Prequel, a combat! fanfic

Prequel to

Guardian Angel/

Mirror Image

In the ETO - Late Summer/Early Fall, 1944

The German ack-ack fired again and again, pursuing the American spy plane high above. It occurred to the gunnery sergeant that the pilot of the plane had counted on the bad weather at ground level to hide him from the artillery, but the new radar station at St. Thierry was proof against any kind of weather, and hiding was no longer a possibility.

The guns fired again, and the sergeant watched in satisfaction as the plane spiraled down to the west, near the retreating German troops in Sector 5-3. He turned to the private operating the field phone and signaled him to call the division commander and advise of their success. They would want to get to the pilot and retrieve the film ahead of the verdammt Amerikaners.

xxxxx

First Squad, Second Platoon, King Company, 361st Infantry was enjoying some rare downtime – or trying to. Kirby was flat out on his back, snoring very loudly. An extremely irritated Littlejohn was trying to decide whether it would be worth the fuss to dump his entire canteen over Kirby and wake him up.

"He makes a lot of noise even when he's asleep!"

Caje, the unit scout, was sitting against a large cushion propped against the wall, helmet over his eyes. He raised the helmet to look at his squad mate and quirked a smile in amusement. "Leave him be, Littlejohn; he got stuck with guard duty last night and he's out of it."

"Hmph. He wouldn't have gotten guard duty if he'd kept his mouth shut about Sergeant Flanders' 'special package'."

"C'est vrai. But when did Kirby ever keep his mouth shut about anything?" Caje tilted his helmet back down.

"That's the truth," said Billy, unconsciously echoing Caje. He was trying to mend his spare pair of socks with very little success, finally giving it up as a bad job and tossing them back into his pack. "Say, Caje, where did Sarge get off to?"

Caje shrugged. "Beats me. Brockmeyer came in and got him and I haven't seen either of them since. Probably getting briefed by Hanley. So you should both just quit worrying about Kirby and rest, because Sarge will walk in the door very shortly with a new patrol assignment, and then you'll wish you hadn't wasted the energy."

Billy and Littlejohn simultaneously opened their mouths to refute the Cajun's wisdom when the door to the cottage opened and Saunders walked in. The two men looked at one another. Littlejohn shrugged. "That's Caje for you."

"I give up. Caje, do you have second sight?" He watched Caje pick up his Garand and rise with the grace that always made Billy feel like a klutz. I wonder how he does that.

"No, Billy." He thumped Nelson on the head affectionately. "I just know how to listen. Sarge has a very distinct walk. You work on listening and you'll hear it, too."

"We goin' out again, Sarge?" Littlejohn inquired.

"Not 'we'. Just Caje."

Sarge waved the scout out of the cottage, and the two men trotted towards the CP. "So. What am I doing, Sarge?"

"I'll let the Lieutenant explain."

They found Hanley waiting with another private when they entered the CP. Caje recognized him as the Second Squad scout, Pascow, with his sergeant, Levine. They nodded at one another.

"Gather 'round here."

The five soldiers stood around the table serving Hanley as a desk and reviewed a map of the area.

"About twenty minutes ago, one of our spy planes radioed that it was being fired at about here." Hanley pointed to a coordinate on the map. "Radio contact was lost almost immediately, and we have to assume it was shot down – probably about here."

He turned to the two scouts. "Getting that film back is critical. I'm sending the two of you in – for my money, you're the best enlisted men in the platoon at being quick and stealthy – to retrieve the film, and the pilot, if he's still alive. Pull a handy-talkie. Your call signs are Cat One," Hanley pointed at Caje, "and Cat Two." He indicated Pascow.

The two scouts exchanged an amused glance. Pascow mouthed a silent 'meow' and Caje grinned.

Saunders and Levine looked at the Lieutenant in surprise. "We're not going?"

"No need. Caje, you'll be in charge." The Cajun nodded. "Well, don't stand there. You need to leave now."

Caje and Pascow saluted and left the tent to requisition what they needed and depart. Sanders just looked at Hanley.

"What's wrong, sergeants? Don't you trust your scouts?"

Levine shrugged wryly.

Saunders picked up his helmet. "You know I do, Lieutenant. I just don't like sending my men out on their own."

Hanley stifled a grin. "He's all grown up, Sergeant. I'll bet he can even tie his own shoes."

Saunders didn't say anything – the withering look he gave Hanley spoke volumes. He and Levine returned the Lieutenant's salute and left the tent.

xxxxx

On their way out of Company, Pascow reached over and took the handy-talkie from Caje. He grinned at Caje's surprise. "Aww, you weigh more than I do. Balances the load."

