A/N: I use German in this story. All words was taken from a book that was for teaching German, but I have since lost the name of the book. If you recognize the book, please let me know so I can credit. Sorry, no harm intended.
Warnings: language
Revised: April 2, 2008
Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!
Chapter 1:
The big man tried to calm his sergeant before the worst could happen.
'Wait, that's already happened,' thought Littlejohn as he wiped the sweat from his eyes and squinted out into the semi darkness looking for Krauts.
Another half-whispered word escaped his Sarge and Littlejohn clamped a large hand over his leader's mouth to quiet his rambling.
His other hand clutched his rifle close, his eyes and ears straining in the false dawn. He ignored the pretty view of a half-grown vineyard and kept his mind on business.
Like he should have three hours ago, back when he should have been following orders and it would have made a difference.
The rest of their little group, his friends, was gone. If they were dead or on the run, Littlejohn didn't know.
The only thing he did know, was sure of, was that there was no help nearby.
His Sarge struggled again and the big private leaned in close to whisper in the man's ear, his face brushing against the wild blond hair. "Easy, Sarge. Krauts."
Littlejohn doubted that it was his voice that made the Sarge go so still so suddenly. It was the word 'Krauts,' a word that was branded into every American soldier's subconscious that fought the German war machine. It was that and the fear of becoming a prisoner of war.
With that one word, Sarge became still and his harsh breathing softened.
Their current cover was paltry and the late moon was about to peek out from behind its grey curtain.
"Saddle-up," whispered Sarge, his hands searching for his lost Thompson.
Littlejohn couldn't tell if his leader was coherent or not, but the order sounded like a good one to him.
He slung his rifle over his right shoulder, and with both of his large hands, hauled Sarge to his feet.
Sarge's steely blue eyes opened slightly to look blankly at Littlejohn's chest.
"Sarge, you in there?" asked the big private as he let loose with his left hand to check the field dressing on Sergeant Saunders' temple and neck.
The bandages were becoming moist with blood, but Littlejohn could do nothing more. He'd already used up both of their personal medical kits.
"Sarge, we gotta go now. Come on."
The difference in their heights made it a little difficult to help the addled man along. After trying several holds, Littlejohn settled for reaching around Saunders' back and grabbing his web belt.
'Dumb ox,' ran through Littlejohn's head as his Sarge staggered on the uneven ground. 'Always the screw-up. Even a goldbrick like Kirby does a better job. It was just a routine patrol.'
Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!
It was just a simple patrol to see if the Germans were moving in to fortify the nearby winery and its surrounding vineyards. There had been nothing complicated or unfamiliar about their orders or the mission.
They drew their supplies and headed out in the morning, Sarge walking near the front of their ragged line as they crossed the uneven ground.
Every once in a while, Sarge would turn to look at Littlejohn with a searching look and then go back to sweeping the area for enemy movement.
Kirby quietly ribbed Littlejohn about the Sarge's frequent looks, but Littlejohn knew it was mainly because he was carrying the radio on this trip out. In the field, the radio was a very important part of staying alive. The tall private knew his leader was just keeping an eye on the radio and not being overly concerned about his performance as a soldier.
Caje was on point, ahead of Sarge. Most of the time, Littlejohn couldn't even see the Louisianan Cajun as he glided from cover to cover. The man moved like a cat and seemed to have the stalking instincts of one as well.
After Caje and Sarge was the new guy, Molrey. He was quiet from the moment he stepped out of the jeep that brought him to K Company. Littlejohn couldn't remember the guy saying more than a few muttered 'yessirs' and 'nosirs.' No matter how many times Sarge told him that he wasn't a 'sir.'
Doc was next, walking with his medical bag slung over his shoulder. Like Sarge, he also turned occasionally to search his fellow soldiers with a frown. Most likely to make sure his wound-prone friends were still all in one piece.
