The Soldier found himself caught in an eddy, then a backwater. Trapped, he had little control over what happened. He was like a pebble that gets buried under a top layer of sediment. Down there, with little oxygen or light, there's little movement but still, life. A perfect place for getting coated with slime and bacteria.

This chapter offers a partial explanation of why the Soldier remains silent and how he came to acquire some of the wounds that he bears.

This chapter has some violence in it. Probably much less that what now passes for PG or PG-13 ratings. So if that bothers you, skip ahead to Chapter 14.

Scavenged

He heard voices. Not German. It wasn't English, either. Maybe French, not that he'd know, but it sounded more like that language than the others. These could be battlefield scavengers. The thought gave him pause. These vermin showed up after barrages and skirmishes. Sometimes it seemed like they knew where a battle would be before the opposing forces. They had no allegiance to either side in this war. Perhaps in days of yore, they may have gone out to succor their countrymen, but times change and there are always people ready to take advantage of those that are less fortunate. They'd wait out of harm's way, for the inevitable conclusion of a confrontation. Then they'd move in to strip the wounded and dead of any possessions. Rumor had it that scavengers would kill the wounded, unless they were of high rank, then they'd take them hostage for ransom. He hoped they were Germans. He'd already had one bad encounter on this mission with a group of civilian criminals, and he remembered that Robertson told him that he just might let a local band of scavengers know.

Whoever they were, they would be flipping and kicking any bodies over, checking for plunder or survivors. Better play dead. Wounded as badly as he thought he was, he'd be more trouble than he was worth to a captor. He wouldn't bet a plug nickel on his chances if they suspected he was alive. He wasn't that valuable as a prisoner; he was not a flag officer, that was for sure.

Fortunately, he'd slept rough and wound up on his stomach, arms in tight. He surreptitiously pulled them under his body. At least they won't get my watch or bracelet he thought as he slid them off and buried them under the muck. He still wondered why that earlier group had left him those things. Maybe they would take them as trophies after they'd hunted him down and killed him. Robertson had promised to come back and check to see if he survived. He'd retake him if he was still here. He would give him to that Gestapo man or play with him some more. Robertson had told him exactly what that would be like; painful, brutalizing, and fatal. The soldier shivered with the thought and came back to his current predicament. He'd seen dead soldiers with hands and fingers cut off. That made it easy to remove rings, watches, and bracelets. No thank you. At least if he survived their pillaging, he would still have his hands. He stealthily moved each arm back out and rearranged himself in a careless pose, one he'd seen too many times on a battlefield. He lay motionless, sprawled in the debris of an artillery blast and hoped they'd not find him. In the dim light of the rainy false dawn, he just might escape notice.

Feet kicked him onto his back. He hoped he looked dead. The soldier didn't feel too far from that either. He was suffering the effects of his stay with Robertson. He could feel hands take off his web belt and rip it away from his waist; so hard and fast it hurt every time a pouch caught. Hands checked his pants pockets, patting them down first, then feeling inside. There was nothing on his web belt any longer. Or in his pockets. Robertson had made sure of that. His dog tags were torn from his neck. Tags were valuable. They could be used to bribe someone; proof that a soldier was being held and was still alive.

Once more he was nothing more than "Soldier," just as he had been when subjected to Monsieur Robertson's attentions. In a way, it made it easier for him to insulate himself from some of the blows he knew his body would have to withstand. A few pairs of hands roughly hauled him to his feet. They yanked his head back by his hair. They hit him, hard. Hit him again. Someone slapped him hard and caught him on the jaw and neck. He tried not to react. Play dead, play dead, he reminded himself. They kept him vertical; no sagging, though once they let go of his hair, he let his head drop and loll. Hopefully that hid enough of his face so they couldn't see if he bit his lip to help control his pain. Somebody pinched his flesh when he grabbed the pockets of his shirt and tore them away. The rest of his shirt followed; cut, shredded, and ripped away in their haste to find anything hidden. It hurt; they were violent in their greed. Cigarettes, lighter, money? He kept little of value in his possession on any patrol and none on special missions. Plenty of cursing as the search proved fruitless.

Pinchy-hands had breath that could kill; he'd remember that breath a long time. He was back, and the lack of loot had made him angry. Pinchy-hands sliced a knife through the soldier's undershirt, all the way up. It fell open and hands grabbed the sides, baring his chest and abdomen. The hands and arms that held him readjusted their grips to bring him even more upright. Hands fumbled at his waist and loosened his belt and the first couple of buttons on his pants and tugged them down, just enough to rest the top of his pants on his hipbones. He did not like where this was going. But he quelled those thoughts; he wanted to stay alive.

Then the knife returned. It was wielded with great care and precision. This time Pinchy-hands traveled the knife blade up slowly, agonizingly slowly, tracing a line of hurt with the tip of its blade from well below his navel to the notch on his throat. Sometimes it paused, then bit deeper, but not enough to wound him badly before it moved on up. As it slowly moved up, he heard rough laughter and talking from the men that held him. Was he amusement for these scum? It stung; it more than stung. He breathed as shallowly as possible. It helped control his natural reactions. Perhaps his captors would think he was just unconscious. He was scared; that teasing blade could go from torment to terminal in a heartbeat. He wouldn't be able to react fast enough or get away, held as tightly as he was. After a final hard and lingering dig right up at his throat, the knife lifted. Then his undershirt was violently ripped away, the cloth dragging so fast and so hard across his skin it burned. Now his torso was completely exposed; the rain pelting down on his bare skin, chilling him more.

Pinchy-hands plowed through his pants pockets again and found nothing. There was nothing discrete about that second search. Fingers groped, grabbed, grasped, and gripped, hard. Voices rumbled and crude laughter erupted all around him. He couldn't help it; he gasped and flinched. He hoped he disguised those gasps of pain as shuttering breaths, something that an unconscious person might do if the pain reached down far enough. He remained as slack as he could. Maybe he could still pass for unconscious and they would tire of him.

He heard a harsh command coming from several yards away. A few muttered curses, and he was released hard, shoved, to collapse bonelessly to the ground. He lay face down in the muck, awkwardly twisted, but determined not to move. He listened for the sounds of the group to fade away. He hoped with the approaching day they would have to go back to their other lives and leave him. Unfortunately for the soldier the group put truth into the old saying that "dead men tell no tales." Some of the band were respectable members of their communities, some even worked with the Resistance. The group wanted no witnesses, no one left alive to tell tales, not unless they were of high value, like a colonel or general. The rest were as offal. Best not to let this little secret out.