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.
There has been a minor thread working through some of my stories, and I thought it was time to bring it to the forefront and give it a story of its own. It seemed only appropriate to bring it out for Mother's Day. You never know what little gestures can mean to a person. Happy Mother's Day to any moms reading this…with appreciation from Sergeant Saunders.
THE GIFT
CHAPTER 1
NORTHERN ITALY, 1943
It was small, and Saunders had almost missed it in all of the crumpled newspaper and the two other presents inside the bigger box. But when he found it, he knew that it had come from his mother. The larger package had just come in the mail…the day before his birthday.
It was a cold day in February. He looked around and found a large rock to help block the bitter wind, and he sat on the frozen ground. Leaning against the cold stone, he opened his presents, saving the littlest for last.
His sister Louise had sent him a blue scarf that she'd knitted for him…she said that it matched his eyes. She'd carefully wrapped the scarf in a sheet of school lined writing paper. Saunders immediately put the scarf around his neck and tucked it into his jacket. It was a particularly cold Italian winter, and he really appreciated the gift.
His brother Chris had rather sloppily wrapped his present in a page from the Sunday funnies, after bundling it in newspaper. Saunders opened it carefully, trying not to tear the paper. He folded the paper neatly and stuck it in his jacket pocket.
Later he'd get to see what Dick Tracy, Blondie and L'il Abner were up to. And eventually he'd flatten out all of the crumpled newspaper to get some news and some sense of normalcy from home.
Saunders opened his brother's gift and smiled. It was a Swiss Army knife. From the scuff marks, he could tell that it was used, and it actually made him feel good to know that his brother hadn't bought it brand new.
He knew that money was tight at home with the oldest boys in the war. What Saunders and his brother Joey sent home was enough to keep the family comfortable, but there wasn't much left over for luxuries…or gifts.
Saunders opened the knife's tools. Knife, nail file, saw, scissors, can opener and a cork screw. Well, he thought, no more problems getting that Italian wine open. And on the cold nights when his hands were numb, the can opener would sure beat fumbling with that little P-38 or a twist key to get to his meal.
He tucked the knife into his jacket pocket and picked up his mother's gift. He knew it was from her without opening it. Besides the fact that he'd already opened Louise and Chris' presents, her son could always tell it was from her by the wrapping. The tiny gift was neatly surrounded by a scrap of royal blue cotton cloth with tiny white flowers imprinted all over it.
Saunders could just picture the dress that his mother undoubtedly had made from the cloth for either Louise or herself. She had tied up the gift with white yarn, and used extra yarn to create a bow on top. It was so pretty and perfect that he almost hated to open it.
He stared at it for awhile longer, turning it over and around so he could see every side…and remember. He could picture all of them in the kitchen, busily wrapping his gifts and laughing. He sighed and tried to fight off his feelings of homesickness. How many more birthdays would he have to celebrate alone? he thought.
Saunders pulled the end of the yarn and opened his gift.
CHAPTER 2
When he unwrapped the tiny gift, Saunders held it in stunned silence. It was a Zippo lighter. But not the black crackle paint ones that most other soldiers had. This one was brass with a polished chrome finish. On one side was the U.S. Army emblem, and above that was engraved 'Sergeant Saunders'.
He turned it over and over in his fingers, and then held it in the middle of his palm. After a minute, he looked into the packing box and pulled out an envelope. It was a homemade birthday card, signed by all three of them. Inside the card was a folded note.
Opening the note, Saunders caught a picture as it floated out. A picture of the three of them. And his mother was wearing a blue dress with tiny white flowers. Saunders felt the stab of homesickness creep back into his heart. He picked up the scrap of wrapping cloth and held it in his hand with his lighter.
He stared at the photograph. He'd never seen a color photograph of his own family. He wondered who had been kind enough to take the picture.
Unfolding the note, Saunders began to read his mother's brief letter to him. Mr. Sherman at the local newspaper had taken the picture. Knowing that it was for a local soldier, he had only charged her for the developing to cover the newspaper's cost.
She had taken Chris to the thrift store in Moline to pick up the knife that Mr. Woods had gotten in and put away for him. While they were there, his mother noticed the Zippo in the jewelry case.
"I know it isn't much," his mother wrote, "but I wanted to get you a lighter and have it engraved. All the brand new lighters are so ugly with that black crackle paint finish. And you just can't engrave it. I know it's all for the war effort. They need the metal. But they're still ugly."
Saunders fingered his lighter again, running his thumb over the round Army emblem. His mother continued, "I took the lighter to Mr. Levy, the jeweler, and he said he'd be proud to engrave it for you. He was very kind. He didn't charge me…said it was his gift to you for your service to our country, and he wished you a long life. I almost cried."
