| Copyright 2004 by Eagle Lady. Trapped Sergeant Saunders cursed as he ducked away from the splinters blasted out of the tree beside his head by the German’s bullets. He’d thought he was totally concealed. Even as he returned fire, he was moving down and away from his previous position. He could hear the deep ratchet of Kirby’s BAR and the lighter notes of the other’s M-1s as his squad moved away from him, down the other side of the ridge. He would love to join them, but he seemed to have gotten caught in a cat and mouse game with a Kraut sniper. He carried a deep bullet burn on his upper left arm from earlier, and he’d thrown away his canteen, useless after a Kraut bullet had holed it. He was just damned glad it was the canteen and not his hip that had taken the bullet. Another burst of bullets shredded the leaves to his left. Rolling onto his right side, he fired a short burst from his Tommy gun, crabbed forward and right, and fired again. A bullet smacked into a tree just in front of him and he ducked backward under the shelter of a thick bush. Spotting movement across the slope, he snapped a burst from his Tommy gun, pleased to hear a thrashing in the bushes. Maybe he’d finally got the Kraut. They’d been playing this game for nearly an hour now, and he was sick of it. Every move they made took him further away from his men and the American lines and he didn’t like that at all. It was a dreary, damp, cool day and getting colder and wetter all the time, which did not help his frame of mind. He was cold, wet, tired, hungry, and thirsty, and just wanted to find somewhere warm to curl up and sleep for a week. He waited a few more minutes, then not hearing anything, cautiously moved out toward the bushes where he’d last seen the sniper. The gentle drizzle he’d been cursing all day had turned into real rain, rapidly approaching torrential proportions and it made the footing slippery, not to mention the damned water that dripped off the trees and down the back of his neck. Trying to watch the bushes, his footing, and see through the almost solid wall of water blasting out of the sky, he missed seeing the edge of the gully he was approaching. Not that he could have seen it very well anyway, the edge of the gully and the gully itself were both covered with fallen leaves, twigs, and other forest debris that seemed to intentionally reach out to trip men stupid enough to be out in this storm. His left foot slid out from under him, and he twisted, trying to regain his balance, desperately clutching at nearby tree branches. Unfortunately, the tree he grabbed was long dead and the branch simply snapped off under his hand. Saunders slid feet first down the side of the gully, coming to an abrupt stop with a scream of pain when something clamped onto his ankle with the force of a sledgehammer. He lay still for a long minute, catching his breath, waiting for his head to clear. He was lying on his back along the bottom of the gully, covered with leaves, mud, and other debris, his helmet missing, and his Tommy gun laying a couple feet away. He started to roll over to reach for the gun and bit back an outcry as waves of agony shot up his left leg. When the pain had settled back to a manageable level, he carefully levered himself up onto his elbows and squinted down at his leg, his eyes widening with disbelief at the sight of the metal jaws of the trap clamped around his ankle. Maneuvering himself up to a sitting position, he grasped the sides of the trap and pulled with absolutely no result. Carefully squirming into a better position, he tried again. A faint sound in the trees above him brought his head up and he rolled onto his side and went after the Tommy gun. His hand was three inches away from it when he was brought up short with a gut wrenching jerk at his ankle. Looking over his shoulder, he saw what he’d missed the first time. The trap was chained to something under the leaves, preventing him from reaching the gun. Easing back toward the chain, he gritted his teeth against the pain, wiping the rain and mud from his eyes with a wet, muddy sleeve, accomplishing nothing except smearing the mud. Wrapping both hands around the chain, he jerked on it angrily. When his wet, muddy hands slipped on the chain, he nearly went over backwards. After pausing a moment to catch his breath, he cleared away the debris covering the chain, cursing with feeling when he discovered it was secured around a thick tree root. Even if he had a bayonet, it would have been of no help. Lying back on his elbows, he stared at the trap, trying to think of a way out of this spot. His brain clouded with cold, hunger, and