The characters of "Combat!" are the property of ABC. No profit is made.

Copyright 2005 by Ricochet.

Third-Degree Guilt

The supply vehicle rumbled, rattled, belched foul smoke and beat the hell out of Hanley's kidneys, but it couldn't have been more beautiful if it had been a Hollywood limousine driven by Betty Grable. For the first time in over two days, the lieutenant felt relatively safe. Around him marched dozens of GIs, hard on the heels of a German retreat. Two burly American tanks growled ahead on the road, their eager crews happily munching the golden apples Hanley's squad had tossed them in gratitude and greeting.

What was left of Hanley's squad, that is. The heart had been ripped from their ranks.

Hanley turned his head and stared grimly out the passenger window, hoping the fine dust clogging the air would explain his bloodshot gaze. Now, with his men safely surrounded by a platoon of fresh reinforcements, he could reflect on his loss and grieve.

"Farewell, Sarge," he said softly, so that only the passing breeze could overhear.

Next to him, the transport driver downshifted and cussed at the tanks up the road. For some reason they had stopped. "C'mon, haul your lead asses outta my way! You're stealin' my momentum!"

Barely able to conjure up sufficient curiosity to care about a traffic jam, Hanley idly inspected the stalled tanks ahead. As the truck approached, the tank crews scrambled back aboard and the massive machines jolted forward. Lumbering away, they revealed a cluster of men crouched around a soldier on the side of the road. The figure resembled a collection of tattered rags more than a man. Just another poor bastard chewed up by this insatiable war, Hanley mused gloomily.

"Jeez, what happened to him?" the driver said as the truck crept past the small group.

The soldier lay sprawled on the grass, the cuffs of his field jacket burned to a crisp, his forearms blackened by fire. He moved slightly, one damaged hand reaching out imploringly to a dead German slumped nearby. What the hell? Hanley thought, his brow crimping in confusion.

Then the soldier gave up, or passed out, and his arm flopped by his side, revealing three stripes on the remnants of his sleeve. As the lieutenant stared, the man's head lolled weakly in the grass, and thick palomino hair gleamed in the sun. Shock streaked through Hanley's nerves like lightning.

"Oh, my God!" he cried.

The startled driver slammed on the brakes. The heavy truck squealed to a stop, narrowly missing Hanley, who had already leapt from the vehicle and raced across its path.

In the back, Hanley's men reacted at once to their lieutenant's alarm. Scrambling out of the truck, they followed him to the battered form on the side of the road. Their cries of distress punctuated the hazy morning air.

"Sarge!"

"Oh, shit, it's the sergeant..."

"I told you he was alive!"

Hanley fell to his knees next to Saunders. He had to; he was too overcome to stand. Until now, he hadn't realized how heavily his friend's 'death' had weighed on his mind. It was one of those things you didn't dwell on, or soon, surrounded by the death of friends, it would destroy you.

Now, the guilt and grief returned fully. Visibly shaken, Hanley rose to his feet to give the medic room to work. Vying to get closer, the squad pushed against his restraining arms. Grubby hands reached to touch the fallen man. Stricken eyes shone at the realization of what had happened. Thinking Sarge dead, they'd abandoned him; left him to wander that bleak, deadly forest alone, badly injured. Probably out of his mind with pain.

Swallowing tightly, Hanley addressed the medic in a hoarse voice: "What happened? Where did you find him?"

The corpsman shrugged as he worked. "Think he found us," he said, deftly applying ointment and gauze to those charred, blistered hands. Grimacing, Hanley had to briefly avert his eyes. The medic continued with the weary air of one who'd seen it all.

"Met him walkin’ down the middle of the road carrying a dead kraut, like he was out for a stroll or something. When we asked his company number, he gave us his home address. Don't know what he tangled with, but it screwed him up real bad." He shook his head. "Seemed kinda upset about the German; he seemed to think his brother died and it was his fault."

Standing and flagging down a truck, the medic glanced at Saunders and spoke almost casually. "He's been through some kinda hell, Lieutenant, and he ain’t out yet. If he's one of yours, well…not anymore. Look at his eyes. That boy is gone."

Hanley looked down. Although Saunders was gazing directly at them, there was no _expression on his face, no sign of comprehension. He seemed catatonic. A stab of guilt lodged in Hanley’s heart like a thorn.

The medic kept talking about the sergeant as though he weren't there. "I've seen this before, sir, especially in veterans. Battle fatigue. Some guys crack up over time. Some get better but, I dunno, this one might be permanently broken."

