Acknowledgments: Thank you from my bottom to my heart to my buddies in the Mod Squad and to the fellas of The Squad. You soljers inspire me every day to get the job done - and don’t forget to have fun_ May 4, 2009

Nightingales

by Ricochet

The two soldiers didn’t utter a word as they escorted their German captive to the Command Post for interrogation. Caje’s face was set in grim lines, Littlejohn’s gaze was deeply troubled. Neither man would ever forget the unmasked agony they’d witnessed that morning.

They approached the lieutenant’s temporary headquarters. Hanley had placed his makeshift desk near the window to optimize the available light. Stooping slightly to enter the shop, Littlejohn saw bits of glass and mortar littering the officer’s paperwork, the results of the latest bombing.

Staring at the cluttered maps on the damaged desk, the big soldier shook his head ruefully. By the time the two sides finished fighting this war, there’d be nothing left worth claiming.

“Everything go all right on patrol?” Hanley asked, glancing up with a puzzled frown. “Where’s Saunders?”

“He and Doc are at the Aid Station-...” Littlejohn lumbered aside as Caje pushed past and shoved the kraut roughly into a corner. Jabbing the prisoner in the ribs with his rifle, the scout tersely ordered him to place his hands behind his head.

Hanley’s expression hardened at the sight of the German. A vague sense of dread filled him, and he turned to Littlejohn, his penetrating green gaze probing for answers. “What happened out there?”

“Well, uh...” Littlejohn shuffled his big boots and glanced uncertainly at the scout.

Reporting to Hanley in a broken monotone, Caje described the patrol, the skirmish with the kraut squad in the woods, and the civilian casualty from the village. He clenched his jaw tightly at the final words, as though unable to bear their bitter taste.

Watching from a corner desk, the lieutenant’s aide regarded the German prisoner without speaking. Brockmeyer’s expression was unreadable, yet inside he seethed with resentment.

The corporal struggled with his feelings on the subject of Germany, his parent’s native country. Far too often he’d had to hide his disgust at the actions of his ancestral kin. This time Brockmeyer wasn’t able to do that, and the prisoner’s cold gaze narrowed at the unwanted scrutiny.

Unaware that the American corporal understood every word he said, the German captive raised his chin and muttered derisively, “Your sergeant cries like a little baby.” A superior smirk touched his lips at his cleverness.

Hanley’s sudden bellow rattled the beams. “Brockmeyer_” Wading into the altercation, the tall officer yanked the enraged corporal off the prisoner with difficulty.

“What happened?” Hanley snapped, glaring at Brockmeyer.

The corporal was breathing hard, his normally composed appearance askew. Yanking on his field jacket, Brockmeyer’s hot gaze remained locked on the kraut. “Just something he said, sir,” he muttered darkly. “I...must’ve misunderstood.”

Unconvinced, Hanley ordered him to repeat the prisoner’s words. As the angry aide reluctantly translated the remark, Littlejohn made a sound of pain in his throat. Next to him, Caje’s face was ruddy with fury.

Sensing the murderous waves of hatred in the air, Hanley sat on the corner of his desk and crossed his arms. Glaring at them sternly, he growled: “Tell me what happened...from the beginning.”

* * *

Doc’s face was tight with pain, yet he typically ignored his own wounds. The sergeant had him worried. Saunders hadn’t spoken a syllable since they’d left the sad glen. That was nearly an hour ago. Now he and Doc waited in the same ambulance to be taken to Battalion Aid, and the persistent silence was unnerving.

“Sarge,” Doc said gently, attempting to revive the sergeant from his injured trance.

Numb with narcotics and loss, Saunders turned his head listlessly, stark blue eyes still damp with grief. Falling silent at the sight, Doc felt the words of comfort he’d intended to say stall in his throat.

A corpsman in a cowboy hat clambered into the back of the ambulance and slammed the doors shut just as the big engine rumbled to life. Jolting forward, the vehicle rattled over the cobblestones, yet the experienced medic somehow managed to steady both himself and his patients and keep working.

Doc watched in concern as the corpsman tended Sarge’s wound. “How bad is it?” he asked.

The medic indicated Saunders’ bloody shoulder and drawled, “Usual mess: a lotta chewed tissue, chipped bone. Bullet bounced around some.” Rinsing the wound expertly, he applied clean compresses. “Slug didn’t hit anything vital, the lucky cuss, but it’s gotta hurt like hell.”

After replacing the bandages, he checked Saunders’ pupils and spoke softly to the sergeant, then turned to Doc and murmured. “He don’t tolerate morphine too good, does he?”

Doc’s gaze shifted from the corpsman’s face to the unresponsive sergeant. He’d forgotten: it was the only thing about Sarge that was weak. Clinging to that thread of hope, Doc breathed a silent prayer.

He barely noticed as the corpsman crouched beside his stretcher. “How we doin’ here, partner?”

Doc looked at the medic’s honest, weathered face, sensing he could trust him with his fears, yet unable to force the words past his lips. Somehow it felt like betrayal. “Fine,” he lied.

The corpsman pushed his battered cowboy hat back with one thumb and gave Doc a skeptical look. Swallowing hard, Doc turned away and gazed sightlessly out the window, seeing only the events of that bleak morning as they replayed in his mind.

The concussion of the German grenade had killed the girl without leaving a mark. The air still rang with the explosion as the men ran to her side. Behind a veil of drifting smoke, Claudine appeared peacefully asleep on a bed of pretty daisies. The delicate buds nodded in the breeze, untouched by the blast.

