A Team Player
"Sandy, could you come here for a moment?"
Technical Sergeant Sandy Komansky, 918th Bomb Group, had just set foot inside the small out-of-the-way pub, his favorite off-duty haunt, when he was called over by Jenny, the bar maid. In spite of himself, in spite of the lousy day he'd had, at the sound of her voice, he smiled.
The lousy day resulted from a dressing down by Major Neumann for a purported altercation between Komansky and Neumann's own flight sergeant, Chappy Chapman. Of course the report was true. Komansky and Chapman had never gotten along, but it wouldn't have done any good for Sandy to have told the major that it was Chapman's constant pushing, constant wise mouth that had started the whole thing. Sandy hadn't told Neumann; however, he'd told Colonel Joe Gallagher when the CO called him in to his office per Neumann's 'request.'
Gallagher had listened, sighed once, shook his head and told Komansky it was okay, not to waste time worrying over it. The fact that Gallagher was only five years older than Komansky hadn't kept the boyish-looking colonel from feeling paternal toward the sergeant, an orphan, a loner, and from day one an outcast. Gallagher and the crew of their B-17, the Piccadilly Lily, were all the family Sandy had ever known, and as far as anyone could tell, that suited him just fine.
The pert young woman motioned Komansky over to the polished oak bar, pushing a pint of stout in front of him, anticipating his want. Her smile was tempered with what seemed like worry. He knew this to be true when she motioned to a table behind Komansky, in the far corner, a bit in the shadows. Actually, it was Sandy Komansky's favorite spot, tucked out of the way where he could be as invisible as he wished while still able to see everything and everyone in the pub.
Seated there on a low stool, back tight against the wall, was a US Army corporal, baby-faced with youth. His white blond hair was tousled across his forehead, his uniform crisp and neatly pressed – the picture of the perfect American serviceman. The odd thing about the picture, what ruined it completely was a heavy white sling that supported the left arm across the chest and the gray pallor of the skin beneath the fading façade of a dark tan.
The corporal appeared to be lost in the glass of amber whiskey he was methodically swirling with his good hand. Something, a sixth sense perhaps, whatever it was that keyed a person into the knowledge that he was being watched, made him look up. And he looked directly at Komansky and back down again just as quickly.
"So?" Sandy picked up the pint, downed half of it without pause and waited for Jenny's explanation.
"He came in several hours ago, Sandy; ordered a large whiskey. Mostly he's just been sitting there, quiet like, not bothering anyone, sipping his drink. He ordered a bite, but hasn't touched it. He never should've been allowed out of hospital. There's fever in his eyes and voice…and pain in the way he moves. I asked if he wanted me to call…get him a ride back and you should've seen his face…he went all pale-like he did. Scared he was, Sandy. Something's not right with that one."
Komansky risked another quick glance back at the corporal. Butting in where he didn't belong wasn't a Komansky trait, and he rebelled at even the thought. But Jenny's hand on his arm and her genuine concern had him hedging. Her "Please, Sandy. Just talk to him. Maybe…you both bein' American and all," sent him over the edge. Komansky gave in. "Okay."
Finishing the beer, the reluctant sergeant ordered two more and offered Jenny a brief shake of the head and a very tentative smile.
"You'll do fine," she assured.
"Yeah, sure," he replied. He walked over to the table.
"Looks like you cold use a chaser for that whiskey." Komansky set the beer down on the corporal's table and knew right off the blond man wasn't fooled by the forced introduction. Intense blue eyes set in a face weathered by deep shadows emphasizing gaunt cheeks, raised to meet Komansky's intrusion. But the expression was an incongruous one.
Komansky shook his head. "This is as lame as it gets. I'll be honest. Jenny…over there," Komansky pointed, the corporal looked and the young woman blushed and turned away. "She was worried about you. Thought you might need…want somebody to talk to. I'm new to this so if I'm sticking my nose in where it doesn't belong…I'll butt out."
The corporal's gaze moved languidly from the pretty girl behind the bar to Komansky. "She was worried…about me?" The voice matched the man, distinct, quiet, slightly rough – almost gravelly; its natural state or fever and exhaustion an unknown factor.
"Worried about you….Mind if I sit? I feel stupid just standing here." Sandy placed his pint on the table, pulled out a stool and settled onto it before the corporal could nod his okay. Again he appeared to lose himself in the amber liquid at his fingertips.
Sandy slid a pint toward the corporal and sipped thoughtfully at his own, deciding it better to offer only his silent company. The silence was short.
