Storms by Albert Baker (Claudia) April 2009

This is a work of fanfiction and is not written for profit.

The flesh endures the storms of the present alone,

the mind those of the past and future as well as the present.

Epicurus

The lightning’s razor-sharp beams scattered across the night sky like tempered glass cracking after a sudden impact. Several beams plummeted to the ground, and the resultant thunder seemed to shake the trees around the soldiers.

“Geez! And I thought an artillery barrage was noisy!” Billy shouted to be heard above the storm.

“Over here!” Saunders’ voice, although muffled, was so commanding that the squad following him moved toward it without further thought.

The clouds opened and poured out a drenching rain, causing the men to run the last few yards to the barn Caje had spotted and flushed with Saunders. The weary group began to drop their gear and soggy field jackets as soon as they found a welcoming corner.

Saunders addressed them, tossing his own dripping jacket onto a stall gate. “We’ll hole up here for a few hours and see if this storm passes. Littlejohn, you take first watch. The rest of you eat and try to get some shuteye.”

“You won’t get any arguments from me, Sarge,” Kirby answered, pulling off his boots.

“I wouldn’t care if I did, Kirby,” Saunders countered, leaning his Thompson against a wall.

Doc smiled at Saunders’ retort and lay gratefully back upon his bedroll. First squad had been out on patrol for two days. After scouting the ridge around a small river valley, they located a well-manned German observation post. Marking the coordinates for the artillery, the men watched while the big American guns took it out. Soon afterward, the squad was overrun by a German patrol, losing two green members while fighting their way back through German territory.

The men were happy to be near American lines. If it wasn’t for the storm they would have made it home tonight. Most of the squad broke out rations and talked about what they would be eating if they were back home: hamburgers, steak, apple pie and chocolate cake. Caje had his favorite Cajun dishes in mind. After a short while, the banter died and the only sound was that of the rain on the roof of the old barn. Memories rose in the PFC’s consciousness as he drifted into sleep.

Paul, come here! You have to taste this.” Theo waved him over to the long picnic table set up in his grandfather’s yard. It was his grandmother’s sixty-fifth birthday and everyone had gathered to dance and eat. Three groups of neighbor girls in flowered dresses stood in the yard. Their giggles drifted across the summer air while their skirts billowed in the breeze. Paul savored the smell of Bayou flowers engulfing him while he walked to his friend’s side. The two young men sampled the food and discussed the best attributes of the young women in the crowd. Somewhat heated negotiations ensued over who would dance with whom once the music started. As Theo went to ask one of the girls for his first dance, Paul decided to sample a homemade biscuit.

A strange but familiar sound whistled by Paul’s left ear as a bullet passed within inches of his face. Another followed and then another. Soon the air was filled with the sound of gunfire and screams. The partygoers scrambled for cover, running into each other in panic. Paul turned toward Theo in time to see a bullet strike his friend in the chest. Theo screamed and fell to the earth, suddenly silent and still.

Paul shouted, “No!” falling to the ground to shield himself.

“Caje?”

Littlejohn stood over the Cajun.

Caje’s eyes opened wide, adrenaline still rushing through him.

“You okay?” Littlejohn asked.

“Yeah, yeah—I’m okay,” Caje answered, as he pushed back his blanket.

“Your turn on watch.”

Caje sat up, rubbed his eyes briefly, and donned his boots. He stood and stretched, shaking off the feelings of fear and loss from his dream. Grabbing his garand, he headed toward the door.

Littlejohn moved to the corner of the old barn where he had left his pack. He grinned as he discovered his bedroll unrolled and ready for him. Billy, sleeping nearby, had no doubt been responsible. The big private stretched out, covering himself with his blanket. The smell of damp straw reminded him of the barn at home. He thought of all the nights he had fallen into bed, totally exhausted by a fifteen-hour day on the farm. He’d always been able to fall to sleep quickly and tonight was no exception.

The warm wind blew over the field as the muddy farm truck moved along the dirt road near his home in Nebraska. Littlejohn sat on the edge of the box of the soil-filled truck’s bed. The truck picked up speed when the road straightened, and Littlejohn held on tightly, leaning forward to keep from falling out.

