Based on the ABC Television Series: Combat! Copyright 2004 by JMcG This is an attempt to take the DII/Mel challenge and still work on PH. It can be read as a stand alone or as a continuance in the PH series. As always, my thanks goes out to all the great gals (and guys?) on the fan fic discussion group who keep me motivated by both their posts and their stories. DII and Mel, this one’s for you, babes… Purple Hearts-Part IVA Paris, 1945 Doc looked at Saunders, eyes as questioning as any spoken words. The sergeant and his erstwhile corporal had returned nearly an hour ago, the anger between them palpable. Taking one look at Caje’s blood-streaked arm, Doc had dragged the seething soldier over to the medical station located in the barracks and had the worst of the cuts stitched. Caje had barely spoken the entire time, despite Doc’s gentle probing. Doc sensed that the platoon’s best scout was ready to flee, more antsy than usual at being confined. At the moment, though, Caje was finally sleeping. And, Doc thought, it was time for some answers. But those could be as difficult getting from Saunders as they had been from Caje. Saunders dropped his eyes from Doc’s gaze and looked back down at the paper he was holding. No time like the present, Doc decided. “You’ve been on that same page for a while, Sarge.” There was no answer. “You want to tell me what is going on? Between you and Caje?” “If I wanted to tell you anything, I would have.” Saunders voice was quiet, but the underlying tension was unmistakable. “Well, you’re right. Maybe I should ask differently. Will you tell me what’s going on?” Saunders dropped his paper and reached in his pocket to pull out his pack of cigarettes before replying. “What did Caje tell you?” “Nothing.” “Well, it’s his business. And if that’s what he wants, I’ll respect it.” Doc pondered Saunders answer a moment then pulled up a chair, ignoring Saunders’ exaggerated sigh. “Since when have we had personal business in the squad, Sarge? Especially when one of the guys comes back needing stitches?” “Leave it alone, Doc.” “You know, Sarge, I think the end of the war is making me a little bold, cause I’m going to tell you what I feel.” Doc straightened up in his chair, then leaned forward, knowing as he did so that he was clearly violating the personal space of his intensely private squad leader. “You and Caje have been bearcats since he went off. Nobody talking about it, everyone afraid of the next blowup—yours or his. I’ve known you for nearly nine months, Sarge, and it’s not like you to let things go. ‘Specially when it involves one of your men.” Saunders pushed his chair back, the message clear. But his hand motions betrayed his anxiety as he began his slow and deliberate reply. “Doc, I’m not letting anything go. But you’re butting in where you’re not needed.” He paused, clearly hoping that was enough to dissuade the medic. One close look at Doc pried a few additional words loose. “Look, I talked to Caje, he told me—sort of—what’s up. That’s it, end of story.” “No, Sarge, that’s not the end of it. He’s not been himself for weeks, and you know it. We all know it. And you—you’ve just been sitting back watching it all, watching him. Caje is so mad right now…” Doc broke off and followed Saunders gaze over the cot on the other side of the room where Caje lay sleeping, oblivious to the noise and hubbub of the men around him. Doc chuckled to himself for a moment, and his eyes turned back to Saunders. The medic knew that Saunders was also remembering the numerous times they had watched and worried over the men of the squad, wounded and tired. This care and concern was usually a bond between them, however, and not a source of discomfort. “Doc, do we really know each other?” “Whatdaya mean, Sarge?” Saunders took a deep breath and forcibly expelled it, as though trying to relieve some deeply built up tension. “I mean, we’ve shared nearly every waking and sleeping moment for God knows how many days over the past year, and I’m not sure that I really know any of you.” Doc’s brow furrowed, but couldn’t for the life of himself think of where Saunders was going with this. Then, suddenly, he understood. If not the details of the issue, then at least what was bothering Saunders. “I allow as we’ve known each other—and ourselves--the best we could, under the circumstances. There wasn’t time for much else, Sarge. We’ve all done what we needed to do to survive. Nobody can fault us for it.” Doc hesitated then continued softly, “And we shouldn’t fault ourselves, either.” Saunders nodded in agreement, but his eyes were far away, his attention carried by thoughts he wasn’t ready to share. Doc gently prodded, ignoring once again Saunders’s clear barriers. “You found out something about Caje you didn’t know? Like mebbe where he went, something he did?” “Sort of, in a way, Doc.” “And?” Sergeant Chip Saunders sighed, and turned to Doc. For the first time in their acquaintance, Saunders dropped his guard and allowed true emotion to be reflected in his bewildered blue eyes, “Doc, I don’t think I’ve known where any of us are going or what we are doing since that last patrol in Germany.” **** May 5, 1945 “Doc! Get over here!” The medic slung his ruck over his shoulder in a fluid, all too practiced motion and strode across the dirty roadway. He was not in the least reluctant to leave the jawboning with the other platoon medics, but neither was he eager to hear what the sergeant wanted. In fact, Doc couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do. Nothing at all. It had been like this for weeks, since the end had become a foregone conclusion. Since the negotiations had begun in Rheims and the reality of “when”, not “if” had sunk into the vernacular of everyday. When I get home I’m gonna… When we get shipped over to the Pacific… When the Krauts finally give up… When we leave Europe… When I get on that boat… Germany. They were in Germany. Hell, they occupied Germany. Resistance was sporadic, but not to be ignored. But there was no farther to go. “There” was now “here”. He was here. And where to go from here? Well, that was the problem. There was talk of pushing on into Russia. But the Russians had been their allies through this whole thing, the knowledge of their westward push somehow alleviating some of the burden Doc felt he carried. It put a boundary on the miles they would have to push forward---the enemy could not be infinite because there was another side to the conflict. Somewhere out there, another tired Allied patrol was pushing westward, undoubtedly with a Doc Ivan feeling stretched at both ends. Doc had felt comforted by his fleeting musings about his Russian twin. Somehow, the vision had created boundaries to a conflict that at times seemed to be without end. But now the east and the west had met—less than two weeks ago. And while the meeting may have squashed one enemy, it potentially opened up an even larger march eastward. To the Pacific… Or they could just be redeployed to the Pacific. There was talk about that, too. But what wasn’t there talk about? Everyone was talking—right down—or up?—to the men in Rheims. But Doc really wasn’t a talking man. He liked to think of himself as a man of action. A tired man of action, but a man of action nonetheless. He just wasn’t sure where that action was going to be directed. Well, for the immediate future, Sarge would make that determination. That was one thing that hadn’t changed. Granted, the patrols were fewer, the hot food more regular, the accommodations more permanent, and the men somewhat rested, for once. Of course, “rested” was a loose term. The men of first squad hadn’t been bearing the brunt of the patrols lately. Seasoned battle veterans, Squanders’ squad seemed to have led push after push of the thrust through the ETO. But since the final drive into Germany and through the holding pattern that had emerged in the past ten days or so as east and west gingerly plied their former enemy apart, the newer, greener squads had been favored. Saunders’ men, though, hadn’t been able to totally turn it off. Doc noticed that Kirby continued to drag his BAR with him at every moment, almost like a security blanket. Littlejohn hovered over the new boys up from reppledepple, counting them as they came in and went out on patrols. McCall and Caje paced restlessly at being cooped up for this unprecedented length of time. The whole group of them seemed to make Saunders nervous to be around, and as he approached the waiting non-com, Doc realized that the sergeant had seemed more distant than usual lately. Of course, Doc couldn’t be sure of that. Of the first squad, Doc was the only one still going on the old pace. For some reason, the ranks of the medical personnel didn’t seem to be swelled with the eager beavers from stateside. Qualified combat medics remained in short supply. Probably, Doc thought, because someone upstairs thought that being a non-combatant meant not getting shot. Unfortunately, as every battle-hardened veteran now knew, in the reality of war, that white cross often was a target rather than a deterrent during the shooting. A calm, cool medic could make as much difference in a tight situation as additional ammo. Sometimes more…Doc had been lucky, though. Saunders made eye contact with the medic across the street and motioned with a slight upward nod