Running the Courir
By
TEC4
[A/N: This is set as/after Caje leaves Kirby in Silver Service. The title refers to a Cajun tradition during Mardi Gras where a group of people goes out on horseback (or theoretically on foot) to collect food for the communal stewpot at the town's celebration.]
"Well, time for my Jeep."
"Hey, old buddy! Don't forget to come back." Kirby grinned.
"You, too," Caje said, and shook hands with his friend.
Kirby went back inside to track down a place to sleep, and Caje went on. Leave! Finally! He huddled against the cold and rubbed his gloved hands together. If I were a Jeep, where would I be? He started down the street, looking around for his promised driver.
"LeMay?" A voice called him from a side street.
"Yeah! T'at's me, all right!" He walked toward a blond-haired corporal standing next to his transportation.
"I'm Jablonski."
"Hey. T'anks for t'e ride, pal."
"No problem. I'm rear echelon all the way," the lanky young man grinned. "Glad I could take you along." He indicated the Jeep and the two of them jumped in. "Been here long?"
"Overall, since Omaha Beach."
Jablonski whistled.
"I've had leave, but not all the way back to the rear for a couple of months."
"Probably seems more like a couple of years," the corporal said as he started the Jeep and spun the wheel around.
"Yeah. It does."
They sped down the road. Caje was grateful to be on his way, but he wished the younger man would slow down. The combination of the cold and the speed at which they were traveling blurred his vision with tears. He didn't want Jablonski to lose control and send them tumbling down the mountainside.
As they rounded a curve, a sudden flash of bright light nearly blinded them. "Flare!" cried Caje, ducking. Jablonski gave him a startled look and froze. Caje saw a flower of red bloom in the middle of the driver's forehead. Jablonski's hands gave a final twitch and obediently, the Jeep followed its instructions and plunged over the embankment to the left of the road, taking Caje with it into the darkness.
There were lights and explosions and Paul LeMay looked around, bewildered. "What is all t'e noise?" His father stood by the side of his bed, disapproving, pouring snow on his face to wake him up. "It's Mardi Gras, of course. Are you planning to spend the whole day in bed? You're supposed to go out on the courir for us. Are you going to let me down again? Show everyone how lazy you are?" Denis LeMay finished dumping snow on him as the explosions got louder and louder and walked out of the room.
"Papa, I'm not lazy! I'm not! I'm –"
"—not lazy, I'm not!" Caje awoke, shivering and covered in snow. He tried to stand, and pain ripped through his side.
They had gone over an embankment thickly scattered with pine trees – thankfully, they hadn't hit any of them. The scout steadied himself on the nearest tree and peered around him in the alternating light and darkness. The Jeep was upside down some ten to fifteen yards up the hill. Jablonski lay in the snow above five feet away.
Caje felt warmth trickle from the right side of his nose. He pushed up the cuff of his glove and touched his wrist to his face. When he took it down, he saw darkness, and knew he was bleeding. Is it just my nose, or am I bleeding inside? He drew a deep breath with difficulty and finally stood all the way up.
Hiding in the shelter of the tree, he carefully scanned the area for Germans. They must have t'ought they got both of us. After waiting a few moments and observing no movement, he edged up the hill to the driver. The memory of the bullet hole in the man's forehead was all too clear, but Caje felt compelled to check vitals anyway. He took a dog tag and tucked it carefully away. "Sorry, Jablonski."
He lurched briefly into a tree and snow fell from the branches. He thought he saw movement, and turned to see Saunders leaning against the trunk. "Sarge?"
"Well, Caje, it wasn't very nice of you to invite me to Mardi Gras dinner and then not show up yourself. That's not how I pictured Cajun hospitality."
"Sarge I'm hurt. I'm having trouble …"
Sarge shook his head. "That's no excuse. You better keep moving, Caje, or all of us will be disappointed. Keep an eye out for some Kraut, okay?"
Caje stammered through a mouth made clumsy by cold and fatigue. Kraut? I don't get it, Sarge. Before he could get a word out, Saunders disappeared.
As he struggled further up the hillside, he slipped – and a shot whistled over his head. What t'e hell? He raised up slightly and surveyed the ground ahead of him. T'ere! He could vaguely see someone in the trees across the road. Oh. T'at's what Sarge meant. A Kraut.
A tree limb, broken off by the Jeep as it had slid down the embankment, reached its tipping point and slid past Caje. Instinctively, he rolled away and in doing so, bumped his injured side. For a moment, the pain caused his vision to double. When it cleared, he thought he saw a shadowy figure in front of him, looking very familiar. "T'eo?"
"'Ey, Paulie!"
