Based on the ABC Television Series: Combat! Fan Fiction Elements taken from “Best Intents” by Bayonet and “The Circle” by Victoria Copyright 2003 by JMcG and Terry Pierce Purple Hearts For the Combat! fan fiction writers whose stories I silently enjoyed for years before I got the guts to give it a try…and for Bayo in particular, who took my thanks and gave back more… Kirby’s face was red and shiny with exertion, and his breath came out in a rapid staccato. Even from the distance of the arm that Sarge was using to support the private, the smell of alcohol was overpowering that of the perspiration that dripped from his face and stained his once crisp uniform. “Breathe deeply, and start over,” Saunders ordered -- not that he wanted to hear. From the moment the three week furlough in Paris had begun, the unit that had fought so well and so cohesively through Europe had started to spin out of the battlefield discipline that had held it together. At this rate, the slow trip back home after victory was looking like more of a losing proposition than any live fire the squad had encountered during the past twelve months. Saunders shook Kirby non-so-gently, and repeated the order. “Start over.” The other platoon members just waking in their bunks started to gather around, their curiosity piqued. Both old and new members sensed that the strange incidents of the week might finally be coming to some sort of head. Most hoped so, finding the shifting equilibrium in the group more and more disturbing. Once reliable soldiers disappearing for days on end, friendships starting to unravel, the sudden fear of obtaining what had been hoped for for so long -- all combined to create a sense of uncertainty that had not been felt by many since they first stepped foot in France. Anything or anyone on which to focus their anxiety, even for a moment, was welcomed. “Sarge,” Kirby started again, his breathing beginning to slow. “He just went berserk, started pounding on a door, smashing a window -- it was just a stupid painting. Never seen anything like it.” He ran his sleeve across his forehead, trying to catch the sweat that was forming droplets in front of his eyes. Then taking a quick look at the gathering men, he dropped his voice and continued in answer to Saunders’ baffled look, “Caje -- Caje just lost it. MPs took him in. I had McCall go with them, but we need you. You know, to go find out what’s going on.” His bloodshot eyes took on an imploring look. Saunders sighed, releasing his hold on the smaller man and giving him an uncharacteristically hard shove into a nearby chair. He sank into the chair next to Kirby, ran a hand through his already tousled hair, and addressed the men across the room. “Go back to what you were doing.” When they continued to stare, he reiterated his statement with an emphatic, “Now!” The nightmare week just didn’t seem to end. Saunders wanted to disengage -- to sit back and let it flow around him. No more counting his men every night, no more trips to the slammer to find them, no more breaking up fistfights and handing out coffee in the a.m. He was tired of babysitting rather than leading, especially with regard to this group that knew better. If the remaining eight weeks that it would take to get home continued like this, he was not sure that the trust and camaraderie that bound him to these men -- some tighter than others -- would continue stateside. Good riddance and goodbye when they reached NYC, USA. “Sarge,” Kirby hissed. “C’mon, we gotta do something.” Saunders didn’t react and Kirby rose from his chair. He grabbed Saunders by the arm, and began tugging at him. “Sarge, c’mon! I’ll go with you.” Saunders shrugged him off and ran his hands through his hair again. This time, however, he kept his head in his hands and said, “Sit down, Kirby.” Kirby sank back down. “Tell me everything from the beginning. I gotta tell you, I’m thinking about leaving him there for awhile.” “No, Sarge, you really can’t do that.” Kirby was emphatic. “I mean, this is not just like me drinking and getting into a fight or something. He really went off the deep end this time. It’s like he was possessed or something.” Saunders said nothing, and Kirby latched onto the sergeant’s sleeve. “Sarge…” He shook Saunders’ arm and then paused. “I think he was hurt when the MPs drug him away. I saw blood. I think he was cut up from the glass. You know they won’t take care of him if they just think it was some drinking accident. And Sarge, you know it’s more than that -- you know that.” Saunders finally looked up. “Kirby, I don’t know that it is more than that. I don’t know anything anymore.” He shook his head at all the uncertainty. “I ought to leave him there.” “C’mon,” Kirby pleaded. “He’s hurt and he ain’t been the same since he came back. Sarge, he’s one of us.” At this point, Littlejohn drew near, followed closely by Doc. The two men looked at Saunders for permission to enter the discussion and, receiving reluctant acknowledgement, pulled up chairs. They leaned in intently toward Kirby, and Doc asked, "You said he was hurt?" Nearly a year of tending these men through illness and injury made the soft-spoken Arkansan's interest keen and his question sharp. Kirby answered in the affirmative, and Doc and Littlejohn exchanged quick looks that made it obvious they had come to an agreement. “We’ll go get him, Sarge,” Doc said. “Kirby’s right; those docs won’t pay him any mind in jail. He shouldn’t sit there alone and injured.” It was an open challenge to the tired sergeant. Saunders could not deny all that the longest serving men in his squad had been through together, relying on each other day in and day out for months. While there were other men in the room and other men in the platoon, these six men had a bond that even today, even in Paris, even this week, and even on the way home, could not be ignored. In fact, among those who had fought alongside them in the ETO, Saunders’ squad had near legendary status. Battered, beaten, scarred, and maimed, the blond sergeant’s men had survived together for an unheard of amount of time during this war that had made one June to the next an eternity. Other soldiers assigned to the platoon during the last few months of the war generally had one of two reactions to them -- either they hoped the veterans’ luck might rub off on them, or they resigned themselves to the fact that they were the expendables. Because everyone knew that a squad always took casualties -- just not Saunders’ men. It had even been forgotten, or perhaps it just made a better story, that McCall hadn’t really been with the group from the beginning. Nor did the stories recognize that there had been others -- others at the heart of this squad -- who hadn’t made it. Others like Billy Nelson, Grady Long, Brockmeyer… “No.” Saunders drew himself up to his feet. “I’ll get him. If he’s hurt bad enough, they’ll tend to him. If he’s not, I don’t care at this point. Kirby,” he nodded to the inebriated soldier, “sleep it off. I’ll be back. Doc and Littlejohn, hold things down here ‘til I see what’s up with Caje. If McCall gets back before me, keep him here.” Saunders donned his service cap, still unused to its light weight after the camo helmet he’d worn in the field. As he stepped out the door, he nearly ran into Hanley…Captain Hanley, that is. Saunders still wasn’t used to that, either. “Saunders, I heard one of your men was taken in by the MPs again last night. What is going on here?” Saunders ducked the question, responding quickly, “I’m on my way to get him.” Hanley looked at him with an eyebrow raised. “Who is it?” The sergeant looked uncomfortable, and Hanley warned, “Sergeant, I asked you a question.” Trying to calculate the captain’s response, Saunders waited a moment before he answered reluctantly, “Caje, sir.” He wasn’t sure of Hanley’s potential reaction. The captain knew Caje well through battle and, unfortunately, through these past weeks of the soldier going