After several minutes, Littlejohn looked up across the farm fields, realizing that the area no longer looked familiar. Puzzled, he shouted out to the driver, “Hey, I think we missed a turn!” The only response was an increase in the speed of the truck. Growing alarmed, Littlejohn decided to find a safer place to sit. He moved to a seated position in the truck’s bed, with his back against the cab. Settling in, he saw that the pile of soil under him seemed to be coming alive. To his amazement, worms began crawling to the soil’s surface and flinging themselves out of the truck. Littlejohn glanced at the driver and saw that it was Private Scott.

“Scott, you’re alive!” Littlejohn shouted. Scott grinned widely and the truck accelerated again, causing more and more worms to fly out.

Somehow, the presence of the jovial Scott allowed Littlejohn to relax and he began to enjoy the brisk ride. He sat back and watched in fascination as the wriggling worms appeared to jump into the air. At first, it seemed that the supply of worms was unending, but after ten minutes, the numbers dwindled and finally, no more appeared.

The truck took an abrupt turn onto a road heading off to the west. Littlejohn slid to the passenger side of the truck and peered around the cab to see what was ahead. Curiously, the road appeared to be full of huge potholes. Littlejohn was about to shout a suggestion to turn around when the sound of German 88s filled the air. Huge blasts of dirt erupted on the road up ahead as the shelling met its mark, but Scott kept moving the truck forward at a faster and faster speed.

“Stop! Scott, stop the truck!” Littlejohn pleaded.

The truck continued straight ahead. Knowing he had no other recourse, Littlejohn crawled to the back of the truck and jumped off, rolling painfully onto the ground. He struggled to a seated position and looked up to see the truck careening into the barrage. The 88s continued to slam into the earth and within seconds one hit the truck. The vehicle exploded and Littlejohn watched in horror as Scott’s body was expelled and flung into the air like a tattered doll.

“Scott!”

A half-mile away, a bolt of lightning struck a large oak, splitting off a third of its growth. The loud crack, followed by a deafening clap of thunder, shook the barn, and coincided with Littlejohn’s shout. Doc barely made out Scott’s name over the booming from the sky, but instantly realized what Littlejohn was dreaming about.

“Littlejohn, wake up,” the medic, squatting next to the sleeping man, spoke in hushed tones.

Littlejohn’s eyes snapped open. In a moment, he remembered where he was.

“Sorry, Doc. I had a bad dream.” Littlejohn felt eyes upon him while he gathered his wits. Billy and Kirby were both staring at him from their bedrolls.

Saunders, standing on the other end of the room, noticed the audience. He stepped toward the men.

“The storm’s getting stronger so we’ll be staying until morning. Nelson, you’ve got watch in another hour. ” The sergeant eyed Littlejohn and, convinced the private was all right, moved away, lighting a Lucky as he went. Doc followed him.

Billy leaned toward Littlejohn, whispering urgently. “Littlejohn, are you okay?”

“Yeah, Billy, I’m fine,” Littlejohn murmured, not sounding totally convinced himself.

Billy frowned. “You were shouting Scott’s name.”

“I know, Billy, it was a bad dream,” Littlejohn sighed as he rolled onto his side. “At least this time it wasn’t my fault he was killed.”

Billy spoke adamantly, “Littlejohn, you heard what Hanley and the Sarge said. It wasn’t your fault Scott died!”

“I know, Billy. I know. Let’s get some sleep.”

* * * * * *

The boards of the old barn creaked loudly as the wind lashed against them, testing the strength of their anchors. Narrow openings served as channels for whistling streams of rain-filled air. The damaged roof leaked in numerous places and the soldiers adjusted their places to avoid the errant raindrops. Lightning flashed intermittently, lighting the shadows in the barn, and the thunder that followed caused the men to turn fitfully in their slumber.

Billy was certain he couldn’t sleep. Littlejohn shouting Scott’s name had reminded him of the bridgehead and his own failure there. He had let the squad down, and the sergeant chewed him out for it. He should have kept running to that small house, but he had panicked and turned back. He knew he’d grown up a lot since then, but the guilt stayed with him.

Yet, even though he was troubled, his mind began to move randomly to other thoughts, borders began to soften, exhaustion overcame him, and he fell asleep.

“Gee, Littlejohn, this is some village, huh?”

