THE WATCHER by Albert Baker (Claudia) November 2008

(written as fanfic-not for profit)

Life and death are balanced on the edge of a razor. ~Homer, Iliad

You’re so sure you’ll despise me. You see me as an evil, dark presence. Well, you are wrong. There is nothing evil about me. If it weren’t for me, you’d all starve or fight for space to the point of annihilation. You should be grateful for me. I allow the natural course of things to endure. I give purpose -- drive people to achieve, motivate to complete. I speed the processes that some would choose to ignore. I am powerful and inevitable. I am an ending. I am a beginning…

Turn on back. Extend hands over head. Turn head. Compress. Listen for heartbeat and breathing. Nothing.

The steps are automatic to the medic. The patient is not responding. Try again, try again. He’s only nineteen, barely here a week. His kid brother idolizes him and waits with his parents on the farm for his return.

The robotic medic with aching shoulders must decide when to give in to the end that most certainly is occurring. Why keep trying to hold on to one more life? What purpose can there be to preventing this boy from leaving? Why bring him back to the pain and suffering in this terrible war?

Give up. Give in.

But there’s a family somewhere. Maybe a fiancé or wife. Maybe a child, surely a mother and father who love their son. What price for life? What amount of suffering would he endure for a chance to see them all again?

Compress, listen for heartbeat and breathing. Nothing.

Sweat forms on the medic’s brow. His hands are stiff and pained. A bullet whizzes by his right ear. The air displaced by the bullet brushes his earlobe, and he exhales sharply. His eyes dart from left to right. Squad mates are moving back toward him. One more try. A plea for help from a higher power.

Compress, listen for a heartbeat and breathing. Nothing.

If he doesn’t give in soon, he will join the boy in death. I see the spirit rising, rising to me. “Come, boy. I am the dark angel who will warm you and take you home.”

A German 88 streaks across the sky. Too late, the distracted medic acknowledges the high-pitched warning. It lands nearby, spewing fragments and dirt into the air and sending the medic onto his back. He gasps for breath, desperate to replace the air thrust from his lungs. The body of the boy is forgotten, buried in debris. The medic is dazed. As he reinflates his lungs, he strains to clear his vision and gain composure. His ears are ringing, but he can make out the muted snapping of gunfire. A sharp pain pierces through his side when he attempts to move.

“Doc!”

A blond sergeant appears. He studies the injured man with deep concern in his eyes. From his web belt he retrieves some sulfa and a bandage, applying them to the bleeding wound on the medic’s side. The blood flow begins to subside.

This one may remain to suffer some more.

“Doc, it’s Saunders. Take it easy.”

The medic gasps as he tries to speak, unable to get the words out.

“Don’t try to talk.”

A throaty rasping reply comes from the wounded man. “Baker!”

Saunders grimaces as he stares past the medic at the mound of bloody and broken flesh that had once been Tommy Baker.

“He didn’t make it, Doc.”

Another shell approaches and the sergeant lunges forward to shield the medic. As the shell meets the earth and explodes, Saunders feels a shard of metal slice his shoulder. He moans in pain.

The barrage ends as suddenly as it started. The sergeant rolls off of the medic and reaches up to feel his own wound. His hand is full of blood. He searches for an exit wound and finds it on the front side of his shoulder. Realizing there may be little time before German troops arrive, he gathers his strength and speaks while trying to catch his breath. “Doc, Hanley ordered us to pull back. The rest of the squad is gone. We need to get out of here. I’m gonna have to move you.”

Saunders stands unsteadily behind the wounded medic and pulls him to his feet. Once Doc is upright, the sergeant slides to the medic’s left side and swings Doc’s arm over his good shoulder, putting his own arm around the medic’s waist. “Okay, Doc, here we go.”

The two move awkwardly out of the field and into the woods. With no sign of the rest of the squad, Saunders does his best to carry Doc alone. As night falls, they make it to a small hill. At its base, a pond lies surrounded by tall, browning grass. The soldiers collapse silently onto the cushioning mat.

