Okay, here I am, finally.

If you read nothing else here please read the warnings. Everything there applies through the end of the story.

Obviously I must apologize profusely for this ridiculous, extreme wait. It honestly couldn't be helped, but I am sorry. I'm very thankful for everyone who's still here. Because of my insane tardiness, you may enjoy the following chapters more if you can give a quick scan through the last one posted.

To Donna: my PR girl and close friend I say thank you, for trying so hard to encourage me throughout my trials, lol. If anyone here hasn't seen her Youtube video, 'The Wet and Wild Men of Combat', you're missing something. It's very, uhm… visually pleasing, at least to we girlies. *snicker* If you like it please let her know.

As always, thank you to my reviewers, to the recent ones and those who have supported me for so long and been so patient. Again, I'm truly grateful.

Warnings: There are very brief but graphic references to sad/terrible things. And the usual: lots of high H/C, also Angst, violence, and the friendship stuff I love so much. Don't read if you don't like.

I also must warn about the length of this. Seriously, it's long. If you were hoping for a quick resolution to this story you might be disappointed. As I was working on it a few things came to me that I really wanted to do. I started to freak out a little in the later chapters, worrying about the length/boredom factor but honestly, this is how it played out. Sometimes I think I'm just along for the ride. If you stick with me I'm grateful, if you decide to bail I'll understand.

There are a couple terms used here that are not exactly period, but for expediency's sake I used them anyway.

Here we go…

Saunders still had the .45 clenched in one hot hand but tangled the other in the front of Hanley's jacket desperately, panting through gritted teeth. "This… won't work! L-leave me…"

"Shut up…" Hanley snarled breathlessly, crunching his way down the dim hallway toward the back door. Caje was waiting for him, one hand curled tightly around the back of Ehrlich's neck, the other holding the door open. Hanley maneuvered Saunders through the narrow opening and stumbled down the short steps before they all escaped into the night, even as Germans approached the front of the house.

Chapter Twenty-four

Though much is taken, much abides; and though

we are not now that strength which in old days

moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are.

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

From 'Ulysses'

by Lord Alfred Tennyson

It was a sorry, ragtag group that labored its way through the desolate wood. Even some members of the Wehrmacht might have paused before firing on them, they were such a pitiful sight. Unfortunately, they weren't being chased by the Wehrmacht. The Americans were all as quiet as possible under the circumstances, each caught up in his own private battle.

Saunders kept his eye tightly shut as the world jerked and spun dizzily around him in a dark kaleidoscope of pain, sickness, and thirst. He couldn't remember the worst of the torture yet but surely it hadn't hurt any worse than this. Despite the aspirin his fever spiked, combining with the escalating agony and threatening to tip him over into real delirium. He fought to keep from throwing up, fought not to cry out, fought not to writhe in pain in the lieutenant's arms when it was clearly all Hanley could do just to hold on to him. Nothing else existed for him but the fighting, always the fighting.

Then Hanley stumbled again, reflexively tightening his grip under Saunders' lacerated back and the sergeant bit his damaged lip desperately, silently turning his face into the coarse warmth of Hanley's stolen jacket. The relative comfort of unconsciousness started to pull him under but he fought against that, too. Even through his profound misery and compromised senses Saunders could hear the lieutenant's harsh breathing, and other things joined the cavalcade: guilt, and fear that wasn't for himself. They weren't going to make it, not like this.

Caje hurried through the trees with his prisoner in tow, the scout in him trying so hard to clear a path for the beleaguered officer running just behind him. After several minutes of listening to Saunders' quiet suffering and Hanley's ragged panting, the angry Cajun had had just about enough.

Even frightened and ready to drop from exhaustion, he had long since reached his limit for being hounded. He'd had it. If he could have his way, he'd knife Ehrlich right now and ghost back through these hateful woods, killing as many of those Nazi cochons as he could.

Caught up in his malevolent reveries, he stepped off suddenly into a wide, deep gully with Ehrlich and they stumbled their way down. Caje turned as soon as he could to warn the lieutenant but it was too late; Hanley came over the low rise and almost fell at the slight drop. He tottered his way sideways to the bottom before he went to his knees, quickly lowering Saunders to the ground before he could drop him. Hanley hunched over him, fighting to catch his breath. "Th-this… this is insane…"

Barely conscious, Saunders reached a weak hand out and fumbled blindly at Hanley's jackets, his voice slurred but insistent. "… 'tenant, l-listen…" Hanley shook his head breathlessly and untangled Saunders' hand, guiding it back to the sergeant's chest. Still panting, he looked back the way they had come.

