Author: Doc Two (aka Doc aka DII). Copyright October 2004 Synopsis: A mission Saunders never wanted turns sour in ways he never expected. Acknowledgements: Many thanks to the list members of Combatfanfic for patience above and beyond the call of duty. A steady stream of hurricanes kept me disconnecting and reconnecting my computer for a month! And then along came Ivan the Terrible who stole my power and my Internet connection. (along with a few other things but NOT my roof for which we are eternally grateful. I reckon the trees needed thinning anyway.) Thanks to Mel for rescuing Purple Hearts and keeping those wonderful stories available. Thank you Lee for all things military as usual. Any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone. And thanks to Bayonet for introducing me to this list and to many aspects of the fandom. Wherever you are out there in the real world, Bayo, I hope you enjoy this! J Disclaimer: Combat! and its characters do not belong to me and I am not being compensated in any tangible way for this story. Note: Dialog in foreign languages have been demarked with “<>”. Whether the words are French or German should be obvious. Snow Blind France – winter 1944 Warmth rolled off the kerosene heaters in oily insidious waves, curling around the scattered tables and chairs and pooling in the corners of the tiny room. It was too hot, really. The men working there had immediately shed parkas and overcoats at the door, shoving gloves and damp wool hats into bulging pockets not quite large enough to hold them. Wet boot prints sketched a crazy design over the rough wooden boards and rapidly melting ice soaked the small threadbare rugs scattered around. The low murmuring of voices belied the tense atmosphere of the place. Only the occasional radio squawk, quickly squelched by nimble fingers, seemed to broadcast the seriousness of the work at hand. Saunders lit a cigarette, his hands cupped around the match as if some stray air current might suddenly whip up and kill the flame. He squinted through the wispy smoke, watching the S2 man as he carefully folded back the cloth covering the easel, smoothing its edges until it hung perfectly perpendicular to the floor. The sergeant noted the man’s clean uniform, the deep green tailor-made shirt with perfect creases. And the paratroop boots, shined to a high gloss. Saunders knew that particular pair of footwear had never waited inside the freezing fuselage of an airplane, never hurtled through the darkness to an abrupt landing in some farmer’s frozen field. The boots alone told him more than he needed to know about the guy. He shook his head, stifling a yawn against his knuckles. He’d heard a rumor or two about this mission and didn’t want to hear another blessed word. Not one blessed word. The men were tired. HE was tired. And outside the snow was falling heavily. “Where did you say your officer was, Sergeant?” The major picked up a briefcase from the floor, setting it carefully on the table and scowling at the ice-covered locks. He ran a thumb over the hardware, still not looking directly at Saunders. “Lieutenant Hanley’s in the hospital, sir. I have the platoon.” The major frowned. “Unfortunate. Well, I assume you have experience in patrolling these mountains. I asked for the most experienced platoon for a special mission, I was assured…” His voice trailed off. Saunders suppressed a sigh, coughing lightly around his cigarette. He recognized the man’s discomfort and felt no great desire to set him at ease, preferring to focus on the job at hand. I ain’t got time to hold nobody’s hand. “Well, Sergeant, I am Major Quinn, Acting Division Intelligence S-2. What I am about to show you is Top Secret.” He reached into the briefcase, pulling out several grease pencils neatly rubber-banded together and a slim sheaf of charts. Selecting a map, Quinn smoothed it flat against the easel and pinned it with thumbtacks. “Okay, Sergeant, let’s get started then.” Slowly coming to his feet, Saunders stretched expansively, stifling the yawn he knew would annoy Quinn. He edged around the table to stand next to the major, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He grimaced inwardly at the explosion of colored lines he glimpsed on the map but managed to maintain an outward expression of appropriate interest. Quinn leaned onto his hands, gaze roaming over the map. He seemed uncertain for a moment, unsure where to start. Straightening, the major removed his glasses, pulling a clean white handkerchief from his pocket, and began to polish the already sparkling lenses. “You know, Sergeant, that our contact with the Maquis in this area has been sporadic at best?” He squinted at Saunders, dark eyes wide and slightly unfocused. Saunders nodded. “We’ve been all over that slope for weeks now, Major. Haven’t seen any sign of ‘em.” He took a final drag on his cigarette, reluctantly stubbing out the butt in an overflowing makeshift ashtray. Settling his glasses into place, Quinn once again eyed the map. “This was once an area of very high resistance population. But the Germans have been hunting them down for years now, hunting them down and killing them. Them AND their families. The Maquis had no defense other than to run and hide. They keep on the move, taking everything with them.” Quinn ran the back of one hand across his forehead, swiping at the thin sheen of sweat glistening there. He reached for a ceramic mug, carefully placed at a distance from his grease pencils and case. Staring down into its empty depths, he sighed and looked again at Saunders. “Coffee, Sergeant?” Saunders frowned, trying to remember the last time he’d had anything out of a mug and not a canteen cup either blisteringly hot or icy cold. “Yessir, coffee would be fine.