They lie alone in the blackness of a night so still I can hear their heartbeats along with the rhythmic croaking of the lone bullfrog by the pond. The chilly air around them rustles with their breathing. Such aloneness seems almost unbearable, but they take comfort in each other. I’ve noticed this before -- this bond among men, and especially soldiers. They come to war afraid that they themselves will die, but soon they grow so close to their comrades that they fear their friend’s deaths even more than their own. It is their strength and their weakness. They hold each other up, but when I take one, the parting rips the remaining soul to shreds, leaving it tattered even after its healing.

* * * * * * *

On the other side of the hill, stands a small farmhouse and barn. The animal pens are empty and no crops wait for harvest in the surrounding pockmarked fields. The barn has no door. What remains of the former entrance is but a splinter hanging loosely from a bent hinge. Inside, the carcass of a milk cow killed by the shells that screamed through the air last night, has begun decaying on a bed of straw. The farmer who had been milking her when the shell hit, managed to crawl into the house leaving a bloody path behind him.

I have been watching the old man for hours. He suffers alone, moaning softly on his bed. In his delirium he sees visions of his wife who waits for him to join her. I remember when she came to me. She didn’t want to leave him. As if she had a choice. You should know—I always win eventually.

“Michele! Michele!” The Frenchman weeps as he calls out his wife’s name. He lies on a cotton bedcover that has turned shades of pink and dark red from his wounds. Flies buzz through the open window and, lost in their confusion as they explore the house, become louder and louder, bouncing off other windows that will not free them.

* * * * * * *

A bright sun greets the two American soldiers as morning arrives, its promised warmth missing in the late October air.

“Sarge?”

“I changed the bandage, Doc. You’re doin’ okay. The bleeding has stopped.” The sergeant flinches as he moves his arm.

The medic notices the pained movement and sees the blood on Saunders’ field jacket for the first time. “You’re wounded, too!”

“I took a piece of shrapnel through my left shoulder. I can still move it.”

“Let me take a look at it.”

Saunders removes his jacket and Doc struggles to hoist himself up on one elbow to examine the wound. He opens his medical bag and tears open a sulfa packet, applying the powder and a bandage. “You should have done this last night. Do you know where we are?”

“As far as I can tell, we’re about two miles west of where our lines should be. As soon as I get you set, I’m going to check out the other side of this hill. You should be safe here as long as you’re quiet.”

“Here, you’re gonna have to wind this around the front,” Doc instructs as he hands Saunders the end of the gauze.

The sergeant completes the bandaging one-handed.

“Sarge, the wound has stopped bleeding, but if you start movin’ around, it could start again.”

“Doc, you just stay quiet.”

“That I can do.”

The sergeant grabs his Thompson and rises to his feet, swaying slightly. “Be back in about twenty minutes, Doc.”

Saunders makes his way around the pond, now covered with a fragile coating of ice, and looks back toward the area where Doc lies, making certain the injured man is not visible. Satisfied that all is well, he begins a crouched walk up the hill. As he reaches the top, he flattens himself on his stomach and pulls out his field glasses. He sees the farm below. There is no discernable movement.

The sergeant moves cautiously down the hill and around the side of the farmhouse. Inside the bedroom, the old man groans softly. Saunders hears the injured man’s misery and ducks behind the water barrel. More delirious pleas come from the bedroom. The sergeant walks slowly to the window, slides up to it sideways, and peers in, his Thompson at the ready.

On the bed, the old man rolls to one side revealing the blood soaked coverlet to the American. Saunders moves around the house, ever watchful. He kicks open the front door, swinging his Thompson up in front of him. Determining there is no one else there, he moves to the bedroom. The old man’s eyes widen with fear as the soldier approaches him. Saunders recognizes the reaction and speaks, pointing at his uniform.

“American. I’m an American.”

A single word, “American,” encased in a sigh of relief, emanates from the old man.

The sergeant moves to the bed, checking on the man’s wound. The blood loss is obvious and a piece of shrapnel is still embedded in the man’s side. Realizing there is little he can do, Saunders tears off a section of the bed linens and uses it to stem the bleeding before continuing his search of the house. As he leaves the room, he looks back at the farmer and sees that the old man has passed out.

Saunders double-checks the house and barn. Except for the farmer, there is no life anywhere. He finds some extra blankets and a pillow, and makes a bed for Doc behind some shelving in a small storage room off the kitchen, before moving back over the hill to the wounded medic.