He shuddered in pain, and coughed from the exertion. "I'm cold and hurt and I don't know which way to go, T'eo. And I t'ink t'ere's a German over there who's trying to kill me. Help me, mon frère."
"But I'm not here, cher. I can't help you. You're going to have to do it yourself. And if you don't get going, it won't be much of a Mardi Gras. We're all counting on you, Paulie."
He coughed again and spat. This time he could see the blood clearly. Now what do I do?
In the temporary darkness caused by a lull in the bombing, Caje decided to make his move. He had learned to ski in Québec when he was at McGill, and he knew that the cold was as dangerous as his barely-seen assailant, maybe even more so. I could freeze to death here waiting for him to be convinced I was dead.
Caje had faced difficulties more times than he could count; he'd been shot and stabbed, captured and beaten. Steiner's threat of execution for hitting a guard in the Nazi Captain's prison camp might have been the worst, up until now. He'd really thought he was facing the end then. This situation threatened to eclipse even Steiner's threat.
Now he had a decision to make; he wavered between trying to leave and finding some kind of shelter until the next day. T'e Jeep. Crawling to the overturned vehicle, he summoned the strength to wrench open the door and slid inside. It'll keep the wind away, at least, was all he had time to think before he passed out again.
William G. Kirby sat in the back of the staff truck, devoid of his usual good humor. Everything had gone bad on what should have been a relaxing leave. First there was the German offensive; he still felt the horror of waking from a bad dream about an attack to the real thing. Then there was Harry dying. Not that Kirby had much use for the little loudmouth, but he'd died, and the old man had died and his last sight of Claudette had been of her still crying.
Everyone in the squad had heard Sarge's words to live by: "All that matters is here and now, for this squad, for the mission. Anything else and you're gonna explode." Caje losing his buddy and killing that Frenchmen, he'd heard it. When Billy had gotten it, Littlejohn heard those words, too. He, Kirby, had gotten the speech. For all Kirby knew, Saunders had even lectured Hanley the same way at some point.
"Just gotta get back to the squad," he muttered. "Back to – well – normal." Pretty sad when you think fighting in a war is 'normal'. But he knew that the friends he'd made in the squad were the closest thing he had to a home here in Europe. Yep, got to get back.
"Papa?"
"Amélie?"
The scout awoke.
"Papa, you have to wake up. You've been asleep for so long – I was afraid you were dead."
"Non, ma 'tite-fille… I'm going to be all right. I'll come home to you, I promise." He struggle to sit up and reached out to her, but she dissolved into the darkness.
"Ah, little one. I miss you so." Caje was stiff and cold and still in a great deal of pain. He crawled out with difficulty to see that the sun was setting. He had no idea how much time had passed. It could be the same day or even the day after.
A shot whistled over his head and he flattened himself against the ground. If he's still there, it can't be that long. Or he's très stubborn!
The scout realized that he was in a difficult situation; every movement caused him pain and he continued to spit blood. In addition, he had no food and no rifle. He reached down and found his bayonet still clipped at his belt. Well, t'ere's t'at. If the Kraut doesn't shoot me, I can just ask him to hold still while I stab him. T'at should work, non?
"You t'ink you have time to be funny, Private?" Marcel Dubois, Nonc Pierre's ami and T'eo's nonc, looked on disapprovingly from the shadows.
"M'sieu' Marcel?"
"You mean Sergeant Dubois, don't you, Private LeMay? How do you expect to get home for t'e celebration lying on t'e ground and wit' no equipment? You're très chanceux, you, I don't put you on report!"
Caje shook his head. "Mais, M'sieu' Marcel, I can't get t'ere from here …"
"You better find a way. Get up and get movin', cher." The shadows shifted and he vanished.
The scout wobbled for a minute. Then he advanced up the hillside slowly, painfully, careful to stay low and in whatever cover the trees afforded him. He hoped that he could gain the relatively level ground near the roadway and be away before the shooter above him on the other side of the road realized he was gone.
Got to stay down. Got to get away.
Kirby stood inside Battalion Headquarters, killing time. One thing they're great at in this man's army is making you wait. If there's a job back in the States after the war's over that involves waiting, I'll be the first guy in line, I'm so qualified.
"Kirby, William G.!" The sergeant running the desk by the officers' stations called him.
"Yo!" Kirby walked to the sergeant's desk.
"You're free to go. The 361st is about three miles east and there's a space on a truck going that way. Be leaving in about half an hour outside of here."
"'Kay." Caje! Kirby stopped and turned back. "Hey. A buddy of mine from my squad is here on leave. LeMay, uh, Ca-, no, Paul. Paul LeMay."