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as Quinn gestured to a young private who had obviously been hovering for just such an opportunity. Two steaming mugs of muddy brown liquid appeared and Saunders took one, grimacing at the musty odor. The major took a swift mouthful and swallowed hastily, his eyes watering. “Okay. We had brief radio contact with the leader of one of the remaining groups. His information has been good before, he can be trusted.” Quinn glanced at Saunders, then back to the map. “He goes by the name of Aramis, I guess he read The Three Musketeers, I don’t know. But he’s got numbers for us, on German positions, movements. And we need it now.” Saunders frowned. “Why now, Major? This storm could last for days. Gonna be hard gettin’ up there, let alone gettin’ back.” He reached into his pocket for another cigarette and then thought better of it. “If we can get back.” A fleeting smile ghosted across Quinn’s lips. “It’s because of the storm, Sergeant. It’s perfect for you and your squad to slip unnoticed through the German lines and meet up with Aramis. I had to come up and see the ground myself, of course, to be sure. In two days the weather should be clearing up just in time for Operation Left Hook.” Saunders blinked. “Operation Left Hook, sir?” Quinn picked up his markers in his left hand, selecting one with such careful deliberation that Saunders wanted to grab them all and throw them on the floor. “Yes, Left Hook. Here’s our lines.” He traced a thin blue line, ignoring Saunders' obvious impatience. Exchanging the blue pencil for a red, Quinn drew another line, almost parallel to the other. “And there’s the German’s. With only a river and a mile or two of disputed territory between us. Now-” The major flinched at an especially loud burst of static from one of the radios. Taking advantage of the distraction, he picked up his mug and took another quick sip. “There’s an old road, more of a goat trail really, that heads due east, up and across the front of the slope. We’ve had you avoiding it deliberately in your patrols, just to keep the Germans from thinking we had any interest in it. Left Hook will bring a huge force of Allied troops up that mountain, along that trail and behind the Kraut lines, cutting them off and giving us total control of the valley. And whoever has control of the valley has complete access to easy supply routes, troop movement, you name it!” Quinn’s voice held an edge of excitement. Saunders stared at the map, knowing full well that Quinn saw only colored lines and not the reality of the terrain. He thought briefly of the men and wondered how they’d take this new assignment. The squad had been out on the mountain almost daily for the last three weeks. They’d spent more than one night out in the cold, avoiding and engaging German units. They needed a break. And they weren’t about to get one now. “When do we leave, Major?” He kept his voice carefully neutral. Had it been Hanley, Saunders would have spoken up, defended his men’s need for rest. But he wasn’t about to let this squeaky clean, bespectacled rear echelon eager beaver… He let his thoughts trail off and crossed his arms across his chest, turning to face the major. Quinn stared back, blowing gently across the surface of his coffee. “Tonight. You need to draw parkas, shoepacs and climbing ropes. Also compasses. In this case is your map, passwords, countersigns. Make sure all your men know them in case you get separated.” He handed the sergeant an officer’s canvas map case. “Oh, and you have a French-speaking man, yes?” “Well, yes, Caje, but-“ Sudden, crushing fatigue swept through Saunders. He’d had enough trouble just walking down the bomb-pocked street from the storefront in which his squad was holed up to the candy store OP. The snow was a dark curtain, muffling sounds and swallowing up any light. Crossing the river in this weather without losing half the men would be a miracle. Quinn straightened. “I know, Saunders.” The sergeant’s head came up, aware that Quinn had used his name for the first time since their introduction. “It’s imperative that you and your men get up that trail before the Germans know you’re there. This weather is actually a stroke of luck. Your trail should be covered by morning.” Along with the frozen bodies of the men who fall through the ice. Saunders swallowed down his anger, long used to the unwavering stares of fresh-faced officers who’d never faced combat. He shrugged into his overcoat, shoving his hands deep into the pockets to retrieve his gloves. “Yessir.” The fierce biting wind hit Saunders in the face like a blow as he cracked the door open and wedged himself outside. Before closing it, Saunders looked back in, the heat of the place almost shimmering. Quinn stood there, staring back at him, his expression unreadable behind the flames dancing in reflection on the lenses of his spotless glasses. “Good luck, Sergeant.” “Right. Sir.” The door closed. *** *** *** The storefront had been opulent once, with several rows of deep shelves for displaying merchandise. The shelves were long gone, burned in the brick fireplace which was inexplicably intact after weeks of German shelling. Glass from the windows had littered the grimy wood floor and also the street outside. In the weeks since first squad had take up residence, the shards had been swept neatly away and the broken panes boarded up. As a result, the room was rather dim during the day. At night, though, it was filled with the flickering light, homey if not home and dry if not exactly warm. Kirby huddled closer to the hearth, stretching his sock-clad feet toward the pile of broken-up furniture that made up the base of the fire. He leaned forward in his chair, reaching down with one hand to absently massage the toes of his right foot. His ankles were aching from the constant patrols up and down the lower slopes of the mountain and it felt good to be out of his blasted boots. His lids grew heavy as the warmth spread through him, his head lolling over and over as his body begged for sleep. “Kirby, you’d better watch it or you’re gonna fall right in that fire.” Billy stood and brushed the crumbs from his shirtfront onto the floor as he sidled up behind the BAR man. He ducked his head to grin at Littlejohn who was cross-legged on the floor, mindlessly cleaning his weapon. “Maybe I wanna fall in the fire. Be a damn site warmer than I am now, that’s for sure.” Shivering dramatically, Kirby shrank down inside his jacket then suddenly turned to grab Billy’s wrist just as the kid moved to yank the chair out from under him. They tussled good-naturedly for a few moments, Billy