Doc's Diaries: Saunders

by Gunney

Saunders, Little John and Doc are sent out on a special mission.

"Dear sonny,

You'll never know how surprised Dad and I were to hear that you'd been fightin' fires. We thought you were in the medical corp. Haven't they got anyone else to put out fires over there?"

I paused. Caje and Kirby were laughing, and I glanced up to see Saunders smirking.

"We thought you were very brave to try and save that supply tent, but remember that your life is more important than a bunch of socks and boots. Do be more careful, son." I had to stop again, my eyes watering too much to see my mother's handwriting. She was an innocent soul for a woman of 40.

"We are proud of all the hard work you boys are doin' over in France. Your Dad has bought some more war bonds, and our victory garden is already putting up sprouts. Tell Kirby, Little John and the Cajun that we want the very best for them, and hope they are well."

"The cajun!?" Caje shouted, his voice cracking.

My mouth hurt from smiling so hard and I had to work my lips a little before I could talk again. "Please share the enclosed cookies with all of them." I said, holding up the box and rattling it. "Stay safe, sonny. Ma."

The whole platoon gave me a brief cheer before I opened the box, grabbed one of my mother's famous chocolate chip wonders, then passed the rest around. I knew what the sugar in the cookies had to have cost her. And that the chips were bits of shaved chocolate that she had broken up with a knife. She poured heart and soul into those cookies, even before war shortages. I could also tell that not one of the guys enjoying them would take them for granted.

"Caje, you ought'a write them a letter, explain a little bit more about yourself." Kirby suggested, grinning.

Caje mimicked Kirby's suggestion in a higher pitch then sat back to enjoy his cookie.

"I'm sure she meant well." Andrews said, grabbing a cookie that had broken in half. He fished around for the other half before the box went to the sarge.

"Maybe I should put you in for a medal, Doc. Make you honorary fire warden." Saunders said grinning. He grabbed his own cookie then handed the box to Little John.

"We could get him a little red hat and a fire axe." Little John added, grinning. The rest of the guys laughed, mouths busy with cookies and the rest of noon mess.

The box found its way back to me with only a few cookies left. I closed the lid and tucked it back into my jacket, returning my fork to the cheesy pasta with unidentified meat bits that we'd been given. The canned peaches were the real prize and the blueberries that we'd found and harvested had been shared with the whole company as well. Add Ma's cookies to the mix and it felt like a feast.

"What do you expect from the middle of Arkansas? The radio only gets three channels. They only know what I send 'em. Ma refuses to go to the picture show. The first time she saw the newsreel it scared her to death."

I expected laughter from the rest of the guys, but I saw nods of understanding instead.

"My mom's the same way. She won't even read the newspaper until after Pop does. She won't answer the door either. She's afraid of getting a telegram." Little John said.

"I think my old man would be relieved to get a telegram." Kirby said, staring down at the toe of his boot. "We weren't on speaking terms when I left. I only just got a letter from him for the first time a couple of months ago."

"My sisters are the only ones who send mail." Caje said. "Most of the time it's about my nephew or their husbands. They never ask about the war because they're afraid the censors won't let their letters through."

"Try writing to somebody else in the service." Saunders said. "The only thing my brother and I have to talk about is our laundry. Everything else is classified."

Lieutenant Hanley stepped up to stand by Saunders and the group went naturally quiet. Hanley had an envelope in his hands that he handed to me. "This was at the bottom of the bag, Doc." He said in way of explanation.

I took it, but didn't open it, knowing there was more coming.

"Special request came down from G2. They have an underground agent that's been working with the free French in the area. He's been badly wounded and they can't get aid to him. They want us to extract him, keep him alive, and eventually evacuate him back to London. As I understand it, he's their top man. The information he's collected is valuable, but his knowledge and experience is even more so. The men who will replace him are already en route but they aren't likely to get to the Maquis in time to render aide. We're closest, so we have the job. Four men. Two infantry, two medics."

Hanley looked around the group then down at me. "You're one of my most experienced combat medics. I'd like you to go, and someone else that you would recommend."

I nodded and started thinking.

"Anybody want to volunteer?" Saunders asked, looking over the guys. There was a kind of arithmetic that we all did, calculating who volunteered last, how rough the duty was, and how much they were owed by the rest of the guys as a result. Heads swiveled on shoulders until Little John sighed.

"I guess it's my turn, Sarge."

"You bet, it's your turn." Kirby muttered, quickly stuffing his mouth with food.

"Little John, me, the doc and…"

"Bartzfeld." I said. "I worked with him a lot on the front lines. He's good at keepin' his head together and he's training for the surgical program. He probably knows more than I do about medicine at this point."

Hanley nodded. "Good. Draw your supplies. The rendezvous point is about twenty-miles from here. Plan for four or five days. Let me know when you're ready. Doc, grab Bartzfeld and meet me at the radio tent."

"Yes sir." I said, turning back to the cold pile of pasta that was left in my tin. It wasn't appetizing anymore, but I couldn't tell if that was because it had gone cold, or because the relaxed nature of the meal had evaporated. Was I scared? Not really. Was I worried? Course I was.

I took my tin to the wash tubs and cleaned it up, then went to the bivouac where Bartzfeld and his unit were camped. I knew I'd find him squinting through glasses at medical books. The man could study in a thunderstorm. When I found him he was ignoring a full on wrestling match, complete with men cheering and waving bets around.

"Bart!" I shouted, then ducked under the tent and closed the medical book on his fingers. "Bart! Come on!"

He squinted up at me, blinked at the fight, then pulled his legs out from under the tiny table he used for studying and stepped out into the sunlight.

"How long you been staring at them tiny letters and numbers?" I asked, watching him blink and rub his eyes. He stretched and pushed his fists against his lower back with a groan.

"Too long. Way too long. What are they-" He asked, pointing back over his shoulder at the ruckus.

"Never mind that. We got a job to do." I said, trying to sound lighthearted about it.

"A job?"

"Yeah I uh...I volunteered us for a special assignment." I said.

His eyes narrowed immediately and I winced.

"Hanley asked for the best medic on the line and I said it was you, buddy." I said, clapping him on the back.

"You're a real, pal, Doc." Bartzfeld said, every word soaked and dripping with sarcasm. "What? Are we storming the gates of hell to rescue a lost kitten?"

He wasn't happy about it, but we were both moving in the direction of the radio tent, which meant Bart was on board. I knew he'd grouse a little, but eventually he'd be a willing participant. You just had to get him used to the idea of doing something he wasn't comfortable with.

"Two lost kittens. And they're cute too." I said, grinning at him.

He rolled his eyes but kept pace with me.

Inside the sun warmed canvas, Hanley had a clipboard in front of him with what looked like a coroner's report. To the left side of the paper was the outline of a human body. There were slashes, circles and x's dotting the form.

