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| Copyright 2004 by Eagle Lady. The Prisoner Saunders slid to the ground beside Caje and looked around, breathing hard. Kirby, Littlejohn, and Doc were all sprawled on the ground, watching him. “Where’s Smitty?” Saunders asked. “He got hit.” Kirby answered, clutching a bloody wound on his upper arm. “Dead?” “No, I don’t think so. He was moving when I looked back. I couldn’t get back to him, there were too many Krauts.” “Doc, take care of Kirby. Caje, take over.” Saunders started to his feet. “Where you goin’?” Kirby asked. “Back for Smitty.” “Sarge, you can’t! There’s a mess of Krauts back there.” Littlejohn protested. “Caje, if we aren’t back in an hour, or the Krauts move in on you, take ‘em home.” “Sarge…” “That’s an order, Caje. You got it?” He snapped. “Yeah, Sarge.” He answered, clearly reluctant. “I got it.” Saunders nodded and headed back the way they’d come. ^^^ Pausing at the base of a tree, Saunders carefully surveyed the area in front of him. He could see Smitty lying partially under a bush, moving in pain. After waiting several moments. Saunders crawled to the injured man’s side. “Smitty? Can you hear me?” “Sarge?” Smitty whispered in disbelief. “Thought you’d left me.” “I’m gonna get you back. You just take it easy.” Grasping the private’s wrists, he pulled him out from under the bush, levered him to his feet and turned his back to him, pulling Smitty’s wrists over his shoulders. He squatted slightly, allowing Smitty’s weight to lay over his back, then straightened, lifting the injured man’s feet from the ground. He’d only taken two steps when several Germans stepped out from cover, surrounding him. Unable to reach his weapon or even raise his hands, the sergeant simply stood still while they took his web belt and jerked his Tommy gun from his shoulder, having to quickly recover Smitty’s wrist when they wrenched the strap down his arm. “Move, American.” The German sergeant ordered. Disgusted with himself for not having spotted them, Saunders did as he was ordered. They forced him to move at a pretty fast pace, unconcerned that he was carrying another man. Saunders felt as though his back would break, and his legs were starting to tremble, but he refused to leave the injured private behind. Going down a slight hill, he stumbled and fell, both of them rolling down the hill. Prodded by the Kraut’s bayonets, he struggled to his feet, Smitty cradled in his arms. He cursed silently when he realized that they were intentionally choosing the most difficult path, skirting clearings in favor of thick undergrowth and fallen branches. Sweat stung his eyes and he shook his head, staggering sideways and falling over a broken branch. Smitty lay still, his side no longer bleeding. He was dead. “Pick him up and move on.” The German ordered. “He’s dead.” “Pick him up and move on.” The German repeated. “He’s dead.” Saunders snapped, rising to his knees. The German backhanded him, knocking him across Smitty’s body. “Pick him up.” His eyes flashing with fury, Saunders got to his feet and lifted Smitty to his shoulders. He’d gone almost a mile when he fell again, sprawling on his face, gasping for breath, the muscles in his arms, legs, and back quivering. “Get up.” The German ordered. “Can’t.” He gasped. The German grabbed the back of his jacket, jerked him to his feet and gave him a shove. Saunders stumbled over Smitty’s body, caught himself on a tree and stumbled on, grabbing onto trees to keep himself on his feet. When they reached a tumbling stream, the German called a halt. His throat parched, Saunders started toward the water, but the German shoved him away. One of the soldiers kept him standing, facing the water, while the others refilled their canteens and relaxed in the soft grass. Planting his feet, Saunders stiffened his legs and managed to stay on his feet. One of the Germans laughed and gestured at Saunders, then at the radio. When they were ready to move on, they strapped the radio on Saunders’ back, and made him carry their packs as well. By the time they reached the German encampment, Saunders was stumbling in exhaustion, sinking to his knees when they stopped. They jerked the radio from his back, knocking him over in the process. Two of them grabbed his arms and jerked him to his feet as a German officer approached. “What is your unit?” He demanded in English. “Saunders. Sergeant.” He rasped through a dry throat. “What is your unit?” The German repeated. “Saunders.’’ One of the soldiers holding him hit him in the stomach, then jerked him back upright. “Your unit?” Gasping for breath, Saunders didn’t bother to answer. “Perhaps a little work will loosen your tongue, American. Have him unload the truck.” He motioned toward a truck parked beneath a tree. The soldiers propelled him toward the truck so hard that he slammed up against the tailgate and bounced off to sprawl in the grass. Grabbing his jacket, they hauled him back up. “You heard the Captain. Unload the truck.” One of them ordered. Wearily, Saunders released the tail gate and began unloading the boxes, stopping frequently to rest. Every time he stopped, the German bayonets prodded him into motion again. When the truck was finally empty, he leaned against it, his body screaming for water and rest. The Captain walked over and studied him for a long minute. “Your unit, Sergeant?” When the fatigued sergeant shook his head, the captain slapped him hard, sending him sprawling on the ground. “In that case, you can reload the truck.” “Captain, the Geneva…” Saunders started, breaking off when one of his guards kicked him in the side. They grabbed his arms, hauled him to his feet and flung him toward the boxes. Slowly, he started reloading the boxes. As he slid the last one in, the Captain appeared again. “Are you ready to talk, Sergeant?” Saunders rubbed his sleeve across his sweaty face without answering. “Very well. Tie his hands. Fasten the rope to the back of the truck.” He sank to his knees when they pulled him away from the truck, not resisting when they tied his wrists in front of him. They allowed him to remain there while they broke camp and climbed into the truck. When he heard the engine start, he managed to struggle to his feet, stumbling forward when the rope from the truck tightened. For a while, he stayed on his feet, the dust blowing in his face, irritating his already dry throat. The truck speeded up, pulling him off his feet and dragging him through the dirt. He tucked his head between his arms and tried to roll onto his back to protect his face, but the road was so rough that he kept getting bounced from his stomach to his back. Finally the truck stopped and two of the soldiers jumped off and dragged him back to his feet. “Are you ready to talk yet?” “Go to hell.” He muttered. “You would rather die, than talk?” One of them stared at him. Saunders didn’t answer, his head drooping, and his eyes closed. The truck started again, pulling him off his feet once more. He thought he heard a burst of gunfire, then the truck accelerated, shredding his jacket from his arms and chest. His body swung to the side, then he could feel himself rolling over and over, finally crashing into the ditch beside the road. He tried to move, but his abused body shut down and he went limp. ^^^ Caje stopped suddenly, crouching behind a bush, the other three right behind him. “My God, Caje!” Kirby exclaimed. “Is that Saunders?” The four of them stared at the road below them, at the figure being drug behind the German truck. “I think so. It’s definitely an American. Com’on.” He led them down the slope at a crouching run till they were slightly ahead of the truck, then he opened fire. Littlejohn stared in dismay as the truck speeded up, a cloud of dust concealing the dragged man. Jerking a grenade from his belt, he flung it as hard as he could. More by luck than design, the grenade went off directly under the engine of the truck, flinging it into the air. Kirby, Caje, and Littlejohn ran and slid down the hill, firing at the Germans crawling out of the truck while Doc dashed to where he’d seen the prisoner’s body roll into the ditch. When he slid into the ditch, he found the man lying on his face, his bound arms above his head. Quickly slicing through the rope, he eased the man onto his back. His jacket and shirt were gone, and his arms and chest were covered in blood and dirt, his face so dirty and bloody that he couldn’t tell who it was. A moment later, the other three joined him, staring at the unconscious man. Kirby started cursing quietly. “Doc, there’s a pond over there.” Caje motioned with his chin. “Let’s get him over there and clean him up. He is alive, isn’t he?” “Yeah. He’s alive.” ^^^ They picked up the battered body of the soldier and carried him to the edge of the pond and laid him at the edge. “Let’s put him in and let the current wash the dirt off.” Doc said. He and Caje took his shoulders while Kirby and Littlejohn took his feet and they waded into the water, lowering him just below the surface, Caje supporting him while Doc washed away the dirt and blood. “It is Saunders.” Kirby said in awe. “Man, they did a number on him.” “Okay, let’s get him back out.” When they’d laid him on the grass again, Doc knelt beside him. “Sarge? Can you hear me? You just take it easy. We’re gonna take care of you.” He raised Saunders’ head slightly, giving him a drink. The injured man choked and he quickly sat him up to clear his throat. He moaned softly and went limp in his arms. He lowered him back to the ground, checking to be sure he was breathing. “You guys rig up a litter.” He ordered. Vaguely aware that they were doing so, he started working on Saunders. He flushed out his eyes and bandaged them to prevent further damage, then cleaned and bandaged his wrists where the rope