By
Christine Bacro
mctdcb@hotmail.com
All characters belong to the Combat! TV show; I am just using them for my own amusement, and hopefully yours.
“Is it ready
yet?”
The men from
King
Company’s 2nd platoon, first squad rushed across the
cobblestone
street, surrounding their leader as he left Lt. Hanley at the command
post. They all asked the same
question,
all hoping to hear the same answer.
“No.”
They didn’t
get it.
Sergeant
‘Chip’
Saunders shook his head and sighed, watching the faces of his men -
Private
William Kirby, Pfc Paul ‘Caje’ LeMay, Pfc Littlejohn, Private Billy
Nelson, and
the company’s resident medic, Doc.
Each
had the same sad, lost look, one that he rarely, if ever,
displayed.
Montigny-En-Arrouaise
had been a welcome change for 2nd platoon, a town that had
somehow
survived the war mostly intact.
Streets
here were clean and well populated, very few buildings showed signs of
the war
raging on its outskirts, and the people had welcomed the Americans more
as a
business opportunity than as saviors.
An empty warehouse on the outskirts of town had been set up to
serve as
a CP, and most of the platoon had spent the day milling about outside
the
building. It had been over a
month
since they had received any mail and even longer since they’d been
paid, and
each and every man was anxious to get both.
“I knew it,”
Kirby
groused. “It was too good to be
true. This is the first
half-decent
sized town we’ve been in that still has goods to buy, and we have no
money.”
“And it
still has
bars to drink in too, right Kirby?”
Caje laughed.
Kirby tried
to look
shocked at Caje’s remark, failing miserably as he noticed the knowing
looks on
all the other faces.
“All right,
all
right.” Saunders lifted his
right hand,
forestalling any comeback by Kirby or the others. “I have good news, and I have bad news. Which do you want first?”
“Aw, come
on,
Sarge. How about we skip the
bad news,
and go straight to the good?” Littlejohn’s powerful, yet muted baritone
pleaded, the boyish pout turning the six and a half-foot soldier into
an
overgrown, but lovable, child.
“Okay,
Littlejohn,
good news first.” Saunders
reached into
his right jacket pocket, shaking a cigarette out of his crumpled pack
and
lighting it.
“Division
will have
your mail and back pay here by tomorrow morning.” Taking a long drag, he let out a thick streamer of smoke
and
smiled. The men cheered and
clapped
each other on the back; jumbled plans and long-missed words from home
mixed
easily with their laughter.
Saunders
waited,
watching as the men celebrated, slowly rolling the cigarette between
dirty,
roughened fingers. One by one
the men
sobered, turning to see their leader standing silently nearby.
“What’s the
bad
news, Sarge?”
Saunders
threw down
his spent cigarette and flattened the glowing butt with his boot. Taking a deep breath, he hitched his
left
thumb into his pistol belt, right hand ruffling the unruly blond hair
on the
back of his skull.
“The bad
news is, we
won’t be here to get it.” He
waited
until the groans subsided to continue.
“We head out at oh-five-hundred, patrolling sectors C and
D.”
“Short
patrol,
right?” Billy Nelson asked, hopeful.
Saunders
shook his
head.
“We’ve got a
lot of
territory to cover, so we go with no packs and only as much ammo as you
can
carry. We’re traveling fast and
light. S2 wants checks on
German forces
in the area. There’s rumours of
heavy
troop movement farther down the line, and they want to know if the
Germans are
massing men and equipment in our area.”
“Can’t they
send
someone else?” Kirby whined. “I
mean,
we just got here; a fella needs a break now and
then.”
“Sorry,
Kirby. We’re not the only patrol going out,
and the
Lieutenant said that reinforcements wouldn’t get here until late
tomorrow. Doc,” Saunders turned to the medic,
“you’re
staying here. They need help
setting up
an aid station.”
“No problem,
Sarge.” Doc grinned, his eyes
flashing
with amusement as he looked at Kirby.
“I’ll try not to buy up the place without you. I’m sure there’ll be something left when you guys get
back.”
“Sarge,
maybe Doc
here needs help.” Kirby moved
next to
the medic, his receding hairline a direct contrast to Doc’s wavy
brunette
locks. “I mean, I’ve been to
the aid
station enough times to almost qualify as a medic. Gee, I could almost set one up in my
sleep.”
“That won’t
be the
only thing he’ll be setting up,” Littlejohn
muttered.
“If you feel
that
way about medicine, Kirby, maybe you could do
something.”
“Yeah,
Sarge?” Kirby’s face lit
up.
“Yeah. Go with Doc to the aid station and
pick up
some extra medical supplies.
You’ll be
our unofficial medic on this trip.”
Saunders tried to hide his smile as Kirby’s face
fell.
“Don’t
worry,
Kirby,” Caje threw his arm around the B.A.R. man’s shoulders and winked
at
Saunders. “All your money will
still be
here when we get back. You just
think
of all the ways you can spend it, and the patrol will be over before
you know
it.”
“Yeah,
well,” Kirby
shrugged, looking at the others, “I guess I could figure out a couple
of new
ways to have fun in this town.”
“You mean,
get into
trouble,” Nelson and Littlejohn said as one.
“Same
thing.” Kirby smirked, pulling a wool cap
from his
coat and slipping it on his head.
