COMMON GROUND

by

Nana

 

 

 

 

“Well may the wheat and sugar beets grow

Green and lush upon its gentle slopes, for in that half-forgotten summer

The best blood of Canada was freely poured out upon them.”

Quote by Capt. Tim Fletcher

 

 

 

 

Bouctouche, New Brunswick, August 1985

 

At dusk, as had been their custom most evenings during this beautiful warm summer, the elderly man and his eleven year old grandson walked together along the wide sandy beach.  Behind them, across a narrow strip of gravel road, lay their family’s homestead near the small village of Bouctouche, on Canada’s far eastern coast.

 

They walked until their home was only barely visible in the distance.  It was a sturdy, white clapboard house with grey, cedar-shake roof and a wide, inviting verandah.  Its outbuildings were pleasingly weathered by time and salt air and surrounded on three sides by the tall, stately pines and majestic maple trees planted by their Acadian ancestors 200 years before.   It had a sense of permanence, of peace and tranquility, and of being well loved.

 

As they watched, the sun set in all its gold-tinged, red glory, spreading fiery tendrils across the far horizon and making a bright pathway on the grey, breeze-tossed waves.  They chatted about anything and everything, occasionally pausing to examine half-buried shells or a piece of wave-carved driftwood.  This was a very special time for each of them, just Len Cormier, retired lobster fisherman, and his eldest grandchild, Luc.

 

Often their talk began with Luc saying, “Pepère, tell me again about when you were rescued by the American GIs!” and Len answering in mock admonishment, “Not again, Luc!  You must know the story off by heart by now!”  He turned his head so that the twinkle in his eye could not be seen.

 

The little boy’s huge, brown eyes stared up at his tall, grey-haired Grandpa and continued the game they played, “Please, Pepère!   I love to hear that story.  It’s the only one you will ever tell me about your time in the war,” he added quietly.

 

Len, feigning reluctance, said, “I know, Luc, but awful things happen in war-time and it’s very sad to bring back bad memories.  I will tell you the rescue story again so that you will know that good things sometimes take place during a war too.”

 

“I know, Pepère,” said Luc solemnly, black, curly hair bobbing up and down and earnest face flushed with excitement, confident that his Grandpa would repeat the story for him yet again.

 

Smiling indulgently, Len began the familiar tale.  “Well, son, it was like this …”

 

*****

 

Normandy, July 1944

First Squad slogged miserably through the sodden woods … mud-encrusted boots slipping and sliding on the rain-slicked ground.  Water dripped off their helmets, pooling uncomfortably around the collars of their ponchos and then soaking their clothes down to the skin.    The tree branches and thick undergrowth hung limp and heavy, splattering even more moisture onto the hapless GIs as they brushed by.   Despite the warmth of the afternoon, the raw dampness made them shiver and sink further into the scant protection of their uniforms.

 

To Kirby, it seemed the day had been years long.  He kept up a constant litany of muttered curses under his breath.   Was the Sarge never going to call a halt so we can rest for a few minutes?  Why did it always have to be First Squad that was sent out on all the rotten missions …wasn’t there some kind of law or something?  After yesterday’s heavy fighting, they deserved a break, didn’t they?  Huh?

 

“Hey Sarge,” he called out to Saunders who strode a few feet ahead.  “Ain’t we close yet?” adding almost inaudibly, “Bet we ain’t gonna find ‘em, anyway!”

 

“Just keep walking, Kirby, and shut up!” Saunders whispered.  “The Lieutenant said there were reports of Kraut SS patrols out here searching for stragglers and wounded!”

 

Littlejohn loped quietly along behind Kirby content to just put one foot in front of the other and go where Caje was leading them.  The big GI’s mind was not on what he was doing.  Billy lay back there in a field hospital with a bullet in his leg, and Littlejohn couldn’t prevent himself from worrying about how his young friend was faring.  Bringing up the rear, Doc kept his eyes glued to Littlejohn’s back, fearful of losing sight of his squad-mates in the pouring rain that effectively obscured all but a few feet in front of him.

 

With this new misery to cope with, yesterday’s action seemed to pale by comparison.   American forces had staged a massive breakout from their tenuous Normandy beachheads and, as planned, successfully flanked the earlier Canadian offensive to the north and moved further inland.

 

The German resistance had been ferocious, and Saunders’ battle-hardened squad was with the spearhead force that took the brunt of the amassed German defensive tactics.   Billy was wounded in a fierce skirmish with an infiltrating Kraut mobile machine gun patrol that took the lives of several enemy soldiers and cost Second Squad their sergeant and two riflemen.

