Snow Blind Part Three
By Doc II
Author: Doc Two
(aka Doc aka
Ó October 2005
Synopsis:
A mission Saunders never wanted turns sour in ways he never expected.
Acknowledgements:
Jester – thanks for all that you do to keep me from losing my tiny mind. You’re not only a wonderful, imaginative
writer, but a great friend. I can’t
thank you enough!
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.
*** *** ***
Littlejohn shifted his rifle restlessly, squeezing
the fingers of his right hand into a tight fist in a futile attempt to relieve
the numbness brought on by the cold. The
snow had finally stopped, but the temperature had dropped another ten degrees,
leaching the heat out of bodies already pushed beyond their limits. The big private shrugged his parka higher on
his shoulders and continued slogging through the knee-high drifts some twenty
yards downhill of the path.
The squad had
been moving steadily for the last several hours, stopping only for a few short
breaks to drink the scant water not yet frozen in their canteens and to allow
Caje to rest. The scout still refused to
let anyone look at his arm. His face,
pale and drawn under the bill of his wool cap and helmet, confirmed the pain he
denied. His useless Garand hung over his
shoulder, slapping at the backs of his thighs with each step. Clutching his injured arm, the Cajun doggedly
trudged on.
Saunders called
another halt, moving away from the little group and pulling the map from inside
his overcoat. By his reckoning, they had
to be almost at the rendezvous site. He
could only pray the Maquis were still there, waiting for their tardy American
amis and not captured by the roving Germans.
Saunders was well aware of the patrol they’d left behind and the fact
that the young Kraut’s body must have been discovered by now. He had to assume they were being pursued and
that the actions of first squad might bring down the wrath of the Third Reich
on the beleaguered resistance band.
Stuffing the map
back into his coat, Saunders turned to look at his men, his gaze falling on
each of them in turn. Littlejohn, still
trying to cajole Caje into letting him bandage the obviously injured arm. Nelson, M1 at the ready and watching the
perimeter without being told. His
innocence lost at the moment his gun jammed, Billy wasn’t about to let anything
else happen to them if he had any say in it.
Saunders shook
his head, sorrow warring with relief in his heart. Billy had kept his boyish exuberance far
longer than anyone had a right to expect.
Why did it hurt so now to see him assume the posture of a seasoned
soldier?
He turned his
attention to
And Caje, his
wounded arm hanging limply at his side.
The most reliable member of the squad, stalwart and taciturn, Caje was
the man Saunders knew he could always depend on, no matter what the
situation. Now Caje was the wild card,
his dark eyes blank and unseeing.
The sergeant sighed,
watching the thin needle of the compass swing wildly back and forth before
settling into a steady direction. They
had no choice but to move on. The
avalanche had decided that. Saunders
shoved the compass into his pocket and readjusted his gloves, his right hand
coming to rest on the barrel of the Thompson.
Rejoining his men, he got them to their feet without a word, indicating
to Nelson to take the point. They moved
out, five silent shadows in the darkening forest.
*** *** ***
an hour later…
Caje shivered in
the small hollow he’d made for himself at the base of an enormous pine
tree. Taking advantage of the steep
pitch of the terrain at the rendezvous point, he’d managed to kick a hole in a
snowdrift large enough to hide his entire body.
As he was incapable of using his weapon, there was no need for him to
clear a field of fire. All Caje had to
do was lie low. And it weighed on him
heavily.
The waning
afternoon light turned the snow flat grey, leaving no visual clues to aid in
depth perception. The scout idly stared
at a low-hanging limb, its needles encased in crystal sheaths of ice. For a moment he felt he could stretch out and
grab the branch, shaking it free of its burden and sending it snapping
skyward. With a start, Caje realized
that the tree was more than twenty feet away and far out of reach. He blinked, fatigue washing over him in
numbing waves.
Kirby. Kirby! Hugging his injured arm gently across his
chest, Caje fought the memories that kept forcing themselves to the forefront
of his attention. The image of Kirby’s
face, eyes wide and mouth a silent “o” as he’d looked up into the oncoming wall
of snow, played over and over behind Caje’s dark eyes. The scout had risen to his feet, still
clutching the guide rope, rising as if to affect some sort of rescue and make a
difference to what was already an inevitable event. He’d known from the start what a risk the
crossing would be. They’d all
known. But the knowledge didn’t offer
him any comfort.
A small metallic
clink drew him from his thoughts, jangling his nerves and slamming white-hot
shards of pain from shoulder to fingers.
Biting his lip to keep from moaning aloud, Caje pressed himself further
into his icy hideout, turning in the direction of the noise but not revealing
so much as the top of his helmet.
“Caje?”
Saunders’ voice
seemed to directly address his left ear, so soft that the Cajun wasn’t quite
sure at first if he’d conjured up the sergeant or if the man was really
there. He flinched away, turning to find
Saunders curled tightly over one bent knee, camo helmet squarely on his head
for once. Caje regarded him levelly,
dark eyes boring into the sergeant’s. He
was embarrassed to have been caught unaware in his musings. More so, Caje was mortified to have been
caught, period. Especially by Saunders,
a man Caje had learned to trust and depend on.
And whose approval he still sought, despite having proved himself
over and over in the deadly French countryside.