pain, the only thing he could think of was screaming for help. With that sniper possibly hanging around, he reluctantly decided that was not a good idea. Casting around him, he picked up a couple stout looking sticks and squirmed back down to work on the trap again, hoping to wedge the stick in between the teeth that were steadily tightening around his leg. The sharp metal teeth were slowly pushing through his boot and into his leg, blood now running down his boot. Carefully grasping the sides of the trap, he tried pulling again, to no avail. Awkwardly, he shifted around, planting the heel of his right boot against one side of the trap, both hands on the other side. He pushed with his foot, pulling against the push with both hands. His boot slipped, pitching him forward; the teeth of the trap gouging holes in both of his hands. Cursing fluently, he curled onto his side, cradling both hands against his chest. The sound of a stick snapping had him instinctively lunging for the Tommy gun, the agonizing pain in his ankle bringing him back to clutch the injured ankle in both hands. A nearby chuckle had him clawing for his sidearm, his mud and blood covered hands slipping on the smooth leather. A boot suddenly flashed out, catching him on the leg just above the trap. Through a red haze of pain, he vaguely felt someone jerking the pistol out of his belt. When his vision cleared, he found himself looking at a German squatting under the shelter of an evergreen tree at the top of the gully, holding a Schmeisser; Saunders’ pistol and Tommy gun laying beside him. Curled on his side, both hands holding his ankle, Saunders returned his stare, expecting to be shot any second. The German just squatted there, watching him with a cold smile. Trying to ignore the searing pain, Saunders slowly uncurled to lay on his side, supporting himself on one elbow. “Are you going to shoot me, or just sit there and stare at me?” He asked finally. “I was just wondering how long it would take you to bleed to death.” The German said in perfect English. “Not long.” Saunders muttered, glancing at the blood pooling under his foot. “Tell me what your unit is and where it is, and I will release the trap.” “No deal.” Saunders shook his head, unable to stop the shivers that shook him. “You would rather lie there and bleed to death?” “If that’s my only choice.” Saunders managed a shrug. “You will answer my question.” “I don’t think so.” The German plunged down the side of the gully and backhanded the injured man, slamming him back to the ground. “What is your unit?” He demanded. “Where is it?” Saunders lay still for a minute then slowly opened his eyes to stare defiantly up at the man towering over him. “Go to hell.” He said calmly. The German took a step sideways and kicked the chain, jerking the trap and his ankle. Barely suppressing a cry of pain, Saunders tried to twist away, the German stomping on his cut and bleeding hand to hold him in place. “Your unit?” He yelled. With a supreme effort of will, Saunders forced himself to lay still, his jaws clamped against the roiling pain. The German stared down at him, then moved back up to the shelter of the evergreen, watching him. Closing his eyes against the pounding rain, Saunders laid his forearm over his eyes, ignoring the German. The way he felt, the German wouldn’t have to shoot him. He was shivering constantly, his strength ebbing into the mud beneath him, drifting in and out of consciousness. He jumped when the front of his sodden jacket was seized, jerking him off the ground, his arm falling away from his eyes. “Where is your unit?” The German demanded furiously. “Saunders. Sergeant. 129…” He broke off when the German slapped him back to the ground, screaming in pain when the German kicked his ankle. He thought he heard a gunshot through the red haze filling his mind. Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he made a feeble effort to strike out at his attacker, his hands touching nothing. “Sarge!” The voice sounded familiar and he forced his eyes open, blinking against the rain. Caje was bending over him, his expression worried. “It’s me, Caje.” A wave of relief washed over him and he fought against the darkness closing in, struggling to focus on the face above him. “Sarge? Can you hear me?” Caje shook him gently. “Yeah.” He mumbled. “I can’t get that thing off your leg by myself. I’ve gotta go find the squad. Do you understand me?” “German?” “He’s dead, Sarge. I’ve gotta leave you for a few minutes. I’ll be back. Your guns are right here beside you. You hear me?” “Yeah.” He didn’t understand the words Caje was speaking, he just knew help was at hand. As the