 

The squad had managed very little sleep during the previous chilly wet night and had just finished a cold C-ration breakfast when Lt. Hanley sent for Saunders at first light that morning.   When the sergeant, rain streaming off his camo helmet in rivulets, stepped into the field command post a few minutes later, Hanley acknowledged his friend with a curt nod.

 

“Saunders, get your guys ready.  We just got a request from the Canadians who’re dug in north of here.  They’ve asked us to send a patrol out to look for some of their wounded.  Six men and a medic were left behind near Fontenay-le-Marmion when their unit moved on a few days ago.”  He held up his hand to stop Saunders’ protest.

 

“Yeah, I know … your squad has had a rough time in the last couple of days!  I’ve got no choice.   I need Caje’s scouting and your squad to back him up.  They’re the most experienced men I’ve got.   The Krauts are counter-attacking all along the line and the Canadians are so hard-pressed to hang on to the territory they’ve gained over the last week that they can’t spare anyone to go find their guys.”  He settled the matter by adding, “Capt. Jampel told them we’d do our best.”

 

Saunders shrugged resignedly and, tight-lipped, listened to the Lieutenant’s explanation of where the Canadians might be.   Pocketing the rough map he was given, he asked, “If we find `em, Lieutenant, how do we get `em out?  We can’t carry `em in this weather.  We’ll need transport.”

 

“I’m aware of that, Saunders.   Radio in, and we’ll try to get a couple of trucks through.  It might take them a while, though.  The ground’s too soggy for them to go across country, and the only road that S2 says is relatively clear of Krauts takes a meandering route through May-sur-Orne and St. André before getting to Fontenay-le-Marmion.

 

“Yes Sir,” Saunders growled.  “Anything else, Lieutenant?”

 

“Yeah, Saunders.   The Canadians are counting on us to rescue their men before some Kraut patrol finds them.  Avoid contact with the Germans if you can and stay away from the main road heading to Caen.  The 188th. Panzer Group and an elite SS division have regained control of that whole area below Verrières Ridge. Leave as soon as the squad is ready.”  As the noncom nodded brusquely and turned to leave, Hanley added with a faint grin, “Oh, and Saunders … watch yourself, huh?

 

*****

 

After leaving Lieutenant Hanley’s CP, the small group of GIs passed abandoned dwellings, their gaping roofs and scarred or toppled walls stark evidence of mortar strikes and small arms fire.  Some were reduced to piles of smoldering rubble.  Discarded military paraphernalia lay strewn in ruined churned-up fields and among the shattered remains of what had once been mature fruit orchards and vineyards.  Cluttered farmyards held the gruesome bloated bodies of animals and men.   Saunders and his men stumbled into deserted Kraut machine gun nests, their wrecked weapons staring sightlessly at the sky, and squeezed carefully past a shell-blasted Churchill tank on its side across a water-filled ditch.  Derelict vehicles of every description littered the winding farm lanes and made the squad’s progress painstakingly slow.

 

It was almost sunset and still raining hours later when the Sergeant finally called a halt.   The previous hour had been spent struggling up a densely wooded hillside and then downhill where the enveloping trees and thick bushes started to thin out, gradually giving way to a landscape of antiquated farms, their quaint stone houses and clustered outbuildings surrounded by fields ripe with wheat and sugar beets.   From a distance, it seemed an idyllic scene of pastoral gentleness; however, before Saunders motioned the squad into the shelter of a rickety wooden shed, it had been only too clear that this area also had recently been a bloody battleground.

 

*****

 

Under the slight protection afforded by the badly leaking lean-to structure, Saunders and Caje hunkered down in a corner to pore over the Sarge’s map, while the rest of the squad looked around for a relatively dry place on which to sit and rest.

 

 Perched precariously on an upturned barrel and wringing out his soaking socks, Kirby grouched, “Will ya look at them feet!  If we don’t find them Canadians soon, Ole Kirby here’s gonna have toes that look like prunes!”

 

Smirking at the disgusted look on the querulous GI’s face, Littlejohn gratefully eased the radio off his back.  He lowered his bulky frame onto an empty feed bin and sat down, carefully propping his rifle beside him.   “Why don’t you just stop moaning about your feet Kirby?  There’s a lot of guys much worse off than you are!” he muttered, glaring.  He was silent for a moment, and then quietly added to no one in particular, “I wonder how Billy’s doing?”

 

Doc glanced up from checking his bag to make sure his medical supplies had escaped the rain.  Sensing the worry behind his big friend’s words, he answered, grinning wryly, “Don’t worry, Littlejohn.  He’ll be okay.  Trust me.  He sure is a lot more comfortable back in that aid station than we are out here … at least he’s dry!”

 

Littlejohn smiled slowly, “Well, that’s somethin’, huh?  Wish I coulda checked on him before we left this morning though … he was bleeding awful bad after he was hit.”

