Author's Note: Combat! never did venture into the supernatural, which is perfectly ok with me. Had they ever attempted to "jump the shark" however, I imagine that it might have been a bit like this story.

"Doc! Wake up!"

I groaned. It was my day off. I was supposed to have 24 hours off duty.

"Doooc!"

"Go away, Kirby."

"I brought you breakfast." Kirby said.

I opened one eye and looked up. Kirby stood over my cot with a canteen cup. There was steam coming out of it, but there was no telling what "it" was.

"Put it over there." I said, pointing at the small stool I was using for a bedside table.

Kirby made a face at whatever was in the cup, then set it down on the stool. I closed my eyes and started to drift. I felt something tugging at my blankets and then my feet were suddenly cold.

"Kirby...can't you go bother somebody else?"

"Nobody else is here." Kirby protested.

I pushed up in bed and blinked at the bright morning sunlight, the birds chirping outside the bivouac tent. The start of autumn leaves rustling in the breeze.

"Go for a walk, Kirby."

"I can't."

I looked down to the bandage on his leg and the cane he'd used to walk over with my breakfast. My sweet Aunt Gerty, he couldn't go for a walk.

"Then go fishin', there's a river right down there."

Kirby made a noise somewhere between disgust and disinterest.

"You go on back to sleep, Doc. I'll just sit here and read your book."

I couldn't stop him in time. Kirby reached down and grabbed the book that I'd used to make the legs of the stool even and yanked it out. The stool tipped, spilling the coffee he'd brought me. It was scalding hot, and it landed mostly on his leg. Kirby screeched and jumped, backing into my equally unstable cot. The whole thing collapsed and Kirby came down on top, his weight pressing my elbow down between the ground and the side support of the cot. Wood ground on bone.

I drew my legs up and tried to force Kirby off of me. A passing MP heard the ruckus and came charging into the tent, helping to untangle us. I stood up cradling my elbow, praying it was only bruised. I desperately wanted to avoid setting foot anywhere near the hospital today.

The MP and I picked Kirby up and he started asking if we were both ok. Then he wanted to know what we were fighting about.

"We weren't fighting." I snapped.

The MP put his hands up and backed out of the bivouac, giving me a look.

"Thanks a lot, Kirby." I snapped. My cot was demolished. So much for my afternoon napping plans. The book he'd grabbed was now soaked with coffee. My medical book. Wonderful. And the coffee was gone. And judging by the time, the mess sergeant would have cleaned up all the breakfast things by now.

No coffee, no book, no bed. And no sleeping in either.

"I'm sorry, Doc. I was just trying to-"

"Look, Saunders and the others will be back this afternoon. Until then I'd like to have a little peace and quiet. Do you think you can find some way to amuse yourself until then?"

"Sure, Doc. I didn't mean-"

"You never do, Kirby."

Kirby gave me a look that was supposed to make me feel bad for snapping at him, but I'd had enough of his shadowing me. Anytime he got left behind he did this. I wanted to tell him to go out and make new friends but I knew, other than the MPs, nobody but the wounded had time to sit and entertain a bored GI. At the moment, Kirby was the only one wounded.

I putzed around for an hour after my rude awakening, picking up the tatters of my cot and taking them to the trash fires behind the hospital. I requisitioned a new one from the supply sergeant and had to spend precious minutes explaining in detail just how the cot was destroyed in the first place.

When I started to point out that the wood of the cot had been mostly rotted through, and maybe some of the fault rested on the shoulders of the guy storing them, the supply sergeant scribbled out the requisition and sent me packing.

With that small victory I went to one of the two cafes in the neighboring town and spent what little pennies I had on a standard war time french breakfast. Tea, bread, cheese and wine. I went without the wine.

I was desperate for a cup of coffee but the tea had a little caffeine in it. The cheese was too salty and the bread was hard, but my belly was full. When I got back I picked up the rest of the mess that Kirby had made. I tore the wet pages out of the book and got some clothes pins and hung the pages up to dry. I'd spent two months' pay on the thing, I was determined to keep it.

I did laundry, something I'd been wanting to do for weeks, and finally gave in to my tired body, taking a nap on the ground where my cot had been.

My 24 hours ended at 12. By afternoon there were more wounded and I was recalled to active duty.