had dug in, then dusted his chest and arms with sulfa powder and lightly wrapped as much as he had bandages for. The whole time he worked, Saunders lay still and quiet. When the litter was ready, they carefully moved him, Littlejohn and Kirby covering him with their jackets. Caje took the point, Kirby and Littlejohn picked up the litter, and Doc walked alongside. They’d been on the move for nearly an hour when Doc noticed Sarge's hand move. “Kirby, stop. He’s awake, I think.” Doc winced in sympathy when Saunders groaned at the painful jar as he was laid on the ground, then he knelt and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Sarge?” Saunders arm came up, his hand bumping into Doc’s leg. “Take it easy, Sarge. I’m gonna give you a drink.” He let just a little water trickle into his mouth. Saunders coughed, then swallowed gratefully. Doc gave him more water, a little at a time. Saunders’ hand tightened on Doc’s arm. “Take it easy.” Doc’s told him, immediately understanding. “I’ve got a bandage over your eyes. Just a precaution till we get you to the aide station and get them cleaned out properly. You’re gonna be just fine.” “Doc?” Saunders whispered, questioningly. “Yeah, Sarge. It’s me. Caje, Littlejohn and Kirby are here too. You got scraped up pretty good, and I know it must hurt like hell. I’m going to give you some morphine to take the edge off.” He gave him the injection, glancing up as Caje knelt on Saunders’ other side. “Lay still, Sarge.” Caje told him. “You just take it easy, we’re gonna get you home.” The Cajun’s strong hand closed over the sergeant’s for a moment, then he got to his feet. He waited for them to pick up the litter, then led off again. ^^^ Saunders felt hands touching him, and heard a voice that sounded like Doc’s, but he couldn’t move or even open his eyes. He felt his body being lifted and carried then he felt soft grass underneath him. He heard voices, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. He was lifted again then cool water was sliding over his body, easing the pain. He was held in the water for several minutes then he could feel the grass under him again. “Sarge? Can you hear me?” It was Doc’s voice. “You just take it easy. We’re gonna take care of you.” Gentle hands slid under his head, and cool water filled his mouth, making him choke. He was abruptly shifted upright and a wave of vertigo carried him into blackness again. He slowly realized that he was moving, being carried on a litter. He was cold and very thirsty. He tried to speak, but nothing came out, his hand moving in frustration. “Kirby, stop.” He heard Doc’s voice. “He’s awake, I think.” Saunders groaned at the painful jar as he was laid on the ground, then he felt the medic’s gentle touch on his shoulder. “Sarge?” Saunders forced his arm up, his hand bumping into Doc’s leg. “Take it easy, Sarge. I’m gonna give you a drink.” This time, just a little water trickled into his mouth. He coughed, then swallowed gratefully. More water followed, a little at a time. He managed to open his eyes, his hand tightening on Doc’s arm when he couldn’t see. “Take it easy.” Doc’s soft voice soothed him. “I’ve got a bandage over your eyes. Just a precaution till we get you to the aide station and get them cleaned out properly. You’re gonna be just fine.” “Doc?” He whispered, wanting confirmation that he really was there. “Yeah, Sarge. It’s me. Caje, Littlejohn and Kirby are here too. You got scraped up pretty good, and I know it must hurt like hell. I’m going to give you some morphine to take the edge off.” Saunders felt the prick of the needle on his arm, then warmth started spreading through his body. “Lay still, Sarge.” Caje’s voice came from the other side. “You just take it easy, we’re gonna get you home.” The Cajun’s strong hand closed over his for a moment, then he heard the rustle as he got to his feet. He felt them pick up the litter, then drifted off to sleep. ^^^ Saunders listened, hearing nothing, and unable to see. He didn’t think he was moving anymore, and the surface he was lying on felt too hard to be a cot. “Doc?” He called softly, trying not to panic. “Right here.” Came the immediate reply, Doc’s hand touching his head. “Where are we?” “Taking a breather. We’ll be home soon.” “Water?” Doc’s hand slid under his neck and cool water touched his lips. He drank greedily till Doc pulled it away. “You can have more in a few minutes. How ya feelin’?” “Cold.” He shivered. He heard cloth rustling, then felt the warmth of a jacket laid over his chest. “Better?” “Thanks. How bad?” “Nothing real serious. A lot of scrapes and bruises. You’ll be okay. Ready for more water?” “Yeah.” “I’m gonna help you sit up. Ready?” “Yeah.” He winced as Doc’s hand touched the scrapes on his back, then the cool water distracted him. Doc lowered him back down and the litter was lifted again. “Headin’ home, Sarge.” Kirby said from above his head. The End |