While it seemed like they'd been floundering forever through this darkness, it had actually only been a few minutes and they were probably still within hearing range of the ranch, and he'd heard no explosions. Maybe they hadn't breached the house yet. He knew one grenade wouldn't stop them; if anything it would just tick them off. But maybe, maybe it would take out the patrol leader, and confuse the rest. And no one made mistakes faster than an angry man. If nothing else, it would at least let him know where they were.

Caje stepped up to him, dragging the faltering Ehrlich like a bag of dirty laundry. He kept his voice low but the fatigued, resentful anger was obvious. "We'll never make it like this, Lieutenant, and I'm sick of being chased! Let me take care of this one and go back…" he growled through his teeth, shaking the whimpering German by his collar while glaring at him. "And what did I tell you about being quiet, Saleté?"

Hanley didn't respond, looking ahead instead at the black forest that awaited them. The moon was hit and miss right now and the darkness was pervasive. A thousand meters to the cave, Campbell had said. Just over half a mile. It might as well be ten at this rate. "You're sure we're heading south?"

In another setting the scout might have been affronted. "Yes, sir, I'm sure. But—"

"Alright." Hanley exhaled out another long breath and stood shakily, bracing himself for the reaction he knew was coming. "Listen, hold up here for just a minute. I'm gonna check up ahead a little ways."

"Lieutenant, there's no time…!"

Hanley shook his head in tired frustration, trying not to growl because he knew the Cajun was absolutely correct—there was no time, none at all. But when he'd stepped off into this gully in complete darkness at a dead run and carrying another man? In that one second he'd been certain they were about to fall to their deaths and it had shaken him badly.

"I know that…" He gestured at the inky trees from out of the geographic bowl they'd blundered into. "…but this is insane, we could run off a short cliff any moment and not even know it! I'm not going far, I'll be back in three or four minutes, maybe less." He patted his half-conscious sergeant on one shoulder before moving past Caje, pointing at Ehrlich as he did. "Keep that piece of crap away from him. I'll be right back." He struggled his way out of the gully and slipped into the gloom.

The moon came back out and Saunders watched blurrily as Caje stood flat-footed for a few seconds, before turning to shove the bound German to the ground, face-down. The Cajun kicked his feet apart, then crouched alongside him and tapped him over his right kidney, bending low and whispering to him. Ehrlich instantly lay flat, and after a long moment Caje got up and stepped over to his sergeant. He pulled two canteens from his jacket and knelt next to Saunders.

He hesitated, as if surprised the non-com was awake. "Sarge, we only have a minute. C'mon and get a drink." He shook the other canteen. "This is the cognac, if you want some." He unscrewed the cap on the water and slid his hand under Saunders' head to lift it. To his concern and surprise, the sergeant pushed the canteen away weakly. "N-no, no water," Saunders rasped, "I'll… I'll b-be sick. Caje…" He still held the Colt but reached his other hand out and hooked it into the private's jacket, trying to pull him closer. "C-caje, listen to me…"

"Sarge, you need to drink—"

Saunders rallied the last of his strength and, raising himself ever so slightly, abruptly jerked his second closer. "Shut up and listen to me…" he panted. He looked vaguely in the direction Caje had left Ehrlich and tugged the Cajun closer still, whispering hoarsely. "Does he… does he kn-know Hanley's an officer?"

Caje pulled in a resigned breath. When he spoke his voice was even and quiet with understanding and an almost sad respect. "Yes, he knows."

Saunders nodded and lay back, his bright, hot, unfocused gaze fixed on the Cajun's face. "Kill him."

Caje looked down at his badly beaten sergeant; a man who, in every way that counted, was the older brother he had always needed and never had. Kill him? I'd love to. He shook his head quietly. "I can't, Sarge."

Saunders angrily balled his fist into his jacket again and tried to pull himself back up. "I… I g-gave you an order, LeMay, now d-do as you're told…" He fell back weakly and closed the eye for a moment, his breathing catching, before reopening it and looking hopelessly at Caje, a hundred years of grief and loss etched in his face. "D-don't you get it? It's not just him… they'll… they're gonna…"

He coughed and shuddered out an agonized breath, clearly holding on by will alone. "K-kill him, Caje. Kill him an'…an' hide 'im, for both your sakes…"

Saunders' eye closed and he exhaled softly, though the Cajun was fairly sure he was still awake. After a few seconds he reached out to rest a light hand on Saunders' pale, sweaty forehead for a long moment, shaking his own head in despair. He was burning up. LeMay gazed around at the silent forest, breathing deeply of the frigid night air before looking over at where Ehrlich lay quietly in apparently cowed obedience.

Despite his earlier frustration Caje realized that, yes, he might kill him, but not until he had to. Not until the very last minute. They had all come too far, fought too hard, and hoped for too much for anything else.