missing for three days and participating in drunken brawls. “But like I said, I’m on my way to get him.” Hanley plainly saw frustration, exacerbation, and worry vying for the top spot in Saunders’ expression. And although he was inclined to remind the sergeant that this was the third time this week Caje had been in some type of trouble, he dropped in beside him. “Let’s go.” Saunders nodded his appreciation and the two set off down the chaotic streets of a rejuvenated Paris, its sidewalks continuing to brim with soldiers rejoicing in triumph and survival. Liberated nearly a year before, the city was settling down to reconstruction and a semblance of civilian order. Hanley glanced admiringly at several young women walking arm-in-arm down the sidewalk and returned their tentative smiles with a practiced charming smile of his own. Victory in Europe had brought a return to normalcy that he and most other soldiers were relishing. They were adjusting quickly, writing letters home, and planning for jobs and futures that included houses, wives, kids, and dogs. Others, however… Hanley looked over at Saunders’ bowed head. The sergeant’s stride kept quickening. “What is it this time?” Hanley asked. “I don’t know, sir. Kirby came in saying that Caje busted up some shop.” He shook his head. “Said there was some glass and he got cut up. I’d have left him otherwise….” “Some men don’t adjust.” The two walked for several more minutes before Saunders finally spoke. “He’s not one of them.” It was a flat declaration. “How do you know? How do any of us know? What we were out there…it’s not who we were or are at home. They said after the last war that some guys never adjusted. Caje was good out in the field. One of the best. It may be hard to turn that off.” Saunders was silent. Caje was good in the field -- almost too good. Except for rare occasions, he did his duty without complaint, and with a thoroughness and seeming coolness that sometimes mystified both his commanders and the other members of the squad. Maybe Caje’s capacity for killing should have been questioned, but in the field you didn’t look too close. And everyone was grateful for the soldier’s efficiency. In fact, Saunders was grateful to have had another man with leadership qualities alongside him, and he knew that Caje’s reliability had engendered the closest thing he had to a real friendship in the squad. “I know him,” Saunders said. “And he’ll be all right.” They rounded a corner and started up a wide boulevard when Hanley suddenly asked, “Did I ever tell you that Major Pickard once asked me specifically about Caje?” Saunders glanced up at Hanley. “Old Picayune Pickard? The one who had a heart attack or something?” He paused and then continued, “The one caught, uh, with his CO’s wife?” Hanley and Saunders grinned, the seriousness of their conversation allayed as they both remembered the various stories that had circulated about the circumstances surrounding Major Pickard’s unfortunate death. Hanley nodded. “Yeah, the very one. From Louisiana, you know, like Caje. Stopped me one day and asked if I had Armand LeMay’s boy in my platoon. It took me a moment to realize he meant Caje. Asked me how he was doing. I told him that Caje was probably my best scout. He seemed surprised for a minute, said that LeMay’s father had spoiled the boy, let him run wild…” The screech of jeep tires interrupted the conversation. Hanley and Saunders shook their heads in disgust as a very young, fresh replacement nearly mowed down several civilians crossing the street in front of them. There was a perceptible difference in the actions of the soldiers who hurried with excitement to what used to be the front and the combat experienced veterans who crept with caution to peace. As they waited for the civilians and the jeep to sort themselves out, Hanley asked, “Did you know Caje went to college?” Saunders grunted at this new piece of information. Caje had never mentioned it. But that wasn’t a surprise since it wasn’t in the scout’s nature to volunteer personal information and feelings…though he managed to avoid these topics in such a way that few in the outfit ever noticed. Saunders noticed, but it wasn’t in his own nature to push a man for information beyond what was required to maintain the squad’s unity. And if Caje being a college man didn’t enter into that, what did it matter? Still, Caje having a college education did make sense. The guy often knew things that seemed beyond the realm of the average soldier's ordinary life experiences. And it had become natural for the men to ask him the history of a city or the meaning of an inscription on the rare building they found still intact -- just as it was natural to ask Littlejohn about farming, Kirby about poker, and Doc about anything medical. The roles of the squad’s veterans had become set over time and something they’d all just taken for granted. With the war over, that didn’t matter now either. “He never mentioned it. Guess it never came up.” “So then maybe you don’t know him as well as you…” “I know him,” Saunders interrupted. “You don’t live next to a man, eat with him, share your cigarettes with him, owe your life to him and save his several times over without…” His voice trailed off. Spoiled and wild. Caje a college guy. Saunders wondered how much he had really allowed himself to know the members of his squad. He was a good observer of his men and, through those observations, thought that he knew them well. But maybe he’d been so busy with the war, so consumed with carrying out the next mission, that he had actually only known what capabilities they had for fighting. Saunders shook off the thought. “Something happened…something happened in that seventy two hours.” “You mean when he went AWOL?” Hanley asked. “He wasn’t AWOL. Technically, anyway. But, yeah, when he didn’t check in for three days. I stripped him of his leave for awhile, but he didn’t seem to care. Just slept for sixteen hours straight. Never talked about where he had been.” Saunders thought back. It was unlike Caje to disappear without a word, and when twenty four hours passed, the squad grew worried. The first days of the men’s furlough in Paris were spent looking through the streets and alleys, in the bars and whorehouses, without them finding a trace of the corporal. By the time Caje returned, sullen and withdrawn, seventy two hours later, his squadmates’ concern had turned to anger over the fun they’d missed and their wasted energy. The silence that greeted their questions only infuriated them more, and Caje’s last two brawls and subsequent lockups had only solicited shrugs and “serves him rights.” Last night though, Kirby and McCall, having gotten over their anger, had gone out with him while the rest of the platoon, finally tired of carousing, opted to stay in and play poker. Saunders regretted not putting a stop to Caje's antics then and there. He had had cause… He was just tired. **** The jail was dank and the air rendered heavier and more fetid by the crowded cells full of drunken, unshowered soldiers. Hanley pulled rank on the commanding MP, and they were now being escorted down into one of the cells. They’d found McCall camped out at the processing desk and sent him back to the squad -- Saunders and Hanley wanted to talk to Caje alone. Caje looked terrible as he sat on the edge of the bunk smoking. His face was grimy, unshaven, and bloodshot eyes peered up absently at his commanding officers. His left hand holding the cigarette trembled somewhat from a combination of alcohol and the cuts up and down his forearm. A large cut on the upper arm had been cursorily bandaged by a medic. “Get them out of here.” Hanley nodded at the two other occupants of the cell. When the young MP looked uncertain, he barked, “Now, soldier.” They waited until the soldiers were prodded out, then settled on the cot opposite Caje. No words passed between the men for several minutes. Finally Saunders posed a