SnowBlind2

Disclaimer: Combat! and its characters do not belong to me and I am not being compensated in any tangible way for this story. Copyright 2004 by Doc II.

                                                     Snow Blind - part two

Continued from Part 1……

Saunders lay sprawled behind the log where he’d thrown himself at the sound of the shot. He stared at the torrent of snow racing madly past, flinching as spindly young saplings snapped off mid-trunk, his mouth slack with astonishment. It took him several seconds to comprehend that he had no idea where his men were or the location of the unknown shooter. Another few seconds brought the realization that he DID know where two of them were, or rather, were not. Doc and Kirby. Gone in the maelstrom.

Gripping the Thompson tightly, Saunders rolled to his belly, elbow-walking his way along the length of the ancient log. A flash of movement caught his attention and he swung his weapon to cover whatever it was, his finger already settling against the trigger as Littlejohn staggered out of the forest.

“Littlejohn!” His voice was inaudible over the roar of the avalanche. The cold had settled in, dulling the sergeant’s senses and robbing him of his lightning reflexes. Pulling his helmet from his head, Saunders swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat, knowing that if he’d reacted faster he would have killed one of his own men. He signaled to the big private, calling him in.

Littlejohn ran awkwardly through the drifts, head cocked to one side as he kept one eye on the raging snowfield. He zigzagged around the maze of trees, hurdling those that had fallen and ducking under outstretched limbs. Falling to his knees next to Saunders, he struggled to draw in a breath.

“Sarge! Who’s shootin’? I didn’t see, I, Sarge! Where’s everybody?” Littlejohn clutched his M1 closer to his heaving chest, eyes wide with anxiety. He’d been out on the perimeter, further up the mountain. He’d heard the shot but didn’t know where it had originated. Now he stared fixedly at the avalanche, its fury rendering him almost speechless.

Saunders shook his head, already scanning what was left of the tree line for any sign of the rest of his patrol. He glanced back at Littlejohn, blue eyes troubled.

“I don’t see Ames or Billy. Maybe one a them saw somethin’, I dunno. But we can’t let it go.” He peered over the log again, eyebrows drawing together in a puzzled frown. “Whoever it was is gone. Could be a patrol, could be one guy.” Glove-encased fingers closed over the Thompson as Saunders got his elbows under him. “We gotta find ‘im.”

Littlejohn turned his head slightly, his gaze still drawn to the snowfield. “What about Caje?”

The sergeant flinched at the name, aware that he’d deliberately not mentioned the scout for reasons he didn’t quite understand himself. Caje had been SO close to the edge of the tree line. Climbing to his knees and then to his feet, Saunders turned away from Littlejohn, not trusting his face to hide his feelings.

“I don’t know, I just don’t know.”

                                                                   *** *** ***

Nelson floundered through the drifts, fighting to keep his feet moving and his eyes up and on the lookout for the shooter. He couldn’t believe how quickly things had fallen apart. After the fiasco at the river the previous evening, Doc stranded on the ice and the squad pinned down by the German patrol, Billy thought they’d had their run of bad luck. He flinched as a large pinecone bounced off his helmet. The trees crashed like dominos beside him and the private angled his descent away from the path of destruction, forcing himself not to turn and stare.

Like the young German just down the slope, standing stock still, weapon hanging loosely from his hands and forgotten in the face of the terrible fury. His eyes were shock-widened, mouth slack. Had Billy not tripped and fallen in his surprise, arms and legs flailing, the Kraut might have stood there as the American walked up and took him prisoner. As it was, the GI got to within thirty feet of him before he yanked his Mauser up, firing wildly as he took off running.

“SARGE!” Billy hauled himself up with the help of a sturdy sapling, raising his M1 and bringing it to bear on the rapidly vanishing back of the escaping man. “Dammit!” He lowered the weapon and glanced back at the others, hoping they knew what was going on before he left in pursuit. He couldn’t lose this guy, couldn’t let the Kraut warn his buddies of the Americans’ presence on the mountain.

                                                              *** *** ***

Saunders floundered through the underbrush, his boots alternately punching through the heavy layer of snow and then oddly coming to rest on some object underneath, forcing him to slow down in his pursuit of the shooter for fear of breaking a leg. He’d heard the shots, roughly pinpointing them as down slope and into the trees. The faint shout, barely heard over the tumbling snow told him Nelson’s location and the sergeant wasted no time sending Littlejohn out in a flanking direction, directly perpendicular to the fall line and then hooking downhill. Saunders chose a more direct route, angling both down and across, hoping to intersect with Billy and his quarry.

Of Ames’ whereabouts, he had no idea. Both Littlejohn and the young replacement had been out on a rough perimeter, keeping watch while the rest of the patrol crossed the snowfield. The shooter must have taken advantage of the situation, sneaking up from below where they had no coverage. Saunders could only assume that Ames was also in pursuit and somewhere ahead of him in the thick cover of the trees. He’d better be!

Finally away from the terrific noise of the avalanche, Saunders paused behind a tree, his frozen cheek resting on its rough bark while he tried to catch his breath long enough to listen. He coughed twice, one hand rising involuntarily to his neck as the frigid mountain air seared the back of his throat. Sucking in a huge lungful of air, he held it, straining to hear anything in the silent forest.

There!

The sharp crack of a rifle caught the sergeant’s attention and he pushed away from the pine, running directly down the incline, his Thompson held at the ready in his gloved hands.

                                                                 *** *** ***

Nelson followed the German’s tracks relentlessly, a little slower than the headlong flight of the shooter, but then Billy had to watch for an ambush. He knew that there must be at least a patrol of Germans out here. He didn’t want to run into them. Squinting in the flat light left in the wake of the storm, Billy gave himself a second to stare uphill, hoping to catch a glimpse of Littlejohn, or the Sarge, or ANYBODY coming to help him. Nothing, he saw nothing. With a grunt of resignation, he dropped his gaze back to the running tracks of the fleeing Kraut.

A flash of dark grey against the white of the snow caught his attention and Billy turned his head just in time to see the shooter scurry out from under the low-hanging branches of a huge fir, angling away from him.   He fired from the hip, cursing as the bullet failed to hit its mark. Immediately he increased his speed, now that his prey was within reach. Adrenaline poured through his bloodstream, driving him onward. A fine line of sweat began to form along the edge of his wool cap and slid haphazardly down his forehead, pooling along the margin of his eyelashes. Nelson blinked furiously. Struggling to maintain his balance, he brought his rifle to bear between the retreating German’s shoulder blades, trying desperately to draw a bead without smashing himself headfirst into a tree.