Caje returned the grin. "I remember you from England. Theo always said you were a pretty sharp guy."

"Not sharp enough to not get taken in that crap game the day we shipped. Remember that British idiot? 'Sorry, chaps. Should have learned this game sooner, chaps.' Bull. We were the fish and he hooked us."

Caje laughed as he vaulted over the remainder of a wall, which had once guarded a now nearly demolished home. "I knew I didn't get involved in that for some reason."

"Yeah. You and your buddy were too busy chasing sheep." Pascow's sideways grin robbed the comment of offense.

"Heh."

The two men were matched in speed and agility. Despite Pascow's earlier words, they were almost the same height and weight, slim, dark and lightly muscled. Neither of them was going to slow the other one down, as long as they stayed healthy and away from Kraut bullets.

They had hardly gone a mile when there was a sudden thunderclap overhead and it began to pour. Caje and Pascow cursed simultaneously.

"Merde!"

"Son of a -!"

The glares they exchanged boded poorly for the continued well-being of Sergeant Flaherty in the requisition tent, or any Army meteorologists who happened to be hanging around Company when they got back.

"No, of course there won't be any rain, and we won't need rain gear!" Pascow growled. Caje muttered imprecations in French. Pascow smiled suddenly.

"Nice to have another language to curse in, isn't it?"

Caje was snapped out of his anger by the question. "Well, yes, it is, except at home where they know what you're saying."

"Yeah." Pascow chuckled.

"You speak another language?"

"Two. Russian and Yiddish. Well, ok - three if you count Hebrew."

Caje could tell he was being watched for a reaction. He moved a large branch aside and looked back at Pascow.

"You're taking a chance coming out on this, you know."

Pascow pretended not to understand Caje's meaning.

"You too, pal."

Caje talked over his shoulder without stopping, simultaneously leaping over a small deadfall and ducking under a low-hanging branch.

"You know what I mean, Pascow. The Germans don't much like Jews, do they? You can't expect to be treated well if you're captured."

"So I don't intend to be captured."

Caje stopped briefly and raised an eyebrow. "Never met anyone who intended to be captured. Doesn't mean it won't happen." He started to run again, Pascow right behind him. "So, where do you come from?"

Pascow laughed without much humor. "Boston. My father's a cantor there. A cantor leads prayers in a synagogue."

Caje looked over. "I'll have to take your word for it. There aren't a lot of Jewish people in the bayou country. I don't think I've ever talked to a Jew before, not like this."

"That's all right. I don't think there are any Cajuns in Boston, either. French Canadians, yeah, but not Cajuns. What's a Cajun, anyway?"

The two scouts ran at top speed down one side of a small valley, and started up the other side. "My ancestors came from France and settled in Canada. The English decided the French were enemies and chased them out of Canada. The area they came from was called 'Acadia', and the people 'Acadians'. It eventually got worn down into 'Cajun'. We settled in the bayou country of Louisiana and we pretty much keep to ourselves."

Pascow slid down, panting, when they reached the top of the hill. Caje slid down as well, eyes moving from side to side, constantly watching. "Give me a minute, will you, Caje?"

Caje looked over and nodded. "Just a minute."

"Your people. Sounds like the names are changed, but the song's the same." Pascow caught his breath and rolled his shoulders to loosen them. "Chased out, called an enemy. A very familiar story. You may have read about it in the Torah – your Old Testament, I mean."

Caje nodded, amused. "Yes, I think it came up in Sunday School once or twice." He surveyed the scenery again. "I make our heading a couple of points to the north and east. You?"

Pascow agreed. "We should be there in about ten minutes, best time. Let's get going."

xxxxx

In silent agreement, the two scouts pulled up just short of their destination and dropped to the ground. Caje motioned Pascow down. "I think we got here first."

"Looks like it."

Caje started to crawl forward for a better view, when Pascow stopped him.

"What?"

"I need to ask you something real quick."

"Ask me when we get done here."

"Can't. Trust me. I got a feeling about this."

"Then ask me while we're moving up. We're running out of time. The Krauts are gonna be here soon."

They crawled forward, slowly, aware of every little sound. "Caje – you got a name, right – your folks didn't just name you 'Caje'?"

"Paul LeMay."

"Paul. That's funny."

"Why?"

"My first name's Pavel."

"So?"

"Pavel's Russian for Paul."

"Heh. That is funny."

"Paul, promise me one thing."

Caje rose up quietly in the shadow of a large tree. "If I can."