“I
have a feeling tomorrow is going to fly by, just fly
by.”
~~~~~~~
“Checkmate
King Two,
this is White Rook, over.”
Sergeant
Saunders
held the receiver as close to his ear as he could, trying to hear over
the
noise of exploding artillery shells.
Sheltered at the bottom of a small hill, he had trouble seeing
the sky
through clouds of dirt and smoke.
The
smell of spent shells and blasted earth assailed his nostrils, making
it hard
to breathe. ‘’Fly by’, my
ass,’
he thought.
“Checkmate
King Two,
this is White Rook, over.”
He knew they
were
out of range, that they would be for a while yet, and the radio’s
silence
confirmed that fact. Shoving
the
handset back onto the radio, he passed it over to
Nelson.
“No luck,
Sarge?” Billy Nelson shrugged
back into
the heavy pack, shifting the radio to allow him more freedom with his
M1
rifle. He looked no more than
twenty,
but had fought enough in this war for forty
lifetimes.
“No, not
yet.” Saunders pulled a well-worn map from
his field
jacket, trying to measure the distance the squad still had to go to get
back to
the CP at Montigny-En-Arrouaise.
“Do you
think we
have enough of a head start?”
Saunders
dragged a
knuckle over his left eye, trying to stem an oncoming headache, and
glanced at
the young soldier.
“It’ll have
to be.”
Nelson
nodded,
biting nervously at his lower lip.
He
knew it was as much reassurance as the sarge would give. He scanned the area, sighting
Littlejohn and
Kirby standing watch at the base of the hill.
Through the dust and smoke at the crest, he looked for Caje, but
the
Cajun was still not back from scouting the rear.
The morning
and
early afternoon had gone smoothly as the men crossed over into a
heavily wooded
portion of sector D. They were
enjoying
the relative peace and quiet of birds flying overhead and insects
buzzing
around their ears when they heard them.
Germans.
Crawling
forward on
their bellies, Saunders and his men watched as fifty or sixty krauts
rushed
around trucks and artillery, loading mortars, ammunition and
supplies.
Memorizing
as many
details about the attack force as possible, the squad headed back
towards the
CP, spending the rest of the day dodging as many German advance patrols
as they
could, fighting when they had no choice.
Now they
sat, unable
to contact Hanley, waiting for word from Caje about how close the
krauts were
on their tail. It was a race
between
the two forces – one that wanted to alert the American lines of the
oncoming
onslaught, the other wanting to destroy those
lines.
“Sarge!”
Caje slid
down from
the top of the hill, skidding to a halt next to the two men as bits of
rock and
debris rattled down in his wake.
“As far as I
can
see, the krauts are still a couple of hours behind us, but they’re
moving
fast,” he panted. Glancing
quickly at
the map Saunders held in his hand, he pointed.
“Their lines were there when we first spotted them, and by now
they
should be around here.”
Saunders
looked at
the position on the map that Caje had indicated. It had been, at one time, a very quaint French village,
home to
twenty or so families, but when they had gone through it a few hours
before, it
had been reduced to smoking ruins by the German
artillery.
There had
been no
sign of any of the families.
At least,
none that
survived.
“Any sign of
more
patrols?” he asked, passing a lit cigarette to Caje, who happily
accepted.
“I can’t be
too
sure, one, maybe two - but I don’t think they’re too close.” The Cajun exhaled smoke with every
word,
lowering his head and drawing his shoulders up as a shell exploded
nearby. “The way they’re hitting this area,
they
know we’re out here.”
“The way
they’re
hitting us,” Nelson ducked as a piece of tree bark bounced off the
radio and
ricocheted past his ear, “they must think we’re the whole
Company.”
“I
agree.” Caje took one last long drag and
passed the
cigarette back to Saunders.
“The krauts
are really trying their best to stop us from getting
back.”
“I’m just
glad we
don’t have to follow the road.
The
shortest way between two points is a straight line, right, Sarge?” Nelson wished he felt as confident
as
Saunders looked.
“Studying up
on your
math during down time, Billy?” Caje chuckled.
“Nice to see it coming in handy.”
“Kirby! Littlejohn!” Saunders waved over the rest of his
squad.
The two men
raced
over, each covered in a layer of dirt and sweat.
“Yeah,
Sarge?” Kirby knelt on the grass, B.A.R.
resting
across his lap.
“Sarge?” Littlejohn towered over the rest of
the men,
his late afternoon shadow dwarfing those of nearby young
trees.
Saunders
took one
last look at the map before stuffing it inside his jacket, grabbing his
Tommy
gun from the dirt as he stood.
“We’ll head
due
west, straight through the woods.
There
shouldn’t be anything but an old town between our lines and us. Littlejohn, take the point. Nelson,” Saunders leaned over and
gave the
heavily burdened young man a hand standing, “you’re next. Caje, Kirby, I want you two keeping
a
lookout at the rear. I don’t
want the
krauts sneaking up on us.”
With a round
of
nods, the men took their positions for the long trek back towards
Allied lines.
Keeping
watch for
kraut patrols as they marched through the trees and underbrush, each
man
thought less of the letters from home awaiting them ahead than they did
the
Germans behind. They traveled
quickly,
the sun sinking well below the treetops as they walked.
