Chapter 4:
Littlejohn thought of the radio he had hidden the next time he took a rest.
With a look around, he realized they were going in the opposite direction from where the thing was resting under the fresh green vines.
Sarge was gonna be furious.
The big man absently patted his unconscious sergeant on his good shoulder and stood once again to try to orient himself to the trees that were supposed to be the meeting point if things got rough.
In the gloom, he could see their swaying tops. They were still a distance away.
Littlejohn flopped back down by Sarge and was startled when the man moved. He got down closer. "Sarge?"
The eyes were open, but still confused. The noncom didn't even respond to Littlejohn's voice.
"Sarge?" he asked with a little more strength.
The blond head shifted to look up at the big man looming next to him. He opened his mouth to speak, but a streak of pain flashed across his face. It was gone before Littlejohn could comment on it.
Working a farm, Littlejohn had had his share of knocks on the head before even landing on Omaha Beach, so he knew when the sweat popped out on Sarge's skin what was coming next and helped the man onto his side.
Throwing up was never enjoyable. The experience was just ten times worse with a possible concussion.
Knowing Sarge, he wouldn't want any witnesses for this, but Littlejohn was staying close in case he choked.
When the gagging and spitting was over, the big man eased Sarge down the path to get away from the smell.
Thankfully, there hadn't been much on Sarge's stomach, so the bout of illness hadn't lasted for long. The last meal they had eaten was before they left that morning and lunch had been pushed back when they found the winery.
Right now, Littlejohn's rations were back hiding with the radio, so supper wasn't looking good at the moment.
"Wha' happened?" slurred a gravely voice.
Littlejohn patted Sarge's good side again. "Uh, you ran into some Krauts at the winery." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the direction of the winery as the confused eyes followed his movements.
"The winery?"
Definitely a concussion. Where was Doc when you needed him?
Sarge tried to roll over on his stomach to lever himself up, but Littlejohn firmly pushed him down. "I don't think you want to get up right now, Sarge. It might make you sick again."
Saunders actually moaned at the thought of being ill again. It was bad enough that Littlejohn was there and had watched the first time.
The one thing Chip Saunders hated most was being out of control – in relationships, in combat or life in general.
Instead of getting up, he let his hands roam over his head and neck. Saunders could feel the bandages and crust from dried blood. Some of the old blood flaked off as he pulled his hands away.
"You got hit," said the big man softly as he pushed the shaking hands away from the only bandages they had until they got to help. "Doesn't look too bad."
Sarge grunted and then squinted up at the dark sky. "Gettin' dark?" Now he was really confused. They were supposed to be back from the patrol by nightfall . . . and giving a report—
Hanley.
Radio.
Littlejohn.
Krauts.
Explosion.
Littlejohn knew the moment the noncom remembered because the Sarge's whole body tensed like it was getting ready for a fight.
"Littlejohn?" asked Saunders in a tight voice. A voice that said 'don't try to lie to me or I'll get up and sock you one.' "Where's the radio?"
The big man fidgeted slightly. He didn't want to upset the Sarge while he was wounded but he knew if he stayed silent, Sarge was gonna try to get up again. "It's . . . it's back at the winery."
Sarge went so still and lax that Littlejohn thought he had passed out again.
"It's back at the . . . winery." It wasn't a question, just a flat statement of fact in a sick voice. There was neither anger nor irritation in his leader's tone.
That made Littlejohn feel worse because he knew it was coming and he was never good at waiting or anticipating, especially when the outcome was going to be bad.
"What was . . . the mission, Littlejohn?"
Littlejohn fidgeted again. "The Lieutenant wanted us to have a look at the winery and check for Krauts."
"And?"
Big hands began to wring together. "And report back if we found the Krauts."
The Sarge let out a deep sigh that hurt his head. He was trying to keep it together, not for Littlejohn's sake, but for the sake of his throbbing head and touchy stomach.
"And how were we supposed to report?"
In a small voice Littlejohn replied, "The radio if we saw any Krauts or in person if we didn't."
Saunders closed his eyes in an attempt to clear the double vision of two soulful and sorrowful Littlejohns looking at him with twin pitiful expressions. They were both still there when he looked again.
"What will Hanley think . . . since we haven't radioed in?"
Sarge didn't think it was possible, but the sorrowful expressions sagged even more.
"That there are no Krauts."
