Disclaimer: This is an original story based on the television show “Combat!” I do not own the characters and no money is made from this writing. Copyright 2002 by Shadowcat Author’s Note: Huge thanks to Bayonet for being my sounding board, to TXMedic for hosting, and to Eaglelady, Zeal, and the two previously mentioned ladies for hounding me until I published! All That Remains ********************************************************************************************* It was hot. Too hot to think, much less move. A full U.S. Army Company was camped in a four-mile radius, yet there was hardly any noticeable movement. Sergeant Chip Saunders, First Squad, Second Platoon, King Company, shifted slightly in order to stay squarely in his patch of shade. The pitiful ruins of yet another French village and the few trees that hadn't been knocked over or blown apart provided small areas of escape from the August sun. And every single one of them held one or two beat down dogfaces. The day-long hike here through the heat had drained the few reserves they had. Saunders moved his propped up blond head to search for his squad. Caje, off to the right, looked to have fallen asleep while sitting against a broken wall. Saunders guessed the scout would awaken soon enough, as soon as the sun fell on him again. Caje's hand still rested on his M1 on the ground next to him. The company had been at ease, but they were still too close to the front to let weapons out of sight. Saunders' Thompson lay across his own lap, ready to be quickly brought into service if needed. On the other hand, Kirby's BAR leaned up against his shard of wall, while the soldier himself lay stretched out along it, dozing and trying to stay shaded as long as possible. Doc had found a rather large patch of shade and was engaging in the activity that had kept him occupied for the past hour, the slow and careful unpacking, rearranging, and repacking of his medical kit. Littlejohn's card tricks were keeping him and Billy Nelson busy. Billy had been trying to get several of them down, but with little luck, seeing as how Littlejohn himself was having a hard time pulling them off. Saunders shifted again and closed his eyes, planning to slip back into his doze. But a familiar footfall registered on fading consciousness. It's not coming this way, he thought. It's too hot, there's no Kraut movement, no call for a patrol... But the dreaded footsteps came closer, closer, and finally stopped. "Saunders?" Stifling a sigh, Saunders cracked open a blue eye. Lieutenant Hanley, helmet tucked under his arm, stood at the noncom's feet. The apologetic look on the officer's face said it all. Slowly, Saunders came to his own feet. "Yes, Lieutenant?" "A squad from Love Company scouted out a small Kraut outpost about 4 miles northeast of here. That was two days ago." "Let me guess. The Germans picked up and moved." Hanley nodded. "Very recently. The question is why?" "Maybe they didn't like the weather," Caje drawled as he joined the two men. Apparently he hadn't been as asleep as Saunders had figured. "And," Hanley continued, "if they cleared out because they know we're here, we could have a serious problem." He pulled out a slightly damp map from his field jacket. "We need to see if there's any unusual movement or buildup in that area, or if it's just a routine shift. You'll be coming real close to the Kraut lines...." As Hanley conferred with Saunders, Caje waved at the watching Littlejohn, Billy, and Doc. They reluctantly shrugged into their discarded jackets and trudged over to join their fellows. Along the way, Littlejohn gently nudged Kirby with a foot. "Hey, Goldbrick, wake up." After Saunders tucked away the map, Kirby piped up, "Aw Lieutenant, why us? Why can't those Love jokers check it out?" Saunders noted that the heat had sapped a lot of the bite out of Kirby's protest. Hanley moved his gaze to the wiry soldier. "Love Company lost almost half during that Kraut thrust last night. They're still waiting for replacements and can't spare anyone right now." That sudden strike had caused a reshuffling of the American lines, sending King on a nine-mile hike through hilly French terrain. "Still don't see why it's gotta be us..." Kirby's mumbling trailed off under his sergeant's glare. "It'll be dark in a couple of hours, Lieutenant," Littlejohn pointed out. "That's why you need to be in position before then. It'll be safer, and if there is any major Kraut movement, they'll be doing it at night." "Unlike this man's Army." Eyes darted to Kirby, who was innocently adjusting his BAR strap. ********************************************************************************************** Littlejohn was the last to stumble into the dry, narrow creekbed. As soon as he indicated he wasn't in immediate danger of collapse, five sweaty, bedraggled soldiers turned to their sergeant, who was eyeing the map Hanley had given him. Each stop, the men hoped to see him give the "hole up" motion. It felt as if the air had only grown heavier and more stagnant. The map disappeared, the canteen came out, and the hand slashed down. Kirby let out a soft "woof" as he fell from his crouch into a sitting position. The waiting had begun. ********************************************************************************************* Finally, the sun vanished, and the radiant red, purple, and orange of a particularly beautiful summer sunset began to fade. Much