As always, my thanks go to Marilyn, who makes all the difference.

Chapter Eight

Olsen lightly tapped the back of Benson's hand with an index finger, then pointed. Benson glanced downstream through the protection of the undergrowth and felt his stomach plummet. Two helmeted silhouettes, guns at the ready, were headed toward them, their movements controlled, purposeful.

Breathing in shallow sips of air, Benson held perfectly still. Olsen, pressed close by his side, did the same. They were silent, sheltered by darkness and thick brush, clothed in black, with blackened faces and black knit caps. Unless they moved or made some sound, the Germans would have to wade straight into the brush and fall over them to know they were there.

A rustling noise came from somewhere in the darkness off to their left.

Immediately, the Germans stopped and turned toward the sound. Benson saw one motion to some bushes growing near a stand of saplings. The other soldier nodded and crept toward them with slow, fluid steps.

Olsen's index finger tapped out rapid-fire Morse Code on the back of Benson's hand.

"One of us? Hogan and Newkirk? What do we do?"

Benson hesitated, warring with himself. Had the Germans found one of the others? Or by some twist of fate had they stumbled upon Hogan or Newkirk? Had their C.O. and friend been there the whole time, hurt and unconscious?

Ignoring his own orders, Benson pulled his gun. He felt Olsen shift, silently drawing his own weapon.

The soldier stalking the bushes stopped just short of them, hoisting his gun higher. His comrade mirrored the action, a cold look of anticipation falling over his face.

The soldier on point gave the bush a tentative poke with the barrel of his rifle. When nothing happened, he risked a quick glance over his shoulder at his comrade, his expression perfectly clear even in the weak light. What do you think? The other soldier motioned him on with a sharp jerk of his chin.

The bush shook, branches rattled and a piercing yip went up. Something exploded out of the undergrowth, headed directly for the two soldiers' feet. They let out dual yells of alarm and jumped back, stumbling in their haste to get out of the way, jerking their rifles to follow their attacker's path. Their reactions were much too slow. The fleet-footed fox was long gone.

Mouths agape, the soldiers stared at each other in shared embarrassment, then - at almost the same moment - decided to laugh off the incident. Chuckling, one bent down and spread the lower branches of the bushes, revealing the fox's den.

Benson rested his hand and gun over his heart,lifted his eyes heavenward and sent a silent message to his departed father. Nathaniel Clark Benson had been an avid hunter, who's two main joys in life had been dancing with his wife and sharing his love of hunting with his only son.

Sorry, Dad. But I'm never hunting fox again.

In the distance, a voice suddenly called out in German. The soldiers' casual postures dropped away and they sharply returned the hail. Within moments, the two Germans had become six.

Olsen's finger got busy again, tapped out, "All of them?"

Busy watching and listening, Benson responded with only a cursory twitch of one shoulder. He certainly hoped so. It was getting too crowded in the woods for comfort.

The Germans stood talking for several minutes. From the occasional bouts of laughter and animated gestures toward the fox den, Benson guessed that the two soldiers were sharing their encounter with the local wildlife.

Finally, the patrol headed upstream, paralleling the river at a leisurely pace. Their relaxed attitude and the late hour gave Benson hope that they were returning to base.

He let several minutes go by, then let out a quiet, throaty hoot of an owl – their squad's prearranged signal. After a short pause, there was a single answering hoot and the shadows came to life. Maddux eased into sight from between two trees, with Broughton only a few seconds behind. Jones appeared next and fell in beside them. Benson stood and made a slow turn, searching the darkness around them. His whisper was harsh, sounding loud in the silence.

"Where's Tivoli?"

HH HH HH HH HH

Right, left, right. Wait. Was that . . . left, right, left? Right. Definitely. Oh, toss it.

Hogan and Newkirk were still moving – albeit like a couple punch-drunk slugs – but still moving.

Newkirk wished he could wipe away the sweat starting to run into his eyes, but he couldn't spare the hands. Both were currently full of colonel.

The effort of keeping six feet of near dead weight upright and walking was warming him up nicely. The same could not be said of Hogan. He was doing his best, but his coordination had not improved and his voice still had a strange, slurred quality that was frankly scaring Newkirk silly.

"Newkirk?" Hogan whispered, dragging another foot forward with painful slowness.

"Right here," Newkirk panted, using all his strength to steer them around a sapling. He felt Hogan's right leg fold again and quickly shifted his weight, bracing his hip against Hogan's to hold him up. Once the officer seemed steadier, Newkirk glanced up to chart their next steps and smiled. Ahead lay another small area free of brush and trees.

Oh, good. No roots, rocks or logs. A few twigs. Can handle twigs. Small ones.

Hogan's head moved, angling slightly toward him. In the faint light, his eyes looked pitch black and unnaturally large. Newkirk's heart lurched, a suffocating sense of dread falling over him again. Hogan's mouth worked, struggling to form words.

"Sor –" Hogan gasped - and went down.

To be continued. Thank you for reading!