(2005) No infringement upon the rightful owners of "Combat!" and the characters thereof is intended.  This piece of fan fiction is for enjoyment only, and in no way will the author gain monetary profit from its existence.

Author's Note #1: This story contains dialogue involving derogatory racial slurs.  These are not used for mere shock value, but to make a point about racial prejudice.  I apologize for any offense they may cause, but I feel they are necessary for the story.

Author's Note #2: This story picks up where parts of my Fog Trilogy leave off.  If you've read those three stories, you can enjoy seeing how this intersects with them.  But you don't have to read them first  --  this one stands on its own too.

"Dying Like Men"

By White Queen

"And those that leave their valiant bones in France, dying like men, though buried in your dunghills, they shall be famed..."  -- King Henry V, Act IV, Sc. III 

 Littlejohn squinted as he looked out the doorway of the tent where he'd spent the night.  His hair askew, face unshaven, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight.  Clad only in khaki pants and a hole-riddled undershirt, he tried to remember where he'd put the rest of his clothes and gear.  He couldn't even recall falling asleep.  The most recent memory he could dredge up involved relinquishing Kirby to an orderly at an aid station.

"You're awake."

The voice startled Littlejohn, it came from so close by.  "Sorta."  Sleep still clung to him, slowing his reactions.

Saunders lit up a cigarette.  After a few pulls, he asked, "How'd you sleep?"

"I'm not sure."  The scent of the cigarette seemed to clear Littlejohn's head somewhat.  "Guess I musta been pretty tired." 

Saunders smiled a little.  "You could say that.  Caje and I had all we could do to lug you here."  He pointed inside the tent.  "Your gear's in the far corner."

"Thanks."  Littlejohn turned to reenter the tent, then stopped.  "Any word on Billy?"

"Not yet."  Saunders took another drag.  "But I figure if you and Kirby made it out okay, he could too."

"Kirby's okay?"

"He will be, soon as those doctors finish pumping him full of penicillin."  He gestured vaguely to his left.  "They got a chow line set up, so get some food when you're dressed.  Enjoy it while you can; we're supposed to move out tomorrow."  Saunders walked away.

*****

Once he'd eaten, Littlejohn wandered about the partly-demolished French village.  Hands in his pockets, he tried to absorb the sun's rays, storing them up so he'd have a good supply if the weather turned antagonistic again.  He could still feel the slight weight of Kirby's gold bracelet tapping against his chest as he walked.

He saw a few soldiers he knew, and many he didn't.  The platoon seemed to have acquired a lot of fresh manpower.  It wasn't until he'd reached the edge of town that Littlejohn found the one GI he'd been looking for.

Seated cross-legged in a patch of sunshine, his back to the remains of a stone wall, Caje was engrossed in sharpening his knife.  He caressed the blade with his whetstone, the fluid strokes forming a steady rhythm.  He gave no sign that he was aware of Littlejohn's presence until the tall soldier stood only a yard or so away.  Then he looked up and remarked, "You're awake."

Littlejohn sat down near enough so they could talk, but not so close he would impede the Cajun's knife-sharpening.  "I hear Kirby's gonna be okay."

Caje nodded, dark eyes focused on his work again.

Littlejohn frowned.  Caje seemed to be in one of his periodic silent moods.  And here Littlejohn had hoped to catch up on what the squad had been doing while he was gone.  "I take it you and Sarge got back okay.  From that forest during the rain."

Caje nodded again.

"I guess that's when you got those four new men, huh?"

"The next morning, yeah."  Caje tested the edge of his knife with his thumb, looked satisfied, and sheathed the weapon.

"They any good?  I didn't really notice yesterday.  Too focused on finding that log again, I guess."

Shrugging noncommittally, Caje stood up.  "They might be, eventually."

Littlejohn stood up too, but Caje simply walked away, leaving Littlejohn feeling slighted and lonely.  He couldn't imagine a reason for Caje to shun him.  Sure, he was probably worried about Kirby.  But Littlejohn was worried about Billy, and Kirby too, and it didn't make him want to avoid Caje.  If anything, it made him want to have someone familiar nearby.

"Hi there!"  A voice behind him interrupted Littlejohn's pondering.  He turned and saw two young soldiers approaching, waving and smiling.  At him.  He realized they must be two of the new guys.  Their names  --  what were their names?

"You're Littlejohn, right?" one of them asked, extending his hand.

Littlejohn noticed it felt strange to shake hands, part of a distant past.  No one did that anymore.  They might grunt hello, salute an officer if necessary, but shaking hands seemed an antique custom here.  "I'm Littlejohn," he acknowledged as their hands parted.

"Artie Harris."  The boy grinned.  "Figured you might not remember us; you didn't pay much attention yesterday when the Sarge introduced us.  Not that I blame you -- your buddy was in pretty bad shape."  Harris had dark curly hair, dark eyes, and well-tanned skin.  If he'd been slightly more handsome, he could have styled himself a Latin Lover.  But his round face and quick grin gave him a mischievous look instead.

With a quick tilt of his head, Harris gestured toward the soldier beside him.  "This is my pal, Warren Rosenberg."  As Rosenberg also extended a hand for Littlejohn to shake, Harris continued, "We met up at the Repple Depple just before we headed here, but it already feels like we're buddies from way back."

Rosenberg's hair was even darker than Harris's, but he had lighter skin.  Shorter and slighter than his friend, he remained quiet.  He seemed content to allow Harris to do the talking, only saying, "Hello," to Littlejohn.

"So I hear we're movin' out tomorrow."  Harris hooked his thumbs in his pockets.

Littlejohn nodded, "Yeah, that's what the Sarge said."

"Boy, that Sergeant Saunders, does he ever know a lot!"  Harris sat down on the stone wall, and Rosenberg followed his lead.

Littlejohn nodded again and remained standing.  He wondered if it was too early to go check on Kirby at the aid station.  That's probably where Caje had gone.

"Him an' Caje've been teachin' us all sorts of stuff these past couple days.  Stuff those bums back in boot camp never dreamed of."  Harris pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and gave one to Rosenberg, shook one out for himself, then extended them to Littlejohn.  "Wanna smoke?"

"No, thanks."

"Okay."  Harris lit his cigarette, handed the lighter to Rosenberg, and grinned.  "Best thing about the army -- free cigarettes!"

Littlejohn smiled.  How often had he rolled his eyes when Kirby said the same thing?

"So'd you get drafted, or'd you join up?" Harris asked.

"Drafted."

Harris chuckled.  "Us too.  Hey -- sorry if I'm too nosy!  I'm real curious, always askin' questions.  You ever don't wanna answer, you just say so."

"Okay."

"Warren an' me make a great team -- he never talks, an' I never shut up."

Rosenberg smiled and nodded, exhaling smoke through his nose.

"Man, I can't wait to move out tomorrow."

Littlejohn sighed.  Green recruits.  Always so anxious to fight.  And so few of them survived even their first encounter with the Krauts.  "Why's that?" he asked, impatient to go check on Kirby, but not wanting to seem impolite.

"Why, so I can kill some Germans!  Krauts, I mean.  Get this war over with!  Liberate the oppressed!  Spread freedom!"  Harris gestured expansively, his hands sweeping imaginary pawns from the chessboard of the world.  "Isn't that why we're here?"

Littlejohn closed his eyes.  He didn't even bother to try remembering his reasons for fighting anymore.  He'd landed in England, then Normandy, and acquired another little brother to look out for along the way.  Staying alive and not letting his buddies down -- those were his reasons now.  Harris's idealistic exuberance made him feel tired.  Old.  Reopening his eyes, he said abruptly, "It's great talkin' to you.  But I've gotta go check on Kirby now."

"Oh, sure!  Don't wanna keep you from that.  Hey, we'll see you later."  Harris and Rosenberg continued smoking there, perched on a ruined French wall, as Littlejohn walked away.

*****

Sure enough, Caje stood outside the aid station, arguing with an orderly.  As Littlejohn neared, he saw Caje spit angrily on the ground in obvious disgust and turn away.  Eyes narrowed in rage, he muttered vehemently in French as he stomped off.

Littlejohn hesitated.  Interfering with an irate Caje was rarely a wise idea.  Still, he had nothing better to do, and his curiosity overcame his caution.  He followed Caje, keeping a safe distance behind.