"LeMay. LeMay. Yeah, that sounds familiar."
Kirby grinned widely. "Like to see the old so-and-so before I head back. Where can I find him?"
"LeMay." The sergeant wiped the grin off Kirby's face with his next words. "Never made it here, I'm afraid. Got them marked down as MIA, him and Jablonski, the driver who was supposed to pick him up." He shook his head regretfully at Kirby's expression. "Sorry, pal. They aren't the only ones we lost over the last day or so."
Stunned, Kirby shook his head to clear it. He thought quickly. Glancing over the sergeant's shoulder, he reviewed the map on the wall quickly for the location where Company had been, where he'd discovered Harry's little game and where Caje had left him. North. Damn. He grabbed his duffel and walked out the door into the cold. Now if I could just wangle some transportation!
There was an ambulance about 100 feet to the right of the Command tent. Kirby skirted a ragged squad of infantry and tapped the medic loading the ambulance on the shoulder.
"Yeah? What?"
"Which direction you headed, pal?"
"Direction?"
"You know, north, south, east, west? Direction!"
"Oh. West. Gonna resupply the medics in the 214th."
"Thanks."
He pulled his coat collar up and surveyed the area. A jeep stood empty outside a tent a little further down the makeshift road. After looking around for observers, he slid up to the front seat and glanced inside.
"Forget it, buddy."
He spun around to find a private, smirking and waving a distributor cap at him.
"Yeah, yeah."
Kirby walked back to the command center and leaned against the building next door. Frustrated, he swung his arm and punched the nearest wall. Well, that was stupid. You ain't gonna help Caje by breaking your bones! As he rubbed his hand to relieve the pain, the driver of another truck got out, looked at him and did a double-take in recognition.
"Hey! Ain't you Kirby?"
Kirby stood up straight. The driver's face looked familiar, but for a moment, he couldn't place it. Then he realized, oh, yeah. The guy who drove the truck in that little town with the three girls. And the three sergeants. "Sure am. Hey! I remember you – you drove us outta Pontgouin. Whatcha doin' up here?"
"Same as you, I'd guess."
"Where you headin'?"
"Back up north. They pushed the Krauts back some and I'm supposed to go up and get our guys."
"Yeah! Me, too."
"Yeah? No one said nothin' to me about takin' no one along."
"Aaah. That's the Army. Half the time the left hand don't know what the right one's doin', you know?"
"I guess." The driver scratched his head under the wool cap he wore. "Well, get in. Ain't got much time. Gonna be dark before too long and I don't wanta have to learn German."
Kirby didn't need any prompting. He dove for the door and got in before the driver could change his mind. Hang in there, Caje, ol' buddy. William G.'s on his way!
At first he thought the whistling he was hearing was the wind through the pines. But he soon could make out a melody, and then someone spoke.
"If I keep going this way, I'll get back to our unit …"
Caje peered around the tree he was leaning against to find out who was talking, and saw, to his horror, an American soldier coming down the road, straight past the Kraut hiding on the other side.
He pushed himself up as much as he dared and tried to take a deep breath so he could call to the GI. Just as he did, the hidden soldier fired and the newcomer fell.
The man rolled down the embankment straight at Caje, and stopped, the body caught on the deadfall the Cajun was hiding behind. He crawled as close as he could and checked for a heartbeat. Ah, hell. Not again. He lowered his head for a moment in defeat, and then snapped off a dog tag, adding it to the one already in his pocket.
After a pause, Caje reached carefully over the tree branches and pulled the soldier's bedroll off his pack. "Sorry, pal, but you're not going to use this and I need it." He patted the soldier's shoulder spasmodically and shook the blanket out, hands uncharacteristically clumsy. He draped it over his head and pulled it around him. After stopping to think, which seemed to him to take longer than it should have, he also fumbled with the soldier's pack; if there were rations, he needed them. One box. Well, it's better than nothing.
"Stopping to eat by yourself, you? And after all t'e time we've spent cooking in your honor? That's not like you, Paulie."
"Papère?" His vision blurred and he shook his head to clear it.
"Allons-y, cher 'tit-garçon! We can't wait for you much longer. If you don't get moving we'll have to cancel t'e whole thing." His grandfather turned his back and walked into the trees, vanishing.
"Wait! Papère! Please … oh, please …" Caje painfully pulled himself to his feet once more, nearly in tears from pain and exhaustion. "I'm trying so hard! I am …" A wave of weakness rolled over him, his eyes rolled up and he collapsed onto the cold ground.
"Hey, slow down!" Kirby yelped.
"Whattya want?"