Cajun straightened up, his left hand going to his bloody right shoulder, Saunders’ eyes drifted closed. Caje gazed down at his sergeant for a second, then plunged up the side of the gully, sliding back down once before he clawed his way to the top. He stumbled through the trees as fast as he could, going to his knees just as Littlejohn, Kirby, and Doc reached him. Littlejohn slid his huge hands under the Cajun’s arms and lifted him to his feet. “Caje…” “Sarge.” Caje panted. “Back there…in a gully…trapped.” “Trapped?” Kirby grabbed his good arm. “Germans?” “Animal trap.” “What?” “Com’on.” Caje pulled away from Littlejohn, turning back the way he’d come. Littlejohn slid a supporting arm around him when he staggered, and they headed for the gully. They paused at the top, staring down at the sergeant below them. He was lying motionless, his face, hands, and ankle covered with blood despite the still falling rain. Leaving Caje under the evergreen with Kirby supporting him, Littlejohn and Doc slid down the side of the gully. Littlejohn seized the trap, pulled it open with little effort and flung it away while Doc bent over the sergeant. “Doc? Is he alive?” “Yeah.” Doc moved down to his ankle. “He’s in shock, and lost a lot of blood. Littlejohn, can you get him up there with Caje, out of the rain?” “Sure.” Grasping the unresisting man by the front of his jacket, he pulled him up and over his shoulder, climbing up to Caje, Doc slipping and sliding behind him. With Kirby’s help, he gently lowered Saunders to lay on his back beside Caje, who was leaning against the tree trunk, clutching his shoulder. Doc quickly cleaned, dressed, and bandaged Saunders’ ankle, arm, and hands, cleaned his face, then turned his attention to Caje, who’d sat still and silent while the sergeant was cared for. Caje was shivering, his teeth chattering while Saunders lay still, his face pale. “How is he, Doc?” Caje asked. “He’s in pretty bad shape. We need to get him back to the aid station.” A spray of bullets tore through the tree above them, showering them with needles and bits of bark. “Damn! I thought we got ‘em all.” Kirby said from where he’d thrown himself protectively over the injured Sergeant. “Guess not.” Littlejohn replied as he returned fire. “Doc, get Sarge back down into the gully.” Caje ordered as he grabbed Saunders’ gun. Grabbing the shoulders of Saunders’ jacket, Doc squirmed backwards into the gully, dragging the unconscious man with him, wincing in sympathy as Saunders groaned in pain. When they reached the bottom of the gully there were several inches of rain already pooling there. As several pellets of hail started dropping, Doc lifted Saunders head and shoulders onto his lap, opened and spread his jacket, bending over to protect the helpless man’s face from the ice. The hail got larger, the rain heavier. “Caje, we gotta get him out of here.” Doc yelled. “Littlejohn! You and Doc take him down the gully that way. Kirby and I will cover you.” Littlejohn slithered down the muddy side of the gully, slung his M-1 over his shoulder and gathered the sergeant into his arms. He nodded to Doc to move out and followed him, bent nearly double to stay below the edge of the gully, the unconscious man’s arms and legs bouncing as the big private ran. They could hear the deep tone of Kirby’s BAR and the lighter note of Caje’s M-1 above them, slowly following them. After about fifty yards, they stopped, Littlejohn kneeling with Saunders still held in his arms. Doc crouched beside him, taking the injured man to free Littlejohn to use his gun. A few minutes later, Caje and Kirby slid down to join them. “Let’s move out. Kirby thinks he saw a building over that way. He unconscious?” “Yeah.” Doc answered. “Ok, Littlejohn, you’ll have to carry him again. Kirby, take the point.” Caje ordered, assuming comand. “Ok.” As Kirby headed out, Littlejohn behind him with Saunders, Doc caught Caje by the left arm, squinting against the pouring rain. “Caje? You alright?” “Yeah, Doc. I’m fine. Let’s go.” They followed the others out of the gully and up a slight rise, reaching them just as Kirby stopped and motioned the others down. “There it is, Caje.” He said softly. “Doc, Littlejohn, stay here. Kirby and I will check it out.” While Doc and Littlejohn crouched in the bushes, Saunders lying between them, Kirby and Caje split up, approaching the building from opposite directions. A few tense moments later, Kirby waved them in. They entered a small, dark building that smelled strongly of sheep. “Whooee! This place sure smells.” Kirby sneezed. “It’s dry.” Doc pointed out. “Can we light a fire, Caje?” “A small one.” “With wet wood, how