Bursting into a small clearing, Billy threw on the brakes, almost falling over backwards in his attempt to stay under cover. His unlined cheeks were red with exertion and an uncharacteristic expression of anger contorted his face as he panted, each puff of exhalation colliding with the prior one, obscuring his vision. He brandished one hand through the cloud in irritation, gaze jumping from one clump of pines to the next.

The young German stepped from behind a tree, rifle snugged against his shoulder and remarkably steady. Billy raised his M1 and pulled the trigger, his eyes widening in amazement when nothing happened, his trusty weapon inexplicably jamming at this crucial moment. He threw himself sideways, desperately scrambling for cover in the sparse foliage inside the tree line. Knowing he’d finally run out of luck, Billy found himself mumbling words he’d not realized he still knew. Our Father, who art in heaven… He glanced up and stared straight down the barrel of the German’s Mauser.

                                                              *** *** ***

The bullet slammed into his abdomen and spun him around, his arms flying up and the rifle tumbling from his slack fingers. He landed hard, unaware of anything beyond the terrible pain in his belly. Blinking slowly, he tried to look up at his enemy, who stood over him, staring with shocked eyes and a puzzled expression. His mouth opened, a great gout of blood welling up and over his lower lip as he coughed. Muscular spasms swept through his body, twisting him in the crimson-stained snow.

Forty yards uphill, Littlejohn struggled to his feet, rifle dangling from one hand. His face was much paler than could be accounted for by the cold, his eyes wide and unblinking. Gaze fixed to the body in the snow, he slowly worked his way down the slope, placing one foot with great deliberation before moving the other. Finally only a step away, he fell to his knees, running the back of his gloved free hand across his eyes.

“I thought it was YOU! I thought you were dead!” Littlejohn’s voice sounded like he’d been swallowing rocks and shook with more than a slight tremor.

Nelson looked at his friend, puzzlement pulling his eyebrows together. “Whaddya mean? That wasn’t you?” He sat back on his heels, hands resting forgotten on his thighs, the dead German’s Mauser clutched in one fist, his jammed M1 in the other. “But, if it wasn’t you, then who…?”

They both turned, the thin mountain air abruptly menacing as it worked its way under their collars and stood the hair on the back of their necks on end. The breeze had picked up again, whipping the pine branches and scattering snow into the air and into the soldiers’ eyes. Littlejohn ducked his head behind one arm, squinting into the impenetrable line of trees. At first he saw nothing. He shifted his weight from one knee to the other, feeling suddenly vulnerable in the clearing. Hefting the M1 to his shoulder, he sighted down its length.

“NO! Don’t, it’s Ames!” Billy grabbed the barrel of Littlejohn’s rifle, shoving it skyward, as he lunged to his feet, his own weapon hanging uselessly at his side. “Ames!” He waved urgently at the replacement, spinning in place as he looked for more of the German’s buddies. A flush rose in his cheeks as he realized how stupid he’d been, completely overwhelmed by the realization that the German had him dead to rights and then had conveniently keeled over with a look of shocked amazement on his Aryan face. Nelson hadn’t thought for moment about other Krauts roaming the forest as he’d started to search the body. Nor had he cleared his rifle.

Littlejohn managed to pull himself together and ran raggedly through the snow, his long body folded up like a concertina. He arrived at the tree line in time to witness Ames vomiting into a clump of bushes. Stopping short in surprise, he glanced away from the kid, unsure just what was going on. The tickle on the back of his neck wouldn’t go away, sending quivers of anxiety dancing under his skin. He checked his weapon, gloved fingers sliding over the clip and slipping inside the trigger guard. Ames mumbled, coughing and gagging, and Littlejohn turned back to him.

“What?”

Ames spat again, wiping his mouth roughly. Helmet askew and tipping over one shock-widened eye, he peered up at the taller man. His voice, when he finally spoke, wasn’t much more than a hoarse whisper.

“I killed him, didn’t I?”

Littlejohn raised one eyebrow and stared at the replacement, sensing the kid’s horror but unable to reconcile it with his own relief that it had been the German and not Nelson who lay dead in the trampled snow. He looked over one shoulder and saw Billy efficiently field stripping his M1 as he knelt next to the dead soldier.

“I hope to shout, kid.”

                                                                    *** *** ***

Nelson emptied the dead German’s pockets, sorting out official papers, personal letters and photographs, and equipment into piles in the snow. He shifted his weight, stuffing the flimsy paperwork under one knee before it could blow away in the growing wind. Finally satisfied that he’d missed nothing, Billy sat back on his heels and stared at the kid’s face, the last few moments running over and over in his mind until he could have sworn he was looking at his own vacant eyes staring up into the drifting snowflakes.

“Nelson?”

Billy flinched so hard he fell over in the snow, grabbing at the pay book and letters as they scattered with the breeze. Reaching quickly for one errant photo as it took flight, he rolled to his knees, arms clutching the German’s possessions protectively to his chest. He looked up, panicked eyes wide and cheeks growing red with embarrassment.

Thompson cradled in his arms, Saunders took in the scene, Nelson huddled over the dead German, Littlejohn a ways off, moving slowly and purposefully through the trees. And Ames, also working his way along an improvised perimeter but stopping every few steps to look back over his shoulder at the body on the gound, his weapon hanging uselessly from his hands.

“Nelson, find anything of interest?” The sergeant stepped closer, not looking at Billy at all, his gaze shifting restlessly to the tree line behind them and then on to Littlejohn, and past him to the dark copse of trees in the middle of the clearing, finally settling on Ames with a puzzled lift of one eyebrow. He raised the Thompson’s barrel to the sky and rested the stock on his right hip.

Billy shrugged, his gaze firmly fixed to the personal effects he clutched in his gloved hands. The embarrassment was fading as he realized that Saunders had no idea what had happened. A smoldering anger at his own foolishness took its place. He’d been so eager to chase down the German, so ready to play the hero. Now Ames was the hero and look at HIM! Puking in the bushes. He swallowed hard as resentment faded into confusion.

“Um…pay book, orders, letters from home.” Nelson held them out to Saunders, finally raising his eyes above the level of the snow but staring past the sergeant at Ames. He didn’t understand the conflicted animosity he felt for the replacement, only that after several months with the squad he’d finally felt he’d gained some level of competency and now, once again, he felt like the new kid.

Closing his fist around the papers, Saunders frowned at the top of Nelson’s helmet before turning to follow the private’s line of sight. He shook his head, knowing that he’d have to get the story eventually, but for now other things took precedence.

“Check around, willya? I’ll finish this.” The sergeant slung his weapon over his shoulder, stepping back as Nelson rose to his feet, M1 at the ready.

“Yes, Sergeant.”