* * * * * * *

Unterfeldwebel Hans Keppler moves unsteadily through the woods. His head wound is no longer bleeding but the pounding headache makes each step a challenge. He does not know where he is but knows he must keep moving and find his men scattered by the misplaced artillery of his own army. The new recruits, barely seventeen years old on average, had panicked and run screaming in all directions after witnessing the deaths of three of their comrades.

Hans thinks of his own son, just fifteen. They will soon send him into battle, too.

Keppler hears the shouting as he enters the clearing: “Antreten hier! Welches is Ihr Regiment?”

The SS officer is angry, accusatory.

Two young boys line up, their eyes wide. As two SS troops commanded by the officer raise their rifles, one boy begs, “Nicht schiessen!”

The SS troops do not waiver. They open up and cut the boys down instantly. Hans runs out of the trees, shouting, “Nein, nein!”

Soon, Hans is lying in a pool of his own blood. The SS drive away.

* * * * * * *

The medic is growing weaker. They are both stubborn — the medic and the farmer. So many men are. But not I. I am patient and persistent but I have no reason to be stubborn. I have no need to hurry things. My roll is certain. Yet, I admit my confusion. Why fight so hard to overcome death? The farmer has very little time left, yet with each breath the old man fights to go on for one more hour, for one more minute; and the younger man — much like the two young Germans, can barely imagine leaving.

Doc lies alone in the tall grass. He can see little from his position, so he listens intently. The scent of the grass comforts the wounded medic. His thoughts drift off to his boyhood home near the Ozarks and he can smell the crisp autumn air mingled with the rich smell of a wood fire.

The sensing of movement -- the faintest vibration from the ground, leads him to believe that someone is approaching. He thinks it is Saunders, but caution is imperative. Doc is still and watchful.

“How ya holdin’ up, Doc?” the sergeant calls, his voice low and his breathing labored.

The wounded man is relieved. “I’m doin’ okay, Sarge. The bleedin’ has stopped and I think I can stand.”

“Good. I found a farmhouse over the hill. There’s an old man in there with a piece of shrapnel in his side. It doesn’t look like he’ll make it. I figure you can rest up there for a couple hours while I go on ahead.”

“Sarge, you’re in no shape to go on alone!”

“Look, Doc, I can’t take you any farther with this shoulder. The only chance we have to get back is for me to get to some help. Now, come on!”

The two wounded men walk over the hill to the farmhouse, their bodies struggling with every step. I move closer.

* * * * * * *

Doc shakes his head as he studies the old man. He knows the farmer is near death and there is nothing he can do. Saunders’ eyes reflect his sympathy as he helps the medic to the makeshift bed he has prepared.

“I wish I could do somethin’ for him.”

Saunders’ fever has started. He slides down the wall and seats himself next to his friend. “You can’t save ‘em all, Doc.”

“Maybe I should move into the same room with him.”

“All you’d be doing is making yourself a sitting duck if any Krauts wander by.”

“But, Sarge, he’s dying.”

“That’s right, Doc. And you’re not. You’ve done all you can.” The sergeant sighs and closes his eyes. “I’m gonna rest a minute and then head out to find our lines. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

* * * * * * *

Saunders is a practical man. He acknowledges the farmer’s death is inevitable. So often, people speak of “cheating”death. It does happen, but it is very unusual—much more unusual than they would like to believe, and it is obviously temporary. It’s merely another brief extension of life. The old man’s granddaughter is one of the unusual ones—so rare. She is coming. She hopes that her grandfather will cheat me, also. But he won’t.

Patrice walks through the woods like a fawn, looking back over her shoulder as if searching for the doe that is her mother, watching and listening for warning calls. She pulls her scarf tight to keep the chill from her neck. Patrice heard news of the barrage and worries about her grandfather. Her motivation is love, but her anger drives her.

She remembers. Why wouldn’t he listen? She told him the Germans would mount an offensive. You would think after Maman, he would have woken up. All he can think about is the farm. Stubborn old man!

Tears roll down her face as she recalls her mother’s bloody and twisted body lying in the dirt in front of the barn. That image flashes before her, then turns suddenly into another recollection at age seventeen -- a kaleidoscope of debris as a grenade exploded and she fell to the ground like a broken rag doll. She shudders and reaches hesitantly for her face, tracing the line down from her forehead, through her eye and her cheek, to her chin. Another tear falls into her hand as she brings it back to her side to touch the handgun she carries under her jacket.

