"I have long feared that my sins would return to visit me, and the cost is more than I can bear" Benjamin Martin, The Patriot.
Chapter 19
Sins past
December 22, 1944. Near Hemroulle, Belgium.
The rest of the day had gone by in a rather monotonous routine. The Germans did not make another armored push as they had earlier that day; instead, the enemy had taken to routinely dropping mortars on the small hamlet every hour or so. There had been three other casualties since the enemy attack that morning, and it seemed that the entire siege for Guzzo and the others would be a long period of sporadic barrages.
The five men had taken to staying inside the building they had taken shelter in the first day in order to avoid the random mortar drops. Eventually, night fell, followed by a light snow fall. The barrages ceased with the fall of darkness, and Guzzo guessed that the enemy would not make anymore attempts to mortar the hard point with the snow and darkness obscuring their view.
This thought emboldened the lieutenant to step outside the building in order to take a piss sometime during the night (he couldn't be sure since he was not able to see his watch in the dark. The snow crunched under his boots and he could feel the flakes that were falling, settling on his head as he walked toward one of the smaller buildings a few yards from the one he just left.
There was a blast of wind that made Guzzo shiver as he stood behind the building, urinating on its brick side-wall. When he had finished and closed up his pants, Sal turned to head back to the house the rest of the squad was hiding in, but found himself face-to-face with McCullin.
He was so surprised by this that he fell back against the side of the building and slid to the snowy ground, staring at Frank in shock.
"You seem surprised" the sergeant said with a chiding laugh.
"What the Hell do you want!?" Guzzo demanded angrily.
"We need to talk. I found someone on the other side who knows you apparently, and he had quite an interesting story to tell" the latter said darkly, his eyes narrowing on Guzzo.
"This is impossible. You're dead, Dixon told us you died, and he wouldn't lie" Salvador shook his head before standing up and walking away from McCullin, back toward the house.
McCullin followed close behind him however, and called after the lieutenant, "Martinville, July 15th, 1944".
These words caused Guzzo to freeze, and he turned to face McCullin with a look of terror.
"That's right, I know what happened" the deceased sergeant continued with a malicious scowl.
Guzzo closed his eyes, as he too remembered Martinville. And what had occurred there.
July 15, 1944. Martinville, France.
As bad as things had been at the beaches when he first landed in France, to Guzzo, it seemed that things got even worse as the army pushed inland. Eventually, the division had been called in to capture a small town called Martinville in order to secure a route for the armored divisions. The town itself was a simple place, not very large, yet the Germans had out up a stiff resistance, and the battle had degenerated into brutal house-to-house fighting.
Guzzo, along with the rest of his squad, was taking cover from an artillery strike from a nearby hill (it seemed the Germans were more willing to destroy the town then give it up). When the barrage lifted, Sergeant Delaney ordered his men to move across the street and start clearing the houses there.
"The 4th Armored will be here soon. We have to capture this town, and fast!" the sergeant had shouted to his men before leading them in a mad dash across the street.
This was made all the more dangerous by a German MG-42 position that was overlooking the street from a building a few blocks down, and began to spray lead at the men as they ran out into the open. A guy right in front of Guzzo took a hit to the neck and fell dead on the street. Intent on his own self-preservation, Sal merely leaped over the fallen man and continued running.
When he had reached the building, Delaney split them up into teams, and had each team clear a floor. Guzzo and another private named Folly were tasked with securing the top floor. The two privates, both armed with M1 Garands, made their way up the stairs cautiously. The door at the top was closed. Guzzo put his ear to the door and could hear voices speaking in German.
He looked at Folly and nodded. The young private nodded back before reaching for the door handle and slowly turning it. As he did so, there was a cry from inside the room, and several shots were fired through the door. Folly let go of the handle and pressed back up against the side wall as much as he could. The shots lasted only a few seconds, and then everything went quiet.
Guzzo waited a few seconds then gestured for Folly to attempt to open the door again. This time, as his comrade grasped the doorknob and slowly turned it, Guzzo took a grenade from his belt and pulled out the pin. Seeing this, Folly flung the door open, and stepped back as bullets began to fly through the open doorway. Guzzo tossed the grenade inside and the subsequent explosion silenced the gunfire.
The two soldiers entered the room, Garands at the ready. Aside from the remains of two German soldiers, the room was empty, so the two went back downstairs to rally with the others. Delaney and the rest of the squad were waiting in the living room and, at a nod from Guzzo, Delaney turned back to his squad.
"Right, let's move boys, we got more houses to clear" the sergeant shouted, and the group made its way back toward the doorway.
The street was still taking fire from the MG position at the one end, and so once again the squad ran across the street toward a house with a large hole in its side. Santores and Folly went first, followed by Allan. Soon, only Guzzo and Delaney remained. Delaney ran out into the street and Guzzo followed.