Dealt a devastating blow at a vulnerable time, Sarge sank to his knees at Claudine’s side. Huddled over the girl, he wept inconsolably. His breakdown seemed to stun even the war into silence. No noise disturbed the glen as the men gathered somberly around the young victim of their violence.

Long moments passed as Saunders struggled to recover. The soldiers respectfully averted their eyes from the huddled noncom, reminded of their own breaking points. There was only so much pain a man could take, only so much strength he had to give. Yet the war always demanded more.

Doc’s movements were stiff with sorrow as he gently draped a jacket over the girl’s still form. Sarge raised his head and stared at the captive kraut. The stoic German was hardly older than Claudine, yet there was no youth in his eyes. He seemed proud of his countrymen’s murderous deed.

“Sarge...” Doc said uneasily. He braced for Saunders’ explosion of anger, ready to intervene. While Sarge could be justified for wanting to tear the kraut apart with his bare hands, the medic couldn’t sit by idly and let it happen.

Yet nothing prepared Doc for the disturbing sight that unfolded before him. More unsettling than Saunders’ expected rage was the utter lack of response. Tilting his head to one side, Sarge stared at the unrepentant kraut as though confounded by such senseless evil. In an exchange filled with pain, he didn’t say a word, yet his silence spoke volumes. Unmoved, the German glared back across the impasse of hatred.

Doc put a hand on the sergeant’s arm, and felt the taut muscles jump beneath his touch. Meeting the medic’s worried gaze, Saunders’ blue eyes seemed to grow dim, empty of light and impulse. He visibly withdrew from the world, slouching and turning his face away, retreating from reach. Catching his breath, Doc felt his throat restrict in dismay.

He’d seen that same look in the eyes of soldiers whose minds were too hurt or overpowered to continue. Mauled by this war, nothing could save them. Broken spirits in broken bodies, most of them let go.

“Sarge...” Doc said in a hollow tone, shaken.

Wincing, Sarge pushed himself to his feet and walked away. Weariness was carved into every angle of his face, as though he’d aged a hundred years in as many seconds. Doc saw it in his devastated gaze: There was nothing kind about Mankind, there was no mercy in this world, no grace. Now that she was gone, he didn’t want to be here either.

Leaving the glen with an unsteady gait, Saunders didn’t get far before collapsing. His compresses were crimson from reopened wounds, his face was as pallid as cream.

The men didn’t speak as they gathered him up. They just straightened their sagging shoulders and tightened their grip on the litter. Stealing glances at the sergeant and at each other, they carefully followed the path back to the village. Silence and uncertainty accompanied them every step of the way.

* * *

An ambulance rattled past the stockade on its way to Battalion Aid as two joes from K Company shoved a prisoner against the MP’s desk. The MP scowled at the battered kraut in the soldier’s custody. “What happened to this mook?” he asked. As the private began to answer, he interrupted drily: “No, wait, lemme guess...’he fell’, right?”

“He did,” Littlejohn intoned frankly. “Coupla times.” Next to him, Caje tucked his bruised knuckles into his pockets and smiled at the floor.

Sensing the kraut’s relief as the guards approached down the hall, Caje’s amusement vanished. Thoughts of Sarge filled his mind as he turned to the German. “Listen, Fritz,” he said in a menacing tone. “Your war is over when I say it’s over, you got me?” Despite the language barrier, they both understood the nature of the Cajun’s unfinished business.

The German cringed at the threat, fear flashing across his defiant features. Staring at him, Littlejohn wondered if this brave soldier of the Wehrmacht had personally rigged the grenade. He wondered whom the krauts had hoped to destroy, there among the flowers of a playground.

Watching the guards lead the shaken German away for interrogation, Littlejohn spoke quietly to Caje, his voice husky with uncertainty. “Think Sarge will be okay? I mean...I never saw him like that before.”

Caje didn’t answer right away. They’d both seen how deeply Saunders cared about the little French girl, how her death struck him like a tremendous blow. Her purity and joy had touched them all, a gift of hope in a hopeless world.

“I dunno, Littlejohn,” the Cajun said slowly. “I guess it was bound to happen to one of us, why not the Sarge? If anyone has earned the right to...” He paused, not wanting to say the words. Lighting a cigarette, he shook his head in remorse. “Makes you wonder what took him so long.”

* * *

The ambulance reached Battalion Aid and the doors were yanked open almost before the vehicle came to a complete stop. As the wounded soldiers were passed to waiting hands, Doc squinted at the nurses surrounding his stretcher. “Is he gonna be alright-...?” he asked weakly. No one answered.

Calling to Saunders, Doc wished him good luck as they rushed him off to surgery. Straining to catch a last glimpse of the sergeant, Doc thought he saw him nod slightly, but that was all.

Hours later, the medic’s thigh wound had been cleaned and dressed, and he was resting on his bunk in the recovery ward when the corpsmen brought Saunders back. Doc waited until they finished their duties and departed, then pushed himself up on one elbow. “Sarge, you awake?” he called out tentatively through the thin drape between the cots.

He didn’t really expect an answer. Anesthesia and exhaustion accounted for Saunders’ heavy slumber, and Doc listened to the measured breathing with some satisfaction. The best medicine for Sarge was rest.

Doc sat up stiffly and pulled back the dividing curtain, regarding the sergeant in silence. Coppery beams from the setting sun starkly defined the lines of hardship etched in Saunders’ cheeks, as well as a trail of dried tears. Staring at the clean white bandages pressed against that scarred chest, Doc’s heart pinched with pity.

