TRADING PLACES

by just4saunders

While trying to save a young man's life, Saunders unleashes his own demons.

Combat! is owned by ABC TV. This story is meant only for the enjoyment of Combat! fans, with no intention to infringe on any copyrights, and no monetary compensation has been received.

This story is an outgrowth of many of my stories. Redemption, Peace, Stars and Stripes, Night Patrol, The Plan and others. It will hold a deeper meaning for you if you've read them, but it's not necessary to enjoy the story. It's also a theme that would have never made it into an episode. But perhaps it should have. Fair warning: It's an emotional story of the struggles of a GI. It may not be an easy read for everyone. Let me know what you think.

TRADING PLACES

CHAPTER 1

Saunders really liked the way the sunlight danced on his desk in the morning. The rustling of the tree branches and leaves outside his office window created an ever changing pattern of light and shadow.

He especially liked the sunshine when it finally chased the dark shadow of the gloom of night back into its cage.

Overcast, wet days were the worst for him. Memories of rainy patrols and dead soldiers in the mud came flooding back in flashes sometimes. He felt that he was right back in the field of battle again. The sounds of gunfire, the smell of gunpowder. The feel of the cold rain on his face and down his neck.

When that happened, he found a secluded spot to ride it out in his cruiser. A few cigarettes usually helped to shake it off.

But this day was filled with bright sunshine, and Saunders was in a good mood. As he sat at his desk and drank his morning coffee…always black and strong…he held out his left hand. He watched the sunlight reflecting from his ring.

It was his first anniversary, and he had a special evening planned. He'd ordered a huge bouquet of sunflowers…Bette's favorite. He wished he could see her face when they were delivered. He had made reservations for dinner in Moline, so he was planning on leaving work early to have time to shower and shave. With both of them working hard to save money, they rarely went out to eat. He wanted their anniversary to be special…to celebrate what a lucky man he was.

"Here are the morning reports from last night, Chief," came a friendly voice from the doorway.

Saunders looked up and held out his hand. "Thanks, Millie," he responded to the middle aged woman who smiled in return. "No triple homicides? No midnight bank heists?"

Millie laughed. "Sorry. Just another Thursday. Same old."

Millie was the department's dispatcher and secretary. Barstow's was a small police force that still managed to serve his home town of Cleveland as well. They were two small towns in Illinois that were separated by the Rock River.

He read through the reports quickly. Traffic citations, a report of suspicious activity that turned out to be a neighbor's cat searching for something tasty in a garbage can. And Ed Fenner leaving the bar and trying to drive himself home again. As usual, the officer took his keys and made him walk home. He was always offered a ride…and he always refused. The officer made a point of driving past him several times to make sure that he made it home alright. Ed just never seemed to learn. But Saunders' men always went easy on him. Ed was still coming to terms with the loss of his wife from cancer.

Just another typical Thursday night.

Some people would say that his life was dull, but for Saunders, it was as close to heaven as he figured he'd ever get. After several years of fighting in North Africa, Italy, France and finally Germany, he'd had more than his fill of danger and excitement.

He'd been lucky to survive it all…many times just barely…and he wanted his remaining days to count for something. His constant prayer through it all had been 'Get me out of this alive and in one piece, Lord, and I promise to do something good for people.' It was true, he thought…There were no atheists in foxholes.

Now he felt that he was doing something good for the people of Barstow and Cleveland. With the crime rate so low in the two small towns, Chief Saunders was more of a social worker than a cop.

He stood up, stretched and smiled. Another day in paradise. Reaching out to the coat rack next to the window, he grabbed his gun belt and strapped it on. He hated guns, but police procedure required that he wear it while on duty. Although the other officers carried .38's, Saunders preferred the familiarity of his .45. Taking his hat and the cruiser's keys…and a last sip of coffee…Chief Saunders went out to welcome a new day.

CHAPTER 2

Starting up the cruiser, he made his daily check, ticking items off of his mental list. Even though it was thoroughly checked before being brought out from the garage, he still checked it himself. Old habits die hard, he thought. Always check your own equipment.

Saunders could easily have made the job mostly administrative, staying in the office all day. But he needed to be with the people. If he expected to keep his promise to help people, he needed to be around people.

When he'd mustered out of the service, it took him awhile to adjust to civilian life. Indoor plumbing, civvies, soft beds, eating home cooked meals on real china plates…no one shooting at him…all had a new and foreign feel.

He took some courses at Moline Community College on the GI bill to help him decide where he might want to go with his life. He was open to anything that interested him, but he just knew that he wasn't going to be going back to his old dead end job.

When he came home at the end of the war, Bette was still in the service, finishing up her time. They had written often, and he missed her terribly. He knew that he had to keep busy. He needed to be working. It would keep the demons away, and get his mind off of Bette. And he could start saving for their life together.

His seventy-eight dollars a month service pay had gone mostly to support his mother and sister Louise while the three boys were away. Now he needed to save for himself too.

So when the position opened up for Barstow's Chief of Police, Saunders applied.

He really applied mostly just to be back in the game, getting his mind wrapped around job hunting. To his surprise, he got the job. But Barstow's town council said it was an easy choice for them, especially after seeing Saunders' exemplary military record.