"We got as detailed a report on Captain Oller's condition as possible from the people taking care of him. As I understand it, they were in the process of blowing up a railroad cut when the captain took a round through the shoulder here. He fell, far too close to the target, and was caught in the explosion. The x's are the shrapnel they were able to remove. The slashes are what is still in him."

"How long ago did this happen?" I asked.

"Two days."

Both Bart and I winced.

"He's gotta be running a bad fever, and those are bound to be infected. How's the shoulder wound?" Bart asked.

"The bullet is still in his shoulder, and the skin is red and hot to the touch." Hanley said. His jaw was tight and we could tell he knew what that meant as well as we did.

"We'll need antibiotics, antiseptic, scalpel, hemostat...a full surgical kit." Bartzfeld said, looking at me.

I nodded. "We'll need to bring a stretcher with us, gloves and masks. Do we know Oller's blood type?"

"Bloodtype O." Hanley said.

"We can carry blood with us but Saunders and Little John are both type O." I said.

"I should bring my book with me." Bartzfeld said, and I nodded again.

Hanley handed the paper to Bart. "Get anything you need from the hospital. The men move out when you're ready. S2 suggested you take a wheeled litter with you."

I laughed out loud, looking at Bartzfeld. "I haven't seen one of those things since basic." I said.

Hanley cracked the smallest of smiles. "It's available to you, if you want it."

Bartzfeld shook his head. "No, sir. Not carrying it 20 miles, no, sir."

Hanley nodded. "Dismissed."

It took us a couple of hours to get all the supplies we would need, both for Oller and in case anything happened to the rest of us. Getting the supplies didn't take half as long as finding a way to safely pack it all. The vials of morphine, blood, antibiotics, antiseptic and all the sharps, needed to be packed just so if they were going to survive the trip. Each man ended up carrying an extra bag and I was given the honor of starting the trip with the collapsed litter over my shoulder.

We were so overloaded that Saunders and Little John had to carry double the rations. We were on our way out when Bartzfeld remembered his medical book at the last second. He jogged, overburdened, to his bivouac and scooped it up in his arms before tagging onto the back of our small line.

The rest of that day was a long hot walk. It was the start of summer, and while the mornings and evenings were cool and breezy, the middle of the day was usually hot, still and muggy. Perfect weather for the wineries and farms around us, but terrible weather for the blood we were carrying.

Even in a sealed bottle, the hotter it got, the greater the chance it would spoil. We only had the two bottles. By the end of the first day we had to toss one.

"You can just hook one of us up to the captain, can't you, Doc?" Little John asked, watching me empty the bottle into the dirt.

"Yeah, but suppose we need more than you can give." I said, my stomach tossing a little at the intense smell. "Neither of us can give blood. It'll just be you and the sarge, and I can't have you guys passing out on your feet on the way back because we bled you dry."

Little John made a face at the coagulating mess on the ground, his tin of corned beef half eaten. I had the feeling he wouldn't finish it.

"You got anymore of those cookies, Doc?" He asked after a minute.

"Yeah." I started to reach into my jacket for them, but Bart stopped me.

"Save 'em. Our blood givers will need them later." He'd been nose deep in his book, and I'd thought he wasn't paying attention. He lifted the book and showed me the passage he'd just finished reading.

"Following a rapid loss of blood the body requires extra sugars to increase red blood cell production." I read out loud. Instantly I was engrossed in the book, reading the whole page with the voracious hunger of a starving man. I didn't realize that Bart had handed me the book until I had finished the chapter an hour later, still standing in the middle of our evening's bivouac, in the only spot where the moon was shining through the canopy.

I had no interest in becoming a surgeon. I had joined up wanting to be a cook so that I could have a trade after the war. They made me a medic, and I'd done everything in my power to do my job. The more I did, though, the more I realized that I didn't know. Having that book in my hands was like opening my head and pouring power into my brain. I didn't want to put it down.

The next day I pestered Bart until he told me how he'd got the book. I planned to requisition one of my own as soon as we got back. Bart walked behind me while I read the first chapter on our march, making sure I didn't stray too far off the path. When we rested at noon he and I were bent over the book, heads together, discussing what I'd learned. I had more questions than he had answers, but he seemed to enjoy being in the role of teacher.

Saunders was patient enough with us, even though I could tell he was irritated. When he finally put his foot down his voice was calm but firm.

"I don't mind you learning more about your job, Doc, but this reading is slowing us down. We got ten miles yet, and we need to be there by tonight."

The book went into one of the packs and we picked up the pace, walking well past nightfall to get to our objective. We were a mile from the cottage when it occurred to me that we hadn't encountered any resistance. I wanted to ask why G2 couldn't get to Captain Oller if it had been so easy for us. Maybe I'd been so engrossed in that book I hadn't noticed whole armies of krauts passing by.

I realized I wasn't the only one confused when Saunders called a halt. We crouched down behind trees watching the dim figure of the sarge, frozen in place, listening attentively. I smelled the smoke a second later. If you've been around a fire, you know the difference between wood smoke and the smoke that comes from a conflagration. Wood burns clean, but cloth, rubber, straw, and living things, they burn in a greasy, foul way. The smoke stank and it came from up ahead.

Saunders motioned for Little John to head off to his left, then motioned for Bart and I to stay where we were and stay low. The two GIs headed off into the woods, in an ever-spreading V-formation, to come in on both sides of the cottage. I suddenly felt under-prepared. That Hanley hadn't sent enough men, or we hadn't brought enough supplies. Maybe that wheeled litter would have been a good idea after all.

Bart and I waited, listening until our ears hurt. We could hear boots moving through underbrush, faint whispered commands, then the brush of a breeze passing through the trees overhead. The breeze brought more of the smoke and I could tell that something living had been caught in the fire.

We knew Saunders and Little John had reached the cottage when we heard the impact of boards falling against stone. I could imagine the sarge kicking through the wreckage, looking for survivors or bodies, trying to piece together what had gone down. The night grew quiet again, the breeze picking up and blowing more constantly. Bart shifted beside me, his eyes intent on the area in front of us, like a bird dog spotting its prey. I put my hand on his arm and he settled back a bit.

We heard a quiet conversation ahead of us, then the pound of boots on the ground, and someone moving rapidly through the undergrowth.

"Freeze! Put your hands up!" Saunders called, then, "Halt! Hände hoch!"

Saunders' Thompson, Little John's M1, and two other guns opened up at once. The noise got both Bart and I on our feet, running towards the cottage. We saw the flashes of the muzzles and headed towards them until we could hear bullets careening off trees and rocks. Bart and I hit our bellies and stayed flat to the ground, trying to see the conflict through the tall blades of grass.