we can build a fire?” Kirby grouched. “There’s wood over there in the corner.” Littlejohn pointed out as he gently laid the sergeant on the ground. Littlejohn quickly built a fire close to Saunders while Kirby and Caje prowled restlessly, moving in and out of the building. Doc removed Saunders’ jacket and held it over the flames, trying to dry it while Saunders lay still and quiet at his feet. “Littlejohn? Can you take over for Caje? I want to look at his shoulder.” Doc asked. “Sure.” “Littlejohn said you wanted to see me?” Caje appeared a moment later. “Yeah. I want to check your shoulder.” “It’s fine, Doc.” “Yeah? I’m the medic, not you.” Doc snapped. “Get over by the fire so I can see.” Surprised by the usually easy-going medic’s tone, Caje did as he was told. Doc pulled the jacket aside, then eased the bandage off. “It’s bleeding.” “Yeah, I know.” Caje said, unconcerned. “It’ll stop in a minute.” Doc put another bandage on it, then picked up Saunders’ jacket again. Over the next hour, they carefully shifted the injured man several times in order to dry his clothes and warm him up. He remained unresponsive the entire time, moaning occasionally when his leg was moved. Kirby, who was on watch, suddenly appeared at the door, rainwater streaming from his helmet and clothing. “Caje? There’s somebody out here. Can’t tell who.” He called softly. Caje, who’d been stretched out on the other side of the fire, was on his feet in one fluid motion, rifle in hand. “Littlejohn, stay in here with them.” He ordered as he slipped outside. “Right.” He took up a position by the door. Doc knelt between the doorway and Saunders who chose that moment to stir and open his eyes. “Yes, Lieutenant.” He mumbled, then louder, “Look out!” Doc whirled and clamped a hand over Saunders mouth. Running a fever, shaking with chills, Saunders twisted and fought him. Desperate to keep him quiet, Doc finally ended up lying across him, pinning his arms down with his body while he kept a hand over his mouth. “Need help?” Littlejohn asked. “No. It’s okay.” Doc sat up cautiously as Saunders slowly quieted and lay still again. “They’re coming back.” Littlejohn said quietly. “Looks like they have somebody with them.” Caje and Kirby came in, pushing a German ahead of them. He wore the medic’s white tabard and carried a bag similar to Doc’s. “Where’d you find him?” Doc asked. “Over by the gully. Wanderin’ around, lookin’ lost.” Kirby answered. “Where’s Littlejohn?” “Out there, keeping watch.” “He speak English?” “I speak a little.” The German medic answered. “Got any dry bandages?” The medic tossed his bag to Doc, shivering violently. Doc motioned at him to sit down by the fire, then started going through the German’s bag, pulling out a handful of dry bandages. “What happened?” The German indicated Saunders’ leg. “Animal trap.” “He has fever.” It was part question, part statement. “Yep.” Doc answered absently, working on Saunders’ ankle. Saunders moaned, lifting a hand in semi-conscious protest. Automatically, the German caught the injured man’s hand, careful of the bandages, gently laying it back on his chest. Kirby started forward, Caje’s hand on his arm stopping him. Fishing a damp bandage out of his bag, the German sponged Saunders’ sweat-filmed face. Looking up, he found the three Americans staring at him and shrugged. “I am a medic. He is injured.” “It’s still raining, I take it?” Doc asked. “Buckets.” Kirby answered. “And it’s getting colder. Wind’s up.” Caje added. “I guess we’re stuck here, then. If we try to take Sarge back in that, he’ll end up with pneumonia for sure.” Doc sighed. “Caje, let me change that dressing, now that I have some dry ones.” “It’s alright, Doc. Save them for Sarge.” Caje shook his head. Doc picked up Saunders’ now dry jacket from beside the fire and spread it over him, then shrugged out of his own, held it over the fire for a few minutes, then draped it over Saunders’ legs. The German medic moved closer to the fire, holding his hands out to the warmth. “What’s your name?” Doc asked. “Herman Mueller.” “Damn! Is every Kraut named Mueller?” Kirby laughed. “It is a common name.” Mueller told him. Saunders mumbled something, his eyes fluttering open, then going wide when the first person he saw was Mueller, feebly reaching for his sidearm. Doc caught his arm, moving up into his line of sight. “It’s alright, Sarge. He’s a prisoner. You’re okay.” He soothed. “Where are we?” Saunders voice was rough and scratchy. “In a sheep barn. Where that is, I’m not sure.” “Everybody ok?” “Yeah, Sarge. Caje and Kirby are right here, Littlejohn’s outside on watch. We’re gonna stay here till the storm’s over. You