"I see somethin' down there."
"Yeah. It's a Jeep, rolled over, looks like."
Just then a shot came from the other side of the road. The two men ducked and the driver stomped on the gas.
"Hey! That might be one of our guys back there!"
"Shooting at us? I don't think so."
"No! On the other side, where the Jeep was."
"I gotta get further up the line. Can't stop for one guy."
"But he could be hurt!"
The driver sighed. "You go back, if you're so all-fired enthusiastic about it. I signed up to be a truck driver so I didn't have to get shot at. That's what they pay you guys for."
"Fine. Lemme out." Kirby jumped from the cab, clutching his BAR. He looked back. "You coming this way when you head to HQ?"
"Yeah. Guess so. Should take about an hour. Maybe you could get the sniper gone before I do?"
"Sure, pal. That's what they pay me for, remember?" He slammed the door shut and headed back to the accident site, hunched over, at a trot.
Kirby skidded diagonally across the hillside. He reached the body of a young blond man and turned him over. Picking up the soldier's remaining dog tag, he read 'Jablonski'. "Sorry, kid. But at least I know this is the right place."
Moving carefully, hunched over to avoid the shooter's attention, he saw a trail of blood spots and followed it to a deadfall. There was a dead GI caught on the branches and his heart stopped for a moment. He turned the man over and saw to his relief that it wasn't Caje. A groan came from behind the deadfall, and moving around it, he saw the scout on the ground.
Caje stirred feebly and tried to rise. "I know, Kirby, you're not really here. I'll get up in a moment. I will."
"No, Caje, I'm here. C'mon, buddy, we got to get you some help."
"Don't. Stay down, Kirby. T'ere's a Kraut over t'ere. He shot t'is guy here." He lapsed into a semi-conscious state, mumbling and twitching.
Kirby tried to turn him over and Caje yelped. "I t'ink my ribs are broken." He turned and spat blood again.
The BAR man had an unpleasant sense of déjà vu. Here I am, back to being the leader again, Caje is hurt bad and now what do I do? "Caje, where's your rifle?"
"Don't know," Caje muttered.
Kirby scanned the hillside. I think that's it, down there. He looked up toward where he believed the Kraut sniper to be and back down toward the gun. I can make it. If I can't take that sniper out, Caje might need it. "Stay put, buddy. I think I see your M1 and I'm going after it."
"I'm not going anywhere. Be careful, Kirby."
"Well, well." The Cajun heard the slap of a riding crop against leather. A boot, probably. Wait. A riding crop? He lifted his head to see Captain Steiner watching him with contemptuous amusement. "You were so – defiant, so – arrogant - despite my decision to shoot you for hitting my man. Now look at you."
"Go away, Steiner. You're dead. Gates killed you."
"No, I'm very much alive. But you, you're definitely dying. And I didn't even have to lift a hand to do it."
"I'm going on t'e courir. T'ey're countin' on me."
"I think not. You can hardly sit a horse in your state. So much for your family celebration. The only place your family is going to gather is at your funeral."
"T'ell wit' you. I'm not going to die and you're already dead." The scout's vision wavered, and when it cleared, it was a concerned Kirby who was bending over him.
"Who were you talking to?"
"Nobody … nobody."
Kirby put his hand on Caje's forehead. "You're burning up."
"I wish. I'm freezing." He was shaking fiercely from the fever.
I'll bet he's got one hell of an infection. How long before that driver gets back? Kirby realized that he hadn't checked his watch when he got out of the truck. Well, it can't be too much longer. I think.
Abruptly, shots ricocheted off the deadfall, one after another.
"Caje, I gotta get that Kraut. Or he's gonna come after us, and you're in no condition to do any running."
Caje reached for the Garand. "I'll get him. Give me my rifle."
"Yeah, right. Lay down, Sergeant York. You ain't goin' nowhere." Kirby took his jeep cap off from under his helmet and put it on the scout, then pulled the blanket back around Caje as best he could. "I'll be back as fast as I can."
"Okay, Kirby. Bring a chicken back, you, all right?"
He looked at his friend, bewildered. "A chicken. You crazy, Caje?"
"No, I gotta get a chicken. Un poulet."
The BAR man shook his head. "Right. If I see any chickens, I'll bring 'em all along. We can pluck 'em and stuff a feather bed for you." He shook his head and glided away into the shadows.
"Paulie."
"Nonc Pierre? Please. Aidez-moi, s'il te plait."
His uncle sat beside him. "I can't help you, Paulie. I'm not really here, you know"
Caje sank back in resignation. "Oui, je sais."