There was no doubt in their minds that he was an excellent leader, well organized, and capable of handling himself under pressure. Hanley's letter of recommendation that he wrote for him as his former lieutenant certainly helped as well.

Saunders had been given free reins, and he took them. Hiring young men when the older ones retired. Getting them out more on foot patrols, talking to the townspeople. They became a welcome part of the community, and Chief Saunders was highly respected for his fairness, openness and honesty.

And Saunders wouldn't trade places with anyone for the world.

He'd begun to save all of his paychecks, except for what he still gave his mother. When Bette returned to the States, she visited for awhile with her family and friends in New York, but then settled her affairs and moved to Cleveland. She took a small apartment and easily got a nursing position in the ER at Hammond-Henry Hospital in nearby Geneseo.

He'd given her an engagement ring at Christmas, and they were married the next June. The five years difference in their ages didn't seem to matter to either of them. They were happy. No, Saunders thought, he definitely wouldn't trade places with anyone.

CHAPTER 3

As he cruised the streets to get a feel for how the morning was going, he saw someone on the top bleacher by the baseball diamond. He pulled over and climbed out. Walking toward the ball field, he saw the figure look up and start to leave.

"Hold, up, Buddy. Stay right there for a minute," Saunders called out to the boy as he started to climb the bleachers himself.

The young boy was dressed in faded jeans, a short sleeved white shirt and scuffed loafers. And he wore a very guilty look as he glanced around hoping for a way out.

Saunders sat down next to him. "Seems to me today is Friday, Buddy. They close the school for some reason?"

Buddy looked down at his shoes. "No, sir. I didn't go."

"How come? Didn't do your homework?" Saunders asked, trying to get the boy to make eye contact. He could tell a lot about what a person was feeling or thinking if he could see their eyes.

"Nah, I did it," Buddy replied, looking up at the officer. "It's Mrs. Gibson. She's been picking on me all week." The boy sighed and propped his chin on his fist.

"She only yelling at you?" Saunders knew that Mrs. Gibson was usually a kind and cheerful older woman. He'd had her in high school himself. He also knew that her husband was extremely ill. She went to the hospital every day after school to sit with him.

Buddy was quiet for a moment. He finally turned to look at the Chief. "Well, I guess she's been picking on other kids, too. But I go to school and get yelled at, then I go home and get yelled at by Dad. Seems like everyone hates me."

Saunders looked out over the baseball diamond. He knew that Buddy's father had lost his job the previous week. After everyone came home from the war at almost the same time, jobs became scarcer and more competitive in these small towns of only a few hundred people.

However, just the day before, Saunders had lunch with Matt Carver, who owned the furniture store. His business was doing well, and he was about to hire a manager for his new warehouse. Saunders decided to have a talk with him. With his skills from being a Quartermaster in the European theater for several years, Buddy's dad would be a good fit.

"Tell you what, Buddy," Saunders said, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'll make you a deal. You get yourself to school, and I'll talk to Mrs. Gibson for you…maybe throw in a quick talk with your dad, too."

Buddy shook his head. "I'm over an hour late for school already, Chief Saunders. The principal will scream at me and give me an all day detention. And then he'll send a note home to my parents, and Dad will really scream. I'll never even get close to hearing Mrs. Gibson scream at me."

"I can see your problem. But how about you just tell the principal that Chief Saunders stopped you to talk and made you late? Just tell him to give me a call," Saunders smiled.

Buddy thought about it, and finally nodded. "Ok, Chief. It's a deal." Standing up, he picked up his backpack, gave a quick wave and bounded down the bleachers, heading off straight toward the school.

Saunders made a mental note to swing by the hospital on Monday to see how Mr. Gibson was doing and maybe have a talk with his wife. And then he'd see if he could get Buddy's dad and Matt Carver together. He stood up to head back to the cruiser.

CHAPTER 4

The day passed slowly as Saunders anticipated his evening out with Bette. He grabbed a sandwich and coffee at the diner and ate in the car as he cruised. In his excitement of planning for today, he'd forgotten to pack something to eat that morning.

After his lunch, he reached into his shirt pocket for his pack of cigarettes. He started to pull one out when he stopped. He'd been trying to quit, which wasn't easy. Even though he only spent three or four dollars a week on them, that was a couple hundred dollars a year that could go toward furniture or carpet in their house. Bette also wanted to eventually have her own car. And there'd be kids…

His smoking during the war was mostly to calm his nerves and ease the stress and tension. Help him forget. Now it was mostly just a bad habit…except for those mornings when he needed help chasing the night demons away. Better than drinking, he thought.

He tucked the pack back into his pocket.

Occasionally as he drove back and forth between Barstow and Cleveland, he'd wave to a local, or honk and wave to one of his patrolmen in a car or on foot patrol.

Rounding a corner, he saw someone familiar, walking on the side of the road between the two towns. Saunders leaned over and rolled down the passenger window, and gradually pulled even with the man.

Driving slowly alongside, Saunders called out, "Hey, Ed. Your car break down? Need a lift?"

Ed Fenner turned to look in the car. "Oh, it's you, Chief. Thought it would be that Kenny. I got tired of him rousting me and stealing my car keys. So I left the dang car at home. Let him roust me now! Hah! Kenny's gonna have to find someone else to pick on."