to the relief of the six-man squad, the temperature started downward, degree by degree, although the wretched humidity remained high. The stars increased in brightness, and a half moon rose and cast its feeble light. "Alright, let's go." The men jumped slightly as Saunders' terse command broke the silence. Helmets were replaced, canteens were put away, and rifles were shouldered. "Caje, you're on point," as he gestured over his shoulder to the east. The lanky soldier nodded and crept up the side, dark eyes scanning the still countryside for any sign of movement. Finding none, he crouched down and waited as the remaining men arranged into a loose line. Saunders glanced over his squad, then started up the incline. ********************************************************************************************** The night had roused some semblance of life, as crickets' song and night bird's cries covered the slight sound of the Americans' progress. Caje's sharp eyes picked through the darkness, weaving around fallen branches and dips in the ground as the squad skirted a finger of a larger wood, never venturing beyond a split-second lunge from the sheltering darkness. Billy, third in line behind Saunders, took a hand from his rifle to swipe across his brow, then dried it on his pants. It was still hot, and the humidity clamped down, the gentle breeze hardly stirring the smothering blanket. Kirby, bringing up the rear, thought about that really big snowstorm back in Chicago when he was a kid. Dumped something like three feet on the ground. Snow sounded real good right about now.... Still thinking about cooling snow, he came within an inch of crashing into Littlejohn as the squad suddenly came to a halt. Kirby cursed silently and forced his concentration back. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he waited. Caje stood absolutely still, straining his ears and eyes to their utmost. Something was wrong. Something was off. And he had spent enough time in a war zone to know not to dismiss such feelings. He backtracked a few steps to stand next to his sergeant. Leaning very close, he whispered, "Something's not right, Sarge." Saunders did some quick calculations. They were about a quarter to half a mile southwest of where Love Company had reported the outpost, very close to current Kraut territory. But the fluidity of battle lines hadn't precluded crossing behind enemy lines. Combat instincts prickled as he took full stock of the situation. He nodded and clapped his scout on the shoulder. He then did his own backtracking and whispered to Billy to pass the word down the line; they had probably entered new Kraut territory. In the darkness, it was impossible to see the sniper perched in a tree less than 50 yards away. ********************************************************************************************** He was here because of his outstanding night vision and uncanny accuracy. He was the best in his company, and he knew it. Unlike most, he had trained for this from the beginning. This was his purpose, the task given to him by his country and his Fuehrer. Sighting down his rifle at the line of men, he tried to decide which one to take down first. Squinting in the faint moonlight, he judged each man quickly, sights jumping from man to man. When he spotted the medic in the center of the line, he moved on. He would not kill that American, if it could be helped. Good medics were becoming rarer and rarer. Perhaps this one could be of use. In the end, he decided on the second man in line. He moved with a loose-limbed ease that marked him as an experienced soldier. Perhaps he was the lieutenant or the sergeant. "Take the leaders first." The training memory darted across his mind as he carefully took aim, finger curling around the trigger.... The first man jerked to a sudden stop. The aim was momentarily lost as the whole line froze in place. A sniper of lesser experience would've taken the shots right then and there, but he knew that such a course of action, when they were alerted, would decrease the size of the kill and increase the chances of one's own death. He watched as the first walked backward to the intended target. Information flew down the line, and he could see the intensity double. Heads swung back and forth, eyes grew sharper, and rifles were raised a little higher. Holding himself absolutely still, he admitted to himself that he was impressed. This was no group of green recruits, but instead veterans honed by their time on the line. A ghost of a smile tugged at the thin lips. So, a challenge..... The plan hadn't been as foolhardy as it had sounded after all. The outpost near here, abandoned by a squad from his company earlier in the day. These men must be investigating...which means their unit is somewhere nearby. Perfect. As he mused, the squad began moving again, this time at a much faster speed, and at an angle that would take them out of his rifle's range. Quickly, he made his decision. After all, they should at least have the pleasure of reaching their destination. And he would have the pleasure of following them, savoring the anticipation. Waiting for a count of ten, he slung his rifle over his shoulders and smoothly exited his tree. The crescendo of crickets easily masked the crunch of his feet hitting the ground. The hunt was on. ********************************************************************************************** Doc glanced from side to side, straining to see what had caused their sudden stop. As he passed Billy's whisper to Littlejohn, Doc could almost feel eyes on him, waiting, waiting. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him, maybe it was the heat, maybe fatigue, but he became more and more certain someone else was here, and with unfriendly intentions. Littlejohn bent his head upwards, staring up into the trees off to the right. The dark tangle of leaves and branches revealed nothing. He spotted movement out of the corner of his eye and jerked his head, but it was only the swaying of a branch...wasn't it? The tension ratcheted up and up as the men struggled to make out something, anything. The sense of being hunted was becoming unbearable, and Saunders could feel his own palms beginning to slicken. They needed to get out of here, and fast. He looked up and waved his hand at Caje in a furious forward motion. Caje bobbed his head and took off at a fast lope, not quite an all-out run, but close. He angled off slightly, heading toward their destination, which was less than a quarter of a mile away by now. The rest of the squad followed, discipline and training keeping them in their line and at their pace. Finally, the feeling tapered off, spinning out thinner and thinner until it was gone. The slightly frenzied air to their movements vanished, and professionalism regained its hold. The dim outlines of a crumbling rock wall and sagging shack suddenly formed out of the night. The men slowed, and a high sweep of Saunders' arm sent the squad out into a wide fan, approaching the site from a variety of angles, using what cover was available. Away from the forest, the sounds of the crickets abated, and the crackle of heat-dried grass under their feet and around their ankles could be heard. Saunders and Caje, crouched as low as possible, stopped at the far east edge of the old stone fence. Neither man saw anything out of the ordinary, save the BAR muzzle sticking out from behind a rather scrawny bush. Focused ears heard nothing but crickets and the slight rattle of the summer wind. No voices, no rumbles of machinery, no humming of vehicles, nothing. A quick dart of Saunders' hand, and he and Caje surged up and went around the wall toward the wreck of a structure that had perhaps served as a woodshed. Caje stopped to the right of the door, Saunders to the left. In a move well-known to both, Caje kicked with his right foot, sending the decrepit door flying open for the charging sergeant. The hole in the roof admitted enough moonlight to see the long, narrow shack was empty. A faint smell of cigarette smoke still in the air testified to the recent occupation. Four crates in various states of disrepair were arranged in a table-chair formation and a multitude of bootprints crisscrossed the dirt floor. Two taller crates stood one on top of another, directly underneath the roof's gap. Caje followed Saunders' gaze, quickly leaned his rifle against a wall, and gingerly climbed the crates. Once up, he cautiously glanced out of the opening. What he saw explained why the Krauts had set up an outpost here. Looking almost due west, the vantage point gave an excellent view for a long way, cut off by the forest to the left. Caje realized with a jolt that if not for those trees, he might very well be able to see the ruins King Company was set up in. Swiftly jerking his head back down and hopping off of the perch, he reached for his rifle. "Almost perfect view west, Sarge," Caje said softly. "That forest is the only thing hiding Company." Blond eyebrows rose slightly. Repeating Caje's movements, Saunders swung up the boxes and glanced at the view. Picking his way down, a question began to tug at the back of his mind. This was a perfect spot, both to direct artillery and sight troop movement. Why had it been abandoned so suddenly? As his brain flipped the problem over and over, he reclaimed his weapon, crossed over to the door, which was now hanging on by a single broken hinge thanks to Caje, and signaled the rest of the squad to join them. Emerging from scattered positions, the men arranged themselves in a loose group around the door with Billy and Kirby facing outward. Caje quickly explained the situation as Saunders concentrated hard at the makeshift lookout. Instinct warned Saunders he'd better answer that question, and quickly. Doc piped up, voicing Saunders' thoughts. "Hey Sarge, if this is such a great spot, why'd they leave it?" "That's what I'm trying to figure out." ********************************************************************************************** He tilted his head to one side as he carefully settled himself into a V formed by two sturdy branches. It was actually rather comfortable, as tree positions go. In addition, he had a clear line of sight to the outpost recently deserted by his comrades. He was just in time to see the Americans leave what hiding they had found and join two others at the now broken door. One of them, he noticed, had found an amazingly well hidden fold in the terrain; his brain made careful note of its position, on the off chance the information could prove useful. Scrutinizing the way the men had arranged themselves, he lifted his rifle, which was painted as black as his fatigues, and sighted. With any luck, he could pick off the two facing out at once. Then, while the others turned to see what had happened, and perhaps tried to