“Miss?” Doc called to a passing nurse. He asked for a pan of water and a towel, and she glanced at the sleeping soldier. With an understanding smile, she soon returned and placed the requested items by Saunders’ cot. Without being asked, she’d included soap and a razor, and a cup of hot coffee for the medic.

Hobbling to a crate that served as a chair, Doc sank down slowly beside the cot, grimacing at the angry ache in his leg. Leaning forward, he touched Saunders’ arm. “Sarge?”

There was no response. Dipping the washcloth into the clear water and ringing it out, the medic began to gently rinse the telltale tears from Saunders’ face, pausing only a few times in the small ritual to dry his own.

* * *

“Those sons of bitches really want this town,” Littlejohn observed sagely. He, Caje, and Henderson patrolled the silent streets of the Command Post. “Personally, I’d just as soon let ‘em have it.”

“I’d give a month’s pay to know what’s holding up Battalion,” Henderson said nervously, peering into an empty salon. The entire village was deserted, abandoned when the German shelling resumed in earnest last night. This time the citizens didn’t come back.

In a costly, ongoing struggle for this pivotal point on the map, the Americans had forced the Germans back five times in four days. The weary platoons of King Company had sustained heavy casualties, yet Battalion had troubles of its own and couldn’t send reinforcements.

Caje stretched his tense neck muscles, feeling a headache building. They’d been in tight spots like this before, yet it was getting on the scout’s nerves waiting for each feint or attack. He’d felt unusually jumpy lately, as though he were being watched from every shadow. He sure wished the sergeant were here.

“I miss Sarge,” Littlejohn said in a forlorn tone. Next to him, the Cajun agreed softly. He slowed as a jeep approached. Pulling up next to them, Hanley’s handsome face was drawn with fatigue.

“Any activity?” the officer asked shortly. Henderson shook his head: the town was as quiet as a tomb.

“What about Sarge and the others?” Littlejohn asked, his gaze guarded in the event of tragic news.

“Doctors say they’ll be all right in a week or so. Luck is on our side: all three are coming back.”

“Sure,” Littlejohn said in his sardonic, flatlands drawl. “Lucky for us, that is. Seems like a curse to come back here, especially after what happened to Sarge.” With a sharp look from Caje, the private fell silent.

Hanley didn’t respond. He put the jeep in gear, told the men to “stay alert”, and drove off to check on the other squads. The three soldiers watched the dented vehicle speed away, the lieutenant’s shoulders stiff as he steered around piles of charred rubble.

“I talk too much,” Littlejohn sighed. Without another word, they resumed their patrol of the dead village.

* * *

Hanley’s expression was grim as he sped away from the three men. The tall private’s words haunted him: how had Littlejohn known what he was thinking?

Reaching the end of the main road, Hanley swung the jeep in a wide circle around a fountain to re-enter town. Midway through the dizzying turn, he glimpsed a face in the upstairs window of an abandoned office.

The jeep’s brakes squealed slightly as the lieutenant halted in front of the structure. His fingers strayed to the pistol at his side. He stared at the upper windows: he’d seen a face, no mistake. Climbing out of the jeep, he cautiously entered the building, this time making as little noise as possible.

It was a doctor’s office, and upstairs must have been his home. Thinking he’d found a sniper, Gil raised his gaze to the ceiling and listened for movement. There. A small, discordant squawk of unoiled hinges.

His sidearm drawn, Hanley took the stairs two at a time, slipping quietly to the upper landing. Moving down the hall, he paused at the last door. This room faced the street; his lurker was inside.

Just as he placed his hand on the doorknob, he heard a rustle of linen and the creak of floorboards. Wrenching the door open, he raised his weapon at the occupant of the room and barked: “Hold it_”

Nothing. No one appeared before his eyes. No cabinets or doors were open, no cushion or comforter lay rumpled from use. The musty room was tidy and empty, untouched for days.

From outside, the lieutenant heard Caje, Henderson, and Littlejohn’s familiar footsteps, and he crossed the room and opened the window with one hand, turning his head slightly to call down to them.

Suddenly he felt an airy pat on the head, the distinct sensation of a hand that left a tingling touch. He jerked around just as the barrel of a Mauser emerged from the doorway like a lethal black serpent.

Reacting instantly, the lieutenant lunged sideways and fired first, catching the kraut in the open. The German slammed to the floor, his finger tightening on the trigger in a death spasm. With a blistering roar, hot slugs thudded into the wall behind Hanley, missing him by a hair’s breadth. As abruptly as the attack began, it was over, leaving the lieutenant alone and unnerved, struggling to absorb what just happened.

His ears ringing in the confined space, Hanley dimly heard Caje, Henderson and Littlejohn pound up the street and shout his name. “In here_” he called hoarsely, eyeing the crumpled form of the dead Kraut with distrust.

Hours later, back at the CP surrounded by his squad leaders, Gil told no one about the phantom touch that had alerted him and saved his life. Who in their right mind would ever believe him? Worse, who would ever follow him?

* * *

In the wake of the lieutenant’s ambush, soldiers invaded the shops like stalking lions. Tension grated on nerves already raw from repeated German assaults. The rendezvous with Item Company was still several hours away, and the men watched the sun creep toward the horizon with apprehensive eyes. Nightfall brought added danger.

Caje moved among the lengthening shadows as though part of them, his rifle steady in deft fingers. The Garand was nearly an extension of his limbs, as fluid and accurate as the scout. There was no wasted action or interval between reloading; there was no lenience for those caught in its steely stare.