As the medic moved away to talk to the truck driver, Hanley felt rather than saw the way the squad looked at him. Billy, Caje and Littlejohn had wanted to go back to search for Sarge, but Hanley stopped them. He remembered saying something idiotic like, 'If Saunders is alive, he'll make it'. As though the man were indestructible, as though he weren't a human being who could be hurt.

The men crouched around the sergeant, subconsciously forming a shelter. They all knew the only thing more horrifying than burning to death was surviving it, living with the hideous aftermath of the crippling and disfiguring pain.

Hanley stared at the burnt field jacket and suppressed a shudder. Charcoal shreds of cloth had melted into the skin, and open sores were visible under the gauze. Tightly bound by ropes, unable to escape the searing flames, Saunders must have endured unspeakable agony. How he'd survived was a mystery. How he'd ended up here was a miracle.

Hanley lowered his head in profound remorse. More than anything else, he wished to go back a day. He would gladly withstand being captured by krauts, beaten and trapped in a burning barn, if only he could undo the ghastly error he'd made.

In his mind, he knew he hadn't panicked. With bombs falling like hail and in the blinding flash and heat of fire, he'd reacted instinctively. He'd gotten his squad outside and they'd run. Only later did they discover the missing man, and by then it was too late and too risky to go back for him.

Yet now, more than anything else, Hanley wished he could go back.

"Okay, let's pack him up! The corporal says you can have his truck if he can have an apple." The medic's cheer and the driver's avarice struck a sour note with the somber squad. Reaching into his field jacket, Littlejohn withdrew an apple he'd taken from an orchard just hours earlier.

As he offered the driver his ransom, Billy exclaimed, "Hey!" They all looked at him in surprise, then down.

Saunders stared at the apple from under heavy eyelids. Sick with hunger, he lifted one thickly bandaged hand to grasp it. It was no use. Once more the perfect golden fruit hung tantalizingly out of his reach. His face darkened at some imagined grudge.

"All right," he mumbled menacingly, his words slurred. "You stay there…"

Caje, Billy and Littlejohn looked at the lieutenant. There was no sign of resentment or blame in their eyes, just a gradually dawning disillusionment. Uncertainty crept among them like a chill. What if that had been me, they seemed to be asking silently.

Dragging a grimy sleeve across his forehead, Hanley rose and helped the medic lift Saunders. The squad rushed to assist, carrying the wounded man to the truck and placing him in the back. Climbing in beside him, the lieutenant removed his field jacket and carefully tucked it under Sarge's head. At the gentle treatment, Saunders gazed upward, sky blue eyes cloudy with trauma. Hanley managed a weak smile, but it was lost on the sergeant. He was a million miles away, someplace safe and unreal, where flames could not consume his flesh, and friends could not betray him.

* * *

It seemed to take an eternity to reach the Command Post. As medics hustled Saunders away, the squad reported in and then raced to the Aid Station. Sarge was already in surgery, and they gathered outside the curtained area like a forlorn, lost tribe.

Though starving, none of them had stopped for food. Hanley had to order them to go. Later, Littlejohn returned with sandwiches, pie and coffee for the lieutenant. The big farm boy was nearly petrified with dread.

"Is he gonna die?" he asked awkwardly. "I mean…for real?"

Hanley glanced at him sharply. Littlejohn must not have understood the implications of his innocent question, but the lieutenant couldn't ignore it. "He's not going to die, you get it?" he snarled. "If I can't kill him, nothing will!"

Littlejohn looked abashed and bewildered by Hanley's rage. He hung his large head. "Sir, I…"

"I'll take first watch. You go tell the men to get some sleep." Hanley turned his back on the big soldier. He regretted his outburst immediately, but couldn't bring himself to recant it. In his mind, he heard Saunders' distinctive tone, low and tough and yet somehow intimate: "Never apologize, Lieutenant; it's a sign of weakness."

Hanley’s eyes sank shut. The profane oath he'd uttered before now became a plea - a prayer. Please, God, I know I've asked so many times, but please spare this one.

When he turned around again, Littlejohn was gone.

* * *

Doc stood respectfully at a distance, holding a cloth mask to his face to keep germs at bay. He was acutely aware that he was a doctor by nickname only. Truth be told, he wondered if he'd have the stomach to treat such hideous wounds. Or maybe it was the patient that so unnerved him.

Doc was used to seeing men delusional with shock, and he knew many confidences he wasn’t meant to know. Somehow it was different with Sarge. Saunders never revealed his doubts or burdens, even while in the grip of torturous pain. His strength wasn’t an act or a flimsy shield hiding insecurity. His pity was never for himself. Despite a fierce countenance and equally ferocious temper, Sarge was the most honorable, decent and courageous man Doc had ever met. And in this place, that was saying quite a lot.