Now, the hospital is supposed to be a safe place. Stationed far back behind the lines, with only MPs as armed combatants, plus the occasional surgeon or nurse with a pistol, the hospital is supposed to be focused on one purpose. The care of the sick and wounded.

"Hey Doc?"

The men who go back to the hospital are the cases that require more care than what a medic can give. If a bit of gauze and sulfa, and a night's rest, isn't enough to cure what ails you, you get a free trip behind the lines. Kind, compassionate (if overworked) doctors and trained, intelligent nurses see to your physical and emotional needs. Should you wish to also heal up some spiritual wounds most hospitals have a chaplain attached.

"Doc! Where are ya? Sarge just got in!"

Sometimes, when the front line troops are taking prisoners, an enemy combatant might be in need of medical aid. As the rules of war dictate that prisoners should be treated with compassion, a visitor to a GI hospital might find the occasional German patient. Depending on the patient's condition, they may have an MP posted by their cot, or be shackled to their bed for the sake of security.

"Doc? Are you in here?"

But the MPs are highly trained police officers, whose purpose is the security and safety of those with whom they are stationed. They are trained to always be on the lookout for potential threats to that security. Threats that may come from outside, or even inside, the hospital itself.

Kind of like the german sergeant who was holding a live grenade against my throat and a gun to my back. Both of those items had come from the belt of the MP he'd managed to overpower, despite three bullet wounds and an apparent massive loss of blood. Said MP, the same one that had rescued me from Kirby that morning, was now lying dead at my feet.

"Hey Doc! Quit messin' around, we gotta pull-" Kirby had finally found me, just inside the small supply tent attached to the back of the larger recovery tent. He looked at the small green pineapple to my neck, then beyond my face to the pale man behind me.

"He's got a gun, too, Kirby." I said. My hands were up, latched onto the man's forearm. I was as much trying to pull the grenade away from my throat as I was working on keeping the both of us upright. "If he passes out, that grenade is gonna go off."

Kirby nodded, his eyes scanning the ground. I knew he was looking for the pin but I couldn't help him. "Wha-what does he want?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. He doesn't speak English. I think he's just...confused."

"People don't hold grenades to other people's throats cause they're confused, Doc." Kirby said. He took a step into the tent and I felt the gun press deeper into my back.

"Don't..don't come in, Kirby." I said.

"I ain't gonna leave ya, Doc." Kirby said, his voice quiet. He took another step, keeping his hands up. He had the cane dangling from the web of skin between his thumb and his pointer finger. The sergeant seemed to think it was dangerous because his muscles stiffened.

Kirby's eyes were focused on the grenade for a long time before he said, "Do any of the doctors or the other MPs speak german?"

"I don't know." I said.

"Do you know where the pin is?" Kirby asked, eyes still focused on the sergeant.

"He threw it behind the boxes I think."

"What kinda gun does he have?"

"Whatever the MP had." I said, my eyes darting down to the body.

"How long you been like this?"

I shook my head. "Only about five minutes."

Kirby nodded, biting at his lip before asked. "How long you think he's gonna hold out?"

I closed my eyes trying to remember back to when I'd first glanced at the sergeant's chart. The biggest number on there had been the volume of blood he was supposed to get over the next five hours. He shouldn't have been able to accomplish as much as he had, given his condition, yet here we were. "I don't wanna find out." I said finally.

"Ok….ok." Kirby said softly. "Any chance you know this kraut's name?"

"Ah…" I shut my eyes tight and desperately thought back. "Started with an "h", I think. Hartzel or something like that…"

"Ok-"

"Private...I'm sorry, but you can't be back here."

The voice belonged to one of the nurses. Kirby turned his head and started speaking softly to the young second lieutenant. I heard her gasp softly, heard Kirby's voice go from informing to comforting. I heard him say, "Go. Go, go."

When he looked back he said, "She's gonna get the sarge."

I nodded, then felt the sergeant's arm tighten against my throat and felt him lean backward. I stiffened, drawing in a breath to shout a warning to Kirby, certain that this was it. I felt the German shake his head and recover his balance.

"Doc...you ok?" Kirby asked, his face scrunched up in a sympathetic wince.

"He's getting weak." I told Kirby, through gritted teeth. "Go get something to replace the pin."