just rest easy.” “Got any water?” “Sure.” Doc lifted his head, helping him drink. “How bad is it?” “What?” “My foot.” “Cut up pretty bad, but nothing’s broken. Your hands are cut up, and you have a bullet burn on your arm. Looks like you’ll get a week or so off when we get you back.” Doc grinned. “Heat some water in this.” Mueller handed Doc his mess kit. “He needs to be warmed.” “Thanks.” Saunders lay still, watching the flames. Caje got to his feet and headed for the door, intending to relieve Littlejohn. He’d taken one step through the doorway when he flew backwards crashing to the ground, narrowly missing the fire. Two German soldiers followed him in, Schmeissers swinging from side to side. With no choice, Kirby slowly lowered his BAR to the ground and raised his hands. One of the soldiers jerked Caje’s rifle from him, grabbed him by the jacket and flung him across the room toward Kirby. As Caje’s injured shoulder slammed into the wall, he choked back a cry of pain, Kirby catching and supporting him as he started to fall. Catching sight of the sergeant’s stripes on the jacket spread over him, one of the Germans approached Saunders while the other covered the rest of the men. Too weak and sick to do anything else, Saunders lay still watching him come. Kneeling beside Saunders, he grabbed him by the arm, the bandage hidden by the jacket. Saunders groaned, his face going white. “Where are the rest of your men?” He demanded. When the injured man didn’t answer, the German slapped his face. “Leave him alone!” Kirby yelled. “He’s wounded, you can see that.” “Be quiet.” The German ordered. “Only Sergeants have useful information.” “Then you’re talking to the wrong man.” Kirby snapped. “It’s my jacket.” “You are the sergeant?” He asked in disbelief. Kirby ignored the surprised look Doc gave him, hoping the dazed Cajun would keep quiet. He propped Caje against the wall and stepped forward. “Yeah. My jacket was drier, so I switched with him.” “Alright, Sergeant. I will ask you. Where are the rest of your men?” “What you see is what you got.” “What?” “This is all that’s left.” “Pick this man up and move out.” The German ordered. “He can’t be moved.” Doc protested. “Then he will be shot.” The German turned back to Saunders, his gaze going from his face to his hands to his heavily bandaged ankle. Bending over, he seized Saunders’ pant leg, lifting his injured leg, then dropped it back to the ground. Saunders screamed in pain, then went limp. As Doc started off the ground, the German medic lunged at him, knocking him across Saunders’ body. The crash of two gunshots filled the small building, and the two Germans went down as Littlejohn stepped through the doorway. “Man, am I glad to see you!” Kirby exclaimed, lowering Saunders’ pistol he’d snatched from his pocket. He turned to lower Caje to the ground as he sagged against the wall. “Somebody write that down. I may want to remind him of that someday.” Littlejohn grinned. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and started hauling the dead Germans outside. Mueller grabbed a fresh dressing from his bag and moved over to Caje, Kirby moving out of his way. “You’re a sergeant?” Caje panted, squinting up at Kirby. “Hey, it’s all I could think of.” Kirby shrugged. “You probably saved his life, Kirby.” Doc said over his shoulder, trying to stop the fresh bleeding from Saunders’ ankle. “I’m sorry I hit you.” Mueller said, returning to Saunders’ side. “He would have killed you.” “In that case, don’t apologize.” Doc grinned. “Have you given him morphine?” “Don’t have any left.” “Here.” Mueller dug an ampoule out of his bag and handed it to Doc. “Thanks.” He injected the pain-killer, monitoring the injured man’s pulse, sighing with relief when it steadied and slowed, and Saunders’ breathing evened out. Kirby snagged Doc’s bag and slid it under Caje’s head as he gently pushed him to the ground. “Get some rest, Caje. Me an’ Littlejohn will be outside.” “I’m okay, Kirby.” Caje protested. “Yeah, sure you are. That’s why you look like a ghost.” Kirby jeered, holding him down. “Rest up. We’ll need you on the way back.” “Alright, alright. You win.” Caje gave in, relaxing. He was asleep in minutes. Kirby grabbed his BAR and headed outside. All through the long night, he and Littlejohn patrolled outside, periodically coming in to check on the injured men. The two medics took turns dozing. Saunders woke up once, raising his head slightly to look around. Caje lay sleeping on the other side of the fire, the German medic was leaning against the wall, sleeping, while Doc sat beside him, eyes closed. When he heard Saunders move, his eyes flew open and