Saunders laughed. "Ed, Kenny's just doing you a favor. You don't need any DWI's against your license. You need that old car of yours to get you to Moline for work. You should be thanking him."

"Hah!" Ed replied, waving the Chief away. "Leave me be and let me walk in peace. Dang police always rousting us innocent town folk."

Saunders watched him walk ahead. He laughed and shook his head as he turned and slowly drove away. He'd be sure to have Kenny check on him when the bar closed.

He swung back to the diner to grab a coffee and for a bathroom break. Dropping his money on the counter, he headed back to the car.

Through the still open passenger window, he heard Millie's anxious voice, "Chief? Chief Saunders? Come in, Chief."

CHAPTER 5

Saunders leaned into the cruiser and picked up his radio mic. "Yes, Millie? What's up? Everything ok?"

"We've got a jumper, Chief," the dispatcher replied. "The old railroad bridge."

The Chief could feel his heart rate bolt up. A potential suicide. "I'll take it," he answered grimly.

"Do you want backup? The caller said it's a young man. And

he has a gun," came her response.

Saunders leaned his head against the roof of the car. "No. No backup. And keep this quiet. I don't want any crowds. No people."

"You got it, Chief. Out."

"Out," Saunders said softly, and slowly replaced the mic while he thought. Suicide.

He got in his car and drove quickly toward the old iron railroad bridge that crossed the Rock River. Perfect spot, Saunders thought. The bridge was never intended for foot traffic. It was just a bare bones track crossing the river. And after the recent rains, the river was swollen and moving fast. Add in the rocks below, the possibility of being hit by a train…and a gun…and you had a pretty fatal mix.

He turned in and pulled up slowly onto the graded gravel shoulder. Ahead he could see a young man sitting in the middle of the long iron bridge, with his feet dangling over the rushing water below.

The police chief got out and gently closed the door. Studying the scene, Saunders opened the door again, threw his hat on the seat, and unbuckled his gun belt. Wrapping the belt around the holster, he tucked it under the front seat. He left the door open and walked slowly toward the bridge, rolling up his shirt sleeves as he went.

The young man seemed to be in his early twenties. Powerfully built. Probably works out regularly, Saunders thought. He wore jeans, a white t-shirt, and had an old beat up pair of combat boots on his feet. He had the remnants of a short hair cut that was starting to grow out. Just as Saunders feared. Probably recent ex-military. A young man with a whole lot of baggage.

Deep in thought, the man didn't seem to notice him approaching, as the Chief slowly stepped onto the tracks and walked out on the railroad ties. Saunders could see him staring down into the river while the young man tapped the side of a .38 with his thumb.

When he drew closer, Saunders took a deep breath, tensed and gently scuffed some gravel to get the man's attention. Instantly, the young man swiveled and brought up the .38, pointing it at the Chief's chest.

Saunders' heart rate jumped even higher, and his muscles tightened. He had nowhere to go. He held his arms away from his sides, and raised them chest high, palms out.

"No weapons. I'm unarmed," he said, trying to sound calm and casual…and nonthreatening. "Didn't mean to startle you. Good reflexes."

The young man checked him out for a moment, and then lowered the weapon. Saunders inched slowly forward with his hands still raised.

"Mind if I sit?" he asked. Not waiting for a response, he slowly sat with his feet over the edge, careful to stay a good three or four feet away. Saunders tried to keep his breathing under control, taking even, slow breaths. No sudden moves, Saunders, he thought.

Saunders had dealt with a couple of potential suicides before, and even one during the war. In civilian life, they were teenagers who just needed someone to listen to them and try to understand the pain in their hearts and souls. Saunders understood pain. He'd managed to talk both of them out of killing themselves, and worked to get them the help that they needed. Both had been very emotional at the time. Anger, fear, despair.

But this young man was different. His eyes seemed dead. He had that thousand yard stare that Saunders had seen so many times before.

"Who are you?" the man asked flatly.

"Saunders. Chief of Police Saunders."

"You here to arrest me?" the young man asked as he began to finger his weapon again.

Saunders shook his head. "Just came to talk. What's your name? Don't remember you from around here." He watched the man's finger on the gun.

"Simpson. Bobby Simpson. I live in Barstow," the man replied, keeping his eyes on the officer.

Simpson, the Chief thought. Second Avenue, around the corner from the firehouse.

"Second Avenue, right?" he asked. When Bobby nodded, Saunders added, "You have real nice folks. You've grown up a lot. You played ball with my brother Chris."

Simpson nodded. "Chris was pretty good. He serve?"

It was Saunders' turn to nod. "Army. France and Germany. He's home now. You should look him up." Give him something to look forward to, he thought.

The two sat quietly for awhile, and then the Chief asked calmly, "Can we talk?"

"We're already talking," Bobby replied.

"No," Saunders said. He's talking, Saunders, he thought. Don't blow it now. "I mean really talk."

CHAPTER 7

"What about?" Bobby asked warily.

"Whatever you want. Whatever comes up," Saunders answered. "Where'd you serve?"

Simpson just stared at him silently and coldly.

Chief Saunders reached slowly into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. The heck with it, he thought. He held the pack out to the young man.

"Saunders. Sergeant. 227 06 22. U.S. Army. Infantry."