question. “Well?” Caje took several more draws on his cigarette, not answering. It seemed as though each time he wanted to talk, he drifted away into his own thoughts by the time he exhaled. “Kirby said you busted up some shop. This is starting to get serious. You know that, don’t you?” Hanley added, “You can’t go home this way. Aren’t your parents still alive? What are they going to think -- fist fights, brawls… The war is over, Corporal.” Saunders put a restraining hand on the captain, not taking his eyes off the man in front of him. “Caje?” His voice was soft but insistent. “Sarge…” Caje was hoarse but there was no trace of the evening’s spirits in the question that followed. “What kept you alive out there?” Saunders was startled. Caje had never asked such a thing before. With reticence being pretty much in character for him, Caje didn’t talk much about private matters. What kept him alive…was Caje thinking about his own plans for after the war? Maybe once or twice Caje had mentioned what he had been looking forward to, but it was all hypothetical and spoken of under extreme circumstances. Otherwise, he kept such things to himself. Over time, everyone had become used to Caje’s reservation -- most passing it off to slight cultural and language differences. But at the beginning of the war, the majority of men in the squad had not been aware of the French-speaking descendants of Canadian settlers living in Louisiana slightly apart from the rest of America, so the Cajun’s accent and unfamiliarity with common pastimes like baseball seemed strange to them. It didn’t help either that he thought in French, as Saunders had found out through a couple of exchanges with him. After an exhausting day of soldiering, the tired scout was rarely up to participating in banal round-the-campfire conversations spoken in his second language. Still, Caje’s ability to speak French had been invaluable during the campaign across the continent, and the men as a group now stood up for their companion when other soldiers asked pointed questions about the “Frog in the GI uniform.” Well, at least before Caje alienated most of them… Saunders answered abruptly, “Keeping you all alive. What’s your point?” Caje didn’t answer. He looked around the dirty cell as though seeing it for the first time in the three hours he had been there. Dropping the cigarette on the filthy floor, he ground it out with the tip of his boot. He peered down at the bloody bandage on his left bicep with slight curiosity before turning his attention back to the stares of the men across from him. “Caje, you’d better say something,” Hanley warned. Caje seemed to gather himself and reluctantly began, “There was this woman…” then hesitated, seeing Hanley’s look of disgust. Saunders’ face registered surprise, though. He hadn’t expected this at all. Sure, Caje had definitely done his share of carousing with the other men, maybe even with more success than most -- a combination of his knowledge of French and quiet self-assurance undoubtedly contributing factors. The whole platoon knew the ladies considered him good-looking, with his dark hair, slim build, and eyes that were often withdrawn, but when focused, reflected both intelligence and humor. But the number of “Dear John” letters addressed to Caje that came streaming in from the States at the beginning of the company’s efforts across France had reinforced the image of a man who knew how to have a good time while not being the commitment type. Saunders scratched his chin. It was inconceivable that something as large as Caje’s apparent involvement with a woman had escaped his notice. But then again, so was Caje’s behavior the past few weeks. He nodded at Caje to continue. Seeing Saunders’ support, Caje started again. “Back in September, when we were in Loire and I took that bullet in my shoulder…” **** Kirby felt Caje’s arm begin to slip from around his shoulder. Already having trouble keeping his balance while going up the ravine, Kirby began tipping dangerously backward as he adjusted to his partner’s sagging form. “Caje, give me some help here.” The sweat running into Kirby’s eyes began blurring his vision, but he couldn’t spare an arm to wipe it. In fact, he could use an extra hand to continue the last five yards to the top. Caje had started out gamely enough, buoyed by the unexpected turn of events that brought the Allied lines to them. But the short climb back up to the farmhouse where they had been held captive was sapping the limited energy of the wounded scout. “Kirby, I can’t…” he panted. Kirby paused and looked at his friend’s face. Despite their exertion, Caje was white except for the nearly black circles around his eyes. And when their eyes met, Kirby nodded. He lowered Caje to the ground, holding tightly to the soldier’s sweat-soaked shirt to keep him from rolling back down the hill. Kirby looked to the tantalizingly close lip of the ravine, took a couple of deep breaths, and mentally tried to summon a couple of GIs from the farm. But realizing the company’s efforts were probably being spent securing the area in the opposite direction, Kirby shrugged and made a decision. “Caje…hey, Caje.” Caje’s eyes were closed and he didn’t move. “Oh, come on…where are those reserves you were holding onto? Come on, buddy, we’re almost there.” Maintaining his grip on his friend’s shirt, Kirby shifted his feet into a more secure foothold and used his other hand to gently slap the scout’s cheeks. Caje moaned and opened his eyes. “Sorry, Kirby,” he rasped. His breathing was rapid and shallow. His eyes rolled back, and his head lolled downward with the slope of the ravine. Kirby shook his head, resigned. There was no way Caje could go anymore, not with the blood loss, and there was no way he was getting him the rest of the way by himself. Looping his arms under the scout’s shoulders, Kirby dragged him several feet toward some bushes. He was thankful that Caje was already unconscious -- the pressure on the shoulder wound would have been unbearable. The bushes sufficed to keep the limp body from rolling back down the hill, and Kirby spoke to the unhearing man. “I’ll be right back with some help. Hang on…” He scrambled to the top of the ravine for the second time in less than twenty minutes. Again, he surveyed the farm compound before walking out of the security of the tree line. “Halt!” Two dirt-splattered soldiers aimed their rifles from forty feet away. Kirby raised his hands and smiled without humor. “Boy, am I glad to see you guys.” The soldiers looked uncertain. One barked, “Identify yourself!” “Kirby, William. 2nd Platoon, King Company. I need some help here…” “2nd Platoon is nowhere near here, fella.,” one of the soldiers cut him off. As the GIs moved closer, weapons still at the ready, it became apparent that the man doing the talking was a sergeant. Kirby sighed. “I know that, Sergeant. Me and my buddy got separated yesterday from our platoon. These Krauts caught us, brought us back here.” As the soldiers lowered their weapons, Kirby continued. “Caje, my buddy, he’s down there.” He nodded back toward the trees. “I can’t get him up here. How about some help?” “He’s injured?” The sergeant tipped back his helmet and wiped his eyes. Kirby’s exhaustion got the better of him. “No, Sarge. He’s taking a nap. Don’t want to be disturbed, you know.” Sergeant Danvers straightened up to his considerable height of 6’3”. As he did, he looked closer at the bedraggled soldier in front of him and bit back the dressing down he was about to give. The uppity private was swaying on his feet, his uniform covered with mud and brambles, and bright red rope burns glowed around his wrists. It would be hard for a Kraut to fake the accent and the attitude. Clearly this soldier had had a time of it, and the concern for a comrade was plain on his face. Danvers nodded once in the direction of the woods. “Okay, let’s go. Rainer and I will accompany you. Now, tell me what happened.” As