Caje continued his French tirade until he reached the edge of town.  Then he seemed to realize someone was following him, and whirled with the quickness of a cornered alley cat.  "Merde!"  When he realized it was Littlejohn trailing him, his face lost some hostility.  He switched to his accented English.  "That idiot wouldn't even tell Kirby I was there to see him.  Wouldn't tell me how he's doing, nothing."

Littlejohn nodded sympathetically.  "I figured."

"Wouldn't let you in either, huh?"

Littlejohn started to explain he hadn't actually been to the aid station yet, but Caje kept right on talking.

"Guys like that really make me mad.  Think they know everything!  Won't even let me in.  Or you, who saved his life!  And that guy knows we're the ones that carried Kirby in.  I saw him there last night."  He snorted.  "Makes me mad," he repeated.

"Me too."  Littlejohn couldn't think of much to say.  Caje's anger seemed to subside as he ranted, yet he remained edgy, pacing from one side of the alley to the other with quick, jerky strides.

"Good soldier like Kirby nearly dies, they won't even let his buddies see him."

"Maybe Kirby just needs to rest," Littlejohn offered.

"Nah, I know guys like that -- that orderly."  Caje sneered back toward the aid station.  "They get a little taste of power, suddenly they run the world.  But what has he ever done, eh?  Has he ever been wounded?"

Eyes flashing, Caje's anger built up again.  He paced faster, gesturing, vehement.  "Has he ever been shot?  Stabbed?  Had to leave a friend behind because there are Krauts trying to kill him?  No!  He stands outside his little white tent, he tells people when they can go inside and when they can't.  Well, what makes him so special, eh?  Why is it Kirby lying on a bed in there, shot to pieces?  Why isn't it that guy?  Or you?"  He turned those eyes, so sharp and accusatory, toward Littlejohn.  "Or me?"

"I don't know why," Littlejohn said, his voice flat.  He leaned against the gritty wall of some random building and folded his arms.  "I don't even try to, anymore."

Caje nodded.  "Yeah, it's easier when we don't think about it."  He stopped pacing, leaned against the wall too, and tipped his head back until it rested on the grimy stonework.  "Trouble is, how do we stop?"

"Thinking?"  Littlejohn shrugged.  "All I can ever manage is to replace one thought with another.  You know, think about something else.  Maybe a movie I saw, or a girl back home -- "  He stopped, sensing Caje flinch.  "What?"

"Nothing."  Caje pulled out a pack of cigarettes.  "Forget it.  Let's get out of here, huh?  Maybe if we find the Sarge, he can get us into the aid station."  Lighting up a cigarette, Caje pushed away from the wall and casually walked away.  Too casually, Littlejohn thought.  Something was bugging Caje, something more than not being able to see Kirby.

As they searched for Sgt. Saunders, Littlejohn reflected that it felt odd to want to visit Kirby at all.  Usually the mouthy B.A.R. man was dead-last on Littlejohn's list of squad members to spend time with.  A couple nights cramped in a hollow log trying to keep Kirby alive had changed that.  Or maybe the stories Kirby had told about his past had softened Littlejohn's attitude.

Littlejohn tried not to dwell on what Kirby had told him, respecting the privacy of those memories.  But he felt he would never again be so quick to chastise Kirby.  And he thought Kirby might not purposely provoke him so much anymore either.

They didn't find Saunders, but as they neared Lt. Hanley's CP, Littlejohn noticed the other two new members of the squad.  "Hey, Caje."  He pointed to the two, who stood together, deep in discussion.  "Maybe they've seen Sarge."

"Maybe."

When Caje and Littlejohn neared, the other two stopped talking.  "Chase, Summers," Caje nodded at each of them.  "Have you seen Saunders?"

Pvt. Ben Summers shook his head.  "Not since this morning."  With his blond crew-cut and athletic good looks, he was the type that recruitment posters always depicted.  Almost too nice-looking to be a soldier.  Almost too young too -- the kid looked barely eighteen.

Pvt. Clive Chase, on the other hand, looked at least twenty-five.  His dark brown hair was carefully combed to one side.  He looked ill at ease in his uniform, as if he missed wearing a suit and tie.  "Same here," he agreed with Summers.

"Okay."  Caje and Littlejohn started turning away to continue their search.

"Hey, if you find Saunders, could you let him know I want to see him?" Chase called after them.

"Why's that?" Littlejohn asked.

Chase motioned them closer.  In a conspiratorial tone, he said, "I just saw Rosenberg and Harris pass by an officer without saluting."

Littlejohn nodded.  "Were they outside?"

"Yes.  Can you believe that?"

"Look, Chase, we're pretty close to the German lines here," Caje explained.  He tried to sound patient.  "We're not supposed to salute officers when we're out in the open.  If we do, it could tip off a sniper about who's important."  He frowned.  "Sergeant Saunders already told you this."

"I don't remember that."  Chase frowned back.

Caje's dark mood wasn't improving.  "I was there; I know he told you.  Your first day, in fact."  He turned to Summers, who had moved away a little and lit a cigarette.  "Do you remember him telling you that?"

Ben Summers nodded.  "I do."  He glanced at Chase, who glared at him.  "He told us a lot of stuff that day though."  He shrugged and exhaled a stream of smoke.  "I don't know if I've remembered everything either."

Caje glared at them both, started to say something more, then changed his mind.  "Let's go, Littlejohn."

As Caje and Littlejohn walked off toward Second Platoon's CP, they spotted a familiar camo-covered helmet settled atop straggling blond hair that had grown far longer than regulations allowed.  But who ever had time for a haircut?  Sgt. Saunders was lucky to even shave once or twice a week.

"Hey, there you are, Sarge," Littlejohn greeted him.

Saunders flicked away the remains of a cigarette.  "You two filling up on hot chow and sleep?"

Littlejohn nodded.  "Tryin' to."

Saunders noted Caje's gloomy expression.  "What's wrong?"

Caje looked away and muttered something in French.

"We wanted to see how Kirby is, but they won't let us in," Littlejohn offered as explanation.

Saunders nodded.  "I see."  He tipped his helmet back and scratched his head.  "Let's see if they'll let me in."

*****

When the three reached the aid station, they found Caje's nemesis still guarding the entrance.  Saunders turned on his authority full blast.  "We're here to see Private William G. Kirby," he announced in a tone that made it clear he fully expected to be obeyed.

The orderly checked his clipboard, frowned, then shook his head.  "Private Kirby has been moved to the evac hospital."

Caje's jaw twitched.  "Why didn't you just tell me that earlier?" he growled.

The orderly shrugged.  "I might have, if you'd asked the right questions the right way."

Caje lunged past Saunders, seizing the orderly by his white coat and shaking him vigorously.

"Caje!"  The sharp tone of Saunders' voice was usually enough to stop his men from doing whatever they shouldn't be doing.  Caje didn't seem to hear him, but kept shaking the orderly and roaring French invectives.  Saunders grabbed Caje's arm and tried to haul him away from his victim.  The orderly's eyes were wide with fright, and his head snapped back and forth with every shake.

"Caje!  Stop!" Saunders commanded again.  He tried to pry one of Caje's hands from the white coat, but he might as well have tried to loosen a tiger's jaws from the jugular of its prey.

It seemed to Littlejohn that Sarge wasn't going to get anywhere trying to separate Caje from his victim just by pulling on his arm and hand.  So he calmly walked up behind Caje, grabbed him by his jacket collar and belt, and hoisted the Cajun off his feet and away from the orderly.  Caje's weight surprised him -- he looked so lean, almost skinny sometimes.  Must be all muscle.

As his feet left the ground, Caje went wild.  He tried to twist out of Littlejohn's grip, flailing his arms and legs.  Sgt. Saunders pushed the trembling orderly out of the way and stepped in front of Caje and Littlejohn.  "Caje!" he said quietly.  "Calm down."

Caje's writhing slowed, and Littlejohn gradually lowered him to the ground.  The fury drained from Caje's face, although his nostrils still flared with every breath.  "You just keep that guy away from me, Sarge."  He shook a menacing finger at the orderly, who hastily ducked inside the aid station.