lackadaisically attempting to wrest him from the chair and Kirby bellowing at the top of his lungs, his legs stuck straight out for leverage. “Kirby?” The medic’s laconic voice failed to catch the warring squad mates’ attention. “Kirby?” He put a little more volume into it, picking up his canteen and slowly unscrewing the cap. “Kirby, mind if I put your feet out?” Doc poured a steady stream of water over the BAR man’s smoking socks, eliciting a yelp from Kirby and shouts of laughter from the other men. “Warm enough now, Kirby?” Littlejohn slammed the trigger housing into the stock of his M1, locking it all into place with an audible click, and laid it gently across his knees. The door flew open, slamming back on its broken frame before the man outside could catch it. A torrent of snowflakes followed him in, racing ahead of a fierce northerly wind. Caje leapt from his seat and seized the flapping door before it could tear itself from its hinges, leaning his shoulder against the rough, uneven boards and shoving them back into the open doorway. Saunders threw his hood back, scattering snow everywhere. In the short walk from the OP, he’d accumulated a fine dusting of granular ice across his eyebrows and his lower face where his five o’clock stubble trapped the glittering particles. He stared in numb disbelief at Kirby capering before the roaring fire, a smoking sock in each hand. The laughter had died rapidly away at the sudden appearance of the sergeant and the men were watching him warily with the exception of Kirby, still dancing and muttering to himself. Doc nudged him, almost overbalancing him into the fire. “Uh, Kirby?” He met Kirby’s gaze and indicated Saunders with one cocked eyebrow. “Oh, hiya, Sarge! Just a little accident here, no problem.” He glared darkly at Nelson and shoved the socks behind his back. Saunders finished unbuttoning his overcoat and slid it from his shoulders, turning to hang it on one of the many nails sticking out of the wall next to the door. The snow caked on it was already melting and sliding down the garment to drip on the floor. He jammed his gloves into one of the pockets and then moved across the room to the three-legged table, careful not to dislodge the boxes piled under the fourth corner. He dropped the map case on the uneven surface, ignoring the momentary wobble of the table underneath its slight weight. “We’ve got a mission. Tonight.” Saunders shoved the fingers of one hand through his tangled blonde hair. He knew the men would take it hard. He also knew that after any initial complaints they’d do anything he asked. Knowing that didn’t make his job any easier, though. Kirby stood stock still, socks dangling dangerously close to the flames, his mouth hanging open. “You gotta be kiddin’, Sarge! We just got back this morning from a patrol! I’m not even thawed out yet!” He waved the socks for emphasis. Doc ducked away, narrowly avoiding the dingy, damp and smoking wool sock. He picked up his medical bag, flipping it open with practiced ease, and began to paw through it. “I’m gonna need to requisition a few things, Sarge.” He glanced up, blue eyes anxious under his customary furrowed brow. The medic thought he’d had until the next morning to resupply. Saunders nodded as he unrolled the map case. “I know, Doc. We’ll get to that. Lemmee show you where an’ what we’re gonna be doin’.” He spread his hands over the map, smoothing it against the tabletop as the men gathered around him. Kirby elbowed his way in, shoving Littlejohn to one side. After one glance at the brightly colored lines on the chart, he swore softly, dark eyes darting quickly to glance at the sergeant’s face. His fingers tightened around the socks still clutched in his hands, squeezing several droplets of water from the damp fabric that dripped onto the map. “Kirby!” More than one voice chimed in on the hapless BAR man’s name. He shrugged and wiped the water from the map with the side of one hand. “Hey, from the looks a’ that,” he waved his fingers over the intersecting colored lines, “a little water’s gonna be the least of our worries.” Truer words were never spoken. *** *** *** Doc lay sprawled across the ice, head tucked hard into his elbow and his medical bag slung across his back. He could feel the thin sheen of water floating on top of the frozen river seeping into his outer layer of clothing and prayed silently that he’d be up and moving before it worked its way any further in. His arms wrapped tightly around his helmet, covering the telltale red crosses emblazed on circular white backgrounds. Doc hoped his bag was upside down, so that its own red cross wasn’t visible to the searchers. There was nothing he could do about the brassard around his left bicep. The medic hardly dared breathe and fought down the shivers that were threatening to wrack him from head to toe. <”Do you see anything?”> The voice, young and high and tinged with frantic excitement, seemed only yards away. Doc forced himself to be still although he wanted desperately to look in the direction of the German patrol. He knew Saunders and the others were somewhere between the river and the Krauts, no doubt preparing for an encounter that would jeopardize the entire mission and bring holy hell down on their heads. The enemy line ran along the far riverbank and there were far more of them than the five Americans huddled beneath the overhanging roots and dead tree trunks. Doc hoped his overcoat, turned white side out, would be enough to hide him in the driving snowstorm. Behind him, still waiting on the opposite bank, was Kirby. Prob’ly havin’ kittens by now. Despite the desperate situation, Doc found himself smiling against the rough fabric of his overcoat. *** *** *** Jesus, Doc, don’t move, don’t move, don’t move. Kirby crouched at the base of a thick tree whose lower branches hung over him in a snow-covered canopy. He’d extended the legs of the BAR, setting it up in a solid firing position, but wasn’t exactly sure where he should be aiming. The wind, screaming straight down the river, seemed to make odd detours through the forest, whistling about his ears and distorting the voices he knew had to be on the other side of the water. The only