Chapter 2:
The medic and the scout ran as fast as they could between the rows of vines, trying to keep out of sight of the main building and get back to Kirby and Molrey.
Caje was in the lead, his rifle held across his chest as his legs pumped. He was torn between getting out of the relative openness of the fields and making sure he stayed with Doc and Littlejohn in case something happened.
With Sarge gone, it was left to Caje to be in charge of the men and he didn't want to have to explain what happened if they were killed on his watch.
Doc was not as nimble on his feet as Caje, but he was no slouch when it came to running from a firefight. It wasn't a sign of cowardice that he ran. Doc was following orders, even if he didn't agree with them. Orders that needed to followed to the letter so that Sarge would know where they were when he managed to get himself out of the mess down at the winery.
Doc tried not to think too hard about Sarge or his own medic tendencies might slow him down. They were all injury prone in this damn war, but Sarge seemed to have more than his fair share of the pain. Most likely, from his ability to always be in the thick of the action.
The medic tripped over a clump of hard dirt and almost went down. He put out his left hand and caught himself before he ended up facedown on the ground. Breathing heavily, he smelled the fertile dirt and waited for the question from Littlejohn, but it never came.
Looking over his shoulder, he didn't see the big man anywhere. A burning fear began deep in his guts.
"Caje," Doc tried to yell out. His dry throat hurt from breathing through his mouth during the run. He worked up some spit and tried again as he pushed up from the ground. "Caje!"
Caje had gone a good deal of distance since Doc's fall. The shout was faint and the scout turned his dark eyes back to see Doc with his hands on his knees.
"Come on, Doc!" They didn't have time for breaks or breathers. If the Krauts decided to recon the area . . .
The medic flung out a hand vaguely at his surroundings. "Littlejohn!"
Caje's brow creased as he looked around. No Littlejohn. If Caje was a cussing man, he would have been sorely tempted to indulge right there in the middle of the vines.
The Cajun knew Littlejohn had looked reluctant to leave the Sarge. They had all been reluctant, but Littlejohn sometimes let his heart overtake his brain. He should have made sure the big man was in front of him when they left for the trees.
There was nothing Caje could do now; Sarge was expecting them to be in the trees as backup if he managed to get out of the line of fire at the winery.
"Come on, Doc!"
"Littlejohn and the radio?" Doc was beginning to look stubborn, about to mutiny to go back for the other two that faced an unknown number of the enemy.
The Cajun didn't need this right now. He shook his head sharply. "Nothing we can do. Let's get back to Kirby and Molrey," said Caje with his Louisiana accent getting thicker with stress.
Doc looked back for a moment more, his clear eyes trying to find a way where there was none. In the end, neither one liked it, but they kept moving.
Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!
The unmistakable sounds of war caused Kirby to poke his head around the tree he was currently using as a bodyguard from Kraut bullets. "Hey, kid! You see anything from over there?"
Molrey shook his head before he realized that Kirby wasn't looking at him to see his movement. "Nosir," he replied in a mild tone.
Kirby twisted his top lip in distaste at the 'sir.' "Look, kid, how many times has Sarge got to tell you? We work for a livin', so quit calling us all sir."
Molrey didn't respond to the dig from his sometimes-volatile partner. It was best to stay out of Kirby's way when he was excited.
And right now, Kirby was so excited he was almost vibrating in expectation of action.
Kirby didn't notice the kid's lack of response as he tried to pierce the tangle of green and brown of the fields to see if trouble was coming their way. He shifted the BAR and gave it an absent, loving pat.
If trouble was coming, he and his baby were ready.
"Molrey, as long as you don't dope off, we're in a good spot. And don't shoot Doc, Caje and Littlejohn when they show up. Or Sarge. We'll never hear the end of it."
Molrey just kept his mouth shut.
Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!
Without thinking, Littlejohn stripped off all of his gear and pushed it under the nearest grapevines. The only things he kept was his rifle, his helmet and his remaining grenade as he knelt on his knees and tried to see if Sarge was still alive.
Littlejohn wasn't thinking of the Krauts.