Saunders nodded.  "I think we can manage that.  But how'm I supposed to keep you away from yourself?"

"Myself?"

Littlejohn had an idea of what would come next, and wondered if he could wander away without the other two noticing.  If Sarge was going to talk about whatever was bothering Caje, he didn't really want to be around.  It felt too much like eavesdropping, even if they were surrounded by a whole platoonful of soldiers.

"Something's been bothering you since the day we left that forest.  More than just Kirby and Littlejohn and Billy being lost."  Saunders didn't seem to notice as Littlejohn slowly edged away.  "Now, you don't need to tell me what it is.  That's your business.  But you do need to tell me if it's gonna keep you from doing your job."

Caje shook his head, fierce and determined.  "It won't.  I swear to you, it won't."

Saunders looked stern.  "Out there, these next few days, I need you to be one-hundred-percent.  I need you alert and I need you focused.  What I don't need is you flying off the handle because somebody annoys you, or daydreaming when you think you don't have to be paying attention.  Or going who-knows-where for hours at a time to brood.  Can you do that?"

Caje nodded.  "I swear it," he repeated.

As Littlejohn moved away, a familiar-looking medic smacked into him.

"Hey, sorry 'bout that," a mellow voice drawled, as the medic kept hurrying by.

"Doc!  It's me!"  Littlejohn lightly whacked the medic in the arm.

Doc spun around.  "Why, so it is!"

"You just get back?"

"Just this very minute."  Doc saw Caje and Saunders just finishing their discussion.  "Hey, Sarge, you mind waitin' around?  I gotta sign in here, and then report to you."  He jerked his head toward the hospital tent.  The white circle and red cross on his helmet looked cleaner than usual.  In fact, Doc looked unusually well-rested.

"Go ahead," Saunders nodded.

"Thanks."  Doc ducked inside the tent.

Littlejohn raised his eyebrows.  "I think being at that evac hospital agreed with him."  He decided it was safe to rejoin Saunders and Caje without feeling like an intruder.

Doc reemerged in a jiffy.  "Gosh, am I glad to be back.  I don't think I coulda survived any more hot showers, fresh chow, and friendly nurses."  He chuckled, then glanced around.  "Hey, where's everybody else?"

"Kirby's in the evac hospital -- " Saunders paused.  "Billy's missing," he finally finished.

Doc frowned, his eyebrows drawing together, forming worry-wrinkles above his nose.  "Kirby's at the hospital?  He musta arrived after I left.  What happened?"

Saunders shook his head.  "War."

"I see.  And Billy's missin'?  Kinda puts us under strength, huh?"

"We've got four new men."  Saunders checked his watch.  "Caje, Littlejohn, show Doc our billet.  I've got to be at Hanley's CP in five."

"Sure thing, Sarge," Littlejohn acknowledged, then informed Doc, "We thought you were never coming back."

"I wasn't gone that long," Doc protested.

"We heard rumors you'd eloped with some nurse," Littlejohn deadpanned.  He noted a momentary change in Caje's expression.  It reminded him of the way Caje had flinched earlier, and he began to wonder what might have happened in those few days he'd been gone.  Caje seemed awfully touchy about women suddenly.  Maybe that's what Saunders had talked to him about...maybe Caje'd fallen for a girl in this town and been turned down or something.  That usually happened to Kirby, but Littlejohn supposed Caje couldn't be entirely immune to romantic failure.

Caje's mood hadn't lightened by the time they reached the tent where Littlejohn had awakened that morning.  "I'll see you guys at chow time," he said, then wandered away.

Doc didn't seem to observe Caje's sour attitude.  He began unpacking his gear in the tent, and said, "To tell you the truth, Littlejohn, I did get pretty well acquainted with one of the nurses at that evac hospital."

Littlejohn started to smile.  "I thought you seemed different."

Doc looked up at the tent's ceiling and sighed.  "She has green eyes, and her name's Nan."  He looked over at Littlejohn and grinned sheepishly.  "Her hair's auburn, she smells like lavender, and she's lived in Bay City, Michigan, all her life until she joined the Red Cross and came over here."  He fumbled around in his knapsack, drew out a small snapshot, and handed it to Littlejohn.  "We swapped addresses just before I left yesterday."

Littlejohn studied the black-and-white picture.  It showed a dark-haired woman in her mid-twenties, with dimples and a turned-up nose.  She was laughing at the camera, and not in the fake "look-how-vivacious-and-carefree-I-am" way of laughing either.  She seemed genuinely amused.  Littlejohn couldn't help smiling, both at the photo and at the way Doc reached to take it back.  "She looks nice," he commented.  "And happy."

Doc nodded.  "I feel like a kid," he confessed.  "I can't stop thinkin' about her."  He pulled some writing paper and a pen from his knapsack.  "I think I'll write her a letter right now."

"Good idea.  We're moving out tomorrow."  Littlejohn walked to the tent door.  Doc was already so busy writing he didn't notice Littlejohn's departure.

*****

The next morning, Sgt. Saunders assembled his squad at 0600 hours.  "Everybody ready?"  He scanned the seven men clustered around him.  "You all draw ammo and rations?"

"Yes," they chorused.

"Doc, you get your supplies?"

"All I can carry."  Doc patted his medic's bag.

"We'll be moving out any minute, soon as Lieutenant Hanley gets here."  All around them, other squad leaders were checking their men too.  A few soldiers broke away from their groups and ran back to their tents or off to supply areas, hurrying to gather forgotten items.

"Hey, Sarge," Harris asked, "where're we headed?"

"To the south, back toward St. Lô."

All the men exchanged glances and moved around uneasily.  "I hear things ain't goin' so well down there," Harris said.

"What would you know?" snapped Chase, who stood on the opposite side of the group.  "All any of us hear are rumors.  Or have you been doing a little listening at keyholes?  Spying on the officers, maybe?"

"Whoa!"  Harris held up his hands, palms out toward Chase.  "All I said is I heard we've been gettin' clobbered down toward St. Lô."

"Alright, cut it out, both of you," Saunders ordered.  "I didn't say we were going directly to St. Lô.  King Company's been ordered to a place called Le Hameau."

"What're we gonna do there?" Harris asked.

"Shoot Germans, what do you think?" Ben Summers joked, trying to diffuse the tension Chase had created.

Lt. Hanley rode up in his mud-covered jeep.  Caje and Littlejohn exchanged smirks as Chase gave him a smart salute.

"What'd I tell you about not saluting officers out in the open?" Saunders snarled.

"Sorry."  Chase quickly dropped the salute.

"You ready?" Hanley asked Saunders, ignoring Chase.

Saunders nodded.  "Yes, sir."

"Then head out."  The jeep roared away, churning up the seemingly ever-present mud.

"Let's go.  Saddle up."  Sgt. Saunders led his squad out of town, and the other squads in Second Platoon followed.

*****

"You'd think the Army'd let us ride in trucks."  Harris shifted his rifle and looked over at Rosenberg, who trudged beside him.  "You know?  All those trucks they got, and we've gotta march through this slop."

Caje walked in front of them, skillfully avoiding the stickiest patches of mud.  "See any trucks on this road?" he asked, not turning around as he addressed the two men behind him.

"Just some jeeps," Harris admitted.

"Road's too wet for trucks.  They've got to wait for them to dry out more."

"If it's too wet for trucks, how come it ain't too wet for us?" Harris persisted.  "It don't seem like we're gettin' anywhere anyway.  If we're goin' nowhere, why can't we ride there?"

"This's the Army, not the Cavalry," Rosenberg remarked quietly.

Caje nearly smiled.  He moved around Summers and Chase, who marched in front of him, and fell in beside Sgt. Saunders at the head of the long line of grubby soldiers.  "I think we've got Kirby's little brother on our hands."

"Harris?"

"Yeah."

"There's always somebody."  Saunders walked along easily, as if the mud didn't bother him.

Caje avoided a particularly large mud puddle, then asked, "So what're we in for at Le Hameau?"

"We captured the railroad station there," Saunders answered, "but the Krauts still hold the town, and they're starting to retreat to the south.  We're supposed to try to cut off their escape route."

"I see."  Caje dropped back behind Chase and Ben Summers.

