CRISIS OF CONSCIENCE

By DocB, May 2006

Disclaimer: Don’t own...no profit...pure pleasure...

Foreign language denoted by <>

The slightly musty smell of rotting vegetation was intoxicating. Sunlight arced, bright above the lush canopy, but barely penetrated through the interwoven branches of tropical growth. In the shadowy bog-world below, heat radiated in waves shimmering with humidity. Thick gray masses of Barbe espagnole dangled from overhanging branches of live oak and cypress, brushing the surface of the marshy ground.

The flutey songs of the cardinals and the gurgling “oak-a-lees” of the carouge a epaulettes were soothing against the harsher cries of the eagles and hawks. The songbirds perched on swaying fronds of palmettoes and stems of marsh grasses. Wildflowers sprang from the decaying trunks of fallen trees, and edible mushrooms grew out of the willows.

He loved the boggy swamp behind the house and knew every inch of it. He shivered with delight as the cool mud squished between his bare toes. Alternately clenching and relaxing his toes, he pulled one foot up, listening for the sucking sound as the reluctant morass released its grasp.

He was lean and black-haired, and the heritage of his French forefathers was apparent in his deeply tanned complexion. Little boy features were slowly giving way to manly good looks, and his chiseled jaw was already darkening with its first fuzzy beard. Once-skinny arms now showed ropey muscles rippling under the skin and across the chest. His runner’s legs were long and lean and carried him effortlessly across miles of marsh.

He had an easy grace, due in part to heredity, but in larger part due to hours of observation and imitation. The bayou had taught him well. He had learned the fundamentals of survival here, had sharpened his instincts on the dangers lurking in the swampland. He could sit, virtually motionless, for hours, just inches from an alligator’s vise-like jaws, and stare the beast in the eyes until it slithered its scaly body into the water in search of more promising prey.

A cloud of mosquitoes haloed his head, their tiny needle probosci probing the softness at the nape of his neck. He barely noticed them as he flopped down onto a hummock protruding from the mire. Drops of sweat collected between his shoulder blades and tickled their way down his spine, finally getting caught by the waistband of his drawers.

A whisper of sound, out of place in this muggy paradise, caught his attention. He turned his face into the breeze and listened intently. A sly grin replaced his look of concentration, and he slipped down into the marsh grass. He peered through the stalks and waited, flattened against the moist earth.

Swish, drip, drip - he poised himself - swish, drip, drip - and watched as a rowboat rounded the bend of the river. He slid into the water in the wake of the boat, gliding noiselessly under the surface until he felt the rough wooden hull. Then, heaving with all his might, he shot out of the water, overturning the small craft and dumping its lone occupant into the murky depths.

He scrambled for the hummock, dragging the tiny craft with him. Sputtering and cursing filled the air behind him. He turned and laughed, then reached out to grab the arm of his struggling companion and pull him onto the shore.

“Paul, I don’t know how you do that,” the young man was indignant. “I never hear you coming!”

“Ah, T’eo, you try too hard to sneak up on me!” he chuckled. “You forget to be quiet! You must listen to nature, to what is natural and what is not. Listen to your own breathing and see how loud it is. Watch the gator and learn patience and silence!”

************

“Caje!” Littlejohn whispered, shaking the dozing man. “Caje, wake up! You’re on sentry duty next!”

A cold surge of primitive fear swept over the Cajun and he jerked upright. Pleasant dreams of home were instantly banished from his exhausted mind. He knew, emotionally, at gut level, that something terrible had happened, but for just that instant he couldn’t remember what it was. Adrenaline raced through his veins as he struggled to orient himself.

Littlejohn...the squad...D-Day...Normandy...Theo...My God! Theo!

Wild-eyed, he glanced around, knowing that his worst fear was true. Theo was dead. Caje’s dream-fogged brain finally remembered - Theo had been killed on D-Day, right in front of him. A searing white heat flashed through his chest, squeezing his breath away, as he relived that terrible moment. He saw again the bullets that ripped through Theo’s body and sent his lifeless form crashing backwards down the cliff.

“Caje, c’mon!” Littlejohn’s urgent whisper cut through the scout’s haze.

Caje sat motionless for a few more seconds and willed his pounding heart to slow. He sucked in a great gulp of air as the pressure in his chest eased. The ache of loss was like a raw nerve end throbbing in his gut, intensifying with each thought and dream of his childhood friend.

Finally, wiping the fatigue from his eyes and the dreams from his mind, he grabbed his Garand and crawled out of the foxhole. He’d had no time for sleep, let alone mourning, in the three days since they’d come ashore at Omaha. The squad had been constantly on the move, slogging through the flooded bocage country. They were damp, filthy, and hungry. But above all, they were tired. And scared.

