The characters of "Combat!" are the property of ABC.  No profit is made by this story, it was written for entertainment purposes only.  Copyright 2001 by Figment


                                                            Diversion

   The soldier slowly opened one eye. The light was too bright, so he closed it again and just lay there. It was quiet, he was comparatively comfortable, and he was just too tired to care about anything else at the moment. Memories started creeping through his consciousness; slowly at first, then steadily faster until the battle raged around him once more. Men were running, screaming, fighting, dying. There was a tremendous explosion. Then nothing.
   With a gasp, the soldier sat bolt upright, sweat rolling from his forehead and into his sky-blue eyes, blurring his vision. Blinking as he tried to clear his sight, his hands groped for his weapon. The Thompson sub-machine gun was nowhere to be found.
   Hands were on him, gently pushing him back and patting his arms, wiping his face with a cool cloth. His heart was hammering, but somehow he felt safe, at ease. Again he tried opening his eyes. This time vague, shadowy figures started to come into focus.
   Angels! ‘I musta died.’ He thought. Then the angels took clearer form and he discovered he was surrounded by nuns.
   “Do not move, Monsieur,” one of the nuns moved up close to him, placing a hand on his arm. “You were wounded when one of our sisters found you. We will take care of you.”
   Confused, he relaxed and tried to clear his throat to speak. He was parched and his voice was broken and low.   “Water?…Please?” he begged.
   Soft, gentle hands lifted his head and a glass of cool water was placed against his dry lips. He drank greedily, the water escaping to drain down his cheeks and chin. He choked and coughed and the water was taken away. A spasm of pain wracked his body and he gripped the sheets he lay on until it passed.
   He lay there panting for a moment, then asked, “Where am I?”
   The nun who had spoken before sat on the edge of his small bed and mopped his sweaty face with the damp cloth. “You are in a convent close to St. Mere Eglise, Monsieur. I am what you call the Mother Superior. The other sisters here are vowed to silence, they may not speak. If you need to talk, I will answer what I can for you.” She reached toward the head of the bed to a little metal table, removing several pieces of cloth and placing them in her lap.
   “I must change the bandages now. Please try to lay still, Monsieur.” She started to remove a bloody bandage that lay across his chest. His hands fisted in the sheets, trembling, the knuckles turning white, but he lay still and silent. By the time the fresh bandage was in place, he was barely conscious and found it was so easy just to let himself slip into blissful oblivion.
   When he awoke again the room was dark, with only a single candle flickering feebly by his bedside. A nun sat in the only chair in the room, quietly watching him. When she realized he was awake, she stood and bent over him, raising his head and placing the water glass to his lips. He drank more carefully this time, letting the cool liquid soak his dried tongue and gums before sliding down his throat.
   “Where are my men?” he asked as she gently lowered his head to the pillow once more. The nun folded her hands and stood looking at him quizzically. She obviously did not speak the language or understand what he was trying to say.
   Undaunted he tried again, “I have to reach my unit. Please. I have to find my men.” He started to sit up, but the nun placed soft, cool hands on his bare shoulders and gently pushed him back against the sheets.
   Realizing that he was too weak to protest, he gave up and decided to take stock of his body. He knew his head hurt and there was definitely something wrong with the right side of his chest. His arms and legs seemed to be working properly, which was a relief. He was tired, hungry, and bruised, but that seemed to be the norm since Omaha Beach. Much of the time these conditions could be ignored.
   He just had to make them understand that he needed to get back to his friends. He could see a freshly cleaned shirt and field jacket hanging on a peg near the only door in the room, the three stripes on the sleeves reminding him of his responsibilities.
   “I see you are finally awake, Sergent,” a male voice spoke from the doorway.
   The sergeant turned his head to find an elderly, white-haired gentleman walking towards him carrying a small black leather bag.
   “Who are you?” The sergeant asked.
   “I am Jean Matise,” he explained. “I am a doctor. The nuns brought me here to help you when they found you in the forest. I removed a two-inch piece of metal from the right side of your chest. You were very lucky. The metal caught between your ribs and did not penetrate the lung. It is the only thing that saved you, Sergent,” the old man patted his shoulder as he sat next to him and opened his bag.
   “I am sorry I did not have anything for the pain,” the doctor apologized. “You were not in your right mind for two days. The fever is down, now, and you are healing well. You must be still and let the nuns help you.”
   “My name is Saunders. I’m with the 361st Infantry. I have to get back to my people.” The sergeant stated bluntly. “Can you help me find them?”
   The doctor stopped sponging the chest wound and sat for a moment as if in deep thought.
   “The American lines have moved away from us, but I think I know someone who may be able to help. I will talk to them when I return to the town.” He stated softly.
   “But until then,” he straightened and replaced the bandage. “try to eat something and regain your strength. You will be safe here.”
   “One more thing,” the sergeant caught the doctor’s hand as he rose to leave. “did the nuns say whether or not there was anyone else with me when they found me?”
   “Non, Monsieur,” the old man shook his head. “You were alone.”
   The sergeant relaxed and let his hand fall back to his side. There were so many around him during the battle. How could he have been alone? It was hard to concentrate on the questions, let alone the answers. He was tired and was having trouble keeping his eyes open.
   The old doctor left the room and the young nun bent over him and pulled the soft blanket up over his bare chest and shoulders. It felt so good and he drifted off to sleep almost immediately.