"I just had him put 'Sergeant Saunders' on it. I hope that's alright. I know that you like to be called Saunders…just like your father. I hope you like it. Maybe it'll help you light your way. Ha."
Saunders laughed and looked at his gift again. Their simple gifts meant more to him than they could ever possibly know.
CHAPTER 3
"Sarge?" a corporal interrupted his thoughts.
"Yeah, Murph?" Saunders looked up at the soldier standing over him with his hands tucked under his arms.
"We got a problem, Sarge. It's way too windy. We've gone through a whole box of matches and we ain't got nowhere. We're all freezing."
Saunders put all of the wrappings and the letter back into the box and stood up. "I think I have just the thing."
The two soldiers hurried over to their bivouac, fighting the wind the whole way. Huddled around a ring of cold rocks and wood sat seven frozen young men. They looked up expectantly. Their sergeant was here. Sarge seemed to be able to do anything.
Saunders looked at the eight men in his squad. Four had recently arrived, as green as they come. Barely eighteen. Two others were just on the short side of twenty. Only Murph and Wozniack were over twenty. Just. Sometimes looking at these soldiers made him feel very old.
"You all got K rats?" he asked. The circle of men all nodded and held up their boxes.
"Open them up and give me your empty boxes," Saunders ordered.
Each man began to tear open their ration boxes, and one by one they handed them to their sergeant. Saunders knelt down next to the stone ring and started tearing the boxes into pieces, stuffing them in between the wood stacked in the middle.
"Murph, find me some dry leaves and twigs. You know what I need," Saunders said to the corporal as he put the last of the cardboard into the ring.
The sergeant looked at his men. "Everyone move in closer. Make a tighter circle to help cut the wind."
Murphy returned with an armful of twigs and leaves. "Here ya go, Sarge."
Saunders took a handful of leaves and stuffed them in with the torn boxes. Then he grabbed some of the twigs and poked them in here and there among the wood, leaves and cardboard.
Taking out his birthday Zippo, he flicked it open and, in spite of the wind, the flame held and ignited the kindling. Soon, fighting the wind, a roaring fire was warming the squad.
"Keep stoking it. Don't let it die down," the sergeant advised his young soldiers as he laid down on his bedroll and pulled up his blanket. He held his gift tightly in his hand.
The young soldiers looked at their fire and then over at their sergeant. It just seemed that Sarge could do anything.
CHAPTER 4
FRANCE, 1944
"Hey, Sarge, can I borrow your lighter?" Kirby asked as the sergeant lay reading his book on his bedroll. "We want some fresh coffee, but the wind is a little too much out here today."
Saunders looked up from his book. He had bedded down in the remains of a burned out barn. Only a corner of the structure remained, but it was enough to block the wind from his bedroll. The rest of first squad had bivouacked ten yards away, surrounded by old decaying bales of hay and rusting farm equipment.
The sergeant reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his lighter. He started to speak as he tossed the lighter to the soldier.
Kirby interrupted him. "I know. Don't worry, I'll return it...as soon as the fire's going."
Saunders smiled and went back to reading his book.
"Saunders!" came the familiar commanding voice.
"Yes, Lieutenant!" the sergeant called as he rolled out of his bedding and stood up. Grabbing his helmet and Thompson, he headed toward the remains of the long abandoned farmhouse where Lieutenant Hanley had set up his CP.
The sergeant stood in the open doorway. "Yes, Sir?"
Hanley looked up from the dining table. He was seated at the head of the table with two maps spread out in front of him. At the moment, he seemed to be looking over the smaller of the two maps.
"Take a look," the lieutenant said, gesturing to the map.
Saunders took off his helmet and tucked it under his arm. Looking over the lieutenant's shoulder, he replied, "What am I looking at, Lieutenant?"
"Your next patrol," Hanley answered, glancing up over his shoulder at his sergeant.
CHAPTER 5
As Saunders left the farmhouse, he put on his helmet and looked at his men, all huddled around their coffee fire. Joining his men, he picked his patrol.
"Caje, Kirby, Nelson…patrol," he said. "Twenty minutes. Extra ammo."
"Aw, man, can't even get a cup of my own coffee," Kirby complained as he stood up and handed his sergeant the lighter.
Saunders held the lighter tightly in his hand for a brief moment before sticking it into his pocket.
Ever since he'd received the lighter from his mother, Saunders had been careful not to lose it. At first it was because it was something special from his mother. But over time, somewhere along his way through Italy, England and France, it had taken on a new meaning.