The sergeant
moved closer to Caje, turning his body so that he faced out of the little snow
cave. His wary gaze slid from shadow to shadow,
the barrel of the Tommy following each potential target. Satisfied for the moment, Saunders glanced at
the Cajun, swallowing down the anger and irritation he’d felt toward the man
earlier. He knew only too well how Caje
was feeling. After all, he’d stood at
the edge of the snowfield and watched two of his men vanish in the thundering
violence of an avalanche. Bullets,
grenades, mines… Saunders had seen
all manner of ways in which a man’s life could be summarily ended. This cruel act of nature seemed somehow more
horrific by its very randomness. Any of
them could have been out there, clinging to the guide rope. Or none
of them. He shook his head, reaching
out one gloved hand to pat Caje’s uninjured shoulder.
“Keep your head
down.”
Saunders left the
shelter at a crouch, gliding in and out of the trees, not looking back at the
scout.
*** *** ***
Where was
Aramis?
The sergeant
paused next to a particularly dense copse of bushes and hunkered down, his
aching ankles complaining about the additional strain. He felt the snow slowly give under his boots,
forcing him to shift from one leg to the other.
Finally Saunders dropped to his knees, the icy cold penetrating the
thick wool of his trousers and settling into joints already numb and sore from
the relentless pace of the day.
Glancing back
over his shoulder toward Caje’s position, Saunders absently patted his pockets,
his stiff and gloved fingers finding the cigarettes and then dropping again to
the Thompson. I’d kill for a
smoke. He blinked, realizing that
that was exactly what he was going to have to do to get one. Kill somebody. Some kid, like the one they’d thrown down the
mountain.
Saunders wasn’t a
particularly sentimental man. He wasn’t
given to thinking too much about what he’d done in the course of a day, rarely
if ever second-guessing himself. It was
a quality that allowed him to sleep at night, knowing that he’d done what he
had to do, to protect his men and the mission.
It was also the thing that made his men so loyal to him, a fact that
scared Saunders beyond any torture dreamed up by the Nazis. HE’D sent each man across that snowfield
today. Doc and Kirby wouldn’t have been
out there had he not given the order to cross.
The sole responsibility for what had happened rested squarely on his
exhausted shoulders.
Saunders wasn’t
sure if he’d ever sleep again.
Climbing wearily
to his feet, the sergeant forced his way further downhill, wallowing through
drifts higher than his shoulders. He
knew he was in the right place, the landmarks matched up perfectly. Despite the avalanche and the detour to track
down the German shooter, they were on time for the rendezvous. Saunders shoved back his sleeve to peer at
his watch again.
Where was
Aramis?
And more
importantly, where was that German patrol?
*** *** ***
Littlejohn looked
at his watch, tapping gently on the crystal with his index finger. Holding the timepiece up to his ear, he
impatiently tugged the hood of his overcoat back so he could ascertain that it
was, indeed, ticking. He shrugged,
raising one eyebrow in answer to
“How long?” The replacement’s hoarse whisper was
startlingly loud. He flinched at
Littlejohn’s grimace, ducking his head down so low he could barely see over the
dead pine trunk he’d chosen to shelter behind.
Littlejohn
started to answer him, holding out a couple of fingers when his head whipped
around, wide eyes staring into the depths of the forest. A long moment passed as the big man listened
intently, straining to hear over the pounding of his own heart.
He turned
suddenly, looking straight into
They’re coming.
Nelson nodded and
turned away from the path, melting into the pattern of the trees, and
disappeared from view.
*** *** ***
Caje gingerly
rolled back his sleeve from his left hand.
He hadn’t looked at the injury before, knowing full well that if he did,
Saunders or Littlejohn would be right there, sticking their noses in his business. Well,
DOC’S business if the truth be told, but Doc wasn’t here and… The scout forced his thoughts to trail
off. He just couldn’t believe it. Kirby and Doc, both gone. Kirby, one of the few men he’d allowed close
enough to become a friend. Doc, the most
honest and compassionate man he’d ever met.
Gone.
With a sigh, Caje
studied his swollen wrist, frowning at the purpled flesh. Gently tugging his glove off, he stared at
the streaks that extended well down his bloated fingers where the skin had been
peeled back like a ripe banana. Oddly,
the wound hadn’t bled. He tried to move
his hand and almost fainted with the agony that burst from his fingers and shot
like a rocket straight to his shoulder.
Leaning his head back into the snowy bark of the pine, Caje closed his
eyes, willing himself to stay conscious and alert. He may not be able to fire a rifle, but…
“MERDE!”
The sudden volley
of M1 fire crashed against his eardrums, reverberating over and over. Caje found himself on his knees, desperately
trying to pull his glove back over the maimed fingers. Bile rose in the back of his throat and his
vision greyed as the pain tore its way into his head. He clenched his teeth, his jaw aching with
the effort he imposed on himself.
Clawing at his
back with his good hand for the Garand, Caje slipped in the icy snow, rolling
over and over as he tried to free the weapon.
It took several moments for him to realize that he could hear answering
German fire and voices shouting in two languages in what seemed to be complete
chaos. The rifle remained strapped
firmly to his back, despite his one-handed efforts to haul it around into
firing position. He crawled back to his
shelter, now knowing that no amount of resolve would enable him to join in the
fight.
*** *** ***
Nelson
leveled his M1, blinking furiously against the sheen of tears brought on by the
biting wind. So far, he’d not fired a
single shot, biding his time until the Germans were totally focused on
Littlejohn and
…five,
six, seven…..eight. Biting his lip in frustration, Billy almost missed
the blur of motion just to his rear. As
it was, Saunders was almost on top of him before he could swing his rifle
around. Allowing himself to fall flat on
his back in the snow, the young private fought to slow down his breathing,
staring wildly back at his sergeant’s oddly calm blue eyes.
