I snapped my mouth shut and my fingers closed around the barrel of the M1. My breath sounded so loud in my ears it made them ache, but I couldn't stop breathing. I wanted it to be Corporal Tibbs coming back with good news. He'd reached battalion, or he'd found a farmhouse full of sympathetic French ladies and a warm fire. I tried to reason my way out of being afraid. Whoever was coming was going slow and careful. That made sense didn't it?

Tibbs couldn't know what had happened since he left. For all he knew the truck had been overrun by Germans, and we'd been captured. But if that had happened there would be evidence laid out in the snow, wouldn't there? Was he close enough to see that his footprints were the only ones there? Had those flickers of snow that I'd seen before turned into a blizzard while we were talking and dozing? Maybe everything was covered by now, and that was why Tibbs was being so cautious.

Or...maybe it wasn't Tibbs. Maybe it was a German soldier, or a local, curious about the truck.

My muscles had begun to stiffen while I waited and the pain was building in my back and hip to a fevered pitch I didn't think I could weather quietly. I ground my teeth together and kept the M1 pointed at the canvas, trying to force my muscles to loosen up again.

My imagination started to go wild. If it was a German, what was to stop him from just opening fire on the canvas top covering the bed. We could be murdered where we sat with no warning what-so-ever. Was one German that much to fear? Maybe he was wounded, or hypothermic, or both, just looking for a place to shelter from the snowfall.

About when the voice in my head sarcastically quipped that it might as well be the abominable snowman, the canvas cover swept open. There was very little daylight left, but even in the gloom I could tell that the person standing outside the truck was female. Her face and shoulders were too narrow for her to be a man, or even a boy, her arms too slender. There were curls escaping from under the knitted hat she wore. She had a knife in the hand that wasn't holding the canvas back, her knuckles white around the handle.

"Les Américains?" She asked quietly.

"Yeah, yeah we're americans. Oui." I said, panting with relief.

"Tu parles française?" She asked.

"Non, je ne parle pas." I said. One of two phrases in the local language that Caje had managed to teach me.

She gave a soft grunt of frustration, then awkwardly put the knife away at her belt.

"Votre chauffeur m'a dit de vous trouver." She said, squinting into the dark.

"Huh?"

"Chauffeur…" She said, then put her fists up in front of her and swayed them back and forth. She pursed her lips and made noises like the engine of the truck. "Chauffeur."

"Driver?" I asked, mimicking her motions.

"Oui..chauffeur!" She said, grinning at me. "Aller!" She gestured toward herself several times, looking toward the hill.

I knew what "aller" meant. It meant she expected that the four of us could somehow drag ourselves up that hill, through the snow, onto the road, and down it to shelter. I wondered if she really had seen Tibbs, or if he'd bothered to explain the situation. My head rolled back and forth against the wooden wall behind me.

"We can't go anywhere, sweetheart. These men are wounded, hurt, real bad. They can't move on their own." I gestured a lot to get my point across, and her eyes followed my hands closely. Her lips pursed and stretched while she tried to process what I was saying.

We both heard the creak of wood on wood, and her head snapped to the side, eyes aimed up the hill. A male voice softly called, "Gabrielle."

The girl, Gabrielle, gave me a guilty look, and the canvas fell back into place. I heard rapid French coming close to the truck, then the canvas was pushed back again. This time a tall, older Frenchman stood in the gap.

"You are Americans? Your driver...he asked us to come help you to the cabin."

"We can't walk-" I started again.

"Yes, yes. We have a wagon. My daughter was anxious. She has never seen American soldiers before today."

Other voices and bodies were gathering at the back of the truck. I started shaking Kirby awake and called for TJ and Topher to get up. I tossed the bag of rations toward the back of the truck and the leader and oldest of their group picked it up and handed it off to one of his people with hastily whispered instructions. The blankets went next, and then the tailgate was down and there were four, ranging from gray haired men to teenagers, gently guiding each one of us out of the truck.