It had become his talisman. Part of him didn't believe in luck…the hardened soldier part of him. But the human side couldn't deny how much of his survival so far had been just pure luck. He reached into his pocket to touch it one more time. Pulling his blue scarf up higher on his neck, he tucked it into his collar.
"Well, Kirby," Littlejohn laughed, "at least you'll get a chance to smell the coffee before you leave."
"Ha!" Kirby replied sarcastically as he went to get his things.
Strapping on his utility belt, the BAR man asked, "Where we going, Sarge?"
Reaching for his own utility belt, Saunders answered, "Recon. Gotta make sure a sector is clear. Second platoon is planning to advance a few miles tomorrow. Brass are pushing us. If everything's clear, the platoon moves up, and then the whole Company advances to meet up with us."
When his patrol was together, the sergeant looked at the remaining soldiers in his squad as they sat around the fire. "The rest of you men don't get too comfortable. You're next in line for a patrol."
As the remaining soldiers all waved their acknowledgement, Saunders called, "Move out. Single file, spread out."
CHAPTER 6
The patrol had been quiet and uneventful. They'd gone to the edge of the sector. Not a single kraut. That was a good thing, Saunders thought. The wind was still strong, and the night was cold. His hands were numb.
"Take five," he called out as he unslung his Thompson and leaned against a tree. "Then we'll head back."
He blew on his hands and rubbed them together. Although he had gloves with him, he preferred not to wear them on patrol. They hampered his ability to shoot quickly when he needed it. He was tempted to pull them out and put them on, but he decided that it was best to wait until they were back at their bivouac. Saunders hated surprises, and he wanted to be ready just in case.
"Man, is it cold," Kirby said, blowing on his own hands as well. "Too cold to sit."
"Only a mile or so and we'll be back," Saunders replied.
"We'll get a roaring fire going then," Caje answered.
"Boy, I can almost feel it already," Billy added as he slung his rifle over his shoulder. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he stomped his feet.
Saunders pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Only two left. He sighed and stuck one in the corner of his mouth. Reaching into his pants pocket, he found his lighter and ran his numb fingers over the surface of the cold metal. Turning it over in his hand, he could barely feel the engraving, his fingers were so cold.
When the wind died down a little, he flicked the Zippo open with his thumb. But his numb fingers fumbled with the cold metal, and the lighter slipped from his hand. The sergeant bent down quickly to try to catch it just as a shot rang out, and a chunk of wood flew from the tree above his head.
Kirby screamed, "Sniper!" at the same time that Saunders flipped up his Thompson, spun and sprayed a tree top thirty yards away. The other three soldiers dove for cover and fired as well, just when a German rifle dropped to the ground and a body quickly followed.
Thompson at the ready and heart pounding, the sergeant slowly made his way closer to the German. He pushed his boot against the man's shoulder to roll him onto his back. Saunders had found his mark. He looked around at his men who were searching the nearby area for any further signs of the enemy.
But the woods remained quiet. A lone sniper. So much for no krauts, he thought.
"Man, that was close, Sarge," Caje said.
"You can say that again," Kirby replied as he bent down to pick up the lighter.
When the sergeant went over to retrieve it, Kirby stuck his finger in the jagged hole in the tree. "That was a real lucky break, Sarge."
Saunders stared at the hole, about nose height, and stuffed the lighter back into his pants pocket.
"Let's move out."
CHAPTER 7
"No sign of any krauts?" Hanley asked.
"Just the one sniper," Saunders responded, fingering his lighter in his pocket.
The lieutenant nodded, and looked at his larger map. "I've got two other patrols out checking north and south of us. Rest up. Tomorrow I want you to take out another patrol. Take three men out another two miles east. We've got to know how far the Company can go without hitting any resistance."
"Use the map I gave you. It includes the extra two miles," Hanley added. "You still have it?"
Saunders nodded. "That it, Lieutenant?"
When Hanley nodded in return, the sergeant grabbed his helmet from the table and left the farmhouse.
The wind had died down making it feel less cold, even though he was pretty sure that the actual temperature was just about the same.
The men had indeed built their roaring fire, and they had moved their bedrolls as close as possible without risking getting burned by the dancing flames. Saunders kept his bedroll in the remains of the corner of the barn.
"Steller, Brockmeyer, Benson…hit the sack," Saunders called out. "We've got a patrol at the crack of dawn and you're it. Bring extra ammo, and some K rats for lunch. We'll grab a quick breakfast before we leave."
Looking at his medic, the sergeant added, "Enjoy the extra day
off, Doc."
Doc smiled and held his hands closer to the fire. "I think I can handle that, Sarge."