of his head for Doc to hurry up. Doc nodded his assent and stepped up his stride. As he approached Saunders, the medic felt the world steady briefly around him. Saunders had that effect on people. The man was solid and unchanging—as though even back in the States he had had this particular destiny in mind. Doc had watched the men of his remaining core squad change under the pressure of the last nine months. But not Saunders…his smile remained rare, his orders terse, and his manner restrained. Saunders took a moment to look the medic up and down before querying, “What happened to you? I thought this was a routine patrol.” Doc smiled wearily. “You of all people, Sarge, should know there is no such thing as a routine patrol.” Saunders raised his eyebrows without saying anything. Doc responded to the unasked question with a dismissive shake of his head. “It was nothing. Jeep broke down. Sergeant McKee didn’t have a guy in his squad who knew squat about engines.” “And you do?” Saunders didn’t wait for a reply before following up. “What were you doing out in jeeps, anyway?” “Dunno, Sarge, some new edict from upstairs. You’ll have to ask the Lieutenant.” Saunders and Doc simultaneously spotted Hanley staring at them from the nearby tent entrance. Saunders patted Doc on the shoulder. “Get some rest, Doc.” Doc nodded and started down the dusty track between the tents. As Saunders resumed his amble toward the command tent, Doc stopped and turned around. “Sarge!” “What?” Saunders looked back over his shoulder without pausing his stride. “There’s other squads.” “Yeah?” Saunders hesitated. Doc stared at him earnestly, seeing the contrast between the sergeant’s worn uniform and the newly arrived and pitched tents. Everything was new—the tents, the jeeps, many of the men. Perhaps the peace. But for now, Saunders’ role and that of his squad were the same. “It’s almost over, Sarge.” “And?” Doc shrugged his shoulders. A man of unusual certainty, he was lost as to what he wanted to convey. Saunders stared at his medic, then turned resignedly toward the tent and the impatient lieutenant within. Fifteen minutes later, Saunders pushed aside the cloth opening of the tent in time to hear Kirby declare, “Well, I don’t give a damn about my feet!” “Well, Kirby, that makes three statements I’ve heard today that I never thought I’d hear.” Twelve sets of eyes turned to Saunders, the expressions on the owners’ faces carefully made inscrutable. “Saddle up, we’re….” “…going out,” Doc finished for him. Doc carefully continued stowing additional bandages in his ruck, but out of the corner of his eye saw Saunders shove back his helmet and take in the already loaded weapons and gear. To his questioning expression, Doc replied, “I heard McKee and Hanley talking right after I got back from that patrol.” “Oh…” Saunders was quiet for a moment, and Doc knew what must be going through his mind. Obviously the men all sensed that this could be the last patrol. Well, the last real patrol. Everyone knew that official peace would come tomorrow. It would be over…here, anyway. And despite how strange and morbid it sounded, and despite the fact that in reality everyone knew that official peace would not immediately translate into the cessation of all Kraut hostilities, everyone also knew that this could be their last real patrol together. Finally, Saunders spoke decisively. “I only need three men. We’re taking jeeps.” He scratched his hair and carefully avoided making eye contact with anyone. Doc knew that Saunders understood how they felt, what they wanted. To end it together. To take that last step, after so many, in unison. But it was just another patrol—another live patrol. Another chance to get killed, despite the unofficial armistice. And Saunders’ job, with its two separate and distinct mandates, remained the same. Complete the mission, and bring them home. Even now, the sergeant could not allow personal considerations to interfere. “Jeeps! What’s up with that, Sarge?” Kirby continued powdering his already white feet. His relationship with his feet had been shared in intricate detail with his squadmates over the past months. Everyone knew when the BAR man’s feet let him down, when they craved attention, when they needed a rest. Kirby and Army issued footwear were a match made in hell, and Doc hoped that a separation would soon be affected. Saunders waiting a few long seconds before deeming to address Kirby’s question. “Minimize the potential of conflict with any Krauts—civilian or otherwise--around, while letting them know we’ve got this sector under control.” Several heads nodded in understanding, as Saunders continued, “Caje, McCall, Buckley. Saddle-up! The rest of you stay here.” “But Sarge!” Kirby jumped up, the can of foot powder falling on the floor and releasing a small cloud of talcum into the air. “But what, Kirby? Since when have you been all-fire eager to go out?” “Uh, Sarge, can I talk to you for a minute?” Caje’s lightly accented voice stood out from the murmurings and protests in the tent as much for its intensity as for how seldom it had been heard it lately. “Sure, Caje.” Saunders lifted the tent flap and motioned for the scout to join him outside. As discussed in the few moments before Saunders’ arrival, Doc followed. Doc stood side by side with the scout in front of Saunders. It was natural that the two of them be the delegation from the squad--one the sergeant’s closest subordinate in the destructive part of his job, the other in the more humane. The two sides of Saunders’ duty…united in a purpose they both knew he was not going to like. Doc spoke first. “Sarge, we’ve been talking…and, well, the whole squad would like to go out for this last one.” “We don’t know that this is the last patrol,” Saunders replied logically. Doc and Caje exchanged glances, then Caje took up when Doc had left off. “Sarge, let’s not play games. We all know this is probably it. We would like to go out together, all of us, on this patrol.” Caje allowed a small smile to fleetingly tug at his mouth. “Even Kirby…” Saunders did not answer the rare attempt at lightheartedness from his scout, although Doc was surprised and pleased to see it. Throughout the march into Germany, Caje’s silence and moodiness had increased in seeming direct proportion to the density and gloominess of the dark forests he reconnoitered. Saunders blew out a deep breath, clearly attempting to maintain his façade of reasonableness. Doc knew the man was not accustomed to explaining decisions to his men—particularly these men. But then again, that was they reason they had been chosen to represent the squad. “No. Besides, I’ve only got two jeeps.” “Well, now, Sarge,” Doc looked down and to the side, as he often did when he was bargaining…bargaining for bandages, extra rations, or getting a soldier put up for a much needed night in a dry hospital. Doc knew that by diverting his eyes, he focused the attention of the subject on his mild, backwoods accented voice. His slight build and non-descript features all contributed to a non-threatening presence only emphasized by the medic’s crosses on his helmet and uniform. Together they seemed make a man—or woman—feel safe, something rare out here. But his eyes…no, Doc had to divert them in order to hide the emotions that peered out and could often give him away. “Well now what?” Saunders’ good mood and sense of reasonableness were beginning to evaporate. “Well, we thought we could only take us.” “We could only take us? Who’s “us”, Doc?” “You know, us. Not the new guys. There’s only six of us.” “And that would be?” Doc stopped focusing on the large rock by the side of the tent and looked Saunders straight on, knowingly. “You know, Sarge. Kirby, Caje, me, Littlejohn, McCall. Us.” Caje nodded once in agreement and folded his arms in the challenging stance that Doc knew well. “The jeeps hold two each. And I’m not the one playing games here, Doc. You said yourself not 20 minutes ago that there’s no such thing as a routine patrol. And you’re right. I only need four men. The jeeps only hold four men. And this is a patrol in enemy territory, not a …not the final call at a bar.” Caje and Doc remained quite for a second, then Caje caught his eye and nodded at Doc. “You’re exactly right, Sarge. And not one of us will treat it like the last call. That’s why we all need to go. The jeeps can hold us. We’ve done it before…” Doc’s voice trailed off for a moment, then picked up. “We’ve done it all before.” Fifteen minutes later and really against his better judgement based on a lifetime—or wartime---of experience, Doc climbed in the back of the lead jeep. Kirby had the wheel, with Saunders sliding in the passenger seat. McCall pulled up in another jeep alongside Saunders’. The second jeep also contained Littlejohn in the passenger seat and Caje sitting in the rear, his scowling face registering frustration. Saunders made a point of ignoring the dour scout, not engaging with him in their usual pre patrol dialogue. But Kirby couldn’t let the obvious emotion on the usually taciturn squad member go unnoted. “Caje, what’s the matter with you?” As usual of late, Caje completely disregarded the comment addressed to him. Clearly feeling that he had been prodded into the additional personnel by the scout and Doc—as he had--Saunders growled sotto voice, “No one would have to