Chapter 5:
"Can you . . . find it, Littlejohn?" asked Sarge as they staggered closer to the winery in the dark.
There was some light cloud cover over the stars and a bare sliver of moon hanging in the endless darkness of the sky. It was very good weather for stalking . . . and killing.
The big man looked around at the grape vines and nodded hesitantly. "It should be over there. Look, Sarge, I'm sorry—"
"Shut up," slurred his leader.
Littlejohn closed his mouth and tightened his hold as Sarge stumbled again.
Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!
Two German soldiers were finally outside the winery after the long wait for the rush of enemy soldiers that never came. They were ordered by their jumpy officer to look for sign of the Americans, and during the search, they found a silk camouflaged helmet near the old wine barrels.
Wilhelm could tell from the well-worn helmet and the bloody ground that at least one of the enemy was badly wounded. He held out the helmet to Lugwig. "Es steht schlecht um ihn."
They could hear their officer yelling on the radio in the winery again, his voice high with stress.
"Da ist nicht gut," said Lugwig. Even he knew that it was not good to have an officer that yelled loud enough for the whole of France to hear.
They looked around the dark earth, saw footprints, and drag marks that lead away from the side of the building and into the vines.
"Alle sind weg," said Lugwig.
Wilhelm was not so sure that the Americans were gone. He motioned for his young friend to accompany him back to their officer to report on what they had found.
Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!
At the sound of Kraut voices, Littlejohn flung both of them to the ground.
Sarge saw stars when his side hit the dirt, but managed not to make a sound to alert the two slow moving Germans of their presence. Saunders motioned for Littlejohn to keep still as they muffled their heavy breathing from their sloppy trek.
Saunders stayed on the ground, curled up and panting quietly as Littlejohn tracked the two Krauts on their circuit around the winery grounds. The big private finally gave a brief nod to let his leader know that the two men were gone.
"Find that radio," quietly instructed Sarge, still on the ground, but holding up his Thompson for cover.
Littlejohn tried to be silent as he searched the young vines for the radio. His large hands patted the ground and the vegetation, trying to feel any metal to indicate where he stuffed the thing when he had disobeyed orders.
Sarge slowly dragged himself closer to the opening in the vines and watched, just in case the Krauts decided to search again.
Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!
As Wilhelm and Lugwig entered the occupied building, their officer strode over and grabbed the American helmet from Lugwig. "Kommen Sie her! Ich will es."
It took all of Lugwig's control to not roll his eyes at his officer's lack of tact.
As their officer took in the blood and the tears in the silk of the helmet, Wilhelm cleared his throat and related what they saw behind the barrels . . . and the blood. "Es steht schlecht um ihn," volunteered the older soldier.
"Wie man's nimmt," responded their leader with a scowl. He scrambled away with the helmet and went back to the unit's radio. More yelling started soon after.
"Worauf warter er?" sneered Lugwig. One bloody American helmet and the officer was once again on the radio about overwhelming numbers to headquarters. What was he waiting for?
Wilhelm pulled the younger man away to get a little food and water while they could. The older man was proved correct in getting it while he could, when the officer yelled at them to go back out into the dark to find the hiding Americans.
With a sigh, the two men put down their food and went back out.
Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!
Littlejohn was almost giddy when his hand finally closed on one of the radio's straps. He dragged the unit out and almost talked aloud to get Sarge's attention until he remember where they were.
"Down!" hissed Sarge suddenly. "Krauts!"
Littlejohn flopped down and pulled the radio close to his body, determined to not loose the important item again.
Sarge never turned to look at him, his glazed eyes intent on the two Germans wandering around near the wine barrels once again.
Without waiting for his leader's signal, Littlejohn started to crawl closer to the man, his rifle and the radio in tow.
Saunders turned and almost placed his lips on Littlejohn's ear. "We've got to call the . . . Lieutenant," whispered Sarge, his voice barely audible in the night. "I'll . . . distract them. You call."
Littlejohn's large hand moved quickly to grab the stubborn man he followed in this war. "No," he whispered back, determined to win this time. "I can move quicker than you can, Sarge. I'll go, you call the Lieutenant."
Intent eyes stared at Littlejohn and the big man was almost afraid Sarge would go out to confront the Germans alone anyway. "You go . . . but you be careful about it. One wrong sound . . . and they'll all come out," gave in the NCO.
Littlejohn pushed the radio at the wounded man, picked up his rifle, and checked on his bayonet. Sarge handed him a grenade from the inside of his field jacket. Littlejohn looked up in surprise.
"Always . . . keep one back . . . for emergencies," said Sarge with a slight grin. But his eyes were hard.
Littlejohn nodded and slipped away from his wounded leader, listening to the quiet click of their radio and Sarge's soft voice calling in the position of the Krauts.
Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!
Both Germans whirled at the soft noise from the vines.
Lugwig started forward when Wilhelm's hand gripped his shoulder. Lugwig looked back at his friend. "Du Kommst mit, nicht wahr?"
Wilhelm wasn't so sure about going into the vines alone, without back up or reporting to their officer. He pulled on his younger friend, trying to get him to go back to the building.
But Lugwig seemed insistent on checking on the noise and broke free. He was tired of waiting to get into the 'real' war. He was tired of waiting in deserted buildings and listening to stupid officers.
Wilhelm saw the danger first, and moved to intercept the large American coming up from the vines like a figure of vengeance. He only had a moment to recognize the man that had sprinted to the wine barrels earlier before seeing a bayonet gleam in the low light.