 

“He’s gonna be just fine, Littlejohn,” Doc interrupted reassuringly.  “You can go see for yourself when we get back.”

 

“IF we get back, ya mean,” the squad’s malcontent chimed in.  The way we’re goin’, even if the Krauts don’t get us, we’re all gonna get drownded!”

 

Littlejohn’s angry retort was cut off sharply by Saunders, who spoke from the corner.   “That’s enough Kirby!” then added to the rest of his men, “OK, listen up.  It looks like we’re in the vicinity of Fontenay.  Caje – take a look up ahead, huh?  The rest of you sit tight and keep your eyes peeled.  And Kirby … quit bellyaching and put your boots on.   We may need to move out fast!”

 

With a nod, Caje slipped silently away, disappearing immediately into the curtain of driving rain.  He returned just as soundlessly in a few minutes, breathing heavily and with gaunt features flushed with exertion.  “There’s an abandoned farm up ahead, Sarge.  Just north of here …  might be the place.   I’m gonna check it out, okay?”

 

“OK, Caje.  Signal if you find anything.”

 

*****

 

Peering inside the darkened barn, Caje could just discern the shadowy shapes of farm implements scattered haphazardly about among bales of musty hay.    The fetid smells of blood and vomit mingling with the reek of animals seemed to hang in the stifling heat of the building.  The cloying stink of the place assaulted his senses and, nose wrinkling in revulsion, he had to fight down a threatening wave of nausea.

 

He sucked in his breath and crept forward, ever-vigilant eyes darting from side to side and straining in a futile attempt to see more clearly.  The dirt floor muffled the sound of his careful footsteps and the only noise he could hear was the quiet whirring of the bats that swooped among the rafters above him.

 

As he reached the stone foundation walls, he found several empty rough stalls, their tramped-down floors covered with mildewy fodder.   Here and there muddy puddles formed on the barn’s uneven floor where rain dripped through badly patched holes in the shingled roof.  The pale rays of light the gaps reluctantly admitted allowed him to pick out the shape of a dilapidated wagon.  Hanging on hooks from the huge hand-hewn loft supports, there were leather harnesses and yokes used, no doubt, by the impoverished French farmer who relied mostly on horsepower to work his land.  What few windows there were appeared opaque with grime and they only added to the murkiness instead of alleviating it.  Cobwebs draped the corners and hung in wisps from blackened tackle stacked in the loft and between the bales of hay.

 

Suddenly he heard a low, anguished moan, followed by a muttered oath – in English!  The Cajun froze instantly.  Squinting into the gloom and tightening his finger on the trigger of his Garand, he yelled, “Who’s there?  Come out where I can see you!”

 

Only silence answered.

 

He crept forward without a sound and found himself standing in front of a heavy wooden door.  It was slightly ajar and, crouching low, he gingerly nudged it open with the barrel of his rifle.

 

At first he could see nothing in the inky blackness.  Then, as his eyes adjusted to the interior, the silhouette of a man emerged and gradually Caje realized that it was an Allied soldier.  Legs planted firmly, arms stretched wide, the unarmed man was determinedly blocking Caje’s way into the room.   In the tiny flickering light of a solitary candle, the Cajun could just distinguish several other men sprawled on the floor or leaning against posts, quiet and still.  He wiped a trembling hand over his mouth as the fear drained out of him and relief flooded in.  Lowering his weapon slightly, he eyed the man warily.

 

Exhausted brown eyes stared out from a face grey with lack of sleep and shadowed with several days’ growth of beard.   He was tall and hefty, or seemed so to the shorter and thinner GI.  Dark unruly hair was plastered to his sweaty forehead and a bloody field dressing partially covered a long angry-looking laceration over his eyebrow.   The whole left side of his dirty face was mottled with purplish bruising.   His khaki uniform, or what was left of it, was filthy with mud and bloodstains.

 

Caje caught sight of the man’s shoulder flash that read Canada, and above it, his unit’s name ‘South Saskatchewans’.   On his left arm a grubby and torn Red Cross armband was just visible below the double chevrons of a Corporal.

 

Peering closely at him, Caje realized that the Canadian soldier was struggling to stay on his feet; he was swaying slightly, one hand clutching the door jam for support.  Grabbing the big man’s arm to buoy him up, he said quickly, “Hey, take it easy, Canada. My name’s LeMay - PFC Paul LeMay, 361st United States Infantry.  It’s gonna be okay now.”

 

The Canadian’s taut jaw and defiant scowl gradually relaxed into a crooked grin.   Medical corpsman Corporal Len Cormier felt almost euphoric in his relief.   Maybe his guys would finally be getting the care they so desperately needed.  The Americans were here!   The sheer relief seemed to sap the waning energy out of him and he was grateful when the GI grasped his arm to steady him.