The squad had just arrived in a little French town for some R and R. The townspeople came running out to greet them as liberators. Barefoot French beauties grabbed and kissed them in gratitude. An old man played an accordion as the soldiers passed bottles of wine and danced in the streets.

“You can say that again, Billy. I wonder what my mom would think about this?”

Littlejohn grinned smugly, chugging some wine before passing the bottle to Billy. Three young French girls surrounded the two men, laughing and kissing them on their cheeks.

Billy’s conscience began to bother him. “I wonder what Evelyn would say? I sure wouldn’t want her to find out.”

“Now Billy, how in the world would Evelyn find out?” Littlejohn asked.

Billy frowned, considering his response. “I don‘t know, Littlejohn. Women just know somehow. They sense this kind of stuff.”

Kirby and Saunders had wandered close by and overheard the conversation.

“Hey, Sarge, listen to Nelson sounding like he knows about dames!” Kirby doubled over with laughter.

Saunders kept a poker face. “Well, Kirby, you oughtta listen up. Nelson’s got three girls hanging out by him and you’re walking around town with me.”

Kirby’s laughing stopped abruptly and he lifted his collar with a scowl before walking away from the group.

Billy smiled at Saunders, preparing to thank him, when the faint rumble of tank engines sounded at the edge of town.

“Tanks!” Saunders yelled, and soon soldiers and civilians began running for cover. The Panzer’s guns blasted holes in the walls of the buildings around them, sending debris flying everywhere. The squad followed Saunders on a winding path through town. The sergeant pointed toward a building up ahead and the men headed for it in single file.

As Billy brought up the rear, a feeling of dread overcame him. There was something about the building that was familiar and foreboding. When he was within ten yards of the doorway, he froze in the street, unable to move. Struggling in panic, Billy tried to make it to the doorway as a shell headed straight for him. Within seconds, the ground erupted around him and he felt the terrible pain of shrapnel penetrating his skin. His mouth opened in a silent scream.

“Nelson? Wake up, you’re havin’ a bad dream.” Kirby crouched over Billy, shaking the sleeping man’s shoulder.

Billy woke, covered with sweat. As he realized where he was, he let out a breath and wiped his hand across his face. A crack of thunder brought him to his feet.

“Uh, must be my turn for watch,” he said, looking uncertainly at Kirby.

“Yeah, that’s right, kid. Better grab your poncho—that storm’s not lettin’ up at all.”

As Kirby watched Nelson walk away, he frowned and shook his head. “Man, we musta got some bad chow or somethin’,” he muttered under his breath.

Kirby settled onto his bedroll, listening to the wind and thunder. No way I’m letting this storm get to me! He began to drift off to sleep, comparing the noise from the storm to the traffic outside his bedroom window at home. A thunderous clap directly above the barn startled him back to full consciousness. The private plopped over on his side and angrily pulled his woolen blanket tightly over his head. It was in this position that he finally fell asleep.

“Kirby, I’m telling ya—if O’Brien finds out we hid those car keys, he’s gonna be steamed!”

Kirby smiled mischieviously.”He ain’t gonna find out, Eddie. ‘Sides, even if he does, we’ll be long gone.”

The young men ran quickly out of the dark alley, slowing to a leisurely pace as they reached the street. They moved toward their neighborhood, greeting mutual friends and planning their weekend activities. At Sixth Street, Eddie waved goodbye and headed to his home. Kirby walked another half a block to his house before he heard a blood-curdling scream.

“Kirby!”

Recognizing Eddie’s voice, Kirby turned back and ran to Eddie’s house and through the open front door. Another scream came from the kitchen. Rushing into the room, Kirby found Eddie seated by the kitchen table. His hands were tied behind him and his face was battered beyond recognition. O’Brien stood over Eddie, his hands fisted, yelling, “Where are those keys?” Eddie did not answer, appearing to be unconscious—or worse. Kirby opened his mouth to tell O’Brien about the keys so he would stop hitting Eddie. As he looked into O’Brien’s face, he saw that it was not O’Brien at all. The man beating Eddie was the big German, Colonel Bruener. Kirby felt his blood boil. He grabbed a large carving knife out of the wood block on the kitchen counter and lunged at the Kraut. Both men fell to the floor and Kirby began stabbing Bruener again and again. Blood gushed out of the dying man and splattered everywhere. Kirby continued to stab the German uncontrollably until he felt strong hands restraining him.