Now Saunders lay in a dim room clogged with the dust of a busy camp, fighting for his life. It hurt to see him so vulnerable, and Doc's heart constricted with outrage and pity. In this stark, unsanitary hovel of a hospital, you either lived or you died. Under the daily onslaught of wounded soldiers, there wasn't time to perform heroic measures on heroes.

On the other side of the curtain, a young soldier weakly begged his mother to bring him water. In moments, his parched whispers ceased, and the war claimed another victim. War: the savage, wasteful, arrogant preoccupation of tyrants.

Doc made a fist at his side, keenly aware of his helplessness. If he could, he would stand like a colossus on the land and end the conflict once and for all. He would reach down and crush the weapons of destruction and the aggressors who used them. He'd scoop up that evil little dictator in Berlin and fling him into the sun. He’d stop the awful suffering of valiant men, and force the world to make peace.

But he could do none of these things. So he just stood in the cluttered, makeshift surgical room and bore silent witness to his friend's gallant struggle. He wondered if the sergeant knew he was there. He hoped so.

The doctor asked for a blood pressure reading. "Ninety over sixty," the nurse replied.

The physician took a deep breath. "We need more plasma; he's succumbing to shock. How many units do we have on hand?"

"Not many, Doctor. We depleted our reserves last night, and the supply truck hasn't arrived. We'll have to ask for donations."

Doc was stepping forward before he knew it. "I'll go."

With a final worried glance at the still form on the stretcher, he hurried off to find the squad. Sarge had shed blood a thousand times to keep theirs from spilling; now they could return the favor.

* * *

"Is he dead?" Kirby's voice quavered and his nervous gaze darted from face-to-face, searching desperately for signs that it was all just an appalling joke. "Am I too late?"

"At ease, General," the nurse said dryly. "This is just a blood bank."

Kirby barely heard her snide quip over the buzzing in his ears. Behind her, a corpsman held up a long needle and tourniquet and smiled.

Kirby felt his heart thump hard against his ribs, and if it hadn't been for Littlejohn behind him, he would've collapsed. Maybe it was the chronic lack of sleep or the ton of greasy Army food he'd gobbled. Maybe it was the pungent fumes of disinfectant mingling with the odor of blood and decaying tissue. Or maybe it was the fact that he'd had the shock of his life today and still hadn't recovered.

He'd traded with Kelly, only half-feigning a limp from an infected toe. He could have gone. He should have gone. Providence, perhaps, had enticed Kelly to fall for Kirby's line of crapola and take his place on the doomed patrol. Either that, or it was an induction foul up at the Pearly Gates. The private felt shudders run down his spine; he had dodged a fateful bullet. So why did he feel so…cursed?

Caje scolded the BAR man sternly. "C'mon, Kirby, knock it off! It's for Sarge!"

"Yeah…yeah, okay." Fumbling with his sleeve, Kirby approached the nurse on rubbery legs, dark eyes huge in a suddenly wan face. "Hi, honey. Doc says I got great blood. You-…you can have it all."

* * *

The sun had gone down hours ago, and the Aid Station was still, save for the occasional haunting moan from the nearby isolation tent. For the wounded there, the war was over. Some would return to the States, yet leave limbs behind. Some would never see or hear again. And then there were those for whom even the most advanced medical procedures were useless; fragments of men kept alive with crude devices. Parking them in that dismal tent and denying them a swift, merciful death seemed almost wicked. All the doctors did was prolong the inevitable, compound the pain.

Hanley paced in front of the surgical tent, smoking nervously. He massaged his temple as though trying to pluck a coherent idea from the jumble of his thoughts.

What was taking so long, why wasn't he allowed to see the sergeant? Maybe something was wrong and they weren't telling him. What if they couldn't help Saunders? What if he was crippled for the rest of his life, or an acute infection had set in? Lord...what if they’d cut off his hands?

Fear ricocheted through his skull, and Hanley cursed. Goddammit, he should have taken Chip to a real hospital!

He stopped pacing so suddenly he almost stumbled. He stood staring at nothing for a long time. Absorbed in his reverie, he jumped when someone touched his arm. The unsmiling face of the night nurse filled his vision. Her iron gray eyes matched the color of her hair. "Lieutenant? Are you all right?"

Dragged to his senses by the cold grip of reality, Hanley shook his head. "What is it, nurse?

"Your sergeant is out of surgery and…Lieutenant!" Her voice ended on a high note as Hanley shoved past her. Uncommonly strong fingers locked onto his arm, halting him.

Hanley looked down into the most formidable glare he'd ever seen in a woman. Hard, humorless eyes clearly conveyed her intention to harm him if he took another step over the threshold.