be riding in the back if only four went.” “Aw, Sarge. It ain’t that!” Kirby’s atypical enthusiasm for the patrol had remained untainted since Saunders acquiesced earlier. “Ol’ Caje is just upset ‘cause you said we had to try not to kill anybody.” Doc reached up and slapped Kirby on the back of the helmet. There was nothing jesting in the gesture. “Hey! Whatdja do that for?” “There’s nothing funny in what you just said.” “Well, I wasn’t laughing…” “ENOUGH!” Saunders’ voice roared above the jeeps’ engines. “This is why I didn’t want to take everyone.” He sat up in his seat and turned around slowly, making sure that he had everyone’s attention. “This is not a joke. This is not a good-bye. This is not a sightseeing tour before we go home. Despite the fact we are riding, despite those talks going on wherever, despite the fact that you all apparently think that there is some great, divine symbolism in us all going out together one last time—this is a patrol. Just like we’ve done before. And just like we’ve lost men on before.” He dropped his voice. “Just because you’re all still here—we’re all still here—today doesn’t change anything. And if you don’t realize that, or,” he focused his gaze on Kirby, “if you don’t want to realize that, I’ll go right back in there and get Buckley or Knight or Stavers. I don’t think any of them have illusions about this being some survival victory lap.” “Yeah, that’s ‘cause they weren’t there at the beginning,” Kirby muttered. “That doesn’t make you—or any of us--immune to bullets, Kirby.” Doc put a friendly hand on Kirby’s should to take any potential sting out of the words. Saunders nodded in agreement and brusquely changed the subject. “Alright, keep your eyes and ears open. Kirby, Doc and I will lead. McCall, stay about 30 yards behind in case of sniper or mines.” He motioned forward with a thrust of his arm and added over the increased growl of the engines, “And watch out for potholes—we bombed the hell out of these roads!” **** Dusk was upon them within twenty minutes of leaving the makeshift camp. The temperatures here were colder than summer evenings at home for most of the men. The open jeeps only intensified the chill, but Doc didn’t notice. The medic sank further down in the back of the jeep, allowing himself to be rocked into drowsy near-sleep. The previous nights’—and days’—additional forays had left him tired. He had to admit it. But there was no way he was going to miss going out tonight. But it wasn’t for the reasons Sarge seemed to think. No, there was no victory in making it here for him. He was not out to celebrate. He was here because these men needed him. If anything happened tonight, of all nights… How many times had he said that over the past months? Maybe not said it aloud, but whispered it almost as prayer as they headed out into the encroaching darkness. Nights in Arkansas used to be something he enjoyed. The finish of a hard day’s work, planting tobacco when he was young, getting up early and unloading large, heavy sacks from trucks only to reload them in smaller, multiples sacks for customers later. Sunset would bring on your own time, time to enjoy yourself and what you’d accomplished, and to allow that perhaps tomorrow could bring something different. Here there was no time he felt he owned. There was the constant worry for those injured, the effect of death upon those remaining, the all-consuming responsibility for the well being of the squad. His job didn’t end with the shooting. His head slipped further down, resting on his ruck. The soft grey sky above and the hum of the engine reminded him of many night rides with Bill and Vernon in Pilgrim, Bill’s 1932 Ford truck. The truck had an extended cab and could hold three guys comfortably, four uncomfortably in the front. But he’d always preferred the short bed in the back. After a couple of swallers of whatever the guys had brought, he could relax in the back and stare up at the stars, dreaming dreams that he knew would only bring ridicule upon himself if he shared. Sometime in late ’40, when it was starting to become apparent that the US may not be able to stay out of the conflict altogether, the service had become part of the dream. Of course, he hadn’t known it was going to be like this. Not when he’d managed to get into the medical corps. Many of the guys in his med corps class in Lawrenceville, Georgia were conscientious objectors. That had never occurred to him, and bothered him at first. As did taking the verbal abuse from combat trainees who lumped him in with the “peace lovers” and “cowards”. But he was able to shove back his feelings of resentment and meet any overt acts of chauvinism with equanimity, because he knew that this was all just part of the dream. His dream… It was simple, really. There was no way a guy from Russell, Arkansas, with a no account daddy and sweet, Christian, long-suffering momma was going to get out of that god-forsaken place. Well, god forsaken was probably the wrong word. Now, he was a believing man. There was no doubt about it. But when his momma would tell him to stop talking wild about goin’ away to college, that it was his god-given duty to accept his lot in life, his rebellious thoughts would invariably lead him to that passage: “The Lord helps those who help themselves.” Yep, he would help himself. Help himself right out of there. The service was the ticket. A doctor…that would be something. A doctor someplace where the unshaded heat didn’t bake your head into mush in the summer, and the thin walls of the shacks that passed for houses didn’t allow the frozen air to curl around your nose in the dead of winter. He still wasn’t sure exactly what it would take to get into school, but there was no doubt that his training had more than commenced. He hung out at the aid stations and the hospitals when he could, watching and observing. He’d even struck up some tentative conversations with the real doctors about their training, where they went to school and all. And now here he was. He had survived. Not only survived, but grown as a man. He could tell. He could tell by the reactions of those around him. His certainty in himself and his abilities, and the squad’s surety in him, all confirmed his decision. He couldn’t believe it, but knew he would find a way to make it come true… Suddenly he sat up. “Hey, Sarge!” Saunders turned, his features under the brim of his helmet nearly invisible in the twilight. “I thought you were asleep.” Doc struggled to set up, but Saunders held out his hand, palm up. “Hey, Doc, don’t worry about it. You need your rest. There’s really nothing you can be doing now. Just enjoy the ride.” Saunders started to turn back around, then shook his head slightly, as though remembering something. “Was there something you wanted, Doc?” “Nothing important, Sarge.” Doc smiled slightly. “I just remembered outside the tent that you said that you’d heard three things today you never thought you’d hear. I was just wondering what they were.” Kirby looked curiously over at Saunders. “Yeah, Sarge. Whatdja mean by that?” Saunders expression changed from mild amusement to annoyance. “Kirby, keep your eyes on the road. I didn’t mean anything.” There was silence for a couple of moments before Kirby prodded, “So, what were they, Sarge?” Saunders settled back down in his seat, so Doc leaned forward in order to hear better over the engine. “Well, obviously Kirby, one was that statement about you and your feet.” Kirby scowled and jerked the steering harder than appropriate to miss a particularly large crater in the road. “The second,” Saunders continued, “was the Lieutenant telling us to take the jeeps, and the third…” Saunders cut off abruptly as Kirby swerved suddenly. There was a distinctive “thunk” as the jeep struck something. Kirby slammed on the brakes, causing Doc to plant his face squarely into the back of Saunders’ seat. “Hey, Doc, you alright?” Kirby peered down anxiously as Doc separated his face from the seat and gingerly felt his nose. “Yeah, Kirby, I’m fine. What was that?” “I think I hit a deer or something.” “Or something…” Saunders voice came from the back left darkness. “Kirby, go tell McCall to move his lights over here.” Kirby jumped out of the jeep and crept silently back to the second jeep stopped in a distance. “Doc, I think we need you over here.” Doc rubbed his eyes and shook his head to try to clear the faint ringing in his ears. While he could tell the impact with the seat had done no serious damage, it had also done nothing to alleviate the fog of exhaustion that seemed to slow all his reactions lately. Grabbing his medical bag, he half jumped, half fell over the side of the jeep and stumbled toward the silhouette of Sarge, illuminated by the light of the other jeep parked several yards back in the dark. “What is it, Sarge…ohhh.” As he reached Saunders, Doc could now see that the form on the ground was not a deer as supposed, but rather a slight figure dressed a hodgepodge of non descript clothes. Two things stood out—the bright white blond hair splayed around the face and the darkening pool of blood on the ground near the midsection. “What is it, Sarge?” Caje’s voice came disturbingly disembodied out of the dark, as usual unheralded by the sound of telltale footsteps. “A boy…” The sergeant’s voice trailed off into a long sigh that clearly