Patrice moves resolutely forward to the pond. She sees her grandfather’s horse there, drinking peacefully at its edge. The mare is startled for a moment but Patrice soothes it, stroking its side as she reaches for the bridle. She ties it to a tree and climbs up the hill to gaze down upon the farmhouse. Sorrow engulfs her as she views the damaged old barn. She scurries down the hill and across the yard to the house. Pistol in hand, her small body slips soundlessly through the front door. Barely audible moaning comes from the bedroom.

The old man senses his granddaughter is here. She runs to his side and holds his hand. His waiting is over. He whispers his sad goodbye and lets go. Come, old man.

She weeps onto his still chest. Her unrelenting sobs choke her and draw the wounded medic out of his hiding. He didn’t listen to his sergeant, but moved into the bedroom, hidden behind the door.

“I’m sorry.”

Patrice jerks around toward the source of the words, handgun raised and ready. Her tear-washed cheeks glisten as strands of her hair cling to her damp face. The medic is propped oddly against the wall behind the door. At the sight of the gun, he tries to raise his hands, but is unable.

“I did all that I could. We just didn’t find him soon enough.”

Staring at him, shocked by his presence, it takes her a moment to notice that he is wounded—and a medic. She lowers the gun and stares back at her grandfather’s body.

Speaking in French, she says, “Thank you for bandaging him. I am glad there was someone here with him.”

Doc frowns. “Sorry, I don’t speak any French.”

Patrice slowly covers her grandfather’s face with the coverlet and walks over to the medic. She pulls him forward to lean against her and after helping him struggle to gain his balance, they walk out of the bedroom to the living room. He points to the storeroom, saying, “There’re a few blankets in there.” She follows his gesture and goes to the room, returning with the supplies to make him more comfortable. He looks closely at her for the first time.

Initially, the sight of her left eye takes him aback. The damaged iris is a shattered mixture of blues and green — like an artist’s palette used to mix the colors for a beautiful outdoor scene. And the scar -- it runs down her face from her hairline and disappears into her sweater. Then, the shocking contrast -- the right side of Patrice’s face is perfection. Her flawless skin, bright blue eye, perfect mouth, all so beautiful and in such contrast to the other side of her face that Doc finds himself unable to take his eyes off of her.

She notices, but she is not ashamed or surprised. She has been stared at this way before. It breaks her heart a little each time it happens, but she does not let it show. “A grenade blast—three years ago.”

Doc is surprised. “You speak English?”

“A little.” She gazes around the room, her eyes stopping at the doorway to the bedroom. “How long have you been here?”

The medic looks at her sympathetically. “My sergeant brought me here this mornin’. He left to try to find our lines and get help. He was hurt too -- couldn’t get me back alone.”

She turns back to face Doc. “My grandfather -- he was hurt in the barrage?”

“I think so. Must’ve happened last night. Same time as we got hit.”

She nods slightly and sits on a wooden chair near him. “Your sergeant — his name?”

“Saunders, and you can call me Doc.”

“I am Patrice. Saunders will not find American lines easily. The Boche have broken through and the Americans have been pushed back to the southwest.”

Doc frowns and winces as pain shoots through his side. “Sarge knows what he’s doin,’ but he’s hurt.”

Patrice stands and reaches over to touch the medic’s shoulder. “I found our horse in the woods on my way here. I will take you to safety in my father’s wagon.”

“How are you going to get me outta here in a wagon? Won’t the Krauts be everywhere?”

She smirks, but her eyes are filled with sorrow. “The Boche will see a wagon carrying my grandfather’s dead body. You will be under the straw. Don’t worry. I have friends in the Maquis. They will help you.”

* * * * * * *

So Patrice could not help her grandfather, but will help the medic instead. No matter. There are others in the woods that need my attention. There are always others.

Sergeant Saunders walks slowly, winding a path to the west. Covered in sweat that quickly chills him in the cool air, he fights fatigue and the fever inside him. His canteen is half full and will not sustain him through the afternoon. His thoughts are with the medic, his soldier’s edge is stolen by his concern. He hears the sound of metal against metal. Swinging his Thompson up and crouching, his eyes sweep over the surrounding terrain. There, just past the old oak tree, he spots another soldier, but this one wears a grey uniform and jackboots. Saunders creeps around to the German’s left side and jumps out at the enemy. “Hande hoche!”

