Part 1: Casualties of War - 48-Hour Passes Chapter 1 You go your way, a combat! fanfic

No infringement on the rights of the owners of "Combat!" is intended. This story is for the enjoyment of "Combat!" fans only, not for any monetary profit by the author.

Thanks to JML for proofreading and to Susan Rodriguez for beta reading.

Casualties of War

Part 1: 48-Hour Passes

By: Queen's Bishop

The story begins two days after the end of 'Far From the Brave' (a).

Indicates dialogue is in French or German, depending on the character.

Chapter 1 – "You go your way…"

Grady…is…dead…

Every footfall pounded the message into Saunders' tired brain.

Grady…is…dead…

At first, he had just been numb. Then, he was angry…with Hanley, with Kirby, with the new guy, Delaney, with everyone. He was able to forget for a few terrifying minutes as they ran for their lives to escape from the Krauts who had them trapped and from their own artillery. But, Delaney got killed, and the numbness returned. He tried to fight it. Yesterday, when they went out on this reconnaissance patrol, when all of his senses were on high alert, he was able to forget. But now, returning from the mission, the numbness had returned.

Saunders and Long had been friends since Advanced Infantry Training. From their first experience in combat in North Africa through the fighting in Italy and now in France, it was Grady he had relied on to keep him sane in a world gone insane. Grady, who always had a ready laugh and who inevitably could make him laugh, too.

Even when one of them had been wounded and assigned to a different company upon their return to the front, they had always, somehow, managed to keep in contact. It had seemed like a miracle when Grady ended up, not only in King Company, but in his squad. Now, he cursed that day. Now, their friendship had come to an end because…

Grady…is…dead…

The squad was stretched out behind him. Ordinarily, there would be some light-hearted banter once they got close to their own lines. Today, however, there was only silence, or the occasional short-tempered comments made by men who were not only physically, but also mentally exhausted from so many days at the front.

He knew he should talk to Hanley about getting some time off for the squad. Even a 24-hour pass would be a welcome relief. But, he just couldn't muster the energy because…

Grady…is…dead…

Littlejohn kept his head down and just concentrated on putting one weary foot in front of the other. His body was not the only thing that was tired. He was tired of listening to Billy's seemingly endless chatter. He knew it was his young friend's way of dealing with the stress that comes with being a soldier on the front lines, but, right at that moment, the big man only wanted peace and quiet.

He remembered the peace and quiet from before, when he was back home and out in a field, working by himself. He remembered stopping to wipe the sweat from his brow and then pausing to listen to the sounds of nature, sounds that were more pleasing to his ears than any man-made noise, except maybe the purring of the family's well-tuned tractor or his ma calling him in for supper.

He ran his arm across his sweaty brow. Billy started to say something, but Littlejohn turned and scowled, causing Nelson's words to trail off.

Billy knew he talked too much, asking questions when he should just keep quiet and figure out the answer. And, he knew he could figure most things out, if he would just stop and think. Asking instead of thinking was what a kid did, and he wasn't kid anymore.

Although, he knew that if he hadn't been drafted into the Army and sent to fight in France, he sure wouldn't be the mature nineteen year old he was expected to be, not yet anyway. He would still be a kid, goofing around with his friends and his little brother, Tommy.

He heard Kirby chuckle and knew the BAR man was laughing at him. He turned around and glared at him.

Kirby had to laugh at the kid. How could anyone be as immature as Nelson? Not him, that was for sure. He had been out on the streets of Chicago since he was in short pants, scrounging for money to help support his family from the time his old man had walked out on them. Ol' William G. had learned early the first rule of survival, take care of number one. And, now that he had the BAR, he was going to be able to do just that.

Not that he was glad Long had bought it, but, since he did, it was only right that Saunders had finally given the BAR to him. The Sarge should never have given it to that cook's helper, Delaney, in the first place. After all, he had been Long's ammo carrier. He lovingly caressed the weapon.

'Now, if I could only find me a poker game with some easy pickin's, an' a nice bottle of cognac, an' maybe a mamozell to sit on my lap, I'd be one happy man,' he thought.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Doc looking at him and shaking his head.

The medic couldn't figure out why Kirby was so eager to have the BAR. To him, it was just another weapon that could rip a body apart. Doc had seen too many young men with ripped apart bodies. Sometimes, he wanted to scream at the insanity of it all. Instead, he just kept his head down and continued trying to stop the bleeding here and sprinkle sulfa there. But mostly, it seemed to him, his job was to try to comfort men who were even younger than he was so they didn't die scared and alone.

And, he was tired of it. Tired of seeing the pain and fear in their eyes, tired of hearing them cry out for their mothers, and tired of rushing to them when they had been shot, rolling them over, and looking into their dead eyes.

He heard the replacement, Baker, cough. He turned around and frowned. Yes, he was damned tired of replacements making dumb mistakes that got themselves or someone else killed.