“How much
further do
you think we have to go, Sarge?”
Billy
Nelson slowed down enough to stay a few paces in front of the
sergeant.
“I don’t
know.” In his mind, Saunders went over the
details
of the map, taking into account the terrain they were traveling and the
exhaustion of his men. “We
won’t be in
radio range for at least an hour, and an hour or so after that we
should hit
our lines.”
“But, the
Germans –
won’t they be on top of us soon?
I
mean, we’re on foot, and they’ve got trucks.”
Nelson tried not to sound nervous, eyeing the trees and brush
around
them.
“Don’t
worry,”
Saunders gave Nelson a small smile, patting him on the back and giving
him a
slight push forward, “we’re on that straight line of yours,
remember? If we keep moving, we’ll be able to
radio
ahead and set up an artillery barrage to slow them down. The Germans will have more than they
can handle.”
“I sure hope
so.”
Shaking his
head,
Saunders let his smile fade as Billy quickened his pace. It felt right to assure the young
private,
but he knew that unless their luck held out, the help from the rest of
King
Company second platoon would come too late.
~~~~~~~
“Shelling’s
stopped.”
Saunders,
well aware
of the news the B.A.R. man seemed eager to deliver, grunted and nodded
his
head.
Kirby jogged
up
close, the large gun pointed into the air.
“I guess the krauts must have run out of
ammo.”
“Probably
just
repositioning. Moving the guns
closer
to our lines before they start up again.”
“Aw, Sarge,”
Kirby
groaned. “Did you have to say
that? I mean, could it have
hurt to let
me think the krauts were having a bad day?”
“And what
would you
have done if I let you believe that?”
Saunders pushed his camouflage-covered helmet higher on his
head, waving
his arm. “Let your guard
down? Relax?”
“Gee,
Sarge.” Kirby was taken aback by the
sharpness of Saunders’
tone. “You know I didn’t mean
anything
by it. I was just trying to
lighten
up...“
“Listen,
Kirby.” Saunders stopped,
grabbing the
B.A.R. man’s arm to pull him close.
“This isn’t the time to ‘lighten up’.
We won’t be in radio range of the CP for another half-hour and
the
Germans are mounting an offensive that our people won’t be ready for
unless we
get them the information. Our
whole
platoon and a town full of people could be slaughtered, and the way I
figure
it...“
He bit back
the
words, lifting his helmet off and running his hands through his thick
thatch of
sweat-dampened hair.
“The way you
figure
it?” Kirby prompted, feeling a
hard
cold lump form in his belly. He
had
gotten chewed out by the sarge more times than he could remember, but
usually
Saunders had a good reason to rake him over the coals.
Saunders
sighed and
started walking, sliding his helmet back onto his head. “The way I figure it, we’ll be lucky
to get
within a couple of miles of our lines before the Germans are on top of
us. And I don’t mean their
patrols.”
~~~~~~~
“Checkmate
King Two,
this is White Rook, over.”
Nothing.
“Checkmate
King Two,
this is White Rook, over.”
Saunders
shook his
head at the men around him, handing the radio back to Nelson and
violently
snubbing out his cigarette on the fallen tree on which he
leaned.
“We’ve got
to be
real close to being in range, Sarge,” Nelson offered, his dirt-covered
face barely
hiding the stress and fatigue felt by all.
“We’ve been walking for over an hour.”
Saunders
unhooked
his canteen, taking a long draught of the warm, metallic tasting
fluid.
“Maybe if we
get up
on top of that,” Littlejohn pointed to a small hill about three hundred
yards
to their left, “we could get through from there.”
Saunders
shook his
head. “We’re not closed in
here, so the
higher we go won’t make a difference.
We just need to get closer.”
Shouldering his weapon, he waved his men on. “Caje, take the point.
Littlejohn, Kirby, watch our backs.”
“Sarge, you
want me
to keep trying?” Nelson held
the radio
in front of him, holding the handset in the air.
“No, we’ll
try again
in a few minutes. I need you
with both
hands on your gun.”
Nodding,
Nelson
swung the pack onto his back, wobbling unsteadily on his feet as he
grimaced at
the weight.
“You
okay?” Saunders grabbed the base of the
radio,
easing the pressure on Billy’s back.
“Sure,
Sarge. The darn thing just seems to keep
getting
heavier every time I wear it.”
“Give it
here.”
Saunders
pulled the
straps off Nelson’s shoulders, slipping the radio onto his own
back.
“But Sarge,
I can do
that.” Nelson reached for the
radio.
“You’re
tired and
the radio’s slowing you down. I
don’t
want to have to carry you back to the command post. Get going,” Saunders ordered, “before I change my
mind.”
Looking
slightly
guilty, Nelson rushed to catch up to Caje as the man soundlessly
vanished into
a large stand of brush and trees.
Saunders followed close behind, searching the encroaching
darkness for
any sign of the enemy.
Pushing
through the
narrow opening between two shrubs’ barbed limbs, Saunders glanced over
his
shoulder, catching sight of Littlejohn making his way on their left
flank,
forty feet to the rear. He knew
Kirby
would be on the right flank, a little further
back.
Good
men.
He just
hoped they
would all still be alive by this time tomorrow.
~~~~~~~
“Someone’s
in
there.”