expressed his weariness. “A man…” A lightly accented voice countered from the ground. The stranger trembled and attempted to open his eyes, but the glare from the headlights was clearly too much. He began to struggle, and Saunders and Doc simultaneously reached out and placed restraining hands on the slight shoulders. “What are you doing?” The question came out softly in the mellifluous accent, but the anger—and fear--behind it was unmistakable. Doc nodded at Saunders to maintain his restraint of the injured man and started pulling back the tattered clothes from the stomach area. “Sarge, I don’t think we did this. This look like…” Doc didn’t get to finish. “…a bullet.” This time the eyes opened, and after one glimpse, Doc decided to concede the man/boy debate. The face was young, the body yet to be fully developed, but the eyes clearly held a lifetime and more of experience. And those experiences did not look to be pleasant. One hand reached up and grabbed Saunder’s wrist for emphasis and support as the man lifted his head slightly off the ground. “Sniper—shut the lights, quickly.” Doc could hear Caje grunt at the news and his call out to McCall just as the distinctive report of a rifle momentarily pierced the evening serenade of whatever insects and birds populated these German forests. Then the lights were extinguished and the blackness fell. “Get off the road, everyone!” *** Kirby helped Saunders grab the unknown injured man, ignoring the moan of pain that accompanied the movement. As they started to the side of the road, Kirby tripped, sending himself and the stranger sprawling. There was one distinctive expletive, though the language was unknown, from the injured man before he and Kirby landed hard in the depression alongside the road. “You all okay?” Caje was suddenly beside Kirby, his voice a whisper barely discernable. Carefully, keeping his head and body low to the ground, Kirby slid himself off the stranger beneath him. “Yeah, though I doubt that did him any good,” Kirby answered, equally quiet. Saunders materialized between the two privates, his apprehension apparent even in the almost complete darkness. The three ignored the silent form on the ground for the moment as they tried to ascertain where the other men in the squad had taken refuge. Everyone knew better than to make a sound, to give the sniper anything on which to hone. But a moan punctuated unnatural evening silence. Kirby automatically reached over to clap a hand on the mouth of the wounded man, but Caje caught his wrist. Kirby could sense the scout stilling himself. “Over there.” Caje scrambled back up on the road and disappeared in the gloom, only to emerge a moment later dragging something behind him. The sound drew the sniper’s attention, and again a rifle report rent the evening air. This time Kirby could hear the slight whistle of a bullet a moment before the distinctive smack of metal into wood sounded nearby. “Caje, keep down!” “Sarge, it’s Doc!” Kirby and Saunders felt their way over to where Caje’s low voice emanated, a few yards left of their current position. “Where’s he hit?” Although now that their eyes had adjusted and the few clouds overhead had passed, allowing the moonlight to illuminate the road, the shadows from the trees alongside the road still created a gloom that enshrouded the details of objects close at hand. “I can’t tell, Sarge.” “We can’t bunch up,” Saunders muttered just as another bullet whizzed through the air, disturbingly close to the group, as manifested by the ping that followed milliseconds later as bullet connected with rock. Kirby’s protest was muffled slightly by his helmet as he hugged it over his head and melded himself to the earth. “We can die all together as well as we can alone.” “Caje, take a look at…” Caje slipped away, and Sarge and Kirby leaned protectively over Doc, keeping low but using their hands to feel for the telltale dampness of a wound. Kirby involuntarily gasped as he found it first. A large crease, about a half inch wide and several inches long spanned across Doc’s ribcage. Without saying a word, he grabbed Saunders’ hand and placed it on Doc’s left side, knowing the Sarge would take only a moment to find the large crease. As Saunders grunted and withdrew his hand from Doc’s wet field jacket, Kirby placed a sulfa pack in his hand. “Well, Sarge?” “Doesn’t feel too bad. Long but not deep, I think.” Without being asked, Kirby reached over and pulled Doc’s shirt from his pants, pushing it up so that Saunders could get a better angle for dressing the wound. Doc started to stir. “Shhhh, Doc. Take it easy. You’ve been hit.” Saunders’ voice unconsciously mimicked the gentle yet reassuring tone that Doc usually took with injured men of the squad. Unlike Doc, however, his fingers could not deftly unwind the bandage in the dark and Kirby smiled to himself as soft curses punctuated Saunders’ attempt to bandage the unseen wound. “There.” Saunders leaned back slightly. Kirby peered across the road as he waited for Saunders to detail their next move. The BAR man’s eyes were now better able to make out forms from the shadows. Good, he could not see the rest of the squad, though he could guess by the location of the jeeps approximately where they would have taken cover. Of course, an experienced sniper could do the same. The sniping wasn’t unexpected. Even though everyone knew that the hostilities would formally end within days, if not tomorrow as predicted, there were always some who would not give up. Well, what could you expect? If you’d been told you were the master race for as long as you could remember, surrendering to the rag tag American forces would seem like the ultimate betrayal. Maybe the Russians could provide a better image of the winner… Kirby thoughts were interrupted not Saunders, but by the medic. “Sarge, how bad is it?” Kirby grinned to himself at the role reversal the question constituted, and tore his eyes away from the treacherous gloom. “Not too bad, I don’t think. Feels like you got creased. Right across the ribs, though. Probably hurts like hell.” *** Doc grunted in response and ran his fingers over the bandage on his side. The long, uneven wadded lump of gauze and the amount of tape used brought a ghost of a smile to his lips. He could only image the language that had accompanied this bandaging job. It did hurt like hell. Of course, that was probably normal. How many times had he told soldiers that “it wasn’t too bad”, though from their eyes he could see that their bodies were telling them otherwise. This was his own first personal experience. And Sarge didn’t think it was too bad. Maybe he should have been more sympathetic over the past months… Sarge reached down and squeezed his hand. “Kirby’s here, I gotta go check on Caje. He’s been with that other guy for a while.” The other guy? Suddenly, Doc remembered what had happened. He struggle to sit up and instinctively reached around for his medical bag at the same time. Kirby held him firmly down with one hand on his chest. “Whoa, Doc. You don’t need to be going anywhere. He’s just another Kraut. Looks to me like they’re shooting each other now. We just got in the middle of it.” “Actually, I don’t believe he is a Kraut.” Caje materialized beside Kirby, one hand reassuringly on his shoulder before Kirby could ready his BAR. “He ain’t a Kraut?” Though he could make out nothing in the dimness, Kirby looked over toward where Sarge and unknown man were. Whispered voices were just audible if you knew which direction to cock your ear. “Is he hurt bad, Caje?” “What is he, then?” Doc and Kirby’s questions came at the same time. “He says he’s Russian.” Caje’s words were clipped. “And don’t worry Doc, he’s beyond your help. Beyond anybody’s help…” The last comment was barely audible. “A Russian? I didn’t see him! I mean it was dark and then…” “Kirby, you couldn’t see him. He was already hit by this sniper. He didn’t have long anyway. Now keep it down.” Caje peered closer at Doc. “Sarge told me.” His fingers tapped lightly over the bandage as if to reassure himself of Saunders’ prognosis. Then, surprisingly gently, he brushed Doc’s hair back from his forehead. “Not going to be sick, are you Doc?” The words were amused but the concern evident. “I always feel like I’m going to be when I get hit.” Doc started to smile at the rare personal admittance from the scout, then realized he did indeed feel distinctly nauseated. He fought down the bile in his throat, not wanting at this moment to sit up. His side felt like it was on fire, and every breath felt like he was being stabbed. Like I got a really bad stitch in my side, he thought, though he recognized the mounting hysteria in the idea. “Kirby, give Doc a drink of water.” “What about your canteen?” The rare patience Caje exhibited with Doc did not extend itself to Kirby. “Just do it. He needs it,” Caje hissed. Atypically, he added an explanation, clearly aimed more at Doc than Kirby. “Left my canteen over there.” Caje shifted slightly, his head turning slowly and deliberately as he scanned the shadows for any telltale movement. His voice remained low as he simultaneously explained Saunders’ plan to the others. “Kirby, I’m going to make a break for the first jeep, trying to draw the attention of the sniper. You wait for the sniper to get a bead on me then get Doc to the second