Albert Baker looked at Doc and wondered what he had done wrong now. At first, he had felt welcomed into the squad by everyone, including the sergeant. He had been nervous, and he knew he made a couple of mistakes on the mission. But, nothing had gone seriously wrong. However, ever since they started back, it seemed as if a dark cloud had descended over the squad.

He thought he might talk to the scout when they got back and get some help with his 'soldiering skills' because he admired the way the Cajun moved. But, after some thought, he decided against it. Caje hadn't said two words to him since he joined the squad. Maybe Braddock… He turned around to say something, but Braddock, at the end of the line, was walking backwards. Baker sighed as he turned back around and continued moving forward.

Braddock heard the sigh and turned around. He almost said, "Hey, Baker, are we borin' ya?" but decided at the last minute not to. With the mood Saunders was in, he might just put the whammy on his request to become the permanent company runner.

He had heard about the opening when he went to pick up the radio for the previous mission, and he put in for it right away, before it became common knowledge in the platoon. Lt. Hanley had already approved his request and sent it on to Cpt. Jampel, but still, better not take any chances.

He closed his eyes and imagined it. No more digging foxholes or walking for hours in the rain, just riding around in a jeep delivering messages back and forth to battalion, or maybe driving the brass around…just a regular nine to five job…the sweet life!

'Braddock," he thought, 'ya just need to keep your big mouth shut…if ya can…an' not draw attention to yourself, an' soon ya'll be one lucky dogface.'

Up on point, Caje continued to scan their surroundings for any Krauts who might have wandered close to the American lines. He was glad he was separated from the rest of the squad. He had felt the tension at their last break, when Saunders took security and he had gone back to sit next to Kirby. For ten minutes, not a word had been spoken by anyone.

The Cajun didn't blame the sergeant. He knew Saunders and Long had been close. When Long first joined the squad, Caje had resented him, as well as his and the sergeant's easy-going camaraderie. It had reminded the scout too much of his own friendship with Theo (b). His resentment, however, had quickly turned to envy. They had something he had lost forever.

Now, he, of all the men in the squad, was the one who understood how much the NCO was hurting. He had felt the same way after Theo was killed on D-Day. He knew it well, that feeling of numbness where you just go through the motions of living. Except, back then he had been just a green private. Saunders was their sergeant, and as much as he was suffering from the loss of his friend, Caje knew the Sarge had to get back to leading the squad, or they would all be in trouble.

Lt. Hanley looked at his watch as he spotted First Squad returning from their overnight reconnaissance mission. It was already 1400. He had expected them back at least two hours ago.

'Things will be tight, but it will still work out.' he told himself.

He pulled in his long legs and pushed himself up from the crate he was sitting on. He went outside and watched as the men approached the CP. They looked as tired as he felt.

"I expected you back this morning. Did you run into trouble?" Hanley asked.

Saunders only shook his head. He turned to dismiss the squad before giving his report, but the lieutenant spoke first.

"Caje, Kirby, Littlejohn, Nelson and Doc…I've got 48-hour passes for you, but your transportation leaves in thirty minutes. Baker, you just got here, so you stay. Braddock, you need to decide. Join the rest of the squad for a little R&R or continue on and report to Cpt. Jampel as the new company runner. What's it going to be?"

The rest of the men gawked at Braddock.

"Company runner…" Kirby exclaimed. "Are ya nuts, Braddock? That's gotta be the worse job in the outfit."

Caje looked equally surprised and shook his head in disbelief. "You will end up like Dawes," he stated.

"Braddock, you know what the company runner does, don't you?" Saunders asked.

"Sure, Sarge. He delivers messages from the company to battalion HQ."

"An' in the middle of a battle…"

Hanley interrupted, "What's it going to be, Braddock. We haven't got all day."

The pudgy, funny man looked at his squad mates. They were all emphatically shaking their heads 'NO!'

'Maybe they want the job, now that they know about it,' he thought.

"I'm your man, Lieutenant, Sir," he quickly said as the rest of the men groaned in dismay.

"Alright…you men are dismissed. Be ready to go at 1430."

Saunders could only give a tired sigh as he followed Hanley back to the CP. Once inside, the lieutenant sat back down on his crate, pulled out his cigarettes and offered one to the NCO as he prepared to hear the report on First Squad's mission.

The sergeant took the offered smoke, but didn't light it. Instead, he pulled out his map and indicated the route the squad had taken and what they had observed.

"It looks like a Kraut build-up here," he said, pointing to the little village of Molineaux, "but we didn't see any armor; in fact, no vehicles of any kind."

"Alright, I'll let S-2 know. What held you up?"

"It was just slow going, Lieutenant. The men are beat."

"And you, how are you doing?"

The NCO knew what he was referring to, but he didn't address the lieutenant's real concern. "I'm tired, like the rest of the men. It will be good to get a couple of nights of uninterrupted sleep."

