Champion
By CP

A gentle hand wiped the sweat from his fevered brow. The soldier moaned and mumbled something in his restless slumber. The woman stilled, tears spilling down her cheeks. Even though he was wounded, a Boshe bullet embedded deep in his side, the American was still concerned for her safety and that of her child.

She placed the cloth back in the basin beside the bed, and stood, stretching the aching muscles in her back.

Thinking back, it had happened so fast …

Collette and I were in the barn, gathering fresh eggs for our breakfast. The German soldier had appeared out of nowhere, grabbing my daughter and shouting at me in a language I didn’t understand. His intentions, however, I understood perfectly.

But before he could commit his wicked deed, the American arrived, distracting the Boshe long enough for Collette to squirm free of his grasp.  She ran to my arms, terrified.

The two soldiers fired at the same time, the Boshe's bullet hitting the American in the side, jerking him sideways. The American's shot found its mark in the chest of his enemy. I shielded Collette's face, as the Boshe fell to his knees, a crimson stain blossoming on the front of his uniform jacket. He gasped once, eyes frantic as he reached for something unseen, then he pitched forward, dead.

The American staggered as he made his way over to us. He collapsed at my feet, clutching his side. I sent Collette to the house to get some blankets. When she returned, I planned to roll the GI onto them, and drag him to my cottage. Even though he was small of stature, it would have been impossible for me to carry him even that short distance.

Collette returned with the blankets, and with her help, we positioned the wounded man in the center of them. We each took up a corner and began the slow walk to the house. Once inside, we dragged the soldier to the floor in front of the fireplace. Collette brought me a basin of water and ripped up a sheet to use for bandages. I cleaned the wound, and then wrapped the strips around his waist. The poor man didn't protest, but I could tell from the way that his muscles tensed that even the simplest movement was causing him pain.

Sleep finally claimed him sometime in the night, though it was a fitful one. Collette was ever the diligent nurse during the night, moping the sweat from his brow and holding his hand, softly singing a lullaby that I sang to her when she was a small child. This seemed to calm the restless man. She finally dozed off, still holding the soldier's hand, her head resting on his shoulder.

It's morning now, the first delicate rays of sunshine warming the sleeping pair in the parlor. I feel I should wake Collette, but looking at them, both blissfully unaware of the ravages of war just now, I decide against it. The sound of voices at the front of my house startles me. Quietly, I creep to the window, afraid of what I might see. Joy fills my heart when I see more Americans, among them an aid man.

I welcome them into my home, showing the medic to the wounded soldier. As he tends to the man, I look at the others gathered in my parlor. Dirty, exhausted, some almost gaunt. I know that I won't be able to prepare them the meal they deserve, so I offer them eggs and fresh, hot coffee.

The men gratefully accept my meager offering, each of them placing their cups and plates on the sink as they finish. They gather their packs and rifles, filing out the door, expressing their thanks as they pass by.

Collette walks alongside the litter as the medic and another soldier carry the wounded man out. He is awake now, and still holding Collette's hand. The sergeant comes over to me, and thanks me for taking care of his man. He's not a man of many words, but his eyes speak volumes.

As they begin their journey home, Collette runs to the fence and calls after them. "Goodbye my champion! Merci! Merci!”

End.