Copyright
2005 by Terry Pierce
On
a dark and stormy night, Saunders shivered under the filmy, sapphire-colored
material snugged around his bare, broad shoulders and
Arnold-Schwarzenegger-sized chest. Swathed
in bandages made from torn strips of his blood-soaked jacket and shirts, he
knew he was in serious shape. Or, that
is, he would’ve known had he not been sort of delirious. His piercing blue eyes shielded by long, dewy
lashes pearled with sweat, he moaned, his throat dry, his full lips parted in
regret.
“Mom…Louise…where
are you? Where are you? I’m afraid I’ll never see you again…”
He
tossed his head from side to side, his blond hair tousled, the shining ringlets
glimmering golden in the weak light of the oil lamp.
“No,
Sarge, ya gotta stay strong an’ hang in there for us,” Doc said, his
brow furrowed in its characteristic slant.
He shook his bandaged head, angry that his Arkansas roots hadn’t
prepared him for dealing properly with a Yankee boy, but he caught up the NCO’s
strong, bruised-yet-still-tender-hands and murmured like he would to any
deserving Johnny Reb.
“Let it go…yer family’s gonna
be along anytime now, hear? Jest let it
go.”
Doc
knew this was a lie but, hell, what was he supposed to say? If a tiny fib would comfort this strong,
self-sufficient, virile hero trapped now along with his favorite men in the
confines of the French lingerie factory, he had to say it, no matter what
repercussions there might be.
“Mom,
Mom…Louise…I need to see you. It’s all I
want…it’s all I’ve ever wanted for Christmas,” Saunders muttered, his face
smudged with dirt and smoke and dark as a chocolate moon pie melting under a
fierce Dixie sun. He began thrashing to
and fro, his muscles knotting and rippling in the pale lamplight that seemed,
to Doc, to bathe Saunders in a heavenly glow.
Kirby,
bruised and still battered from his mano-a-mano contest with a German Panther earlier in the day,
reached forward to soothe Saunders’ feverish brow.
“C’mon
now, Sarge, y’hear?” he
said, forgetting his own deeds of valor which certainly didn’t compare to being
hit a glancing blow on the shoulder by a crate of lacy ladies-wear toppling off
a factory shelf. “You’re gonna be all right, ya know? After all, we’ll get ya
home to yer women-folk if they don’t show up. That’s what we’re over in the ETO for. To help each other go home to Moms and
sisters so’s we can help ‘em
decorate for Christmas, with all our Purple Hearts.”
Kirby
reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and, despite the gaping bullet hole
in his left hand, twisted the lid off his canteen. Taking the blond noncom’s head into his lap,
he mopped the feverish man’s brow and then dribbled some water into the
sergeant’s mouth, grinning beatifically as Saunders lapped it up greedily.
“Oh,
Mom, Mom…I knew you’d come,” Saunders moaned pathetically. “You’re the only one who understands me. How’d I get into this evil war anyway? I don’t wanna be here,
taking care of all these men, having to be responsible for so many who I don’t wanna be responsible for…”
Saunders choked up now, unable to stifle his heart-breaking sobs. “My buddies who so innocently, trustingly,
and with big doe eyes look up to me…”
Saunders
continued to thrash around, tearing open the wounds in his glistening chest,
brawny arms, and rock-hard thighs.
Doc
gave Littlejohn a ‘Well, what’re ya waitin’ fer?’ look.
Littlejohn
reached his meaty hands forward to take Saunders away from Kirby and hug him
lovingly against his own bandaged chest.
“What’re we gonna do for ‘im,
Doc?” the gentle giant rumbled agitatedly.
“Ah
don’t know, ya big galoot!” Doc
wailed, clearly irritated. He
picked up and tried to drape the flimsy, blue nightgown back over Saunders’
broad, broad shoulders. “But one thang ah do know is ah wish one o’ these nighties came in a larger size.”
“Hey,
Sarge,” Kirby said quickly to Saunders, his own brow
furrowed now, nearly as deeply as Doc’s.
“You’re our fearless leader. You
know I’ll lose it completely if you don’t come out of it and lead us safely
home pretty damn quick!”
“Sarge,” Littlejohn rumbled gently, “what Kirby means is
that we all need you. We all…” Too choked up to continue he looked,
weepy-eyed, to Doc.