Pulling his scarf higher around his ears, Saunders turned his collar up and took out his gloves. He laid his helmet, utility belt and Thompson next to his bedroll, and slipped under the blanket. Taking a last look at the warm fire, he put the gloves on and tucked his hands into his armpits.
Curling up on his side, he drifted off within seconds.
CHAPTER 8
"Move out!" Saunders called as he turned eastward. Steller, Brockmeyer and Benson followed, about ten yards apart.
He was confident in both Steller and Brockmeyer. They were seasoned, quite capable and dependable. A known quantity. Benson, however, was new and green. But so far, he seemed okay. At least he hadn't done anything too stupid…or gotten himself killed.
The sergeant had studied the map again at breakfast, just before they left, even though he was already quite familiar with the section. But the area that was their actual objective was a different matter. Other than a small stand of trees and a dirt road leading in, the area pictured on his map was pretty much a blank slate.
The first miles were as quiet as the sergeant expected. They had been through there on their last patrol, and it was just as clear, with no signs of any more snipers. He unconsciously steered the patrol away from the tree that still held the bullet that had been meant for his head.
But when the patrol reached the outer edges of the previously cleared area, Saunders slowed. This area was a different matter. They were stepping into the unknown. He moved slower and quieter, and he had his men spread out farther.
As they approached the last half mile, Saunders took the lead, with Steller bringing up the rear. The sergeant held up his hand, and the men came to a halt. Motioning for them to get down and stay put, Saunders got on his belly and crawled the last twenty yards to the top of the rise.
Parting the tall grass, he looked over and stared for a long silent moment. Then he lowered his head to rest it on his fist. This was totally unexpected…and he knew that he'd have to make a major decision very soon.
A town.
CHAPTER 9
Well, he thought, hard to call it a town. More like a tiny village…or just a group of buildings. And it didn't appear on his map. It might have been small, but it was big enough to be a problem…a very big problem.
He only had three men with him. Hardly enough to safely clear a town, no matter how small. Saunders looked out at the little village again. What was it called? he thought. A hamlet…that's it…a hamlet. And most of the tiny hamlets were just too small to make it on the maps. Probably didn't even have a name…not that he'd remember it anyway.
The sergeant watched the buildings carefully for any signs of life. Nothing. It was seemingly deserted. He rested his forehead on his fist again as he thought.
He could pull back and just let another larger patrol come out the next day. But he knew that the brass were putting a lot of pressure on Hanley to clear the area for the Company to move up. They wouldn't be too thrilled with another day or two of delays.
He could take his men down and clear it right now, risking being outnumbered if it turned out that there were krauts in the hamlet. But there didn't seem to be any activity. Clearing it now meant that the Company could move forward as early as tomorrow. And this hamlet would be the perfect billet and CP. But that lone sniper in the middle of nowhere was now setting off his soldier's alarm bells.
He lay in the grass staring at the village, weighing the pros and cons of his situation. The sergeant turned and looked back at his three men, all watching him anxiously.
With a deep sigh, he crawled back toward them. When all else fails, he thought…have lunch.
Saunders needed more time to think.
CHAPTER 10
As he absent mindedly ate a biscuit, Saunders tapped his pencil on his knee. With the map spread out on the ground between his legs, the sergeant was sketching in the location and layout of the hamlet, to the best of his memory. Before they went down into the town, he'd double check his sketch against the actual buildings.
He had made up his mind.
"Everyone about done?" He looked at his three men. "Bury your trash. Just in case. I don't want anyone knowing we were here."
The soldiers nodded as Brockmeyer pulled out his bayonet. "I'll dig a hole."
Benson went over to his sergeant to take his trash. Saunders stuck the cigarettes, matches and cheese in his pocket and gave Benson the rest.
"You don't want the meat or chocolate, Sarge?" Benson asked.
"Nah, you want it, you can have it," the sergeant replied. He wasn't very hungry.
Benson held up the chocolate. "Thanks." He stuffed the can and the chocolate into his jacket pocket.
When Brockmeyer was finished burying their trash, Saunders stood up and put on his helmet. Flipping up his Thompson to cradle it in the crook of his arm, he said, "Let's move out."
As the four men fanned out and slowly made their way down the hill, Saunders had them hold up as he compared his sketches on the map to the actual town. Satisfied from what he could see at that distance, he tucked the map away.
Speaking just loud enough for his three men to hear, he said, "Steller, you and Brock take the right side of the street. Benson and I'll take the left side. Go slow and be thorough. And stay alert. If we know about this village, then the krauts probably do too."
All four soldiers moved quietly to the edge of town. Stopping at the corner of the first building, Saunders slowly scanned both sides of the street, down to the end. He knew that it wasn't big, but it seemed like miles to the other end of the hamlet.