When Bart started to crawl away, moving to my left, I hissed at him, "Where are you going?"

Bart waved the question off and kept on. I tried to crawl after him but a string of bullets dug up the ground between us. I rolled away, curling up in a ball until the fire was directed somewhere else. By the time I looked up again, Bartzfeld was out of sight.

I focused on the still smoking shell of the cottage. I could see rapid fire coming from the skeleton of the door frame and figured that had to be Saunders. When he stopped firing to reload, Saunders looked behind him. A second later I could see Little John's M1. Saunders waved to his right and Little John nodded, then started around the side of the cottage, reaching into his jacket for a grenade. I looked in the direction they had been firing. Machine gun fire opened up on the cottage sending glowing embers exploding in all directions. Saunders was hunkered down behind a pile of debris, shielded from the bullets, but the embers were landing on and around him.

Bart had been moving to my left, and I realized he was moving towards the machine gun. I crawled after him, sticking to the ground like a snake.

When I found him, I realized it wasn't the machine gun he'd been after. A woman had escaped the fire and was lying twenty feet into the cover of the woodline. She was breathing hard, moaning softly in pain. The smell of burned skin came off of her in waves and the closer I got, the more stunned I was that she was still alive. In between moans, she coughed fitfully, fighting the effects of smoke inhalation.

Bart had his canteen in his hand and was soaking a bandage. When he looked up at me he shook his head. This wasn't about saving her life, but offering comfort.

"Do you have the morphine?" He asked me in a harsh whisper.

I shook my head. "Little John has it. He's pinned down behind the cottage."

A second later we were pinned down ourselves, stray bullets ricocheting past us like a summer hail storm. One of the bullets hit the woman, gouging out a furrow in her shoulder, then a second one hit her, causing her whole body to jump. She screamed and I wanted to join her. Suddenly angry, I tore free of the packs I was carrying, digging through them until I found the surgical kit. I picked out the biggest knife in the set and was on my feet, running down the woodline before Bart could say anything.

The anger lasted as long as it took for me to cover 100 feet of ground. When I realized that I was even with the machine gun nest I started to regret my decision. What was one man going to do with a surgical knife, against a nest full of armed germans?

From my cover behind the roots of a large tree I could see Little John crawling in the tall grass. Saunders was keeping the attention of the Germans, sending short bursts of fire their way to keep their heads down. If Little John could get close enough, he could toss in his grenades and it would all be over. I stayed still, praying that Saunders' distraction would hold out.

The Germans started shouting to one another, pointing to where Little John was laying with nothing but grass for cover. The muzzle of the machine gun started to turn his way.

I stood up and shouted, "Hey! Krauts!"

Saunders screamed, "Doc, get down!"

Little John popped up and threw the grenades, all three at once. I hit the ground and covered up, opening my mouth to lessen the concussion of the explosion. Dirt, rocks, wood and metal went everywhere. It knocked bark off the trees, and leaves and twigs down to the ground. The machine gun was blown up and out of the foxhole it'd been dug into, and landed five feet away from me, the muzzle plunging deep into the ground.

I waited until the pattering of debris falling to the ground had died. I uncurled and slowly got to my feet. I looked for Little John, watching his giant frame unfurl from the ground. Saunders jogged toward us from my left and Bartzfeld came up from behind, the four of us gathering in front of the smoldering foxhole.

Little John and Saunders checked each of the bodies, confirming that they were dead. Bartzfeld was looking me over like he expected me to be missing a limb. He and I started to walk away and Little John came over to us, but Saunders had stayed by the fox hole. I could tell from there that he was fuming, even in the darkness.

I decided that giving him distance was a good plan and turned to go back for the packs I had dropped.

"Doc, over here. Bartzfeld, get the packs together. Little John. Look out."

I handed the surgical knife to Bartzfeld and covered the ground to the sarge, unconsciously putting my hands in my coat pockets. I stopped a few feet from him, close enough to hear him breathing hard through his nose.

"What did you think you were doing?" He demanded, nostrils flaring.

I looked away. I didn't have an answer.

"I asked you a question."

"I was angry. I wasn't thinking." I said.

"You were angry." Saunders said, nodding. "I'm angry, right now. Do you see me launching myself at an enemy position?"

"No."

"What is your job here?"

"Medic."

"What is your job here!?" He asked again.

"To give aide to the wounded." I said, meeting his eyes dead on.

"And to keep your ass behind cover until it's safe. So that I don't have to risk other men's lives to keep you breathing."

"They…!" I started, then cut myself off. I couldn't find a way to explain those horrible seconds, hearing her scream, watching her body, racked with pain, being further torn apart.

Saunders waited for a five count then asked, "What? They what?"

"Sorry, Sarge. Won't happen again." I snapped, barely keeping the snark under control. Saunders stared at me, and I knew he wanted an explanation. Something that would clear the air and restore his faith in me. I didn't have one. I wasn't convinced I'd been right. I only knew that I was fine, and my shout had likely saved Little John's life. The rest of it was dumb luck.

When he finally grunted and walked away he was shaking his head. I stayed where I was, hands still buried deep in my pockets, staring at the dew on the grass. It wasn't often that I felt like a screwup, but this mission seemed to be a long line of little and big mistakes on my part. It made me just a little terrified of what would happen when we found the captain. If we found him. If he was even still alive.

Saunders and Little John picked through the wreckage of the cottage. They recovered two other bodies before they found the cellar door. We had to carry water in our helmets, back and forth from the well, dumping it on the door handle before it was cool enough to try and force the door open.

Down a set of earthen steps we found the captain. He was unconscious, barely breathing, and almost as hot to the touch as the door handle had been. The underground members taking care of him must have hid him in the cellar before the Germans had attacked the house and set it aflame. That was our theory. It was better than believing that the French had set their own home, and themselves, on fire to escape capture from the Germans, but we knew that was a possibility as well.

It was only after we had the captain laid out on the litter that I thought to ask about the woman in the woods. Bartzfeld shook his head at me.

"The last round of bullets killed her." He said, his voice sotto voce.

We worked together quietly, finding a vein, starting the remaining bottle of blood. We gave him a shot of penicillin, then started on the various problems. With nothing but two flashlights to light the process, already tired from a day of walking, and the strain of the firefight, Bartzfeld and I were struggling to remain civil. Compared to his practiced hands I was all thumbs, and it was becoming more and more evident.

After a while we stopped talking altogether. We had a rhythm going that was interrupted only occasionally by one of us bumping the hands of the other, and we got the work done. The bottle of blood was nearly empty when the sky began to lighten, and much as I wanted to avoid it, I knew we would need Little John or Saunders for a transfusion. The trouble was, both of them had been up all night, as well. Taking blood from either one could be devastating if, heaven forbid, we ran into more krauts on the way back.

