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. 1 2 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