Combat! is owned by ABC TV. This story is meant only for the enjoyment of Combat! fans, with no intention to infringe on any copyrights, and no monetary compensation has been received.

Here is not only the ending of the story, but also the ending of the final story in The Trilogy. Hope you've enjoyed it and realize why these three stories have a natural connection, even though they weren't written together.

And do remember that although I make some connections from story to story to give it all a little continuity, I actually write in the "what if" mode. What if this or that happened? How would Saunders deal with it and what would he be thinking and feeling?

Just like in the TV series, if all of my stories actually happened, poor Saunders would have jumped off of a bridge long ago. He'd certainly hold the world's record for the most Purple Hearts.

Thanks for reading. Please consider leaving your review at the end. I do read them and listen to you. Enjoy.

A TRILOGY

III. THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED

Part 2

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

-The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

CHAPTER 11

Before leaving, Saunders checked Newburg's wound. The cold water had slowed the bleeding, but there was still fresh blood around the wound. He needed a doctor soon.

Almost as an afterthought, he looked at his own leg. The bleeding seemed to have slowed as well, but he knew that a trek to the road and back would certainly start it up again.

He patted Newburg's shoulder. "Don't go anywhere."

Limping up the embankment, Saunders slowly made his way toward where he hoped the road would be according to his spotty memory of the map.

The birds singing and the crunch of the dry grass beneath his boots were the only sounds besides his own occasional grunts of pain. He glanced up at the cloudless sky as the sun began to dip.

Beautiful day, he thought to himself. If I don't count the disastrous failure this morning, the men killed, getting wounded, outracing a wildfire while carrying a 230 pound gorilla, and ending up on my butt in a cold stream.

But we're both still alive, he thought. Nice day.

Breaking free from the brush and tall grass, Saunders finally came out onto the dirt road. He resisted the urge to shout in relief…It was far from over. The reality of their situation quickly took hold.

He looked back the way he'd just come. His memory of the map had been correct. It was a good one hundred yards from the stream to the road. The sergeant sighed. It might as well have been one hundred miles.

There was no way that Newburg was going to walk all of it. Maybe he'd be up to walking some of it…certainly not all. And there was absolutely no way that he could ever hope to repeat his Herculean effort of carrying the big man.

He still couldn't believe that he'd done it. His all-consuming terror of the fire had driven him then. Desperation and fear can move mountains.

Looking up and down the deserted road, it struck him that getting to the road was only a small part of the problem. Once to the road, they still had to get back to their unit. And he had no idea how far up the road the krauts had advanced.

They could go through all of this sweat, pain and effort only to be killed or captured.

Saunders reached up and ran his fingers through his still wet blond hair. He suddenly realized that he had no helmet. He couldn't remember where or when that he'd lost it.

Ruffling his hair once again, he turned with a sigh and began to limp back to the stream.

CHAPTER 12

Nearing the water, the sergeant looked down at the prone soldier. Newburg was lying with his eyes shut tightly, gripping the Thompson to his chest as if the weapon was all that was keeping him alive.

"I'm back," Saunders tried to reassure the man calmly, keeping it light. "Miss me?"

Newburg's eyes flew open and watched as the sergeant dropped wearily to the dirt next to him. His relief was obvious.

"Sure did," Newburg admitted quietly. "How's it look?"

Saunders stared up at the sky for a moment, and then decided that it was best to be honest. The man deserved to know where they stood.

"I figure we're pretty safe here for now if you want to rest up for a bit. Don't think any krauts'll be coming at us from over there." He pointed across the stream to the charred and smoking landscape. "And from here to the road seems pretty quiet."

He absentmindedly reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and pulled out a soggy, unrecognizable pack. Squeezing it in his hand, he watched the water drip to the dirt. With a sigh, he tossed the wet wad of smokes off to his side.

As he watched it roll down to the water's edge, he continued.

"Like I figured, it's about a hundred yards to the road. Easy terrain. Mostly open space like we've just come through. A small stand of trees. But once we hit the road, I don't know where it comes out. I don't recognize any landmarks there. So I can't tell how far it is to our unit. I looked up and down the road as far as I could see. No sign of anyone. GI or kraut."

Both remained in silence for a long while. Finally, Newburg almost whispered, "So how are you planning to get us over that measly hundred yards to the road?"