Kirby nodded. "Ok. Ok…" He turned his head again and I heard him call the nurse, and ask her for a stick or a tube. She wanted to know what size and I knew Kirby wouldn't understand why she was asking. "Just get me something skinny and round. About yay big." He said.

"She's askin' me what size I want." He said to me, shaking his head.

We stood staring at each other, listening to the sergeant breathing heavily behind me until Kirby's head tilted to the side. "Sarge is here."

"Doc. I got Sgt. Meider." I heard Saunders say.

"Hey, Doc. Kirby, let me in there for a minute."

Kirby looked over his shoulder then back at me. "I'm right here. Not leavin', ok, Doc."

I nodded. Kirby stepped back out of the opening and Tech Sgt. Meider stepped up into his place. The German soldier and I went through the process of reacting to the change of guard, but I could feel his grip weakening.

"Feldwebel Holtzing. Können Sie mich hören? Kannst du mich verstehen?" Meider said and I could feel the change in the sergeant's body language.

"Ja...ja!" He said, shakily.

"I asked him if he could understand me. His name is Holtzing." Meider translated, waiting for my nod before he looked back to the sergeant. "Wir wollen dir helfen. Sie sind in einem amerikanischen Krankenhaus. Du warst verwundet. Verstehst du?"

"Ja, ja." The sergeant said again.

"I told him where he was and why he's here." Meider explained.

"Tell him I'm a medic. I'm...I'm unarmed. I can't hurt him. I want to help him." I said. I could feel Holtzing's knuckles shifting over the bumpy surface of the grenade. Where his skin was pressed to mine there were beads of sweat rolling down to my collar. I couldn't imagine how slick his hand was.

Meider translated, then listened intently to the German sergeant's response.

"He says he knows you're a medic. He also says he's heard about American hospitals and what they do to German prisoners. You're his insurance."

I began to panic. What stupid propaganda scheme had the germans cooked up about American hospitals? It was bad enough that the Nazis killed, dehumanized and destroyed the countries around them. But to force feed the same lies and deception on their own people...my self-righteous indignation lasted about as long as it took for me to notice the poster someone had tacked onto a box of rations.

It was black, white and red, and depicted a German soldier belonging to both the SS and the Luftwaffe, having a beak for a nose, blood red eyes and pointed teeth. The caption said, "Know your enemy." My enemy, I thought, looked a lot like the poster. My enemy was fear, lies, and the monster of distrust. Not the terrified soldier behind me.

Meider had been talking quietly in German the whole time. I recognized the word for medicine, food and sleep. I'd heard the occasional, shaky, "Ja." From Sgt. Holtzing. When the conversation dwindled to single questions followed by confirming, "Ja"s, I could feel Holtzing's muscles relaxing.

"Ok, Doc. I think we got a plan. He wants some food and aspirins. And he's gettin' tired of holding that grenade. He's going to hand it off to you, if we cuff the two of you together." Meider's eyes narrowed at me just a little at the last part, waiting for a blow up from me. "I told him we'd do it his way. All you gotta do is play along."

Meider had started to kneel down, pulling at the MPs body so that he could turn him over and get to the handcuffs.

"Wait." I said.

Meider popped his head up, showing me his hands, then focusing on Holtzing. "What?"

"He thinks something's going to happen to him." I said.

"He's surrounded by American soldiers, of course he thinks that." Meider said. He gave me a look that asked, 'Are we done here? Can I continue?'

"It...it doesn't make sense, Meider. Why would we agree to it? I mean..would you?" I asked. My voice cracked a little and I felt the point of the gun pulling away from my back, then sliding along my right side. "The gun." I said. I swallowed hard then said. "He's moving the gun, Meider."

The technical sergeant pulled the cuffs free of the body and started to stand up, then looked at me confused. Holtzing pulled the trigger. From under my arm the gun went off. He shot Meider, then aimed his shots at the canvas around us, and the men he knew were standing just outside.

I felt the hot muzzle turn on me, press into my side, then the blast of heat and pain. I could see the blood and gore coming out in my peripheral vision.

"Dummes amerikanisches Schwein!" He said into my ear. I heard the click and whine of the handle flying away from the grenade. It hurt to die. But only for a little while.