Many thanks to my medical expert/beta reader, BAnder54. You assistance made it a better story.

THE ENEMY

How an American Brigadier General had gotten himself captured by the Germans while commanding an assault in southern Italy had not been part of their briefing. They were never that high on the need-to-know list. All they really needed to know was Garrison's plan for bringing General Finch back alive, before he could jeopardize the entire Allied effort in southern Europe. The plan always sounded simple. Hijack the unit transferring the General to Berlin, trade places with the Germans, and head for the Allied lines. What could possibly go wrong with that? Chief never spent much time thinking about all the hellish ways a plan could go south. He was in it until the final payoff, no matter what that turned out to be.

It felt like he'd been lying on the cold, hard ground for hours, the stiff leather holster under his left arm jabbing into his ribs. He shifted so that it would jab into a different spot for a while, and checked once again that both grenades were within easy reach. They could've gotten bad intelligence, or the Germans could have changed the route. How long before Garrison decided this plan was a bust?

He heard the faint growl of engines in the distance - three vehicles, still at least a mile away. That meant eight or nine heavily armed Germans. They could handle that. He whistled to get Garrison's attention across the road, waved three fingers, and got a wave in acknowledgement. He pulled back a little farther into his hide, hefted the reassuring weight of the grenade in his hand, and waited.

Three jeeps, traveling close together, moved slowly around the curve and into view over the rough pavement. General Finch was flanked by two officers in the back seat of the middle one. The first and last had machine guns mounted on the rear. Then the waiting ended, and all hell broke loose.

Goniff's grenade demolished the engine of the lead jeep. He lobbed his own toward the rear jeep, and the explosion lifted it into the air before it hit the ground on its side. The officers in the middle jeep tried gallantly to defend themselves, but didn't have much of a chance against Garrison, Actor and Casino, well hidden in the tree cover, returning fire. At least the General had the good sense to duck to the floor until the fireworks were over.

There was always that pause, waiting for the smoke to clear, carefully assessing the situation in the deafening silence, before Garrison appeared from the undergrowth, weapon still ready. That was Chief's signal to leave his own hide, watching carefully for any sign of life in the bloodbath they'd just created.

Garrison and Actor were dealing with the General. He caught snatches of the argument - angry words from the General, something about being reckless and irresponsible. Casino and Goniff were checking out the burning wreckage of the first jeep.

He knew his task - they needed the uniforms and the vehicles. The driver of the third jeep was very dead, crushed when it flipped over on top of him. Chief winced inwardly at the large puddle of blood growing beneath the twisted body. The machine gunner lay face down where he'd been thrown, his head at an unnatural angle.

He pulled the gunner over onto his back. The wide, frightened blue eyes startled him - surprised and accusing. He was just a boy - no, a child - blond, beardless and pimpled. What had Casino said about the Germans drafting kids? This one should have been playing soccer in a school yard, not killing people with a machine gun.

"Chief, you okay?" Garrison's shout brought him back.

"Yeah, Warden."

"Hurry up and get the uniforms. Casino, Goniff, see if that jeep can be salvaged. We need to get out of here."

Sorry, kid, you're not gonna be needin' it anymore. He went about pulling the jacket, shirt and pants off of the slack body, trying to be gentle, as if the kid could feel he was being stripped and left naked out in the open. The boots and weapon were practically new. He probably hadn't had the chance to kill anyone yet. Then he'd died lucky, Chief thought, and lowered the lids over the accusing, dead blue eyes.

ggggggggggggg

They'd been on the road for over two hours, with Casino driving Garrison and the General in the lead jeep, and Goniff at the wheel of the second, Actor riding shotgun. And although he was getting the full effect of the breeze sitting up at the machine gun on the back, the heavy wool was still too much. After he'd wiped the sweat out of his eyes for the third time, he decided the jacket had to go. As he pulled it off and crumpled it next to him, he felt the slight stiffness of something tucked in the breast pocket. This was the jacket he'd taken off the child gunner.