* * *

Sergeant Saunders was frustrated.  Frustrated with the nuns who could not converse with him. Frustrated with the old doctor, who hadn’t returned in the last three days. Frustrated with his own weakened condition. He realized that he must be feeling better to be this angry. A cigarette would help, but he hadn’t seen one since he’d been here and the nuns didn’t seem to have the connections to get anything like that for him.
He was now sitting up in the small bed, trying to exercise his stiff limbs and force strength into them. He had to get out of there and back to his men.
The nuns no longer stayed in the room with him all the time since he was doing well, and he decided it was time to get moving.
He swung his feet over the side of the bed and sat for a moment looking around for his trousers. They were draped over the metal foot of the bed and he bent to reach for them, pulling the torn muscles in his side. He grasped his chest and pulled the pants to him.
Moving more carefully this time, he gently slipped a foot into the trousers, pulling them up, then sliding the other foot down into them. Now for the hard part. He had to stand to pull them up. Grasping the metal table firmly, he rose to his feet. The room tilted crazily for a moment, then righted itself.
Finally he had the belt buckled and was ready to get to his shirt. He let go of the table and turned towards the door.
“Looking for this?” Dr. Matise held the shirt in front of him, smiling.
“Yeah,” Saunders nodded and took the garment easing his right arm into it.
“It is good to see you are able to move, Sergent,” the doctor placed his bag on the foot of the narrow bed. “You must come with me.”
The sergeant sat down on the edge of the bed and continued buttoning his shirt.
“Were you able to contact my people?” Saunders asked.
“Non, Monsieur,” the old man shook his head. “Many Bosche have moved into the area since the big battle a few days ago. Many of our people hide in the hills. The Germans are searching everywhere for Allies. You can no longer stay here. It will put the sisters’ lives at risk. Do you understand?”
Saunders nodded. “When you were here before, you said you knew someone who might be able to help me. Did you contact them?”
“Oui, Monsieur,” Jean rose and reached for his bag. “They cannot come here. We must go to them. We must hurry.” He held a hand out to the sergeant.
“I need my weapon,” Saunders stated as he looked around the nearly bare little room.
“The sisters hid it outside the convent,” the doctor stated as he helped the wobbly sergeant to his feet once more.
The first few steps were unsteady, but Saunders was able to maneuver on his own by the time he reached the door and his field jacket. The first thing he looked for in the pockets of the jacket was his pack of Lucky Strikes. Gone. As were his map and a picture of his sister, Louise. The only thing that remained was his silver Zippo lighter.
“Mother Superior says that your documents and cigarettes were ruined with your blood. They burned them.” The old doctor seemed to be able to read his mind. “Come.”
The bright sunlight blinded them as they stepped from the back entrance of the convent. They paused a moment to let their eyes adjust and Saunders turned back towards the door. No one was there, and he hadn’t seen any of the nuns all morning.
“Will you thank the sisters for me?” Saunders turned to the doctor.
“Of course, Sergent,” Jean pointed to a small horse-drawn cart standing near the dirt road that circled the convent. It was laden with hay. “We must hurry.”
As they passed an old well housing, the doctor paused and reached over the side grasping a rope with something tied to it. He pulled the objects from the well and Saunders was pleased to receive his Tommy gun and web belt. The right side of the belt was covered in dried blood and the holster housing his Colt .45 handgun was also blackened with old blood.
Disregarding the stains, Saunders wrapped the belt around his middle and fastened it securely. Then he reached for his Thompson, the weight of it almost making him drop it. The doctor reached for him when he swayed, but he held a hand up and shook his head.
“I’m fine, Doctor,” the sergeant assured him. “Let’s go.”
Walking to the rear of the cart, the doctor reached beneath the hay spilling across the back of it and pulled up a narrow board, revealing a small space barely large enough for a man to crawl into.
“It is a false floor, Monsieur,” Jean explained. “you must hide in here until we reach our destination.”
Saunders frowned, hesitant to place himself in such a vulnerable position. He had his weapons again. That gave him a great deal of comfort, but once he was inside the small box he would be trusting his life to…who? Resigning himself to the fact that he had no choices at this point, he slid the Thompson into the dark space and bent to follow it in.
He gasped as his right side scraped against the wooden frame sending shooting spikes of pain through his entire chest. His head spun and he weakened for a moment, then continued crawling into the recess. He was surprised to find that he could stretch his full length although turning over would not be possible. He lay on his back and looked towards his feet and the opening.
“Be absolutely quiet,” The doctor warned as he replaced the old weathered tailgate board.
Darkness closed in around the sergeant as he tried to calm himself and control his breathing. Fear and exertion had drained him of what little energy he had regained and he made an effort to relax his tense muscles.
He grunted as the cart pulled off with a jerk, sending bolts of pain through his side. They had not traveled far before the sergeant finally passed out.