figure out where the shots had come from, he could take at least two of the others. And maybe he could still capture that medic. In doing so, he would set the events in motion. He saw his original target standing just within the doorframe, looking up, probably at the roof point. Unfortunately, this placement would make him the most difficult target. Pity. Aim taken, he touched the trigger. ********************************************************************************************** "They might've figured we were farther south." Littlejohn quietly rumbled. "But still..." Caje interjected. "Maybe we're just lucky!" Kirby threw over his shoulder impatiently. The cat-and-mouse of earlier had frayed his heat-exhausted nerves even further. He just wanted to get out of here...he imagined that watched feeling was back... Billy never really knew what tipped him off, or when the tiny glint of moonlight on dull metal registered on his sight. All he realized was that the flash, his bark of alarm, and the rifle shot all seemed to happen at once. If the situation has been less dangerous, the resulting movement might have been amusing. Kirby didn't even look before lunging backward, knocking Caje into the shadows. Littlejohn flopped forward, dragging Doc with him. Billy fell to his side and rapidly rolled, tucking his legs up as he went through the door, shocking himself with the grace of the maneuver. Saunders, faced with the sudden influx, jumped backwards and succeeded in running into the perched crates. They wobbled wildly, but did not fall. The men scrabbled up against the walls, yanking legs, helmets, and rifles out of the squares of moonlight thrown by the roof hole and doorway. Saunders, Doc, and Littlejohn were on one side, Caje, Kirby and Billy on the other. "Is anyone hit?" Saunders barked. After a quick flurry of patting, a chorus of "no’s" responded. A sniper! The sergeant mentally kicked himself. The heat had apparently sapped his brain, he thought. He should've figured it out from the first sense of being watched. The pieces flew together and clicked. They had been led out here, neat as you please, to prove that there was an American unit close by. They couldn't be sure, not with that forest in the way, and didn't feel like sending a patrol that close to a full company. So they laid out the bait by suddenly pulling out of a well-placed outpost, leaving behind a sharpshooting observer. They laid it out, and he had just snapped it up without a second thought. After a few seconds of hissing at himself, Saunders crawled as close to the door as he dared. Now he had to find a way to get them out of the trap he had walked into. Angling himself as best he could, he saw the undulating line of the woods swell out again, to a point about 90 yards away. The sniper would be somewhere in there. He wasn't about to stick his head out to get a real line of sight. There was no way any of them could chance it, not without knowing exactly where he was. And they couldn't just rake the trees with fire, either. A chorus of Thompson, Garand, or BAR shots could bring hell down on the six men. Not to mention some of them would probably be wounded or killed before they could incapacitate their stalker. And he knew that the trap was sprung. Now the Germans knew there was indeed a group of Americans to the southwest of the outpost, on the other side of the woods. They had to get out of here quickly before King Company was caught completely by surprise and in all likelihood wiped out. Saunders swung his head to look at Billy. "Did you see exactly where he was?" Billy's face wrinkled up as he concentrated. But try as he might, all he could remember was the glint, shot, and alarm all happening at once...while glancing up. That was it. "No, Sarge," he replied, sounding crestfallen. "Just that it was up in the trees. But I don't know which one." Kirby poked him gently in the ribs with his elbow. "Hey look, if it hadn't been for you, we'd probably be dead by now, ya know." That, and the grunts of assent that followed it, reassured Billy. But it didn't help their current problem. "Now what?" Littlejohn asked. Saunders had no answer. ********************************************************************************************** He swore aloud, and then cursed himself inwardly. How had that happened? The youngest-looking of them all, the one who had found the concealed notch, had looked up at him just as he fired. Then the men melted, or rather, fell into the shadows of the building. Now, he could see nothing at all. He cursed again. He could not fire blindly into the building, for old as the shack was, the walls were still thick and could possibly stop his bullets from this range. Wasting ammunition on shots that might not hit anything was abhorrent to him, to his training. With no excess movement, he left his comfortable seat and dropped from the lowest branch. Immediately, he hit the ground, stretching out on his stomach while eyeing the land before him. He remembered where the camouflaged dip was, but he doubted he'd get to it unseen, his black against the yellow-green of the grass. Yet, he had the advantage. They still thought him in the trees, and he could circle around, hugging the curve of the woods until he was completely out of their sight, and come up from behind them. Yes, that seemed a good plan of action. Of course, he could merely wait for his countrymen to arrive. One of