The photograph he slipped out of the pocket had been handled a lot. The edges were frayed, and there was a crease across the bottom. But the image was clear and sharp. The blond, pimple-faced machine gunner stood grinning like a idiot, in a suit a size too big, and clinging to his arm was...Christine.

No, that's wrong. She had the same large doe eyes, and the fringe of dark bangs. But the smile was different. This girl was happy, decked out in her long white dress with a lacy high collar, the flowers in her hair matching the bouquet she held. A wedding photo. The boy was married. He must've looked at this picture every night, remembering that day, and imagining lying with his bride. He must've hated the crease that ruined the bottom. On the back there was precise, delicate handwriting.

Sie werden ein wunderbarer Vater sein.

Alle meine Geliebten für immer,

Gisela

He needed to know what she wrote. He nudged Actor on the shoulder, and handed him the picture. "What's that say?"

Actor smiled at the image of the happy couple. "Where did you get this?"

"It's the machine gunner we killed back there. It was in his pocket."

Actor's smile faded as he turned the photograph over, and he paused before reading it aloud. "'You will be a wonderful father. All of my love forever, Gisela.'"

"He had a kid..."

Actor handed him back the photo. "He was a soldier, Chief."

"I know." He studied the girl's smile, the happiness glowing from those familiar brown eyes on her wedding day, a vision of the future in her dreams. A child with no father. He shoved the picture into his pocket and turned his attention back to the machine gun and the road.

Another hour down the road, the lead jeep ran out of gas. Goniff joined him at the machine gun, and Casino continued to drive, but it wasn't long before the second jeep ran dry, too. They pushed the useless machine out of sight into the undergrowth, then joined the others in the shade, where Garrison had pulled out his compass and packet of maps.

Chief slid down against the trunk of a tree near the road, where he had a good view in both directions, and chewed on a blade of grass, enjoying the sweet green flavor it released. Casino dropped down beside him and quickly lit a cigarette.

"The higher the rank, the dumber they get," Casino observed as he shook out his match. "He ain't stopped complaining since we picked him up. You know what I think? I think he's embarrassed he got himself captured in the first place. But the least he could do is show a little gratitude."

This must be the kind of mission the Warden hated, where he was the one in charge, but he didn't have the rank to back it up. And the ranking officer didn't seem to appreciate that his life depended on Garrison being in charge.

"What's the plan now, Lieutenant?" General Finch demanded. "Did you not anticipate the vehicles running out of gas?"

To his credit, Garrison ignored the General's tone. "If we can't commandeer another vehicle, we'll walk the rest of the way."

"Walk? Do you know how far it is to our lines, Lieutenant?"

Chief knew that silence. He could see it in the Warden's shoulders. It meant he was fighting against his temper.

Garrison smoothed the map on the ground in front of him and studied it for a moment. "Unless the front has shifted significantly in the last two days, I'd say about 10 miles."

"Through enemy territory," Finch huffed.

"Yes, sir. Do you have a better plan?"

"You'd better hope we encounter another vehicle, Lieutenant, because ten miles through enemy territory can be an awfully long way."

"Yes, sir. Then we should get started."

gggggggggggg

For a war zone, it was deceptively quiet. They hadn't encountered even one patrol or checkpoint as they made their way south, toward the Allied lines. Everyone was probably needed at the front, no one to spare patrolling territory they already held. By late afternoon, they were getting closer - Chief could hear the fighting in the distance. Garrison sent him ahead to scout out the situation.

Somewhere in this dense stand of forest, he was supposed to cross the line into Allied-held territory. How was he supposed to know? It's not like there'd be a road sign. And he was wearing a German uniform. He no longer wore the jacket, with all of its Nazi insignias, but what was left still didn't look much like any Allied uniform. He was carrying a German weapon and wearing the ammunition belt that went with it. What was to keep the first G.I. he encountered from shooting him on sight? He'd just have to make sure he saw them first, then he'd go back for the others. He was the scout, the point man. It's what he did, and he was good at it.