Hanley studied his friend in silence, trying to decide whether to ask him directly about the toll Cpl. Long's death had taken on him. But, in the end, he chose not to pursue it since Saunders didn't seem to want to talk about it. Instead, he pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to the sergeant.

"That's the address for the Hotel Paris. It's not much, but it beats the tents in the bivouac area. Ask for Monsieur Milbert, and tell him I sent you," he said with a grin.

"Okay, thanks, Lieutenant."

Saunders' smile didn't extend beyond the corners of his mouth. He slung his Tommy gun over his shoulder and left his friend to ponder if forty-eight hours would be enough for the sergeant to pull himself out of the deep, dark emotional hole he was in.

Once outside, Saunders lit the cigarette and wondered the same thing.

"Braddock, this has gotta be the dumbest thing ya ever done," Kirby said for the fourth time.

As he had after each of the previous three statements, Braddock just smiled and replied, "Kirby, I'll wave to ya as I drive by in my jeep."

Billy quietly asked, "Littlejohn, isn't it pretty dangerous to be the company runner?"

The big private sighed and answered the question with a question. "Billy, how many runners have there been since you joined the squad?"

"Well, there was Rodriguez…and then O'Connor for a couple of days…and then Dawes ..." Billy could have kicked himself. He should have figured out how dangerous it was and not asked.

If Braddock was having second thoughts, he kept them to himself. He packed his duffle bag while the rest of the men hurriedly got themselves cleaned up. At 1430 they pushed and shoved each other as they climbed the cellar stairs of their current billet and clambered aboard the deuce-and-a-half that would carry them to two whole days of R&R.

When the First Squad sergeant joined Cpl. Brockmeyer in the cab, they got underway. They were heading back over territory they had only recently liberated from the Krauts, to the village of Berot.

It was raucous in the back of the truck as the men continued to harass Braddock for the choice he had made. It wasn't until the vehicle slowly came to a stop in front of a pair of MPs that Saunders hollered back and told them to shut up. Then the NCO leaned out the window to speak with one of the sentries.

"Sergeant, let me see your passes. How many men ya got an' how long ya stayin'?"

The NCO handed him the passes. "There're six of us for forty-eight hours. The other two are continuing on to company HQ."

The MP handed the passes to his partner and then said, "Okay, the six get out here."

Saunders lowered the tailgate and again there was pushing and shoving as first Caje jumped down, followed by Doc, then Kirby and Littlejohn. Braddock also got out, but he joined Brockmeyer in the cab.

"Hey, what did you do with my knapsack?" Billy shouted.

The BAR man grinned.

"Look under the bench where Littlejohn was sitting," yelled Doc.

"Nelson, get out here. NOW!" Saunders hollered.

Billy quickly grabbed his pack and jumped down. He sheepishly took his place in the line that had formed in front of the burly MPs.

One of them addressed the men. "The bivouac area is about a quarter mile down the path. Ya can pick out a cot an' drop off your gear, but don't leave nothin' of value. From there, all the paths lead into town. The bars shut down at midnight. Keep outa trouble or you'll be spendin' your time restin' an' relaxin' in the stockade."

The other MP turned to Saunders and added, "Keep 'em in line, Sergeant," as he handed back the passes.

Saunders turned to his men. "Alright, listen up. Here are your passes. You've got forty-eight hours. Meet back here at 1400 the day after tomorrow, an' don't be late. An' don't come looking for me to get you outa any trouble you get yourselves into."

"But, Sarge, suppose it isn't our fault," Billy said.

Kirby, Littlejohn, Caje and Doc all rolled their eyes.

Saunders took two steps toward Billy and got right in his face. He started off speaking quietly. "Nelson, the only time I want to hear about you for the next forty-eight hours is if you get yourself killed. An' if you're dead, I can't do anything about it, so DON'T BOTHER me. YOU GOT IT!"

Billy stammered, "Yyyyes, Sir," as the other men exchanged somber glances.

The NCO slung his knapsack over his left shoulder and the Thompson over his right as he headed into the village without a backward glance.

The rest of the men waited until their sergeant was well down the road before picking up their packs.

Brockmeyer turned the truck around, and, as it pulled away, Braddock stuck his head out the window and yelled, "SEE YA AROUND, MUD EATERS!"

"DON'T COME CRAWLIN' BACK, YA DUMB IDIOT," hollered Kirby, but the only thing left of the truck was a cloud of dust. He turned to his squad mates. "I'm with the Sarge," he said. "I don't wanna see none of ya 'til 2 o'clock the day after tomorrow. So, you go your way an' I'll go mine." He headed down the path to drop off his gear.

"That suits me just fine," said Littlejohn as he took off with long strides heading directly for the town. He wanted to avoid running into Kirby, so he thought he would look around before going to the bivouac area and dropping off his gear.

Billy was about to call to his pal and run after him, but instead he just stood there, watching Littlejohn disappear down the road. Caje didn't say a word as he started down the path. Doc shrugged. He wasn't about to leave his rucksack anywhere, so he headed toward the village, leaving Nelson alone with the two MPs.