they moved into the trees, Kirby quickly outlined the events of the past twenty four hours, starting with his and Caje’s separation from Saunders and the rest of the platoon, continuing with Caje’s shooting and their capture, and ending with their escape during the melee at the farm compound. Kirby was too tired to put his usual self promoting grandiose spin on the story. When the three soldiers reached the ravine, Kirby paused and looked at the Sergeant. “I’m glad you guys showed up. I don’t think I could have gotten Caje back to our lines.” Rainer started to speak, but Danvers cut him off. “C’mon, soldier. Let’s get your friend and get a move on.” The three struggled down the ravine toward the unmoving figure Kirby had pointed out. Danvers shook his head. The guy looked like he was already dead. The Kirby fellow, however, immediately began talking to the unconscious man, trying to rouse him. “Caje, lookee here what I found. Gonna get you patched up so as I don’t have to face Saunders alone. Told you I had a plan. We’re just gonna’ get you up this hill and right to a real doctor. Yes sirree, you’re gonna be just fine.” Kirby looked up at Danvers and Rainer, desperation clear on his face. “He was awake a few minutes ago.” “Rainer will get his feet, Kirby -- that’s right, isn’t it?” Danvers felt sorry for the private. He knew the tight bonds that could be formed between front-line soldiers, and he understood the angst the soldier was feeling. His gut told him that the large, dark pool of blood on the ground underneath the wounded man might put him beyond the help of a company medic, but he couldn’t tell the guy’s friend that when Kirby so obviously needed to believe their ordeal was over. “Kirby, take his shoulders. I’ll keep a lookout. This area may still be lousy with Krauts.” Slowly the three struggled up the hill, with the limp body of Caje between Rainer and Kirby. As they moved into the farm compound, Kirby noticed that there were fewer soldiers around now than a while ago. His mind didn’t bother to try to process the information, as his attention was focused on maintaining his grip under Caje’s arms. The warm wetness on Caje’s right side was making the task more and more difficult and making Kirby’s steps heavier and heavier as the men approached the farmhouse. Danvers went into the house first, holding the door open for Kirby and Rainer as they carried Caje. The front room was occupied by three or four men huddled around a radio. Danvers went over to join them. Kirby looked around and, receiving no direction from the sergeant who was speaking rapidly with a lieutenant, tilted his head toward a staircase “There’s probably a bed up there,” he said. “Help me find a place to put him down, and then let’s find a doctor.” “There is no doctor.” Kirby didn’t stop as he headed up the steps. “Well, get the medic. He’s bleeding like a stuck pig.” Kirby turned the corner at the top of the stairs. Spying a bed, he guided Rainer and the limp form between them to it. Gently he placed Caje on bed and then turned to the other soldier. “Get the medic, already, will ya?” With that, he sank to the floor and put his head in his hands. Rainer looked at him for a second, then spun around and quickly took the steps. **** Kirby awoke some time later to Rainer shaking him insistently. “C’mon, Kirby. The sergeant says we gotta go.” Kirby stretched and yawned, the latter movement making him aware of a crusty sensation on his forehead. He rubbed it and brought his hand down to his face, staring at the dried blood on his fingers. Oh, yeah. Caje… He looked around for the bed and the doctor. Disoriented, he looked back up at Rainer. “Sarge said to let you sleep awhile, but now we’ve got to move out.” Kirby rubbed his eyes, still trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. Vaguely he remembered someone guiding him to a bed across the room from Caje and being checked out by a medic. Blood. Yeah, the medic had said that Caje needed blood. Without a word to the lanky young soldier standing over him, Kirby scrambled up and strode with purpose across the room. “Kirby…” The voice of the private was uncertain. “Give a guy a minute, will ya?” Kirby looked down at Caje. The dark scout’s eyes were closed, and his head moved from side to side as he mumbled incoherently. Kirby was relieved to see a fresh bandage on Caje’s shoulder as he leaned down and placed a hand on the soldier’s forehead -- it was damp and hot. “Hey, Caje, we gotta go. We’re gonna get you to a real field hospital. Pretty nurses…” “Kirby, Sarge said we’re leaving him here. We’re needed up ahead. But don’t worry --some other company’s coming along right behind us and they can probably take care of your friend.” Kirby spun around, his disbelief evident in his voice. “Go tell your Sarge I ain’t leaving him here like this. I told him I was gonna get… Danvers came up behind Rainer, and Kirby caught his eye. Danvers shook his head. “Sorry, private. It’s every man to his weapon. We’ve gotta move. What do you shoot?” “I’m a BAR man, “ Kirby answered automatically. “But wait just a minute,” he demanded as the other man turned and headed toward the doorway. Kirby followed the sergeant and grabbed his arm as he started down the stairs. “We ain’t just going to leave him here. Those Krauts almost did him in once. He ain’t in no position to help himself.” “Look, soldier. I don’t have time to argue with you. There’s supposed to be a company moving up behind us. Our medic said your friend here has an infection and has lost a lot of blood. We can’t do anything for him if we take him with us, but the old French doctor here says he can help. So, if we leave him, he might have a chance. Now move it.” Danvers raised his Tommy with authority, leaving no doubt as to his mind set. “Move it now, soldier,” he repeated. Kirby turned and looked back across the room at Caje. “Hey buddy, I’ll be right back, you hear?” Grumbling to himself, he followed Danvers down the stairs, with Rainer behind him. “You guys been together long?” the young private asked, curious. “About as long as anyone still alive out here,” Kirby mumbled. He stepped out of the cramped stairwell and into the parlor. The group that had been huddled around the radio earlier was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he spotted Msr. Bertrand and the old lady he had seen from across the courtyard. He paused, staring. The couple was talking to a girl. No -- she turned and looked at him -- a woman. A woman, small and slight, with her hand clasping the hand of a young child. The old man prodded her and she walked several steps toward Kirby without releasing her hold on the toddler. Her gait was uneven, but so smooth that Kirby could not tell which side she favored. “Monsieur soldat.” Her voice was small but strong, and her green eyes looked directly into his. “My uncle says to tell you that we will care for your friend. Be, uh,” she hesitated, searching for a word, before continuing, “unafraid. We will wait with him.” Kirby did not bother to give her the usual once-over he customarily gave to any woman under forty…or lately, fifty. “Lady, you do that. You tell him…” He struggled for the right message. “You tell him I’ll take care of the sarge. I got a plan. You be sure to tell him that for me, okay?” Danvers yelled for him from outside the door. “C’mon!” Rainer pushed him. “Sarge means it, Kirby. We’d better get going. He’s got a quick temper.” Kirby retorted, “Yeah, I got one like that myself.” With a quick duck of his head toward the woman, he heeded the sergeant’s command. As he stepped outside, a fine cold drizzle washed the last of the cobwebs from his mind. A front had come in some time during the early morning, bringing an end to the oppressive heat and making the approach of fall seem imminent. Kirby was acutely aware that he could for once really use the field jacket that he’d constantly sweated in and complained about all through the