 

Len quickly introduced himself, his French-Canadian accent more apparent in his exhaustion.  “I’m Len Cormier, South Saskatchewans, 2nd.Canadian Division.   Oh mon Dieu, je suit très fiere de vous voir!!   I’ve got some wounded guys here … out of morphine and bandages … not had anything to eat and not much to drink since yesterday and precious little for two days before that … Je croiyais que les allemange nous vions trouver….” His voice trailed off as he realized he was babbling both in English and his native Acadian French.

 

 “Sorry … I’m wasting time … you got anyone with you who could help me get them back?  They’re in a bad way.”

 

“I know, Corporal,” Caje said, patting Len on the shoulder soothingly.  “We’ve been looking for you.  There’s a squad of guys waiting out there.  We’ll get you out of here, don’t worry.”   Aware that Len’s accent was similar to his own and attempting to distract the man from his obvious agitation, Caje queried, “You’ve got a French accent.  You from Québèc?  Before the war, I used to spend some time there, skiing.”

 

Len answered, smiling, “Naw, LeMay.  I’m an Acadian from the east coast … little place called Bouctouche in New Brunswick.  We speak French around there.”   It suddenly dawned on him that the swarthy American soldier crouching in front of him also spoke in French-accented tones and had the same dark Gallic looks of many of his own relatives at home.  “Are you a Cajun?”

 

Grinning, Caje nodded confirmation, “Yeah, from New Orleans,” adding inquiringly, “What’s a guy from the East Coast doing in a prairie regiment?”

 

Len’s drawn features split into a tired smile, “Hey, the Canadian army is no different than armies everywhere, eh?  They all make a habit of doing things that don’t make any sense … at least they got one thing right though – I wanted to be a medic when I volunteered!”

 

They grinned at each other, both singularly pleased that here in an isolated rain-soaked French farmyard, thousands of miles from their respective native lands; two total strangers had found common ground.

 

*****

 

Within a few minutes, First Squad had responded to Caje’s signal and filed into the barn at the double, while Len re-lit several candles and an old oil lamp that he’d hurriedly doused on first hearing Caje’s footsteps.   Rain-slickers and helmets were quickly doffed, weapons propped close at hand, and then the newcomers hastened to follow Doc’s quiet instructions on how to help him with the wounded Canadians.  Each man was carefully examined, wounds assessed and re-dressed, and morphine injected.  Littlejohn followed, offering rations to those able to eat and gently helping others to drink from his canteen.

 

Len had immediately levered himself to his feet and began, unbidden, to deftly assist the American medic.  He had a smile or a reassuring remark for each of the men, and a quiet, confident manner.  Watching him, Littlejohn couldn’t help thinking how much Len reminded him of First Squad’s own medic.

 

Finally satisfied that he’d done all he could to make the injured Canadians more comfortable, Doc turned next to their corpsman, whose worried look had eased somewhat when he saw his injured men were getting the care they needed.    Eyeing him, Doc could see that he was almost out on his feet.   “Hey, you don’t look so good yourself, Corporal.  You better let me take a look at that forehead of yours.”

 

Len shook his head.  “I’m okay, Doc.  Just tired, that’s all,” he said, as he busied himself clearing away bloodied bandages and straightening blankets.

 

“Mebbe so, Len, but come and sit here anyway,” Doc said firmly. “I oughtta change that bandage at least.”

 

While Doc gently replaced the bloody and dirt-caked bandage on his forehead, Len quietly explained to the Sarge that he and the six wounded South Saskatchewans in his charge had been involved in the Canadian forces’ attempt to capture Verrières Ridge as part of the Allied offensive code-named Operation Goodwood four days before.  In torrential rain, the battle had raged back and forth on the grassy slope and among the surrounding wheat fields and apple orchards.  The Canadians’ three-inch mortars and light Bren guns were no match for the full-strength German panzers.  The screaming hail of 88mm shells and deadly mortar fire from unseen vantage points along the road to nearby Tailleville caused heavy losses among the advancing Canadians.    Somehow though, they had managed to repel several counter-attacks by small groups of crack German troops.