thing he was sure of was that the language wasn’t his own. Kirby could tell Doc knew it too, as the medic had immediately prostrated himself on the ice, becoming as still as any of the random snow-covered tree limbs caught in the winter’s freeze. In the starless night, the BAR man wasn’t sure he knew which vague hump on the river was Doc. He fought down the desire to call to the man, forcing himself to wait. Somewhere on the other side, invisible to Kirby, the others waited, too. *** *** *** Garand at the ready, Caje bit down hard on his lower lip, trying to control his breathing. He’d barely made the safety of the bank when he’d heard the voices of the German patrol above him in the tree line. Signaling frantically to Doc, several meters behind him, Caje had hurled himself beneath the tangled roots of an ancient oak, shoving his back flat against the frozen earth. He glanced quickly back at the river and was rewarded by the sight of the medic dropping to the ice as if he’d been shot. Mon dieu, as if he’d been shot! Caje shook his head ruefully, annoyed at his own thoughts. A short distance to his left, the Cajun could now make out the vague outline of Nelson, the barrel of the younger man’s weapon just visible pointed straight up the bank. Caje looked up, too, his eyes following the track his ears told him the enemy patrol was taking. A sudden change in the wind drove sheets of gritty ice directly into his face and down the front of his overcoat below his upturned chin. He shivered, hunching his shoulders to lessen the gap between his skin and his clothing. Glancing out on the river, he wondered briefly how the medic was managing to stay so still lying on the ice and unprotected from the swirling air currents. <”Just a rabbit. There is nothing here.”> <”But I swear, I thought I heard…alright.”> The disembodied voices faded into the storm, the muffled clinking of their weapons gradually dwindling until there was nothing but the howling night. Caje scooted under the roots, duck-walking in the narrow space until he reached Billy, laying one hand on the man’s shoulder to announce his presence. Nelson flinched, his gaze flickering to the scout’s for a brief moment before he resumed watching the driving snow above the bank. “Sarge?” Caje’s voice was no more than a breath in Saunders’ ear. The sergeant didn’t look at him, but raised one gloved hand in a northerly direction. The Cajun scrambled silently up the slope, as lithe as any ghost and as insubstantial in the heavy snowfall. He paused for a second and then vanished in the direction of the German patrol. *** *** *** Doc fought to control his fear as he felt his body rapidly losing heat. He knew it wouldn’t take long in this weather for hypothermia to set in if it hadn’t already. His fingers, curled into his gloved fists, were already numb and throbbing. He wished he’d had more time to compose himself when he’d gone down on the ice. Spread-eagled as he was, the wind was finding its way under his overcoat and sending aching cold to parts of his body he’d rather stay warm. More than a dusting of snow had coated him, comforting the medic as he imagined himself becoming more and more invisible, but terrifying him all the same as he envisioned the squad looking for his frozen body but unable to find it. *** *** *** Caje faded into the tree line above the riverbank, noting the boot prints of the meddlesome German patrol, mere meters from the Americans’ hiding place. The snow swirled crazily around him, filling in the prints within minutes as if the Germans had never passed. He worked his way further into the trees, following the direction the patrol had to have taken, careful to place his own boots into natural hollows behind fallen logs and thick foliage. The pines gave him some protection from the wind and Caje felt a quick twinge of guilt, his mind flickering momentarily to the medic trapped out on the ice. But now he had a job to do, and the sooner he did it, the sooner Doc could be thawing out by hiking straight up a mountain. Mon dieu. Ten minutes slipped by, during which Caje had caught sight of the German patrol exactly twice. Both times he’d searched what he could see of their faces for any signs that they were still looking for something. Both times the young men seemed relaxed and unperturbed, their main worry apparently the weather and how soon they would be getting out of it. Caje waited awhile longer, his dark eyes watching them disappear into the storm, and then turned, doubling back to the squad. *** *** *** Kirby shifted his weight from one knee to the other, still sighting down the long barrel of his weapon. He blinked, suddenly aware of a shadow on the far bank, a subtle shifting in the random pattern of grey on grey. Holding his breath, he folded up the bipod legs of the BAR and floundered to his feet, painfully aware of the pins and needles that rapidly swarmed over his lower limbs. He shielded his face from the driving snow with one gloved hand and squinted, trying to force order on the dark night. There! Kirby watched Littlejohn cock one arm and then toss something on the ice, bending to pick up another something and then tossing that, too. What the hell was the big galoot doing? He reached up and pulled the hood of his overcoat tighter around his ears, shaking his head in disbelief. What was he doing? Suddenly Kirby understood, as Doc rose from the river, a wraith rising from the grave, snow caked to his uniform like some mythical creature. Kirby’s eyes widened as the medic slipped, going down on one knee, and he found himself moving, gliding carefully out on the ice and catching Doc’s arm, guiding him to safety on the opposite bank. *** *** *** Saunders studied his map by the meager light of his flashlight, the beam dimmed by a thick wrapping of felt across the lens. He was anxious to be on the way, away from the German sentries marching up and down the river and toward their meeting with the Maquis. They’d wasted enough time already and almost lost a man. He glanced up from the map at the man in question, reassuring himself that the medic was okay and able to continue the mission. Not that there was any question of calling it off: they had to go