"We're going to need them for a transfusion, aren't we?" I asked, tying a final knot on the bandage I'd been working on.

Bartzfeld trained bloodshot eyes on the two infantrymen. Along with the guard duty, they'd busied themselves, one at a time, putting the bodies of the french down in the cellar of the house, and covering them with rocks and dirt. With nothing but the shovels in their field packs it was a thankless job, but they'd done it anyway.

Bart sighed and checked Oller's blood pressure, fever and pulse.

"Maybe." He said. "Later."

I nodded, yawned, then pushed to my feet. My back screamed at me for holding a bent position for too long. I pressed my knuckles into the pain and walked over to the three graves, marked by simple crosses.

"We ready?" Saunders asked. Tired, irritated, and still angry at me. I nodded, then turned back around and helped Bart pack up the rest of the supplies. Our packs were loaded on our backs, and the litter was off the ground in ten minutes.

Saunders led the way and Little John took the rear. We walked for an hour, stopped to check the captain's condition, then walked on. By noon Bartzfeld had begun to weave on his feet. Saunders called a halt and we barely made it to the side of the road. The feet of the litter hit the ground a little harder than usual and I was relieved to see Oller react to the jarring. He didn't wake completely but there was voluntary movement and sound coming from the man.

Bartzfeld was on his knees, shuffling closer to Oller's side, struggling to stay upright long enough to check his bandages.

"I got it. I got it, Bart." I told him, pushing him away from Oller, away from the litter. "Go eat." I said, knowing what we all wanted more was sleep.

I moved methodically from Oller's head to his feet, checking for bleeding, infection, fever, heart rate, etc. With some things improving, a new concern was dehydration. Blood transfusion would help, but getting him to wake up and swallow water would be better. I tried and failed to bring him around, then soaked a bandage with water and started squeezing drops between his lips. Little by little his body responded, even if his mind couldn't.

"Doc."

I jumped, jerking my hand and the bandage back from Oller's lips, then leaning with one hand on the litter so that I could catch my breath.

I heard Saunders snort softly, and looked up to see a tired smirk on his face. In his hand he had an opened tin of k-rations. "Eat this, then sack out for an hour."

"What about you?" I asked.

"I'm alright."

"One of us needs to stay with Oller." I argued, looking at Bartzfeld who was already asleep.

"Just.." Saunders started, his voice louder. "Do what I'm telling you to do, Doc." He finished, lowering his volume. "Please."

I didn't like it. Saunders may have been the expert when it came to fighting in the field, but in this case I knew that leaving Oller was a bad idea. I took the k-rations and put some distance between myself and the litter so that I could eat it. The food woke me up some. I drained my canteen as well, then took all the canteens down to the river to refill them. I was putting halazone tablets in each one when I felt Saunders watching me.

"You need sleep, Doc." He called from twenty feet away.

"So do you." I said, shaking each canteen as vigorously as my tired and sore arms could manage.

I heard Saunders' grunt and glanced over to see him pressing thumb and forefinger against the sides of his nose. I stopped shaking the canteen, then asked, "Headache?"

"No." Saunders said, without moving. "Just tired."

I finished with each canteen, putting them beside their owners. I brought the sarge his canteen last. I held it out and waited for him to take it. The voice in my head was urging me to apologize, and I stood there long enough to have done it. Certainly long enough for the sarge to stare up at me expectantly.

I curled the side of my mouth up and said, "I guess I'm tired too."

Saunders just stared at me. I turned from him, went back to Oller and sat down by the litter, my legs drawn up like I was doing a butterfly stretch. I nodded off that way twice, waking up when my center of gravity started to teeter.

By the time Saunders decided we needed to move on I felt worse than I had before.

From then on we moved for an hour and rested for an hour. With Bartzfeld awake I finally got the chance to sack out. Little John kept watch and Saunders stretched out under a tree, instantly asleep.

After darkness fell we kept going that way until Oller's condition started to deteriorate.

It was my watch. Oller had begun to convulse. In trying to keep him from throwing himself off the litter I upset some of the bandages and discovered massive, sickly bruises surrounding the sites where we had extracted the remaining shrapnel. I started shouting for Bartzfeld and we worked together to ride out the seizures, then cut away the bandages.

"We have to open him back up. Stop the bleeding, then the transfusion."

"I don't…" I started to say.

Bartzfeld was still groggy, his face still puffy from sleep. He wiped his hand over his face, upsetting his glasses, before saying, "I can do it. I can do it. I just...we need a fire."

"We can't build a fire." Saunders' voice carried over to us from the road. "Too many risks."

"A little fire to heat-"

"No fire, Bartzfeld." Saunders said, harder.

"This man will die if I can't stop the bleeding, and the quickest way to do that is to cauterize the blood vessels inside the wound. To do that I need heat, Sergeant. Do you understand? Heat?"

The sarge covered the ground between us in seconds, going to one knee and grabbing Bartzfeld by the lapels of his jacket. He shook Bart once before he asked, "Do you understand that at any moment a kraut patrol could come across us and the only thing keeping us from being a target is that we can't be seen right now?"

I was frozen, eyes dancing between Bart and Saunders, my hands still resting on Oller's arms, feeling the tremors still clenching and releasing his muscles.

"No fire, Bartzfeld. Find another way."

Saunders let him go and stood, turning and walking away from us. Bart shot me a glance, then started digging in his bag.

"The man expects miracles…" He muttered, his hands fumbling through a mess of useless articles before he sat back, tossing the bag to the side in frustration.

"Would a lighter do it?" I asked, eyeing the sarge and keeping my voice as low as I could.

"Maybe." Bartzfeld said, then sat up a little. "A lighter, and black powder. It'll hurt like hell but we can dose him with morphine."

I winced, but nodded. It was better than nothing.

"Little John." I called, then told the man what I needed from him. I handed him two hemostats to get the job done, then helped Bart set up the transfusion line. We were prepped for our quick surgery at about the same time that Little John had finished pulling the bullets from five casings.

The three of us huddled around Oller, shielding the light from the dying torches and any flashes or noises from the black powder with our bodies. The morphine only did so much. Each wound was opened until we found the source of the bleed. Black powder was poured into the wound and set aflame. We cauterized in layers before sanitizing and covering the wounds with new bandages. Before we finished with the last wound we hooked Little John up to the transfusion line.

Both Bart and I knew that meant we couldn't move on for at least an hour. Bart looked at me to tell the sarge and I couldn't blame him.

I stood up, wincing at the strain in my muscles, took a deep breath and headed over to where Saunders was sitting perched on a log.

"How's he doing?"

I nodded, scratching at the back of my head. "Still alive. We'll need an hour to finish the transfusion and give Little John time to recover."

Saunders nodded, looking down the length of the quiet roadway.