The distant mortar fire kept him on edge. He was closing in on it, but there was no way to tell who was firing. More than likely both sides were pounding the hell out of each other, and somewhere in the no-man's-land where the shells exploded was that slippery line. But for the moment he seemed to be alone in the trees and undergrowth. If only the shelling would stop, so he could hear.

To the south the trees thinned at the top of a low ridge, and beyond he could make out the roofs of buildings, and a church steeple. Or what was left of one. If he could find out who held that little patch of civilization, he'd know which side of the fighting he was on.

At the top of the ridge, he flattened himself to the ground beneath low bushes and studied the small village. No one could still be alive in that mess. There wasn't one complete building left standing. Craters and rubble blocked the narrow lanes. The steeple listed at a dangerous angle - the slightest breeze would push it over.

He eased his way down the slope, staying low and concealed, and was almost to the nearest building when he heard the high-pitched whistle of an in-coming mortar round. He curled into a ball and covered his head, just as the shell exploded in the woods behind him, shaking the ground, sending burning chunks of wood and metal in all directions. A second screaming mortar shell followed it, and detonated close to the first. The dry undergrowth where he'd just been hiding burst into flames. He no longer cared who claimed the bombed out village. He leapt to his feet and dashed for the church, desperately trying to get ahead of the sizzling sound of the next incoming shell. It detonated behind him as he dove for the open doorway, and hit the marble floor, landing hard on top of his MP40.

His ears rang from the deafening explosion, and the smoke and grit burned his eyes. The rough floor left a stinging scrape on his cheek. And then the fire started in his right thigh, and shot down his leg. He gritted his teeth against the searing pain, and gingerly rolled over to sit up, finding the spreading blood stain on his pants leg, above his knee. Shrapnel. Shit. Touching it even lightly sent sparks along every nerve, the hard, sharp scrap of metal still imbedded beneath the skin, in the muscle. He pulled in slow, deep breaths until the burn eased to a bearable throb. He'd think about getting the scrap of metal out later.

The battle was closing in. Now he could hear tanks and machine gun fire added to the occasional mortar round. It was close to sunset, the light was fading and taking the warmth of the day with it. If either army still cared about this scrap of Italian dirt, he had a 50-50 chance of it being the right one. Those were better odds than he got playing cards with Casino. His pulse pounded in his leg and his head, and he shivered, wishing he'd brought the jacket with him.

But he was behind enemy lines, in the wrong uniform. He knew he'd never see the inside of a prison camp. Garrison had made that clear to them often enough. He reached out and grabbed the strap of his MP40 and pulled it to his side, and he snapped the blade into his hand, welcoming its easy, familiar weight. He leaned back against the nearest pew and listened to the distant gunfire, waiting for its outcome to decide his fate.

Another mortar round landed close and shook dust and plaster from the walls. They were coming less frequently now - maybe the gunners were taking a dinner break. The thought made him smile. They all stopped trying to kill each other when they got hungry.

A soft scrape just outside the doorway, gravel against stone, brought him fully alert, pumping adrenalin back into his system. Cloth rustling against cloth, and a brief rattle of hardware. He silently shoved the knife back into its sheath and lifted the MP40.

Silhouetted in the dimming light, a figure stepped into the doorway in front of him. A German infantryman holding a weapon identical to his own, pointed at his chest. The Kraut was startled to see him, then smiled. Chief's finger tightened on the trigger, just as the ear-splitting whine announced another incoming mortar a bare second before it hit. And the world exploded.

It took him a moment to get his bearings, pushing himself up on his elbows, dust and debris falling away. He spit out the grit, wiped his sleeve across his mouth, and tried to sit up, the sharp stab in his thigh reminding him of the chunk of metal imbedded there. Looking around at what was left of the small chapel, he realized the steeple had finally collapsed, bringing down part of the ceiling with it.