"It's been a long time since I had a pretty girl worried about me. It feels good." The corporal nodded, smiled shyly and looked across the tiny table at Komansky.
"My name is Saunders, Carson C., but most people, family and friends, call me Chip." Saunders made an attempt to extend his right hand to Sandy, but was brought up short as the action caused him visible pain. He grimaced, caught a breath and held it till the spasm passed.
Anticipating Komansky's question, Saunders headed it off with an explanation. "Took some shrapnel in my left side and arm in North Africa…day after my birthday. Got an infection. The doctors couldn't do much for me there so they packed me off back here…to London." Saunders smiled, but it was hollow and incredibly sad. "They can't do much either."
Komansky finished his drink and signaled to Jenny for another. While he drank that and toyed with the one that followed, he listened to what Saunders said, and more importantly, to what he didn't say, but implied with pauses, uncomfortable looks, body language and prolonged periods of silence.
"You don't have a furlough from the hospital," Sandy accused.
"I never said I did," Saunders countered. "I walked. No, I ran outta that place. Yesterday a general came…stood by my bed while the adjutant read from a piece of paper. The general pinned these to my robe."
Withdrawing a hand from his jacket pocket the corporal held out a Purple Heart and a Silver Star, dropping them to the table. "The general gave me these and a second stripe and an hour later the doctor told me…he said they couldn't stop the infection. I was gonna lose my arm! Lose it, my ass! They were trading two medals…for my arm! The stripe's mine, I earned it. But tomorrow…tomorrow they're gonna cut…."
Saunders swallowed the thickness in his throat. With a trembling hand he reached out for the whiskey and downed what remained. "But I won't be there." When the corporal raised his face it was damp with tears; the blue eyes stark with helpless fear.
"Saunders, you're sick. An infection could kill you. Let me…" Before Sandy could finish the sentence Saunders was on his feet, pushing back from the table with his good hand, tipping it off center, spilling Komansky's last beer and threatening to topple everything to the floor.
"I won't let you take me back – not you – not anybody! I'll run…keep on running! Thanks, Sergeant, for nothing!"
Stumbling blindly, trying to see his way to the door in the now very dimly lit pub, Saunders ran into a pair of highly inebriated locals who laughed and pushed him off, thinking the soldier drunk as well. Saunders lost his footing and fell hard against a thick wooden support beam. In soundless anguish he sank to the floor, his face twisted in pain, his right arm clamped around his left.
At a touch on his shoulder, he lashed out. "Leave me alone! All I want is some peace. I wanna forget…just for a little while. Just forget and sleep…"
Komansky and Jenny knelt at Saunders' side, both supporting him to his feet.
"You never let me finish, Corporal. I was going to say, let me drive you over to Archbury. My roommate's on a weekend pass. You can sleep in my bunk. I'll take his. No silk sheets, but they're clean and the mattress is soft." Komansky slid an arm around Saunders' waist, feeling the other man tremble. He nodded to Jenny that it was okay for her to leave.
She smiled at the sergeant, then hooked a finger beneath Saunders' chin and raised it up from his chest so he'd have to look at her. "Go with Sandy…Sergeant Komansky….He's a decent sort. Keeps his word he does. Go ahead." Her smile was warm and Saunders desperately needed something to hold on to even if was only one night away from the hospital and someone he could trust.
"You'll get in trouble," Saunders cautioned Komansky.
Sandy thought that one over, but in the end shook his head. "I don't know about that. Maybe, but my CO, Colonel Gallagher – he's a good officer…a good man. I'll take the chance. Now let's go."
"Sure, okay." Saunders took a deep breath and with Komansky's support moved on shaky legs to the door and beyond that to the jeep and the soft bed that beckoned to the very ill, very confused young soldier.
Before Komansky could get Saunders settled into the passenger seat, a blanket from the back thrown over his chest and legs, Jenny appeared at the backlit door and walked over to the jeep. In one hand she held Komansky's and Saunders' hats; in the other hand two medals lay draped across a small palm.
Komansky took the hats and the medals and brushed the girl's cheek gently with the back of his hand. He bent over the corporal, in those brief moments already nearly asleep. At Komansky's question Saunders shook his head. Komansky insisted. At another negative response the sergeant dropped both medals into Saunders' chest pocket. "Leave 'em there. That's on order. You'll want 'em later."
"No…no, I won't," Saunders slurred.