Again I was stuck, needing to clear the air but not sure an apology was the answer.

"The woman we brought from the woods." I said. "She was alive during the firefight. In agony. Bart heard her, somehow, and went to her. He was trying to cool her off with his canteen and a bandage. We wanted to give her morphine...just a little, so that she could die in peace."

Saunders was looking up at me. "Little John had the morphine." He said.

I nodded. "The krauts were just...spraying the woods with bullets. They missed both of us, but hit her. She felt each one. I think I watched her die before I...I had enough. I grabbed a knife from my pack, and started running at the thing I most wanted to kill. When I realized what I was doing I was close enough that I could see Little John. He was pinned down in that grass and the krauts were turning the gun on him. I stood up and I shouted."

Saunders laughed through his nose. "Hey krauts."

I gave a pained smile.

"I saw you moving through the trees." Saunders said, chewing softly on his words. "I uh...I thought you were a kraut, coming up on the flank." He set his teeth together and admitted. "I almost opened up on ya, Doc."

Oh.

I nodded. "Sorry, Sarge." I said, meaning it this time.

"Not as sorry as I would'a been." Saunders said, looking away from me. There was a moment of healing silence before he asked, "How long are you gonna keep Little John hooked up to that thing?"

"Fifteen, twenty minutes." I said.

"Make it ten, then do me." Saunders said.

I nodded. "Then.." I checked my watch. "...four minutes and you're up."

I tried to get Bart to go back to sleep but he insisted on overseeing the transfusion. I grabbed a blanket from one of the packs, found a soft pile of grass, and passed out quickly. I didn't feel Saunders coming to get the cookie box from inside my jacket, but when Bart woke me an hour later I could see both of them finishing the last of the sweets.

On the move, Bart and I discussed the captain's gradually improving condition, even while we kept close watch on Saunders and Little John.

The sun rose behind heavy gray clouds that promised rain. At 0730 the skies opened up. We stretched a blanket as tight as we could get it, under the protective boughs of a pine tree, covered Captain Oller with the remaining blankets, and waited out the downpour, hunched under our rain slickers.

When the rain was no more than a drizzle we struck the shelter and moved on, only to have to stop again for a lightning storm. We found an old barn and tucked ourselves into the northeast corner, out of the wind and wet. Saunders fell asleep inside and Little John and I stood in the doorway watching the light show. While the lightning and thunder lasted only twenty minutes, the wind and driving rain continued ferociously. The summer warmth we'd had on the way out was a distant memory now. Two hours had passed before Saunders joined us in the doorway, squinting out at the weather.

"Has it let up at all?"

I shook my head. "How close are we to the bivouac, Sarge?"

Saunders sighed. "Three miles, maybe four. I could head out, leave the three of you here with Oller, and see about getting an ambulance." Saunders looked at his watch, then stood quietly, his eyes and ears searching the woods around us, and the road, for any sign of the enemy. When five minutes had passed with nothing but the rain disturbing the silence, Saunders nodded.

He pulled his slicker over his head, settled his Tommy Gun where he could get to it easily and said, "Alright. Should take me an hour to get there. Little John if this lets up, you guys get movin'. I don't want you sitting in one spot any longer than you have to."

"Ok, Sarge."

"Ugh...rain." Saunders said, then stepped out into it at a light jog.

I went back to check on Oller. His fever was coming down, if slowly, but with the rain falling we had a good supply of fresh water. I used what was in my canteen to slowly drip liquid into his mouth for a bit, then wiped his face, neck and chest down. I got some confused murmurs out of him, which was the most we'd had since we'd found him in the burned out cellar.

"I think he's gonna make it." I announced softly when I stood up. Little John gave me a tired smile that lightened his face, making him look less like a neanderthal and more like a cherub. I checked my watch. Twenty minutes had gone by.

"Be glad when this is over." Little John said, watching out the door again.

"Amen." I agreed, leaning against the opposite door jamb. "Next time they need to send a surgeon out on a job like this."

"Surgeons don't belong in combat." Little John said. The comment was casual, but it stuck with me.

I watched Bart, sitting by Oller, slowly eating from a tin of rations, nose once more buried in his book. I wondered if that was part of his motivation. Getting out of combat. Getting away from the drama and emotional pain of the battlefield. Going where you didn't need to know their names or their life stories. Just their bloodtype and allergies.

I also thought about the excellent medic we would be losing when he did move on. Bartzfeld had saved more men's lives out on the field than I could count. He had a natural, second nature knowledge of how the body worked, and he was creative. He'd make an excellent surgeon, but we'd be losing the best medic we had.

I checked my watch again. Twenty-five minutes past now. Both Little John and I looked up when the sky suddenly lightened, the clouds moving to show thin streaks of blue. We waited five more minutes, then ten, hearing fewer and fewer drops on the roof. When there was a solid line of blue coming in behind the gray above the treetops Little John looked to me.

"Yep. Best be movin'." He said.

I pulled Bart out of his study stupor and we got everything packed and ready to move. We were on the road only ten minutes before we heard the sound of a motor approaching. We cleared away into the trees until Little John could spot the olive green, white and red of a U.S. Army Ambulance.

I recognized the driver as Howard Little, one of the oldest drivers on the line, and everybody's favorite.

"Looks like I found Hanley's lost sheep!" He shouted at us from the driver's seat, then stepped down to help us load the captain in the back.

"Saunders got to you quicker than we thought." Bart said, climbing into the back with Oller.

Little John was heading for the passenger side, and I was about to climb into the back when Howard said, "Saunders?! Hanley sent me. You fellas are 12 hours overdue."

"Yeah, but you saw Saunders on the road, right?" Little John asked.

"In this rain? There's nothin' on the road but puddles, Little John." Howard said.

Little John shut the passenger door then came around the front of the ambulance. "You didn't see him on the road? You didn't see anybody?"

Howard looked at us confused, and a little concerned. "I didn't see anybody."

"Maybe they just missed each other, Little John." I said. "Sarge would'a jumped off the road when he heard the ambulance coming."

"Maybe."

I could see that he didn't like it. I didn't like it either.

"Howard, can you get Oller and Bartzfeld back ok?"

"No sweat. Krauts are miles from here." Howard said, nodding to us.

"Little John and me will walk back. Make sure the Sarge didn't get lost somewhere. Give me a minute to change out my pack." I said. I moved to the back of the ambulance and started unpacking and repacking my medical kit. I explained what was happening to Bart while I did.

I could tell Bartzfeld wanted to go with us as well but he was needed where he was and he knew it.

"When you get back to the OP, tell Hanley what happened. He can send some of the guys out to fetch us if we aren't back by then."