When my legs hit the ground the pain came back to life and I passed out for a second. I could feel cold air on the wound in my back and that told me I'd started bleeding again too. I don't remember getting up that hill on my own. I remember the wagon ride. Smelling sweet, dry hay underneath my head, the press of one of the guys laying next to me. The blankets over top us. There were sleighbells, of all things, and the smell of wood smoke coming off the clothes of the frenchmen.

I was asleep when they carried me into the cabin.

When I finally woke up I knew I'd been laying down for a long time. Before I moved, everything felt warm and cozy. There was no pain, and the chime of soft, female voices. The youngest of the four men laughed and his voice broke a little when he did. Felt like waking up on Christmas morning, surrounded by my nieces and nephews. I was on my right side, so when I opened my eyes I saw Topher sleeping on a cot next to me, and the raw wood of the cabin wall. The room was lit by sunlight and ambient light from the fire. Judging by the heat collecting near my head, our cots had been lined up in front of the fireplace.

I lay long enough to figure out that I didn't have boots on, and that everything but my undershirt and shorts was missing. I started to move onto my back and felt the pull of bandages. Then like a flood bursting over a dam wall, everything else came to life. I stayed in my own world of pain and pleasure for a while, soaking in the warmth, the softness of the blankets, the pressure of the cot, the intoxicating heat from the fire. My stomach growled and it came out sounding like a moan.

That sound stopped the conversation at the table. The older man said something before his chair scraped on the floor. He crossed the crowded main room to kneel by my cot, pressing the back of his fingers against my forehead.

"Good morning, Monsieur…?"

"You can call me Doc." I croaked, fighting a dry throat.

"You are the medic. Of course, this makes sense. How are you feeling?"

"Much better. Warm." I said with a smile that the old man picked up quickly. "Thank you. All of you." I craned my neck and asked, "The other guys, are they…?"

"All are still among the living. We could not give them all the care they needed, but we have done our best to make them comfortable."

"Thank you." I said again.

"I am Jean. My wife, Bette, has gone to the kitchen to get you soup and bread. After you eat, I will help you get dressed if you feel strong enough, yes?"

I must have blushed. Jean chuckled at me when my eyes danced away in embarrassment and he patted my shoulder in a fatherly way. He helped me to move on the cot so that I could lower my feet to the floor and sit up without exposing myself to the lady present in the room. Jean draped one of the blankets over my shoulders and I soon had a wooden bowl of steaming stew in my hands. It smelled like rabbit and tasted like heaven. I bit into the bread and wondered if Topher or TJ had had any of it yet.

Jean stayed with me while I ate, explaining what had happened while I'd been unconscious. He introduced the others in the room as well. The youngest of the group was a teen boy named Emil. Jean said Emil was his nephew. When he was introduced Emil tried a few lines of English with a brilliant smile on his face. The kid reminded me of my younger brother.

The next oldest was Gabrielle. She kept her distance, blushing furiously, because she knew all about my current clothing situation. I winked at her, just to make her blush again, and she went into a fit of giggles that made all the adults in the room laugh.

Jean had Philippe come over when I was done eating so that he could hold a blanket up as a shield. Philippe was Jean's brother. The two men had the same eyes and the same build, but their noses and ears were very different. Jean had straight black hair peppered with gray and Philippe's had a distinct curl to it. Still, there was no doubt that they were related to one another.

The third brother was Francois. He looked more like Philippe than Jean. Francois helped me dress, guiding the cloth over the bandages on my back and supporting me when I had to stand. My hip wasn't as tender as it had been the night before, but I'd grown a bruise that covered my left hip and crawled up the left side of my chest. The bruise almost looked worse than it felt. Almost.

The eldest of the group, though Jean admitted it only in a whisper, was his wife, Bette. She carried her age well, and looked much younger than the number Jean gave me. Bette and Gabrielle were both slender, petite things with strong jawlines and dark brown eyes.

Once I was dressed they let me lie back down on the cot. I was still hungry, and newly exhausted, but I figured I should be grateful for what I'd been given. Before I slipped away again I did a spot check of the guys. Topher, TJ and Kirby were sleeping, totally undisturbed by the rush of activity I'd caused.

Tibbs wasn't in the room. I meant to ask about him, but never got to the question.