The battalion was bivouacked in an apple orchard for the night. Lt. Hanley had ordered 50% alert when they had bedded down after a 15 mile march in 20 hours. The men were so exhausted that they had been able to do little more than half-heartedly scrape out a few shallow depressions to use as cover before collapsing into them. The soil was rocky and full of roots, difficult to dig with their entrenching tools. Just one more indignity to add to a growing list.

Caje settled himself behind a thick screen of undergrowth at the top of the hedgerow. The moon was playing hide-and-seek - but mostly hide - behind rain-fat clouds that scudded overhead. A cold drizzle had turned the dirt to viscous red mud that had sucked at the boots of the men as they dragged themselves along.

He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch and saw that it was 0245. He’d slept for barely an hour, but his mind had traveled thousands of miles in that short time. Funny, his feet couldn’t even manage a mile right now.

A shadow shifted in the Cajun’s peripheral vision. He stiffened and his eyes narrowed. He was accustomed to the heavy bayou nights; he could see the striations on a fly’s wings at 50 paces in the deepest gloom. Picking off a man crawling up a hill on a cloudy night was no challenge. He eased the Garand up to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel, and felt the give of the trigger beneath the gentle pressure of his index finger.

The sharp crack of the rifle was nearly simultaneous with the “thud” of hot metal striking soft flesh. The muzzle flash seared Caje’s retinas, momentarily blinding him. He shuddered, grateful that he couldn’t see the crimson spurt of blood that erupted from the tiny hole in the German soldier’s chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for his vision to clear.

“Caje, are you all right?” Saunders’ harsh whisper interrupted the silence left in the wake of the gun blast. The NCO slipped and scrambled up the side of the hedgerow. “What happened?”

“Saw someone crawling through the brush down there.” Caje pointed in the direction of the road.

“Check it out.”

“Right, Sarge.”

The scout slid down the other side of the bocage to the figure sprawled in the brambles. He rolled the man face-up and stared down at him. The German was young, too young to shave every day. Blond hair tumbled out from under a too-big helmet. In life, the child-man would have tilted the helmet back and impatiently brushed the hair from his eyes. In death, the hair riffled in the damp breeze and settled back over still eyebrows.

Caje knelt next to the young soldier and gently touched his face. He imagined that the boy smiled. He wanted the boy to breathe, wanted to see his chest rise and fall. He wanted to see him run and hear him laugh. He didn’t want to know that he had killed this child on the brink of manhood; had snuffed his life out with one shot. He didn’t want to know that this youngster’s blood ran out to mingle with the rain soaking the soil beneath him.

“Caje...”

The scout felt Saunders’ hand on his shoulder. He looked up, his face a stony mask covering the turmoil inside. “He’s just a kid, Sarge,” he whispered.

“He’s a soldier, Caje, an enemy soldier who would have killed you or someone else in the platoon tonight if you hadn’t stopped him. Just remember that.”

“Does it ever get any easier? Killing people, I mean?” the Cajun asked.

“No, not easier. Just different. It becomes a reaction, not a thinking action,” Saunders said. “Do yourself a favor, don’t look at their faces. Just check the bodies to make sure they’re dead.”

The scout nodded, not convinced.

The sound of engines shifting gears drifted to them from a distance. Saunders held up his hand, cautioning the scout to silence. They both listened, trying to locate the source.

“Ours?” Caje whispered.

“I don’t know,” Saunders replied. “They’re to our rear, so they should be ours, but maybe we’d better check it out just to be on the safe side.”

“Okay...”

They crept through the ditch bordering the road, keeping as low as they could. As they neared the end of the hedgerow where a dirt lane intersected their road, they dropped flat and inched to the edge to peer around the corner.

At that moment, with a loud roar, an automated gun erupted, dragon-like, belching fire and smoke. The shrieking of the shell soaring overhead was ear-numbing, and ended with a great earth-shaking explosion. Shell after shell poured into the field bordered by the bocage, sending dirt and rocks, tree limbs and human limbs skyward. Shrapnel showered down, piercing unprotected bodies.

Exhaustion was replaced by panic as men ran for the nearest ditch or culvert. Many tried to scramble over the bocage, only to be mowed down by machine gun fire. Bodies were tumbling into piles, or were being blown into bits unrecognizable as human. Seasoned soldiers and green replacements huddled in their shallow foxholes, screaming prayers to an unseen deity for the chaos to end.

Caje flashed back to the shelling three days earlier, when he had given in to his panic and run. He felt his terror rising again, and only Saunders’ measured look held him motionless. Saunders tapped him on the forearm and pointed, showing him the location of a German machine gun nest at the top of the bocage a few yards away. The machine gun was aimed at the field on the other side of the hedgerow, chattering nonstop. Tracer bullets zinged across the field, most connecting solidly with flesh and bone.

“Let’s go,” the sergeant whispered. “You got grenades?”

Caje nodded, his eyes focused on the machine gun. “You want me to get it?” he asked.

“We’ll get as close as we can, and I’ll cover you while you toss one in,” Saunders replied.