Caje paused at the doorway of a shop and listened for movement inside. Hearing nothing, he’d just reached for the latch when a soft flicker of light caught the corner of his eye. Turning quickly, he spotted a hazy glow dissipating on the nearby riverbank, like a patch of moonlight through drifting fog. Yet no one was there.

Blinking in disbelief, Caje scanned the canal for the source. In the ruby tint of sunset, only paddling ducks and slowly sinking boats met his gaze. The scout’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t imagined it, yet he had no time to wonder. A soft sound reached his ears, and he flattened against the brick wall.

With a small complaint of rusty metal, the door latch he’d just touched slowly turned. Slipping noiselessly into the alley and ducking behind a stack of discarded wine casks, Caje held his breath and waited to see the identity of the intruder.

At first glance, he appeared to be only a French peasant, perhaps returning to the deserted village to retrieve a necessity or sentimental token from his home. Yet simple villagers didn’t wear polished German boots. And they didn’t carry satchel charges in their arms.

Caje burst from the shadows, rifle aimed at the enemy’s heart. “Hande hoch_” he snapped.

The German jerked around in surprise, then immediately dodged down a side street, explosive parcel still clutched under his arm. Sprinting after the escaping kraut, Caje followed him through the narrow avenues, finally skidding to a halt as he encountered a dead end. Gripping the Garand, he paced into the dim alley, alert for any sound from a dark alcove, any scratch of boot heel across stone.

He dodged swiftly as a kraut bayonet sliced the air with a whistle just inches from his eyes. The German swung again, and Caje felt an icy sting across his forehead that quickly began to burn. Fingers of blood ran down his face, blinding him.

He fell backward at the kraut’s next attack, tripping over debris and losing his rifle. Sprawled helplessly on the slick cobblestones, he waited for a killing blow that never came.

Instead, he heard the German’s running footsteps. Dragging a sleeve across his forehead, Caje stumbled to his feet and grabbed the rifle. Bracing himself against the brick wall, he peered around the corner, blinking through smeared vision.

Trampling up a short rise of steps, the kraut paused at the top and placed the satchel charge on the ground. Glancing around wildly, he ignited the fuse, then kicked the canvas pack toward the nearest shop in the row: Lieutenant Hanley’s makeshift headquarters, and the cluttered desk by the window.

“Lieutenant_” Caje shouted, already knowing he was too far away. Fumbling with his weapon, he stepped into the open, aiming carefully as the kraut scrambled and dove behind obstacles in his escape. With no faith in his blind accuracy, Caje could only pray as he squeezed the trigger.

The kraut’s body had barely struck the ground before the lithe Cajun was halfway up the stone steps. Not an inch of fuse remained on the bomb as Caje flung it into the river. The sudden shower of cold water was both a shock and a blessing.

Caje sank to his knees in a puddle of river water, shuddering at the close race against death. Surrounded by a babble of alarmed soldiers, he didn’t have time to consider the mysterious glow that had diverted his attention long enough to save his life. That thought would come later.

* * *

Littlejohn’s eyelids drooped with exhaustion. He was starving, but too tired to chew, which was just as well since the rations were being rationed. The only thing that perked him up was the word coming down the line that supply trucks were on the way. That, and the sight of Doc and Sarge appearing out of nowhere, like two pale apparitions.

Flushed with surprise at seeing the men walking down the street toward him, Littlejohn hollered with happiness. Grinning hugely, both Caje and Henderson joined the tall private as he loped forward to meet the returning men.

Alerted by the jubilant reception outside, Hanley emerged from his command post and approached the squad. Saunders spoke before the officer could greet him. “I’m back to join the fight, Lieutenant.”

Having just gotten off the phone with an exasperated surgeon at Battalion Aid, Hanley scrutinized the sergeant with a narrow gaze. “It’s a bullet wound, Saunders, not a head cold.”

“You need all the help you can get,” Saunders replied, evading the issue. He tried unsuccessfully to look hale and fit for duty, and Hanley glanced at Doc in concern.

Doc wrestled with his conscience, clearly reluctant to abet the sergeant’s foolish feat. “If he doesn’t try to take on a Panzer division alone, he’ll make it, Lieutenant.” He sounded weary of what must have been an extended battle of wills with the stubborn sergeant.

Hanley studied Saunders, indecision creasing his brow. Finally the sergeant spoke quietly, his voice rough with the unaccustomed act of pleading. “Lieutenant, I can’t sit there any more, out of action...”

‘With nothing to do but think’. Gil heard the words distinctly, as though Saunders had spoken them aloud. He shook his head, recognizing too well the sergeant’s hidden torment. “All right,” Hanley sighed. “Get settled and meet me back here in an hour, I’ll brief you on the situation.”

Acknowledging the order with a stiff nod, Sarge walked away from the squad as though they didn’t exist. With faltering smiles, the men glanced at each other and shifted on their feet, plainly stung and confused by the rejection. Yet no one met Hanley’s eyes, as though wary of revealing a pact they’d made among themselves.

Watching Sarge’s retreating form, Hanley felt troubled by the odd encounter. Normally he could fathom the depths of the sergeant’s thoughts, but not today. None of Saunders’ usual vitality charged the air. He’d returned to the squad a stranger, his expression as locked and inaccessible as a steel vault.

“Caje,” the lieutenant’s deep voice disturbed the dense silence. “What was the name of that civilian casualty again?”

* * *

Saunders strode away from Hanley before the officer spoke to him again. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. He didn’t want to listen, either. A war was going on within him, separate from the one outside, and he couldn’t be distracted from the struggle. With a growing sense of futility, Saunders prayed to an increasingly remote God that his strength would last.