                                                                 *** *** ***

Saunders crouched in the snow, thumbing slowly through the dead man’s official papers. No maps, no orders, no nothin’. Picking up the photographs, he gave each a cursory glance and set it aside, pausing at one in particular. A boy and his dog. Saunders looked from the photo to the German’s face and then back again. He shook his head, tucking the photos back into the boy’s jacket.

“Sarge! I got somethin’!” Nelson’s voice rose above the low moan of the wind. He stepped from behind some trees, waving his arms, and called again. His cheeks were flushed red, eyes bright beneath the brim of his helmet.

“Sarge! Over here!”

Saunders placed one hand on his knee and shoved, forcing himself upright. The long cold hike up the mountain was taking its toll on him, sapping his strength and loosening his concentration. He worked his way over to Nelson, footsteps deliberate in the deep snow.

“Whatcha got?” He followed the kid into the stand of trees, automatically raising one arm to catch the springy branches as they snapped back into place behind Nelson. As Saunders passed through the fragrant caress of the pine needles, he paused briefly and glanced up into the interwoven limbs of the closely set trees, realizing that the foliage formed a dense roof that prevented the snow from accumulating.

A pile of German rucksacks lay neatly against the base of the largest tree. Saunders crouched and eyed them warily, elbows resting on his knees. He let his gaze wander over the packs and the surrounding bed of pine straw. The ground was perfectly dry and hard-packed, the outline of one single boot faintly visible in its firm surface.

“Nelson, lemmee have your bayonet.” He held out one hand and Nelson slapped the blade into it.

Saunders gently moved the weapon around the packs, searching for any nasty surprises the Germans may have left for them. Finding nothing, he sat back on his heels with a sigh of relief. Without turning around, he handed the knife over his shoulder and felt Billy remove it from his hand.

Littlejohn stuck his head through the foliage. “Guess this is where our guy was running, huh?”

The sergeant nodded. “Yeah, I’d say so. An’ he’s got a bunch of friends out here, too, from the looks of it.” He reached forward and grabbed a pack, slinging it to Nelson. “Take a look in there, see whatcha can find out.” Saunders handed Littlejohn a rucksack, taking another for himself.

Several minutes passed while they searched the German squad’s gear, removing rations, ammo, maps and paperwork, before carefully replacing it just as it had been. Littlejohn held up a bottle of brandy, tucking it into his coat with a grin.

“This is goin’ back with me. I’ll head out an’ help Ames, Sarge.” He handed the ruck to Nelson with a smile and backed out the way he came.

Saunders glanced up as the pine branches closed over Littlejohn’s grin and shook his head. He closed up the last pack and placed it back in position with a sigh.

“Only a day’s worth of rations. Whoever they are, they aren’t expecting to be gone from home for long.”

Nelson swallowed audibly. “You think we’re near a German encampment, Sarge?” He backed away from the pile of rucksacks and slid his rifle from his shoulder, cold fingers sliding over the stock and trigger guard with unconscious familiarity. Wide-eyed, Billy stared between the tree trunks, spinning slowly in place, stopping when he came face-to-face with the sergeant.

Saunders shook his head again. He’d been lost in thought, considering their options and calculating the odds of pulling this mission off. He looked up into Billy’s anxious face and then away again, knowing now that their chances of even getting off the mountain were pretty slim.

“The Krauts must be gettin’ ready for an offensive. That must be what the Maquis need to give us, the locations and strengths.” The sergeant waved a gloved hand over the packs. “All this tells us is we are in deep-“ His voice trailed off abruptly as Saunders stood and shoved through the pine limbs, Nelson floundering behind him.

“Okay, listen up. We gotta get rid of the body. If it snows some more-“ Saunders looked up as the few errant snowflakes grew in number, falling steadily and thicker with each passing moment as if in answer to his comment. “The snow will cover our tracks but we gotta get rid of him.” He gestured toward the dead German with the barrel of his Thompson.

Ames wallowed through the drifts. “Whatcha mean, Sarge? Can’t we just cover him up?” The replacement couldn’t bring himself to look at the body, his eyes darting every which way before finally settling on Nelson, who was staring at him with an unreadable expression.

“Too risky, Ames. We gotta put him where we know they can’t look.” Saunders doffed his helmet, quickly scratching his head, and then donned it again, shivering as the few flakes of snow that had managed to land on him melted through his hair. “Littlejohn, Ames. Pick him up an’ let’s take him back.”

Littlejohn moved to the German’s head, slipping his arms under the man’s shoulders. “Take him back, Sarge? Take him back where?” He grunted under the burden as he stood, trying to balance the dead weight with Ames who staggered back and forth in the snow several times before finally getting his own legs under him.

Saunders waved Nelson to the point. “Back to the snowfield. We’re gonna throw him down the mountain.”

                                                                        *** *** ***

The sergeant trailed after his men, keeping a close watch behind them and to their flanks. He had to trust Nelson to keep his eyes and ears open but in all honesty, Saunders knew that trust might be misplaced. He hadn’t seen what happened back in the clearing but he knew that all three of his remaining men were shaken by it. Remaining men. He gripped the Thompson tighter, forcing himself to focus his attention on the trees. Where the hell was Caje? It seemed a safer subject than, well, it was just safer. Safer still would be to concentrate on the job at hand. He whirled around, his anxiety-heightened senses pulling him in all directions. Dammit!    He refused to admit to himself that he, too, was shaken, and that it was likely clouding his judgment.

Littlejohn stumbled over a partially buried root, almost falling over backward and taking the dead German with him. He managed to stifle the curses that threatened to tumble from his lips. He looked up at Ames, whose arms were wrapped tightly around the man’s legs.

“You okay, Littlejohn?” Ames’ eyes were almost perfectly round with tension, his face pale as milk. He panted heavily, tongue hanging out like an old farm dog. Risking a glance over his shoulder at the sergeant, the replacement leaned toward Littlejohn, whispering to him urgently.

“Are we really gonna throw him down the mountain. I mean, Kirby an’ Doc, they…“

He shut up as Saunders laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Keep movin’ an’ pipe down.” Saunders shoved past them, his gaze resolutely on the path ahead. He could feel the ache between his shoulders as the cold set in. At least, he thought it was the cold. It would never have crossed the sergeant’s mind that his own uncertainty, combined with the fears he refused to face, might affect his ability to make decisions. And that those decisions might end up costing them everything.

                                                                  *** *** ***

The snowfield looked much as it had when they’d first encountered it from the other side. The surface was smooth and pristine, glistening in the watery afternoon light and causing them all to squint despite the dimness of the hour. Shuffling to a halt, Littlejohn and Ames let the dead German slump to the ground between them.