They had
gone
another twenty minutes before trying the radio again, this time getting
what
Kirby called ‘promising static’ - hearing the frequency open and close,
but no
distinct voices. They had
started
walking again when they came upon the farmhouse.
“Would you
look at
that.” Kirby
whistled.
The
farmhouse itself
was unremarkable, a single story with missing shutters and a patched
roof. A small chicken coup housing five or
six
chickens was built against the raised front porch and the barn that had
once
stood on the back of the property was now a loose pile of rotten wood
and hay.
What had
stunned the
men were the flowers. Thousands
of
them. Roses of every colour,
wildflowers, small window pots overflowing, a large horse trough filled
with
blooming white and pink carnations.
Even in the dying light, the blossoms
glowed.
“I think
I’ve died
and gone to heaven,” Nelson whispered, sniffing the fragrant air. “I’ve never seen anything
so...“
“Beautiful.”
“Beautiful,”
Nelson
echoed Caje softly.
“Somebody in
there
must have a green thumb.”
“Kirby, I
think
someone in there has a couple of green thumbs and a green arm or two to
boot,”
Littlejohn ribbed the smaller man.
“If there is
someone
in there, we’re going to have to get them out before the Germans come
through
here.” Saunders surveyed the
landscape,
noting areas for cover as he pulled off the radio pack. “Littlejohn, head right, take cover
behind
the well. Nelson, Kirby, head
left
towards the barn. Caje, take
the radio
and keep close.”
Waiting for
the men
to take positions, Saunders crawled a few feet closer to the house,
pausing as
a soft melody floated past.
“Is that
singing?”
Caje whispered behind him.
Edging along
the
porch, Saunders could see someone silhouetted by the warm glow of oil
lamps
through the curtains of a small window.
Making his
way up
the two steps that led onto the wooden porch, he could hear the woman’s
voice,
warm and beautiful as it sang a mournful French song. He paused, listening for voices other than the woman’s,
but only
heard the scrape of chairs being moved about.
Stepping
carefully
to the window, he peered in, the thin yellow curtain hiding
little.
She was
older than
her voice conveyed. Forties,
dark
graying hair swept back with two large silver combs, a faded yellow
dress. She was thin but not weak; Saunders
could
see years of hard work in her manner.
She swept the kitchen floor with easy broad strokes that kept
time with
the tune she in turn sang and hummed.
And she was
beautiful.
More
beautiful than
her garden.
Scanning the
room,
Saunders noted an archway leading to a small parlor to his left and
another
smaller doorway that led to a hall in back.
On every shelf or cupboard he could see, fresh flowers sat in
vases or
pitchers, and clumps of drying flowers hung from the ceiling over the
sink.
Moving to
stand next
to the door, Saunders nodded to Caje and tapped it
twice.
The singing
stopped
abruptly, the soft scratching of the broom’s straw bristles slowed and
faded.
“Ma’am?” Saunders knocked again, louder and
harder.
“Ma’am?”
He was
reaching down
to try the doorknob when he heard it: the low-pitched keening that
quickly grew
into a shriek.
Lifting his
Thompson
high, Saunders kicked in the door, Caje following closely as Kirby,
Nelson and
Littlejohn sprinted from their cover.
Expecting to
see the
woman being attacked, Saunders rushed into the kitchen, sweeping the
point of
his gun across the room, looking for the menace. All he found was the woman, kneeling in the archway next
to a
twelve or thirteen year-old boy, trying to comfort him and silence his
screams.
“Shhh,
Marcel,” she
crooned, ignoring the soldiers as they entered one by one. “Shhhh, mon petit
chou.”
The boy,
dark of
hair and eye, was sitting on the floor, legs outstretched, hands
clasping and
unclasping on his lap. He was
not as
thin as the woman, but had her features, even as the mouth formed
around
another animalistic screech.
Shock slowly
faded
to urgency as Saunders waved his men on to check out the house, sending
Nelson
outside to check the perimeter.
Taking
a few halting steps forward, he watched the scene unfold before
him.
Singing
softly, the
woman held the boy, rocking him gently.
Casting quick glances around the kitchen and small parlor, she
ignored
the Americans as they wandered the house.
The boy continued to scream, his voice sounding hoarse as the
volume got
louder and louder.
“Can I do
anything?” Saunders felt
helpless,
wondering if the boy was hurt.
He had
no real medical help to offer, having left Doc behind at battalion
aid.
“You could
leave.” The woman’s English was accented but
clear,
as was her meaning.
“We can’t do
that.”
“You’re
scaring
him.”
“He was
screaming
before we came in,” Saunders reasoned.
“I don’t think we did anything.”
“You are
here; that
is enough,” the woman spat, stroking the boy’s hair as her eyes
searched the
shelves.
Finally
spying what
she was looking for, the woman pointed to a small table in the
parlor.
“The music
box, get
it for me.” Turning away from
the
sergeant, she softly added, “Please.”
Saunders
spotted the
small golden music box on a table next to the only other furniture in
the pale
yellow room: an old wooden piano and bench.
Grabbing the object, he was surprised by the weight of the box
that was
no bigger than his fist.
Taking the
music
box, the woman sat back, turning the key on the bottom. Holding it close to the boy’s ear,
she
slowly opened the lid.