Ben Summers looked back at Caje.  "I heard what the Sarge said.  If the Krauts are retreating, why don't we just let 'em go?"

Caje shrugged, avoiding another large puddle of glop.  "The Army says 'go', so we go."

Littlejohn walked at the rear of the squad, also trying to avoid as much mud as possible.  It was good to see Caje in a better mood than the past few days.  Maybe the chance to get back into the war had somehow cheered him up -- Caje usually seemed happier when he was active, rather than sitting behind the lines and waiting.

Sgt. Saunders hadn't told them not to bunch up or keep quiet, and Littlejohn noticed that up ahead, Harris and Rosenberg were carrying on a friendly conversation -- or at least, Harris was talking while Rosenberg listened.  But neither Chase nor Summers seemed inclined to talk, either to Littlejohn or each other.  That gave Littlejohn plenty of time to think.

Except he didn't want to think.  If there was one thing in the world that Littlejohn was good and tired of, it was thinking.  And mud.  And rain.  And not knowing where Billy Nelson was.  And Krauts and bullets and artillery shells and pain and blood and danger.  And fear.  And marching -- he'd definitely gotten tired of marching.

Doc dropped back behind Summers and Chase until he walked next to Littlejohn.  "How's it goin'?" he asked.

Littlejohn shrugged.  "Just thinking how much I hate mud."

Doc nodded.  "I hear ya there!"  They moved along in silence for a bit, and then Doc asked, "So Kirby got an infection?"

"I guess so."

"Uh-huh.  But Sarge says you treated it with somethin'?"

"Yeah.  Moss."

"Moss?  What kind of moss?"

Littlejohn sighed.  He knew Doc was just trying to make conversation; Doc was probably as bored as he was.  But he really didn't want to think about what had happened during those rain-soaked days.  He'd just end up speculating about Billy's whereabouts yet again.  How he'd ever let himself start feeling responsible for the kid, he'd never know.  Hadn't that been one thing he'd liked about the army?  No more little brothers to watch over and worry about and be held accountable for.  Everyone in the army was their own man, responsible for their own actions.  At least, that's how it'd seemed at first.

Realizing Doc was waiting for an answer, Littlejohn tried to smile.  "Sphagnum moss," he replied.

Lt. Hanley's platoon camped a few hundred yards from the road that night, near two other platoons in King Company.  With orders not to make any fires, the footsore soldiers ate cold rations and spread their blankets on the soggy earth.

"I don't see why we couldn't have made just a little fire," Clive Chase grumbled.  "There're plenty of trees and bushes around for fuel."

"They probably think there are Krauts around, scouting, you know?  A fire'd make us into a great target."  Ben Summers flipped onto his stomach, trying to get comfortable.

"But without a fire, I can't read.  I always read a little before I go to sleep, you know that," Chase whined again.

Littlejohn was already nearly asleep.  "Shut up," he growled, knowing he'd pull sentry duty in a few hours.  Saunders and Caje were out on the perimeter now.  Lucky them -- they didn't have to babysit the four wakeful new soldiers.  Maybe he should sing them a lullaby.

*****

Lt. Hanley called his squad leaders together early the next morning.  "We're not too far from Le Hameau," he informed the men clustered around his map.  "The main body of Germans has left the town, and the other platoons are pursuing them to the south, toward St. Lo."  He tapped a lean finger on the oft-folded map he held.  "But Captain Jampel thinks we're special."

The two sergeants and one corporal groaned.

"We get to flush out the buildings in Le Hameau -- whatever's left standing, anyway."  He pulled out a smaller, newer map.  "This is the layout of the village.  I want two squads to a street, one on the right, one on the left.  Clear every building, and I mean clear them.  The Germans are holed up everywhere, and they're determined to hold this town to the last man."

Lt. Hanley pointed to the map.  "First and second squads, take this first street.  Third and fourth, take the second street.  I'll lead third squad, since we lost MacIntyre.  When both squads finish a street, bypass the one the other squads are clearing, and start in the next street."  He folded his map, glancing around his seemingly ever-changing group of squad leaders.  "Get your men ready to move out in thirty minutes.  We hit Le Hameau around oh-eight-hundred."

Sgt. Saunders slogged through the mud back to his squad.  When still several yards away, he began snapping orders.  "Gather up your gear!  We're moving out in thirty minutes.  Make sure you've got all your ammunition.  I'll inspect weapons in ten minutes."

Littlejohn and Caje rolled their eyes.  A weapons inspection?  That was the trouble with having all these new soldiers -- the Sarge had to hold their hands all the way, and Littlejohn and Caje had to help.

"And Caje -- have them clear this mess up!"  Saunders gestured around the group's sleeping area.  Bedrolls still lay rumpled on the ground.  Chase and Rosenberg were shaving out of their helmets.  Ben Summers had attached a small mirror to a nearby tree and stood before it, combing his hair.  "NOW!"  He turned on his heel and strode away again.

Caje had nearly forgotten he was still an acting corporal.  With Littlejohn back, it had started feeling a little like old times again.  "You heard the Sarge!" he ordered.  "Get moving!"

The four new soldiers leapt into action.  Summers yanked down his mirror and stuffed it into his pack.  Harris started rolling up his bedroll.  Rosenberg gave up on shaving and dumped his helmetful of water onto the ground.

Some of the frothy water splashed onto Chase's left boot.  "Look what you've done!" screeched Chase.  "I spent hours last night polishing these boots!  You filthy yid -- you've ruined them!"

Harris leapt to his feet.  "It was an accident, and you know it," he said, his voice barely calm.  "We're gonna be marching in the mud again in half an hour, so who cares what your boots look like?"

Rosenberg said nothing; he wiped out the inside of his helmet, then started stowing his shaving kit and other gear in his pack.

"I care!" Chase ranted.  "What if we have an inspection?  If Sergeant Saunders is going to inspect our weapons in ten minutes, he might inspect our uniforms too!  I, for one, don't want to disappoint him."  He pointed a trembling finger at Rosenberg.  "And he's splashed his dirty water all over my boots."

Ben Summers walked over to Chase and snatched up his helmet, also full of sudsy water.  He calmly dumped the water on the ground near Rosenberg, splattering his boots with mud.  "There, now you're even."  He winked at Rosenberg, then clapped the still-dripping helmet on Chase's head.  "Right?" he added, smiling innocently at Chase.

Chase clenched his fists and drew the right one back.  "You think that's funny, do you?" he bellowed.

"Alright, everybody knock it off!" Caje roared, stepping between Chase and Summers.  "Weapons inspection in nine minutes, remember?"  He looked Chase in the eye, almost daring him to throw a punch in his direction instead of Summers's.

Chase dropped his arm, relaxing his fists.  Muttering something Caje chose to ignore, he stomped away, water from his helmet trickling down his face and neck.

*****

First and Second Squads gathered on the outskirts of Le Hameau.  Sergeants Pryce and Saunders quietly addressed their respective squads, keeping their voices low enough that someone hiding in the street ahead wouldn't be able to make out their words.

Saunders rested his Thompson on his hip and leaned against the side of the first building on his appointed side of the street.  "Alright, listen up," he told his men.  "We're gonna clear the right side of this street; second squad's takin' the other one.  We'll split into two groups, and each group checks a building.  When you've got yours cleared, go to the next one up the street, and just keep leap-frogging to the end of the street.  And be careful what you touch.  You never know what the Krauts've booby-trapped."

The sergeant nodded to each soldier in turn.  "Chase, Rosenberg, you're with Caje, and you'll go first.  Then Harris, Summers, and Littlejohn, with me.  Doc, you'll start out with me, then go wherever you're needed."

Chase frowned.  "Sergeant Saunders?"

"What?"

"Would it be possible for me to go with you instead?"

"No."

Chase's frown deepened.  "Why?"

"Because I said so."

"Could I just talk to you a minute?"  Chase stepped closer to the sergeant, and his voice took on a wheedling tone.

Saunders shook his head.  "Let's go."  He moved to the edge of the building, and peered into the street.

Chase followed him.  "But, Sergeant -- "

Saunders turned back to face him, his eyes narrowed.  "What is your problem, Chase?"

Caje edged close.  "You know what his problem is.  He doesn't like Rosenberg."