A day went by with me barely able to keep my eyes open. When I was awake I made sure to check on each of the wounded men still in my charge. Philippe, Jean and I helped to splint Tibb's hand and wrist. We did the same for Kirby's knee, and Bette and Gabrielle were good about bringing in snow and icicles to bring down the swelling. TJ was starting to get feverish, and his wound was hot and red. We didn't have penicillin but I had Bette boil up some water and shave some soap in. I cleaned it best I could, working quickly while TJ was passed out.

Topher's wound was just as bad. The bullet was still in his leg and once I explained the kinds of tools I would need to go in after it, we had our own little surgical ward in the middle of the cabin for about an hour. It wasn't the first time I'd pulled a slug out of a hole like that. I guess I seemed pretty confident while I was doing it. Confident enough that when Jean looked at the wound on my back, and told me that it too was getting infected, he asked if I could talk him through a second round of surgery.

"With me awake while you poke around back there?" I asked, feeling like I needed to put my back against the wall so that no one could get at it while I wasn't paying attention.

"It must be done, no?"

I heard what sounded like a snort coming from Tibbs. He started playing with the ends of the ties holding his splint together and the look that he gave me was a little mean. Almost like he was looking forward to the medic getting some painful doctoring for a change. I narrowed my eyes at him until he looked away.

"It's a little dangerous…" I said, trying to keep the shake out of my voice, "Goin' after a bullet in somebody's back."

I heard Tibbs start to snicker and shot him another glare. "You don't know what you might accidentally cut into back there, especially somebody without any kind of training." I insisted. "You slice an artery or a vein and I could bleed out. I'd be unconscious before I could tell any of you what to do about it."

Jean was already putting his hands up in supplication and I tried to reign back on some of the panic in my voice.

"Look, I appreciate the concern, but it'll be fine for a little while longer. Whip up some of that hot soapy water, clean it up some, and I can handle the rest."

"Corporal Tibbs, you have said that you reached battalion aid on your radio? A truck is coming?" Jean asked.

Tibbs nodded, pursing his lips. "Soon as they can. By tonight at the earliest."

Jean was hiding an amused smile when he turned back to me and said, "Then, you are the doctor, and I will bow to your expertise."

I gave him what I hoped passed for a confident nod, glared once more at Tibbs, then turned carefully onto my stomach on the cot, bracing myself for the cleaning process.

It wasn't pleasant. Not hardly at all.

The truck didn't come that night, nor was it there by morning. Tibbs raised the aid station on the radio again and they told him that the ambulance would be coming as soon as they had the road cleared. They didn't say what they were clearing off the road. Snow, debris, bodies...tanks? There was no way to estimate just how long it would take.

I was tired. More tired than I had been before we got all that sleep. I could feel the fever building, and I remember when the chills started. Right in the middle of the morning's bowl of mush I started to shake so hard I could barely breathe. If we'd've been in the Pacific I'd have said confidently that I had malaria. I knew better. So did Jean, Tibbs and the others.

An hour later I was lying outside, buried in the snow in my underwear, desperately trying to lower a raging fever.

Jean was insistent now about trying surgery on my back. Kirby was fighting against it in my stead, TJ and Topher were too feverish themselves to be of much help, and Tibbs seemed to be sadistically bent on being the one to hold the knife.

We went from the snow bank to the cot by the fire three or four times before I gave in. I started saying, "Do it." I said it over and over, not sure if anyone had heard me, or understood me. After a bit I became aware of Kirby holding my head in his hands, talking to me quietly. My head was cool and wet, my body was hot and hurting. I had to narrow my eyes and work past the ringing in my ears to figure out what Kirby was talking about.

"They need your help, Doc. You need to tell 'em what to do. How to go for that bullet. The truck still ain't come, and you need that bullet out bad, Doc. Come on, buddy."

I felt hands turning me on my side, so many different points of pressure that it felt like I was surrounded by octopi. I told Kirby that, and made sure he understood that the plural for octopus was octopi. I'd learned that from Ms. Stanford in the fourth grade. I'd had the biggest crush on her and had tried to memorize everything she said that year, just to get a smile from her.