However, about half-way across, a bullet from the MG struck Delaney's upper left leg, and he fell to the ground, screaming in pain. Guzzo kept running until he was inside the house and took cover behind a remnant of the blown away wall, breathing heavily. Folly and the other squad members were engaging a group of Germans in the living room, and thus were too busy to notice the scene unfolding behind them.
Guzzo peeked out from behind his cover and saw Delaney attempting to crawl across the street, but his wound was too painful and he collapsed in exhaustion. The sergeant looked up and saw Guzzo staring at him from behind cover.
"Guzzo, help me!" he cried, extending a hand toward where Guzzo was crouching.
Salvador stared at this man lying in the middle of the street. He no longer looked or sounded like his tough-as-nails sergeant, but like a scared child, screaming for help. Still, Guzzo was reluctant to go out and help the poor man. The MG was firing at the wounded figure, and Guzzo could see the brief puffs of dirt as bullets landed all around the wounded man.
"PLEASE HELP ME!" Delaney shouted desperately.
Guzzo glanced back at the rest of the squad, who were still busy fighting the enemy in the next room, then back at Delaney.
"If you go out there to get him, you will die" said one voice in his head.
"But you can't just leave him out there" said another.
Guzzo ducked back behind cover and closed his eyes, weighing the options. Finally, he came to the difficult decision and got up from behind cover. The PFC looked at his CO on last time, then turned and headed toward the living room where the rest of the squad was.
"GUZZO WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING!? GUZZO!" Delaney screamed at the top of his lungs just before several of the bullets being fired at him made contact, causing him to convulse violently before going still.
Guzzo never looked back.
The lieutenant shook his head in an effort to make the harsh memory leave his mind. He opened his eyes and looked back up at McCullin who was still standing a few feet from him.
"Our CO bought it in Martinville'. That's what you told me when we first met at St. Lo. Course, you conveniently left out the exact details of how he died" the sergeant stated in an accusatory voice as he glared at Guzzo.
"This is war, men die in war" Guzzo whispered.
"Your sergeant died because you didn't have the balls to go save him!" McCullin shouted angrily, "the man had a family, and you just left him for dead!"
"What about me, I got a family. I got a mom, and a dad, and a sister for God's sake" Guzzo retorted with equal anger in his voice.
McCullin fell silent, and he stared at Guzzo with a contemptuous look. Then, to Guzzo's surprise, the look turned into a grin.
"You've been beating yourself up over what happened to Delaney, but what you don't get, is that you did him a favor" the dead man explained in a calmer voice.
"What are you talking about?" Guzzo demanded, shocked by McCullin's words.
"How many times am I gonna have to explain this to you?" the latter exclaimed in an exasperated voice, "Death is the only way anyone is getting out of this war. Death is the only way out. What I don't get is that you happily set Delaney free, and you didn't even really like the guy, but you won't set your squad, your closest friends, free as well".
Not wanting to hear anymore of McCullin's poisonous words, Guzzo turned to walk away but the sergeant appeared right in his face.
"All you have to do is take that knife on your belt, go in there, and cut all four 'ems throats while they're sleeping. Then you can do yourself however you want. It's the only way any of them are getting out, Guzzo" Frank persisted.
"Get the fuck away from me!" Guzzo shouted, pushing McCullin out of his way.
"Look!" McCullin grabbed Guzzo by the collar and slammed him up against the wall of the building, "you can keep being a high-minded prick or you can do them, as well as yourself, a favor and just ended. Otherwise they'll only suffer more, and I promise you it's only gonna get worse from here!"
Guzzo stared into the sunken in eyes of McCullin, the dark brown irises seeming to have no color in the darkness of the night.
"The choice is yours, Guzzo" Frank growled before throwing the soldier down on to the snowy ground.
Sal sat there for a moment, breathing deeply. He looked up and found that he was once again alone, McCullin had disappeared. After a few minutes, the lieutenant got shakily to his feet and headed back to the house.
However, he failed to see Nichols who was hiding around the corner of the building, and had witnessed entire episode, though of course, he had seen only Guzzo talking to no one, and slamming himself up against a wall.
"What's happened to you, Sal?" the sergeant whispered as he watched his friend trudge back to the house.
"What's happened to you?"
September 21, 1944. Oosterbeek, Holland.
Corporal Keith walked out of one of the buildings near the south edge of town, and gazed out over the open field ahead toward the ribbon of water that was the Rhine River. It was sunset, but the overcast sky kept the sun from shining the last of its weak rays down on the besieged town.
As he prepared to go back inside, he noticed Major Doyle sitting on top of a pile of crates, also staring out at the Rhine River. After a moment's hesitation, the Scotsman approached his brooding CO, and saluted him.
"Major, sir, do you mind if I sit with you?" he asked.
"Why do you have to be so bloody formal?" Doyle sighed.
"Well, I believe it is proper etiquette, sir" the latter replied with a shrug before sitting down on a crate next to Doyle.
James was staring out at the river blankly, and Keith noticed that he held Starkey's dog tags in one hand.