Bart nodded at me, then disappeared into the shadows as I shut the doors of the ambulance. Howard had it turned around and motoring through the puddles in minutes and Little John and I stood on the road watching the ambulance disappear. We moved out together without comment, Little John in front, with me in the rear.

The tiredness and the aches had disappeared with the adrenaline boost that came with our concern for the sarge. If the krauts were pushed back as far as Howard thought, it didn't make sense that Saunders could have been waylaid. The road was flat, if wet with rain. Could he have sprained an ankle, slipped down into a ditch? I couldn't see the sarge doing something so clumsy, even with the blood loss from the transfusion.

I was starting to think about flash floods when Little John drew to a stop in front of me. His head tilted and turned, his eyes roving up and around him.

"What?"

"Smoke. Wood smoke." He said, eyes squinting into the darkness of the forest to our left and right. A second later he pointed. "See that tree, Doc?"

I looked and saw a trunk, blacker than the others, still steaming from what had to have been a lightning strike. The tree was growing on the side of a raised walking path that wound away from the road under the cover of the leaves. The sort of place the sarge might have ducked into when the wind and rain got worse.

Little John and I turned down the path at a light jog, starting to identify boot prints in the mud. Little John pressed his foot down, parallel to one them, then compared the prints.

"Sarge." He said.

I went over to the tree, walking a circle around it, letting the circumference of the circle widen until I was back on the path. "There's no blood. No bandage wrappers or sulfa pouches." I hooked my thumbs in the straps of the bag on my back and squinted down the path.

"Come on." Little John said, and we moved out.

I was probably the shortest guy in our squad, and Little John was the biggest, but we managed to keep pace with one another. I had to stare hard to make out the boot prints among the puddles on the path, but Little John never varied his stride. His head was up and swiveling all the time.

We heard the creak of the waterwheel before we could see it. Both of us shifted to the side of the path, then fully into the woods, creeping up on the mill as the rain began to fall again. The building was about the size of a chalet. There were two stories, accommodating a water wheel that was at least twenty-feet in diameter. A line of sluices had been built to run spring water up hill and over the top of the wheel. The mill was made of stone, mortar and aged wood.

There was wood smoke coming out of two of the four chimneys, and lanterns lit in a few of the small four panel windows. I watched dark gray uniforms with black collars passing back and forth behind the glass, identifying three different hair cuts before I decided to stop counting. A German hold out, well behind Allied lines. And they looked like SS guys to me.

Little John tapped my shoulder then pointed to his left. I looked and spotted the helmet and eyes poking up over a pile of branches and kindling. We crouched and ran over to join the sarge behind his cover.

"You get Oller out?" He asked in a harsh whisper, once we were close enough to hear.

Little John nodded. "Bartzfeld went with Howie Little in the ambulance."

Saunders nodded. "I ducked off the road when I heard the ambulance. Then I spotted two of those jokers out collecting firewood. Followed 'em back here."

"They didn't see you?" I asked. As dumb as the question sounded, Saunders treated it seriously.

"Uh uh." He said. "The rain'll give us good cover to get outta here. Should keep 'em inside. Memorize some landmarks so we can put this place on the map, huh?" He said, eyeing us both before he started pushing up out of his laying position.

We began moving, staying low but on our feet so that we could break into a run at a moments' notice. Behind us we could hear a quiet argument moving from the door of the mill into the cobblestone yard. Saunders froze, his hand up in the air in a fist. He flapped downward at the air and we hit the ground, our bellies instantly soaked through with water. The two men continued their argument, unaware that we were only yards away.

When one of them finally told the other off they went their separate ways. One of them tried to light a cigarette, bending far over the match to keep it lit. The other had started a patrol down the path towards the road. Saunders waited for the smoker to turn his back on the woods before he waved to his left. We moved, crawling parallel to the cottage and the road several hundred feet away.

It was a yearling buck that gave it away. Little John saw him, silhouetted in the darkened woods, but not before we startled him. He stomped his hooves, skittered a few feet, then took off at a dead run toward the cottage. The noise drew the attention of both the smoker and the sentry. They turned toward the woods, at ninety degrees from one another.

The smoker was jumpier than the sentry and had his gun up and pointed. The sentry saw the gun, shouted something at us, then shot once into the air. This set the smoker off. He pointed his gun into the woods and held the trigger down, spraying liberally.

The sarge sent a burst of bullets towards the smoker and we took off running. The trees were decent cover but there was at least a platoon of soldiers in the cottage, and I could hear them spilling out of the building, hobnails ringing on the cobblestones. There was no stopping and fighting. We just ran.

I felt something hit the outside of my right elbow. A second later it was on fire. Little John jumped and twisted, going down. I grabbed his collar and the strap of his gun and hauled him up until my arm froze in place. Little John got his feet under him and we were moving again. Saunders realized we weren't behind him and stopped, hugging a tree and turning his Tommy Gun on the germans.

"Come on!" He shouted, over the noise. "Come on, come on!"

When we reached him, he got under Little John's shoulder and pushed us back to a loping jog. A structure began to materialize ahead of us. Nothing more than a gardening shed, likely at the back of someone's property. The building was made of stone, however, and would be the best shelter we could hope for.

Saunders and I shoved Little John inside first, then I felt a hand push me in. Rapid fire pinged off the stone walls and I heard the Tommy Gun responding. Then Saunders backed through the door, shutting the thick wooden panel.

I was already working on Little John, locating the hole in his hip and pouring sulfa over it. He was conscious enough to put pressure on the wound himself. When I turned to the sarge he had slid down to the earthen floor with his back to the wall. There was a thin trail of blood going down his chin, and he was breathing hard, his head back against the stones. I watched him struggle to let loose of the Tommy Gun, then fiddle with the zipper of his soaking wet jacket, pulling it down. The shirt beneath was matted to his skin, shining with dark red blood.

I scrambled over to him. My left arm was still frozen in a bent position, my elbow throbbing, but I could work around the pain for the moment. I got sulfa and gauze on the hole in his side, just below his last rib, piling the gauze on until I had run out.

We all froze when the Germans outside started to shout commands. My brain was too busy to translate and I went back to my work, attuned to the sounds of pain coming from Little John's corner, the way the sarge's lungs sounded each time he took a breath, and just how long I could let my elbow go before I had to deal with it, too.

"Americans. You are surrounded. You must surrender."

We froze again. I met Saunders' gaze and he stared back at me, processing slower than normal. I felt his hand move towards the Tommy Gun, but I was kneeling on top of the strap. He didn't have the strength to lift it, even if I hadn't been. His head rolled to the left, eyes focusing on the door for a moment before he looked in the opposite direction at Little John. I followed his gaze. Little John's eyes were shut tight, his face bathed in sweat, but his gun was up and ready, pointed vaguely in the direction of the door.

"Americans! Are you still alive? We will get you medicine and treat your wounded. Surrender at once."