Lying on his back, Saunders rubbed the stubble on his chin. He reached down and touched the bandage on his thigh. His wound was growing more painful.

"Well, I've been thinking. No way I can carry you again. That's out, unless you magically lose a heck of a lot of weight."

"Sorry. I'm partial to my arms and legs," Newburg replied, wincing as he shifted a little.

"Figured as much," the sergeant said.

"How about a travois? That'd be easier on you," Newburg offered.

"That'd work," Saunders agreed. "But neither of us has a bayonet. How'm I gonna cut branches? I'm not a beaver." The sergeant smiled and then continued, "So if I can get you up, I'm gonna try to drape your arms over my shoulders and drag you."

"You're kidding," Newburg turned his head to stare at the sergeant. "That's practically the same as carrying me. It'll never work."

Saunders didn't reply. He knew that it was a long shot, but he couldn't think of another thing, except the one thing that he knew that he wouldn't do…leave Newburg behind and try to go for help. He'd seen the look in Newburg's eyes when he returned after only going out to the road and back.

After all that they'd just been through, he knew that he couldn't do it to the soldier. He silently adjusted the bandage on his thigh.

As if reading his thoughts, Newburg said, "Just leave me and go for help."

Saunders sat up and looked at the soldier. He could see the fear filling Newburg's eyes again. Without replying, the sergeant stood up and got behind the man.

"Got to get you up onto level ground." He grabbed under the man's arms. "Can you hang onto my arms?"

Newburg reached up and locked his hands around the sergeant's arms as tightly as he could.

"Here goes," Saunders said as he began to pull backwards, dragging the soldier a few inches, and then sliding his feet up the embankment to do it again. After several minutes, the sergeant had Newburg up on level ground. He sat down next to him and rested his elbows on his knees. He reached for his cigarettes again and stopped himself in frustration.

The sergeant looked up. So much time had passed since the fire fight. The sun was getting low in the sky, and shadows were lengthening. He didn't look forward to moving in the dark. But Newburg might not last through the night if they waited for morning.

"Let me rest a bit. You said we should be ok here for a little while. Maybe after I rest up I can walk some," Newburg offered.

Saunders looked at the private. This was what he was hoping for. "Worth a try. You take it easy. I'll keep watch."

Newburg closed his eyes, and within a minute he had drifted off to sleep. Saunders sat quietly taking his Thompson apart, trying to dry each piece with his still damp shirt tail. He looked around constantly as he worked.

After an hour, Newburg stirred and opened his eyes. Realizing that it was almost completely dark, and remembering their situation, he asked, "How long have I been out?"

Saunders answered, "Not long. But we really should get moving…"

Before the sergeant had finished, Newburg closed his eyes again. Saunders would wait. He needed Newburg to have as much strength as possible. He had no other choice.

Saunders reached into his pocket and pulled out his lighter. He ran his thumb over the engraving as he sat in the dark and waited.

After a long while it was pitch black, and Newburg called out in an anxious voice, "Sarge?"

The sergeant lay a reassuring hand on the private's shoulder. "I'm here, Burg. How you feeling?"

With obvious relief, Newburg replied, "Better. I know we need to get moving again. Sorry. If you help me up, I think I can walk a little now."

Saunders had been resting with his arms on his knees, with his forehead on his arms. He turned his head, but kept it on his arms. "Nothing to feel sorry about. You sure you feel like trying again? Any distance would be a big help, Burg."

Newburg nodded, "Yeah."

Saunders stood up. "Let's give it a go."

CHAPTER 13

Saunders helped Newburg to sit up. With a grunt of pain from both of them, Newburg gritted his teeth and put an arm around the sergeant's shoulder.

"Now!" Saunders said, and both pushed upward.

They stood unsteadily, working to keep their balance. Newburg grinned wearily and whispered softly, "Piece of cake."

"Lean on me, Burg. Use me as a crutch and let's see if we can make it to the road," Saunders said hopefully. "Slow and easy."

They carefully started to walk with halting steps. Saunders began to talk to keep the wounded soldier's mind occupied. He hoped that the less the man thought about the struggle to walk, the farther they'd actually get.

"Hundred yards. That's just the length of a football field. How long do you think it takes for a football player to run that? What? Maybe ten or fifteen seconds? At home, I've traveled a few times up north to watch the Chicago Bears play at Wrigley Field. You know something? In '42 they were great. Really great. Should have won the championship. But they got blown out of the water by Washington. I couldn't believe it. Made me almost glad I was here instead of at the game. Wouldn't have wanted to see that one."