Saunders was delirious, out of the loop. He didn't know what was going on, didn't know that there were no more rules, even as the SS held them to be. If they were caught now, it wouldn't matter who was an officer and who wasn't, who had information and who didn't. Caje knew that now, sensed it as clearly as he'd ever known anything. They'd see the carnage left behind at the ranch and if they caught them, there would be no questions, no interrogations. Only mindless savagery.

He looked at where Hanley had disappeared into the trees. It didn't matter what he wanted, anyway. It never did. He had his orders.

Feldwebel Lukas Hoffmann shifted his weight, ignoring the restless, angry grumbles from behind him. He scanned the scene yet again from behind the tree that hid him. Darkness and light fog cloaked the house and grounds but it wasn't enough to hide the broken malaise, the desolation of a post successfully sieged.

Nearly all of the windows were shattered; just black, unblinking holes staring out at them ominously. Bodies littered the yard and while Hoffmann couldn't be sure of their nationality, somehow he knew in his gut none of them were Allied soldiers.

From behind him he heard his resident troublemaker murmur again to the others before stepping closer to his sergeant. Lutz made no attempt at hiding the contempt in his voice. "(If you would like, Sergeant, you may stay here behind your tree and… direct us to our positions. I will lead the others on… with your permission, of course.)"

Even before he'd finished speaking Hoffmann turned and pushed the muzzle of the MP-40 firmly into Lutz' chest. He started to squeeze the trigger before he stopped himself with effort, the reckless, haunted light of a man who had absolutely nothing to lose glowing in his eyes. "(Shut up and back off me, little boy…)"

For his part, Lutz actually took a half-step forward after a moment, pressing the muzzle deeper into his own chest, the unholy fires of fanaticism burning in his own eyes. Hoffmann's trigger finger spasmed once before he abruptly stood down. If nothing else Lutz provided another target, another shiny bit of foil to be thrown at the enemy, like chaff from an airplane.

Hoffmann put a hand out and shoved the private away dismissively as he turned to look at the house again, careful to keep half an eye on what was going on behind him.

Surveying the grim scene again he reflected on how, as the years of battle had passed, things spoke to him. Houses, bodies, barns, villages; they all spoke to him on a level he didn't understand but had long since learned to trust. The absence of life where there should be some was particularly powerful; nothing screamed louder than the emptiness.

The fight here had long ended. He was sure there was nothing left alive on these grounds anymore but his instincts still nagged at him. Someone had fired those shots, after all.

In the end, it didn't really matter. He had been dead for a while now and he was tired of the artifice. Even as he looked over the bleak tableau, he gradually became aware of a soft sobbing coming from somewhere within the darkness of the yard. As he listened the quiet sobbing rose in volume and multiplied until the grounds and woods were full of it, joined by rising cries of terror and spectral images: women begging, weeping, wrapping their bodies around their children in a hopeless effort to protect them, their husbands/fathers/sons already laying dead at their feet after an equally hopeless attempt to defend them.

Hoffmann turned and smiled at Lutz, speaking over the horrific, deafening clamor now at his back. "(You seem to be in a hurry to die today, General. Let's go, then.)"

He pointed at two others, slashing an impatient hand at the rest of the incensed, muttering mob. "(Shut up! You'll get your chance. Braunn, you and I will come in the front. Lutz, you and Gerhardt take the back. We'll give you three minutes to get into position. Braunn and I go in first, understand? The rest of you give us cover. Someone fired those shots, and they could still be here.)"

Hoffmann looked with derision at Lutz, the only one out of the three who hadn't automatically checked his watch. He nudged him hard in the shoulder with the Schmeisser's muzzle, tilting his head sideways to look into the shorter man's face. "(Three minutes, Lutz.)"

The private sighed and looked at his watch. "(Three minutes, Sergeant.)"

Eric Gerhardt threw himself along the wall beside the back door, trying to get his breathing under control. He was a bully and an opportunist; unlike these other lunatics he cared little for the politics of the job. Ransacking and terrorizing he could do all day long, but there was nothing to be gained for him in this. He didn't care what high muckety-muck might be inside; this once-familiar place had set his teeth on edge from the moment he saw it.

Even now the stale scents of cordite and butchered meat drifted lazily around the building in the cold, heavy air. He stared in abject disbelief as Lutz pushed one foot against the door, shoving it slowly inward to grate over debris in the darkened hallway.

"(What are you doing?!)" he shrilled quietly. "(The sergeant said to wait, they'll go in first…!)"

Lutz turned to him in the dark, his lip curled back and his voice thick with disgust and contempt. "(The sergeant… )" he gritted out, "(…is an old woman, wringing her hands and living in the past. You saw the look on his face before we left that village, he is a traitor and a coward.)"

He looked into the dimness of the house and smiled grimly. "(Captain Ehrlich could be lying in there, injured, and my face will be the first one he sees.)" He gave Gerhardt a withering glance. "(You can stay here if you want, it will all be in my report.)" Gerhardt sighed and followed him in.