Simpson blinked a few times, and then answered automatically, "Simpson. Robert. Corporal. 168 74 14. U.S. Army. Infantry." He reached over and took a cigarette.

Saunders fished his lighter out of his pants pocket. Lighting both cigarettes, he drew on his cigarette. Noting that the man's serial number started with a 'one', he asked, "Enlisted, huh? Soon as you turned eighteen?"

Bobby nodded. "Finished high school and enlisted two days later."

"So you're, what? Twenty-two now?" Saunders asked.

Simpson nodded again. "Yeah, two weeks ago."

This was good, Saunders thought. He's talking. The more he could keep him talking the less likely he'd be to jump. Or shoot himself…or me.

But it couldn't just be about the weather or high school. He had to get him talking about what was really eating him up. What was it that brought him up onto the old railroad bridge? The Chief was afraid to hear his answer.

Saunders knew it wasn't going to be easy, because it was a place that he had difficulty with himself.

They sat for a long while in silence, watching the rolling current of the swollen river. Saunders was patient. He'd wait. He knew something was in this young man that just had to come out.

Finally, Simpson took a deep draw on his cigarette and slowly exhaled thin streams of smoke. Then his demeanor changed. It was like he had come to an important decision.

Saunders waited, trying to keep watching the young man's eyes whenever he could. He could see that this was something the man really needed to get out.

In a low, shaky voice, Bobby said, "There's stuff that I can't get out of my head…things that just won't go away."

His eyes welled up and he looked away. "And there's things that I can't remember…things that I should remember."

Saunders felt his gut curl into a hard, aching knot. They were going down a rabbit hole that he'd avoided since he'd mustered out of the Army. Staring down that hole simply terrified him. But this young man was in pain, and needed to talk. He needed to live.

Saunders gripped the railroad tie near his leg, and pulled on his cigarette. He steeled himself. It looked like the two of them would be going down that rabbit hole together.

CHAPTER 8

"Been through a lot?" the Chief asked. "Where were you stationed?"

"My introduction to the war was in the Ardennes Counteroffensive," Simpson answered quietly.

"The Battle of the Bulge?" Saunders asked in surprise. Just a fresh-faced kid, barely eighteen years old, and he was tossed into the most brutal battle of the war. Saunders didn't know what to say.

Simpson looked at his cigarette and flipped it into the water below, watching the current rapidly sweep it away.

"St. Vith to start. Six weeks of frozen hell." He looked down and wiped his eyes quickly with the back of his hand. "We lost the entire squad…Everyone but me."

He looked up at the Chief. "Why me?"

There was that question that haunted Saunders. He'd asked himself that a thousand times. Why me? What did I do to deserve to live, while good men like Grady Long died?

"I know where you're coming from," Saunders replied numbly, staring at the water.

"How could you know?" the young man exploded angrily. "Did you go through those six weeks of hell? Frozen, dead, hideous bodies everywhere. Just staring at you like you're next. Whole forests reduced to stumps and burning splinters. Mind-numbing cold…I almost lost two toes."

He clenched his fist in rage, and Saunders tensed in anticipation of a blow. The officer preferred a hit over a bullet. "Three of my buddies who went over with me were murdered by the SS. They'd been overwhelmed and they surrendered. They were shot down like dogs while their hands were in the air. How do you know where I'm coming from? What makes you think you know?"

Saunders looked into those angry eyes. "Not Belgium…nothing could ever touch the horror that you went through." He took a nervous draw on his cigarette, trying to keep his emotions in check. "For me it was North Africa, Italy, France, Germany. One continuous stream of the dead and dying. Bronze Star. Silver Star. Purple Hearts…the Army gave up counting. Buried so many buddies and soldiers under my command that I gave up counting too. Three long, hard…brutal…years."

Saunders couldn't believe he'd just said that. He'd never told anyone all of it. Not his wife. Not his mother. No one. They knew he'd been wounded. That was it. Certainly not how many times. His wife knew about some of his wounds. She'd been there to tend them. It was how they'd first met. No one but Hanley and the U.S. Army knew exactly how many…and about the medals.

Both sat in stunned silence.

CHAPTER 9

This wasn't the way it was supposed to go, Saunders thought. He was supposed to get the young man talking about his issues. And here Saunders was, trading places and opening up about his own. Pretty lousy at this, Saunders.

"How'd you get 'em all…the medals?" Simpson asked, genuinely interested. Almost needing to know.

Saunders ran a hand through his hair. He'd gone this far… "Purple Hearts? Just being in the wrong place at the wrong time." He took a last draw on his cigarette before it could burn his fingers. "Silver was for getting through enemy lines and blowing up a strategic bridge, then carrying a wounded man back."

He flipped his cigarette into the river and absent mindedly pulled his pack out of his shirt. He slipped another cigarette out and lit it. Still hesitating, he flicked his lighter open and closed.

Finally he added, "Don't remember much about the Bronze. I remember waking up on top of my best friend. They told me later that I took out a machine gun nest, pulled some soldiers to safety, and threw myself on my buddy to save him from a grenade. But I just don't remember."

He stopped and quickly wiped his nose, then took a shaky draw on his cigarette. Realizing he'd never offered the young man one, he held out the cigarette. "Want one?"

Bobby shook his head. "You don't remember?" he asked wide-eyed.