One of them chuckled and said, "Ya got yourself a real friendly squad, kid."

Billy spun around and sputtered, "I'm not a kid!"

Berot had been a busy market town of several thousand people before the war. It sat beside a river and was at the intersection of the two major roads in the area. Because of this, it had been a sought-after prize by the Allies. Thus, although it had withstood the ravages of a number of wars over the centuries, this time there had been considerable damage.

The Germans occupied the village, as they had for the previous four years, when the Americans advanced from the opposite side of the waterway. Berot was subjected to heavy shelling until, finally, American armor and infantry had poured across the two bridges that spanned the river. The Germans had delayed too long before attempting to blow them up.

Many of the buildings in the village had been destroyed or damaged beyond repair in the shelling and the street by street fighting which took place before the Germans were finally dislodged. The Krauts' last act before withdrawing was to shell the bridges to finally destroy them.

However, they were quickly replaced by a single pontoon bridge that American army engineers constructed. While the new bridge allowed traffic, especially armor and supply trucks, to cross over, it was so low in the water that it stopped the flow of boats and barges up and down the river beyond that point.

First Squad had taken part in the liberation of Berot not that long ago, but Saunders didn't recognize any of the town as he walked down the street. It looked just like all of the rest of the French villages he had fought his way through since D-Day, and probably all of the ones he would encounter as the war continued to rage.

He pulled the piece of paper Hanley had given him from his breast pocket and looked at the address. A faded arrow painted on the side of the corner building indicated that this was the street he should turn onto. All he had to do was follow that arrow. But, instead, he hesitated. In the end, he wadded up the paper and threw it away as he turned in the opposite direction, heading for the river and the pontoon bridge. He wanted to get as far away as he reasonable could from Berot and from his squad.

Before crossing over, he stopped and bought two bottles of wine, two loaves of bread and a large wedge of cheese. As he walked across the bridge, he could hear the now familiar refrain with each step he took…

Grady…is…dead…

Kirby passed the first establishment he came to. It was a little too…something he couldn't quite put his finger on; likewise the second one. Then he heard laughter coming up from a cellar and he followed the noise. The stairs were dimly lit and a wooden door at the bottom prevented him from looking in. But, when he pushed it open, he knew this was just the place he was looking for.

It was larger than he would have imagined, judging from what was left of the building above. Not surprisingly, it was already filled with GIs drinking and laughing. It was the nervous laughter he knew so well, the laughter of guys who were glad to be alive, but who didn't know how much longer they would stay that way. And, best of all, it was only about 4 o'clock in the afternoon and there were already a couple of poker games underway in the far corners of the smoke-filled room.

The BAR man grinned from ear to ear. He made his way to the bar, ordered a bottle of cognac and then headed toward one of the tables to check out the competition. He was set for the next forty-eight hours.

Littlejohn didn't know where he was heading or what he wanted to do. He just wanted to enjoy a little peace and quiet. The street he was traveling down was filled with civilians returning to the town. As he slowly walked, he looked at the destroyed buildings and wondered how all these people could rebuild their lives.

An elderly woman, struggling with the cart she was pulling, passed him. Tied to the back of the cart was a milk cow. Five little goats also seemed to be traveling with her. When she paused to rest for a moment, she called to the goats and they came to her like pet dogs. She looked worn out, but she kept moving forward.

In that moment, he thought of his ma. When there was a lot of work to be done on the farm, she always said, "Don't waste time and energy complaining about how much there is to do, just get busy doing it."

The big, lumbering private was always hesitant to talk to civilians. He couldn't speak the language, and Caje's attempt to teach him a few words had ended in disaster. The Cajun had shook his head in dismay and told he spoke French like a Spanish bull. Still, the big-hearted giant approached the lady and asked in English if he could help.

Littlejohn towered over her. She looked up at him with suspicion, not quite sure what he had said, and fearful that he was going to steal what little she had managed to save. But, he had kind eyes and, if he was going to steal, there were certainly better targets than a poor old woman. And, she was so tired. She decided to take the chance.

I would welcome your help, young man. I am going home. It is not far. Follow me.

She stepped away from the cart, called to the goats and began walking resolutely down the street. Littlejohn watched her for a moment, then picked up the cart's handles and dutifully followed. In three long strides he caught up with her. He gently lifted her up and set her on top of a bundle on the cart. Once again, he picked up the handles and began walking.

Unlike Littlejohn, Caje had a simple plan in mind for how he would spend his forty-eight hours. First, he would find a little, out-of-the-way café not overrun with soldiers. There he would enjoy a long, leisurely meal and a bottle of wine. Finally, he would head for the bivouac area and sleep for as long as possible. He figured he could repeat that sequence at least twice, and still have time tomorrow night for whatever might come his way.

