Sergeant Chip Saunders gazed down at the baby in his arms. A rare smile creased his prematurely aged face. Rarer still, a warmth suffused his exhausted, battle-weary body as the helpless infant in his arms gazed back, in the child's wide eyes an innocence to which the American GI had long since lost touch. A small fist waved in the air and the tiny fingers unclenched, reaching upwards toward Saunders' stubbled chin.
The sergeant took the baby's hand in his, delighting in the soft skin, the unblemished, perfectly formed fingers with their minute nails. The infant gurgled and a smile formed at the corners of the little boy's eyes, working its way unerringly to the perfect rosebud of a mouth where it bloomed into a gum-baring grin. Saunders threw back his head and laughed, a hearty, full blown and totally uninhibited and joyful expression. If he noticed the incredulous looks on the faces of the men in his squad gathered close or their less than whispered comments, he made no mention and too soon the laughter died, replaced by grim realization.
For one last time he held the infant close, burying his face against the baby's hair, reveling in the clean scent, the sweet smell all babies had, no matter their heritage or color or creed. And in that instant, that second before he surrendered the child to the nuns who would care for him, Sergeant Chip Saunders, tough guy, soldier, stalwart leader of men, felt his heart break.