"What is he saying?" I heard Jean ask.

"He's talking about pies or somethin. He's out of it, Jean." Kirby said.

"I watched him very closely, when he worked on your friend. I have a good idea." I heard Jean say. A hot poker came into contact with my back and I arched away from it, bringing my arms up and trying to push Kirby off me. My arms were captured, Kirby's grip on my head tightened, and the poker came back, scraping up and down and all around my back.

I faintly smelled the soap and the hot water on the cloth, and I knew that what was happening was good. The trouble was it felt like I was being shot all over again.

"M-morphine...Kirby. Please...please." I squeezed my eyes open and begged Kirby again and again. Please, give me that last bit of morphine. Don't leave me awake through this. "Please…"

"There's none left, doc. There's none left. That bottle got all smashed up in the truck." Kirby said, looking like he was about to cry at having to give me such disappointing news.

The shadows shifted, making me dizzy, and I could see the light from a lantern reflected in Kirby's eyes when he looked away from me.

We both heard Jean say, "Hold him still." And then some bear started jabbing his claws into my back. I tried to scramble away, screaming right into Kirby's face until the BAR man put his hand over my mouth. The pain stopped and they gave me time to stop screaming and catch my breath.

"Knock me out, Kirby. I don't care how you do it. Don't...don't leave me awake like this. Please...please, Kirby."

"I can't hurt you, Doc." Kirby said, his eyes dancing from mine to the host of witnesses gathered around us.

"You don't think you're hurtin' me now?" I asked, my voice cracking. "I won't make it, Kirby. I won't...I won't make it. Please."

"He is bleeding.." I heard Jean say. "We must continue."

I felt my throat close up and screwed my eyes shut. The hands clamped down on my arms and legs, and Kirby stroked my head. All tender gestures that did nothing for the hateful agony that followed. I didn't care that I was shouting up a storm. It wasn't the kind of pain that a body could bear without saying something about it.

Jean did his best to press on, but either I was moving too much, or making too much noise, and he stopped again. I could hear him panting from behind me, and Bette and Gabrielle crying softly in the corner.

"Please...please, Kirby."

Mercies come in all shapes and sizes. In this case, my mercy came in the form of a vengeful, quiet corporal. Tibbs had been hanging out in the background watching the process, distant enough that I hadn't noticed him until Kirby was shouting for Tibbs to stop. The driver's fist came down on my jaw once, twice, then I was out.

It wasn't a full blackout. I could hear voices and feel pressure here and there. I knew what was going on but my nerves were finally disconnected from the process and I was able to float in the shadows. I heard Kirby turning some harsh words on Tibbs and two male voices trying to be a calming influence, even if they couldn't speak any English. Then Jean, speaking in English and then in French taking control back.

Voices calmed. Kirby came back, and I could feel the scrape of his calloused fingers on my face. But not the pain. I'd thank Tibb's a million times for what he'd done. Assuming he hadn't broken my jaw or loosened a tooth.

One of our sergeants at basic was a medical technician and he'd done a lot of research into the history of military medicine. He liked to describe how far medicine in the field had come, and would show off the collection of rusty, pitted medical equipment he'd gathered from antique shops and people's old barns. Much as he liked to point out how great things were these days, the surgeons still had trepanning drills and bone saws in their kits. Modern medicine had plenty of room to grow, but when it came down to desperate measures in desperate times, a knock to the head was better than nothing.

I figured if I thanked Tibbs, and did it where Kirby could hear, I might heal up the rift that had started between those two.

The first aid trainer called it…'false lucidity'. When a patient appeared to have perfect clarity for a moment, seconds before going into shock. I knew I was out of it, but I was thinking so sharp and clear, that for a moment I thought sure the next step would be slipping into oblivion while my body shut down. I heard Jean panic about my bleeding too much, and felt myself receding into a dark quiet place, and thought certain that this was it. Old Doc biting it on a cot in the living room of compassionate french people trying to do dark ages surgery.

My last thought was that I wanted Kirby to write the letter home to my folks. He'd make it sound way more exciting than it was.