The characters of “Combat!” are the property of ABC. No profit is made, obviously. Copyright 2003 by Mel. This is a small vignette from the episode “The Long Way Home”.
The bayonet seems to way more than the M-1; my heart is pounding louder than the gunfire from the Germans that surround us. I lift the bayonet to fix it in place for a final defense, but I know my eyes are begging Sarge not to say the words. Please, don’t say the words. I can almost taste my own blood in my mouth already, but no-it’s just the coppery taste of fear.
Why can’t I be brave?
The overwhelming sense of relief that washes over me leaves me feeling weak and almost dizzy. Sarge is putting the map in his boot. We’re going to live to see another day. Hopefully.
Everyone trudges over to our foxhole, pushed and shoved by the enemy. Littlejohn looks uncertain, and Caje defiant. Doc and Kirby just look angry. I hope Kirby doesn’t get shot…no, Sarge is telling him to settle down.
Only Gates seems to reflect the fear I feel gnawing my own gut. It’s so hard, sometimes, fighting with these guys. They’re all so courageous, and I’m so damn scared. So scared.
They take our belts and weapons, leaving us with only the clothes on our backs. I’m a little surprised Doc managed to keep his bag. Of course, they took anything in there that might be considered sharp, but at least he got to keep the bandages. I’m glad. I was afraid, from the look on his face, he might put up a fight to keep it. And these guys don’t look like they’d take kindly to a fight.
More pushing and shoving as they get us into two lines, then we start walking.
Hot. So hot and thirsty. But, of course, they took our canteens. No water. The dust from the road, kicked up by weary feet, only serves to make my mouth that much more dry. My throat seems coated with the stuff. I’d give just about anything for a drink.
So hot. The sweat runs down my neck to tickle on its way down my back before getting soaked up by my shirt. Now I wish they’d taken my jacket. My feet hurt something awful, but by the way Kirby’s limping I guess his hurt more. It’s hard to tell with Kirby, since he’s always bellyaching about something or other.
He and Doc are walking in front of me. Kirby turned to ask Doc something, but his voice was too low for me to catch it. I can’t hear Doc’s response, but I’m guessing it has something to do with Kirby limping. Kirby should know better than to even ask. It’s not like Doc can just ask the Germans if we can stop for a minute so he can fix Kirby’s feet.
I wonder where we’re going? I wonder what they’re going to do to us when we get there, but worse…I wonder if I can do what I’m supposed to do. Name, rank and serial number. That’s what I’m supposed to give. What if they try to beat information out of me? What if I’m not strong enough, brave enough?
I don’t want to die today. I just want to go home. Just let this all end so I can go home.
I’m so tired. Tired of the heat, tired of the dust, tired of walking and just plain tired. My tongue feels swollen, I’m so thirsty. I hope they give us water when we get wherever we’re going.
I hope Sarge has a plan.
If anyone can get us out of this mess, it’s Sgt. Saunders. When I last looked back, he was helping Gates walk. At least I’m walking on my own two feet, and haven’t asked Littlejohn to help me. Guess there’s worse soldiers than me.
I feel bad for Gates. He’s only been with us five days, and already he gets captured by Germans. At least I’ve had a while to sort of get used to the fear. Though it sure feels better to have a rifle in your hands. I hate this helpless feeling.
My toes hurt. The bottom of my right foot shoots a pain up my leg every time I take a step. Soon, I’ll be limping as bad as Kirby. Surely they’ll let us rest soon. How far are we going, anyway? How far from our lines?
How far from home?
Oh, thank goodness. They’re letting us stop and rest. I’m not the only one to drop to the grass in a graceless heap, exhausted and thirsty. At least the others look as tired as I feel. I can hear them whispering to each other, but I’m too thirsty to try to talk. It seems like I’ve got a canteen full of sand in my throat.
Cole and Saunders are talking about something. I hope Sarge has thought of a way to get us out of here. I really don’t want find out where they’re taking us. My stomach feels like cramping every time I just think about it.
Wait, what’s he…Cole! No, don’t!
Maybe he’ll make it. Maybe he’ll make it.
No. Oh, God, no. Everyone’s face reflects the same thing. Cole’s dead. The shots could only mean one thing.
He didn’t make it.
Sarge says the time wasn’t right. I wonder when the time will be right? Will he know? Does he have a plan?
Will I be ready when it is time?
Please, God, help me be brave when I need to be.
END