jeep. Sarge’ll try to get an idea of where the guy is and pin him down with the Thompson. You, McCall, and Littlejohn are to get Doc back to HQ along with this.” Caje slipped his hand into his jacket and brought out something small and white but undistinguishable in the faint light. “What is it?” Kirby took what he could now see was several small pieces of paper from Caje’s outreached hand. “Not important,” Caje snapped, then shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just for HQ’s eyes. Lt. Hanley only. Tell him to do with it what he thinks best. But tell him Sarge thinks it’s legit.” Caje’s tone gentled. “Doc, you up for a dash to the jeep, or should I go find Littlejohn to help Kirby out first?” “I’m up for it, Caje.” Doc tried to keep the involuntary tremors that were shaking his body from creeping into his voice. As usual, though, he focused on what was not being said. “What about the other guy, and you and Sarge?” “He’s not going to make it.” Doc detected just the smallest amount of regret in a voice. It surprised him; Caje usually did not waste emotion, especially on Krauts. No, wait, he said he was Russian. Doc was finding it increasingly difficult to hold a clear line of thinking. It took him a moment to remember the second part of his question. “And you and Sarge?” He prompted. Caje leaned down and Doc could detect the grim smile as the white teeth flashed momentarily in the moonlight. “Somebody shot our medic. We need to take care of that.” Doc struggled in earnest to sit up. “Caje, ya’ll don’t need to…” He didn’t get finish. He wasn’t sure if he could anyway. The pain in his side was unbelievable, and he barely heard the end of Caje’s bemused response. “…have to do it anyway, Doc. We’re not the only patrol that is going to be coming through here.” Doc concentrated on breathing steadily and holding the pain at bay. He knew Kirby would ask the obvious questions about the plan, and he was not disappointed. “It’d make more sense if one of us stayed here to help you and Sarge. That jeep is going to be crowded. Besides…” Caje interrupted calmly, leaving no room for questions or debate. “That information has to get back.” He paused for a moment then added, “And so does Doc.” He didn’t need to explain that the increased number of bodies in the jeep ensured that potential additional snipers would have multiple targets from which to choose. The sheer number of people in the jeep should guarantee that whatever was so important in those pieces of paper made it back to headquarters. Kirby joined Caje in his scrutiny of the shadows. After a moment he gave up. “Maybe he’s gone. It’s dead out there.” Doc saw Caje stiffen and fix his attention on something only he saw or sensed. “It’s not, Kirby. But it soon will be.” He slid into the inky darkness, his voice trailing behind. “In two. Be ready.” Kirby leaned over Doc, trying to slide his arm behind the medic’s head, muttering to himself. “That guy’s starting to give me the creeps.” Realizing Kirby’s intent, Doc decided to relieve them both of the discomfort and pushed himself into a sitting position using his elbows and forearms. For a moment, everything swirled around him, and the darkness made it additionally difficult to discern which way was which. “You sure you can do this?” Doc could sense Kirby’s skepticism in the tone of the question. “Yeah, yeah.” Doc wasn’t sure himself, but he didn’t want to betray that to Kirby. The plan, such as it was, didn’t allow much room for hedging. Not that anything out here ever did… To distract Kirby’s evident concern, Doc addressed the BAR man’s previous comment. “What do you mean, Caje is starting to give you the creeps?” “Aww, I don’t know. He’s just liking it too much…he’s changed. Didn’t used to be a game…” Kirby halted and pushed Doc up onto his feet. “Time to move.” Footsteps could be heard in the dark, even over Doc’s harsh breathing. Kirby was propelling him forward, his arm still behind Doc’s shoulders. At this point, Kirby held nothing back on account of Doc’s condition. In action, Doc knew, men were taken at their word—undue worry or concern were not appropriate. When they approached the second jeep, Doc could see and hear the first jeep move out. As predicted the sniper seemed to focus on the obvious movement, and two shots fired in rapid succession. Reaching the side of the jeep and faced with getting back over the side, Doc started to wonder if he should have given a different message about his abilities. Fortunately, Littlejohn’s voice rumbled in his ear. “Need a hand, Doc?” The man’s two large hands reach under his shoulders and boost him over the side of the jeep. Doc couldn’t break his tumble into the floorboard, and a reluctance cry of agony escaped. Someone, Doc wasn’t certain whom, turned the ignition, and suddenly Littlejohn landed nearly on top of him, accompanied by the report of automatic fire. Sarge…Doc thought, as the jeep lurched hard to the side. Whoever was driving was doing a u turn, and the force caused Doc to bang his head on the back of the passenger’s seat for the second time that night. “What are we goin’ this way for, Kirby?” Despite the involuntary tears blurring his vision, Doc could now see that McCall was in the passenger’s seat, Kirby hunched over the steering wheel. Littlejohn’s position was already all too clear. “We’ve already been this way, and we didn’t get shot at. Either way we can get back to camp. I figure this way has got to be safer.” Into the silence that followed, Kirby added defensively, “For the information.” After a moment more of silence, he added a little more softly, “And for Doc.” “Doc, where you hit? Caje didn’t say.” Littlejohn’s voice betrayed his anxiety, and he backed away from the medic as best he could in the small space. Doc held up one hand, barely visible in the moonlight. He listened, but there were no more sounds of combat. Nothing in the night air betrayed what had happened. Nothing but the incredible pain in his side. “It’s just a crease, Littlejohn. Hurt’s like hell, but Sarge bandaged it up lickety split.” Doc felt some of the tenseness leave the big soldier crammed next to him. “Yeah, those can be a bitch.” McCall leaned around and asked, “You need some aspirin to take the edge off, Doc?” No, what I need is a shot of morphine. The thought came unbidden to Doc’s mind. Shocked, he didn’t answer at first. Surely he could handle a little bit of pain. He always told himself he could do it when the time came. Goodness knew, he had seen a lot of it, and a lot more at times of it, with the men in this group. It was just a crease. He could picture it in his head—a long, bloody line on his side, about four inches from the feel of it. The skin would just start be starting to puff at the sides as fluid rushed to the damaged area. Areas on the wound would begin to darken as blood finally dried and started to form a crusty residue, the beginnings of the scab that would eventually form. If the wound wasn’t too wide… And even if it was too wide, it was only 45 minutes or so back to camp. Not enough time for an infection to really set in. Not enough time to bleed to death. It was not like this occurred in the heat of battle, where it could be hours, or even a day, before the wound was properly attended to. Nope he would be back and stitched up within the hour, and finally be one with the rest of the guys in the squad. At least in terms of battle wounds… “Doc, you okay?” McCall was still turned, staring at Doc anxiously. Doc shook his head. He wasn’t prone to woolgathering. Must be a little shock. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just think this sucker is bleeding a little more than I counted on.” Littlejohn reached over and felt around until his hand made contact with the bandage. “Hey, careful there. What are you doing?” Doc snapped. “Just checking to see how you’re bleeding. Not through your bandage, yet.” Littlejohn’s tone was indignant. “Oh, uh, sorry.” Six months ago, Doc thought, it would have been Littlejohn apologizing profusely, even though there wasn’t anything for which to apologize. The large soldier had become tougher, notably since the death of Billy and his own injury at Christmas. It was as though without being able to hear others as well, Littlejohn had become more sure of his own thoughts. They had all changed, mused Doc. He settled against the back of McCall’s seat, leaning slightly to the right to relieve some of the pressure from the wound across his left ribs. The stars looked the same as they had thirty minutes or so ago, before this all happened. Hell, they looked the same as they did three years ago, riding in the back of Pilgrim Was he the same person? Nothing had changed as far as what he wanted. In fact, if anything, now that Doc had seen more of the world and experienced the satisfaction of helping others, he was almost more certain than ever of what he wanted. Suddenly, he was bounced up in the air, colliding hard with both Littlejohn and the butt of his rifle. The pain brought a reluctant groan to his lips. McCall reached over and cuffed Kirby hard on the shoulder. “Weren’t you driving earlier? How could you forget a hole that size?!” McCall turned around, ignoring Kirby’s protests about the number of holes he had seen during this roll and just what he would like to put in any particular hole if McCall