He stepped off to the left, with Benson close on his tail.
CHAPTER 11
Saunders watched and waited as Steller and Brockmeyer slipped into the first building. When nothing happened, he motioned for Benson to follow him as he slowly opened the first door on the left side of the street. It was a house.
Leading with his Thompson, he looked around the room. Empty. He silently waved for Benson to check the far room while he checked the kitchen.
Most of the buildings in the hamlet were homes. Only two appeared to be business establishments. The third building that Saunders and Benson went in looked to be a café and bar on the main floor, and either an inn or apartments on the second floor.
After clearing the bottom floor, Saunders slowly made his way up the stairs to the second floor, again with the Thompson leading the way. Reaching the top of the stairway, the sergeant looked down the hall to see numbered doors on each side. Too many rooms for them to be apartments. Must be an inn, he thought.
Saunders took the three doors on the right and motioned for Benson to look in the three on the left. They each slipped into a room.
Saunders looked around. It was a single room, simply decorated with a brass head boarded bed and a small nightstand. A scarred bureau with a white lace cloth draped over the top stood against the front wall by the window. An ornate mirror with a small crack hung over the bureau. The only other furniture was a well worn stuffed chair and a wooden armoire.
Saunders stood to the side of the armoire, reached out and quickly opened the door. Empty. Taking one more glance around the room, and a quick peek under the bed, the sergeant went to the window and drew back the dusty lace curtain. He could see Brockmeyer and Steller just going into the house across the street. With luck they'd finish clearing the town without incident, he thought.
"Hey, Sarge, c'mere," he heard Benson call out.
CHAPTER 12
Saunders went into the hall and replied, "Benson?"
"In here, Sarge," the soldier called out again.
The sergeant moved across the hall and opened the door. Stepping into the room, he instantly started to bring up his Thompson when a rifle muzzle was jammed into the side of his neck.
Benson was across the room with a German rifle to his cheek. "I'm sorry, Sarge," he said with obvious fear in his eyes.
The German holding Saunders took the Thompson and slung it over his shoulder. The one holding Benson said, "Down…Down."
Benson quickly dropped to his knees with the German pushing on his shoulder. When Saunders didn't move, his captor struck him in the back with the butt of his rifle, and the sergeant fell onto his hands and knees. His helmet landed on the hardwood floor with a metallic clang, and rolled under the bed.
As the German raised his rifle to strike him again, the other yelled, "Nein!" The krauts began to speak rapidly in German. Saunders may not have understood their conversation, but he understood one thing that unfortunately he'd heard before…der Gefangene…prisoner.
They were looking for prisoners. And they'd found them.
The sergeant stayed on his hands and knees, waiting for the pain to subside. And he needed time to think.
"Up, Sergeant. Knees," Benson's captor said haltingly while he pressed the rifle into Benson's cheek.
"Sarge?" the young soldier pleaded with sheer terror in his eyes.
Saunders slowly pushed himself upright, grimacing as a sharp pain lanced across his back.
The German pointed to his own utility belt. "Off."
Benson immediately unbuckled his and dropped it. Saunders slowly unbuckled his and let it drop to the floor.
"Hands…head," the kraut ordered, placing one hand on top of his head for a brief moment.
Benson's hands immediately flew to the top of his head as he anxiously looked from the kraut to his sergeant.
Gradually, Saunders lifted his hands, waiting for another rifle butt to connect somewhere painful. But none came. He was moving as slowly as he thought he could get away with, trying to buy some time.
After his hands were on his head, his captor began to go through his pockets, pulling out map, compass, extra ammo mags, cheese and his cigarettes.
But when the soldier reached into the sergeant's pants pocket and began pulling out his lighter, Saunders brought his hands down to stop him. This time the rifle butt clipped the side of his head, and it felt like his brain had exploded. He fell sideways, landing hard with his head hitting the wooden floor, magnifying the intensity of his pain.
"Klaus! Nein! Nein, Klaus!" the second German shouted.
"Ja, ja," the sergeant's captor replied begrudgingly as he reached into the American's pocket and roughly pulled out the lighter.
He held it up with a big smile. "Sein Feuerzeug. Sehr schön."
He looked closely at the U.S. Army emblem and the inscription. Holding it out for the other soldier to see, he asked, "Was sagt das?"
The other leaned forward and squinted, reading. "Sergeant Saunders…der Feldwebel Saunders."
The soldier nodded, stuck it into his tunic pocket, and grabbed Saunders' arm to pull him upright again.
At that moment, gunfire filled the room.
TO BE CONTINUED