He wasn't thinking of Caje or Doc or Kirby or Molrey.
The big man had blown his Sarge up and now he was going to make it right, even if it killed him.
Littlejohn saw movement from the lump behind the barrels. A hand fluttered against the ground, pushing against the dirt, and then went still again.
It was enough to give Littlejohn hope that he hadn't just killed his leader.
Without giving himself time to think about the stupidity of running right out into the field of fire, Littlejohn pushed his six foot, six inch frame off the ground and lumbered as fast as he could.
There were shouts in German that sounded like a cross between orders and curses, but he had his eyes on the barrels and was determined to make it.
Littlejohn felt the burn across his upper left arm as he stumbled over debris from a previous fight. He hunched even more into himself and kept running for his target.
There was a hitch in his step as another bullet took a plug out of his right boot heel. He regained his balance and kept on with his numbed foot cutting his speed even more.
After what felt like years, he made the barrels and fell to his knees beside the man he couldn't leave behind.
Littlejohn stayed low as more rounds whined around the small barrier and tried to check for wounds on the Sarge. He could see small peppered tears on the left side of the Sarge's uniform from the grenade blast and wooden splinters.
'Littlejohn, you are in it but deep,' the big man thought as he carefully turned Saunders on his back. 'He's gonna kill you. Or make you dig for a month.' He wasn't sure what would be worse, the digging or the Sarge's disappointment in him.
He didn't notice when the Sarge's patterned helmet rolled off to rest by the shredded wood. His eyes were too busy looking at all the blood. There was blood running down the NCO's neck and on his left temple. The left side of his face was a wash of red and contrasted clearly against the blond's light hair.
Littlejohn wiped his hand across the blood trying to separate it from the wounds. The ones he found didn't look bad, but they were losing a lot of blood.
A shout made him look away from the wounded man to see Krauts trying to set up a machine gun in one of the empty windows closest to their position. If they set that up and let loose on them . . . the old wood would be as much protection as newspaper print.
Littlejohn reached under the Sarge and got a handful of his battered jacket. With his other hand, he slung his rifle and the Tompson around his neck for safekeeping.
If he though he was in trouble now, just let him lose the Sarge's beloved Tommy gun.
With a prayer on his lips and a thought about what happened the last time he did this, he heaved his last grenade at the building. He was dragging Saunders before the explosion came.
Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!
The first explosion was before they reached Kirby's position. Caje pulled up long enough for Doc to catch up. They both turned to look at the winery and saw smoke.
"Littlejohn," said Caje in a flat tone. "Sarge is gonna kill him if he survives."
Doc nodded. "That or he'll be digging until the end of the war."
They started running again and ignored the second blast when it came.
The trees were finally within reach and it only made them dig a little deeper to get a little more speed.
It was hard to say who was more surprised when Caje and Doc was suddenly nose-to-nose with a BAR and a rifle.
Kirby gave a half grunt, only half reaching for the trigger since he had spotted Caje's head bobbing in the field a moment ago. "This is for the birds! What is goin' on over there?"
"Littlejohn not followin' orders," responded Caje as he threw himself down on the ground and gasped for breath.
Doc flopped down by Molrey, also gasping as he held his ribs. "I don't know if the explosions are good news or not."
Kirby frowned. "What about the radio? We gotta call the Lieutenant."
Caje gave him a disgusted look. "Littlejohn has it. Back there with all the explosions."
All four men looked back at the distant winery building.
Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!
Surprisingly, the side of the big building had no windows. Littlejohn noticed this odd fact as he was dragging his sergeant to better cover from the machine gun.
No bullets tried to cut them down, so the big man took a moment after reaching the solid wall to peek back.
His wondering eyes lit up as he realized that his aim had gotten better with his last grenade.
A German body hung from the machine gun window, his helmet gone and dark blood on his skin. In the background, there was movement inside as the Krauts tried to salvage the large gun for another try.
If Littlejohn was going to get his NCO out of there, now was the time.
As much as Sarge hated being carried or helped when he was wounded, Littlejohn had little choice in the matter. He dragged the limp man up and over his shoulder and started trudging for the trees and help.