Unterfeldwebel Hans Keppler sits quietly against the tree, bleeding profusely from his chest wound. He holds his empty canteen in his right hand. His rifle lies in the dirt at his side, but he shows no interest in trying to make use of it.

“Wasser.”

Saunders stares through fevered eyes. For a moment, he hesitates to share his meager supply of water. He blinks and looks at his canteen. Reaching for it, he moves forward to kick the German’s weapon away. He kneels at his enemy’s side and opens the canteen, pouring a small measure of precious liquid into Hans’ mouth.

“Danke.”

Saunders sits back, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Looks like we’re in the same boat. You speak any English?”

“Englisch? Nein.”

The American reaches over to Hans, pulling back the German’s shirt to check his wound. Frowning, he sighs. “Sorry, I’m out of bandages.” He pulls back his field jacket and rips off a piece of his shirt. Folding it into a square, he pushes it over Hans’ wound. His touch is gentle, his own wound aching.

Hans gasps in pain, but whispers again, “Danke.”

Sergeant Saunders tries to stand, but his legs protest. He falls to the ground, unconscious at his enemy’s feet.

* * * * * * *

They are all so much more alike than different—these “enemies”. They all strive to find love, success, happiness. Some confuse the three, but they usually determine the truth of it all when there is time. War, of course, sweeps away the potential for wisdom.

The wagon moves slowly up the road, dust filling the air around it like a swarm of bees. The medic lies under the straw, trying not to sneeze or cough. Patrice smells the death behind her on the top of the straw. She tries to think of her grandfather as only a body, but it’s impossible. Tears sting her cheeks. Up ahead she sees the German roadblock. Her body tenses and she feels hatred pulsing through her. She has learned to hide her intense anger, but she does not fully control it.

As the wagon reaches the roadblock, a German soldier holds up an arm to signal her to stop. He glances up at her and winces as he takes in the scar on her face.

“Zeigen Sie Ihren Ausweis,” he commands.

Patrice pulls out her papers and hands them to him. He studies them and looks back at the body in the wagon.

“Wer dieses ist?”

“Mon grand-pere,” she replies.

He nods and places his hands on the straw, pressing down haphazardly. The medic tries to will himself into a smaller man as the hand comes closer to him. Another soldier shouts a complaint about the stench, and the wagon is ushered on its way with the medic sighing in relief.

Patrice calms herself quickly once through the German checkpoint. There should be no more on this route and once she reaches the spot where the path branches off, the wagon will no longer be visible from the road. She drives on for another fifteen minutes.

“Doc, how are you?” she calls softly to the medic, but he does not answer.

Not daring to stop on the road in plain sight, she snaps the reins to hasten the horse. Twenty minutes later, she turns onto the path she has sought. It is narrow, but the wagon is small and soon it disappears into the trees. After another ten minutes, Patrice stops the horse and jumps down. Averting her eyes from her grandfather’s corpse, she pushes the straw aside, reaching out to find Doc.

She feels the medic’s leg and tries to jostle him. “Doc? Doc, wake up. I need to know if you are all right.”

A low moan drifts up through the straw and Patrice works quickly to uncover the wounded American. Doc begins to cough as the straw is stirred. With relief, she sees his face, and his eyes are open and alert.

“I must’ve passed out. Where are we?”

“We are very close to a Maquis hideout. I will get you there and they will help you back to your lines.”

* * * * * * *

Hans’ pain wakes him from a restless sleep. A brief moment of panic ensues as he sees the American sergeant on the ground before him, and then it subsides as he remembers the drink of water and the makeshift bandage. His vision is blurred and he realizes he cannot see the trees across from him—the ones by young Eric and Peter. He hears a vehicle and his body tenses. It is the same group of SS, still scouring the area for deserters. On the ground before him, the American starts to stir as the SS appear. The Germans raise their rifles and Hans’ anger fuels him. He reaches for the Thompson near the American. Again he shouts, “Nein!” as he opens fire on the SS men.

How strange war is. The German faces death at the hands of his own countrymen. He knows he is dying now. His body is cold and he feels his lifeblood leaving. He is one who welcomes his death. Perhaps it is because his hope died long ago.

