a darkness deeper than midnight. Then as the fog grew even thicker all around, there was a shaft of lightning that seemed to set the very air in front of them ablaze. "There, there is your doorway," he gasped, his knees starting to buckle. For a moment, the squad froze, looking into the inferno before them and then back to their sergeant, not really certain whether this gate would lead them back to their world... or into Hell itself. Saunders started to lead the way, but his Cajun scout put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Let me go first, Sarge. Just to make sure everything's okay." Nodding reluctantly, he ordered, "All right, take the point." Moments later, he heard that French-accented voice out of the fog: "All clear on this side, Sarge. Just tell the guys comin' through to watch their step. There's a lot of debris—and other things—that could trip them up." "I better go next," Kirby volunteered, his BAR in position across the front of his chest even though he didn't have a single round of ammo. "No tellin' what this stumblebum will fall over, if Caje and I aren't there to catch him." "You just watch out for your own big feet." Littlejohn grinned as he moved forward, careful of the patient on the stretcher, even if he was a German prisoner. "C'mon, Billy, time to get back to the war." "I guess." Billy gazed around at the hills covered with wild flowers and trees in blossom, half-wishing that they could have forgotten about the war and stayed here. Then squaring his helmet and holding his M-1 at the ready, Billy marched into the shifting fog. Standing beside Rhiannon, it was all Saunders could do not to sweep her up in his arms and turn his back on that gateway leading back to the war. But there was the oath he had sworn to defend his country and the responsibility he had to lead his men into battle, into Germany, into Hell itself if those were his orders. Embracing her tenderly one last time, he said in a voice choked with emotion, "I don't know what's ahead for me or my men, but once the war is over, I'll find a way back to you." "I know." Rhiannon pushed the gray hood back, revealing her hair which blazed like the sun. "And I'll be waiting."

185 The fog thickened briefly as Saunders strode into it and through the gateway with his men and their prisoner. For long minutes, they moved warily through the dank mists surrounding them, then the fog began to lift and abruptly they recognized the still smoldering ruins of the marauder's camp, along with the huddled bloody bodies that remained from their earlier attack. Just for a moment they stood there, staring in disbelief, before caution reasserted itself and Saunders ordered in low voice, "Caje, Kirby, fan out and see if there are any survivors." He waved Doc and Littlejohn to take the stretcher behind the wall of the half-burned cottage. "Stay down, Doc, until we make sure that no one's gonna to be taking potshots at us. Nelson, you're on me. Keep an eye out for any more of these raiders while we check the perimeter." "But Sarge," Billy said in a whisper that could be heard halfway across the clearing. "I haven't got any ammo." Saunders did not reply, but turned a look that would have blistered paint on the snickering Kirby. As the four GIs scouted stealthily through the marauders' camp, there were no sounds but the distant early song of a lark as the sun began to rise and send its warmth into the mountain valley. As the squad finished their inspection of the area, having examined all of the bodies to make sure there were no other survivors and inspecting what remained of their supplies and equipment, they gathered beside the crumbling cottage walls. Littlejohn spoke up first, having left Doc to keep watch over the prisoner. "Sarge, the ashes are still warm. That fire was blazing when everything changed... and we wound up in Avalon. But judging by the temperature of ashes, that can't have been more than twelve, maybe sixteen hours at the most." "Same goes for the bodies, Sarge. They're dead, but it hasn't been that long." Caje informed him with a cool, grim expression. "Am I missin' somethin' here?" Kirby demanded. "We spend at least three weeks, maybe more in Never Never Land, sleeping on soft beds and eatin' home-cooked meals. And it never happened?" "Oh, it happened, Kirby. No question in my mind about that." Billy shivered, remembering his captivity and the terrible wounds that Littlejohn had suffered during his rescue. Saunders did not speak, but just fingered the pale white scar along his side, remembering how their German prisoner had slashed him during their struggle. It couldn't possibly have healed like this, even in three weeks. What was even more confusing was that the body count matched the original number of raiders. And he was certain at least six of them had been their prisoners when the squad found themselves in Avalon. Six prisoners who'd been transformed by Steiner's doppelganger into bestial subordinates that he and the squad had fought and killed during their rescue of Billy. Saunders wondered how the bodies could be here. And showing no signs that they'd ever been anything other than the butchers and murderers he'd been ordered to capture if possible, but stop by any means necessary. He glanced over at their prisoner on the stretcher, wondering if his febrile mutterings were anything more than fever-induced hallucinations. Or if the German officer was remembering his experiences under the influence of that being—Kronus—Saunders' squad had fought when they rescued Billy and re-captured him as well. But whatever nightmares or illusions that the German officer was seeing, it was not Saunders' concern. He asked Doc, "Can he be moved? I know the rest are dead, but there may be replacements coming." "He'll probably make it back to the CP, Sarge. But I don't think that they'll be able get any information from him." Doc's face held a mixture of pity and relief. "Why?" "His mind is gone. He just keeps muttering about demons and monsters, the children of

186 Loki, surviving the destruction of the world." Saunders looked down at their prisoner and remarked in a thoughtful voice, "Maybe that's what the fall of the Reich looks like to him, the destruction of his world." The sergeant stared grimly around at the burned remnants of the cottage and the bloodied bodies surrounding it, remembering a land where cows and sheep peacefully grazed. He remembered people working in the fields as their children played in their yards, secure and unafraid. He remembered a girl whose hair glowed like firelight and whose eyes were as deep as the sea. He remembered too much. "Saddle up," he said wearily. "Let's get our prisoner back to Captain Jampel." He gestured to his scout. "Caje, take the point and keep your eyes open. Let's get back to HQ and finish the job." And First Squad of Second platoon, King Company marched into the early morning light.

end

187 Defining Moment – Hanley

Hills Are For Heroes Kirby: Well, orders... it's easy to give orders. It's easy to send men out to die, that's been going on here all day long. Saunders: Kirby! Hanley: Let him go. Kirby: Look, we've tried. Now we've done the best that we can do. You sit here and you tell us to go up on that hill. And we go up there and we get clobbered. Don't you understand you can get clobbered so much, and then you've just had it, Lieutenant. And believe me, we've had it. We're not going up there anymore. Hanley: Are you through, Kirby? Kirby: Lieutenant, we can't do it anymore. Hanley: I said, are you through? Kirby: Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I'm through. Hanley: All right. Now, you've had it rough. And now that you've told me all about it, get ready to do your job. All of you. (Checks watch) We've only got eight minutes left.

(The men file out until only Saunders and Hanley remain)

Saunders: He was just sounding off, that's all. Hanley: What does he know? I'd rather go up that hill a dozen times than stay down here and pick other men to go. What do they want from me? All the brass has to do is send the word down and they expect us to go out there again. They sit with their maps and their lines... they forget they're talking about flesh and blood. Men die when a bullet hits them. You know how many casualties we have? How many dead? Ten. Ten men who were alive when I brought them in here today. Lying out there on that lousy, stinking hill. Saunders: Are you through, Lieutenant? I asked you if you were through. All right. You had it rough, and now that you told me all about it, you better... you better get ready to do your job. Hanley: I shoulda had Doc give you that shot. Thanks, Saunders.

188 A TRUE FRIEND

by Kathleen L. Jones (CCK)

I want to extend a big thank you to Doc II for beta reading my story. She always makes it better than I could ever imagine it could be.

I want to dedicate this to my mom. She has always encouraged me to continue writing even when those around me say I'm wasting my time. Thanks, Mom, you're my best friend.

189 France, 1944

The horizon swirled with the colors of red and orange as the sun slowly set in the distance. The beauty was in stark contrast to the smell of smoke and sulfa that filled the air, to the carnage that covered the ground. Lieutenant Gil Hanley struggled through the dense forest with his charge. His sergeant, Chip Saunders, had been seriously wounded saving his life, and Hanley was determined not to let him die. He would get Saunders the help he needed, even if it meant his own life. They fought through the heavy undergrowth, heading for what only that morning had been the American lines. Hanley struggled to keep Saunders on his feet. It was becoming more difficult with each step. The man was barely conscious and losing blood fast. The lieutenant readjusted his hold on the wounded man's arm around his neck and pulled him up a little higher by his web belt. He knew Saunders couldn't go much further and they would have to stop soon. The problem was they were still in German-occupied territory. They had already avoided several patrols, but each time they started up, Saunders would start to bleed again. Hanley had to find someplace safe from the patrols. Someplace Saunders could remain still and quiet. Traveling could, and very likely would, cost the sergeant his life. Saunders began to slip from his grasp again. Hanley laid the man in the cool grass under the shade of a tree. Turning him slightly on his side, he checked the bandage that covered the wound on Saunders' back. The dressing was soaked through again. Hanley pulled the last bandage from his web belt and put it over the soaked dressing. Pulling the straps around the man's chest, he tied them tightly, hoping the bleeding would stop. "Lieutenant.” Hanley heard Saunders' weak voice and laid him on his back. "Lieutenant, you have to leave me. I won't make it much further. You need to get back to our lines and report that German advance. I'll only slow you down.” Saunders closed his eyes against the pain, his breathing short and quick. "I don't want to hear that, Sergeant. We'll both get back to our lines. I'm not leaving you here alone.” Hanley took his canteen from his belt and lifted Saunders' head, giving him several small sips of water. He, too, was thirsty, but their water supply was short and he had to keep Saunders from getting dehydrated. "Lieutenant, I'm too big a risk to take with you. You have to get back.” Saunders' voice was getting weaker, and the pain caused him to keep his eyes shut. "Look, all you need is some rest and you'll be able to make it back. First I need to find us a safe place to stay. Those Kraut patrols aren't about to give us a chance to rest unless we're under cover. I'm going to scout up ahead. I'll be back to get you in five minutes.” Hanley took off his jacket and folded it into a pillow, placing it under Saunders' head. He was walking away when he heard a very weak voice behind him. "Don't come back, Lieutenant. I'm not worth it.” "You are to me,” Hanley spoke under his breath as he continued to walk away.

*****

It took Hanley longer to get back than he planned. He had to dodge a German patrol and then take the long way around. It had been forty-five minutes since he left the wounded sergeant under the tree. He feared what he would find. He reached the area where he had left Saunders and called out quietly to make his presence known. There was no response. He called again, this time louder and more frantically then he liked. There was still no response. Hanley saw Saunders lying still beneath the tree. He crossed the distance between them in

190 two long strides. He knelt beside him feeling for a pulse. It was there but very weak. Hanley watched the sergeant's chest rise and fall in short, quick movements. At least he's still alive. He quietly thanked God for finding his sergeant alive and then lifted him off the ground and placed him over his shoulder. About a quarter of a mile away, he found a cave. The entrance was covered with bushes and branches. He would have missed it if he hadn't been dodging the German patrol. He entered to see if it would be suitable for them to take cover and rest, but he found more than he could have ever hoped for. The cave must have been a Maquis hideout. Not only was the entrance well hidden, but it was fully stocked. There was water, food, blankets, wood for a fire, and medical supplies. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. He had never been an overly religious man, not like Doc or Caje, but it was like God had answered his prayer and guided him to this place. If he could get Saunders here he could keep him alive until, God willing, the Americans or at the very least the Maquis could find them. Hanley carried his wounded sergeant the quarter mile to the cave and placed him inside on the blanket he had laid out. He then brushed away any sign of their tracks as he closed the entrance behind him. The cave was dark and felt cold and damp. Hanley covered Saunders with a blanket and noticed the shivering had begun. He felt the sergeant's forehead and found he was cold and clammy with sweat. The fever had started. He needed to keep Saunders warm and he needed to get food and water into him. Hanley built a small fire, questioning his judgment in doing so. He hoped he could keep the smoke down to a minimum, and then the benefit to Saunders would outweigh the risk of them being detected. He knew he was fooling himself but he kept that thought in mind. The lieutenant began making a broth from some of the rations he had found. He knew it wouldn't taste the best, but it was hot and nourishing. He sat by Saunders' side as the broth cooked. His mind began to wander back to four hours earlier. To the unbelievable massacre he had witnessed. The shelling, the tanks, the hand-to-hand combat. No one was prepared for such a German offensive, and it had cost hundreds of lives in minutes. His squad had been scattered by the shelling, leaving him alone with Saunders. They fought just a few feet from each other as unforeseen numbers of Germans advanced toward them. From his cover behind a log, Hanley picked them off one at a time in relative safety. He didn't see the German flank them and come up from behind, but Saunders had. Saunders tried to fire his Tommy gun, but it had jammed. He knew in just moments his lieutenant would be dead. He did the only thing he could. "Lieutenant!” Saunders screamed for all he was worth. "Behind you!” Springing from his cover, Saunders dived over his lieutenant, covering him with his body just as the German fired. The bullet struck him in the upper back by his shoulder blade. He cried out in pain and then rolled away, allowing Hanley to take the German soldier out with a single shot. Hanley looked back to see Saunders gasp for breath, then lose consciousness. He picked the man up, threw him over his shoulder. He had never run from a fight before but this time he did, and never looked back. Saunders soon regained consciousness and they began the journey back to the American lines. A soft moan broke through Hanley's thoughts, bringing him back to the present. He turned to see Saunders thrashing from side to side, his cries growing louder. He placed a hand on

191 Saunders' forehead, speaking quietly and calmly. "Saunders, it's all right. We're safe and warm for the moment. Can you hear me?” The sergeant's eyes fluttered open. They appeared glazed from fever and pain, but he recognized his Lieutenant. "Lieutenant, where are we?” Saunders attempted to look around, but even the smallest movement caused him unbelievable pain. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment and then slowly reopened them. "We're in what appears to be a Maquis hideout. We have everything we need.” Hanley attempted a smile for his sergeant's benefit. "Thirsty.” A single word was all the weak man could muster. Hanley carefully lifted Saunders' head, helping him to take several small sips of water from his canteen. Replacing the container on his web belt, he then turned to the broth he had been cooking. "Here, take some of this.” The lieutenant placed the cup of hot liquid to his sergeant's lips. "It probably doesn't taste the best, but it's hot and you need the fluids.” Saunders took a sip and then shook his head, pushing the cup away. "Yes, Sergeant, you need it.” Hanley placed the cup back to Saunders' lips, pushing him to drink all the liquid. Hanley gently lay the wounded man's head back down on the makeshift pillow as Saunders closed his eyes against another wave of pain. "Lieutenant.” Saunders was still very weak and his voice very light. Hanley bent closer to hear what he was saying. "Leave me here. I have all the supplies I need. You can send someone back for me.” "I'm not leaving you, Sergeant. I've already told you that. We're going back together.” Hanley could see the distress in the man's face. He knew Saunders felt his wound could cost the lieutenant his life if he stayed. Hanley had to put those concerns to rest. "Besides, I couldn't leave if I wanted to. The woods are crawling with Germans. So I guess you're stuck with me.” "Yes, sir.” The weakened man whispered as he turned his head away from his lieutenant. Saunders suddenly gasped as a wave of pain hit his back. He felt as if he were never going to take another breath. Hanley was right beside him holding him by his shoulders as his back arched with the intensity of the pain. When it finally passed, it left Saunders semiconscious and moaning. Hanley grabbed the bag of medical supplies and began pulling everything out. God, please let there be some morphine. At the bottom of the bag, he found a tin box wrapped in thick material. Upon opening it, he found three syringes of morphine. Thank God, he thought as he raised Saunders' sleeve. Saunders began to resist, pulling away. "No, no morphine.” He moaned through the pain. "Have to stay awake in case you need....” Saunders voice trailed off, the effort to speak becoming too much for him. "Yes, Saunders, you need the morphine.” Hanley held his sergeant's arm down as he injected the drug. It didn't take much effort because of the weakened state of the man. In a short period of time, Saunders' thrashing and moans grew silent as the morphine took effect. He was quickly in a drug-induced sleep. Hanley began to feel his own overwhelming exhaustion trying to take control. He fought to stay awake. He needed to stay awake. He needed to keep watch not only for patrols but for changes in Saunders' condition also. Hanley ate a few of the rations and then walked around, trying everything he could to stay awake. A soft moan returned him to his sergeant's side for a quick check. Leaning back against the wall, Hanley watched Saunders rhythmic breathing. He never realized he had fallen asleep.

192 *****

He awoke suddenly, not knowing where he was. He was hot, so hot he felt like he couldn't breathe. He pushed the blankets off and attempted to sit up. A pain in his back made him stop and close his eyes. He remembered the battle and being wounded. He remembered being carried through the woods and the cave. He opened his eyes and saw Hanley asleep at his side. He knew his presence put that man's life in danger. It was only a matter of time before the German patrols found this place. If they were discovered, Hanley would be taken prisoner. An officer would be a great prize and Saunders couldn't allow that to happen. Hanley would never leave him as long as he was alive, and he knew he was dying anyway. Why take another life with him? Saunders knew what he had to do. Rolling off the blanket, he tried to stand, but his leg wouldn't cooperate. He was too weak, so he began to crawl to the cave entrance. Hanley had to survive. He was more than just a good officer. Rank may have prevented them from showing it outwardly, but deep down he considered him a friend. Saunders knew he was doing the right thing. At least this way Hanley would make it back, Saunders thought as he pulled himself out of the cave entrance and into the woods.

*****

Hanley thought he heard a noise, and it startled him awake. He looked toward the cave entrance, but no one was there. Damn! I would have sworn someone was coming through the bushes. That's what I get for falling asleep. Hanley stretched as he stood and then decided to check Saunders' dressing. Hoping that the bleeding had stopped, he turned toward the blanket that held his sergeant. Hanley looked down in horror. The blanket was empty. Saunders was gone! "Saunders!” Hanley called. "Saunders, where are you?” Hanley quickly searched both side tunnels finding nothing. Coming back toward the fire he noticed the drag marks leading from the cave entrance and took off at a dead run. He followed the tracks out into the dark where they became harder to see. He didn't have to go far before he found his lost sergeant. Saunders lay under a tree, curled up in a ball. He shivered violently and was delirious. "Have to leave.” Saunders' voice shook with each shiver. "Have to give the lieutenant a chance. He has to get back, has to report. Not worth the risk... not worth....” Saunders' voice trailed off as he shook violently again, his moans growing in volume. "Damn you, Saunders.” Hanley said under his breath. "I've told you before, it is to me.” Picking his wounded sergeant up in his arms, Hanley walked back into the cave. "Besides, don't you think HQ knows about the push by now, Sergeant?” Hanley continued as he laid Saunders back beside the fire. Hanley covered Saunders with the blankets, and then stoked the fire. Taking the heated broth, he gently lifted the sergeant's head, making him drink what was left. Hanley checked Saunders' dressings and found they were bloody again. His effort to leave the cave had reopened his wounds and he was bleeding again. Hanley began changing the bandages. He became so intent on caring for his sergeant he never heard the bushes rustling behind him. A figure entered the cave, gun held on the two soldiers.

193 "Do not move!” Hanley heard the voice behind him and raised his arms in the air. "Stand up and turn around.” The French accent was so thick, Hanley could barely understand him. Hanley stood and slowly turned around. A tall, thin boy stood at the entrance of the cave. His dark, wavy hair fell onto his shoulders. He couldn't have been more that fifteen or sixteen years of age, and the fear in his eyes was very apparent. "Who are you?” the boy shouted. "Why are you here?” "You don't have to be afraid of us, son.” Hanley addressed the young man, thankful that the boy spoke English. "We're not your enemy, we're Americans.” "Who says I'm afraid?” The boy became very indignant. "Why are you here?” "Son, if you will lower that rifle and sit down, I'll explain everything.” Hanley tried to keep his voice as calm as possible. "Do not tell me what to do,” the boy shouted, as he raised his rifle higher. "You answer my question now!” "All right, calm down.” Hanley raised his hands higher. "I had to find a place to bring my wounded sergeant that the Germans couldn't find. We stumbled onto this place. I just need him to rest a while and then we'll leave.” The boy looked from Hanley to the wounded man on the ground. He watched as Saunders thrashed from side to side and moaned in pain. He then looked back at Hanley. "He does not look so good,” the boy said, lowering the rifle a bit. "Is he going to die?” "Not if I have anything to say about it,” Hanley stated. Saunders let out a cry as a wave of pain hit him again. It startled the boy, and he dropped the rifle. Hanley knelt beside the man trying to calm him. Saunders opened his eyes and saw Hanley kneeling over him. He looked around and realized he was back in the cave. He moaned and Hanley noticed tears forming in his sergeant's eyes. "Why didn't you just leave, Lieutenant?” Saunders blinked back his tears. "You should have just left. Why did you come after me?” "Because, sergeant. I told you we go back together. Do you understand me? Together.” Hanley stressed the last word. Saunders looked into the bright green eyes of his lieutenant and knew he meant what he said. He closed his eyes and moaned in pain. Kneeling beside the lieutenant, the boy watched in fascination as Hanley injected Saunders with more morphine. The sergeant grew quiet again and fell asleep. "Is he all right?” The boy seemed very concerned. "Yeah, for now.” Hanley sat on the ground next to Saunders and leaned his head against the wall. "How was he injured?” the boy asked. "Saving my life,” Hanley stated absently. Shaking the memory from his mind, Hanley looked at the boy. His clothes were dirty, the right knee of his pants torn out. It was obvious the young man had been alone for quite sometime. "We were in the middle of a battle. A German had gotten behind me and was about to fire. He got between us and covered me with his body.” "You had to drag him in here.” The boy seemed confused. "Drag him, what makes you say that?” Now Hanley was confused. "That is how I knew you were in here. The drag marks outside.”

194 Hanley smiled. "Oh those. No, he decided if he were gone I'd leave and go back to our lines alone. So, he dragged himself outside while I was asleep. I brought him back.” The boy looked from Saunders to Hanley; a look of admiration on his face. "You must be true friends.” The boy saw that Hanley did not understand. "My father always told me only a true friend would risk his live for another. He not only risks his life to save you from the German soldier, but he also tried to leave so you would go back alone. You risk your life by refusing to go back without him. That is the marking of a true friend.” "What's your name, son?” Hanley asked, the boy's words running through his mind. "Michael, Michael Montclair.” The boy's eyes grew sad as he looked around the cave. "This was my father's hideout. He was a member of the Maquis and would hide here with his friends when the Boche were near. They killed him last week. So now I take his place!” The boy sat up straight and proud as tears filled his eyes. "I'm sure your father would be proud of you, Michael.” Hanley yawned. He was still exhausted, but knew he had to get Saunders some help. He had to make a very difficult decision. "Look, Michael, I need to get help for my sergeant or he's going to die. Will you stay here with him while I go find the Americans and bring them back here?” Hanley saw sheer terror enter the boy's face. "Oh no, Lieutenant.” The boy stood and backed away slightly. "I know nothing of wounded men. I could not help him. You should stay. I will go find the Americans.” "No, Michael.” Hanley's stern voice stopped the boy cold. "It's too dangerous for you out there. I'll go.” "No!” Michael was just as stern. "Do you not understand? If they see you they will shoot or capture you. If they see me, I am but a boy to them. I can move more freely.” Michael stared at Hanley. "Trust me. I will bring back the Americans.” Running from the cave, Michael quickly brushed out all the tracks to or from the cave. Hanley stared after the boy. That kid is going to get himself killed. Hanley spent the next thirty-six hours awake and at Saunders' side. The fever was raging, and he was becoming more and more delirious. Saunders called over and over for his mother and sister, Louise. He cried out his fears for his brother, Chris, who was too young to be fighting in this lousy war. He cried tears for the brother he had lost. Through it all, Hanley never left his side. Hanley realized he was quickly running out of supplies. He had used half the water on sponging the fevered man down. He spent the other half on trying to keep his sergeant hydrated. Hanley hadn't eaten, drunk, or slept. He was totally exhausted now and was feeling lightheaded. He knew in his heart that the boy was probably dead. He felt a tinge of guilt for letting the boy go in the first place. He had even more guilt for not getting Saunders back. He knew now that Saunders would probably not survive. Had he waited too long? Should he have tried to carry him back instead of staying here? He had given Saunders the last of the morphine in the early afternoon; now it was dark. Hanley knew his sergeant wouldn't need any more morphine because he was now unconscious and the lieutenant thanked God for that. At least he would die peacefully. Exhaustion was overtaking the tall lieutenant, and the dizziness was getting worse. I have to stay awake. Hanley's mind kept wandering and he would have to pull it back to reality. I can't sleep, not yet. If Saunders is going to die, it will be with a friend by his side, not alone. Hanley sat beside his sergeant, his hand on the man's shoulder. He wanted Saunders to feel his presence, to know he wasn't alone. Hanley fought to keep his eyes open, but he was losing his battle. Exhaustion won out in the end, and he slept hard.

*****

Hanley thought he heard voices, but his mind wouldn't come out of the dark. He fought his way to the surface as the voices grew louder. He could hear someone call his name, softly and

195 gently. Hanley slowly opened his eyes. He saw a face he knew. It was Caje, Saunders' scout. The lieutenant looked at the private, confused at first, then with recognition in his eyes. "It's okay, Lieutenant, we're here now. We're going to get you back.” Caje's voice was soft and soothing. Hanley closed his eyes again and leaned his head back against the wall. An image of his wounded sergeant flashed in his mind, and his eyes flew open, and he quickly tried to rise. His sudden movement startled the Cajun and knocked him back on his butt. "Saunders!” Hanley shouted. "He's right here, Lieutenant.” Hanley heard Doc's southern drawl beside him. "He's lost a lot of blood and he's real weak. He also has quite a fever going, but I think he'll make it if we can get him back right away.” Hanley tried again to stand, but a wave of dizziness caused him to fall back to the ground with a thud. "Easy, Lieutenant.” Caje placed a hand on Hanley's shoulder. The scout offered the lieutenant his canteen and Hanley drank his fill. "You better let Doc check you out after he's though with Sarge.” "No, I'm all right. Just tired.” The men could hear the exhaustion in his voice. "How did you find us?” From the entrance of the cave, Hanley heard a familiar voice. "I brought them. I told you I would.” The squad parted, and the boy stepped up to the lieutenant. "Michael,” Hanley whispered, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall. "God, I thought you were dead.” Hanley opened his eyes and looked into the smiling eyes of the young boy. "Dead? Me? Oh no, Lieutenant. I told you I could move freely. I just could not find the Americans.” Michael looked sheepishly at Hanley who smiled back at the boy. "Then I ran into these men. They asked me if I had seen two Americans, a sergeant and a lieutenant. I knew it had to be you, so I brought them back here.” "Thank you, Michael.” Hanley's smile broadened. "You probably saved Saunders' life.” Littlejohn and Kirby entered the cave carrying a stretcher they had made. They laid it next to Saunders and then noticed Hanley awake. "Oh, good to see you awake, Lieutenant.” Littlejohn smiled broadly. "We'll have your stretcher ready in a sec.” "I don't need a stretcher. I'll be fine in a few minutes.” "I'd rather you go by stretcher, sir.” Doc never looked up from his task with Saunders as he spoke. "You've been through an awful lot the last three days.” "I'm fine, Doc. Let's worry about Saunders.” Hanley finally stood. He swayed slightly, but Caje was at his side to steady him. Littlejohn and Kirby carefully lifted Saunders. They placed him on the stretcher and wrapped him in blankets. Billy put out the fire as they all headed out of the cave. "Michael?” Hanley called to the boy and saw his hair had fallen in his eyes. It made him look so young. "I think you should come with us, back to our lines.” "Why, Lieutenant?” Michael sounded surprised. "You know nothing about me.” "Yes I do, Michael.” Hanley saw the confused look on the boy's face. "Do you remember what you told me when you first found us here?”

196 "No, sir, I do not remember.” "You told me a true friend was someone who would lay down his life to protect or help a friend. Do you remember now?” Hanley smiled at the young man as he saw recognition in the boy's eyes and the nod of his head. "You risked your life to find my squad and bring them back here to help us. Because of that my sergeant will live and I'll get back safe and sound. I would say that makes you our true friend.' Michael brushed his hair out of his eyes and smiled back at the lieutenant. Hanley placed his arm around the boy's neck and they walked out of the cave together.

end

197 Defining Moment – Littlejohn

The Losers

Littlejohn: How you doing, Candell?

Candell: Okay. I'll be ready when you are. Your sergeant got all his plans figured out?

Littlejohn: He'll let us know when he does.

Candell: You been with Saunders long?

Littlejohn: Yeah. And you got nothing to worry about. He knows what he's doing.

Candell: I'm not worried. Sergeant Ash and I have been through plenty worse than this before.

Littlejohn: Look, Candell. Ash isn't carrying those stripes anymore. We've only got one sarge here, and that's Saunders.

Candell: One thing. You're sure loyal.

Littlejohn: You got the wrong idea. I know when I'm well off. You don't.

Candell: What's that supposed to mean?

Littlejohn: Look, you've been getting the wrong kind of information. You think that Ash is some kind of a hero, don't you? Well there's nothing big about going AWOL and getting tanked up and slugging an MP.

Candell: Don't give me that Littlejohn. Look, I've seen him in action.

Littlejohn: Look, I'm not saying he isn't a good fighter. But he isn't my idea of a good leader. And if you follow him, you'll wind up dead.

198 THE LONELY MILE

by Thompson Girl and White Queen

Acknowledgements: Thanks to DocB for beta-reading and CP for inspiring this one with a late-night email.

199 Lieutenant Hanley wakes slowly, reluctantly, clinging to the hazy remnants of a dream place where he is warm and comfortable and clean. He stretches, knee touching the bunker wall. The wool blanket rests over his head, keeping in warmth, and he listens for a moment, eyes still closed. Mess kits and soft conversation. Breakfast is started. The aroma of coffee. And another smell much closer. One that should alarm him, but doesn't. It's too familiar, too ingrained by now. It's the location that's out of context, but that doesn't sink in. Not yet. What strikes him instead is the dampness. His right arm is wet and cold. His side, too, where it presses against the concrete. Strange—if it rained again, why isn't he soaked through? He sits up, pulling off the blanket. Looks at his sodden sleeve and jacket. Not rainwater, but blood. Deep and dark-colored. His gut clenches. Instinctively, he scrambles backward away from unexpected danger, smacks into the wall. He sits there, letting his breathing calm. No Germans. The half-destroyed bunker is still, quiet. Only three walls and floor of the bunker are still intact. The ceiling is an overcast sky brightening with dawn. Ordinary noises come from outside, and he can see men moving there, huddled in their jackets against the chill of the November morning. His gaze shifts to the puddle he'd been lying in, tracing it back to its source. He exhales sharply. Even without the spilled blood, Hanley knows Whitaker is dead. There is nothing natural about a corpse, fresh or old. They are the only two in the small bunker. The radio and phone Whit had been responsible for sits near his pack. He leans against the intact wall, head lolling and eyes closed. One hand rests in his lap, the other arm and hand stretch across the floor, almost as if he'd been reaching out to Hanley. Hanley checks his watch. It's nearing six. Kirby will be coming to relieve Whit any minute. Four hours Whitaker had been on duty. Hanley tries to remember how long ago he last heard the man answer the phone, how long it might have been since.... But he barely remembers acknowledging Whit's arrival before rolling over again and pulling the blanket higher, knowing Whit would wake him if something important came down from HQ. He gets to his feet and looks out over the broken bunker wall. He's searching for Doc, but he sees Littlejohn and Nelson instead. The two are crouched over a pile of sticks in the clearing, arguing softly over something. Littlejohn's lips are quirked in a half-smile as he fights to keep a straight face over something Nelson is trying to convince him to do. Like brothers. Hanley wants to laugh, not from humor, but to fight the despair. He'll have to write a letter. And say what exactly? He knows the telegram will probably say killed in action. He was raised on honesty and George Washington and the cherry tree, and every day that gets taken away from him, bit by bit. Truth is inconvenient, expendable. There's no room in war for this kind of truth. He wonders if that thought will someday cease bothering his conscience. Whittaker, lying with that curious relaxation that sleep never can quite mimic. Nelson tearing up ration boxes to catch the flame beneath their pile of sticks as Littlejohn strikes a match. In here, death. Out there, life. He finds his voice, calls for Doc.

*****

"Hey, Lieutenant, what—" Doc halts halfway through both his sentence and the entrance to the ruined bunker. "Oh, dear Lord," he says, more a prayer than an exclamation. "What happened?" he asks automatically, even though he thinks he knows the answer already. The amount of blood spreading out from Whitaker's body tells him his services won't be needed. He kneels beside the man anyway, touches one lacerated wrist with reverence, and wonders, Why? Not why exactly, no. Doc can think of a thousand reasons a man might succumb to despair here in eastern France, in the face of so much death and destruction. The good Lord knows he

200 himself sometimes feels he can't face one more day of pain and bloodshed, one more night of terror falling from the sky or creeping up behind you. And noncombatant that he is supposed to be, he knows the guilt of taking another person's life. The way that guilt can threaten to consume your every thought, the way the face of your victim haunts the edges of your vision, floats through your dreams. He can only imagine how that must compound when you've taken not one life, but many. But to take your own life, that Doc can't quite comprehend. How. That's what he really wonders. Not the physical how—the open razor and the slashes on each arm, from the wrist up toward the elbow—those tell him how. But how could a man decide to reject God's gift of life, to put an end to not only the pain and suffering but also the joy and blessings that life can hold? Doc shakes his head, knows he doesn't want to understand that. Prays he never will.

*****

Kirby shuffles toward the bunker for his shift. They are shorthanded again, all of them pulling duty fielding calls on the lieutenant's radio and phone. At least he got to sleep through the night. Some of it. Their artillery had laid in on the Kraut positions again, for all the good it seemed to be doing. It seems like they've been sitting here for two weeks instead of two days, each side pounding the other, neither able to advance. Waiting on replacements, waiting on Supply to catch up to them with a kitchen truck and hot chow. Waiting waiting waiting. It's chilly, but at least it's not raining. Yet. Littlejohn and Billy tend a small fire, boiling coffee and heating rations. Larson and Bruckner hide under blankets in their muddy foxholes, grabbing those last few minutes of sleep. Doc had been writing a letter, but Kirby looks around and doesn't see him now. Caje is on guard duty with Pelusi, and Whit's in with Hanley in the only non-muddy spot on the line. That blown-up bunker may be no good at keeping the rain out, but it still has a concrete floor, and that beats a muddy hole in the ground any day. Kirby's looking forward to this shift. It beats standing guard duty or going on patrol. But he isn't looking forward to seeing Whitaker. Whit's a good guy, good to have guarding your back, but he's too danged lucky at poker. Thirty dollars Kirby owes that guy after the game a couple nights ago. Thirty! It galls Kirby, but Whit had been on some sort of a streak that Kirby just couldn't break. He still doesn't have the money to pay him back. He scratches at the back of his neck as he steps through the doorless entrance. He opens his mouth to say something witty about the charming weather, but at the last moment, he feels it: that weight, that sense that something's not right, and he stops in the doorway in silence. Hanley's tugging off his jacket and shirt, his movements almost violent. Doc is kneeling beside.... He understands then. It's a lot of blood for just a couple of cuts. That's what he thinks, and he flinches suddenly, reflexively, imagining that smooth slicing of a blade across his own flesh. He rubs at his left wrist, then shoves both his hands deep into his pockets. How does one do it, consciously do it? "Takes guts," he murmurs. Doc looks over at him sharply. "Guts?" Kirby can tell Doc wants to say something more, so he cuts him off. He doesn't need a lecture to know what Doc's feeling about Whit's death. He can see it in every line of Doc's anguished face. Softly, Kirby says, "You know what I mean, Doc. I mean, I sure couldn't—" He breaks off and Doc turns away. Kirby looks at Whit again. Thirty bucks. One more debt he'll never pay off. He wonders if that's how he'll remember these guys when the war is over. As debts he can never pay off. Lucas Hayes. Owed him ten. And Shorty? Fifty big ones.... "Kirby," Hanley says, his tone clipped, sharp. "Keep the rest of the men out of here." Kirby's gaze flicks from the body to the lieutenant, surprised by the anger the words provoke in him. Why shouldn't they see? Whit had lived and fought with them. He'd died with

201 them. So it wasn't a Kraut bullet that killed him. They have a right to see, to know. It's too late anyhow—he can hear Billy's voice approaching—and he makes no move to follow Hanley's order. Why shouldn't they all see? And then there was Whit. Owed him thirty.

*****

"Hey, Kirby, come on! Littlejohn an' me've got coffee ready." Billy Nelson slips a little on the half-frozen ground. Why's Kirby just standing there? He always jumps at the chance for hot coffee. Billy skids to a halt, peers around Kirby's shoulder. "What is it?" Then he sees. It's Whitaker. Tom Whitaker. And he's dead. Dead for sure, with all that blood around him. But how? There was no attack during the night, not unless some Kraut snuck through their lines and killed him in his sleep. But no, that doesn't make sense. Because there stands Lieutenant Hanley, alive and well. What kind of Kraut would kill a private and leave an officer alive? "What happened?" he asks, voice barely louder than a whisper. Kirby says, "Whit killed himself." Billy blinks, shakes his head. "No, I mean... what?" "Sliced his wrists." Kirby points at the body. Billy squints, trying to make out more details in the half-gloom of what's left of the bunker. "Oh." He sees now, sees the delicate wounds. How long must it take to die like that? Does all your blood come out at once, spurting like some of the worse leg or chest wounds he's seen? Or does it just ooze out, trickling over your skin and pooling around you? Did Whitaker have to wait to die, feeling his strength running out of him? Or did he faint from blood loss really quickly and not feel much pain at all? And how come he did this, anyway? The anger pulses through Billy, the unfairness of it all at a time like this. Didn't Whit know they needed him? Needed every man they could get? Why'd he have to go and kill himself when the Krauts were sure to advance again soon? Couldn't he have waited until the battle was really over or they'd been pulled back behind the lines for a while?

*****

Littlejohn clomps up behind Billy, boots squishing in the mud. Billy doesn't seem to notice, so Littlejohn says, "What's wrong, Billy, nobody wants our coffee this morning?" Billy turns and glares at him. "Whit's dead. He killed himself." It isn't the answer Littlejohn expects, and he stares at Billy for a moment before looking over his friend's shoulder into the half-standing bunker. Well, Whit's sure enough killed himself, and that's a fact. Wrists cut, blood everywhere, Hanley grim and shivering in just his undershirt, a stained pile of his clothes on the floor, Doc kneeling and pulling a blanket over the body. So, Whit killed himself. Funny more soldiers don't do it, really. All the killing, the fear, the death all around. You'd think more men would choose their own way out. Especially with night after night of shelling like they've had lately. Littlejohn looks away from the body and back at Billy. He'd have expected the boy to be scared, shocked, horrified maybe. Instead he's angry. Angry at what? At Whit for taking his own road to death instead of waiting for a bullet or a mine or a grenade? Or at himself maybe? Does Billy feel he's somehow responsible for this? He lays a broad hand on Billy's shoulder. "Maybe we should go," he says. If he can get the boy away from here, maybe he'll talk about what's bothering him. Get it out of his system. When Billy doesn't move, Littlejohn tries a different tactic. "Lieutenant? I got a spare shirt in my pack if you need it." Hanley looks over at the men at the door, his gaze vacant. He rubs his bare arms, as if

202 only now realizing he's cold. "Yes, thanks, I'd appreciate that." "Be right back." Littlejohn turns to go, tugs on Billy's arm. This time Billy turns and follows him, brushing past Kirby.

*****

Caje arrives just as Billy lets Littlejohn pull him away from the entrance. He wonders why everyone is hanging around the lieutenant's bunker but, rather than ask, he peers through the doorway. The first thing he sees is Doc sitting on his haunches. There's the lieutenant over in the corner too, and they're both staring at something on the floor near Doc. It's a body, covered with a blanket and surrounded by a puddle of blood. Must be Whitaker. "What happened?" Caje asks Kirby, keeping his voice low, not wanting to disturb the occupants of the bunker. "Slit his wrists." Kirby barely glances at Caje; he can't seem to keep his eyes off the body for more than a few seconds. "Suicide?" Caje doesn't mean for the word to be quite so loud, and it echoes faintly off the three intact walls of the bunker. He shouldn't sound so surprised, so shocked, when everyone else is being calm about it. He quickly relaxes his facial muscles, not letting the slightest twitch betray his thoughts. Suicide. When he was a boy, it counted among the dirty words. A word you whispered to your friends behind the schoolhouse when the Sisters weren't around. Definitely not a topic for discussion, except during Catechism class with Father Gabriel when they learned about the Mortal Sins. He'd only known one other person who committed suicide: Old Andre, the town drunk, who'd shot himself with his muzzle-loader while on a bender. Even though everyone knew it was an accident, he still had to be buried outside of the churchyard. Not in sanctified ground. Caje wonders if Whitaker's family will be able to bury him in the church cemetery with his relatives. Will the Army tell them how he really died? Or will they bury him here in France and tell the family he died in the line of duty so they can remember him as an honorable boy and put up a marker to his memory in the churchyard with the other family dead? Does it even matter? Caje knows if he dies here in France, he will be buried wherever the Army sees fit. Where a man is buried shouldn't make any difference in the long run, shouldn't shunt his soul toward one eternal home or the other. Should it?

*****

Watching. Silent. There is nothing to say, no one to blame but himself. Saunders stands smoking in his spot by the tree, unnoticed by the others. The squad clusters, splits up, re-clusters around the bunker's broken entrance, drawn back to this death that has caught them off guard. Littlejohn's hand falls on Billy's shoulder as they move away; Kirby touches Caje to get his attention. There's that need in all of them, to grasp at physical reassurance. You're real, you're still here, you're not going to do something like that, are you? It strikes harder, this death. There is no enemy on which to take revenge. Not this time. No way to put it behind with the usual disturbing ease. Saunders crushes the cigarette butt out against the tree trunk, savagely, skinning the tips of his fingers on the rough bark. Whit had been an average Joe, that's what gets Saunders. Two weeks with the squad. Enough time to get his measure. He hadn't been a loner, hadn't been a complainer, had followed orders, and had handled himself well in a firefight. No panic, just the normal anxieties and tension they all felt. He had seemed to deal with it better than some. He joked, played poker, got regular letters from home, hated coffee, and hoarded chocolate bars. And yet... he's dead now. At his

203 own hand. Saunders had missed it somehow. The warning signs. They must have been there. Had to have been there. Was he so inured by the constant faces hiding fears, that the one who had needed something—a word, a listener, anything—couldn't be recognized? He watches Doc leave the bunker, pushing almost angrily through the gawkers. The frustration and the shock the medic can't dismiss draw Doc's brow down, and Saunders knows Doc's thoughts run to a similar sense of failure. It isn't comforting sharing such ground, and Saunders turns away. He tugs his canteen out and tries to wash the bitterness out of his mouth. In the end, Whit is one more man not going home. What does it matter how he died? He isn't going home.

end

204 THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD

by Kingfisher

Acknowledgements: Characters aren't mine. Most are SELMUR's except for Laine— that's Mary Wright's/Eagle Lady's. I just borrowed her again because it was easier than thinking up someone on a short schedule.

Lt. Colonel D. Grossman - his book "On Killing" and "CD Bulletproof Mind."

"The Long and Winding Road," Lyrics by Paul McCartney and John Lennon.

Twilight at Caumsett, landscape by David Peikon.

Photos aren't mine either.

205 The long and winding road / That leads to your door Will never disappear / I've seen that road before It always leads me here / Lead me to you door

The river was a rock in his life. Even after a flood, it never seemed to change. The Rock River. So many times its moving water seemed to calm him and set him level. It cleared his head to think. And once he could think things through, he could act with confidence. He needed confidence now. He was scared to death. Over three years fighting overseas and he stood here afraid to walk the last thousand feet home. He just didn't think he would be as scared as Kirby was. That was in Chicago. And Cleveland seemed a lifetime away still. He was focused on getting the men—his men—home safely. He still wasn't quite sure how they had swung it—all of them getting home as a group. Maybe it was his petitioning of Jampel. Well, the man certainly owed him. And it was just the five of them. The lieutenant had been gone for weeks. The first foray into Germany had left Hanley with a hole in his side and one functioning lung. Last they had heard, he was still in England getting well enough to travel home. Billy had succumbed not long after. It wasn't a life-threatening wound at first. But after the infection took hold because they were stuck out in the snow and mud for a week, the poor kid almost lost his leg. Billy was in an East Coast Army hospital learning to walk with what was left of his leg. They dropped Kirby off first. Kirby insisted that he show them the sights of downtown Chicago. Saunders should have suspected after the fourth bar that Kirby didn't want to go home. "Kirby, it's time to move on." Saunders stated it. No emotion. No gesturing as if a pep talk. Just a stated fact. It was time. "What's the problem?" The others looked to their feet. They too were aware that something wasn't right, but they couldn't put their finger on it. Kirby looked down at the bar floor and shuffled his feet like a young boy caught in the act. "What if she hates me?" "What if who hates you?" "Ruthie." Saunders breathed deep. He didn't like where this was going. He couldn't even imagine where this was going. "Kirby, why in the world would Ruthie hate you?" "I came back," he said, almost as if speaking to no one in particular, "and he didn't." Sarge started to say "Who?" then stopped. He knew who. Eddie. Eddie Kopachek. "Eddie's death wasn't your fault. Why would she blame you?" "She's not gonna blame me, Sarge—just hate me for being the one to come back. She loved Eddie!" "Kirby, you're not makin' sense. She's your sister. She's gonna hate you for coming home alive? You tellin' me your sister doesn't like you?" The hand gestures were starting. But he didn't have a good answer formulating in his brain. The pep talk just wasn't spilling out of him. What if Kirby was right? What if their families weren't happy to see them? What if people blamed them for the loss of others who weren't returning? His men were much different from the boys and young men that had left home months, and

206 for some of them, years before. He could see that in each of them. They were meaner, untrusting—except of each of other. They were nice enough to people they met on the street—yet he saw the difference as they made their way back to the U.S. The men stayed close to each other, watching each other's backs. Maybe it wasn't a question of their families accepting them. Maybe they had to accept their families? Maybe they had to accept themselves? Saunders felt as if he was at the edge of a cliff. A cliff that was crumbling under his feet and he couldn't move back from the edge. All this way and he was going to fall off a cliff into the crazy house! This was stupid! He was going home. He was goin' home where he didn't have to watch his back or anyone else's. He was gonna be free of this burden. Kirby wasn't gonna screw this up for him! "You are goin' home." It was a statement. Then came the order. "Now you get your rear in gear. Off and on! Now!" Well, he knew he had a pep talk in there somewhere. He growled at Kirby—and they all responded. Every one of them stood tall, picked up their duffles and formed up. He gave out a deep sigh. "Now you all listen up. And you listen good. I'm gonna say it one more time. We're gonna make it." His words were firm and slow. "We made it through Germany. We made it through our furlough." They smirked. "Well, some better than others." Soft chuckles. Okay, he thought, they were relaxing. "We can do this. Hell, we're home!" Well, that word perked up their ears. "We're all gonna make it because we're still watchin' each other's back. You know the deal." "Yeah, Sarge," Littlejohn broke in, "we know the deal. We're gonna contact you when we get home and write each other a month later." Littlejohn smiled. "Yeah, we got it, Sarge," echoed Doc and Caje. "Good. Let's move out." He swung his duffle over his shoulder. "Which way, Kirby?" and then added for emphasis, "to your home." Kirby's sister did not hate him. She fell on him when she saw him, clung to him, sobbing, saying his name over and over. Kirby's mother enveloped her son with a hug and then went into a feeding frenzy. She fed them all until they were sleepy from being so full. Saunders begged to be gone so they could make their connections west. Time was running out to catch their train. He gathered what was left of his squad, had them collect their duffles, and headed toward the door. Ruthie let go of Kirby and rushed up to Saunders. She looked him in the eye with an intensity that made Saunders squirm, took both of his hands, and said, "Thank you for bringing home Bill." It was such a soft voice, yet he heard her heartbreak over Eddie. He heard her joy over Kirby's return. And he heard her standing on the edge of that crumbling cliff. Maybe the soldiers weren't the only ones that wouldn't make it back from the war? With very few minutes to spare, they climbed aboard the train toward Moline. Saunders had already talked to the conductor, and he agreed to let him off at Barstow. The train would be slowing down for its trip into the city by then, anyway. Between the run to make the train and the intensity of Kirby's sister's reaction to them, Saunders began to be impatient with the process of getting home. He needed some time alone before he faced his family, and the burden of shepherding his squad was beginning to weigh upon him. Littlejohn, after him again, wanted to walk him the last few miles to his house. "Nah, Littlejohn, I can make it alone from here." "Sarge, how far is your house from here?" Littlejohn was arguing they take Sarge all the way home—just like they had for Kirby. Saunders was the next stop of their journey. From here they would separate. "A couple miles, Littlejohn. Just a short patrol." "It's awful late to be walking through the country, Sarge. Ya don' have a rifle," the large man deadpanned. Saunders looked at him sideways. "Littlejohn, it's northern Illinois. Unless there's been an Indian uprising, it's been fairly peaceful here the last hundred years. It's not Chicago." Silently, they all sighed inwardly. And it's not over there....