summer months, but the Krauts had stripped him of that -- as well as his beloved BAR. He reached into his pocket, feeling an unfamiliar bulge -- Caje’s beret, his watch tucked inside it. Kirby didn’t remember picking them up. He started to go back inside to give them to the girl, but Danvers shoved a BAR at him, with a quick, “Our guy doesn’t need it anymore.” Kirby crammed the beret and the watch back into his pocket and gave the weapon a swift, knowing once-over before running his fingers over the crude initials carved in the stock. Danvers watched with appreciation. The man obviously knew the weapon. The squad could use some seasoned firepower. The last BAR man hadn’t lasted long enough to achieve real live fire proficiency. And then there was the guy they were leaving behind who the medic said kept speaking French. Danvers knew he could use a French guy, too. It would make speaking with the natives like the old man at the farm here easier. Find out more about what they were facing. The old woman knew English, but she was difficult at best… King Two was lucky, Danvers thought. He wondered how you went about getting a translator. At least he had the BAR man, for the moment. Danvers brought his thoughts back to the task at hand. “Our lieutenant already moved out. We waited as long as we could for Fox Company, but we’ve got to move on east. There’s a counteroffensive over near your old lines.” As they fell in with two other waiting privates, Danvers moved out in front of the group and continued, “Looks like you and your friend may have missed a lot of the action over the past day.” Kirby gave him a look that could have burned a hole in the sergeant’s back. Danvers felt the smaller man’s withering stare and got the message as they started to trot through the unmown fields. He shrugged and quickened his pace. “He’s French, isn’t he?” Kirby pulled up. Danvers sensed the BAR man was no longer with him and stopped. The other soldiers turned around, following the sergeant’s lead, unsure of what was going on. Kirby took two steps toward the sergeant. “Did you leave him ‘cause you thought he was French?” Danvers sighed. He had been as tolerant as possible given the obviously difficult circumstances Kirby had been through, but he had had about enough mollycoddling. This little sawed-off dogface seemed to be constantly spoiling for a fight. On second thought, maybe King Two wasn’t so lucky. “Private, I don’t care what he is. We’re following orders. Ours are to take you to your squad on our way to meet up with the rest of our company.” “HQ knows we’re back? We’re here? Me and Caje? The Sarge is gonna kill us….me.” “Not if I do it first. Now shut up and move out.” They continued east, away from the farm and the wild forests surrounding it. Kirby huffed up beside Danvers. “Cajun…” “What?” “He ain’t French, he’s Cajun.” Danvers looked down. This guy was obviously the type to have the last word. But he couldn’t resist asking, “What’s a Cajun?” Kirby slowed and fell in behind Danvers, silent for a moment. “I don’t know….” **** The specks of dust in the sunlight gleaming through the window held his attention. It was a peaceful sight, reminiscent of the wonders of childhood. And it was accompanied by the belly laugh of a very small child. His eyes refocused on the small girl moving forward, holding out a piece of bread, obviously determined to put it in his mouth. As her jam-smeared hand drew closer, Caje attempted to sit up and apprise where he was. A sharp pain in his right shoulder reversed his momentum back down onto the bed just as the chubby hand came close enough for him to smell raspberry. His eyes darted about in utter confusion and caught the blur of another hand diverting the jam away from his mouth. He looked up into green eyes crinkled in amusement. “I believe she wanted to welcome you back to the world of the living. Unfortunately, her verbal skills are not yet very developed.” The small blonde woman quickly and competently scooped the child onto her hip, nuzzling the baby’s ear before returning the soldier’s gaze. She had nursed him for several difficult days, and though she had come to know his lithe body well and some of his experiences through his feverish ramblings, she was uncertain where to begin. She wasn’t even certain of his name. “I’m Claire Marie, and this little terror is Bridgette. Do you know where you are?” Caje shook his head, and continued to stare at the woman. Her fine blonde hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail hanging halfway down her back. Its color and waves matched the incoming cap of hair on the child. Her dress was simple, emphasizing her slim build, and covered with small splotches of color on the skirt. The scene of mother and daughter together was so domestic and so far from the norm of the past months that Caje was thoroughly confused. He looked around the small room -- an attic or storeroom apparently -- for a point of reference before shaking his head again. “You were left here by your soldiers. My uncle had treated your wound when the Boches brought you in -- he is a doctor. But unfortunately you lost a lot of blood. You also got an infection. My uncle was forced to cauterize your wound after we ran out of medicine. He says you will be alright, but I’m afraid you will have a very bad scar.” Claire Marie blushed slightly at this and hoped the soldier wouldn’t notice. Quickly she added, “What is your name?” “Paul LeMay.” Caje tried to sit forward again, but retreated away from the pain and back to the pillow. “Madame, please forgive me, but I’m confused. Where is my squad? This doesn’t look like a field hospital.” Claire Marie put the child down with a quick pat on the rump and directed her to a small blanket in the middle of the room. “Bridgette, go finish your jam bread. Good girl…” Smoothing her skirt, she moved closer to the bed with a slight hitch in her step that did not go unnoticed by Caje. “I’m afraid that you are outside Santeney. You and a friend were captured by the Boches. The Americans were here, but they had to leave. You were too ill to travel.” Claire Marie reached over and placed a small hand on Caje’s forehead. “Your fever has broken, finally. Uncle said that if you awoke, I could offer you some soup. Would you like some?” Caje shook his head and closed his eyes. There were many questions he would still like answered but, for the moment, he decided to give in to the peacefulness of his surroundings. The baby was making her own little patois over on the blanket, the sun was hitting the foot of the bed through the one gabled window, and the small hand on his forehead was cool. “Not now, Madame, thank you. I’m very tired…” “Let me just check your shoulder then.” She sat on the bed and leaned over Caje in order to reach the wound. Caje caught a faint of whiff of something feminine and clean-smelling. It stirred vague memories of home, but he was so tired that clarity in regard to identifying anything remained out of reach. Claire Marie sat back up. “It looks fine…I think. Still pretty raw, though. Uncle will be back soon and can check more thoroughly. Now, I will take Bridgette downstairs so that you may sleep.” She stood and started to walk toward the child, and again Caje notice the slight hitch in her gait. “Madame, it’s alright. I like to hear her…” Claire Marie turned back toward the bed, her eyes again crinkled because of her smile. “Please, do not call me ‘Madame.’ And if you can rest to her ‘singing,’ you must still be ill. Is there anything I can get you?” She clasped her hands behind her back, suddenly looking confused, and then went on to say somewhat shyly, “I do not know what you need. My uncle did not really think you would wake. He and Louisa are off trying to find the chickens. They should return soon. I shall give you some water and then leave you be. If you want anything, just let me know…” At Caje’s small nod of assent, she moved once again over next to the bed and poured water from the pitcher beside it into a small, chipped cup. She slid her arm behind Caje and, with a strength that surprised him, moved him up to support him with her shoulder as he gratefully sipped from the proffered cup. “Mad…Claire Marie. My friend -- is he still here?” “The loud soldier, yes. No, he is not here. He said to tell you he had a plan.” She paused, trying to remember the rest of Kirby’s message, and then continued in heavily accented English, “He has a plan about your sergeant. You are not to worry.” Claire Marie stayed on the edge of the bed as the soldier smiled and then drifted back to sleep. The smile made her reassess her estimate of his age. She looked at him critically, her eyes taking in the strong bone structure that contrasted prominently with his sunken eyes and cheeks. His eyes had surprised her. When she had seen them open and unseeing through his fever, they had appeared brown, in line with his dark hair and complexion. However, with consciousness, he had looked at her with eyes that seemed back-lit to the color of clear amber, with small flecks of green. His eyes and hair, as well as the planes of his face, made for an interesting study in contrasting shades of brown. Claire Marie’s fingers absently sketched her mind’s picture of him on the sheets of the bed. The soldier intrigued her. Although the uniform he wore when he was brought in was American, he cried out through the fever and awoke speaking French. She had noted, though, that his accent varied considerably. At times as she bathed him with cool water during the two nights he was delirious, she could barely make out the words of his incoherent babbling. At other times, such as just now, his accent was nearly as Parisian as her own. For this contrast she had no answer, and her hands returned to her lap. She had many questions she would like to ask him, especially if he truly was from America, but it would be awkward knowing how to begin. His body, as she had seen while assisting her uncle and Louisa through the nursing, bore many recent, raw scars, which Uncle categorized as “bullet graze,” “knife,” “shrapnel.” One large jagged scar over his ribs caused her uncle to shrug and declare “probably before the war” when he saw her questioning eyes. The Allies had only been here less than two months -- a short time for the many wounds. So much these American men were giving! Rumors of the numbers of casualties from the landing had penetrated even her small household. Sighing, she absently tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and three emotions welled up in her as she looked at the resting man -- curiosity, gratefulness, and fear. The latter prompted her to get up, move across the floor, and snatch up the little child, squeezing her startled body tightly to her own. **** Caje opened his eyes. It was night. The small room glowed in the yellow light of a single old-fashioned lantern. He looked around for the woman and child he remembered -- or thought he did -- from earlier. Not spotting them, he struggled to rise to a sitting position, the memory of the pain he'd felt the last time he’d tried to do it one point of extreme clarity in his mind. Again, about halfway up, the incredible sensation in his shoulder sent him gasping back to the pillow. He recognized that he could push through it if need be, but at this moment, there didn’t appear to be a good reason to subject himself to that. Vigilance, though, was the key to survival. He’d definitely learned that. Therefore, he attempted to take stock of his current situation. Aside from his overall weakness and the now-throbbing wound in his upper right side, he appeared to be intact. And dressed -- though not in his uniform. There were rough woolen pants on him underneath the blanket, and a loose sweater covered his top. He looked inside the unbuttoned sweater and saw the thick bandages winding around his right shoulder. No bleeding showed through that he could see. Good. But his dog tags were missing. He knew that before he had awakened fully, he had sensed a presence in the room. No one was there now, but it was unlikely that someone would leave a lamp burning precious oil if they were not coming back. He saw one entrance to the room and, beyond it, a stairwell. The furniture was a hodgepodge of pieces -- some fine and some homemade. Interesting. The bed itself and the linens were exquisite in detail, though the wood was worn and the sheets yellowed even beyond the casting from the lantern. With all the upheaval going on in France due to the war, this could be the home of an impoverished upper class family, looters, or God knew what. Of course, back in Louisiana he had seen fine heirloom furniture in even some of the roughest bayou homes. Judgments about the situation couldn’t be made from these inanimate objects. That line of thinking drove him to glance around for his ever-present Garand -- not to be seen. Of course, the Krauts had taken it. But he couldn’t see anything else that could be used as a weapon either -- except possibly the water pitcher on the nightstand beside the bed. He closed his eyes, trying to make sense of the varied impressions he had of what he believed to be recent events. He remembered being with Kirby. Being shot. The care he received in the barn -- they had escaped. That he was pretty sure of, though not how he had ended up separated from Kirby now. He could also recall soothing voices, followed by the disturbing sensation of being held down. Incredible pain. Then mixed images of his family and childhood, together with frightening, distorted impressions of soldiers known and unknown. Oh, and there was the girl -- no, woman -- and the child. That was clear. Definitely. Now what to do? Though heavy of mind and limb, Caje did not feel like letting sleep overcome him again until he ascertained his exact circumstances. Perhaps he could call for the woman, but her name remained somewhere out of reach in the fuzzy edges of his memory. And, besides, what if there were Krauts around? Given the care he seemed to be receiving, though, maybe he wasn't in any immediate danger. He began to discern voices wafting up from the staircase, and he debated about moving over there. If he could listen to the people below, he might find out who they were. But the effort might only deplete the few reserves he felt he still had left. Reserves he might need later... Whatever he did, first he needed water. His thirst suddenly seemed more pressing than immediate answers. Using his left arm, he reached for the container on the nightstand table, being careful to stretch slowly and so minimize the movement of his injured side. Even so, he could feel his efforts breaking apart his wound and wetness beginning to seep underneath the bandages. Grasping the pitcher, he attempted to pour the water into the small glass on the table. The awkward extension of his arm lasted only for a few agonizing seconds before his strength gave way. He fell back to the soft landing of goose down while the pitcher tumbled to the wooden floor. His groan and the simultaneous shattering of glass were followed by sudden silence from below, only to be replaced by the clear scuffling of chairs and then footsteps moving toward the stairs. Stunned by pain, Caje blinked several times, trying to clear his vision as two people approached his bed. With relief, he recognized Msr. Bertrand from the barn. The old man spoke first. “How do you feel now, my friend?” Caje relaxed. “Not my best, Msr. Bertrand. But I thank you for your help -- again.” Both the old man and a woman standing next to him gave him smiles -- the old man’s large, the woman’s, small and tight. "It is our pleasure, again, Paul LeMay," Bertrand said. “My niece told me you woke earlier. You may not believe it, but you soon will feel better. Your infection has subsided. What you need now is rest." Caje moved his head from side to side slowly, his eyes not