This was something the Cajun knew, something familiar. He pictured an alligator in his mind, slithering, stalking, silent, and his panic lessened. He became the animal, and slid through the ditch toward his prey.

The barrage covered the sounds of their approach as they edged forward through the brush. The night sky was ablaze with fiery explosions, rivaling the Independence Day celebrations back home. They positioned themselves about 15 yards from the machine gun, at the bottom of the hedgerow.

Caje’s concentration was total, blocking out all distractions. He no longer heard the screams and groans of the wounded and dying. He didn’t notice the flashes and bursts of shells. He kept his eyes on the machine gun, and watched the tracers streaking out of its barrel. He counted the men around the gun, memorized their positions as he rose up out of the ditch and heaved a grenade.

‘...three, four, five...,’ echoed in the scout’s subconscious, as he dove down and covered his head. Knowing what was coming didn’t stop him from wincing as the blast sliced the air. Shrapnel and dirt peppered his back and arms, but he didn’t look up until Saunders tapped his shoulder again. The sergeant motioned the private up the hill, and they scrambled up the slope together.

Brambles caught at them, snagging their clothing and gear and gouging at their skin. They reached the mangled machine gun and Caje counted the bodies. He didn’t bother turning them over; he didn’t want to see their faces. He could tell from their contorted limbs that they were no longer a threat to anyone.

“What now, Sarge?” the scout asked.

“Now we go after the cannon,” was Saunders’ grim reply.

“How are we going to do that?” Caje peered down the road, where he could see the muzzle flashes from the mechanized gun. The roar of the cannon lagged by milliseconds, and he could tell that the weapon was positioned over a mile away.

“We’ll figure that out when we get there,” the NCO shrugged.

They slid back down the hill to the relative safety of the sunken road at the bottom and crouched into a trot, kicking up clods of mud as they ran. They were startled by a soldier who stumbled and fell, crashing through the brush on the downhill slope of the bocage. The man rolled nearly to the bottom before he was stopped by the grasping brambles. He tried to stand, but collapsed into a heap. Saunders and Caje saw the man at the same time, and they both raised their weapons instinctively, dropping to their haunches in a firing position.

“Hold it,” Saunders whispered, grabbing Caje’s arm. “I think he’s one of ours.”

They could make out a rounded helmet as it tumbled from the soldier’s head and landed in the middle of the muddy road.

“Cover me,” Saunders said as he crawled toward the fallen man.

Concern overcame the sergeant’s caution as he recognized the man. “Grady! Are you all right?”

“Sarge...” the drained soldier gasped. “What are you doing here? I thought everyone was dead. They’re all dead!”

He tried to struggle to his feet but Saunders held him down.

“Take it easy, Grady. Lie still and catch your breath. What do you mean, they’re all dead?”

“Sarge, it’s horrible. The shelling...it came out of nowhere. We were all out in the open under the trees. They cut us to ribbons...” The exhausted soldier’s voice trailed off.

“I know. I saw. Are you sure they’re all dead?”

“I don’t know. I tried to get to the ditch but the machine gun was cutting everyone down. I don’t know what happened to anyone else.”

Caje picked up the man’s helmet from where it had landed in the road. He held it out along with his own canteen. “Here, Long, take a drink. You’ll feel better. Are you hurt?” the scout asked.

Grady gulped the warm liquid, and choked. He doubled over, coughing and wheezing. When he could finally talk again, he shook is head and tapped his helmet into place. “Just a few scratches,” he managed to say. “I caught some shrapnel but I don’t think it’s too bad.”

Saunders assessed him with a practiced eye. “We’re going after that mechanized gun. Do you think you can make it?”

“Give me a minute. I think so.” Grady stood on wobbly legs, then looked around for his BAR. It had landed in the brush a few feet away, and Saunders retrieved it.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, Sarge, let’s go get it.”

Caje snaked his way to the top of the bocage, where he peered through the underbrush into the ditch and the field beyond. Bodies had been tossed around like ragdolls, and blood glistened in the wavery moonlight. The rhythmic “whoomp” of the big gun accompanied shouts and moans from below.

The field was square, a mile on each side, and he could see the flashes from the cannon at the end of the opposite mile. He turned and crawled back down to the sunken road, then knelt and drew a crude diagram in the dirt. Saunders held a shielded cigarette lighter over the makeshift map while Caje pointed out the gun’s position.

“It’s going to take us awhile to make our way over there, but we gotta at least try,” muttered the NCO. “What is it, about a mile and a half, Caje?”

“Yeah, about that, I figure,” the private nodded. “And who knows who else is on the road between here and there...”

“Grady, can you keep up?”

“Yeah, Sarge. No problem.” The BAR man stood from a crouch and stretched his back. “Just a little stiff after that fall.”

“How many grenades do you two have?” the sergeant asked.