their grenades, and it would be over quickly. No! This had become a matter of honor. They had escaped death from him twice, once by his own decision, once by accursed luck. He would take them, for they were his prey, and he was the hunter. He was the avatar of the Fuehrer. They would be his. A feral grin appeared on his face as he began to move forward under the cover of night and the crickets. Yes, they were his. ********************************************************************************************** Saunders pulled back to crouch against the wall. Possibilities raced across his mind, considered and quickly discarded. The wall panels were still stout, and even if enough of them could be removed to get out, the Americans could only travel in one direction, north, still away from their lines with very little chance of circling back before sunrise. And with Krauts moving in on Company, there was even less time. Moving. The word stuck in Saunders' head. Then realization hit him. The sniper wasn't tied to the tree. Their enemy could move around as he wished. Damn this heat! The squad leader's mind felt as sluggish as the air. But now, he felt the certainty that had saved his and his men's life on more than one occasion settle on him. He knew that sniper was on the move, and he wasn't moving away, but coming for them. Crawling forward into the position he had been in earlier, Saunders built a map in his mind's eye. Circling to the left would be difficult because of the stone wall's remnants. The Kraut would be coming around to their right, keeping to the forest line as long as possible, then sprinting across the space to the shadow of the building. The thought of grenades entered Saunders' awareness, but he doubted it. In his experience, snipers didn't often carry grenades. Even if this one was, it was doubtful he'd use them. The sniper sense of honor wouldn't let him. Saunders didn't like staking lives on his shaky guessing of an unknown man's character, but one did not survive long in a war without learning something of human nature, in particular the soldier's mind. "He's coming to us," Saunders informed the squad. They stiffened with surprise, five heads turning as one to the door, which showed the same moon shadowed landscape as before. Saunders, on the other hand, looked upward to the lookout in the roof. No, a head popping up through there would make for a perfect target, even for someone on the run. If the sniper was coming on the right, someone would have to go around the left and catch him from behind. The trick was timing. Too soon, and he’d see his pursuers, and in all likelihood, kill one of them. Too late, and they’d miss him completely, and he could come up behind them, as well as shoot anyone left inside the shack. It was like playing tag, trying to get the drop on the other. An all too deadly game. Slinging his Thompson over his shoulder, Saunders pulled his .45 from its holster. It would be much easier to get around a corner fast as opposed to the Thompson. He checked that the clip was securely in place and whispered, “Caje and I will go around and try to catch him. The rest of you stay up against the door wall. If we miss him, make him come in here to shoot.” Heads nodded in agreement, and Littlejohn took up on the right side of the door, Kirby wedged in behind him. Doc squeezed behind Billy on the left side. Saunders gestured Caje to come behind him. If he fouled up the timing, he would take the consequences on himself first. A last quick look at his squad’s positioning, and then he stepped quickly into the light. ********************************************************************************************** He was close now, coming in quickly. He had circled up and was now zeroing in on the shed’s northwest corner. The thrill of the chase sang in his veins, his heart swelled with pride, not for himself, but for his Fatherland, who had produced him, shaped him into what he was. He would bring glory, not to his name, but to that of his Fuehrer’s. He reached the corner, touching the rough wood with the fingers of his left hand. Every sense seemed to be heightened, and he imagined he could feel every splinter beneath his fingertips, that he could hear the heartbeats of the men inside. Removing his hand and grasping his rifle, he slid silently along the wall. Two more steps.... He froze. The knowledge of the hunter suddenly becoming the hunted flared within him. His head dipped slightly at the words that reached his ears in a language he did not know, but whose meaning could not be mistaken. He had lost. The gamble had not paid off, and now he must pay the price. And he would pay with all that remained..... ********************************************************************************************** A piece of Saunders’ mind was quietly amazed at how perfect the timing was. He whipped around the corner at precisely the right moment, catching the German less than ten steps away. The black-clad figure stopped immediately, hesitated, and then assumed the posture of one who knew the game was over. “Turn around! Drop the rifle!” Saunders barked as he felt rather than heard or saw Caje round the corner behind him. The figure stayed rigid as a statue in the pale moonlight. Two Americans stood in a firing stance, steady as stone. Even the wind stopped, leaving everything completely still. Then, as fast as lightning, the sniper whirled, snapping