leaving those of the old man. "Msr. Bertrand, we both know that a long and peaceful convalescence is very unlikely. So please tell me where I am and what’s happening." Msr. Bertrand nodded with appreciation. He had formed his initial estimate of this American soldier when, in the barn, the severely wounded man had deftly slipped the knife from his hand as the guards had been subduing his friend. The assessment had been bolstered as Bertrand had tended the soldier again when he was brought back after the Boches had been driven out by the Americans a day later. So many recent wounds -- so many battles relived in delirium. It was a shame there was no better news to tell the man. “The Americans have had to pull back. There was considerable fighting near our village two days ago. Everyone wants the old bridge. The Boches have resisted, for the moment. And, I think, brought in reinforcements.” Bertrand paused, waiting for a reaction from the soldier, but when there was none, he continued, “We have been left alone for the moment, though. I believe the Boches are concentrating on the village and the bridge. That means you may rest. We all must -- there is nothing to be done but wait.” The soldier nodded. But he knew he needed to leave -- soon. His presence could only increase the danger to the kindly old man and his household. And the woman and child… Although not hungry, he asked, “May I have something to eat?” He would need his strength. "Of course. Louisa and I managed to recapture some of our chickens, and she has added them to the soup." The old man bobbed his head. "Yes, this is a good thing, for you to eat." His eyes met Caje’s, and the scout knew that Bertrand was following the same train of thought. As Louisa started down the steps, Caje asked Bertrand, almost as an afterthought, “Does your niece live here with you?” The old woman stopped on the steps and stiffened. She turned, and replied in the precise, clipped tones of the English schoolteacher she once had been. “Claire Marie, and her daughter,” there was heavy emphasis on the last phrase, “are in our care.” Bertrand turned away from the bed and looked at her. He did not know why Louisa had chosen to reply in English to the young man's question -- the soldier's first language was obviously French – and slightly annoyed, he frowned. Louisa knew he always felt handicapped by his lack of knowledge of English. Not knowing what she said and used to being in control, he added, "Yes, she is downstairs tending Bridgette. This is all our family, now. I will have her bring your soup up so that you young people can talk. She very much misses people her age. We are from Paris, you know, and life on the farm, until recently, has been very dull for…" He stopped and looked at Louisa in confusion. First she had shown him up in her knowledge of languages, and now she was snorting loudly. Not understanding her cold stare, he blundered on, "Yes, it has been very dull. Now, let me see that shoulder." He peered under the bandages and then sat back with a pleased smile. “There is a little fresh bleeding, but it looks worse than what it is. Over the next several days, before you leave, I will need to show you some exercises to make sure the scar tissue does not become a problem.” Caje did not respond as both he and Bertrand became profoundly aware of Louisa's continued stare from the stairwell. Bertrand became embarrassed. "Well, let me go and help Louisa get your dinner together. It appears she cannot do so alone." He stood and crossed the room, disappearing down the stairway with Louisa in tow. The sounds of a whispered argument floated up the steps and Caje smiled. Despite her living here in war-torn France, the woman, Louisa, reminded him of the nannies he had come across at home in New Orleans. Black and Creole, they threw down gauntlets in front of the young men who came to court their charges. The sparring could be frustrating for many young suitors. Caje, though, had found the challenge stimulating and many times had enjoyed the softening of the caregivers more than the final capitulation of the often spoiled and arrogant young women they protected As someone with an uneven tread started back up the stairs, the smile left his face. This was not New Orleans and he was no longer a spoiled and angry young man with time on his hands to conquer meaningless windmills. “Your thoughts are far away. Shall you come back for the soup or should I pack a picnic for you?” Caje started. He had drifted away, after so recently thinking about the need to maintain a constant state of awareness. The irony of it caused him to smile wryly as he looked up at the small woman beside him. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and, with her petite stature, she looked like a young girl. However, the lamplight that highlighted her hair and silhouette and made her appear young also found the shadows and lines in her face that detailed a maturity beyond her years. Caje assessed her age as being close to his own. Older than he had thought from his first impression. For her part, Claire Marie looked at him openly and without discomfort as he studied her. She had felt uncomfortable earlier when the soldier first regained consciousness, aware that the field had not been even, given her voyeur’s knowledge of the subject. But now that the American seemed to possess his full faculties, she felt that theirs was a match of equals, of two observers who studied the lights and the shadows, looking for the discrepancies between the expected and the unexpected. The difference, she thought, was that she used this knowledge to create, while the man in front of her used it to destroy. The silence grew long between the two as they studied each other, but neither felt any need to break it. Still, Claire Marie was the first to break eye contact as she set the soup bowl on the table and pulled up a small cane-backed chair next to the bed. Without comment, she picked up the bowl and offered a spoonful to the soldier. With a small shake of his head, Caje reached for the spoon with his left hand and finally broke the silence. “I can do it myself, Madame, thank you. If you’ll just sit the bowl here on my lap…” He shifted up on his pillows to allow himself to better balance the bowl and eat without assistance. A grimace accompanied the move. The woman watched with a tight, tolerant smile on her lips. Then she spoke. “I spend my days trying to help a small child and two truculent elderly darlings to do things ‘by myself,’ and now someone sees fit to drop another difficult one in my lap. Why don’t you let me feed you? It will be quicker.” Claire Marie made no move to give Caje the bowl or the spoon. “I’m not used to being waited on, Madame, but of course, if it will make your life easier, by all means go ahead.” Caje flashed a quick smile. The woman intrigued him. She was not the type he had usually found attractive back home before the war. She was too diminutive, her boyish figure emphasized by the fact she was wearing pants and a shirt, rather the skirt he remembered from earlier. “Hmm…my uncle sent me up here like a young girl off to a social occasion. He obviously was unaware of the quality of the company.” “Clearly you did not care about the quality of company, given your dress for the occasion.” They smiled at each other, their initial awkwardness pushed aside as they resumed rusty social skills. Claire Marie looked at her clothes with a combination of real and mock despair. “I’m never sure what to wear when tending a wounded soldier during the middle of a war. The choices were limited, I can assure you.” She lifted the spoon towards Caje’s mouth and, as he acquiesced to her feeding him, she continued, “Truthfully, we need to be ready to leave in the event the fighting returns here, as Uncle said he informed you." She shrugged her slight shoulders and cocked her head to the side. “It is easier to travel quickly this way.” “Travel