207 "Well, we should get you home. You always got us back. We should get you back." "I think I can do this one myself. You guys stay on the train so you don't miss your connections." He stood and looked back. This was the end of their last patrol. They'd be fine. Caje and Doc would switch in Moline and go south. Doc would head across Old Man River at Memphis. Doc would be home in another day. Caje was about the same. Caje would travel south until the track stopped at the coast in New Orleans. Littlejohn had decided to take the train to Omaha. He hadn't decided on whether to take a bus the last part or call his folks to come get him. He was going to watch the weather; as he got closer, he'd make a decision. No reason to take them off the farm if the weather was good. It might be two more days before he made it home. Saunders wondered internally whether Littlejohn was standing on the crumbly cliff edge or whether he was falling back into the mindset of a farmer. Only time would tell. "Okay, you know the deal. I'll hear from you all soon." He stood up and swung his duffle over his shoulder. Barstow was just a few minutes away. Littlejohn stood up and held out his hand, "Thanks, Sarge...." He stopped. "Sarge, you got a real name? I mean, you're not our sergeant anymore. You know, we could... we should be more like friends, you know?" Saunders looked uncomfortable for a second. Littlejohn was right. But he didn't know these people as anything but his soldiers. They knew each other as friends. Didn't they? No, he sighed, they knew each other as brothers. Something closer than brothers. Someone you could cry with. Someone who shared and held your deepest, darkest fears. "Chip. The locals here call me Chip." Saunders held out his hand to Littlejohn. "Good-bye, Chip." Littlejohn smiled. "Sarge, thanks for getting me home." Saunders jumped onto the platform. The train really didn't stop. It was late at night and there wasn't anyone at Barstow this late. He laughed to himself. Was there ever a time when there were a lot of people at the Barstow stop? Well, maybe folks who took the train in to work at the plant south of here. But they'd probably take the other line south that was closer to the plant. He crossed the bridge at Barstow over the Rock River. He stood on the bridge looking down. It would be so easy just to float downstream and away. Just take the easy way out once. Just once. Was that so bad? He picked up the duffle and kept walking. It was another five miles if he kept to the road. He could be there by breakfast. He'd probably be able to thumb a ride. Or he could slip down by the bridge pilings and walk along the river all the way home. Well, he'd have to clean his boots when he got done. These dress boots weren't made for longs walks in the woods. The river called to him. The moon was not quite half full, but the sky was fairly clear. It was enough light for him to see. He was quite comfortable walking through the woods in the dark. He was damn good at it by now. The banks of the river were generally low. Occasionally they became small cliffs of sand, mud, and rock. As he walked, he could see his dad taking him fishing. They had that old wooden rowboat. His dad had left it tied to a tree by the river because it was so heavy to drag from behind the shed. Later, his dad had brought Joey along as well. What a pain! Joey was always trying to do what he did. Tie his own knots, only to make a mess that had to be cut off again. Put on his own worms... how many had they lost that way! Poor worms. Casting! What a disaster! How many times did Chip sit there wanting to talk to his dad about how fast to reel in or where to cast next—instead his dad was sitting in the bow picking at the bait cast reel to get the birds nest out of it that Joey installed by not holding his finger down on the drum. He chuckled. He missed his dad. He missed Joey. He stopped. This is about where they had lost Joey. He sighed deeply. A fish jumped way

208 out in the middle of the river. You could hear the water slipping by. It gurgled and sushed quietly. The river smelled like mud, dying kelp, summer run off, dead fish. He sucked it in. This was home. Then he stood on the cliff again. The edge was falling out slowly under his feet. He couldn't step back. There were other rivers. Rivers with dead bodies in them. Rivers that smelled like blood and cordite and sulfur. Rivers that were stagnant, or ditches, or canals... with his buddies, dead and dying, in them. The ground under him tumbled away, and he found himself stretched flat out on the face of the cliff, clinging to it for all his life. He dare not move. He needed help! Where was everybody? On their way home, idiot! His breaths were deep and heavy. He fought back the panic. He was standing at what was left of his dad's boat. Still tied to the tree where he had left it four years ago. He looked up. There it was, his house. His home. Home. Just a short walk of a thousand feet or so and he'd be there. But his feet wouldn't move. He looked out again to the river. He was alone again. Just like when he went into war. Somewhere from the depths, the help came. "You gotta depend on yourself. Ain't nobody else gonna help you over the rough spots." "Yes, Sergeant," he responded automatically. He always had the greatest respect for Avery. He was a mean SOB. Mean with a purpose. So, just like he had told Kirby—it was time to move on. The porch looked the same. The house could use some paint. Well, he'd get to that. Couldn't really expect Chris to do that with school and all. Chris. Chris was still out there and he was here safe. Somehow that wasn't right. His little brother should be home, and he should be out there protecting him. He could hear people moving in the house. He could smell his mom making breakfast. Was that his sister's voice? Front door or back door? If he used the back door he wouldn't track so much river mud through the house. But he hadn't called to tell them when he'd be home. Hadn't written, either. Maybe the front door. He could take off his boots and give them time to adjust to him. He made a mental stop. You're treating them like they were in a war zone. These weren't peasants in France out in the country not knowing who was banging on the door—GIs or Germans. This was his family. He breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, trying to calm his nerves. He'd use the front door. Opening the screen, he rapped hard on the door and then walked in. "Mom? Mom! I'm home!" He dropped his duffle by the side of the door and began to unlace his boots. They weren't that bad. The walk through the field had cleaned up most of the mud. His uniform was a different story. The pant legs were spattered with mud. The door to the kitchen opened. A woman with golden hair highlighted with white came out. She stopped and looked at him. There were no words. She seemed confused and full of hope all at once. He struggled to get the last boot off. "Mom, it's me. Chip." "I thought I heard your dad's voice." It was a statement, almost an apology. And then she seemed to be about to collapse. He walked up to her, grabbed her in his arms and swung her around. "Well, it's not Dad, it's me." He held her tight and breathed her in. He could smell hotcakes and butter and jam and syrup. She smelled like mom. She smelled like home. His eyes stung. "Mom, I missed you so much!" Mae Saunders found it difficult to breathe. Her breaths came as sobs as this child hugged her tightly in his arms. Clinging to him, she mumbled a prayer of thanksgiving. They stood there for several moments, both with wet eyes, both just holding on to each other. When Mae had lost her husband, her eldest son, John, had become her rock. Even as a young man, he was her confidante. So physically like his father in features and mannerisms, his

209 father and uncles had begun calling him Chip at an early age. When toddler and father had stood next to each other it was almost comical with the blond hair sticking out every direction and deep blue eyes, either in anger or in mirth, boring right through you. How she missed them both! Mae and Chip shared their trials and joys after her husband's passing like two harbor lights. Both of them steady, guiding lights for the younger three children, while silently and confidently providing comfort and presence to each other. They were more friends than mother and son. With her eldest back in her home she felt reconnected. Whole. But her returning son was different; not just his physical presence. He must have put on at least thirty pounds, most of it in the shoulders. His face was crinkled with lines. Perhaps living outdoors for so many years had toughened his features? Maybe his face reflected worry for her and his siblings? Mae set the thoughts aside. She'd find out later. They'd talk, deep, long talks just like before. But later, not now. Now her John was home. Her baby boy. Chip, her rock to cling to when things just couldn't get any worse. Mae smiled up into that face, drinking in the smiling eyes that she had longed to see. No. No deep conversations now. Now, he needed to eat. "You're just in time for breakfast," she said, stepping back but holding onto his hands. "Louise! Louise, come here! Your brother's home!" Louise had heard a male voice downstairs. She thought it was Barney from Prairie Dairy. Mom had been laying in milk expecting Chip home any day. She wanted to be ready when he walked in. "You know he always writes about how he misses real food. Real milk. Real beef. My cooking. I want to make sure that's what he gets. I want him to feel at home." Louise understood her mom's concerns, but not what having fresh milk was going to do to keep Chip from becoming like Greg. Greg Bittner down the street had been home two months. He had been wounded, but not terribly. It was so close to what was seen as the end of the war in Europe that they sent him home to recover. Greg was two years older than her brother Chip. He had only been overseas about a year, yet he looked like an old man. He sulked all day on the Bittner front porch and while he talked to anyone who stopped by, he wouldn't leave the house. He didn't feel comfortable, he said. He wasn't sure he was really home. How could you sit in your own front yard and not know if you were really home? She plummeted down the steps into the living room. There were dirty boots and a large green duffle sitting by the front door. The green bag had black stenciling on it. "SGT J.C. Saunders 361st K Co. USA" Goon was back! She heard her mom talking to someone on the kitchen. That man's voice didn't sound like Goon. The hairs on the back of her neck crawled. She straightened her back. She was afraid. And of what, she thought? Chip? She had him right where she wanted him, wrapped around her little finger. At least she did when he had left. That was the youngest daughter's right. And she played the role so well. Well, she'd give herself a day. A day to get him right back to where he was before. Then maybe he would take her out driving. She really needed to learn how. After all, she was almost seventeen! The kitchen door was open. She walked up to it. Should she jump on his back? She looked in. Who was her mother talking to? That wasn't Chip. She looked in farther. There was no one else there. "Louise! He's home!" "Hello, Brat." The man stood up and walked toward her. He stopped and dropped his arms when he saw her take a step back. She could see the deep hurt appear on his face. The man began to back away from her, as if to give her space. "I guess I don't look the same." His hand ran through his hair and made it stick out at all angles, as if it ever did anything but that. That smile he had was familiar. "You look a little different too. Actually, Louise, you look a lot different. You look like a woman not a brat." Her face went red. Who was this man? This was not the Chip she remembered. The voice was much deeper. This guy almost had a beard. Okay, he had a beard, but it didn't show much. His face was full of wrinkles. But his eyes... they were the same. Deep, bright, and warm...

210 hopeful. "I don't know you." Her mother sucked in air audibly. "Louise! What a thing to say to your brother!" "It's okay, mom. She's right. She doesn't know me. I'm not the same person who left here." He sat back down and turned his eyes into his coffee cup. The coffee swirled like the thoughts in his head. "Louise! We want Chip to feel at home!" "Mom," he said softly. "She was just a little girl when I left. Don't make her feel bad. Let her be. She's got to have time." He smiled at them. "How 'bout that glass of milk you promised me!" He looked at his mom with a big smile. "You're torturing me, Mom! I'm dying for a glass of real milk!" She poured him a large glass while giving Louise that 'we're going to sit down and have a long talk, young lady' look. Louise stood at the edge of the kitchen door watching her mom converse with this man as if they were the best of friends. Well, thought Louise, if it's Chip, then they were the best of friends. Eventually, she came and sat at the table. He ignored her unless her mom brought her into the conversation. But she knew he was watching her every move. Yet he never made a move toward her. He just chatted with his mom. Sometimes when he smiled, she could see her brother's face. She struggled in her mind, Chip, are you really in there?

The wild and windy night / That the rain washed away Has left a pool of tears / Crying for the day Why leave me standing here / Let me know the way

The first day home had passed slowly. His mom insisted he do nothing but sit on the front porch and eat her cooking and drink the fresh milk she had stockpiled. He had walked down to the Bittner's after lunch and sat with Greg for an hour just talking about what they had left behind. Greg really hadn't come home. He was still in France somewhere, seeing things his mind couldn't reconcile. Every time he tried to put it behind him, he saw something else that reminded him of the French farm country he had helped destroy. Greg's parents looked to Chip as if he somehow held the magic cure to bring their son back to the way he was when they had sent him out into the world. Chip Saunders held no answers. He had no cures. He finished his last smoke of the day in the yard, sucking in the smells and sounds of the neighborhood. The cluster of houses was at the end of the road that led into a small town. It was really more like a group of small farms than a real town. His dad had bought the house out here when they moved out west so that his kids could grow up in the country, not on a city sidewalk like he had done. With the river across the field and nothing but woods and farms for miles, his dad had gotten his wish. Or at least most of it. His dad hadn't really been around to watch his children grow up. Chip tried to walk up the steps to his room as quietly as possible. He expected his mother had to be exhausted after cooking three hot meals that day. Three hot meals each with enough food to feed his entire squad. He was so stuffed he didn't think he was going to be able to eat for a couple of days. Chip smiled to himself. A year ago today he would have done just about anything to be in his mom's kitchen rather than fighting his way through the French countryside. And to have food. Real food! Not slop served out of the back of a truck and eaten with as much dirt as anything else. Real food with taste and texture and that you had some idea if it was animal or vegetable. He didn't care how uncomfortable he was right now, he was going to enjoy living through a few more days of "fattening up." It had been a great day except for Louise. He scared her, and he didn't know why. Was he that different? Maybe she saw right through him. Maybe she saw what he really was. What he had really become. Maybe she knew he was nothing better than a killer. A damn efficient killer.

211 An efficient killer and scared. Scared of what? Of being home? Louise stood in the hall watching him. Her brother stood at his dresser mumbling in annoyance and digging through the drawers for something. "Nuthin'. Darn." Finally he sat on his bed and began to systematically take things out of his duffle. She heard a metallic clunk. Her curiosity couldn't stand it anymore; she had to go see what he was doing. She laughed at herself. Well, at least that about him hadn't changed—she still wanted to know everything he was doing. His back was toward her as he dug deeper into the long bag. His back was huge. Like most boys back here his arms were tanned and his back was lily white. But his back was different. There were lines across his back. Little white and pink lines. Lines like Mike Gutterman had from getting hung up in the lines they used to lift hay up to the barn loft. She had seen them when they all went to the public swimming pool in East Moline for a church picnic last summer. Mike's scars were pink and puffy because they were so new. But these lines on her brothers back were a variety of colors. Pink through white. "Louise...." Darn it, how did he hear her? Time to be bold before he went into big brother mode. "What are you looking for? You're making a mess of this room and I'm the one that had to get it clean for you, you know." "Yeah, right." He turned toward her with a big smile. But his smile was not rewarded. She gasped, staring at him. Why did he frighten her so much? She and Chris were two of a kind— nothing scared them. What, did he look like an ogre? He was older but.... He remembered the scars. Damn. Oh well just keep going, finish what you started. "I'm looking for something to wear to bed. Seems like I don't quite fit in what's in that dresser. And somethin' seems to have happened with all my cotton shirts out of my closet. I guess you wouldn't know about that?" He got a smile out of her. A small victory, but a victory none the less. "Chip...." He had two victories! She was talking to him. "What are those things on you?" Louise seemed to be thinking as she talked to him. She was puzzling something out in her head. Damn, he hated the fact she was so smart. He felt the face of the cliff begin to come up against him. He felt the fear grip his insides that he would be found out. Her face showed she had come up with a conclusion. "Chip, those are scars aren't they?" He clung to the side of the cliff. "Yeah." "Wait, I'll be right back!" Eternity ticked slowly by. Was she going to get him something for his boo-boos? Good Lord, that was all he needed was for her to be playing nurse like when she was ten. He'd be stuck shoulder to navel with tape and cotton! No, she was too old for that. Wasn't she? Maybe she was going to retrieve some of the shirts she had stolen? Why did girls have to wear their fathers' and brothers' shirts? Didn't they have enough clothing as it was? She came back with a shirt and a box and plopped on his bed next to him. "Here, this was actually one of Dad's. If you don't fit in what's in your dresser you're not going to fit in the shirts I borrowed from you. I mean, it's not like you were using them!" Chip looked down and smiled at his sister as he shook his head. Kirby had nothing on her logic or her wily ways of getting trouble shuck off her back. This girl could teach Kirby a few lessons. Chip worked into the shirt and began to button it up. Louise opened the cigar box she held with great care, as if the contents were gold or some other treasure valuable beyond measure. "You never wrote," she stated. "What are ya talking about? I wrote." He was a little indignant, but with a smile. "Right. You never wrote about anything," she clarified. "Nothing. Nothing about what you were really doing."

212 "There were censors," he offered quietly, still trying to keep the smile pasted to his face without seeming false or upset. "Right." She looked right at him and held a letter in her hand. But it wasn't one of his letters. It was a letter from the Army. "So... the way we knew what was going on was from the Army." The room began to tilt a little. He felt suddenly very warm even though the window was letting in a cool breeze, heavy with the dampness from the river. "Like this one." Louise began to read, "'We regret to inform you that your son is missing in action....' That was from last summer. Where were you lost? How were you lost? I've never known you to get lost in the woods, let alone in some farmer's fields. Our geography class studied Europe. You were at Normandy. That's a lot like back here. How'd you get back from 'being lost'? Did you meet anyone nice on your trip?" Her voice dripped with acid. The warmth he felt became anger and panic all rolled into one. Damn, this girl could still push his buttons. The rock on the face of the cliff began to shift. He felt himself grasp the rock face looking for purchase... anything to hold on to. The fear gripped his insides so tight he thought he was going to get sick. "We got your letter that said you had been lost but you were found by some French Resistance members and were back with your unit. The countryside was pretty, and the weather was hot. Anything you'd like to add?" Louise offered the letter to him. But she didn't wait for a response. "Here's another one. Something about a Purple Heart medal. I believe that they give those to soldiers that are wounded. A couple of those in here. That might explain the lines on your back?" He had the distinct impression that she was angry. Maybe more than angry. Louise was hurt. Hurt that he didn't care enough to write about his day. He had forgotten those times before he had left. He would tuck Louise in, just like Dad had done. Sitting on the edge of her bed, they chatted about the news of the day from a little girl's perspective. Bugs caught, dolls that had been bad, friends she wanted to see Sunday at church. She dug into the box again. "Or maybe those are from the letters about your 'stars'? You got a couple of different colors: silver, bronze...." She paused for a moment and then continued with a softer tone, "The point is, how am I supposed to know you when I don't know anything about you?" The blond sergeant looked down at the floor. His mind threw up its defenses, the same ones he had used once he had gotten to the point of too much pain. And you're not gonna know what I did, he thought. Not now, not ever. In his most commanding, yet quiet voice, he said, "Time for you to get to bed, Louise. 'Night." And he began putting things back into his duffle. The conversation was over. He might have had a few victories in some minor skirmishes, but she had won this battle. The week wore on, and he struggled with sleeping. His mom didn't say anything. His struggles to regain normalcy only made Louise more distant. When she looked at him it was as if he was a stranger. Could he blame her? Who wanted a stranger and a killer under their roof? A killer and an animal that you didn't know. That you didn't understand. He couldn't get comfortable in the bed. He could sleep, no problem. Sleep had never been a problem. Anywhere, any way. He was the envy of his squad. Hell, he was the envy of the entire Company. No matter the noise, if it was time to sleep, Saunders slept. Yet not in this bed. He would wake up at the slightest sound bathed in sweat. He decided to save the sheets and sleep on the floor. The hard cold floor was comfortable. He was used to it. He had been trained to live like an animal: minimal hygiene, no clean clothes, eating off the ground... what did they expect? Chip began to worry; maybe he and Greg Bittner were more alike than Chip wanted to admit.

213 Maybe Chip wasn't comfortable at home either? Maybe he didn't want them to know who he had become? His mother acted as if his forgoing the bed for the floor of his room was a perfectly normal idea. She provided another blanket folded to the end of his bed so he wouldn't have to take the comforter off every night. "It'll come, son. Just take your time. You'll be fine. I'm here if you need me." The first week wore on. Everybody else in the squad seemed to be doing fine. Caje called first. The trip home was uneventful, except for the girl he met. Caje and women. Couldn't the man just get settled in first? "Caje, get yourself settled in, then find a woman." "Sarge—what better way to settle in back home than have a pretty mademoiselle to talk to?" Maybe the scout had a point. They talked at length on plans for the future, possibilities, hopes. They didn't say good bye when they hung up. Rather they ended the conversation as if they were going on separate patrols. "See you later." Littlejohn called next. His folks met him at the train station in Omaha. They abandoned the farm to meet him. The harvest season was upon them, and Littlejohn was right back to where he left off. "Sarge, it's like I never left. Other than what, well, what I mean is... I know I'm different, but I can still do everything I used to do. So I guess it's okay. Right?" Littlejohn was making plans to go meet Billy at the hospital for his discharge and travel across country to help Billy get home. "I know he needs to go home and help his mom, but I just think he needs to have someone help him. You know what I mean, Sarge? I mean, I just think he should come here first until he's feeling better and can get along on his own. What do you think?" Saunders' thoughts tumbled inside his head. What do I think? I think some day I should be able to expect you to think for yourselves and not need me to do it for you. "Well, Littlejohn, it sounds like a plan. But don't you think his mom misses him, too?" They talked for a while longer. "You know, Sarge, if you call here, you need to ask for Bob. That's what the locals around here call me. There's just too many Littlejohns." "Got it, Lit... Bob. We'll see you later." After another two days of waiting, the Sarge was getting a little worried about Doc. He decided to call him instead of waiting. The number Doc gave him was a party line. "Hello, I'm trying to connect with Doc...." Saunders paused. What the hell was Doc's name? "This line doesn't connect to Doc Brown." "No, not Doc Brown. I'm sorry, I meant..." Oh hell, think! "...Uh... John Roberts." "One moment, let me ring there." "Hello?" "Hello, is this the number for John Roberts?" "This is John Roberts" No, thought Saunders, even at this distance, this wasn't Doc. This was some older man. "I'm sorry, I'm looking for the John Roberts that is a... was a medic. He was in my squad and I was calling to see if he got home all right." "Oh, you must mean mah nephew, John Henry. He jus' got home a few days ago. Phones have been out here fer a few days 'cause a big storm come through. I'll have one ah th' boys go down and fetch him and have him call yuh back. Maybe tommarra?" "That would be great. My name is Saunders. Let me leave you the number in case he doesn't have it." Doc called later that same day. Yeah, he had been home two days. Uneventful trip, other than watching Caje work this girl. "He'll never cease to amaze me, Sarge. That boy can get more women by looking sad than any man I know!" They talked for a long while, exchanging information on everyone. The conversation turned to the future. What was next? Doc was looking at school. Maybe medical school, maybe just becoming a teacher at a local school. "I thought you wanted to be a short order cook?" Saunders teased.

214 Doc laughed. "Yeah. That was before I knew what... well, what I could do, I guess. You know, Sarge, I saw a lot of rotten things during my tour. But I saw a lot of good things, too. Lots of good people out there who did a lot of great things with just a little bit. I'm thinking I can do better than a cook or grocery clerk. I'm thinking, Sarge, that I can really contribute to this world. I mean... well, I mean I didn't really do much in the battles... but...." "Doc!" Saunders growled. "What are you talking about! How many times did you run out where you shouldn't have, against my better judgment, and save some kid's life! Hell," he bellowed, "how many times did you run out and save my life!" Saunders winced. His mother and sister were around the corner in the kitchen. He knew they were trying not to listen into his conversations with his buddies. His voice was sure to carry. He didn't want them to know he had been hurt. His thoughts went to Louise and her treasure box. How could you explain what you had seen? What you had lived through when so many others hadn't? Would it make sense to anyone who hadn't been there how bad it felt to be alive when your buddy had been killed right next to you? Shit, this was a mess. "Sarge, that's not what I meant." Doc breathed deep and tried to refocus the conversation. "You guys did a lot of... a lot of... Sarge, you guys killed a lot of people. I didn't have to go through that. That's a burden I don't have to bear. I know sometimes I wished I could have carried a gun.... But I know I had a job to do, and I know I did okay." "Doc, you did more than okay. You...." Saunders' voice cracked with emotion. "Doc, you're the one that got us home. Alive." "I had a hand in that, yeah. What I'm trying to say is that I think I learned that you don't have to have all the same tools as everyone else to contribute to this world's success. When I left for war, Sarge, I had nothin'. I've come back blessed beyond belief. I just want to share some of that blessing. That's all." When Saunders finally hung up the phone with Doc, he knew he needed a walk. A walk would keep him away from his family and allow him to avoid the conversation with Louise that was sure to come up. He didn't want to tell her, couldn't she understand that? He didn't want them to know... to know that he was scared beyond any nightmare he could describe. He had a job to do and he did it the best way he knew how. Louise needed to accept him for what he was now—not what he had done in that damn box. But was there a difference? Late summer had faded into fall and fall was transforming into winter. There were big hopes at the Saunders' house that Chris would be home for Christmas. The war in the Pacific had been over for a few months and life was beginning to return to normal. Chip had taken a spot back at the factory where he had worked before the war. He had moved up to foreman on the line. While he still slept on the floor of his room, some normalcy began to creep back into his life. He hung out with some old friends on Friday nights after work. He even took out a few old flames on dates. The women of his past life were all looking to settle down and get on with their futures. Chip wasn't ready. He didn't know why. He didn't think he was going to find a woman to sleep on the floor with him. But as irrational as it sounded, he just couldn't get into that bed. That bed was comfort and home. And he wasn't comfortable. Not with his bed. Not with being home and, mostly, not with himself. He was stuck between being the Sarge and being who he was... or thought that he was. Hell, he thought, if he really was still the Sarge he coulda... woulda solved this by now! Sleeping on the floor. That just had to stop. He had to get over this hump. It had been

215 months since he had come home. Well, he was going to sleep in his bed tonight. Damn it—he was going to sleep in his bed if it killed him. And it just might. Just looking at the bed made his insides twist. That night he woke up suddenly to the soft sushing of the wind through his window curtains and the sound of someone singing softly. It was the lullaby his mother sang when putting them down for the night. He could hear her voice in his head as clear as if she was standing next to him. Truth be told, it was how he fell asleep all across Africa, Italy, and Europe. He would listen to her in his head, stroking his wayward hair back from his eyes, and within minutes, he was fast asleep. Grady! He had been dreaming of Grady. Grady was laughing at him. They were talking about taking a hill. Some nameless French hill. Just a knoll really. And then Grady was dead. Saunders felt the tears on his face. "Oooh-ooh-ooh-ooh, sing horey dinkum," the voice sang the refrain and began the song again. "Soon as we are cooked, sweet potatoes...." It was his mom's voice. Oh crap! Had he woken her up? He opened his eyes wide in terror. There was his mom, sitting on the side of his bed, holding his hand, stroking his hair, singing that soft lullaby. Only it wasn't his mom. "Sshh!" she said, "You'll wake up Mom. It's okay. I'm here." And she kept singing. She kept stroking his hair, his cheek. It was Louise. "Don't worry," Louise whispered to him, "Grady's not here." "He's dead," came the raspy voice. "I killed him. Killed him and left him on some nameless French hill. Killed Delaney too." Louise tried to comprehend what her brother was muttering about. "Didn't want to get Kirby killed by taking over for Grady, so I killed Delaney. William K. Delaney. Gave him the damned rifle. A cook's helper. My fault. My fault." He sobbed. Louise started at him in shock. "You seemed angry at him. Grady, I mean. You were yelling at him." Chip sucked in a deep gulp of air. "I didn't want him to leave me. He was my friend. Shouldn't have had any friends. Just got so lonely. Couldn't say no to Grady. Damn him!" The tears welled up again. Her brother let out a mournful sigh. It was as if he had lost all hope. "Time for you to go back to bed, Louise" Louise didn't move. "Uh-uh. Not leaving this time. You could shut me out when you weren't here. You can't shut me out now." She began to sing the lullaby again. "Louise!" he growled. "Please, just go." Then softer, as if apologizing: "You can't help me, honey." No one can help me, he thought. He was on the cliff face and the rock was getting looser all the time. He'd never be able to climb out of this pit. Where were they when he needed some help? Didn't they know he was scared? "When I was a little girl, I sometimes had these bad dreams. I don't remember much about them at all now. But you know what I do remember?" Her voice was calm and sweet—just like a sixteen-year-old girl's voice should be. She put her hand on his cheek and firmly turned his face toward her. "I remember my big brother, sitting on my bed. He would hold me real tight in his arms." She opened her arms around him and tried to envelope his chest in her small embrace. "And he'd rock me back and forth. He'd say, 'ssh... we don't want to wake Mom!' All the while he'd sing this little song to me. He never asked me what I dreamt about. He never told me it was silly or that it would be okay. He just held me and sang." She held him tighter. She wasn't going to tell him it was going to be okay either. She didn't know if it was going to be okay. Maybe it would someday. But right now, his life was hell. And he hid it well. Spring came to Illinois full of promise. Chris had just headed back to Korea. He had decided to stay in the Army. Chip and Chris talked long nights away during his furlough. Chris

216 wasn't ready to come back. It wasn't just what he did or had witnessed over there. He liked the discipline, the adventure. He was seriously thinking about making the military a career. Chris thought he might even look at going to college and getting a commission. With the war over the chances of him getting killed were close to nil. It was a safe job and he just couldn't think of coming back to some small town in the middle of nowhere. That was Chris the adventurous. Chris the brave. Not at all like his older brother, Chip the homebody, Chip the ever-dependable, just get it done and push on. Was he always like this? His men had checked in a few times since they returned home, though less frequently as time went on. They all seemed to be settling in to a normal life. Caje had returned to work in his father's import business. He had already made a trip back to France to work out some new business deals. Saunders was awed. Who could have guessed that Caje was a college boy. Then again who knew anything about Caje other than the few details he shared about his sister and a dozen "dear John" letters? But with a degree in business from a local university, Caje was transitioning back into civilian life as a successful businessman. "Sarge, sometimes it's hard. Sometimes I just want to go back out into the woods, like I did when I was a kid with my uncle. Sometimes the city life doesn't seem like it's a part of me anymore. But when I get back into the woods, like at my uncle's camp, I get to feeling like I need to constantly be on the look out for something... or someone." Caje sighed. "I don't think I'm ever gonna enjoy the outdoors again. Not if I keep thinking I need to look for Krauts in every bush." Caje was quiet for a moment. "Sarge, if I can't go back to the woods and I don't like livin' in the city, where does that leave?" Littlejohn had gone east and brought Billy Nelsen back home. Littlejohn had stayed at Billy's Iowa home for a few months over the winter helping Billy and his mom sell his dad's business. The Nelsons then moved out to Nebraska where they settled in Omaha, just an hour away from the Littlejohns' farm. The two mothers became quick friends in much the same way as their sons had bonded. Billy was attending the state university with an eye to being a teacher. He didn't think he could farm. And with his leg still weak from his wound, he didn't think he could take running a business on his own. Teaching seemed like a good idea and, with so many men coming home and sweeping up the available women, teachers were in short supply. Even Kirby, the biggest screwup in the entire ETO, was going to business school part time and learning the ropes of his uncle's bowling alley. He had big plans to branch out and build more bowling alleys. After all, guys needed a place to let off steam after work. Well at least, William G. did. And bowling alleys with well-stocked bars seemed like a great fit—both for the clientele as well as for Kirby himself. Spring left quickly and summer was flying by. Louise had graduated from high school and was heading off to nursing school in Rockford, over a hundred miles away. St Anthony's Nursing School was pretty well known in Illinois, but why she couldn't go somewhere closer was beyond Chip's understanding. His mother chastised him as he needled Louise to look for a college closer to home. "Let her be, Chip. Everyone needs to move on at some point." Yeah—even his mom had pretty much moved on. With the influx of men returning home from overseas, the female population of the state was becoming less available to traditional female jobs. His mom had been working part-time at a doctor's office in Colonna as a receptionist during the war years. Now, they convinced her to come on full-time, as they had lost most of their help to marriages. Everyone seemed to be moving on but him. He stayed glued to his little cliff, afraid

217 that any wrong move would send him crashing farther down its steep slope, maybe to the same veteran's hospital that Greg Bittner ended up in.

But still they lead me back / To the long winding road You left me standing here / A long long time ago Don't leave me waiting here / Lead me to your door

"Louise!" his mom said, with exasperation. "Please—he's going to get you to school! Now stop your worrying. He said he'd take you and Alice—and he will. Your brother has never let you down!" Right, thought Louise as she sulked. Like not writing me for four years. That didn't let me down. "Mom, you know he doesn't want me to go!" "Yes, dear. I know. But if your brother tells you he's going to do something, you know he will." Mae Saunders looked at Louise. She understood her daughter's concerns. Her son just wasn't settling in well. To the outsider, he seemed fine. But underneath she could sense a fear lingering in him. A fear and a dread of moving on. She just didn't know what to do about it. "Now get the table set. He'll be down in a moment, and I'm ready to get dinner on the table." The phone rang. "I'll get it!" yelled Louise, fairly skipping out of the kitchen, without taking down any dishes for dinner. Mae looked at her and sighed. It had to be Louise's friend, Alice. No one else would call at the dinner hour. She shook her head. Having the two of them at a school a hundred miles away was a bit unnerving. But they were almost women. They needed to be given the chance to spread their wings. Mae smiled. She expected the sisters at the nursing school would keep a pretty firm hand on Alice and Louise. There was really nothing she or Chip needed to worry about. "Chip!" Louise yelled. "It's for you! Chip!" Chip came down the steps quickly and quietly. She wondered how he did that. She could never fly down those steps without sounding like a horse on stampede. She handed him the phone and then just stood there. He glared at her and then smiled. "Hello?" "Sergeant Saunders?" It was a female voice that seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it. "Yeah." "Still as talkative as ever," the female voice said dryly. Chip was suddenly excited—but he couldn't figure out why. "Yeah." "Oh my God! Will you ever make it at any parties!" The voice was laughing. "Do I know you?" His tone was harsh with the annoyance he felt at the game the caller was playing with him. "Well, yeah. But I guess you don't remember me." The voice paused for second. "It's just so good to hear your voice, what little there is and... to know that you're alive and safe." The voice began to crack with emotion, like it was about to cry. Then the voice continued, "I saw Kirby at a show last week, and he gave me your number. I owe you an evening—at least a dinner. It's okay I called, isn't it? He said you weren't married...." The voice trailed off in a question. "No, I'm not married," he growled. "Who is this?" "Well, that is the voice of yours that I'm most familiar with." The voice was upbeat again. "Sarge, it's Laine Morris. I thought I had left a bigger impression on you. Most men don't forget me that easily." His knees got weak, and he sat down with a thud in the chair next to the phone table. Louise looked at him with concern—was he sick? Maybe something had happened to one of his buddies?

218 "Laine Morris," he said to himself, but out loud. "Yes." He pulled himself together. My God, when had they met? He had tried to forget so many things. He never thought this woman—a woman who could have any man, any day she wanted, would remember him, much less offer to get together. "I forgot...." He paused. Right, Saunders, that's the first thing you should tell a woman! Obviously observing Hanley hadn't helped much. "You forgot me?! Saunders, you really don't have any conversational skills. Have you even been out on a date since you came back?" He laughed out loud. Everything came back. The anger over finding her out there alone. The frustration with a mission gone from bad to worse. The fear that he was going to lose his men... and her. The great relief finding himself back safely, with his men, and her, in his arms. Why did he try to forget this? "Sarge?" "Yeah, Miss Morris?" "No, we are not going to start the Miss Morris thing. Um, Saunders, if you don't want to go out to dinner with me, it's okay." "No. No. Dinner would be great. You just caught me by surprise. I...." "Great," she said, not wanting to get into a conversation that was best left to be spoken one-on-one. "I'm in Davenport for a show in two weeks. Given me your address and I'll send a car to pick you up. I know you're somewhere near Moline—but that's all Kirby could tell me." His heart sank. "Can't." "Can't?" "Can't," he said again as he let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. "I'm taking my sister up to school in Rockford then. Can I get a rain check?" "Where in Rockford?" "A nursing school. St Anthony's." Well, she thought, at least he's not lying to me about the reason. There is a nursing school in Rockford by that name. This might work out better than she thought. "You really never listened to me on our little stroll through France, did you?" Sunders felt as if he was getting set up. What this line of questioning had to do with setting up a date for dinner, he couldn't imagine. "I was a little busy trying to keep us from getting killed." He winced—Louise was still next to him looking at him with a mix of confusion and girlish mirth. He'd take care of her later. "Well, if you had been listening, instead of scowling every time you looked my way, you would have heard me tell you that I was from Illinois as well. Rockford, to be specific." Chip smiled. This actually might work out. "How long will you be in Rockford?" she continued. "Just a day or two to get Louise and her friend Alice settled in. Then my plan was to take a few days off and go fishing along the upper parts of the Rock. But I can shift that if you'll be up in Rockford then." His insides felt tight. He hadn't had this much trouble talking to a girl since he was in high school. But then, she wasn't just any girl, now, was she? "That'll work, Sarge! Let me give you my dad's number. I'll be staying with my family. Call me when you're available and we'll hook up." They talked a few more minutes and then said their good byes. "Sarge?" "Yeah, Miss Morr... Laine?" "Well, I'm not quite sure how to say it... thanks for getting me home." She took a deep breath. "Well, I guess I'll see you in a few weeks!"

219 He got up from the chair feeling a surge of energy, which abruptly smashed into Louise with her arms folded. "Laine Morris? You are on a first name basis with Laine Morris!" These words were very punctuated. "The Laine Morris, the singer?" She glared at him as he nodded, and he was suddenly feeling a bit sheepish. Where did she get that ability to project that anger? "A year you have been home and you never told me you met Laine Morris in person! Do you know what that knowledge would have done for my social standing?" She took a breath before continuing, trying to calm her voice. "Okay. You don't want to talk about the war. Don't want to talk about what you did. Okay. I got that. But Laine Morris! What could she possibly have to do with anything so terrible?" Louise was nearly shouting at the end of her tirade. Breathless, she stared at him with daggers in her eyes. He sighed. He could feel the cliff face again, slippery and loose. Yet when he looked at Louise, he knew it was time to stop the slide. Yeah, he was still on that rock face, and he still felt vulnerable. He suddenly had the energy and the confidence to try making an ascent. Chip put his hand on her shoulder. "Come on. Let's get some dinner and I'll tell you." With that he walked into the kitchen and sat down. Louise followed after him. Was he serious? He kept his word and told them the entire story. Finding Laine with the dead officer. He told them about being behind enemy lines with no food, ammunition, or water. He was honest about not being entirely happy with the thought of having Laine along. At this, Louise snorted. "You're telling me you found a beautiful woman, in the middle of nowhere, alone, and you guys didn't want to be with her? Mom—make him tell the truth!" Mae looked from Louise to Chip and back again. She wasn't sure she wanted to hear this story. Chip was too serious. She just had a bad feeling about it. "Louise, you need to understand my first job was to get my men back safe. That was my priority every day. I would do anything and everything to complete my mission and to save their lives." His hand was gesturing at her. "Miss Morris was a liability," he said flatly. Chip realized he was getting into his sergeant mode, so he dropped his arm and leaned back into the chair. After chewing on a chunk of ham, he added, "She turned out to be a darn good soldier!" Louise looked as if she didn't believe the whole story. Chip went on to explain how Laine dirtied her dress to blend in with the woods and wore Caje's cap to cover her hair. He described how she helped a wounded Kirby walk for miles and in the end how she carried the BAR so that Caje could help him. He glossed around his capture by the Germans and their roughing him up. After all, was that really germane to the story? "So that's where you got one of those Purple Hearts," Louise said in a low, almost reverent voice. "Yeah. But it wasn't much of a wound really. It's just that we had to push on so I lost a little blood. Makes you tired, ya know? You've given blood in high school haven't you?" She nodded. "A couple days in the field hospital and I was back out on patrol." Well maybe more than a few days, a few weeks, but that was pretty close to the truth. The next two weeks were a blur of activity. Packing up Alice and Louise and getting their boxes to the minimum that would fit in his car was tough. After all, he needed a little bit of room for his fly- fishing gear and his own small bag of clothes. When his mother got the gist that he was to go out to dinner with Laine Morris, she insisted he also bring a suit. "Certainly you're not going to bring her someplace where you wouldn't wear a suit?"

220 "Mom, I'm not bringing her anywhere," he replied. "She owes me dinner." His mother's jaw dropped. What was wrong with this generation? A woman asking a man out for dinner? What next? Women asking men to marry them? She supposed a woman in Laine's profession had to be bold, but certainly there were limits even for performers. Chip saw the disapproval on his mother's face. Why was it so important that his mom liked Laine Morris? He would likely as not see her again after their night out. He wasn't going out to get married? Just to see... see what? Well, like an Army buddy. His mom just didn't understand. Laine had been there. She was one of the brothers. She had faced the terror with them and had made it out alive. She understood the fear. It took hours to unload the car and set up Louise and Alice's room at the school. The unloading was quick. But they fussed and fussed with their room. For the second day now, Chip waited outside the dormitory reading a book on a bench on the school grounds as the girls unpacked, arranged class schedules, re-arranged their room, and met new friends. He liked this school. This looked more like an upper grades boarding school than a university. He looked at his watch. Those girls were going to want dinner before long and this was his last night here. Tomorrow, he would head out to camp along the river and go fishing. Louise and Alice had begged the entire trip up to Rockford that he introduce them to Laine while he was here. He walked back inside the dormitory and found the payphone booth. He found himself beginning to get the jitters as he dialed the number Laine had given him. A male voice answered the phone. "Hello, this is..." he hesitated, "Chip Saunders. May I speak to Laine Morris please?" "Hold on." It took but a moment. "Sarge?" "Yeah." "Okay, now I know it's you because of the wordy responses." After taking another minute of her mild ribbing he asked her to join them for dinner. He had been in the car with the girls for almost four hours the day before and it had been worse than any patrol in enemy territory. He didn't think he could survive dinner without something taking their mind off him. Laine agreed. She'd be ready when he got to her house. As he pulled into a long driveway that led up to a large brick house he was reminded of England. The front lawn was a forest of old trees with a high canopy that gave the yard an English country home look. He had seen several homes like that in England when he had been recuperating there before Normandy. An older, dark-haired man was fussing with what seemed to be a dying rose bush. "Can I help you, young man?" The gentleman walked over, still engrossed in a branch from the rose bush. "I can't seem to get anything to grow in this yard." It was a flat statement. "I'm here to pick up Miss Morris," Chip said. "Which one?" At Chip's obvious confusion, the gentleman smiled. "We have several Miss Morris's. They're all quite charming. Come on in and pick one," he said with a wink. Inside the house was a large foyer with a wide staircase leading to the upper floor of the house. Chip could hear the screams and high-pitched giggles of several girls coming from upstairs. He cringed. It was like being in the car with Alice and Louise all over again. "Yes, well you get used to the noise eventually," the gentleman remarked. "So they tell me. I'm not sure, it's only been twenty-some years...." A teenage girl came sliding down the stair banister, shrieking and laughing at the top of her lungs. "Sarah Beth," the gentleman said, without changing his calm, almost monotone voice, "would you kindly fly back up the stairs and get Elaine Marie. I believe this gentleman is waiting on her." "Sure, Pops!" and the young woman ran back up the stairs yelling at the top of her lungs,

221 "Lame Brain... someone's here!" "Did I guess correctly that you're here for Elaine?" "Yes, sir." Chip turned and extended his hand. "Chip Saunders. I knew your... daughter?" "Oh yes, they're all mine," the older man said with a smile and a sigh. "Keeps you young, you know. Having lots of children. Especially of the female variety." Chip laughed. "Yeah, my mom says the same thing. About kids, I mean." "I apologize, I didn't introduce myself earlier. I always get so involved with those silly rose bushes. And for what? They never thrive. Oh, they grow an inch or two before they turn brown." The man paused again and looked at Chip. "Jack Morris. You must be 'the sergeant'." "I was a sergeant, yes sir." " But are you 'the sergeant'?" "I guess I don't understand, sir." "Are you one of the young men that Laine claims rescued her from the Germans?" Chip ran his hand through his hair, and even though he kept it short now that he could get to a barber, it still stuck out in a multiple of directions at the slightest touch. "Yes sir." What had she told them? "My squad, well part of my squad, we found her and escorted her back to our lines." "A walk in the park, eh?" The old man turned as the teenager returned sliding down the banister again, this time with Laine following quickly behind—both girls laughing and squealing. "Sarge!" Chip looked at her and couldn't decide if he should laugh or run. Here came a grown woman sliding down the banister screaming with laughter. What was he getting himself into? She threw her arms around him and held him tight for a moment. Chip, arms held out straight from his sides, looked over to her father with a wide-eyed and apologetic look on his face. He hadn't touched his daughter.... But the gentleman was smiling and walking away. "She's all yours, young man." With that, the elder Morris went outside and began conversing with the ungrateful rose bushes. Chip spent the next several hours a slight shade of red and looking for cover. Somehow the wisdom of inviting Laine to meet his two other female charges didn't seem like such a smart idea now that he thought it through. He was taking incoming from all sides. He had finished his dinner and dessert and was working on his fourth cup of coffee before the girls had decided that they were done with their food. Their plates didn't look like they were half-eaten. After dropping off the girls at the dormitory and saying his last good byes, he brought Laine home. "Care to come in for a cup of coffee?" she asked. He had already had three too many cups of coffee that night. And the last time he was in this house, it was a madhouse. First the drive up here, then dinner.... Could he take another hour of abuse? "Okay, if it's not too much trouble." "Trust me, I wouldn't have offered if it was." He suddenly felt intimidated. He rolled his shoulders and followed behind her. Did she want him here or not? Laine led him around to the yard behind the house. Again the entire scene reminded him of England and the gardens the Brits attempted to keep even through air raids and falling debris. "Pops is out back," Laine explained. "He reads a book back there every night. It's very peaceful. We have a little screen porch that's just like a comfy parlor. It'll only take me a few minutes to make the coffee. Pops will keep you company." She left him sitting with her father, chatting the usual polite dialogue. But that dialogue began to change as she walked back into the house. "How are you settling in?" the elder Morris asked. "Settling in, sir?" "Yes. You know, getting used to being a civilian again." Jack looked at him with a sadness he hadn't noticed before. "Laine said you had been overseas for several years."

222 "Well, including Africa and Italy, yeah, almost four years." "Much longer than I spent." The older man paused. "Don't talk about it much here, you know—they don't quite understand it. I was there about a year—in the Great War." Jack paused, then, as if he was just adding another sentence to the same topic, he said, "I remember the fear mostly. And the first time I messed my drawers. Can't forget that." Saunders stopped breathing. The rock face was shifting. Streams of rock tumbled down onto him. His stomach knotted in fear. "I guess you never had that experience. Laine says...." Saunders never heard the rest. His mind raced back to Algiers and Tunisia. The sound was intense. He remembered at some point he just couldn't hear it anymore. And then he had lost it. "Happens all the time," said his sergeant. "Get over it and aim at that sand hill over there." He heard his voice before he knew it was himself talking. "In Tunisia. Never had seen anythin' like it. So intense." His voice was odd—like a scared kid's. He wrung his hands. "No one ever told me...." There wasn't anybody alive that knew this about the invincible Sergeant Saunders, so why was he telling this man? Laine came around the corner with a tray of coffee and cookies. It would be good to sit with the Sarge—with Chip. She smiled. How long had she waited for this? She hoped she didn't screw it up. She pulled up suddenly at the entry to the porch. Laine heard their voices. Something wasn't right. The two men were talking in hushed tones. She felt like she was eavesdropping. As she peeked around the corner she could see the two men, with their heads together, talking intensely with each other. One nodding as the other talked. Fear crept down her spine. It was as if she had walked in on someone's confession. But whose? She went back into the kitchen and sat down. "What the hell is going on?" she said to herself. She couldn't shake the chill from what she had witnessed. But then, really, what had she just seen? Two men talking? About what? She shook herself head to toe. They were probably just sharing secrets about bookies. What else would men talk about? As she came back with fresh coffee she could hear her father's laugh. They were talking like they were two old buddies that met every day for a cup of joe. Was this her father? "Great name for the club!" Her father's voice had real mirth in it—not the reserved, make- the-best-of-it tone she usually heard. "Do you think any one else would fess up?" "Unlikely," replied Saunders with a snort. His voice reflected a sense of calm she hadn't noticed before. Maybe it wasn't there before either? "You two ready for coffee?" Her voice did not betray what she had witnessed earlier. She sat down with them and shared a cup of coffee and her sister's peanut butter cookies. It seemed like the two men had found some common ground and formed a bond that she couldn't understand. They were more relaxed with each other—like... like old war buddies. It reminded her of when she had visited Saunders in the field hospital after they had returned to the American lines. He was so relaxed with his own men. Saunders stood up to leave. "Well, I best be going if I'm going to be back here in the morning to get you early." "Get whom early?" said Laine, a bit surprised. "Me." "Pops?" "Jack an... I mean your father and I are gonna go fishin' up the Rock River. Just for the day. I'll have him back by night." She looked from Saunders to her father. "Pops, you don't fish...." Did he? "A long time ago, before your mother pas... well, a long time ago. And Chip has been gracious enough to allow me to tag along." Her father seemed genuinely excited. "I'll have to get up in the attic and get my rods. Been so long you know." He paused and looked at Laine. "And Laine—I won't be around when Tammy gets here in the morning. Have her set up the guesthouse for Chip. He's going to stay a few days here with us while we take in a couple of streams that

223 might be of interest." Her mouth was open. What had happened in the twenty minutes it took her to make coffee? "Laine, would you mind walking Chip out? I really do need to search the attic!" For the next few days, Chip Saunders and her father disappeared into the back woods of upper Illinois. They left early in the morning when it was dark and returned home only after it was dark again. Laine spent those same days on the phone with agents and studios from out West lining up a contract deal for the spring. She would have to leave for California soon after the holidays this winter. Somewhere between the fishing trips, she wiggled out a few hours to take Chip out for the evening as she had planned. He escorted her to a local charity benefit where she sang and entertained. Afterward, a few men came up to her who had seen her perform in Europe and thanked her for being there. It was a touch of home when they needed it most. Then she and Chip walked down to the local fancy restaurant and had a quiet dinner. She pulled out of him everything she could about his home, what he did as a child, what his parents were like. Slowly she began to understand the depth of his personality. His squad had been an extension of the responsibility he had for his family. And she, in that one day, had been a part of that squad. When they got back to the house she suggested they go to the guesthouse for coffee where they could have a little more time to themselves before he left in the morning. As he walked her into the house, she held his arm, and then as natural as anything, turned to him and put her arms around him as he closed the door. "Must you go so soon?" "I've been here a week. I've got to go back to work eventually." She put her head on his chest. Her hands felt his sides, then his back. She pulled herself closer, pressing herself up against him. He took her face in his rough hands and kissed her passionately. She felt him breathe in deeply and then pushed her back a ways. "We're not doing this." "But you're leaving and I may never see you again." She snuggled back up to him. "I need you." She could see he was wavering—reconsidering his stance. But Chip the man took a step back and the Sarge came out in front. "No. Laine" The hand came up and began to gesture, then he turned away and began to pace as he talked. "When I... If I... God, it's not like after a long battle where you just need to be with someone!" He took a deep breath. "Laine, I want it to be permanent. If I go to... to bed with you, it's gonna be because I'm... I'm gonna be the only one you're gonna.... Well, I'm gonna be the one you stay with... forever." He smiled at her. "And I want a lot of kids. So you had better think about that." One hand combed through his hair, while the other searched his pockets for a pack of smokes that wasn't there. "Laine, I had a real good time up here. And you are a beautiful woman. I don't mean just how you look. It's how you act with your sisters... and mine... and the way you treat your dad with respect and...." He looked up at her from across the room. "Laine, I'm not right...." He stood silent, looking out into nowhere. After a moment, she prompted, "You're not right about what?" "I'm not... home yet, I guess. Talking to your dad really helped. I wish I could have met him a year ago. He... he... well, we saw some of the same things.... It's kind of the same, you see?" She didn't see. She was confused and this man was not making sense. It seemed like he felt the same way about her as she felt about him. What was all this not being home stuff? He didn't want to live in Rockford? "You don't want to be with me?" "No." She could see he was trying to get it formulated in his own mind. "No, that's not it.

224 Well, yeah, it's kinda...." She heard him swear under his breath. He had that look of frustration she had seen when she first met him. "I need to work things out. Then I can... then I can be... maybe something for some... woman." She heard him suck in a long breath of air. "Laine, I'm just so scared... and confused...." Her insides went cold. What was he trying to tell her? This man didn't get scared. This man was invincible. This man had been the rock that got everyone home. She looked at him intently. He was standing with his back to her, hands in his pockets, looking at the floor. She came around to him, took his hands in hers and made him face her. There was deep pain evident in the lines on his face. His eyes were glassy. Had he carried so much to get his men home, to get her home, that he had lost himself? She had waited almost two years to see him again. Had this been a waste of time? The more she looked into those blue eyes, the more she knew what was right. He needed her now more than ever. But not the way she thought. Not the way she had wanted. "So, do I wait?" He looked at the floor and nodded. He croaked out, "I'll write you?" Her snort broke the tension in the room. "Your reputation precedes you. And I will be performing in about a dozen towns in the next three months. How about I call you? Maybe on Saturday mornings?" He nodded. How did he to explain to his mom why a woman was calling him every week?

But still they lead me back / To the long winding road You left me standing here / A long long time ago Don't leave me waiting here / Lead me to your door

He loved to sit and watch the waves. This cliff was just like back at home. He could sit here for hours and just get lost in the sound of the waves, the smell of the ocean breathing and the wind cooling him off. And this cliff was solid. Solid like a rock, just like the ones back home. He looked up for her. She was standing there with the children, her blond hair not so blond, but still as beautiful as the day he had met her. She'd be beautiful any day and in anything. Whether it was dripping with mud in the middle of France, on stage in sequins and satin, after birthing their most difficult child, or after the mastectomy. She was beautiful. His thoughts returned to their wedding. It had been simple, with no time for a honeymoon. They spent a few days with their families and then traversed the country to California. She went to work in film; he went to school. And then the kids started coming. Their own platoon, as one of the middle ones liked to call it. His career had been strange. He started out as a high school history teacher and baseball coach. Then his students started returning from Korea. That's when he realized that he needed to expand the club he and Grandpop Jack had formed among themselves. No one had told these kids what combat was really like. No one told them how they would feel. What their bodies would do to them; what tricks their minds would pull on them. But Grandpop Jack and he knew. They had learned the hard way. So Coach Saunders sat down with the kids that came to see him before they left for overseas and had a little talk with them about the Messy Pants Club. It was real and it was okay. The coach talked to them about the loss of hearing and the dire need to be with a woman after a long battle. They laughed at him, and then wrote him a few months later on how right he was. No one's father ever came back from the war and told them how scared they were. No one ever told them how much your body would desert you in the worst of times. No one had told them how guilty you could feel for surviving! The ones he didn't get to before they left, he sought out when they came home. The coach felt he needed to do more for these kids—his kids, his team. Never one to leave a mission uncompleted, Saunders went back to school. He made understanding the act of combat

225 his passion. And so Chip Saunders the coach and history teacher became that strange professor down the hall that had the uniformed people showing up at his office all the time. As part of his transition from coach to doctoral candidate, Saunders dropped the name his uncles and father had given him as a young child, and took on the name his mother gave him at birth. But John had such a formal sound. His thoughts turned to Grandpop Jack, the man that stopped his slide into oblivion with that simple knowledge that Saunders wasn't a nutcase. He could feel Grandpop smiling at him from heaven. So Dr. Jack became a regular at VFW halls and VA Hospitals, police banquets and community debriefs. Wherever people needed to come to terms with a violent act or sudden disaster, Dr. Saunders made himself available. Saunders laughed at himself. In his transition from Saunders the sergeant to Chip the coach and then Jack the professor of psychology, had he really learned anything? For all he knew about the subject of combat stress, for all the people that sought him out for help, how much of it had he allowed to penetrate himself? It took almost fifty years before he had the guts to try and deal with the ghosts he had left behind in Africa, Italy, and Europe. And so here they were. The most beautiful woman in the world had insisted they go. That he go. And there just wasn't anything he wouldn't do for her. The couple toured Algeria and Tunisia. And while none of the bars he had hung out at were still there, the battlefields didn't look much different, except that the bodies and body parts no longer littered the sand and palm groves. As he walked, he talked to ghosts and acknowledged his guilt for living, but he didn't wait for a response from the dead. Italy was much worse. They started in Rome, visited San Pietro, and then drove to Anzio. So many villages had portions of the town you could tell had been hard hit during the war years. Many had modern structures that he knew had been built because the Americans and the Germans had demolished what had been there. Both forces had obliterated the towns right off the map. On the beach at Anzio, he took Laine's hand and walked down to the water's edge. "This is just about where I became a two-time member of the Messy Pants Club." He laughed. But it was not his deep jovial laugh. It was sad. "Luckily I was still wet from the landing, so no one really noticed. We were too busy trying not to get shelled on." He walked a way a bit and mumbled, shaking his head. "What a mess." How many times had he been one of the few survivors? He was lucky he hadn't been put in the crazy divisions. Laine's response was to walk up to him and hold his hand tighter. From Rome they flew into Frankfurt. Then they drove down south of Stuttgart, almost to Switzerland. Though he had never gone to Zurich as part of the campaign, they decided you couldn't be this close and not visit. His eyes told her that he needed a breather. Just a short R&R, he told her. The next part of their journey would be the roughest. He knew whom he needed to visit in order to move on. The more he dwelled on the visit, the looser the rock on that crumbling cliff got. They began the drive through the German, Belgian, and French towns, farms and forests that he had helped destroy. Everything he had tried to forget for fifty years came flooding back to him. Every battlefield he stood on pelted his mind with snippets of memories—like a storm of rock streaming off a disintegrating cliff. Fear gripped him, as he realized he couldn't stop the memories once they started rolling back to him. Saunders could hear the incoming shells—but he never really heard his own gun go off. He could hear Caje's peashooter and the roar of Kirby's BAR—but the actual explosions from 88 and 105 shells were dim to his mind. One thing he couldn't forget was the bite of the shrapnel. He knew in his head that this was the effect of extreme stress on the body. He had done multiple dissertations on it. But it didn't make it any easier to remember or come to terms with. A week later, they were near St. Lo. The closer they got, the less he ate, the more he drank, the more his stomach tied into knots. A couple of his sons had joined them. Each one claiming they needed to be there. Each one worried about their father making this trip back

226 through his own history—not really knowing where their father was going or why. Saunders had made sure they would never have to take a trip like this themselves. Each son and daughter had been indoctrinated into the Messy Pants Club. They may not have all been true blue members, but they knew what it took to gain entry. In his mind, he replayed their introduction to the club. Joey had been the experiment. Aren't all first children? Paul sat and listened while Grandpop Jack and he talked to Joey about the "entrance requirements." When it would happen; what to do. As if on a schedule, Joey's letter came home from Southeast Asia about two months after he had left. "Joined the club today, Dad. Man, I never saw nuthin'...." Paul was indoctrinated next and his two younger brothers listened as he was given the charge. And when son number three's time came, it was easier. "Yeah, yeah, Pops. Just tell me so I can catch my train. If I'm gonna do it, I'm gonna do it big!" Why did his wife have to name this child, any child, after the biggest screwup in the entire ETO? What kind of good impression could Kirby leave on any woman he had been left alone with for more than an hour? That was a secret that he was sure to go to the grave never understanding. By the time it came to number six child, it was just a family tradition. And when number six child came back with his story, his mother laughed so hard she re-joined the club. But then it had been Grady. This one his wife had named correctly. Gregarious, adventurous, and no fear. He didn't join the military like the first four. No, he was a bum. A white water river guide in the spring and summer; a ski instructor the rest of the year. "Man, I knew I was going to be dead, and I was waiting for that loss of sphincter control, you know, Dad?" He looked at his father with a smile. "But it all happened at once. I don't know if was me getting the paddle loose or me being so scared that I lost that load in my trunks. But I did get that hydraulic to let me loose." Young Chip's response was deadpanned. "Floaters or sinkers?" He wondered if his wife had joined the club because of laughing at Grady or shocked at her baby? They finally had come to the little French town that held so much pain for him. Young Chip and Grady both were there. They watched their dad climb the little hill to the abandoned cemetery. True to graves registrations' word, they had gotten a marker out there. When his sons saw him fall to the ground, they ran up the hill, only to find him sobbing and ranting at the grave marker. He hadn't told him why he was coming here. The boys had thought it was just another one of the thousand of skirmishes he had fought. "I didn't mean to live, Grady," Saunders sobbed. "I know you'd look at me crossways now, but... you got to understand... I didn't mean to forget you. I just couldn't go on. Then I killed Delaney. Should have stood him up out there without a rifle and pulled the trigger myself. Didn't want to lose Kirby after losing you. When Delaney got it, I just shut you out. I wasn't gonna remember... I didn't want to feel any more." The old man just mumbled and let the tears flow— ignoring the sons behind him. Grady L. Saunders turned a little pale as he read the grave marker. His dad had never told anything but fun stories about Grady Long. While Grady knew that his namesake was dead, he had never understood just what Grady Long had meant to his father, or what the former Grady had cost his dad. Grady turned to his younger brother. "You best stay, I'll go help Mom up." Jack thought he should have been embarrassed carrying on in front of his sons as he had; but he wasn't. When he stood up after a half an hour in tears, his beautiful bride took him in her arms and kissed him. He looked at her and shook his head. "Why couldn't I have done it sooner?"