didn’t… “Doc, you okay?” Though the question was well intentioned, Doc couldn’t squelch his impatience. “Yes, fine, McCall. I wish everyone would stop asking me that!” The startled silence that followed was broken a moment later by Kirby’s wry observation, “Well, Doc, now you know how we’ve been feeling these past months.” He snickered, then drawled in his best imitation of an Arkansas accent, “How ya’ feelin’? Does this hurt? How about his? Why don’t I hold this here cut together with some leftover horseglue and a rusty needle from the last war? Better? Does that hurt?” Doc let out an exaggerated sigh. “Ya’ll certainly appreciated me when you had bullets in your sides.” Knowing snickers accompanied the comment and any tension in the car dissipated into the cool night air. But, Doc thought to himself, the bullet wasn’t actually in his side. In fact, given the amount of pain he was currently in from just a graze, perhaps he hadn’t appreciated the toughness of these men at all. He had seen them all, Kirby included, hold silent and even complete actions that would challenge a sound man while blood flowed freely from open wounds, old wounds, knife wounds and even broken bones. And now here he was, with his first real bullet wound, and only a gash in the side at that, and it was all he could do not to scream at every bump and hole in the road that Kirby hit. His impatience with himself was growing, even as he felt increasingly lightheaded. How as a doctor would he deal with people who came to him with mundane problems? Things that weren’t really problems? He hadn’t really thought about that before. But now, here he was with a wound in his side that probably would not slow one of these men—hell, he’d probably have to drag it out of Sarge or Caje that it had even happened—and the pain was nearly overwhelming him. But it was nothing, a mere scratch along his side! Sarge had said so… He smacked his closed fist down on the cold metal floor of the jeep. The sensation did not bring the desired clarity to his thoughts, only a concerned look from Littlejohn, who wisely did not ask the obvious question again. No, I am not alright. I do not feel the same… The revelation was nearly as painful as his side. He was not the same. Kirby was not the same, Littlejohn was not the same. Sarge and Caje were not the same…Like it or not, the war had touched them all, changed them all, molding them and melding them into twisted versions of what they once were. He thought nearly hysterically of one of those Picasso paintings he had seen in a magazine once, where all the parts of a face were recognizable, but mixed up so as to resemble his Aunt Jenny after her stroke. He was not in control of this situation—he never was. All that time spent listening to men, bandaging their feelings as well as their wounds—what was he thinking? This war was not a means to an end for him. There was no way he could go back and listen to someone go on and on about their—their boils for Christsake! Just look at right now—he couldn’t even bear to think about his own reaction to this little bit of pain he was experiencing. What a baby! How could he feel this way after holding a man’s hand, a hand no longer attached to his body? After using his fingers to close the bloody gaping wound on the side a man’s neck. After stuffing an eyeball back in the socket after the concussive force of a grenade launched it from its place? There was no way he could do this. He had to get out. He was going the wrong way. He scrambled to his feet…just as the jeep bottomed out. Suddenly, he was flying through the stars, wondering again how they continued to remain constant. ***** He was floating. Floating in a whirl of pain and numbness. Listening to voices he knew talk about things he didn’t understand… “What was Doc doing?” Kirby shifted his BAR to a less uncomfortable position. He wished Sarge and Caje were here. The point position was not unfamiliar to him, just uncomfortable. He didn’t like being out in front. But Doc hadn’t moved after he sailed over the front of the jeep and landed alongside the road. And the jeep was a total loss. McCall thought it was the axle—Kirby agreed. Of course, he would have agreed if McCall said it was the distributor, the radiator, or the lugnut holding the supply box to the backside. Kirby knew when areas were outside his realm of understanding. Only recently had he begun to admit it, though. Luckily there was a portable stretcher unit tucked in the back side. Littlejohn had located it when looking for Doc’s medical bag. The first argument that ensued was what was wrong with Doc. While McCall and Kirby argued, Littlejohn quietly ran his large hands along Doc’s legs and arms, searching for the obvious broken limb. Satisfied that at least nothing was poking through the skin, he turned his attention to the bandage on the side. It still was not bleeding heavily. Scratching his own head, he then turned his attention to Doc’s neck and head. The exploration was less sure, and there were no conclusions that any of them could draw. So they had placed Doc on the stretcher and set out on foot, following the road but staying off of it, despite the temptation of smoother footing and better light. All agreed that it was best to have Kirby free to use his heavier firepower, despite his known lack of direction. The road would provide the way, if not the avenue… “I think the question is still what you were doing, Kirby.” McCall’s heavy breathing only added to the exasperation in his voice. While Doc was one of the lighter men in the squad—thankfully—the traipsing back in the dark was taking its toll on the men. “That crater took up the entire road.” Littlejohns’ voice rumbled in support. Kirby was silent for a moment then countered, “Well, if it took up the entire road, smart guy, how was I supposed to miss it?” “We came this way before, Kirby. You missed it then…” Kirby cut off McCall’s dry and inarguable comment. “Aw, shut up and take five. Ya’ll sound like you’re already out of shape from lazing around the past few days.” Littlejohn and McCall carefully lowered the stretcher to the ground. McCall stretched out his arms with a long, exaggerated sigh. “For a little guy, Doc sure weighs a ton.” “No, he don’t. Like I said, you guys are just getting fat and lazy. I bet when I come see you stateside even five weeks after our boat lands, you’ll look like one of Littlejohn’s prize pigs.” Kirby paused at a sound out in the darkness. Once satisfied that he could not catalogue it as bootstep or any type of footstep, magazine loading or unloading, or any of the other miscellaneous sounds he could now categorize in a fraction of a second, he continued. “You are going back to the pig farm, aren’t you Littlejohn?” When no answer was forthcoming, he raised his voice slightly and leaned back toward the big soldier. “Littlejohn?” Littlejohn looked up, his attention drawn more by the movement than Kirby’s voice. He had long ago learned to tune that out, even before his hearing was affected by that 88 at Christmas. “I’m starting to get really worried about Doc, Kirby.” Kirby approached the still form on the stretcher over which Littlejohn was leaning, motioning at the same time for McCall to step away from the group and keep watch. He peered down then squatted next to the medic for a better look. “I dunno, Littlejohn. We’ve all been out longer than this. Remember Christmas?” At Littlejohn’s snort, Kirby added, “Well, maybe not, but that’s my point. You were out for days. ‘Course, maybe you’re right, looking at the way you came back maybe we should be more worried.” Littlejohn shook his head with disgust. “This is no joke, Kirby. This is Doc. Why do you approach everything as if it were a joke?” Kirby looked up at Littlejohn. “I don’t know, Littlejohn. How would you like me to deal with it?” He paused then continued in a sharp but measured manner. “This whole bullshit war, no matter what, something bad happens. Look at tonight—just going for a ride. A simple ride. Can’t even do that. And this damn thing is supposed to be over tomorrow. I’ll tell you what: It wouldn’t surprise me if I’m walking down the street in Chicago a couple of months from now and some Kraut opens up fire on me from a window, right as I’m entering Frankie’s for a steak and beer.” Kirby’s voice got softer, but more insistent. “So, yeah, maybe I joke about it. Maybe I’ve joked about it all since landing. But somehow, I think when I land Stateside, I may find that I can’t ever laugh again.” Littlejohn was startled at the outburst, but had the sense to remain quiet in the moments that followed. Finally, as Kirby was starting to look embarrassed by his tirade, Littlejohn broke the silence. “I suppose we’ve all dealt with it our own way.” Kirby nodded quickly and looked away, unsure of how to respond to the frank emotion in Littlejohn’s voice. The walls that had been built through societal expectation and role assignment from an early age for these men, and bolstered by the raw carnage of the past months, were all that had protected many from the sensual onslaught that the war had brought. The smell of blood and cordite, the crash of artillery and the sound of bullets hitting flesh, the unbelievable heat and cold, the constant hunger...the presence of death all around. Kirby wiped at his eyes, and stood, scuffing