He wandered down some of the back streets until he spotted a likely café. Only one of the three small outside tables was occupied, and that only by Frenchmen. As he got closer, he detected a wonderful aroma wafting out of the open door. He entered and the few people seated inside turned to stare at him.

The woman behind the bar called out, Odette, come talk to this American soldier. He must be lost.

A door opened and out stepped the most beautiful young woman the Cajun had seen in…well, for quite a while. Her long, dark hair caressed her shoulders, and her sparkling eyes and smile seemed to light up the room.

"Hello, soldier…de bars are two streets dat way." She gracefully pointed in the direction he should go.

Caje returned her smile and replied, Ah, but Miss, I am looking for a quiet café, not a noisy bar. What is that wonderful aroma I smell?

She laughed. Oh, you speak French…but with a funny accent.

This time, he gave her his most engaging smile. Yes, I'm from Louisiana. Like many in that state, my people were originally from Quebec, the French-speaking part of Canada.

The rest of the café patrons, who had been listening to their conversation, nodded in approval and returned to their own meals.

We cannot offer you much of a choice, but there is some rabbit stew left and it is very good…if you'd like to take a seat.

It sounds delicious…and a bottle of wine, please.

Doc observed the line of people and walked over out of curiosity. Mme. Angolis saw him coming and raised her eyes to heaven in thanks.

"Well, it took you long enough, but finally you have arrived," she said when he got close enough to hear.

The medic looked around to see who she was talking to.

"Don't just stand dere, come in."

When he realized she was speaking to him, he shook his head. "Ma'am, I'm afraid you've got me confused with someone else."

"You are an American army medic, are you not?"

"Yes, Ma'am, but…"

She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the house. Inside, more people were waiting. On the desk was a small pile of objects…a fedora with a feather in the band, a pair of long white gloves, a doll in a soiled blue dress, a few worthless German bills…

An elderly gentleman, leaning heavily on a cane, approached the desk and laid down a medal. The woman immediately picked it up. She held his hand and pressed it into his palm.

No, M. Monette, there is no charge today.

Doc looked again at the pile of items. There was no food. Back home, folks brought eggs or a jar of preserves when they didn't have any money. Here, the people had neither food nor money.

"I will triage. You work in dat room," she pointed to a closed door. "I will send you de routine cases…de minor injuries. De more difficult patients will go to Dr. Angolis. You understand?"

The medic looked at all of the people who were waiting to see the doctor. He decided he could help out for an hour or so. "Yes, Ma'am, that's pretty clear."

At seven o'clock, the woman knocked on the door and asked him to step into the doctor's office when he finished with his current patient. It was the first time he had seen the doctor, whose open, jovial face was unlined, but whose black hair was already streaked with grey. And, the right sleeve of his coat was rolled up and pinned closed.

"You must forgive my wife. She has no shame. But, dank you for helping," he said as he offered his left hand. "I am Dr. Angolis and dis is my wife, receptionist and sometime nurse, Julia."

Doc shook the offered hand. "I'm glad I could be of assistance. Everyone just calls me Doc. Is it always this busy?"

Julia had gotten a decanter and poured out three glasses of cognac. After handing each of the men a glass, she stood by her husband's side, slipping her arm around his waist and resting her head against his shoulder. She closed her eyes for just a few moments of respite. The doctor turned and kissed her forehead.

"No," Dr. Angolis said, "but now dat you Americans have chased away de Boche, people dink it is safe to return to deir homes. Dey are tired and little accidents happen. Dey just need to rest for a bit and to have someone tell dem dat now everyding will be as it was."

Julia opened her eyes and smiled. "You two relax for a moment and finish your cognac. By de time you are done wid de last of de patients, I will have dinner on de table."

"My dear, perhaps Doc has oder plans."

The medic opened his mouth to speak. "I…"

"Well, den it is decided. And, you can stay in de spare bedroom tonight. It will be much more comfortable dan sleeping on a cot in a tent." With that, she left the room.

"I do apologize," Dr. Angolis laughed, "but, as you can see, she is a force of nature."

Billy watched his squad mates walk away. He turned and looked again at the two MPs, but they were engaged in their own conversation. With a big, sad sigh, he picked up his knapsack and started to slowly walk toward the path. However, before he had gone ten feet, he stopped and listened. Off to his right, toward the river, he heard faint shouts and laughter, the shouts and laughter of boys at play. He turned and headed in the direction of the noise.

He stood on the bank and watched. There must have been close a dozen boys of varying ages, but it was hard to tell because they kept disappearing beneath the water as they dunked each other. It made him laugh to see their antics.

"I must say, they are quite noisy."

Nelson practically jumped out of his skin. He hadn't heard anyone come up behind him. A shiver ran down his spine. If he were back on the line, he would be dead right now. He slowly turned around to see a smiling monk watching the boys.

"I had to fetch a few things in the village. Would you like to join us? I'm Brother Michael, by the way."