on and they needed every warm body. Or not so warm. And the way back was just as risky. Doc shivered badly, his hands tucked into his armpits, and shifted his feet on the hard packed clay of the riverbank under the roots that had originally sheltered Caje and Nelson. Kirby and Littlejohn had brushed all the snow from his overcoat and pants, shaking a surprising amount out from underneath the parka. “Littlejohn, ya scared the bejeebers outta me with that first rock! I thought the ice was crackin’ an’ I was about to go for a swim.” The medic’s teeth were chattering so much the others almost didn’t understand him. His cheeks were frosted white and his blue eyes seemed slightly out of focus. He blinked over and over, staring at each of them in turn, as if he hadn’t been sure he’d ever see any of them again. “The bejeebers outta me...” He mumbled to himself, shaking his head and dislodging another layer of snow from his hood. Kirby adjusted the strap of his BAR, pulling it out from under the heavier padding of the backpack he carried. He snorted, looking first at the trembling medic and then at Littlejohn. “I thought you were throwin’ a grenade, I swear to God, a grenade. That same sorta motion, you know?” Miming the action, Kirby found himself prodded in the chest by an irate Littlejohn. “Now why would I be throwing a grenade at Doc?” The big man began rising to his feet, only stopping when his helmet impacted with the earthen roof over his head. He winced, sinking back to a crouch. “We had to get his attention without calling those Krauts back.” Littlejohn frowned, suddenly realizing that Kirby was pulling his already rather lengthy leg. “Well, it worked didn’t it?” He looked at Billy, who nodded and smiled a toothy grin. Kirby rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to deliver another scathing comment on Littlejohn’s actions but Saunders beat him to it. “Okay, we’ve been here long enough. Move out, Caje, you take the point. Kirby? You-“ Kirby sighed, shouldering up the BAR. “Bring up the rear. Yeah, Sarge, I know.” He rose to one knee, grunting under the weight of the weapon. Saunders nodded, glad he was able to forestall a Kirby/Littlejohn altercation for once and shifted his attention to the shivering medic. “Doc? You ready?” It wasn’t really a question and Doc knew it. He laid one hand over his medical bag and nodded, hoping that the climbing would warm him up. Warm me up or kill me, one or the other! He let Caje fuss over him one more time and nodded again as he looked up and into Saunders’ appraising gaze. “I’m okay, Sarge, let’s git goin’.” The men silently gathered the rest of their gear and slipped out into the storm, pausing one by one before vanishing in the falling snow. *** *** *** Caje stood at the edge of the trees, gaze resting uneasily on the wide expanse of snow before him. They’d been working steadily upward all morning, climbing through the thick forest into the rarified mountain air. The going had been rough but not impassible as the closely spaced firs channeled the snow, mounds of the stuff piled against the uphill side of the trunks and bare ground on the downhill. The scout had easily led the squad along the natural pathways, winding their way ever upward across the slope. Well, maybe not so easy. Dropping to one knee, Caje cradled his rifle loosely against his chest and immediately felt the complaints of a dozen aching muscles. A quick glance at the sky confirmed what his nose had been telling him for hours – more snow on the way. Heavy grey clouds scudded across the faint yellow wash of the sun and the late morning grew rapidly darker. Caje glanced once more across the snowfield, a cold finger of anxiety tracing its way down his back. Shivering, he hugged his M1 closer and turned back to the trail. Behind him stretched a line of men, all panting with exertion, mouths open and gulping oxygen. Caje could see Kirby about halfway along, jaw flapping as usual. Just ahead of him, Doc trudged, a resigned grin on his face. Caje smiled as he watched them, knowing Kirby was bitching about something and Doc was humoring him, jollying him along so the squad kept moving. Kirby was probably complaining about his feet but this time with a grain of truth to his standard litany of problems. The medic had discovered a small patch of frostbite on one of Kirby’s toes, a small area, but frostbite for sure. Doc had wanted to send him to the aid station, didn’t want the private to risk losing a toe. Kirby, with his own brand of nonsensical logic had declined the easy out and insisted on coming along on this mission. But it didn’t stop him complaining. “We gotta problem here, Caje?” Sergeant Saunders leaned over the Cajun’s shoulder, looking past him at the open ground. Almost fifty yards of unprotected slogging through deep snow with no cover, especially since the snowfall had tapered off to almost nothing. Not good. He crouched down and edged closer to the tree line, curling the fingers of one gloved hand around the scaly bark of a fir. The path ahead was barely visible beneath the thick layer of new snow. A rock ledge on the uphill side held the worst of it back, but almost eighteen inches had settled on the narrow trail, making the footing treacherous. One slip would send a man tumbling down the face of the mountain without hope of recovery. As the two soldiers stared at the seemingly impossible situation, the snowfall recommenced with light airy flakes that rapidly became a dense curtain of white. Saunders shook his head, gently gnawing on his lower lip. “Great. Just great.” He tapped Caje on one knee. “How ‘bout roping ‘em together?” Patting his pockets down, the blond sergeant removed one glove and retrieved a cigarette and his lighter. He eased his back against a tree, stretching his tired legs and crossing them at the ankle. Smoke escaped his pursed lips, rapidly whipped away by the growing wind. Caje shrugged, his dark eyes betraying a hint of worry. “I dunno, Sarge. Somebody’s gotta take a rope across.” He wouldn’t meet Saunders’ gaze, instead turning his head to stare at the snowfield, his mind already working out the best route, the safest route. The sergeant watched him a few moments