“How
many?” Saunders inclined his head toward
the German patrol as he slithered behind the cover of a dead fall. He checked his weapon briefly then glanced
back at Nelson. He repeated his
question. “How many?”
Nelson
twisted his neck backwards, his eyes rolling upwards until only the whites
showed. “Eight. Well, seven now, they got the point man. There’s another injured, I dunno if he’s okay
or not. He’s not firin’.” He flipped over onto his stomach. “Sarge?”
The
sergeant checked his field of fire, one knee drawn up under him. Glancing upslope in the general direction of
The
younger man swallowed hard. “You think
they’re gonna fall for it? Come this
way?” His fingers tightened on his
rifle, hugging it to his chest.
Saunders
nodded once, left hand waving Nelson off.
“They have to. Now move off a
little, just to that tree over there.”
He pointed and then settled into his own position, staring down the
length of the submachine gun. And
waited.
*** *** ***
Glancing
over his shoulder at
*** *** ***
Caje
held himself as still as possible, straining to hear above the ear-numbing
racket of the firefight. He hadn’t heard
the staccato stuttering of the sergeant’s Thompson yet and wondered why, the
worry rising like quicksilver within him.
He considered moving from his refuge and finding a better vantage point
but knew it would be a useless and perhaps dangerous idea given the state of
his arm. Carefully cupping his elbow
with his right hand, Caje cradled his mangled fingers, his thoughts clouded by
the overriding pain.
“Mon
ami, my friend!
Falling
over backwards in surprise, Caje scrambled to his knees, his dark eyes wide
with astonishment. He stared at the
apparition that had turned up without warning on the side of a mountain during
both a snowstorm AND a heated exchange of lead between the Germans and the
Americans.
The
man winced at a particularly loud volley of gunfire, as he leaned forward, hands
on his knees, and peered at Caje, his frown accentuating the gaunt hollows in
his cheeks and the multiple gaps between his badly discolored teeth. He wore a tattered greatcoat that might have
been any color originally but which was now faded to an indiscriminate
grey. Wrapped around his thin waist was
a worn leather belt and a stained holster that contained a revolver the likes
of which Caje had never seen. The
remains of a pair of ancient hiking boots clung to his feet and ankles, aided
with strips of torn fabric tied with elaborate knots. On his head perched a huge Russian fur hat,
the flaps sticking straight out over his ears.
A straggly beard covered the lower half of the man’s face, unkempt and
untrimmed, which only added to his general air of ill health. He leaned in further, his breath hot in
Caje’s face as he awkwardly embraced the Cajun, apparently not noticing the
wide-eyed panic his gesture triggered.
<”I
thought you weren’t coming, I thought you were dead, swept away in the
avalanche.”> The stranger tucked
himself in next to Caje, reaching up to tug down the earflaps of his enormous
hat.
Caje
could only shake his head, backing away from the man until the tree behind him
halted his progress. The sudden burst of
automatic gunfire downhill from the Cajun’s position made both of them flinch,
two pairs of eyes turning to stare into the shadowy forest.
The stranger fingered the worn holster, unsnapping it
and allowing his hand to rest on the cold metal grip of the ancient pistol.
“Vous êtes américain ?” His voice shook
slightly, more than could be accounted for by the cold. Swallowing hard, he curled up in the limited
space afforded him and winced at the next prolonged barrage.
Glancing
at the man, Caje suddenly realized that he’d forgotten the lost band of
resistance fighters, lost as he was himself in a fog of pain and agitation over
his inability to help his squad mates.
He hugged his arm tighter to his chest in the close quarters, afraid the
newcomer might hug him again. He nodded
and cleared his throat.
<”Yes,
I’m American, we’re Americans. You are
Aramis?”> Hearing his own words, Caje
could only assume that he was going into shock from his injury. What was he thinking, giving the man the name
of their contact? He hoped that his
intuition wasn’t wrong, that the obviously terrified Frenchman was indeed a
member of the Maquis.
With
an audible sigh, the man leaned his head back against the tree, eyes closed in
apparent relief. <”Thank God, thank
God! Yes, I am Aramis.”> He scrunched down again, his neck telescoping
turtlelike into the folds of his scarf as another torrent of gunfire echoed
through the forest. Shivering hard,
Aramis curled his mittened fingers into his palms and tucked his fists into his
armpits.
Caje
could only stare at him. The man had two
arms and legs that appeared in working order.
He had a weapon, although it looked as though it belonged in a museum
rather than on a battlefield. The
rattling of Saunders’ Thompson tore through the chill mountain air, startling
Caje. He struggled to his knees,
fighting the involuntary moan that rose in his throat as he jostled his swollen
hand.
<”You’ve
got a pistol, you must help them!”>
Reaching up with his good hand, Caje snugged his helmet tighter, risking
a quick glance past the edge of his snowy hideout. Despite the racket uphill, the snowy forest
surrounding the two men lay in peaceful beauty.
Caje stared a moment longer, wanting desperately to join in the
fight. He turned back to the resistance
fighter, snarling at the man.
<”HELP
THEM!”>
Aramis
shook his head, patting the old pistol with one hand and shoving the other into
a voluminous pocket. Withdrawing it, he
turned his palm up, revealing two solitary bullets. He smiled a little at Caje, shrugging his
thin shoulders.
<”I
only have the two bullets, mon ami.”>
Caje
stared at him, mouth hanging open in shock.