"I'd help you if I could, of course, you know that." In his delirium, Caje saw his uncle reach his hand out and felt him brush the hair out of his eyes in a breath of wind.
"I know. I miss you and Tante Charlotte, and Amélie, and Papa and Maman and Papère and Helene. I want to go home so bad."
"We want you back, aussi, cher, but on your own two feet, not in a box. You have to bring yourself home, fight through your injuries. Finish t'e courir, Paulie."
"I can't find any chickens, Nonc-Nonc."
Pierre laughed softly, and Caje heard it in the susurration of snow off the pine branches. "T'is courir's not about chickens, cher. It's about getting out of t'is alive."
"What do I do, Nonc Pierre?"
"Stay awake, Paulie. Stay awake to stay alive. Come home soon, cher… " The moon went behind a cloud and in the darkness, Pierre faded away.
"Stay awake to stay alive," Caje muttered. He rolled over carefully and leaned on the Garand to sit up, propping himself up against the deadfall. "I will, I will." Staring into the darkness, he watched for Kirby. Be careful, mon ami. I know you can take care of yourself, but I wish you'd let me go wit' you. He looked up the hill intently and came to a decision.
Kirby crawled back to the road, holding the BAR off the ground and staring carefully around him. Don't want to get caught by surprise.
When he reached the road, he brought his gun to bear on the spot where he thought the Kraut was. He pulled the trigger, and dirt and snow kicked up along the line traced by the rifle. When the gunfire stopped, there was silence and Kirby listened intently. Did I get him?
"You missed me, you dirty Kraut! You fooled the others and you killed them, but you won't kill me!"
What the hell? "You're an American? What the heck are you shooting at your own people for?"
"You're not my own people, German! Yeah, you sound like us and you probably know every song on the radio and every baseball stat there is, but you're just like the infiltrators that wiped out my squad. You won't fool me! I told 'em, but they wouldn't listen and now they're all dead."
He sounds awful young. "Listen, kid. I'm William G. Kirby. I grew up in Chicago, on the South Side. I'm a BAR man in First Squad, Second Platoon, King Company, 361st Infantry."
"Beat it, Schultz, or Schmidt or whatever your name really is! Or better yet, stand up so I can get rid of you just like I did those other guys!"
"You almost killed my friend! You did kill two other GIs. My buddy's Cajun, from Louisiana."
"You mean he's a French collaborator pretending just like you. When I get rid of you, I'm gonna go get him!"
Ah, hell. I didn't come over here to kill our guys! But if he takes me out, Caje is a goner for sure. Kirby brought the BAR back up, and just as he did, the young man across the road fired. The BAR man jerked back and dropped the Browning, hit in the shoulder. Damn, damn, damn. Sorry, Caje, I blew it.
The sniper stood up, rifle butt firmly wedged against his shoulder. He slid down the small slope on his side of the road, eyes focused intently and rifle pointed straight at Kirby. "They did a good job with you, Hans. You look just like a real American soldier, just like the infiltrators did. If I didn't know better …"
"Look, kid. I AM a real American soldier, just like you –"
"Shut up. Just shut up! I don't want to hear it. I'm gonna get rid of you and then I'm gonna get rid of the other guy down there, and then I'm heading to HQ. They'll give me a medal for killing you, Hans!"
"Only if you run into the Germans first," Kirby muttered. He swallowed hard and tried to find his courage. It wasn't supposed to end this way. He closed his eyes and took a stab at praying. Oh, God. Help.
A shot rang out, and Kirby jerked and winced. Gee, I didn't even feel that. I thought it'd hurt more than it does. He opened his eyes and saw the young man face down on the road, apparently dead. A groan sounded behind him and he turned in near-shock to see Caje almost all the way up the hill, Garand pointing shakily where the soldier had stood. "I t'ought you were goin' to rescue me, Kirby…" His voice trailed off and he fell face-first into the snow.
"Caje!" Kirby pulled himself across the ground to his squad mate. He found a pulse and relieved, he fell back, just as the truck, returning, came up the road and stopped behind him.
"Kirby? You still need a ride?"
"Sure! What's the fare back to Chicago?"
A medic riding with the soldiers in the truck examined the two wounded men.
"Kirby?" The medic and another GI had carefully loaded the Cajun into the truck next to his squad mate. The scout extended a trembling hand to his friend. "Kirby, tell Papa I made it, non? I finished t'e courir …"
"What's he talkin' about?" The medic asked, puzzled.
"Aah, he's half out of his mind right now. You just get him warmed up and get him to the docs."
"Kirby? You'll tell him?"
"You tell him yourself, pal. Write him a letter when you get better. Let's get you home."
- 30 -