But still they lead me back / To the long winding road You left me standing here / A long long time ago Don't leave me waiting here / Lead me to your door

"Grandpop!" The voice was insistent and high-pitched. "Grandpop, you gotta wake up because Gramma says so!"

227 He opened his eyes and looked at the child. "I guess my opinion don't count, right?" "Right," the little blond-haired child said, with a thousand-watt smile. She held out her hand to help the older man up. "Jack!" Uh-oh, he thought, here comes the battle-axe! "Jack—it's getting late. And you need a jacket! You're going to catch a cold and not be able to be at the re-enactment." Truth be told, he was not planning on going to the re-enactment. He just hadn't told anyone that yet. Why extend the pain of the retribution? He had crawled that damned trail once before; he wasn't doing it again. He wasn't watching it again. He had swum that ocean and it was damn cold in June—who in their right mind would want to do this? He didn't want to remember Theo bleeding to death or Caje falling to pieces, Hanley confused on the beach, or any other of the guys that he left behind bleeding, drowning, or both. He had made his peace with his memories. He may not be able to give up all the guilt, but he had done okay over his life. He had a feeling that not even Delaney held him at fault. She stood over him, hands on her hips. God, she was beautiful! "Are you getting up or not?" she said with a voice that showed her displeasure at him being out in the evening air without what she considered enough clothing. "Yeah." His eyes twinkled. "I'm gettin' up." He pulled himself out of his beach chair and folded it up. "Here." He handed it to the little one that had Grandpa wake-up duty. "Bring this up to the house." "Are you being fresh with me?" The hands were on her hips in mom mode. When the little one was gone, he looked back at her. "I could be... I mean, we are married." She smiled her own thousand-watt smile at him. "Well, you do look like you could use a nap before dinner...." She took his hand with a squeeze that said 'yes.' They walked back toward the house they had rented for their visit. It was filled with children, grandchildren and spouses. Ten children. Ten. She named the boys; he named the girls. He had gotten off easy. There were only two girls. He chose the only names he could think of—his wife and sister. She had started out fine in the naming process, he thought, when she named their first boy after Joey, the brother he had lost at such a young age. But then she just got crazy. She tried to name the second boy Kirby and he wouldn't go for it. Why ruin the child's life with a name like that? She did eventually talk to him again—they did have more children. And he learned how to say "yes dear." Yet another time Grandpop Jack had saved his butt. Why did he ever confide in her about his nightmares? He often wondered if the children took on the personality of their namesake based on his conversations of past battles and good times? Each one was so like their namesake and yet, they were so unique. They all had blond hair and blue or green eyes. Except for the one that looked like Grandpop Jack. He had dark brown hair but his mother's eyes and thin build. It was after that one's birth, and his wife's insistence on the name, that Jack began his quest to find the lieutenant. It took a few years, for he had never really talked to Hanley about where he lived, his family or life before the war. They talked about dames and smokes and field manuals. How smart was that? If Saunders was having problems and didn't have anyone to talk to, what the hell was Hanley doing? Chip had realized in his doctoral thesis that the guys that talked a lot after battles did the best when they came home. Somehow they could work it out right after the event and remain sane. Who would have ever thought that Kirby's constant chattering was healthy for someone's mental welfare? He couldn't recall it ever being healthy for his mental state. Just the opposite—like fingernails on glass. Doc, Littlejohn, and Billy—they always were talking about what went on, right or wrong—who did what. Caje, not so much. But Caje had the

228 benefit of their conversations. He didn't. He was the NCO—he had to hang back a bit. And so many times there was no downtime for him. He was caught between Hanley's orders and trying to take the burden off his men. If he was almost crazy, what had it been like for Hanley? Did he talk to Jampel? Likely not. After meeting with Hanley the healing process had gone a little farther down the road for both of them. All this because his wife had insisted on the name of Gilbert for her son. Who the heck named anyone Gilbert anymore? Not a dog, much less a poor child. But the name fit him. And young Gil was apprenticing at his "uncle's" architecture firm in Connecticut. He stole a glance at his wife with a mix of awe and suspicion. How did that woman know these things? Halfway to the house, he pulled her to him. His arms wrapped around her and he gave her a long, passionate kiss... and he held her tight. God, he loved this woman—even if she named these kids so that he could never get away from his memories. Maybe she had done that on purpose? "Honestly, Jack," she giggled, "you can't wait another ten minutes?" He swallowed his emotion, smiled, and took her hand as they began to walk again. "Laine?" "Hmm," she said, thinking about their upcoming nap. She smiled at him with her own twinkle in her eyes and put her arm around his waist, snuggling up to him as they walked. "Thanks for getting me home."

end

229 A Squad Moment from "Far From the Brave"

Billy: Littlejohn! Hey, Littlejohn. Littlejohn: Yeah? Billy: You seen my helmet? I can't find it anywhere. Littlejohn: Was it all beat up and black with the chin straps burnt off? Billy: Yeah, that's it. Hey, that's it. What are you doing? Littlejohn: Well, what does it look like I'm doing, Billy. Boiling water. Billy: Yeah, but— Littlejohn: You can't expect us to pick a chicken dry, can you? Billy: A chicken? Littlejohn: Braddock spotted some tracks out behind the barn. He went stalking off after them. I told him they were probably big pigeons, but he said— Caje: Hey, Littlejohn. Look! (Braddock chases the hens out of the barn) Caje: Watch it, Braddock, watch it. (Braddock catches one) Caje: Hold onto it! Kirby: Don't let it get away, boy! Caje: Boy, Braddock, I swear you're a hunter. Kirby: A born hunter! Braddock: It was nothing. How's the water coming? Littlejohn: Boiling in a minute. Braddock: Good! Billy: Good? Look, why do you always have to cook in my helmet, Braddock? Braddock: No use burning any more chin straps than we have to. Right, Kirby? Kirby: Right, that's right. Billy: Yeah, but I— Braddock: Look, Billy. You volunteered your hat to cook coffee in, right? Billy: Coffee! Then it was eggs, now it's chickens. What if there was an air raid or something? I could get a hole knocked in my skull. Braddock: Don't you think of anybody but yourself? Kirby: That redhead's the first fresh meat this squad's seen in two months, boy. Braddock: And you begrudge us cooking her? Billy: Well.... Braddock: Look, kid, go get a knife and cut her head off. Billy: You want me to kill her? Braddock: Well, we can't eat her alive, can we? Billy: Yeah, but I couldn't kill a... chicken. Braddock: Sometimes, Billy, I don't understand you.

230 TURNING POINT

by Albert Baker (Claudia)

This story occurs prior to "Far From the Brave" and contains two scenes directly from the episode.

231 Private Braddock searched through the clusters of GIs resting among the ruins of the French village. The exhausted men were strewn about like a child's toy figures, tossed aside in haste. The private looked for the distinguishing characteristics of the man he sought—a camouflaged-covered helmet and sergeant's stripes. He found his objective lying under the torn awning of the mayor's office, helmet pulled down over his eyes. Approaching carefully, Braddock tapped his boot on Sergeant Saunders' and backed away quickly. "Hey, Sergeant, Lieutenant Hanley wants to see ya!" Saunders pushed his helmet back, squinting up into the afternoon sun. "All right, Braddock." As Braddock went on to locate his next victim, Saunders stood and stretched his arms, trying to get the blood circulating again. A stab of pain from his left shoulder reminded him of the shrapnel that had grazed him when a German grenade had landed a bit too close. Bending down, he picked up his gear and Thompson before beginning his walk to the old bakery building where the CP was located. He arrived within minutes to find Hanley hanging up a phone and shaking his head in disgust. "Somethin' wrong, Lieutenant?" Saunders lit a cigarette and offered one to Hanley. "Hi, Saunders. No, just the usual." Hanley took the cigarette and looked Saunders over. The sergeant looked tired, but he'd seen him worse. "How's the shoulder?" "It's all right. Just a little stiff." Hanley nodded and began unfolding a large map. "Saunders, we've got information on two German positions outside of town." Hanley spread out the map on the bakery countertop. "The first is here. There are reports the Krauts have a radio setup inside a barn. The other is two miles to the east—a hill with a bombed-out house on top. We think the Germans are planning on using it as an observation post. We're just not sure if they're there yet." "So First Squad is supposed to take both of these, Lieutenant?" "First Squad is the only squad that didn't take injuries coming in. The farm is en route to the hill, so it just makes sense to take it and proceed to the house. I'm going along on this one. Maybe you oughtta stay back and give that shoulder a rest." Saunders bristled. "The whole squad is beat, Lieutenant!" "Saunders, we've been ordered to go. Tell the men to saddle up and you get some rest." "I'm fine. You'll need all the men you can get." Hanley saw the resolve in Saunders' face. "Suit yourself."

*****

Over an hour of trudging through tall grass and brush brought the squad to a tree line on the edge of a field. In the middle of the field stood a windmill, two of its numerous blades missing. On the other side of the field, a weather-beaten barn stood in solitude, a pile of crumbled stone several yards north of its doors, the only sign of the former house. Lieutenant Hanley signaled the squad to a halt and pulled out his binoculars as Saunders joined him. "I can make out some movement by the door. It's hard to say how many are in there. Here, take a look." Saunders grasped the glasses and scanned the area around the barn. "Not much cover, Lieutenant. Maybe if Caje and I crawled through that ditch, we could flank them." Hanley frowned. "Not now. The sun will be setting soon. The darkness will help." Hanley turned back to the squad. "We're gonna wait until it starts getting dark, then

232 Saunders and Caje will try to flank them on the left. The rest of us will spread out and crawl up through the tall grass. When Saunders and Caje open up, we'll rush them." Each man found a spot in the trees to shed his gear and contemplate the planned assault. Billy and Littlejohn could be heard whispering. "I don't know, Littlejohn. It's a long way to that barn without any cover. You think Caje and the Sarge can make it without the Krauts seein' em?" Braddock made his way over to the two buddies and plopped himself down. "Caje and Saunders? I'm worried about myself making it!" Littlejohn shook his head and grinned. "You two need to take it easy. Hanley and Saunders know what they're doin'. Just stay low and you'll be all right." Billy looked at his large friend with concern. "Littlejohn, how are you gonna stay low?" "Now Billy, it's somethin' how low I can make myself when there are bullets flying over me. Would ya quit worrying?" Kirby, sitting with Caje off to the left of the group, snickered. "You guys sound like a bunch a ol' ladies." "Who asked you, Kirby? When did you decide to be brave?" Braddock asked. Saunders moved in between the two groups like a cat pouncing its prey. "Knock it off! All of you! What are ya tryin' to do, tip off the Krauts before we even move out?" "But Sarge, he...." "I don't wanna hear it, Kirby!" Saunders' words, although said under his breath, might as well have been shouted through a bullhorn. The men grew silent and sullen. Hanley smiled to himself.

*****

The sergeant nodded to his lieutenant and walked on to the far end of the tree line. Grady Long sat alone, with his head leaned back against a tree, his eyes closed. "Bet you're wishin' you could have a smoke." Saunders sat down beside his friend, saying nothing. "Saunders, I've been tellin' ya since North Africa to stop volunteering to do these crazy stunts of yours, but you're still not listening." "Can it, Grady." Grady smiled and looked at Saunders. "You're not foolin' me, Saunders. I know why you do this stuff. You're thinkin' we may all get killed here. You always pull out the heroics when we're in the thick stuff." "Grady, you talk too much." The private's voice took a more serious tone. "Saunders, I got a funny feelin' about this one. I better come with you and Caje." "Grady, you try to crawl through that ditch with the BAR and you'll get your head blown off. We need you to cover us from back here. Move up slowly as we hit the barn, but that's it!" "All right, Saunders." Saunders smiled. "Long, you're startin' to sound like your mom at the train station." "Ha, she was quite a fright, wasn't she? You'd think I was her only son or somethin'." "You are her only son, Grady." "Saunders, you never get my jokes, do you?" Saunders smiled again. He knew that listening to Grady's banter would sooth his nerves and give him that glimpse of 'home' that he craved. Grady Long had grown up not more than twenty miles from Saunders, but they had never met until basic training. Not even the reticent Saunders was immune to Grady's easygoing charm and they soon discovered how much they had in common. They had been together in North Africa, but were separated when Saunders was

233 seriously wounded. Two weeks after landing in Normandy, Saunders had been delighted to see Grady assigned to the 361st. "Saunders." The sound of the lieutenant's voice drew the sergeant's attention. "Looks like it's time, Grady." "See ya in the barn, Saunders."

*****

A half moon shone down on the farm field providing a mild wash of light—barely enough to make out the slightly thicker weeds along the ditch. Saunders and Caje crawled silently through the muddy soil, smelling the pungent odor of moist dirt and plants. About two hundred feet from the barn, they could hear German voices growing louder, followed by dim lamplight as two sentries pushed open the door and moved outside. Saunders strained to see where each took up position. A broken farm wagon stood on end another fifty feet away. Saunders turned to see Caje studying it. "I think that's our best bet." Although he couldn't see the rest of the squad moving up through the grass, Saunders could feel them. He knew they were almost in position, just as he knew Caje would move in unison with him when he made a dash for the wagon. "All right, Caje." Saunders moved out of the ditch and made a crouched run, Caje following silently. As they reached the wagon, a Schmeisser opened up, the impact of its fire blasting chips of wood off the corner of the box. Saunders' Thompson and Caje's Garand answered, and soon the other German sentry joined the firefight. From the field, Hanley bellowed, "Let's move!" and the rest of the squad rushed forward as three more Germans ran out of the barn firing. The steady staccato of Grady's BAR blared in the night, and he felled one of the enemy at the barn's door. A Schmeisser aimed at the sparks from the BAR and Saunders winced as the BAR became suddenly silent. Hanley spotted a German lieutenant outlined briefly in the lamplight from the barn and took aim, killing him with a single shot. He saw Saunders break from the wagon, running toward the back of the barn. At the same time, the silent BAR sprang back into action, and Hanley breathed a sigh of relief. The gunfire from the squad eliminated two more Germans before the blast from Saunders' grenade ended the fight. A whistle and barely discernable signal of "all clear" followed a moment of silence. The men rose from their positions, wary of the darkness. It was soon apparent that there were no more live Germans in the barn and the squad moved in, smashing the equipment inside and radioing in their own success. Grady walked up to the barn slowly, holding his side. Kirby ran to him, a concerned look on his face. "Here, Grady let me give you a hand." Kirby grabbed the BAR and helped Grady into the barn, where Saunders was soon by his side. "Let me take a look." Saunders pulled up Grady's shirt, revealing a five-inch gash across Grady's side where the bullet had grazed him. "Sit down, Grady, and I'll fix you up." As he applied sulfa powder and a bandage, Saunders checked Grady's ashen face. "Looks like we're holdin' up here for awhile, Grady. Why don't you try to get some rest?" "Now who's soundin' like my mom, Saunders?" The sergeant smiled. "Your mom's not gonna be too happy to hear about this." "Well, you better not be plannin' to tell her, cause I'm not! Besides, it was you who coulda

234 got your head blown off makin' that crazy run to the barn!" "Relax, Long. Your secret's safe with me." Littlejohn and Billy sat quietly listening to the quiet banter between Long and Saunders. "You know, Littlejohn, those two are pretty good buddies for being a private and noncom." "Yeah they are, Billy. They go way back." "You ever hear them talk about North Africa?" Littlejohn leaned forward, trying not to be overheard. "Not much, but it sounds like they fought together and Saunders was hurt bad when Grady was in trouble and Saunders tried to help him." Billy was wide-eyed. "No kiddin'?" "That's what I heard."

*****

The squad spent a chilly but uneventful night in the barn. As morning approached, Grady's eyelids began to flicker and opened slowly. The first thing he saw was the old windmill. It towered, stark and still, over the flat terrain that made up the farm field. All around was the gray fog of dawn. Grady closed his eyes tightly and opened them again, trying to clear his vision. The view remained washed in gray. In the distance was the faint outline of trees bordering the field, the blur of their silvery tops the only objects to match the windmill's height. Slowly, steadily, a dome-shaped golden light rose over the trees, brushing away the fog. As the sun rose further, displaying its full round form, it revealed the true colors of the French landscape. Grady watched, captivated by the scene. His mouth broke into a wide grin. "Grady, you're the only man I know who can wake up smiling even with a hole in your side." "Aw Kirby, you gotta appreciate the simple things in life. There's just nothin' like a sunny summer morning." "Oh brother." "How is the side, Grady?" Sergeant Saunders had been taking in the scene while checking out a map of the area. "Aw, it's nuthin', Saunders. Hardly worth wasting a bandage." "The lieutenant will be coming back soon. Everybody, grab some chow while you can. Billy, when you're done, go relieve Braddock on security." "Hey Grady, you're the morning person—how bout you scramble me up some eggs and ham while I sleep in a bit longer?" With those words, Kirby turned on his side and drew his blanket back over his head. "Sure, Kirby." Grady smiled as he stood. He grabbed a bucket of old feed left by the stall of the barn, held it over the top section of Kirby's body, and started to pour. "Here ya go—prepared just the way you like it!" "Hey!!!" Kirby threw off his blanket and jumped to his feet, particles of feed flying everywhere, as Grady broke out in guffaws. The old barn was soon filled with laughter, Littlejohn and Billy joining in. "Hey Kirby, let me know if you want seconds," bellowed Littlejohn. Kirby looked up at 6'2" Grady indignantly. "Is that any way ta treat the best ammo carrier you've ever had, ya big beanpole?" "Okay, knock it off and grab some chow like I told ya." The sergeant's voice ended the horseplay.

235 Saunders smiled to himself. He'd paired Grady and Kirby with hope that Kirby might pick up some of Grady's good habits. It had worked to an extent—Kirby had become proficient in cleaning and caring for the BAR. He'd come to know Grady's tactics for using the BAR to cover the squad. In fact, Kirby had picked up about everything Grady could teach him about tactics, but in other things, the men were always at odds.

*****

Lieutenant Hanley returned to the barn after a short recon with Caje and was soon going over a new map with Saunders. "Collins' men will be moving up here. We need to take the hill so the rest of company can come through. There's bound to be a squad of Krauts dug in somewhere up there." Hanley turned to survey the men. "How's Grady? He need to go back?" "He got a pretty good chunk of skin blown out of his side, Lieutenant, but he seems to be doin' okay." "I'm fine, Lieutenant," Grady chimed in overhearing his name. "It's just a scratch." "All right, we take off in five." The squad collected their gear and was soon moving eastward toward the hill thought to hold a German observation post. The sunny morning became dull and gray as thin clouds blanketed the sun. Quiet conversations ended as the men came closer to their destination. Hanley signaled the squad to halt at the base of the hill. He surveyed the area, disappointed to find that the only cover was provided by tall grass and brush—nothing that could stop a Kraut bullet. Saunders frowned as he arrived at the same conclusion. He pulled out his binoculars and stared up at the ruins of the house on top of the hill. The shards of the building jutted out of the earth like matchsticks. If he hadn't been told this had been a farmhouse, it may not have occurred to him. There was no discernable movement. "You see anything?" Lieutenant Hanley was surveying the hill with his own binoculars. "Nothin'. We're not gonna be able to see much without getting closer." "Looks like there's a pile of brush just to the south of the house. Have Grady take the BAR up there so he can cover us. Then we'll spread out and move up the hill." Saunders frowned. "Yessir." The sergeant walked over to Grady with the order. "Ya see anything up there?" "No, not a thing. The lieutenant wants you to work your way up to the brush pile south of the barn and cover us. Here, take a look." Saunders handed the BAR man his binoculars. Grady scanned the top of the hill. "Got it." Saunders put his hand on Grady's shoulder and looked at his wounded side. "You sure you're up to this?" "Don't worry, Saunders. I won't do anything you wouldn't do—or is that what you're worried about?" Grady grinned. Saunders smirked. "I just don't want you to get your head blown off, Long. Your mom would never forgive me." "It's not getting my head blown off that I worry about. It's those danged mines and what they can do to the family jewels that concerns me." A wide grin appeared on Saunders' face as he slapped Grady's back. "Take off." The squad watched as Grady made his way slowly up to the brush pile. Hanley then signaled the rest of the men to move out. Each moved forward, weapons at ready and eyes toward the hilltop.

*****

236 Grady studied the remains of the farmhouse. He initially saw no signs of Germans and began to relax slightly, when he heard the clicking of a weapon being loaded. He straightened, straining to see over the rubble without exposing himself. Another sound—a muffled voice, and then the top of a German helmet could be seen above a section of battered wall. Grady decided he needed a closer look and wormed his way slowly toward the farmhouse ruins. As he approached a pile of rubble, he decided he had enough cover to sit up slightly and take another look. It was then that he spotted the machine gun with two Germans manning it. Oh shit! Grady looked back down the hill and could see Saunders and the squad moving slowly forward. Within moments, the German machine gunners spotted the Americans and began firing. Grady hesitated for a moment before shaking off his fear and rising to his feet. BAR in hand, he ran forward, firing into the machine gun nest. The Germans' momentary hesitation cost them their lives, but not before one managed to start swinging the gun toward the BAR man. The momentum of the gun caught Grady up in its fire, and he gasped as the bullet blasted through his helmet. He took his last breath as he slammed into the earth, his helmet flying off and tumbling down the hillside toward the stunned squad. Sergeant Saunders' first instinct was to run up the hill to his friend, but one look at the helmet in Hanley's hand told him that Grady would not be going home. His mind launched into a frenzied search for a way to comprehend what had just happened. He looked up at the hilltop and began a determined march to his friend's side. As he reached the summit, he stopped to take in the scene. The two Germans were dead—one slumped over the machine gun and the other on the ground to its right. Grady's body lay twisted on its side. Saunders forced himself to look into his friend's face and turned to walk away as his stomach lurched and his eyes burned. Billy Nelson surveyed the scene and hastily ran behind a crumbling wall, losing his breakfast. Hanley mercifully pulled the blanket from his bedroll and covered Grady's body. "Braddock, bring me the radio." Hanley called in and turned to the squad standing quietly behind him. "Collins and his men are on the way. They'll take over here. We are heading back to the village." Hanley stopped and stared down at Grady's body. "Rig a stretcher. We'll take Grady back with us."

*****

The sky darkened and a steady rain began falling as the squad made its way back to the village. Littlejohn and Caje carried the litter with Grady's body. Billy walked next to Littlejohn as the big private talked to him quietly. Kirby complained about the rain seeping into his boots, but got no response. Caje watched Saunders' back as the sergeant walked listlessly forward. Hanley stopped as they reached an abandoned house next to the church in the center of town. "We'll bivouac here. Kirby and Billy, take Grady over to the church for now. Caje, come with me. We'll be back in a half hour." Saunders watched the men drop their gear to the floor and settle in. The accommodations were meager: a single bed in a room off the living area, a table and two wooden chairs in the small kitchen, a torn sofa pushed to the center of the room, already claimed by Braddock. He dropped his pack and, grabbing his rain gear, moved soundlessly out the back door. As he stepped into the pouring rain, he saw Kirby and Billy returning from the church and heading to the front door of the house. He waited for them to go inside and then proceeded to the church door. As he pushed the heavy wooden door open, he heard the ancient hinges groan. The church

237 was dark and cold; the only sound heard was the dripping of water from a leak over the front entrance. The sergeant surveyed the altar area, but found no sign of priest or nun. He turned to his right and stopped suddenly, his eyes fixed upon the sight of Grady's blanketed body lying on the floor of a small doorless room. He felt himself tremble as he moved into the room and slid his back down the wall, coming to a seated position next to Grady. After all this time, Grady. You have to go and get yourself killed. What am I gonna say to your mother? Tears welled in Saunders' eyes and he closed them to release the droplets. He recognized an agonizing fear creeping into his heart. Is this how I'll end up? Some buddy staring at my body, blown to bits, wondering what to tell my mother? He rubbed his face with his hands, shaking off the thought, refusing to allow the fear to take over. Grady saved us all by taking out that gun. Saunders' mind wandered through the years of knowing Grady Long, reliving moments from basic training, walking through the deserts of North Africa, fighting in the hedgerows, and always back to the easy conversation and laughter that was Grady. A profound sadness engulfed him as he realized how much he would miss his friend. With it came a silent decision, a new cautiousness with his men that would follow Saunders through the remainder of his service. "Saunders?" A deep baritone voice spoke his name and it echoed gently off the walls of the empty church. The sergeant looked up to see Hanley standing there, water dripping off his rain jacket onto the stone floor. "We have a grave dug for Grady out in the churchyard. We're going to bury him here, until Graves and Registration catches up." Saunders nodded and stood slowly. He moved to lift Grady's shoulders, as Hanley lifted his legs. The two soldiers carried the BAR man out into the rain and, with the squad, buried him under a statue in the churchyard. Caje had been given a plain cross by the town undertaker when he and Hanley had gone into the village to obtain permission to put Grady in the churchyard temporarily. He placed it on Grady's grave, crossing himself and whispering a silent prayer. "He'll be all right here for now," Hanley said to his sergeant. "Yessir." The men silently moved away and left Saunders alone in the rain. He pulled his collar together against the cold, the rain, and the sadness. Saunders took one last look at the solitary cross before turning to join his squad. Good-bye, Grady.

end

238 WORKING TOGETHER

By Mel

This was originally started as a response to Doc II's and my challenge to write a story where Doc is the one carried on the stretcher for a change. I lost the story for six months or so before finding it and getting it finished. Better late than never, I suppose.

239 The noise of the engine, the sounds of the vehicles climbing the winding road ahead and the whistling of the late summer wind almost drowned out the irritating notes coming from a lone jeep trailing a convoy of Army supplies. Almost. "Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me, anyone else but me, anyone else but me. No, no, no... don't sit under the—" "Kirby, you couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. Which Andrews sister are you supposed to be, anyway?" "Shut up, Littlejohn. You've done nothing but gripe since we left the village." "I had hot showers, hot chow, and a real bed. Now I'm on my way to patrols, the hard ground, rations, and a cold shower if I'm lucky. What's to gripe about?" "Aw, quit yer complainin' and just be glad we had eight days of the easy life." Not quite sure he was hearing what he was hearing, Doc leaned forward from his place in the back of the jeep to question the soldier in the passenger seat. "Am I dreamin', Billy? I could swear Kirby and Littlejohn switched personalities." Laughing, Billy cast a sly smile at Littlejohn then turned to shout to the medic sitting behind him, the wind from the open jeep trying to whip the words away. "Nah, Kirby's still riding the good will from his poker win last night. That real pretty lady at the bar didn't hurt anything, either." "Just checkin'." Nudging the medic sitting beside him, Littlejohn couldn't help but smile at their teasing. "Aw, cut it out, Doc. I guess I have been bellyachin' like Kirby, though." "Hey!" Kirby's indignant squawk was heard only by Billy, as the wind and noise from the jeep prevented the two in the back from catching the word. Kirby started to turn his head to argue with Littlejohn when the rhythmic sound of the tires changed and the steering wheel began to wobble in his grip. "Ah, nuts. We got a flat, guys." "Yeah, Kirby. We noticed." As the jeep drifted over to the side of the dirt road and came to a stop, Littlejohn unfolded his long limbs with relief and climbed out. He lifted a hand to shade his eyes from the noonday sun and watched the cloud of dust from the transport vehicles as they crested the hill. "Well, we better hurry and change the tire so we can catch up to the convoy. I sure don't want to be stuck out here by ourselves." "Well, then hurry up and help me change it." With a shake of his head, Littlejohn got the spare tire while Kirby dug around for the jack and tire iron. It only took a few false starts and a minimal amount of shoving for the two to finally work together to get the jeep lifted and the lug nuts loose. Standing on the opposite side of the crippled jeep, Billy looked across to Doc, who was watching the process with an eye for any injuries. When the medic finally looked up, Billy met his gaze and grinned. "Next time, you and I change the tire. It'd get done in half the time." "Boy, you're not kidding. Wonder what makes those two argue so much?" Pulling off the flat tire and dropping it onto the dirt road beside him, kicking up a small cloud of dust, Littlejohn stood and wiped his hands on his trousers. He stepped aside to let Kirby put on the spare and frowned at his younger friend. "We're right here, Billy. We can hear everything you're saying." Sweat ran down Kirby's neck in rivulets as he struggled to lift the new tire into place. It was hot, the sun beating down on his exposed neck as he hunched over and tugged at the stubborn tire. He wished he'd thought to take off his helmet. The weight of it was giving him a headache. Grunting with the effort, he pushed and shoved on the new wheel but couldn't get it to settle into

240 place. With a growl of frustration, Kirby slapped the uncooperative rubber tire and jumped to his feet, kicking the tire iron Littlejohn had laid aside and throwing his helmet on the floor of the passenger side. "Dammit! Is somebody gonna help me with this or are we gonna sit here all day?" With a suppressed sigh, Doc dropped his helmet into the back seat. Slipping the worn strap of his medic bag off his shoulder, he laid it next to the helmet. The jacket that only served to make him that much hotter soon followed. With a jerk of his head, he gestured for Billy to help him. Nudging Littlejohn out of the way, Doc knelt next to the tire and looked at it a moment. A shadow briefly blocked the hot sun as Billy settled in beside him. "What d'ya want me to do?" "Help me lift this thing into place." Working together, the two got the new tire settled into position. Fishing around in the loose dirt of the country road, they gathered up the lug nuts and screwed them into place. Billy found the tire iron where Kirby had kicked it and tightened the lug nuts with Doc's help. Once the two were satisfied that the new tire was securely in place, Doc lowered the jack and passed it to Billy. The younger soldier put the jack and iron back where they belonged while Doc secured the torn tire where the spare had been. Rubber wasn't something to waste. Without a word, Doc went around to the side of the jeep and gathered up his discarded equipment. Kirby and Littlejohn had the good grace to appear sheepish. Littlejohn had been in a bad mood ever since they'd received their new orders that morning, and Kirby had lost his temper as usual. Once again, it had been their friends who had to step in when the two got at each other's throats. The flush on his face from the heat deepened with his embarrassment and discomfort as Littlejohn sullenly climbed back into the jeep. His knees bumped up against the back of the driver's seat and he sighed, wiping his sleeve at the sweat dripping from his chin. "You proved your point, Doc. Let's just hurry and catch up to the rest of the convoy." Feeling like a jerk, but not wanting to admit it, Kirby chose to just ignore the whole incident. Climbing in behind the wheel, he waited for the others to take their places and studiously ignored everyone. They'd have to make up the lost time and catch up to Saunders and the rest of the squad. Being stuck out in the middle of nowhere by themselves was giving him the willies. Seeing the frown on Billy's face as the young man stood by the passenger side, arms akimbo, Doc reached for his helmet and used it to nudge Billy in the arm. "Don't let it get to ya, Billy. We're all just hot and tired, and bein' cooped up in this jeep all mornin' isn't helping anything. Once we catch up to the convoy, maybe you can switch with Caje the next time we stop." Grumbling to himself, his cheerful mood sorely tested, Billy slapped his helmet on his head and climbed back into his seat. Folding his arms, he refused to look at anybody. He just focused on the splatter of mud on the windshield that looked like Abraham Lincoln if you used a bit of imagination. Doc reluctantly slid his arms through the sleeves of his jacket, loath to add another layer to the already sweat-soaked wool shirt. Plopping his helmet onto his head, he sighed audibly at the instant increase in temperature. He picked up the medical bag and decided to just hold it in his lap and give his neck a break from the chafing strap. Climbing into his spot in the back, the medic sighed once more. It was going to be such a long day. "I'm in, Kirby." The words were barely out of his mouth when Kirby threw the gearshift into first and hit the gas. The jeep lurched forward like a horse from the starting gate and they were off. Slapping his hand on top of his helmet, Doc rolled his eyes and bit back a warning to slow down. As long as he didn't get them into an accident, a little speed would drain some of Kirby's anger. They'd only gone a couple of miles, however, when Littlejohn's tolerance hit rock bottom. "Kirby, do you think maybe you could slow down a little before you get us all killed?" "You want us to catch up to the convoy or not? How 'bout you let me drive, huh?"

241 "How 'bout you pull over and let me drive before you wreck this thing?" Practically turning around in his seat, Kirby shot the big private a glare and pointed with one hand while keeping a grip on the wheel with the other. "How 'bout I pull over and shove my foot up your—?" The jeep began to drift to the side and Billy let out a yelp of surprise, leaning to his left and stretching out his hand to grab the wheel. "Kirby, watch what you're doing for cryin' out loud!" There was a loud pop and before he could process the noise, a second followed. The wheel jerked in both soldiers' grasps as the right front tire blew. Three hands fought with each other and overcompensated, sending the jeep careening to the left. Littlejohn shouted something unintelligible and leaned forward, reaching out his own hand. Someone jerked the wheel, nobody could ever be sure just who, and the jeep lost its fight with gravity. Everything happened so fast that Billy couldn't seem to process anything. It all became a jumble of loud noise, bruising impact with the edge of the roadway, and a kaleidoscopic tumble down a ravine. How he managed to keep his M-1, he'd never know. His journey ended in a bush near the bottom of the ravine where he stayed for several minutes, gasping for air and trying to figure out what had just happened. All he could hear was the shifting of dirt and rocks as the debris continued to slide down the embankment in the wake of his tumble, the pulse pounding in his ears, and the ticking and popping coming from the now-dead engine of the jeep on the roadway above him. Taking another precious minute to take inventory of his body, Billy was pretty sure he hadn't broken anything. Everything hurt, but still functioned. Taking a deep breath, he sat up slowly and painfully and looked around for the others. A low moan a little above and to the right let him know where to find Littlejohn. Making sure he had his M-1, he scrambled to his feet and made a limping run to crouch in the weeds next to his friend. "Hey Littlejohn, you okay?" Groaning, Littlejohn tried to right himself so he no longer had his feet pointing uphill. Once he got turned around, he let gravity and Billy help him into a sitting position. Taking inventory of the aches and pains, one pain in particular was making itself known above all others. Pulling back his left sleeve, Littlejohn grimaced. The wrist was already starting to swell. "I think my wrist might be broken, but everything else seems to be okay. How 'bout you?" Wincing in sympathy, Billy shook his head. "Nah, I'm okay. Sore all right, but nothing seems broken." "I knew Kirby was gonna wreck us, the crazy goldbrick." Not really sure about his own role in the crash, Billy decided to change the subject. "We better find the others." Leaning down, he helped Littlejohn to his feet, then the two crouched and started up the loose dirt. They hadn't made much progress, when Littlejohn heard muffled swearing behind some bushes to their right. The two soldiers angled their ascent in that direction and were relieved to find Kirby. Well, Billy was relieved. Littlejohn immediately launched into a tirade as soon as they determined that Kirby was uninjured except for a few cuts and bruises and a sore knee. The two were bickering back and forth about how the accident happened, their voices rising in increments. But those popping sounds were going 'round and 'round in Billy's head, until he finally thought he knew the source. "Littlejohn, I ain't so sure it was Kirby that caused that. Though driving that fast didn't help. I think somebody shot at us. One must've hit a tire." Looking at his younger friend with wide eyes, Littlejohn stopped his shouting. "Are you

242 sure?" "It's what it sounded like. I think I heard two shots before we crashed." "Hah! Told you I didn't wreck us." Catching sight of Littlejohn's swollen wrist, Kirby immediately switched his tone from angry to concerned. "Hey, we should get Doc to look at that for ya." The thought seemed to come to all three at once, and they stared at each other with the same look of realization. Where's Doc? With the possible threat of a sniper, Littlejohn lowered his voice and leaned closer to Billy and Kirby. "Either of you see what happened to Doc when we crashed?" Looking around for the BAR, Kirby shook his head. "I couldn't even figure out which end was up until the blood started rushing to my head, much less what happened to the rest of you guys. Anybody see my helmet?" Leaving Kirby to find his missing helmet and weapon, Billy started making his way up the side of the ravine. Littlejohn edged away from the others, angling farther to the right in the hopes of running across the missing medic. Giving up on the helmet, Kirby slid farther down the ravine in search of the BAR. Aside from having become attached to the weapon, they were going to need more than Billy's M-1 if they were to catch up to the convoy. He began to lose control of his descent and grabbed at the passing shrubbery in a desperate attempt to stop his slide. Nothing worked but the bottom of the ravine. Covering his head against the cascade of rocks and dirt that continued to rain down on him, Kirby crouched and waited for it to stop. Once the worst of it had settled, he stood and ran his hands through his close-cropped hair to get rid of some of the dirt. "Great. Now I hafta climb all the way back to the top. I shoulda ridden with the Sarge." Shading his eyes to look back up where he'd left the others, he could just make out Billy's form crawling closer to the top. He could no longer see Littlejohn because of the angle. Giving up on finding the BAR, Kirby started the slippery climb to the top, mumbling every curse word he knew. By the time he finally got there, Littlejohn had rejoined Billy and the two were belly down just below the road's edge. He couldn't help the smile that lit up his face when Littlejohn reached down to hand over the BAR. "Where'd you find it?" "Right here. Must've come out of the jeep when we rolled over and it landed just over the edge." Looking back toward the road and craning his neck, Littlejohn's voice became gruff. "We've got a problem, Kirby." Not liking the solemn look on Billy's face, Kirby slid the BAR's strap over his shoulder and sidled up between the two. Stretching to see over the lip of the road, Kirby swore. "Is he—?" "No. We saw him move just before you got up here." Tightening his grip on his M-1, Billy turned worried eyes to Kirby and Littlejohn. "Should we try to get to him?" Craning his neck a little further, Kirby sized up the situation. Not more than seven or eight feet from where they lay, the jeep was resting on the driver's side. One wheel drifted around and around in a lazy spin. Doc was lying on his back in the shade of the overturned vehicle, unmoving. Dropping back down, Kirby's mind raced. He didn't know if the medic had been hurt in the crash or shot by the sniper. The only thing that had kept Doc from tumbling down the ravine with the rest of them had been Littlejohn's M-1. The weapon had jammed itself between the back of the driver's seat and something in the back. Doc's right foot was tangled in the M-1's sling. Gripping the BAR with determination, Kirby looked over at the others. "We gotta make sure

243 he's okay." "Any ideas? You and Billy are the only ones with weapons." Well, it wasn't exactly much of a plan. "I'll check Doc out. If anyone shoots at me, see if you can tell where he's shootin' from. Then you guys go get him." "Brilliant plan, Kirby." "You got a better one, Littlejohn? If so we'd love to hear it." Jaw muscles twitching with suppressed anger, Billy scooted closer to the bickering pair and tried to keep his voice low. "Can't you two just shut up for one minute? Doc doesn't have all day for you to make up your minds." He thrust his M-1 into Littlejohn's hands and hitched himself a little higher on the incline. "I'll check on Doc and you two go after the sniper. Kirby has the firepower and with your wrist hurt, you aren't gonna be able to pull Doc outta there." For a brief moment it looked as if Kirby was going to argue the point, but he simply wrapped both hands around the BAR and nodded his assent. "The kid's right. We have the best chance of takin' out whoever hit us. Even if you do have a bum wrist." Pressing his lips together, not at all liking the rudimentary plan, Littlejohn finally agreed. "I don't like it, but we don't have a lot of choices. Billy, give us two minutes to spread out then go for Doc." Gathering his resolve as well as his courage, Billy watched as the two sidled away from him. Littlejohn went right as Kirby slid to the left. They all stood a better chance if they fanned out and made it harder for the sniper. He mentally ticked off the seconds, bracing his hands against the dry grass and hard dirt. When he hit one-twenty, he took a deep breath and practically frog-leaped over the side. Immediately, bullets hit the dirt around the jeep as the unseen enemy fired off three quick shots. Fortunately, Doc and the jeep were close enough to the edge of the ravine that Billy had plenty of time to get to cover. Pressing himself as close to the jeep as possible, he turned his attention to Doc. He didn't like what he saw. Not at all. The medic's leg was twisted where it was caught up in the M-1's sling, forcing the knee to turn inward at a painful angle. Doc's face was pale beneath the layer of dirt he'd accumulated from the dusty drive, rivulets of sweat making dark trails down the sides of his face before dripping onto the road beneath him. His right hand pressed against his side, his arm trembling slightly from the effort. Billy felt a brief rush of fear at the amount of blood that had trickled between Doc's fingers. The medic's hitched breathing and the way he squeezed his eyes shut spoke of the amount of pain Doc was in. Laying a hand on Doc's shoulder, Billy squeezed gently. "Doc. Doc, can you hear me?" He was surprised when the medic's eyes opened, blinking a few times to see through the sweat and dirt. Doc clenched his teeth and forced himself to press harder against the wound in his side. "Billy? Littlejohn and Kirby okay?" "They're doing better than you. Are you hit anywhere else?" "Nothing else hurts so bad, 'cept my leg. Not sure." Knowing it would hurt, hating inflicting such pain on a friend, Billy nevertheless forced himself to pry Doc's hand away from his side. He gripped the sides of the hole in Doc's jacket, slippery with the medic's blood, and ripped the material so he could get a look at the damage. Wincing at the hole in Doc's side, he slid a hand underneath the medic's back to check for an exit wound. He found one. "Doc... it, uh, it doesn't look too bad."

244 Doc reached up a hand, feeling weak and clumsy, and tried to give Billy a reassuring pat on the arm. It didn't work. Letting his arm drop back down into the dirt, he swallowed convulsively. He felt dizzy and sick. "You ain't a good liar, Billy." "What do I do, Doc?" "Can you find my bag?" After digging almost frantically through what was left tumbled in and around the jeep, Billy finally came up with the medical pouch. "Got it!" Sliding back to kneel over the medic, Billy opened the flap and started to dig through the medical supplies. "What do you want outta here?" Swallowing against his stomach's desire to empty itself, his mouth feeling as if it was full of cotton, Doc blinked slowly. It was getting hard to think. "You know what to do, Billy. Sulfa. Two large bandages. One for the entrance; one for the exit. Tie 'em tight. And, if you could... uh, if you could... do somethin' 'bout my leg, I'd 'preciate it." Glancing back and forth between the twisted leg and the bloody wound, Billy tried to gather his frantic thoughts. A sudden burst of gunfire behind the jeep made him jump. Ignoring the fighting going on unseen, Billy worked to stop the bleeding. Sulfa first: his trembling fingers, slick with Doc's blood, making it difficult to tear the package. Once he'd managed to get a bandage on the entrance wound, Billy rolled the medic toward him to reach the one on his back. The movement twisted the trapped leg even more, causing Doc to moan painfully. "Hurry, Billy. Feels like m' knee is gonna rip off." Billy worked as quickly as he could until both bandages were snugly in place. Letting Doc relax onto his back, Billy leaned over to gently untangle the twisted leg from the rifle's strap. "Does anything feel broken in your leg, Doc?" Licking dry, chapped lips, Doc tried to concentrate. It was getting harder to do. "Dunno. Hurts... knee hurts pretty bad. Feel... feel the bones 'n see if anything is outta place." Wiping his hands on his trousers, Billy reached for the injured leg and hesitated. Taking a deep breath, he wrapped his hands around Doc's lower leg and pressed his thumbs against the shin. He moved upward toward the knee, feeling for any deformities in the bone. He skipped over the knee and did the same with the thigh. Far as Billy could tell, none of those bones were broken. Going back to the knee, he tried to feel for any abnormalities as gently as he could. He winced as the medic lost any color he might have had before. "Jeez, Doc, I'm sorry." "'S okay." Doc swallowed a few times then moaned softly. "Gonna... gonna be sick." Doc managed to roll himself away from Billy before losing his breakfast. Slumping back to the ground when he was done, Doc struggled to control his stomach and watched the sky spin lazily above him. "Doc, I don't think anything is broken. Your knee is so swollen, it's hard to tell." "Where's Littlejohn and Kirby?" "They went after the sniper. I don't hear any more shooting, though. Maybe they got him." "Can ya, can ya check for me? See if ya see anything?" Billy scooted over to the front end of the jeep and paused to take a deep breath. Mentally crossing his fingers, he poked his head around to take a quick look. Not seeing anything, he crawled over Doc and looked around the back. He smiled in relief when he saw Kirby sliding down the hill on the other side of the road. Littlejohn was right behind him. When the two soldiers walked boldly across the road, Billy stood and took a few steps toward them. "Did you find him?" Wiping sweat from his face, Kirby smiled grimly. "Yeah, we found him and a coupla buddies. Bastard was up a tree at the top of the hill. He ain't no more, though. A whole convoy to shoot at and those guys don't come along until we drive by." Littlejohn quickened his pace to brush past them and round the jeep. Squatting down next to Doc, he took in the pale face and bloody jacket and looked back to Billy. "How is he?"

245 Doc flopped an arm over his face to wipe away the itchy dirt and sweat and tried to laugh. "You can ask me, y'know. I ain't dead yet." Smiling at the medic's attempt at levity, Littlejohn reached for his canteen. "You aren't gonna be, either. We've got you good and broken in. Don't need to be training another new medic." He held the canteen to Doc's mouth and let him take a small sip. Too much would make him sick again. Screwing the cap back on, Littlejohn stood and joined the other two at the back of the jeep. "What do we do now?" Kirby frowned and shifted his feet, squinting up at Littlejohn. "What d'ya mean, 'what do we do'? We get Doc outta here and get him some help." "What if moving does more harm? Are you willing to risk killing him?" "He ain't gonna get any better just sittin' here." "Sarge'll come back for us when they realize we're missing." Littlejohn's face reddened with anger at Kirby's tone. "What if the Germans come lookin' for that sniper we killed?" Kirby took a belligerent step forward. "Suppose they get here first?" "Suppose the two of you just shut up for once?" Billy was losing his own patience at the constant bickering between the two soldiers. "I think we should ask Doc what he wants us to do. He'll know better than we do how serious his wounds are." All three turned and looked down at the medic, who was blinking slowly back at them. Billy squatted next to him to shield him from the glaring sun and shrugged. "So which is it, Doc? Stay or go?" "Go. Jus' put me in the shade somewhere and try to catch up to th' convoy. Come back for me." Kirby snorted and folded his arms. "Figures. Okay, we go. But we ain't leavin' Doc here." Nodding in reluctant agreement, Littlejohn shouldered his M-1. "Help me find some branches, Kirby." Doc's eyes tracked the pair as they headed out of his line of sight and he shivered. It was strange. He was burning up in the heat before the jeep wrecked. Now he was cold. He shivered again, wincing at the stab of pain it created. "Billy, can I have your jacket? I'm cold." "Sure, Doc." Shrugging out of the stifling jacket, he spread it over Doc's torso and frowned. "What's the matter?" "Just a bit shocky. 'S okay." Billy was fairly certain it wasn't okay, but he'd leave the medic to his illusions. He gathered up the scattered medical supplies and started to shove them back in the rucksack. "Hey, Doc, you want some morphine? You've got several ampoules of it in here." Such was the pain that Doc actually considered it for a moment. But they were far behind the rest of the convoy by now, possibly not yet missed, and had a long way to go. Anything could happen and likely he'd need to be as clearheaded as possible along the way. Much as he wanted the blessed relief of oblivion, Doc shook his head. "Better save it for later, Billy. Might need it more then." With a reluctant shrug, Billy put everything back in the medic's bag and closed the flap. He shifted his weight to block the sun from his wounded friend and looked up in relief when Kirby and Littlejohn returned. He didn't like Doc's pallor and wanted nothing more than to get the medic to an aid station as fast as they could. Without a word, Littlejohn and Kirby set down the long branches they'd managed to find and

246 shucked out of their jackets. Working together, they quickly fashioned a field stretcher and slid it next to Doc. Tilting his helmet back from his forehead, Littlejohn dropped to one knee and glanced anxiously at Billy. "He doin' okay?" "So far. We need to get him some real help, though. Ain't a whole lot we can do for him." Kirby squatted at the medic's feet and tried to smile reassuringly. "How's about it, Doc? You ready to get outta here?" Bracing himself for the inevitable movement, Doc tried to smile back. "Yeah, Kirby. It's about time it was me hitchin' a ride. I've carried you goldbricks often enough." "Truer words were never spoken, Doc." Grabbing hold of Doc's ankles, Kirby nodded to Billy that he was ready. Once Billy had a good grip on the medic's shoulders, the two moved him to the homemade stretcher as quickly and gently as possible. Once Doc was settled, Littlejohn stood and reached for Kirby's BAR. "I'll take the BAR, Kirby. I can't carry the stretcher with this wrist. I'm not the sharpshooter you are, but the BAR will be better than the M-1." When Kirby didn't argue the point, to Littlejohn's surprise, he shouldered both weapons and took a few steps toward the receding tracks of the convoy. When he glanced back, Billy and Kirby were lifting the stretcher and adjusting their grips. Without a word, they fell into step with Littlejohn.

*****

When the truck in front of them slowed to a crawl and then stopped, Caje leaned forward from his seat in the back of the jeep. Saunders was letting the engine idle, waiting to see if the convoy started up again while Lieutenant Hanley unfolded his map. "Why'd we stop, Lieutenant?" "You know as much as we do, Caje. I'm sure we'll get started again, soon." The Cajun couldn't help but tighten his grip on his M-1 and stare into the trees on either side of the road. He hated this kind of trapped feeling. At least he wasn't trapped in the same jeep as Doc and Billy. Looking behind them at the settling dust, Caje expected to see Kirby's vehicle coming into view behind them. Just a cloud of dirt and dust trailed down the road. No jeep. "Hey, Sarge? When did you last see Kirby?" Sergeant Saunders twisted in his seat to first cast Caje a puzzled look then to look past him at the empty dirt road. Rolling his eyes skyward, the sergeant groaned softly and turned back around. He raked his fingers through wind tangled hair and tried to decide if he should be angry or worried. Looking over at his passenger, Saunders raised an eyebrow. "Well, Lieutenant? Should we wait or go looking for them?" With a heavy sigh Lieutenant Hanley refolded his map, but didn't put it away. "Kirby was driving, am I right?" A smile quirked at the corners of Saunders' mouth. "Yessir." "And Littlejohn was riding with him?" "Yessir. A recipe for disaster if ever there was one." Saunders rubbed the side of his nose and frowned thoughtfully. "But Doc and Billy were with them. Nelson might just go along with whatever the other two get themselves into, but Doc wouldn't. It's one reason I asked him to ride in that jeep." Hanley looked back at the settling dust behind them with a sense of dread. Still, a hundred different things could've held the other jeep up. Who knew how long they'd be waiting while whatever the problem was up ahead was dealt with. They had the time to wait. He turned back around and stared through the dirty windshield at the truck in front of them then

247 unfolded the map once more. "We'll give them a little while to catch up. If they haven't caught up by the time things start moving again, we'll go back." Knowing the decision had been made, no matter that he didn't agree, Caje twisted around in his seat to watch the empty road behind them. He had a bad feeling about this.