"You're a Brit!" Billy exclaimed in amazement. "How long have you been British?"

Br. Michael laughed. "Rather all my life, I should imagine."

Nelson blushed. "I meant, how long have you been here?"

"Since before the occupation."

"Are you a spy?" Billy's eyes were wide with admiration.

The monk laughed again. "Oh, nothing so glamorous, my dear old chap. I was a student at university when I decided to enlist, as you might say. I was a novitiate when the Jerries came. I had to keep my mouth shut, of course, which ordinarily would have proved to be impossible for me. But, Father Sebastian had me take a vow of silence, so it worked out quite nicely."

"You didn't speak for four years!?"

"It wasn't that difficult, once I realized that other people's lives depended on me keeping my vow. Sometimes one does have to grow up rather quickly."

Billy thought about that for a moment before responding, "But, you're talking now."

"Quite. When you Americans arrived, Fr. Sebastian allowed me to denounce the vow. Although, at times I think he regrets that decision," he said with a chuckle. "I don't think I need to keep my nationality a secret from you, do I?"

Billy realized the monk was joking with him, but he didn't feel foolish, not like he might have if the rest of the squad were around.

"You really must join us, old chap. It's a dreadfully hot day, so it's perfect for a dip in the river and, I dare say, the boys would enjoy meeting a real American soldier."

He started down the bank. Billy hesitated for a moment and then followed him to a rowboat that was tied to a tree. As they rowed across the river, Billy asked the monk where the boys had come from.

"Sadly, they are all orphans. The Sisters care for the youngest and all of the girls, but at a boy's eighth birthday he comes to us. They have lessons in the morning and chores around the monastery, so they're not totally at loose ends. When they're older, they work in the afternoon at local farms in place of the men, or they run off to join the Maquis. I do hope, as you Americans push the Jerries back, there will be less of that. It is frightfully sad when we receive word that one of our lads has been slain."

The sergeant had been walking for a good hour without meeting anyone when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a sudden movement. From habit, he immediately dropped into a crouch and quickly assessed his surroundings for the closest cover. Once he had moved behind a tree and his breathing had calmed, he cautiously looked out. He could only see one person, or rather half of a person. The lone man appeared to be slowly digging. Saunders gradually eased his way forward to get a better look.

It was an old man, and he was slowly digging…a grave. The corpse lay wrapped in a white shroud nearby. Saunders stood and hailed the gravedigger as he approached so as not to needlessly startle him. The old man looked up and paused, leaning on his shovel and panting, as he watched the American soldier walk toward him.

"Need some help?" the NCO asked. He figured he might as well literally dig a grave since he had been doing it figuratively off and on since Grady had been killed.

The old man just stared at him, so Saunders pointed to himself and then made a shoveling motion. The old man hesitated, looking over at the shrouded corpse. When he turned back, tears were in his eyes.

It is for my granddaughter and her baby. She was the last of my family.

The sergeant only understood the words 'baby' and 'family.' He thought the corpse might be a woman who had died in childbirth. He looked around at the rest of the small cemetery, sitting by itself out in the country.

"Is this your family cemetery?" he asked, indicating the other graves.

The old man pulled himself out of the grave and began giving the sergeant a tour.

My parents…my grandparents…my brother, Jules, who died when he was only three… my wife, Angela…our son, Andre, and his wife, Jeanette, killed by the Boche…my grandson, Pierre, killed by the Boche... He looked over at the corpse, and now my granddaughter, Paulette, who died in childbirth, and the baby who didn't even live long enough to be given a name.

This time Saunders understood the words 'Boche' and 'baby,' as well as a few first names. He leaned the Thompson against a tree and shed his knapsack, helmet, web belt and field jacket. His recent, extensive experience digging foxholes now came in handy.

The old man wiped his arm across his sweaty brow, sighed, and carefully eased himself down to the ground.

Working with a real shovel, the sergeant made short work of finishing the grave. When it was ready, he climbed out and helped the old man move the corpse to its edge. It was then that he realized there were two bodies. The baby hadn't survived either. He jumped back down into the grave, lifted the bodies, and gently laid them in their final resting place. The Frenchman solemnly watched as the dirt was shoveled back in, first covering the shrouded figures and then filling their tomb.

When the NCO was finished, the old man mumbled something, but the sergeant noticed that he didn't make the sign of the cross as he had seen Caje and other Frenchmen do after saying a prayer.

'Maybe he's had enough of God's impotence,' he thought. For him, it had been like burying Grady all over again.

Saunders picked up his gear and was preparing to move on when the old man said, Come, let us share a bottle of wine and think of better times. He walked over to his sack and pulled out a bottle. Motioning to the sergeant to follow him, he moved to a shady spot beneath a gnarled old tree and again carefully sat.

'Well, I guess this is as good a spot as any,' Saunders thought as he joined the Frenchman.