Saunders inhaled deeply on his cigarette and held it in. After he let it out slowly with a long, shaky breath, he shook his head.

"None of it. There's other times I don't remember. Things I really should. People…towns…missions…I lay awake at night sometimes trying to remember. But I just can't. Whole chunks of my life…gone."

Bobby stared at him in disbelief. "I thought I was going crazy. I thought I was alone. I…can't remember what some of my dead buddies looked like."

Tears ran down his face. "I can't remember one of my friend's names…I thought I was going mad."

Saunders stared back at him. Many nights in the darkness he feared that he might be going mad, too. And it scared the hell out of him.

"Do you have dreams?" the young man asked urgently. "I mean really bad dreams?"

CHAPTER 10

Saunders felt like he was caught in a storm. Part of him wanted to desperately flee and seek safety. But part of him felt the need to ride the storm out. Here was someone fighting the same demons.

"Some nights I wake up in a cold sweat, screaming," Saunders replied. He didn't mention how, at first, his wife had been scared. But over time she would touch him gently to bring him back. Sometimes when they were really bad, she held him in her arms until he fell back asleep.

"What were they about?" Simpson asked, setting the .38 on the railroad tie next to him. "Me, I keep seeing my friends and the rest of the squad dying. Over and over. And in lots of different ways. Crazy things…like falling off cliffs. Or drowning. Drowning! In a foot of snow and twenty degrees. Crazy. What are yours about?"

Saunders looked at his cigarette and realized that he'd already smoked it to a stub, almost burning his fingers again. He flipped it into the water and pulled out his pack again. As he lit another, he remembered to offer the young man one. Bobby shook his head.

"Krauts," he said finally. "Lots of 'em. All the dead Germans I killed. Most of them are faceless, but there's a few I remember. Every detail down to the fear in their eyes." His own eyes welled up and he quickly wiped them with the back of his hand. "And some of the men who died under my command."

Hesitantly, painfully, he added, "Most of them pleading…begging me not to shoot. But I always shoot. And they scream."

He wiped his eyes again. "And then I scream." He took a long draw on his cigarette and they both sat in silence.

Then, staring down at the rushing water, he almost whispered, "I keep seeing a young boy's face…just before I…kill him. I feel like I should know him…save him somehow. But I just …can't remember."

Bobby leaned closer, and Saunders looked directly into his eyes. "Do you…ever feel…like you're there?" the young man asked softly. "Not just remembering, but really there? Like you can hear it, feel it, smell it, taste it? You're really there."

Saunders hadn't thought that the pain in his gut could get much worse, but this stabbed his soul. His occasional flashbacks didn't come often, but they brought the greatest fear that he was surely going mad. The simplest of things could trigger him. A smell. Someone shouting. And then he was right back in a firefight.

When it did happen…for some reason always while he was alone in the cruiser…he'd pull over somewhere secluded until it passed. He'd always end up shaking and crying. He felt like some strange madness was twisting like a worm, eating at his brain.

But then it would pass, and he'd somehow manage to pull himself together. Bury it. And he'd pray that that one would be the last. It didn't happen very often, and he'd never had it happen around people…so far. He was terrified of what would happen with his job…or his wife…if people found out. In those times, he felt like his entire life was teetering on the edge of an abyss.

He nodded and wiped a sweating palm on his pant leg. "Yeah. A few times," was all that he could manage to get out. "Scares the hell out of me."

He inhaled deeply on his cigarette and continued. "The worst is when I'm suddenly back as a POW." He wiped at his eyes quickly again. "The interrogation…I can't stop shaking."

Bobby stared at him for a long moment, and then leaned back and blew out a breath in relief and shared experience. "Maybe I'm not going mad."

These were things that Saunders had never told anyone…not even Bette. And yet here he was talking about all of it openly with a young man he'd never met before. But there was a bond of shared pain between them that was undeniable. A pain that most other people couldn't even begin to imagine.

Saunders had been avoiding facing all of this for several years… since he'd gotten home. He thought that in time it would all fade. Time heals all wounds, doesn't it? Somehow he thought that he'd magically get over it. But how do you get over something like this? Instead of dealing with it…facing it…he'd buried it like a rotting carcass. Burying it all deep. But it always festered and then bubbled back to the surface. Almost always in the blackness of night.

Now here it was, raising its ugly head and staring him in the face in broad daylight. No, he thought. It wasn't rearing its head. He was digging it up from the putrid depths himself. Forcing it out into the light.

He desperately wanted to get up, run to his cruiser and drive away. Drive until the ghosts and demons were left far behind. One of his hands gripped the railroad tie again.

At night, he always had Bette to keep him grounded. Here he was on his own. Stripped bare of all his defenses. Somehow in his heart he had a terrifying feeling that without Bette in his life, he'd be the one sitting on the edge of the abyss with the gun in his hand.

Simpson broke into his thoughts as if he could read his mind. "Did you ever…you know…think of making it all stop? Just making the nightmares all end?"

Saunders sat quietly, unable to voice his answer out loud. Through his dissociation and confusion, he felt something. Something foreign. Something that awoke his survival instincts. A vibration that he struggled to identify through the fog and thoughts that were clouding his mind. His thoughts became clearer as the vibrations and his survival instincts grew stronger.

A train.

