| The characters of "Combat!" are the property of ABC and whoever owns the rights to the DVDs. No profit is made. Copyright 2005 by EagleLady. Insanity? The exploding mortars sent him diving into the thick layer of decaying leaves and forest debris underneath his feet, the resulting cloud of dust and mold stinging his eyes and irritating his nose. He hugged the quaking ground, his arms clasped protectively over his head. Just as he started to raise his head, another explosion rocked the ground. That was no mortar; that was a grenade! He had to move, to get away, to find better cover, to find the rest of the squad. They had been in front of him, he remembered. Were they even still alive? Which way should he go? He didn’t dare call out to them or they to him. He lifted his head cautiously, expecting to get it blown off any minute. All he could see was a haze of smoke and dust, whipped by the rising wind. He couldn’t see anyone; American or German, but he could hear mortars, grenades and gunfire coming from all sides. His heart pounding in his ears, he squirmed forward, seeking safety and friends. He found himself sliding headfirst into a gully that he hadn’t noticed. Lying on his belly at the bottom, he fought to catch his breath, waiting for his heart to slow to at least a gallop. With a sharp thrust of panic, he suddenly realized that it was dead quiet. No mortars. No grenades. No gunfire. No voices. Not even any moans or cries for help. Where was the squad? Where were the Germans? Where was he? Very carefully, he inched his way to the top of the bank, peering over the top. No movement to be seen. The wind was now blasting through the trees, tearing branches down and raising a cloud of dust and … smoke? Not smoke from the guns; this smelled like wood smoke. Peering into the wind, one hand trying to block the dust, he saw an orange glow, then bright flames. The woods were on fire! He had no choice, he had to move away from the fire or be turned into a roast. He turned his back to the fire and stumbled away into the gloomy evening. There were still no signs that anyone else was around, not that he could hear much over the sound of the wind, flames, and popping as the moisture inside turned to steam and burst the wood. What he wouldn’t give to be back home with his feet propped up in front of roaring fire listening to Jimmy Dorsey on the radio. Being back in the last village with the squad wouldn’t be bad either, come to think of it. Thanks to the wind, the fire was gaining on him and he had to start running without taking time to pick his way through the undergrowth. He just ran. He tumbled over logs, sprawled over rocks, fell into erosion- caused ditches, cannoned into trees and tripped over his own feet. Cursing and gasping for breath, he pulled himself back to his feet and ran on. Finally, he splashed into a wide stream. Staggering across, he dropped to the ground and gulped air into his lungs. He figured the water would stop the fire and now all he had to do is figure out where the Krauts were, where the squad was and where he was. It would be a lot easier to do any of the three if it weren’t dark, smoky, windy and starting to rain. Knowing that he couldn’t stay here indefinitely, he started to get to his feet, then sank back abruptly. Which way should he go? He sure didn’t want to walk into a passle of Krauts. He’d been moving forward, the direction he thought the squad had been moving. The fire had come from his right, so if he went back across the stream then headed across the front of the now smoldering fire, he figured he would eventually come across the American line. He hoped. Getting to his feet, he took a drink from his canteen and splashed back across the stream, as wet from the rain as he was from the stream. He’d never felt so lonely in his life, not even when he’d gotten lost as a child. Moving carefully in the near total darkness, he picked his way through the trees. Maybe it would be easier if he walked where the fire had burned the undergrowth. Yeah, easier, but he discovered that it was a whole lot hotter on his feet. Back to the trees. When he slammed the side of his face into a tree, he suddenly realized that he’d lost his helmet somewhere. After falling over unseen objects for the millionth time, he concluded he’d be a lot better off to just find somewhere to wait for dawn. He walked right into a fallen tree and decided this was as good a place to wait as any. Hunkering down at the base of the trunk, he pulled his sodden jacket around him and hunched his shoulders against the rain. Several cold, miserable hours later, the skies cleared revealing a nearly full moon. Thinking that he might be warmer moving around, he pulled himself up with the aid of the fallen tree and staggered for several feet until his stiff muscles loosened up. With the light of the moon throwing the landscape into sharp relief, he still tripped but could move much faster than without the moonlight. At the same time he realized that he was hearing German voices, several shots rang out and a fiery pain lanced through his side, spinning him around and throwing him to the ground. Biting his lip to keep from crying out, he lay still while the Krauts crashed through the bushes on either side of him. <“What did you shoot at, Eric?”> <“I don’t know. I heard something.”> <“Why did they have to send us idiots as replacements? It was probably a rabbit. Go back to your positions.”