* * *

Lieutenant Hanley sat at the old rickety wooden table he was using for a desk and stared at the paper before him. It was blank, and at this rate it was likely to stay that way. How could he tell the mother and sister of one of the best friends he’d ever had that their son and brother was gone? He’d been putting this off for several days now. It was apparent that Sgt. Chip Saunders would not show up. The official report read ‘MIA PRESUMED DEAD’. Hanley just didn’t feel that presumptuous. Until he saw a body, he wouldn’t believe that his friend and best tactical sergeant was dead. He couldn’t believe it.
Slamming the pencil against the tabletop, Hanley stood and removed a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it as he moved towards the door of his CP. He’d waited this long, another day wouldn’t hurt. He knew he only had so many days to send these letters filled with terror to rip the hearts from the fearful loved ones back home. This was one letter he had forced himself not to think about.
He leaned against the doorframe and watched the activity just outside. The little town was far enough behind the lines to be full of people. They all seemed intent on making the American soldiers feel as welcome as possible. They were all smiles and good wishes, as were the soldiers they were pampering.
Hanley’s Second Platoon, King Company, had been stationed here for three days and the men under his command were making the best of their time away from the death and destruction they’d been wading through. They all deserved this rest, and the lieutenant was glad to give it to them.
Captain Jampel had made mention of orders coming down very soon, and Hanley knew this blissful scene wouldn’t last long. Soon he would be forced to write more letters. Damn! He had to stop this. He knew it was eating him up inside, but there was no Saunders there to set him on the right track as he had done so many times in the past. The help he needed now would have to come from within himself. He turned from the door and glanced at the camouflage-covered helmet resting at the foot of his cot. Not much left of one of the best soldiers he’d ever known.
“Lieutenant,” Corporal Brockmeyer called from the back of the room. “Captain Jampel’s on the horn.”
The lieutenant crushed his cigarette out and reached for the receiver.

* * *

Three of Hanley’s sergeants were present when the lieutenant drove up in front of his CP late the next morning. Another sergeant climbed out of the passenger’s seat of the jeep and followed the officer inside.
“Gentlemen,” Hanley acknowledged the waiting men. “This is Sergeant Frisby. He will be taking Saunders’ place.”
The small group nodded and spoke short greetings to the new sergeant. Frisby didn’t expect much fanfare and wasn’t disappointed. He had known Saunders through a couple personal encounters as well as his reputation throughout the company. Though Saunders had not been a large man, Frisby knew he’d have a hard time trying to fill his shoes.
Hanley hitched a hip on the table and lit a cigarette, watching his leaders’ reactions. Content with their restrained greetings to the new sergeant, the lieutenant began, “We move out in the morning. Item Company is bogged down five miles east of us and the brass wants that end of the line brought up. It looks like they’ve run up against some sort of fortress being held by the enemy. Until this matter is cleared up, the rest of the line is at a standstill. We’re going in as reinforcements. We will have artillery support and possibly some heavy machinery. We’ve been pounding away at that place for two days now and we haven’t been able to put a dent in it. We’ll go in with full packs and all the ammo we can carry. Any questions?”
“What about Item Company, Lieutenant?” Sgt. Evans asked. “What do they have left?”
“They’ve been hit hard, but they’re holdin’ out,” Hanley informed them. “They aren’t falling back, but they can’t push forward either. We have to give them the boost they need to get this job done.”
“Yes, sir,” Evans nodded.
“Okay, men,” the lieutenant straightened to dismiss them. “Get your men ready and meet me at the east end of town at 0530.”
After a round of ‘yes, sirs’ the men started filing out of the CP.
“Frisby,” Hanley called as the sergeant turned to leave.
Frisby turned back to the officer, “Yes, sir?”
“Stay here,” Hanley ordered. “I’ll take you over to your squad and make introductions myself.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant propped himself against the doorframe to wait on his superior officer.
Waiting for the other sergeants to leave, Hanley turned to Sgt. Frisby.
“I’m sorry it couldn’t have been a more enthusiastic meeting, Frisby,” the lieutenant started.
“Lieutenant,” the sergeant cut him off. “I didn’t expect to be greeted with open arms. It’s not easy to step into anyone’s position, much less someone as well-liked and respected as Saunders. I know I’ll meet with a certain amount of opposition, but I expect it. I’ll handle my job to the best of my ability and that’s all I can offer, sir.”
Hanley smiled and clapped a hand on Frisby’s shoulder. “You’ll do fine,” he told him as he motioned him towards the door. “Let’s go meet your squad.”
“Yes, sir,” Frisby smiled and preceded the lieutenant into the early afternoon sun.
The cellar that First Squad had claimed for a temporary barracks was only about a block away and they reached it quickly. As it had been for the past week, Caje, Kirby, Littlejohn, Billy Nelson, and Doc were all there. The three new replacements were somewhere in the village enjoying their rest and recreation. Since the horrible conflict near St. Mere Eglise nearly a week ago, the close-knit older members of the squad seemed to be staying as close to one another as possible. There was comfort in the friendships they had developed, and they seemed to all be craving that comfort after the loss of their good friend and leader, Sergeant Saunders.
Caje, who had been serving as squad leader, stood and strode up to the two men as they entered the cellar. The others hardly acknowledged their presence; each one seemed to be involved in some little chore or conversation.
“Caje,” Hanley began. “This is Sergeant Frisby. He will be taking over as squad leader. He’s had plenty of combat experience, just as all of you have. Make him welcome.” The lieutenant’s tone was more of a command than a request.
“Yes, sir,” Caje smiled and turned to the tall, dark-haired sergeant standing beside the lieutenant.
“Nice to meet you, Sergeant,” the Cajun told him.
Frisby nodded with a slight smile as the lieutenant turned to leave.
“Caje will introduce you to the men, Sergeant. See you bright and early in the morning,” with that, Hanley strode out.
“Yes, sir,” Frisby gave a crisp salute, then turned back to Caje.
Caje turned to the others in the cellar, “Okay,” he called. “Off and on. Line up here.”
The men complied and were soon standing before the new sergeant.
“This is Kirby, our BAR man, Doc, Nelson, and the big guy is Littlejohn.” He pointed to each man as he spoke.
“Guys, this is Sergeant Frisby. He’ll be taking over,” Caje informed them. Then turning to Frisby he said, “We’re all yours, Sergeant.”
“It’s good to meet you men,” Frisby started. “I won’t pretend I’m taking over under pleasant circumstances. I was acquainted with Saunders and I know how all of you must feel right now. He was a good man and a good soldier. I won’t presume to take his place, but I will assume leadership of this squad and I expect my orders to be carried out without question. Do I make myself clear?”
The men nodded and mumbled agreement, not too sure, yet, how to take this new leader. Being the kind of men they were, they decided to let actions rule their judgements.
“Okay,” Frisby looked around the room. “aren’t there supposed to be more of you?”
“Yeah, Sergeant,” Caje answered. “They’re in the village somewhere. You want me to go find them?”
“Yes, Caje,” Frisby agreed. “We have orders and I want everyone here before I issue them.”
“Okay, Sarge,” Caje felt a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach when he spoke those words to this tall stranger. He shook it off and headed for the door.
When the three new men had been rounded up, Frisby motioned for everyone to gather round.
“We move out at 0530 in the morning. Full packs, all the ammunition you can carry, don’t worry about rations. Chow trucks will follow. Be sure all extra gear is on the supply truck this evening. Any questions?”
“Can you tell us where we’re headed, Sergeant?” Kirby asked.
“All I know is it’s a fortress that Item Company is having trouble with. We’ll be goin’ in as reinforcements, along with some machinery.”
Frisby eyed the men before him critically, hoping the spirit would return in the face of conflict. Right now it was very apparent that the moral was low.
“Okay,” He stood, drawing a cigarette from his pocket. “Get your gear squared away and turn in. It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow.”
The men turned to their duties without further comment. They were seasoned veterans and knew what was expected of them. They grimly faced the new challenge before them, but it seemed their hearts weren’t in it.