The blond kept as still as possible, because if he moved even the slightest bit he was going to hit Littlejohn in his big nose. Then he would probably throw up again.
"Go get that radio."
Littlejohn straightened up suddenly. "What? I can't do that, Sarge! You can't be left."
The stormy eyes of his sergeant pinned him to his spot when the big man made a move to touch the wounded man.
"You will get that radio and contact the Lieutenant."
"Aw, Sarge—"
In spite of himself, Saunders moved. He sat up and clutched the front of Littlejohn's jacket. Before he could get any angry word out, his head began to swim and his eyes lost some of their focus.
Littlejohn had to grab quickly to keep his leader from flopping back on the ground.
They stayed locked in position as Sarge breathed heavily with his eyes closed and Littlejohn tried not to move him and restart the throwing up.
"Sarge," said the big man softly. "I can't leave you here like this. The Krauts might be out looking."
"Don't you . . . don't you give me that! Do you think we're here for our health? For my health?" Saunders gulped down the acid, cleared his throat, and then opened his eyes to glare at his soldier. "You go out there, get that radio and tell Hanley! You stop just one time and look back and I'll sock you when we get out of this."
The weak grip on Littlejohn's jacket tried to shake his bulk in emphasis. It only reminded them both that the Sarge was injured and not well enough to take care of himself in enemy territory.
Littlejohn opened his mouth to say something, anything, but was cut off.
Even wounded his Sarge had an intense personality that demanded attention.
"Just once and I'll have Hanley bust you down to ditch digger. You got me?"
There was a push. It was slight, but combined with the fury that lined his leader's face it was enough to push Littlejohn away and back onto his butt.
"Go!"
Before he knew it, the big man was scrambling to his feet and on his way back to the winery. He couldn't help it. Somewhere along the way in this war, his body had been conditioned to respond to the Sarge's orders without question. Questions could get you killed in the middle of combat so you followed orders without hesitation.
He was several strides away before he did what his Sarge told him not to do and that was to look back.
And he saw Sarge back on the ground, clutching his gut as the nausea tried to take over again.
He couldn't leave the man behind like this. Just one Kraut with a knife could take the man out in this condition.
Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!
Kirby knew he was good in the field. He could handle a rifle, his BAR and a basic knife or bayonet, whatever would let him survive until the next day in this hell. He was a scraper and a dirty fighter when he needed to be having learned it early in Chicago growing up.
But he knew Caje was a different sort of man.
Caje seemed to blend in with the darkness, become a part of it. If you put a blade, of any type, in the Cajun's hands and he was more deadly than any wild animal.
On missions like this, when it became necessary for Caje to do this, Kirby kept well back. It was partly due to not wanting to give Caje away to the Krauts and partly not wanting Caje to confuse him with the Krauts.
Another part of it was Kirby needed to stay with Doc. The medic was good in the field, but he wasn't subtle by a long shot. He was too used to charging headlong into battles to look for wounded to be too good at sneaking in the dark.
It was times like this, desperate and in the dark that he always thought of letter from Eisenhower before hitting Omaha Beach. The first line went something like, 'You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade.'
The language called up something noble and brave and almost made you see knights in shining armor.
Kirby wasn't feeling too brave at the moment and shrugged the feeling off as he followed Caje, making sure the Doc was right behind him in the night.
Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!
His head was pounding, but his glare was still deadly as he glared at the big soldier next to him. The big soldier that wouldn't leave him behind to complete the mission.
"Come on, Sarge, just settle back down here," said Littlejohn. "I'll go get the radio. I promise."
"Shut it, Littlejohn."
"Sarge—"
The stare bored through the big man's head. "I'm going."
"You can't."
Sarge's hand on Littlejohn's shoulder tightened and his finger dug into his flesh. "If I have to tell you one more time to shut it, I promise you will not be happy for the next three months."
Littlejohn's mouth closed with a click of his teeth.
"Help me up," growled Sarge to cover the nausea and the dizziness.
Littlejohn took up a slightly bowed stance as he helped the shorted man gain his feet. He kept a firm grip on the Sarge's belt.
"The Thompson," demanded his leader.
With no argument, Littlejohn handed over the Thompson. Sarge took a moment to check it over before he was satisfied it was still in working order.
With the big man's shot off boot heel and the shorter man's dizziness, they looked like two drunken soldiers coming in from a long night in Paris as they staggered back toward the radio.