He was immensely tired, yet it was impossible to rest. That was unlike him. Adapting long ago to the waking nightmare of war, Saunders had learned to shut his mind down against the daily onslaught of death. It was the only way to preserve his sanity, keep from screaming nonstop in horror and rage.

Yet now those visions overran his meager dreams. Every time he closed his eyes he saw himself stumbling over broken bodies in the rubble. The uncorrupted and vulnerable - those he’d crossed an ocean to defend - lay colorless and cold amid the destruction. He hadn’t protected them at all, just as he hadn’t saved Claudine. Or his brother.

At the thought of Joey, Saunders swallowed tightly. He’d thought himself beyond the childhood trauma, but he wasn’t. He’d spend the rest of his life atoning for that fatal moment of neglect. Losing Claudine had unleashed an avalanche of guilt and despair that nearly tore his mind apart.

“Sarge.” A familiar voice halted Saunders. Brooding darkly, he hadn’t heard the medic’s approach, and he reluctantly turned and met Doc’s disapproving frown.

“You shouldn’t be back so soon,” Doc said without preamble. “That bullet came mighty close to killin’ you. A few days isn’t enough time to recover from a wound like that.” Staring into Saunders’ stony glare, the medic seemed to realize that a few days, or a few years, may not be enough time to heal the sergeant’s scars.

As Doc reached out, Saunders recoiled from the contact. With a mumbled excuse, he walked quickly away, avoiding the medic’s troubled glance. He didn’t want Doc to see what certainly must be written on his face and reflected in his eyes.

He was becoming what Sergeant Avery had predicted weeks ago, a ‘money player’. A warrior unhampered by painful thoughts of home. Scored with scars, his heart was becoming hard as leather, and it took all Saunders’ strength to resist it. It wasn’t a battle he was sure he could win.

* * *

Nightfall entered the village a single pace ahead of the Nazis. Allied lines had swung shut behind the Germans like a sharpened scythe, cutting them off. Suffering staggering losses and a critical lack of supplies, their captain gave an iron edict to his men: freedom lay beyond that village, death awaited deserters.

With that, the tattered German forces began their final assault. The captain had forsworn finesse and now resorted to brute force to get his troops past the blockade. The foolhardy move was telling, and American soldiers braced for the reckless charge of desperate men. They didn’t have long to wait.

* * *

The throttle of gunfire ripped the night open as Germans rushed from the forest like jackals. “Here they come_” Caje shouted, taking cover behind a pillar. He emptied a clip into the gloom, his face highlighted in harsh flashes.

Piercing the thunderous din, loud in the confines of his skull, Caje heard a voice call his name. He jerked back just as a bullet whizzed past his ear, exploding in the house behind him. The scout stared grimly at the hole it made in the brick, then gritted his teeth. Slamming a fresh clip into the Garand, he fired back fiercely.

Behind a broken portion of the thick stone wall, Doc crouched next to Sarge, hugging his medic’s kit and keeping his helmet low. He watched the sergeant with frightened eyes. Saunders’ face was pinched in that familiar expression as the tommygun spat brilliant sparks. He seemed disdainful of the danger, frequently abandoning shelter to take better aim.

Doc had just opened his mouth to beg Sarge to take cover when a kraut grenade detonated only yards away. The sergeant was flung backward violently as the concussion blasted out a section of the old wall.

Before Doc could crawl forward to help, Sarge clambered to his feet, ignoring the multiple bleeding cuts on his body. Spotting the retreating assassin, Saunders raked the German’s back with bullets. The bellowing Thompson sounded enraged.

The battle was vicious and blind. Rising smoke and descending fog obscured the combatants from each other. Doc heard the raw shrieks of men on both sides, but there was nothing he could do. Hot shell casings fell like rain from Sarge’s weapon, stinging Doc’s skin where they struck.

Deaf in the deadly bedlam, Doc wasn’t sure when Sarge slipped away. Later, abandoning his own crumbling cover, the medic miraculously found Hanley and Caje in the smoke. As the battle wore down, most of the squad soon joined them.

The sun rose on a massacre. In a matter of hours, King Company had captured or killed nearly all of the remaining krauts. As the starving conscripts staggered in, Doc shook his head woefully. These German soldiers were younger than any he remembered seeing before. Except for a few grizzled veterans, even the officers looked barely old enough to shave. The Fatherland was raiding the nursery for new recruits.

Hours passed before Doc encountered Sarge again. It was easy to spot him standing motionless in the bustle of the plaza, yet hard as hell to look at him. He was a frightful sight, his hair an untamed tangle, his field jacket torn and stiff with blood. A gory cigarette dangled from filthy fingers as he wordlessly watched a medic work.

As Doc approached, he saw a young German soldier writhing on the cobblestones. The soldier couldn’t have been more than fourteen; his uniform bagged on him like a costume.

Saunders stared dispassionately at the boy, neither helping the medic nor hindering his efforts. There was no hope for the kid, and the medic finally sat back on his heels, exhausted. Succumbing to his horrible wounds, the young German’s tears soon ceased, and his struggle to breathe blessedly ended.

Doc looked up at the sergeant, gauging his reaction. He thought he’d seen every expression on Saunders’ face, but this one was new: indifference. His eyes seemed as blank as those of the casualty at his feet.

Doc gripped his rucksack in numb fingers, suddenly frightened for his friend. As calmly as a man waiting for a cab, Sarge stood among the carnage of the bloody village square and was impressed by none of it. To the medic, the symptoms were plain: the sergeant’s injuries may seem minor, but his soul was clearly dying.