Saunders looked around quickly as he rambled on. They were doing ok. Wouldn't win any races, but they were moving forward at a slow but steady pace. Newburg was leaning heavily on him, and he was beginning to breathe heavily. But Saunders knew that they needed to get farther.

"I thought about going out for football when I was a kid," he continued, keeping up his rambling. "But I wasn't big enough. Now, my brother Joey, he did great in football. Six feet, close to two hundred pounds. The family always joked that he must have been switched at birth. He's nothing like the rest of us."

Saunders was getting tired himself. He was in pain as he tried not to limp, for fear of throwing Newburg off balance or interrupt his steady pace. Both men were beginning to sweat. The sergeant knew that he wasn't going to get much more out of the soldier. He was amazed that they'd made it as far as they had.

As if on cue, Newburg whispered, "Sarge…" and he collapsed over onto Saunders. The sergeant had just put his weight down on his wounded leg when Newburg's full weight came down on him. He shouted in pain as both soldiers went down in a heap on the ground.

CHAPTER 14

Newburg lay groaning in the grass. "Can't," he whispered. "Sorry."

Saunders reached over and touched the soldier's head. "You did great," he replied quietly, fighting the pain in his own leg.

The sergeant got up on one elbow and wiped the sweat from his eyes as he looked around. He couldn't tell how far they'd come. He'd been so wrapped up in keeping Newburg occupied that he'd lost track of how far they'd actually walked.

"I'm going to go out to the road to see how much more we have left to go. You gonna be ok?" Saunders asked. "It shouldn't take me long. We've got to be almost there."

He could see the flicker of fear in the soldier's eyes, but Newburg raised a hand in a slight wave, too tired to respond.

"Here," Saunders said, sliding the Thompson over to the private. "I'll leave you the Thompson again. Your insurance policy."

As Newburg pulled the weapon closer and held on tightly, Saunders slowly rolled up onto his knees and then stood up. Steadying himself, he moved slowly toward the road, now limping badly.

Unconsciously, he reached down to his thigh, and his hand came away red with blood. He looked at it for a moment, wiped his hand on his jacket and continued limping forward.

Stepping onto the dirt road, the sergeant looked both ways. Nothing. He looked at his leg again. The bandage was totally soaked through and hanging loosely around his thigh.

Working at the ties, he managed to get the sticky bandage off. Dropping it to the dirt, he pulled out his sulfa packet. He'd yet to use it since he had been in too much of a hurry when he'd first gotten hit. Ripping the packet open, he pulled apart the pant leg near the wound and poured the sulfa on. He threw the empty packet down and wiped the excess powder from his hands.

Looking around nervously, the sergeant took off his field jacket and dropped it on the road. He unbuttoned his shirt quickly, feeling very vulnerable out in the open with no weapon. But it was better than what Newburg was going through.

Dropping his shirt on top of his jacket, Saunders pulled his undershirt up over his head. He tugged on it sharply, ripping it down one side. Rolling it lengthwise, he tied it tightly around his thigh, over the wound. Satisfied that it was the best that he could do, he began to put his shirt and jacket back on.

The sergeant looked around once more, hoping that a GI would come out of the darkness. He sighed. No such luck. Saunders wiped his hands on his jacket and headed back to where he knew that Newburg would be lying…waiting for him.

CHAPTER 15

As Saunders approached the wounded soldier, he stopped momentarily. He thought about the tall, strong young man, now vulnerable and as weak as a kitten…all from a tiny piece of metal. One bullet…and one lousy war.

The sergeant was more determined than ever to do everything that he could to be sure Newburg made it back alive. But he could easily see how their short walk had taken everything out of the man.

"Hey, Burg. Still doing ok?" the sergeant asked as he dropped next to the soldier. When he didn't get a response, his pulse quickened with dread. He reached out anxiously to Newburg's shoulder. "Newburg?"

The soldier slowly opened his eyes and gave a weak smile. "We there yet?"

Relief washed over the sergeant. "Not quite. But we made it seventy yards or more. Can you believe it? You did great, Burg. Only thirty yards to go and we'll get to the road. Somebody will see us then."

Either kraut or GI, Saunders thought to himself. One way or the other, someone would eventually see them. He was prepared to surrender if he had to.