Caje patted the front of his jacket and reached into the right side. “I’ve got three left,” he said.

“I’ve got four,” Long announced.

“I’ve got two. Give me one of yours, Grady.” Saunders held out his hand. The BAR man palmed the heavy pineapple and tossed it to the sergeant. “Okay, let’s go. Caje, point.”

Caje melted into the night, sensing rather than seeing the road. The ground vibrated, sending trills up his legs as the cannon continued its deadly assault. He eased his way along the base of the hedgerow, keeping to the low brush at the bottom. The eight-foot high mound of dirt, trees, and scrub did little to dampen the horrifying sounds on the other side.

Laughter, obscene and out of place against the cries and screams, froze the trio into a living triptych. Caje listened, gauging the distance and direction. He turned slowly, so slowly that he appeared to be standing motionless, and tilted his head until he was looking at the top of the hedgerow. His eyes narrowed to slits, and he held up two fingers, then pointed.

Saunders nodded and stooped to pick up a rock. The scout and the BAR man drew bayonets from their scabbards, then all three flattened themselves into the shallow ditch. Saunders sent the rock skittering across the road and into the opposite hedgerow, where it struck a sapling and loosed a shower of debris.

Above them, startled grunts replaced the laughter. Rustling bushes and rattling stones signaled the rapid descent of the enemy combatants. The two young soldiers, chagrined to be caught off-guard by their superiors, tumbled into the road and prepared to meet with a tongue-lashing. Too late they realized their mistake, as bayonets pierced vital organs and their lives drained away.

Caje grimaced as he felt the resistance of warm flesh against the cold steel of his knife. A single thrust drove the blade deep into the German’s chest cavity, ripping into the left ventricle of his heart. The soldier was dead before the knife had stopped its forward momentum.

The scout shoved the limp soldier away with distaste, and the man fell onto the road. Caje’s bayonet, its blood channel full, quivered in his hand as he jerked it from the man’s body. He shuddered as he swiped the blade on the uniform jacket of the dead man. No amount of wiping could erase the sensation of thick liquid, hot on the blade, running down his hand and dripping from his wrist. He sheathed the knife and turned away as his stomach lurched.

“Get them into the ditch!” Saunders’ hoarse whisper jarred Caje.

The private struggled to swallow the bile that filled his mouth. With shaking hands, he tried to pull the dead German into the shallow depression, but his legs were suddenly too weak to support his weight.

Grady, sensing the private’s distress, grabbed the dead soldier by the back of the collar and heaved him into the ditch, while Saunders did the same with the other German. Caje sank to his knees, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he tried to regain his composure. He brushed the sweat from his eyes, realizing too late that he had smeared the German’s blood across his face.

“Don’t think about it,” Long murmured as he handed the scout a grimy handkerchief. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Will I?” Caje croaked. “How do you get used to putting a knife in a man’s back and draining his life away?”

“I don’t know. You just do,” Grady replied. The lanky BAR man, veteran of the Italian, Sicilian and North African campaigns, spoke with assurance. “You just do what you have to do and don’t think about it. It’ll get easier.” He tapped Caje on the back. “You’re doing fine,” he said. “Just try to pull yourself together. We’ve still got work to do!”

“Hey, I don’t hear the cannon firing anymore!” Saunders exclaimed.

From a distance, the sound of engines revving drifted to them, muted against the cries of the wounded. Then they heard the creaking of heavy equipment starting to move. The machine gun had gone silent, although sporadic rifle fire still echoed from the field.

“Let’s go!” Saunders forgot caution as he broke into a run. The gun placement site was still nearly a mile away; they would have been there already if they hadn’t run into the outlying sentries. Now, the shifting of the equipment was taking the behemoth away from them. After a half-mile sprint, the trio finally gave in to the realization that they weren’t going to catch the cannon. Collapsing alongside the road, they panted, gulping in great quantities of air.

Grady leaned back on one elbow, chuckling to himself. He took a sip from his canteen.

“What’s so funny?” Saunders asked.

“Sarge, we haven’t run like that since...since that old Bedouin sheik chased us out of his ‘hareem’ waving his scimitar around his head! You were trying to make time with number one wife, remember?”

“As I recall, he shouted something about making me a eunuch!” the grinning NCO replied. “Gave wings to my feet!”

“I bet you would have caught that gun if he were chasing you tonight!” Grady laughed.

“Yeah, the gun...”

Suddenly subdued, Grady shifted the weight of the BAR on his shoulders. “Well, what do we do now?” he asked.

“Let’s go clean up the mess,” Saunders sighed.

***************

“You want my man to do what?” Hanley held the phone receiver away from his ear and stared at it in disbelief. A tinny, disembodied voice rattled through the speaker. Hanley scowled, then clapped the handset back to his ear and nodded his head.

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. One hour. Right. I’ll have him here, sir.” The officer slammed the receiver back onto the cradle. He debated picking the whole apparatus up and tossing it across the tent, but thought better of it.