* * *

Saunders woke with a start. There were hands grasping his feet! He was enclosed in a wooden box. ‘A casket!’ he thought. ‘But I’m not dead!” He tried to raise his arms to push the wooden walls away, but the box was too small. He kicked at the hands grabbing at his legs and fought to get a breath. He was suffocating!
“Ne bougez pas!” Someone yelled.
Then he remembered where he was. He stopped struggling and the hands gently dragged him from the enclosed cart. Once he was out, he was placed on the grass, where he lay panting and trying to collect his senses.
“We thought you may have died, when you did not answer us,” Doctor Matise knelt beside him. “Be still. You are bleeding again. I will help you.”
“Thank you,” Saunders managed to speak again. “May I have some water?”
A container of some sort was held to his lips and he drank greedily as the doctor opened his shirt and started removing the bandage that was now soaked with blood.
“I am sorry the ride was hard,” the doctor said. “Your struggles have torn some stitches. It will be all right.”
Saunders lay still as the old doctor finished applying a new bandage to his ribs.
“Where are we?” the sergeant asked as a pair of hands behind him lifted him to a sitting position. He looked back to see three Frenchmen dressed in the drab wool of peasants’ clothes, perhaps farmers. A middle-aged woman stood near them, her hair was dark and streaked with gray. They were all staring at the American with a certain amount of apprehension.
“We are close to the American lines here. These people will hide you from the Germans until they can find a way to get you safely across the lines. Henri speaks English. They were driven from their home by the Bosche. I must get back to St. Mere Eglise before I am missed. I wish you ‘bonne chance’, Monsieur Sergent.” Jean Matise rose to leave, extending a hand to Saunders.
The sergeant accepted the hand and slowly crawled to his feet, swaying for a few seconds, then steadying himself. “I do appreciate all you and the sisters did for me.” He stated as he gripped the doctor’s hand in friendship.
Dr. Matise just smiled and turned away to climb back up on the cart. “It is little enough to do for one who would help free our country.” He said as he turned the horse’s head onto the road once more.
Saunders picked up his Thompson where it had been placed on the grass near him and turned to the four people who stood waiting expectantly.
“Who’s Henri?” he asked.
“I am Henri,” a man of about forty years of age stepped forward.
Turning to the others with him, he said, “This is Marc, Pierre, and Yvette. We all worked and lived at the Chateau de Croix not far from here. We were servants there until the Bosche came. We were afraid, so we ran and hid in these hills. There is a house near here. Come. We will have something to eat and rest.”
“I’m Sergeant Saunders,” he told Henri. “How far from the lines are we?”
“No more that two kilometers, Monsieur,” Henri explained as they started walking through the woods away from the road. “The fighting seems to have quieted for now, but for the past two days the noise of battle has been incredible. The Allies try to chase the Bosche from the chateau, but the place is like a mighty castle. The bombs and mortars hardly scratch the walls, and its location makes it very hard to get near. A river flows below the cliffs which support the chateau. The Germans are dug in all along the river above and below the mansion. We cannot get through to the Americans and they have been unable to get to us. So we hide in these hills. We have what weapons you see here for protection, but we do not have much bullets.”
Saunders had noticed the shotgun, small caliber rifle and antique handgun the men were carrying. Even for protection, they were poorly armed.
Saunders was weak and panting for breath by the time they reached the small farmhouse nestled between two steep hills in the dense forest. The woman had moved up beside him and reached for his arm as he stumbled over a rock in his path. She caught him and steadied him as he regained his balance. He smiled sheepishly at her and said, “Thanks.”
She smiled and released his arm, but stayed close.
As soon as they entered the house, Saunders slumped into a chair near a window in the kitchen. His side ached, and his strength waned.
The woman immediately set about placing food on a table in the middle of the spacious room.
“We will eat, then I will show you where you can rest. Will you be all right?” Henri asked.
“I…I’m okay,” Saunders assured him. “I’m just tired.”