The sergeant glared at Chase.  "I didn't ask you to like him.  You have to work with everyone in the squad, whether you like them or not, same as everybody else."

"I'd really rather not."  Chase looked away.

"Why not?" Saunders snapped.

Chase faltered.  "Because -- because -- "

"Because why?" Saunders insisted.

"Because he's a kike!" Chase burst out.

Saunders' voice dropped to a growl.  "Now you listen here, Chase.  You are going with Caje and Rosenberg.  You are going to help them clear those houses.  Whether Rosenberg is Jewish or Irish or Hungarian or anything else doesn't matter.  You got me?  He is a U.S. soldier.  You're supposed to be one too, so start acting like one."

Sgt. Saunders turned back to the street, looked around the building's corner again, then glanced back at the squad, with a particular glare at Chase.  "Alright, everyone, move out!"

*****

The first two houses they checked were clean.  Not physically clean, of course -- grime and dust covered everything in them.  Smashed furniture littered the rooms, along with the ruins of other everyday items.

The third house towered above the others; it obviously belonged to someone wealthy.  The bits of furniture had tattered remnants of expensive upholstery clinging to them, and the remains of a lovely painting leaned against a wall in the main hallway.

"We'll start at the top again, and work down," Caje instructed Chase and Rosenberg.  He led them quickly up the majestic staircase, pausing to poke his rifle into the open doorway they passed on the second-floor landing, just in case.  Once they reached the third floor, he scanned the five closed doors that surrounded them.

"What're you looking for?" Chase asked, curiosity bringing him out of his sulky silence.

"Attic."  Caje continued examining the hallway.  "Looked like the house had one, from outside anyway."

Rosenberg looked around them, at the five closed doors that surrounded the head of the staircase.  "Caje?" he said quietly, pointing to one door that looked a little smaller than the other four.

Caje walked toward it.  "Could be."  He motioned the other two to stand behind him, then stood to one side of the doorway, twisted the doorknob, and pulled the door slowly toward himself.  He whipped around into the opening, rifle leveled and ready for business.  When no noises came from within, he relaxed a little.  "Good goin', Rosenberg," he whispered.  "These are stairs."

A faint light filtered down from above.  The attic must have had a skylight or window of some sort.  "I'll search up here," Caje told them.  "You two start checking these rooms, one at a time.  Together."  He emphasized the last word with a hard stare at Chase.

"Right."  Rosenberg nodded.

"Leave this door open," Caje instructed as he began walking up the attic stairs.  "And remember, be careful what you touch.  Just make sure the rooms are clear, don't mess around with stuff in them."

As soon as Caje was out of earshot, Chase hissed, "We start over here."  He gestured to the first door to the right of the attic.  "You go first."

Rosenberg frowned, then shrugged.  His rifle at the ready, he put a hand on the doorknob, turned it, and pushed the door in quickly.  It crashed against the wall.  Chase followed Rosenberg inside, and they checked through the room, looking under an iron bedstead and inside a large wardrobe.  There was no closet.

When they felt satisfied the room was clear, Chase led the way back out into the hallway.

Up in the attic, Caje held a flashlight along the barrel of his rifle, using it to peer around in the cavernous gloom.  The attic was mostly empty, except for a tangle of old furniture along one wall and several trunks pushed against another.  Caje had just finished opening each of the trunks and was looking behind the furniture pile when a burst of gunfire below sent him racing back to the stairs.

In the house next door, the rest of the squad heard the shots too.  They sounded like a German Schmeisser and an American Garand.  After the initial outburst, however, all was quiet again.

"Doc, check it out.  They may need you over there," Saunders ordered.  "Littlejohn, you go with him; stay over there if Caje needs you.  Summers and Harris'll stay here with me.  Doc, report back as soon as you can."

"Right," Doc acknowledged.

Littlejohn nodded.  "Let's go."

When Doc and Littlejohn entered the other house, Caje appeared at the head of the impressive, elegant staircase.  "Doc!  Up here!"

Littlejohn wondered how Doc could climb those stairs so calmly, knowing that at the top of them lay yet more wounded men for him to try to patch up.  Oh, Doc hurried, that's for sure.  He never took his time about getting to a wounded man.  But Littlejohn felt certain that if he himself had to mount those three flights of stairs, knowing that at the top he'd have to staunch more blood, touch more mangled flesh, soothe more fearful soldiers -- if he had to do that, he just might turn around, run back down those stairs and out the front door, and never stop.  Saving lives seemed like a terrible responsibility.

Caje stood outside an open door on the third floor.  "They're in here."

Littlejohn could smell the blood and gunpowder, their sweet and acrid scents blending in an all-too-familiar way.  He followed Doc as far as the doorway, then stopped to take in the scene before him.

A dead German soldier lay on the floor in front of a large wardrobe, the kind you could hang clothes inside if you didn't have a closet.  He'd obviously been hiding in it, then slid out and onto the floor when he was shot.  The bullet between the eyes had probably killed him instantly.

Across the room from the wardrobe, Warren Rosenberg lay in a widening pool of his own blood.  Doc knelt beside him, the knees of his trousers soaking up some of the blood.  "Take it easy, kid," he crooned, pulling Rosenberg's shirt open to examine his abdominal wounds.

Littlejohn saw Doc's eyes widen, took a look for himself at the young private's stomach, and looked quickly away.  He would not vomit, he told himself over and over.  He had seen a lot of wounded soldiers, a lot of dying men.  He would not vomit.  If Doc could take this, so could he.

Bullets from the German's Schmeisser had caught Rosenberg directly in his midsection.  At such close range, they had practically cut him in half.

Doc closed Rosenberg's tattered shirt again, if only to keep the boy's insides from spilling all over the floor.  Unbelievably, Rosenberg was still alive.  Worse, he was still conscious.

"I'm a goner, right, Doc?" he managed to sputter, blood filling his mouth.

"Shh, you just get some rest, Rosenberg."  Doc couldn't bring himself to lie to the kid.

"Rest.  Sure, Doc."  Rosenberg took a shaky breath.  "Tell him -- "  He gagged, coughed up more blood.  "Tell Sarge I'm sorry."

Doc shook his head.  "I'll tell him no such thing.  You did good, kid."

Rosenberg coughed again.  "Then say 'goodbye' for me.  To…Harris…and the Sarge."

Doc couldn't find any more words.  It was all he could do to stop the tears that begged to spill down his cheeks.  No matter how many men died, each one was a tragedy.  Especially when there was no way he could ease their passing.  All the morphine in the world wouldn't work swiftly enough to blunt the pain filling this boy's final moments.

With one last wrenching cough, Private Warren Rosenberg died.  Doc reached over and tenderly closed yet another pair of eyelids with his blood-stained fingers.  Somehow, Doc's tears retreated.  He couldn't cry now, now that he'd be willing to.

No one spoke for a few moments; they barely dared to breathe.

Clive Chase, sitting on the floor with his back against a wall, broke the silence.  "Uh, Doc?"  He pointed at a hole in his left shirtsleeve.  Blood soaked the cloth, and dripped onto the floor.

Doc nodded, numbly picked up his bag of supplies, and moved over toward Chase.  He ripped the sleeve open, glanced at the wound, dug around in his pack.  "Just a scratch," he muttered, more to himself than to Chase.

"Just a scratch?" Caje asked, lighting a cigarette and moving closer.  "Oh really."  He stared at Chase, who couldn't meet the acting corporal's fierce gaze.  "You mind telling me what happened here?"

"Sure, Caje."  Chase tried to make his voice sound normal.  It trembled anyway.  "We were checking the rooms, just like you said to.  I opened up that wardrobe over there, and the German was inside it.  And he shot us.  So we shot him."

"I see.  'We' shot him, eh?"  Caje leaned over, grabbed Chase's rifle, and sniffed it.  "I think you mean Rosenberg shot him.  You haven't fired this today."

"Okay, yeah, Rosenberg shot him."  Chase winced as Doc started wrapping a white bandage around his arm.

"So how is it, if you opened those doors, that Rosenberg got the belly full of lead, and you just got a scratch?"  Caje's voice was level, almost conversational.

"Well, he sort of pushed me."

"The Kraut pushed you?"  Caje sounded amused, as if Chase were telling him a droll anecdote over dinner.