The notes
rang crisp
and clear in the small room, the song simple, but filled with a deep
sense of
melancholy. As soon as the
first notes
hit the air, the boy’s cries lessened, then faded to nothing as the
music box
played its song.
“Well, I’ll
be
damned.” Kirby stood in the
back
hallway, B.A.R. hanging loosely in his hand.
“I was starting to think there wasn’t an off switch for that
kid. Is he always like
that?”
“Kirby, shut
up,”
Saunders warned angrily.
Setting the
music
box in the boy’s lap, the woman stood, turning to the men gathered in
her
kitchen.
“I must ask
you to
leave at once. You are not
welcome in
my home.”
“Ma’am, I’m
Sergeant
Saunders. We’re Americans and
we need
to get you and your boy out of here as soon as possible. The Germans--”
“No. Leave.”
The woman brushed by Kirby, returning from a back room with a
small
yellow blanket. Retrieving the
music
box from Marcel’s lap, she wound the key before the last notes faded,
setting
it in the middle of the parlor floor.
Taking his hand, the woman led the now quiet boy next to the
music box,
laying him down and placing the blanket over him.
“Is he going
to be
okay?” Kirby wondered, eyeing
the now
silent form. “Is there
something...I
mean, is he sick or something?”
“Do you
mean, is
there something wrong with him?
Is he
normal?” The woman looked
accusingly at
the four men gathered in her home.
“I didn’t
mean to...”
“No, they
never mean
to,” the woman snapped, advancing on Kirby who took a step or two back
out of
the kitchen. “Oh, don’t worry
about
hurting his feelings, or mine.
It’s all
been said before, and will be again.
Anyway, it doesn’t really matter what you say about him, you
know; he
can’t hear you. Only I
can do
that.”
“He’s
deaf?” Littlejohn was confused. “But he calmed down when you played
the
music box for him.”
“I never
said he was
deaf, only that he couldn’t hear you.”
“I don’t
understand.” Saunders exchanged troubled glances
with the
rest of his men.
“Marcel does
not
live in this world, Sergeant.
He hasn’t
since he was a small child.”
Plucking a
single red rose from a ceramic pitcher on the table, the woman twirled
the opened
bud in her hands.
“He was such
a
beautiful child. He would laugh
and
sing; he would play for hours, never cause a
fuss.
“Then, when
he was
three, he stopped laughing, and then he stopped singing.” The woman dropped the flower, the
stem
cracked and bent.
“What did
the
doctors say?” Kirby watched as
the boy
shifted and stirred under the blanket.
“They said
to send
him away.” The woman picked up
the
broken flower and threw it in the trash, turning to lean heavily on the
counter.
“He was our
son. We were not going to send
him
away, so we made this a home he could live in.” She waved her hand around the room. “He likes yellow, it calms him, so my dresses are yellow,
the
curtains are yellow, everything is yellow.
“Do you know
what
it’s like to have a son who breathes, yet does not
live?”
Saunders
shook his
head. “Why the music
box?”
“Very
perceptive,
Sergeant.” The woman
smiled. “Music is the only thing he responds
to. My husband even bought a
piano,
learned to play it. All for our
son.”
“Where’s
your husband
now?”
“My husband
died
more than two years ago.”
Saunders
bowed his
head. The woman had been
through so
much, and now he was going to have to make her life even more
difficult.
“Ma’am,
there are
Germans readying for an attack--”
“There are
always
Germans or English or Americans readying for an attack,” the woman
interrupted,
“but I still stay here. It is
my
home. It is our
home.”
“It’s not
going to
be your home much longer.”
Saunders
felt his frustration grow as the time ticked by. “The Germans are going to push through here in less than
a couple
of hours, and you’ll be lucky to have a home left, let alone your
lives.”
“Our lives
are mine
to control.”
“Your lives
are mine
to protect,” Saunders growled.
“Sarge?” Caje held up his hand, silencing the
room. “Do you hear
that?”
The sounds
of
artillery shells could be heard exploding in the distance, each new
blast
closer than the one before.
“Caje, go
outside
with Littlejohn, see if you can reach the
Lieutenant.”
The two men
ran out
into the deepening gloom, a three-quarter moon visible low in the
sky.
Seeing the
set of
the woman’s jaw, Saunders tried a different
approach.
“What’s your
name?”
“Noelle,
Noelle
Broussard.”
“Well,
Noelle
Broussard, you may not care about what happens to you, but what about
your
son? Are you willing to throw
his life
away?”
“And what
life does
he have, Sergeant? The only
world he
knows is his own to make; the only comfort he has is within this
house. I will not deny him what little he
has.”
“He’ll have
nothing
at all, not even his life if you stay here.”
Saunders grabbed a small satchel that hung by the door, tossing
it at
the woman.
“Grab what
you need
- we leave in two minutes.”
“We will not
leave.” Noelle threw the bag
onto the
table.
“I’m not
going to
argue with you,” Saunders fumed.
“We’ll
take you and your boy out of here if I have to throw you both over my
shoulder
to do it.”
Noelle eyed
the bag,
and then the stubborn man on the other side of the
table.
“You are not
a kind
man.”
“I never
said I
was. And I hope you get to tell
me that
tomorrow and the day after that.”