*****

Worry for the wounded man they carried kept Billy's mind occupied. He tried to concentrate on the road. That German might not have been the only sniper set up on this long lonely stretch of nowhere. But he just couldn't keep from fretting over the medic. Doc had patched them all up at least once, with never a complaint. Bullets, shells, potato mashers... nothing seemed to matter to the man but the patient he was working on. Billy wished he could be more like him. Glancing back at Doc's pale face from his position at the medic's feet, Billy felt guilty relief that their patient seemed to have finally passed out. He just couldn't stand to see the pain on Doc's face. Turning back to stare at Littlejohn's back, Billy tried to breathe through the cloud of dust the big man's feet stirred up with every step. After an endless amount of walking, the stretcher started to jerk oddly in Billy's hands. It took a few minutes for Billy to realize it was from Kirby's increasingly awkward gait from his sore knee. A bit surprised that the goldbrick hadn't made any complaint, he slowed his own steps and forced them all to a stop. "We need to take a break, Littlejohn. I need to check on Doc." Kirby couldn't quite hide his relief at the chance to stop and rest for a moment. Laying down his end of the stretcher with a grunt of effort, the wiry BAR man limped over to sit on the grass at the edge of the road. Rubbing the stiffness from his knee, he watched as Billy fussed over the medic. "How's he doing, Billy?" The younger soldier paused in the act of adding a fresh bandage over the one on Doc's abdomen and frowned thoughtfully. "He don't look so good, Kirby, but he doesn't seem much worse than before." "That's a good thing, right?" "It's a good thing, Kirby. It's not so bad. Prob'ly didn't even hit anything important." The raspy voice of the medic brought a visible look of relief to his friends' faces. Wincing when he tried to move, Doc squinted up at Billy. "Where are we?" Scratching at the sweat-damp hair irritating his forehead, Billy raised an eyebrow at Littlejohn. "I've just been staring at Littlejohn's back for the last few miles. Littlejohn?" Turning to look up the road, Littlejohn frowned as he tried to remember the map they'd all looked at briefly before the convoy had left the village that morning. "If they get all the way to checkpoint Charlie before realizing we're missing, we've got about three or four more hours of walking. I'm hoping they realize it a lot sooner and turn around for us." Grunting his agreement, Kirby climbed to his feet and groaned softly at the pain in his knee. It felt swollen inside, but he couldn't feel any inflammation on the outside. "You got my vote on that one. I don't much care to haul Doc all the way to Charlie." Before Billy could voice the displeasure so clearly written on his face, Doc chuckled painfully. He and Kirby had an understanding. Doc understood Kirby's way of masking his feelings, and Kirby understood that Doc would keep that knowledge to himself. "'S your own fault, Kirby. I told ya to leave me. 'Sides, consider it payback for all the times I've hauled your backside outta one scrape or another." "I don't know, Doc. You weigh more than I do. I'm thinking we're even after this one." Doc squeezed his eyes shut and panted against the discomfort as Kirby and Billy once more lifted the stretcher. Gaining control of the pain, he tilted his head back and peered up at

248 Kirby's face. "Kirby, I've become more familiar with your feet than my own. No way you'll ever be even with me." Laughing, Kirby adjusted his grip on the branches of the stretcher and limped forward to match Billy's pace. "I don't know what you're complaining about. I've got nice feet. Had a gal tell me so, once." Turning back with a grimace from his position on point, Littlejohn shook his head. "I could've gone the rest of the war without ever hearing that, Kirby." Trying to resist tensing his muscles against the stretcher's movement, Doc closed his eyes and smiled. "Me too, Kirby. We could all have done without that bit of information." "You guys just don't know beauty when you see it, is all." Even Billy had to smile. He'd volunteer to fix up Kirby's feet himself if only the Sarge would come find them. His arms were beginning to burn from effort and Billy wasn't entirely sure Kirby could go on much longer.

*****

The rumble of engines rippled down the road from the front of the convoy, and Saunders reached to start his own vehicle. He turned to Hanley and shrugged. "Go on or go back, Lieutenant?" They hadn't been delayed very long, but still Hanley hesitated. If something more than a mechanical difficulty had held up the other jeep, then time was something they didn't have a whole lot of. He suddenly wished they'd turned around when Caje had first noticed the other vehicle missing. If it had been a simple mechanical difficulty, then lead-foot Kirby would've caught up by now. The lieutenant adjusted his lanky frame in his too-small seat and weighed his choices. "We go back, Saunders. If for no other reason than to give me more time to yell at Kirby for screwing up something as simple as driving a jeep." Saunders put their jeep in reverse, glancing behind him and hiding a smile. Lieutenant Hanley could bluster all he wanted, but the sergeant could tell his friend was starting to worry. His smile slipped as he caught Caje's concerned look. That didn't bode well. Turning the jeep around, Saunders pressed the gas a bit harder than necessary. The others had probably just had engine trouble or something. Still, it didn't hurt to hurry a bit. Saunders' driving echoed Caje's sense of urgency. Sitting forward and bracing against the front seats, Caje lifted his M-1 to be ready. There was no way to know what waited for them down the road, but the scout believed in being ready for whatever came.

*****

Doc had long ago closed his eyes, the movement while lying flat on his back reminding him a bit too much of the seasickness of D-Day, but he could still hear Kirby's soft grunts of pain at every other step. Gripping the sides of the makeshift stretcher, Doc opened his eyes and lifted his head. "Billy, we gotta stop." Glancing back at the medic, Billy tripped on a root and almost dropped their patient. He stumbled to a halt, forcing Kirby to stop as well. "Littlejohn, hold up. Something's wrong." At Doc's waving motion to be let down, Billy gratefully bent down to lower his end as the muscles in his back tightened and twitched. How Doc did this all the time was beyond him.

249 "What's the matter, Doc?" Eyes once again closed against a sense of vertigo, Doc waved a hand toward his head. "Kirby's hurtin'. We need to stop for a bit." Littlejohn scanned the area nervously. They were skirting the edges of the trees to avoid being completely out in the open, but still had visual contact with the road in case Sergeant Saunders came looking for them. Even this close to the road was making the spot between his shoulder blades tingle, like a target was painted there. "We can't stop here for long. It's too exposed." Kirby sank to the grass and tried to rub away some of the soreness in his ankle through the boot. "I hate to admit it, Littlejohn, but I can't go much farther." Doc flopped an arm over his eyes to shield them from the red brightness of the sun seeping through his closed lids. An idea was forming and he nudged a foot at his web belt that Billy had laid between his feet along with his medical ruck. "Use my belt and a couple of yours to make a strap. Slide the ends of the stretcher through the loops on the belts and make a harness. Littlejohn can use it to take the weight off his hands and still help carry me." Kirby tilted his head as he visualized what Doc was talking about. "Huh. That might actually work." Willing to do anything that got them moving again, Littlejohn handed the BAR back to Kirby and loosened the belt at his waist. He unhooked the canteen and bandage pouch, setting them between Doc's feet by the medical bag. He did the same with the canteens and bandage pouch on the medic's belt, then reached out his hand for Billy's. It took a little adjusting to get the belts at the right lengths, but it didn't take long before the makeshift harness was ready. Billy eyed the strap with some hesitation but shrugged and knelt at the stretcher's head as Doc instructed. The difference in height between him and Littlejohn meant one end of the stretcher would be higher than the other. Doc said it would be best if his feet were elevated as it would help with shock. Billy knew nothing from nothing when it came to medicine, so he'd take the medic's word for it. Climbing once more to his feet, Kirby slung the BAR over his shoulder and helped lift the foot of the stretcher for Littlejohn. The big man pulled the strap over his head, settling it over both shoulders and shrugging it to a comfortable position. At Littlejohn's nod, Kirby let go his side and let the full weight settle on the straps. The web belts held up with no problem. Littlejohn made a few minute adjustments and smiled at Kirby. "What d'ya know. It works." "Huh. Wonder what else they teach in medic school." "Nothing that would prepare me for patients like you, Kirby." Doc twisted a bit to ease the ache in his side and winced. The downward angle was already working for him, making things a bit less muzzy. "I'm one of a kind, Doc, and don't you forget it." Snorting a laugh, Billy gripped the branches tighter and fell into step as Kirby started out. "As if we could, with you reminding us at every turn." Kirby smiled to himself as he limped through the grass, stepping over the tree roots that threatened to trip Nelson. When he glanced behind him, his smile slipped a bit. The red stain on Doc's bandages seemed to be getting bigger. They really did need to find help, and soon. Good field medics were scarce these days and he'd just as soon they kept theirs. Doc was a confidante and friend. One who listened to him, on the rare occasions that Kirby felt like talking about himself, and never spoke a word to anyone about what they'd discussed. Steps faltering, Kirby frowned and turned to walk back to the stretcher. At Littlejohn's questioning look, he shrugged and crooked a grin. "Just occurred to me that I don't know Doc's real name." At the clinking of his dog tags, Doc blinked open his eyes and peered up at Kirby in puzzlement. "What're you doin'?" "Just satisfyin' a curiosity." Squinting to make out the small raised letters, Kirby burst into

250 laughter. "Jeez, no wonder you just answer to Doc. I think we have enough Williams in this squad already." Billy smiled at them both. "William? No kidding?" Pulling his dog tags from Kirby's grasp, the medic sighed. "We'll just stick with Doc. It's less confusing." Still chuckling quietly, Kirby walked back to point and waved his arm. They simply had to find help soon. No way was he going to let a fellow William down.

*****

Common sense overcame urgency as Saunders slowed the jeep to a more prudent speed. If the men had had to abandon their transportation for any reason, they'd more than likely be sticking to the tree line. If he was driving hell-bent for leather, he would pass them before they could see the missing men. His eyes burned from the dust and sun as he focused on the road. Still, it was the familiar sound of the BAR that had him standing on the brake. Shading his eyes with his right hand, Saunders sighed in relief as Kirby's wiry figure stepped away from the shadow of the trees. His sense of relief was short-lived when the other three came into view. A quick headcount showed it was the medic that was being carried. Caje was out of the jeep and jogging to meet the missing squad members before Saunders could say a word. Climbing out as the group approached, the sergeant helped to load the stretcher onto the back. "What the hell happened to you guys?" Kirby climbed in and moved Doc's feet to perch on the end of the stretcher. It'd be a tight fit for all of them in the jeep. "Sniper, Sarge. Shot out a tire, not to mention hitting Doc here. Jeep rolled over and here we are. We got behind when we stopped to change a flat." Hanley couldn't believe this squad's bad luck. Or good luck, either, since they always seemed to get out of their many scrapes. "How bad is Doc?" Settling Doc's feet across his own legs, Kirby shrugged. "I ain't a doctor, but I figure two holes in a guy can't be a good thing." Squishing himself into the back next to Kirby, Littlejohn propped the goldbrick's bad ankle across his knees. If he'd heard Doc mention elevating an injury once, he'd heard it a thousand times. "He was doin' okay until about ten minutes ago then he passed out on us." Hurrying everyone else into the jeep, Saunders climbed in and levered the idling engine into gear. "Squeeze in and hold onto something, we've gotta hustle to catch up to the convoy. There're a few medics and a couple of doctors in an ambulance near the front." True to his word, the sergeant pushed the loaded jeep as fast as he dared to go. He didn't want to send any of the others tumbling to the road in his haste to get Doc medical attention. Doc's pale face whenever he dared to look back spurred him onward. It was just a lousy convoy. Why his men always seemed to find trouble, he didn't know, but he wasn't about to lose one of them to something as stupid as a delay from a flat tire. Once he caught up to the rear, Saunders laid on his horn and made his way around the large trucks, aiming his way to the middle where he knew the ambulances were. Vehicles slowed as he passed and had stopped altogether by the time they reached their goal. Stopping the jeep next to the ambulance, Saunders climbed out to meet the medical officer stepping from the passenger side. "Got a wounded man, here, doc. Can you give us a hand?" The medical officer barked a few orders to the medics jumping down from the back of the

251 ambulance as he made his way to the makeshift stretcher on the back of the jeep. Lifting up one of the bandages, he raised his eyebrows but smiled reassuringly to the anxious group of GIs gathered around him. "You men did good job getting him here quickly. We'll do our best." With those words the medics worked together to move Doc to their own stretcher and slide him into the back of the ambulance. As the doors shut and the ambulance crept forward when the convoy started up again, Kirby slid his helmet off and rubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair. "You think he'll be okay, Sarge?" "I'm sure he'll be fine, Kirby. Now get in so we can get going. The sooner we get to battalion aid, the sooner we'll find out how he's doing." Without another word the rest of the squad scrambled into the jeep, shielding their faces from the dust kicked up by passing supply trucks. They'd have to take their place at the end of the line again. When the last truck passed by, Saunders pulled in behind, hoping his words to Kirby would prove true.

*****

"Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me, anyone else but me, anyone else but me. No—" "Kirby, would you put a sock in it? It's enough to wake the dead." Confused and disoriented, sure he'd been here before, Doc licked dry lips and struggled to open his eyes. "'S enough to wake me, anyway." When he'd finally managed to open his eyes and blink away the sleep crust, Doc looked up to see a ring of faces hovering over him ranging from worried to relieved to jubilant. "Where are we?" Sergeant Saunders was the first to answer as he sat back down in the battered wicker chair at the foot of Doc's cot. "Hospital at battalion. We were starting to worry about you, you've been out so long." The dryness in his throat and the cotton feeling in his head made Doc believe it. He felt like he'd been asleep for a week. "Everyone okay?" Littlejohn had a bandage around his sprained wrist and Kirby balanced beside Doc's bed on a pair of crutches. Uncharacteristically, Kirby made light of his injury. "Nothin' a few days R&R won't cure, huh Littlejohn?" "Depends on whose idea of R&R we're talkin' about, Kirby." "Well, yours is boring, so I'll just take a bit of William G. Kirby's cure for all ails." Doc resisted the urge to explore the bulky bandage on his side with difficulty. Searching for a distraction, he asked for a drink of water. Taking the glass Billy handed him with gratitude, he sipped the lukewarm liquid slowly. It was like drinking fine wine. Handing the glass back to Billy, Doc looked down his feet at Saunders and smiled. "They tell you what they did after the accident?" "Something about taking out a few Germans, building a stretcher, and walking back." With a crooked grin, Doc gestured to the two walking wounded beside him. "You woulda been proud, Sarge. Littlejohn and Kirby worked together like a well-oiled machine. After Billy set 'em straight, anyway." Saunders braced his foot on the cot and pushed his chair back to balance on two legs as he smiled. "See, boys, that's what I've told you all along. All you need is a little cooperation and ingenuity and nothing is impossible." "Except maybe getting Kirby to sing in tune." "Shut up, Littlejohn. You ain't exactly Bing Crosby, you know." Looking over at Billy, Doc smiled conspiratorially. "I think this is where we came in." Setting his chair upright with a thud, Saunders stood and grabbed Littlejohn's sleeve. "And

252 this is where we go out." The guys each said a few words of farewell and encouragement, then turned to follow Saunders out. Doc reached out and touched Billy's arm to stop him. "Thanks for what you guys did for me. You saved my life." Billy shared a glance with Littlejohn and Kirby then shrugged off the thanks. "Just returning the favor, Doc. Just returning the favor."

end

253 A Squad Moment from "The Farmer"

Noah: Back home you need a half section of land just to break even. Here that whole family of five lives off of that postage stamp. They sure cared for the soil. Saunders: You haven’t been up here long. Noah: So. Saunders: In that uniform, you fight in dirt, you sleep in it, and you eat it. But you don’t hold it in your hand that way. Land is to be taken, passed over and forgotten. (Noah wanders off to field. Doc joins him, followed by Saunders.) Saunders: Why don't you get outta the sun and sack out. We won't be here long. Doc: It's kinda bad makin' those old people leave, Sarge. Saunders: They'll be better off in town. Noah: Really? Well, now just who's to say that they don't have the right to die here on their own land, where their heart is? Or maybe you don't believe that about where the embattled farmer stood and fired the shot heard ‘round the world? Saunders: All right, farmer, you spade it, plant it, and watch it grow. When the time comes, be ready to leave it. That's the way it is. Noah: Right, right, Sarge, you said it yourself, we're just passin' through. Caje: Wanna sip, Kirby? (Holds out bottle of wine) Kirby: Hmm? Yeah, hey, look at ol' Noah go out there. Only farm we ever had was a window box about five stories up. Tried to raise some radishes one year and they looked so scroungy and little when they grew up I didn't have the heart to eat any of ‘em. Kirby: What about you Doc? Doc: Huh? Kirby: You ever have any farmin' aspirations? Doc: Oh, back in high school lab I raised some pretty good mold in a pickle jar. Caje: Oh well, watching ol' Noah out there in the hot sun sure makes my mouth dry. (Takes swallow of wine) Hey Sarge, wanna sip? Saunders: (Takes it without looking up) Where'd ya get it? Caje: I found it in a cellar that I was flushing in that last town. I'm thrifty! Kirby: Hey, all I got outta that last town was this. (Pulls flower from pocket) Ain't that a beauty? Girl leans out of her balcony and throws that down to me, and I caught it in my teeth. Hey, Sarge? Maybe I oughta go flush out her balcony, huh? Saunders: Hey, flush this out, will ya? (Hands bottle back) Caje: Well, you know, it doesn't make sense. After two weeks chasing Krauts, he's on his feet digging and digging. Kirby: Just so it ain't me. Littlejohn goes out and wanders in the dirt. Littlejohn: Feels good on the feet, nice and cool. (Littlejohn joins Noah.) Doc: They don't know anything about farming. (Joins Littlejohn and Noah) Kirby: Huh! Caje: After a week on foot, a guy can get stiff if he doesn't limber up a bit. (Heads to field) Saunders: Hey, Kirby, how about you? Kirby: Oh, Sarge, I'm strictly a city boy, just like to sit in front of the pool room and watch all those pretty girls go by....

254 JUDGE NOT

By KT (KyngTygr)

Thank you, DII, for your invaluable beta-ing powers. You always make my stories sing. You will never know how much I value your friendship.

Foreign language denoted with <>

255 "Not far, Caje," Doc encouraged. The wounded GI nodded his understanding, doing his best to keep up. When Saunders had forcefully ordered him and Caje off the field, he'd felt his heart seize and his stomach flip. He didn't even have a chance to protest, as his noncom had turned back to the fight. He and Caje were headed to the little cottage that the squad had passed earlier in the mission. Damn Krauts, damn war. Seven replacements this week, Kirby shot in the arm, Caje bleeding from a bullet to his side, and Hanley back at the CP demanding something we can't give him. Caje's arm chaffed his neck, and he struggled to stay upright with each step. His breathing came in great gasps as the weight of the wounded soldier tried to pull him down. His knees ached, and excruciating pain shot up and down his spine. I hope and pray that stupid place is up ahead. I've gotta be close, the area looks familiar. He finally spotted the cottage through the trees, closed his eyes, and sighed in relief. He sat Caje against a tree and checked the seeping bandage. "I'll be right back, Caje. I wanna make sure the coast is clear before we go charging in there. I'll change that bandage when we get settled." Caje's head bobbed up and then his chin fell to his chest. He carefully made his way to the quiet building. Of course, that didn't mean anything. He wasn't going to take any chances though, and flattened against the wall to look in the window. He moved over to the door and opened it cautiously. Moving into the sunlit room, he looked in every corner. The inside of the cottage looked like every small house that they'd come across lately. There was one large room with a fireplace on one wall, with rocking chairs and a bench surrounding it. The table was set for dinner but the surrounding chairs were shoved away like the family had left in a hurry. A hutch sat against the wall, which was bare. He pulled back a tattered curtain that hung in a doorway. There was a small bed, an end table with a hurricane lamp on it, and a chair. Satisfied that all was clear he went and got his charge. Doc brought Caje in and laid him down on the bed. He changed the bandage, gave him a shot of morphine, and helped the PFC drink from his canteen. He pulled the chair closer to the bed, removed his helmet and sat down, running his hand through his sweaty hair. He adjusted the blanket on Caje and sat back. Glancing around the tiny alcove of a room, he stretched and got comfortable. He turned his head to listen for the distant battle that raged. Worry settled like writhing snakes in his belly. He needed to be with his squad but also here with Caje. He looked at the GI who lay on the bed, pale and feverish. In the peace and quiet of the lonely little cottage, Doc's mind wandered. He felt so out of place here. This place had been owned by someone who had painstakingly built it and furnished it for their family. They were probably dead or forced out, by one side or the other. "Not fair," he muttered. Anger seethed in his very being as Caje moaned in pain. "We shouldn't be here," he said under his breath. "This is wrong." He wiped his hand over his face and shook his head. "Damn Krauts, damn war." He hated repeating himself, but that was all that he could think at the moment. He was physically tired, his head hurt, he needed a hot shower, and he was emotionally exhausted. He let his chin drop to his chest, intertwined his fingers, crossed his ankles, and fell into a light sleep. He hadn't dozed long when he heard soft voices outside. He hoped it was Sarge and the guys, but this close to the battle he wasn't sure. He put his hand on Caje's shoulder and saw that he was unconscious, no need to warn him to be quiet. Doc moved to the dirty window and looked out through the threadbare curtains. He saw two German soldiers stepping out of the tree line. The smaller one struggled to stay on his feet as

256 he half dragged his injured compatriot. The injured man had a large dark stain in his midsection, and a red medic's cross on his dangling arm. He was doing his best to relieve the pressure he was putting on his partner but was failing miserably. Doc watched the two men approach, unsure of his feelings at the moment. Should he open the door and help or should he grab Caje's M-1 and start firing? He rested his head against the wall as his heart won the battle. An injured man was an injured man no matter what clothes he wore. He sighed, stepped over to the door, and stood in the opening.

*****

The smaller soldier looked up when he heard the noise and froze. He focused on the American standing in the doorway. The wounded medic squeezed his shoulder and nodded at the man's arm. The American glanced at his bicep and touched the red cross to assure the soldier he meant him no harm. <"It will be okay,"> the wounded medic reassured him. <"He is a medic like me, he won't hurt you."> <"You don't know that,"> the young one said. <"He is an American and a blemish that needs to be erased."> <"Oh, Emeric, there is so much you need to learn."> The two men moved toward the cottage.

*****

When Doc saw them continue, he went back inside and swept his arm over the table sending plates, utensils, and cups clattering to the floor. The two soldiers stood in the doorway, the young one staring intently at the wounded man in GI garb lying on the cot. Anger crawled through the young features; he felt betrayed. <"I knew I shouldn't have trusted him,"> Emeric muttered under his breath. <"This is a trap, I just know it."> The German medic only shook his head. <"Emeric, he's no danger to us. He's wounded too."> Doc slapped the table top with his hand. The young man cast a leery gaze as his charge began to lose consciousness. Doc slapped it again for emphasis as he saw the German medic pale even more than when he'd first seen them in the courtyard. "You'd better hurry," Doc said, even though he knew the man might not understand English. When the young man didn't move from his spot in the doorway, Doc walked over and grabbed the German medic's other arm and forced the issue. He pulled the injured man away from the soldier, sat him gently on the edge of the table, and lay him back. Doc pulled the jacket away from the wound. The German medic's blood was oozing out of a hole in his right side. Doc rolled him to see if it was a through and through. No such luck. He made eye contact with the man whose pain was evident on his face. He gently palpated the area around the wound. The man bit down and hissed through his teeth. Doc went over to his rucksack and while his back was turned, he heard a round being chambered up. He straightened slowly, raising his hands, the rucksack dangling loosely. He turned and pointed at the red cross on his medical bag. The boy lowered his rifle and nodded his understanding. Doc moved over to the German medic and tore open a sulfa pack sprinkling it liberally over the wound. He pulled a bandage out and placed it over the seeping injury, pressing down. The man on the table closed his eyes and gave a small cry as the pressure was applied. "Sorry," Doc apologized. The man opened his eyes and nodded.

257 The younger man stepped to the table, dragging his rifle by the barrel. His eyes were terrified and vacant. Tears threatened. He propped the rifle against the table as the medic raised his hand. The boy took it and pulled it to his chest. <"Emeric, you are so very strong, and I am proud to call you brother, but,"> the man said, <"you are too young to be in this business of war, Emeric. Go home, grow up some more, make mother a proud grandmother."> Doc looked at the boy across from him. His face was covered with dirt, sweat, and blood. He looked like he had just come in from playing roughly outside rather than a battlefield. The uniform was a size too large and didn't fit. He must be one of the Hitler Youth that he'd heard about. He had to be about thirteen or fourteen. Doc shook his head. He'd heard that the Hitler Youth were supposed to be the epitome of the perfect soldier. It was sad to think any child had to be taught how to be the perfect soldier. He reached into his rucksack and retrieved a surette of morphine. The young boy looked at him, placing his hand on the barrel of his rifle, still unsure of his feelings toward an American soldier. "Morphine," Doc explained as he injected the medication into the injured man's thigh. <"It's okay, Emeric, he is doing the right thing for me."> The medic looked at Doc and nodded. "Danke shoen." Doc nodded back. "Bitte." He looked into the blue eyes of the medic, and then at the young boy across the table from him. The family resemblance was uncanny; these two were brothers. Caje moaned from the little room, and Doc went to check on him. <"You did well today, Emeric. Father will be so very proud of you."> <"But not good enough, Werner."> The boy lowered his head and began to sob softly. <"I didn't protect you."> <"That was not your job."> Werner's pain overwhelmed him and he groaned. Emeric knelt beside the table. <"Tell momma that I love her,"> Werner said as the pain passed. <"You tell her when you get home,"> Emeric replied, as he laid his head on Werner's shoulder. <"I do not think I will be making it home."> Werner coughed, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Emeric looked up at his elder brother. The tears that threatened earlier coursed trails through the grime on his face. "Nein," he sobbed. Werner brought his hand up and touched the back of the boy's head. "Nein," Emeric whispered and lay his head down on the shoulder, crying into it. <"You are the best brother a guy could ever have."> Werner coughed again, as the fluid began to fill his lungs. Doc moved over quickly as the familiar ‘death rattle' sounded. He felt for the carotid artery. The beat beneath his fingers was slowing to a stop, so he lowered his head and said a small silent prayer as he did for all the soldiers he treated. Emeric looked up expectantly at Doc. The American could only shake his head no. He reached up and closed the blue lifeless eyes. The boy lowered his head and cried softly into the shoulder of his older brother. "Doc! Look out!" Caje yelled from the alcove. Doc hurried over to soothe the panicked PFC. "It's okay, Caje, we're safe." He felt for the pulse in the Cajun's wrist. "Here, Caje." He pulled his canteen from his hip and removed the cap, lifting it to the wounded soldier's dry cracked lips. Caje raised his head and sipped carefully from the offered drink. Settling back to the pillow, he could only nod his appreciation. Doc heard a noise behind him and turned. The young boy had stood up, grabbed his rifle, and was coming around the table. Doc faced the young man and watched as he raised the lethal weapon up to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel.

258 "No." Doc's eyes grew wide in fear. The boy stepped closer and Doc stood up. "Nein, nicht," Doc said forcefully. <"He's the one who killed my brother!"> Emeric screamed at the medic. "I don't understand." Doc stood in front of the barrel, blocking a clear shot at Caje. The boy focused on the crazy man standing in front of his weapon. His eyes full with grief, his face tense with anger and hatred. <"I can kill you, both,"> the boy said as new tears coursed down his dirty face. What was that phrase that Brockmeyer tried to teach him? He wracked his brain, "Shprec...." Damn his fried brain. He could hear Brockmeyer speaking in his head; he closed his eyes and listened. "Shpreck-uh neekt Doytch." The boy's grip tightened on the rifle, and he rested his dirty cheek on the stock. Doc took a step closer. "Don't do this," he pleaded. <"He killed my brother."> Doc saw the trigger finger tighten and in one swift move he grabbed the barrel and pointed it toward the ceiling as it went off. He twisted the rifle from the boy's hands. He grabbed the boy around the neck and held him tight. He didn't struggle, just seemed to collapse against Doc's strong hold. He sobbed into the American's chest. Doc lowered the rifle to the ground and let the child cry, loosening his grip. Doc moved him over to a chair next to the table and sat him down. He handed him his canteen and indicated he wanted him to drink. The boy drank thirstily from the tin receptacle. "Danke," the boy said, handing back the container and running the back of his arm across his mouth. "Bitte," Doc replied, returning the canteen to his hip. <"I must go."> Emeric stood and picked the rifle up from the floor. Doc moved quickly in front of the boy, placing a hand on the weapon. Emeric shook his head and turned to leave. "I'm sorry," Doc said to the boy's back. Emeric turned and looked over his shoulder. There was a lost look in his eyes as he hesitantly raised his hand and left the little cottage. Doc found himself saying another small prayer for a boy walking back toward a battlefield he had no business being in. "Nothing but a boy," Doc whispered as he watched Emeric's back disappearing into the trees.

*****

Emeric walked toward the tree line in a state of shock. He'd witnessed the murder of his brother and he was having serious doubts about everything that he had been taught. The American medic wasn't the demon that he'd been told they were. At one point it looked as if the American had been praying. Father had said that they were wicked and evil. This one had tried to save Werner. He was so confused. The world didn't make sense any more. A noise startled him and brought him to the present. He stopped and raised his rifle. The young man that stood in front of him in an American GI's uniform didn't look much older than Werner. Both hesitated for a fraction of a second, stunned at the vision that had presented itself. "Hande hoch," Billy shouted. Emeric's finger tightened on the trigger and fired. The first bullet slammed into a tree beside the private, the second found Billy's shoulder. Nelson didn't hesitate and returned fire, hitting the boy in the ill-fitting uniform in the chest. Emeric's eyes went wide as he grabbed at his wound and fell backwards. He felt his blood gushing through the hole in his chest. <"Momma?"> he whispered. Within seconds, Billy was at Emeric's side. "Hold still," Billy comforted. "Sarge!"

259 Saunders and what remained of his squad crashed through the brush to stand over the two men. "Littlejohn, Kirby, check the perimeter, make sure it's safe," Saunders ordered. The two men nodded and left. Saunders looked toward the cottage and saw Doc standing in the doorway. He stepped into the clearing. "Doc!" he yelled, waving his arm. The medic disappeared into the cottage to get his rucksack and came running. "Sarge, he can't be much older than fourteen," Nelson commented. "He's Hitler Jugend," Brockmeyer told them. "Hitler Youth." Doc skidded to a halt at Emeric's head. The boy looked up at him, pleading with his eyes to help. Doc knelt down and ripped open the shirt, then checked for an exit wound in his back. The boy was bleeding to death and there was nothing he could do. Doc placed a hand on his shoulder. "Go find your brother," Doc whispered to him. Brockmeyer translated the sentence. The boy nodded and said, "Danke." "Bitte," Doc replied. The silence among the trees was like a chapel. Doc reached for the boy's hand and held it as Emeric's blue eyes went dim.

*****

After returning to the CP and delivering Caje to the doctors in the aid tent, Doc wandered off into the trees to be alone. He had to think. He had to be alone. It was easier to be angry at the Kra— no, the Germans. It was because of them that they were here. But he was just a boy, only on this planet thirteen or fourteen years. Not enough time to have his first beer, get a girlfriend, or get married and have children, to experience life, not enough time. It was so very unfair. His eyes stung with unshed tears. "So many...." he whispered to himself. He jumped as a hand touched his shoulder. Wiping his eyes he turned to see his sergeant standing over him. "It's okay, Doc." Saunders sat next to his medic, leaning back against the same tree. Doc nodded and stared at his outstretched legs. "He was just a boy, Sarge." "They all are, Doc." "He brought his brother to me and I couldn't save him." "You can't save them all." Saunders pulled a Lucky Strike from his pocket and lit it. "I've learned a lot of things, since I got here, Sarge, but this last lesson was an eye opener." He inhaled deeply and looked up through the leaves of the tree to the bright blue sky. "My Gramma always quoted the Bible scripture, ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.' I could never understand that phrase, but I do now." He folded his hands in his lap. "Be careful what you think. You never know what's behind the action of the other person." He shook his head, "When I saw the boy and his brother in the trees coming for the cottage, I hated him because of the uniform he wore." He dropped his chin to his chest. "I debated getting Caje's M-1 and something stopped me." He rubbed his hands on his thighs. "Sarge, that boy wanted to kill Caje because of the uniform he wore." He sighed. "I saw me in him at that moment and I didn't like what I saw." The two men sat in silence, both lost in memories best forgotten. "I'm gonna get some coffee. You comin'?" Saunders asked. "No, I need to be alone for a little while," Doc replied. "Okay." Saunders stood and tossed his cigarette. Doc nodded. Saunders patted his shoulder and walked back to camp. "Thanks, Sarge," Doc said, blinking through the dampness stinging his eyes. Saunders waved his hand in acknowledgment, but didn't look back as he walked away.

end

260 VISITOR TO HELL

By DocB

Parts of the story are drawn directly from the episode "Mail Call," for which I thank the writers of that ep. No infringement on their copyright is intended. Thanks also to JenH for her suggestion that Chris be a protagonist, not a victim of circumstances. The reference to Ernie Pyle, a wonderful reporter who was killed during the battle for Okinawa, is meant as a tribute to his skilled writing.

261 ETO

Saunders glanced out the window of the headquarters building as a jeep careened to a stop. The driver hoisted a duffle bag full of mail out and began distributing letters and packages to the rowdy soldiers gathered around him. Boisterous and bawdy comments drifted through the open window, and Saunders smiled to himself. He wondered if folks at home knew how much letters and packages from family meant to the GI's on the front line. "Horatio C. Smith...." "Yeah, that's me." "Saunders...." Saunders strolled out of the building and toward the jeep, where a thin envelope was thrust into his hands. He glanced at the familiar handwriting on the address, and thoughts of home warmed him. "Hey, my kid sister had a boy! I'm an uncle!" Caje crowed. "Ya oughta pass out some cee-gars, Caje!" Kirby chortled. "You'll have to talk to my brother-in-law about that!" the scout replied, reading the rest of the letter. Saunders tore open his envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper. It took only a few seconds to read the short message, but in those few seconds, the NCO's soul plummeted to hell. He paled and reread the message, not sure he had read it correctly the first time; but reading it twice, or ten times, or a thousand times couldn't change what it said. The sounds of playful bickering among the squad members faded and a low buzzing began in Saunders' ears. His smile was replaced by an anguished scowl. His hands shook as he tried to stuff the paper back into the envelope. Maybe he could send the letter back, pretend he'd never read it. Pretend it had never been written. "Hey, Sarge, Nelson just got a...." Caje's voice trailed off as he realized that something was wrong with Saunders. The NCO ignored him and turned away, shoulders slumped. The buzzing in Saunders' ears got louder, and he suddenly felt that he was going to collapse. He paused at a nearby tree and leaned against it for support. How much more did he have to give up to this ghastly war? How much more until he broke? Grief nearly overcame him, and he struggled to contain his emotion. Rawness marked his face. There was an edge beneath the handsome veneer.

*****

PTO

Dateline Okinawa, Japan, April 17, 1945 By Ernie Pyle, War Correspondent

Marines engaged in heavy fighting again today, pushing along the Awacha Pocket. Japanese defenders have dug in here, fighting from caves where they've concealed their heavy armament, firing from a shallow angle down into the valley. This is a mountainous terrain, with well-worn trails crisscrossing the wooded hills and ridges. Caves pit the coral walls and steep defiles. The Plum Rains have come, and the island is a sea of mud and maggots. Heavy fighting

262 for control of this southernmost island chain of Japan's prefecture has been ongoing for days. The shelling and raking fire of the enemy defenders has made removal of the dead of both sides impossible, and the entire island reeks of rotting flesh. Many of the Marines fighting here are seasoned veterans, having fought at Peleliu. They are familiar with cave warfare, but the "Old Breed" in this battle face a smarter, more numerous foe. The fighting is continuous, not stopping when the sun goes down. The Americans face tough hand-to-hand battles with numerous infiltrating Japanese soldiers who exact a heavy toll. This is a war of attrition for the Japanese, who have no hope of winning, only of delaying the inevitable. Their goal is to harry and bedevil the Americans long enough to allow the mainland of Japan to prepare for attack. General Buckner has coined the phrase "blowtorch and corkscrew" tactics to describe the methods needed for effective cave warfare. This technique is obvious to the veterans of other island campaigns against the Japanese. "Blowtorch" represents the flame throwers, and "corkscrew" represents the demolitions used in clearing the numerous caves. Tanks and riflemen have to deliver these blows at close quarters, resulting in numerous casualties among both Marine and Army personnel. Into this maelstrom of death and destruction comes a young marine with a unique story to tell. We'll call him only by his initials, Private C.S., to spare the folks back home any unnecessary anxiety. Private C.S. was in the initial wave of Marines coming ashore along the southwest coast of this coral island. He was as surprised as any of his fellow soldiers to encounter little if any resistance to the landing. "We hit the beach expecting heavy fire and artillery. Our ships and Corsairs had been pounding the island for days, softening up the Japs. We thought it had worked because no one was shooting at us when we landed. Boy, were we happy about that. Some of the men had gotten themselves into quite a state, worrying about the initial assault, wondering if they'd be killed. "It was L-Day, L for Love. How ironic. We landed on April 1, April Fools' Day. Easter Sunday. We didn't know which would prevail. It turned out to be a good day. About the last good day we've had for these past weeks." After encountering little resistance, the Marines soon controlled the main airfields on the island. They continued north and covered fifty-five miles in twelve days, without losing a man. Then they approached Mt. Yae Take and all hell broke loose. "We had wondered where the Japanese were, since there seemed to be no defense on the island. Then we found out why. They had dug in at Yae Take, and they let us have it good there." The steep ravines and junglelike growth of Yae Take are a defender's dream. The Marines ran into mines as they tried to penetrate the dense and tangled vegetation. It was their first real fight since hitting the island. "They tell me the battle lasted for five days. I wouldn't know, because after two days I was wounded and became lost in the jungle. It happened like this.... "Several battalions were involved. Mine was attacking from the west along with two others, and two were attacking from the east. We were protected from our own fire by the mountain in between. My last waking memory was of running through a hail of machine gun bullets, intent on reaching a wounded squad mate. I dove behind the log where the injured man had taken cover." The mortally wounded GI lay on the ground, clutching at his abdomen while bubblegum- pink loops of bowel blurped out between his fingers. His face was ashen with shock, and his eyes were dilated dark pupils encircled by wide white haloes of fear. "I had just reached into my pouch for a sulfa packet and dressing when a mortar shell screamed overhead and exploded into the swampy ground just yards from our position. I fell over the wounded man, becoming a human shield as shrapnel sang past. With one of my arms, I covered my friend's face, the other clutched at my own helmet, holding it tightly to my head." A rush of tiny sand pellets stung his back, and then a white-hot light exploded in his head,

263 flinging him backward against the log. His helmet arced through the air and landed twenty feet away, thudding into the trunk of a tree and bouncing to the ground, where it rocked slowly to a stop. A jagged hole had pierced the front of the helmet, bending sharp spears of metal inward. He lay, unconscious, against the log, unaware of the passing of time, unaware that the battle had moved beyond him, unaware that he was alone, save for the body of the man that he had tried to protect.

*****

Drip. Drip. Drip. The young GI's eyes drifted open, and he flinched as a raindrop, beaded on the end of a banana leaf, fell onto his cheek. Drip. Drip. Drip. He swatted at the annoyance, unable to focus on its source. Drip. Drip. Drip. He moaned and rolled his head from side to side, loosing a shower of droplets from the leaves of the banana tree when his forehead struck the base of the plant. Drip. Drip. Dripdripdripdrip. Shivering, he turned away from the tree, and drew his knees to his chest in the fetal position. His eyes drifted closed again.

*****

"I woke up under a banana tree and only vaguely recall the mortar attack. I must have stumbled there, away from the firing, by instinct, dazed from my head wound, but I don't remember. The sounds of battle had ceased, and I heard only the sounds of the jungle. My head was pounding, and when I tried to move, a knotted pain in my back took my breath away. I gritted my teeth and rolled onto my side. My arms shook with the effort of righting myself, and I sank back against the tree." Clotted blood clouded his vision, and pain clouded his mind. He held one hand up in front of his face and tried to count the fingers. The endeavor was too much, and his arm dropped back to his side. His head lolled on his chest until the rhythmic tapping of raindrops on his face brought him back to consciousness. He stirred and opened his eyes. A soft metallic jingling startled him, and he touched his throat, fingering the small discs there. He stared at the dog tags in his hand, eyes dull with fatigue and pain. He squinted with the effort of reading the print and deciphered part of the name, S-A-U- N-, before a blur erased all but the vague outline of the tags. They dropped back to his chest, and sweat glued them to his skin. He passed an unsteady hand over his eyes and grimaced as his fingers brushed the knot at his right eyebrow. Sticky blood was congealing on an ugly gash that ran from eyebrow to hairline. "I probed the wound gently, cautious not to start a fresh flow of red. I decided it wasn't fatal, at least not any time soon. Then I turned my attention back to my surroundings. Though my vision was still blurry, it gradually cleared as I blinked the blood and grit out of my eyes." The air was sultry, heavy with pre-shed rain. Moisture hung in shiny globes from the ends of leaves and made his skin sticky. The ground where he sat was spongy with decaying

264 vegetation, and the moldy smell of rich new earth sifted up every time he shifted position. Thick stands of jungle growth surrounded him, nearly obscuring the sky. He could tell from the position of the filtered light that the sun was near the horizon, but didn't know if it was dawn or dusk.

*****

The island is a honeycomb of hidden tunnels and pillboxes. The enemy is everywhere and nowhere. He is an unseen foe, fighting from deep within the earth, erupting from caves and tunnels to spray the unsuspecting Americans with deadly accuracy, then disappearing again into the abyss. From each cave that the GIs clear, a network of tunnels carries the escaping enemy to a dozen other jungle strongholds. Then the creatures of the underworld reappear at the Marines' backs as they move to take the next bunker. Cries of "Medic!" roll through the humidity. Most afternoons, nature joins the enemy in unleashing its own fireworks. Lightning swords, wielded by dueling clouds, slice through leaden skies. Thunder fills the void between artillery bursts. The rain comes suddenly, in cascading torrents, washing the bloody mountains clean again. Death is an occupational hazard, demystified and impersonal. Corpsmen and chaplains crawl side-by-side from dying man to dying man, the one trying to save the body, the other seeking to save the soul. Neither is more successful than the other. As day gives way to night, the counting of casualties is just beginning. "I was lost and alone in the middle of the jungle, and I didn't even remember my own name. I was scared, as scared as I've ever been in my life. I had no one else to depend on, and knew it was up to me if I survived or died. Me... and the Japs.... "That first night I felt that I was a visitor to hell. That was as close as I ever want to be to that awful place. I was cold and damp and hungry, and had only a little water in my canteen. I decided I'd better conserve that since I didn't know how long I'd be wandering around out there. "I tried to sleep, or at least to rest, but the jungle noises were strange to me. I must have dozed off, though, because I remember waking up feeling like a thousand needles were pricking me. Every inch of my body felt like it was on fire. I jumped to my feet and threw aside the banana leaf blanket that had been covering me. "By the light of the moon and the glowing stars, I could see dozens of tiny insects crawling over me, trying to make a meal of me. I frantically tried to brush them off; then in desperation, I stripped down and beat my clothes on the ground. I must have looked like a madman there in the moonlight, jumping up and down, flailing and clawing... but I finally freed myself of those creatures. "As the sun came up, I watched the giant fruit bats swooping among the trees, looking for one last morsel of food before hibernating for the day. I envied them—at least they had something to eat. I had survived the first night, lost and alone, but alive. "I wasn't sure which way to go that morning. I had no plan other than wandering through the jungle looking for our lines. I couldn't hear any bombing or shelling, and no small-arms fire, so I figured I was pretty far from the front. I started out through the dense growth, shuffling along and wondering how to mark a path so I'd know if I was going in circles." He thought if he went uphill, he could come to a crest and perhaps look across the valley to get his bearings. But the terrain was a convoluted topography of ridges, draws, and escarpments. He would no sooner climb a hill then it would drop off sharply into a valley, and he wouldn't be able to see anything because of the vegetation. He wandered for hours that first day, up and down the same draw a dozen times without realizing it. "The sun was beginning to go down again, and I was exhausted. My headache had gotten worse during the afternoon, probably from fatigue and dehydration. I managed to catch some of the rainwater in my canteen, but I was still trying to conserve what little liquid I had. "I stumbled over a tree root in the dusk and landed flat on my face. My breath was knocked out of me and I think I was dazed for a few minutes. When I came around, there was a Jap soldier

265 standing over me holding a rifle pointed at my head. He was young, and he looked as scared as I felt." The Oriental boy was a member of the Tekketsu—an Okinawan youth volunteer unit called ‘Blood and Iron for the Emperor.' "He motioned for me to get to my knees, and as I was getting up, he backed away a few steps. The sun had almost set, and the jungle was already nearly dark. I could see the whites of his eyes and knew that he would pull the trigger if I made a sudden move—that's how scared he was. Heck, I was scared, too! So I moved slowly. I didn't want to startle him into killing me. I had my hands in the air, and he moved around behind me. "That's when I knew I was a dead man. I figured he didn't want to shoot me while I was looking at him. He made a wide circle around me until he was out of my view. I held very still, with my fingers laced behind my head, just waiting for the bullet. Where would I get it? In the head? The back? I just hoped it wouldn't hurt too bad. "I thought of my brother, Chip, in the Army in France, and how he'd tried to tell me I was too young to join the Marines. I wondered if he was ever this scared, if he'd ever faced death like this. And I wondered if he would ever know what had happened to me, if my body would ever be found." But nothing happened. There was no shot, no bullet in the brain. Not even a sound. After a few minutes of kneeling, Private C.S. dared to turn his head just enough to see where the boy was. He wasn't there. He'd been so frightened at the thought of killing someone at close quarters that he had crept away. "I've gotta tell you, while I was still on my knees, I said a quick prayer right there. And I'm not ashamed to admit it."

*****

ETO

Machine gun fire erupted from the blackness, and spears of light flashed from the muzzle of the big gun. Smitty jerked back and fell as a searing pain pierced his hip. An anguished cry alerted Saunders that his point man had been hit. The Germans had hastily assembled an ambush when they realized that an American patrol had compromised their security. Now they fired point-blank at the Americans from the safety of their position behind boulders and trees, scattering the already exhausted squad. Somehow the GIs managed to drag Smitty into the shelter of a crag. "How bad is it?" Saunders asked, peering into the darkness. "I'll be okay," Smitty grunted, clutching at his side. Blood gleamed in the moonlight, glowing black against his fingers. "Caje, you take Littlejohn and Billy and circle around, try to get some grenades in. We'll cover you from here." "Right, Sarge." The lithe private began his stealthy flanking maneuver, with Billy and Littlejohn behind him. They edged through the overgrowth, keeping low to avoid detection. Saunders and Kirby, weapons blasting, fired non-stop into the German position. Suddenly the direction of machine gun fire changed, arcing toward Caje's position. "They've spotted Caje!" Saunders called. "Come on!" As he and Kirby frantically tried to draw the fire back toward themselves, Trenton cowered nearby. He hadn't lifted his rifle, hadn't fired a shot. His eyes were wide, and he seemed frozen in place. He was barely aware of Kirby's BAR clattering to the ground in front of him as the private yelped and grabbed at the fresh bullet wound in his right shoulder. Terrified, Trenton screamed, "Sarge, Kirby's been hit! Sarge!" Saunders turned and yelled, "Take him back with Smitty!"

266 The firing eased up for a moment, and Sarge crawled back into the cleft of the rock. Kirby was collapsed against the wall, clutching his shoulder, his right arm dangling uselessly at his side. Smitty lay back against the opposite wall, diaphoretic and pale in the dewy light. Saunders glanced at first one wounded man, then the other. "Trenton, take Kirby's BAR." With those terse words, he backed out of the crag and resumed firing. Kirby slapped a BAR magazine into Trenton's hand and pushed him out into the open, where he huddled next to the rock. Saunders paused long enough to look back at him. "How long have you been getting away with it, Trenton? Ever since you've been in the service? How many times have you been in combat? Or is this the first?" Trenton turned terrified eyes toward Saunders. "Oh, I know the formula," Sarge continued. "If you wanna live, you stay away from where death is, right? Every day you spend in an aid station means one less you spend in a foxhole. That's it, isn't it, Trenton?" Saunders peered into the darkness, assessing the German position. "Oh, that's right, I forgot one thing. How to get all the guys in the squad to like you. Make ‘em think you're a real nice Joe, make ‘em feel sorry for you. That's your formula for living, isn't it, Trenton?" Silence, as Trenton tried to comprehend the meaning behind Saunders' quiet words. Then, fiercely, he answered, "Nobody'll believe you. No, they won't... they won't believe you. It'll just be your word against mine. Caje and Kirby and Doc—they're all my friends. They know what you're trying to do. You've been picking on me ever since you got that Dear John letter." "Dear John letter?" Saunders' tone was deceptively mild, but Trenton was too new to the squad to know what that meant. He pressed on with his ignoble reasoning. "Yeah. Yeah, if it hadn't been for that, I'd still be safe back there at that farmhouse. But no, you just had to keep after me, didn't ya? You just don't understand. All you guys, you just don't understand. Now, how do you think I feel? One man in a million... all the rest of ‘em able to do a job and all I wanna do is run. I don't wanna be afraid." He drew a quivering breath. "I don't want to, I just am. I just am." "We're all afraid," Saunders countered. "You're not," Trenton accused. "You're not." The NCO grunted. "No, huh? Look, Trenton, there was this kid I know, he had all the guts in the world. And he's a, he's a Marine, he's in the Pacific." Saunders stopped. Then he continued in a voice barely more than a whisper, "About six months ago I got a letter from him. He told me he was scared. And he felt he could tell me this because I'm his brother. This morning I got a letter... that, uh... Dear John letter, and it told me that he was reported missing in action. I don't know if he's living or dead, I don't know. I know one thing—if he's living, he's scared."

*****

PTO

In the absence of Private C.S., the intense fighting continued. The battle became so brutal that every man who tried to ascend the mountain carried supplies, either a five-gallon can of water or a case of ammo, with him to the front line. And anyone descending the mountain had to help carry the stretchers of wounded soldiers down. "On the second day, I decided to follow the sun. If I kept going generally in a westerly

267 direction, I'd eventually come to the ocean, right? Well, the theory sounded good, but it wasn't really that easy. I was pitted against sheer rock drop-offs, sweltering heat, and plant growth so thick it was tough to see thirty yards even on a bright, sunny day." The jungle can be as much an enemy as someone with a machine gun, if you don't understand it. Soldiers become nearly claustrophobic from the thick bamboo. What might look like a hundred yards on a map might be two hundred yards down, twenty yards across a stream, and two hundred yards straight back up. The vines catch at passing feet, and if a man moves two hundred yards in two hours, he's doing good. Visibility is measured in yards, and at night in inches. Private C.S. could have been standing right next to a Jap soldier in the middle of the night and not realize it. And vice versa. Jungle clashes with the enemy are close and fast. A soldier can walk right up on the enemy and not even know it. Private C.S. has stopped his narration and wipes his brow. He is thin, pitifully so. He has subsisted on a diet of bananas and stream water for the last two weeks. His chin is sparsely stubbled with a fine pale beard—he's still too young to shave regularly. Blue eyes are sunken, but wary and sharp. His once olive drab uniform is tattered and darkly stained with old blood and crusted dirt. The private's chiseled features are drawn and leathery from exposure. The skin of his face is a deep red-brown, burned from the sun and tanned by the elements, stretched tight over prominent cheekbones. His long tapered fingers fidget with the ragged placket of his blouse, buttoning and unbuttoning as with a nervous tic. His eyes are moving, continually scanning the environs for signs of an invisible enemy.

*****

Unique to the Okinawan battlefield are numerous lyre-shaped concrete tombs built into the hillsides. The defending Japanese have turned these resting places into bunkers and strongholds, and they are as difficult to take as any of the caves. They've been well-stocked with food and water, ammunition and medical supplies. This is where our hero resumes his story. "I stumbled across what appeared to be a faint trail through the jungle one day and decided to follow it to see where it would take me. I didn't have a choice, really. It was the first sign of humans that I'd seen in several days. "So I crept along, and when I say ‘crept' I mean it—trying to be as quiet as I could since I didn't know who else might be using the trail. Anyway, I crept along for a little distance until I could see what looked like a clearing with a concrete tomb ahead of me. "I hid in the jungle along the trail and watched and waited. I wanted to see if anyone else was around. It wasn't long before I could see movement, and two Japanese soldiers appeared. They were carrying boxes, which they put into the cave, and then they left again. I continued to watch, and the same two soldiers made several more deposits of boxes and bags into the tomb. "Curious, I stayed where I was until the sun set and the jungle was dark. I could see one of the soldiers standing guard outside the cave and could smell food cooking. I didn't know how many other Japs might be in the cave, but the odor of the food was really getting to me. I'd had nothing but bananas to eat for I don't know how many days, and I was starving. The smell was almost making me crazy, but I knew I had to be quiet."