The
resistance fighter poked gently at the lead slugs with his index finger, his
expression inexplicably sad. He sighed,
then lifted his gaze to the Cajun’s, for once his faded brown eyes steady and
not darting away.
<”And
I believe one of them is to be saved for myself.”>
*** *** ***
Billy
slowly swung the M1 from left to right, dislodging the snow from the tree branch
on which he rested the barrel. One eye
closed, he sighted along its length, waiting for a target. Although he couldn’t see him, Nelson could
feel Saunders’ presence, some twenty feet to his left. Knowing his sergeant was there lent him a
confidence he hadn’t been able to find in himself since the incident with the
young German soldier. He took a deep
breath, blinking rapidly to dispel the image of the kid’s dead face looking
at him, accusing him. Oh God….
Sporadic firing
continued above them, Littlejohn and
Nelson saw them
first, his body trembling violently as the first of the German patrol eased
into view. He held the stock of his
rifle tighter against his shoulder, forcing himself to control the adrenaline
racing through his veins. One, two,
three… When Billy got to six he
fired, dropping the lead man and winging the one behind him. He could hear the Thompson clattering away to
his left and saw another man go down, arms flung wide with the impact.
Chips flew up all
around Saunders as he rolled away from his original position, snow and pine
needles showering down as the remaining Germans drew a bead on him. Ducking under a deadfall, he came up firing
and silenced another two of the enemy. A
second M1 joined Nelson’s, and Saunders took advantage of the added manpower to
shove a fresh magazine into his weapon.
Peering around the trunk of a sizeable pine, he counted three Krauts
still firing. Drawing his knees up under
him, he prepared to charge up the hill in a final assault.
*** *** ***
Littlejohn
shuffled forward in the snow on his hands and knees, flattening himself out as
he accidentally flushed a small nesting bird.
It rose up furiously in his face, flapping its wings and squawking in
indignation. He closed his eyes, expecting
a storm of gunfire but was pleasantly surprised to find none directed his
way. Instead, the Germans focused toward
the downslope location of Saunders and Nelson.
After a few moments of relative silence, the big private moved again,
working his way to the bend in the trail where he and
An arm and leg
were visible under the outstretched branches of a chewed up pine tree, its
needles forcefully shed by the hail of bullets fired by the Americans. Littlejohn waited a moment, unsure if the
Krauts would have left someone behind to watch their backs as they attempted to
outflank the assault. Just as he
prepared to move in, he saw the man, crouched in the darkness beneath an
evergreen canopy. Had the man not
sniffed, wiping his nose with the cuff of his greatcoat and shifting his rifle
from one hand to the other, Littlejohn might not have spotted him. As it was, he only barely managed to keep
himself hidden.
Settling his
elbows in an icy drift, Littlejohn pulled his M1 against his shoulder,
carefully working his gloved index finger inside the trigger guard. He took a breath and held it, squeezing the
trigger as the shadowy figure centered in the cross hairs. A shadowy figure leveling his own weapon
directly at Littlejohn.
*** *** ***
Saunders leapt to
his feet, bounding from the cover of one tree to the next in sync with the
cover fire from Nelson and
God, just let
me get there before the Krauts realize they’ve got us outnumbered. He
glanced up, saw the boulder he’d staked out before and forced his cold-numbed
limbs to drag him there. Flipping onto
his back, he pulled the two grenades from his overcoat pocket where he’d
stashed them thirty minutes ago, making sure that the pins were fully inserted. Saunders’ fingers were so frozen he
momentarily panicked, forcing the joints fully closed and then open again. Gripping the wool fingertips in his teeth, he
pulled the glove from his right hand, gasping as the icy wind found its way to
unprotected skin.
Shouldering up to
the huge stone, Saunders waited for his men to give him the signal, shivering
madly beneath his overcoat.
*** *** ***
Kirby hugged his
body against the pine tree, leaning as far out as he dared over the drop
off. He couldn’t feel the rough bark
touching his skin, though his cheek and ear were pressed firmly against
it. Don’t think about that, William
old son. Just…don’t think about it. Far below, he could see the meandering river
they’d crossed the night before, curving its way around the base of the
mountain. From his vantage point, it
looked just like it did on the map, a thin dark line with no more sign of
danger than a child’s drawing. He
sighed, turning his back on the open air, and began climbing up to the winding
game trail where he’d left Doc.
Doc. Oh God, please help us.
Kirby hadn’t prayed so much since he was an altar boy at the tender age
of ten. By eleven, he’d been forcibly
ejected from the church for one too many pranks during mass. His mother hadn’t been amused, his dad…well,
it was better not to think how his father had handled the situation. It didn’t matter. Since arriving in
He hauled himself
up onto the trail, going to his knees in exhaustion. Mouth wide open, Kirby gulped in thin
mountain air, his chest heaving convulsively as he fought to oxygenate his
starving lungs. As his vision cleared,
he set his hands on his knees, pushing himself back on his heels, and looked up
to find Doc staring at him with anxious blue eyes.
“You okay,
Kirby?”
The medic sat on
a log, his wounded arm resting lightly across his thighs. Right hand curled into his sleeve, he was
scooping clean snow on the back of his overcoat-covered wrist and licking it
gingerly off the fabric.
Kirby watched him
for a moment, noting the hard shivers that wracked Doc’s body every few
moments. He worried about the waxy,
white areas across the medic’s cheekbones where it should be flushed red from
exertion. He knew his own face looked
similar as numbness spread from his ears to his nose. His fingers he’d given up on long ago. He staggered to his feet, almost falling down
again on the icy track.