he smiled. “How ya doing?” He asked softly. “Doc?” “Yeah?” “Did I hear Kirby say he was a sergeant?” “I’ll tell you about it later, Sarge. Go back to sleep.” “’kay.” He mumbled, eyes already drifting closed. Doc watched him sleep for a few minutes then dozed off again, his hand on Saunders’ arm to alert him if he woke again. The sun was just coming up when Kirby came in, carrying two stout branches. Working quietly so as not to wake the sleeping men, he fashioned a litter using his jacket, Saunders’ and Doc’s. He was unaware that Caje was watching him when he stopped by Saunders and rested a gentle hand on his head before he went out again. He was also unaware that Saunders was awake. A short time later, both he and Littlejohn came back in and shook the two medics awake. “Sun’s shining, Doc. Let’s get them back.” Littlejohn rumbled. Doc woke quickly, immediately checking the sergeant. Saunders opened his eyes and managed a weak grin. “Am I gonna live?” He whispered. “Yup. Fever’s broken. You’re gonna be fine.” Doc grinned back. Very carefully and gently, Doc and Mueller shifted him to the litter, Littlejohn peeling off his jacket to cover him. Kirby knelt by Caje, shaking his good shoulder. “Caje? Time to go.” “Did it stop raining?” He asked without opening his eyes. “Sun’s shining. Birds are chirping.” Kirby told him cheerfully. “In that case, I’ll wake up.” Caje grinned as he sat up stiffly. “I don’t think I moved all night.” “You didn’t.” Littlejohn chuckled. “Couple times, I thought you were a log.” The two medics picked up the litter, waiting while Caje caught up his rifle, then followed him out, Kirby and Littlejohn moving from the flanks to the rear as they headed back home. By the time they finally reached the temporary Company headquarters, Saunders was asleep, courtesy of more morphine, and Littlejohn was supporting Caje. When Saunders opened his eyes again, he was in the aid station and Doc and Lieutenant Hanley were standing on either side of him, discussing his condition. “I wish you wouldn’t talk about me like I’m not here.” Saunders complained. “Saunders! About time you woke up. How do you feel?” Hanley grinned. “I’ll live. Doc, about Kirby…” “What did he do this time?” Hanley asked warily. “Saved Sarge’s life.” Doc told him. “Doc.” Saunders tone demanded answers. “Take it easy, Sarge. I’ll tell you.” Doc perched on the edge of the cot while Hanley pulled over a chair. “We were in the sheep shelter with the German medic prisoner. Two Germans came in, slammed Caje up against the wall, and took the weapons. They didn’t know Littlejohn was outside. One of them grabbed Sarge by his injured arm, and slapped him, trying to get him to tell where his men were. He was in pretty bad shape, and much more of that would have killed him. Kirby said Sarge’s jacket was his, that they had switched jackets because his was drier. The Kraut believed him and asked Kirby where his men were. Kirby told him we were all that was left. The Kraut told us to pick Sarge up and move out. When I told him Sarge couldn’t be moved, he said he would be shot. He lifted Sarge’s leg, then let it drop to the ground. Kirby had your sidearm in his pocket, Sarge. He shot one of them while Littlejohn got the other from the doorway. Kirby pulled them away from you, Sarge.” “Didn’t think he had it in him.” Hanley frowned thoughtfully. “I keep telling you he’s a good soldier.” Saunders reminded him. “He needs rest now, Lieutenant.” Doc got to his feet. “I’ll be back later, Saunders.” Hanley clasped his shoulder on the way out. Saunders was almost asleep again when he heard someone moving beside him and opened his eyes to see Kirby straightening up. A pack of cigarettes Kirby had just laid on his chest started to slide off and Kirby caught it, startled to see Saunders awake. “Sorry, Sarge. Didn’t mean to wake you.” He apologized. “You didn’t. Thanks, Kirby.” He said soberly. “Hey, it’s just a pack of smokes.” “Thanks for those, too. That’s not what I meant. I meant what you did last night.” “How’d you… Doc’s got a big mouth.” Kirby actually blushed. “Doc says you saved my life.” Saunders blue eyes caught Kirby’s dark ones. “Aw, heck. I did it for me, not you.” “Yeah?” “I finally got you broke in right and didn’t want to have to break in a new sergeant.” “Sure, Kirby.” Saunders chuckled. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” “See that you don’t.” Kirby said firmly. “See you later, Sarge.” Saunders watched him saunter away whistling, and shifted to a more comfortable position, a smile creeping over his face as he drifted back to sleep. The End |
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