Doc,
wringing his sensitive healer’s hands, said, “Sarge, ya gotta stop bleedin’
from yer many wounds or ah don’t know how the rest o’
us’ll ever carry on.”
Billy,
young and fresh-faced, his cheeks still unfamiliar with the scrape of a GI
razor, his eyes still bright with the ignorance that only a man of such a
tender age could command, spoke up for the first dramatic time. “Gosh, Sarge! I think, probably, Doc is, yeah, he probably
really is, well, golly-gee, right.” He
wiped away the big, globby tears that were dripping
down his boyishly smooth face.
Littlejohn,
overcome by his li’l buddy’s wave of emotion, wrapped
a big paw around the youngster’s slender shoulders while still clasping
Saunders to his chest.
“Sarge,” he rumbled worriedly, “are you really gonna put Billy through all this?”
Saunders,
through the fog of his dreams of his emerald-eyed sister Louise sitting by his
bedside, stroking his feverish-yet-still-determined brow, straightened up in
spite of Littlejohn’s restraining embrace.
“Billy,” he gasped, the nightgown slipping off his shoulders again. “Billy?
Is that you? Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up! I’ll lead you out of this mess. I’ll lead you away from the Krauts!”
As
the squad looked on, amazed, their sergeant seemed, just via his strong will,
to rally. He pulled away from
Littlejohn, his formidable chest heaving, his washboard abs shining with
perspiration, his thick, blond hair a mane as wild and regal as any lion’s, forming
a halo around his pain-ravaged face.
Before Doc could get the nightgown back on him, Saunders reached for his
faithful Tommy and placed the beloved camo on top of
his head.
“C’mon, men! C’mon and follow me home!”
Doc,
Kirby, Littlejohn and Billy gaped as Saunders staggered to his feet, his
powerful body straining to overcome its weakened state. Rivers of blood cascaded down his sinewy
arms, heaving chest, and tree-trunk-sized legs, staining his pants and boots a
crimson, valentine-red. But somehow,
some way, that legendary will of his allowed him to carry on.
“C’mon, men! Aren’t you listening to me?”
Embarrassed
to be caught gawking with amazement and affection at their fearless leader, the
squad members all scrambled to their feet.
Straightening bandages, trying to pull their
wounded-but-not-as-badly-as-Saunders selves together, they brushed feathers,
sequins, and ribbons off their clothing and helmets and raised their guns.
“You
figure we oughta bury Caje
before we leave, Sarge?” Littlejohn rumbled
concernedly.
All
the men glanced over at the dead Cajun crushed beneath the crate of frilly
nightgowns. Never as
fortunate as Saunders, he’d taken the brunt of the effects of gravity and died
instead of his adored commander.
“No,
I don’t think so,” Saunders said, lifting his determined jaw and already fixing
his steely gaze on the grim adventures and missions that undoubtedly lay
ahead. “Caje
would’ve wanted us to go on and win the war and not waste time doing anything
about him.”
“Yer so raht, Sarge,”
Doc said, agreeing with Saunders’ uncanny wisdom. “Y’all jest seem t’know
ehvruhthang!”
“That’s
right, Sarge,” Kirby added, his worship of Saunders
soaring to new heights of admiration.
“You really do know everything.
Why waste time on someone who wasn’t doin’
much besides moanin’ at the end anyway?”
“Yeah,
Kirby,” Littlejohn rumbled brightly. “Caje wasn’t nearly as brave as Sarge
was when he was dying.”
“Golly,
Littlejohn,” Billy squeaked in agreement, “you and the other guys are so
gosh-dang right. So I just know, gosh
darn it, golly gee whiz, that Sarge is gonna win this war pretty much single-handedly and get us
back to the States.”
“That’s
right, men,” Saunders triumphantly but compassionately trumpeted. “So let’s get going, shall we?”
The
men nodded and, with grins as wide as Cheshire cats, fell in behind their
undaunted commander. They knew somehow,
some way, he’d get them home in time for Christmas. And with their pockets
stuffed full of French lingerie, none of ‘em could
wait to meet Saunders’ Mom and sister.
Getting
Caje to pull down that crate of nighties
might just turn out to be the best thing they ever did in combat.
DAS
ENDE