CHAPTER 11

As Saunders scrambled to his feet, time seemed to stop.

In a fleeting moment, multiple thoughts collided in his mind. His instinct for survival was screaming. As his brain instantly calculated the speed of the train and the distance to safety from the middle of the bridge, he realized that he'd never make it off the bridge in time. And he also recognized that there was another human life at stake. One that he couldn't just run away from and abandon.

Looming over it all was the sheer terror. His heart felt like it would explode. The high-pitched shrill whistle filled his head.

As the train barreled towards the two men, the driving sound of metal on metal quickly grew louder, crowding out everything except one thought…Survive!

Instinctively, Saunders screamed, "Hit it!" and dropped to his knees, then slid over the side of the bridge, clinging to two of the railroad ties that were jutting out over the water.

As he swung over the side, he yelled, "Simpson! Move!"

With barely a moment of hesitation, the young man slipped over the edge. As he grabbed the ends of the ties, his hand brushed against the gun. The .38 slid off the tie, spiraling down and disappearing in the swirling currents.

The vibrations pounded through the rails and into the wooden ties as both men dangled over the water and rocks below. Both turned their heads and closed their eyes as the wind, dirt and stone pelted them. The sound, so close to them, was deafening.

Saunders' arms felt like they were being torn from their sockets as he swayed with the backwash of each passing car. The vibrations flowed in waves through his body. He was still in good physical shape, but nothing like he was during the war when he was constantly on the move traveling hours at a time, carrying heavy backpacks and his Thompson.

Now his weaker left hand was beginning to cramp and slip from the tie. Would this train from hell never end? With a grimace he tried to reposition his hand, but he lost his grip and swung precariously by just his right hand.

CHAPTER 12

"Hang on, Sarge!" Simpson yelled over the noise, reaching out to grab Saunders' scrambling arm. Grabbing the Chief's wrist, he pulled his hand back up to the railroad tie and pinned it down under his own.

Saunders felt like his hand was caught in a vise and he yelled in pain. His ring dug into his finger, but the pain only served to remind him of an important reason to keep hanging on. He hung on.

The two men clung desperately to the ties, swaying over the water until the last freight car finally passed, and the clacking sound of the wheels quickly faded.

Simpson looked over at the Chief. "I'm going to let you go, Sarge. Can you hang on for a little more? Just a few more seconds."

Saunders prepared himself and whispered, "Yeah."

Bobby slowly removed his hand from on top of Saunders'. Getting a firm grip on the railroad ties with both hands, he gradually pulled himself up. Saunders watched as the young man tensed his whole upper body and swung a leg up onto the bridge. Grabbing the track rail, he pulled himself up the rest of the way.

Quickly scrambling over to Saunders, he gripped the Chief's bare forearms tightly and pulled him upwards. Leaning backwards, he brought him up far enough for Saunders to finally get a knee up onto a tie. Simpson let go of one arm and Saunders grabbed on to the track rail and pulled himself up the rest of the way.

The young man lay face up and Saunders lay next to him, face down across the still warm tracks.

Neither spoke. The only sounds were the birds, the labored breathing of the two men, and the rushing water below them. All that Saunders could hear was the pounding of his heart hammering in his ears.

"Guess burying myself in my room and working out every day was good for something," Simpson finally said.

Saunders raised himself up on his forearms and hung his head with his forehead resting on the metal rail. A bead of sweat slid down the side of his face and dripped off of his nose.

"Thanks," he whispered.

He raised his head and looked at his shaking hands. He desperately wanted a cigarette, but he didn't bother. He knew that he'd never get one out of the pack, never mind be steady enough to light it.

Bobby stared at the clouds floating over head. "My fault you're here to begin with, Sarge." He hesitated, then added in a soft sad voice, "If you'd fallen, I'd have let go."

"Then thanks for both of us," Saunders replied. "We'd better move before another iron horse comes stampeding through and we gotta do this all over again."

"Ok, Sarge," Bobby replied.

CHAPTER 13

Both men slowly pulled themselves upright. Saunders rolled his shoulders and neck. Every muscle and joint seemed in pain.

"Sorry about that," Simpson said, pointing to the Chief's left hand.

Saunders looked at his hand. It was already swollen, and his fingers were turning an ugly blue. "Can't complain if this is the worst thing that happened. Beats getting shot."

"You're never gonna get that ring off," Bobby said apologetically.

With a slight smile, Saunders looked at the ring and replied, "I don't plan to ever take it off."

He rested his hand on the young man's shoulder. "C'mon. Let's get off this bridge."

They walked slowly back to the cruiser. As Saunders reached for the open car door, he realized that his hands were still shaking. He grabbed the door to try to stop it, and automatically reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. They were gone. He must have lost them when he was struggling back up onto the bridge.

In a panic, his hand went to his pants pocket for his lighter. His fingers wrapped reassuringly around the cold metal. His mother had sent it to him one year as a birthday gift. Somewhere along the way, Saunders had come to believe that it was his good luck charm. He still believed it…now more than ever.

The Chief pointed wordlessly to the other side of the car, and Bobby went around and got into the passenger seat. Saunders got in, threw his hat on the back seat, and reached over to the glove box. He popped it open and fished out a new pack of cigarettes.

As he opened the pack, he said, "Thanks again." He held out the pack, and Simpson took one.