It didn't take them long to ascertain what Gerhardt already knew: there was no one waiting on them but the dead.

Hanley rushed back through the woods as quietly as he could, holding one arm up to protect his eyes from unseen branches. The way back went much more quickly than the way out, now that he knew what to watch for, and the trees were thinner here. He saw one of his landmarks and slowed, skirting his way around the large hole in the ground he'd seen earlier. In the dark he couldn't tell if it was an old foxhole or a shell crater. Probably the latter, as it appeared to be cluttered with the remains of a small tree. Whatever it was it could have been enough to break someone's leg, most likely his. A death sentence at this point.

These scant minutes spent alone had allowed him time to re-examine their circumstances, and he was still agonizing over the unknown quantities.

Just before he had turned around to head back, he had seen in the near distance what could be a collection of small boulders at the base of a steep hill. If there were caves anywhere in the area, they had to be there.

Realistically, there should be no way the Germans could track them in this darkness, they wouldn't even know what direction they had taken. But they were just so close, even an impromptu recon would quickly get near enough to hear the Americans struggling through the woods. And having just come from the north, they only had three directions to look in. And Hanley never did hear that grenade go off; maybe they had found it.

He thought about how he would handle this, if he were in the Germans' place. If he were bent on finding the perpetrators he would send out patrols, everywhere. But then again, he had the services of the best scout in the company, maybe in the entire regiment. Caje could find the trail, even in near-darkness. Maybe the Krauts also had a good scout. Or maybe they knew about the cave already. The Gestapo had been grabbing up French men and women by the fistful. If this cave were a known Maquis hideout, the Germans could very well know about it already.

Hanley ducked under another low branch as he hurried along and shook his head. None of this mattered: there was nowhere else to go. His instincts shouted run!, and he knew in his heart they hadn't been running fast enough. He saw his last landmark and threw himself behind a broad tree, fighting to get enough breath to call out. "Caje, it's… it's me," he grated out.

"Come ahead, Lieutenant."

Feldwebel Hoffmann kept himself to the side of the darkened front door as he looked at it carefully. It was badly broken and falling off its hinges. He swept his gaze all along it and was peering at the large gap at the top when the door was suddenly jerked open, and in a matter of a few heartbeats it all went downhill from there.

Hoffmann dropped lower into his crouch and started tightening his finger on the Schmeisser's trigger, looking suddenly into Lutz' smug face just as a grenade popped out of nowhere and rolled noisily to a stop on the wooden planking between them. Braunn instantly threw himself from the porch and a coinciding clatter could be heard from behind Lutz. Hoffmann made no attempt to reach for it, lifting his head instead to look somberly into Lutz' stunned, horrified eyes, a half-second before the grenade detonated. "Forgive m—"

It wasn't Lutz he'd been speaking to.

Hanley dropped quickly into the gully and leaned back against its wall, trying to catch his breath.

Caje knelt next to him while the officer panted and he looked him over briefly, checking for damage. "What did you see, Lieutenant?"

"There's a… an old foxhole or something, m-maybe three hundred yards out, and it's right in our path." He struggled to his feet. "Come on, we… we've gotta get outta here." He stumbled over to Saunders and dropped down next to him, looking over at Caje as he rested on his knees, his breathing finally evening out. "I think I saw the cave Campbell mentioned but I'm not sure…"

The lieutenant looked down at Saunders then, unhappy to see that he was awake. Saunders gazed at him through his one working eye, the .45 still clutched to his chest. Hanley shook his head in grieved resignation as he reached for the sergeant's wrist, his options whittled down to the bare bones: do or die. "I'm sorry, Saunders, I'm gonna have to—"

Saunders interrupted him desperately, pushing past the pain and fever to put all he had into trying to say this one thing clearly, what he'd been trying to tell him since they left the house. "Lieutenant, put m-me over your shoulder or l-leave… leave me here…!"

A not-too-distant explosion suddenly shattered the night air and for a long moment, nobody breathed. Then the moment passed and Hanley snatched up Saunders' wrist, way ahead of him. "I'm sorry," he said again, and quickly drew him up enough to tuck one shoulder into his midsection as he lifted him. As careful as he was Saunders still made a strangled, choking sound and the .45 dropped to the ground unheeded, as Caje reached down from the rim of the gully to firmly grasp Hanley's free hand and pull them both out.

Hanley took a half moment to balance the sergeant's dead weight before hurrying to catch up to his scout. He was sure Saunders had passed out again until he heard him vaguely muttering what sounded like his serial number. Hanley again held up one arm to protect his face from branches as he ran, thinking that if they ever did catch up with Campbell and his squad, he was going to put a serious strain on US-Canadian relations.