* * *

Jerking the wheel hard to the left, the driver swerved sharply around a cow carcass. “Short cut_” he sang out, launching the jeep across abandoned farmland.

Slapping a hand over his helmet, Kirby had to shout to be heard above the grinding racket of the motor. “How do you say the name of that town again?” He listened to the twisty vowels and didn’t even bother trying to repeat them. Why couldn’t the French learn to talk good?

Scowling, Kirby lit a bent cigarette and puffed in agitation. He hated that town and he didn’t even know its name. Didn’t matter. It was part of a black package called “Europe”, and that was all the BAR man needed to know.

He’d taken hits twice in that crappy burg. First time hurt bad, second time nearly did him in. If it hadn’t been for that local kid playing nurse, he would’ve bought the farm. She was there to bandage his wounds even before the medics arrived, a regular Florence Nightingale in bobby socks.

“Nice kid,” Kirby remembered thinking that day, as the world dimmed around him.

The next thing the private knew, he was bound for an evac hospital. They took a pound of lead out of his shoulder and he slept a lot. It wasn’t an extended stay, barely a week. He recovered remarkably well for someone who’d made it clear he wasn’t in a hurry to return to the front lines. His reticence sprang not from fear of mortal injury, but of the angry noncom awaiting him there.

Kirby didn’t really blame the sergeant for his foul mood. A lot of good men were lost taking that town, including Dorff and Glassman. Those guys didn’t follow Sarge’s orders to move up, and a kraut shell landed right on top of them. It wasn’t Saunders’ fault they died, but of course he didn’t see it that way.

After that, Sarge prowled the streets with a wicked glare, just waiting for an excuse to kick someone’s disobedient butt. He was on a razor’s edge, you could see it. He was sick of war, sick of a world that could wage it. He even snarled at the little nurse gal, and she was just about the sweetest kid Kirby’d ever met.

Now the BAR man grimaced as the jeep returning him to the 361^st jolted roughly over rutted fields. Swatting at clouds of dust and chaff, Kirby reached into his field jacket, his calloused fingers gently touching the white linen dress of the fancy doll hidden there.

The tiny nurses’ cap and dark woolen cape were hand-sewn, the glossy eyes had soft lashes. It had cost Kirby a king’s ransom back at base, but it was worth every dime. The tough BAR man smiled tenderly as he imagined the girl’s reaction to this rare gift.

Then he thought of Sarge’s reaction, and the smile soured.

Tucking the figurine safely back inside his jacket, Kirby nudged the guy at the wheel. “What’s that place called again?” He forgot the answer as soon as the driver said it.

Kirby slouched back with a sigh. Just another crummy town where nothing good ever happened. Despite the sunshine, he thought France was the most dismal place on Earth. The only nice thing he’d come across lately was that kid nurse. What a little doll.

* * *

Caje was waiting for Kirby as the jeep jarred to a halt. The sleeves of the scout’s field jacket were pushed up and he had his thumbs hitched in his belt loops. At first glance, Caje looked at ease, a good sign. Kirby hopped out of the jeep with a grin. Perhaps the volcanic sergeant had simmered down some.

Then Kirby saw the peculiar look in the scout’s eyes. Just as he started to ask what was wrong, Sarge exited from HQ across the street and approached them. Joining the men, his brilliant blue stare seemed subdued.

“You back?” he asked Kirby dully. Next to the sergeant, Caje glanced down and clenched his jaw.

Kirby looked at the Cajun, then back at Sarge. “Yessir.” He winced inwardly at his usual protocol blunder.

Sarge didn’t bother correcting him. He didn’t seem to care. His barren gaze passed right through the private. “How’s the shoulder?” he asked, his voice oddly flat, as though he were inquiring about the condition of a jeep and not a man.

Fidgeting, the BAR man forced a chuckle, trying to cajole Saunders out of his grave mood. “Oh, the arm’s fine, Sarge, just fine_ Nuthin’ the doctors couldn’t fix.” He grinned rakishly and winked. “But it’s them pretty nurses that give a man a good reason to live_”

Caje’s head snapped up in alert at Kirby’s words, but the unknowing BAR man was already reaching into his jacket, a jovial grin on his face. “That reminds me, I bought somethin’ for that little ‘effemerare’ gal...”

The moment the Cajun saw the doll, his hand shot out, seizing Kirby’s wrist. With an astonished look, Kirby gave his arm a weak tug. “Hey-...”

It was too late. As Saunders stared at the small figurine, Caje turned to him, his gaze imploring the sergeant to forgive. “He doesn’t know, Sarge,” he explained quietly.

Saunders nodded almost imperceptibly, then adjusted his weapon on his shoulder and departed without a word. Kirby watched him disappear down the street and wondered when the young sergeant had gotten so old. Lost, he turned to the scout for direction. “Caje, what’s-...?”

The Cajun’s eyes were pools of pain as he relayed the events of the past week. Kirby felt his heart fracture as he listened to that elegant accent caress the vowels of the little French girl’s name.

* * *

Saunders’ long strides took him past the edge of town. He followed a path as it ascended a hill, inwardly bracing himself. On his left lay the small village cemetery, on his right stood the ruins of a carousel.

Pausing at the crest of the rise, Saunders lit a cigarette. A cool breeze swept around him, ruffling his wheat-blond hair and making his eyes tear. Suppressing a shudder, he felt chilled in the dappled sunlight. Flipping his collar up, he resumed walking tirelessly in an attempt to distance himself from his demons.