"Have it your way. Just get some sleep. It's about a twenty minute ride back to the base." Komansky drew the blanket up to Saunders' chin and awkwardly, gently, patted the corporal's shoulder.
Komansky, the loner, had become in the space of hours, Komansky the chaplain, Komansky the psychologist, Komansky the involved. He was certain he didn't like it. It felt uncomfortable – unnatural. And he had doubts, serious doubts that he was doing the right thing for Corporal Chip Saunders.
The ride to Archbury was quiet and uneventful. The corporal slept soundly from start to finish. Too soundly as Sandy was to find out when he tried to rouse him. Saunders protested, mumbling, pushing Sandy's hands as he attempted to help him from the vehicle.
Komansky regrouped, leaned close to Saunders and shook him by his uninjured arm. "Come on…we've gotta get inside before we're spotted."
"Okay…okay, Sarge." Saunders felt lousy. Actually, lousy was too mild a description by far. The lengthy drive in the damp early March night had chilled him even beneath the wool blanket. His feverish body reacted by shivering violently. And he hurt all over, not just the infected arm and side, but deep, bone deep and there was no morphine to dull it. But he was game, and he wanted, God how he wanted this brief taste of freedom. He reached out to Komansky and accepted the other man's strength. Saunders leaned into Sandy and together they walked the graveled pathway to the barracks and down the long hallway to the sergeant's quarters.
Once inside the small, relatively sparse room, which was heated by a central potbellied stove and lit by a bare overhead bulb, Saunders' legs gave out. It was all Komansky could do to muscle the slender man over to the bed and lay him back onto the mattress.
Sandy flipped the light on and for the hundredth time in the past hours he wondered what he'd gotten himself into. The soldier on the bed was pale, his skin sheened with perspiration. As much as he tried to disguise it in front of the sergeant, the corporal was in a lot of pain. He refused to meet Komansky's inquiring gaze, opting to hide his anguish in the crook of one arm.
Sandy poured out a glass of water from the pitcher on the rickety nightstand and offered it to Saunders. After a few sips he refused more.
"I don't feel so good, Sandy. I just wanna sleep." Saunders' eyes closed and Komansky felt for a pulse. It was weak and thready and the dark-haired sergeant feared for the corporal's life.
"Listen for a minute, Saunders." Komansky pulled over one of two hard-backed chairs and straddled it. "Listen to me," he coaxed.
Saunders nodded. "I'm listenin'."
Figuring this was as good as it would get, Komansky began. "There's a doctor here, our flight surgeon, Major Kaiser. He's a great doctor. Before the war he was an orthopedic surgeon – a bone man. Let me get him. Let him look at your arm. Saunders…maybe he can help."
"Can he save it? Save my arm?" The corporal's words were slurred, mumbled, but the eyes opened. For the first time in a long time – a lifetime it seemed – Chip Saunders felt the faintest stirring of hope. "Can he?"
Sandy sighed. "He can try. Let him give it a shot. What do you say?" He offered a hesitant smile that broadened when Saunders nodded.
"Okay."
Stocky, gray-haired Major 'Doc' Kaiser chastised Komansky in his fatherly manner as he accompanied him back to the young man's quarters. Chastised him, but in the end, of course, agreed to help to the best of his considerable ability.
Settling into the uncomfortable chair at the corporal's bedside, Kaiser began his exam by introducing himself, talking to Saunders to put him at ease. He then felt the pulse and listened to the heart and lungs.
Rising, pulling Komansky aside, the physician asked a favor. "Talk to him, Sandy. Keep him distracted. I'll be giving him morphine, but he'll be anxious and there will still be some discomfort when I examine the arm. Talk to him, but more than that…get him to talk."
Komansky glanced around Doc at Saunders. Rather than lying still on the bed, he moved restlessly, kneading the pillow behind his head with one hand, methodically, rhythmically. "I can do that, Major," Sandy replied.
Angling himself on the bed, Komansky held Saunders up against his chest while Kaiser removed the white sling, unbuttoned the khaki jacket and with a great deal of difficulty, removed it. By this time, Saunders was drenched in sweat and trembling and Kaiser had yet to unwrap the arm.
The bandages were saturated with drainage, the jacket sleeve stained, the shirt ruined. Kaiser tossed the coat aside where it fell to the floor in a heap. That caused Saunders a great deal of distress. He twisted in Komansky's arms, talking up at the man who held him.
"My jacket…it's the only one I've got…it has my new stripe on it…it's the only thing I've got with me I care about."