"Done," Newburg whispered. "No more." He barely moved his hand in a faint wave and closed his eyes. Saunders anxiously checked his pulse. Not very strong, but he was still alive.

Thirty yards, he thought. Thirty lousy yards. He grabbed hold of Newburg's shoulders and slid him so that the man's head was pointing toward the road.

Picking up his Thompson, he pulled out the magazine and stuck it in his jacket pocket, and then replaced it with another…hopefully drier one. Last ones, he thought. He wasn't sure if it would even fire, but it made him feel more secure just having it. He slung it over his shoulder onto his back.

Leaning forward and getting his hands under Newburg's arms, Saunders pulled the man backwards, toward the road. He moved the soldier about six inches. He did it several more times and then stopped to rest. Standing up straight, he rubbed his aching back.

Shifting his Thompson, Saunders sat down behind Newburg's head, and with knees bent, he rested his arms on his legs and hung his head to rest.

He was exhausted. Both his body and mind just wanted him to lie down next to Newburg and sleep. Wearily, he looked up and realized that it was completely dark. The last hint of light was gone. They had to get to that road if they ever hoped to be discovered by anyone…anyone at all. He needed to keep moving.

After wiping the sweat from his eyes, the sergeant ran a sleeve over his entire face. A quick look at his thigh found his makeshift bandage was soaked with blood. Rubbing the sweat from his hands onto his good leg, he slid the bandage around on his thigh until a partially clean part of the undershirt was over the wound.

It would have to do. Looking at the prone man, Saunders straightened his shoulders and dug his heels in as he prepared himself. He thought, thirty…no, just twenty-nine…more yards to go. He leaned forward, got a tight grip on Newburg's jacket and shirt collars, and pulled.

Saunders tried to get into a mindless rhythm, singing Row, Row, Row Your Boat softly to himself. Lift. Pull. Slide backwards. Lift. Pull. Slide backwards.

After what seemed like an eternity of pulling, Saunders was totally spent. Totally. He dropped backwards onto the ground. He'd lost track of how far they'd gone, but he was just too exhausted to bother to get up to check.

The sergeant lay in the darkness, staring up at his first glimpses of twinkling stars. He finally admitted that he was fooling himself. Even if they got to the road…What then?

The only thing that he knew for sure was that he wasn't going to leave Newburg alone. He looked around him at the tall grass and the faint outlines of trees. Tilting his head back, he could only see more blackness behind him.

Well, he thought, this isn't such a bad place to die. It's peaceful and quiet. Nice night. And Newburg's not alone. He knew that he'd done all that he could do for Newburg. Saunders liked the idea of being with someone himself. Unconsciously, he touched his dog tags to reassure himself.

As he closed his eyes, he heard a rustling behind him. Instantly Saunders' eyes flew open. He could hear the crunching in the dry grass. Not a wild animal. Definitely a human animal. He reached for his Thompson next to him.

Unsure if it would fire or not, he was prepared to test it out.

CHAPTER 16

"Sarge?" he heard in a whisper. "Burg?"

Saunders dropped the Thompson onto his chest and smiled. He tried calling out, but his throat was too dry and he was hoarse. He raised a hand in the air and waved weakly, hoping to be seen.

Jones knelt down beside him. "Sarge!" And then he saw the soldier lying near Saunders' feet. "Burg!" Jones could see that the sergeant was alive, but he worried about his friend.

"Burg?" he called out softly again, reaching toward Newburg's chest.

"He's alive," Saunders managed to whisper to try to reassure him.

With relief, Jones pulled out his canteen and, uncapping it, he held it out to the sergeant and gave him some water. Saunders hadn't had time to realize just how thirsty he was until the warm water first touched his lips. Then he drank deeply.

Jones leaned over his friend. "Burg? Hey, buddy. I'm gonna get you out of here. Hang in there."

Newburg's eyes opened and he looked up at the soldier with a faint smile. "Hey, Jonesy," he said weakly and his eyes closed again.

"Here, Burg, have some water." Jones held his friend's head and gave him a long drink, but much of it spilled down the man's chin.

With the drink of precious water and the new hope, Saunders pushed himself up on one elbow. "How'd you find us?" he asked hoarsely.

Jones removed Newburg's bloodied bandage and checked the wound. As he reached for his own sulfa and bandage, he answered.