The corporal cleared his throat before speaking. "He was a good man, Starkey, a good fighter" he observed.
"And a good friend" Doyle whispered, balling the hand that held the dog tags into a fist and pressing it against his forehead.
"Aye, we've all lost a lot of friends in this bloody operation haven't we?" Keith said with a sigh.
Silence fell over the pair, and at first they simply stared at the dark waters of the Rhine. After a time, Doyle broke the silence with a whisper: "if I 'adn't gone to reinforce that 'ill, 'e might still be alive".
"You did what you thought was right" Keith tried to console him, but Doyle shook his head.
"But we lost the 'ill. So what difference does it make?" he continued in a mournful tone as he looked down at the ground, "maybe if Ingram had been here, we might 'ave 'eld it. We might 'ave…"
"Not even Ingram would have been able to save that hill" Keith interrupted Doyle with a protest, "we were outnumbered and outgunned".
Doyle looked over at his Scottish friend, and found himself marveling at how much Keith had changed. He had become a lot more thoughtful less likely to leap before looking since France. It was a very strange change that had come over the corporal.
"I'm promoting you to sergeant again" Doyle announced, causing Keith to look up at him in surprise. James smiled. "Aye, I'll tell whoever I need to, you're a sergeant again".
Keith stood up from the crates and stared at Doyle with a look that the major couldn't quite interpret.
"Sir, I…don't deserve this promotion" he whispered.
"Why not? You're a good leader, and a good soldier. I see no reason why you wouldn't make a good sergeant".
At last, Doyle recognized the look on Keith's face. It was guilt. This surprised the major. What did Keith have to be guilty about?
"What's wrong?" he inquired.
"Nothing" Keith shook his head, and managed a smile, "thank you I suppose".
Doyle patted Keith on the shoulder and saluted him, which the Scott returned, and then the major headed off toward Battalion HQ. Keith watched him go, then leaned back up against the box with a sigh.
There was a battle going on inside the newly promoted sergeant's mind. He was fighting to suppress the memory that had led him to start drinking, the memory that had caused him endless pain since France: the memory of Isabelle DuFontaine's death. Despite his best efforts, it all came flooding back.
Along with the part he had played in it.
August 20, 1944. Les Ormes, France.
The French Resistance, along with Doyle and Keith, had raided several houses in an effort to rescue Major Ingram, who had been captured by German forces. After rescuing their CO, Doyle and Keith had assisted in rescuing other captured Marquis fighters. At one point they had come to a sort of grouping of houses that were built around a courtyard.
After freeing the captured French inside, they had come outside to find a formidable German force waiting for them outside. The men had taken cover behind various walls and other cover in order to engage the enemy. At first, the battle seemed to be going in their favor, but then a armored car had arrived and begun hosing the Resistance with MG fire.
"Cover me, I'll plant explosives on that car" Isabelle had shouted as she leaped over the wall she was taking cover behind and began making her way toward the car slowly.
Keith, armed with a Sten, provided covering fire from his position, a small wall a few feet from where Doyle, Ingram, and LaRoche were crouching. Isabelle managed to reach the armored car, and planted an explosive charge on the side. However, Keith, being the impatient type he was, had an idea that would speed things along.
"I can shoot the charge from here once the lass gets clear, and that'll make it go off quicker" he thought with a grin.
He took aim at the small charge through the iron sights of the Sten, and waited until Isabelle had moved off a little.
"She's far enough away, do it!" a voice in Keith's mind shouted, and he pulled the trigger.
Keith had been wrong. He had always been a hasty, impatient individual, and Isabelle paid the price. The charge went off, sending DuFontaine flying. Keith sat, staring at the young woman's dead body in shock.
"SHE WASN'T FAR ENOUGH AWAY! WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!" a voice in his mind had screamed at him.
Since it was impossible to tell that Keith's shot had set off the charge with all the other gunfire that had been going off at the time, the Scotsman had said nothing, and It was decided that the charge had gone off prematurely.
Later, when Marcel, another resistance fighter, was holding Isabelle's body and weeping quietly, Keith, still feeling the strong weight of guilt in his stomach, came over and put a hand on the weeping man's shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Marcel" he whispered to the grieving French man, "she was a brave lass".
Marcel had stood up, looking into Keith's eyes, "brave as any of you Marquis".
Keith gazed at the Rhine, and sighed deeply as eh relived that horrible moment when he had pulled the trigger again and again.
After a few more minutes, he stood up and began walking toward the HQ as well. He stopped and glanced back at the river.
"Forgive me" he whispered, not just to Isabelle, but to Ingram as well.
Then, he headed back to HQ.
Well, back to some more Freud. I actually very much enjoyed writing this chapter, and would love to hear some feedback on it, so please remember to review. The poll is still open, and will be so until the end of this story so, vote, vote, vote; right now both stories have the same number of votes, and I'm not writing both, so someone must break the deadlock. Happy reading. Cheers.