Doc left the barely-standing barn where the squad was bivouacked just before the sun rose. He cared deeply about his squad mates, but the group of snoring men who hadn't had a shower or bath in over a week felt more like a collection of inmates in a penal colony than an army unit right now. Besides, he had a bit of a hangover from last night's indulgence in the liquor Kirby had moonlighted from one place or another, and he thought some fresh air would do him good.
The BAR man had been at his most rapacious last night – he was bound and determined to save up as much cash as he could for the next time he was relieved from the line, probably in the next week or two. The poker game, which had started at twilight, advanced and retreated like a pendulum as the men came in and left for guard duty or because they were broke or too tired to go on, and had lasted until Saunders finally put an end to it, probably somewhere around two or three in the morning. After seeing Kirby's bankroll, Doc had a sneaking suspicion Saunders might be pulling his favorite goldbrick out of the stockade at some point during furlough. Or not. Might be the Sarge would consider it worth it to let Kirby do what he wanted and then have to deal with the consequences. Sometimes the only way a lesson seemed to penetrate Kirby's head was to leave him wherever he wound up and let him think on it for a while.
A titmouse flew over Doc's head and landed in a nearby tree, lilting and trilling as he went. At his feet, what looked like a harmless blacksnake undulated past. The rising sun filigreed the edges of the low-hanging cumulus clouds with gold and the gentle wind created a susurration in the tall grasses around him. The trees were lush with autumn fire and he was surrounded by the piquant fragrance of dying leaves. For a moment, serenity filled his soul. There was no artillery, no small arms fire; the morning was unbroken by mortar rounds or the chatter of machine guns. No one was calling for him, there were no wounded and no dying. He could keep the war at arms' length and almost pretend that he was at home and had only stepped out of the house to enjoy the morning.
"Doc?"
The medic had been so intent on his thoughts that he jumped.
"Sorry, Doc." It was Littlejohn. "I was going to put the coffee on. I found a percolator for it, but I didn't know where the coffee went to and I thought you might know."
"I thought it was Caje's turn?"
"Yeah, well, I tried to wake him and he muttered something in French that seemed to involve unsheathing his bayonet, as far as I can tell. I decided it would just easier – and safer – to do it myself."
Doc snorted. "Like as not. Say, your voice sounds a bit scratchy. Remind me; my ma sent me a pack of horehound drops. Nothing like 'em for a sore throat."
"Thanks, Doc. Let's go find that coffee. You know what Sarge is like if he doesn't get a cup first thing."
"Can't have that, can we?"
As Littlejohn entered the barn, the medic turned back to the morning. The fragile peace was broken. It was as if the handle had been turned on a Victrola; the day had begun and the cantata of war would commence soon enough. He sighed and went back to being Doc again.