* * * * * * *

Sergeant Saunders struggles to comprehend the screaming and gunfire. His dream is of the bar down the road from his old job. He is there having a beer with his buddy, Patrick O’Hara. O’Hara is laughing when suddenly the wall behind him explodes and bursts into flames. The sergeant awakes covered with sweat. He smells the cordite and as he raises his torso, he spots the bodies of the three SS men. Turning around, he sees Hans. The German sits with the Thompson in his hands, his vacant eyes staring forward. Once Saunders recovers from shocked disbelief, he crawls over to Hans. He reaches up with one hand and carefully closes Hans’ eyes, whispering a, “thank you.” He gently pulls the Thompson out of Hans’ grip.

Knowing more Germans will likely come soon, Saunders senses he must keep moving. He walks toward the dead SS troops and sees their kubelwagen facing east, just a few yards from a road. His instincts kick in. They must’ve broken through. Saunders decides to turn to the south. Although there is no road that way, the forest is old growth with widely spaced trees. Saunders retrieves his Thompson and slowly slides behind the wheel of the jeep, grateful to ride for a while.

* * * * * * *

Lieutenant Hanley sits up with a start, awakened from a deep sleep by the sound of Private Kirby howling with joy. Rubbing his hands over bloodshot eyes, he stands and walks over to the door of his command post, gazing outside. Across the way, he sees Kirby raking in a pot of bills as a group of annoyed poker-playing soldiers look on. Hanley grins. At least Kirby’s keeping himself busy with something other than constantly questioning his lieutenant about the whereabouts of Saunders and Doc. Sighing, he moves to the small stove in the room and warms his hands. Any time now he expects to receive orders to move the platoon out and retake the ground they lost. He hopes the missing men show up before those orders come. If not, there is a chance that he’ll run into their dead bodies somewhere on the journey back to the area they’d lost to the Germans. A chill runs through him.

“Lieutenant?” Caje approaches the officer from behind.

Hanley’s eyes open wide with surprise. “Caje? I didn’t know you were in here.”

“Excuse me, Lieutenant. I came in here while you were asleep to get a radio. Olson from second squad needs one and was running late so I thought I’d help him out. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Hanley checks his watch. Second squad would be moving out soon on a recon patrol.

“It’s all right, Caje. You didn’t wake me.” Hanley nods toward the group outside. “It was Kirby’s enthusiasm that did it.”

Caje nods in acknowledgement but his grin is brief. “No orders yet?”

Hanley looks grim. “Nothing yet.” He turns away. “You better get that radio to Olson.”

“Yes, sir,” Caje replies, and walks out.

His own radio comes alive and Hanley reaches for it anxiously. “This is King Two,” he says automatically. As he listens, his brow furrows. “We’ll be ready to move out then, sir.” He sets the phone down.

* * * * * * *

I’ve spent lots of time here. The Maquis are a driven and enterprising group, but they have not cheated me often. They have seen scores of their own leave this Earth and no longer hold many expectations of personal survival. Yet, they cling to their hope of victory in this war, as Hans could not.

The Maquis guard their lair closely and soon spot the wagon coming up the path. Marcel recognizes Patrice and jumps out from his hiding place to greet her, but stops in his tracks when he sees the blanket-covered corpse.

“Patrice, qui est-ce?”

“Mon grand-pere, killed by the shelling. I have a wounded American under the straw. Please, help me! Aidez-moi!”

Patrice climbs down from the wagon and reveals Doc in his hiding place. The two gently help the medic off the wagon, and Marcel offers him water.

Doc sits on the ground, downing as much water as he can tolerate.

“We need to get him to the cave, Patrice. Dr. Fontaine is coming from town tonight and will tend to him.”