The sounds
of
exploding shells grew deafening as the door flew open, Caje rushing in,
radio
pack slung over his shoulder.
“I don’t
think we’re
going to get through to the command post.”
He tossed the radio onto the table, the front and top panel
smashed in.
“What
happened?”
“Shelling’s
getting
worse. The radio took a good
sized rock
meant for my head.” Caje
motioned to
the opened door. “Littlejohn
and Nelson
are out scouting for the quickest way out of here. I suggest we leave.”
“Okay,
let’s...” Saunders stopped,
traded
puzzled looks with Caje, and turned to the
parlor.
Marcel sat
at the
piano, eyes closed, head bent, his small blanket crumpled on the floor
next to
the music box. The same tune
that the
music box had played now issued from the piano, each note clear and
precise.
“It is his
world,
Sergeant,” Noelle whispered.
“He lives
in a world of music.”
“Did his
father
teach him to play?” Kirby asked, amazed.
“No one
did.” Noelle moved behind her son, setting
the
half-filled satchel at her feet.
“When
his father died, I bought him that music box.
It’s Schumann, you know, ‘Scenes from Childhood’.” She slowly brushed the dark hair
from his
temples with her fingers. “I
hoped that
in hearing the music, he would remember his father, know what he had
lost. When he plays it, I think he
remembers in
some way.”
The boy
finished,
placing his hands on his lap.
The
explosions outside did not seem to disturb him.
“We have to
go.” Saunders walked over to
the piano,
picking up the bag. Plaster
fell from
the ceiling and walls as a blast hit the back of the house. “Can he walk?”
Noelle
nodded,
picking up the music box and blanket from the floor and handing them to
Saunders.
“You will
need to
carry these. Just let the music
box
play, and he should follow you.
It will
not be an easy journey for him, Sergeant,” the woman warned. “He does not like
change.”
Gently,
Noelle
coaxed Marcel from the bench, the boy whimpering as he was led away
from the
piano.
“Kirby, find
Nelson
and Littlejohn. Tell them we’re
moving
out.” Saunders held the music
box and
gun balanced in his right hand, winding the small key with his
left. Marcel’s whimpers grew
louder.
“Right.” Kirby ran out the door, jumping over
smoking
craters and avoiding the debris that littered the ground. Another shell exploded by the
chicken coop;
the squawks of dying chickens mixed with the smell of burning straw and
flesh.
“Caje, I
want you
and Kirby to take the rear.
Nelson gets
the point.” Saunders leaned
close,
whispering so the woman couldn’t hear.
“The Germans are going to be on our boot heels all the way
back. We’ve wasted too much time here
already.”
Giving a
quick nod,
Caje hefted his M1 and disappeared out into the
darkness.
Saunders
shoved the
blanket into the bag, noticing some bread and cheese, and a change of
clothes
for Marcel. The only other
thing in the
bag was a small needlepoint of a rose garden.
“Sergeant,
we are
ready.”
Noelle and
Marcel
each had on a heavy coat and boots, the boy no longer screaming as he
stared at
some unseen pattern in the yellow kitchen curtain. Saunders noted the blanket in the bag was made of the
same material.
Slinging the
satchel
and Tommy gun over his shoulder, Saunders grabbed Marcel’s left arm as
Noelle
held the right. Pulling the boy
to the
door, he opened the music box as the boy tried to tear away and run
back into
the kitchen.
Barely three
steps
out the door, Saunders felt the rough planks of the porch shift under
his feet
as a shell exploded in the kitchen.
Falling to his knees, he yanked Noelle and the boy down as the
building
shook, shards of glass and timber raining down onto the three linked
forms.
“Marcel!”
Noelle
cried, throwing her arms up, trying to protect the boy as a section of
the wall
collapsed on them.
Crawling out
of the
wreckage, Saunders felt bits of glass grinding into his knees and the
meaty
flesh of his hands. Tossing the
bag and
gun clear of the debris, he climbed quickly to his feet. Adrenaline rushing through his
veins, he
barely felt the sting of sweat running into cuts on his face and neck
as he dug
through the rubble.
“Can you
hear me?”
Saunders shouted. He shoved a
large
section of roof to the side, exposing a tangle of long, wavy
hair.
“Sergeant?” Raising her head, Noelle grimaced as
another
chunk of wood was lifted from her body.
“Are you all
right?” Saunders knelt next to
the
woman as she pulled herself to her knees.
“Yes,
Sergeant.” Noelle stumbled as
she
stood, brushing away the hand Saunders held out to steady her. “Where
is
Marcel? We must find
him.”
Turning back
to the
debris, Saunders paused, seeing the porch suddenly grow brighter.
Flames raced
up the
exposed framework of the house - the old timber and broken furniture
acting as
kindling to fuel the fire.
“Sarge!” Littlejohn rushed to the house from
the edge
of the trees, worry evident on his face.
“Get her out
of
here.” Saunders grabbed Noelle,
pushing
her to the stairs and into the bigger man’s arms.
“MARCEL!”
Noelle
screamed. She fought to free
herself as
Littlejohn backed away from the house.
Saunders
returned to
the mound of debris, sifting through the splintered boards and glass as
the
fire spread to the porch roof.
He found
the boy wedged under a large piece of the front door, where he had been
protected from most of the blast.