The pile of stone and rafters to his right moaned. The Kraut he almost shot... He dragged himself in the direction of the sound, and knelt beside the half-buried soldier, who was trapped beneath a length of oak beam that had fallen across his chest. But he was conscious and trying to free himself. With some effort, Chief pushed the rubble out of the way, and lifted the beam, awkwardly shoving it aside. The soldier's eyes flew open and took a second to focus, as Chief helped him sit up and lean back against what was left of the church wall.

"Das war zu nahe," the German groaned.

Chief decided it wouldn't hurt to agree, so he nodded, "Ja." He pulled the canteen off his belt and offered it to the soldier.

"Danke." He took a swig, suspiciously eyeing Chief's partial uniform, torn shirt, and bloody leg.

"Du bist verletzt."

"Ja." He couldn't just keep agreeing. The truth was going to come out eventually, might as well be now. He brought the barrel of his MP40 up and laid it against the soldier's chest. "And that's all the German I know, man."

The soldier's eyebrows tilted quizzically, then there was the flash of realization. He looked around for his own weapon, but Chief grabbed it and flung it out of his reach. "Now we're just gonna wait here until all the noise stops."

This German wasn't a whole lot older than the boy machine gunner, but he held his gaze unflinchingly, evidently trying to make sense of the situation - an American in a German uniform holding a gun on him.

He handed back the canteen. Chief took a mouthful of the warm, metallic tasting water, then spit it out, rinsing the grit out of his mouth. He took another mouthful and swallowed to clear his throat. It made him cough.

"Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"

"Nope."

"I speak English. A little." He held out his right hand. "My name is Erik."

Chief didn't take his finger off the trigger.

"Don't worry, I cannot hurt you." Erik shifted painfully, trying to sit up straighter against the wall, and wrapped an arm across his chest. "Meine Rippen sind gebrochen."

Chief didn't have to understand the words to know the kid was in pain, and probably a lot of it, judging from the size of the beam that had fallen on him. "Sit still. You got a first aid kit?"

"Was?"

Chief tried to think of simple words the soldier might understand. "Aspirin? Medicine?"

"Ah, nein."

"Me neither."

But maybe there was something he could do to make them both more comfortable. Using his MP40 for some support, he pushed to his feet and tested putting weight on his leg. The pain had eased into a steady throb, but he could manage it. Slinging his gun across his back, he limped for the gaping hole that used to be the church's front door. He picked up Erik's weapon along the way, too.

"You are leaving?" Erik asked. Chief thought he heard a note of fear in his voice.

"No, I'll be back."

At the edge of the woodland, dried leaves, twigs, and fallen branches weren't difficult to find. He gathered as much as he could carry and still balance with both weapons slung across his back, and carefully hobbled back to the refuge of the church.

Erik's eyes were closed, but he moaned and shifted as Chief dropped his load of firewood on the floor. Using large pieces of the fallen stone and marble, he built a make-shift fire pit and stacked the wood, beginning with the leaves and smaller pieces to get the flame started. It didn't take long for the driest pieces to catch and start producing some heat. He hoped the fire wouldn't give their position away. He had no control over which army would be in a position to see it, but there was that 50-50 chance again.

"Danke," Erik breathed.

"Bitte," Chief answered, smiling as he realized he knew more German than he thought he did. He settled back down beside Erik, in front of the fire, and set both rifles on his other side, out of the kid's reach, before stretching his hands out to the warmth.

"I have... Hartkeks," Erik said, reaching to the small pouch on his belt.

Chief tensed, ready to release his knife, but what Erik pulled out was a small pack of biscuits. He ripped the package open and held it out to Chief.

"Thanks." The hard square crumbled in his mouth, tasting a lot like the dust and grit he'd swallowed. But at the moment, he didn't care. It filled the hole in his stomach. He took a second one when Erik offered, and they shared more of the water from Chief's canteen to help wash down the dry crumbs.