"I'll take it to the cleaners and pick up a new shirt. No problem. Don't worry about it." Komansky gentled his way out from behind Saunders and laid the corporal down, a pillow beneath the blond head.
Across the bed, Kaiser caught Sandy's attention, mouthing "get him talking." The physician injected morphine and began an IV.
Kaiser's silence as he concentrated on the wounded man gave Komansky his cue. "How long have you been in the army, Corporal?" Sandy accepted a damp cloth from the doctor and began to blot the sweat from Saunders' wan face.
The corporal fought to concentrate on what the sergeant had asked, his struggle visible as he frowned, a furrow knit into the otherwise smooth forehead. "Eight months…eight months…maybe a little more – two in North Africa, 9th Infantry. Hot, hot, sand…sand in everything – hair, food, clothes…hot."
Saunders moaned, twisting away from Kaiser's hands and toward Sandy. Komansky took the cold hand that searched for something, someone to cling to, and allowed the corporal to hang on until the worst of the pain passed. Saunders' grip was strong as he strained against a body that betrayed him at every turn. When the pain did pass, Saunders needed no coaxing to continue. He needed to talk, to open up to someone.
"I was in a convoy – miles long – supplies, ammo, men for a big push through the desert toward the Kasserine Pass…February 25th. I was ridin' in front with the driver. Nothin' to see for miles except sand. Not like at home…little dunes by the beach, soft, rolling….These touched the sky, mountains almost. Anything could be behind them…anybody.
"Artillery! The transport in front of us was hit. Guys jumpin' out the back, runnin' everywhere, screamin'. We're hit! We're hit!" The timber of Saunders' voice changed. He was no longer relating a story; he was reliving it. His expression became dreamy, distant, the eyes clouding over.
"I dragged myself out of the wreck, me and the driver. Men were trapped, pinned inside. The gas tank ruptured. I had to get 'em out. Don't know how many times I crawled into the back of that transport. There was blood everywhere…guys missin' arms, legs…worse; guys I couldn't help, and all of 'em beggin me to do something! No time to choose who lived – just grab 'em and pull 'em out."
Saunders arched his body up off the bed, tearing his hand free of Komansky's, reacting to sudden, acute pain by grabbing at the white-coated doctor.
Komansky held him flat against the bed while Kaiser quickly injected another low dose of morphine. The corporal whimpered, relaxing finally, his gaze on Sandy's face. But Komansky was looking across at the arm Kaiser had completely unwrapped. Saunders' gaze followed Komansky's and he was sorry he hadn't just closed his eyes and allowed the drug to do its work.
For the first time Chip Saunders got a good look at what had once been his left arm. Had been because now it bore no resemblance to anything vaguely familiar.
Hideously swollen from shoulder to elbow, discolored black, blue and green, it looked like a hunk of spoiled meat; the odor nearly as bad. Saunders' stomach lurched.
"No…" he whimpered. "No…," pleading with a wounded tone and mounting horror, "Don't let it be true! Don't let it be real!"
Komansky wiped sweat from Saunders' face. "Doc's about finished, then you can get some sleep. Everything's gonna be okay. If you feel up to it, I want to hear the rest of the story. If you're up to it."
With the combination of morphine and Sandy's soothing influence, Saunders fought the panic. He got his breathing under control and his thoughts in order. It was a fight to remember exactly what he'd been saying before the horror robbed him of clear thought. But once again his expression became detached and distant. There was no present, only the past.
"I started screamin', too, for a medic. I was in like a tunnel. All I could see was what was in front of me, right in front of me. Another hit blew the truck behind ours – threw me to the ground. I got up. Had to get back to the men. Our truck was on fire. The lieutenant was yellin' in my face, but I couldn't understand, not a word. Sounded like a cartoon character, Donald Duck. I coulda laughed – I almost did, it sounded so funny. He grabbed me, held me. I fought, but he shoved me down, sat on me. He kept yellin'. I was bleeding – hemorrhaging. Couldn't feel it. Not then. All I understood…all I could think about was gettin' those guys outta that burning truck. They're screamin'! Hear 'em? Hear 'em, Lieutenant? Lemme go! Lemme go!
"I passed out. I remember the hospital in Africa, a tent, heat, pain…a plane ride…the hospital in London. I figured I got maybe six guys out. The general…he told me eleven. I don't remember. Could be true…don't remember. Wish…wish I didn't remember so much."
"Heard we lost close to ten thousand men in that engagement - horrible," Kaiser commented softly as he finished redressing the arm and the side, peppered with shrapnel wounds, many infected and suppurating, like the arm.