more, taking long slow drags from the cigarette. At last he stood, slinging his Tommy over his shoulder, and flicked the butt out into the snow where it vanished promptly with a soft fizzle. Pulling his glove back on, Saunders left Caje to his thoughts and walked back to the rest of the men. *** *** *** “Jeez, Doc, ain’t there somethin’ you can put on it, somethin’ to thaw it out?” Kirby held his booted foot in both hands, forcing the toes to bend up and down. “I can’t feel a thing. You hear me?” He leaned over toward Littlejohn. “Not a thing.” He dropped the foot to the dirt, staring at it as if it didn’t belong to him. The men on either side ignored him, Littlejohn rolling his eyes behind the smaller man’s back. They’d heard it before, a hundred times before and knew that to acknowledge Kirby’s complaints would only multiply them tenfold. Hershey bars and canteens appeared as the squad shifted their weary bodies on the cold ground. Doc closed the flap on his rucksack and carefully reattached it to his webbing. He’d not needed any of his medical supplies yet, but couldn’t resist checking to make sure all was in order. The canteens were gradually freezing over despite their thick canvas covers, he noted with a grimace, tucking one beneath his parka in the vain hope that it might stay liquid. His blue eyes grew wide at the shock of cold against his belly and he wrapped his arms tightly around himself, hoping his body heat would thaw the ice before he froze to death. Twice in one day, this can’t be good. “Kirby.” Shivering hard, Doc couldn’t control the tremor in his voice. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Kirby, I tole ya. Ya gotta get the area warm an’ keep it warm. Walkin’ up an’ down mountains in the snow ain’t good for frostbite.” Nelson laughed, nudging Littlejohn with his elbow. “Walking DOWN mountains, Doc? Seems like all we’ve been doing is going up.” A grin spread across his boyish face, his chapped lips cracking into tiny fissures. Billy winced and rubbed the back of one gloved hand across his mouth. The men all laughed, nodding their heads in agreement. Doc smiled, scooting across to Kirby, and grabbed the man’s boot. “Lemmee take a look.” Sticking the end of one glove in his mouth, he pulled it off and reached for the shoepac covering Kirby’s boot. The private yanked his foot from Doc’s grasp indignantly and sat bolt upright, his face a picture of wide-eyed outrage. “What are you doin’, Doc? You’re gonna make it worse, you take my boot off and let this wind get to it.” He pulled his legs to his chest and carefully laid the BAR across his boot tops, trying to deter the medic from making any more advances toward him. Glaring at the laughing men around him, Kirby rested his chin on his knees, muttering to himself. “Crazy medic, take my boot off up here in a freezin’ cold forest full of…full of snow an’ ice. Crazy…” Kirby’s voice trailed off as he became aware of someone standing behind him, someone who could only be Sergeant Saunders judging by the amused looks on his squad mates’ faces. He closed his dark eyes briefly before glancing over his shoulder. “Hey, Sarge. We goin’ home yet?” “No, Kirby, not yet.” Saunders sighed with longstanding patience. “I need your ropes, looks like we’re gonna do some mountain climbing.” He stood hipshot, arms hanging loosely at his sides. He’d addressed the men, but his eyes were constantly moving, looking beyond the perimeter, to the rear the way they’d come and finally settling on Caje’s unmoving back. The uneasiness in his posture wasn’t lost on his squad. Littlejohn flipped open his ruck, digging deeply for the newly requisitioned rope. “I sure hope you’re not depending on this little piece of string to keep me from falling, Sarge.” He tried to laugh, but found his throat suddenly dry. His fingers located the rope, hauling it from the pack and dropping it in the dirt between his feet as he shoved everything else back in. Shaking his knapsack with ferocious energy, Kirby managed to dump just about all his belongings to the forest floor. He cast an anxious glance at Littlejohn, his eyes dark with an unaccustomed fear. Saunders’ uncompromising confidence had always been the private’s support system, his rock. Now Kirby sensed a fleeting uncertainty in his sergeant and a corresponding apprehension rippled through his wiry frame. It didn’t help that he saw his emotions mirrored in Littlejohn’s gentle face. Nelson took Littlejohn’s rope, adding it to his own, and handed them both to Ames, the tall young replacement. He watched the kid pass the neatly bundled ropes on down the line, each man silently adding his own to the pile. Turning back to Littlejohn and Kirby, Billy started to open his mouth but found himself without anything to say. Confused by the tension in the air, he merely nodded and dropped his gaze to his boots. Kneeling on the frozen ground, Doc watched the apprehension leap from man to man, feeling the electric jitteriness in his own body. He pulled the canteen from inside his parka, sloshing it around next to his ear before clipping it to his webbing. The weariness in his muscles sang to him as he braced his hands on his thighs and rose gracelessly, grabbing at a sapling to keep from stumbling. Snow drifted down from the branches, the increasing wind whipping the flakes into a frenzy of white haze. The medic held one arm across his face until the miniature storm subsided then worked his way over to Caje, hunkering down next to the man. “Caje? Ya really think we can git over there?” Doc stared at the snow, blue eyes squinting despite the diminishing light. He couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Caje, couldn’t bear to look at the scout and see the naked fear in his face. Caje took a moment to answer, absently scratching the dark stubble on his chin against the rough shoulder of his overcoat. He sighed. “Yeah, Doc, I think we can. But we’ve got to be careful.” I’ve got to be careful. He looked over his shoulder for Saunders. “If we can just get the rope across and tied off.” If I can just get the rope… “Think this’ll do it?” Saunders lay the coiled line carefully on the ground. Caje pulled off his gloves and ran his hands