“You’re gonna
freeze yourself, Doc. Don’t eat too much
of it.” Kirby stared at a pine branch,
laden with pristine mounds of snow.
Shaking his head ruefully, he pulled it down to eye level and bit into
the icy crystals, trying not to scream as pain shot from his incisors straight
through to his brain. He shuddered,
remembering suddenly a hot July when his uncle had sold strawberry ice cream
down at the bowling alley. That same
stabbing ache but oh it tasted so good…Kirby shook his head again. This stuff tastes nothin’ like
strawberries.
Doc almost
grinned. “It only hurts for the first
hour.” He shook his sleeve so the
remaining dusting of snow flew into the wind.
Gathering his left arm closer to his body, he hunched over it, gritting
his teeth against the relentless throbbing that threatened to overwhelm
him. Any movement of his hand sent
daggers of fire through his muscles and yet Doc felt an almost insane desire to
wriggle his fingers. The force of will
required to hold the limb still was eroding rapidly. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, though,
at least for the time being. The medic
peered cautiously at the scarf-wrapped wound, relieved to find no new blood in
the snow at his feet.
“We gotta get
movin’. I don’t think there’s more than
a couple hours worth of light left.”
Kirby stared up at the grey sky, one hand pressed hard to his flank. Answering a call of nature, he’d been
horrified at the bright red splash of blood.
Not that Doc needs to know.
He moved his attention to the medic with no small sense of relief. Worrying about Doc was productive. Worrying about himself was time wasted. Kirby straightened up, ignoring the ache in
his back. Patting Doc gently on the
head, he reached down, hooking his numb fingers under the medic’s right elbow.
Doc leaned into
Kirby, allowing the B.A.R. man to haul him to his feet. As Kirby slipped under his good arm, taking
the medic’s weight on his wiry shoulders, Doc felt a vague rising sensation in
his chest, followed by the decidedly unpleasant flip-flopping of his guts in
his belly. Staggering into the smaller
man, Doc’s vision rapidly narrowed, telescoping inwardly until all he saw
before he blacked out was the languid movement of pine branches in the treetops
high above them.
Kirby saw the
medic’s head lolling back, eyes unfocused and unseeing. He tried to catch the man with the intention
of easing him carefully to the ground, but had no such luck. Doc’s weight felled them both and Kirby
tumbled into the snow underneath the corpsman’s unconscious body.
“Cripes.” Kirby managed to get his elbows under him,
rolling Doc onto his side, and then wriggled his legs out from under the
medic. He took a moment to catch his
breath and then scrambled to his knees, ignoring the flaring pain in his
back. Sliding Doc around on the slippery
trail, Kirby managed to get the medic’s head lower than the rest of his body
and then sat down heavily next to him, panting hard.
“Okay, that’s the
last time we’re gonna do that. I mean,
the first time, well, that was pretty hairy but once you came round an’ tole me
what to do, ole Kirby’s got it figured out.
The second time, I was ready. Now
it ain’t funny no more.”
He reached over
and grabbed the front of Doc’s overcoat, wincing as his frozen fingers slowly
closed. Shaking the medic gently
at first and then with greater agitation, Kirby fought his own anxiety, trying
to imitate the calm manner he’d seen Doc use on his own patients.
“Doc? Come on, Doc, we gotta get movin’, those
Jerries are out here, it’s cold an’ my feet are killin’ me! Come on, Doc?
DOC!”
As Doc’s eyelids
fluttered, Kirby loosened his grip and reached up to awkwardly pat the medic’s
cheek. A few moments later, Doc opened
his eyes, staring blearily at Kirby’s relieved face.
The B.A.R. man
sat back on his heels and rested his numb hands on his thighs. “Ya gotta stop doin’ that, Doc. You’re scarin’ me to death.” He looked up at the thick clouds scudding
along, mentally cursing the promise of new snowfall. The wind suddenly picked up, whipping inside
his hood and down the back of his neck.
“Sorry.”
The medic’s voice
was so faint Kirby had to lean down to hear.
Closing his eyes, the B.A.R. man let his chin fall to his chest and took
a deep breath, holding it for a moment.
It wasn’t Doc’s fault. It wasn’t
even his own fault for once. But try as
he might, Kirby just couldn’t find anybody to blame for this predicament. Turning his attention back to Doc, he very
slowly sat him up, pausing for several minutes at a time to allow the medic’s
blood pressure to catch up to his new position.
By the time the
two shivering and staggering privates got themselves underway, the snowfall had
begun again, intensifying rapidly to a thick curtain and obliterating the game
trail. Kirby swore under his breath as
he steadied Doc, blinking to dislodge the thick snowflakes. Moving slowly off, he stared hard at the
terrain, lower lip caught firmly in his incisors. They had no choice but to move forward. Forward and down.
Kirby glanced
once over his shoulder, shaking his head at his own foolishness. Nobody out here but us chickens. He hiked Doc’s good arm further across his
shoulders, practically hauling the man through a particularly deep
snowdrift. Still, he felt a growing
anxiety settle in his belly and between his shoulder blades.
Looking back one
more time, Kirby saw nothing amiss in the snowy late afternoon light. Certainly not a shadow among other shadows. Kirby shook his head at Doc’s questioning
glance and they moved off into the trees.