"I caused it all. I shouldn't have been out there. Stupid," Bobby replied.

"It's not stupid. You're hurting. Pain can drive you to do a lot of crazy things. I'm just glad you didn't go through with it."

Saunders lit his cigarette and leaned over to light Bobby's.

"You've got a lot to live for. You made it through the war. Don't let that war destroy you now."

The short silence was broken by the radio, "Chief? Come in, Chief. You ok?"

Saunders picked up the mic and replied, "Fine, Millie. Out."

Before Millie could respond, he replaced the mic and turned off the sound. The two ex-soldiers sat in a comfortable silence for a long while, both thinking about what they had just experienced.

Finally, Saunders looked over at Bobby. "So what'll you do next time?"

CHAPTER 14

"Next time?" Simpson asked.

Saunders inhaled deeply on his cigarette and blew out the smoke slowly. "The next time you feel like jumping off a bridge? Or blowing your head off. What then?"

Simpson rested his elbow on the door and held his head in his hand. "I don't know."

"What made you not do it this time?" Saunders asked. "You could've let that train hit you. Or jumped. Or used the .38. What changed your mind?"

"You. You listened to me without thinking I was crazy. And when you yelled 'hit it!', it was like I was right there again. Back in the war, when I heard my sergeant screaming at me to hit it…I hit it."

"Yeah, I noticed you called me Sarge a couple of times," Saunders replied.

"Did I? Guess that's who you are to me. Hard to call you Chief. Sorry," Bobby admitted.

"No problem. I've been called worse," Saunders smiled.

"The thing is, you listened. And, well…you're going through it all too. Figured if you were dealing with it, I could too, I guess."

Saunders gave a sardonic laugh. "Trouble is, I'm not dealing with it. I've been burying it. If it weren't for my wife keeping me grounded and sane, I'd probably be the one sitting on that bridge. But that's a lot to put on a person. Way too much."

More silence filled the car. Finally, Bobby asked, "So what now?"

"Good question," Saunders replied. "You want to live?"

The young man nodded. The Chief could see the light was back in his eyes. The kid's got a chance, he thought.

He replied, "Well, that's a start. Now you gotta do the hard part. One step at a time. Maybe we can help each other."

"How?" Bobby asked with growing interest.

"One of us feels down, we call the other. I know that just talking to you now about what I'm dealing with helped me. Made me realize that I'm not alone, and I'm not going crazy. And that I don't have to keep holding it all in and hiding it. It's been rough for me lately. Harder and harder to keep it all in. So I know how tough it must be on you."

He took one last draw on his cigarette and tossed it out onto the gravel.

"If you and I are going through this, then there're probably others. If we can find them, maybe we can all get together occasionally and…well…talk. Just talk. Maybe over a couple of beers somewhere quiet and private."

"Talk to guys who won't think we're crazy. Guys who've been through the hell we've been through and understand. Guys who're dealing with this same rotten stuff and think that they're crazy, too. Maybe find out how they're handling all this."

Simpson nodded. "I think I'd like that. Somewhere safe to get it all out. I think that'd help."

Saunders pulled out another cigarette. "Maybe the Illiona Vet Hospital in Danville can help." He lit up his cigarette and flicked his lighter open and closed.

Bobby shook his head. "Nuh uh. I tried that when I first got home. They pumped me so full of drugs I could hardly remember my name. Scared me worse than the nightmares."

The Chief ruffled his hair. "Guess we go it alone. Wouldn't be the first time. We'll talk."

Saunders sat up straight and tossed his cigarette onto the gravel. "We should go." He touched the keys in the ignition. "You good?"

Bobby nodded. "For now, at least."

"We'll try to keep it that way," Saunders replied as he turned the ignition.

CHAPTER 15

Chief Saunders pulled up in front of a neat white house with a golden retriever lying in the grass. "This is it, right?"

Bobby nodded and opened the door. "Thanks, Sarge."

"Thank you," Saunders smiled grimly. "Would have made for a lousy anniversary if I'd come home in a body bag."

"Ah, man, I feel awful. Your anniversary?" the young man said, looking out at the dog.

"Hey, you saved my life so I'll be around for hopefully a lot more anniversaries. You should feel great," Saunders smiled.

Simpson smiled in return. "The cup is half full, right?"

"You got it. We're gonna work on getting rid of those half empty cups. Together. Nice dog. What's his name?"

"Her," Bobby replied. "Her name's Merry."

"Good name," Saunders smiled again.

The dog's head perked up as she heard her name. Her tail wagged furiously as she stood up and bounded toward the car.

Saunders laughed out loud. "Someone's sure happy you're still around."

As Bobby got out, Saunders leaned over and said, "I'll ask around and get back to you. Might take a little time. Can't just walk up to a vet and say, 'Hey, you having any screaming nightmares?' "

Bobby laughed.

"In the meantime, don't be afraid to pick up the phone. Or knock on my door if you need to talk. I mean it, Bobby."

With the dog licking Bobby's face and barking, the young man pointed at the Chief. "You too, Sarge. Maybe I'll go see Chris."

Saunders waited until Simpson went up the sidewalk and into the house. Driving away, he pulled around the corner and stopped.

It was getting late. And he still had to return the car and file his report. There went his anniversary plans. He leaned back, closed his eyes and sighed.

