(Takes place after the tv series ends)

Saunders leaned his head back as the freezing late November air whipped through his hair. He glanced at Hanley. The man was almost asleep, with his frozen hands clasped tightly on his lap. The vehicle jolted to a stop, and several guys came crowding in, slapping Saunders' back and shouting in perfect chaos. He slid out of the jeep with a letter crumpled in his hands. The guys all eventually left the excitement of their Sergeant coming back for the more exciting prospect of family mail.

Hanley, standing up in the jeep, took a glance around the camp. A big hospital tent had been set up near some sad looking pines, and behind that rose a great field, and if he hoped very hard, he could see the Italian alps soaring against the white-grey sky.

After getting checked out and given the all clear with the usual warnings to "take it easy, Sir," and "no stunts Sarge," Saunders sat down against a crumbled well and carefully reopened the letter. His eyes found the words no different than the first time he'd read them. Mail wasn't easy to get now; this letter was from the first Thanksgiving he'd spent overseas, almost two years ago. There was still no end to the killing in the foreseeable future.

"Hey Sarge! Back from the dead!" he felt Caje's wiry hand on his shoulder, and for once, a grin covered Saunders' face.

"What're you doin' here? I thought you were back in a ditch in France!"

Littlejohn laughed, "You didn't hear?"

"Hear what?"

Caje's grin widened, "You're stuck with us, Sir!"

How about that? Saunders' mused in to himself. Can't shake 'em.

"I didn't hear anything." He took the cigarette out of his mouth slowly, squinting. "Who says?"

"General Ivory. Some bigwig in the states." Kirby appeared from nowhere, sporting the beginnings of a beard.

"Hey, Kirby! Look at you." Saunders got slowly to his feet, "Better burn that thing before Hanley does."

Kirby hit him squarely on the back, sending a shudder of pain through Saunders' ribcage. He fought doubling over with a tight grin.

"Doctors treat you good?"

"You mean nurses, Kirby?" Saunders's brushed off his pants.

Caje threw his head back with laughter.

"So," Littlejohn asked, "what were you doing in a mail truck Serge?"

Saunders' went on to explain that after his release from the hospital, the truck he was in got hit pretty bad, and they got split up. He caught an ambulance halfway to this camp, and when that broke down, he jumped in a mail truck, and they picked up Hanley on the roadside.

They squad's banter continued as they made their way to get some grub, and although it was dry and probably months old, it was the best he'd ever eaten.

The sergeant smiled. A thousand miles from where he should be- home- but right where he wanted to be.

…..

The next morning saw Saunders and the guys marching, or dragging their feet in a somewhat orderly pattern, down a crusty road through the Italian countryside. Three new recruits took the places of Billy, Brockmeyer, and the sometimes-present Hanley, who currently was already on his way back to France. All privates, and fresh off the train from the States, their eyes were wide and noses red under actively rubbing hands and frosty breaths. The sky didn't weep ice, but it seemed to cough frozen air over the squad and the whole land. The slush on the dirt road had frozen into frosty brown waves that cracked under stomping combat boots, with no other sound heard. Then hell hit.

The earth tumbled and all eight men fell into the ditch beside the road. Rifles came out and heads ducked down. Saunders' ice-blue eyes clenched shut against the showering dirt, and he glance down the road behind them. Ambulances. Almost twenty of them staggered along the road were pulling off and crashing, and above them, planes were dropping bombs right on their heads.

Saunders motioned for the guys to follow and they moved in sprints through the stone-sized clods of dirt showering around them. Saunders' let Caje take the first, and they moved further and further back, pulling dead drivers out of the driver's seats and occasionally sending bursts of gunfire to the sky. Caje floored it down the hill, with the rest of the squad following in the remaining mobile ambulances. Saunders approached the last on his belly, firing through the smoke and praying a thousand incoherent prayers. Part of the engine burst into flames, and he cursed, rolling to the side as ash and dirt sprayed in his eyes from another nearby hit. From under the ambulance he could see another mostly intact, and he went for it.

His swerving added to the growing vertigo he was experiencing, but Saunders' stomped on the gas petal as hard as he could. He didn't remember stopping until he was on the ground again, barely able to stand.