268 Starvation and fear—a terrible combination. During his days of wandering, our private endured starvation of body, mind, and soul, and fear of both the known and unknown. He overcame these horrific obstacles with his bravery at the tomb that dark night. He slipped off his boots and unlaced them, tying the laces together into a makeshift garrote. Slipping silently up behind the unsuspecting Japanese soldier, he coiled the cord tightly around the man's neck and pulled it until it bit so deeply into the skin that it was buried. Using the garrote as a noose, he dragged the man into the jungle, away from the tomb. The man's arms thrashed, and he clawed at the suffocating wrap. His rifle dropped to the jungle floor, the sound muffled by the undergrowth. The Jap's face suffused with blood, and his eyes bulged, but our hero held tight. When the man finally went limp, Private C.S. released his cord, and the man sank soundlessly to the ground. The private suppressed a shudder as he hastily fingered through the man's pockets and equipment, looking for anything that might be of use to him. Cigarette lighter and tin of American cigarettes (blessed cigarettes to be saved for later), two fragmentation grenades, and a few clips of ammo for the Arisaka rifle—Private C.S. transferred them all to his pockets. He slung the ammo belt and canteen over his shoulder, then bent to retrieve the rifle, checking to see that it was loaded. He quickly laced his boots onto his feet, and only then did he creep back toward the mouth of the tomb. Faint light filtered through the cracks of the door, and for an instant he pictured himself drawn, as a moth flicking toward an open flame, to a certain doom. He stopped at the edge of the tomb, listening, waiting, still. Voices murmured inside, and he was able to discern at least three people talking. His hand reached into a pocket and closed around one of the grenades. He felt its cool metal and ran one finger over the ridges encircling the cast-iron body. He had a choice—he could fade away into the jungle once more, alive but still starving, or he could take a chance and toss a grenade through the door, hoping to kill whoever was inside. "The grenade was a ‘pull-type' grenade that we'd seen on other islands held by the Japs. I knew to push down on the thumb-latch and unscrew the cap. I positioned myself so that I could kick in the door, pull the lanyard and toss the grenade all in one motion. I'd have only one chance, and if I messed up, I'd be a dead man. "Well, it all went smoothly. I kicked the door, bursting it on its hinges, and tossed in the grenade. I could see two or three Japanese soldiers inside before the grenade went off, and they never knew what hit them. They were surprised to see me—I must have looked like a phantom appearing out of the darkness like that. "I ducked behind the tomb and the walls absorbed the blast, but when I edged back to the door and looked inside, everything was blown to bits. There were the three dead Japs, and the pot of rice that they'd been cooking. It was overturned and spilled onto the floor. The odor of cooking was strong, but I resisted until I'd made sure the Japs were dead. Then I scooped up some of the rice and bolted it down. I didn't even care about the dirt, but I made sure there were no grenade fragments in the rice." The young private knelt in the rubble, next to the dead soldiers, and wolfed down mouthful after mouthful of rice. He swallowed quickly, without tasting what he ate. Starvation didn't allow him the luxury of savoring his fare. His thin belly bulged; his hands and face were sticky, and grains of rice clung to the front of his clothing. Caution was forgotten in his haste to take in nourishment. A trap door hidden in the floor of the tomb slid open without a whisper. A Japanese soldier crouched in the mouth of the passageway. He silently unsheathed his knife, palming it in his right hand as he slid out of the tunnel. With his left hand, he signaled back into the dark hole. Then, rising swiftly from his position, he lunged at the American, charging him with a bonzai yell. The GI jumped to his feet and whirled, tripping on one of the dead men. He tumbled backward, landing with a whoomp as the knife sliced past his shoulder. Blood snaked from a jagged gash across his upper arm. The pain was intense, but he barely felt it as the Japanese

269 soldier turned and rushed him again. He twisted away from the thrust of the second parry and came up on his knees and hands. The enemy soldier hurtled toward him once more, and the private latched onto the man's wrist and twisted as hard as he could. The soldier's momentum propelled him past the private, snapping his wrist with a loud crack. The knife clattered to the floor, landing among the detritus from the grenade blast. The two men, one thin and starving, the other stocky and well-fed, locked arms in a death struggle. They rolled over and over on the floor, and the American's hands clutched at the Japanese soldier's throat. The Jap, straddling the ragged GI, cuffed the private's arms away and smashed him in the face with a powerful left fist. Blood spurted from a split lip and broken nose, and one of the private's eyes puffed closed. Gasping and sputtering, the private wrenched his head to the side to avoid another blow, at the same time scrabbling in the debris for the knife. The Japanese soldier drew his arm back for one more strike at the rapidly fading American. The GI's fingertips brushed the handle of the knife, and he closed his hand around the rubber grip. He swung the knife in a roundhouse arc, sinking it to the hasp in the soft flesh of his opponent's axilla. The Jap's back arched, and his eyes opened wide in surprise. He slowly sank down onto the American, with the knife protruding from his side. Gurgling blood bubbled from his throat, and crimson droplets landed on Private C.S.'s face. The Jap's last breath cut across the American's bloodied cheek. Gathering the last of his strength, the GI rolled the dead weight of the soldier onto the floor. He struggled upright and shook his head to clear it. Fearing that companions of the dead soldier were lurking in the tunnel, he dragged himself toward the dark hole. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the second grenade, depressed the thumb plate, unscrewed the cap, and pulled the lanyard. Holding his arm over the tunnel entrance, he dropped the live grenade into the hole. Then he slammed the trapdoor shut over the catacomb. "The explosion was muffled, and dust sifted up through the cracks around the door. I staggered out of the cave, horrified at what had just happened. My stomach lurched, and I vomited up all the rice that I had eaten. It was mixed with blood from my facial injuries, that I'd swallowed during the fight." The tomb was an outpost for the Imperial Japanese Army. The sentries were stationed there to alert their unit of any suspicious activity, but they never got the chance. When Private C.S.'s retching subsided, he returned to the tomb and scouted it for useable items. The whole operation had taken only a few minutes from beginning to end. He must move quickly—other Japanese soldiers would be coming to investigate the blasts. He pocketed several tins of food, a few medical supplies, three grenades, and a flashlight and extra batteries. He buckled the ammo web belt around his waist and added a second canteen of water. He retrieved the rifle and started out the door, then paused and looked back. Disgust filled him and he almost vomited again when he pulled the knife from the dead soldier's chest, wiped it on the man's shirt, and sheathed it in his own boot. "I stumbled back into the jungle, trying to put a little distance between myself and the tomb. I lost the trail in the darkness, and I don't know how long I kept moving. In the end, I only stopped because my legs wouldn't carry me any further. My eye was swollen shut, and my arm ached where the knife had sliced it. I was having trouble breathing through my broken nose, and I was weak from exhaustion, hunger, and blood loss. My head hurt again." He finally collapsed, burrowing down under fallen leaves and rotted foliage. He lay on the damp ground and shivered in the cool night air, straining to hear any human sound other than his own ragged breathing. The pounding in his head gradually subsided to a dull ache, and his muscles relaxed into a restless sleep. "While I was sleeping, I got myself tangled in some vines with my thrashing. I was dreaming that I was being attacked again. I must have cried out in my sleep because I woke suddenly, sweat-soaked, with my heart pounding. I sat straight up, wild with fear."

270 *****

ETO

Saunders bolted upright on his cot with the blanket tangled around his feet. He kicked it to the floor, frantic to rid himself of the confinement. The dream had been vivid and frightening. He hadn't had much sleep since he'd received the letter of his brother's disappearance, and what little he did get was disturbed by visions of his brother's lifeless body lying unattended and ravaged in the jungle. This dream was different somehow. It had seemed almost real. His face ached, and he felt like he had been smothering in his sleep. Even now, awake and with his eyes wide open, he could picture his brother's bloodied face, feel his struggle for life. The NCO gasped and panted, straining to get air into lungs burning for oxygen. Sweat beaded on his forehead and soaked his underarms. His damp undershirt was glued to his clammy skin. Subconsciously, he dug his fingers into the canvas edge of the cot, gripping it with an intensity that frayed the fabric. He clutched at his shoulder as a searing pain knifed through the muscle. He grunted and stumbled to his feet, lurching out of the tent. The cool night air slapped at him, and he sank to his knees, breathless and shaking. "Sarge, are you all right?" Doc had sensed Saunders leaving the tent and had trailed after him, a shepherd keeping watch over one of his flock. He was worried that the night-terror wolves were circling the vulnerable man, waiting for the kill if the NCO's stoicism cracked under the emotional pain. "Doc, go back to bed." Saunders tried to control the tremor in his voice. "I will, in a minute. I need a little air." Doc had heard the story of Saunders' missing brother from a subdued Kirby in the aid tent. The news had been filtered up the chain of command, but the first link in that chain was the only one that really mattered. Lieutenant Hanley had been duly, albeit quietly, informed, and just as quietly he had "requested" that the medic stick to Saunders like flour-and-water paste. A lit cigarette appeared as if by magic in Doc's fingers, and he handed it over to Saunders. The sergeant inhaled deeply, and the panic-choked sensation gradually subsided. After half a cigarette, his shaking hands steadied and his heart stopped thudding against his rib cage. "Thanks," Saunders murmured, and despite his gruffness, he was grateful for Doc's quiet presence. He didn't want to talk, and with Doc, he knew he didn't have to. Even so, he felt the support and concern of the other man. "He'll be all right, Sarge." The medic spoke with a calm assurance. "I saw him, Doc. I felt his pain." Saunders choked out the words before he could stop himself. "He's still alive, but he's hurt. He's hurt bad, and there's nothing I can do. I'm his big brother, and there's nothing I can do." Doc gazed at the stricken features of the other man. "Well, Sarge, seems to me you've already done it." "Already done what?" Saunders glanced up, puzzled, as Doc settled himself next to the NCO on the ground. "Already done what you could to help him," Doc said. "Growing up, I mean. You taught him things. How to catch a fish. How to throw a ball. Taught him things that he needed to know to grow up. How to be a man. That's the biggest thing you taught him. How to be a man. And how to survive. Look at you, how you've survived the things that have happened to you.

271 Don't you think that you gave a little of that strength and courage to him when you were boys?" A wry grin touched Saunders' pinched features. "How to throw a ball. I remember that, Doc. I showed him how to throw a baseball, a slider with a lot of spit on it. The ball got away from him and broke a window. Our father came roaring out of the house and grabbed me by the arm, ready to kick my behind all the way around Cleveland, but Chris...." Saunders stopped and caught his breath. "I wasn't going to tell Dad that Chris threw the ball. I'm the one that showed him how, it wasn't his fault. He was so young. I wasn't going to say anything, I was just going to take the licking. But Chris grabbed my father's arm and hung on, crying and screaming for him to stop. He was sobbing that he did it. He did it...." Saunders' voice cracked. "He had more courage then than I'll ever have, Doc. If courage is what it takes to survive in the jungle, then I know he'll make it."

*****

PTO

The barrel of the rifle was unwavering, its bore an unblinking eye staring at his chest. The American's nightmare had turned to reality in the dim early morning light. In the moment that it took for Private C.S.'s brain to register what he was seeing, the owner of the rifle motioned for him to raise his hands into the air. The face behind the rifle was hard and businesslike. An orange dawn glow shimmered behind the man, like an evil nimbus surrounding his head. The lost American had been found and was now a prisoner of war. He had witnessed firsthand the atrocities committed against American POWs by the Japanese on other Pacific island battlefields. He had discovered the body of one of his squad mates in a remote cave—the man had disappeared during a battle, and his remains had been found days later, dismembered and decomposing. The GI had been tortured for what little information he had possessed, before being viciously hacked to pieces. The young private, weakened by days of starvation and wandering in the jungle and by the recent confrontation, resigned himself to his fate. He tried to lift his hands over his head, but cried out in pain as the shoulder wound opened and a fresh track of blood dripped down his arm. The adrenaline of the night before had long since worn off, and he was feeling every bruise and abrasion that he'd suffered in the fight. He grabbed his shoulder in an involuntary reflex and moaned, cradling the injured arm against his chest. "I had no strength left. I could no more lift my arms than I could find my way out of that godforsaken wilderness. I was spent. I felt that death would have been a blessing right about then. "I told him, ‘If you're going to shoot me, you might as well do it now. I don't have enough strength left to fight you.' My voice was hoarse and whispery from days of not speaking. I knew he didn't understand me, but he could tell that the stuffing had been knocked out of me. "That soldier just glared at me and motioned for me to raise my hands again. I tried, I really did, but I just couldn't do it. He stood there staring at me for what seemed an eternity. I was beat and I knew it. I couldn't hold myself up anymore, and sank back down to the ground. I was beyond caring. I would die with my eyes closed." The bolt of the Arisaka rifle gave a "chink" as it slid home, rattling the bolt cover. Private C.S. held his breath, waiting an eternity for the blast that would end his life. Instead, all he heard was a tiny "click" near his right ear. He exhaled softly as the bolt chinked and rattled again. Another eternity, another "click." He opened his eyes in time to see the distracted Japanese soldier rummaging in his cartridge belt and muttering under his breath, holding the rifle loosely in one hand. Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, the private reached for the rifle and wrenched it toward himself. The Jap, pulled off balance, tucked and rolled over the private, then

272 leapt to his feet and turned back to the fight. He sprang at the American, who was struggling to sit up. The weakened man reached for his boot as the soldier crashed into him, throwing him back to the ground. A flashing blade, clenched tightly in the private's hand, pierced upward through the soldier's abdomen and into his chest as he landed atop the private. A roar of fury erupted from the Oriental's lips, and his slanted eyes burned with the fire of hatred. He raised himself onto his knees and grasped the hand that held the knife, squeezing the wrist until the American's grip loosened. The shank of the knife quivered with each heaving breath the soldier drew. Droplets of crimson oozed around base of the hilt where it was buried in his soft belly. Mesmerized, the American lay on the ground watching each drop as it landed, spreading into an ever widening circle of death. The Japanese soldier jerked the impaling blade from his side with a vicious swipe, sending an arc of red spraying through the air. Now the blood was a geyser, bursting through the hole in the soldier's side, pumping out his life with each heartbeat. The man pressed one hand to his abdomen in a feeble attempt to stem the viscous flow, and in his hatred he lunged once more at the prostrate GI. His thrust lacked power, and the American rolled away as the soldier collapsed. A spasm wracked the Asian's body, and then he was still. The knife fell from his lifeless hand and landed in the scarlet puddle.

*****

ETO

"Dear Chris," Saunders scribbled onto a piece of stationery that he'd appropriated from Lieutenant Hanley's desk. His eyes misted and the words blurred. Dear Chris, annoying, exasperating, fun-loving Chris.... The NCO was sitting cross-legged on the ground with his Thompson leaning against his pack next to him. He wanted privacy to write this letter, possibly the last letter that he'd ever write to his brother. He picked up the worn wallet-sized picture of his family that he usually carried and caressed it with his thumb. His mother had sent the picture before Chris had enlisted, and there the boy was, a fresh-faced high school senior. Saunders wondered what his brother looked like now, wondered if he'd be able to recognize him next time they met... if they met. "Dear Chris, "I've been thinking a lot about you the last few days. Remembering how you are... were... Remembering the things we used to do together. We had so much fun growing up, didn't we? Even though we gave Mom fits. Like the time we found that garden snake in the yard, and chased Brat all through the house with it. And Mom chasing us with the broom... we were a regular parade. Brat running from us, screaming at the top of her lungs, pigtails flying, you and I with the snake, trying to catch her. Mom shooing us all out of the house with swats from that broom.... "You were a good kid, and I didn't always give you the time as an older brother that you wanted or needed. I hope you remember the times we played together, not the times I told you to go home so I could hang out with my friends. I've always respected you as a person, even more so now that you're a fellow soldier, knowing what you've been through and are probably going through. "I just wanted to tell you that I miss you... and love you... I didn't tell you that often enough growing up. Especially after Dad left. I know you were hurting, missing him; so was I. It was hard

273 to get past my own pain to be able to help you through yours...." The scribbling stopped, and the pencil poised over the paper as Saunders squeezed his eyes shut. The ache that had formed in his chest when he'd received the news of Chris' disappearance grew and threatened to choke the breath from his lungs. Thoughts of his mother and sister flashed in his mind. He wondered for an instant if it was any easier for them—they had no concept of what Chris might be going through. But no, a loss is a loss, no matter how it happens, and he knew that they were missing Chris just as badly as he was. "Ah-hem...." The hesitant voice brought Saunders back to the present, and he quickly turned the letter over as the intruder approached. "What is it, Nelson?" The sergeant's voice was gruffer than he intended, and he was relieved to see that Billy didn't seem to be offended. "Uh, Sarge, the lieutenant wants to see you in his tent." Billy scuffed at the ground with his boot. "He said to find you and bring you back, whether you wanted to come or not...." His voice faded as he saw the irritation that Saunders tried unsuccessfully to hide. "What's he want? To hold my hand?" Saunders instantly regretted the angry words. The lieutenant had been nothing but supportive, and the NCO's rancor was undeserved. "Sorry, Billy. Tell him I'll be there in a minute." "Yeah, sure, Sarge." Billy, relieved to have the message delivered, turned and loped away. Saunders kneaded his eyes, wishing for the thousand thousandth time for an end to the insanity called war. He folded the half-finished letter and stuffed it into his pack.

*****

PTO

One edge of the map had been stained by the blood of the Japanese soldier. Private C.S. held it by the corners, trying to decipher the markings. After his fight with the soldier, the GI had lain next to the lifeless body, numb and senseless, until his strength returned. When he was finally able to stand, the sun was high in the sky, and the air was heavy and still. Flies droned around the corpse, and maggots were gorging their way through its putrid flesh. The nauseating sweet odor of decay lifted from the body in a palpable wave. The American, loathe to touch the insect-riddled body, toed the stiffening form, rolling it onto its back. The heat had swollen and discolored the flesh, and the uniform was stretched taut. Touching only the jacket, the private undid the front placket and searched the pockets. His fingers brushed the folded edge of a paper in one breast pocket. He extracted it, careful not to disturb the tunneling maggots. He opened the paper and saw an outline of the island. The Japanese fortifications were clearly marked, along with what he presumed to be the recent American lines. He turned in a slow circle, searching the area for identifying landmarks, getting his bearings. The crudely drawn map showed a few hills, gun emplacements and manned caves or tombs. Dashed lines between caves seemed to indicate a tunnel system. A slow grin spread across his face. For the first time since he'd been lost, he allowed himself the luxury of hope. Long ago, when he was a small child, his older brother had taken him camping and taught him how to read a map. They would practice, even in winter when the snow lay blue and deep, and dusk cast long shadows over the frozen ground. His brother would hide some small treasure and draw a map marking its location. The older boy would give him the map and tell him how much time he had to find the "loot," then send him off on his own. Each time, the quest became

274 more difficult. He didn't know it at the time, but his brother would always follow at a discreet distance to make sure he didn't get lost. He became so proficient at the game, that soon he was the one making maps for his brother. He had never forgotten the skill and, as he stared at the Japanese map, he uttered a heartfelt thanks to his brother for providing his means of rescue. "I thought, ‘When I get home, I'm going to remember to tell my brother how he saved my life!' That gave me strength to keep moving. "When I reached the top of a hill, I looked around and found its location on the map. There were many caves and outposts between my position and the American lines, but now I had an advantage, and I was sure I could avoid any more confrontations with the Japs. "I didn't make it very far that day. I was too exhausted from the fighting and injuries. I stumbled across a cave that wasn't marked on the map, and decided the Japanese hadn't staked a claim on that one yet. It was a pretty deep cave—I followed it back for a few hundred yards and didn't see anything suspicious. I ate one of the rations that I'd stolen from the Japs the night before and drank a few swallows of the brackish water from one of the canteens, then found a relatively dry and level spot, elevated and hidden behind some rocks, where I curled up in a ball and fell immediately into a deep and refreshing sleep. "That was the first time in days that I didn't worry about being found by the Japanese, and I guess I must have let my guard down a little too much. I don't know how long I slept, but some small sound crept into my subconscious and nudged me awake." Instantly on his guard, he reached for the rifle that he'd placed next to his pack. The cave had been plunged into midnight black when the sun went down, and a chill dampness penetrated his bones. He sat tensed, with the rifle in his hands, peering into the murky darkness and listening to the silence. Shadows pressed in on him, magnifying the whisper of batwings in the hollow chamber until he felt that the creatures must be swooping all around him. He forced himself to stillness, but even his own shallow breathing became a whirlwind in his ears. Into the cacophony of silence crept a child's plaintive cry, echoing from the rock walls, washing over him in waves of terror. The cave itself might have been crying out, protesting the savagery that had beset the island. As the cry faded, seeping droplets of lime water dripping to the floor became the child's tears, dripping as though from a quivering chin. A rustle of clothing alerted him, and his head turned instinctively to the sound. A thud, a groan, and then a piercing scream coiled around him, lashing at him like a whip. Startled, he jerked upright and pressed his back to the clammy wall. The rifle, held stiffly in his aching hands, was a protective barrier against his mind demons. <"Mama, mama!"> The plea was repeated, echo meeting cry somewhere in the middle of the cave. The words were foreign, but the tone wound its way through his soul. A sharp blow silenced the cry, but the echo continued. Then a gutteral voice barking orders... a woman sobbing... rent clothing.... He could stay still no longer. Creeping from his shelter, he slipped toward the front of the cave. A pinprick of light, like a single star in a midnight sky, glowed cold as ice in the darkness ahead. A danse macabre was being performed against the cave's walls by spirits conjured up in the luminescence. "I felt like I was in some sort of ghastly play. I could see the shadows on the walls, and I knew instinctively what was happening. For the third time in less than twenty-four hours, I was

275 encountering a Japanese soldier, maybe more than one. I peered around the edge of a rock and saw the soldier on top of a woman who was clawing and fighting him. Her dress was torn, exposing her breasts and stomach. She was clutching at the edges of the fabric with one hand, and trying to fend off the soldier's advances with the other arm. "A small child stood to one side, tears flowing down his face. He was terror-stricken and frozen. An ugly welt had raised on the child's cheek where he'd been struck as he had cried out. His tiny hand held the thumb of a man who lay unconscious on the floor. The man had crumpled there, cut down as he'd tried to defend his wife against the brutality of the soldier. He was still as death; I couldn't tell if he was breathing or not." Again for the third time, the American slid the knife from his boot and clenched it in a firm grasp. He crawled from rock to rock until he was crouched behind the soldier. Reaching forward and wrapping his left arm tightly around the man's neck, he pulled the Jap backwards and into the point of the knife, which slid between posterior ribs and into the pulsing aorta. As he twisted the knife to free it from flesh, it transected the major artery, and the Japanese soldier was dead without a uttering a sound. "I dragged the dead Jap away from the woman. She was cowering and shaking and whimpering like a scolded puppy. She had her arms crossed over her breasts to cover herself and was tugging at the torn dress, trying to pull it together where it had been ripped. She was as frightened of me as she was of the dead Jap. Maybe she thought I was a ghost, appearing out of nowhere like that. Or maybe she thought I was going to attack her too. I don't know. "I went to her husband and turned him over to see if he was still alive. He had a nasty gash on his head where the soldier had smashed him with his rifle butt, but he was breathing. I went back into the cave and got my pack and canteens, and when I came back, the wife was cradling and comforting the child, crooning a little melody to him. He fell asleep in her arms. "I splashed some cool water on the husband's face, and he started sputtering and opened his eyes. When he saw me leaning over him, he tried to back away, scuttling like a crab, but there was nowhere for him to go. His wife spoke to him, said something I couldn't understand, and he sat up and looked around like he was looking for something. His wife pointed to the dead soldier and then to me and said something else." Slow comprehension replaced the terror on the man's face as his gaze flicked from the dead Japanese soldier to the American. Struggling to stand, he swayed on unsteady feet for a moment. Then, with great ceremony, he bowed deeply to the GI. When he straightened, he clutched the young soldier's hand and kissed it. Tears puddled in his dark eyes and spilled onto his pale cheeks.

*****

Black tousled hair fell across drowsy eyes as the child yawned and squirmed out from under his mother's arm. She stirred but didn't waken from her dreams of more pleasant times. A quivery snore perched on her lips and skittered away into the echoey darkness of the cave. The child, drawn toward the faint pinkness of the cave mouth, padded along the corridor toward the dawn. One grimy fist dug into his eyes, rubbing away the sleep. The American private shifted his legs and scratched absently at his calf. He'd been sitting near the cave all night, a silent vigil guarding the sleeping family. Now the first wispy fingers of pale light touched the treetops as he repositioned himself more comfortably. He pulled his knees up and propped the rifle on them, with one arm looped over the barrel. The GI turned at the sound of the scuffing feet and smiled when he saw the toddler standing at the cave entrance. "Hey, buddy," he whispered to the child. "You're awake early. Come sit with me. Sh-h-h-h! Don't wake mama-san!" The youngster stared at him with solemn eyes. He sniffled and popped one thumb into his

276 mouth. After a moment of childlike assessment, he inched forward, stopping an arm's length away from the soldier. There he squatted, still gazing at the man, and sucked furiously on the thumb. Private C.S. patted the ground next to him and the child scooted over to sit in the crook of the man's arm. He touched the rifle with a tentative finger, but the GI pulled the weapon out of his reach. "No, no, you don't want to play with that. That's too dangerous for you, although I know you've probably played with worse in your short life." The soldier sighed and looked around for a way to entertain the child. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of loose Arisaka shells, then stood them up in rows. He found a smooth pebble on the ground and showed it to the boy. "Look here, I'm going to show you how to bowl!" he declared. "Pay attention, now. This is how you do it." Holding the stone in his hand, he flicked it with his thumb as though he were using a shooter in a game of marbles. The stone rolled forward and struck the lead shell, toppling it and all the others into a heap. A tiny giggle bubbled up and popped from the child's lips, releasing the suction on his thumb. His small hand reached for the stone, and he pointed at the fallen shells. "Okay, okay, gimme a minute," the private grumbled, grinning at the child's pleasure. He repositioned the shells and the child released the stone in a gentle arc. It thudded to the ground in front of the shells, knocking them all over again. The giggle was louder this time, and the boy grabbed the stone and pointed again at the shells. "You like this game, huh?" The GI laughed. "I used to play something like it back home. Only not with bullets and stones." His face turned solemn. "Don't know if I'll ever see my home again. Don't know if you'll ever see yours again either...." The child tugged his sleeve and patted the ground, and the American reset the makeshift pins. Thoughts of home were overshadowed by the obvious delight of the boy. They played game after game, and the child laughed and crowed whenever he succeeded in knocking down all the shells. Soon the GI was on his belly, lining up his shots through one squinted eye, laughing with the boy. The woman emerged from the darkness of the cave, and the child ran to her and tugged her hand. He pulled her over to the American and pointed at the shells lined up on the ground. The GI winked at him as he placed the stone into the boy's small palm. Gravely, the child knelt, measured his shot and let the stone roll toward the shells. His mother smiled indulgently as she watched her son knock the shells over. He jumped up and down, the giggle burbling from his lips again. She spoke softly to the boy, taking his hand and trying to lead him away, but his face screwed up into a pout, and he began whimpering. The GI stood and slung the rifle onto his back. "What's wrong?" he asked. He was puzzled and concerned. Maybe he shouldn't have played with the boy. Was the child being scolded? "What's wrong?" he repeated, pointing at the boy but looking at the mother. The woman patted her stomach and motioned toward her mouth as though she were eating. "Ah, I see," the soldier said. "I think I can help." He pulled the last of his hard-won rations from his pack, opened the can and handed it to the woman. "Here, feed him this," he said. The woman tried to push his hand away, but he held her wrist and pressed the can firmly into her hand, then pointed at the boy. "It's for your son," he declared. "He needs food." Behind her, her husband stood watching. The child reached for the food, and the soldier nodded at the woman. She looked uncertain, but then the cries of her son overcame her reluctance. She glanced back at her husband standing in the door of the cave, then knelt in front of the boy and began to feed him. The man bowed low to the soldier, and Private C.S. returned the bow. With his pack on his back and the rifle slung over his shoulder, Private C.S. prepared to

277 part company with the small family. He was confident he could find the American lines. He had committed the map to memory last night while he'd been standing watch over the family. He shook hands with the father and mother, and then knelt in front of the boy. He carefully clasped the child's tiny hand between his two larger ones, then folded the boy's fingers around a rifle shell and small stone. With a light squeeze, he released the child's hand and stood, tweaking the boy on the cheek with his forefinger. As he started out of the clearing in front of the cave, the child ran behind him and clutched his leg. Reaching down, the GI gently extricated himself from the boy's grasp, then lifted the child into the air. He hugged the toddler tightly, and the boy's arms wrapped around his neck. He felt a hot tear land on his cheek. Finally, the soldier, blinking away his own tears, handed the child to his father. The small family gathered their meager belongings and started off into the jungle. The toddler continued to sob as they picked their way along an invisible path. The American, torn between his desire to return to his own lines and his thirst for friendly human companionship, stood rooted to the spot near the cave, listening to the boy's cries. As the mournful wails faded, the jungle was torn by a fierce explosion. Pain-filled shrieks rose through the morning air. "Nooo!" the American groaned. Tears blurred his vision as he pelted down the path. Fear clutched at his racing heart. He had recognized the sound of the mine detonating and knew from the child's screams that the family had been nearby when it exploded. Leafy limbs whipped his face and tore at his shaking hands, and vines clutched at his legs as he barreled through the trees. He stumbled against a root and crashed to the ground, landing on his injured shoulder and ripping it open again. Blood wetted the rotting foliage as he regained his footing. His harsh breath came in quick gasps, and he was afraid of what he would find at the site of the explosion. The shrieks had subsided, but a low keening made the trees seem alive with a spirit of malevolence. He broke out of the jungle and into a mine-made clearing, and he gazed on a scene from hell. The mine had left a deep crater yawning in the jungle floor and shrapnel had shredded foliage for yards around. Bits of gore and drops of blood clung to surrounding tree trunks and what was left of the overhanging branches. The keening surrounded him, vibrating into his ears with its plaintiff tune. The sound seemed to emanate from the edge of the clearing, from a heap of bloody rags lying at the base of a tree. The heap twitched once, twice, and was still, but the keening continued. The GI dropped to his knees beside the heap and lifted it. Underneath the broken body of his mother, the child lay with his eyes closed, moaning his threnody. A large piece of shrapnel had penetrated his abdomen, and blood seeped around the edges. His face was pale and dirty, with the recent tears still damp on his cheeks. His arms were drawn up to his chest, and his fists were clenched, one around a smooth stone, the other around a rifle shell. The soldier turned at the sound of a burbling gasp. The child's father had been tossed against another tree by the blast. One leg had been torn off mid-thigh, and blood spurted from the ghastly wound. The man moaned again, then he, too, lay silent. The spurt slowed to a trickle and then stopped. The GI returned his attention to the child. Gathering the boy into his arms, the soldier gently lifted him from under the mangled body of his mother. Blood ran from the man's shoulder, mixing with the boy's blood and dripping to the ground. His involuntary gasp of pain at lifting the toddler was a dissonant harmony to the child's lamento. The soldier lurched through the jungle, primal instinct propelling him forward. He carried his

278 tiny burden on outstretched arms, holding him at chest level as though he were offering up a sacrifice to the gods of fate, the deciders of life and death. The boy's moans surrounded the GI, swirling around him like wispy demons of pain until finally he hugged the boy to him to still the horrible sounds.

*****

The keening had tapered off hours ago, although the hollow cries still echoed in the GI's ears. The boy was limp in his arms, and the tiny hands had relaxed open. The child's prized rifle shell and stone had dropped away unnoticed during the man's flight. In his frenzy, the soldier had run himself to exhaustion, and his pace had slowed to a stumbling walk, not much more than a crawl. He forced himself on, although he had lost feeling in his legs. His feet were leaden blocks, yet he continued to drag himself onward toward the American lines. With shaking arms, he clutched the child, holding him tightly. He imagined he felt the child's hot breath on his face, thought he sensed the rise and fall of the small chest. The GI's murmurs of reassurance and groans of exhaustion grew hoarse until he could utter no sound through parched lips and seared vocal cords. His tongue felt thick and tacky and filled his mouth. His tears had dried up in sunken eye sockets, but he wouldn't allow himself to rest long enough to sip from the fetid water in the canteen that he still carried at his hip. He refused to loosen his grasp on the small body, though his hands were cramped and aching. His head swirled; dizziness nearly overwhelmed him. Incoherent thoughts jumbled and tossed in his fevered mind as jungle night crept in. The GI plodded on. He needed to get the child to a medic.

*****

ETO

Saunders grimaced as the lukewarm acid washed down his throat. What he wouldn't give for a cup of his mother's strong hot coffee, he thought as he swirled the oily brew in his tin cup. He reread the letter that he was writing to his brother, debating what to say next. The dream of the night before was still fresh in his mind, although the terror had dulled to a mild anxiety. Doc had offered him something to help him sleep, but he needed to be sharp for the upcoming patrol. Hanley had told him to sit the next one out, citing the excuse that his mind wasn't in the game, but he couldn't hang around camp doing nothing while everyone else was facing the unknown. He couldn't be a Trenton, it wasn't in his nature. He wanted to finish this letter before the squad went out again, but he was drained. The words wouldn't come. He leaned his head back against the rough wood of the outbuilding and closed his eyes. Speckles of sunlight danced in multi-hued motes, warming his skin but not his spirit. Memories of home swirled and teased, tiny vixens gently coaxing a smile from deep within him. The Brat was making cookies in the heat of summer. The door and windows stood open to let in the merest breath of a breeze, not enough to cool the kitchen, but the tempting smell of fresh baking wove its way through the mesh of the screen door. He had been fixing his bicycle and had just set it right-side up and propped it on the kickstand when his brother had come hurtling out of the kitchen door with Brat in pursuit. "Drop those!" she was yelling and waving her apron at him. "Drop them or I'm telling Mama!" Chris flew past, toppling the bicycle over onto its side. He ran in a circle around it, teasing Brat, munching a chocolate chip cookie and holding three more in the other hand. Brat was trying to catch him, but he danced around the bike, keeping her at bay until he was able to pass two of the cookies to his older brother. Then off he raced, laughing and chewing.

279 Chip quickly popped the cookies into his mouth as Brat turned back to him. "Oh, you two..." she fumed. She kicked the rear tire of bike, making it spin like a roulette wheel, and stormed back into the house, slamming the screen door behind her. Chip uprighted the bike, dusted off the seat, and called, "You can come out now!" He and Chris doubled up with laughter at their well-orchestrated thievery, and then he taught his younger brother to ride the bike, fulfilling his half of the bargain.

*****

PTO

A crescent moon hung low in the midnight sky, and a purple cow tried to jump over its tip. The cow's horn caught on the sharp point of the moon, leaving the bovine dangling in space, kicking its hooves and bellowing. A giant spoon flew through the air and landed with a clatter against an overturned tea saucer floating in the stars. The saucer cracked and the spoon fell off, tipping the moon and flinging the cow to the far horizon. A cat accompanied the shenanigans by playing a rousing chorus of "Old MacDonald's Farm" on a fiddle. The GI shook his head, trying to clear the images. Some rational part of him, exhausted and beaten, tried to break through his subconscious and reject the hallucinations, but the absurdity of his situation was overwhelming. Humpty Dumpty teetered on the edge of the cracked saucer, then dove off and landed in the bowl of the hovering spoon. "Moooo! MOOOO!" He couldn't see the cow against the sky, but the soldier knew it was there. He could hear it over the sounds of the violin. "Mooo! MOOO-ve it, Mac!" The cow's lowing became a human voice, and the soldier's unfocused gaze darted around, restlessly searching for the source of the noise. "I said, ‘Move it,' Mac! Ya wanna get shot? You almost got one in the gut just now! Lucky we recognized you for an American! Where'd ya get the kid, anyways?" A blond sergeant was barking at the disoriented soldier. The private turned toward the voice and recognition dawned in his weary eyes. "Hey, Chip," he sobbed, his voice barely above a whisper. His lips were cracked and bleeding, and his face was ashen. "Chip, I found Joey. I brought Joey home...." He slowly sank to his knees and laid the child on the ground. Then he passed out.

*****

ETO

The handwriting was smudged in some places, and the sheets of paper were wrinkled from being stuffed into Saunders' backpack. He smoothed them against his knee and wet the tip of the blunt pencil with his tongue. He stared into the distance, thinking for a moment, then began to write. "Chris, my CO just delivered a wire from the Department of the Army that says you walked out of the jungle today. I could sense that you were alive. I figured you were scared, but I knew you had the guts to make it. You always did have courage. Welcome back. You're not my little brother anymore. I'm proud to call you my brother and brother-in-arms. You're an inspiration to those who know you, and even to those who don't. I'll tell you a story about it when I see you again, and you can tell me your story when we both get home. Take care of yourself. Love, Chip." Saunders carefully folded the letter and placed it in an envelope. He licked the flap and sealed it, then addressed it to his brother's Marine Corps address. As he stood, he slid the

280 envelope into his back pocket and gave it a satisfied pat. He shouldered the Thompson and thrust his hands into his jacket pockets. Then he strolled toward the battalion aid tent, where Trenton was being treated. The private had shown a glimmer of strength last night, the smallest grain of courage in the face of his overwhelming panic. Maybe Private C.S.'s story could inspire this one soldier to grow beyond his crippling fear. It was a day for celebration.

*****

PTO

Private C.S. is back with his unit today. He survived two weeks alone in the jungle, where he faced starvation, loneliness, insects, enemy soldiers, and finally found a friend in a young native boy. As you may have surmised, the boy did not survive, but Private C.S. is improving minute by minute. He has little recall of the events of that last day and a half, and is not willing to speak of what he does remember. This reporter asked Private C.S. who Joey is, but the soldier remains mute on this point. As for Chip, well, it turns out that Chip is his brother, a sergeant in the 361st Infantry, fighting in the European Theatre of Operations. Private C.S. wants his brother and his whole family to know that he is alive and well, or as well as can be expected under the circumstances, and that he will be returning to.... (Ed. Note: This article was filed as an incomplete story. The reporter, Ernie Pyle, was killed in action today on Ie Shima at Okinawa while writing this story. The article will be run in its entirety as a tribute to his heroism under fire.)

end

281 Defining Moment – Caje

Losers Cry Deal

Caje: Where’s the Sarge?

Doc: He’s in there. (Indicates back room)

(Caje enters the room where Saunders is talking on the radio.)

Saunders: Hold it, Lieutenant, scout patrol just coming in. (To Caje) How’d you make out?

Caje: Road blocks… well guarded… dozen or so men… lot of them coming in, machine gun.

Saunders: (On radio) Lieutenant, looks like it’s gonna be rough. Krauts are dug in tight, reinforced platoon. (Listens) Yes, sir. (Replaces handset on radio base, then, to Caje) What’s wrong?

Caje: Thomas got it. He’s dead.

Saunders: You weren’t supposed to make contact.

Caje: I know that. But we had to go through an open space. Machine gun nest pinned us down, he got it saving me… I should have made Jackson go.

Saunders: Thomas volunteered, didn’t he?

Caje: I know, but out there he told me he had to.

Saunders: He had to? Why?

Caje: I don't know, but he said that Jackson knew what happened.

(They both leave room to confront Jackson)

282 FORBIDDEN ANGEL

By Cajun Puddin'

A huge thank you to everyone who was patient enough to put up with all my insecurities while I was writing this story. I'm gonna have Hanley put in for a Silver Star for each and every one of you!

283 "Man, if it gets much colder, I'll hafta throw my BAR at them," Kirby complained to anyone who would listen. He wiggled his half-frozen fingers. The harsh wind seemed to penetrate even the thick woolen gloves that Uncle Sam had been kind enough to issue. "I won't be able to pull the trigger at this rate." "Come on, Kirby, can‘t you do anything but complain? Look around you. The sky is a perfect shade of blue, the snow is covering everything like a blanket, the brisk morning air...." Caje took a deep breath, letting the fresh air fill his lungs. "Ah, you just enjoy the scenery all you want. I'll be happy when we get back to the village and I can get these wet boots off and thaw out my feet. I'm telling ya, I can't feel my toes." Caje smiled at his friend. "Knock it off, you two," hissed Sarge. "Do you want every Kraut in the area to know exactly where we are?" Caje and Kirby stopped their banter immediately. "Caje, take the point." The squad had been sent out to look for the Kraut OP that had been stalling the American advance. Moving a few yards ahead of the squad, the Cajun scout moved silently through the trees, taking cover when he came to a clearing in the woods. The sight that met him was a sharp contrast to the still, almost peaceful snow-covered ground. He carefully made his way back to Saunders, the snow drifts slowing him until he reached the road once more. Seeing the soldiers as they came around the bend, Caje signaled and the men immediately took cover. The veteran scout crawled silently to Saunders' side. "There's a Kraut patrol over the next rise. It looks like they are digging in to set up a machine gun nest." "How many?" asked Saunders. "I count at least ten, maybe more," whispered Caje, the icy wind ripping away the clouds of breath the minute he spoke. "Littlejohn, Nelson, Brockmeyer, you guys take the right. Caje, Kirby, you're on me. Now move out." The soldiers slipped into their positions surrounding the German gunners and opened fire. Within minutes, they had dispatched the unsuspecting Germans. The men of First Squad gathered around their leader.

*****

The bitter wind tore at the ragged clothes of the two figures hunched against the snow. The women didn't feel it as they made their way to the barn. Holding the door to prevent the wind access to the interior, the women struggled to close it. Their older brother lay on a bed of straw, suffering from a bullet wound. They hurried over to his side, setting out the meager supplies they had brought. Susanne began tearing up the sheet to use as bandages. Nannette broke the thin crust of ice on the pail of water and used one of the rags for Robert's fevered brow. She pulled the blanket away from Robert's injury and grimaced. The bullet wound looked worse, and there wasn't anything she could do to help. Susanne handed her another icy rag to clean the damaged area. "Can't we start a fire?" Susanne whispered. With a shake of her head, Nannette quietly replied, "No, if we start a fire, the Boche will see." She looked around the barn. "Get some more hay and pile it up around him."

284 "You need to meet up with the American GIs," Robert implored, opening his eyes which were bright with fever and weakly tugging on the sleeve of Nannette's coat. "Nannette," Susanne began, "you go. I will stay here with Robert." "No, you both need to go. They are expecting two Resistance members, and there is no one else to send." Just these few simple words were taking their toll on the wounded man, visible by the pain etched in his pale face. "But who will take care of you, Robert?" Nannette's eyes filled with tears. "Can't we send someone from the village? Benoit, perhaps?" It gave her great pause to even think of leaving her brother to go meet with the Americans. But she was loyal to her people, and they depended on her strength. "Do not worry about me; Andre will be coming back shortly and I will be fine." With a heavy sigh, she stood and gathered her thin coat around her. "Come, Susanne. The faster we meet with the Americans, the faster we can return home."

*****

The exhausted squad moved on, each step becoming a task. Last night's snow was quickly turning into today's mud, causing the weary men to labor just to put one foot in front of the other. They had only gone a short distance, when Caje saw movement in the trees to his left. He turned and signaled the rest of the men. Saunders motioned for Caje to check it out. The scout made his way silently through the snow. He moved much faster this time than earlier in the woods. The snow was only a couple of inches deep here. He saw the two young women crouching behind a large tree. When the American came into view, Nannette did a double take. It was not possible. He could have been Jean Luc's twin! Surely she was seeing a ghost, for there was no way that it could be him. Then the figure spoke, sounding much like a voice from her past, one that she would never forget. <"Do you ladies want to be shot? What are you doing here? "> She looked up at the soldier, his mouth set in a stubborn line, much like Jean Luc's. Quickly masking the surprise in her eyes, she looked at her sister, Susanne, then turned back to the American. < "I'm sorry," > Nannette replied. He slipped his M-1 strap over his shoulder and took each one by the elbow, helping them to their feet. "Hey, Sarge, look what I found hiding in the woods," Caje said as he brought the girls to his NCO. Saunders rubbed his stubbled chin in aggravation. The older of the two spoke first. "My name is Nannette, and this is my sister, Susanne." "Sarge...." Kirby began. "Don't, Kirby." The frustrated NCO turned to the women. This was all he needed. The younger one, Susanne, spoke up. "We are your contacts with the underground." The silence was so complete they could have heard a pin drop. Kirby broke the silence. "Sarge, you think that these two are for real?" "Well, if they can get us to that Kraut OP then they are," said Saunders, shaking his blond head. Turning back to the women, Saunders studied them. "Have the swallows flown south for the winter?" he asked the younger one. Susanne looked into the eyes of the man before her and answered the request for the code word. "Yes, they roost at Capistrano." Satisfied, Sarge motioned for his squad. "Move out. It will be dark soon, and I want to get a good look-see at that OP before then." The small group made their way toward their objective. Saunders thought the older one acted anxious when she was close to Caje, constantly staring at the man when the Cajun wasn't looking. He moved up to the scout's position. "Caje." He looked back over his shoulder at the

285 young woman behind him. "Yeah, Sarge?" "I think Nannette is hiding something. Stick to her like glue. I'll take point for a while." Caje nodded his understanding and stepped back. After another twenty minutes of walking, Saunders called for a rest. "All right, take five," said Saunders. Kirby used his gloved hand and swept the snow from a fallen tree so the girls would have a clear place to sit. Caje moved over to sit with them. The lean Cajun took a minute to study both girls. The older one, Nannette, was dark of hair and complexion, but it was her eyes that had him captivated. They were gold, like the color of honey, or a good brandy. The younger one, Susanne, was the complete opposite. Where her sister was dark, she was fair-skinned, with hair the color of corn silk, and the bluest eyes he had ever seen. He noticed their winter coats were patched and threadbare. Their heads were covered with woolen caps but their hands were raw and chaffed. He moved closer to Nannette. "Hello, my name is Paul, but everyone calls me Caje." She smiled timidly at the handsome soldier and blushed all the way to her roots. "May I ask you a question?" she asked in a small voice. "Sure," Caje responded. "How did a Frenchman end up in the American Army?" "Actually, I am from Louisiana, in the United States. Both sets of my grandparents are French." Caje smiled as he explained it to her. He watched the girl in front of him with great interest, and had a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. She wasn't like the girls they had met in the little towns and villages since Omaha Beach. No, there was something about this one. He just couldn't put his finger on it yet. Nannette lowered her head demurely as she felt her cheeks flush under the intensity of his gaze. Saunders watched the exchange with interest. If the girl was hiding something, he was sure that Caje could get it out of her. Standing, he slung the Thompson over his shoulder and called the squad together. Taking the map out of his jacket, he studied it for a few minutes. "How much farther is that OP?" Saunders asked the girls. "It is about seven and a half kilometers." Pointing to a location on the map, Nannette explained, "It is here, about halfway up that hill, to your left." "Our brother, Robert, is the one who found it," Susanne told him. "He told us that there is little cover, but if you were able to get two of your men on the left, there might be a chance with grenades." "All right, let's move out, and keep your eyes open and your mouths shut." The group moved on at a fairly fast clip. Saunders was sure that they had wasted too much time, and the sooner they made it to the OP, the sooner they could complete their mission. When they arrived at their objective, Saunders motioned for his men to gather around. "Sarge," Littlejohn whispered. "That's nothing but a sheepherder's shack. A good stiff wind could knock it over." Saunders nodded to the private. "We don't want to knock it over, just get rid of the occupants." Watching the small building, which was almost covered by snow drifts on one side, Saunders mentally mapped out a strategy for taking it out. "Kirby, Nelson, you two go up the right side and dig in," he whispered, even though he knew that the wind would cover their sound. If they were lucky, it would also keep the Krauts inside and give them the advantage of a sneak attack. "On my signal,

286 lay down as much cover fire as you can. Caje, Brockmeyer, you're on me. We're gonna try to get up that left flank." He looked over at the large man. "Littlejohn, keep an eye on the women. Make sure they stay here, got it?" "Yeah, Sarge, I got it," answered the big man. When Saunders was sure that Kirby and Nelson were in position, he motioned for Caje and Brockmeyer to follow him. Within minutes, he gave Kirby a signal. Upon hearing the throaty bark of the BAR and the lighter sound of Nelson's M-1, he and his other two soldiers began their painfully slow crawl up the hill. The Germans returned fire with a blinding ferocity, trying to locate the thorn in their side. The agile Cajun took the point in the trek up the hill. Upon encountering a sentry, Caje dispatched him with a quiet, but lethal slash of his knife across the unsuspecting man's jugular. Leaning over, he ran the knife across the sleeve of the dead man's jacket to wipe some of the blood off the blade, then quickly slid the weapon back into its sheath. Sarge motioned for the others to have their grenades ready. Kirby and Nelson were keeping the German soldiers busy. A sentry that had been farther out and unnoticed had returned at the sound of gunfire. Spotting the Americans, he positioned himself behind a tree and opened fire. Caje and Saunders launched themselves into a nearby ditch. Brockmeyer was not so lucky. As he ran for cover, a bullet caught him in the upper thigh. A nauseating flash of white-hot pain tore through his body. Not wanting to draw any more attention, he tried to drag his way to some shelter, and heard the Thompson open up. Taking careful aim, Caje waited for the sentry to make his move from behind the tree. When the Kraut leaned out to fire at Brockmeyer again, a single bullet from the Garand found its mark between the man's eyes. Crawling over to the wounded private, Caje waited for Sarge to draw the attention of the remaining Germans inside the OP. "Come on, I've got you." Caje struggled to drag the heavier man back to the ditch where Saunders was laying down continuous bursts of cover. When the two men were under cover, Caje ripped Brockmeyer's pants, sprinkled sulfa powder on the wound, wrapped it tightly with a bandage, and patted his shoulder. When the last Kraut had been dispatched, Saunders and Caje jumped up and headed for the building. Saunders signaled for Kirby and Billy to follow them. The two men ran up to their sergeant and scout, and the four men checked the OP for any living Germans. Once inside the structure, Saunders searched for any maps, missives, or any other papers of importance, while the other three men made sure that there were no survivors. "Can you walk?" asked the sergeant when they returned to the ditch. "Yeah, I can make it," Brockmeyer answered through clenched teeth. Caje and Saunders helped him stand, and they made the return trip down the hill to join Littlejohn and the women. As they moved down the hill, Brockmeyer began to lean on Caje, his burst of adrenaline from earlier beginning to wear off. "Kirby, rear. Nelson, point. Let's move out."

*****

The battle weary group made its way slowly back toward the little village that they called home. The few hours of sunshine that day had turned the road to a half snow/half mud slushy mess. As the they reached the outskirts of the village, they heard a low voice. "Halt," the sentry ordered. "Password." "Mary hadda little lamb," Saunders responded. The guard lowered his weapon, allowed the bone-tired men and their guests to enter the village. "Get Brockmeyer over to the aid station," Saunders said to Littlejohn and Nelson. On their way to report in, they met up with Doc and several ragged men from the girls'

287 village. Nannette recognized one in particular as Andre, the friend who was supposed to be with their brother. "Andre, why are you here?" Susanne gasped. "Is it Robert? Is he…?" "No, Robert is not dead, cheri, but I am afraid that if your brother does not get medical attention soon, it will be too late." Nannette and Susanne looked at Saunders, silently pleading for his help. "It's not up to me," he responded. "You need to ask the lieutenant." "Then take us to him," she demanded. "I will ask." Saunders shrugged his shoulders and led the way to the central command area. When they pleaded their case to Hanley, he agreed to allow two men to accompany the girls back to their wounded brother. "Caje and Doc," Hanley said. "Make it fast." "Yes sir," the two men said together. "We must hurry," Nannette said, running out of the makeshift office with her sister on her heels.