Lifting the
slab off
Marcel, Saunders was surprised to hear the music box playing its melody
from
where it lay, undamaged, near the boy’s head.
“Marcel!” Noelle tore free from Littlejohn’s
hold,
managing to reach the first step before the Pfc could catch
her.
“Stay back,”
Saunders warned. Grabbing the
music box
and satchel, he tossed them to the woman.
“Take these while I get the boy.”
Swinging the
gun
over his shoulder, Saunders reached for Marcel, pulling the boy to his
feet as
the fire inched its way across the floorboards. Throwing the boy’s left arm over his shoulder, Saunders
wrapped
his right arm around Marcel’s waist, dragging the boy through the
flames.
“Everyone
all
right?” Saunders moved away
from the
burning structure, searching the darkness for Nelson, Caje and
Kirby. As he watched, a shell exploded next
to the
well, sending large pieces of stone hurtling through the
air.
“We better
go,
Sarge.” Littlejohn, pulling a
reluctant
Noelle with him, edged towards the woods where Nelson
waited.
“No,” Noelle
cried,
shrugging out of Littlejohn’s grasp.
“I
must stay with Marcel.” Placing
the bag
on her shoulder, she rushed to the boy, winding the music box with
trembling
hands.
“Let’s
go.” Saunders started moving towards the
trees,
the woman and Littlejohn a few steps ahead of him. The soft whirring of the music box was being drowned out
by the
noise of artillery.
Passing the
edge of
the property, Saunders glanced back as another shell hit the house,
sending
burning pieces of wood into the air where they fell like a fiery
rain. Searching frantically, he could
barely make
out the forms of Caje and Kirby speeding towards him, their arms thrown
up to
protect their faces.
“Sergeant!”
Noelle
shouted, the music box in her hand held out to him. She and Littlejohn stood ten feet in front of Saunders,
Littlejohn’s
large hand wrapped around her upper arm.
Taking one
last look
to make sure his men had made it through the fire, Saunders nodded to
Littlejohn to get moving. As
they
hurried through the trees, the boy, tucked tightly into Saunders’ side,
began
to shake and cry, each step becoming more difficult as the boy’s panic
increased. Littlejohn’s bigger
strides
had allowed the Pfc and Noelle to outdistance Saunders and Marcel,
leaving the
sergeant struggling to catch up.
Dragging
Marcel over
the small trunk of a toppled oak tree, Saunders staggered as the boy
suddenly
tried to lurch free, sending them both to the hard ground. Climbing to his feet, Saunders
pulled the
wildly screaming boy up, trying to avoid the small, but powerful
flailing arms
and fists. He took a few
halting steps
forward as Marcel tried to dig in his heels.
“Marcel,
stop
fighting me,” Saunders snapped, frustrated, as an unintentionally
well-placed
elbow caught him in the ribs.
Looking
ahead, he could barely make out the slender form of Noelle disappearing
into
the darkness as Littlejohn unceremoniously dragged her along. Just as she vanished, Saunders
caught the
faint glint of moonlight hitting metal.
“The music
box!” Shouting to the woman,
Saunders
tried to quicken his pace, Marcel making every step difficult. He could see the dark forms, one
extremely
large, the other thin and delicate, as they moved ahead of him. “Littlejohn! Wait a minute!”
Littlejohn
pulled up
as he heard Saunders shout, keeping his firm grip on the woman’s arm as
she
wilted against him. Letting
Noelle rest
against his chest, Littlejohn kept an eye out for Nelson at the point
while
waiting for Saunders to catch up.
Seeing her
son
struggle in the sergeant’s arms as the two approached, Noelle
straightened,
lifting the lid of the music box.
As he
came close enough to hear the music, Marcel’s cries lessened and he
stopped
trying to break free.
“Walk beside
him,”
Saunders yelled to Noelle.
Shaking off
Littlejohn’s hand, Noelle pushed free of the big man, moving to stand
in front
of Marcel as the sergeant came close.
Wiping the tears from the boy’s face with her fingertips, Noelle
kissed
the boy tenderly on the forehead and straightened the collar of his
coat.
“Noelle,
let’s go,”
Saunders urged the woman as she stroked the fine hairs at the nape of
Marcel’s
neck.
Noelle
nodded,
smiling sadly at Saunders as she wound the music box. Kissing her son one last time, she slipped her left hand
into
Marcel’s right, holding the gold box opened and playing in her other
hand.
“Littlejohn. Do you see Nelson?” Saunders tugged at his charge,
relieved
Marcel was willingly putting one foot in front of the
other.
“Yeah.” Littlejohn flinched as a shell
landed thirty
feet to their left. Looking
back to
make sure the sergeant was all right, Littlejohn pointed to a thick
stand of
oaks in the distance. ”He’s
waiting for
us just on the other side of those big trees.”
Saunders
gave a
quick nod, and followed closely behind the large soldier. He allowed Littlejohn to set the
pace,
pulling the two civilians along with sheer force of
will.
Noelle held
the
music box close to Marcel’s ear, moving quickly as Saunders led them
under
low-hanging branches and through dry grass and brush. The shells were landing less
frequently, but
each new shell seemed closer than the last.