The incessant mortar barrages had stopped, and overhead a nearly full moon was starting its path across the sky, making odd angular patches of light through the partially destroyed roof. This could have been any early summer night back home, if it weren't for the killing. There'd been lots of nights like this, when he'd sat by the fire with his grandfather, listening to the stories of ancestors and mythical creatures, and conjuring the magical adventures in his imagination. The stories were full of evil spirits and bloody battles, but the good guys always won in the end. He figured that's what made them just stories, told around the fire on a dark night, to teach the young ones.

He glanced over at the Kraut. Erik seemed to have dozed off. Maybe he wasn't hurt as badly as he thought. He looked even younger in his sleep. He probably wasn't a Nazi, just another kid caught up in the war machine, doing what the men in control demanded.

He remembered the photograph he'd stuffed into his pocket, and pulled it out. His rough treatment had created more creases across the sweet image, including one across the pretty white dress. Something small and painful in his heart constricted, and cut off his breath. What was she doing right now, right this minute? Had she worn a white lace dress, too, and carried flowers?

"A friend?" Erik asked.

Chief breathed again, balled the picture up into a wad, and tossed it into the fire. "No, just a picture."

"Pretty."

"Yeah."

"My wife is pretty, too." Erik carefully took a small, black and white photograph from his shirt pocket and handed it to him.

He had to agree. The girl sitting next to Erik was beautiful, with long pale hair, and the carefree smile of an innocent. She held a baby on her lap.

"Winifred. Winnie. And my son, Johann. He is one year old now."

Chief envied the longing and affection he heard in Erik's voice. Maybe it was easier fighting a war when you knew there was someone warm and loving waiting for you to come home. "She is pretty," Chief agreed, handing him back the picture.

"You have family?" Erik asked.

"No." He thought of the men he worked with, lived with, and risked his life with every day, but he didn't know how to explain that.

The welcome silence of the night, the shifting moonlight, and the warmth of the fire were catching up with him. He didn't realize he'd dozed - didn't know how long he'd been asleep - until a shift in the air and light brought him instantly back to consciousness. Erik was leaning over him, reaching across for his weapon.

Chief brought his knee up hard, ramming it into the young German's midsection, throwing him backward. Unbidden, the knife was in his hand. He was on top of Erik, ready to plunge it into that sweet spot beneath the ribs, where the final upward thrust and twist would rip his heart open. The sheer terror in the kid's eyes brought him up short, the knife point caught in the jacket fabric.

Chief backed off, his heart pounding. He stowed the knife and gripped Erik's arm, pulling him back up to lean against the crumbling wall. "You can have your gun in the morning," Chief told him. "Then you'll head for your lines, and I'll head for mine. Alright?"

"And what if your army takes this position? Am I your prisoner?"

"Yep."

"And if my army gets here first? You would spend the rest of the war in a stalag. Would that be so bad? At least they would not be shooting at you."

"Do I look like a regular G.I. Joe to you?" Chief spat, not really meaning to sound that angry. "I'd never make it to a prison camp. And I ain't doin' that again."

"You're a spy?" Erik looked more intrigued than surprised.

Chief was done with this conversation, he'd already said too much. "Look, why don't you get some sleep. I'll let you know if your guys show up."

He put another substantial dead branch onto the dying fire, stirring up the embers, and gingerly stretched his injured leg out in front of him. The wound felt hot and swollen.

"Do you play poker?" Erik asked, producing a deck of cards from a pocket.

Chief's eyes narrowed.

"It would pass the time," Erik grinned, picking up a handful of the small pieces of stone and marble that littered the floor around them. "We can play for rocks. If I win, I can have my gun."

Chief grinned. He figured he'd practiced his game against the best. "You're on."

It took only a couple of hands to establish common ground rules. The deck was battered and worn, so much so that he figured he could probably identify most of the cards just by their folds and missing corners. After a half hour of watching his pile of stones dwindle, he knew Erik could.

"You're cheatin', dad."

Erik feigned an innocent smile. "You are just unlucky."