at the ground and scowling. “Aww, shit.” He looked toward McCall and the covering darkness that could and did hide anything. “McCall, let’s move out in two,” his stage whisper was certain, revealing none of the emotion that had just rent the evening. Kirby remained standing, fooling with the bolt grip, his unease clearly reflected in the amount of attention he was studiously paying his weapon when it had not been fired all evening. He was aware in a moment of Littlejohn leaving Doc’s side and approaching, but he didn’t look up. “Kirby.” Littlejohn stood right before him. “Kirby?” Kirby still did not look up. “Kirby!” Littlejohn’s voice was insistent. “What?!” Kirby’s embarrassment at his uncharacteristic outburst of a moment ago was transparently apparent, despite his carefully adopted slouching stance and the continued working of the action on his BAR. “It’s okay.” Littlejohn’s large hand reached out tentatively and gripped the BAR man’s bony shoulder. Kirby jumped back as though poked with a branding iron. Kirby could feel Littlejohn’s thoughtful attention focused on him. An exchange like this had never happened between the two of the, though they had been in situations much more dire. But Kirby knew the outburst that had just occurred was not entirely due to the events of this particular evening. Things were soon going to change—maybe for the better. But they would never be the same as they were before he met these men. Once again, Kirby wished Doc would hurry and wake up. Darkness he could deal with, snipers…even a wounded comrade. But serious and exchanged confidences, however reluctant….well, that was Doc’s territory. “Hey, Kirby, remember how messed up I was after...” Littlejohn’s words were hurried, indicating own discomfort at Kirby’s outburst. Just for a second, Littlejohn’s voice started to falter, but he resolutely continued, “after Billy?” He couldn’t continue. It was Littlejohn’s turn to focus on something else. He chose a small cut on his hand, somehow attained in all the mayhem of the past few hours. Kirby had noticed him examining and sucking on the bloody cut a few moments ago while hunched over Doc. Now the big soldier used his thumb to rub the small piece of loosened skin on one side back and forth as he spoke softly. “I think I thought that protecting Billy—as young and, well, innocent, as he was—well, I was trying to protect that part of myself. At least that’s what Doc said. And when Billy went, that didn’t mean I was gone. Maybe just that part of me.” The silence was uncomfortable, the feelings too raw. “Hey, Kirby, look at this.” McCall appeared out of the darkness and stuck his finger right on Kirby’s BAR, directly in his line of sight. The top half of his left ring finger was missing. Only the knuckle and below remained, unscarred as though nothing had happened. “Yeah, I’ve seen. So?” “So, have you really looked at it? I mean really?” McCall didn’t wait for Kirby to answer. “Didn’t seem like much as first, ya’ know. In the first few minutes. But then it just kept bleeding and bleeding. I coulda’ died if Doc hadn’t gotten me patched up ‘till we got the aid station.” “So, what’s your point?” Kirby was anxious to move on. “I got two, actually.” McCall folded over the deformed digit along with the rest on his hand then held up his index finger in Kirby’s face. “First, losing this little bit a’ finger could have killed me. Who knew? But Doc did. So, Doc might look like he has just a scratch, but…we don’t know what we’re dealing with here, we better hurry up and get Doc back.” He paused to make sure he had both Littlejohn and Kirby’s attention. “Second, losing this little bit of finger could have killed me.” “You said that already.” “Yeah, and I’m trying to make a point.” “Well, let’s do it as we move out—I got your first point.” Kirby moved out without waiting for the others to follow. McCall and Littlejohn stooped down to pick up the stretcher. As they set out, Kirby slowed his pace in order to remain closer than he had earlier, unwilling to admit his curiosity as to McCall’s second point, but wanting to hear whatever might come next. He had stared at the amputated digit stealthily for months, never mentioning it because McCall never did. Sarge had part of a finger missing, too. But Kirby wasn’t sure how that had happened. Probably back in Italy… Visible wounds. Even as a combat hardened veteran, they fascinated him. The new kids coming over stared with morbid fascination as the deep scar running up Caje’s cheek and disappearing nearly into his eye. It had just started to fade from angry red to purple over the past few months. It would probably never go away completely, Kirby had overheard Doc saying soon after it happened at Christmas. But it would fade to where it was not nearly so visible. Littlejohn’s scars were not as noticeable to newcomers, but Kirby saw them. He saw them in the way you had to make sure you directed your comments toward his left ear, the way he grunted when he got up quickly from the abuse his knees had taken. And more visible to Kirby, the way his laughter rarely rumbled around a campfire anymore. “…’cause I gotta tell ya’, it took me weeks to look at it.” Kirby shook his head as he became aware of McCall talking to Littlejohn. He wanted to hear what McCall was saying. It really wouldn’t do to woolgather out here and end up with some nasty looking scar somewhere where kids would look and point their little monkey fingers at him. “What you talking about, McCall?” “Kirby, some kind of point man you are. Aren’t you paying attention to anything?” McCall’s deep voice held a clear touch of impatience. “Yeah, you meathead. I’m paying attention to what’s out here.” Kirby gestured vaguely with his left hand. Over the past few minutes, clouds had moved in overhead, obscuring the moon. The illuminated roadway that they had been following was now in darkness and their own position alongside it thrust into such gloom that their pace slowed to nearly a crawl. Kirby had to make a decision, and he hated making decisions. Decisions of this sort, anyway…Throw the dice for his last $15, he could do that over and over, and sleep like a baby that night, never reliving his decision no matter the outcome. Decide whether to take the road and move quicker toward help for Doc or stay by the side of the road and avoid more casualties—well, that was a question for Sarge, not a mere private. Some people said the war helped you find out what kind of man you were, but Kirby had never had any doubts. He had fulfilled his duties as a private perfectly, protesting on the few occasions that a promotion to PFC had been thrust his way, and managing to return back to his predetermined level as quickly as possible. A low moan from Doc pushed Kirby from vacillation to action. “You guys, let’s get up on the road. It’s so dark I don’t think anyone’s gonna get a good eye on us right now. We aren’t making any time down here.” “I don’t know, Kirby, Sarge would probably not…” “Sarge isn’t here, now, is he Littlejohn?” “I’ve got to agree with Littlejohn, Kirby. We’re slow as it is, and any sniper sitting and waiting is going to focus on our movement, with or without good light. We’re better off down here.” “Well, Doc ain’t here, McCall, and I don’t know what we’re dealing with. As far as Doc, I mean. You just said that not 10 minutes ago yourself. And I do know one thing—that guy ran out in real fire time and time again for all of us. And we’re just talking about there maybe bein’ another sniper out there.” Kirby stopped and waited while the other two caught up, then looked down at Doc’s unresponsive form as if to confirm his decision. “You know, I don’t think that sniper could make it all the way back here, ‘specially with Caje and Sarge on his tail. And we came this way before, as you so kindly pointed out, without anything happening. But if something happens to Doc…” He left the thought trailing in the night air. McCall nodded his head briskly, though the motion could only be sensed and not seen in the dark. “Damned if we do, damned if we don’t. Okay, Kirby.” The group climbed the short incline to the roadway, but Littlejohn was still not ready to let the issue go completely. “What about when we get to the village? I don’t know about staying on the road then. Right through the middle of a Kraut town at night.” Kirby didn’t answer immediately. Truth was, he hadn’t thought that far ahead. With an exaggerated sigh, the BAR man ruminated again on why he didn’t care for making decisions. Because it’s never finished. You make one, and a whole new set of issues pop up. “Kirby?” “What Littlejohn? Who put me in charge anyway? I’m just on point—that don’t make me in charge. You don’t see Caje telling us all what to do.” They walked in silence for several minutes, the lack of moonlight making their footing even on the road uncertain. The winters were harsh in Germany, and there had been no upkeep on these roadways this past winter, as well as continued Allied bombing. Smaller artillery had also contributed to the pockmarked surface. Kirby heard McCall curse fluently as he twisted his ankle yet again. “Littlejohn, why don’t you take this end of the stretcher for a while? I can’t see a damned thing, and my ankles are killing me.” “I would, but I think we’re supposed to keep Doc’s head elevated.” Silence followed