"You may see him when he is ready and not a second sooner, Lieutenant. If at all!" Her tone was as pointed as a bayonet. "He’s not out of danger, yet. At this moment, there is nothing you can do for him but jeopardize his recovery, so I suggest…"

"Why can't I see him now?" Hanley interrupted, easily peering over her head into the dark interior of the Aid Station. Desperation underscored his hoarse voice.

Listening with a practiced ear, the nurse regarded the gaunt, haggard lieutenant before her. She'd heard rumors about the disastrous patrol. She despised officers who abandoned soldiers in the field to save their own necks, but cowardice didn't fit this man.

Anguish was etched in every line of his lean, unshaven face. His worried eyes seemed bruised with fatigue, and he wavered unsteadily on his feet. If he didn't rest soon, he'd collapse. To a registered nurse in the United States Army Medical Corps, that constituted willful destruction of government property and posed a clear criteria for intervention.

She tipped her head far back to look him in the eye. "There are several reasons why I won't grant you access to the recovery room, Lieutenant, the primary one being that it's late. Visiting hours are strictly enforced, and you're in violation of the rules."

"Visiting hours?" Hanley's voice was incredulous, and the nurse swiftly shushed him. He lowered his volume, but gave an exaggerated look at the patched and sagging walls of the field hospital. "You can't be serious!"

"Oh, but I am," she said primly. "Your sergeant is my patient now, and he needs rest. Every time you and your squad come in here you bring dirt and germs." She glanced at Hanley's filthy attire with undisguised revulsion. "I suggest you men attend to your own needs and allow me to attend to his. For the next three days, King Two is prohibited from visiting. Starting with you."

Hanley's brow rose in affront. "You can't restrict me. I outrank you!"

The nurse nodded. "True, but you don't outrank the doctor, Captain Marlowe. I have my orders, Lieutenant, and now you have yours. Please don't force me to call the MPs." Somehow, Hanley got the impression she relished this part of her job - kicking out superior officers.

Upset, he squared his shoulders, his hand subconsciously straying to the pistol at his side. "Listen, sister, I have no intention of…"

Before he could formally declare war, a corporal stuck his head in the infirmary, interrupting him. "Excuse me, Lieutenant, the captain wishes to speak with you up at HQ."

Hanley closed his mouth. Of course. He'd been expecting this, perhaps even anticipating it. "Inform the captain I’ll be right there." He heard the words, but didn’t recognize his own voice. His neck creaked with tension as he met the nurse’s steely gaze. She knew.

Feeling suddenly intrusive in the antiseptic silence of the field hospital, Hanley turned and walked away from her without another word. She was right, his presence was harmful to Sarge - in many ways.

Apart from the snug cluster of tents, it was bitterly cold, dark and desolate. Trudging to his fate under the frozen stars, Hanley instinctively sought the shadows, skirting the camp the way an outcast wolf paces the fringes of the pack. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't evade his thoughts. Guilt pursued him relentlessly, whispering in his ear.

"My fault," Hanley thought morosely. "Father was right." The words had become a grim mantra to him these last few days. "My fault..."

Swallowing hard, he wondered what had gone through Saunders' mind as he watched his squad dash out the door of the fiery barn, not one of them looking back. He wondered what it had felt like as embers crawled up the sergeant's arms, igniting the sleeves of his field jacket, choking him in the smoke of his own burning flesh. He wondered how it felt to be incinerated inch by inch.

Staggering to a halt, Hanley squeezed his eyes shut against the stark images. His heart galloped in his chest. Slumping against a tree, blinded by blame, the lieutenant fought to breathe evenly as his thoughts ran wild. Over and over the memory of that day unraveled in his mind. Time and again he measured his merit and came up lacking.

He’d almost killed Saunders. He’d almost let his best friend - his brother - die. There was no excuse for his failure to lead all his men to safety. He should’ve been the last one out of the burning structure. He should have noticed Saunders was missing. He should’ve gone back alone, sent the others ahead. He should have risked his life for the man who had saved his so many times.

Yet he had done none of these things.

Bloodshot eyes peeled open, misery plain in their depths. Shuddering with cold that came from within, Hanley felt like a fake and a failure, or worse: a coward. Now, with no faith in himself, even the simplest task seemed beyond his meager ability.

Moving with a leaden gait, Hanley continued on to his downfall, sweating in the frosty air. The captain's headquarters seemed to recede in his vision, but he forced himself forward. He could almost hear the slicing whistle of a guillotine blade, brought out of ancient retirement especially for him. He didn’t care. Saunders went through hell because of him. Let a review board discover what Hanley already knew; he was unfit to lead in battle, a danger to his men.