> He waited until they settled back down then began crawling away, a small stick clenched in his teeth against the pain. When he thought he was far enough away, he pulled his jacket and shirt up to examine the wound. It was between his hipbone and his ribs, bleeding profusely from both sides. He tore open the sulfa packet with his teeth, grimacing at the bitter taste and poured part of it on the front wound. After putting the rest of it on a pad of bandages, he pressed the bandage over the wounds, then awkwardly removed his belt and wrapped it around his middle, pulling it tight to hold the bandages in place. Now he had to find the American lines and fast. Using a tree to haul himself to his feet, he started walking. He fell and got back up more times than he could count, then crawled until he finally collapsed, unable to move another inch. His last conscious thought was that he hoped that they would break the news to his mother gently. The first thing that he was aware of was that he was warm. And dry. He could feel someone working on his wound and wondered how he’d made it back to the line. Wait a minute. No front line doctor he’d ever heard of smelled like lavender. Where was he? He wanted to open his eyes, but it was too much effort and he let himself drift back off into darkness. The feel of cool water on his face woke him sometime later and he opened his eyes to see a woman bending over him. She wore a black sweater over a bright yellow blouse and her gray hair was pulled back into a bun. Her kindly face was webbed with wrinkles which deepened even more when she realized that he was awake and smiled at him, revealing irregular ivory teeth. She held a cup for him, letting cool water slide into his mouth and down his parched throat, then patted his shoulder. She sat down in a chair beside his bed and picked up what appeared to be a half-finished sweater. The steady click of the knitting needles lulled him back to sleep. A shaft of pain jarred him awake again as someone worked on the wound in his side. Squinting against the pain, he looked up, his jaw dropping open. There were the remembered yellow blouse and gray sweater, but no gray hair or wrinkles. Shiny blond hair swung in waves around a smooth, beautiful, young face. She glanced up at his face, smiling when she realized that he was looking at her. Smiling with even, white teeth. Bewildered, he stared at her, unable to think of anything to say. In silence, she continued her work, patted him on the shoulder and moved out of his line of vision. He raised his head to try to see where she went, but fell back with a groan of pain. He gradually realized that he was listening to the sound of rain, and that he was chilly. Without opening his eyes, he fumbled for edge of the blanket that had been covering him. A hand closed over his, tucking it under the blanket that was being drawn up over him. A thin, bony hand. Not again! Cautiously, he opened his eyes then closed them tight. Slowly, he opened one eye. Black sweater. Yellow blouse. Gray hair and wrinkles. Was he losing his mind? “Where is the young woman?” He asked hoarsely. “There is no one else here.” She shook her head. “But…but I saw her!” He protested. Sliding a hand behind his neck, she lifted his head enough to give him a drink. Wine. Not water. Good wine, at that. She set the cup down on the table by the bed, moved to the rocking chair and picked up her knitting. He stared at it in amazement. It was nearly finished. Just how long had he been here? And where was here? He opened his mouth, but she shushed him and went back to her knitting. The smell of hot soup and a touch on his shoulder woke him, but he didn’t want to open his eyes again. He was afraid of what he’d see. The hand on his shoulder shook him slightly and he tentatively opened his eyes. Black sweater. Yellow blouse. Make that yellow shirt! A gray-haired old man was looking down at him while holding a bowl of soup at the ready. That’s it. I’ve completely lost my mind, he thought. He continued to stare at the old man while numbly swallowing spoon after spoon of soup. He watched the old man shuffle away, his gray head nodding. He turned to stare at the wall. Which was worse, he wondered. A telegram telling his mother he was dead, or one telling her that he was loony? “Yeah, he’s in here. Hey, Doc, come take a look at him.” His eyes popped open in disbelief as two American soldiers entered the room, one of them wearing a helmet with a red cross. “What outfit are you with, fella?” The sergeant asked. “King Company. 361st.” “Lt. Hanley’s bunch, huh? Well, we’ll get you back to our lines and you can catch up with ‘em later. How ya doing, anyway?” “I think I’m losing my mind.” “Why do you say that?” The sergeant looked at him strangely. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He lay quietly while they transferred him to a litter and carried him out of the house to where a squad of men waited. As they started to carry him away, he glanced back to toward the house then jerked bolt upright, which tipped the litter and spilled him onto the ground. Sprawled on his belly under the litter, unmindful of the pain shooting through his side, he stared at the house. There, lined up side by side, were an old man, an old woman, and a young woman. All wearing yellow shirts and black sweaters. “Oh, my God.” He whispered, stupefied. “What’s the matter with you, buddy?” The doc asked, crouching next to him, his hand on his shoulder. “Why are they wearing the same thing?” He demanded. “What? What’s wrong with you?” “Why are they wearing the same thing?” He repeated. One of the bemused soldiers holding the end of the litter spoke to the family, laughing at their reply. “She says, don’t you know there’s a war on? Black yarn is the easiest to get, and they found the yellow material in the remains of a shop in the nearby village.” “Take me back to the war.” He groaned as they loaded him back on the litter. The End |