"Geh!" yelled Wilhelm to Lugwig, pushing him to the building and the safety of numbers.
When Lugwig hesitated, all it took was Wilhelm to yell again as the older man raised his weapon to fire. "Hilda!" he yelled, hoping Lugwig would understand.
Lugwig ran back to the winery, calling for help, frozen with the knowledge that his friend was fighting for his life behind him. That he may have to tell Hilda that her brother was dead after this night.
A shot rang out.
And then more.
Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!
Caje and Kirby stopped at the same time, heads turned to catch the diminishing sounds of gunfire. The darkness seemed to scatter the sound, making it come at them from all directions.
"That way!" pointed Kirby, his B.A.R. automatically turning to point in the direction.
Caje nodded in agreement. "Kirby, stay with Doc."
"What? Wait, I'm going with you!" said Kirby with heat.
Caje disappeared into the thick darkness. "Keep Doc safe, I'll find Sarge and Littlejohn. Be ready when we come back this way."
"Ah, you can . . . you can just blow it out your ear, you Cajun!" hissed Kirby at the shadows. "I ain't no bobby-soxer to be left behind when things get hot!"
Doc wanted to protest as well that he didn't need a guard, but the Cajun was gone and he and Kirby were both left swearing.
Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!
When the call to Hanley was over, Sarge kicked the radio away and pushed shakily up from the ground. One of his men was in trouble and he was going to help, wounds or no wounds.
He rose up to see a German fire at Littlejohn. The Kraut's shot missed, but Sarge's didn't as he opened up with his Thompson. The Kraut dropped to the ground, twitching as his life drained away onto the still warm ground.
Wilhelm whispered, "Hilda." His last word as his sightless eyes looked at the gloomy sky over France.
"Littlejohn, let's go! The other one . . . is probably getting the others. Grab the . . . radio."
Littlejohn, cursing his inability to keep the attack on the two Krauts quiet from those in the winery, turned and grabbed Sarge by his good arm to help him run and then grabbed up the radio.
Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!
Sarge and Littlejohn hadn't gone a few feet when a dark figure blocked their path. Littlejohn brought up his rifle, glad he had slung the radio onto his back, when the form relaxed and spoke with an accent.
"I've been looking for you two."
"Caje," breathed Littlejohn, wanting to hold his chest in surprise. His heart was hammering. "I almost shot your head off!"
"No, my friend, you did not," replied the wily Cajun as he raised his own rifle. He jerked his head over his shoulder. "Kirby and Doc are back this way. Let's go."
With Caje in the lead, the small group kept just ahead of the Germans that poured out of the winery building looking for Wilhelm, Lugwig in the lead since their officer opted to stay behind at the radio.
Littlejohn stopped at one point to use the grenade Sarge had given him, not taking the time to muse on how a badly thrown grenade had gotten them into this situation to begin with.
A few more feet and Caje stopped the small group with a hand. "Kirby!" yelled Caje as they come upon the place where he left the B.A.R. man and the medic. "Don't shoot. It's us."
"Hey, Sarge, Littlejohn!" hooted Kirby as Doc rushed forward to help Littlejohn with the wounded man. "Am I glad to see you guys! We thought you two were goners!"
"Save it, Kirby. Let's get out of here," grunted Sarge as Doc tried to help Littlejohn drag him along and check his wounds at the same time.
It wasn't until they were at the trees that Sarge noticed something, or someone, was missing. "Where's Molrey?"
Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!
Back with Hanley, that was how the Lieutenant liked Saunders and his group of trouble finders.
After a visit with the doctors for a few days, Saunders and Littlejohn was back where they belonged.
Saunders was shuffling around with a bad arm, bruised up ribs and a lingering concussion, but at least the man was walking. When Hanley heard the man on the radio in the middle of the night, reporting on Krauts in the winery, he had sounded more dead than alive.
Hanley lit a cigarette and took a long drag; his eyes squinted at the small group of men resting around an old dress shop, the wounded Sarge in the middle with a newly issued and silk camouflaged helmet on his blond head. It was tipped forward, a sure sign Saunders had his temper up about something.
The new guy, Molrey, had showed up with a wild tale of crazy French women and begging for a jeep soon after the radio call from Saunders. It was the most Hanley had gotten out of the new guy since he joined the 361st—no 'yessirs' and 'nosirs' when the man had skidded into Hanley's pseudo office to tell him about the trouble at the winery.
Doc was, at the moment and with Hanley's blessing, keeping close to the Sarge as the noncom slowly ate his rations, just in case Saunders got sick again.
The Lieutenant figured the rest of the men were just there to make sure Sarge didn't kill Littlejohn when he felt good enough to stand for more than a minute at a time.
Littlejohn, meanwhile, was nearby helping stack supplies in his undershirt, letting his high bullet burn show its white bandage in the sunlight.
It was better than digging, and the big man had eagerly volunteered as soon as the men had rolled out of bed this morning. Hanley couldn't help but notice the big man was avoiding his Sergeant like the plague since they returned from visiting the field hospital.
There was a story there, but none that went on the recon mission was talking to Hanley about it.
Hanley snorted when Littlejohn looked up to see Sarge glaring at him over a tin of something probably inedible on a good day. The big man quickly dove back into work, ignoring the bullet burn on his arm and his still wobbly right boot.
Ah, the enthusiasm of a soldier who knows he's in big trouble.
Doc looked up and Hanley gave him a wave to which Doc nodded in return.
Yes, with his number one Sergeant was on the mend, and trouble brewing for Littlejohn, it looked like there would be more trouble and grey hairs in the near future.
END