By the time he arrived at his destination, Hanley was consumed by shame, yet wearily eager to end this torture. He deserved the harshest punishment for his neglect, perhaps a firing squad of his own men. Yet even that could not absolve him of his sins. He doubted anything ever would.

* * *

"Mom?" Even exhausted, damaged and drugged, the soldier resisted rest. The same stubbornness had obviously enabled him to survive his ordeal.

"Mom?"

Moving through the cramped darkness, the nurse put down the chart and knelt by the soldier's cot, checking his pulse and speaking quietly. "It's all right, Sergeant. You're in the Aid Station behind American lines."

The sound of bombs falling kilometers away added a distant percussive note to the night. A shell-shocked soldier in the corner whimpered in his sleep. As the nurse began to rise, a soft touch on the wrist drew her attention back.

"Mom," the soldier said in a voice without force. His pale, dilated eyes were distraught. "I’m sorry." A swathed hand brushed her weathered cheek tenderly.

Although childless, the nurse had been called "mother" countless times. To the dying, she was the last glimpse of home, albeit hallucinatory. Over the years, she'd begun to think of these young men as the sons she'd never had. "Shhh, it's late, Saunders. You made it back; you're safe. Time to rest."

He didn't understand a word she said. Turning his face away, he took a shuddering breath. His voice was thick with unshed tears. "Joey's dead…it's my fault."

He wasn't fully lucid, and the nurse kept silent, unwilling to add to his delusion or pry into his personal torment.

"Joey's dead-…I should've-…" Immersed in pain, Saunders gritted his teeth, but she couldn't tell if the agony was in his body, or his mind.

Trying to comfort him so he'd sleep, she placed a cool hand on his forehead, stroking back the damp hair. "It's all right, Saun…son," she said. "Joey’s in a better place; he's not suffering, anymore."

The sergeant's unfocused gaze fluently expressed his loss and longing. The nurse bent closer to hear his fading whisper. "I want to go there, too…"

* * *

Under waning starlight, Caje watched the lieutenant leave the captain's headquarters. Hanley seemed to have aged a decade in the last few hours, his shoulders stooped as though he bore the weight of the world. Command would do that to a man, yet Caje knew remorse could do it faster.

"Lieutenant!" he called after Hanley's retreating back. "Sir! How's Sarge doing?"

Crossing the camp, Caje trotted up behind the officer. He’d intended to complain about the mean night nurse. The old battle-ax wouldn't let anyone from the squad in. Anxious for news about Sarge, Caje had waited for Hanley outside the captain's tent for hours, hoping for a status report.

Yet now, at the devastated look on the lieutenant's face, Caje wasn't sure he was ready to hear the verdict. "Did they-…did they take his hands, sir?" he asked hollowly. His insides felt taut with dread.

Hanley didn't answer immediately. His pallor was an unhealthy gray. The stubble on his chin was salted with white. His uniform hung loosely on him. He seemed to be turning into a ghost right before the Cajun's eyes. When he looked at Caje, it was almost without recognition, as though he'd been staring at something a thousand miles away and now couldn't focus on the man at his side.

Finally he shook his head. "No…no, they didn't cut…thank God."

"Amen," Caje agreed with a relieved smile, his gaze warm.

Hanley dragged a hand down his face. He started to move away without saying another word. He seemed to have already forgotten Caje was there.

The scout's smile dimmed. Something was terribly wrong. "Lieutenant?" he called. His voice sounded loud in the crisp morning air of a sleeping camp, but Hanley kept walking as though he hadn't heard a thing.

* * *

"Screw 'im. I hope they bust him down to private and make him fall in line behind us! Then we'll see who's the last one out of a burning building…"

"Shut up, Kirby," Littlejohn scowled in rare anger. Not much of a comeback, but the huge soldier didn't need witty repartee to make a point. "You don't know what happened; you weren't even there."

That hit a nerve. Falling silent, Kirby bent his head and stared at his boots.

None of the squad looked at him. Trading with Kelly wasn't the first time Kirby had tricked his way out of a patrol, but it would undoubtedly be his last.

"You know, guys, I can't stop thinking about it," Billy said softly from his bunk. He was clutching a pillow to his chest and staring at the ceiling. "We ran off and left Sarge alone, hurt bad. We should’ve disobeyed orders and gone back. Sarge would've gone back. I'll never-…" he faltered, unable to finish. He'd never what? Forgive Hanley…or himself?

His heart hurt thinking of the terrible journey the Sarge had made. He'd survived what no one else would've, and in the end, all he wanted was an apple. Yet even that was denied to him. Cruelty should be dispensed only to those who deserved it, but rarely had Nelson ever seen it work that way.

"I don't get it!" His voice broke with dismay. "Why did that have to happen to him?"