“Jeez, I’m glad he was just a kid. I’d hate to be luggin’ some big-“ Littlejohn let his voice trail off as he caught sight of Ames’ stricken face.

The young replacement didn’t seem at all glad that the German he’d killed had been just a kid. He backed away from the body, rubbing his gloved hands repeatedly up and down his thighs and inadvertently smearing the sticky blood from hip to knee. Rifle slung forgotten across his shoulders, Ames tripped over a ragged tree stump and sat down heavily in the newly drifted snow.

Saunders sighed, coughing lightly into one hand as he caught his own breath. Despite the prior weeks of traipsing around the mountainside, the cold and the altitude still got to him, leaving him exhausted and dizzy. He looked around at his men, biting his lip in consternation.

“Nelson, head upslope a little, keep an eye out.”

Billy straightened up, rolling his shoulders as he grimaced. He nodded once and then set off, shoving his way through the deep snow.

Carefully testing each tree trunk before resting his weight on it, the sergeant worked his way over to the track of the avalanche. He set his feet, bracing them as he leaned out over the drop-off, and stared down the path of destruction.

As far as the sergeant could see, the snow formed a clean ribbon of white, stretching down the mountain toward the fjord and the icy river that first squad had crossed only the night before. Broken off trees lined the way, piles of limbs and small boulders forming an almost impenetrable fence between the snowfield and the surrounding forest. The wind howled down the mountain, whipping the scarf from Saunders’ neck. He grabbed it with one hand, throwing the other out to steady himself as he teetered precariously on the slick pine trunks.

Saunders glanced over his shoulder. “Bring ‘im here, it’s as good a place as any.” He turned sideways on the log, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet.

Littlejohn crouched, sliding his numb hands under the German’s limp body. When Ames didn’t move, the big private looked up at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Ames?”

The replacement barely heard Littlejohn calling to him as he stared at the German. The kid’s eyes had edged open somehow and the visible slice of blue seemed to be looking at him, accusing him of something that Ames couldn’t quite get a hold of. He let his own eyes close for a moment, imagining flying through the air over the smooth expanse of snow and then somersaulting down into it, crashing through the thin crust with a palpable thump. Except the German wouldn’t feel it. Or anything else, ever again. Ames shivered, wrapping his arms around his chest, and tucked his gloved hands into his armpits.

“Ames!”

Saunders’ voice cut across the replacement’s jumbled thoughts, hauling him back into the reality of the stark forest with the force of a slap in the face. He jumped to his feet, absently dusting the sticky snow from his rear.

“Come on. Grab his feet, will ya?” Littlejohn shifted the German’s weight from one arm to the other, rearranging his grip. As Ames lifted the legs, he straightened, bearing most of the dead man’s bulk. Shuffling sideways toward the drop-off, they maneuvered him up and across the logs.

Saunders backed away, one hand on Ames’ shoulder.

“That’s good, easy, easy. Now-” He took a good hold of the replacement’s webbing. “Swing him an’ toss him out in the snow.”

Ames looked back, eyes filled with despair. “Please, Sarge-“

“Just do it!”

Littlejohn rocked back, taking a deep breath and holding it. He leaned to the right, forcing Ames to lean with him, the dead body swinging away from them. With a mighty heave, they reversed direction, flinging the German across the snow where he landed in a graceless pile of arms and legs.

He doesn’t look like he’s asleep. Ames swallowed hard against the bile rising in his throat. He knew he had nothing left to vomit, his stomach muscles spasming anyway and bending him double. He could feel the sergeant’s knuckles through the thickness of his overcoat and jacket, dimly aware that the man was keeping him from following the body down the slide.

The snow began to churn just uphill of the corpse, tumbling and twisting. It finally fell like waves, crashing over the German and catching him up in its motion, and swept him down the mountain out of view. Within minutes the surface of the snowfield was back to its smooth, mirror-like finish, silent and beautiful and deadly.

Ames sat down suddenly on the sap-sticky pine trunk, his legs incapable of holding him any longer. He dropped his head to his hands, rubbing his gloved thumbs along his temples over and over again. How long he sat there, he didn’t know.

“Ames. Saddle up.” Saunders stared at the kid, completely at a loss as to how to handle him. At Normandy and countless other battles since then, he’d coaxed and cajoled and ordered young soldiers through their first experiences with death, with killing. Now he felt lost, lost as surely Doc and Kirby were, and maybe Caje, too. He had no answers for Ames, there were none. There never had been, of course, but before he’d been able to get by on bluster and self-confidence. “Ames?”

The kid looked up at the sergeant with eyes as cold as the frigid air searing their lungs. He climbed stiffly to his feet, unslinging his rifle as he rose. Without a glance at Littlejohn, Ames trudged past him, past Saunders and on up the mountain, following Billy Nelson’s boot prints.

                                                              *** *** ***

The main body of the avalanche had swept on down the mountain, leaving behind a smooth expanse of clean white snow, randomly dotted here and there with the bright green branches of uprooted pines. A hush had fallen in the wake of its appalling cacophony, as if the raging madness had taken all sound with it, leaving only a cold and desperate void.

Caje lay under the rope, totally spent from his frantic efforts to untangle himself. His left arm stretched unnaturally above his head and one knee still hung suspended over the line from his last attempt at extrication. Sweat ran from his face, soaking his wool cap and the scarf wadded around his neck. He shivered, eyes closed against the pain that was spreading in rolling waves from his fingers to his aching shoulder.

He had no way of knowing how long he’d been there, caught up in his fight for survival as he was. He’d been vaguely aware of Littlejohn and Saunders conferring urgently and then there was nothing, nothing but the freight train roar of the avalanche and no other sensation but pain. And fear. Caje moaned at his own admission, his head twisting from side to side in the hard-packed snow beneath his body.

“He’s gotta be around here somewhere.”

The voice, coming as it did from the silent void, startled Caje, and he flinched violently, causing the rope to tighten further around his arm. A ragged cry tore itself from his throat and he felt himself sinking further into dark oblivion.

“I heard something! Over here! Here he is, Sarge, he’s…oh my god!” Nelson’s boyish voice crept up another octave as he flung himself to the ground at Caje’s side. “SARGE!” The young private stretched out one trembling hand, wanting to offer comfort, needing to comfort but afraid to touch the scout for fear of hurting him more.

Saunders and Littlejohn moved around Billy, shouldering him mindlessly out of the way as they dropped to their knees next to Caje. Littlejohn grabbed the rope a foot beyond Caje’s fingers and tugged on it experimentally. He frowned at the sergeant and shook his head imperceptibly. Stuck fast.

