Merry Christmas, Sergeant Saunders, a combat! fanfic

Story originally published over at my "Combat!" fan fiction site.

Merry Christmas, Sergeant Saunders

Kirby had been talking nonstop for the past three hours. Usually it didn't bother Saunders overly much, but today was different. The incessant babbling was adding to an already intolerable headache. During a skirmish the day before, the sergeant had taken a header over a steep embankment, twisting and battering his shoulder and knotting the muscles in his neck. There was no helping it. At least the bullet had missed its intended target. But the pulled muscles translated into one doozy of a headache.

"So, Caje, if you could have anything you wanted for Christmas, 'cept somethin'
impossible like goin' home or somethin' like that...what would you want?"

Kirby sidled up closely to the scout, but the question was not a whispered confidence.
It was loud. Saunders ground his teeth together as it grated on his raw nerves.

"Oh, I dunno, Kirby. Maybe just a day with nothin' much to do - a soft bed - good bottle of wine - a decent hot meal..."

Before he could finish, Kirby interrupted with "Yeah, and maybe a nice little mademoiselle to share it with?" He mispronounced the single French word, but it was his tone, the way he implied what he meant, with a leer in his voice, that sent Saunders over the edge.

The sergeant's patience snapped. He turned a fast 180 degrees to face the two men
following too closely on his heels. Kirby skidded to a stop. Caje looked surprised. The rest of the squad was too spread out to be taken aback.

The sergeant held himself back from actually grabbing Kirby by the jacket front and
shaking the living daylights out of him. He settled for a vicious glare, and with his face not inches from the private's growled, "Know what I want for Christmas, Kirby? Do you know? Huh?"

Kirby shook his head - mute for the moment, startled into silence by the swift action and the unusual venom in Saunders' voice and demeanor.

"I want you to just shut the hell up! That's all I want for Christmas, Kirby. For you to
just SHUT UP!"

At the last "shut up," the private took a full step backwards before risking an embarrassed glance over at Caje. Saunders had dragged Kirby across the carpet more times than he could remember and less than he deserved. And it was Saunders and Caje who had risked their lives to prove him innocent of cowardice not so many months earlier. But never had the tough sergeant called him down for what Kirby considered no reason - until now.

"Well...sure, Sarge...okay...." he stammered, looking down, over at Caje again, back over his shoulder at his buddies catching up to the stalled three; anywhere but at the sergeant.

Saunders sighed. He hadn't meant to be so damned...there wasn't any other way to say it - so damned nasty. But he wouldn't say he was sorry - couldn't. Wouldn't admitting that be considered a sign of weakness? That's what his dad had always said. But in his life - in his years as a soldier, Saunders had tried his best to not do or say anything he needed to be truly sorry for - until now. But it was said. It was done. He turned abruptly and got back into the detail, back down to business.

"Spread it out! You're too close together," he warned, reaching up a hand to rub across his neck, kneading the tight muscles. It didn't help, and his own outburst had only made the headache worse. "Good job, Saunders," he berated himself in a whisper. "Great job."

Night fell early so close to the winter solstice. The air was cold and crisp - no sign of
snow coming and none had fallen. The men stopped for chow. They'd push on a bit if Saunders could find any better shelter on his dog-eared map. He checked it over in the waning light, settling down as comfortably as possible in a pile of dry leaves, back up against a fallen tree.

Doc wasn't the only one to notice when Saunders, unlike the rest of the men, hadn't dug into his food yet, but he was the first. The sergeant had to be ravenous, everyone else was. Finishing his can of minced ham and washing it down with a swig of water, Doc walked over to where Saunders sat. He reached out to lay a hand on the noncom's shoulder.

Saunders jerked at the touch, gritting back a sharp expletive as the movement jarred his aching muscles. It confirmed what the medic already was aware of; Saunders was hurting in a big way.

"Do somethin' for ya?" Doc questioned in his soft-spoken, direct way. He braced for the sharp comeback that never materialized.

Instead, Saunders made the effort to turn his head to face Doc and give his answer. He settled for turning his whole body. The sergeant was bone tired. It was on his face and in his voice. "No, Doc. I don't think so." There was a moment of hesitation. "Thanks."

But the medic wouldn't be put off so easily. He carefully pulled Saunders' jacket and shirt away from the injured shoulder. He didn't have to move it far. The area was black and blue and green from the neck down and across the shoulder. The left arm was probably involved as well, maybe the joint.

"You're right. There isn't much I can do for that." Gently, the medic repositioned the
clothing and came around to sit across from his friend. Wearily, Saunders lifted his head to meet Doc's gaze. Searching through his pack, the medic pulled out several white tablets and held them out along with his canteen. "All I can do," he offered and watched as Saunders took the aspirin.

"Sleep much last night?"

"No...but then I'd guess you knew that," the sergeant returned.

"I do now, but yeah, I had it figured the way you jumped on Kirby this afternoon."

Saunders ventured a small shake of his head, and Doc added, "Not that he doesn't get on my nerves now and again."

"Doc...nothin', nobody gets on your nerves." Saunders ran a hand through his sandy hair before drawing his knees up and resting his chin on steepled fingers.

"Wrong, Sarge. YOU get on my nerves...." He waited just long enough for that to sink in and not long enough for Saunders to form a reply. "You get on my nerves when you act like you're waging a one man war - like there aren't seven other guys here and not just to follow your orders, Sergeant. We're here as a squad - a team. We're here for each other, you included." Doc's voice calmed as he continued. "If you could use a hand, let ...."

"I don't need a lecture, Doc. What I do need is a little less hassle and a little more sleep." Saunders yawned, and decided to light up a cigarette to help keep him awake while he issued watch instructions. They'd stay the night.