 

Len’s grim face reflected his painful recollections.  “We took lots of casualties right away.  Our guys were being cut down everywhere by rapid fire from well-camouflaged and entrenched Jerry* machine guns which were hidden on Verrières Ridge.  It’s only about 1500 feet but it gave them a clear view of every move we made.    It was chaotic for a while – no one seemed to know what was going on!”  Taking a deep breath, he continued, “There were dozens of dead and wounded, ours and German, lying out in the open while the fighting carried on around them.   Me and a couple of other corpsmen managed to drag a few of the wounded together into ditches or shell holes so that we could give them first aid, but we couldn’t get to them all - we were under such heavy shell and machine gun fire most of the time … there were so many. …”

 

Gratefully accepting Kirby’s wordlessly offered cigarette, Len paused and swallowed convulsively.  “At one point, one of our tanks from the Sherbrooke Fusiliers couldn’t manouvre around so many casualties lying closely together and was forced to run over some of them.   It was the worst thing I ever saw .…”  His shaky voice became inaudible, weary brown eyes staring unseeing into the dark recesses of the barn.

 

Consciously pulling himself together, Len continued diffidently with his narrative.  Although he did not say in so many words, it was clear to the intently listening GIs that he had spent that terror-filled day slithering, under murderous fire, from one downed soldier to another.  For some, those who were still breathing, he had frantically fought to staunch bleeding and provide water and then pull them to some semblance of safety in soggy shell holes or the drainage ditches so common in the French countryside.  For others, it was too late for his help by the time he managed to reach them.  He had kept going tirelessly until his exhaustion was a tangible thing, the mêlée around him all but unheeded in his single-minded quest to help the wounded.    Late in the afternoon he was knocked almost senseless by a bullet graze to the temple.  Someone hastily slapped a field dressing on the bleeding wound, and he’d shaken off his dizziness to carry on his grisly task of finding those who needed his aid.

 

Sunset brought a lull in the fighting and only sporadic fire from both sides continued.  Len used the opportunity to press a couple of buddies from his unit into helping him get six of the more seriously wounded into the barn.    Within its comparative safety he had been able make them fairly comfortable on hastily gathered piles of straw and cover them with blankets from his companions’ packs.

 

About the same time, the regimental aid post had transported some of the severely wounded away to a field hospital in the rear, but Len and his group were not among them.   Instead, he was told by his CO to stay with his patients and wait for evacuation.    Outside, the sounds of combat soon resumed and eventually moved further away.

 

The promised relief never came.

 

*****

 

That was four days ago.  Since then, he had tried to keep the men quiet, tend to their hurts as best he could, share out the few rations they had, fight his own exhaustion and fear … and wait.   Several times he heard the sound of heavy vehicles rumbling by and crept to the door, hopeful of rescue, only to see the ominous black crosses on the armoured German trucks and tanks.   Sometime during the second night he’d detected the guttural tones of enemy voices coming from the road in front of the farmhouse and had almost resigned himself and his patients to certain capture.  Surprisingly though, the probing Germans had not entered their hiding place and the Canadians were left alone again.

 

Medical supplies and rations ran out the day before yesterday.  Even earlier than that Len had been giving most of his share of food to the others, figuring they needed it more than he did.  Water became dangerously low and he was contemplating trying to sneak out and refill the canteens from the well in the farmyard when he’d sensed Caje’s stealthy footsteps.   Thinking the Germans were back, he had motioned the wounded to silence, hoping against hope that their presence wouldn’t be revealed.

 

When Taylor, the young private from Saskatoon who was suffering horribly from a bullet wound in the stomach, moaned loudly, Len had been sure that discovery was inevitable.

 

He knew that lack of sleep and hunger had rendered him weak and vulnerable, but he hadn’t hesitated.  Dizziness and exhaustion shoved aside, he’d taken a defensive position behind the door, determined to shield his comrades with his own body.

 

*****

 

Once the Canadian finished his story, Saunders lost no time in reporting in to Lieutenant Hanley and, on providing the map co-ordinates of their position, had been assured that transport would be sent immediately and should arrive just after dark.   The Sarge ordered Littlejohn to stand watch for the first hour and his other two men to take a rest while they could.

 

Caje and Kirby settled down gratefully.  Not sleeping though.  They simply kept vigil, watching Doc work over the wounded.   Len had slumped down nearby, finally surrendering to sleep.

 

“Think we can get ‘em out, Caje?” Kirby asked quietly, removing his sopping wet poncho and boots and leaning his BAR close by.

 

“I dunno, Kirby.  By the looks of a couple of them, if that transport doesn’t come soon, it’ll be too late.”

 

“Yeah, I know.  We gotta try though, huh?  That medic’s kept ‘em alive despite all the odds against him, and I ain’t about to let ‘em die now!”  Kirby hissed vehemently.   “When them trucks get here …”

 

Kirby’s adamant words were abruptly swallowed by a sudden cacophony of ear-splitting noise.  From a distance the sounds of gunfire and exploding shells rent the air and the two GIs, immediately alert and wary, simultaneously leapt to their feet, instinctively grabbing for their weapons.   They moved to the open door, where Sarge had already taken up position, Kirby struggling to put his boots back on as he hopped clumsily on one foot, then the other.  Doc stayed where he was beside the wounded, ready to do whatever was necessary to protect them, and Corporal Cormier, shaken awake by the din, climbed shakily to his feet and joined him.