* * * * * * *

His shoulder pounding with pain, Saunders drives erratically through the forest, occasionally grazing the sides of the kubelwagen on branches. One of the tires has a slow leak caused by a broken rock. As the sun sets, the wind gains strength and blows an icy chill through him. He shivers and realizes he must stop soon and take shelter for the evening, his senses telling him that a storm is brewing. The sergeant spots a pile of timbers and realizes that it is the remains of an old shack in the woods. He drives the kubelwagen as close as possible, hiding it behind tall brush nearby. Attempting to get out of the vehicle, the sergeant falls to the ground. He rises and moves unsteadily toward the timbers, finding the shack is completely destroyed. Underneath the debris, he makes out the opening of a large foxhole created by the enemy in order to survive an earlier barrage. The cold darkness repels him and he looks back at the kubelwagen, considering driving farther. Even through his fevered vision, he can see the flattened tire. His decision made for him, he staggers back to the vehicle and looks for any items that may help him to survive a cold evening. He finds some rations, a canteen, and some papers: an old supply requisition, an unmarked map, nothing to help the cause, but something to help him. He stuffs them into his jacket and again staggers toward the foxhole under the timbers. With a final small burst of energy, he slides down into the darkness.

* * * * * * *

“Well, it’s about time!” Kirby snatches his scarf and wraps it around his neck. “Sittin’ around here while the brass twiddle their thumbs—we shoulda been on the move a day ago!”

“Yeah, and now we’re going out in a snowstorm. How are we going to find Doc and Sarge in this?” Littlejohn despairs.

Hanley walks in as the men complain. “Settle down!” His voice booms over the banter and the men become silent.

“We are not going out to look for Saunders and Doc. We’re going out to fight the Germans and retake the area to the north of here that we lost. The storm might get worse so we want to move into position and hunker down as quickly as possible.”

Caje stands and turns to Hanley. “But Lieutenant, if Doc and the sarge don’t show up soon…”

Hanley’s frustration grows. “We can’t do anything about Saunders and Doc. I’ll be taking out first squad, coordinating with McNeil, Bates and Hodges from our position. Let’s go!”

* * * * * * *

The medic awakes to see shadows dancing on the walls of a cave. He sits up slowly, his side aching but newly bandaged. Patrice walks over to him. She has been studying him curiously—listening to his feverish dreams. She tries to soothe him, placing her hand on his forehead.

“You are safe, Doc. We are with the Maquis. A physician from town was here and he said, with rest, you will be all right.”

‘Sorry, I had a bad dream. When I woke up, I wasn’t sure where I was.”

“I know about your dream. You were in a battle. You were afraid for Baker. Did he die?”

“Your English is better than you think.” Doc looks at her sadly. “Yes, he died.”

Patrice leans back against the cave wall, pulling a blanket around her.

“It doesn’t take many words to understand terror and death.”

Doc nods in agreement as his thoughts shift to the missing sergeant.

“Did you tell these guys about Saunders?”

“Yes, and they are looking for him, but I must tell you -- there is a storm. I don’t know how long they can continue to search.”

* * * * * * *

The sergeant wakes, shivering in the darkness. Something gentle and cold lights upon his brow. He peers up between the timbers above him and in the dim light sees that snowflakes are falling. There is something else -- a terrible stench ascertainable even in the cold air. It is all too familiar to him. He struggles to a sitting position and begins to determine what actions are necessary for survival.

Warmth. A fire.

Saunders knows that the enemy might see the light, but he is down low and if he does not warm himself he will die anyway. He remembers the papers from the jeep. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a wad of the paper along with his lighter. Soon the light from a small blaze reveals the source of the stench. A dead body is nearby. The uniform worn is unmistakably German. Off to his left he finds a small cook stove and a pile of wood. Not willing to consider his predicament “lucky”, he closes his eyes in thanks for the stove and fuel. The sergeant worms his way over to pick up some of the wood and uses more of the paper as kindling to begin a fire in the cook stove. As the numbness leaves his fingers, he draws out some rations and painstakingly opens them, wolfing down the badly needed nourishment. His hunger satisfied, he now takes stock of his condition. The wound on his shoulder continues to throb, but he is not bleeding. He will keep the fire going and rest here for the night. If he is still alive at dawn, he will try to find his way home.

Wilhelm. His name was Wilhelm but friends called him Will. He was wounded a week ago in a battle near here and his young comrades carried him to this place. They found the hole in the same way as the American sergeant did. They did what they could for him and left the stove and wood, promising to return. An American barrage ended their plans and they came to me, hand in hand. Wilhelm was too weak to feed the fire and joined them the next day.

Saunders’ fate is difficult to determine. He doesn’t consider luck, but it often surrounds him like a warm cloak on a cold night.