Behind Littlejohn was the goldbrick of the group—Kirby. The man was a constant bundle of energy and yet he would talk a solid month of Sundays to get out of the most trivial and routine of duties. He'd suckered most of the squad at some point or another, including Sarge. Littlejohn was sure that the victories over Sarge were mainly due to Sarge picking his battles with the hardheaded Kirby. When they did actually get into a fight about something, it was heard for miles. It probably scared any nearby Germans.
Littlejohn guessed that Sarge just didn't want to invest all of his energy in fighting with Kirby when he had a job to do.
Sarge held up his hand and the men stopped as Caje slunk out of the undergrowth and back to Saunders. The others kept their eyes open as Sarge pulled out his worn and torn map of the area and consulted with the Cajun.
They started again when Sarge's left arm motioned them forward.
The patrol was quiet. There were no Germans in sight. They didn't see any French civilians. The main sounds were their own footsteps and the rattle of their equipment as they moved.
It seemed that not even the wildlife wanted to move in the stillness.
When they reached the openness of the vineyard land, Sarge motioned them all down.
Littlejohn could see Sarge's camouflaged helmet turn back and forth as he swept the area with a practiced eye.
It was a lot of ground to look at with rows after rows of young vines trying to reach up to the sun. Looming in the background was the large winery building that showed evidence of mortar shells and fire.
Sarge turned to look at his men again as he bit his lower lip in thought.
"What do you think, Sarge?" whispered Caje in his thick accent as he returned to kneel down beside Saunders.
"Don't know, lotta ground," replied Sarge softly. His head turned again to the large building as he reached into his field jacket to dig out his binoculars. He carefully slung his Thompson over his right shoulder as he took a close look at the winery and its windows.
There was nothing to see but the old damage and stacks of old wine barrels near the main entrance.
Sarge handed the field glasses to Caje and slouched forward on his elbows to think.
"Seems empty."
"Yeap." Saunders looked back at Littlejohn and the others for a moment.
Caje lowered the binoculars and let amusement touch his dark eyes. "Let me guess, you gonna go check it out?"
Sarge barely nodded.
It was something that both warmed the hearts of the Sarge's men and scared them. Nine times out of ten, Sarge would place himself in danger first when he was unsure of a situation. He'd keep his men back until he had more information on the enemy or the circumstances.
"Caje, go down this first row and keep watch on that entrance with the binoculars. You see anything, anything at all, you get back to Littlejohn and Doc on the double." Sarge turned as he smoothly unslung the Thompson to rest familiarly in his right hand. "Littlejohn, stay here with Doc and keep that radio under cover."
He looked back at the building and bit his lip again.
"Kirby."
"Yeah?" responded Kirby with a fervent tone to his voice. Kirby was a goldbrick, but a good BAR man to have at your back when things got hot. He'd lay his life down for the squad.
"Kirby, you take Molrey and set up behind cover over in those trees to the right. I get into anything down there, I want you to cover the pull back. If there are Krauts in there, the lieutenant has to know as quickly as possible."
Doc's worried eyes settled on Sarge and Sarge looked up. Since Doc had joined them, he'd become an important part of the squad. The more he saw of battle and of his fellow soldiers fighting, the more he seemed to understand them and what they said without speaking.
Sarge was no exception.
"You want us to leave ya?" Doc asked in his soft Southern voice.
Sarge canted his head to the side and lowered his eyes to recheck his Thompson. "The lieutenant needs to know."
Doc moved forward to speak to Saunders again, but was cut off with an upraised hand. "Doc, leave it. Stay here with Littlejohn. Now, Kirby, Caje, Molrey, get goin'."
They quickly took up their positions as Sarge belly crawled to the young vines that would give him some cover as he made his way to the building.
"I don't like this, Littlejohn," whispered Doc.
Littlejohn snorted, his large face caught between concern and duty. "I don't either, but you know Sarge."