for a moment, then McCall asked slowly, “And why can’t we keep Doc’s head elevated if you’re behind me?” “Because I’ll still be taller than you.” McCall laughed outright in the darkness. “You know, big guy, some of the reppledepple boys might fall for that, but give me a break and turn around. Doc don’t care if he’s going forward or backward.” *** Listening to the latest round of bickering brought a slight smile to Doc’s lips that the others probably could not have seen even in broad daylight. He had caught bits and snatches of conversation, at some point finding himself following a conversation without knowing when he had started listening. Pieces of the conversation would stick in his mind, diverting him from the current banter between the soldiers and taking him in his own direction. He remembered distinctly when McCall lost the top of his left ring finger. The blood, the horror he felt and tried to hide from McCall when he the amputated digit landed in front of him in the small foxhole they were sharing. In some ways, though, he was sure McCall had been braver than he during the incident. The soldier after a shocked pause had allowed Doc to tightly wrap the small stump, then not a few minutes later was providing much needed cover fire for Sarge and Caje. Doc’s thoughts closed loop back to his reflections earlier. How much earlier he wasn’t certain—time had lost its linearity in his current haze of pain. McCall lost a finger and hardly batted an eye. I got a scratch on me and I can’t even bring myself to sit up. What kind of man am I? He struggled to push through the pain and sit up. He could hear the consternation in the voices around him as they became aware of his actions. He felt the stretcher being placed non-too-gently on the ground, and sensed the warm breath of his squadmates in the evening air. They were crowding around him, looking at him, trying to find the answer to the same question he was asking himself. “What’s wrong?” Doc didn’t have an answer. The blessed darkness offered welcome relief. *** Kirby cursed silently to himself. Though he was proud of his hard-won knowledge of obscenities from every country he’d been in over the previous year, it was always the old standby’s that came first to his mind when approached in situations like this. He counted. At least ten Krauts. The firelight flickered, causing medals on their uniforms to glow. The light also reflected off of rifles and handguns being cleaned. One large soldier had his boots off, and was slowly and methodically giving them what Kirby recognized as the old spitshine. The remnants of Saunders’ squad had decided to try and slip around the German village that lay a mile or so to the east of HQ. Though it would have been easier to follow the road straight through the village, somehow the idea of walking through an inhabited German village at night…well, some fears died hard, armistice or no potential armistice. There were no American occupiers in the village—yet. That would change tomorrow with the formal surrender. Some of the guys back at HQ had been talking about going into the village to party tomorrow night. But not the men of Saunders’s squad. Not the veterans anyway. It was one thing to get a beer from some French or Dutch girl whose village you had just liberated, but it was another to drink one from the hand of someone whose brother or father you may have killed. Nope, German villages and people—even little kids--were to be avoided at all cost, in Kirby’s mind. But now he had one of those decisions to make again. It was as though someone upstairs was laughing at him on this last night of official war, letting him know that his shirking of this responsibility had not gone unnoticed these past months. Kirby put his fact down in his hands a moment to think. The loamy, dark scent of the forest floor filled his nostrils, steadying him. The smell of dirt had become an unexpected comfort to him, a Chicago boy far more comfortable with concrete than compost before the war. But now Kirby associated the rich musty odor with good things—the end of shelling, camouflage from enemies, an afternoon nap... Hey, if you could smell it, then you weren’t part of it. They could either go back up to the road and go through the village, or try to slip around this group of Krauts. The other side of the road was not an option—too close to the drop off to the river that ran alongside the village. Funny, Kirby thought, they don’t have the discipline to have guards posted, but they’re givin’ their weapons some lovin’ in there. He shook his head and looked closer, and then it dawned on him. They’re preparing for the surrender! Of course—nobody spit shines their boots in the middle of the forest, or wears their medals. Tomorrow was the day, and they clearly wanted to look their best. The war was over, and they had lost. Kirby started to smile to himself, then stopped. What if it had been us who had lost? I wouldn’t a been polishing these boots. What would have happened? He hadn’t really thought about the big picture before, just when the war would end for himself. Kirby’s war ended with a bullet, a million dollar-er, shoveling shit for decking some officer… Looking at the whole thing, Kirby tried to think through what would have happened. A wholesale surrender? Time in a POW camp? Or would they have hightailed it somehow back to the beach and to England? One thing was for sure, they wouldn’t have been polishing their boots. These guys were losers in their own home, determined to look their best tomorrow in the face of defeat. Kirby was familiar with what that could do to a person; he’d seen it back in Chicago. It was bad enough to be a loser in front of strangers, but when you lose face in front of the neighborhood, well, it could make a person downright mean. They would backtrack some and go through the village. Tonight no one there would take a chance, because tomorrow their own dear Franz might be walking in the door. And loser Franz was a person to be afraid of. *** Kirby offered to let McCall lead for a while and take a break from the stretcher, but moments later the BAR man was again in front of McCall and Littlejohn as they carried Doc. The medic seemed to be neither improving nor getting worse. Littlejohn had changed the bandage as a matter of course, rather than necessity. Even in the dark he could tell that the bleeding remained minimal. “Hey, Kirby, why don’t you offer me a break?” Littlejohn grumbled. “’Cause, big guy, you do better at that stuff than the rest of us.” “You mean heavy lifting? Listen, Kirby, just because I’m full grown and you’re…” The image Kirby had seen moment ago played in his head as he interrupted the big soldier. “Truth is, I want to keep an ear open for more of them homeward bound Krauts. And you only got one ear since Christmas. You know that—that’s why Sarge never puts you on point.” “Sarge never put me on point before Christmas,” Littlejohn noted. “Yeah, well, you’re also a big target. And clumsy. I just wasn’t going to mention it—again.” Kirby’s usual edge was missing in the expected retort. His head was moving from side to side, listening for dissonant notes in the evening quartet of insects, wind rustled branches, skittering critters, and the rush of water from the gorge to their left. After several hundred yards of silence, McCall queried, “Kirby, what spooked you so bad back there?” “Whaddya mean?” Kirby didn’t break stride or stop his careful scrutiny of the woods to their right. “Whadda I mean? You came back here pale as a ghost, and didn’t even ask us what we thought. You sounded just like Sarge, barking out orders.” “Yeah, Kirby,” Littlejohn chimed in. “Those Krauts have big teeth or horns or something?” “All you guys do is complain all night that we don’t know what we’re doing. Now that I got a plan, you’re complaining again. I’m starting to know how Sarge feels. No wonder the man is a grump first class.” “Aw, Kirby, Littlejohn and I don’t mean anything by it. You know we trust your judgment. We just aren’t used to seeing something shake you like that.” Kirby did not immediately respond to McCall’s overture. Truth was, there were a couple of things in McCall’s observation that gave him pause. First off, those loser Krauts gathered round that fire scared him like he hadn’t been scared since maybe back in France. Or maybe, truthfully, back in Chicago as a kid. He knew them, he knew the uncertainty in their hearts--and he understood what it could do to a man. It could make him more dangerous and unpredictable than even a cornered Kraut with a full magazine. Yes, Kirby was definitely more afraid of the loser pack than a lone sniper. A lone sniper was cold, calculating—a thinking creature. But these men…He understood the emotions driving these defeated men to polish their boots and pin their medals. He knew how offended pride could turn to hate and self-loathing—emotions that eventually could turn from inward to outward. He knew how they would turn to bluster and eventually to downright meanness to secure a place at home that they felt they could not or were not willing to earn. Kirby stopped abruptly, causing McCall and Littlejohn to pull up. No one moved, each straining to hear and see in the murkiness of the German night. Finally, Littlejohn whispered, “Kirby, is there something out there?” Part Two |