“We’ve got
to
hurry.” Saunders noticed Noelle
was
stumbling, grabbing Marcel’s arm and using him as a crutch as they
ran. “Can you keep
up?”
The woman
nodded,
too winded to reply. Her hair
flew
freely around her face, the silver combs lost, as she kept pace with
the rest
of the squad. She concentrated
on the
music box clutched tightly in her hand, winding it each time it stopped
playing.
As the sound
of
shelling turned to distant thunder, Littlejohn slowed, helping Noelle
as her
feet caught on some roots, catching the music box as it fell from her
fingers.
“I can’t...”
she
breathed, collapsing in Littlejohn’s arms.
“Take five,”
Saunders said as he lowered Marcel to the ground, the boy too exhausted
to do
more than curl up and sleep where he lay.
Looking around, Saunders spotted Nelson standing twenty feet
ahead,
clutching his M1 as he scanned the area.
“Littlejohn, Nelson, keep watch.”
“You okay,
Sarge?”
Littlejohn asked as he passed Saunders the music
box.
Saunders
wiped the
sweat from his forehead, his hand coming away
bloody.
“Just a cut,
Littlejohn.” Saunders moved to
Noelle,
noticing her flushed cheeks quickly paling.
“Go relieve Kirby, and send him back here with the medical
supplies.”
“Sure.” Littlejohn faded away into the
trees.
“Noelle?” Saunders lifted the woman’s head,
dribbling
some water from his canteen into her mouth.
“Sergeant,
you must
promise me something.” Slowly
opening
her eyes, Noelle locked gazes with Saunders.
“What?” Saunders heard the rustling of
leaves as
Kirby stepped up behind him.
“You will
promise me
that you will take Marcel somewhere safe - somewhere they will let him
have his
music.”
“You can do
that
yourself.” Placing his arm
behind her
shoulders, he tried to raise her up, stopping as she gasped in
pain.
“Once we get
back to
our lines,” Saunders reassured, lifting the satchel from her shoulders
and
slowly undoing the woman’s coat, “someone will take you and your son to
a place
where you can both be safe and happy.”
Pulling the
two
sides of the heavy material apart, he frowned.
The once yellow dress was stained black in the moonlight from
her chest
to her knees, blood oozing from a large hole in her
side.
“Promise me,
Sergeant,” Noelle whispered, reaching for the man’s
hand.
Saunders
nodded his
head slowly.
“I
promise.”
Smiling,
Noelle
closed her eyes.
“You know,
Sergeant,” her voice was so soft, Saunders had to lean in close to hear
her. “I only wish Marcel had a
music
box to remember me by.”
Feeling her
fingers
relax in death, Saunders let her hand fall to the ground, bowing his
head.
He said the
only
prayer he could think of.
“I
promise.”
~~~~~~~
“Sarge, we
have to
go.”
Caje came
hurtling
through the trees, Littlejohn close on his heels.
“I’ve
spotted a
kraut patrol about a mile back.
It’s
gonna take us twice as long to get back with...“ Caje looked down at
the
blood-covered form at Saunders’ feet.
“Is she...?”
he let
the question hang.
“Yeah.” Saunders wiped his bloodied hands on
his
pant leg and picked up the small satchel.
“What are we
going
to do about him?” Caje nodded
to the
sleeping boy.
Having
checked
Marcel for injuries and finding none, Kirby stood over the boy, waiting
nervously for Sarge’s answer.
Throwing the
bag
over his shoulder, Saunders picked up the music box and turned it over
in his
hands. Grasping the small key,
he
turned it until it wouldn’t turn anymore.
“We bring
him.”
“I know you
made a
promise,” Kirby moved, facing Saunders, “but he’s just going to slow us
down. The krauts are right
behind
us. We can leave
him--“
“Leave him
where,
Kirby?” Saunders snarled.
“Leave him to
starve to death out here? Leave
him to
the krauts? To the hundreds of
other
things or people that would kill him - or worse?”
Stepping
around
Kirby, Saunders squatted next to Marcel, shaking him awake. Dragging the boy to his feet,
Saunders
thumbed open the lid of the music box as Marcel started to scream,
quieting the
boy.
“He comes
with us,
all the way back to Allied Command if need be.” Throwing Marcel’s right arm over his shoulder, Saunders
slid his
left arm around the boy, Tommy gun and music box both gripped tightly
in his right
hand. “I made a promise to keep
him
safe.”
Kirby threw
up his
arms in resignation as he watched Saunders walk
away.
“He’s going
to get
us all killed for that kid.”
“Shut up
Kirby,”
Littlejohn grumbled. “It’s the
sarge’s
decision.”
“Yeah, but
it’s my
life.”
“It’s the
army’s
life, until they tell you otherwise.”
Caje watched Saunders as he moved away.
“Littlejohn, stay with me back here.
Kirby, stay with the sarge.”
“Caje?”
Littlejohn
whispered as Kirby loped away.
“Do you
think he’s right about this?”
“Sarge?”
“No,
Kirby.”
“I never
like to
admit Kirby’s right about anything.”
“But this
time?” Littlejohn tried to see
the
Cajun’s face in the moonlight.
“This time I
think
we should be worrying more about the Germans behind us than the
sergeant in
front of us.”
~~~~~~~
They were
pinned
down.
They were up
a
creek.
They were
–--