Vengeance wasn’t an unfamiliar emotion to the veteran, but he’d always been able to manage it. Now it was the only thing on his mind, all he thought about. The craving for retaliation was like a gnawing hunger that grew the more he fed it.

Waking up that first night at the field hospital, Saunders realized he was lying next to a critically wounded prisoner. It would’ve been so easy to just reach over and clamp a hand around the kraut’s throat; squeeze. The only thing preventing Saunders from acting upon his impulse was the presence of the slumbering medic by his side. He just couldn’t face Doc again as a murderer.

But he was glad when the German died, glad the shadows hid his bitter smile at the suffering man’s final gasps. In his heart, he felt like a murderer, and it gave him grim satisfaction.

The sergeant’s footsteps beat a steady rhythm on the path. Dusk fell and warm lamplight drew him back to the village. He slipped past the gray rubble of demolished structures and their dead, tangled gardens. Yet he failed to pass by his squad’s temporary barracks unnoticed.

From inside the shop, someone called his name, but Saunders pretended not to hear. He didn’t know what was worse; the way they averted their eyes when he joined them, or the way they stared when they thought he wasn’t looking.

Not that he blamed them. He’d lost his composure completely back at the glen, appeared weak. No doubt he had shaken their confidence in him as a squad leader. Perhaps as a man.

It wasn’t just the death of the girl that haunted him, but the death of something indefinable. He’d lost the ability to cherish life, his or anyone else’s. It frightened him, yet at the same time, he felt nothing. No wonder his men stared: they saw a ghost of what he once was.

On the meandering cobblestone avenues, away from the knots of soldiers and rattling equipment, the echo of Saunders’ footsteps seemed to trail him. Once or twice he thought he saw movement where no one was standing. Rubbing his tired eyes, he rebuked his frailty and moved on.

Approaching the banks of the river, Saunders’ nerves seemed to awaken, his senses attuned to every noise. His skin tingled oddly, and he felt he was being observed. “Who’s there?” he said with quiet authority, keen eyes narrowed.

Suddenly a flash of white caught his attention. He stopped dead in his tracks, the tommygun already aimed at the source. Over by the fountain, caught on a broken cart wheel, something pale fluttered in the breeze. A whisper too soft to decipher brushed past Saunders’ ear.

Pacing forward cautiously, Saunders bent and retrieved the item. The soiled cloth had blood stains on it, and the edges were frayed and scorched. It must have been here before the kraut’s recent siege. By the knot holding two of the corners together, Sarge surmised it had been used as a sling.

The sudden realization shocked him like a frigid fist around his heart. Long moments passed as he stood unmoving by the fountain, staring through swimming vision. Finally his trembling fingers closed tightly, and he tucked the cloth into his jacket. Straightening his shoulders, Saunders resumed his restless pacing.

* * *

Dozing lightly, Kirby awoke and listened as the noncom wearily braced his tommygun against the wall, then lay down on a cot by the window with a sigh. Kirby didn’t hear another rustle from him until nearly an hour later, when he rose and soundlessly gathered up his gear and left.

Swinging his legs off the side of the cot, Kirby shivered as his feet touched the cold stone floor. Padding to the window, he craned his neck to catch sight of the Sarge. He could see well in the strong moonlight, and he caught the gleam of gold hair as Saunders headed slowly up the narrow avenue.

“Where you goin’, Sarge?” he whispered to himself. And who was he hoping to meet? Grabbing his boots and the BAR, Kirby followed his sergeant into the dark.

Hurrying up the street, Kirby’s thoughts turned to his own days as a squad leader. His buddies had howled with laughter when they learned about his past. While the BAR man joined in their mirth, part of him resented his friends’ disbelief that the “goldbrick” could’ve ever become a sergeant. It wasn’t that Kirby was incompetent as a squad leader, he simply hated the job. He had enough trouble accounting for himself.

Maybe that’s why it bothered him so much to let Saunders down. The sergeant had never laughed at the thought of Kirby wearing three stripes.

The avenue ended at a stone archway, and a simple path lead to the woodlands beyond. Kirby’s boots crunched across fine gravel, loudly announcing his presence to the night. Halting, he strained to hear the sergeant’s footsteps.

Nothing. The shadows seemed to have swallowed Saunders up whole.

Shaking his head, Kirby debated pushing on, or sneaking back to bed. Pacing with indecision, he didn’t see the lean, khaki-clad figure idly smoking in an alcove until he was right next to him.

“Lose something, Kirby?”

Startled mightily, Kirby almost dropped the BAR. “Sarge_” He pressed a hand to his pounding chest. “You scared the hell outta me_”

Saunders tilted his head and scowled, annoyed at being followed. “What’re you doin’ out here?” he asked.

“Aw,” Kirby averted his eyes from that icy scrutiny. “I feel bad about today, Sarge.”

“Forget it,” Saunders said curtly. He took a last drag on his Lucky, then flicked it away. Kirby thought he was going to say something else, but he didn’t. He just shouldered his Thompson and stepped out of the alcove.

“Sarge?” Kirby called uncertainly as Saunders moved off alone. “You goin’ back to the barracks?”

“Not right now, Kirby,” Sarge mumbled over his shoulder.

“Aren’t ya tired?”

“No.”

That wasn’t true. Familiar with the sergeant’s affliction, Kirby knew he was running on nervous energy. His body was exhausted, yet his mind wouldn’t let him sleep.