* * *

Sgt. Frisby’s squad spread out along the edge of the narrow river. They had replaced a squad from Item Company directly across from the chateau, perched high on a ridge rising from the other side of the channel. The mansion reminded Kirby of the Frankenstein movie he’d seen just before shipping out. There were two rounded towers reaching above several floors of windows, connected with a parapet. Monsters were in there now, he reflected. Germans with machine guns and mortars. From the parapet, the guns could sweep the entire riverbank opposite the chateau without even exposing themselves to any counterattack.
“There’s no way we’re gonna get in there!” Kirby groused as he carefully laid several magazines out before him, within easy reach. He extended the bipod of his BAR and dug it in firmly on the lip of the foxhole he shared with Caje.
“Don’t worry, Kirby,” Caje soothed. “Maybe they’ll just surrender once they know you’re here, and we won’t have to fight ‘em.”
“Oh, very funny,” Kirby glared at the Cajun. “Why don’t you just stand up and tell ‘em I’m here, then.”
Caje grinned as he watched the rest of the squad taking their positions. There hadn’t been any fighting since they arrived about mid morning and the soldiers were tense and sweating in the mid-day sun.
“You guys all set?” A voice behind them asked.
They turned to find Frisby kneeling next to their foxhole.
“We’re ready when you are, Sarge,” Caje affirmed. “Just say the word.”
“Okay,” the sergeant nodded. “Just wait for a signal.” Then he was gone.
“What’d ya think, Caje?” Kirby asked.
“It looks tough, but we’ve been in bad spots before,” Caje turned back to the wiry BAR man.
“No, not that,” Kirby said. “I mean the new sergeant. What do you make of him?”
Caje was quiet for a moment. “He seems like a good guy, Kirby. He knows his stuff.”
“Yeah, I noticed that,” Kirby agreed. “But you know what I mean, Caje. When the goin’ gets rough, d’ ya think he’ll be there?”
“That’s not for us to be concerned with right now, Kirby,” Caje assured him. “We just have to follow orders and back him up.”
“Well, I just wanna be sure he’ll back us up, too.” Kirby pouted. “Saunders…”
“Saunders isn’t here!” Caje was in Kirby’s face.
Both men stopped, realizing there was a mutual pain between them that could not be healed easily.
“I’m sorry, Kirby,” Caje said, looking away. “Let’s just stay sharp. Okay?”
“Yeah,” Kirby spoke softly. “You’re right, Caje. I guess I’m ready for some action.”
Caje smiled and turned towards the river and the Germans dug in along the opposite bank.
Within a few minutes 105 shells were whistling over their heads and crashing against the face of the cliff below the chateau. With slight corrections the shells lifted to pound the thick walls of the mansion itself. Dirt and rocks flew every direction, but it seemed the walls hadn’t been so much as touched.
“I guess we’re knockin’ on their door,” Caje announced. “Maybe they’ll let us in.”
“Not without a fight!” Kirby yelled over the din of the barrage. The Germans had opened up on the Allied positions along the riverbank and the fight was on.