"I was walking along the road, listening for any sounds from the area where I thought you'd be if you were both still alive and trying to work your way back. I saw what looked like the smoking remains of a fire off to the left here, so I headed toward it. Then I saw your signal."

Saunders looked at the man, confused. "My signal?"

Jones poured his sulfa on the wound and opened the bandage. He held up the package. "The bloody bandage and the empty sulfa packet. GI issue. Thought that it had to be you two guys."

The soldier hesitated, and then asked, "You mean that it wasn't you?"

Saunders laughed. "Yeah, it was me, but I wasn't thinking about a signal. Just wanted to clean up my leg. Didn't have time to get any sulfa on it when I was first hit. Good thing it was you that saw it and not any krauts."

Jones wiped the blood from his hands on his jacket. "You might as well have hung a neon sign on the road. This way to some injured GI's. But the area seems pretty clear of krauts right now."

"I'm kind of beat," Saunders admitted. "Stupid mistake."

"Lucky mistake, I'd say," Jones replied. "Otherwise I'd never have found you."

The private examined the sergeant's leg wound. "Doesn't look too bad. Just still bleeding a bit."

Saunders nodded. "I've been a little busy."

"When you're ready to move out, I can get Burg," Jones offered. "Can you walk?"

"Just help me up," Saunders replied as he reached an arm up to Jones, who easily pulled him upright. The private held on to him until the sergeant nodded that he was stable.

As Jones knelt and heaved Newburg up onto his shoulders, Saunders asked, "I know you saw the bandage and came this way, but how'd you ever find us in all the grass and trees? And in the dark?"

Jones adjusted his friend's weight across his shoulders. "Wasn't very hard to find you two at all, Sarge. You're only about five yards in from the road. I heard you talking, but I couldn't hear what you were saying. Kind of like talking to yourself or something."

Saunders laughed. Five yards. He'd managed to drag Newburg twenty-five yards.

"Ready? I left the jeep about fifty yards up the road. Been stopping and walking it every fifty yards or so. But it's a long fifty yards back to that jeep carrying this bull moose. He's a good twenty pounds heavier than me."

"Don't I know it," the sergeant replied as he limped behind Jones out to the road.

CHAPTER 17

Jones turned his head slightly to look at the sergeant as they walked along the dirt road toward the jeep. Keeping a tight grip on Newburg's leg and wrist, he asked, "You sure you're ok, Sarge?"

Saunders was limping badly, now using his Thompson as a crutch.

"I'll make it," Saunders replied, gritting his teeth as each step brought a burning wave of pain to his wound. Fifty yards was nothing compared to what they'd just been through, he thought.

Once the jeep came into view out of the darkness, Saunders found it easier to make it the rest of the way. Finally reaching the vehicle, Jones carefully slid Newburg down off of his shoulders, and maneuvered him into the back of the jeep.

As the sergeant gingerly pulled himself up into the front seat and adjusted his wounded leg, he breathed a sigh of blissful relief. He could finally stop. Just…stop.

"How come you came alone?" Saunders asked as he checked his makeshift bandage. "You should have brought someone with you for cover."

Trying to make Newburg comfortable on the seat, Jones looked over at the sergeant. "Well, uh…actually, no one knows I'm out here. Except the sentries, of course. But I just told them that Lieutenant Norris dropped some maps just down the road a bit, and I was sent to find them."

"And they believed that?" Saunders asked incredulously.

"Sure," Jones replied as he climbed into the jeep behind the wheel. "Sentries don't care about who goes out. They just worry about the krauts trying to sneak in. It'll be kind of hard to explain why I've been gone for a couple of hours though."

The soldier laughed. "Guess they'll just chalk it up to my incompetence. And wait 'til they see you two guys."

"Then how'd you get the jeep?" the sergeant asked, now genuinely interested in Jones' explanation.

"Guess you could say that I kind of commandeered it," the private answered cautiously. He was talking to an NCO after all.

"Everyone was so busy blaming each other for that major snafu this morning that no one seemed to care about a couple of missing GI's," he continued defensively.

"Any of my squad would've come with you," Saunders said. "Rules and regs have never seemed to stop them before."

"Yeah, I thought of that afterwards," Jones admitted. "But I was already out here by then."

The private was quiet for a moment, and then added, "I couldn't take the chance that you'd found Burg and were together. Had to be sure. When I issue an insurance policy, I take it seriously, you know?"