“Caje? Caje?” Saunders slid one arm under the man’s back, supporting him and allowing a small amount of slack to loosen the line. He glanced up at Littlejohn who shook his head again. Aware of Billy hovering behind him, Saunders turned slightly, meeting the kid’s wide eyes.

“Follow that line, find a good place to cut it, we gotta get it offa Caje now. Ames. AMES! Watch the perimeter.”

The replacement jumped, shocked from the immobility that had frozen him to the spot as he stared at the Cajun hanging under the rope. He fumbled his rifle and almost dropped it, a flood of embarrassment coloring his face. “Yessir, Sergeant, sir, ah, Sergeant.” He scurried away, not looking back.

Nelson rose quickly to his feet, his skin impossibly pale, twin spots of scarlet standing out on the apples of his unlined cheeks. “Okay, Sarge.” He floundered off down the tree line, following the taut rope as he pulled his bayonet from its scabbard.

Caje came suddenly to life, twisting and fighting the cord that pulled tighter with each contortion. “Don’t cut it, don’t, Kirby, Doc-“ His breath caught in his throat at the flash of steel and Caje flailed desperately, catching Saunders hard in the belly with one booted foot.

The sergeant fell backwards in the snow, wheezing audibly as he fought to draw in a breath. Littlejohn moved in, grabbing at Caje to keep him from hurting himself further, his long arms fending off the thrashing legs.

Finally able to speak, Saunders rolled to his knees, staring frantically down the slope at Billy, who stood there, knife at the ready.

“Nelson! Cu-“

Caje hit the rocky ground with sufficient force to stun him momentarily, long enough for Littlejohn to uncoil the line from his arm and drag him away from the edge of the snowfield. Winded, he tried to sit up, his left arm numb from elbow to fingertips. Grabbing at Littlejohn’s parka with his good hand, Caje stared up into the big man’s worried eyes, his own almost black with anxiety.

“He cut the rope! He killed Kirby…just let ‘im go…an’ Doc, too!” Cold air knifed its way into his lungs with each rapid breath and Caje felt the pain spread, pain that had nothing at all to do with his injured arm and everything with the loss of his closest squad mate. First Theo, now Kirby. He shoved Littlejohn away and sank back onto the icy trail, oblivious to myriad sharp edges that poked and prodded their way against his body.

“I cut it, Caje, but look.” Billy stepped into view beyond Littlejohn’s shoulder. He held the Cajun’s M1 in his arms, his own weapon slung across his back. He shrugged at the other men, holding out a short length of rope, one end cut cleanly and the other raveled and torn. “It was already busted, Caje, caught up in a big ole tree. I just cut it away from the tree.” His normally youthful voice, so full of naïve earnestness, trailed off inaudibly.

Caje rolled over, his wild eyes fixating on Billy with such intensity that the kid took an involuntary step backwards. He spat out his words, pausing between them as his mind struggled to wrap himself around an idea that he refused to accept. Would NOT accept.

“The rope? Was already cut?” Caje gasped as a wave of pain swept up his arm, the returning blood flow bringing with it a torrent of nerve impulses. “You think-   Kirby?” He winced, closing his eyes for a second before continuing. “You think Kirby- let go?” He stared into Littlejohn’s face, only inches away as the big man strained to hear him.

Saunders shoved his way through the squad, resting one ice-covered boot on a rock and leaning slightly over Littlejohn and Caje where they sat in the snow. As soon as the rope had released his scout, the sergeant had worked his way down through the thick trees to a vantage point where he could see the open slope below. Now he took a brief moment to catch his breath as he cast an appraising eye over Caje.

Littlejohn gently peeled back the Cajun’s glove, wincing as Caje moaned and tried to pull away from the big man.

“Caje, I’m sorry, but I gotta see your arm.” He looked up at Saunders with a shrug, frowning at his own ineffectual efforts. “I wish Doc was here. He’d already have this taken care of.”

His words hung in the air, accentuating the silence left in the wake of the churning snow. Saunders rolled his eyes, wishing that just this once Littlejohn could have kept his thoughts to himself. He felt the weight of the squad’s collective gaze and shifted uneasily, knowing the burden was his to carry. He straightened up, patting his pockets down for his cigarettes.

“Listen. I looked down that slope an’ there’s no way we’re gonna find Kirby an’ Doc now. We’ve got to get to the rendezvous.” He paused, lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply. “Then we head back to find Doc an’ Kirby.”

Caje sat up awkwardly, clutching his injured arm to his chest. He let Billy support him, the younger man shouldered up against his back. Had he not found his head swimming on his shoulders, an aching pain spreading like fire from his arm through his body, Caje would have been on his feet and in the sergeant’s face.

Saunders squinted through the smoke, seeing more in Caje’s acceptance of Nelson’s assistance than he was sure the scout was aware. The sergeant knew Caje hated to admit any weakness, physical or otherwise. And he also knew that Kirby was the man’s closest friend, despite their constant bickering. He waited, knowing what was coming.

“Sarge! We can’t just leave them! They might be hurt, they need us!” Now Caje pulled angrily free of Billy’s help, glaring darkly over his shoulder. He held his left arm stiffly away from his body, snatching the Garand away from the younger man with his right.

Nelson sat back on his heels, bewildered. He glanced at Littlejohn and saw his helplessness mirrored in the big man’s eyes.

Littlejohn leaned forward, attempting to pull back Caje’s sleeve again. “Hey, let me look at this, Caje, I’ll-“

Caje turned to stare at him, dark eyes simmering with fury. “I can wait until we find Doc.” He levered himself to his knees, his quick intake of breath belying his words. He waved off the helping hands of the men encircling him, backing them off with a vicious sweep of the rifle, and faced Saunders. A muscle jumped in his jaw, jumped again before the Cajun clenched his teeth together in a useless effort to control his anxiety as it rapidly spun out of control.

The sergeant frowned, shaking his head. “No, Caje. Doc is gone. Kirby is gone.“ He took a deliberate step closer to the Cajun, the butt of his weapon snugged up against his bicep. “We have to finish the mission. And after-“ Shrugging, Saunders looked directly into Caje’s eyes, not backing down an inch.

“But Sarge-“

“No Caje.” Saunders slung the Tommy over one shoulder, pulling his map from inside his parka. He deliberately turned his back on the squad, tracing the fingers of one gloved hand over the grease-penciled marks on the map. Face hidden from his men, Saunders closed his eyes, the familiar tightness rising in his chest. He had no choice. His reconnaissance of the mountain had revealed a path of destruction that continued downhill as far as he could see, a mile or more. Much as he too wanted to find his wayward BAR man and medic, he knew that the situation was probably hopeless. Kirby and Doc would have to find their own way out. If they were still alive. He shoved the map back inside his coat. “Littlejohn, fix ‘im up. We move out in five minutes.”