* * *

Saunders woke to the near distant sounds of artillery fire. ‘Those are ours.’ He thought. The young man called Marc sat up from a blanket spread on the floor near the door to the small empty room they were using for a bedroom. The old farmhouse only had two bedrooms and only one of those had a bed. The woman, Yvette, occupied the room with the bed, while the men took turns sleeping on the floor in the other bedroom.
The sergeant felt rested, the pain caused by the long bumpy ride in the hay wagon had receded to a bearable point and he was full of food. If only he had a cigarette. But none of the French people smoked, so he was still out of luck there.
Marc and Saunders rose to their feet and left the small room. Henri and Yvette were waiting in the living area of the house, when Pierre burst into the room talking so fast that those who spoke the language couldn’t even understand him.
“What’s goin’ on?” Saunders asked Henri.
“I don’t know, Sergent. Pierre is so excited he’s not making sense.” Henri informed Saunders.
Henri and Yvette got the man to settle down and speak more slowly. After a moment, Henri turned to the sergeant.
“Pierre was up near the chateau this morning. That good food you ate last night. We steal it from the Bosche. Pierre saw many big trucks on the road to the chateau. They were carrying large barrels, probably fuel. As I said, the mansion is a fortress and it would be easy to store such things there. When he started back, Pierre noticed that more Americans seemed to be moving in on the other side of the river from the cliffs below the house.”
“You steal food? How do you get in and out?” Saunders was formulating a plan in his mind, but he needed facts.
“There are catacombs beneath the chateau, Monsieur, where the aristocracy buried their dead. Many of them have caved in or have been blocked off, but there are still a few that reach from the chateau to the hills just south of us. We are able to sneak in to the wine cellars and the kitchens above, but we have to be very careful. The Bosche are everywhere.” Henri explained.
“Ask Pierre where the trucks were headed,” Saunders instructed.
“He said they were going to the house, Sergent. They would probably pull them into the courtyards in the middle of the chateau. That would be the logical place to hide them. The garages and carriage barns were destroyed when the Germans invaded.”
“Okay,” Saunders felt the adrenaline build-up in his veins. “Will you show me the way to the house through the catacombs?”
“What can you do, Monsieur. You are one man. The Bosche are many. They will kill you or worse.” Henri tried to reason with this crazy American sergeant.
“Maybe we can find a way to create a diversion. You can hear the firing along the river. The Allies have enough firepower to do some good if someone could just take a bite out of the Germans’ back pockets.” Saunders pleaded with the Frenchman.
“I do not understand all of what you are saying, Sergent, but we will help where we can.” Henri shrugged. “What do you want us to do?”