Doc regarded the younger man kindly. "Billy, a lot of innocent people suffer in war. What about the civilians and their children? Sarge isn't the only one who…"

"You know what I mean!" Billy suddenly shouted, surprising them all. Even Kirby looked up from his brooding.

The young soldier sat up, red-faced and near tears, crushing the pillow to his chest. He'd never forget how Sarge looked that morning in the truck. The way he'd just stared into space through gritty eyelashes, unblinking. It was as though a tattered mannequin lay on the boards between them.

At first Billy was simply overjoyed that Sarge was alive. But as the truck jolted over rutted roads and there was no response - no swearing or shouting, no crying, not even the slightest movement - it scared Billy to death. Saunders remained mute and unaware, his empty eyes and slack face as devoid of life as a battlefield casualty.

It was chilling. Sarge was a hero, and that hadn't earned him any more consideration than a murdering Nazi got. Huddled on his bed, his faith sorely tested, Billy scrubbed angrily at his tears. "Why did God let him suffer like that? Why didn't He make one of us turn around - just once - and look back?"

Nobody spoke for long moments. Lost in their own troubled thoughts, they avoided Billy's anguished gaze, unable to answer his questions.

"How do you know God didn't help him?" Littlejohn finally rumbled. "Sarge didn't die, did he? He's home, now, isn't he?"

"Sure, Billy…he made it. We're all back together again," Caje agreed.

"Not all," a bitter voice reminded them. Uncomfortably, they looked up.

For the first time in his life, Kirby was at a loss for words. In his miserable state of mind, he didn't want to hear talk about God. He didn't want to hear about miracles or divine acts of intervention; or lucky charms and voodoo hexes, for that matter! There may be no atheists in foxholes, but lately it was getting harder and harder to reconcile the idea of a merciful God with the pure, undiluted hell of war.

With a false laugh, Kirby strolled across the room. "Know what I think? I think the fire let Sarge go out of professional courtesy."

"Kirby!" A stormy look darkened Doc's face. "Man, what's wrong with you?"

"No disrespect intended. I'm just sayin'…if any of us has a fire in his gut, it's the Sarge. The flames only kissed his hands in reverence, that's all. He's gonna be okay."

He winked at Billy, radiating a confidence he didn't feel. "You hear me, kid? Sarge is tough. He's gonna be back, mark my words."

* * *

Two days passed. In that time the squad ate like horses, slept like bears, and hogged the hot showers. The extended rest brightened their eyes, straightened their spines, and shored up their resolve to see the sergeant. Around camp, they were often found huddled together, plotting elaborate schemes and eyeing the olive fabric of the infirmary as though it were a fortified Nazi stronghold.

Late on the second night, one of them rose soundlessly from bed and slipped into the darkness, emboldened to try to breach the lair of a fire-breathing dragon.

Soft moans from the patients in the Aid Station carried to Caje's ears. Dim lantern light spilled from a tiny office in the corner. Crouched in the shadows, the scout sneaked past the crabby nurse writing at the desk. He didn’t dare breathe. He'd been on countless patrols in enemy territory, but he did not recall his heart ever pounding this hard, before.

Stealthily prowling the perimeter of the large tent, he searched each bed for Sarge. When he didn't find him there, he crept into the isolation ward in the adjoining tent.

Halloween met him.

Like a tomb populated with the undead, the room had the aura of a graveyard. Caje didn't even recognize some of the forms as men. Hidden behind ghostly draperies of white sheets, some were merely gauze-encased packages lying silently on undisturbed linens.

In the anemic moonlight, only one patient moved in a restless sleep. Caje drew near the curtained partition, his heart in his throat. Why had they put Sarge here?

"Sergeant?" he whispered. Checking quickly over his shoulder for hostile nurse patrols, he leaned closer, cautiously parting the drapes. "Ser…GEANT!"

A hand clamped over his mouth, cutting off the startled cry. Caje was seconds away from driving his elbow into the assailant's midriff when a familiar voice hissed in his ear.

"It's me: Billy!"

As soon as the hand was removed, a hushed string of furious French invective assaulted Nelson, who just frowned in Midwestern disapproval. "Where'd you come from?" Caje finally demanded.

"I been sittin' there the whole time. Jeez!" Billy complained, pointing at a wooden chair next to Sarge's cot.

Turning to glare at the offending furniture, Caje brightened. "Hey, Sarge!"

Saunders' eyes were glazed with sedation, but he was awake, watching them wordlessly. A delighted smile lit Billy's face, and he pushed past Caje to perch next to the sergeant's bed.

The Cajun reluctantly glanced at Sarge's bandaged arms, then breathed a sigh of relief. It was true, the hands were still intact. Caje didn't know if they functioned, but at least they were there.