But they continued to play, because Erik was right. It passed the time, and it was a distraction. And once Chief started to recognize the identifying marks, too, his luck changed. He was about to win Erik's last shard of marble when he noticed the kid grimace and shift uncomfortably. "You alright?"

"It hurts some."

"You want to lie down?"

"No, I am fine. Really." Erik indicated Chief's bloody pants leg. "Your leg. Does it hurt?"

"Some."

"Shrapnel?"

"Yeah."

"Is it still in there?"

"Yeah."

"Let me see..." Erik leaned over to get a closer look.

Chief pulled away. "I'm fine."

"If it gets infected, you could lose your leg. Or worse. I have had some training. Let me see if I can remove it."

"It'll still get infected."

"Maybe this will help." Erik pulled a small metal flask from a hip pocket.

"You're just full of surprises."

Erik's blue eyes held his, and he almost pleaded, "Please let me help. I'll be quick, so maybe it won't hurt as much."

There was something about the blue eyes and young, innocent face. It took him only a second to decide that the growing burn in his thigh was a serious problem, and that he needed to trust the kid who was losing to him at poker. He slipped the knife into his hand and snapped it open, handing it to Erik. He also picked up one of the Schmeissers and laid it across his lap. Erik did not miss the significance.

Carefully Erik tore away the pants leg and pulled it free of the wound. Chief stifled a wince at the sudden sting. It did not look good - red, swollen, and oozing.

Erik stripped out of his jacket, then his shirt. After putting the jacket back on, he cut the shirt into strips, ready to use as bandages. He heated Chief's knife in the fire, then cooled it with a drizzle of the alcohol from the flask.

He offered Chief the flask, but he shook his head. He didn't need anything else dulling his senses.

"Sit on your hands," Erik suggested, as he pulled off his belt. "And bite on this."

He tried to be anywhere but here, concentrate on anything but the searing pain that shot from his leg to his brain. Involuntarily he tried to jerk away, but Erik leaned on his knee, holding him fast to the marble floor. The leather tasted dry and salty, and he struggled to keep from gagging. Beneath the haze, he could hear Erik speaking softly in German, and he tried to focus on the words.

"Fertig!" Erik held up the bloody dime-sized scrap of metal. "Do you want it?"

Chief spit out the belt and shook his head. "You keep it."

Without warning, Erik poured some of the alcohol into the open wound. Chief sucked in a gasp. Pouring more of the liquid onto a folded scrap of fabric, Erik gently swabbed the blood from around the wound, then placed another soaked wad of fabric over the gash, and strapped it in place with the belt.

"You will have a sexy scar," Erik smiled, leaning back against the wall, rubbing sweat from his upper lip. He swiped the knife blade on his pants leg, folded it up, and handed it back to Chief. "You are alright?

"Yeah." Chief gritted his teeth against the fiery sting and forced himself to take long, calming breaths. "Thanks."

Erik handed him the flask, and this time he took a swallow. Bad bourbon. But it got rid of the fetid taste of the leather.

Erik reached for another piece of wood to place on the fire, and Chief saw him grimace and pull back, before reaching out more slowly. "You're hurt pretty bad."

"No. Just bruised, I think."

"Try not to move." He leaned over and handed the flask back to Erik, who also took a healthy swallow.

There wasn't enough alcohol left to get them both drunk, but by the time they'd finished it, Chief felt the familiar vague numbness beginning to seep into his muscles.

Erik poured the final drops into his mouth, then pulled the three of spades from the top of the deck and flipped it at him. "Spielkarte."

"What?"

"Spielkarte. It is German for playing card." Then he kicked the nearest stone of the makeshift fire pit. "Feuer. Fire."

"Where did you learn English?" Chief asked.

"In der Schule. In school. English and German are much alike."

Chief could hear that. Sometimes he thought he almost understood Garrison and Actor when they were in full SS officer mode. But he couldn't imagine learning German in school. The ones he'd gone to barely taught reading and arithmetic.

Erik tapped the leather sheath on Chief's forearm. "Messer. Spring. What is it in English?"