“Yessir.” Littlejohn reached once again for the Cajun’s arm only to have the man yank it away, stumbling backwards over his own feet.

“Leave it. Don’t…don’t touch me.” Face almost purple with anger, Caje flung his M1 over his shoulder, biting back a moan as he automatically reached with his left hand for the butt. He cupped the elbow of his injured arm, hugging it. His gaze slid away from his squad mates, ignoring the pity he saw there, and turned to the snowfield where the surface of the slide had become smooth and unspoiled. But no longer beautiful.

All his life, Caje had looked for just this sort of terrain. Untouched by human passage until his arrival, to be the first ever to leave his mark on wide meandering trails leading down the sides of mountains. He didn’t think he’d ever find joy skiing fresh powder again, always wondering what lay beneath the icy surface. Wondering if Kirby was lying under a blanket of snow somewhere downhill, hurt and lost. Or worse. He blinked at the sudden moisture in his eyes, swallowing hard. And flinched badly, almost falling over when Saunders appeared right in his face.

“Caje, we are going now. Saddle up.” He turned and strode away, boots confidently placed on the icy path.

“Littlejohn, take the point.”

                                                                     *** *** ***

Two miles down the mountain, the avalanche finally played out its thunderous fury as one million tons of snow gradually lost momentum and drifted to a halt. Thousands of trees, snapped off cleanly and dragged into the maelstrom, rolled and skittered over the white carpet, sliding like toboggans and caroming into one another. A gusty wind from the west stirred the loose surface, picking up granules of ice, and swirled them into the sky, forming a momentary whiteout.

Kirby lay still, facedown in the vast drift piled against a rock ridge where the descending terrain made a sharp cut to the north. Pine needles pattered down on him from the raw and bleeding branches of a tree that had narrowly avoided skewering him as it slammed into the rock. The air fairly shimmered with rainbows as a freak slice of sunlight penetrated the clouds, briefly bouncing off the falling flakes in shards of color then vanishing again, all in the space of a heartbeat.

His first thought was that it was too light to be morning already. His second was that his feet hurt. His third, arriving at the same time as his growing consciousness was that he must be dead and that heaven was an awfully cold place. Shoving his arms under his chest, Kirby cautiously raised his head, the pine straw sliding around his ears and lodging in the upturned collar of his parka.

Spitting snow from his mouth, Kirby took a deep breath, filling his oxygen-starved lungs with painfully frigid air. He just couldn’t be alive. It was too quiet. Too beautiful. Too alone…

“DOC!”

The name echoed right back at him, bouncing off the rim of the rocky crest and repeating faintly into the crevasse beyond. Kirby floundered to his knees, ignoring the bright flare of pain in his flank, and stared around him, appalled at the seamless white expanse of smooth snow that stretched from where he’d fetched up against the mica-encrusted granite both up and down the mountain. No sign of Doc, or any other living thing, for that matter. Struggling to control his breathing, Kirby fought down the rising bile in his throat, fought the panic that surged through him like cold fire.

“Doc?” Hesitant this time.

Kirby reached for the BAR still tightly cinched to his back, forcing his head and shoulder under the strap and bringing the weapon into a more useful position. He welcomed the comfort the heft of it brought him, the courage he automatically assumed when behind its sights. The pain in his back receded, fading into the background of Kirby’s thoughts as he scanned the area, wondering just when he’d lost his grip on the medic’s webbing.

Kirby’s gloved hand slid under Doc’s suspenders, his fingers closing tightly over the strap, linking them together as the waves of snow tumbled over them. Caught in the vicious riptide, Kirby knew it was only a matter of time before he’d let go of the guideline. As the strength in his fingers slackened and his fist opened, the rope snapping away, Kirby had felt only one thing – a deep and aching sorrow. Somersaulting down the mountain, tangled up with Doc’s flailing limbs, he’d inexplicably found the time to imagine the squad standing on the far side of the path, their faces drawn by shock as Kirby and Doc vanished in the tumult.

Shaking his head, Kirby forced himself to let go of those images playing unbidden in his mind. He had more immediate concerns right now. Like, where the hell was Doc?

With a little experimentation, Kirby managed to wallow around without sinking completely into the drifts, his movements slow and deliberate. He crushed his innate desire to hurry, knowing that for once in his life William G. Kirby was gonna have to be careful, was gonna have to think about what he was doing without rushing in like the fool he had always felt he was.

Kirby knew he’d never make it further uphill. He had so much area to search anyway, it just didn’t matter. The odds of him finding Doc were so small that he stood stock still for a brief moment, wondering if he should even try. The pinprick of shame that slammed into his brain convinced him otherwise. He muttered to himself as he traversed the edges of the ridge, trying not to look over it into the endless abyss beyond. The thought of the medic hurtling over the bank was too horrifying to contemplate.

“I need him. My back hurts. My feet hurt. I am NOT gonna be out here alone, so help me…”

There! A slight rise in the blanket of snow caught Kirby’s eye and he slid his way over the icy crust, easing his way past a scraggly pine. His breath hung in the air, drifting from his nostrils and his mouth as he struggled to control his breathing. Please be Doc, please be Doc.

Crimson blood pooled in the upturned palm of a disembodied hand extending through the snow, small rivulets spilling slowly between the lifeless fingers and staining the white surface. Kirby abandoned his stealthy approach and launched himself through the air, landing in the drift with all the grace of a moose on ice skates. He dug into the snow with his bare hands, only now realizing that he’d lost his gloves and not caring.

“Come on, Doc, ya gotta be alive!” Kirby scrabbled at the snow, flinging it behind him. It only took several seconds to uncover the medic; an eternity during which Kirby would later swear his heart quit beating altogether. He leaned in close, feeling Doc’s warm breath on his cheek. His eyes closed briefly while he fought off the darker thoughts, pushing them to the far recesses of his mind for now.

Doc lay in the snow, arms and legs spread-eagled like a rag doll thrown to the floor by a petulant child. He could have been sleeping, save for the bloodstain spreading around his left arm and the bruise on his right temple.

Raising one hand to his own head, Kirby felt a matching knot and winced, suddenly recalling the collision that had caused him to see stars and the medic to fall limp within his grasp. He nodded ruefully, chewing on his lower lip. THAT’S when I let go of him.