Sandy offered Saunders water. The corporal took a sip and drifted off, finally giving the morphine he'd grown a tolerance to a chance to help give him the rest his body craved.
The surgeon was angry and disgusted. "It's a cinch the doctors in Africa never gave this boy penicillin. And I have serious doubts he was started on it in London, either. There's been no healing at all. I'm going back to the infirmary to make a call; let them know we've got their missing man and that we're keeping him. I'll get him started on penicillin immediately."
Sandy rose from Saunders' side and reached out, putting a restraining hand on Kaiser's arm, glancing back to make certain the corporal was beyond hearing. He was. "Is there a chance you can do something for him…save his arm? Be honest, sir. It's just us."
Kaiser wiped his hands on a towel and smiled somewhat wearily at Komansky. "Yes, there's a chance. I'll need x-rays. I just bet they missed something, a bit of shrapnel, a bone fragment. After a good twenty-four hours on high doses of antibiotics, I'll operate. There's hope, Sandy. There's always that."
Saunders woke, still in the bed he'd drifted off in hours earlier. The sergeant he'd met in the pub the day before, Komansky, slept in the bed nearer the door. He was still clothed and had, in fact, been sleeping only moments, having spent the better part of the night keeping watch over the corporal.
The stove still gave off a comfortable level of warmth and the kettle sitting on its top released a gentle spiral of steam.
Saunders took stock of his condition. He was feverish. That evidenced itself in the dreams he'd had. Always the same since childhood when he'd had a good fever. He was a boy, lost in a jungle. Trees, brush so thick and tall he felt dwarfed. Scared, lonely, forgotten. Always the same damned dream.
His arm and side hurt, but it was more a dull throb. The bandage-covered arm rested in a clean sling across his bare chest. But his right arm felt as restricted as his left. His gaze tracked IV lines from his hand and inner elbow up above his head. One connected to a bottle of clear fluid, the other to a small bottle of amber. Despite the added fluid he was getting his mouth and throat were most uncomfortably dry.
He must've dozed off because the next thing he was aware of was Sergeant Komansky sitting next to his bed, hands wrapped around a mug of steaming aromatic tea.
"Feel up to some?" Sandy asked, holding the mug out.
"Milk and sugar?" Saunders countered.
"If that's how you take it." Komansky smiled, more in relief than anything else. The night had worn on interminably as he'd sat at the corporal's side and listened to his uneven breathing and mumbled half-delirium.
Adding the requested milk and sugar, Komansky returned to the bed, trying to figure out the best way, the easiest way to get the tea into the corporal. Moving him at all seemed to cause pain and he was certainly not going to do that unnecessarily.
Saunders watched intently, glazed eyes on the mug, his expression longing. He even attempted to raise himself up a bit on the bunk, giving up the idea quickly. He had the strength of a day old infant.
Komansky set the mug on the table, and himself on the narrow edge of the mattress, easing an arm behind Saunders' neck. Very gently, he raised the corporal's head before reaching over to pick up the mug. Eagerly, Saunders sipped the liquid, cooled enough by the milk for him to drink down almost without pause. Finished, he sighed with pleasure, his head heavy against Komansky's arm as he relaxed.
"That was good…thanks, Sandy. Reminds me of home…when I was a kid. Me, my brother and sister…when we were sick Mom, she'd make us tea – lots of milk and sugar. Don't know if it was the tea made us feel better or the knowin' Mom went to that extra trouble just for us. Put it in a little brown tea pot on Grandma's polished wooden tray – my own mug." Again Saunders sighed contentedly before falling deeply into sleep.
xxxx
Komansky stood before Colonel Gallagher's desk at strict attention. Restlessly, the officer tapped a pencil on the pad before him, raising his eyes every so often to paste his sergeant with a look that telegraphed curiosity as well as mild annoyance. So Gallagher knew about Saunders. This was it. Listening to the colonel's nearly one-sided conversation, interspersed with an occasional "yes, sir" or "no, sir' allowed Sandy time to reflect back on what he'd done as well as on what had happened that morning.
Doc Kaiser had come in to ready the corporal for a move to the hospital. Saunders had been awake and in considerable pain. Mostly, though, he'd been quietly, calmly, achingly, frightened. Eyes wide, breathing short and open-mouthed, hand kneading the blanket across his chest, the corporal missed nothing.