over the knots, inspecting each one and snugging them tighter. The cold stiffened his fingers and he was clumsy, ham-fisted by the time he’d gotten to the end. He gratefully allowed Doc to help him back into his gloves, feeling momentarily like a small child, fussed over by a caring parent, and drew comfort from the thought. Saunders watched the scout through the spiraling smoke of another cigarette. The mission was too important to scrap, Hanley had made that clear. They’d come this far, they’d finish it. He just hoped the information promised by the Maquis was worth it. Worth the lives of his men. Saunders sighed and stubbed out the cigarette. “All right. Here’s what we’re gonna do.” *** *** *** Kirby clung to the rope, motionless halfway across the snowfield and more alone than he’d ever felt in his entire life. Nothing seemed safe anymore, especially not with the BAR slung over his back and tightly cinched down with no hope of him getting to it. Like there was any chance in hell of him letting go of the line long enough to fire the thing. Swallowing hard, Kirby slowly advanced his hands, opening his fingers just enough to allow the rope to slide between them. Caje had made it look easy. Almost. He’d gone twenty yards when his feet had gone out from under him, slamming the slender man hard on the rock hidden beneath the snow. The entire squad had stared with helpless anxiety, eyes wide and holding their breath as Caje slowly raised his head and hauled himself to his knees, continuing his journey with gritty determination. Kirby thought about that now, feeling the slick, icy surface below his boots. The wind whispered around his ears, blocking out the encouragement he knew Doc was muttering under his breath. Had been muttering, for that matter, since Caje had made his crossing and for each subsequent man. Kirby lifted his chin an inch and chanced a glance at the medic, letting his gaze travel along the safety rope looped around his own waist at one end, the other held securely in Doc’s clenched fists. Faith. Doc has faith. Kirby allowed himself a quick look directly into Doc’s concerned eyes and nodded slightly, hoping that his rising fear wasn’t visible through the thick snowfall. He took another step, inching his hands along the line. Caje’s shadowy form was barely discernible at the other end of the guide rope, hunkered down just behind Doc, but Kirby knew he was waiting there. Waiting for him. Caje and his fierce determination. Doc’s convictions. Caje’s confidence. Kirby shivered, aware again of the sharp wind knifing its way down the back of his neck. What the heck do I have? Lotta quick wisecracks and a ruck full of excuses. He sighed and put all his weight on his left leg, hauling the right through the deep snow. And slipped, just as he transferred his balance. Doc threw himself backward, scrambling to haul in the slack before Kirby yanked them both off the side of the mountain. He jammed his heels against a stump, pulse hammering in his ears and muscles quivering. Nelson dropped his rifle in the thick loam and joined the medic, looping the rope quickly around a tree trunk. Panting hard, their frantic breath crystallized instantly in the frigid air, panic pouring adrenaline into already surging blood streams. Caje rose to a crouch, hands tightening painfully on the guide rope. “Sergeant!” His urgent whisper brought Saunders to his shoulder instantly. He threw a quick glance at the thick evergreen where he had tied the line, reassuring himself that the knot still held. “Dammit Kirby! Grab the line!” Saunders shouted without thinking as he sank to one knee at the Cajun’s side. Caje flinched, his dark eyes turning to gaze up the mountain. The unending white expanse stretched upward out of sight, unmoving and silent. It’s always like that, just before it falls. He looked back to see Kirby’s flailing arm snag the guide rope, abruptly halting the BAR man’s slide. For a moment everything stopped, even the drifting snowflakes pausing in their flight. Caje slowly let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, relief flooding through him along with the inhalation of crisp winter air. Kirby lay unmoving in the snow, spread-eagled. His fist remained clamped around the rope, bobbing slightly up and down with the taut vibrations coursing through it. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he tried to force the image of tons of snow thundering down the mountain from his mind. Tons of snow crashing down on him and sweeping him off the face of the earth. *** *** *** “Dammit Kirby! Grab the line!” Doc couldn’t hold still any longer. Thrusting his loops of rope into Billy’s hands, he staggered to his feet, floundering in the deep snow at the edge of the tree line. Without hesitation he reached for the guideline and sure-footedly began to make his way along the narrow path. “Doc! Get back, Doc! You don’t have a lifeline!” Saunders’ voice was hoarse with tension, consciously aware this time of the need to keep from shouting. He rose to a crouch, his weapon clenched unaware in his hands. Eyes narrowed against the fierce wind, the sergeant watched the medic’s progress, oblivious to the men gathering around him, ducking their own heads against the storm’s onslaught. Caje looked down at the guide rope, suddenly aware that it had become Doc’s only link to safety. Pulling in the slack, he looped it twice around his left arm and let his fingers circle around it as he closed his fist. It didn’t seem like much, but Caje didn’t see how he could do anything else to help the two men. He braced his knee tightly against a rock and settled his weight behind it, hoping that if the time came, he could hold both Kirby and Doc. Five feet from Kirby, close enough to see the rapid expansion of his squad mate’s rib cage under his greatcoat, Doc attempted to slow down, boots skidding wildly on the underlying ice. He managed to keep his balance, ending up on his knees at Kirby’s side. Leaning over the man, he laid one mittened hand gently on the back of his neck. “Kirby.” Nothing. “KIRBY!” Teeth clenched tightly together, Doc put as much urgent volume in his whisper as he dared. He reached across Kirby’s back and slid his