*** *** ***
Nelson stared
hard into the distance, forcing himself to trust Saunders’ plan. He knew he was at the right place, but had no
idea if the timing was right. From the
moment the lead started flying, Billy’d had no idea how many minutes had
passed. Crouching lower in the snow, he
jammed a fresh magazine into his M1, panting hard with panic. He could see
*** *** ***
Saunders fought
to control his breathing, afraid the Krauts would hear the labored wheezing of
his overtaxed lungs. Pushing back the
sleeve covering his left wrist, the sergeant squinted at his watch for several
seconds before he realized that the crystal was smashed and only the hour hand
remained. He let his hand drop to his lap,
careful not to dislodge the grenade nestled in his palm.
Below
and to his left, Saunders heard the staccato barking of a single M1. Just a moment before, two of the Army
workhorses had been picking away at the German squad. This was either Nelson’s reload before he and
With
a violence Saunders wouldn’t have thought possible, the two distant Americans
opened up, tearing up branches and dumping snow from the treetops. Arms wrapped around his head, the sergeant
heard one of the Germans grunt in pain and a rifle tumbled over the top of the
rock, falling into the snow next to him.
He waited a moment longer, expecting a body to join the weapon. When it didn’t happen, Saunders rose to a
crouch, a grenade in each hand.
*** *** ***
Littlejohn
trudged slowly through the snow, M1 held at the ready. His left bicep burned where the German’s
bullet had creased him, but it hadn’t bled long and he’d managed to get sulfa
sprinkled over the wound and a dressing tied in place, if not as neatly as Doc
might have done. The German hadn’t fared
so well. Littlejohn had found three
corpses strewn in the snow.
Rifle
fire echoed around him, bouncing off the banks of pines and the snow-covered
boulders. The air itself, filling now
with fat snowflakes, seemed to shrink from the concussion. Littlejohn felt the world narrow to just the
few feet in front of his boots and the few behind where his footprints filled
rapidly, erasing the evidence of his passage.
He moved with slow deliberation, each step seeming to take hours when he
knew it could only have been seconds.
Shaking his head, Littlejohn marveled at the quiet, not realizing that
it only existed inside himself.
BOOM!
The
earth shuddered out from under the big private, dumping him on his rear in the
snow.
BOOM!
Another
explosion followed the first by only a heartbeat, trailed by a silence so
complete Littlejohn could have been alone in the forest, lying flat on his back
in the cold, eyes wide with shock.
Blinking slowly, he became aware of his M1 digging painfully into his
left hip and rolled to one side, extricating the weapon from beneath him. With a grunt, Littlejohn struggled to his
feet, trying to remember just where it was he was supposed to be going. Looking down at his overcoat, he brushed off
a surprisingly thick layer of snow, only now realizing that he’d been lying
there for more than a few minutes.
“Hey! HEY!
He’s over here, Littlejohn’s over here!”
Nelson’s unmistakable boyish voice squeaked up an octave or two as he
rounded a copse of trees and stumbled headlong over his own feet. Shoving up to his elbows, he grinned at
Littlejohn, eyes wide with undisguised joy.
Billy
hauled himself to his feet and shoved his rifle onto his back. He gripped Littlejohn’s parka just below the
bandage, inspecting the untidy knot.
“You okay?”
As
Littlejohn opened his mouth to answer, Saunders shoved his way between them,
giving the injury a cursory once-over and then glancing over at
“You
okay?”
Littlejohn
nodded, wincing as he shouldered his weapon.
“I’m okay, Sarge.”
Saunders
nodded too and turned away, staggering slightly into a deep drift before
catching his balance with one hand against a tree. He took a deep breath and coughed, hacking,
shoulders hunched against the cold and fatigue.
Behind him the men glanced at each other, shaking their heads in
confusion. Clearing his throat, Saunders
spat into the snow and then set off, boots punching through the icy crust with
each step.
“
*** *** ***
Caje
shoved himself away from the Frenchman, flinching inwardly at the man’s fetid
breath, and stood, staring intently into the thick forest. The firefight seemed to be over, silenced by
the double explosions of grenades whose echo had been rapidly swallowed up in
the heavy snowfall. He absently massaged
his elbow, the only part of his arm that could be touched without sending him
into paroxysms of pain.
<”What
do you see, my friend?”>
The
scout closed his eyes briefly, knowing that the sole reason for their being on
the mountain in the first place was to meet with this man, but wishing with all
his heart that Aramis would just vanish into the trees and leave him
alone. As they’d waited, shoulder to
shoulder in Caje’s snowy cave, he’d felt every flinch of Aramis’ bony body
against his own, jarring his injured arm and his jangling nerves. The sound of the firefight, the only means
Caje had of monitoring Saunders and the others, hadn’t helped. Every shot from an enemy weapon that went
unanswered by American rifles wounded him as surely as if he’d been hit. Only too aware of the Garand strapped across
his back, forgotten when he’d tried to convince Aramis to join in the fight,
Caje raged against his impotence, both now and before. Dark eyes snapping in anger, he glared at the
Frenchman, snarling at him.
<”Nothing. There is nothing.”>
Aramis
shrugged, burrowing his thin shoulders deeper into his greatcoat and hunching
them against the relentless chill. Bare
hands shoved deep into his pockets, he began to whistle tunelessly, his watery
gaze off somewhere in the distance. As
the melody wandered, he removed the two bullets from his coat pocket, rolling
them between the fingers of his right hand.
Click…click…click…
The
scout shook his head once in disgust but leaned in closer all the same. He’d heard the tune before but couldn’t place
it, knowing only that it brought some level of stillness with its discordant
notes. Unaware, Caje softly hummed along
as he crouched in the snow, staring and staring, his gloved thumb idly flipping
the D-ring holding the Garand to its strap.