And then he smiled. "Hang on. I'll get both of you back to the field hospital."

Putting the jeep in gear, he turned it around and headed back to their unit, carefully avoiding the holes and ruts in the road as much as he could see in the darkness.

"You're not worried about what they're going to do to you for stealing a jeep and coming out here to look for us without permission?" Saunders asked, while thinking about his own possible court martial for abandoning his post.

"I'll put in a good word for you if that'll help," he added, although he highly doubted that a busted, court martialed NCO's word would hold much weight in the private's favor.

Jones laughed. "Nah, I'm not worried. I'm already down to buck private. What're they gonna do? Send me to France to fight krauts? I'm already here. My Loot's just gonna yell at me a lot and give me some crappy job to do as punishment. And he'll tell me not to do it again. He likes me and Burg. He'll be glad to have the big moose back again."

The remainder of the ride back was silent as Saunders settled in and both he and Newburg slept.

CHAPTER 18

"You should be fine, Sergeant," the doctor said, checking the IV. "Just giving you some plasma and penicillin to be on the safe side. I've stitched up the wound. The bullet dug a nasty furrow, but it wasn't major. Looks clean. No signs of infection. The penicillin should keep it that way."

Saunders looked up at the man. "Thanks, Doc. When can I get out of here?"

"I'll let you know when the IV is finished. You feeling ok so far?" the doctor asked, taking the soldier's pulse.

"Yes, Sir," Saunders replied. "How's Private Newburg?"

The doctor checked the bandage on the sergeant's leg. "He'll be ok. Couple pints of blood. Some of your guys gave it to him. Surgery went well. The man is a regular horse. Lots of muscle helped keep the bullet from doing too much damage. But he'll be with us for awhile. Talked to him about possibly shipping him home, but he wouldn't hear it. Said he's got commitments, whatever that means."

"Is Private Jones with him?" the sergeant asked.

"You mean that moose that keeps getting under foot?" the doctor laughed. "The man is sticking to his friend like the guy owes him a million bucks. Says he won't leave until he knows the patient is out of the woods. I'm going over there when I leave you. Got to tell him that he can finally give up his vigil and go get some rest himself."

He looked at the IV again. "Won't be too much longer. I'll be back shortly."

As the doctor left, Saunders relaxed and closed his eyes.

"Hard to keep you out of trouble, Sergeant," came a familiar voice.

The sergeant opened his eyes. "You're ok," he said with relief. "You didn't look too good out on the field this morning when I last saw you."

Hanley touched the bandage on his head as if just remembering it for the very first time. "Yeah, well I got creased by a bullet, and then I hit a rock with my head on the way down. The rock won." Hanley smiled. "So I was kind of out of it for awhile. But the Doc said it'll be fine. I've got a pretty hard head."

"Glad it wasn't anything worse," Saunders said. He lay quiet for awhile until he finally asked, "You here to talk about my court martial, Lieutenant?"

Hanley looked confused as he sat down next to his sergeant's cot. "Court martial? What for?"

"I deserted my post. I left my platoon and went after Newburg." Saunders looked Hanley in the eye. "I didn't do my job."

The lieutenant leaned forward. "As I see it, you were doing your job…protecting every man. Not just your own platoon. Besides, your platoon had already pulled back when you went after Newburg. I don't see any problem with that."

Saunders gave a slight smile. "Thanks, Hanley."

Hanley got up with an exaggerated frown. "That's Lieutenant Hanley, Sergeant!"

He laughed and added, "Oh, and you've been demoted back to squad leader. I just know how much you'll miss being platoon sergeant. Talk to you later."

He put his hand on Saunders' shoulder and left. The sergeant smiled. He'd take that demotion any day. He slowly closed his eyes, and quickly drifted off to sleep.

CHAPTER 19

"You need anything, Sarge?" Kirby asked.

"I'm good, thanks," Saunders replied as he made himself comfortable by the fire. With the temperature dropping and sounds of thunder in the distance, the warm dry spell seemed to be leaving.

It hadn't taken long for the doctor to release him from the hospital. Caje and Kirby had been there to be sure that their sergeant made it back to their bivouac ok. They had watched him carefully as he'd limped along the street, but they both knew enough not to try to help him without being asked.

As usual, when the Company had first entered the town the previous week, Kirby had somehow managed to root out a great place to bivouac. So First squad was in an empty home, small but dry and comfortable. No running water or electricity, but it had a pump out back and lots of lanterns and candles.