"No," Chase admitted.

"Rosenberg pushed you?"

"Yes."

"And Rosenberg shot the Kraut?"

"Yes."

"After the Kraut shot him?"

"I guess so."

"So what were you doing during all this?"

"Well -- I -- I -- "  Chase shrugged with his good shoulder.

"You froze."  Caje's eyes glinted.

Littlejohn stiffened.  Something in Caje's voice warned him that whatever simmered inside Caje might be ready to boil over again.  The way it had when he'd tried to wring a certain aid station orderly's neck.

"Not exactly," Chase denied.  "I was just a little scared…"

"A little scared?"  Caje mocked him.  "Just a little scared?"  He pointed a long finger at Rosenberg's limp body.  "Don't you think he was scared too?"

Doc, done bandaging Chase's arm, moved back to Rosenberg.  He pulled out the dead man's dog tags, snapped their chain with a sudden grimace of anger.  "I'll take these back to Sarge," he informed nobody in particular.  He left without another word.

Caje hauled Chase to his feet.  "Well, guess what."  He kept one hand clamped on Chase's shirtfront.  "You aren't done being scared.  You and I and every other sane person in this insane war are going to be scared every day, every minute until this thing is over.  Got it?"

Littlejohn observed that Chase looked plenty scared right then and there.

"Now the sooner you get used to being scared and find the guts to act anyway, the longer you'll live."  Caje pushed Chase away, back against the wall.  "Next time, someone might not be there to save your worthless hide."

Littlejohn moved away from the doorway so Caje could stomp through it.  Chase picked up his rifle with his good hand and followed.  Caje stopped at the head of the staircase and turned back.  "I know you're scared," he sneered at Chase, "but do you think you can do just one thing right?"

"What?"  Chase squared his shoulders, lifted his head.  Tried to look confident.

"Go back down these stairs and stay at the bottom of them.  Make sure no Germans come down them and leave this house.  Littlejohn and I'll finish flushing these rooms."

"I can do that."  Chase moved off down the stairs, relieved to escape Caje's wrath for the moment.

Caje turned on Littlejohn.  "And don't tell me I was too hard on him," he warned, eyes still glittering.

"Thought you went a little easy, myself."  Littlejohn nodded toward the next door.  "Want to start here?"

*****

Doc handed Rosenberg's dog tags over to Sgt. Saunders.  "Nothin' I could do," he said, sounding almost defensive.

Saunders nodded.  "Okay, Doc."  He peered at the tags, read the name imprinted on them.  "Oh no, not Rosenberg."  He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.  "The others okay?"

"Chase got a scratch, left arm.  Should be okay."

Saunders squinted, studying his medic in the dim light.  "Stay here on the stairs, Doc.  You'll know if we need you."  Doc looked unusually tired.  Especially compared to how well-rested he'd been when he got back from the evac hospital yesterday.

"Sure."  Doc sank down onto a step, leaning against the railing, his eyes already closed.  Maybe they wouldn't need him again today.

"Hey, Sarge?"  Ben Summers and Artie Harris poked their helmeted heads out of the second-floor room they'd just checked out.  "What happened over there?"

Saunders took a deep breath.  "Rosenberg got killed."  He avoided Harris' agonized gaze.  "C'mon, let's finish this house."  He shoved the dog tags into his favorite inner pocket in his jacket.

Harris made a low noise, halfway between a gasp and a cry of pain.  Summers grabbed his arm, pulled him along the hallway to the next room.  Sgt. Saunders headed up the stairs to join them.

Harris refused to go into the next room.  He planted himself firmly against the wall outside it and shook his head.  "I can't," he moaned, his eyes focused somewhere beyond Summers.

"You've gotta," Summers urged.  "Sarge said to keep checkin' the rooms."

"Warren's dead," Harris murmured.  "Warren's dead."

"Yeah, I know, but -- "  Summers stopped, realizing that the sergeant was behind him.  He turned, smiled apologetically.  "He don't feel too good, Sarge."

Saunders nodded.  "I know."  It looked like he'd have to talk the kid through this, at least a little.  He glanced at Ben Summers.  "You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Think you can handle checking that next room on your own?"

"Sure, Sarge."

"I'll be right here by the doorway if you need me."  Sgt. Saunders turned his attention to Harris as Ben Summers kicked in the flimsy wooden door.  "Harris, you hear me?"

Harris nodded, still staring off into nothingness.

"Look at me, Harris," Saunders commanded.

Slowly Harris focused on his squad leader.

"I know it hurts, Harris, I know."  The sergeant placed one hand against the wall that supported the grieving private and leaned forward, giving the conversation a bit more privacy.  "I know you and Rosenberg were pals."

"Yeah, pals," Harris repeated, his voice husky.

"But right now, I need you to set that hurt aside.  Just set it aside, where you can think about it later.  Right now, I need you here.  I need you alert and ready to act.  We all do -- me, Summers, Doc, all of us.  We have to depend on each other.  It's the only way we'll get through this.  So I need to know that when you go in one of these rooms in one of these houses, and there's a Kraut hiding in there, you're ready to do what it takes, to fire before the other guy does."

Harris nodded, just barely.

"Good."

"But, Sarge -- "  Harris gulped, tried to steady his voice.

"Yeah?"

"I only knew him for eight days.  Eight days."  Harris squeezed his eyes shut.  "They were just eight more days for me, but for Warren they were all he had left to live."  He took a deep breath, then another, and reopened his eyes.  He looked straight at Saunders.  "I'm ready to go."

"Good."

*****

Although it took the rest of the day to clear Le Hameau to Lt. Hanley's complete satisfaction, First Squad didn't lose any more men.  The other three squads were not so fortunate.  All told, the platoon lost six men, with three more wounded, including Sgt. Pryce of Second Squad.

In their last house on their last street, Caje, Littlejohn, and Chase managed to capture one of the Germans they flushed out, an older man who reminded them of their fathers or uncles.  He wept when they took his rifle away.  Whether the tears expressed sorrow or relief, the three GIs couldn't tell.  Littlejohn suspected they were a mixture of both.

The capture pleased Lt. Hanley.  It was more than S2 had dared expect: an un-hurt prisoner so frightened he couldn't stop talking.  Too bad no one in Hanley's platoon understood German.  The weary lieutenant sent the prisoner and the three wounded GIs back behind their lines, to S2 and an aid station, respectively.  Then he and his platoon settled down on the outskirts of Le Hameau, one squad on each side, and prepared to spend yet another summer night under the Normandy sky.

Artie Harris pulled Caje and Littlejohn aside when Sgt. Saunders was summoned to Lt. Hanley's CP after supper.  He led them away from their billet on the north side of town, far enough so that the others couldn't hear them, then asked, "How'd it happen?  I've gotta know.  How'd Rosenberg die?  Sarge won't tell me much."

Littlejohn shook his head.  "I wasn't there, you know that."

"Yeah, but you went there with Doc...never mind.  Caje?"  His voice was quiet, but tinged with dread.

"I didn't see it," Caje admitted.  "Rosenberg and Chase were clearing rooms together.  Why don't you ask Chase?  He's the only one who was actually there."

"Because I don't know if I'd believe a word he said.  He hated Rosenberg.  And he hates me."

Littlejohn frowned.  "Why?"

"Because Rosenberg is -- was a Jew.  And I'm a Mexican.  Well, half, anyway.  And Chase don't like anyone who don't look and act and sound exactly like him."

Littlejohn was surprised by how calmly Harris stated these things.  If someone hated him for something he couldn't help, like who his parents were, he didn't think he'd be standing around discussing it the way other people talked about the crops.  Then again, maybe Harris was used to this.

Caje nodded, agreeing with Harris.  "I've noticed that."

"He only tolerates you because you're acting corporal."

Caje sighed.  "Okay, you win.  What happened, as far as I can tell, is this: Chase opened a wardrobe that a Kraut was hiding in.  Chase froze up, so Rosenberg pushed him out of the way and killed the Kraut.  One shot in the head, dead center."

Harris winced.  "And the Kraut got him at the same time?"

Caje and Littlejohn both nodded.

"And Chase did nothing."

Caje shrugged.  "He got grazed by a bullet; sat there bleeding until Doc and Littlejohn got there."