“Me, neither,” the BAR man said resolutely, shouldering his weapon and following the troubled noncom into the night.

* * *

Pausing under a tree to catch his breath, Kirby lit a cigarette and finally fell silent. Leaning against the rough bark, he soaked in the peaceful surroundings. He’d kept up a dialogue, mostly with himself, in an effort to reach out to Saunders, to no avail. He wished Doc were here. He was out of his league, unsure of what to do or say to the sergeant to offer help.

Standing still at the edge of the glen, Saunders’ sturdy form seemed stiff with reserve, as though he were reining in his energy, retreating from the world bit by bit. Kirby took a deep breath and wondered if Sarge even remembered the BAR man was at his side. He could almost feel the invisible barrier between them.

In the sighing branches above, a bird sang a melancholy song. Craning his head back, Kirby squinted, trying to catch sight of the culprit. He’d heard that song many times while sneaking back to base in Sheffield after curfew.

“Ain’t that strange: a nightingale,” he murmured. “What’s she doin’ so far into France? She’s an English bird.” Feeling Saunders’ baleful gaze on him, Kirby’s cheeks reddened at what he was about to confess.

“I used to help my kid sister Ruthie with her homework. She had a report on nightingales for class once. We made this diorama; I even sent away for real feathers.” As he spoke, the years fled from Kirby’s face, fond memories transporting him back in time. “Boy, was she excited when she got an ‘A’. After that, she wanted me to help with all of her projects_”

Far from being charmed at the idea of the roguish BAR man doing homework with his little sister, the image angered Saunders, and he interrupted tersely, never knowing that the genesis of his behavior was jealousy.

“When I wanna hear your life’s story, I’ll ask you for it,” he said, chafing at Kirby’s uninvited presence and idle chatter. “Go back to town, willya?” When the private didn’t respond, Saunders turned on him roughly. “You deaf or something?” His voice rang out, sharp with growing impatience.

Kirby straightened at the unexpected anger, and his eyes grew solemn. “No, I just don’t want you to be sad, Sarge,” he said with disarming candor. “At least, not out here by yourself. That’s all.”

At his words, Saunders looked away. It took him a moment to speak. “This is war, Kirby,” he said gruffly. “Sadness is part of the package. You know that, and I know that. Don’t read more into it than there is.”

“Okay, Sarge...” the BAR man said in a soft voice.

Confusion whirled in Kirby’s brain, his thoughts racing too fast to focus. Part of him wanted to grab Saunders by the shoulders, shake some sense into him. Another part - a part he hadn’t felt since childhood - wanted to plead with Sarge not to abandon him. There weren’t too many people in the world he admired, even fewer he trusted. Now Saunders was leaving him one less.

Despair filled Kirby. Long minutes passed in silence, the air thick with an unnamed energy that neither man addressed. Then a small creak of corroded hinges reached their ears.

An abandoned kids’ carousel stood like a derelict tin tent in the clearing. Painted horses swayed gently in the breeze, as though champing to escape their rotted harnesses and run.

Saunders’ gaze fell upon the bed of white blossoms near the rusted carousel. He felt the air in his lungs go stale as he remembered how he’d pointed out that deadly patch of flowers to her. It was his fault she’d gone to gather a bouquet. He watched as a draft ruffled through the daisies, and in his mind’s eye, he saw her lying lifelessly there once more.

Suddenly Kirby leaned closer, his voice quiet, his face in shadows. “The war killed her, Saunders, not you.” There was something about his tone, something about the way he called him ‘Saunders’ instead of ‘Sarge’.

The sergeant’s anguished gaze met Kirby’s. How many times had the noncom used those exact words to offer comfort to others in the wake of overriding tragedy? How dare Kirby use his own salve against him?

Yet those familiar words did help. In some intangible way, they began to heal a deep and awful wound. Saunders found himself listening to the BAR man’s soft voice with a hungry ear.

“That little girl saved both of our lives. She was there when we needed her most. It hurts bad to know she died without gettin’ to really live.” Kirby’s words grew unsteady, and he looked down, hiding the sudden luster in his eyes. “But, Sarge...you’re dyin’ too, and that hurts worse.”

With nothing left to say, no words potent enough to dull Saunders’ pain, Kirby turned to leave. Grasping the BAR, he felt it press against something rigid over his ribs. Touching the object, he groaned inwardly. How could he have forgotten?

Reaching into his jacket, Kirby pulled out the little nurse doll. Her cap was crooked and her cape was creased, but she regarded the BAR man with bright button eyes, ready to offer aid to the injured. Without a word, Kirby placed the doll in Saunders’ grasp, then ambled away into the night.

Alone again, Sarge looked at the figurine lying so fragile in his calloused hand. He stared for a long time, then his pensive gaze sought the small cemetery over the hill. Something torn from him was buried there. The day would come when he would leave France, yet part of him would remain forever in this provincial glen.

Saunders took a deep breath, the echo of Claudine’s sweet laughter in his ears. Faced with a bleak tomorrow, he told himself strongly that he would not let this tragedy defeat him. He would not abandon hope or lose faith. When the sun rose in the morning, he’d be glad to see it. And someday soon, he’d put the war behind him and go on with his life. Perhaps even smile again.

Now all he had to do was convince himself of that.

Sarge walked slowly to the carousel and placed the little nurse doll on the wooden saddle of a faded pony, in the park where her counterpart once played. His fingertips caressed the flawless porcelain features one last time. Then he turned away without looking back and left the moonlit meadow to rejoin the war.

In the whispering branches above, a nightingale sang it’s mournful lament.

End