Saunders' breaths quickened and I realized he was trying to build up the energy to say something. He asked, "How bad?" His voice barely loud enough to hear.

I sighed, wiping sweat away and smearing my forehead with the blood that had been on my hands. "Bad. I couldn't get either one of you out of here on my own and you wouldn't make it that far anyway."

Chip softly blew air through his lips, eyes rolling to look at the door again. I knew it went against every part of the soldier in him to surrender. Before I'd joined the unit I'd heard the stories about just how hard it was to kill Sgt. Chip Saunders. I'd admired the man before I'd even met him.

"You can still run.." He told me. "We can..distract 'em. You can...get to the road-"

"No." I said, starting to shake my head.

"Get to the bivouac...get Hanley."

"No." I said again.

"Tell Hanley about the mill. Where it is. Get heavy fire on it.." Saunders was choked off by the pain, his whole body tensing. His left hand came up and latched onto my wounded arm and it took every ounce of self control not to scream. I let him hang on to me, riding out the pain, then dug into the pack for the morphine. He didn't see me do it or he would have fought me, I was sure.

"Doc. You gotta go. You gotta get-"

"Americans. Surrender your arms, and come out with your hands up!" The command was followed by a burst of automatic fire that tore into the wood of the door. Splinters rained down on us, and I pulled Saunders over and flat to the ground. While laying on top of him I found a vein, inserted the needle and squeezed the syrette.

My ear was right under his mouth when the morphine hit, and I heard a luxuriant groan. The relief he felt, I felt vicariously. I finished tying the bandage around the mountain of gauze at his side, then grabbed the last bandage in the bag. I laid it out on my thigh, pressed my elbow down into the pad and tied the long straps tightly with my left hand and my teeth. I stayed on my knees, breathing through the pain before crawling over to Little John.

He opened his eyes when I came close to him. "Do you want morphine?" I asked him.

He shook his head, swallowing hard. "Water."

I knew the rules. I also knew the very thin odds of us getting to a surgeon anytime soon, if ever. I grabbed his canteen from behind him, helped Little John drink as much as he could hold, then pushed it into his free hand.

"Americans!"

"Shut up!" I screamed at the door. Tired of that voice. Tired of it interrupting my thinking.

The voice quieted, asking a hushed question in German. A few chuckles followed, making me angrier.

"So you are alive…"

"No thanks to you." I shouted. I went back to Saunders to check the bandage. He was still awake, but his eyes kept rolling back. He was fighting sleep but I knew the morphine would win out.

"You are the enemy. You were shooting at us." There was a pause, then. "There are three of you, yes? How many of you are wounded?"

I closed my eyes, cradling my wounded arm, fighting another wave of pain. The bullet had to have hit bone, and may have cracked something. I knew it was still in there.

"We have excellent doctors. We can give you aid."

"You wouldn't get a mile before you were cut down by American troops." I shouted through gritted teeth.

More chuckles followed, but I thought some of them sounded nervous.

"You are brave. One of you was a medic. Am I talking to the medic?"

I didn't answer. The silence stretched thin, the rain pelting down on the roof of our shelter and the trees overhead.

"Perhaps your medic is wounded. We have bandages, medicine. Our hospitals are very comfortable."

"Your hospitals are fifty miles away." I said, making the number up. There was more talk in German, and I desperately hoped they were beginning to believe me. The mill was isolated enough, tucked back into the thick woods the way it was, that I was sure entire armies could have passed by without seeing it.

"Doc….Doc."

Saunders' voice was soft, but he was insistent and I crawled over to him to check his bandages. His fingers found their way between the buttons of my jacket and he hung on to me, working his lungs.

"Ask 'em...how long...their radio has been down."

I straightened, thought about how to phrase it, then said. "How long has it been since you reached your command?"

More questions and lengthening silences amongst the men outside. When a second round of questions, then a third, ended in a shouted command for silence, I felt Saunders pat my hand. I looked down and found a quirky smile on his face.

A final command was given before we heard boots departing at a run.

"You are very clever." The English speaker said, sounding like he was chewing on gravel to have to admit to it. "But you are wasting time. How many of you are still alive? How long will it be before one of you bleeds out?"

I looked over to Little John. He was conscious and focused on me and the sarge. I felt Saunders' hand tighten around my wrist. All of us are still alive, you bastard, I thought.

"You are cut off from your lines. From food and water. We need only wait until you die of starvation. Why consign yourself to a slow death. Surrender and-"

"Shut up!" Little John and I said it at the same time and he grinned at me briefly.

We were met with silence after that. The wind started to kick up, driving the rain harder on our shelter. We were relatively warm, protected from the wet, and secure. The Germans were forced to stand out in the rain and wait us out, knowing we were still armed. The conversations in German started again, voices anxious and questioning. The English speaker had made the mistake of translating everything I said and we could hear the doubt creeping into their voices.

I did what I did best. What I was trained to do. I moved between Little John and Saunders, checking bleeding, heart rate, fever. When I lost my balance and went down on my right side the pain was so much worse than when Saunders had grabbed me, I felt bile rise in the back of my throat. Something definitely wrong with the bone. Nothing else hurt that bad.

"Doc?"

My eyes were still closed and I could feel the beads of sweat or rain soaking my face.

"I'm alright. I'm...I'm alright." I said, forcing my lungs to work and telling myself that every time I took in a little air, the pain was going to go away. By degrees I was able to lower my heart rate, and with it, the effects of the pain on the rest of my body. I'd learned that trick from the first medic I'd ever served with. He'd taught it to me while he was dying, still trying to care for a wounded man on the field.

Pounding feet approached the shed. The English speaker talked to the runner who had just returned and the conversation quickly rose in volume and urgency.

"Americans! This is your last chance. Surrender now, or we will shoot."

We heard multiple slides ratcheting back, nervous voices questioning each other quietly. The rain increased all the more, but Saunders, Little John and I stayed quiet.

I looked back at Little John, then moved to him slowly, guiding him from his sitting position to laying flat on his back. The door was the only point where they could breach, with bodies or bullets, but reducing the size of their targets would go a long way.

I checked on Saunders. He was out completely, finally. I made sure his helmet was over his head, then lay flat on my back beside him. A minute later they opened up.

I heard the first few shots, but after that the noise dissipated into a heavy buzz and I closed my eyes. There was a strange sort of peace. Knowing that there was absolutely nothing that I could do in the situation but lay where I was, having absolute assurance that I had done all I could, and done it to the best of my ability, settled on me comfortably like a hand sewn quilt and I almost felt I could fall asleep.