“They’re never going to believe this,” he muttered, shaking his head as he lifted the tent flap and strode out.

***************

Kirby opened bleary eyes. He had crawled back to the tent late last night and had fallen onto the cot fully clothed. He had been immediately asleep, snoring softly and dreaming of the cute blonde, the bottle of booze, and the winning poker hand that he had left behind. Now his head was splitting, his stomach was rolling, and his mouth tasted like a mouse had crawled into it and died. He tried to stand and the floor rose to meet his face. Moaning, he collapsed back onto the cot and buried his head in his hands.

Last night, two days after half the platoon had been wiped out in the apple orchard, ol’ William G. had celebrated his temporary reprieve from the afterlife by getting rip-roaring drunk. This morning, in the grip of a massive hangover, he wasn’t sure which was worse, the hereafter or the here-and-now.

Grady wandered into the tent, freshly shaved and toweling his damp hair. “Up and at ‘em,” he grinned, snapping Kirby with the towel. “We’ve got work to do.”

“Owww, not so loud, fer cripe’s sake” the private mumbled, sounding every bit as miserable as he felt.

“How was your night out?” Littlejohn called from across the tent. “When you’re feeling this bad, that usually means you had a great time! Maybe you can remember enough about it to tell us what you did!”

“Fat chance,” Kirby groaned. “I can’t remember nothin’ - ‘cept a tall blonde and a tall bottle!” He sat up and fished in his pockets. Extracting a few francs, he threw them onto the bed. “And this is all I have to show for it - I must be losin’ my touch with the cards...” He looked distracted. “I coulda swore I won a hundred bucks...” He pulled his pockets inside out, but found no more bills.

“I bet that blonde is a hundred bucks richer this morning!” Grady laughed. “Was it worth it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Kirby sighed. “Least, I think it was...I can’t really remember...” His voice trailed off as his stomach lurched again.

Morosely, he stumbled outside, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight. He knew he should get some hot chow while he could, but he didn’t think his protesting stomach would be happy with powdered eggs and lukewarm coffee. Maybe he’d feel better after he got cleaned up. If he looked half as bad as he felt, he’d have to stay away from the burial detail or they might mistake him for one of their clients.

“Lt. Hanley’s tent, 20 minutes, Kirby.” Sergeant Saunders ambled past. He had a feeling it was going to take the private longer than 20 minutes to pull himself together, judging from his squinting bloodshot eyes and the yellowish cast to his skin. “Here’s coffee - drink up. There’s more where that came from.”

“Gee, thanks, Sarge.” Kirby took the tin cup gratefully. He cautiously sipped the hot dark brew, and found to his surprise that his stomach didn’t rebel. He blew across the steaming surface of the liquid, then rapidly drank it down. His hangover was no match for the strong injection of caffeine, and two cups later he was able to walk a relatively straight line.

He went back into the tent and rummaged around until he found a razor and his toothbrush. He threw them into his helmet and made his way over to the pump in the middle of the yard where the squad was bivouacked. A small polished metal mirror hung askew from a tree limb, and Caje was using it to inspect several razor cuts to his chin.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” the scout spun the words with sarcasm. “You sure were having a good time last night.”

“Was I? I don’t really remember,” Kirby smirked. “Oh, yeah, the barmaid. What was her name? The one you were chatting up when I came in.”

“Yvette. Her name was Yvette, Kirby,” the Cajun said. “And t’anks alot!”

Caje turned to leave, but Kirby stopped him. “Hey, what’s eatin’ you?”

The scout’s fists balled at his side and he spun around to face the private. He spat, “Stay out of my way, Kirby. Just stay out of my way!” Without another word, he stalked away, leaving Kirby, mouth agape, staring after him.

“Ah, grow up,” Kirby mumbled as he started to lather his face.

***************

The corpulent S2 captain settled his considerable bulk onto the only available stool in the tent. He was a short, rotund man in a uniform many sizes too small for his rolls of fat. The OD wool shirt was stretched taut over his enormous belly, and the pants threatened to split at the seams if one more ounce of flesh was forced into them. As he sat down, a button popped off the straining placket of his shirt, pinging against the table and rolling into the dirt beneath it, but he took no notice. Sweat stains darkened the back and underarms of the now-gaping shirt, while fresh rivulets of salty liquid washed down his face, dripping off his nose and chin and adding to the stains on his shirt.

“As I was saying, Hanley, your platoon will hold its position here for the next 48 hours, until the supply lines can catch up.”

“My men will be glad to hear that, Captain Miller, sir,” Lieutenant Hanley replied. “They’ve been on the move since Omaha and they’re exhausted.”

“We’re all exhausted, Hanley,” the captain snapped. “Just have the men ready to move when the trucks get here.”

“Yes, sir,” Hanley said.