Doc nodded and kept his leader in sight for as long as he could before the familiar figure was hidden by the rows.
It wasn't long before Caje came back to Doc and Littlejohn in a crouching run and breathing heavily. "Krauts," was all he said. All he needed to say as they heard the chatter of Sarge's Thompson in the distance.
A flurry of gunfire answered the Sarge.
"Move! Let's get to Kirby and Molrey," whispered Caje in a harsh voice in his sudden anxiety.
"But—"
"Doc, you know what the Sarge said. Go! Go!"
Caje held his rifle in one hand and used his other to jerk Doc up by his collar. "Come on! Littlejohn!"
Littlejohn hadn't taken his eyes off the big shape of the building as Caje tried to get Doc in motion.
"Littlejohn!"
When the big man slowly rose from the ground, it was good enough for Caje and he turned back to half pushing and half herding the softhearted medic in front of him to the safety of Kirby and Molrey.
It wasn't the first time they had to abandon one of their own and it probably wouldn't be the last, but Littlejohn stood frozen after his initial move to go with Caje and Doc.
He had a bad feeling in his gut that almost made him sick.
The Sarge wasn't coming back from this one.
The familiar silk camouflaged helmet and slouching walk of his leader would be gone in a blaze of bullets if something weren't done.
Littlejohn moved out down the row of vines almost without thought. The radio on his back forgotten and the mission was pushed away.
When the big man finally reached the front of the winery, he could see Saunders behind the dubious cover of the old wine barrels.
Krauts were firing from the main door and two of the top windows of the place, keeping Sarge in tight with his cover. He leaned forward only to return fire to keep the enemy honest.
From the end of the row, Littlejohn stared at Saunders with wide eyes, not knowing how to help get the man out of his pinned position. Even in the middle of a firefight, Saunders seemed to sense eyes on his back and turned quickly with his Thompson at the ready.
Only to find his radioman had disobeyed orders.
Even over the distance, Littlejohn could see the disappointment in the way his Sarge slumped back against his wooden protection.
With a start, Littlejohn put a hand over his shoulder and felt the weight of the radio for the first time since his gut feeling. It didn't take long for a deep flush to creep up his neck and over his large face.
"I forgot," he mouthed at his sergeant. "I forgot."
All Saunders did was lift his left hand weakly and motion him away. Back to the others and retreat.
Caught between his duty to contact Hanley and his duty to help his Sarge, all Littlejohn did was lay at the foot of the vines with his mouth open.
Sarge motioned him back with more force, his movements starting to take on his forceful personality. He was starting to recover from the surprise of seeing his radioman out of position and disobeying orders.
Littlejohn considered it, he really did. The look on Sarge's face was turning thunderous. When they did get out of here, he was going to get an earful of Sarge's speech about following orders.
And that was if he was lucky.
Shifting his position, Littlejohn took his eyes from his angry NCO and looked at the enemy soldiers in the winery.
All or nothing.
He couldn't leave Sarge.
Without taking his eyes off the upper windows, Littlejohn put down his rifle and grabbed his first grenade. Measuring the distance with a veteran eye, he gathered his large body. Pulling the pin, he popped up from behind the vines, let the grenade sail on its way, and then let himself drop back down behind the dubious cover.
It was a perfect throw.
Littlejohn appreciated the power of his own arm until the most amazing thing happened.
It hit the helmet of one of the soldiers in the window and bounced right back out.
In dismay, Littlejohn watched as the grenade landed near Saunders' doubtful cover.
He watched as Sarge was caught between possibly catching shrapnel from the grenade and catching slugs from the enemy guns that had him pinned. In the end, Saunders just made himself as small as possible and hoped the old wood stopped whatever came his way.
The grenade exploded in a burst of noise and dirt.
It was obvious from the way Sarge fell back from the wine barrels that he was hit.
That's when all conscious thought stopped for the bighearted giant of the squad as his heart thundered over the sound of the enemy guns.