“Kirby?”

Caje watched in awe as the wiry BAR man thrashed about under his blanket, fighting some unknown enemy.

“Kirby, wake up!”

“Caje?” The BAR man peered out from beneath the cover.

“That must’ve been some dream. Who were you fighting? A whole German regiment?”

Kirby rubbed his right shoulder. “Naw, but that mighta been easier.”

Looking past Caje, Kirby saw Saunders and Doc staring in his direction. Outside, torrents of rain pelted the barn.

“What is with this storm, Sarge? It’s giving everybody the creeps.”

“Relax, Kirby. The storm will be over before you know it.”

Kirby’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, sure Sarge. That’s what the guys from my draft board told me about the war.”

Saunders gave a half-hearted grin. “It’s your turn at watch. I’ll relieve you in an hour.”

Kirby grabbed his weapon and headed for the door.

Doc turned to the sergeant, frowning. “It sure is a rough night.”

“What do ya mean?”

“Well, all the nightmares. Nobody seems to be able to sleep.”

“Nothing anybody can do about that, Doc.” Saunders sat down on his bedroll and lit a cigarette. “What about you—aren’t you gonna try to sleep?”

“When I was a kid in Arkansas, a tornado hit our place. Took the roof right off. Killed my dog. Since then, I never could fall asleep during a storm like this one.”

The sergeant nodded. “Well, I‘m gonna try to sleep before my watch.”

* * * * * *

Sergeant Saunders finished his smoke and stretched out on his bedroll. Kirby. He had a way of saying things the others thought of but tried to forget. It was true—the war AND the storm were lasting much longer than he thought they would. But the storm brought needed rain—it would help nature renew itself. What would the war bring? Would there be a saving grace? He knew the Nazis had to be defeated. It was the price tag for that defeat that haunted him—the death and destruction that war embodied. As he fell asleep, it entered his dreams and haunted him there, too.

“Spread out!” Hanley ordered.

First squad was on a mission to locate and take out a suspected German observation post. They had been on the move since early morning and had entered the sector that intelligence had indicated contained the OP. Up ahead, a large hill stood before them. At its crest the silhouette of a badly damaged structure was visible.

The men moved cautiously forward, crouching like cats, ever vigilant for any signs of movement above them.

Saunders held a position in the middle of the group but was stopped short as his boot became wedged in the crevice of a jagged rock he’d stepped on. He worked as quickly as possible to free himself, aware that he was falling dangerously behind. Finally, his boot was freed and he stood, ready to catch up with the men.

The air erupted in machine gun fire, but no one from the squad was in sight!

The sergeant gripped his Thompson and began running full speed to the hill. When he reached its base, the gunfire ceased and he glimpsed a row of seven dark objects rolling down the hill in tandem. Before long, he realized with horror what they were.

American helmets.

One had a lieutenant’s bar, another a medic’s cross, still another burn marks from its use as a cooking pot, the others, torn and tattered netting—all were full of bullet holes.

Saunders stood frozen at the base of the hill while all of the helmets rolled to a stop at his feet. The sergeant dropped to his knees in anguish.

BOOM!! The clap of thunder mercifully woke him. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he quickly glanced around him. The men were still, the rain continued. Doc, remaining awake, was fiddling with his medical bag. Saunders drew in a deep breath, thankful that no one had noticed his distress.

He sat up, pulled out another Lucky and leaned back against the barn wall. Drawing in the tobacco, he allowed the single tear that had formed in the corner of his eye to move down his cheek and drop to the ground. Staring at the spot where the tear hit the floor, he smashed the cigarette butt out on top of it and got up to relieve Kirby on watch.

* * * * * *

Thirty minutes into Saunders’ watch, the storm finally ended. The clouds that had filled the sky moved to the west, the sun rising on a clear, damp morning.

“Saddle up!” Saunders ordered.

The storm’s toll was obvious as the weary men gathered their gear to continue the walk back to their lines. In previous days, the sergeant might have said some words about not bunching up, being alert for danger, or not engaging the enemy unless they had to, but on this morning, Saunders knew first squad no longer needed to hear those basics from him.

They were now all seasoned soldiers weathering the storm together, and God willing, they would all make it home.

END