“Well, where is he?” Captain Miller demanded as he drummed sausage-like fingers on the table.

“I think he was just getting cleaned up, Captain. I’ll go check, with your permission.”

“Make it snappy, I haven’t got all day,” the S2 man growled.

Hanley exited through the tent flap and rolled his eyes. He was feeling claustrophobic, as though the very presence of the paunchy S2 man had sucked all the oxygen out of the tent. After a few deep breaths of fresh air to steady himself, he bellowed, “Kirby! On the double, my tent!”

In the distance, an echoing “Yes, sir,” floated back, and the slender private rounded the corner of the neighboring tent “You wanted to see me, Lieutentant?”

Kirby was still trying to get himself together. He had shaved, but his unsteady hand had caused several nicks with the razor. Pieces of tissue clung to his chin like confetti stuck to wet pavement. His shirt was buttoned, but he was trying to stuff the tail into the waistband of his pants with the belt fastened.

“In the tent, Private,” Hanley ordered.

“Uh, did I do somethin’ wrong, sir?” Kirby turned a questioning look to the Lieutenant.

“Inside, Private.”

***************

“Hey, Sarge, where’d that goldbrick get himself off to now?” Grady asked. “He’s supposed to be helping clean the BAR and reloading the magazines.”

“The lieutenant wanted to see him,” Saunders said. “Don’t worry, he’ll be back soon.”

Grady sat cross-legged on the ground, a cleaning cloth in one hand and the disassembled BAR spread out around him. He finished polishing the firing mechanism and reassembled it. “Yeah? What’d he do now?” the BAR man asked, one eye squinted as he peered through the dirty muzzle.

“I don’t know. I guess if the lieutenant wants me to know, he’ll tell me.” Saunders shrugged and settled himself against a tree trunk. His bucket of .40 calibre ammo rattled as he placed it next to a stack of Thompson magazines.

“Any patrols today?” Grady ran a cleaning rod down the muzzle.

“Nope, just R&R,” Saunders replied. “Regroup and reload.”

Grady grinned. “How long we gonna be here?”

“I don’t know. A day or two. Maybe less. Depends on how long it takes the supply line to get this far.” Saunders began snapping cartridges into an empty magazine.

They had an effortless camaradarie, honed over months of fierce battles covering two continents. The deserts of North Africa had brought them together, and they had served in the same squad ever since. Grady Long had joined the squad to replace a fallen BAR man in the battle for the Casserine Pass. In the same battle, Saunders had deliberately disobeyed an order issued by a 90-day wonder. He had sensed that the order would end in disaster for the platoon, so he and his squad had peeled away and fought their own war for an afternoon.

When the reports were in, the brass found that Saunders’ decision to disobey had saved his own squad, but he was still busted to corporal for the act of disobeying. The rest of the platoon had been wiped out, save for the lone lieutenant, who insisted that he had been right in issuing the order, in spite of the outcome. The “second looey,” in the wisdom of Army brass world-wide, was promoted to captain and given a desk job. A battlefield promotion in Italy had given Saunders back his stripes and command of the squad again.

“Have you seen Caje?” Saunders asked. “I’m worried about him.”

“Yeah, he was wandering over toward the church a little while ago,” Grady answered. “Maybe he’s trying to make his peace over there.”

“Maybe. I hope he does it soon, otherwise he’s not going to be of much use to the squad.”

Grady nodded sympathetically. “Just takes some guys longer to get used to it,” he said. “Think back to your first battle, how killing another human being made you feel. It’s not always easy.”

***************

“Is this how you present yourself to a superior officer, Private?” Captain Miller snarled as Kirby ducked into the tent, still trying to stuff his shirttail into his waistband.

Kirby’s head whipped up and his eyes darted around the dim interior of the tent, looking for the source of the caustic question. He stopped in his tracks when he spied the obese captain staring at him, and he raised his right arm in a tentative salute. When he realized that his salute wasn’t being returned, he dropped his arm back to his side. “Uh, Private Kirby, sir. William G., that is...” his voice faded away.

The captain’s peculiar waddling gait propelled him forward until he was nose to nose with Kirby. He leaned close to the private and sniffed the air around him like a bloodhound on the scent. “Are you drunk, soldier?” His tone implied disbelief.

“Well, technically, sir, I ain’t been drunk fer...” Kirby glanced at his watch, “three hours, ever since I got back from my pass,” he answered, taking a half-step back as the captain’s bulk overflowed into his personal space.

“Is this how you run your squad, Lieutenant?” the captain turned accusingly toward Hanley. “Allowing your men to be presented to a superior officer while under the influence?”

“Well, sir, he was on pass, and you did call out of the blue this morning...” Hanley’s voice dripped sarcasm. He knew he was treading on thin ice, but he chalked it up to oxygen deprivation and perhaps a little to the instant dislike he had felt for the captain the moment he met him.

“That’s enough, Lieutenant!”