to where?” Caje realized that the choices in travel for this family were very limited. Caught between two clashing armies, two elderly people probably handicapped by their age, a small child, and the woman who moved quickly but clearly with some problem...where could they go? Claire Marie looked away while taking a deep breath. It was a question she asked herself often. The village and the farm had seemed the perfect place to wait out the war after fleeing Paris. However, despite her uncle’s attempts to isolate the family from more of the bitter horrors they had already tasted, the fact remained that they lived in a country where the waves of war were undulating back and forth, ready to pull them under. She would not care, not after everything…but there was the child. And Louisa and her uncle as well, who had willed themselves each day to continue for her and Bridgette. So she should try again, at least for Uncle’s sake, to maintain the appearance of still having the capacity to feel some pleasure at seeing a new face. With a smile, she turned back to the soldier. “I’m not sure. I would love to go to America. Where are you from?" Caje looked into her eyes and nodded once to let her know he understood her thoughts and what she was trying to do. He would go along with what she wanted, not asking any more questions for which there were not good answers. “New Orleans, originally.” “Ah, I have heard that many people there speak French." Claire Marie continued feeding him. Caje accepted another spoonful of the thin soup flavored only faintly with chicken, knowing it probably wasn’t enough to get his strength back up, but appreciating its warmth, the hint of some spice that definitely wasn't ever in his C rations, and the fact that it was probably all these people had after being overrun by first the Boches and then Americans. “This soup is not really enough for you, but if you finish it, I will bring you some bread.” Caje blinked -- this woman was following his thoughts. No, he dismissed the idea. There weren't many lines of discussion that wouldn't lead to the same looming issues. “So, tell me about New Orleans,” she prompted. “What do you know?” “Truthfully, not much. I have heard it is something like a small Paris for an artist. Not conventional and bourgeois…” Caje smiled thinly. “Well, I haven't been to Paris -- yet. But I don’t know that I would say New Orleans is exactly free thinking. Maybe compared to the rest of America…” He accepted another spoonful of soup. “Ah, is that why you are from it ‘originally’?” Caje did not answer. This conversation seemed to lead to difficult topics no matter which direction it turned. Plus he had found the small talk he used to engage in with practiced ease before the war difficult to maintain ever since he’d arrived on the shores of France --and since Theo’s death. There was no point in getting to know someone or have them know you when, in a moment, they could be gone. And, if you cared too much, if you knew too much about their hopes and dreams, you couldn’t do your duty. That he knew well -- and it would not happen again. He had watched Saunders during down time, and realized that this need for distance was something the sergeant had already figured out. And along those lines, Saunders, as well as Doc, had noticed his own reluctance to share confidences, and they respected it. “Once you’re born in New Orleans, you’re always from there, no matter where you’ve been.” Caje deflected the intent of the question. Claire Marie sensed the barrier. But truthfully, she was too tired to continue maintaining the pretense of carrying on the lively conversation that her uncle seemed so intent on her sharing with this soldier anyway. She knew that Uncle thought that he was offering her some type of treat, but the past seventy two hours -- starting with the ousting of the Boches and ending with this American hiding in the little refuge they had created -- had nearly depleted the small, hard core of resolve that maintained her day by long, difficult day. “Paul LeMay, I feel that you are finding carrying on small talk at this time as difficult as I am. However, I am in a predicament -- my Uncle really enjoys the thought, I believe, of me spending some time with someone other than himself and Louisa. And my dear Louisa is entirely opposed to me talking with any man. If we can maintain the pretense of enjoying ourselves for a few more minutes, it will give the two darlings endless hours of pleasurable arguing, during which they will delightfully ignore me.” The spoon clinked in the empty bowl as Claire Marie stopped and drew a breath. “Why don’t I go and bring you a slice of bread, and you can entertain me with something utterly innocuous before you sleep.” Claire Marie looked at the soldier’s wan face. It remained closed for a moment, the amber eyes studying her with calm intensity. Then a tired smile broke it into the planes and angles that she found so interesting. “I will give you a quick overview of New Orleans, focusing on its culinary delights, including my nanny’s beignets.” Claire Marie stood up with a grateful smile and started toward the stairs. “Talk of your nanny’s beignet’s sounds rather intriguing…” Caje chuckled as he watched the small, retreating form limp quickly and smoothly across the room. He had not thought of Missy’s beignets in years…and never in the way that Claire Marie intimated. There was much pleasure to be remembered from those early days of childhood in New Orleans. Mama tending the garden, Missy calling him in for an afternoon snack of café au lait thick with crème and those beignets, living insulated in the old city, yet having the smells and fragrances and snatches of multi-lingual conversation float over the walls surrounding the house like the ever present humidity. What happened in the later years of childhood -- well, that's the way of life. You accept and go on, just as you take the current situation and make the best of it…. Claire Marie’s returning tread up the stairwell brought one pertinent question about the present to mind. As she approached with the promised bread, she saw the look on his face. “I do not believe you are thinking of beignets.” “Actually, Claire Marie, one question, and then we can give your Aunt and Uncle something to talk about for a while. Well, I mean....” Caje looked abashed and grinned. Then he sobered. “Seriously, I will leave soon.” Claire Marie nodded her head gravely at the statement. They all knew this. “What is the plan if the Germans arrive? Do we need to discuss this?” “We have talked of this and thought about it while you were so ill. Now that the barn is burned, there are not really any good places to hide you. We have dressed you in my husband’s old clothes. If the Boches come, we will tell them that you are a friend of my husband's from Paris, and were injured during the melee several days ago.” Caje thought about it. There was probably no other alternative, and the family had had several days to think through all possible contingencies. Besides, at the moment he was too tired to attempt to figure out an alternative. “Your husband is…?” “Dead, monsieur. Nearly two years.” “I’m sorry.” “We have all lost during the war, Paul LeMay. During your fever, you…” She halted at the expression that flitted across his face, then continued lamely, “I could tell you have had losses, also. But my husband went as he always wished -- in a blaze of glory.” Her face tightened. “Meaningless, I think, so do not believe me the heroic widow.” They were silent as Claire Marie stared at the bread on the plate she was holding. After a moment she looked up at Caje with those green eyes he was finding mesmerizing not for any particular aesthetic reason, but for the resolve behind them. Clearly she had moved on, and so would he. “May I have my bread, Madame? The thought of beignets has made me hungry.” “I confess, Paul, I do not know what beignets are…” **** Part Two |