THAT WHICH REMAINS
The elderly man took the bunch of flowers from the front seat of his rental car. He closed the door and slowly walked into the cemetery.
Many small flags in bronze eagle holders fluttered around the grave markers, and there were bronze service plaques on many of the stones, including the one he was heading towards. Carefully, he squatted down in front of the grave and laid the flowers on it. Then he ran his fingers over the engraved lettering, tracing the letters of the name. His friend's family had opted to repatriate the body in 1946 when the Luxembourg military cemetery had been redesigned. This stone had been out in all weathers, including a number of tropical storms and hurricanes, since then, and the lettering was worn. No one remembers but me, and when I'm gone, no one will remember at all. He'd kept up with the family after the war, and the soldier's only nephew had been killed in Vietnam and left no children. There was no family left; no one to keep up the grave or his friend's memory.
The old man shook his head. It was true of nearly all of them. One by one, those who had survived had passed on, and other than his unit's medic, none of them had left children behind. He stood, slowly, and looked at the date on the stone: March 14 1945. For a moment, the present went away and he recalled the day …
xxx
The squad had stopped to take five, and Sarge sent Caje ahead to scout the intersection. The last thing the sadly-reduced group, which included the remnants of Second Squad, needed, was to run into Kraut armor. One day, Saunders thought acidly, I want the geniuses at S2 to explain how we can run a recon patrol deep into Kraut territory and not engage the enemy. It's like they think we can just go, "Hey, never mind us, pal, we'll just get out of your hair", and the Krauts will say, "No problem, meines freunden, go right ahead!"
Instead, it had been a bloodbath. The three new replacements had never stood a chance, Littlejohn had been hit in one arm and half of Second Squad had been taken out by a Kraut grenade. The rest were limping back to the main line of resistance, trying to stay ahead of the pursuing Germans. They were nearly out of ammo, so 'engaging the enemy' was a non sequitur. They couldn't engage a cotillion armed only with teacups, and they all knew it.
Caje ducked back into the grove of trees where the squad had settled. "All clear for now, Sarge. Assuming the MLR hasn't moved, we ought to be home in about twenty minutes."
Saunders nodded. He looked around at the men, who were uniformly exhausted. For once, even Kirby was too tired to gripe. He looked at Doc. "How's Littlejohn?"
Doc looked back at the big private and shrugged. "Okay - he'll make it."
"I'll be fine, Sarge, "Littlejohn interjected. "Don't worry about me."
"You better be, ya big ox," Kirby yawned. "I'm so tired I couldn't carry ya if Caje threatened me with his knife."
"You're in luck, Kirby. I'm too tired to threaten anyone." Caje grinned at his buddy.
"Let's get moving," Saunders said. "The faster we get back, the faster we maybe get some rest."
Kirby frowned. "Maybe. Until someone upstairs decides this man's army can't win the war without us out on patrol."
"Just think how nice it is to be wanted, Kirby," Billy stretched and picked up his rifle.
"Shut up, Nelson, or I'll take your helmet and make coffee in it."
Sarge shook his head. "Off and on. Let's go."
The squad rose up wearily and moved out.
xxx
The cold wind blowing through the cemetery brought the old man back for a moment. We were at – what was the name of that place again? Even then, it was hard to remember the names of the villages and towns the squad went through. Many times they didn't know them, and even when they did, it was a name in another language and they might remember them for a moment, no more. Now, a name reheard or in the news might bring back brief, sepia-toned memories; Baum died there, didn't he? Or, I think her name was Marie – memories of loss or of warmth briefly shared. Other towns were just spots on the map. After a while, one pile of bombed-out rubble looked like any other.
If he had just made it – the war was so nearly over. We had just gotten into Germany by then. He shook his head.
The incident itself was engraved in his memory. It was the only time they had lost one of those he had thought of as a core member of the squad, the ones who had been together so long and survived so much that he had been deceived into thinking they were invincible. Yes, they'd been wounded; they all had, and sometimes the wounds were serious. But they'd always survived and he'd thought they always would. Unnoticed, a single tear ran down his cheek.
xxx
It happened almost without warning. Somewhere behind them, a sniper carefully picked out his target and fired. He watched with satisfaction as the soldier dropped.
"Sarge!"
Saunders spun around at the cry, to watch in disbelief as one of his squad fell to the ground, mortally wounded. The others were flattened out, looking for any indication of the sniper's location.
He crawled to his squad mate. The man's eyes were glazing over in a way that Saunders was, sadly, had become more familiar with than he wanted to be.
Doc was already beside him, but the aid man knew too well that none of the supplies in his satchel was going be of any use. He shook his head, infinite pain in his eyes for the dying man and for them all.
"You stay alive, soldier! Do you hear me? That's an order, dammit." Saunders voice shook. He took his friend's hand.
Incredibly, the dying soldier smiled at Saunders. "Right, Sarge …" His voice tailed off; he took one last breath, and was gone, his hand slipping from Saunders' grasp.
Another shot rang out and everyone tried to flatten out even further.
"I got him." Anderson from Second Squad had a grim satisfaction in his voice. He raised his rifle, aimed carefully and fired. In the distance, a body in a German uniform tumbled gracelessly from a tree.
The remainder of First Squad was in shock. Each of them expressed their grief differently; the dead man's best friend rocked back and forth and pounded the ground in anger and grief, another, face set grimly, eyes hard as granite; a third reached out and touched the lost soldier's arm as if to convince himself that, yes, this was real.
"Sarge, we gotta take him back." It was Littlejohn, breaking into Saunders' thoughts. "We gotta. This isn't a replacement from repple-depple. We gotta."
"Littlejohn."
"No, Sarge, we gotta. I'll carry him myself."
Saunders looked around at his men. It sat wrong with them all to leave their dead behind, especially behind enemy lines where he might never be recovered. He gave one short nod and turned away, grieving.
xxx
The old man remembered vividly the long, sad trip back to Battalion and Hanley's shock and dismay at their loss. Kirby had been right, of course. There had been no rest for him and the others, no time to grieve. Yet another patrol had to be sent, information had to be gathered. The war would continue and more men would die.
There were days when he found himself looking for his friend, forgetting in the moment that he was no longer there. Replacements came and went, and the day finally came when they knew the war had been won. The squad cleaned up and talked about what they were going to do next, about sweethearts waiting and jobs to be had and reunions with parents and brothers and sisters. All of them excited and happy and anticipating their futures – all except one, of course.
He wiped away the errant tear and looked again at the tombstone. "Ah, it's not fair. I counted on you. I broke my rules and got close. I wanted you to go back and see if Micheline was all right. You were going to see France before you went home. I thought you might even stay there. I gave you an order … not the only one you ever disobeyed …" He smiled a little and then sobered. "But it's the one time I really wanted you to listen. I wish you could have." He closed his eyes for a moment, and then turned to walk away.
Back at the car, he turned and stood briefly, looked at the inscription on the monument and then got in and left.
PAUL GASTON LEMAY
February 22 1917- March 14 1945
May his death strengthen
that which remains
- 30 -