hand under the man’s shoulder, preparing to roll him gently over. Glancing across the snowfield, his anxious gaze met with Caje’s, the scout’s dark eyes full of questions that the medic couldn’t answer. Doc shook his head and looked back down at Kirby. “Doc?” Kirby’s lids flickered open, the snow matted on his lashes making the job difficult. “Doc?” Caje straightened at the faint sound of Kirby’s voice. He’d been worried that the BAR man was unconscious, remembering his own fall on the ice less than an hour before. It had surprised him, the sudden slickness underfoot and then landing not in soft, yielding snow but on cold, hard rock. His breath blown forcibly out as he’d hit, it had taken several long, frightening moments to get his lungs working again. Now he felt a shiver of relief, tempered by the knowledge that Doc and Kirby were still out there, Kirby possibly injured, their only hope the slender line he himself held in his hand. Kirby sat up with Doc’s help, hooking one elbow around the guide rope. “Thanks, Doc, I thought I was a goner there for a minute.” He panted lightly, his breath puffing out in small clouds that the wind whipped away in seconds. Doc ran practiced hands over Kirby’s limbs. “Anythin’ hurt, Kirby? Can ya move your arms an’ legs?” Nodding, Kirby flexed his trembling knees, unable to get his feet under him and gave up, letting the rope take his weight. “I’m okay, Doc, I think.” He looked up, catching a quick glimpse of worried blue eyes before the medic glanced away. “Hey Doc, why don’t you have a lifeline?” Doc grimaced as he slid his left arm around Kirby’s waist. “Didn’t think about it, Kirby.” He braced himself, grabbing hold of the BAR man’s right wrist and pulling it across his shoulders. “Now let’s us see if we can get ya movin’ ‘fore the Krauts come to see what all the yellin’s about.” Kirby frowned as he leaned on the medic, his pale face drawn in unaccustomed lines of concentration as he tried to balance on feet numb with cold. He was all too aware that he had the only lifeline AND the only grip on the guide rope. Poor Doc was holding onto him and trusting that he wouldn’t let go. Kirby bit his lip, the dry skin parting under the pressure, filling his mouth with the coppery taste of old pennies. *** *** *** The rest of the squad crouched on the far side of the snowfield, mute in their impotence. Saunders leaned on the butt of his Thompson, the muzzle cold against his cheek. From time to time he brought one gloved hand to his mouth, then down to his pocket wherein lay his cigarettes but he seemed to lack the wherewithal to actually remove one and light it. For now his oral fixation was satisfied by the familiar movements of his hand to his lips. That and the terrible grinding of his molars that would leave an ache for which he’d later be hard pressed to find a cause. Caje tightened his grip on the rope, feeling the movements of the two soldiers transmitted by the cotton fibers, even through the thickness of his gloves. He imagined that they in turn, could sense his own efforts to bring them to safety and concentrated on holding the line absolutely still. He blinked, his gaze flickering up the silent white mountain, still amazed that the snow mass was holding. Swallowing hard, Caje dragged his attention back to his teammates, ignoring the growing twinges in his arms and legs. The guide rope bowed alarmingly downhill, forcing Kirby and Doc to wallow through the deep drifts below the trail made by first squad’s passing. The medic clung to Kirby, leaning into him as he supported the other man’s weight, well aware of the drop-off to his right. He kept his gaze resolutely on his boots, hoping to find solid footing under the carpet of snow. Later, Kirby couldn’t remember why he’d paused, looking awkwardly out from under Doc’s supporting arm. He only knew that something had tickled at the edges of his awareness, filling him with a dark fear. Peering through the increasingly heavy snowfall, Kirby saw at first Nelson’s vague outline, arms outstretched in front of him as the rope passed through them. Billy lifted one hand, waving briefly before resuming his task. *** *** *** The shot was shockingly loud and echoed on and on between the two banks of trees. The impact of the bullet threw Kirby forward, the pain spreading instantly from his left flank up his spine and down his hip. He managed to keep his grip on the guide rope, but failed to stay upright, numb legs sliding out from under him yet again. Eyes squeezed tightly shut, Kirby fought to control his rising panic, wondering suddenly why he could no longer feel Doc’s supporting arm across his back. Doc felt the vibration of the earth beneath his body, now that he was prone in the snow. He couldn’t quite remember how he’d come to be resting there, his cheek flat on the ice and arms outstretched above him on the slope. He thought he’d heard a gunshot, but who’d be shootin’ way the hell up here? As the tremor under him increased, Doc slowly lifted his head, looking for Kirby. Kirby’s eyes flew open, searching frantically for the medic as the rumbling above him grew into a roar. His gaze met with Doc’s as the surface of the snowfield began to shift about them, slow rivulets flowing along their bodies and off down the mountainside. With a start, Kirby saw that Doc was sliding away and lunged desperately with his free hand, ignoring the bright flash of pain that lanced through him with the movement. As his gloved fingers caught the other man’s webbing, Kirby’s mind wandered with curious detachment, almost as though the moment was frozen forever on that icy path. Like a series of photographs, he saw each image, shadows sharply etched against the stark white snow. Doc’s worried expression. Caje, a fuzzy shape crouched in the distance. Nelson’s schoolboy wave. The mountain towering relentlessly over them. And the final image, Doc, blue eyes dull with fear and pain, his left arm reaching uselessly toward Kirby, a splash of crimson bright on the snow. Blood! “Doc! Are you…?” An ocean of snow crashed over the two, cutting Kirby’s words off as if they’d never been. *** *** *** to be continued… |
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