The last time I'd felt that peace had been a year before. I'd been wounded then, too. The guys had dragged me halfway across the country, into and out of a German OP, then into a command car. It was in the back of the command car that I'd finally been able to rest. Knowing Saunders, Caje and Sgt. Meider were in control. I got two hours of dreamless, painless sleep, that I have remembered ever since. With the zing of bullets flying around, and the pain in my elbow fading to the background, I was certain I'd find the same sleep now...right before I died.

I was interrupted by an American shouting for the Germans to drop their guns. The arms fire paused for a second, then started again, but aimed elsewhere. I turned on my side and checked on Saunders. He was covered in splinters of wood, and a bullet had cut a groove in his right arm, but other than that he was whole, and still breathing.

I crawled awkwardly to Little John. He was conscious still, his face pale with the pain he was fighting. I reached into my bag for another syrette of morphine.

"Get hit anywhere else?"

Little John shook his head. I administered the morphine and watched Little John's eyes roll back in his head.

"Oh God...doc. That stuff's amazing." Little John muttered, and I couldn't help the smile.

"It's my magic touch, Little John." I said. I watched him smile, dreamily, already falling asleep. I put my shoulders against the rear wall of the shed and let my head drop back until my helmet hit stone. I slowly shifted my elbow until it could rest on my chest and closed my eyes, listening to the audio drama playing out in the forest.

I heard Hanley's voice, then Caje and Kirby, Andrews and Bartzfeld. Some of the guys from Bartzfeld's unit were out there, too. Shouting commands at the remaining enemy soldiers and each other. Letting loose short bursts of automatic fire. I heard the BAR and smiled a bit. Kirby was fonder of that thing than some of the others were of their family photos.

When the running footsteps grew closer to the shed I heard Hanley ordering the other platoon sergeant to set up a perimeter.

"Saunders! Doc! Little John! I'm opening the door." Hanley shouted. But the door didn't open. As soon as he tugged on the handle it fell outward from its hinges, splashing into a puddle on the saturated ground, the wood splitting in half.

I heard a couple of the guys outside swear at that, then opened my eyes to watch Hanley poke his head in the door. He stared down at Saunders, then looked at me, then Little John.

"Jesus Christ! Bartzfeld! Caje, Kirby!"

The three men collected quickly. Hanley sent Bartzfeld straight into the shed. "You two, get to that ambulance, get stretchers, get back here on the double."

I could see Kirby and Caje's concerned faces trying to see into the gloom of the shed. I knew Kirby wanted to ask if we were still alive, but he pressed his lips together and he and Caje took off.

Bartzfeld had started with Saunders. When he got to me I held my hand out, and Bart helped me to my feet. When I swayed he slid his arm under my armpit and around my back and he helped me to the doorway.

Hanley took me from there. He tried to get me to sit but I leaned towards the outer wall of the shed, taking my helmet off and letting the rain fall on my face. The cooler air, fresher than inside the shed, felt amazing.

"They're still alive." Bart called from inside, stepping one boot out of the doorway. "Doc, did you-"

I nodded. "I gave 'em both morphine."

"They'll make it. But we need to get them to the hospital fast, Lieutenant."

Hanley sighed and I looked up at him to see his eyes closed and his head bowed. He recovered quickly, calling for the sergeant of Bart's platoon and giving him orders for our retreat from the area. There were two prisoners and two dead enemy soldiers that I could see. I figured that meant some of them had managed to get away.

"Lieutenant." I said. He was in front of me in seconds, one hand on my shoulder. "There's a mill back there. Krauts were using it for an OP or a hideout or something. It's down a walking path that connects to the road." I had to pause, my mouth suddenly dry. I was still fighting the bile in the back of my throat and the urge to throw up.

"Take it easy, Doc." Hanley waited me out.

"Sarge was going to have it shelled, but we got caught trying to get away."

Hanley nodded and squeezed my arm, fishing around inside his jacket. He pulled out a map, wrapped up in oil cloth. He shifted so that he could put his back to the rain and we bent our heads together to shelter the worn paper. Once Hanley pointed out the road and about where we were, I pointed at the spot where the small river had been diverted. The walking path wasn't marked on the road, but I remembered a rise in elevation behind the mill.

"Right there. Sarge would know better than I would." I said.

Hanley scanned the woods. "We won't shell it, but we should clear it. There's another company coming up behind us. We'll pass it on to them on the way back."

Distantly I heard the ambulance on the road, and I watched Caje and Kirby charging through the woods, litters on their shoulders. Hanley pointed them toward the shed door and I tried to push away from the outer wall, intent on helping.

"I don't think so, Doc. You stay put." Hanley said. The weight of his hand on my chest made a warm spot on my shirt for a second. When his hand moved, I shuddered. "Come on." Hanley said in response, getting under my good side and walking me toward the ambulance.

Caje and Andrews followed behind us shortly, carrying Saunders on a litter. Bartzfeld figured out pretty quickly that Little John wasn't going to fit very well on the litter. He called for two of the guys in his unit and it took all four of them, including Kirby, to keep Little John from slipping off.

Inside the ambulance I was given a blanket, and I helped cover the other two before I sat back in the corner and passed out. By the time we reached the hospital I was cold again, shivering violently. I remember the bandage coming off my elbow, my jacket coming off, and wood chips falling to the floor around me like I'd been hoarding them. I also remember a soaking wet letter falling to the ground. The doc picked it up, put it with the rest of my things, then put a needle in my arm.

They could'a sawed my arm off and I wouldn't have cared.

Turns out the bullet had taken a tiny piece off the top of my ulna. The surgeons removed the bullet and the little piece of bone. When I woke up they asked me if I wanted to keep the little piece. I stared at them like they were nuts. The bullet had narrowly missed crippling my arm for life. It got me a few weeks of recovery in a little town by a river, along with Little John and Saunders.

Little John narrowly escaped a broken hip. Saunders had two surgeries before he was put back together. He would be out longer than the two of us, but he was awake and aware by the third day of recovery. Hard to kill, and harder to keep down.

When my articles were finally returned to me I remembered the soaked envelope. I found it, tucked into the pocket of my torn up jacket.

A day later I was sitting in a cafe with a nurse I'd met when I remembered the envelope. I had her help me open it, and she offered to read it to me.

"It's from the war department." She said, in a clipped English accent. "Oh, heavens." She said a minute later.

She handed me the letter. It had to have been three or four years old. One of those pieces of mail that floats around forever until it finds its owner. Type written on official paper, the words now smudged and running, but I could still read it. It was an apology for a mix up in my orders. The letter that had sent me to medic training had been meant for another guy with my same name. I was supposed to report to cooks and baker school as soon as I read the letter, three years ago.

I laughed so hard I cried. The letter was almost as funny as the one from my Ma. I had the nurse help me write her a letter, and stuck the war department note inside before we sent it off.

As for Captain Oller, he survived long enough to get to London. After that we lost track of the man.