Orderlies transferred him to a litter. Doc straightened the IV lines and followed, with Sandy holding up the bottles. Saunders gaze was on him now, and Komansky offered a smile he prayed was reassuring. Saunders wasn't fooled by Sandy's disguised concern, yet game as always, he smiled back.
Now, in the present, Komansky answered the colonel's question. "Yes, sir, I know what I did was against regulations and yes, sir, I would do it over again."
Gallagher shook his head, his expression this time not giving much away as Sandy waited for a reply.
"The general is not pleased with this situation, Sergeant. Seems General Smith in London wants, and I quote here 'his hero back where he belongs.' My words now; the general wants Saunders close to the primary source of Allied propaganda. The British need all the American heroes we can provide and that means Corporal Saunders' presence is requested back in London."
"But Colonel," Sandy protested, "you can't believe Saunders is better off in London! Even Major Kaiser knows he belongs here where he can get the help he needs. Do you know the story, sir? The whole story?"
Gallagher nodded. "I know it. What I want to do is see this Corporal Saunders for myself and get the newest information from Doc. Then I'll decide what to do. General Britt has left this situation up to my discretion. He'll back me whatever I decide." Gallagher pushed back in his chair, rising, reaching over to grab his hat. "Let's go, Sandy. Doc is waiting."
But Kaiser was not waiting for the colonel. There had been an emergency – a jeep accident and the physician was in surgery.
Saunders was in a bed on the ward floor, but off to one side in a relatively secluded spot among the most seriously wounded. There was no casual bantering here, no shared smokes, no laugher over letters form home. The only sounds here were soft moans or the incoherent ravings of a delirious man.
Komansky pulled a chair over for the colonel to sit at Saunders' bedside. The corporal appeared to be asleep, but at Sandy's gentle touch on his arm and low "Chip, Corporal Saunders," he opened his eyes.
"Colonel Gallagher, Corporal Saunders." Komansky introduced the two.
"Sir," Saunders acknowledged, struggling to raise a hand in salute.
Gallagher carefully pressed the hand down. "At ease, Corporal. I'm here to see who Sergeant Komansky thought was worth risking his stripes for."
Saunders struggled, desperately, to push himself up to meet the colonel's appraising gaze from anything other than a prone position. "Risk his stripes? No, sir. You can't do that. Mine, take mine. I'll earn 'em back. It's no big deal, but not his. Sandy…Sergeant Komansky helped me when I thought no one cared. I'd be dead somewhere now…if he hadn't brought me here. Doc Kaiser…the major…he's gonna operate. He…he thinks he can save my arm. But, Colonel…send me back to London if you have to. If that'll keep Sergeant Komansky out of trouble, send me back. I'll accept it from you. I won't fight it. I won't run again. I swear!"
If Saunders hadn't have been so utterly sincere, his statement would've been ludicrous. The man was so weak, so completely wasted, he could hardly speak, let alone muster the strength to crawl out of bed, or run. Yet he'd done it once, only days before. His strength of character and resolve obviously more than made up for any physical weakness.
Gallagher smiled. The colonel was no man's fool. He was perceptive. Komansky had helped the corporal, possibly, very probably, saved the young man's life, but Komansky had been the recipient of something in return, something invaluable. Because of Saunders, Komansky had become something he'd never been before – a team player. His loner status was in serious jeopardy. Being a team player was imperative in a flying man's war. It could save a life; it could save ten.
"I'm not sending you back, Corporal. Not until Doc's had his way. You'll have your chance, Saunders. And Sergeant Komansky keeps his stripes."
xxxx
Months later, Sergeant Komansky and Corporal Saunders met again – London, a little pub not so different from the one where they first met.
Initially, Sandy wasn't certain it was Saunders. The man at the bar was heavier – not overweight by any means, but solid, extremely fit. The hair was no longer white blond, bleached so by the desert sun, but blond nevertheless, ashy, a bit longer, still unruly. The stripes on the sleeves, both sleeves, were those of a buck sergeant, and the voice…
Before Saunders turned at the sound of his name, before Komansky saw the familiar lines of the man's face, the voice, as this sergeant chatted with friends at the bar, chased away any doubt. It remained deep, resonant and very singular.
"Chip Saunders!"
The sergeant swiveled on his stool to stare at the man who'd called him by name. Saunders' face lit in recognition and Sandy found himself being clapped soundly on the back, bear hugged and pulled firmly over to the bar to be introduced as "Sandy Komansky – the guy I owe everything to!"
The date was June 2nd, 1944, and the war was far from over for either man.
END
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