| DII's entry for the challenge asking for a short story that has the guys in the squad thinking Saunders is dead...
****************************************************************** Caje stared into the black night, dark eyes unblinking and unseeing. It didn't matter. Both sides seemed to be taking a break from the relentless shoving match over several hundred yards of ruined forest. And surely Kirby, further down the trench, was alert and keeping a look out, BAR at the ready. But Caje didn't look and didn't care, lost in the swirling madness of the last hour. He'd seen some awful things since D-Day, friends blown to pieces right next to him, their bodies reduced to torn flesh and tattered remnants of dirty uniforms. But somehow it was the things he didn't see that haunted him the most. He could feel the man next to him trembling, their shoulders shoved together in the tight quarters. Caje shifted his eyes to glance at the medic, although he couldn't really visualize him in the shadowy light from the few stars in the twilight sky. Doc had been right there. The scout knew he was suffering but had no words of comfort. Caje couldn't wrap his own mind around it, how could he help the medic? Just an hour ago… Caje ran for the trees, Littlejohn and Kirby right behind him, weapons blazing. The Germans were finally backing off after holding their line for almost three days but they weren't going easily. Hurling himself to the ground behind an ancient log, Caje looked back over his shoulder, wondering where the rest of the platoon was. Kirby patted him on the forearm, pointing across the clearing. Saunders and the replacement, Jones, were working their way steadily forward, picking their targets and making sure they had plenty of cover on the way. Caje grinned to himself, knowing the sergeant was taking advantage of the enemy's retreat to teach the kid something. Beyond the pair, the scout could see Doc frantically bandaging somebody, but Caje couldn't tell whom. He only know it wasn't Littlejohn or Kirby, nor the Sarge nor Jones. He turned to face forward again, Garand at the ready. The whistling scream of the 88 overhead froze everyone. Caje looked back again, saw Saunders grab the kid by the shoulder and yank him forward toward the trees, running flat out for cover. Doc, whose slumping posture indicated that he'd lost his battle to save his patient, whipped around, one hand reaching out automatically for his medic's ruck. Caje saw him searching for safety, eyes wide in panic. The shell slammed into the earth, tearing the very trees from the earth. Caje felt someone grab his jacket and haul him backward over the log. He hit the ground hard, driving the breath from his lungs and leaving him gasping for air. Kirby lay on top of him, the BAR man's face buried in the crook of his neck, his helmet digging painfully into Caje's jaw. A ball of fire belched upward, smoke filling the forest and choking them all. Littlejohn jumped as the trees fell, his body shaking from head to toe. A long moment passed before Caje could finally fill his lungs and throw Kirby off. He scrambled to his feet and headed back to the clearing, heart pounding, his squad mates right behind him. They all stumbled to a halt, Littlejohn almost bowling Caje and Kirby over, at the tree line. A huge crater filled what was left of the clearing, smoke rising from its center and filtering slowly upwards. Tree trunks littered the area, haphazardly tossed by the massive explosion. A faint groan drifted across the chaos and Caje immediately took off, Kirby close behind him. Doc lay flat on his back, arms and legs akimbo, rolling slightly from side to side. As Caje fell to his knees beside him, the medic opened his eyes, blinking slowly at the dwindling sunlight. He turned his head to Caje and frowned, the _expression deepening as Kirby and Littlejohn ran up. "Sarge?" Doc swiped at his ear with one hand, looking in surprise at the streak of blood that coated his fingers. He shoved himself to hands and knees, head hanging for a moment. "Sarge?" Caje stared at him a moment longer, noting the thin line of blood running from each ear and the tiny cuts from shrapnel scattered across his cheeks. The scout had seen this before, of course. Doc had been caught in the concussive effects of the shell, popping his eardrums and scrambling his balance. Caje caught the medic by the elbow and pulled him to the ground before he fell down. Doc looked up, eyes lost and haunted. "Where's Sarge?" …and now in the trench, in the velvety darkness of night… Caje hugged his knees to his chest, resting his forehead on them. He could still feel Doc shivering, heard him muttering under his breath. It had taken them several minutes to get the medic calm enough to examine him, make sure he wasn't wounded further. It had taken more than a few minutes to ascertain that there was no sign of the sergeant nor the young replacement. One minute they had been there, the next… Now Caje waited for daybreak, jaw set and eyes black and fathomless. He pulled his resolve around him like a cloak, feeling the weight of responsibility spread itself across his shoulders. He sighed, wishing he were home again, fishing some nameless Louisiana bayou. Shifting his weight, he managed to free one arm and hooked it across the medic's shoulders, sharing what meager body heat he could spare. The sergeant's stripes, fastened hastily to his sleeve using pins from Doc's bag, fluttered in the slight breeze and Caje bowed his head, unable to stop the tears from spilling over. He swallowed hard as he listened to Doc's breathing, felt the man's body relax as the medic fell asleep. He sighed again and allowed his own exhaustion to fog his thoughts, taking him away from this place of death and pain and loss but to where he didn't know. END |
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