Without a response, Doc got to his feet and walked over to sit with Caje and Kirby, both rolled snugly into blankets. Experienced soldiers, they'd already judged their sergeant too tired to continue on, and besides, if Saunders had found convenient shelter on his map, they would've already been on the move.

Saunders was the first one awake, but during the long cold night, his torn muscles had
tightened up to the point where he could barely raise his head up off his chest. Bringing the Thompson into his arms was nearly impossible, but in the end he did it, moving stiffly among his men, touching each with a booted toe to waken them.

There was the usual moaning and griping, but within minutes, the squad was on the move, eating out of C ration cans as they walked. The more time they made, the sooner they got warm beds, hot showers and a sit down meal.

An artillery barrage caught them out in a clearing. The German gunners several
kilometers or more distant, could not possibly have known how accurate their fire was. They'd been aiming at a target further south. Some of the shells fell short.

With the sudden stillness of the ended barrage came the calls and cries of the injured.

"Sarge! Henson and Place are dead! Littlejohn's wounded, not too bad, he can walk.
But Kirby...."

Saunders rolled over slowly and reached out to secure his helmet and replace it on his
head. The move cost him dearly. For a moment, he buried his face in his arms, biting back a groan, then got unsteadily to his feet.

"What about Kirby?" he questioned, but he needed no answer.

The rifleman lay sprawled on the frozen ground, a gash from his right temple around to
the back of his head where it disappeared into the short dark hair. The private was white and still. Blood pooled beneath him while Doc attempted to staunch the godawful bleeding.

In spite of everything Saunders had seen, in spite of everything he'd done, this, what he saw here, turned his stomach. He swallowed back the desire to vomit and also the desire to damn God.

"Can he be moved?" he whispered. To speak aloud now seemed wrong somehow.

"No, he can't be moved!" Doc cut Saunders a quick look "But he will be."

There was no need for the medic to mention what Saunders and the rest of the squad
already knew. Infantry followed artillery. Already the Krauts were in the woods; already
working their way toward the GIs. So they ran. They left their dead, bundled up their wounded and ran like hell. They ran till they stumbled and fell from exhaustion. Saunders hoped it was far enough.

Caje, scouting ahead and around, discovered a root cellar. It had no house above it, was overgrown and nearly invisible from the road. It would do. It would have to. There was nothing left in the men.

Body heat kept them from freezing. Saunders wouldn't allow a fire, not yet. Luckily, the weather had turned a bit warmer. Snow was in the air, but had yet to fall.

Littlejohn slept. Saunders had insisted Doc give him a pain shot. The big PFC was being stoic, but there was no mistaking the pallor of his skin and the pain lines etched around his mouth. Saunders insisted and Doc complied.

There was no need for Kirby to be given an injection. He had not regained consciousness.

Saunders sat at Kirby's side, taking the first watch. He'd swallowed down several more aspirin, but they had done nothing for the headache and pain. He watched Kirby sleep. In his mind, Saunders thought of it as sleep though he knew better. The least the private had was a serious concussion; the worst something he refused to contemplate.

In the cloistered silence of the long dark night, during his watch and after, while he was supposed to be sleeping, Saunders kept vigil. He felt if he didn't let down his guard, death would be kept at bay. It wasn't guilt that kept the sergeant near Kirby - it was everything that had come before.

William G. Kirby could be and had been a royal pain in the ass. He'd gone AWOL more than once, hence his private status. As good a soldier as he was under fire, as good a BAR man as they came, he should've been at least a PFC by now. He'd shot off his mouth to everyone from Saunders to Captain Jampel - had been court-martialed once and threatened at least once more. But dammit! He came through in a pinch, even taking over an entire BAR squad when Saunders had been cut off from his men and wounded. He had courage and guts and believed in Saunders and the squad. They were his family.

Doc crept silently over to check Kirby's bandaging, patted Saunders lightly on the
shoulder, settled himself on the opposite side of the private and closed his eyes.

Still Saunders watched, waiting for a change, anything positive. He reached out, fussing at Kirby's blanket, laying a palm against the man's chest to feel the rise and fall as he breathed evenly, each breath a tiny puff into the chill air.

He leaned close. "Come on, Kirby. Wake up....It's nearly morning...and I ...I never got to ask what you wanted for Christmas. Come on, Kirby!" His voice broke, but there were no tears. To Doc, listening only feet away, the Sarge sounded like a hurt lost little boy, a boy, not a man, and the boy had no answers.

Pure exhaustion drove Saunders into a restless sleep as dawn broke. The sun
would offer a bit of warmth and even some comfort to the squad.

As it should have been, it was Caje, the most religious of the group, who woke them with "Merry Christmas, Sarge. Merry Christmas, guys," offering his hand to Billy, sitting next to him, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, returning a smile.

The quiet greeting and handshakes made the rounds of the tiny room. Only Kirby and
Saunders were excluded - Kirby still unconscious and Saunders deeply asleep for the first time in days. Doc refused to allow him to be disturbed, even for Christmas.

It was Ramirez, a newcomer to the squad, glancing over at the pale still Kirby, who
reminded the rest of them, "Looks like Sarge is the only one who's gonna get what he wanted for Christmas this year."

Caje glared at him, making the private shift uncomfortably under the reproachful
expression. "THANKS, Ramirez. But I bet we coulda all lived without bein' reminded of that!"

"Sorry, Caje...I didn't mean...."

"Don't say you're sorry. Don't ever say you're sorry....Never!" the Cajun snapped. "It's a sign of weakness."

"Sorry," Ramirez repeated, stammering, shame-faced. He looked from one soldier to the next, confused, before turning back to Caje, his hands open as if in supplication.

"Drop it, Ramirez, okay? It's Christmas. It'll be all right...you'll see. It'll be okay....It's
Christmas, after all."