*****

As they walked along the narrow, muddy road, Caje and Nannette began to speak softly with one another. "How did your family get involved with the Maquis?" Caje asked first. "Our father was the Mayor of our little village. When the Germans came, they began to destroy our homes and imprison our people." A sad, faraway look came over Nannette's face as she recalled the invasion of her home. "Someone told the German lieutenant that Father was a collaborator. He was dragged from our home in the middle of the night." She paused a moment to gain control of her emotions. "They beat him severely all night long and then paraded him through town to humiliate him more. When they were finished, they stood him on the steps of his office and sentenced him to die. He was hanged in the town square, while my mother, Susanne, and I were forced to watch." Her tears flowed freely down her face as the painful memory played out in her mind. Caje wanted to take the young woman into his arms and make all the bad memories go away, but he knew from experience that nothing he did would ever make that happen. He shook his head angrily, as if it would dislodge the idea, but it didn't help. "They say, time heals all wounds," he whispered, moving closer to Nannette's side. Her golden eyes turned to him, and she smiled sadly. "So I have heard, but it doesn't help me now." Caje nodded understanding as they entered the courtyard of the little farmhouse. The barn was off to their right. Opening the door, Susanne led them over to her brother. Doc knelt by the wounded man and did a quick assessment of his patient. Robert was ashen in color and hot to the touch. Doc pulled back the blood-soaked bandage. The skin puckered around the entrance wound, and angry red streaks extended out away from it. He quickly set about cleaning and changing the bandage and spoke softly to the two sisters. "You did fine with what you had, but his wound is infected. He has a fever and if we don't get him to the aid station, he won't be with us much longer." Caje turned to the men from the village that had followed them, and asked for their help. Soon, a wagon appeared, filled with hay and warm blankets. They carefully loaded the injured man into the back. Doc took his place by Robert's side, turning and giving Susanne a hand up

288 next to him. Caje lifted Nannette up onto the bench and then, climbing up himself, took the reins and began their journey back to the aid station. The first part of the trip was quiet, with only the occasional groan from Robert, along with creaky wagon wheels and the jangle of the harness breaking the silence. "How's he doing, Doc?" "We need to go faster, Caje." "I'm going as fast as I can, Doc. I don't want to hurt him more." He kept his eyes on the narrow dirt road, trying to avoid jostling the injured man. Nannette broke the stillness with soft conversation. "Paul, I want to thank you and your friend for helping us." She placed a gentle hand on his arm. "I am sure that Robert would die if it were not for your kindness." Caje remained stoic while listening to the soothing lilt of her voice. For a brief moment, he forgot all about everything that had happened. If only he had met her in a different place, at a different time. He could almost picture the two of them back home in Louisiana. She was running toward him, laughing softly, calling his name. A peaceful smile spread across his face. He snapped out of his reverie. Someone was calling his name. It was Nannette. "What?" he asked, embarrassed to have been caught unaware. "Can we move any faster?" Nannette asked. Doc watched the scout, concerned about his concentration. If it had been Kirby up there with Nannette, he would have laughed it off. Kirby would try to impress the girl, and if that didn't work, he would move to the next mademoiselle. But it wasn't Kirby up there, it was Caje. Whether Doc liked it or not, he was the conscience, and more often than not, the voice of reason for the squad. Besides, what harm would there be in letting Caje have a small respite, from the chaos around him? Caje seemed more at ease than Doc had seen in a long time. He knew that if the situation were reversed, Caje would want the same thing for him. Doc checked Robert's bandage and then leaned back against the wagon side. When they were almost back to the CP, Caje saw the large crater in the middle of the road. Thankful for the flat terrain, he steered the wagon to the right of the hole, through the piled-up snow, which mercifully wasn't too deep in this area. There was no warning when the left front wheel hit the mine. Fire and shrapnel rained down on the wreckage. Nannette was thrown clear and watched in horror as the wagon overturned with her two new friends and what remained of her family. When the smoke cleared, she rushed to the overturned wagon. "Robert! Susanne!" she called. Coming to a sudden stop, she saw her beloved brother, his body bent and broken. Even without touching him, she knew it was too late—he was dead. In a daze, she stumbled over to Doc, who was sitting up, cradling his left arm with his right hand. "Nannette, I'm very sorry...." "Where's Susanne?" Doc grimaced as he moved. "She was right beside Robert in the wagon." He didn't know what happened to the younger girl. "Susanne!" she screamed. "Susanne answer me!" "I'm here," the younger girl responded from under the wagon. "I'm okay, nothing is broken and I don't think I'm bleeding anywhere." "Can you get out?" Nannette knelt down to peer under the overturned wagon. "I think so." She wiggled her way toward her sister's voice. "What about Robert?" "He's gone." Her voice cracked with emotion. "I don't think he felt anything." "Perhaps it is for the best," Susanne said. "He was in so much pain; he can rest now." Nannette helped her sister out from under the wagon. "Where's Caje?" Doc asked. "I don't know," Nannette replied, in a somber voice.

289 Nannette and Susanne began looking around. Doc stood and walked along the ditch. Caje had been thrown clear and had landed in the road. He was covered with straw and chunks of wood from the wagon. Doc ran over to him and checked him over. Blood was oozing from a wound in Caje's gut but it wasn't as bad as it looked. Nannette and Susanne joined the two men. "Is there anything we can do to help, Doc?" Nannette asked as she knelt down beside them. Doc looked at her, then down at his useless arm. "Caje has sulfa and a couple of bandages in that little pouch on his belt. Could you get them out?" She nodded and did as instructed. Doc pulled the scout's coat and shirt back to reveal the wound. "Now, sprinkle the sulfa around the wound and put the bandage on it." Caje felt the ministrations and inhaled sharply as the young woman applied the bandage. "Good, now pull the clothing back over it so it doesn't freeze." "It's not that bad, Doc," said Caje. "You let me worry about that," Doc replied, shifting and wincing as the pain raced up his arm. "Are you hurt, Doc?" "It's my arm, I think it's broken, but I'll be okay," he replied. Nannette realizing the gravity of the situation sat back heavily and began to cry. Susanne knelt down beside her, held her close, and began to cry as well. "How are we going to get you two back to your unit?" Nannette asked wiping her eyes. Someone was running up the road and startled all of them. Susanne stood and ran back to the wagon to grab the rifle that she had seen lying in the dirt. She returned to the others preparing to use a weapon that she'd been taught how to use by her now deceased brother. Kirby and Billy were the first to reach them, with Sarge and Littlejohn on their heels. "We heard the explosion, what happened?" asked Saunders. Kirby lit a cigarette and placed it on Caje's lips. The scout nodded his thanks, took a deep drag, and prepared to explain. "We were on our way back, when we came to a crater in the middle of the road. I steered to the right, missing the crater, but the wagon hit a mine. I think the horses took the brunt of the explosion." He blew out a thin stream of smoke and continued, "The wagon overturned, killing their brother Robert and wounding us. I'm okay, but I think Doc broke his arm." Several men from the women's village arrived. "Where is Robert?" the leader of the men asked. Nannette pointed to the destroyed wagon. He nodded his understanding and organized his men to take care of the carnage that sounded them. "Littlejohn, Nelson," Saunders began, "make a litter for Caje. Let's get him back. Doc, we need to stabilize that arm." The medic nodded. "I'll get a couple of sticks and get you a splint made."

*****

Littlejohn and Billy carried Caje to the aid station, while Doc walked behind them, his arm in a makeshift splint. Susanne and Nannette found a broken wall and sat down to rest. Billy brought over a couple of cups of fresh coffee. "Here's something to drink for you, sorry it's not the best, but it's all we have to offer." Susanne took a sip and made a face. Nannette shook her head no and became extremely quiet. Shrugging, Billy turned and walked away. "Where are your thoughts?" When Nannette didn't answer, Susanne turned to her. "Nannette...." Susanne was keenly aware of where her sister's mind was. A tear slid down Nannette's dirty cheek. She quickly wiped it away, smearing the dirt back toward her ear. "Ette, don't forget who you're talking to, I saw the expression on your face when we first met him."

290 Susanne looked down at the cup in her hands. "He reminds you of Jean Luc, doesn't he?" At the mere mention of his name, Nannette's breath caught in her throat and she couldn't feel anything. She was as numb as the day that Robert brought news of Jean Luc's death. It had felt like the last day of her life, and she thought she would never be able to go on. She had managed to move forward, to keep helping her people, doing what she could to end this stinking war, the same way Jean Luc had. The more she did for them, the closer she felt to Jean Luc, the man who had given his life for his compatriots. When she looked into Paul's eyes, she saw an old soul, a lot like her former lover. A man tired of fighting and killing, but loyal to his cause and his comrades. Although she was reluctant to admit it, Nannette knew that Susanne was right: the Cajun did remind her of her beloved Jean Luc. Susanne touched her sister's arm, bringing her back from her thoughts. "Ette..." she started, but was cut off by a voice behind her. "Hello, ma'amzelle. I'm Kirby... ah, William G. Kirby." The private gave her his most charming smile. The girl looked up at the man and gave a tentative smile back. "Hello, Kirby," she replied. "I am Susanne." "Well, howdo, Miss Susanne," he said, his smile becoming even broader. Doc was coming from the aid tent when he saw Kirby approach the young blonde girl. Something inside him rose up, something he hadn't realized he was capable of: jealousy. Suddenly, Littlejohn yelled at Kirby. "Hey, Kirby," the big private called out. Doc couldn't believe his luck as Littlejohn went on, "Sarge wants to see you in the lieutenant's office." A smile played across Doc's face. This shouldn't make him happy, but chances were that Kirby had done something to be chewed out about. At least now he would be away from Susanne. Grumbling under his breath, Kirby stormed off in the direction of the lieutenant's office to find his sergeant. Doc walked over to Susanne. "How is your arm?" she asked, gently touching the new splint. "The doctor says it'll heal just fine. It's not a bad break. They'll be sending Caje and me off to London in a few hours." "Then Caje will be okay too?" "Oh yeah, he'll be back before me probably." Doc smiled. "I wanted to tell you to be careful of guys like Kirby." "I don't think you have to worry about me, Doc, I can handle men like Kirby. My brother cautioned me very well." She smiled a sweet smile. "I think that I will go check on Paul and see how he is doing." Nannette excused herself with a bashful smile. She made her way to the aid tent, stopping to ask the medic leaving the tent where Private LeMay was. He pointed to a cot at the back. She thanked him and went in. He looked like he was asleep and Nannette didn't want to disturb him. She grabbed a chair and moved it over to the cot. As she sat down the chair creaked and his eyes opened. He gave her a smile and reached for her hand. No words were exchanged, as they were simply content to enjoy each other's company. Caje slowly drifted off to sleep. She sat quietly at Caje's side. Gently pushing a lock of black hair off his forehead, she

291 smiled as she looked at the scout. Lying there, he was blissfully unaware of the activity around him.

*****

As Doc and Susanne spoke with each other, one of the men from her village came over. <"Susanne, we are returning home now. Will you and Nannette be going as well?"> Fondly embracing the older man, she said, <"No, Benoit, go on back to your families. The Americans will make sure that we get home safely."> As the men started walking toward their village, no one was aware of one of their own slipping into an alley. Andre worked his way up the stairs through the empty building directly across from the aid tent. He approached the window cautiously making sure that he wasn't seen from the street. When he was sure he was in good position he sighted down his rifle. Coming to rest on his target, he gently began squeezing the trigger.

*****

Doctor Hogan and two orderlies came over to the cot where Caje lay sleeping. "We'll be sending him back to the rear to recuperate now, Miss. Let my men take care of him." He smiled at the anxious young woman in front of him. She obviously cared for the wounded soldier. The doctor gave Caje another shot of morphine. "This should make the trip a little easier on him," he explained to Nannette. Nannette stood, leaning over Caje to pull the wool blanket up over his shoulders. The orderlies lifted and carried him outside to wait for the ambulance. Nannette followed along behind them. When they were outside the tent, they set the litter down next to another soldier who would be making the trip along with him. Nannette knelt beside Caje and once more took his hand in hers. A shot rang out. Caje awoke with a start as Nannette fell across his stomach, one of her hands coming up to grasp her shoulder. She raised herself up and cried out when she saw the blood on his chest. "I'm sorry, Paul," she whispered. "Nannette?" She opened her mouth to answer him. As Caje watched, her beautiful golden eyes rolled back in her head, and she fell on top of him again. He waited a beat to see if he could feel her breathe. When he felt no movement he yelled, "Doc!" He wrapped his arms around her and held her. Doctor Hogan and a nearby medic answered the call immediately. The two men carefully lifted her off Caje and onto the ground next to him. Hogan did a quick assessment and then felt for a pulse on her neck. He straightened up and turned to Caje, sadly shaking his head. Caje watched as the young medic that had helped her took a sheet and covered her. With his heart in a million pieces, he turned his face away and wept silently.

*****

At the same time, Doc also heard the shot and pulled Susanne inside an abandoned dressmaker's shop. Kirby, Littlejohn, and Billy ran over to their sergeant. "Any of you see anything?" Saunders asked in a low but urgent voice. The three men shook their heads no. "It sounded like it came from that building over there, " Kirby volunteered and pointed to a partially collapsed two-story building. Saunders signaled for them to follow him.

292 Crawling over to the window of the small shop, Doc and Susanne watched the chaos out in the street as several more shots rang out, ricocheting off the dress shop. The sniper was aiming at them. Just before Doc pulled Susanne away from the window, he saw Sarge and the others making their way down the street, in the direction that the shots were coming from. "Anything, Kirby?" Saunders whispered. "Nothing, he must be moving." Before Saunders had a chance to reply, Kirby yelled, "There!" The BAR man took aim at the middle window on the second floor and fired several rounds. The gunman fell out of the window and hit the ground with a sickening thud. Saunders, Littlejohn, Billy, and Kirby ran over to disarm him. Several other GIs joined them. When Doc was sure everything was clear he helped Susanne to her feet and they went over to the growing crowd. Saunders saw Doc and waved him over. Doc was surprised the man was still alive as he approached. "Mon Dieu," Susanne exclaimed. "It is Andre!" "The man from your village?" Doc asked, as he knelt down to do what he could for the wounded man. <"You little fool,"> Andre gurgled. <"You and your family ruined everything!> <"I thought you were our friend."> Andre closed his eyes and muttered something unintelligible in French. <"Why did you do this, Andre?"> Susanne asked tearfully. <"Why?"> he rasped. <"I was tired of hiding all the time."> His breathing was becoming more labored. <"We were going without food and clothes, day in and day out. The Boche wanted to befriend the people of our village."> His face turned purple with rage as he spoke. <"But your idiot father convinced them that the Boche were the enemy."> Andre drew another ragged breath. <"That is why I told the lieutenant that he was a collaborator. I thought that if he was out of the way, things would get better. But then Robert took up your father's cause."> He smiled through his pain. <"So I dealt with him."> <"You said the Boche did it,"> Susanne said. <"That was the easy part. I figured with him gone you two would fold. Little did I know you would find the Americans."> A trickle of blood ran down his chin as he smiled menacingly at the young girl. <"Where is your sister, Susanne?> He groaned and breathed his last. Doc felt the man's jugular and pronounced him dead. Susanne looked confused and angry, yet also a little frightened. "What did he say?" Doc asked. "He was the one who turned my father over as a collaborator. He's also the one who shot my brother." Susanne crossed her arms over her chest and looked up, sudden fear showing in her eyes. "Where is Nannette?" she cried. "She said she was going to see Caje," Doc said. "Can you take me to find her?" Doc nodded and led the girl to the aid tent. The first thing they saw as they came near the tent was a form covered with a sheet. Caje turned at the noise. Doc noticed his red eyes and knew instantly that something was wrong. He looked at the sheet-covered body and his heart sank for Susanne. He put his arm around her shoulder. "I don't see her," Susanne said. "Paul, have you seen Nannette?" He looked to his left. She followed his eyes and gasped. She covered her mouth and her knees buckled. Doc held fast to the falling girl. "No," she uttered, almost wailing. Her heart was empty and her mind went blank. She curled into Doc's chest and began weeping uncontrollably. Doc wrapped his one good arm around her and helped her from the tent. Doc led Susanne over to the steps of the church. After helping her to sit, he offered her his

293 handkerchief. Getting no response, he knelt before her and gently wiped away her tears. He waved Sarge over to them. Saunders noticed the weeping girl. "Is she okay, Doc?" Saunders asked his aid man. "Sarge, you might want to check on Caje," Doc said. "What's wrong?" Saunders tossed his cigarette into the street. "That sniper got Nannette, she didn't make it." The NCO nodded and headed over to the tent. He stopped, watching the heartbreaking scene before him. The wounded man was struggling to sit up so he could reach Nannette. Saunders watched as the Cajun painfully raised himself up on one elbow so that he could reach the still form that lay beside him. When Caje reached out with a trembling hand and touched Nannette, Sarge turned away to give the PFC some privacy. Sitting there beside her still form, Caje fought against the lump that formed in his throat. He pulled the sheet away from her beautiful face, leaned down to her ear, and whispered, "Au revoir, ma brave petite. Que les anges te protègent." Good-bye, my brave little one. Go with the wings of an angel. Then he placed a tender kiss on her cold cheek. Tears flowed, unchecked, as he remembered his all too brief time with this woman. In a place where death and fear were part of his everyday life, she had been a beacon of light, shining not only on him, but all she came in contact with. She was a brave soul, willing to give her life to save his. This he would never forget.

end

294 IF THE UNIFORM FITS

By Thompson Girl

Acknowledgements: Special thanks to CP and Rico for unintentionally inspiring this one, and to WQ for her beta-reading skills.

295 "Will you hurry up and get into that uniform?" Braddock hissed. "They'll be out of sight soon." "We should wait for orders." Brockmeyer crossed his arms. "From who?" Braddock asked, pointing after the Krauts disappearing into the distance with their two prisoners: Saunders and Kirby. "There goes our source of orders. We're not due to meet with Hanley and the others for another hour. We can't just do nothing during that time. What's the problem? If you had those two stripes back, you'd be giving the orders." "Yeah, but I don't have them, do I?" "Yeah." Braddock shook his head. "What is it with you? For such a boring, quiet guy, you sure can't hang onto those things." "Would you two knock it off?" Davis said, frowning anxiously. "They're going to be out of sight soon." It had been a simple mission to recon a German fuel depot in the town of Grandeville. Saunders had just ordered them to head for the rendezvous with Hanley and the rest of the squad when they'd run afoul of a German patrol outside the town. Saunders and Kirby had been captured, leaving Braddock, Brockmeyer, and Davis watching helplessly from their hastily chosen hiding spot. "Come on, Brockmeyer," Davis urged. "Why me?" Both Davis and Braddock looked at the dead broken-necked German lying nearby, then meaningfully back at Brockmeyer. "But you don't understand," Brockmeyer protested. "I understand that every second you sit here arguing, those Germans take Saunders and Kirby deeper into their territory," Braddock said. "You're just making your own job harder." Brockmeyer stared at the dead body, still not moving. "Well, what are you waiting for?" Braddock demanded. "It's my German...." "What about it?" "I can understand it fine, but I don't speak it that well." Braddock rolled his eyes. "Oh, and Davis and I, of course, are linguistic geniuses?" "Come on, Brockmeyer," Davis said. "We're wasting time." "And you wonder why I can't hang onto those stripes?" Brockmeyer muttered. "It's 'cause I let guys like you and Kirby talk me into stunts like this." Braddock said, "I heard your last demotion was because you were—" "Oh, just can it, will you?" Brockmeyer cut him off. "Give me a hand." He quickly realized that even had language not been an issue, neither the taller Davis nor the amply girthed Braddock stood a remote chance of getting into the dead German's uniform. He really was the only choice. But even being the shortest member of the squad didn't give him much advantage. The dead man was smaller and thinner, and the uniform didn't fit right at all. He barely squeezed his more muscular arms into the sleeves. And when Braddock tugged the front straight and yanked it closed so he could button it, Brockmeyer gasped against the constraining cloth. "It'll stretch," Braddock said reassuringly. "But I can't breathe!" "It'll stretch!" Braddock insisted. "Trust me. My grandfather was a tailor." Brockmeyer grimaced. One good-sized gulp of air and the uniform would rip right down the middle of his back, he just knew it. The jacket rode up on his broader shoulders, catching too tightly under his arms, the material stretching and bulging. At least the jacket covered the fact that he couldn't fasten the top button on the pants at all. He jammed his feet into the too-small boots

296 and winced. "Good enough," Braddock said, plunking the helmet on Brockmeyer's head and tucking the strap under his chin. "Just don't try to touch your toes." "You gotta be kidding me," Brockmeyer said. "There's no way I can get away with this." "You won't with that attitude," Braddock said, unfazed by the glare Brockmeyer cast his way. Davis, pragmatic as always, added, "Besides, do we have a choice if we want to find out where they took the Sarge and Kirby?" Brockmeyer had no reply to that. Davis handed him the dead German's rifle. Shouldering it, Brockmeyer headed down the side alley into town, not looking back. He didn't want to let on how nervous he really was. He hadn't been joking about his speaking German. He was sure if he did have to speak, the Krauts would recognize his American accent immediately. Maybe he could claim he'd been to the States? He shook his head grimly, then tried to loosen the helmet's chin strap; Braddock had gotten it too tight. He gave up before his hands were halfway there, too restricted by the ill-fitting uniform to reach high enough. He swore under his breath. In German. Just in case. He had to stop his automatic instinct to hide and peek around the corner first as he entered the German-held town. It took all his resolve to head purposefully down the street like he knew where he was going. The too-small constricting uniform forced him to walk with a strange short stride. He thought it would be impossible to feel any more conspicuous even if he were wearing a clown outfit. But the first two Krauts he passed on the street simply gave him a friendly nod. He returned the gesture and walked on toward the town square, trying not to quicken his pace or unsling the rifle over his shoulder. Not that the rifle would do him any good with all the Germans around, but it would have made him feel better. A squad marched by in single file, led by a neat, tidy, bespectacled sergeant. Brockmeyer turned sharply away from them and found himself looking down an alley directly at the fuel depot. And hidden at the far end of the alley between the tall walls and a sandbag front was a machine gun emplacement manned by two men. His blood ran cold at the sight. They hadn't been able to spot it on their recon, and it gave the Germans a perfect field of view covering the front of the depot. Had they approached the way they'd intended, that gun could have cut them all down. He had to get this info back to Hanley. It would change their proposed attack strategy. "Private!" Brockmeyer froze and decided to play dumb. There were enough other soldiers around, it might not be him.... A finger tapped him on the shoulder, and he jumped. Turning, he found himself looking into the face of the neat and tidy sergeant he'd seen marching his squad a few minutes ago. The squad was halted nearby, all of them watching him. "What are you doing there?" the sergeant demanded in a shrill voice. "I, well...." Brockmeyer started to point the other direction, but the sergeant overrode him. "Fall in line at once!" "But I...." The sergeant's beady eyes glared at Brockmeyer. Brockmeyer swallowed his objection and crossed hurriedly to the squad. They were an unhappy mis-matched looking lot, and he didn't feel quite so out of place. Two soldiers stepped left and right to make room for him, both giving him a sympathetic look as they did so. "Forward, march!" the sergeant called, and the men fell into step. Several choice epithets ran though Brockmeyer's head, all of which he would like to have applied to Braddock. In person. Instead, he was marched deeper into the town with the rest of the men, unable to spot any way out of the predicament. At least the sergeant hadn't asked him any questions. Their destination was a two-storied building behind the town square. A huge swastika flag

297 hung from the balcony and two guards stood at attention on the front steps. Brockmeyer didn't need to read the hand-scripted sign affixed to one of the columns to know he had found the Germans' HQ. A few moments later and he had found Saunders and Kirby as well. The two sat on wooden chairs, their hands bound behind them, a stony-faced guard standing watchfully nearby. Neither man appeared injured. Both looked over as Brockmeyer and the line of German soldiers marched into the room. The sergeant called out an order halting the squad in a row, but neither American seemed to notice Brockmeyer sandwiched in among the sour Krauts. Two officers, an older captain and a tall thin lieutenant, waited together near the prisoners. The sergeant greeted them with a crisp salute. "The men are ready as requested!" he said. Brockmeyer stood at attention in the lineup, sweating, trying not to look at Saunders and Kirby. He had all the information he needed. Now, it was a matter of racing time, of getting clear of town and coming back with the squad before the Germans got to work on Saunders and Kirby. The captain sauntered forward and surveyed the soldiers with a cold and practiced eye. Brockmeyer straightened automatically. An inspection was an inspection, no matter whose army it was, and he couldn't afford to look more out of place than he already did. At least the other soldiers appeared as poorly dressed as he was, though most of them had the opposite problem— they were scrawny, thin fellows, and their uniforms hung off them. It made him want to believe the boasts that the U.S. Army was the best fed in the world, because none of these guys appeared to be eating well. The captain was consulting softly with the lieutenant and both smiled suddenly at some mutual decision. The lieutenant nodded and approached the line of men. Come on, Brockmeyer thought. Dismiss us already. But then he froze as the officer stopped directly in front of him. "You stay," the man ordered. "The rest of you—dismissed." Oh God, Brockmeyer thought, his mouth suddenly too dry even to swallow. Why me? The two officers conferred inaudibly a moment, then the lieutenant saluted and the captain exited, calling, "I'll await your report." The neat and tidy sergeant ordered the rest of his men into step, their boots stamping out of the room, and Brockmeyer listened to the final horrible sound of the door closing. It was just him, the lieutenant, Kirby and Saunders tied to their chairs, and the guard standing at attention behind them. "What is your name, Private?" the lieutenant asked him. I never even checked the papers in my pocket, he thought belatedly. Of all the stupid.... The tall officer was waiting, his gaze unblinking, so Brockmeyer said the first name that came into his head: "Biermann, sir. Peter Biermann." And if he asks for my papers now, it's over. It struck him then, for the first time, that he'd be shot as a spy. And he'd let Braddock talk him into this? But then he looked over at Saunders and Kirby and tried to put his own worries out of his mind. Both men had turned as soon as he'd spoken, clearly recognizing the familiar voice, even if it was speaking German. "Well, Biermann," the lieutenant said. "You see we have two American prisoners?" Brockmeyer nodded. Say as little as possible, he told himself. They probably just needed an extra guard. "They are proving reluctant to answer our questions." That'd be an understatement, Brockmeyer thought. Saunders and Kirby? Were there two more stubborn men in the entire platoon? The lieutenant went on more softly, "We have a panzer division coming through here tonight to refuel. We must know what these Americans are up to or we jeopardize everything." Brockmeyer's mouth went dry again. Tanks... a whole division? He really had to get out of there, get the info to Hanley.

298 "A man as well-built as you," the lieutenant's gaze roved over the ill-fitting uniform Brockmeyer was bulging out of, "must have certain physical talents." Brockmeyer stared uncomprehendingly and more than a little bit worriedly at the officer. "In a fist fight or a barroom brawl, yes?" the man continued. Then he looked meaningfully over his shoulder at the two prisoners. "What?" Startled, Brockmeyer let the word slip out without thinking. The lieutenant raised an eyebrow. "I mean," Brockmeyer corrected himself, trying to be careful of his enunciation. "I don't understand, sir. You want me to—?" "Yes. Soften them up a bit for us, as the Americans would say." Brockmeyer opened his mouth to object, to say something, anything. Nothing came out. He looked helplessly at the prisoners, saw the lack of reaction in Saunders' face, and had to remember they were speaking German. Neither Saunders nor Kirby realized what he had just been asked to do. To them. Oh God, he thought again, despairingly this time. "You have a problem with this, Biermann?" An edge crept into the lieutenant's voice, and Brockmeyer knew he was shifting into more dangerous territory with every second. Refuse and they might let him go, find someone else to beat up the Sarge and Kirby, but more likely, they'd get suspicious of his refusal and then he'd be on the receiving end of either a bullet or a fist himself. Accept and... and what? He couldn't hit the Sarge. But if he didn't.... Oh God. The lieutenant was waiting with growing impatience on his answer. What the heck was he supposed to say? "Biermann!" the lieutenant snapped. "No, sir!" Brockmeyer said. "I don't have a problem with this." A cold smile spread across the lieutenant's face. "Good. Then you may take off your jacket and shirt." "What?" Brockmeyer choked out. He bit at his lip as he received another irate stare at his outburst. Where was his sense? Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut? At least the lieutenant didn't seem alarmed or concerned about any accent he had. It was some small comfort, anyway. "You seem to have outgrown your uniform, Biermann. I doubt you can move properly in it. Besides, the blood can get so messy. Go ahead." "The blood...." Brockmeyer echoed, staring at the officer before he swallowed, gave the mental equivalent of a shrug for the outcome, and reached for the top button of the uniform. The sound of the jacket and shirt material ripping echoed through the room. Brockmeyer froze there, one hand on the top button, feeling the breeze touch his bare skin, and worse, feeling the lieutenant's disdainful gaze on him. "I like Army food?" Brockmeyer said, hopefully. The lieutenant touched the split jacket with one hand. "Disgraceful." "Yes, sir," Brockmeyer agreed wholeheartedly. But at least the split made it easier to shed the shirt and jacket. He laid the ruined clothes across the back of a nearby chair and set his helmet and utility belt down beside them. He had to admit it felt good to get out of that ridiculously

299 too-tight outfit. He took in a deep breath and stretched. "Sarge?" he heard Kirby whisper behind him. "What in blazes is he doing?" "Kirby," Saunders said warningly. The lieutenant, who clearly spoke English, smiled again. "I think they are scared of you," he told Brockmeyer. "Do you speak English?" "A little. We learned some at Gymnasium." Safer to admit that now than react to something Kirby or Saunders said later. The lieutenant nodded approvingly, then turned, clasped his hands behind his back, and approached the bound Americans. "We have some questions for you, Sergeant—" "Saunders, Sergeant, 2270622," Saunders interrupted. "Those kind of answers will not help you reach a ripe old age," the lieutenant said. Saunders said nothing. "Biermann," the lieutenant said, beckoning. Brockmeyer forced one foot in front of the other until he stood beside the lieutenant, looking down at Saunders. Saunders was watching the German officer expressionlessly. Brockmeyer wished he could say he had the same control, but he knew he was doing a lousy job of keeping the sheer desperate helplessness off his face. His options were narrowing with every second. Saunders shifted his gaze suddenly to Brockmeyer. Brockmeyer shook his head, ever so slightly, trying to convey his panic, his apologies, and everything in between. He tried to read what Saunders wanted him to do in the sergeant's steady blue gaze and found no answers. "Biermann," the lieutenant said again, switching back into German. "Hit him." Brockmeyer raised his arm and balled his fingers into a fist, but didn't move any further. Couldn't move. "It was not a request, Private," the lieutenant snapped. Brockmeyer tried stalling. "I've never hit anybody tied up before." But his words only seemed to anger the officer even further. "These are not men," he said harshly, clearly nearing the end of his patience. "They are the enemy. They were most likely trying to size up the strength of our guard around the fuel depot preparatory to an attack. We must know for sure. Now do your duty." Brockmeyer hesitated. "Private, your reluctance to obey my orders dismays me. Hit him." I can't, Brockmeyer thought. "Hit him!" He hit him. He was sure he flinched more than Saunders did as his fist struck the sergeant's jaw, not hard, but not lightly either. It was enough to split Saunders' lip and bloody his own knuckles. And he could do nothing except stand there, apologizing a hundred times in his head. "You hit me," Kirby muttered, "and so help me, I swear I'll...." "Don't worry, Kirby," Saunders said, spitting out some blood. He smiled mockingly up at Brockmeyer. "He hits like a girl." Brockmeyer stared. "I what?" he said in English. "I said you hit like a girl, Kraut," Saunders said, his smile broadening. "A Fräulein. Understand me?" Brockmeyer gaped at him. What was Saunders trying to do? Did he want to get beat up? That lieutenant wasn't going to stand for backtalk from the prisoners. Saunders went on, "What'd you study at that Gymnasium of yours anyway? Basket weaving?" Brockmeyer glanced at the lieutenant to see the German hiding a smile behind his hand, clearly amused at the insults and hoping the American would succeed in riling Brockmeyer where he was obviously failing. Saunders waggled his fingers behind his back just enough to draw Brockmeyer's attention.

300 Brockmeyer's gaze flicked from the bonds to Saunders' eyes, and the sergeant gave him a minute nod. Carefully, Brockmeyer looked over Saunders' head at the lone guard who was watching the escalating interchange with a slightly furrowed brow. Clearly, he didn't understand English, but that didn't mean when Brockmeyer made a move, he wouldn't jump in. He was the only man in the room with a weapon at his easy disposal; the lieutenant's pistol was holstered. Saunders sneered, "What's the matter, Kraut? Hurt your hand?" Brockmeyer glanced at his bloody knuckles, then clenched his fists at his side and glared down at Saunders menacingly. "You can't talk to me this way!" he said, remembering to speak English with some semblance of a German accent. "Why not? If you're the best these Krauts have got, no wonder you're losing the war." Brockmeyer spun and stalked over to the chair on which he'd set his gear. His heart was pounding now as he continued the act Saunders had set up. He yanked the knife from its sheath. The lieutenant's eyebrows shot up. "Biermann! Put that down!" Brockmeyer ignored him as he crossed back to Saunders, knife held ready. He bent, grabbed the front chair leg and gave a hard yank, toppling Saunders and the chair onto the floor. "Biermann! We need him alive!" Brockmeyer dropped down quickly as if he were going to stab Saunders, and, shielding his actions from the lieutenant, sliced at the ropes binding the sergeant to the chair. The lieutenant may not have realized what was happening, but the other German guard did. His mouth was dropping open, his hands fumbling with his rifle as Brockmeyer got the ropes severed. Brockmeyer scrambled clear, and Saunders' swinging foot swept the legs out from under the guard. Turning, Brockmeyer launched himself at the lieutenant, who had finally figured out things were not as they seemed and was trying to unsnap his holster. Brockmeyer shouldered the German into the table and had the knife at his throat a moment later. "Don't move," he growled in German. The lieutenant didn't move, his eyes wide. Saunders, meanwhile, had finished off the guard and snatched up his rifle. He stalked over to where Brockmeyer held the lieutenant prisoner. "What was he saying earlier? I heard the word panzers." "He said there's a division of tanks coming through here tonight." "You're an American?" the lieutenant asked Brockmeyer incredulously. Brockmeyer ignored him and told Saunders, "And they've got at least one heavy machine gun hidden out there to guard the depot that we couldn't spot on our Recon." Saunders nodded thoughtfully. "We'd better take the lieutenant with us. I'm sure S-2 would like a little chat with him." "Hey," Kirby called. "Somebody gonna cut me loose?" "How are we going to get him out of here?" Brockmeyer asked. "That's easy." Saunders started to smile, then grimaced and rubbed at his jaw. Brockmeyer winced. "Sorry." "Hey!" Kirby said. Saunders gestured to the unconscious guard. "Better get into his uniform jacket." "Aw, Sarge," Brockmeyer groaned. "You walked in here a German, you're walking out as one. With us and the lieutenant." "But—" Saunders gave him a look, and Brockmeyer sighed and quickly knelt by the unconscious German. At least this guy was bigger than his last uniform donor. The jacket looked like it might even fit properly. "Hey!" Kirby said. "These ropes aren't getting any looser."

*****

301 It was easier than Brock had thought, marching his two "prisoners" and the lieutenant out of the HQ, off the main street, and down side alleys until they cleared Grandeville's perimeter and were free in the woods. No one looked twice at them. Even still, he didn't relax until Braddock and Davis rose up out of hiding to greet them. "I thought I gave you guys an order," Saunders said sternly. "And we still got...," Braddock checked his watch, "...fifteen minutes to rendezvous with Hanley and the rest of the squad...." He trailed off suddenly, looking past the sergeant at Brockmeyer. Reaching out, he touched one now perfectly fitted jacket sleeve, his mouth dropping open. "It stretched," Brockmeyer said, straight-faced. Braddock stared, for once unable to think of something to say. "All right, let's go," Saunders said. "Brockmeyer, hurry up and get out of that uniform, will ya?"

end

302 FALLOUT

by Albert Baker (Claudia)

Many thanks to Rico and Doc II for their great beta skills and encouragement!

(Follows the Combat! episode "The Little Carousel")

303 The battalion field hospital was set up next to the main Allied supply route three miles outside of the French village where Kirby was injured. It consisted of one large and two smaller tents surrounded by three trucks holding needed supplies. He lay unmoving on a cot, one of many soldiers wounded by the shelling and scattered firefights in the area. His neck and shoulder throbbed with pain, but he smiled anyway. He was in one piece, and his wounds earned him a couple of weeks of clean sheets and nurses. A hospital could be heaven on Earth. A raspy moan came from the curtained area to his right, reminding Kirby that a hospital could also be hell. The private counted his blessings, something he rarely did prior to the war. A complainer by nature, Kirby tended to look at the "down side" of things. The longer he'd been in the ETO, however, the more he'd begun to realize just how lucky he was. Like this morning. Kirby remembered the mind-numbing pain as the German 88s pounded the village, and debris rocketed through the air, piercing his flesh. He'd felt the warm blood running down his neck as he lost consciousness, wondering if this was his time to die. He had awakened to see the sweet face of a young girl, the student nurse, Claudine. With gentleness and skill that belied her tender age, she tended his wounds as he lay on the village street. Sarge and Doc appeared, and Kirby heard Doc say that Kirby was lucky to be alive and that he would have died if the girl hadn't helped him. Kirby smiled again. Imagine a young girl like that being around to save my sorry hide. A commotion at the main entrance to the hospital tent roused Kirby's attention. Caje walked in supporting Doc. The medic limped along, a wad of bandages covering his right thigh, his face lined with pain and exhaustion from the great effort it took for him to walk on the wounded leg. Directly behind them, two corpsmen carried a litter holding an unconscious sergeant, his blond mane revealing his identity. Sarge! Kirby struggled to sit up and catch Caje's attention. By the time he managed to force himself to a sitting position, a doctor was working on the wounded medic, and the sergeant was whisked off behind the curtained area. Kirby knew Caje would seek him out when he could, and within minutes the Cajun private had maneuvered his way through the sea of cots and was standing next to Kirby, looking tired and worried. "How ya doin', Kirby?" "Caje, what happened?" Caje sat wearily on the edge of the cot. Removing his helmet, he rubbed his hand over tired eyes as he began to speak. "There was a report of Krauts outside of town. Sarge, Littlejohn, Henderson, Doc, and I went to check it out. We ran into a squad of Germans and Doc got it in his leg from a ricochet. Sarge was alone on our flank. He took a hit to his shoulder. We couldn't help him. Luckily the girl was there, she...." Caje's voice trailed off and he frowned and shook his head before starting again. "The bullet is still in him. He lost a lot of blood. They've got him in surgery." "Well, Sarge's gonna be okay, ain't he?" Caje stood slowly and sighed. "I don't know, Kirby. I'm gonna go check on Doc. I'll be back later." Watching the worried scout walk over to Doc's cot, Kirby swallowed back his growing anxiety. Damn it, Caje! Tell me what's going on!

304 *****

"How ya feelin', Doc?" Doc squinted as he looked up at Caje. "Like a piece of hot lead went through my leg!" Caje stared silently at Doc, waiting for the medic to compose himself. Doc sighed and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Caje. I've just had it, is all. That young girl... and seein' the Sarge like that... I, I've just had it." Both men glanced over at the curtain to their right. Inhaling deeply, Doc turned on his side. "It'll be awhile." Caje, lost in his thoughts, said nothing. Sergeant Saunders broke down and cried. The man Caje depended on to keep him sane in this war had broken down when the girl had been killed by the mine. The Cajun scanned the tent, counting the wounded and wondering how many more were on the other side of the curtain. "Caje, where's Kirby?" Doc struggled to raise himself high enough to survey the rows of cots surrounding him. Caje nodded toward Kirby's cot. "Kirby's over there. He wanted to know what happened. I told him about you and Sarge getting hit, but I didn't tell him about Claudine." Doc looked quizzically at Caje. "Why not?" Caje's eyes shifted from side to side. "He didn't bring her up and I decided to wait to tell 'im... he'll find out soon enough." Caje bent over and grasped the medic's shoulder. "I've got to report to Lieutenant Hanley now."

*****

Hours later, Doc awoke with a start from a dream. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the canvas ceiling of the field hospital, reflecting on his nightmare. He had been walking with the squad through a meadow of flowers. As the sun shone through the clouds, he commented to the Sarge, "It looks like it's gonna be a beautiful day." No sooner had he uttered the words then a mine exploded under Kirby. Doc heard the private's bloodcurdling cry. As he started to run toward Kirby, another mine exploded under Littlejohn, and then Caje. Doc froze in shock and disbelief. He turned to Saunders and their eyes met. The sergeant's eyes were glassy. Saunders looked at his boots and then back at Doc. His expression changed from despair to resignation. Staring straight at Doc, Saunders took one more step and a final mine exploded. Lord in heaven. Doc rubbed his eyes and looked around. Evening shadows crept over the hospital, and the medic wondered how long he'd been out. He glanced at Kirby's cot and saw the private staring back at him. Doc slowly sat up, relieved to see Kirby walking slowly toward him—he wasn't too sure if he could put weight on his own leg yet. Kirby crossed the room and plopped himself down on Doc's cot. "How ya doin', Kirby?" "Pretty good, Doc. How bout yourself? You've been sleepin' a long time." "Well, the bullet went clean through. I'll be fine in a few days." Doc looked around the room. "You heard anythin' about the Sarge?" Kirby nodded toward the curtained area. "Lieutenant Hanley's in there. He walked in right before ya woke up and ain't come out yet." "There they are." Littlejohn's deep voice sounded at the entrance, and he and Caje made their way through the sea of cots, the big private ducking as the tent ceiling sagged down near a side wall. "What's the word on the Sarge?" "Nothin' yet. Hanley's in there now."

305 Littlejohn looked questioningly at Doc. "Does Hanley know what happened?" Kirby frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but stopped as Hanley appeared and walked over to the squad. "Doc, Kirby, how are you two?" "We're fine, Lieutenant," Doc replied, "but what about the Sarge?" "They got the bullet out. He's going to be out of commission for a couple weeks, but he should be okay." "Have you talked to him, Lieutenant?" Doc asked hesitantly. Hanley cocked his head slightly and frowned. "No, he's still unconscious. Why?" Doc glanced up at Littlejohn who tightened his lips and looked downward. Caje stood silently, averting his eyes. Hanley's gaze moved from Doc to Littlejohn and his expression softened. "I heard about the girl and the mine." Kirby stood abruptly. "What? Would somebody tell me what happened?" Doc shot a disapproving look at Caje and stepped in. "Take it easy, Kirby. A mine killed Claudine. She was walkin' back into town with us and she went off to pick some flowers. Somehow she tripped it." Kirby sat back down slowly. "She saved my life." "She saved the Sarge, too." Doc added, "He took it pretty hard when she died." Hanley studied Doc closely and then turned to Caje and Littlejohn. "You guys seem to have something more on your mind. You want to tell me what it is?" Littlejohn shifted from one foot to the other. "I don't know how the Sarge would feel 'bout us talkin' about this here, but he broke down out there when he saw the girl. I've never seen the Sarge like that." "What do you mean, 'broke down'?" Hanley asked. Doc took a breath and spoke. "He and the girl'd grown close. It's not surprising that he broke down some... what with having had the morphine and seein' how the girl had saved 'im. When we started back, Sarge just passed out. He'd lost a lot of blood and that along with the shock must've done him in." Hanley rubbed his jaw. "Lots of things can happen to make a man act out of character when he's wounded. I suggest you men worry about yourselves and let the doctors worry about Saunders." "Yessir!" The response to the lieutenant's words was automatic, but the looks that passed between the men revealed their misgivings.

*****

The smell of blood and antiseptic greeted Sergeant Saunders when he awoke twenty-four hours later. His chest and right shoulder felt like they were weighted down by a piece of hot steel. His mouth and throat were dry. He lifted his head slightly to see if there was anyone within earshot, but it was an unnecessary move. Within seconds a nurse was at his side. "Sergeant, it's nice to see you awake. Would you like a drink of water?" she asked, pouring water into a glass. Saunders nodded and drank. As the nurse removed the glass, he tried to sit up, causing a shooting pain through his chest.

306 "Easy, Sergeant. I will make you more comfortable, but you mustn't try that again until you've given yourself some time to heal. We don't want any stitches tearing out, do we?" Saunders eased onto his back and resigned himself to lying still. The nurse tucked some towels under him in strategic places until he felt reasonably comfortable. "How's that?" she asked. "It's fine," he replied, uttering his first words since waking up. "Your lieutenant has been by several times to see you, and your wounded squad medic has been asking about you, too. I'll let them know you're awake." "Could I get a smoke?" "Yes, of course. I'm sure I can scrounge up one for you. I'll be right back." Saunders stared at the ceiling, wishing he could will himself out of the hospital tent and away to a quiet place to be alone. Doc would have spoken with Hanley about what had happened outside of town. He'd let the squad see weakness. It just happened. The pain was still raw and he needed some time to sort it out. His eyes welled up again as he pictured Claudine's lifeless body lying in the dirt. Why? Saunders shook his head. He knew there was no answer to that question. He'd learned that a long time ago. The nurse reappeared with a pack of Lucky Strikes. "Here you go, Sergeant. I'll be bringing you something more to drink in a while, and the doctor will be back to check on you later." She adjusted his IV and then nodded at Doc, who was limping toward him with the aid of a crutch. "It looks like you've got company coming." The nurse and the medic passed each other moving in opposite directions and Doc turned to admire her. As he reached Saunders, he awkwardly pulled an empty chair over and sat down. "How ya doin', Sarge?" "I'm fine, Doc. How's the leg?" "Well, it's kinda stiff, but it's a sight better than it was when I first got here." Saunders tried to take out a cigarette. "Here, Sarge. Lemme help ya with that." Doc placed a cigarette in Saunders' mouth and lit it for him. Saunders drew in a long breath. "Thanks, Doc." A minute went by without any further conversation. Doc had contemplated what he should say to Saunders. He felt he needed to try to heal the wounds he couldn't see as well as the ones he could. "Sarge, how are you really?" "What do ya mean?" "Sarge, it's been a rough few days with Dorfman and Glass dying. Then what happened to the girl... well, it doesn't get much worse than that." Saunders stared at the ceiling. "No, Doc, it doesn't get much worse than that." "Sarge, if ya need to talk about it, I would be...." "Forget it, Doc," Saunders interrupted. "Talkin' won't change a thing. Besides, there's nothin' to say." Doc frowned and started to say more, but stopped himself. The sergeant had moved his forearm up over his eyes. It was a familiar signal that the conversation was over.

*****

Doc returned to the squad after eight days. During his stay in the hospital, First Squad and the rest of the King Company had been in several skirmishes but made little progress advancing the line. A beaten-down barn, the recipient of at least one 105 shell during the American artillery barrage ten days ago, had become the squad's home. Studying the men, Doc found Caje seemed a bit quieter than usual, but Doc wasn't too

307 concerned. Caje had been left in charge. His loyalty to Saunders was unwavering. Littlejohn, except for being anxious for the Sarge to return, was back to business as usual. It was Henderson who worried Doc. Although he hadn't been with the squad very long, Henderson had appeared to be fitting in and seemed friendly enough. The man Doc saw now was different. Henderson said little, but when he did speak his words were laced with anger and resentment. Doc decided to wait until they were alone and try talking with him. "Henderson, you feelin' okay?" Henderson, sitting on the floor of the barn, fingered some graying straw and shook his head. "Feelin' okay? Who could be feelin' okay sittin' here waitin' for days on end? And with this sorry bunch!" "Well, I been with this 'sorry bunch' for quite awhile now, and they're good men. What's your beef?" "My beef is that every man in this squad follows Saunders like he's some kinda Sergeant York, and it's gonna get us all killed." "What are you talking about, Henderson?" Henderson stood up, tossing the straw angrily to the ground. "I'm talkin' about everyone actin' like nothin' happened. I'm talkin' about the man crackin' up over that girl. I've seen it before and I'm not goin' through it again!" "Goin' through what? Just what happened to you, Henderson?" "I had a NCO crack up on my squad before. Got half the squad killed before they took him off the line. I tell ya, I know what I'm talkin' about, Doc." Doc stared at the angry private, somewhat relieved to finally understand what was troubling him and hoping to reason with him. "Henderson, Saunders didn't crack up. Yeah, he was upset. But he had good reason." Henderson shook his head in disagreement. "I hope you're right, Doc, but I don't think you are. Course, by the time you find that out, we may all be dead."

*****

Several days had passed since Doc's return, but still no orders were received to move out. Caje stood watching the road from under a large, old tree in the farmyard. One of its biggest branches had been cracked in the shelling, so that its last six feet hung at a ninety-degree angle to the ground. The PFC tried to imagine what the farm had looked like before the shelling and wondered how long it would take to regain its former beauty. Another cost of war. Gradually, the sound of a jeep coming his way became more pronounced. Garand in hand, he backed around the tree. As the jeep grew nearer, he heard someone shouting. "Well hey there, good buddies! Ol' Kirby's back and in fine form. Those Krauts'll be ready to give up any day now!" Moving out from behind the tree, Caje couldn't help but smile at his friend. "Kirby, don't ya know there's a war on?" Littlejohn, Henderson, and Doc heard the commotion and came around the side of the barn. "Kirby, you're back! Say, how's the Sarge doin'?" asked Littlejohn. "He's doin' good. They should let 'im outta there in a few days." "Well, Caje, you gotta be happy to hear that. You won't have ta worry bout keepin' us in line no more," Doc said, smiling. "That's right, Sarge'll have to try doin' that again." "Well, I guess we'll find out," Henderson scowled. Kirby turned to him, frowning. "What's wrong with you?" "You've got to be kidding!" Henderson shook his head. "I can't believe you guys. Dorfman and Glass bought it while Saunders was in charge. Then he walks us right into that ambush outside of town and almost gets us all killed. Saunders! Caje was ready to leave me and Littlejohn

308 to fight a squad of Germans alone so he could get morphine to Saunders! Then the girl buys it and Saunders starts bawlin' like some basket case! When are you guys gonna wake up?" Kirby and Littlejohn instantly squared off with Henderson, Caje close behind. "Dorfman and Glass didn't follow Sarge's orders. That's why they bought it!" Kirby shouted at Henderson. "Yeah and he didn't lead us into an ambush. He called the feint so we had time to set up," Littlejohn added. "And I didn't leave you and Littlejohn, did I, Henderson? So just drop it!" "Yeah sure. I'll drop it, Caje. But you just remember, I tried to warn you guys!"

*****

Four days later, Sergeant Saunders prepared to return to his squad. As he grabbed his camo helmet and Thompson, he heard Doc's familiar voice. "Thought ya might like a ride back to the action, Sarge." "Hi Doc. I was hopin' someone would show up, but I wasn't sure you'd know I was comin' back today." "Well, Lieutenant Hanley gave me a heads up. He thought you might have a tough time gettin' a ride back, what with the field hospital bein' moved to the west. He said he needs to see ya right away. Seems there's somethin' big brewin'." "Figures," Saunders said, adjusting the Thompson on his sore shoulder. "How're ya feelin', Sarge?" Doc asked, noticing Saunders' pained movements. "Oh, you know how it goes, Doc," Saunders replied as they walked toward the jeep. "Stiff and sore 'till you're back in the war." "You're tellin' me." Doc slipped behind the wheel and once Saunders was seated, the two men drove east to Hanley's CP. Doc was pleased to see that Saunders seemed at peace, but decided he still needed to say a few things. "Sarge, I've been wantin' to tell ya how bad I feel about what happened to Claudine. I know you were fond of her and it hit ya hard, anyone could...." Saunders cut him off. "Could what, Doc? Break down?" "Sarge, I just want ya to know you shouldn't worry about it." Saunders stared at the road ahead. "You know my sister, Louise, is about the same age as Claudine was." Doc blinked several times. "I guess I never thought about that, Sarge. Claudine must have reminded ya a lot of Louise." "You wouldn't believe it, Doc. Both stubborn as can be." Saunders shook his head, becoming sullen. "Should've gone back to town like I told her." "But Sarge, if she had, you'd be dead for sure." Doc drew in a breath and then spoke again. "Sarge, you've said it yourself—some things're just fate. Thinkin' maybe if you'd have said this or done that will get ya nowhere." "I know that, Doc," Saunders replied, ending the conversation as the men pulled up to Hanley outside the command post.

*****

309 Lieutenant Hanley was standing outside the command post talking with two of his NCOs and wondering if the weather was going to hold up, when Saunders and Doc came riding up. He'd visited Saunders at the hospital twice more since the day the sergeant was brought in, but Saunders had been groggy both times and fallen asleep within minutes. "Good to have you back, Saunders." Hanley looked the sergeant over. The other NCOs added their greetings and then the men turned their attention back to Hanley as Doc left to return the jeep to the motor pool. "Let's head inside and I'll bring everyone up to speed." Hanley led the way into the old dry goods store that served as the CP. The three NCOs gathered around a makeshift table in the center of the room as Hanley pulled out maps of the area and began the briefing. "S-2 has reported that German tanks are moving toward this forested area west of Chaumont. They are leading a big Kraut push through the woods to the river, trying to drive us to the other side. A battalion of German infantry follows the tanks. Able company is stationed in the woods and Love Company is on their flank, here. Bazooka teams are set up in these fields on the far side of the woods. They will try to stop the tanks there before they get into the trees." "Why bazooka teams and not artillery, Lieutenant?" Sergeant Colby asked. "Our artillery is tied up in a huge battle outside of Toul. We're stretched very thin, Colby. I'm afraid we're on our own." "So where's King Company in all this, Lieutenant?" Saunders asked, lighting up a Lucky. "Our job is to guard the river and make sure the Krauts don't get to it. If Able and Love Company are unable to hold back the Germans and those tanks get through, we need to cover the retreat and then blow the bridge." The lieutenant went on to assign the squad positions. "Colby, your squad will be on the left flank, by the bridge. There will be a demolitions man assigned to you. Hopefully, he'll have nothing to do. McCoy, your squad will take the right flank. If the Krauts try to outmaneuver us, it will most likely be on the right, so stay sharp. Saunders, your squad will be in the center. If there's any sign that those tanks are breaking through the woods, you cover the retreat and we blow the bridge. Any questions?" Hanley surveyed the NCOs and got no questions, only looks of concern and apprehension. Saunders broke the silence. "When do we pull out, Lieutenant?" "Have the men grab some hot chow. We pull out at 0900." As the NCOs began filing out, Hanley stopped Saunders. "Hold on a minute, Saunders." Hanley pointed at a pot of coffee nearby. "No thanks, Lieutenant. Coffee is one thing the hospital had plenty of." Hanley's eyes narrowed. "So how are you feeling?" "A little stiff, but okay." "I'm sorry about the girl, Saunders." He further scrutinized Saunders as he offered him another cigarette. Saunders nodded and lit up the Lucky. "So am I, Lieutenant... so am I." Inhaling deeply, Saunders looked briefly at Hanley and then hoisted his Thompson onto his shoulder. "If that's all, Lieutenant, I'd like to get back to the squad." Hanley nodded. "That's all, Sergeant... and good luck." "You too, sir." He turned and headed out of the CP.