"If something happens to me, take my tags – all of them. I've heard things about the Germans – I know I shouldn't care, 'cause I'm not going to be in my body at the time, but - " Pascow stood up beside him.

Caje looked at him, his dark eyes wide and unreadable. "Nothing's going to happen." He raised his hand to Pascow's unvoiced objection. "I know. If. " He nodded. "Okay – I promise."

"Thanks. Hey! I see the pilot."

"Yeah. Check him out and I'll look for the film."

Pascow moved at a crouch. Caje ran to the damaged fuselage. He hastily pushed aside wreckage, trying to find the door to the compartment that held the camera and film. There. There it is. As he fumbled with the tool he needed to remove the box, he watched Pascow return.

"No?"

Pascow shook his head. "Doesn't look like he ever had a chance. You find the camera?"

"Yeah. Hold this piece back."

They worked together quickly.

"That does it! Let's get out of here and call Hanley." He handed the film to Pascow and took the radio as they moved. "Cat One to Checkmate King Two. Cat One – " Caje smacked the radio a couple of times in frustration. "Damn it! This radio's not working!"

"I'll help you hold Flaherty down and we'll both beat the tar out of him when we get back."

"It's a deal."

"Amerikaners! Halt! Hande hoch! "

Neither man hesitated for a second. They ran as quickly as they could. Behind them, they heard the sounds of pursuit. Caje and Pascow looked at one another and Caje came to a decision. He stopped, pulled the film out of his jacket and handed it to Pascow. "Run! Go! I'll hold them off!"

"Like hell you will!"

"Hanley put me in charge of this. You go. GO!"

Pascow stood for just a second. Then he reached into his jacket and passed a handful of clips to Caje.

"Be'hatzlacha, Paul." He turned and ran back the way they had come.

Within seconds, Caje found himself holding off what seemed like an entire platoon of Krauts. Run, Pascow. Run like t'e devil's chasing you. He fired with precision, conserving ammo; he picked off one Kraut after another, yet another always seemed to pop up. Where are they all coming from? Bullets kicked off the log he was using for cover, sending up a spray of splinters that hit him around one eye. For a moment, he could hardly see. Caje wiped off the rain, blood and tears and kept firing. Run, Pascow. Run!

Pascow was running as best he could in the rain and mud. He stopped at the top of the hill he and Caje had run up so recently. As he stood, panting, he could hear Caje firing and the German response. I shouldn't have left him, I shouldn't have.

He didn't see the young German soldier who had flanked Caje in order to hunt him down. But he heard as the soldier's gun fired and as he dived forward, he had time to think Okay, now he's REALLY going to be mad. Pascow was hit in the shoulder. At least it's not my leg. I should still be able to get back to Caje. He moved as quickly as his wound would let him, ducking from tree to tree, the young German in pursuit.

xxxxx

Caje barely had time to realize that he was not alone again when Pascow crawled in beside him.

"What the hell? Why –" He saw that Pascow was wounded and stopped. "Are they behind us?"

Pascow nodded, gasping for breath. The Kraut pursuing him had hit him again – and not in the shoulder. "One is, at least. Caje, I'm sorry." He took the film out of his jacket and handed it to his counterpart. "Give me your grenades."

"What?" For a moment, Caje couldn't think clearly. Then he caught movement from the corner of his eye and turned to see the Kraut who had chased Pascow back to him. He rolled on his back and fired; somehow he managed to hit the soldier. "Is he all or are there more?"

"Think … that's … all …" Pascow rallied briefly. "Caje, give me your grenades."

Caje didn't hesitate. "Pascow, we've got to get you out of here."

"Knew you'd say that. You can't and you know it. You've got to get the film back and I'll only slow you down – if I make it back at all. Just give me your grenades and I'll kick up some dust for you – ok, some mud." He gasped with pain and the effort of talking. "Just go. Here," Pascow pulled his dog tags off and handed them to Caje. "You promised."

Caje gripped the dog tags hard, and looked Pascow in the eyes. Without looking away, he pulled the grenades off his web belt and handed them to his fellow scout. He gripped Pascow's good shoulder and crouched in a sprinter's stance, M1 over his shoulder, ready to run. Pascow pulled the pin on a grenade and lobbed it. When it went off, Caje ran into the forest as fast as he could. He felt a bullet clip his calf as he ran. Another grenade went off behind him, and another. He slowed for a minute to listen for pursuit. For now, there was none. There was a last explosion and all was still. I'm not crying; it's the rain on my face. I'm not.

As he limped away as quickly as his injury and his pain would allow him, he vowed that he would return with the film. For Pascow. For Pavel.

– 30 –