Bring Home the Little Lamb

By CP

“Momma?”

Why wouldn’t she answer his cry for help? Something must be wrong, she always came running when her son needed her. And this pain -- where was it coming from? Then he remembered. He’d been able to squeeze a couple of rounds into the Kraut, but not before the kid had tossed the grenade. The shrapnel was doing a skittish dance as it moved through his agonized body.

Reaching for his pack with his good arm, the soldier pulled out a shirt. Maybe if he could slow the bleeding down, he could find some shelter from the night that was fast approaching.

Holding one sleeve between his teeth, he snugged the shirt as best he could. It wasn’t Doc’s handiwork, but it would do for the time being. His vision blurred from the pain, and his hands began to tremble, but he dragged himself as close as he could to the hedgerow. The exertion in his weakened state was more than his broken body could handle, and he slipped into unconsciousness. When he came to again, it was to the sight of an endless black sky; the stars hiding, as though they feared retribution from the Krauts if they guided the wounded American to safety.

The sound of footsteps caught his attention. Pressing as far as he could into the shadows, he waited. Was the intruder friend or foe? Closing his eyes, he fought to keep the groan of pain from leaving his lips. If the newcomers were Germans, he was surely a dead man. Placing a knuckle between his teeth, he bit down, suppressing the urge to cry out. Wasn’t it better to be a prisoner of war than to die out here alone, like some animal? His fears were put to rest when he heard a French epithet muttered like a vicious oath. Caje.

“Hey,” he called in a hoarse voice. “Over here.” The Cajun scout stopped and listened. His ability to see in the dark was uncanny. Quietly, he moved to the enlisted man’s side. Laying his Garand on the ground, he turned and motioned to the others.

Saunders and Doc were the first to reach their position. Dropping to his knees, the aid man deftly removed the makeshift bandage and examined the wound. Taking one of the canteens from his belt, he poured some water on the soldier’s side, washing away some of the blood. Tearing the top off the sulfa packet, he liberally sprinkled it on the wound. Holding the gauze in place, he wrapped more around the man’s waist.

When Doc was finished, Caje elevated the GI’s head and gave him several small sips of water. Easing him back to the ground, the Cajun stood, joining Doc and the rest of the squad. “He’ll be okay for the trip back to our lines.” Doc was saying as Caje walked up. “But we need to get him there as soon as we can. That shrapnel needs to come out.”

Sarge shouldered the Thompson. “Our lines are about a mile away. Let’s get him home.“ He called to his scout. “Caje, take the point.” With a slight nod, Caje started toward the small village that was serving as headquarters for King Company. The others nodded and lifted the wounded soldier as gently as they could. He moaned at the jostling movement, but soon settled into a fitful sleep.

Walking alongside the squad, Saunders placed a hand on the soldier’s shoulder. “Don’t worry Nelson. You’re gonna be just fine, kid.”

As the sun rose over the mountains, the men of the 361st returned to the village. One man short wasn’t an option for these soldiers. They found their lost sheep and he was safely back in the fold.

End.