“Yes, sir,” was Hanley’s crisp reply.

“Now, Private,” the captain turned back to Kirby. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Whaddya mean?” Kirby stammered. “Sir...”

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“Uh, in this tent, or in France...sir?” The hapless private looked bewildered.

“We’ve heard about you, Kirby. All the way up to S2, we’ve heard about you.” The captain’s voice was suddenly a purr. Kitten or wildcat, Kirby didn’t care to find out which.

“Beggin’ your pardon, but heard what, sir?” Kirby’s alcohol-fogged brain was having trouble understanding what was going on. Had he done something terrible last night? And been so drunk that he didn’t remember?

***************

Caje sat, slump-shouldered, in the back pew of the church. His head was bowed in a posture of prayer, but his eyes were wide open and he was staring at nothing. The church was quiet, but his mind was alive with the sounds of shelling and shooting and shouting. He subconsciously rubbed his hands on his pants, as if the rough fabric scraping against his palms could dull the remembered sensation of blood, warm and sticky on his fingers.

His Garand leaned at a perilous angle against the pew in front of him, and his helmet was upside down on the floor where he’d thrown it as he’d bolted into the cool sanctuary after his encounter with Kirby. He had stood for a moment just inside the door, savoring the odor of the incense and burning candles, and let the hush of the holy place wash over him. Guilt, terror, sorrow - the emotions had been threatening to overwhelm him for the last five days.

He was so despondent that he didn’t hear the soft footsteps that approached from the side room of the chapel. A hand touched his shoulder, startling him, and he jumped up and lunged for his rifle. In his panic, he accidentally kicked the M-1 and sent it clattering into the aisle, where it lay out of his grasp. Heart racing, he reached for his bayonet, yanking it out of the scabbard and turning, all in one motion.

A black-robed priest drew back in alarm and made the sign of the cross.

<“My son, I am here to help!”> the priest cried. <“I do not want to hurt you!”>

Caje froze, his left hand holding the bayonet only inches from the priest’s chest. Time seemed to stand still as blood thundered in his ears. Dawning comprehension of this near-disaster caused him to lose his grip on the knife and it dropped from his suddenly numb fingers.

“Mon pere!” he cried, horrified. <“My God, I almost killed a priest!”>

He sank to his knees and tears welled in his eyes. <“I almost killed a priest...”> he repeated to himself, his words no more than a choked whisper.

With a touch as gentle as spring rain, the priest placed a hand on Caje’s bowed head.

<“My life is in God’s hands, my son, not yours,”> he said.

The scout lifted his tear-streaked face and gazed into the serene eyes of the holy man. Peace seemed to flow from the priest, enveloping Caje in its warmth. The distraught private allowed the priest to ease him back into the pew, and his distress gradually subsided as the priest murmured softly next to him.

<“Tell me what is troubling you, my child.”>

Under the priest’s compassionate ministrations, Caje gradually began to talk, haltingly at first, and then with an urgency that deepened the accent of his patois. More than once the priest had to stop him.

<“Slowly, my son, so I may understand.”>

The priest listened with sympathy, watching the emotions which knotted the scout’s body. Caje’s long tapered fingers were clenched into tight fists and he repeatedly struck himself on the thighs as he emphasized some particular horror. The muscles of his face were taut and his eyes burned with passion.

He relived the terror of D-Day, the strangling helplessness of watching Theo’s death, the shame of his own desertion during the shelling. He felt the fatigue that had plagued the entire squad for days, the bone-weariness of constant movement without adequate rest. He shuddered as the faces of enemy soldiers, dead at his hands, floated into his memory. His stomach was gripped with an aching hunger caused by eating nothing but tasteless rations and fetid drinking water for a week. His skin itched again with the chafing of clothing and boots wet from rain and swamps.

Finally, exhausted, his voice faded away and he hung his head and wept.

***************

“Kirby, where you been? Just like you to show up when the work’s almost done!” Grady laughed.

“Ah, the lieutenant wanted to see me. Some joker from S2 was here askin’ questions. Miller, I think his name was. Captain Miller.”

Saunders and Grady glanced at each other. “Couldn’t be,” they said in unison.

“Couldn’t be what?” Kirby asked.

“What’s this Cap’n Miller look like, Kirby?” Grady paused from snapping ammo into magazines.

“Well, he’s...uh...” Kirby paused and scratched his head. “I guess there’s no other way to put it - he’s FAT! I mean huge! Rolls and rolls of...” He became uncomfortably aware of a presence behind him. Saunders and Grady had slowly risen, their faces expressionless, and were giving languid salutes. Kirby turned deliberately. He could smell trouble a mile away, and this time he had landed right in the middle of it.

“Cap’n Miller...” Saunders acknowledged the officer.

“Well, Saunders, I see things haven’t changed much where you’re concerned!” The captain’s voice was acid-edged. “You never did run a very tight ship. That was always your problem.”