"Switchblade."

"Switchblade," Erik tried the word on for size, and smiled. "I like it." Then he indicated the MP40. "The gun, die Schmeisser. What do you call it?"

"A Schmeisser," Chief repeated.

Erik's smile faded in the firelight. "Yes, we are too much alike."

gggggggggg

Some small sound woke him. A bird singing somewhere in the woods. Or a rustle in the leaves. He tried to straighten from where he'd slumped against the stone wall, but every muscle rebelled, stiffened by the cool night and his awkward position. He still held the MP40 against his chest, beneath his folded arms, and Erik was still asleep, curled up on the floor. The fire had died long ago, but the sky was brightening.

There was the sound again. Someone trying to move carefully through the nearby undergrowth. Several people. Adrenalin washed away the stiffness. He reached for Erik's shoulder and gently shook him.

The young German snapped to consciousness with a grunt.

"Ssshh."

"Was ist es?"

"Someone's comin'. Stay here." Chief pushed himself to his feet, trying to ignore the pain in his thigh, and moved as quietly as possible to the doorway, his finger tight against the MP40's trigger. If the Krauts were in control of this sorry little village, he didn't intend to be captured - at least not alive.

Smoke. Not from his dead fire - cigarette smoke. And voices, too distant to be distinct, but not guttural enough for German, or smooth enough for Italian. Standing just inside the doorway for protection, he whistled their three-note signal.

Silence.

He tried again.

This time he heard the four-note reply.

He stepped cautiously into the open, rifle ready. "Warden?"

First Garrison, and then the others, moved from cover up the slope, spread out and ready for trouble. As he saw them all smile and lower their guns, the tension rushed out of him so fast he almost collapsed.

He heard Erik behind him, heard the MP40 rattle, knew it was being raised, ready to fire, and saw the others' reaction as their weapons came up too.

"No, Warden! Wait!"

The shot came from his right, beyond the tree line. He spun in time to see Erik thrown backward, hitting the ground hard. Instantly Chief was at his side, his hand on the boy's chest, in the pool of blood from his shattered heart. The open, honest blue eyes stared at nothing.

He was aware of being surrounded, of Garrison's hand on his shoulder.

And the new voice intruded. "You're lucky I'm a good shot, son. He was about to shoot you in the back."

General Finch had pushed his way between Goniff and Casino, his side arm still in his hand.

The edges of his vision blurred as he glared at the grinning General. His rage exploded like the mortar rounds, tasted like acid in his mouth. He lunged at the smirking face, but was stopped by Garrison's sudden grip around his waist, his knife hand slammed to the ground. He swung back violently, hitting someone solidly with his elbow, and broke loose, launching himself upward, grasping fists full of filthy shirt. More arms and hands seized him, dragging him backward, until he fell heavily on top of Casino. He struggled to pull loose, his anger spilling out of control. But his strength failed him, drained away completely, and all he could do was lie there, Casino's arms around his chest, and try to breathe again.

"You need to control your men, Garrison. I just saved this one's life." And the General turned and walked away.

Chief gave one last unsuccessful attempt to pull free, then gave up to Casino's grip. The last thing he remembered hearing was Casino's voice in his ear. "Fuckin' bastard."

gggggggggggg

The rest of the day was a blur. The Allies had gained control of the region with few casualties, and they had the Gerries on the run, heading north.

Their mission was complete. General Finch had been safely rescued and returned to his command, to face questioning by his own superiors, and Allied troops were left to clean up the mess in the destroyed village.

They'd moved several miles to the rear, to a mobile field medical unit, where a corpsman had cleaned, stitched, and dressed his wound. He'd been able to shower, and was given clean fatigues. Someone had brought him some food. He didn't remember eating, but he must have. He wasn't hungry.