"How are you, Sarge?" he asked gently, sinking down on the cot. Saunders' gaze seemed stunned and distracted.

The last time Caje had seen that expression, Hanley was wearing it.

Scrubbed of the mud and blood of his ordeal, his face devoid of its usual tough scowl, Saunders really didn't seem that much older than Nelson. With his scruffy yellow hair and drowsy, guileless eyes, he looked more like a kid than a killer. Odd how Caje hadn't really noticed before; but then, they had all aged beyond their years.

"I brought you an apple, Sarge. I remembered how you wanted one," Billy said, digging in his pocket for the fruit.

"Billy," Caje clasped a restraining hand around the young man's arm. "Billy, he can't have that. You don't know if it's good for him now…"

"What's not good about apples?" Billy said cheerfully.

"Well, for one thing, they can land you in the stockade," a voice said sharply.

A Zippo sparked to life, bathing the newcomer in flickering light. Flanked by two massive corpsmen, the world’s meanest army nurse stood glaring at them. "Boys," she said sweetly to her thugs in scrubs. "Escort them out."

* * *

Saunders watched the fight from the distant vantage of delirium. The violence seemed languid, almost surreal. He knew he should've been alarmed to see his friends pummeled by the orderlies, but he wasn't. He only wanted to sleep. Yet, as usual, the world of tranquil dreams had to wait for the rigors of world war.

After a few frenetic moments, calm and order returned to the isolation ward. Alone again, the nurse lit a lantern and stepped forward briskly to check the sergeant's bandages. The jaundiced lamplight cast ghoulish shadows on her face, highlighting sharp cheekbones and severe brows.

Saunders recoiled as she neared, his instincts telling him she was about to attack. He got his elbows under him, intending to roll away, grab his tommygun and fill the air with hot lead. But his efforts only resulted in a pathetic attempt to fall out of bed.

The nurse easily caught his wrist and pinned it to the mattress. Pain shot up Sarge's arm, sobering him up somewhat. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as she patted his inflamed hand soothingly. "Now we won't try that again, will we?"

The twin grenades of her glare belied her syrupy smile. She could be tougher than the most heartless noncom alive, which is what it took to make these combat boys behave and take their medicine. Especially this one: Sergeant Stubborn.

Saunders gasped for breath as the flare of pain subsided. He knew he'd met his match, and he wisely surrendered to her ministrations before she hurt him worse. But the Gestapo could learn interrogation tips from her.

The nurse withdrew a syringe of morphine from her pocket and reached for his I.V. "Wait," Saunders said foggily. "I don't want any more of that."

"You will," she replied absently, injecting the drug into his line despite his arguments. Then she sat at the foot of the cot and stared at Sarge expectantly.

The world melted softly at the corners. The gently undulating walls were bathed in buttery lamplight. Tense muscles relaxed as the narcotic balm coursed through Saunders' body, blunting the serrated edge of thought and sensation.

Wrapped in morphine's woolen folds, Sarge rolled his head on the pillow and gazed raptly at the nurse, his voice low. "You're beautiful when you're angry, y’know that?"

"Um, hmm…" the nurse responded skeptically, reaching behind her back.

It took all the strength Sarge had not to bellow in agony as she slowly peeled back layers of saturated gauze that had adhered to the wounds.

In a flash, he was back in the fallen village where he'd been taken prisoner. Once more thundering detonations deafened him; blinding flames blistered his face and licked hotly at his hands; and the cold, cold embrace of a deep black river felt like heaven to his abused body.

"Saunders. Sergeant," he murmured feverishly, floating on the edge of unconsciousness.

"I know, dear," the nurse sighed. "Serial number two-two-seven…"

* * *

Surly orderlies and Army nurses were notoriously cunning, but even they couldn't deter the intrepid men from King Company Two. If the medical staff hadn't wanted visitors, they shouldn't have made their hospital out of canvas.

When Hanley entered the room at exactly one minute past midnight on the fourth day, the first thing his saw was a bayonet rip in the outer wall, crudely patched with strapping tape. Hunkered down around Saunders' cot like anxious supplicants, the squad scrambled to hide their beer bottles. Kirby was the first one to crack, but Hanley interrupted before the private's unbelievable bullshit could commence.

"Just gimme a beer and a minute," the lieutenant said, his deep, refined voice solemn.

Hesitating a second to bid Sarge goodbye, the men quickly made for the makeshift door. Edging past the lieutenant, Littlejohn's lumpy field jacket clinked incriminatingly.