* * *

Saunders stood staring at the tall towers and stone walls that rose above the little meandering river. It was indeed palatial as well as a mighty stronghold. He began to wonder if he could cause any kind of effective harassment within those walls.
The three Frenchmen urged him on towards a knoll several hundred yards north of the chateau. Once there, they dropped to their knees and crawled beneath some berry vines that grabbed at their clothes and scratched their skin. Just past the bushes, the men were able to stand upright in the mouth of a small tunnel. The tunnel had been completely obliterated by the thorny bushes from the outside, but enough light came through to illuminate the mouth of the cave. The tunnel was about six feet wide by eight to ten feet high in places.
Henri lit a lantern which had been stored near the end of the cave and moved off into the gloom, the others falling in behind. Saunders was sweating from exertion, lacking his full strength, but was able to keep up with them without too much discomfort.
The small group passed rows of holes gouged out of each side of the tunnel. The holes were perhaps two feet deep into the walls, about six feet in length, and about three feet high. Many of them carried the shrouded bones of ancient French aristocracy.
The air was musty, cold, and smelled of death. His clothes still damp from sweat, Saunders now shivered as he followed Henri closely through the narrow passageway. It seemed like an eternity before the tunnel widened then seemed to end in solid stone.
“This way, Sergent,” Henri whispered, motioning to the American. “We must be very quiet now. We are near the house.”
The Frenchman moved to one side of the tunnel and began pushing on a large stone. The rock seemed to move rather easily and soon an entryway opened up large enough for a man to walk through. Each one of them slipped through and quietly waited for Henri to bring the lantern. When the light swept the area around them, Saunders noticed that the back side of the stone had a wine rack attached to it, and when Marc set his weight against the rack, the stone swung back out of sight and the rack looked as if it was built against the wall. There was no longer any sign of a tunnel.
The men then moved silently through rows of wine racks, some of them filled with bottles, some of them empty, and stacks of casks that once held the best wine in the French countryside.
When they came to a stairway, Henri turned to Saunders.
“Marc and Pierre will stay here. They will warn us if there is trouble afoot.” He explained. “I will show you how to get to the courtyards, Monsieur.” Henri handed the lantern to Pierre and turned to the stairway.
A door blocked their progress at the top of the stairs and Henri opened it just enough to peek through the crack. Apparently he saw nothing and swung the door open enough for the two of them to slip into a large, well-lit kitchen. There were rows of cabinets and sinks, and a large stove took up nearly half of one end of the room.
Crouching low behind the galvanized sinks in the middle of the room, Saunders followed Henri to a double swinging door located in the opposite wall of the room from where they entered.
The Frenchman eased one of the doors open a bit and looked through. The room appeared to be empty beyond, so he motioned for the sergeant to follow. Just as he pushed the door wide enough to slip through, they heard voices from the other side. The two men dove back inside the kitchen, Saunders reaching back to stop the door from swinging as he brought his Thompson around to firing position.
The two men crawled past the huge stove to crouch behind the sinks. The voices, speaking in German, disappeared into some other part of the house and the two men once again slipped through the swinging door. They could hear the sounds of battle outside the thick walls and they knew that most of the Kraut army would be well occupied.
Henri led the sergeant to a glass door near the side of the elaborate dining hall. Through it, Saunders could see the courtyard and five large trucks overburdened with barrels.
Squatting, Saunders turned to Henri, “How do I get to one of those towers?”
“What!? Are you crazy, Monsieur?” Henri looked at the sergeant as if he had just slapped him. “You cannot go to the towers. They are full of Bosche.”
“Where?” Saunders insisted.
Henri’s shoulders sank with resignation. He found it was impossible to argue with the stubborn blond man before him. “I will show you, Sergent.” He said finally.
“Okay,” Saunders reached for the door handle. “Let’s see what we can do here first.” He slipped out the door and behind one of the large bushes that had grown rampant in the courtyard.
There were three guards walking the perimeter of the yard, and reaching the trucks would be all but impossible. “This won’t work,” Saunders whispered. “C’mon.”
He eased the door open and slid through once again, waiting for Henri to enter before he closed it. “Show me to the tower,” he ordered.
The Frenchman moved in a crouch through the dining hall and into a servants hallway that connected the kitchen with many rooms in the sprawling mansion. The hall was empty and the noise of the conflict outside echoed eerily through the stillness of the stone structure.
“At the end of this hall there is a small door leading to a servants stairway. This will take you up inside the wall of the west tower, Monsieur.”
Saunders reached out and laid a hand on Henri’s shoulder. “You’ve been a great help. Go back and tell your friends that I thank them. I’ll take it from here.” The sergeant whispered, then turned to move away.
“Non, Monsieur,” Henri insisted. “You cannot do this alone. I will go with you.”
“I can’t ask you to do this, Henri,” Saunders told him. “I can’t promise we’ll survive this.”
“If you can die for my people, Sergent, how could I do less?” Henri smiled at the American’s concern.
Saunders stared at the determination in the Frenchman’s face for a moment, then turned down the hall towards the stairway.
The stairs were deserted, the Germans probably didn’t even know the narrow flight was there. It twisted back and forth on itself as it wound its way up between the stone walls of the tower. There were small windows in the outer walls for illumination and about halfway up the tower an American shell had punched a large hole leaving several steps destroyed.
Saunders cupped his hands for Henri to step into them and the Frenchman raised himself to the next level of stairs that were untouched by the shelling. He pulled himself up carefully, then turned and extended a hand to the sergeant. Saunders handed the weapons to Henri, then grasped the proffered hand and levered himself up by bracing a foot against the inner wall. His right ribcage suddenly felt as if it was split in two and he cried out, but kept climbing. When he was beside the Frenchman he stretched out and lay there panting until the pain subsided.
“You are bleeding, Monsieur!” Henri exclaimed.
“I’m okay,” Saunders puffed. “Let’s keep going.”
He pulled himself back to his feet and started up the remaining stairs. By the time they had reached the top, Saunders was sweating profusely and wishing for a cool drink of water. They rested briefly at a door that Henri said led to the parapet above the courtyard.
Saunders eased the door open a crack and peered through. There was a large rounded room with a main staircase opening to the other side. One large door led to the parapet. It was open and Saunders could see two machine guns manned by six Germans stationed at each end of the parapet near the doors to the towers. The Krauts were busy raining bullets on an unseen enemy below them, outside the walls of the chateau.
Saunders turned to Henri. “We’ll have to take ‘em. Can you do it?”
“Oui, Monsieur,” the Frenchman nodded gravely. “I will kill them.”
“Okay, let’s go,” Saunders said as he opened the door and rolled across the floor to the opposite side of the big door.
Just as he drew up beside the door, a German private stepped from the main stairway right in front of him.
Reacting quickly, Saunders brought the butt of his Thompson up under the astonished Kraut’s gaping jaw. The private collapsed hardly realizing what had hit him.
Saunders grabbed the rifle and utility belt from the dead soldier and shoved them across the floor towards Henri. Then he turned and picked up two Kraut grenades the private had been carrying.
Squatting beside the door, Saunders activated one of the grenades and tossed it the few feet to the nearest machine gun, motioning Henri to get down. They fell to the floor, covering their heads as the explosion shook the old stones they were lying on.
Saunders quickly came to his knees training his Tommy gun out the door. The Germans and their machine gun had all been destroyed, but the Krauts at the other end of the parapet were alerted and had started bringing their rifles to bear on the west tower.
Saunders and Henri opened up on them and for a moment bullets flew in every direction. Henri looked at the sergeant and grinned, amazed that nothing had hit them. The Germans were dead, but a general alarm was raised and they could hear the warning shouts and the scuffling feet of the enemy soldiers converging on their position.
“Stay back!” Saunders called to Henri as he slipped outside the large door onto the parapet. He gave the second grenade a twist and heaved it out towards the nearest truck in the courtyard below. Then he dove back through the door, covering his head with his arms.