*****

Sergeant Saunders walked out to the barn to find his squad. The late morning air held a chill, and the sergeant flipped up the collar of his field jacket to block the cool breeze. The movement made him wince at the sudden pain in his sore shoulder. Still, walking outside felt good, and was much preferred to the confines of the field hospital tent. As Saunders neared the ruins of

310 the barn, he whistled to signal his arrival. It was only seconds before Littlejohn's huge form appeared from behind a battered wall to greet him. "Sarge! Good to have ya back!" Kirby, Caje and Doc soon emerged, with Henderson lingering behind them. Saunders looked the squad over, relieved to see everyone rested and in one piece. "Good to be back. We're heading in to get some hot chow and then we've gotta move out." The squad moved in unison, grabbing their gear and falling into line with their sergeant for the walk toward town. "So what's up, Sarge? I've been tellin' these guys there was a big Kraut push comin'. I'm right, ain't I?" "Yeah Kirby, you're right. The whole platoon is moving out. We've gotta cover Love and Able Company and hope they stop a bunch of Kraut tanks before they run over us." "Well, at least they're gonna feed us first." "Uh, Sarge, did you just say 'a bunch of Kraut tanks'?" "Yup. A bunch of Kraut tanks. It's gonna be rough, Doc," Saunders answered, as they arrived at the food wagon. "Okay everybody, eat up and then pick up rations and ammo."

*****

Three hours later, First Squad dug in in the fields west of Chaumont. Waiting for hours in foxholes, the men grew tense, restless, and finally silent. In the quiet, the sound of machine gun fire and bazookas began as a whisper in the distance, but grew louder and louder. German artillery started pouring in east of the squad, followed by a brief silence and then a flurry of small arms fire. Lieutenant Hanley was on the radio to Love Company when Sergeant McCoy called in. "They broke through! We're being overrun! Can't hold! Can't hold!" "Pull back! Get your men outta there!" "Saunders! The Krauts are breaking through! Cover the retreat! I'm gonna tell Colby to get ready to blow the bridge!" Saunders signaled the squad to follow while making his way to the other side of the field. As they moved forward, soldier after soldier met them, moving across the field in the opposite direction. They took cover behind some fallen branches close to the tree line, listening for the humming of the approaching Royal Tiger tanks. The German infantry and tanks continued moving forward. Sergeant Saunders grabbed a wide-eyed private from the stream of GIs pouring out of the forest. The young soldier had no weapon. "They're breakin' through, Sarge. We can't stop 'em!" "Where's your unit, soldier?" "I don't know. Half was killed by the artillery. We could hear the tanks comin'. Everyone started yellin', 'Pull back!' I just ran, Sarge. I gotta find my squad leader." Saunders released the youngster. "All right, Private. Just tell me. Are there a lot more GIs still up ahead?" "No Sarge. I don't think so. At least not live ones." "Okay, soldier, take off." Saunders and his squad looked back over the field behind them. Fog was beginning to drift in, making the scene surreal. Scores of wounded soldiers, clinging to fellow GIs, limped over the field. "Littlejohn, radio Hanley!" Saunders ordered. Littlejohn removed the radio from his back and began the familiar chant—"King Two, this is White Rook. King Two, this is White Rook, come in King Two!" He looked over at Saunders. "It's no good, Sarge. No one's answering." "Okay, Littlejohn, forget it."

311 Off to their right, Saunders spotted a bazooka being carried by a dazed soldier with an obvious head wound. Saunders ran over and took the bazooka, sending the soldier on his way. "Kirby, Caje, Littlejohn, Henderson, dig in. Doc, you stay low." The astounded privates looked at their sergeant. "But Sarge, we gotta get outta here!" Kirby shouted. "Them tanks will be comin' through any minute." "We have orders to cover the retreat, Kirby. Doc, help us dig in, and then take off and find Hanley. Tell him we'll give cover as long as we can and meet him on the other side of the river." Henderson's voice screeched above the others as he faced the sergeant. "Saunders, you're gonna get us all killed! We gotta get outta the way of those tanks. We're no match for 'em!" "I gave you an order, Henderson. Now dig in!" Saunders growled, maintaining a steely glare that convinced Henderson to back off. Caje started digging, never taking his eyes off the tree line. "What are ya plannin' to do, Sarge?" "He's plannin' on getting' us all killed," Henderson whined. Saunders shot a look at Henderson, eyes narrowed. "Someone's gotta slow down those tanks so our wounded have a chance to make it back." Kirby frowned, but kept digging. Soon the men had reasonable cover. Surveying the area with his binoculars, the sergeant decided it was clear enough for Doc to leave. "Okay. We lay low until the tanks pass, and then we'll try to hit one or two with the bazooka. Doc, you think you can get over to Hanley on your own?" Doc opened his mouth to protest, but Saunders, reading the medic's expression, cut him off. "Look, Doc, there're a lot of wounded men back there who need your help more than we do, and we've gotta let Hanley know what we're doin'." "Sure Sarge, I can make it." Doc grabbed his gear and rose to leave. He looked at each squad member. "Good luck, you guys. I'll see ya later." "See ya later, Doc." The men watched as the medic disappeared into the fog. "Sarge, how we gonna get outta here once we take out the tanks?" Littlejohn asked. "It's gettin' darker and the fog is gettin' thicker. If we're lucky, we can make it to the trees and double back to our lines." "Yeah, if we're lucky," Henderson muttered.

*****

Saunders, Caje, Littlejohn, Henderson, and Kirby nestled into their three foxholes, bazooka ready. Watchful eyes studied the opening in the tree line the tanks were expected to use. The rumbling of the tanks grew steadily louder and soon their dark silhouettes emerged from the forest. Three tanks clamored out of the woods, making the ground vibrate and coming so close to the hiding soldiers that they swore they could touch them. Kirby shuddered and found himself uncharacteristically whispering, "God, help us." As the last tank passed, Saunders signaled his men to be ready to take out the tank crew. Bracing the bazooka against the rim of the foxhole, Saunders set his sights on the lead tank and fired.

312 BOOM! The shot disabled the lead tank and blocked the second in line. Kirby let loose with the BAR and effectively eliminated the tank crew on the ground. Caje then reloaded Saunders' bazooka, and Saunders moved out onto the field another fifty feet, taking aim at the second tank. BOOM! Saunders surprised himself with a second direct hit. The third tank was now hopelessly blocked by the other two. Kirby and Caje hammered away at the second tank crew. Saunders grabbed the bazooka shells from Littlejohn as he moved back to his foxhole. Signaling the squad to move into the woods, Saunders loaded the bazooka and fired toward the third tank. This time he missed his intended target. Shaking his head in frustration, he dropped the bazooka and ran toward the safety of the trees. As he reached the tree line, the German tank fired a direct hit on the American's foxhole. The impact sent Saunders flying forward into a tree, his head smashing into its trunk. Dazed and bleeding, Saunders slid to the ground. Littlejohn turned just in time to see his sergeant hit the tree and ran back to help. Scooping Saunders up off the ground, Littlejohn wrapped his arm around the stunned man and dragged him into the forest. As the squad moved deeper into the woods, the sound of bullets whistling by their heads and the sting of flying bits of tree bark hitting their faces subsided. The fog continued to thicken as the men moved unsteadily toward what they hoped were the American lines. "Littlejohn, you can let go. I can walk." Saunders struggled to get free of Littlejohn's arm as the squad came to an outcropping of rocks and decided to hold up and try to get their bearings. A rustle of leaves on their left flank drew their attention. Firearms rose in unison as a figure emerged from the bushes. "Doc?" The winded medic came slowly toward the squad. "Boy, am I glad I found you guys." "Doc, what are ya doin' here? I told ya to go back and find Hanley." "I tried to, Sarge, but I couldn't make it. The Germans were in between me and the river, so I hadda turn back and try 'n find you guys." Saunders shook his head. "All right, Doc." "Sarge, you better let me take a look at your head. You're bleeding pretty good." "Okay, just clean it up and put a bandage on so I can see." "Well I don't think any of us are gonna to be seein' much for a while with this fog," Doc added as he wound a bandage around the sergeant's head. Littlejohn stretched his right arm to relieve some of the tightness caused by carrying the sergeant. "Reminds me of one night on my Uncle Joe's farm. The fog was so thick ya couldn't see your hands right in front of your face. Lasted all night, too." Kirby rolled his eyes. "Stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, don't even know where our lines are, and he's tellin' stories 'bout nights on the farm." Ignoring Kirby's grumbling, Saunders stood up, swaying slightly. "We're gonna have to find a place to hide out until this fog lifts enough to make our way out of here. Caje, take a look around to see if you can find anything—but don't go far. The rest of us'll sit tight." "Okay, Sarge." Caje donned his beret and began moving along the rocks, disappearing soundlessly into the fog. "Sarge, do ya have any idea where our lines are?" "It's hard to say, Littlejohn. We know the platoon planned to move back across the river. When we can see, our best bet is to double back and get across." "But Sarge, with all the noise from them tanks, I couldn't hear if we blew the bridge. What if the Krauts crossed the river, too?" Saunders turned to answer, as a shot rang out. The bullet buzzed past Saunders' head and was followed by several more. Saunders, Henderson, and Littlejohn raised their weapons and returned fire into the fog, aiming at the brief flashes of light made by enemy weapons as they fired. Kirby gasped in pain and shock as he was

313 hit and fell to the ground. "Doc!" The squad provided covering fire as Doc grabbed Kirby's field jacket and the group moved around the rocks. Suddenly, a hand gripped Littlejohn's elbow and lead the big private off to his right. "Sarge, it's Caje!" Littlejohn yelled urgently. Saunders came into view, holding his index finger to his mouth. Caje pointed to the right and Saunders nodded in understanding. The sergeant brought up the rear as Caje led them to a hiding place. The gunfire ended, as the Germans were unable to determine exactly where the American squad was located.

*****

The opening to the cave was relatively narrow. Caje had found it through sheer luck. Feeling his way along the outcropping of rocks at the base of the hill, he almost fell forward as his arm extended into empty space. He and Saunders moved into the opening. They took a chance and lit their lighters, discovering that about six feet inward the cave began to widen gradually until a large room appeared. The air was damp and chilly, the only sound a constant drip of water hitting the floor to the right. Moving along the cave walls on either side of the entrance, Saunders found another small room to the left, with no tunnels going out. Caje quickly ascertained that there were no other rooms or tunnels on his side, only a large crack in the ceiling where water dripped in slowly from the ground above. As he walked back toward the sergeant, he noticed some white letters on the cave wall—JL & MC—surrounded by the fading outline of a heart. Caje smiled, remembering the carved initials he had once made in an oak tree back home. Deciding the cave was a safe refuge, Saunders slid back outside and signaled the others to go in, helping Doc with Kirby. The squad moved carefully to the far side of the large room, and Kirby was placed on a bed made of field jackets. "Caje, Henderson, go outside and try to find something we can use to build a small fire." The two soldiers moved out soundlessly, extinguishing Caje's lighter as they came to the point where the cave began to narrow toward the opening. Doc tried to examine Kirby's wound, but could see little in the dim light. He grabbed a wad of bandages and pressed on the darkening area on Kirby's thigh to stem the bleeding. Kirby moaned as the pressure was applied. "Hang on, Kirby." Saunders voice echoed off the cave walls.

*****

Henderson and Caje made their way out of the cave and began to search for fallen branches that were dry enough for a fire. As each man filled his arms, they moved quietly back into the cave, not speaking until they passed out of the narrow opening into the large room. "Caje, you're a smart guy. You really think Saunders is gonna be able to get us outta this mess?" Henderson whispered. Caje stepped in front of Henderson, his face within inches of the other man's. He spoke with a steady voice, just above a whisper. "Henderson, I've been with the Sarge a long time. He knows what he's doing." With that, Caje turned and walked over to join the others, Henderson soon following. The two men stacked their meager pile of branches in the center of the cave floor. A small fire soon provided some light and warmth for the weary men. "I can't believe Kirby caught it again so soon after getting out of the hospital," Littlejohn said in frustration. Caje moved closer to the fire. "Yeah, well I guess the Krauts don't believe in any 'grace periods'."

314 "Are ya sure it's okay to have a fire, Sarge?" "We have to chance it, Littlejohn. Kirby's hurt pretty bad. Just keep it small and listen for Krauts." Littlejohn moved to the entrance to take first watch. Saunders lit a cigarette and leaned back against the cave wall. Wounded man, Krauts all over the place, and I'm unclear where our lines are. Inhaling deeply, he pondered his options, few as they were. He would not surrender. He would not leave Kirby. They could not move in the darkness with this fog. Caje slid back against the cave wall and sat down, his face mirroring his concern. Saunders looked over at the Cajun private. "We wait until the fog lifts and try to head toward the river and follow it back to our lines." "What about Kirby? How we gonna get him back?" "Kirby comes with us. We'll rig a litter and carry him."

*****

The sound of the droplets of water became almost hypnotic to the weary soldiers. Caje had relieved Littlejohn on security an hour ago. Huddled around the small fire in the cave, Saunders and Littlejohn sat silently. Henderson awoke from a fitful sleep and moved closer to the fire, opening some K-rations. Kirby was awake and in some pain, but seemed to be holding his own, Doc having been successful in stopping the bleeding. "It'll be morning soon. I'm gonna go take a look." Saunders pulled himself slowly to his feet. "You think we'll be able to get outta here soon, Sarge?" Kirby asked. "Plan on it, Kirby." Henderson glared at Saunders and pointed to Kirby. "How can you tell him that? We don't know what's out there. We shoulda pulled back with the others. Then we'd never be here!" Kirby winced in expectation of a withering response from Saunders. To his surprise, Saunders stared blankly at Henderson and walked away, saying only, "Kirby, we'll be out of here soon. Henderson, eat up and relieve Caje on watch."

*****

"Caje, I'm gonna take a look." Saunders walked past the sentry and silently into the forest. A hint of sunlight was barely visible through the haze in the trees, but promised to burn off the fog. The sergeant didn't know whether to be thankful or dread the coming light. Moving toward the west, he found no sign of the enemy. Luckily, he did find some larger branches that could easily be adapted for a litter. He held them close to his side and moved cautiously back to the cave. Whistling, he alerted Henderson to his return. The private raised his M-1 and pointed it at the sergeant. Saunders stopped and stared coldly into Henderson's eyes. "What're ya gonna do, Henderson? Shoot me? Ya think that'll get you back alive?" Henderson fumed. "Saunders, you don't know what you're doin'!" "And you do, huh?" Saunders adjusted the branches in his arms. " I know about your other squad, Henderson—your NCO that cracked up. So, what do ya want from me? You want me to tell ya you're not gonna die in this war? You want a promise that I'll get you back in one piece? Well, you're not gettin' one. I'm tellin' ya just one thing—you wanna stay alive, you shut up and follow my orders!" Saunders walked to the cave entrance and then turned his face sideways to address Henderson once more. "We're rigging a litter and then we're moving out."

*****

315 It took the men only ten minutes to prepare the litter and move out of the cave. Doc gave Kirby a much-needed shot of morphine and the wounded private was soon sleeping peacefully on the litter, carried by Doc and Henderson. The fog was gone, replaced by an overcast sky that threatened rain. Caje walked stealthily on the point, heading northwest in an attempt to circle around the Germans and sneak across the river to find the American lines. After an hour, he came to a clearing in the forest and stopped to wait for Saunders, who followed, walking unsteadily. Doc and Henderson set the litter down and Doc walked over to check on the sergeant. "Looks like your head is bleedin' again, Sarge. Let me change the bandage." "Later, Doc." Saunders crouched next to Caje and the two men scanned the area with binoculars. "Circling around adds time we don't have. I'm gonna start across. When I get to the other side I'll signal to bring Kirby across. Cover me." "Wait a minute, Sarge. Let me go." Saunders started to shake his head, when he felt a trickle of blood moving down his forehead accompanied by a throbbing pain. He looked over at Caje. "All right, Caje." Caje crept forward, crouching as low as possible and using whatever meager cover he could find. He was about halfway across when machine gun fire blew open the ground in front of him. As Caje dived for cover behind an old tree stump, a bullet ripped through his shoulder. The rest of the squad opened up and diverted the machine gunner's attention away from their wounded friend. Saunders wiped the blood from his face and signaled the others that he was going to try to flank the machine gun. Littlejohn frowned and shouted, "Sarge, wait!" But the sergeant was already gone. Henderson and Littlejohn fired rapidly, attempting to keep the machine gunner from firing with precision, but the German was not intimidated. Within minutes, a ricochet grazed Littlejohn's left side. As Doc turned to help him, a grenade from Saunders burst in the German foxhole, ending the onslaught. In the distance, Saunders ran up to check out the German machine gunner and waved an all clear. Doc had Henderson apply pressure to a bandage on Littlejohn's side and ran to check on Caje. Saunders was soon at Caje's side and helped Doc turn the scout over. He was conscious and bleeding heavily. "Take it easy, Caje." Doc ripped open Caje's jacket to examine the wound. "Looks like the bullet went through cleanly, but he's not gonna be able to hold a rifle." "Every Kraut in the area knows we're here. We need to move to some cover." Saunders signaled the others to come across. Doc ran back to help Henderson with Kirby as Saunders reached down and helped Caje up, steadying him with his arm. The sergeant grimaced as he saw Littlejohn walking awkwardly, holding a bandage on his side. Three wounded.

*****

First Squad moved back into the trees beyond the clearing and, finding a dense copse of bushes and rock, stopped to tend their wounded. Kirby came to as Doc was working on Caje's shoulder. "Wha—what happened?" "You missed some excitement, Kirby—a German machine gun," Littlejohn said soberly. Kirby stared at Caje's shoulder and then Littlejohn's side. "Well, you guys can't carry me no more," he said, attempting to sit up. Doc jumped up to gently push him back down. "Kirby, you're gonna start bleedin' again if

316 ya try to walk. Just stay put! " "I'm not too bad, Kirby. Just a nick in the side. I can still hold a gun." Littlejohn turned to study Saunders. The sergeant sat against a rock, staring at a map. He slid it back into his jacket and turned to look at the men. "How's Caje, Doc?" "I'm okay, Sarge." The Cajun's words came out in a gasp of pain as Doc finished bandaging his side. "He's lost a lot of blood, but he'll be okay if we can get 'im to a hospital." Henderson began to chuckle softly. "A hospital? We don't even know where the American lines are. None of us are gonna make it outta this one." "Shut up, Henderson!" Saunders' voice was barely above a whisper, but his anger was unmistakable. "One more crack like that and I'll shoot ya myself!" He turned and addressed the group. "We're not far from the river. We're gonna move as close as possible and then wait till nightfall and cross. If our guys stopped the Krauts from crossing, our lines can't be far." "Sarge, how are we gonna get Kirby and Caje across?" "There've been a lot of good-sized branches around, Doc. We'll all float across. You and Littlejohn'll help Kirby. Henderson and I'll help Caje. We rest five more minutes and then we move to the river." Doc walked over to Saunders and pulled out a new bandage. "Let's have a look at your head." "Don't bother, Doc." Doc ignored the sergeant and began applying the new bandage. "No bother, Sarge." Doc eyed Saunders with concern. "A pretty tough situation." "We've been in worse." "Yup, we have. I guess I just have a bad feelin' 'bout this one." Saunders rubbed the back of his neck and spoke under his breath. "Just remember, no matter what happens, keep goin' west to the river." Doc frowned and finished bandaging. He handed Saunders some aspirin. "Thanks, Doc." "Sarge, ya can't do this alone." Saunders eyes narrowed as he looked back at the medic. "That's right, Doc. I need your help." Resigning himself to following the sergeant's plan, whatever it was, Doc walked back over to his rucksack and closed it up as Saunders ordered, "Let's head out."

*****

First Squad moved slowly, painfully, through the trees toward the river. The clouds that had been threatening most of the day finally burst open and drenched the men with a steady rainfall. Saunders was on the point, his nerves pushed to their limits. He heard the sound of gunfire ahead. Straining to determine the direction they were coming from, he held up his arm to stop the squad. "Move behind those trees. I'm gonna go check it out." Saunders moved forward, zigzagging from tree to tree. The rain continued, making the ground slick with mud where it was open to the sky. As he ran across an open path, he slid and crashed into a log. The sound of German voices and then a truck became clearer.

317 There shouldn't be a road here. We must've veered too far to the north in the rain. The gunfire grew louder. Saunders wormed his way back across the path and then cautiously made his way toward the firefight. When he felt he was close enough, he climbed a tree to view the scene. Through the rain he made out a squad of Americans engaged in battle—it was McCoy's squad. They must've been cut off. The Americans were boxed in. Saunders instinctively drew his Thompson up, ready to fire, when a swarm of German soldiers came running from the road. He knew if he began firing he would draw the Germans in his direction, toward his wounded men. In that instant, he knew what he had to do. Sliding down the tree, he ran back to the squad. "Doc, Henderson, Littlejohn—you need to get moving. We got off course. Head due west and get Kirby and Caje across the river!" "What about you, Sarge?" Littlejohn asked. "I don't have time to talk. I have to try to help McCoy. His squad's in trouble. Doc is in charge! Get goin' now!" Saunders growled. Doc blocked the Sarge's path as the sergeant turned to leave. Saunders stood in the rain and looked up at him with glassy eyes, first filled with despair, then resignation. Doc trembled. My dream! "Some things are just fate, Doc." Saunders pushed past him and disappeared into the trees. "I'm going after him!" Caje tried to grab his Garand but quickly dropped it, wincing in pain. Doc reluctantly took charge. "No one's goin' after him. Caje, you can't pick up a rifle. Kirby can't walk. Littlejohn and Henderson, if ya leave we all won't make it across the river. Our orders are to go, and that's what we're doin'." The squad pulled out toward the west, the river appearing before them. The Germans covering the area were all drawn to the firefight with McCoy's men, leaving a clear path for the Americans. They found large enough branches to float the wounded over to the western side. In the distance, they could hear Saunders' Thompson join the firefight, firing unrelentingly. Reaching the western bank, the men crawled on shore and hoisted in the wounded. They lay on the riverbank, each trying to catch his breath. Henderson looked back across the river. "Why didn't he...?" Frowning, he stopped himself. There was no response.

*****

Initially, the sound of gunfire from the northeast had given hope to the men of King Company—maybe McCoy and Saunders' squads had made it after all—but as Lieutenant Hanley and Colby's squad moved to the north along the river, the gunfire had grown more intense, and the sound of Schmeissers seemed to overpower the sound of M-1s. The lieutenant signaled the men to halt and crouched behind a copse of bushes on the riverbank. He heard voices along the river and struggled to make out the words through the sound of rain and gunfire. Within moments, he heard a familiar voice with a heavy French accent. Hanley led his group forward to assist the struggling men of Saunders' squad. "Where's Saunders?" "He's over there with McCoy and his men, Lieutenant." Doc pointed across the river. Hanley frowned. "Did he say what the Kraut strength was?" "No, sir. But I got the feelin' it was more'n just a squad." "Colby, have your medic help Doc with the wounded. Henderson, you wounded?" "No, Lieutenant." "Okay, you come with us." "I'm comin' too, Lieutenant." Littlejohn struggled to his feet. Hanley looked at Littlejohn's bleeding side. "You'd only slow us down, Littlejohn. You head

318 back with Doc and the others." Hanley started wading into the river. "Come on, let's move!"

*****

The rain stopped as the men of First Squad reached the aid tent. Kirby and Caje were hustled onto cots, and after cursory examination and clean bandages, lay waiting to be evacuated to a field hospital. Littlejohn's wound needed only some cleaning and bandages, and he was told he'd be as good as new with a few days rest. Doc sat wearily on the edge of an empty cot, awaiting news of Saunders and McCoy. As minutes turned to an hour and more, Doc's fatigue won the battle with his worry and he drifted off to sleep. "Doc... Doc?" The medic felt a hand on his shoulder, jostling him awake. He opened his eyes to see Saunders standing over him. The sergeant's shirt was covered with blood. "Sarge! Are you hit?" "What?" the sergeant looked down at his shirt. "No... no, I'm fine." Now fully awake and staring at Saunders as if he were an apparition, Doc was full of questions. "What about McCoy and his squad... and Hanley?" "Take it easy, Doc. McCoy got hit, but he'll be okay. He lost two men from his squad— Anderson and Meeker. The rest made it. Hanley and Colby got there just in time. Saunders sat down and lit a Lucky. "They told me Kirby and Caje were evacuated to a hospital, but they'd be okay." Doc turned to look where the two wounded men had been lying. Littlejohn was fast asleep on one of the cots, while the other was empty. "I guess I was out for quite awhile." The medic turned back to look at Saunders. "Where's Henderson?" Saunders exhaled and shook his head. "Hanley ordered him to flank the Krauts on the left with Daly. Henderson wouldn't move. He started screamin'. He lost it. Daly had just moved up when a grenade landed by Henderson and took him out." Doc rubbed his eyes, searching for some feelings of loss. After all this time, the feelings were not as automatic as they used to be, especially for a man like Henderson. "He was so sure that somebody else was gonna get him killed. Then he just does it to himself. Some way to die." Doc shook his head. Saunders rose slowly and ground his cigarette into the wet earth. "I haven't seen any good ways to die, Doc. I don't think there are any... not for soldiers... not for little girls."

end

319 A Squad Moment from "The Little Carousel"

Kirby: Ah ah ah! Hey, Doc, ain’tcha got no compassion?

Doc: Aw, come on, Kirby, it’s just a scratch.

Kirby: Well, it ain’t gonna be when I write home about it!

(Littlejohn, Caje, Kirby, and Doc all laugh.)

Claudine: Bonjour, messieurs! Claudine Barrole, étudiante infirmière. À votre service, messieurs.

Caje: Ah, Claudine. Bien, laissez-moi vous presenter, hein? ...Littlejohn, Kirby, Doc... Et moi, je m'appelle Caje.

Claudine: Que puis-je faire pour vous aider, docteur?

Caje: She’s a student nurse, at your service. She wants to know what she can do to help.

Saunders: (Walks up) Nothing, absolutely nothing. Caje, you tell her to take off, this town isn’t secure yet.

Doc: Sarge, they’re gonna be comin’ in here pretty soon anyway.

Saunders: You heard me. Do I have to say everything twice? (Walks away)

Caje: Écoutez, mademoiselle. Le docteur n’a pas besoin de votre aide pour le moment. Alors, allez.... Nous vous remercions, hein?

Claudine: Je crois que c'est le sergent qui a besoin d'aide.

Doc: What’d she say?

Caje: I told her you didn’t need any more help, Doc. She agreed. Said it was the sergeant who needed the help.

320 WITNESS

by Doc II

No Man's Land by Eric Bogle (verse 3)

Well, the sun's shining down on these green fields of France; The warm wind blows gently, the red poppies dance. The trenches have vanished long under the plow; No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now. But here in this graveyard it's still No Man's Land; The countless white crosses in mute witness stand To man's blind indifference to his fellow man. And a whole generation who were butchered and damned.

Acknowledgements: a gazillion thanks to Jester for always being there and encouraging my writing. And for listening.... Thanks also to my wonderful beta reader, Syl Francis, who broke speed records reading this and getting back to me. I am in awe, Syl, and I owe ya one. Like that Hogan's Heroes/Combat! crossover. I'll make you a deal—you finish it, and I'll beta it even faster than you beta-ed mine! (Think she'll go for it, kids? Hey, it's worth a try!)

Thanks to Eric Bogle for many hours of listening pleasure. His songs touch the heart and the soul. No Man's Land is haunting, as is The Band Played Waltzing Matilda. I met Eric in Alaska and shared a couple of my own songs with him. Being a kind man, he didn't laugh. Bless you, Eric, and WRITE ON!

Note: dialog contained within < > denotes the speaking of a foreign language, either French or German as will be apparent within the context of the scene.

Disclaimer: This story takes place shortly after the horrific murder of women and children. While that scene is not included, it is alluded to in graphic terms. This story is not for the faint of heart.

321 Saunders lay on his belly under the bridge, chin resting on the back of his right hand. Several yellow butterflies drifted in the idle breeze, fragile wings bending in the currents and carrying them ever closer to the prone sergeant. He ignored them, shifting just enough to turn his left wrist and the watch strapped around it to his face. Five minutes. He'd promised the leader of the Maquis ten. It felt more like twenty. Sucking in a lungful of fragrant country air, Saunders forced his muscles to relax and ignored a persistent itch somewhere in the neighborhood of his right knee. Behind him, deeper in the shadows of the stone bridge, lay the exhausted men of First Squad. Despite the watchful demeanor of his NCO, Kirby dozed. Next to him, Caje stared off down the river, dark eyes following its gentle meanderings. A fish jumped downstream, its silvery body a shimmering rainbow in the bright glare of the afternoon sun. The Cajun blinked, but otherwise remained motionless. Beyond the scout and Kirby, Littlejohn and Billy lurked in the darkness, shoved up against one another in the cramped space. As it was, Littlejohn's long legs stretched into the shallows and Nelson had his head on one side, his dented helmet resting against the underside of the stone buttress. Saunders looked at his watch again. Seven minutes. He sighed, allowing himself the minor luxury of running his hand over his grimy face, knuckling the grit out of each eye, and then scratching at the overgrown stubble on his chin. Earlier, on their journey to this place, he'd looked forward to a shave and a clean shirt. Now he'd settle for just losing the rising anxiety in his guts.

*****

At nine minutes, Saunders tapped the crystal of his watch, frowning, and then leaned his head down to it. The butterflies were gone, leaving only a single dragonfly buzzing over the pools of water at the edge of the river. For a moment, Saunders followed its jerky flight, blue eyes narrowed in concentration as the steady ticking filled his ear. In the next instant, he was on his feet, Thompson ready in his hands, Caje right behind him. They heard feet pounding along the road, faltering and then picking up again. Saunders crouched in the long grass, waiting. Ten feet away, Caje lay prone, sighting along the barrel of the Garand. The others remained under the bridge, weapons at the ready. "Sergeant, Sergeant!" A young man skidded into view, his feet skating out from under him as he tried to stop short. He landed hard on his outstretched arms, and rolled into the thick grass lining the road. Palms raw and bloody, he climbed to his knees. He held his arms out imploringly, eyes wide and full of tears. Dark stains spattered the front of his shirt and pants, which clung damply to him. Saunders glanced back at the Cajun, indicating the Frenchman, and then whistled softly to the men under the bridge. As they climbed the bank, he listened carefully to Caje's rapid translation, fingers tightening on the submachine gun in his arms as the languages tumbled over each other, the young man not waiting for Caje to catch up. Without command, the squad set out for the village, automatically maintaining their intervals, but running all the same. The young man remained behind, sinking to the ground and finally succumbing to the sobs he'd tried to prevent. As the footsteps of the soldiers faded away, he rocked back and forth, cap squeezed between his fingers, dark hair ruffling in the afternoon breeze.

*****

Saunders crouched in the scant protection of the doorway, his heart hammering in his chest. He gulped air, trying desperately to slake the fire in his lungs and still the trembling of his hands. He knew he'd be useless with the Thompson and yet still he gripped it, a cold talisman in a situation that had grown rapidly out of control. Out of his control. Swallowing hard, he glanced over his shoulder, gratified beyond measure to see his men still following orders, holding their

322 positions behind whatever cover they could find. Caje caught his attention, pointing with his narrow chin up the street at something Saunders couldn't see. The scout shrugged, his eyes dark beneath the brim of his helmet. Leaning out from behind the overturned cart, he took a quick look past the sergeant's position, and then just as quickly returned to relative safety. He shrugged again, shaking his head slightly. Shrill screaming rent the air. Saunders knew something was up the second they approached the bombed-out village. It appeared to be deserted, but that was the beauty of the whole setup. To appear to be something it wasn't. What the town had been months ago before the Germans shelled it into piles of rubble no longer mattered. For the last month it was the stronghold of a small band of Resistance fighters and their families. A group that went about its business as silently as poison gas, striking and then vanishing in the rising wind. Saunders and First Squad had joined up with them for a mission, using the combined intelligence of the Allies' military leaders and the feral Frenchmen to create a plan so audacious no one would expect it. Except now, Saunders was struck numb by the knowledge that not only had someone anticipated their actions but had managed to seek revenge before the GIs and the Maquis had even gone to ground. He'd held his men back at the bridge while the Frenchmen had gone on, trying to come up with a plan. Now, he forced the squad to rely on their training and experience, leapfrogging from one doorway to an uneven pile of twisted metal to the ruins of an old church. The French had no such discipline. Hearts in their throats, they'd run for the ruins they'd called home where they'd left their families. The screaming had started almost immediately. And still Saunders held his men under tight control while his own nerves threatened to unman him. He knew their best chances at defeating an unseen enemy lay with what had worked in the past. And yet he trembled with the slowness of the pace. And with the knowledge that he'd left a man behind in the village with the families, deliberately ordering him to stay. Rising on unsteady legs, Saunders signaled the men on, from one doorway to the next. He filled his lungs with air and ran ahead of them, almost blind with panic.

*****

Christian stood on the crumbling steps of what had once been a candy store. The first few nights he'd slept there, he'd awoken, stomach rumbling, with a small boy's desire for chocolate. He'd laughed with his wife, Manon, that their unborn child would arrive in the world with a sweet tooth, despite the deprivations suffered by all of France's citizens. Now, as Christian stood before the open doorway, the keening of his men behind him in the village fading to no more than a hollow hum echoing inside his head, he took a deep breath. No longer did the elusive scent of burnt sugar fill his nostrils, as it had the first night they'd stayed here, without even a single candle for fear the Germans were watching. The aromas of his childhood—nutmeg, cinnamon, vanilla— which had flavored every clandestine meeting held in the basement storeroom amidst the ruined candy-making machinery, were all overpowered by the throat-burning smell of old pipes and older francs. One hand over his nose and mouth, Christian climbed the few steps, his worn leather shoes dragging through a sticky substance he didn't immediately identify. At the threshold, he paused, shoulders hunched and tense. "Christian!"

323 The Frenchman remained where he was, but turned, watching the American sergeant deploy his men throughout the street and then walk toward him with such slow deliberation that Christian wanted to hurl himself from the steps and beat the GI senseless. Instead, he bit hard on his lower lip and waited for the man who had become not only an ally but a friend. They'd been through a lot the last few weeks, the American and the Resistance leader. Knowing that his life would be forever changed the moment he entered the candy store, Christian waited on the man whose presence had precipitated that change. It only seemed appropriate they walk in together.

*****

The little storefront was empty. The pile of broken timber in the corner seemed undisturbed, as were the oddly intact rows of neat shelving against the back wall. Saunders crouched in the doorway for a moment, blue eyes wide in the dim light as he searched for threats, for targets. Nothing moved, and he edged farther into the room, Christian right on his heels despite the sergeant waving him back. As he moved toward the door behind the counter, Saunders allowed his gaze to sweep the room once more, stopping suddenly as the changing angle of light through the window revealed that which he couldn't have seen from the front: boot prints, dozens of them crisscrossing the room, and long sliding marks that extended from the main door to the backroom. Even in the waning afternoon sun, Saunders could tell the color of those marks, a hue he'd have no trouble recognizing for the rest of his life. "Manon!" Christian cried out in despair, catching Saunders off-balance with a hard shove, and pushed through the ragged curtain that still hung between the rooms. Saunders regained his equilibrium, the Thompson once more secured in his hands, and followed the Frenchman into the back room. The rough fabric of the curtain caressed his face, and he flinched away from it, raising one arm to fling it aside. As it dropped back into place behind him, Saunders collided with Christian, who stood stock still only a pace into the room. "Mon dieu." Scarcely a whisper. The sergeant took a step to the left, boots sliding in the thick gelatinous substance coating the floor. An overwhelming odor of copper filled the air, filtering insidiously down the back of his throat and threatening to choke him. Beside him, Christian trembled, thick tears flowing unheeded down his white cheeks and soaking into his collar. Saunders pulled his gaze away from the horrified Resistance man, and turned to survey the room. The walls were drenched in blood, striped and stippled and spattered. Even the ceiling had large irregular dark stains in places. What glass had been left in the windows after the German shelling was now shattered over the floor and ground into powder in places by the bloody boot prints. A large eyebolt had been screwed into a ceiling rafter, supporting a hangman's noose that swung gently back and forth in the breeze flowing through the empty windows. It was tied off at the base of the staircase, where a single chair sat, placed at an angle for the best possible view of whatever horrors had been staged there. A man still sat there, ankles tied securely to the legs of the chair, and hands roped together behind his back. His head hung down, chin resting on his chest. His shirt and pants were liberally covered in blood, and a puddle of it spread around his boots—his GI-issue boots. "Doc!" Saunders flung himself across the room, dropping to one knee in the sticky mess. He reached out, fingers stopping just short of touching the medic. "Doc?" Doc's chest suddenly heaved, and he drew in a ragged breath. He raised his head so slowly that it wasn't clear at first that he was even moving, other than the tremors that rippled down his neck muscles. The trembling spread to his shoulders and then down the rest of his body, until the chair was audibly rocking on the floor. His jaw was working, but only guttural sounds came from his throat. As his head came up, both Christian and Saunders could see that his eyes were tightly closed, the left swollen and purple.

324 Saunders shook his own head, realizing that the bruise had taken at least a day to ripen to that dark red color. They must have come right after we left! He pulled out his knife and deftly cut through the ropes binding Doc's ankles. Reversing the blade in his hand, he passed it to Christian, who freed the medic's hands. Doc's arms fell to his sides, his fingers pasty gray. "Please... no more... please." Doc's hoarse plea was almost inaudible. His head lolled on his shoulders. "Please... please... no more." A single tear slid down his cheek, tracking through the dirt and the blood. Realizing with a start that he hadn't cleared the building, Saunders placed a gentle hand on Christian's shoulder, pulling the man's attention to him. "Stay with him, I'll check upstairs." The Frenchman's eyes widened in shock and he glanced up, a plea of his own unspoken. He nodded, and swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat. He handed Saunders the knife and then moved closer to Doc, hoping that his presence would be comforting. "Please, God, take me instead...."

*****

He crept up the stairs, left shoulder brushing against the wall and ankles aching with the exaggerated slowness of his stride. He wanted to take the steps two at a time. Stick with your training. Saunders clenched his teeth against the rage rising in him. He was following one of the red trails, a fairly wide slide pattern overlaid with droplets of blood. As he approached the top, the path led into the larger of the two bedrooms, out of his line of sight. From the window at the landing, he could hear men shouting, sobbing. It only took a minute to clear the smaller room. It had no closet, no furniture, nowhere at all to hide. Now Saunders approached the other room, the slick, coppery smell stronger in his nostrils. This room, too, had no furniture, save for the lumpy palette on the floor. He took a step closer, the Thompson dropping away to dangle from one hand. Sagging against the wall, Saunders closed his eyes, wishing with his entire soul that he didn't have to go back down those stairs and tell Christian what he had found: that the two beaten and bloody corpses on the palette were the man's wife and newborn child. He sank to his heels, his hands coming up to cover his face. Manon! Dark-haired and dark-eyed, she had welcomed the squad as if they were family, knowing the danger they were all courting, but willing to risk everything for her country and her beloved husband. And now she was dead, along with the much-awaited child. Saunders opened his eyes for a moment and studied the tiny body. And then shut them again, pressing the palms of both hands into them until he saw sparks. How could he walk back down those stairs and tell Christian that not only was his family dead but that Saunders couldn't even tell if the infant had been a boy or a girl?

*****

They were all dead. Eight adult women, including two mothers of Resistance men, plus five children. No, six including Christian's newborn. Saunders corrected himself with an abrupt shake of his head, shaggy mop of blond hair flopping in his eyes. He shoved it back abruptly, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and replaced his helmet. Not that it made any difference. Within thirty seconds he felt hot, itchy, and dirtier than he could stand. His pants legs were stiff with dried blood. He could only imagine how Doc felt. Doc. Saunders sighed, knowing he'd avoided the medic long enough. After ascertaining that no one remained alive in the village, Saunders had hustled them all out, despite the protests of Christian and his men that their women needed proper burials. Later, later, he'd promised, knowing that the Krauts had to be waiting for their return, watching and waiting. A mile outside the village, perimeter watched by Littlejohn, Nelson, Kirby, and two of the Resistance men, Saunders finally felt a little of the tension leave him. But none of the despair. He

325 climbed to his feet and moved over to the small creek where Caje was attempting to wash the worst of the grime from Doc's face. The medic leaned back against a tree, propped where Caje set him. Saunders had been gratified to discover that the black eye seemed to be the worst of his injuries, rope burns aside, but Doc was almost catatonic. He hadn't opened his eyes, mumbling his unanswered requests of his creator until his voice gave out. Even now he sat so still that Saunders thought he must be asleep. A glance at Caje's worried face and a quick negative shake of the Cajun's head told him otherwise. As Caje ran the wet rag over Doc's bruised eye, the medic flinched away, the muscles in his arms tensing as if he would fend off the water, but lacked the strength to do so. Caje caught Saunders' eye, shrugging slim shoulders. Kirby appeared out of the brush. He hitched the BAR into a more comfortable position and dropped to one knee next to Caje, staring into Doc's face but addressing the sergeant. "No sign of nobody, Sarge. Littlejohn an' me, we backtracked all the way to the village, went around an' then back again. Nothin'." He fell silent for a moment, brow furrowed in unaccustomed deliberation. "The Frenchies, they want blood." Kirby glanced at the creek where Doc's shirt twisted and turned in the current, anchored at the collar by a smooth rock. Downstream, the water ran red. He averted his gaze and found himself staring straight into Saunders' clear blue eyes. Saunders didn't look away. "Can you blame 'em?" Caje's hands froze for a moment, dark eyes not giving anything away, particularly not the shock he felt at this question from his by-the-book sergeant. He dropped the rag into the grass and sat back, drying his palms on his thighs. He could hear the low urgent murmurs of a conversation between Christian and his men, some twenty yards away upstream. "What are we gonna do, Sarge?" The Cajun kept his tone deliberately neutral, knowing that his own emotions were floating dangerously close to the surface. He reached into Doc's rucksack and pulled out a pack of sulfa powder, sprinkling some over his fingers, and then gently applied it to the torn skin surrounding the medic's eye. Doc turned his head away, grimacing. "Shh, it's okay, Doc, just gotta fix this." Not trusting his voice, Saunders just sat and watched his scout, seeing not Doc, but a small girl, only three years old, crying over a skinned knee. Caje had scooped her up, whispering words of comfort in the child's native French. Little Josette had taken a shine to Caje the day they'd arrived in the village, although Saunders knew the Cajun was just as smitten. Josette's mother was dead, killed by the Nazis. Her father, Laurent, took care of her basic needs, but focused on destroying the Boche in his grief. Caje gave her silliness and taught her to play. He made puppets out of Kirby's socks, and flew kites with Doc's bandages for tails. In a few short days, Josette had learned to laugh. And now her mutilated body lay wrapped in a sheet, rowed up with the other children. Saunders closed his eyes, forcing the images from his mind. "Yeah, what are we gonna do, Sarge?" Kirby stood, restless energy emanating from him like heat from a stove. He rested his forearms on the long barrel of the BAR and studied the Maquis in their tight knot under an ancient tree. Once in awhile, one of them would look up, face hidden under a cap pulled low over the brow, and cast an eye around, ending with the Americans, then return to the group. Kirby frowned, wondering just why the very men he'd trusted with his life last night now made him itchy and anxious. Hands on his knees, Saunders heaved himself upright, his weary muscles screaming in protest. "We're moving out. First light." "Moving out? But... what about the...." Kirby waved his hands in useless circles. Saunders pulled a single half-crushed cigarette from one pocket, his lighter from another. His eyes took on a dangerous glint, staring down the BAR man. Cigarette lit, Saunders took a

326 deep drag and held the smoke in his lungs for a long moment. Finally, he blew it out again and dropped his gaze to the medic. "What about what, Kirby? We did our job." The Cajun stood abruptly, fishing Doc's shirt from the creek, and twisted it in his strong hands. "I'm staying." Water spiraled from the fabric, splashing back into the currents. Saunders' shoulders dropped and he half-turned away, anger pulling his features into sharp angles. "We're moving out, Caje, you heard me." "I'm not leaving Josette like that." He shook out the shirt and tossed it over a bush. Turning to face Saunders, Caje crossed his arms over his chest, dark eyes cold and defiant. A flush of red bloomed on each cheek, and he dropped his chin a little, all the while maintaining eye contact with his sergeant. Saunders removed the cigarette from between his lips, smoke slipping out with his words. "We have to. The Krauts are just waiting for us to do something stupid." He let the full weight of his gaze fall on each of the men in turn, stopping at Caje. "We've been through this before. You take the tags, you move out. We take time to bury 'em, they'll be burying us." Caje merely stared back, mouth one thin line and eyes narrowed in tightly contained rage. "Thing is, Sergeant, they don't have tags." His fingers curled around his own dog tags, rubbing his thumb along the rolled edge. "Krauts treated them like they were nobody. If we leave them like... like that, we're no better than they are." And just how do I answer that? Saunders waited out the silence, aware of the Frenchmen gathering behind his scout, their faces slack with grief. They murmured softly to each other, and to Caje, and the Cajun answered them in their own language, not bothering to translate for Saunders. Kirby stood in frank bewilderment, neck swiveling from his NCO to his squad mate and back again. Even the creek seemed to up its tempo, its water tumbling ever faster over the smooth rocks. "Sarge?" They all froze, not quite believing what their ears were so clearly hearing. Caje moved first, shoving past Saunders and kneeling in front of the medic. Doc's eyes remained stubbornly closed, hands still lying useless in the grass. He shivered, though, as the rising wind blew his wet hair off his forehead and plastered the thin undershirt damply to his chest. Saunders crouched next to Doc, holding out a canteen until Caje snatched it from him and wet a clean rag, squeezing it over the medic's parched lips. Doc tried to swallow, gagging, and coughing until he cleared his throat. "Those women... the kids... they didn't give up a thing, Sarge. If we don't... take care of them... don't honor them ... it'll be for nothing." Doc lifted his face, turning slowly toward his sergeant. With a grunt of pain he opened his eyes, blinking hard a few times before focusing on the men around him. Kirby and the men of the Maquis, leaning in to hear the hoarsely whispered words, flinched away at the sight of Doc's eyes, the sclera completely blood red against the vivid blue of his irises. "If we don't do this, nothin' will ever be enough."

*****

The fog threaded between the trees, dragging the night behind it and leaving the men damp and more than a little edgy. Littlejohn and Nelson divided up the few rations they had left, sharing equally with the Frenchmen, who in turn offered a few stale crusts of bread. Caje and Kirby, out on the perimeter, came close to shooting each other more than once as they passed on their recons. Saunders, covering the west side with Christian and several of his men, finally gave them set positions, settling himself down with as good a view of the road from the village as he was going to get. The fact that he could only see ten feet before the fog closed in wasn't something he could do anything about. There was little comfort in knowing the Krauts were equally handicapped. Despite all the impassioned words from his men and from the grief-stricken husbands and fathers and sons, Saunders still planned on moving out at first light. He had no answer for Doc,

327 other than he knew it would be a disaster of monumental size. The Maquis had surrounded the hapless medic, inundating him with questions in a language he didn't understand and that he wouldn't, or maybe couldn't, answer anyway. He'd drawn his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around them and dropped his head down, effectively walling himself off. And hadn't said another word since. Saunders sighed, shifting from one hip and elbow to the other. Somewhere high in the heavens, a full moon hung. Without the fog, visibility would have been excellent. The sergeant couldn't help but wonder if that had figured in the Germans' plans. The whole thing smacked of premeditation. He guessed that somewhere in the elaborate chain that linked the underground together, there must be a mole. Looking over one shoulder, Saunders almost convinced himself that he could see Christian, efficient German submachine gun stolen from a body the Frenchman himself had knifed, ready in hands that weren't quite steady. He knew that most of these men were related, brothers, cousins, in-laws. That one of them might be a collaborator who had orchestrated this massacre chilled him more than the dropping temperature.

*****

Caje watched Kirby's wiry figure materialize out of the mist, scattered shadows moving toward each other and then coalescing into the BAR man. He held up one hand in greeting, gaze already shifting away from that which he recognized to the darkness beyond. "You see anything?" Kirby knelt in the wet grass, one hand automatically reaching for a cigarette, and then regretfully changing course to scratch his left ear. The fog closed around them, muffling the night noises. The Cajun snorted softly, recognizing the objective of Kirby's movements. He glanced over his shoulder, listening intently, before turning back to his squad mate. "Yeah, I saw Hitler go by, riding on a pony." Kirby blinked. He leaned in closer, studying the somber lines of Caje's face. He'd been with the scout when they'd discovered Josette's sad little body, and watched him fall to his knees in shock. It was Kirby who'd found the quilt and covered the girl and who'd coaxed Caje to his feet. Now Kirby wondered if Caje wasn't losing what had to be a tenuous hold on his emotions, or even his sanity. "Hitler, huh? On a pony? Did he stick a feather in his cap?" One eyebrow arched up, then quickly settled back into place as Caje shook his head. He consulted his watch and rose into a crouch, one shoulder braced on the nearest tree. "Time to move out." Before Kirby could reply, the Cajun was gone, vanishing into the fog as if he'd never existed. Kirby sighed, squinting into the darkness. Reaching down, he flexed the toe of his right boot up and down, trying to relieve the aching pain in his foot. All he managed to accomplish was to send pins and needles up his ankle. Glancing at his own timepiece, Kirby sighed, and then hitched the BAR into a more comfortable position. "Glad I didn't ask him if Hitler called it macaroni." His voice trailed off as he, too, disappeared into the gloom.

*****

Littlejohn lay on his side, head pillowed on one arm. Nelson sat next to him, munching on tinned biscuits and making an inordinate amount of noise, considering the danger lurking in the night. As the younger man dug into his pockets, producing yet another can, Littlejohn cleared his throat and grabbed the offending object out of Nelson's unresisting hands. "Can't you just lie down and try and get some rest? We gotta relieve Kirby and Caje in an hour." He tucked the biscuits into his jacket and sat up, scrubbing at his sweaty hair and plopping his helmet back on his head. Yawning hugely, he stretched out his long arms, almost knocking

328 Nelson over backward. "Sorry." Billy squinted in the darkness, staring at the dim figure only a few feet away. "Do ya think he's gonna ever talk again, Littlejohn?" "I dunno. But I bet he can still hear, don't you?" Littlejohn cuffed Nelson lightly on the shoulder. He rolled to his hands and knees and scuttled over to the old tree where the medic sat cross-legged in the deep grass, chin resting on his chest. He wore an odd variety of GI-issue and homespun French civilian clothing, his own still damp from Caje's laundering. Despite the layers, Doc shivered, his teeth clicking and grinding against one another. His arms hung loosely from his shoulders, hands turned palm up on his knees as if in supplication. Saunders' canteen rested in his lap, and a small pile of untouched rations sat in front of him. Littlejohn figured he hadn't moved since Caje had stuffed him into the borrowed clothing and parked him by the ancient oak. "Doc?" He flinched at the sound of his own voice, tremulous and overly loud in the fog-banked glade. "Doc?" The shivering died away, for just a moment, then resumed. Littlejohn shook his head, backing slowly away, and then sat next to Nelson again. Aware of Billy's questioning gaze, he shrugged his shoulders, still watching the silent medic. "He's just gotta talk." Nelson leaned forward, absently patting his own pockets in a futile search for the biscuits that Littlejohn had appropriated. "I mean, if he doesn't talk, how's he gonna ask where we hurt?"

*****

Beads of moisture rolled off the barrel of the Thompson, reappearing almost as fast as Saunders wiped them off. The fog parted before him, step after careful step, as he paused to listen with ears strained from the hours of muffling silence. Underfoot, he felt the slight slide of his left boot on packed earth and angled to the right, staying in the shelter of the forest. Not even the Krauts would be dumb enough to approach on the road, but Saunders would be damned if he'd allow himself to be caught out there. A shadow flickered in his peripheral vision, and Saunders dropped to one knee, staring blindly into the gray haze. Holding his breath, he flanked left, ducking under a dead tree that leaned at an angle against its brothers. The shadow moved again, materializing into Kirby, whose dark eyes were wide with apprehension. The business end of the BAR never wavered, though, and Saunders quickly raised one hand to signal the wiry soldier. Kirby hunkered down, letting his knees take the weight of the BAR. He rolled his wiry shoulders in undisguised relief. "What's shakin', Sarge?" He batted at a wisp of fog floating past his nose. "I can't see nothin' in this soup." Saunders removed his helmet and wiped a fine layer of perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve. Despite the chill in the air, he was drenched in sweat from head to toe. The momentary lull in activity allowed the cold to sink into his bones, and he shivered, although even he couldn't determine if it was the temperature or the abysmal conditions. Turning his wrist, he stared at his watch in the ghostly light cast by the moon through the fog. "I've got oh-four-hundred." Saunders sighed, closing his eyes for a moment before continuing. "It's almost dawn. I know they're out there." Kirby shoved his sleeve back down after checking his watch. He turned up the collar of his jacket and rearranged his suspender straps, hitching the BAR into a more accessible position. Peering past Saunders, he slowly drew himself up, leaning on a tree to maintain the balance his

329 exhausted body seemed to have forgotten. "That way's the road, huh?" "Yeah. Luc should be about a hundred yards past that." Saunders stood, too, reaching out to slap Kirby lightly on the back as he passed him. He turned, watching the BAR man trudge away. "Oh, and Kirby?" "Yeah?" "Don't let him shoot you." Kirby looked back, expecting to see at least a ghost of a grin on his sergeant's face. Saunders stood there, Thompson resting lightly across his arms, his eyes in shadow. He raised the barrel of the submachine gun slightly in a half salute, and then turned away, the fog obliterating all trace of him. Kirby shivered, the night inexplicably colder than it had been moments before. Shaking his head, he took off, setting one aching foot in front of the other.