Harris closed his eyes.  "I knew it.  I did."  He reopened his eyes, looked back and forth between Littlejohn and Caje.  "Was he -- was there a lot of pain?"

Caje shrugged and looked away.  "He died pretty quickly -- if he suffered, it wasn't for long."

Littlejohn nodded, confirming the half-truth.  "Doc didn't even have time to do anything for him."

"Thanks."  He started to walk away.

"Hey, Harris," Caje called after him, "don't do anything stupid.  Chase isn't worth spending a month in the stockade."

"Yeah, sure, thanks," Harris called over his shoulder.

Littlejohn and Caje looked at each other, worried.  "I haven't known this kid as long as you," Littlejohn said, his words slow, measured.  "But it seems to me he's headin' off to find Chase and have a few words."

Caje lit up a cigarette, inhaled, then blew two quick streams of smoke from his nostrils.  "I think you're right."  He tilted his head in the direction Harris had taken, back toward the empty town.  "Think we should follow him?"

Littlejohn shrugged, then grinned.  "You're the acting corporal.  And with Sarge still off talking to the lieutenant..."

Caje nodded.  "True.  And I'd sure hate for Harris to get in trouble.  He'll probably mess Chase up real good."

"Wouldn't want that."

"Nope."

A muffled yell echoed through the darkness, followed by many loud thumps and grunts.

"I suppose," Caje sighed, dropping the remains of his cigarette and carefully grinding it into the dirt.

"Yeah."  Littlejohn nodded.

They took their time finding the source of the scuffling noises.  They finally located the culprits behind an outbuilding at the edge of Le Hameau.  Harris knelt on Chase's chest, punching his face over and over, while Chase tried feebly to ward off the vengeful blows.

"Okay, break it up," Caje said.

While Littlejohn hauled Harris away from his victim, Caje yanked Chase to his feet, perhaps a tad rougher than might have been necessary.  "Do you two want the sergeant to hear you?"

"He started it," Chase mumbled, his bottom lip cut and swelling, one eye already shut and turning all sorts of interesting colors.  He pointed accusingly at Harris.

"I didn't ask who started it, I'm just stopping it."  Releasing Chase, Caje folded his arms across his chest.  "You two ready to behave now?"

"Yeah," Harris nodded, his own mouth bleeding but his voice triumphant.

"Yes."  Chase glared at Caje.

"Good.  Go clean yourselves up.  I don't want to see either of you anywhere near each other for the rest of the night.  Behave yourselves, and I might not have to report this to Saunders."  He gave Chase a little shove.  "Get going, soldier."

As soon as Chase had stumbled out of earshot, Caje turned to Harris.  "Feel better?"

Harris grinned awkwardly, wiping away a streak of blood from his mouth.  "I sure do.  Thanks, guys."

Caje shook his head.  "We didn't do anything for you.  You remember that.  Now go wash up before Saunders gets back and sees you like this."

As Harris walked away, Caje turned to Littlejohn, eyebrows raised.

Littlejohn shook his head.  "Don't look at me.  I'd've liked to've busted him one myself, after seein' what happened to Rosenberg."

Caje nodded.  He started to say something, but a loud shout behind them interrupted him.

"Caje!  Littlejohn!  It's me!"  Kirby bounced out of the darkness that filled the abandoned town.

"Kirby!"  Caje laughed aloud and grabbed the lean private in a sort of manly one-armed hug.

Littlejohn smiled.  Caje sounded genuinely happy at last.

Kirby pulled away from Caje, hand clutching his side.  "Ow!  Watch it!  I been wounded, ya know."  He caught Littlejohn's eye and nodded.  "Hey there."

Littlejohn nodded back.  "Hello, Kirby."

"They fix you up at that evac hospital?" Caje asked.

"Yeah.  I tell you, that place is somethin' else!  Nurses every which way you turn."  Kirby grinned.  "I tried to stay a couple extra days, but they said they needed my bed for some fresh wounded.  Hey," he looked around, "where's Doc?  I got somethin' for him."

"He should be over by our bedrolls.  C'mon, let's go find him."  Caje led, the other two close behind.

"Say, Kirby," Littlejohn said, keeping his voice low, as they walked together behind Caje, "I figure you want this back now."  He unbuttoned his shirt pocket, pulled out the metal bracelet, and held it out toward Kirby.

"Oh, yeah, thanks."  Kirby tried to sound nonchalant as he took the bracelet and clasped it around his right wrist.  "I kinda missed it."  He slid a sidelong glance up at Littlejohn's face.  "Uh, you know all that stuff about my past I said while we was in that log?"

Littlejohn shook his head.  "I haven't repeated a word of it, Kirby.  And I won't, you know that."

"Okay.  And thanks."

A sleepy Sgt. Saunders joined them just before they reached their billet.  "We're movin' out again tomorrow, searchin' for stragglers."  He noticed his newly-returned squad member and smiled, although the smile was as tired as his eyes.  "Kirby!  You finally got back."

"You know me, Sarge, always ready and willin' to do my duty!"  Kirby grinned.  "I miss anything important these last few days?"

"Oh, you know, the usual."  Saunders shrugged.  "USO show, free booze every night, milk and cookies every morning."

"Aaaannh," Kirby made his trademark skeptical sound.  "I know there ain't been no USO show here."

"Are you sure?" Caje smirked.

"Sure, this ol' nose can smell an American girl a mile away -- even after she's been and gone!"  Kirby tapped the side of his nose and winked at Caje.  "Besides, you'd'a kept a couple girls around for me -- that's what buddies are for, right?  You wouldn't let me miss out on all the entertainment."  He punched Caje's shoulder, grinning like a playful half-grown puppy.

Littlejohn saw that odd twinge of emotion crease Caje's face and figured it confirmed his earlier theory.  Caje was having woman trouble, or had had some recently.

Caje managed to smile.  "Right, Kirby, right."  He put his hands in his pockets.  "Hey, Sarge, who pulls sentry duty first?"

"You and me."  Saunders unshouldered his Thompson and nodded to Kirby.  "Good to have you back."  They moved off through the darkness, leaving Kirby and Littlejohn in awkward silence.

The silence didn't last long.  Doc spotted them and ambled over.  "Hey, Kirby, you're back."  He still looked tired and a little pale.

"Not of my own free will, I can tell you that much.  I don't know why you was in such a hurry to leave that evac hospital and get back up here -- I coulda stood a week or two more of that kind of medical attention."  Kirby licked his lips.  "Man-oh-man, there was this one girl in particular -- I only met her the last day I was there, but I will never forget her."  He slid a glance in Doc's direction, just to make sure the medic was listening.

Convinced he had his audience's attention, Kirby continued, "Was she ever a looker!  Red hair, green eyes, and this figure that just wouldn't quit!"  He winked at Littlejohn.  "And when I say 'friendly', you can just bet I ain't exaggeratin' none."  He sighed.  "I forget her name though…" he paused, then turned to Doc.  "Hey, you were there quite a while, weren't you?"

Doc blinked.  "Uh, yeah."  He looked worried.

"Meet up with any nurses that fit that description?"  Kirby shook his head in sorrow.  "I can't believe I forgot her name, after all she did for me."

Doc swallowed.  "Wouldn't be 'Nan', but any chance?"  He tried to sound casual.

Kirby grinned.  "That's her!  Nan.  Good old Nan.  Man's best friend."  He stuck his hand in his jacket pocket.  "Matter of fact, she gave me somethin' to remember her by."

"Like what?"  Doc sounded mad now -- and he rarely lost his temper.  But sure enough, those blue eyes glinted with anger.

"Aw, heck."  Kirby pulled out a crumpled envelope.  "I was just kiddin', Doc.  Nurse Nan only came over to my end of the hospital 'cause she heard I was from King Company and headin' back up here.  She wanted me to give you this."  He held the envelope out toward Doc.  "Sorry it got a little mashed up on the ride back."

Doc's easy grin slid back into place.  "I guess I knew all along you was just messin' with me."  He took the envelope, squinted in the gloom as he tried to make out the writing.  "Reckon I'll go find some light and read this.  Thanks, Kirby."