* * *

Frisby slid into the foxhole with Caje and Kirby, ducking the constant hail of machine gun bullets raining down on them. The noise was deafening and he raised his voice to be heard.
“The Brass gave Item Company a couple hours rest, then sent them up the river. They’re supposed to cross into those hills and try to flank the chateau. Until we arrived, they didn’t have the manpower for this operation. We have to keep ‘em busy for at least another hour. If they can divert those machine guns long enough for us to cross the river, we’ll rush them from two sides. The channel isn’t much more that ankle deep here, but watch for holes and rocks when we start to cross. I’m gonna spread the word on down the line. Wait for my signal to move out.”
“Okay, Sarge,” Caje shouted as Frisby started crawling out of the hole. “Watch yourself.”
The sergeant waved a hand as he slid cautiously towards the embankment where Littlejohn and Billy were dug in. It wasn’t long before Frisby crawled away from them, heading for the positions taken by the new replacements.
The conflict continued unceasing, and by mid afternoon the troops were exhausted and sweating. Casualties were mounting, and it began to look like Item Company wasn’t going to show.
Suddenly there was an explosion on the parapet followed by small arms fire, then a tremendous explosion from beyond the walls of the chateau. A huge ball of fire rose from the complex, followed by several more massive explosions and fireballs.
Lieutenant Hanley gave the signal to move out, the signal being repeated by three of his sergeants. Sgt. Rowe motioned for his squad to hold their positions and keep firing to cover the advance of the other squads.
“I’m tellin’ ya, Caje, it was a Thompson!” Kirby yelled as he sloshed across the shallow stream towards the bushes at the base of the cliff.
“I’m not surprised, Kirby,” Caje called back to him as his eyes searched the opposite bank for any sign of the enemy. “You know that Sergeant Merrill with Item Company carries one.”
“Yeah,” Kirby agreed. “but Merrill wasn’t with them. He was wounded just before we took over his position this mornin’, remember?”
“Aw, you’re just imaginin’ things. Keep movin’ an’ stay low!” Caje warned the BAR man as they neared the bank.
Soon all three squads were rushing the German outposts along the banks of the stream just west of the chateau. The Kraut positions had been devastated by the artillery barrage as well as the following conflict of the long, hot morning. The enemy, realizing they were outnumbered and outgunned, immediately left their positions and ran for the hills rising from the north and east side of the now heavily smoking manor.
Little did they know they were running right into the waiting fire of Item Company. Caught in a withering crossfire, the Germans surrendered, dropping their weapons and raising their hands high above their heads.
The German prisoners were quickly herded against the walls of the imposing mansion. Lt. Hanley posted his squads on security and went looking for the Item Company Platoon leader, Lieutenant Cramer.
“Your boys did a good job of knocking out those machine guns, Cramer.” Hanley complimented the stocky-built officer.
“It was a good job, Hanley, but we never got near the house,” Cramer shook his head as he accepted a fist-full of dog tags from one of his squad leaders. “The Krauts on the north side had us pinned down until the fuel trucks blew, then we rushed ‘em.”
Hanley’s eyebrows shot up with surprise. “If you didn’t do it, who did?” he asked.
“Don’t know yet,” Cramer replied. “My men are checking it out.”
Hanley nodded, motioning for Brockmeyer to set up the radio. With the swift success of this mission, the line could now advance unbroken. The lieutenant made a brief report and received orders before turning back to Lt. Cramer.
“The Brass says your guys are to bring the prisoners in and report to phase line Charlie for a little R & R,” Hanley slapped the other officer on the shoulder. “We’re to hold here and cover the field hospital the 546th is setting up just below us.”
Cramer nodded his acknowledgement, then spoke, “Oh, by the way, Hanley, those machine guns and fuel trucks were knocked out by some French Partisans and an American soldier. I didn’t get his name, but he was taken over to the aid station with the wounded. The explosions brought the walls of that tower down on him and one of the Frenchmen. Nearly killed ‘em, but I think they’ll be okay.”
“Okay, thanks, Cramer,” Hanley waved as the other officer turned to round up his men and the prisoners.
Hanley sat for a moment on an old stone fence, looking at the destruction and lighting a cigarette. After getting a head count from Brockmeyer, the lieutenant went in search of the aid station to meet and thank the men who had made their success possible.
As he neared the station, he was aware that most of the men who weren’t on security were gathered near the door of the small outbuilding the medics had claimed for their wounded. Everyone seemed to be looking at him oddly as he passed them.
“Lieutenant,” Caje stood in the doorway in front of him. “You’re not gonna believe this, sir.” He was grinning from ear to ear.
Hanley looked at the Cajun strangely as Caje stepped aside to let him enter.
“I’m fine! Leave me alone. I just want a cigarette!” exclaimed a voice Hanley thought he’d never hear again.
The lieutenant drew a pack of Luckys from his pocket and lit two, handing one to the irate blond sergeant trying to fight his way up from a stretcher.
“Hello, Saunders,” Hanley grinned, his eyes sparkling. “Where’ve you been?”
“It’s a long story, lieutenant,” Saunders accepted the cigarette and relaxed, letting Doc attend his bleeding side and the large bump steadily growing on the back of his head.
“I have a few minutes,” the lieutenant sat cross-legged beside the stretcher, happy that there was one less letter he would have to write.

END