The Winter Beasts
Chapter 7: Saunders' Decision
It was pain in his arms that woke Saunders from what should have been his final sleep. Before he opened his eyes, his first thought was that he must be in Hell, because he doubted he could hurt so much if he were in Heaven. Dread gripped him and he moaned softly in denial, unable to accept damnation. He was a soldier with a soldier's sins, but he'd never allowed himself to become a monster. It had been a close thing sometimes, though. Perhaps there was too much darkness on his soul to expect it to find peace. He shivered uncontrollably, pushing against the blackness surrounding him.
His struggles were met with soft curses. Biting back another moan, Saunders scrubbed his face against coarse wool. Hands shifted on his body and the tension on his wounded arms lessened. He wasn't alone. The realization brought a flood of relief and he clung to consciousness with numb fingers and reeling senses. There was another person with him, someone solid he could hold onto as the pain crashed over him. Then his fingers were gently peeled loose and he felt himself lowered, the ground cold and wet under his back. Snow. Memories flooded in, giving Saunders the strength to open his eyes.
"Kraut," he muttered.
He was no longer in the Wolf's Glen but tall trees still surrounded him on all sides. He was lying on the ground, the German leaning across him, filling his field of vision. Saunders flinched at the Death's Head on his cap, but as his eyes swept over the man's uniform he noticed tracks of fresh blood striping the worn gray jacket. He realized with a jolt his adversary had carried him from the field of battle.
"Kraut," Saunders said again, this time with a note of wonder.
In the muted light before dawn the German's face was placid, like the surface of a deep pool. "Max," he said, a slight smile quirking his lips, "although 'kraut' will do."
"Why?" There were so many questions but Saunders didn't know how long he'd last, so he settled for the simplest. "Why am I still alive?"
"The beast never touched you. There was no need to administer the coup de grâce." The German's hand rested lightly on the hilt of the long knife, now sheathed on his belt.
"That thing…" Saunders struggled to get the words out. "You'd have killed me if it had bitten me?"
"I would have had no choice. I couldn't destroy one monster and allow another to be born. I told you that," the German said with a touch of exasperation. "I explained it all."
"Yeah." Saunders closed his eyes, gathering what little strength he had as he took stock of the situation. The German had pulled his jacket up and buttoned it, but his wrists were still bound. Even though the man had spared his life, he obviously considered him a prisoner. Saunders' jaw tightened. It was impossible to think he could trick his captor again and escape, but he hated the idea of being carried helplessly back to enemy lines.
"Where are you taking me?" He was shivering so hard he could barely speak, much less fight to get free.
The German's eyebrow rose in surprise. "Back to the cabin, of course." He smiled his familiar, mocking smile. "That's where your loyal men will come to retrieve your body, isn't it? Surely you don't believe they'll obey your orders and stay away." He pulled his canteen out of his coat and regarded the sergeant solemnly. "You're very ill and have lost a lot of blood, but perhaps if you rest quietly and take some water your friends will discover the corpse still has breath in it."
He held the canteen out and Saunders ground his teeth together, balling his hands into fists. He was desperately thirsty but he hesitated as he thought of Gates again, crawling to Steiner's feet. His expression hardened and he shook his head fiercely, a single, pain-filled jerk.
The German sighed. "Defiance is a noble thing, but now you're just being foolish. Perhaps this will make your situation clearer." He drew his knife and cut the ropes from his prisoner's wrists while Saunders watched, unflinching. He examined the sergeant's swollen fingers, his expression impassive, then gently unclenched them. "There is no shame here, no insult offered," he said quietly, "only the choice between life and death." He looked away, focusing on the soft light filtering between the empty branches. "You must decide. Neither of us can afford to waste time. You're dying and I'll be as good as dead if your men reach the cabin before we do. Your private yearns to peel the flesh from my bones." He gave a little laugh, his flashing eyes catching Saunders'.
The German's tone was insolent, but Saunders found it didn't bother him as it had before. Slowly, the tension drained from his face as he allowed himself to relax. The kraut had been right all along: he was afraid of the SS uniform and it had colored his behavior from the beginning. And he was still reacting to it, even though he knew better.
You must decide. Saunders drew a shuddering breath and reached for the canteen. His arm was shaking and his hand would never grip it, but the German understood the gesture. He met Saunders halfway, holding the canteen steady while the sergeant guided it to his lips. Saunders drank deeply, accepting the greatest gift he'd ever been given, barely feeling the German's hand cupping the back of his neck. When the water was gone the German nodded, satisfied, and lowered the wounded man's head. Saunders rested for a moment, his fevered mind clearing, washed clean.
"What will you do now?"
"Go home. Fight." The German tucked the canteen back in his pocket, frowning when he noticed Saunders' expression change. "Nein, nein, not like you are thinking. I told you I have no interest in your war." He stood abruptly, looking down at the man lying at his feet. "You've inspired me, sergeant. You were meant to be a sacrifice but you proved yourself a soldier and cheated death. If you could change your fate perhaps I can change mine, too." He paced back and forth, his fingers tapping anxiously against his thigh. "Can I deny the Devil his sacrifice? Is such a thing imaginable? I don't know, won't know if I've succeeded until the moment of my death, but it's worth trying, isn't it?" He glanced up, his expression troubled, looking to Saunders for reassurance.
"You know the answer."
"Then that's what I must do: fight for my soul." The German nodded decisively and drops of blood spattered on the snow. He dabbed his nose with his gloved hand, stemming the flow. "You have a hard head, sergeant."
"I've been told that."
The German laughed, his cold eyes shining. "Come! I can't let you rest longer. It isn't good to lie in the snow. You will have pneumonia if you don't already."
Carefully, he pulled Saunders to a sitting position. The world spun, the tree trunks blurring into a kaleidoscope of browns and grays. Saunders clenched his teeth, allowing pain to anchor him in the world of the living. It took all his strength and the German's to get him on his feet. Leaning on the man's shoulder, they began their slow march. Saunders wondered what his men would think if they happened upon them now: the tall German in his SS uniform and the blood-soaked GI, hanging onto him unashamedly.
"May I give you advice, sergeant? It might prove useful in the event you recover and find yourself in the fight again," the German said as they hobbled along.
Saunders grunted. It was a struggle just to remain conscious and put one foot in front of the other.
"When you take prisoners, be sure to treat them humanely but also check their boots for knives."
"I usually do both," Saunders said gruffly.
The German smiled slightly, shifting the American so that he took more of the wounded man's weight. Saunders stayed with him until the little cabin came into sight, then the world went black.