Click…click…click…
*** *** ***
“Caje!”
Saunders
shoved through the last of the drifts, shaking his boots in irritated
deliberation with each step and sending shards of ice flying. He’d noticed Caje’s dark shadow against the
even darker pine needles and veered toward him.
Keeping his voice pitched low, he called to the scout again.
“Caje!”
Head
jerking in surprise, Caje held out one hand right in Aramis’ face, forcing the
Frenchman back into the hidey-hole and effectively shutting the man’s
mouth. Twice in one day. Maybe three
times. Caje bit his lip, wondering
if he was losing his edge. He held his
breath, counting the moving shadows following the sergeant. One,
two, three. He exhaled explosively,
a small cloud of condensation forming briefly before his eyes and then
vanishing in the freshening wind. He
raised his good arm, gave the incoming men the all clear and then signaled
Aramis to stand.
“Hey
Caje, you really missed a fight, there was…”
Nelson’s excited voice rang in the still mountain air and then trailed
off in befuddled puzzlement. He stood
there a moment, staring around Littlejohn’s bulk at the sudden appearance of
the raggedy man.
“Move
along, Nelson, this ain’t a bus stop.”
“Bonjour,
mon ami!”
Before
“HEY!” The private shoved Aramis hard enough to dump
him in the snow, the earflaps of his giant hat bobbing up and down in hypnotic
waves.
The
less-than-cordial greeting seemed to have a sobering effect on the man. He sat in the snow for a long moment,
watching
“Bonjour,
je m’appelle Aramis.” He tried to smile,
lips twitching vaguely upward, but couldn’t control it and simply clamped his
mouth shut. He dropped his hand when the
sergeant merely stood and stared at him.
Saunders
pulled his helmet off, scratching his head thru his wool cap. One eyebrow lifted in amazement, he turned to
his scout.
“This
our man, Caje? Aramis?”’ He lifted his chin in the Frenchman’s
direction as Aramis glared at Nelson and Littlejohn in turn.
Caje
nodded, dark eyes shadowed. He shivered
as the adrenaline that had been pumping its way through his bloodstream began
to dissipate, shrugging deeper into his overcoat and wincing as pain flared
anew in his injured arm. Glancing over at
Saunders but not quite meeting the man’s brilliant blue eyes, Caje nodded
again.
“Yeah,
Sarge. He says he is.”
Saunders
sighed, wondering if the day would ever end.
Motioning for Littlejohn to join
“Sergeant
Saunders, 361st.”
Aramis
swallowed hard, clearing his throat. His
adam’s apple bobbed up and down, corklike, as he fought for enough spit to
speak. Brown eyes grew larger as the
seconds ticked by and then…
“Bonjour,
bonjour!”
Caje
sighed. “He says hello.”
“No
kidding.” Saunders scowled at the Cajun,
ignoring Nelson’s wide grin. Sudden
fatigue washed over him, his muscles trembling and sore. Spying a log under a thick blanket of snow,
Saunders kicked it clean and then sat, waving Aramis and his men down,
too. He listened for a moment but heard
nothing out of place, only the muffled clinking of weapons as Littlejohn and
“Did
he know the password?”
Stilled
by the words, Caje felt his pulse pounding in his ears and the heat rising in
his face. It hadn’t occurred to him to
question the man. Who the hell else would be up on this God-forsaken mountain in the
middle of a storm? He closed his
eyes briefly, only too aware that his immediate acceptance of Aramis’ identity
could have spelled death for them all. Or worse. Not looking at Saunders, Caje turned to the
Frenchman, praying that the man knew the answer.
<”The
sergeant wants to know the password.”>
Aramis
smiled, the creeping shadows of the worsening snowfall dipping into the gaps
between his teeth. He placed one hand
over his chest and took a deep breath, for once looking directly at Saunders.
<”The
password is a question. I must ask what
year the Yankees won their first pennant.”>
Caje
translated, still turned away from Saunders.
Staring
at the Cajun’s sharp profile, Saunders nodded slowly. The password was correct and yet it was
obvious that Caje hadn’t asked for it. Things were getting complicated. Kirby and Doc were gone, probably dead. A German patrol had stumbled over them, or
maybe they’d stumbled over the Krauts, but either way, somebody was gonna be
wondering where their missing men were.
Saunders
blinked, suddenly aware of the fear rising in the Frenchman’s face. He knew instantly what the man was thinking, had he trusted the wrong men, was he about
to die? He forced himself to relax
his grip on the Thompson and pasted a grin across his face.
“Tell
him 1921, Caje. 1921.”
Shoulders
rounded in relief, Aramis looped his arms loosely around his knees. His eyes didn’t soften, though, watching
carefully the tense interplay between Saunders and his scout.
“Ask
him if he has the information.”
Caje
translated.
<”Of
course, of course! But you have to take
me with you. The Bosch are all over the
mountain. There aren’t enough of us left
to elude them any longer. Our
families…are lost. You’ll have your
information. But I’m coming, too.”>
Aramis
glared at Saunders in hot defiance as Caje translated. He slowly stood, brushing the snow from his
greatcoat with careful deliberation.
With
a snort, Saunders climbed to his feet, too, followed after a brief moment by
Nelson. Caje stayed where he was, arm
cradled close to his chest and his gaze fixed in the distance. Blue eyes met brown. The snow continued to fall.