He opened his pack and pulled out the bread and cheese, and another bottle. As they ate and drank, the old man talked about his family, his eyes sometimes filling with tears. The sergeant didn't understand a word he was saying, yet, he somehow knew what was being said.

Perhaps because he and the old Frenchman shared the same sorrow, or maybe it was because he realized that others had suffered far greater losses, or it might simply have been because he was slowly getting drunk on the old man's strong homemade wine after a day of walking and working in the hot sun, but, whatever the reason, the blackness that had surrounded him since Grady's death began to dissipate.

Before the Frenchman drifted off to sleep, he said, Tomorrow, we kill Boche.

Saunders drank a toast to his friend and the rest of the men of the 168th, Third Squad, First Platoon of Fox Company, his and Grady's outfit when they first experienced war. After finishing off the second bottle, he, too, lay down to sleep.

Kirby grinned and rubbed his hands together before he reached out to draw in the pot.

"DRINKS ALL AROUND!" he hollered, and the crowd of soldiers in the bar yelled their appreciation.

This was definitely his night. The cards were all falling his way, and though his opponents moaned and groaned each time he lay down a winning hand, nobody got overly angry with his continuing lucky streak. Of course, his buying rounds for the house every so often helped to soothe the losers' bad tempers.

So, when the MPs arrived shortly after midnight to close the place down, the BAR man was more than a little upset. He walked up to one of them and, with a goofy grin on his face, said, "Hey buddy, whatcha doin'? I'm on a winnin' streak."

"It's midnight, pal, time for all good little soldiers to head to the bivouac area an' sleep it off."

"But, I ain't no good little soldier."

The MP glared at him.

Although Kirby had received more than his share of glares from Saunders and therefore wasn't intimidated by this rookie, he hadn't had so much to drink that he pushed his luck. "Okay. Well, which way's the tents?"

"Out the door to the left."

"An' which way to another…" the BAR man belched, "…fine establishment?"

"Buddy, you don't want any trouble, do ya? Just go an' sleep it off. You can come back tomorrow. They open at 0600."

"What time's…" he belched again, "…that?"

This time the MP's glare looked more threatening.

"Yes, Sir." Kirby saluted, and headed for the stairs, joining the rest of the soldiers who had momentarily stopped to listen to the exchange.

Outside, it was a pleasantly cool night. Kirby looked around, trying to spot another watering hole, but all he saw were other soldiers coming out of the bars that had sprung up like mushrooms along the road. He decided to try the next street over and see if he could find someplace that was still open, even if it was only a café. Getting a little something to eat, with a bottle of wine to wash it down, suddenly seemed like a good idea. He moved against the flow of GIs and turned down the first alley he came to.

It wasn't much of a fight. Two guys grabbed him from behind and before he even knew what was happening, he was thrown up against the wall and punched in the gut. As he doubled over, holding his belly, he was hit over the head with a board. They went through his pockets and took every red cent he had. His body was dragged behind some crates so it couldn't be seen from the street, and there he was left.

They had walked much further than Littlejohn had planned. He didn't know if it was safe for her to be so far from the town. He was about to stop and try to make her understand when the old lady excitedly yelled, TO THE RIGHT, TO THE RIGHT! He turned around and saw her waving her arms and pointing to the right. There was no road, only a well-worn path cut through a field. He pointed to it and she said, YES, YES! The goats seemed to sense that they were close to home for they scampered down the path and were soon out of sight of the slow- moving cart.

When the top of a chimney came into view, the old woman climbed off her perch and ran down the path, as fast as a tired old lady is able to run. Littlejohn continued to pull the cart, hoping that when he finally arrived at the farm, there would be something left, other than ruins. He had seen enough burned out farms. With each step, the building seemed to rise up out of the ground until he was staring at a small, tidy dwelling with an attached barn. As he approached, he could hear the cackle of chickens. A big grin stretched across his face. At long last, something was left intact in this war-ravaged land.

After he helped her unload the cart and return her meager possessions to their rightful places, he prepared to leave. But, she grabbed his arm.

No, no…you must stay and eat. Chop some wood for the stove.

She pointed to the stove and then pulled him into the barn and pointed to the ax. He got the message. As he chopped wood, she caught one of the chickens. She talked soothingly to it before wringing its neck. They dined on roasted chicken, a mixture of greens she pulled from her garden and a bottle of wine she brought up from the root cellar. That night, he fell asleep with a smile on his face in the barn he shared with the cow, chickens, and the goats.

Odette sat down at the table, talking and laughing with Caje while he ate. Afterward, they continued their conversation as they finished off the bottle of wine. As he stared into her eyes, he knew he could listen to her all night.

At last, the woman behind the bar told her she had better go or she would be late for her evening job. Odette looked coyly at the Cajun.

I have another job. Do you want me to go to work or stay with you?

Caje smiled. Stay.

Do you want to stay here or go to my place. It isn't very far.