By the time he was finally alone in the small medical tent, it was beginning to get dark. He listened to the sounds coming from the surrounding encampment - quiet conversations, tin ware clinking in preparation for dinner, an occasional loud burst of laughter. It wasn't going to be as cold tonight, but if it was, he had blankets, and a comfortable cot.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and raised his left knee to rest his arms across it. He stretched his right leg out on the cot, and rubbed at the clean, neat bandage around his thigh, beneath the camouflage of his fatigues. They'd given him a shot when they'd stitched it. His whole thigh was numb to the touch, and he hated the feeling. It should hurt. He wanted it to hurt.

He looked up when the tent flap was pushed aside. Garrison turned up the lamp as he came in, filling the tent with an unusual yellow glow. Actor, Casino and Goniff were close behind.

"Hey, how ya' feelin', Chiefy?" Goniff plopped down on the adjacent empty cot, as the others gathered around.

"We're headin' over to the mess," Casino told him. "Want us to bring you somethin'? They're servin' up a fine cut of M-2 tonight, with a delicate D-1 for dessert."

"No, thanks. I'm good."

"Maybe some coffee? I hear it's the good 6 a.m. vintage."

Leave it to Casino. He could always make him angry, and he could always make him smile.

"You could probably come with us," Actor suggested. "Do you think you can walk?"

"I'll skip it tonight."

"Suit yourself. You don't know what you're missin'." Casino headed for the door, and Actor followed.

Goniff reached out and gave him a gentle backhanded swat on the arm before going after them. "I'll eat your share for ya," he promised.

Garrison remained standing at the foot of the cot. "I'll catch up with you," he told the others as they left, and he took the seat Goniff had vacated. "We're hitching a ride home tomorrow."

"No more top brass to pull out of the fire?"

"Not this trip."

Garrison sat quietly for a minute, watching his cigarette turn to ash, so Chief sat quietly too, waiting for the inevitable lecture about respecting the stripes.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Garrison finally asked.

"No."

"Sometimes it helps..."

"No!" He didn't mean to shout. This wasn't Garrison's fault. "There's nothin' to talk about."

"We found this in his pocket." Garrison handed him the small black and white picture of Erik, Winifred and Johann, all smiling in their Sunday best. Blood stained the lower half. "I'll see if the Red Cross can get it back to his family."

"Can they get the blood off?"

"No."

Chief ripped the picture into tiny scraps. "She don't need to remember him like that."

He knew Garrison was watching him, maybe expecting something, maybe not. He wanted to be alone, and he didn't. He wanted his leg to hurt, and he didn't. He rested his forehead on his knee, afraid his face might betray something in the ugly yellow light.

Garrison crushed out his cigarette on the floor, and said quietly, "He could have killed you."

"No, he wouldn't do that."

"Or any one of us..."

"No!"

"You can't know that."

"I do." Sometimes he wished he had Actor's words, a way of saying things to make others understand. Garrison needed to understand. "His name was Erik. He cheated at cards and drank bourbon that tasted like kerosene."

"He was a soldier..."

"Stop sayin' that!" He glared up at Garrison with every ounce of frustrated anger he had left. "He had no choice. He was a kid. I just...I wanna stop killin' kids."

The long silence was broken only by the distant sound of men enjoying their evening meal. Somewhere a dog barked.

Finally Garrison sighed. "I don't know what to tell you. It won't get any easier. And you don't want it to."

"I know." He rubbed at the bandage, trying to force feeling back into the wound.

"The corpsman said that removing the shrapnel probably saved your leg. Maybe your life."

Chief snorted a laugh. "Yeah, then there's that. Look, can I have my blade back?"

"Tomorrow, after we leave."

He snapped his head up to glare at his commander. "You really think I'd go after the General again?"

"No, of course not..." Garrison sighed. "He ordered me to disarm you."

"Alright, fine..." He dropped his head back to his knee.

He heard Garrison stand to leave, but then hesitate. "I have a better idea."

Garrison walked to a cabinet at the far end of the tent, and came back with a deck of cards. "Five card stud. You win, I'll give you your knife back."

Chief drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. It was never easy for the Warden to defy a direct order. "You're on."