“Sarge?” Littlejohns’ voice broke through the
tension. “Sarge, we’re losing
daylight. We gotta find someplace to
camp.” He appeared through the trees,
wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve.
“Sarge?”
Saunders
shook his head, dislodging a surprising amount of snow and ice from his
helmet. A sudden fit of coughing
overtook him, almost driving him to his knees.
Bent almost double, Saunders fought for breath, each lungful of frigid
air a lump of ice in his chest. Dammit!
He looked at Littlejohn, then back at Aramis. I’ve
got no choice!
“Okay. We’re movin’ out. Get
Caje
hauled himself up, spitting questions at the Frenchman.
As
the wind picked up and night began to fall, the weary squad dragged themselves
through the drifting snow, following the bouncing earflaps of Aramis’ giant
hat.
*** *** ***
Kirby stumbled
over his own feet, falling face-first in the drifting snow on the downhill side
of the path. He shifted his weight off
the B.A.R. and rolled onto his back, panting in the thin mountain air. The glimpse of sky he could see through the
dense pines was bruised, variegated hues of purple and deep blue, fading away
into yellow. Kirby closed his eyes
briefly, knowing now they would be spending the night on the slopes, without
cover or adequate clothing.
“Doc? I’m okay, don’t worry, Kirby’s always okay.”
Kirby lay perfectly
still, his pulse hammering in his ears. Nothing.
With more energy than he realized he still possessed, the B.A.R. man
shot to his knees and then his feet, staring back up the trail. Nothing. The deepening shadows pooling around the
trees could have hidden a division or two, Kirby knew, and he churned his way
through the snow, frightened eyes darting from one side to the other as he
searched for the missing medic.
Not again, not again, not again…there!
Doc was down in
the drifts, body curled tightly around his injured arm, his entire frame
shaking with fierce tremors. His teeth
chattered together, lips moving slightly as he muttered barely audible
words. Oh God, oh God, oh God… He didn’t look up nor open his eyes as Kirby
dropped into the snow beside him, calling out his name.
Reaching down to
touch Doc’s shoulder, Kirby saw the fresh blood spattered over the clean white
snow. “Jesus, Doc, ya gotta stick with
me!” He gently rolled the medic onto his
back, wincing at the sight of the man’s disheveled uniform.
Blood still
seeped slowly from under the makeshift bandage, sliding down the ragged fringe
of the scarf and into the snow. The
front of Doc’s parka and pants was soaked and stiff with drying gore. His face was deathly pale and his eyes,
showing only the barest sliver of blue, darted back and forth, his gaze not
resting on anything for longer than a second.
Kirby patted down
his own pockets, searching in vain for anything that might be usable as a
bandage. Nothing. Dammit! He hesitated, cold fingers poised over the
blood-sodden scarf. “Doc? I gotta look at this, just take a minute
now.” He picked at the knot, biting his
lip in concentration.
Doc rolled away
from him, moaning in pain. “No, please,
please, Kirby, no…” The medic’s voice
was hoarse with desperation. His right
arm pushed feebly at the B.A.R. man, fending him off. “Hurts, Kirby, it…hurts.”
Kirby sat back on
his heels in exasperation, his hands curled into tight fists on his hips. He’d never felt such overwhelming
frustration, the need for action pounding in his chest and yet he found himself
totally unable to do anything. He
reached out and set one hand on the medic’s shoulder.
“I know, Doc, I
know it hurts. We gotta think, I mean, I
gotta think. I mean, it’s getting’
dark. Ain’t no place up here we can hole
up. No nice little farmhouse with a
couple ‘a nice little farmer’s daughters waitin’ to warm us up, hey, Doc? Wouldn’t that be nice? A couple ‘a madam moyselles an’ a couple ‘a
bottles ‘a French wine? Caje wouldn’t
believe it if ole Kirby an’ Doc found themselves a couple ‘a little honeys to
spend the war with. No sirree, he
wouldn’t. Hey Doc?”
Leaning over the
medic, Kirby shook him gently by the uninjured arm.
Doc barely
responded, unfocused blue eyes opening to regard Kirby briefly and then sliding
shut again. His legs moved a few inches
back and forth, digging down into the snow.
Kirby stared at
the man a moment longer, gingerly brushing the ice from Doc’s parka and
face. He’d never had to worry about an
injured squad mate before. The medic had
always taken care of them with competence and compassion, never
complaining. Kirby shook his head,
swallowing hard against the fear rising in him.
It was one thing to face an enemy machinegun nest. Quite another to know that the only thing
standing between Doc and bleeding to death was the speed with which Kirby could
get them off the mountain. He knew that
he was losing the race with every passing moment, each dropping degree
signaling the oncoming night.
He stood
abruptly, looking around them.
Everywhere were stands of evergreens, their branches drooping heavily
with snow. Kirby frowned with
concentration, the growing wind filling him with the need to hurry. He glanced down at Doc one more time,
reassuring himself that the medic would be okay for the moment.
Sure he will.
Moving clumsily
uphill, Kirby investigated a particularly dense grouping of trees. Thick foliage brushed the ground, forming a
cave of sorts. Dropping to his knees,
Kirby crawled under and found himself in darkness. The ground was covered with shed pine
needles, soft and fragrant. The private
grinned suddenly, hope singing in his heart.
Shuffling back out
again, Kirby began to gather windfall branches, shaking the snow from their
needles and shoving them under the canopy of the little grove. He checked on the medic from time to time,
anxious gaze darting from the horrendous wound to Doc’s chest, watching the
slow rise and fall that indicated he was still breathing.