“Whatever you say, sir,” was Saunders’ quiet reply. His tone was mild, his face placid, and his stance loose-jointed, but there was no mistaking the air of menace swirling outward from his core.

“And you, Long, I thought you’d be dead and rotted by now.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, sir,” Grady smirked. “I can’t say I’ll try harder, though...”

“Silence!” barked the captain. “I didn’t ask for any of your lip!”

Kirby watched the exchange uneasily, wishing he could slink away unnoticed. The thought had no sooner entered his head, than the officer’s eyes, mere slits in the chubby folds of his cheeks, zeroed in on him with deadly accuracy. “Don’t you have work to do, Private?” The captain’s scathing tone sliced the air. “Elsewhere?”

“Uh, yes, sir, I guess I do, sir.” Kirby snapped a quick salute, turned on his heel and scurried into the nearest tent.

Captain Miller turned back to the NCO and BAR man. “Get your gear together,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but where are we going with you?” Grady’s smirk had turned to a frown. Anxiety flitted around the corners of his mouth. Past experience had taught him to be wary of any plan involving this officer. He looked helplessly at Saunders, who shrugged and bent to pick up the Thompson.

“What gear do we need...sir?” Saunders asked, his hostility barely concealed.

“A day’s rations, double load of ammo, grenades...that should cover it.” Captain Miller pointed at the jeep. “In the jeep, 5 minutes.”

“Just us? Not the rest of the squad?” Grady asked.

“Just you, Private. And you, Sergeant. You’re such hotshots, you shouldn’t need anyone else, am I right?”

“Pick up your ammo, Grady,” Saunders’ quiet voice calmed the BAR man. “I’ll go get the rations. And let the lieutenant know what’s going on.”

“Right, Sarge.” Grady hastily reassembled the BAR and gathered the magazines, along with a pocketful of loose shells. He ambled over to the jeep, where he propped the rifle against the back tire.

Saunders returned with rations and a bucket of grenades. He was closely tailed by Lt. Hanley, whose face was dark with fury. “Just where are you taking my men, sir?” he demanded of the captain. “Nothing was discussed with me!”

“I believe Captain outranks Lieutenant in this Army, and I don’t have to discuss anything with you, Hanley!” snapped the officer. “I have a mission to complete, and I require these two... soldiers... to do it!” Contempt ripped through his words.

Hanley’s eyebrows shot up. “A mission, sir? What mission?”

“I’ll make sure you get a copy of the report when the mission is completed, Lieutenant!” With that, the paunchy officer wedged himself into the jeep. His belly was pressed tightly against the steering wheel, while his legs barely reached the pedals. “Well?” he sneered, looking at the junior men. “Are you just going to stand there?”

Saunders glanced at Hanley, who lifted his hands helplessly. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Be careful.”

“Always, Lieutenant, always.”

Grady and Saunders scrambled into the back of the already-moving jeep, which roared away, leaving Hanley choking in a cloud of dust.

***************

“Wow, he sounds like a real....” Billy stopped, unable to find a polite word to describe the captain. “And he knew Sarge and Grady?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either,” Kirby said. “They didn’t look very happy about seeing him.”

“Where’d they go?” Littlejohn asked.

“I don’t know. I saw them get in the jeep and leave with the captain. The lieutenant sure was mad!” Kirby scratched the back of his neck. He had a lot on his mind and he wished his head would stop pounding long enough to think. Maybe a little hair of the dog...“Hey, you guys wanna go scrounge a bottle of wine at that little shop? Maybe we’ll run into some of them ‘fahms’ while we’re there!” he asked, ever hopeful.

“You mean women, Kirby? Your French is terrible!” Billy laughed.

“Ah, you knew what I meant, di’ncha? Waddya say? C’mon, it’ll be fun!” He started out of the tent.

“Wait, Kirby!” Littlejohn said. “You can’t go without your gear! We’re still in a war, remember?!”

“Oh, yeah, gear,” Kirby mumbled. He’d forgotten to clean his Garand. It lay next to the cot where he’d dropped it the night before. And his bedroll was still in disarray. He sighed. “You think the Army would give us a maid if we asked real polite-like?”

“Keep dreamin’, Kirby!” Doc Walton laughed.

“You’re prob’ly right,” Kirby bent and picked up the rifle. At least he didn’t have to take care of the BAR today. Grady was religious about keeping a clean and oiled rifle, and Kirby was the one that usually got stuck doing it.

An hour later, after giving a final polish to the Garand, Kirby slung it over his shoulder and strolled toward the main street bisecting the town. The squad had been lucky to find anything in this town still standing, after all the shells both sides had been lobbing at each other for the last few days.

The Germans had pulled out in haste, leaving the town wide open for the hard-pushing Americans. Avranches was a fair-sized burg on the map, or had been before it was practically knocked off the map. Any building with more than one story had b