As Doc left, Harris returned, his face and hair still wet from trying to wash away the traces of his recent fight.  He held out his hand toward Kirby.  "Artie Harris.  You must be Kirby."

"That's me.  You in our squad now?"

"Yup."

Littlejohn added, his tone as jocular as he could make it, "He was tryin' to take your spot, Kirby, as chief loudmouth and fight-starter."  He wanted to keep this truce they'd worked out, but making snide remarks about Kirby was a hard habit to break.  Still, he hoped his former antagonist would know he was kidding.

Kirby shrugged.  "Well, sorry, Harris, but I'm back now, so you'll have to settle for second-loudest-mouth.  And if you start fights, I sure hope it ain't with this guy," he jerked his thumb at Littlejohn, "cause he'll pound you into mush."

"Naw, I know better'n to mess with Littlejohn."  Harris walked over to his bedroll and flopped onto it.  "Besides, I've had enough scrappin' to last me a day or so."  He lay on his back and put his hands behind his head.  "Or at least until somebody riles me up again."

Littlejohn found his own bedroll and lowered himself wearily onto it.  "You take my advice, Harris, you'll forget Chase for now and get yourself some sleep.  Your turn at sentry duty'll come all too quickly."

"Who's Chase?" Kirby asked, spreading out his own blanket by the others.

"A real creep," Harris responded.

"He kinda got a buddy of Harris's killed today," Littlejohn elaborated.  "So Harris thrashed him just now.  He should be getting back any minute."

Footsteps on the grass nearby seemed to fulfill Littlejohn's prediction but, instead of Clive Chase, Ben Summers materialized out of the blackness.  "Took me forever to find this place again," he explained to no one in particular.  "Geez, walk off to do a little business and it's so danged dark you can't find your way back."

"Summers, Kirby's back from the hospital," Harris announced.

"I take it he's the guy I almost stepped on?" Summers found his bedroll and sat down cross-legged on it.

"Yeah, that's me," Kirby confirmed.  "Holy cow, I'm gone for a couple days and they bring in a million new guys to replace me?"

"Not just you."  Littlejohn spoke quietly, eyeing the same stars he'd watched so often back home.

"Hey, yeah."  Kirby sat up.  "Where's Billy?"

"Still missing."  More than a week had passed since they'd all gotten separated in the fog.  Littlejohn knew he needed to give up on Billy, stop torturing himself with the hope that the kid had somehow managed to stay alive, much less evade capture.  All this worrying was his own fault for letting himself start feeling responsible for Billy.

"Oh."  If Kirby had any intention of saying anything else, it was circumvented by the reappearance of Chase.

"You'd think they could have put us a little closer to the town," he grumbled.

"It's only a hundred yards away," Kirby retorted.

"Who're you?"  Chase carefully picked his way through the others until he reached his own bedroll.

"Private William G. Kirby, at your service."  After giving an elaborate salute, he lay down.

"Oh, the guy who got shot.  We helped carry you out of that godforsaken forest."

Littlejohn shook his head, remembering that all Chase had carried out of the forest was what he'd carried in: his rifle.

"Yeah, thanks.  You must be Chase."  Kirby squirmed about on the lumpy ground, trying to find a sleeping position that didn't hurt his still-healing wound.

"I take it you've heard of me.  I suppose somebody was shooting off their big mouth as usual."

"Naw."  Kirby shifted some more.  "Unless you mean Littlejohn namin' off the new personnel to me just now.  Been a long time since this squad got more'n one or two replacements at a time."

Chase seemed to have tired of the subject.  "Why can't we have a fire again tonight?" he asked the empty darkness.  "That makes two nights in a row I couldn't read before I go to sleep."

Harris made a sarcastic noise, a cross between a laugh and a disgusted snort.  "All you ever read is those Edgar Rice Burroughs books anyway."

"What's wrong with them?" Chase growled.

"I'll tell you what: you've read one, you've read 'em all," Harris shot back.

Littlejohn sighed.  He'd let them yammer for about two minutes before he threatened to shut them up for good.  He definitely needed sleep after all the house-clearing that day, and with a fun-filled day of straggler-hunting ahead.

"That's not true.  I've read nearly every book he's written so far, and they're all quite different."

"Okay, sure, whatever."  Harris snort-laughed again.

"They are!"

"Right.  Okay, since you can't read your precious E. R. Burroughs book tonight, how's this?  I'll summarize it for you."

"You don't even know which one I'm reading now," Chase protested.  "I finished The People that Time Forgot three nights ago and started a new one when you were on sentry duty."

"I think I can tell you how it goes anyway.  There's a hero, he ends up in some strange place.  He doesn't know how to do anything in this new world, but he learns real quick.  He picks up the new language with the help of a pretty young woman.  He thinks she's a savage, just a kid not worth noticin' other than as a helpful and trusty guide.  Then he ends up savin' her life, and she saves his, and suddenly they're in love.  They defeat some evil creatures, the girl nearly dies, but they're reunited at the end."  Harris snickered.  "Sound about right?"

Littlejohn couldn't help laughing.  "That's perfect, Harris.  I read about ten of those when I was a kid."

"Me too!" agreed Ben Summers.  "Chase, you've gotta admit, they're all like that."

"Fine, a few of them follow that basic plotline," Chase huffed.  "Still, they're very inventive."

"Yeah, they're fine literature all right.  Ideal readin' matter for a college boy," Harris sneered.

Chase sat up.  "What is your problem, Harris?  Is this still because of Rosenberg?  You know, it's not my fault he's dead!"

"Oh really?"  Harris sat up too.

"You weren't even there!  You don't know how it happened!"

"I know Warren is dead and you're not."

"So that makes it my fault?  Just because I'm alive, you think it's my fault?"

"Could be."

"Well, what about Caje?  He's still alive too!  Does that make it his fault Rosenberg died?  Or you -- you're alive.  Or Summers, or Littlejohn.  Or Doc, or Sergeant Saunders.  Is it their fault too?"

"Look, all I know is, Warren Rosenberg was a good soldier."

"You're saying I'm not?"

Harris didn't respond.

"You think just because you made friends with some Jewish kid, that makes you a saint?"

"No, Chase, I don't think that makes me a saint.  I think it makes me a human being."

"Why you lousy little spic!  I oughtta -- "  Chase jumped up from the ground and started toward Harris.

Littlejohn stood up, too, and blocked Chase's path.  "Okay, that's enough," he said.  "You can finish this in the morning if you need to, but not now.  I hear one more word out of either of you, and you're gonna have trouble talking for the next few days.  Got it?"

Chase seemed to realize it would be foolish to argue.  He lay back down and glared in Harris's general direction through the darkness.

"Boy, am I glad to be back," Kirby muttered.

*****

Daylight arrived, right on schedule.  There'd been enough sunshine and warm weather in the past two days to dry the roads out a little.  Littlejohn thought it was a pity they wouldn't get to use those nice, non-muddy roads.  No, they had to push through the hedgerows and fields to the south, searching for retreating Germans.

Lt. Hanley called his entire platoon together as soon as it was light.  "We'll be working in two teams," he told them.  "Sergeant Saunders and Corporal Kimble will lead First and Second Squads, since Sergeant Pryce's been wounded.  They'll support the tank."  He smiled at the low murmur this announcement created.  "Yes, I said 'tank'.  We've got one, and it's a Rhino.  I'll take Third Squad again, and we'll protect the flanks and rear with Fourth Squad.

"Some of you have worked with tanks before, but some of you haven't, so here's what'll happen: the Rhino smashes through a hedge and drives through the gap.  Then Saunders and Kimble, you'll lead your men through the gap, and fan out.  Watch for landmines and snipers, but mostly we're trying to flush out and capture any stragglers.  Capture when possible, kill if necessary."

Hanley glanced around his platoon.  "Questions?"  No one spoke, so he concluded, "Right.  Get some chow, and we'll move out at oh-seven-thirty."

*****

Breakfast consisted of runny scrambled eggs, blackened toast, and chewy sausage.  And lots of coffee, of course.  Ben Summers sat next to Kirby and Doc and offered to trade his sausage for their toast.  Caje moved away from the others and sat with his back to an abandoned farm cart.  He pulled a crumpled piece of V-mail from his pocket and smoothed it out on his knee.