CHAPTER 16

As he pulled into his driveway, he sat in the car in the blackness of the night for a moment. He'd called Bette from the office, and she seemed to understand when he told her that he'd be late. The conversation was brief. No questions. No explanations. But she had been quiet. She had to be disappointed…and maybe even angry. He wouldn't blame her. It was their first anniversary, after all.

He sighed, steeled himself and got out. As he went up the walkway, the door opened, and Bette looked out. Waiting for her reaction, as she stood in the glow of the porch light, he was surprised when she hugged him.

Taking his arm, she led him into the living room and pulled him down to sit on the couch. She looked anxiously at his swollen hand.

"How're you doing?" she asked, looking into his eyes. "Millie called me earlier. She told me what you were doing."

She saw his expression change. "He was ex-military, wasn't he?" she asked quietly.

When Saunders nodded, she asked worriedly, "Is he ok?"

Relief flooded her face when he nodded again. Then she added. "I was worried about you. Millie tried to get you, but there was no answer…I…was worried."

Saunders answered in a low voice, "I turned the radio off. Sorry." Then his face crumbled as he said, "Sorry" once again.

And he couldn't hold it in. Thoughts and emotions began to collide, exploding in his brain. Bobby. Nightmares. The train. Forgotten memories. Missed anniversary. All those faces coming at him…And the pain.

The stress of the afternoon with Bobby now hit him like the roof was caving in.

His eyes welled up and tears rolled down his face. All he could manage was a choked, "Sorry."

Bette reached out and pulled him close. "Saunders, I was worried about you. I don't care about our anniversary plans. We can do that tomorrow. Or any day."

Tears began to streak her face as she added quietly, "I was just so terrified that there wouldn't be a tomorrow. Don't ever leave me, Saunders."

He held her tightly. "I'm not going anywhere."

CHAPTER 17

They sat on the couch for hours as, through his tears, Saunders related to her what had happened that afternoon. Everything that Bobby was going through…and everything that he was going through.

She'd already known about his own nightmares that woke him occasionally, soaked in sweat. How could she not know? But she was quiet when he told her about his medals, the gaps in his memory and the flashbacks.

After a long moment of silence, Saunders was becoming more and more terrified that she would hate him…and leave. But he knew that he had to tell her everything. Lay all his cards out on the table and hope for the best.

"I knew about the medals," she finally said.

Seeing his confusion, she added, "I found them when I was putting away the laundry. They're in the bottom of your sock drawer."

"You didn't say anything," Saunders replied.

"I figured that if you weren't telling me, or putting the medals out somewhere to be seen, there had to be a reason," she answered.

"Why didn't you tell me all of this? Why keep all of this a secret?" she asked with a concerned look.

"Hard to explain medals that I barely remember getting," he said, looking at his hands.

"But what about the rest? Why keep it all to yourself?" she asked, leaning over and placing her hand on his.

"I was afraid you'd think I was crazy," Saunders replied softly. "That maybe you'd hate me and think I was weak…or be afraid…or leave."

She kissed him gently. "Never. I love you. I'm your partner. For better or worse, remember? And partners share things. More than just the last piece of your mom's blueberry pie."

Saunders laughed with relief, and wiped his nose.

The two sat in comfortable silence until Bette asked, "You hungry?"

Saunders shook his head. "Not really. I think I smoked a pack of cigarettes out there today. My stomach isn't interested in food. You should eat though."

"I'm good," she answered as she snuggled up against his chest. "Thank you for my beautiful sunflowers. They made me laugh they were just so beautiful as the man stood in the doorway. Couldn't even see his head. Looked like he had a big sunflower head."

Saunders laughed and kissed the top of her honey blonde hair. "Wish I was here for that. I love to hear you laugh."

Sitting up, Bette looked at her husband. "What do you say we get to bed early and tomorrow morning you can call Kirby? It's the weekend. If he's free, we could drive up and spend a couple of days with him. We haven't seen him in a long time. Maybe he can get hold of Liz and we can go dancing. We haven't been dancing in forever. We can celebrate our anniversary with friends. It'll be fun."

She leaned in to kiss him lightly. "Maybe you and Kirby can get a chance to talk while I catch up with Liz."

"Guess it's a talk that's long overdue," Saunders replied. "Maybe he'll think I'm nuts."

"Maybe Kirby just might surprise you with what he has to say," Bette said quietly.

Saunders looked into her startling turquoise eyes. "You're a real keeper, Bette Saunders." He kissed her again and then whispered, "Please don't ever leave me."

"I wouldn't trade places with anyone in the world, Saunders. I'm right where I was always meant to be."

She took his hand and stood up. "Let's go to bed."

THE END

*****Shell shock, soldier's heart, nostalgia, war neurosis, battle fatigue, combat fatigue…PTSD. The names and treatments have changed over the years, but the after effects of war and severe trauma unfortunately remain.

The earliest recorded mention of this trauma dates back to 2100BC. Virtually every culture has noted it in some form.

Treatment has ranged from ridicule, shunning and tolerance to drugs and group and individual therapy.

It is estimated that as many as half of all WWII wartime military discharges were probably related to PTSD.

Today, including survivors of other severely traumatic events besides war, almost 8 million American adults suffer from PTSD.