Based on the ABC Television Series:
Combat!
Story Copyright 2005 by Terry Pierce
Another
few minutes and he’d kill the bastard.
Caje peered at the sky smothered in clouds pregnant with rain. Five downpours in as many
days. And the icy water welling
up through the sodden leaves and filthy shelter half he'd hurriedly spread
beneath himself had begun soaking his boots. With his
legs sore, his back aching, the vice of a cold still clamped around his chest,
he was tired of crouching. But no way
could he sit. The foul-smelling bomb
crater, uncomfortable now, would be unbearable if he got his pants wet. Cramped and fighting off the urge to stand, Caje knew he’d have to stay put.
Knee to knee with the world’s most obnoxious replacement.
“I
said to move yer damned feet, LeMay.”
Caje shut his eyes and took several deep breaths, resentment threatening to
ignite a fuse he was battling to keep unlit.
No way could he blow up …even if Tex seemed hell bent on making a rotten
situation worse. He had to concentrate
and block the guy out, or he wouldn't be able to deal with this mess.
“Whatsa matter? Y’all deaf?”
Caje grimaced and tried to move in his feet. His rain slicker already tight around
himself, his Garand upright between his knees, he pressed himself into the
muddy wall at his back, barely able to gain an inch. Not that it would’ve done any good if he’d
gained a hundred feet. Tex would never
shut up, no matter how much room he got.
“Yeah,
y’all must be deaf since y’all won’t gimme me any
room.”
Caje shifted his eyes away from his antagonist. Starting trouble was obviously Tex’s favorite sport.
How the guys in his old unit stood the hick, Caje
couldn’t begin to guess.
Day
after day, it was always the same. One long litany of complaints. Why’d they always wait around so much? Why’d the army’s food taste like crap? Why, today, couldn’t he work with someone
else?
Tex
had made it clear he’d wanted to be paired up with a soldier an “expert
marksman” from Waco could respect. A guy like Kirby who’d grown up on tough city streets. Or Littlejohn, a good-sized
Joe who could probably take down a hundred Krauts. Hell, he’d even choose the sergeant – too
small and kind of quiet - but who looked like he could handle himself.
But Caje? One of those pansy French?
“Fer a runty guy, y’all sure take up a passel o' space.”
Another
bullet slammed into the lip of the crater and Caje,
his head pounding, his throat raw, ducked and winced. Right now!
He had to pay attention and focus. If he didn’t, the sniper would keep targeting
the shell hole’s rim, and then he and Tex would be
forced to displace. But getting
prematurely out into the open…
The
meat wagon would have two more dead men to fetch.
Caje frowned, his anger growing. Tex
had sure made a mess of things when he’d let the Kraut know where they were by
panicking and taking that wild shot. Now,
being trapped with the big mouth, it was nearly impossible to…
“Did
y’all hear me? I said y’all are takin’ up too much space!”
Tex
shifted his six foot four, two hundred seventeen pound frame, becoming an
ever-expanding colossus. Stretching out
his legs, he wiggled back and forth and managed to kick Caje
in the shins. Caje,
his face reddening, his eyes narrowing to slits, sucked in air through clenched
teeth.
“Hey,
it ain’t my fault y’all are hoggin’
the place.”
Tex
continued to squirm, his helmet turtling back and
forth along the shell hole’s rim. An irresistible target, it drew the German’s
attention and the sniper fired another round.
As the bullet smacked into the mud, the crater’s edge began collapsing.
Tex
lurched sideways, kicking Caje a second time. “I knew I shouldn’t’ve
followed y’all here! Now the Kraut’s gonna see us, fer sure!”
Squashed
against the crater wall, Caje slid his fingers down
the M1’s stock. Reaching the cool metal
of the trigger, he struggled to control his growing rage.
“I
told the sergeant y’all weren’t the one I wanted to be stuck with. I told him!
First he picks y’all to check out the crossroads and then we end up runnin’ right into an ambush!”
More
shots struck the puddles around the crater and Caje,
shutting his eyes against the chilly water splattering over him, knew he’d
heard enough.
“Y’all
shoulda known that house had a Kraut in it! Y’all are supposed to know what ya’ll are doin’. And now here
I am, gonna be killed ‘cause of a stupid Cajun!”
The
son of a bitch was a dead man.
Caje shoved Tex backward, swung up the Garand, and pulled the trigger.
The
M1 roared as Tex screamed.
In
the silence that followed, the body dropped.
Caje, reloading the rifle, grumbled,
“Bastard,” and vaulted from the hole without a look back.
The
medic watching everything from a safer distance leaped out of cover and quickly
approached.
“You
okay, Tex?”
Tex,
his eyes wide, his knees knocking together, looked up into Doc’s face. “Y’all saw him?” he sputtered. “Y’all saw what that guy just did?”
“Ya mean Caje runnin’
for this hole an’ then poppin’ up to take out that
Kraut?” Doc turned to look at the
isolated gasthaus standing at the crossroads and
nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I saw
it. Caje is a
guy who sometimes takes crazy risks. I
remember a time when he even advanced up a hill by himself to try to blow up a
pillbox.
“But
I thought…” Tex stammered, “…I thought he was goin’
to…”
“Get
shot?” Doc turned back to Tex as more of
the squad rushed past. “No, soldier,
don’t worry about that. The whole time
we were pinned down back there he was probably listenin’
to which window that Kraut’s shots were comin’
from. Give Caje
a little time ‘n’ space, an’ he’s got a good way of zeroin’
in.”
“But
he…he…I mean…his face, Doc!”
“Yeah,
I know what ya mean.
It’s a good thing he’s on your side, huh?”
With
a smile, Doc squatted, put out a hand to help Tex up, and winked.
***