Caje stood up and pulled some bills from his wallet. He offered Odette his hand as she stood. She was still holding that hand, looking back and smiling at him, as she led him out the door.

The woman behind the bar shook her head. Such a nice boy, she mumbled to herself.

Odette led the soldier down the street and then into an alley. She stopped before a door and said, Wait here, mon cheri. She slipped inside and, after walking down a short hallway, rapped on a door. It was opened by another attractive young woman.

You need to leave right now. I have a guest. Odette whispered.

Already?

He came to the café. Be careful, he speaks French.

How long?

Give us an hour and then sent Marcel. I might have time to catch another one tonight, she said with a little laugh.

When the two young women returned to the alley, Odette smiled and said, Paul, this is my roommate, Antonia. She's going to work now and then will spend the night with her mother.

Caje gently placed his hands on her shoulders and lightly kissed her on both cheeks. It's a pleasure to meet you, Antonia.

Antonia gave Odette a little smile. It's nice to meet you too, Paul. Enjoy your evening. She hurried down the alley and, after a quick glance back at her roommate, she disappeared around the corner.

Odette again took Caje's hand and led him down the hall and into the apartment. She walked across the room and curled up on the davenport, signaling him to join her. After they had cuddled for a few minutes, she got up.

Let's have another glass of wine, mon cheri. I've got a wonderful vintage that I've been saving for a special occasion.

She disappeared into another room and returned with the bottle and two glasses. She filled one of them and handed it to the scout. Try it and tell me what you think.

Caje took a sip. Yes, it's very good.

She refilled his glass and set the bottle on the end table. She again sat curled up by his side, twisting his hair in her fingers as they talked and he sipped the wine. It wasn't long before he began to slur his words and to have a hard time keeping awake.

When he was unconscious, Odette quickly took the glass from his hand and set it on the end table next to the bottle. She removed his wallet and went through his pockets, but found nothing more of any value. She slipped the ring he was wearing off his finger and examined it with an experienced eye. But, shaking her head, she pushed it back onto his finger.

It's not worth much, mon cheri. You can keep it to remember our time together, she said with a little laugh.

There was a soft knock and she glided across the room to open the door.

Ah, Marcel, you're just in time. He's over there on the davenport. Be careful with him. He's rather sweet.

Marcel only grunted as he pulled the Cajun up and draped the lean soldier over his shoulder. Odette opened Caje's wallet and removed two one hundred franc notes. She ran ahead and opened the outer door, checked to make sure the coast was clear, and then signaled Marcel to come ahead. As he passed her, she shoved the bills into his hand.

The Frenchman stopped at the corner. It was only twilight and there were still a few people walking around. But, this wasn't the part of town that was frequented by American soldiers. So, after waiting a moment for the street to clear, Marcel was able to move in the shadows, through back alleys and destroyed buildings without being noticed. When he was far enough away from Odette's apartment, he left the scout's motionless body in a deserted lane, shoved beneath a broken cart.

It didn't take long for Nelson to be enticed to join the boys who were skinny dipping in the river. He stripped down to his shorts and jumped in. Within seconds, he was a kid again. They started to drag Br. Michael in, and he barely managed to remove his habit and throw it back onto dry land before he, too, was submerged by the gang of rowdy boys.

Over time, as exhaustion overtook them, one by one they came out of the water and laid on the bank, letting the warmth of the sun dry them off. After donning their clothes, they followed Br. Michael back to the monastery and into the chapel for a period of quiet reflection. It was perhaps not as quiet as the other Brothers would have wanted, but, in the end, when everyone raised their voices in song, the boys' youthful exuberance brought a smile to even the dourest of old faces.

As they sat down for the evening meal, the older boys arrived.

When they finished eating, Br. Michael formally introduced Billy and told the boys that they could ask him questions about America or being a soldier. It would be a good opportunity for them to practice their English.

Billy was nervous, thinking they would ask him how to drive a tank or how airplanes were able to fly. What if they asked him about the U.S. Constitution? He tried to remember what he had been taught in civics class.

Fortunately, all they wanted to know about was gangsters. Had he ever met John Dillinger or Al Capone? Were there gangsters in every city? How could you identify a gangster if you went into a café?

Since Billy had devoted much of his youth to reading everything he could get his hands on about Bonnie and Clyde, Dutch Schultz, Ma Barker, Pretty Boy Floyd and Machine Gun Kelly, as well as Dillinger and Capone, he could answer all of their questions with authority.

He and the boys talked and laughed for hours until Fr. Sebastian came in, gave them a stern look and said it was time for evening prayers.

Br. Michael invited him to spend the night, but warned him that they got up quite early so they could take care of their livestock before morning prayers.

"How early is quite early?" the soldier asked.

"4:30, I'm afraid."

Billy laughed.

That night, as he lay in a tiny cell, he couldn't help but smile as he thought back over the fun he had had with the boys. But, he also remembered what Br. Michael had said, "Sometimes one does have to grow up rather quickly."