 

Sarge crouched down, pushed the heavy door open slightly and chanced a quick look outside.   In the dripping semi-darkness it was almost impossible to see more than a few feet, but behind the shadowy shape of the stonewall surrounding the farmyard fifty yards away he could easily observe the brilliant glow of distant flames leaping wildly into the night sky.   He sensed the oily black smoke as it billowed and spread in an ever-increasing cloud, and could smell the pungent reek of burning rubber.

 

“You think the Krauts found the trucks, Sarge?” Caje whispered, as he anxiously peered over Kirby’s shoulder.   The sporadic gunfire seemed to have come to a halt and a momentary stillness descended.  Then the grating squeak of tank tracks against sprockets and the muffled whine of spinning jeep tires could easily be heard as they rattled further and further away.

 

“That’s what it looks like,” Saunders gritted through his teeth, his tired eyes roaming the farmyard in a vain effort to see more clearly.

 

“Where’d Littlejohn get to?”  Kirby, sham annoyance covering his anxiety about his squad mate’s fate, muttered,  “I just hope the big oaf didn’t get hisself caught up in that mess!”

 

Settling his helmet firmly on his head and grabbing his Thompson, Saunders barked,  “Shut up Kirby!   We’re gonna find out what’s going on right …”

 

A sudden low warning from Caje interrupted him, “Sarge!  There’s movement out by the roadway … I can’t see what it is!”   As he spoke, the Cajun was already swinging his Garand up into firing position, expertly aiming it into the dense shadows where he’d fleetingly glimpsed something moving.  His ever-vigilant hazel eyes continued scanning the area constantly.

 

Saunders leapt effortlessly into defensive mode, Thompson ready.  Finger on the trigger of his BAR, Kirby balanced the heavy rifle on a front window ledge, prepared to fire instantaneously.  Both men’s eyes joined their scout’s search.   At the rear of the barn, Doc and Len hastily dragged several bales of hay to make a barricade of sorts in an attempt to provide more protection for the wounded.

 

Tense seconds passed.   Then, all three men took relieved breaths and lowered their weapons when they recognized the huge bulk of Littlejohn as he appeared out of the gloom not 25 yards away.    He was running full pelt towards the barn.  Staggering inside, his homely face flushed and chest heaving, he slowly bent over, bracing his hands on his knees as he frantically tried to catch a mouthful of air.

 

Steadying hands clutched at him and then Doc was there beside him, “You OK, Littlejohn?”

 

The medic’s concern went unnoticed as Littlejohn, intent only on reporting to the Sarge, managed with supreme effort to get his breathing under control and find his voice, blurted out, “Sarge!  There’s Krauts out there.  Looked like maybe a squad of infantry …  and a tank.  When I heard the firing, I ran up the road to see what was happening.  They must’ve ambushed the trucks the Lieutenant sent!  Everything was burning when I got there. Didn’t see any Krauts around … looked like they’d taken off.  I figured I couldn’t do anything alone so I didn’t waste any time – got back here on the double.   We gotta go help our guys, Sarge.  Quick!”

 

Saunders briefly clasped Littlejohn’s still-heaving shoulder, saying, “OK, Littlejohn.  Take it easy, huh?”   Turning to his waiting men he issued abrupt orders.  “Caje and Kirby, you’re on me.  Littlejohn, you stay here.  Get on the radio and let the Lieutenant know what’s happening.   Len, you wait with the wounded and Doc, you keep watch with Littlejohn.   We’re gonna check out the trucks.  We don’t know where those Krauts are so keep your eyes open!”

 

As the three men left the barn and melted into the night, Doc and Len turned anguished glances on each other in tacit understanding, knowing they were thinking the same thing.  Dammit!!   If we don’t get these guys back soon, some of ‘em ain’t gonna make it.

 

*****

 

The relentless rain had turned into a sullen drizzle as the three GIs cautiously felt their way through the sinister darkness until they felt the firmer surface of the roadway under their boots.   Retreating a few feet into the lee of the dry-stone wall along the road’s edge, they followed its dim ribbon of gravel for a few hundred yards until Sarge, in the lead, caught sight of a thin glimmer of flame and the ghostly outlines of two U.S. trucks.   He held up his hand, and all three men swiftly crouched down in unison.

 

“See ‘em?”  Saunders whispered.  “They’re ahead in the middle of that crossroads.  Let’s check it out, huh?  Caje, you swing around to the right.  I’ll take the left flank.   Kirby, you stay here by this wall and cover us.  Got it?”