*****

One knee pressed into the damp earth, Caje stared into the mist. He glanced over his shoulder and then rose silently to his feet, circling back toward the copse of trees where he'd last seen young Luc. Saunders had improvised the perimeter defense, leaving half the members of the Resistance band at set intervals, and the rest joining the GIs in patrolling the lonely woods. Barely noticing the passage of his own boots through the loamy undergrowth, Caje cursed the fog's ability to steal his hearing, knowing all the while that their enemies would be in the same predicament. He'd thought he'd heard a small outcry, somewhere behind him. He'd only left Luc a few moments ago. Surely not...? He almost ran smack into the thick trunk of the hundred-year-old fir that marked Luc's position as the fog shifted and turned back on him once more. Ducking away from it, Caje stumbled over something on the ground, something that hadn't been there only five minutes prior. He caught himself with one hand on the tree and reached with the other, tentative fingers making contact with rough, homespun fabric. It only took a moment for him to identify the body as that of the Frenchman, his throat cut so deeply he was almost decapitated. In the next instant, Caje was gone, running silently through the forest.

*****

Something woke Doc with a start, heart hammering in his chest. He hadn't thought he'd be able to sleep at all, ever again. But exhaustion took its toll, dragging him down to a place he couldn't escape, a dark world of endless screams and rivers of blood. Now wide awake, he stared with aching eyes into the white fog, trying to make sense of the shifting shadows. Rocking forward to his knees, he then stood, swaying as waves of vertigo swept over him. Before him, Nelson dozed, bent over his knees, M-1 at his feet. "Billy, wake up!" Doc shook the kid, wincing at the aching pain that traveled from wrist to shoulder with every movement. With growing urgency, he circled the tiny glade, moving from tree to tree with unaccustomed clumsiness. Behind him, Nelson stirred, and Doc quickly returned to him. "We gotta move, they're here, I, we...." The medic bent and picked up the M-1, swearing as it tumbled from his nerveless fingers, and scooped it up again, shoving it into Nelson's hands. Grabbing the kid's elbow, he hauled him to his feet. "We gotta go!" Nelson crouched automatically, still half asleep but used to following orders no matter his level of consciousness. His hands slid over the familiar contours of the rifle, fingers finding the safety, the trigger guard, and checking that the clip was in place. He blinked owlishly, stifling a yawn. "Where we goin', Doc?" The medic looked back at the kid, suddenly aware that his own place in this world was no longer somewhere toward the back. Without hesitation, Doc took the point, plunging into the forest.

330 He didn't look back, trusting that Nelson's training and hard-won survival in this godforsaken war would keep him from questioning Doc's decision. With a small sigh, Nelson followed him.

*****

Kirby heard the footsteps, even with fog-muffled ears. He stepped back into the sheltering boughs of a huge pine, ignoring the rain of needles down the back of his neck and the slow drip of condensation sliding off the branches and pinging on the top of his helmet. He slid his index finger inside the trigger guard, thumbing the safety off. He fought to control his breathing, swallowing hard and holding each breath as long as he could. Tremors danced along his muscles. The BAR weighed a thousand pounds and he wondered if he'd be able to aim the blasted thing, let alone apply enough pressure to fire it. There! The sound of boots skidding on the fine gravel of the roadbed slewed him around, and he went to one knee, holding the BAR in one hand and shoving branches out of the way with the other. A figure came into view, unsure of itself, stumbling to a walk and looking back the way it came. Kirby's finger tightened on the trigger and he felt his nerves settle, pulse fast but steady, circulating adrenaline through his body. As he brought the sight to bear on the man.... "Littlejohn!" Kirby almost dropped the BAR as he shoved the barrel skyward to avoid plugging his squad mate with a dozen rounds of automatic fire. He reached out from the protection of the pine, curling his fingers into Littlejohn's jacket and hauled him in, dropping them both to the ground. "What the hell are you doin', wanderin' around like that? I 'bout shot you, you dumb ox." Littlejohn stared back, eyebrows twitching and his mouth working. His hands jumped up and down in meaningless gesticulation. The BAR man leaned in closer and suddenly smelled an odor he'd forgotten a thousand lives ago. A jar of pennies he'd been saving to purchase a bike, pennies rubbed smooth from hours of patient counting. His hands had carried the same scent for days, despite his mother's insistence that he take a bath. Kirby shook his head, banishing the memory, and roughly cuffed the big man's shoulder. "What's wrong?" Littlejohn looked down at the rifle in his arms and hugged it tighter to his chest. "That kid. Alain. He's dead." He swallowed as he looked up again, eyes lost to the shadows beneath the brim of his helmet. "Knife. He never saw it coming, jus' lyin' there...." Kirby was already on his feet, shoving the pine branches out of his way and stepping into the road. Behind him, he could hear Littlejohn swearing as the tree snapped back into place, raining needles over his head. He rolled his shoulders and resettled the weight of the BAR. "Come on, we gotta find Sarge and the others." Kirby waited the space of one heartbeat and then set off, not looking back to see if Littlejohn followed.

*****

Caje and Saunders crouched at the edge of the small clearing, anxiety skating along their nerve endings and leaving them shaking and shaken. While the scout squinted uselessly into the drifting fog, Saunders' attention was fixed on the small pile of rations and the abandoned canteen at the base of the oak. "I told them to stay here." The words were no louder than a thought, and Caje glanced briefly at his sergeant, unsure if the man had actually spoken. The look of frustration on Saunders' face confirmed it. Sinking even lower behind the sheltering undergrowth, Caje allowed his chin to rest for a moment on his upraised forearm. A growing ache bloomed in his chest, forcing him to finally recognize the fear

331 he'd been denying all afternoon. He'd convinced himself that he was experiencing a fierce anger that could only be relieved by an act of revenge. That desire for vengeance still lingered, but now it was fueled by an equal amount of blind horror. Caje knew he'd never forget the sight of the child's mutilated body nor would he forgive himself for not seeking out the perpetrators of such a cowardly act. Saunders may have given the order to move out in the morning, but the night had given Caje his chance. He glanced over at the sergeant, waiting for him to signal his intentions. For now, Caje was willing to follow orders. As for later, time would tell.

*****

The whispers grew, echoing off the fog banks until they seemed to totally surround the two men crouching in a shallow ravine just off the river. Doc pulled his knees to his chest in both an attempt to make himself smaller and to be in a position to readily scramble to his feet. The damp earth pressing against his back had sapped his strength in a surprisingly short length of time, although he could no longer tell how long he and Nelson had hidden there. It may have been only five minutes or as long as twenty. Doc shoved back the threadbare cuff of Christian's borrowed sweater, calloused fingers sliding over his bare wrist yet again as he sought the watch he no longer possessed. Dirt cascaded into the gully, falling onto Doc's upturned face. He quickly looked down, resisting the urge to spit out the loamy earth from his mouth. Stretching out one aching arm, he gripped Nelson's shoulder, squeezing once in an effort to keep the young man from panicking. <"Damn fog is getting thicker."> Nelson jumped and Doc squeezed the kid's shoulder again, hoping the message would be conveyed. He fought to keep his breathing under control, despite the adrenaline surging through his body. Harder still was resisting the urge to look up, knowing that a German soldier stood on the edge of the ravine, smoking by the smell of it. <"Dawn is coming, be patient."> Now it was Doc's turn to jump, great shuddering spasms that jerked his arms and legs like a puppet on a string. Nelson grabbed the medic's boots and hugged them to his chest, trying to get more of his weight over the man before the Krauts realized that the wind couldn't account for all the movement of the bushes. As the voices moved off into the fog, Doc threw Billy off, backing away from him and wrapping his arms around his knees. He shut his eyes for an instant and then immediately opened them again, more agitated than before. That voice. He knew he'd hear it in his dreams for the rest of his life. "Watch closely, medic, and remember. You are the only witness to history! Keep your eyes open and watch closely...."

*****

Kirby crouched at the top of the embankment, one hand absently massaging his right ankle while the other flapped at Littlejohn to join him. With a stealth that took him by surprise, the lanky private covered the last few yards and knelt next to Kirby. "Whaddya think they're doin'?" Littlejohn simply shook his head. Below them several members of the Maquis band conferred in urgent whispers accompanied by frantic hand waving. "Let's get down there." Kirby whistled softly, a birdcall painstakingly taught the Americans by the Frenchmen over the last week. Shifting his weight, he allowed his feet to slip out from under him and slid down the incline on his rump. Behind him, Littlejohn copied the maneuver, cannoning into Kirby at the bottom. The tall, dark-haired Christian hauled them apart, silencing them with one finger against his

332 lips. He whispered to his men, dispatching them in two pairs into the woods. After a moment, he gripped Kirby's arm, pulling him with him as he headed downriver toward a small bridge, Littlejohn bringing up the rear. They ducked underneath, and Christian scuttled to the far side, staring out into the still night before returning to the two GIs. "They've killed Luc and Alain. The bastards! I've not seen or heard a thing. I sent the others to find your men. We don't stand a chance split up like this." Christian's hands patted down his pockets, finding several clips for his rifle. Nimble fingers checked that they were full, and he then slid them into his shirt where they'd be more accessible. Kirby simply stared back at the man. Christian's voice had been as calm as if he'd been ordering lunch, even as he cursed the Germans. With a glance at Littlejohn, who had turned his back to them both and was keeping watch, Kirby frowned, shaking his head. "I got a bad feelin' about this."

*****

Four Resistance men and two Americans skirted along the road, staying just inside the tree line. Trusting Caje on point, Saunders dropped back to walk next to Etienne, Christian's younger brother. Keeping his voice lower than a whisper, the sergeant laid out his plan to the man, trusting him to translate it for the other three. "Four hundred yards up, we'll cut north, cross the river at the weir, and then follow upstream, staying well away from the water. We'll meet up with Christian at the bridge in, oh—" Saunders consulted his watch in the weird half-light. "About thirty minutes." Etienne nodded, looking away from the sergeant. His Gallic profile, well-defined cheekbones, strong nose and full lips, made him a handsome man. A moment later he turned back, and the effect was shattered at the sight of his ruined eye and mutilated ear. He nodded to Saunders and slipped back to his own men. Saunders watched him go, thinking not for the first time of his own younger brother, Chris. Chris the daredevil. Chris who worshipped his big brother and would do anything to be just like him. Chris who could have been Etienne and captured by the Germans, tortured for information he didn't have. Caje paused, looking back at his sergeant. At Saunders' signal, he angled north, leading them all deeper into the woods. Still no sign of the blasted Krauts, other than the two bodies left sprawled in the dark. Caje shivered, despite the warming air, slowing his pace to more carefully scope out the path ahead. Pausing beside a slender birch, he dropped to one knee, signaling those behind him to wait. Ahead was the weir, the roar of its tumbling water drowning out all other sounds. Caje edged a little closer, sighting along the length of his Garand to focus his vision. Sweeping the entire field of view twice, he saw nothing and slowly stood, tentatively raising his right hand to wave the men on. BLAM! Caje hit the ground and vanished into the foliage.

*****

The shots echoed weirdly through the forest, bouncing off the fog, followed by the unmistakable sound of a pitched firefight. Nelson slipped on the damp rocks lining the river and almost overbalanced into the water, saved only by his windmilling arms. Carefully reversing direction, he clambered back up the bank and ran for the ravine, panting heavily. Doc was right where he left him. Nelson wriggled through the underbrush and dropped into the gully, landing next to the shivering medic. Relief flooded through him as he realized Doc was staring at him with those weird blood-red eyes. When he'd left to recon the area, Doc was catatonic, curled up in a ball on the damp silt.

333 "Where's it coming from?" Nelson shook his head. "I dunno. Seems like it's everywhere!" He checked his M-1, adjusting the strap over his shoulder. "I didn't see nobody. It was all... quiet. An' then that first shot." He glanced at Doc. "We gotta do something!" Doc nodded as he rose stiffly to his feet, wincing as the blood began to recirculate through his limbs. "We gotta find that bastard Kraut." He began to climb the clay wall, hands digging into the thick earth. Managing to snag the back of Doc's borrowed sweater, Nelson spun the medic around. "We gotta find the Sarge, first." Doc shook his head adamantly, refusing to meet Nelson's eyes. "I think if we find that Kraut, we'll find Saunders, too." He turned back to the embankment, glancing only briefly over his shoulder before heaving himself up and over the rim. "Billy, let's go!" The kid only hesitated a second before grasping the proffered hand and scrambling out of the ravine. By the time he situated his weapon and straightened his helmet, Doc had a good lead. Breaking into a jog, Nelson hustled after him.

*****

Kirby leapt to his feet, smacking his thankfully helmeted head hard against the underside of the bridge. Now on his knees, he crawled over to Littlejohn, who somehow managed to contort his body so that he could see the top of the bridge while leaving his legs safely sheltered underneath. Kirby shook his head in frank amazement and squeezed past his squad mate. Pausing for a second next to Littlejohn's knees, he scanned what was visible of the riverbank under the drifting fog, and then dove for a copse of cattails several yards away. Littlejohn ducked back under the bridge, fumbling his M-1 with sweat-dampened hands. He stared at Kirby, eyes wide with undisguised anxiety, waiting for the BAR man to look back at him. When Kirby finally did, Littlejohn had to clear his throat three times before he could get any words out. "Ya see anything?" The cattails rattled back and forth, their dry crackling drowning out Kirby's muttered reply. Finally Kirby stuck his head out, shook it once in an emphatic NO, and dropped back to his belly. On the other side of the bridge, Christian returned from his quick recon of the opposite bank. Water ran from his clothing as he worked his way over to Littlejohn, but he ignored it, keeping his stolen German weapon at chest height against his dry shirt. "I think it's that way, to the north." Christian gestured as he spoke, his long, graceful fingers as eloquent as his words. "We must move now, you...." He pointed over the bridge and formed an arc that curved in from the west. Pointing at himself, he went on, accented words tumbling effortlessly over each other. "I will go this way." Again, he described an arc in the air, but this time with both arms, turning in toward each other and ending with two clenched fists. "Comprenez- vous?" Littlejohn nodded while Kirby emerged from the reeds, hunched over, and made for the bridge. "Yeah, I comprenez-vous all right." He shuddered as the water rose to his knees and filled his boots. "I comprenez that we're splittin' up just when we need to be stayin' together." As the water rose higher on his thighs, he looked behind him, past Littlejohn's shivering frame to Christian, who stood on the bank, silently watching. Kirby lowered his voice and spoke directly to Littlejohn. "He was already wet, why didn't he come this way?"

334 Littlejohn just shrugged, intent on finding good footing beneath the water. Behind them, the Maquis leader waited until they were out of the river and up the other side, well into the woods before he turned away.

*****

"Hit it!" Nobody heard Saunders' words, but it didn't matter. The sharp crack of the German rifle dropped them all to the ground, eyes wide and searching for targets. Saunders rolled to his left, seeking cover behind a small stand of trees. To his right, Etienne and his men opened fire as they cursed in rapid French. A fusillade of lead snapped into the foliage above their heads, raining leaves and sharp pieces of bark down on them. Saunders kept rolling, blue eyes staring at the spot where Caje had vanished. Beyond that, the narrow barrel of a rifle peeked from behind the stone footing of the stair-stepped weir. He could hear the Frenchmen furiously returning fire, the stench of spent gunpowder filling his nostrils and stinging the back of his throat. The barrel swung slightly toward Etienne and his men, the edge of a sleeve coming into view. "Come on, come on...." Saunders kept his eyes open, lining up the shot, all the while muttering under his breath at the hidden Kraut. "Come on, come on...." Just as the German chanced a look around the footing, his head snapped oddly to one side, and he tumbled over the stones and into the water. Saunders almost rose to his knees in astonishment, blinking hard. He rolled one more time away from Etienne and onto his feet, crouched over and slaloming his way through the trees on the left flank. Caje was just where Saunders thought he'd be. Staring down the length of the Garand, the scout flinched hard as Saunders dropped to the ground next to him, fumbling the rifle in shaky hands. "Ya hit anywhere?" Anxious blue eyes raked the Cajun from helmet to boots, taking in the smear of blood beneath one eye. Caje held out his right arm, indicating a small rent in the rough fabric of his jacket. "It's nothing, just a scratch." He dropped the arm back to his side, rubbing his face absently against his shoulder and transferring more blood to his cheek. "I counted five of 'em. Got that one...." His gaze slid to the man floating serenely in the middle level of the weir. "Etienne's men got another one." Caje shifted his weight from one knee to the other and glanced at Saunders, eyes dark with concern. "I think one of our guys got it." The sergeant started to shake his head and then shoved Caje out of the way, the Thompson roaring in his hands. Only twenty yards away, a German spun to the ground, clutching his abdomen, a look of stunned disbelief on his pale face. As Saunders checked the body, Caje continued past him, heading for the river. To his right, the deafening roar of the firefight eased off, until he could pick out the individual shots of the men on each side. He reached the flat rocks that abutted the weir's upper level and crouched next to them, curling himself into as small a target as possible. As near as he could tell, the enemy shooters were now a little way downstream, exchanging an occasional bullet with Etienne's men but heading south and away from the Maquis and the two Americans. Saunders scurried out from behind the nearest tree, sliding into the scant space behind Caje. "Ya see anything?" He stretched flat on his back, Thompson resting on his chest as he exchanged the clip for a fresh one. Rising up on one elbow, Saunders took a quick look across the river and then dropped to the ground again.

335 "Nah, I think they're runnin' south." Caje jerked around, the Garand in his hands already zeroing in on the man who stood not twenty feet away, half hidden in the trees. He blinked and then returned his attention to the opposite bank. "Etienne's here, Sarge." With a grunt, Saunders rolled to his feet and ran to the safety of the forest, wondering just when this nightmare would ever end. Christian's brother and his two remaining men backed away, giving him room to get behind the cover of the dense foliage. Dropping to his knees, he took a moment, panting heavily, his lungs hitching within his chest. His mouth felt like it was full of dry sand, and he tried to work up a mouthful of saliva, wishing for a brief moment that he hadn't left his canteen with Doc. Doc! A dull headache roared behind Saunders' eyes, and he pressed the heel of one hand to his forehead, forcing himself to look up into Etienne's worried face. "Raoul is dead, Sergeant. First our families, then Luc and Alain. Now Raoul." Saunders felt the pain in Etienne's voice, but there was more. He swallowed hard, finally catching his breath and looked the man straight in the eye, not flinching away from the scars. His blood ran cold, chilling him far more than the damp night air. Whatever may have been passionate or determined or even merely human had vanished from the Frenchman's dark eye. An icy anger burned there, waiting impatiently for vindication. "The Boche are running. I wonder are they setting a trap?" He raised one considering eyebrow. "It doesn't matter. My men and I...." Reaching out, Etienne clasped the shoulder of the man next to him, fierce expression faltering momentarily. "My men and I will cross the river, following. You and Caje, follow this side, no?" Saunders looked away. Caje glanced back at him, catching his eye. The scout shrugged, questioning his sergeant. Saunders shook his head, turning back to Etienne. "Okay. But we need to find Kirby and Littlejohn, and Nelson and Doc." "And Christian." Saunders frowned, blue eyes staring at the young Frenchman, aware that the other two were staring also. He couldn't be sure, but there seemed to be something other than frank concern in the man's voice. He nodded his head in assent, then signaled Caje, waving him to the point as they set off downriver. Unable to resist, Saunders looked back as the three Resistance men crossed the weir, their shadows fading into the trees on the far side and dissipating entirely.

*****

Nelson lay in the bottom of the hollow, fingers dug into the rich loam on either side of him as Doc gently peeled back the torn fabric over the kid's knee. "I didn't see the vines, Doc, I swear I didn't see 'em!" His voice rose an octave, cracking even more than usual. The medic studied the wound, a wicked laceration that began just above the kneecap and swung around the side of Billy's leg, continuing downward for a further five inches. Blood welled as Doc explored the joint, saturating Nelson's pants and Doc's hands. "I know ya didn't, I know." Doc sat back, wiping his hands on his thighs before searching for the medical ruck that no longer swung from his shoulder. "Dammit! You still got your field dressing?" Nelson opened his eyes, swiping his nose with the cuff of one sleeve. "Yeah, it's... it's here." He pulled the small package from his web belt and handed it to the medic. Doc deftly applied the dressing, ignoring Nelson's protests that he was tying it too tight. When he finished, he helped the kid into a more comfortable position, propped against the heavy roots of the tree that had caused the problem in the first place. "You still got your ammo?" Nelson nodded, a frown spreading across his face as he realized Doc's intent. "You can't leave me here!" Doc nodded, not meeting Nelson's anguished eyes. "Yeah, I gotta, Billy." He stood, hesitating for a moment as he stared into the thick forest. "I can't let 'em down again.... I gotta go."

336 He rapped the top of Nelson's helmet with his knuckles as he moved past the kid, breaking into a trot and disappearing from view.

*****

Kirby danced down the embankment, nimble feet making short work of the slippery gravel. Behind him, Littlejohn grunted in concentration, arms spread as he worked his way to the streambed. Dropping to his knees, Kirby scooped up a handful of tiny pebbles, letting them spill through his fingers while he studied the terrain. He looked up at Littlejohn, tipping his helmet back off his forehead. "I think this is the old track of the river, you know, before they built that dam thing." He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, a gesture that belied his calm appearance. The BAR man was almost trembling in his anxiety to get the squad back together and out of this place. Littlejohn glanced up and down the gully. "Weir, it's called a weir." Kirby chuffed under his breath, reseating the BAR and rolling his shoulders. "It's called weird, that's what it's called." The sudden clatter of gunfire dropped them both to their bellies, scrabbling in the loose shale as they sought cover behind whatever they could find. "What the—" Kirby clicked off the BAR's safety and turned his head to look back at Littlejohn. "Where'd they come from?" Littlejohn didn't answer as he crabbed away from his squad mate, looking to increase the field of fire. With only two of them, every inch counted. He settled behind the upturned roots of a large tree, kicking with his knees at the damp earth, and chanced a look at the Germans. It only took a heartbeat for the deadly stream of bullets to come his way. He ducked down a second, then rose and began returning fire. Kirby stared at him for a brief moment. Finally, he bobbed his head and rolled to his knees, BAR already up and firing. Sarge or no Sarge, this he knew how to do. Unfortunately, it seemed the Krauts did too.

*****

Ducking beneath the canopy of a small oak, Doc sank to his knees, thankful for the meager cover the tree offered. He was fairly certain where he was going, although if questioned, he'd have been hard pressed to give a reason why. The fog lifted momentarily, giving the medic a good view of the path ahead. He knew the river bent around to his right, flowing south toward the village and its series of weirs. The sun rose lazily in the east over the German lines and the remains of the power plant Saunders and the rest had sabotaged yesterday. Somewhere behind him, Nelson waited. Ahead of him.... Doc swallowed hard and forced himself to his feet, swaying momentarily before struggling on, his muscles spasmed in tight knots of pain. He didn't see the hand that snaked out and grabbed his ankle, yanking his foot out from under him and slamming him to the dirt. A knee ground into his spine as his head was jerked backward and the cold hard steel of a knife slid up under his jaw. Doc froze, gulping air, as stars danced along the periphery of his vision. Rough hands patted him down, pulling Nelson's bayonet from his sleeve and thoroughly searching his layers of borrowed clothing. The toe of a jackbooted foot dug into his ribs, shoving him over on his back. Doc blinked, staring up into a face he'd hoped he'd never see again. "So, Private, you're out of uniform." The German casually returned his knife to its sheath, and then pulled a Luger, making a show out of checking the safety. "I thought you and your squad would be far behind your lines by now." He waved the pistol at Doc and moved back a step, indicating the medic should stand. The barrel never wavered as Doc slowly regained his feet, pointing directly at his chest.

337 "Hands up, Private, let us take a walk." Doc shook his head. "I can't lift my arms like that." He demonstrated, raising his arms a little ways from his body, and then stopped, grimacing. Doc never saw the lightning fast swing of the pistol as the German smacked it against his temple, pain exploding in his head and dropping him to his knees. Retching helplessly, Doc crouched in the dirt, blooding running down the side of his face. The Kraut grabbed the back of Doc's sweater and hauled him to his feet. "I'll only repeat myself once. Now walk!" He indicated the direction with the Luger and a tilt of his head, and then a hard push to the middle of Doc's back. Doc stumbled along, caroming off trees and tripping over rocks. His vision remained blurred and without the ability to see local landmarks, he had no idea where he was going. He thought he heard the rushing currents of the river but couldn't be sure that the noise wasn't due to the roaring in his ears. Eventually the random path widened into a clearing, and the Kraut shoved past him, knocking the medic to the ground. Eyes closed, Doc lay there for a long moment, fighting the desire to just let go of the tenuous grip he had on his consciousness, just let go and sink into that black hole where pain couldn't touch him. Only the thought that he might still have a chance at keeping the others safe kept him in the here and now. He shifted slightly in the soft loam, rolling onto one side and untangling his boots from one another. Doc could hear the Kraut softly muttering to someone, and forced one eye open, afraid to find himself surrounded by an entire enemy squad. It was a radio. Doc allowed himself a sigh of relief as it became apparent that the German wasn't getting through to anybody. He winced as the man slammed the handset down and abruptly stood, hands on hips. "So, my friend, did your superior like your story, eh? Did the French peasants enjoy hearing of their families' bravery before they died, hmm?" The German stared down at him, eyes glittering. "Oh, I'm very sorry. You must have just cleaned up and yet here you are again, bloody. Tsk tsk." He brought the toe of one boot up under Doc's chin, lifting until the medic coughed and twisted his head away. "I didn't tell 'em nothin'." Doc eyed the boot warily and then glared up at the German. The Kraut stood there a moment, his hands contracting into tight fists and his eyes dark with rage. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he bared clenched white teeth. "You told them nothing?" His voice rose on the last word, betraying the German's unraveling self-control. "Did you not understand the cost of my allowing you to live?" His knife was once again in his hands, flashing in the watery sunlight of the new day. Doc swallowed hard and held the man's cold gaze, resisting the impulse to close his eyes and fall into the darkness. He could feel the warm blood trickling down his cheek and soaking the collar of Littlejohn's spare shirt. His body shook with both fear and anger. And quite suddenly, hope, as he caught sight of Christian, submachine gun in hand, on the far side of the clearing. "Herr Hauptmann." The German tensed but didn't turn. He glanced over his shoulder at the Frenchman, nodded once, and then returned his attention to the prostrate medic. <"Took you long enough, my friend."> Doc's heart hammered in his chest, unable to catch his breath, as Christian lowered the barrel of the weapon and walked forward to stand beside the German. He stared up at the two, the German's features slowly relaxing into a self-satisfied grin, and at Christian, whose face was a terrible mixture of grief and anger. <"Leave the medic alone, he has no part in this."> Christian flicked one hand at Doc and

338 then stepped away, staring pointedly at the German captain. His plundered weapon rested across one hip and he thumbed the safety on and off, on and off. Doc closed his eyes, ears filling with the incessant click, click, click until it assumed the proportion of a bass drum hammering away inside his skull. Clenching his teeth together, he managed to stifle the moan building in his chest. He'd thought for one brief, buoyant moment that Christian's arrival had spelled his deliverance from evil. Now he knew better: the hell in which he swam surged ever deeper, threatening to drown him. "Ah, ah, my little witness, no sleeping while we have things to discuss." The Luger waggled back and forth in the German's gloved hand as he jammed a boot into the medic's abdomen, smiling grimly as Doc silently curled in on himself. "HUBER!" The Kraut cocked his head toward Christian, gaze still firmly fixed on the American's contorted face. <"You killed Manon, Huber, and my child. This was not part of the bargain."> Christian's voice wavered, breaking over his wife's name. The submachine gun swung up, the barrel wavering wildly in every direction. Meuller's lips curled upward and he nodded, rising to his full height as he adjusted his jacket and holstered the pistol. <"Bargain? We had but one bargain, and that was to kill the traitors."> He quickly raised one hand as Christian began to protest, one finger falling on his own lips to hush the Resistance man. <"All the traitors, Christian."> The Frenchman's hands tightened on the weapon. <"Manon was no traitor."> His gaze flickered to the medic, flinching at the anguish he saw reflected in Doc's bloody eyes. Eyes that witnessed his wife's final moments... and his child's. He ached with a thousand questions, most of them for the hapless GI. He ached also with the grim regret that he would never learn the answers that mattered most. Turning away from Doc, Christian repeated himself, trying to put more confidence in his voice than he felt. <"Manon was no traitor... and neither was our son."> Huber grinned, thin lips exposing narrow, yellowed, wolf-like teeth. <"So, you think you had a son, eh? And why not a little daughter, beautiful like her mother?"> Christian abruptly turned away, dark eyes sweeping the perimeter but seeing nothing beyond his own pain and outraged betrayal. Behind him, Huber's voice rasped on. <"Saved her for last, your Manon."> Doc stared at the back of Christian's head, steeling himself for the moment when the Frenchman would break. He wasn't sure he could make it to his feet, and if he did, he had no guarantee that he'd remain that way for long enough to make a difference. It would have helped if he'd known what they were saying.... Another volley of gunfire commenced in the distance, snapping through the dawn stillness. Christian whirled around, dark eyes fixing on Huber. <"That was yours."> Huber shrugged, his own gaze dropping to the submachine gun clasped against the Frenchman's chest. <"Or yours."> He reached into one pocket and extracted a silver cigarette case, flipping it open with one hand. A lighter followed, appearing in the German's hand as smoothly as a magician's wand. As he inhaled the white smoke and returned his implements to their respective pockets, he pointed at Doc, still prone on the ground, face pale as milk under the splashes of blood. <"Definitely not his."> Huber paused, allowing Christian to process that piece of information. The Frenchman frowned. <"You'll tell me now, or so help me, Huber, I'll kill you where you stand. Why Manon?"> The barrel of the submachine gun swung up, wavering only slightly in Christian's trembling hands. Huber snorted, dissipating the drifting smoke with one lazy wave of his gloved hand. <"If you didn't have your own doubts, you'd have killed me already."> He smiled again at the Frenchman and sat down on a log, stretching long jackbooted legs out before him. The end of the gun wobbled, inscribing a growing spiral in the air between the German and

339 the Resistance man before Christian finally let his arms drop, the weapon falling to his side. He looked past Huber, eyes dark and unreadable. Between the two men, the medic sprawled in complete incomprehension, bleary gaze bouncing back and forth between the two like a drunk at a tennis match. In that instant when it seemed Christian would shoot the German officer, Doc's heart threatened to jump out of his chest. Now that the moment had passed, he could only lie shivering in the damp grass and wonder what the hell was going on.

*****

Kirby crouched behind the deadfall, wincing as chips of bark flew off the rotting tree trunk and flew into the air. Tiny shards caught him across the face and he quickly turned away, hoping he'd avoid catching one in the eye. His hands felt clumsy to him as he yanked out the empty clip from the BAR and slammed another home. Fifteen feet away, Kirby could hear the perfectly spaced shots from Littlejohn's M-1, so uniformly timed he knew the big man couldn't see what he was aiming at and was firing in the hopes of suppressing the enemy's efforts. "Littlejohn?" Kirby took a deep breath and rose with the BAR ready, laying down a withering stream of lead that momentarily silenced the Germans. He sensed rather than saw his squad mate fumbling to reload his M-1 and then return to the fray, wondering if Littlejohn felt the futility as keenly as he did himself. It was funny, he thought, with a growing sense of detachment from the battle, but somehow you just knew when things were all going to pieces. Kirby didn't see any possible way out of this one, trapped as they were with the river at their backs. The unmistakable chattering racket of a Thompson submachine gun sang through the air, silencing the determined German guns. Kirby dropped to his knees behind the deadfall and held up a cautionary hand to Littlejohn, hope racing through his veins with each beat of his hammering heart. For a moment, he held still, listening hard with ears numbed by the firefight. Finally, he couldn't stand it. "Sarge?" His voice cracked on the single syllable and he cleared his throat harshly, and opened his mouth to try again. "Kirby, that you?" Kirby's legs gave way beneath him entirely, dumping him on his rear in the cool sand. He dropped the BAR in his lap, his hands shaking too hard to support the weapon's weight. A shadow fell over him, its long arm reaching out toward him and Kirby flinched away, crabbing awkwardly beneath the tangle of the BAR's webbing and the snagging branches of some thorn-laden bush. "Kirby, take it easy." Caje knelt before him, his rifle clamped between his right elbow and his ribs. Reaching out with his good left hand, Caje patted Kirby on the shoulder. "Take it easy." He took the BAR from Kirby's unresisting hands and backed away, giving Kirby room to follow him out from under the sheltering undergrowth. Littlejohn stood, unfolding his long frame from his cramped position, and ambled over to where Caje stared down at the silent BAR man. "Boy, am I glad to see you!" He slung his rifle over his shoulder and extended one long arm, hauling Kirby to his feet. "Where did you come from?" Caje shook his head and returned Kirby's weapon. "From the weir. We ran into a Kraut patrol, got some of them. The rest of them got away." He turned at the soft footfall behind him, nodding once at Saunders, who shoved his way through the thick brush to join them. "They got as far as here, Caje." Saunders glanced back at the copse of trees that hid the bodies of the German patrol. His blue eyes flicked toward Littlejohn and then over to Kirby. "You two okay?" The tall man started to answer, dipping his head in affirmation, but Kirby suddenly found his voice. "Okay? Oh yeah, we're okay, we've just been wandering around in that godforsaken fog, trying not to get ourselves lost or killed, or... or... and then Christian! We find Christian an' his

340 brother an' the boys havin' themselves a picnic by the river." He threw his arms in the air, almost smacking Caje in the face with the butt of the BAR. "And then they wander off an' we hear shots...." He shook himself like a dog, D-rings jangling. "Oh, yeah, Sarge, we're okay." "Wait, what did you say about Christian's brother?" Saunders withdrew a cigarette from his pocket, lit it and handed it to Kirby. "We just left Etienne and a couple others." He lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply, the nicotine racing from his lungs through his bloodstream. "You didn't see 'em?" Littlejohn managed to answer this time. "No, we were workin' our way up the river when we ran into those Krauts. We didn't see nobody else." Saunders frowned and stared into the woods, turning slowly in a circle. "How about Doc an' Billy? You seen them?" Kirby puffed furiously on the cigarette, smoke drifting from his mouth and nose and curling around his ears. "Doc an' Billy? They missin', too? Just what the hell is goin' on here, Sarge?" The sergeant stood there, the butt of the Thompson resting on his hip. "I wish I knew, Kirby, I wish I knew."

*****

Huber continued to smoke silently, apparently enjoying every inhalation with great pleasure. He glanced once at Doc, satisfying himself that the medic was still incapable of disturbing the proceedings. A witness once again. Huber sighed, disappointed that the young American hadn't passed on an account of Huber's work in the village. Never mind, never mind. Perhaps he could make use of Doc's memory now. A slight breeze wound its way through the trees, dissipating the last of the fog and rattling the leaves. A few fell from their branches, floating serenely toward the ground. Christian caught several, crushing them in his fist, as he took two deliberate steps that placed him squarely in front of the German captain. <"My child was no traitor."> The German shook his head slowly, an amused smile playing about his lips. He stared up at Christian, crystal blue eyes meeting darkest brown. <"Why do you think it was your child, Christian?"> Face flushing madly, the Frenchman's eyes slowly closed as pain lanced through him, and he choked back a small cry, swallowing hard. <"You knew this, Christian, your wife, she had many... how would you say it... many friends."> Huber flicked dried mud from his boots with mild distaste, using his thumb to buff the area back to a dull shine. Christian sat down abruptly, almost toppling from the broad log. He leaned the submachine gun carefully at his side and buried his face in his hands. Doc blinked, wondering what the German could have possibly said to so totally unnerve the fierce Resistance man. The growing light of day wasn't helping his headache any, making rational thought difficult. He knew opportunity was slipping away but couldn't quite figure out just what it was he should be doing. Fighting a rising nausea, Doc managed to get an elbow beneath his aching ribs and levered himself into a shaky sitting position. <"She... she did what she had to do. The SS would have killed her."> Christian sucked in a shaky breath, glancing at Doc and then looking away again. The naked pain on the Frenchman's face shook Doc to his boots. In the weeks preceding the raid on the power plant and also, as it turned out, the massacre of the families, Doc had found Christian to be a supremely disciplined young man,

341 devoted to both his wife and brother, and to the Resistance. That he obviously was in some sort of cahoots with the German officer was almost impossible to comprehend. The friction between the two baffled the medic, and he wished for not the first time that he understood German. Huber crossed his arms, his face carefully neutral. <"She did what she wanted to do. Willingly."> Gaze fixed on the top of Christian's bowed head, Huber rose, his long legs unfolding gracefully beneath him. He stepped toward the medic, and then past him, putting Doc between Christian and himself. His voice lowered to a hoarse whisper. <"Wantonly, Christian."> The Frenchman's head snapped up, dark eyes blazing. Through some supreme act of will, he remained perched on the log, although one trembling hand reached for the submachine gun. <"No, Huber, you're wrong. Maybe... maybe at the beginning... we were so, so scared."> His voice broke on the words and Christian faltered for a moment. A bird sang somewhere in the woods, its call answered by another and yet another. <"Not just the beginning, but still. She's a great favorite of Colonel Reisling, oh, and we cannot forget Captain Mahrlin. Oh, I am sorry, I should say she was a great favorite...."> Huber smiled as Christian swung the weapon up, raising his hands slightly at his sides. <"Shoot me now and you'll never know the truth."> His smile grew wider as the Frenchman wavered, fingers bled white with tension wrapped around the trigger guard. <"Shoot me and I can't tell you what she said, Christian, her last words."> Doc stared up into Christian's tortured face. If he only knew what was going on, who he could trust.... Pain lanced through his head, blurring his vision and his thoughts. Shaking his head, he tried to clear the muzziness, tried to see the Christian he thought he'd known. Doc opened his mouth to speak and then froze as Huber's gloved hand grabbed him by the collar of his sweater. "Tell him about the child, Amerikaner. The child he thinks is his." The medic's eyebrows pulled together in puzzlement. "What do you mean...?" The coarse wool of the sweater pulled tight across his throat as Huber twisted it behind him. Doc grabbed at it, choking. "Now, now. No need to ask questions. Just tell him about the baby." Huber abruptly let go of the garment, shoving Doc forward onto his hands and knees. Doc let his head hang for a moment, gulping air, eyes tightly closed. The birds were still singing, the sun warm on his back. A breeze floated up from the river, smelling mildly sulfurous and stinging Doc's raw throat. When he finally looked up, he found himself staring into the Frenchman's dark eyes. Madness.... "Well... it was a long labor, about fifteen hours. She was hurtin', begging me for something, but all's I had was morphine. I didn't think that would be good for the baby." The medic worked his legs under himself and managed a sitting position, his arms out for balance while his vestibular system equalized. "Finally she pushed the baby out, she was screaming, Christian, but it wasn't pain, it was... it was like she'd won a race or somethin'." Doc smiled at the memory of the young woman's face, marveling that she could be so sweaty and exhausted and yet so very beautiful. The smile lingered but a moment, and then he continued on. "It was a girl, so tiny, so perfect. An' she was hollerin', boy, she had some lungs on her." Christian's breath caught in his chest. "A girl?" His voice was no more than a whisper. Falling slowly to his knees, the Frenchman stared intently at Doc, oblivious to the cold glower of the German.

*****

Two days earlier

Doc held the infant close to his chest, surprised at her warm weight and flailing limbs. Entranced, he counted the tiny toes and fingers before bundling her into a small blanket. With arms and legs now swaddled snuggly, the baby settled against him, finally revealing eyes of a

342 startling midnight blue. "Oh my, Manon! It's a girl, she's beautiful." He handed the child to her mother and sat back, fatigue flooding his limbs and the small of his back. The labor had been hard and Doc felt as if he'd gone through every muscle contraction right along with the young Frenchwoman. "Docteur...." The low whisper from the other woman in the room pulled Doc out of his fugue. He turned to see bright red blood spreading over the blankets underneath Manon's hips. He jumped to his feet and flipped back the sheet, flinching at the amount of fluid escaping the young mother's body. His training screamed at him to apply pressure to a bleeding wound but he couldn't see how that could possibly be helpful in this situation. The sound of automatic gunfire ripped through the silence of the ruined village, shattering the calm serenity of the birthing room. Doc swung to the window and back to his patient, the knowledge that he was the only soldier in the town warring with the fact that he was also the only medic. Screams erupted outside, forcing the issue. He ran to the open window and crouched to one side, peering out from behind the cover of the torn and billowing curtain. A squad of German troopers edged down the street, herding the sobbing children ahead of them. A small boy tripped, sprawling in the debris. A vicious kick from a thickset soldier got him on his feet again, howling and holding one arm against his thin chest. "Doc?" Pulse pounding in his ears, the medic barely heard the woman's call. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the thin white arm extended toward him, beckoning him. With one last look out the window at the advancing Krauts, Doc swore under his breath and hurried to the bedside. Manon stared up at Doc with eyes widened by pain and panic. She lifted the baby toward him, her arms trembling. "You must take her and hide, please, Doc." "No! I'll distract them, I'll lead them off!" Shaking her head, Manon gently placed the baby in Doc's arms, falling back on the bed with a moan. "Please Doc, tell him... tell him the family name will live on in our child. She will be the mother of a new generation... one that knows peace." Doc stared at her, the baby squirming against him. "Manon, come on, you've got to hide!" Behind him, the screams of the children grew louder. The Frenchwoman shuddered in pain, her arms curling around her empty belly. When she looked up again, her beautiful, dark eyes blazed against her pale skin. "I'm not hiding, but when they find me I will not be here." Doc fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching the infant. "Manon!" One delicate hand reached out, caressing the child's head and then fell back again. "Tell him... please tell him...." "Manon!" Doc's voice broke in despair and he grabbed blindly at her wrist, seeking the pulse he knew was no longer there.

*****

It had been almost ten minutes since he'd heard the firefight. A firefight that had ended with the distinctive rattle of a Thompson submachine gun. Since then, Nelson had done everything he could to get himself upright, but the leg wouldn't hold him. Dragging himself under a stand of thick bushes, he resigned himself to waiting for Doc's return. Assuming Doc did return.... Nelson stared at his knee, watching the faint pink tinge grow darker and, more ominously, wetter. The pain he could deal with. Bleeding to death, maybe not. Around him, the forest grew lighter and greener with the advancing morning. A family of rabbits appeared as if by magic, their smooth gray bodies blending with the underbrush. The largest stood on its hind legs, pink nose quivering and whiskers twitching. Nelson grinned as three tiny kits edged their way around their mother, falling over each other as they explored the great, wide world. Suddenly, they all froze,

343 ears swiveling. A twig snapped at Nelson's six o'clock and the rabbits ran in blind panic, disappearing one after the other down a hole he hadn't seen before. Itchy sweat popped out on his forehead, trickling down his cheeks and into his ears. Now he regretted lying on his back. He couldn't roll to look behind him, not without the bushes rattling like castanets. A voice murmured softly, answered just as softly by another. Nelson held his breath, straining to hear the words. "Sarge, we've searched this whole damn forest. I been on my dogs for hours." "Shut up, Kirby." Nelson blew out an explosive sigh of relief. Before he could call out, the bushes parted and the business end of Caje's Garand appeared in his face. "Sarge!" Caje vanished as he turned away and the branches snapped back into place. Now Saunders' face loomed above him. "You hurt?" Fatigue lined his face, darkening the shadows under his eyes. The sergeant reached one arm into the foliage and hauled Nelson out, supporting him on one side as Littlejohn moved up on the other. Shuffling between them, Nelson managed to sit on a log, his injured leg stretched before him. "What the hell happened to you? Where's Doc?" Nelson squinted up at Saunders while Littlejohn tended to his knee. Wincing, he swallowed hard before answering. "He's gone looking for some German, the one he said was in the village." He looked down for a moment as Littlejohn finished tying off the dressing. "We heard them talking. Doc recognized the guy's voice, he went nuts, I could barely hold onto him. After they went away, Doc said we had to go find him." Saunders exchanged glances with Littlejohn, both clearly disturbed at the image of their medic losing control. Saunders pulled his helmet off and wiped the sweat from his forehead, ruffling up his filthy blond hair. "Are you sure?" Nelson shifted his weight on the log, seeking a more comfortable perch for his rump. He nodded. "Yeah, we were followin' 'em when I tripped over a root and ripped my knee open." "Which way did he go?" The young private looked around, orienting himself, then pointed off toward the river. "That way, Sarge, he went that way." Saunders straightened up and plonked his helmet back on his head. "Littlejohn, stay here with Nelson. Caje and Kirby? On me." As the three moved off, Nelson watched their departing backs with a growing sense of loss. Turning away, he met Littlejohn's questioning gaze and for once had no words for his good friend.

*****

Christian stretched out his arm, resting one trembling hand gently on the medic's bowed head. As Doc looked up, cheeks wet with tears, Christian sat back on his heels, eyes dark and unreadable. A long moment passed while they stared at one another, the wiry dark-haired Frenchman and the utterly exhausted American whose borrowed clothing was now just as bloody and disheveled as his own uniform. A muscle jumped in Christian's jaw as he finally spoke, voice thick with misery and grief. "My name. She said, my name will live on." Doc nodded, not trusting his own voice for a moment. "Yes. She said the family name will live on." He winced, clamping one arm against his aching ribs as he struggled to his knees. "Well, then, Huber. I guess you didn't kill her after all." Christian slowly stood, gaze still fixed on the shaking medic. The captain stepped back, right hand falling to the butt of the Luger in its unbuckled holster. The submachine gun whipped up, barked once, and Huber spun to the ground, howling in pain and outrage. He clutched at his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers and staining his spotless jacket. Christian stepped closer, the weapon still raised. "But you did kill my child, my child,

344 Huber." He squeezed the trigger again, again only a single shot. The German jerked as the bullet penetrated his thick leather boot and buried itself in his calf. "And why, Huber, why did you desecrate her body, Huber, why did you...." Christian sobbed, pausing to swipe the sleeve of his free hand over his face. "You were only supposed to kill the others, not my... not my Manon... my child...." Doc stared in horror as Christian jammed the barrel of the gun up under the German's jaw. And closed his eyes as Christian pulled the trigger.

*****

"Christian?" The clearing was completely silent after the shock of the gunshots. The birds were gone, leaping into the air and winging away at the first shot. Other, more earthbound creatures remained still, blending into the variegated foliage. Except for the ragged hitching of his shoulders with each hoarse breath, Doc made no movement either, his knees pressed into the damp earth and his eyes squeezed tightly shut. The Frenchman stood alone, the submachine gun dangling forgotten from his right hand. Overhead, a few wispy clouds skated in front of the brightening sun, their dappled shadows passing over the men below. "Christian?" Etienne stepped into the clearing, taking in the scene with his one eye. He moved to the German, flipping the body over with the toe of his boot, and then drew his head back and spat on the dead man. "Etienne?" Christian stared at his brother, dark eyes wide and disbelieving. He dropped the gun, taking one step forward. The other two Frenchmen came out of the woods, wary and nervous. They circled the perimeter of the clearing, before taking up positions on either side of Doc, flanking him. <"Etienne, my brother. My baby, my daughter, they killed my daughter, oh, my Manon, dearest Manon...."> Christian fell against his brother, throwing his arms around him, not noticing that Etienne failed to return the embrace. <"You filthy traitor."> Etienne shoved him hard, throwing him to the ground. <"You think we didn't hear all this?"> He produced a glittering blade from his sleeve. <"It was your fault, Christian, thinking you could play both sides against the other. Your fault Manon is dead. But you need to know one thing."> He stood over his brother, panting hard. <"They didn't kill your daughter, she was mine!"> Etienne dropped to one knee and sank the knife to the hilt in his brother's chest.

*****

It wasn't until the next afternoon, amid the arrival of Lieutenant Hanley and a backup squad, and the somber burial of the massacre victims and the Resistance men, that Saunders heard the rest of the story. About how Christian and Manon had been forced into collaborating with the Germans and how Manon had wanted to stop while Christian found the rewards far too tempting. And how Manon had confided in her brother-in-law and then had taken comfort with him, resulting in a pregnancy the timing of which would have been difficult to explain had Christian given it a moment's thought. As it turned out, he'd been too busy currying favor with the Germans to pay any attention to his own family. And, also as it turned out, none of it mattered anyway. Saunders sat on the remains of a stone wall that lined the little road leading to the weir. The warm sun felt good on his shoulders, and he removed his helmet, allowing the breeze drifting off the river to ruffle through his hair. His squad sprawled in the shade of a huge tree on the other side of the road, silently eating the rations delivered by Hanley and stalwartly avoiding any conversation with anybody, including each other. It just seemed that the last few days had offered

345 up far too much wartime angst. Talking about it made it too real; thinking about it was bad enough, dreaming about it, well, no doubt they'd all have a disturbed night or two. A shadow fell across his face, and Saunders looked up, squinting, to find Hanley standing there, a dusty bottle of wine in one hand. He held it up, arching one eyebrow in silent question. "Thanks, Lieutenant." He took the bottle and carefully removed the crumbling cork. Hanley perched on the wall beside the sergeant as he took a long swallow of the wine. "So, what happened here, Saunders?" He nodded as Saunders returned the bottle to him and took a swig himself. "I don't know. I don't think we'll ever know." Saunders watched two figures appear down the end of the main road, walking toward them. At this distance they almost merged into one, so close were they together. As they approached, it was easy to see that one wore the uniform of an American GI, the other, civilian homemade. The gleaming crosses on the GI's helmet glowed in the afternoon sun, unlike Doc's original head gear, scuffed and battered by months of combat. They'd found the helmet in the candy store, full of blood. Nobody considered cleaning it. Etienne and Doc made an unlikely pair, but the one desperately needed information and the other had some of the answers. Saunders could only hope it would be enough for Doc, although privately he wondered how anyone could continue on after the hours of horror he'd endured. As they reached the corner, Etienne reached out and grasped Doc's shoulder, holding him at arm's length for a long moment before nodding, and then turned and walked away. The medic stared at the ground, one hand absently rubbing his injured ribs, before he continued on up the road. Hanley cleared his throat, speaking softly. "Third Squad's medic says he's got a couple of broken ribs, probably a concussion, maybe a break in his cheekbone. Lucky man, considering." Saunders snorted, reaching for his cigarettes. "Not so lucky, Lieutenant. He's seen more in two days...." His voice trailed off, uncertain how to finish the sentence. He started again. "It's one thing to face an enemy with a gun. But Doc, he did all he could to protect that baby and none of it helped. And then to be forced to witness it all...." He snapped the lighter open and lit up. He smoked for a moment, savoring the calming effects of the nicotine. "I mean, how do you forget that?" Hanley stood, dusting off the seat of his pants and straightening his jacket. He watched the medic join the squad, dropping gingerly down on the soft grass. Billy handed him a canteen which he accepted. Caje patted his boot from his position stretched out flat on his back, and Kirby held up a can of biscuits, which the medic refused with a polite smile. They seemed more relaxed now, now that they were all together again. Hanley shook his head. "Maybe that's the point, Saunders. Maybe we aren't supposed to forget all this... this stuff." He glanced over his shoulder at the sergeant, and then started to walk slowly away, beckoning the man to follow him. "Maybe we're supposed to remember."

end

346 LINKS

Jo Davidsmeyer’s Combat! Fan Site: www.jodavidsmeyer.com/combat/main.html

Lady Garand & Kirby’s Cutie – Combat! Photo Gallery: www.geocities.com/lady_garand_2000/

Michael Keropian Sculpture: www.keropiansculpture.com/vicmorrow.html

The Story Nook: www.storynook.net/Combat.html

Bayonet’s Stories: www.i2k.com/~dpierce/terry

Company HQ: deimos.ca/combat/

Mary Wright’s Dogface Tales: www.jodavidsmeyer.com/combat/dogfacetales/index.htm

New Stories From the Front: www.geocities.com/televisioncity/station/6070/

On the Trail of the Muse: www.geocities.com/macdautle/combat.htm

White Rook’s Stories: www-cs-students.stanford.edu/~nad/combat.html

Fruit Salad: www.fruit-salad.com

Doc II’s Journals: www.doc2sjournals.com

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