The best feature was definitely the large fireplace in the front room. Although Saunders slept in the bedroom, the others all preferred to spread their bedrolls near the fireplace each night.

At the moment, however, the sergeant was resting by the fire in a chair, with his injured leg propped up on a small footstool.

"You sure? Need a pillow? A blanket? It's getting cooler," Kirby asked.

"Kirby," Saunders replied in exasperation. "It's just my leg. Barely a scratch. I'm not on death's door." He took a sip of his coffee.

"Me and the guys are going out for a bit to the café down the street. Just wanted to be sure you're set before we go," the BAR man explained.

Saunders waved his hand toward the door, and then adjusted his leg on the stool. As Kirby opened the door to leave, he saw Jones standing on the front steps about to knock.

"Hey Kirby, Sarge here?" Jones asked.

Kirby opened the door wider and pointed toward his sergeant. "You got a visitor, Sarge. How's Newburg, Jonesy?"

"Doing good. Sleeping like a baby right now," Jones replied, stepping into the room.

"That's great," Kirby said, and then left the two alone, closing the door behind him.

Jones went over and sat down on the edge of the raised hearth. "You look pretty good too," he said to the sergeant.

"Feel a heck of a lot better than I did earlier today," Saunders admitted.

"How's Lieutenant Hanley?" Jones asked.

"He's ok," Saunders replied.

"Guess we were pretty lucky," Jones said.

The sergeant stared into the fire for a long moment. "Lucky. Except maybe for the six guys we lost today. I lost two in my platoon…four in yours. And we had another eight wounded."

He continued to stare into the fire. "Some platoon sergeant."

Both men watched the fire until Jones finally tried to change the subject. "Guess we're going to be stuck in this town for awhile," he said awkwardly. "Until the brass decide to regroup and try advancing again. Maybe get some artillery support. At least we held the krauts from getting past the fork in the road."

When the sergeant didn't reply, they were both silent. Then Jones looked at Saunders. "I want to thank you for what you did for Burg. I feel bad that I wasn't there for him when he really needed me."

Saunders took a sip of his coffee. "If I remember correctly, you were kind of busy carrying a wounded soldier at the time. So don't be so hard on yourself."

He pointed over to the table. "There's coffee if you want it. Kirby just made it before he left."

Jones nodded, went to the table and picked up a coffee mug. He brought the coffee pot over and refilled Saunders' mug. Then he sat down and poured his own mug.

"Burg told me you carried him," Jones said as he set the pot down on the hearth near the fire. "He's one heavy son of a gun even for me. Hard to believe."

When Saunders glared at him, Jones shrugged. "No offense, Sarge. You're in great shape, but you're no Charles Atlas. And Burg's a moose."

Saunders smiled and looked into the fire. "You do what you have to when you have a roaring fire coming up your tail."

"Yeah, and he told me about that too." Jones looked into his coffee cup for a moment and then continued.

"Everyone knows what you went through getting burned and all. Burg and I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd left him to get yourself out of there. I know that had to take a lot for you to stay and stick it out with him. Thanks."

Saunders kept staring into the fire, silently tapping his finger on his coffee cup. Absentmindedly, he reached into his shirt and pulled out his dog tags. Looking at them and running his thumb over the imprint, he finally replied softly, "I wouldn't leave him."

They remained in a comfortable silence until Jones added, "Burg said he's not feeling so crazed anymore about being left alone if he gets hurt. Said you had to leave him and come back so many times that he kinda got used to it."

Jones smiled. "Clinging to your Thompson helped too, he said. Said it felt ok, knowing that you'd be back each time."

"I wouldn't have left him," Saunders repeated, looking up.

"He knows that. Made all the difference for him. Wish you could make me not so crazy about it." Jones looked into the fire.

"Pretty amazing how things happen sometimes. I mean, look at everything that happened just because Burg took the right road instead of the left. Sure made a big difference, didn't it?" Jones asked.

"All the difference," Saunders agreed. "Seems like every time you make a choice it takes you down a different road, for good or for bad."

He took a sip of his coffee. "Changes you a little each time."

Leaning forward, he put out a palm toward the fire. Staring at the dancing flames, Saunders said quietly, "Fire feels good, doesn't it?"

THE END

Hope you enjoyed my special Trilogy