Shifting his attention to Doc’s injured arm, Kirby gently peeled back the sleeve, noting with a grimace the substantial wound that tore through the muscle, leaving raw and bleeding tissue. Jesus Christ. He took a deep breath and unbuttoned his parka, patting down his jacket pockets for his field dressing and sulfa packet. To his great surprise, they were right where they should be. He turned Doc’s arm, not noticing the fluttering eyelids signaling the medic’s slow return to consciousness.

Frowning with concentration, the wiry private slit Doc’s parka with his bayonet, grimacing at the blood-slick material and the way it felt both warm and cold. He shuddered with revulsion, wondering how the medic dealt with this stuff without losing his lunch. Not that Kirby remembered lunch, or breakfast, or much of anything prior to the wild ride down the mountain. He sighed, wondering where his gloves were, where Doc’s gloves were, and whatever else they may have lost in the churning snow.

The wound seemed huge, a ragged cavity midway between wrist and elbow. The blood welled from it, pulsing in time to Kirby’s own heartbeat and he swallowed hard, knowing he had to stop the flow if Doc was to have any chance at all. Kirby’s lower back was aching, gnawing at him with increasing fierceness. He shifted from one knee to the other, trying to ignore his own discomfort.

Sulfa, sulfa, sulfa. Kirby tore the top from the packet and sprinkled the powder liberally over the bloody gash, eyes dark with concentration. He gnawed his lower lip as he unwound the dressing and gently slid one end under Doc’s arm, pulling it smoothly over the gaping wound, and prepared to tie it in a knot. He could hear his pulse in his ears now and closed his eyes briefly, wishing forlornly that he’d listened to the medic that morning and stayed in camp. Shaking his head, Kirby opened his eyes just in time to catch a flash of movement.

“HOLYMOTHEROFGODWHATTHEHELLHAPPENED?”

Doc sat up, his good arm swinging wildly and serendipitously connecting with Kirby’s jaw, sending the smaller man sprawling in the snow. The medic’s blue eyes were wide with panic, his pupils dilated hugely. Panting, he stared at Kirby, confusion flooding through him, feeding on the rapid influx of adrenaline.

Kirby propped himself up on his elbows, mouth hanging open. He’d never heard the medic swear, in fact had hardly ever heard him string so many words together at one time. Leaning to one side, he raised a hand to his jaw, rubbing it ruefully as he felt a smile spread across his face. Despite the biting wind driving needles of ice into his exposed skin, the knowledge that they were completely and utterly lost and despite the odds on their survival swinging closer to zero and none – William G. Kirby’s day was looking up.

“Nice of you to join the party, Doc. Have a nice nap?”

One eyebrow notched itself upward a fraction as Doc struggled to understand Kirby’s casual words. He shivered, finally recognizing that he was outside in the snow, helmetless, gloveless and in some considerable pain. What forces had led him here he couldn’t remember, but first things first.

“You okay, Kirby?”

Kirby stared at the medic, dark eyes perfectly round with astonishment. And then he began to laugh, great snorts of laughter that grew in his belly and forced their way out of his open mouth, ringing in the clear mountain air. Was HE okay? Doc asked if HE was okay? He clutched at his aching back, one arm awkwardly pressed into his flank like a little old man and the other wrapped tightly around his ribs. I feel like Granpa Kirby when his lumbago was actin’ up. Drawing in a deep, cautious breath, the private collected himself, trying desperately to imbue the situation with the seriousness it deserved.

And failed miserably, falling over in the snow, howling with mirth.

Doc shook his head slowly, totally perplexed. He could only assume that whatever had happened to them, it must have involved a fairly severe blow to Kirby’s head. And something- something about his own arm. A tidal wave of pain crashed over the medic, engulfing him suddenly and completely and he vomited in the snow, emptying his stomach of the meager K-rations he’d consumed back at the snowfield and then bile and then nothing but dry heaves. For a long time Doc huddled on his knees, eyes closed and body shaking. It took awhile for him to become aware of Kirby’s supporting arm across his back, Kirby’s whiny voice oddly low and soothing, inexplicably telling him that everything was okay. Even in his twilight state of consciousness, Doc knew the man was lying.

“Doc? Doc, I gotta finish this dressin’ on your arm. It’s bleedin’ some and I gotta tighten it up.” Kirby gently shoved the medic back into the snow and quickly completed the job before Doc could gain enough wherewithal to argue with him.

Aware of Kirby’s ministrations but unable to summon the energy to sit up, Doc watched his squad mate’s face, taking note of each grimace and puzzled frown. He couldn’t remember how they had come to be there, alone and apparently lost. Where’s Caje, Littlejohn, Billy? An’ that replacement, what was his name? An’ the Sarge, where’s the Sarge? Doc’s mind drifted, easing here and there through his fragmented memories until he suddenly connected, his blue eyes widening with shock.

“Kirby!” The sudden, burning pain lancing from his arm to his shoulder slammed him to the ground, forcing the breath from his lungs and leaving him prone in the snow, sliding inexorably towards unconsciousness and away from Kirby and the safety of the guide rope. His eyes met Kirby’s as the BAR man lunged at him, his hand hooking Doc’s webbing and closing tight. As the snow fell over them, he thought he heard Kirby ask him something, but the words were lost, lost forever in the thunder of the avalanche.

“What happened?” Doc rubbed his temple gently with his right hand, wincing as he encountered the swelling over his eye. “I mean, I know the mountain pretty much fell on us, but before that?” He frowned, his eyebrows pulling together unevenly and giving him an oddly lopsided expression.

Kirby blinked, pausing in his efforts to pull the tattered pieces of Doc’s sleeve over the bandage. “I dunno, Doc. I just dunno.” He eased the medic into a sitting position, leaning him carefully against the denuded trunk of a fir, one of hundreds piled up against the ridge in a wild tangle.

Doc cradled his left arm cautiously in his right, teeth tightly clenched together. He watched Kirby stretch cautiously, and felt his medic’s intuition creeping up and niggling at the edges of his awareness. Kirby’s hurt, but hidin’ it. He sighed, letting it go for the moment. “I don’t remember gettin’ shot. That IS a gunshot you’re wrappin’ up?”

Kirby nodded, finishing his bandaging efforts by winding his scarf tightly around Doc’s sleeve and knotting it securely. He swallowed hard, shoving the queasiness roiling around in his guts back where it belonged, hoping that it would stay there. “Yeah, I guess it is. There was a shot from…oh, I dunno where. Just a shot.” Kirby squinted his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, sending off little sparks in the darkness of his vision.

“Kirby? Kirby, where are Sarge an’ the others? Do ya think they got clear of the avalanche? On the other side, I mean?” His voice was full of both hope and skepticism, not quite the generous measure of confidence he usually managed to project. You’ll be all right. Naw, it’s just a scratch. Sarge, this man needs a real doctor now! Doc cleared his throat, more a cough really, and swallowed hard against the sudden lump he found there.