 

“Right, Sarge,” Kirby answered quietly as he lowered himself into position behind the piled up stones and readied his BAR.    No sound came from Caje, but Saunders knew he’d simply nodded and inaudibly crept away in response to his noncom’s order.

 

As they circled the trucks, it quickly became obvious that there were no Germans remaining in the vicinity.   There was no movement anywhere; the only sounds were the sputtering and hissing of the dying flames.   Their pale iridescent light spasmodically illuminated the deep tank tracks that traversed the roadside ditch and disappeared through a trampled hedgerow into a neighbouring field.

 

One of the American trucks lay on its side in the flooded ditch - bullet-ridden, ruined and silent.  Caje came across its lifeless driver barely visible a few feet away.  The man was sprawled on his back, rifle still clutched in his dead hand; his field jacket stained black with his blood, and dark sightless eyes staring out from his pallid, youthful face.

 

Smoke was still lazily spiraling up from the other vehicle, now just a burned out shell.  The wreckage stood in the middle of the road where a tank shell had blasted it with a direct hit.    Grotesquely crumpled inside lay what was left of the driver, hideously burned beyond recognition.

 

Shaking his head, Saunders gently removed the soldiers’ dog tags and carefully pocketed them.  He and Caje pulled the bodies to the side of the road, covering them with blankets they found in the back of the ditched truck.  Seconds later, Kirby trotted up to join them and all three GIs stood for a moment, heads bowed, before turning back towards the farmstead.  It was instinctive for each of them to offer at least this small act of decency when a man gave up his life for his country.

 

A few minutes later they were back in the barn, recounting what they’d found.   With a look of disappointed consternation on his face, Doc drew closer to Saunders and asked in a lowered voice, “What’re we gonna do, Sarge?  The Lieutenant told Littlejohn that they can’t get any more transport through to us yet.  They’ve had reports of Kraut recon patrols and roadblocks all around here.  Until they’re cleared, nothing can get through to us.”     He looked back at the wounded soldiers lying in the alcoves of the barn and added, “They all need a hospital now, Sarge!”

 

“Yeah, I know. Tell me about it, Doc!” Saunders growled, irritably dragging off his helmet and running his fingers through his tousled fair hair.   “We gotta come up with something to get them outta here.”   He glanced around at the small group of men who had moved to stand expectantly around him, fully aware that they were confident that he could find a solution to their predicament.   They trust me to find a way to get home.  God, I just wish I knew how!

 

Pretending a confidence he didn’t feel, Saunders took the initiative, telling Caje to scout out the area and his remaining men to keep vigil out by the farmyard walls.  Without a word, the Cajun slipped away, while Kirby and Littlejohn hoisted their weapons and went out into the drizzle.

 

They’d been gone several minutes when Len rose to his feet from  Private Taylor’s side and walked over to Saunders and Doc.

 

“Sergeant Saunders, the Orne River is nearby, eh?  I think it flows northwest of here through Caen.   Our guys took that area a week or two ago.   If we could just find some way to use the river, we might have a chance to get there.”

 

No one heard Caje return and they were startled when his softly accented voice said, “That could be our only option, Sarge.   It’s pretty hard to see much out there in the dark, but I could hear Kraut voices down the road to the west, so I skirted around to stay away from them and ended up stumbling down a river bank.   I’d say it’s about 200 yards south of here.  I scouted along the bank for any sign of more Krauts, but it looks to me like it’s clear … couldn’t see any kind of boat we could use though.”

 

Running a hand over his face, Saunders shook his head and said, “It’s pretty risky, Caje.  Even if we could find something that would float and could hold all of us, we gotta do it before dawn.  It’d be suicide to try it in daylight.  For all we know there’s Krauts all around us.”

 

Len and Caje looked at each other, a similar idea forming in their minds.  Len spoke first, voicing Caje’s thoughts precisely.

 

“Ya know, Sergeant Saunders, when I was a kid down home, we didn’t have much money for store-bought toys so me and my friends spent a lot of time making and floating rafts down the river to the sea.”   He grinned at Caje, who was nodding his head and smiling at the memory that had suddenly popped into his head, “I bet you did the same thing in the bayou, eh, Caje?”

 

“Yeah, I sure did.   Got good at making `em too!”

 

Sarge, blue eyes now alive with hopeful interest, interrupted their conversation.  “Caje, the canvas roof and tires of that truck in the ditch looked in good shape.   There’s an old wooden wagon in here, and there’s sure to be rope and maybe nails.   See if you and Cormier can build a raft, huh?”