After they'd gone, Hanley opened the beer and took a long draught from it, stalling for time. He told himself he wasn't going to say anything stupid, such as 'forgive me'. But that was the force that drew him here day after day, to hover outside the billowing walls of the infirmary, barely able to breathe under the weight of his guilt.

Saunders watched him with a steady, direct gaze, not speaking a word. It was a secret weapon, that intense stare; it cut right through a man. Feeling supremely uncomfortable, the lieutenant searched in vain for a place to sit, then finally settled on the edge of the cot.

"How're they treating you, Sergeant?"

"Fine."

Hanley waited for him to say more, but that didn't happen. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it for Saunders. But when he tried to hand it to him, he realized with a jolt that in his nervousness, he had blundered right into the proverbial quicksand.

His face grew warm, and he made a small, self-effacing sound. "Sorry…I forgot."

Sarge lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Don't let it throw you."

"Well…" Hanley reached out to put the cigarette between Saunders' lips. "It does."

They sat and smoked in silence for a few moments. Finally Hanley cleared his throat. "You know, Sergeant, I can put in a call to your family, if you want to talk to them about…"

Sudden tension charged the air, and Hanley fell silent. Saunders rarely lowered the barriers to his personal life, and he greatly resented others who tried.

"Joey," the sergeant said quietly. His expression was unreadable, his tone carefully neutral. "I'd rather my family not learn about this, Lieutenant."

They both knew Hanley hadn't heard about his brother only from the medic's report. Hardship and shock conspired with painkillers to strip away Saunders' pretense of control. Over the last few nights, he'd relived his harrowing escape time and again, sometimes jolting awake from a nightmare bellowing his name, rank and serial number for phantom Germans; sometimes waking up weeping for a lost brother. That's when he was moved to isolation.

Saunders' face was ashen with fatigue, and Hanley rose, cutting the visit short. "I'd better go. Hurry and get well, Sarge. I'll order those palookas to stay out so you can rest."

"Wait," Saunders said as the lieutenant turned away. "Don’t leave ‘til you tell me."

Hesitating at the exit, Hanley asked patiently. "Tell you what, Sergeant?"

"Tell me what's eating at you."

Hanley's composed smile slowly dissolved from his face. As always, the Sarge had found his mark, piercing right to the bone. "I…I don't know what you…"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about." There wasn't a trace of retreat in Saunders' words. "You put me in for a transfer to the States. Why are you trying to get rid of me?" The raptor-eyed glare narrowed. "And what gives you the right to run my life?"

Hanley was dumbstruck. "You got a million-dollar wound, Sergeant. You earned a ticket home."

But Saunders wasn't buying it. "Yeah, and who replaces me, a guy with a wife and three kids? Maybe a college freshman, or a newlywed. Or maybe just some other poor sucker with a lot to lose."

Hanley's voice was strained with disbelief. "What are you saying, you don't want to go home? Saunders, every single man here wants that more than anything."

"Or maybe it's what you want." Sarge's voice rose in challenge. "What are you running from, Lieutenant? This?" He held up both hands. Still raw and scabbed under the gauze, they nevertheless looked more human. But it had been close, so close.

Hanley couldn't bear to look at those dreadful scars, and he swallowed hard, remembering fiery embers whirling in scalding drafts of air. Thinking of the morning he'd stared unconcerned at a dying soldier lying by the road, unaware that it was his best friend. Ashamed by how easily he'd been cleared of wrong by the captain, as though absolution was something accomplished in a simple debriefing.

"I'll fight this, Lieutenant," Saunders vowed, his eyes a hard blue flame. "I won't let you do it, you hear me? I won't conveniently fade away and let some inept replacement get my men killed. It's not worth it to spare your pride."

Something in Hanley flared. Pride was the last thing on his mind, and Saunders ought to know that by now. Furious at the insubordinate NCO for suggesting selfish motives, he crossed the floor in one stride and jabbed a finger in Sarge's face. "Shut up!"

But the sergeant didn't let up. The last time Hanley saw him this angry and determined, he was clawing to the top of a cliff in Normandy.

"I don't blame you, Hanley; you blame yourself. But that's just your tough luck." Saunders snapped, simmering with rage. "Maybe you need an excuse to bail out of the war, but I got a better one for staying. My brothers are out there fighting. If you think I'm going home while my kid brothers are getting shot at, you're hallucinating worse than I was! I'm the best one for this job and you know it."

"Oh, yeah?" The color was high in the lieutenant's cheeks. Steel rang out in his tone for the first time in days. "I got news for you, Saunders, I've seen better!"

Green eyes flashing, Hanley stalked around the small space, glaring at Sarge. He didn't seem to know or care that his voice was carrying throughout the compound.

"I've seen better soldiers, better fighters…better sergeants than you! You're a