his rifle up with a smooth, practiced move. But he had no chance against two weapons already raised. Saunders’ shot took him high in the right shoulder. It had the desired effect, rifle dropping from a nerveless hand. Caje’s hit his left knee, which promptly folded and sent him toppling over, away from his weapon. “Doc!” Saunders snapped as he and Caje bounded forward. The medic instantly appeared around the far corner, with everyone else on his heels. Taking in the situation with a glance, Doc unslung his medical bag. Getting his first look at the German, Saunders started with shock. The man--no, boy-- couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Yet the blue eyes that stared up at him were decades older, mirroring the sergeant's own in more than just color. Furthermore, the black knit cap on his head had slipped, revealing hair so blond it was almost white. A perfect specimen of the perfect Aryan. ********************************************************************************************** He looked up into the face of the man that had beaten him, who looked much like what his biological father might have looked like. Blond and blue, like him. But his true father looked nothing like that, no, not at all. He twitched his left hand, finding the hilt of the knife that had been his since he had pledged his life to his country and his father. The price was a heavy one indeed, but his mind and heart were cleared of all thoughts of himself. After all, he had failed. And what was a failure compared to Germany? He smiled. ********************************************************************************************** The second Saunders saw that smile, he lunged for the boy’s left arm, but he was too late. With a move even faster than that of a few moments ago, the German drew a knife and plunged it unerringly into his own chest. The men crowded around him jerked in surprise as they looked at the fatal wound. If anything, the boy’s smile grew wider. “Blut und ehre,” he whispered. “Blut und ehre.” Then the eyes slid shut. ********************************************************************************************** The day was even hotter than the previous four had been. Needless to say, this did not improve Kirby’s already grouchy mood. He kicked ineffectually at a rock in front of him, succeeding only in sending up a small cloud of dust that remained hanging in the torpid air. “Come on Kirby, kicking poor, defenseless rocks won’t help anything,” Billy scolded from his position in the shadow of a leaning wall. “Besides, you’d probably go and hurt your toes,” Doc added, looking up from the 2-week old Stars and Stripes he had found somewhere. Caje, reading over Doc’s shoulder, darted a hand over his mouth so Kirby wouldn’t see his sudden smile. “Hey Kirby, want to learn some card tricks?” Littlejohn called over, fishing around inside the field jacket slung over a nearby boulder. Kirby pinched his eyes shut and wished fiercely that he were somewhere, anywhere but here. Well, maybe not quite anywhere, but just not here. He opened them to see Saunders and Lieutenant Hanley emerge from a nearby building and head in their general direction. Oh man, Kirby thought, don’t tell me we’ve got to go somewhere again. It’s too hot for that.... King Company had wriggled out from underneath that surprise attack three days ago with bare minutes to spare. Only by sprinting, staggering, and running themselves into the ground had they gotten back in time to warn and pull out. It had been a truly exhausting experience, and the gloom that had pervaded the squad had only lifted this morning with the surprise of fresh fruit and the news the weather was going to break soon. “Lieutenant....,” Kirby’s plaintive call brought a half smile to Hanley’s face. He shook his head. “No Kirby, no patrol, just wandering over.” Littlejohn threw his arm in the air triumphantly, clenching a beat-up deck of cards. “Found ‘em!” “Found what?” Hanley asked as he turned to look at Littlejohn. “The cards....you should see some of the tricks you can do with these!” “Alright,” Hanley moved over and leaned against the boulder with Littlejohn’s field jacket hung on it. “Show me some.” Littlejohn’s eyes widened slightly, but he swallowed and proceeded to do a shuffling trick....which ended up flying in numerous directions in a berserk fountain of cards. Everyone, even Kirby, erupted in laughter. After a moment, Littlejohn grinned and began to gather up his cards. Hanley stooped down to get those scattered around his own boots. Saunders drew in a deep breath and tried not to burst into another spate of laughter. He felt better, and the weight that had settled on his shoulders since that night three days ago lifted and disappeared. “Blut und ehre,” he had discovered, meant “blood and honor,” the motto of the Hitler Youth. That boy had been raised as a child of the Reich, believing only in it and completely devoted to whatever task was handed to him by it. Saunders decided he could understand that kind of devotion. For he felt it also, but it was to the men in his charge, to his friends. He would give up everything for them, and he knew they would do the same for him and for each other. They were tied together by bonds stronger than blood or honor. Theirs were of friendship, loyalty, and trust. And, he knew, that was why they would win. THE END |
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