Kirby looked up, dark eyes full of resigned misery. He glanced away, pretending to be interested in the jumble of tree trunks strewn across the snowy mountainside. “I dunno. I hope so.” He scratched his cheek, frowning at the numbness in his fingers, and waggled them idly in front of his eyes, staring at the bloodstains he hadn’t been able to completely scrub away in the snow. He’d not let himself think about the rest of the squad, safe, please let them be safe! on the far side of the snow field. Kirby wasn’t sure if he should be jealous or relieved. On the one hand, he and Doc were out of the mission. On the other, he and Doc were both hurt and lost and cold and a long way from camp. And Sarge is down two men.

The silence wrapped itself around them as each considered what was becoming an increasingly dire situation. The light was changing as the clouds tumbled in the sky, shadows lengthening and new snow threatening in the form of tiny flakes carried almost sideways in the wind.

“Kirby?”

Kirby turned to look at the corpsman. Something in Doc’s voice lulled him from his own desperate thoughts, something quiet and reassuring. He realized for maybe the first time how much he depended on Doc’s calm, supportive manner, how much they all did. Somewhere in his gambler’s heart of hearts, he’d always acknowledged the man for the steadfast anchor that he was, but Kirby had never given it a moment’s conscious thought.

Doc reached with his good hand for Kirby’s elbow. “Lemmee take a look at your back, okay?” He struggled to his knees, pausing for a moment as pain washed over him. A wave of dizziness blurred his vision and Doc felt himself falling, tumbling in the white emptiness of the avalanche. He shook his head and the feeling lifted, leaving him crouched there in the snow, staring stupidly into Kirby’s dark eyes.

“It’s nothin’, Doc. I thought I got shot, but now-“ He gestured vaguely at Doc’s arm, shrugging his shoulders. And wincing at the pain that movement generated in his flank. He let the medic turn him, blowing out a brief burst of pent up air that he’d held in his lungs as Doc’s capable right hand pressed lightly over his lower back.

A smear of blood on the back of Kirby’s parka drew Doc’s attention to the small hole, centered just under the man’s left-side ribs. He leaned closer, shaking his head. The red stain surrounded the neat puncture, but didn’t intrude into the opening at all.

“Not much blood here, Kirby an’ it don’t look like it came from inside your coat. But there’s definitely a bullet hole. Let’s slip your gear off an’ take a look.” He reached for the buckles on Kirby’s suspenders, blue eyes widening with astonishment as Kirby lurched backwards, falling over sideways in the snow.

“The hell you will, Doc! It’s freezin’ out here, in case you didn’t notice!” He clutched his parka tighter around himself, glaring at Doc darkly. His voice squeaked up an octave or so, giving him the outward demeanor of a teenage girl in defense of her honor.

He couldn’t help himself. Doc laughed, and once he started, Kirby couldn’t help but join in. The medic knew it wasn’t necessarily a good thing, that the two of them were probably just this side of hysteria, but gosh if it didn’t feel great. After a few minutes, breathless, red-faced and wiping tears from his eyes, Doc managed to convince Kirby to peel back just enough of his layers to examine the man’s back.

“Well. Ya got a bruise here. A pretty good one, right over your kidney. But no bullet hole. No bleedin’. Hey wait!”

He stretched out his right hand for Kirby to see. A slug of lead lay there, misshapen and slick with blood. Kirby picked it up, frowning.

“Where’d you find this?”

“Fell out between your coat an’ your jacket. Damnedest thing. It went through your coat but just bruised ya. Figure that one out!” Doc raised an eyebrow, shrugging awkwardly with one shoulder. The snow was already settling thickly on the hood of his parka and it fell across his face as he ducked his head.

Kirby stood, wrapping his own parka around himself. He looked down at Doc, surprised that for once he’d already figured it out and the corpsman hadn’t. “Doc. This bullet, it’s, it’s the one that went through your arm.” He looked down at the slug, poking at it with one finger. “Guess it slowed down enough, well-“ His voice trailed off, embarrassment creeping across his cheekbones in a red wash.

Doc sat back on his heels, his face suddenly grey. He fought down the desire to vomit again, aware that he had absolutely nothing in his stomach and that his abdominal muscles were already aching. Staring at the thing in Kirby’s hand, he managed to get his guts under control, reminding himself that he’d seen hundreds of bullets, hundreds of bullet wounds and just because this particular piece of ammo had taken a detour through his own body was no reason that he should view it any differently. Spitting a mouthful of bitter saliva into the snow, Doc pulled himself together, trying desperately to smile up at Kirby.

“Hey.” His throat felt thick, gravelly. “Kirby, it’s your lucky charm.”

Kirby snorted. “Lucky? I don’t feel too lucky. I feel like I’ve been ballet dancin’ in a cement mixer.” He palmed the bullet, shoving his hand deeply into his pocket. For a moment, he stood there, letting his fingers enjoy a slight respite from the wind. The BAR was slung over his shoulder and Kirby was starting to feel itchy, exposed. Whoever fired that shot might consider hiking down the path of the avalanche, looking for survivors. He thought it unlikely, but then again, everything that had happened this day had been outside what Kirby considered normal.

He stretched out a hand, pulling Doc shakily to his feet. He held him by the elbow a moment while the medic wobbled, getting his legs under him. With a gentleness that surprised even himself, Kirby carefully tucked Doc’s injured arm into his coat. After using the only scarf they had left as a makeshift bandage, there’d been nothing for a sling. Kirby made a quick mental inventory of the things they’d lost. Helmets. Gloves. Doc’s scarf. Their wool caps. Doc’s medical pouch and canteens. What they did have was more important. The BAR and all his ammunition, the magazines still inexplicably tucked in pouches on his ammo belt. Well, if we get cold enough we can always shoot each other.

Doc stared over the ridge a moment, fighting vertigo as his gaze dropped lower and lower without finding the bottom of the crevasse. He closed his eyes briefly and turned away, careful not to open them again until his back was to the abyss. So close, so close. Why they’d not plummeted over the edge Doc would never understand.

Dark eyes met with blue. Kirby nodded once and turned toward the trees on the downhill side of the slide. He glanced over his shoulder to see the medic following carefully in his footsteps, wounded arm held tightly to his chest. Hope someone’s lookin’ out for us, Doc, ‘cause we ain’t got a snowball’s chance in Hell. He gripped the BAR tighter, cocking his head back to catch Doc’s muttered words.

“Kirby? I never knew you were a ballet dancer.”

*** *** ***
to be continued……