*****

 

Bouctouche, New Brunswick, 1985

“So, that’s what we did, Luc.  Caje and me, well, we made a couple of trips back to that truck and cut some canvas from the roof.   We used a wrench we found in a toolbox in the barn to get the tires off and carried them back.  After a bit of a search, we came across a big pail of spikes, an old sledgehammer and some rope in the barn and then we set to work.  Being as quiet as possible, we used the heavy oak planks from the wagon for the bed of the raft, roped the tires underneath and used the canvas to make a low covering to protect the wounded from the weather.   When we’d finished, Littlejohn helped Doc and me to wrap blankets around the guys and carry them down to the raft.  We surrounded them with canvas that we rolled up into balustrades to stop them from being dumped into the water if the river got choppy.  Then we used stripped branches to pole our way through the shallows along the riverbank.   Caje and me and Littlejohn handled the poles, while the sergeant and Kirby stood guard, watching for Jerries* on the riverbanks.    It was kind of nerve-wracking, I’ll tell ya!   The river was high `cause of all the rain, and a couple of times we had to just drift downstream until the poles could touch bottom again.  We expected the Germans to see us any minute, and boy, we were sure glad when we finally made it to Caen.  Just in the nick of time too, with only an hour or so left before sunrise.”

 

 As the story ended, the little boy looked up at his grandpa, knowing there would be a far-away look in his faded brown eyes as he gazed out to sea.  There always was, no matter how many times he recounted this tale.

 

“Are you sad when you think of the war, Grandpère?” he said, wise beyond his years.

 

The old man affectionately ruffled his grandson’s windswept curly hair and answered softly, “ Non, not sad, Luc.  Just reminiscing about some of the finest men I ever knew.”

 

Luc gently placed his small hand into his grandpa’s much larger, calloused one and said gently, “ Let’s go home, Grandpère.   Grandmère will be waiting.”

 

*****

 

Caen, Normandy, France, July 1944

The cool, mist-shrouded dawn was long gone as Lieutenant Hanley climbed out of his jeep and headed across the debris-littered street.   Billy had been transferred here an hour or so ago, and Hanley had decided to see how the likeable young private from First Squad was doing.

 

He spied Saunders languidly lounging in the entrance to the makeshift hospital.  He grimaced as he looked at the small, shell-damaged barbershop that housed it, but he knew there had been little choice.  It was one of very few usable buildings left anywhere in the medieval city of Caen.  Constant bombardment prior to the city’s recent liberation by the Allies had reduced the once beautiful place to a soul-destroying wilderness of ruined buildings.  Liberated or not, it was now a still-smoking hell for its weary population.

 

Clutching an almost empty cup of strong black coffee, the benignly smiling sergeant was eyeing the small group of soldiers clustered around Billy’s cot in the cramped space of the little shop.

 

Curiously following his friend’s amused gaze, Hanley took in the scene.  Billy, appearing a little wan and tired but with a cheerful grin on his boyish face, was sitting up in his bed listening gleefully to the good-natured bantering between Littlejohn and Kirby.  Seated on a chair beside him, Littlejohn was looking both relieved and delighted to see his little buddy again.  Balanced on the end of the cot, with a battered unlit cigarette sitting limply at the side of his mouth, and brandishing a dog-eared pack of cards in his hand, Kirby had evidently been trying to entice them into a poker game.  On receiving a dual resounding “NO”, he had made one of his inimitable glib wisecracks.    Everyone in the room had suddenly burst into loud guffaws, and Kirby was looking decidedly pleased with himself at their reaction.

 

Caje, Doc and Len were huddled nearby, talking quietly while seated on the shabby wooden chairs they’d pulled into a cluster by the door.  Doc leaned back so that his chair rested only on its two back legs and listened, with a patient expression in his blue eyes, when Len and Caje occasionally absent-mindedly lapsed into their own particular French patois.   The atmosphere of camaraderie was unmistakable.

 

Saunders turned to glance at his friend beside him.  “Common ground, huh, Lieutenant?”

 

A wide grin slowly spread over Hanley’s lean face.  “Yeah, right, Chip.  Common ground!”

 

 

THE END

 

Notes from Nana

 

This story is based on fact.  Operation Goodwood happened in July 1944.  The Canadians were flanked by American troops, as part of the battle strategy, after several days of fighting for Verrières Ridge.  Most of the Canadian wounded were evacuated before the main force moved on.  Some, inevitably, got left behind and were found later by the advancing Americans.

 

 

 

Dedicated to my husband’s uncle, Yvon Robichaud, a retired lobster fisherman from

 New Brunswick.  One of the finest men Harvey and I have ever known.

 

 

* The British derogatory word for a German soldier was “Jerry”.

 

 

Barbara G. Boudreau

‘Nana’