If you skipped Chapters 12 and 13, a brief summary. Scavengers came across the soldier, roughed him up, ripped his ID tags away and destroyed his shirts in their search for anything of value he might be wearing or have stashed in his clothes. After a bit of hurting, he was left to the man (Belial) whose turn it had for any loot on the soldier. Plus, his job was to dispose of victims, to kill. The scavenger was furious, the soldier had nothing of value to take. He decided a slow and painful death was warranted. Belial, practically an artist with a knife, made the cut down the Soldier's front. He also made the deep wound in the Soldier's thigh. He used a dull, rusty bayonet. And enjoyed doing it. After a few more shallow cuts on the Soldier's stomach, Belial left him alone to die. Belial hoped, to die in agony. Infection, exposure, or blood loss would kill the soldier. The bayonet, purposely contaminated with barnyard filth and left rusty, was the agent of infection. Belial enjoyed the thoughts of the evil magic that he envisioned for infection; he wanted the soldier to stay alive to feel that magic for a while.
Sometimes still waters get stirred up, or a freshet comes down the channel, scouring and sweeping clean the bottom. Clastic particles get swept up in the flow and once again begin a journey downstream towards their next stop.
Alone
He had been left close to where they'd found him, maybe just a few feet away, for they weren't interested in him except as a victim, After they'd finished with him, they'd discarded him like trash, to die. There he lay, insensible.
Wet woke him. And the cold; it was downright frigid, he decided. It wasn't as cold as he thought. He felt it more because he was sick. He knew several hours had passed. His backside was numb, and he was stiff. He saw the belt still around his leg. At least he'd managed to save himself, for now. But his pant leg was dark, so dark. And soaked. He hoped not too much of that wet was his. Fever, as Robertson promised, had him firmly in its grip. He was vibrating. Shakes from the cold or from fever, he wasn't sure. It was day. Same day or the next? He didn't know. It probably didn't matter. He still had a mission to complete and had to get home. He had no idea what time of day it was. There was no sun to see. Rain was sluicing down. The ground wasn't even visible, sheets of water covered it. If I don't move, he thought, I'm going to drown or die right here. No one will ever know it was me, because they took my tags. The last thought practically unnerved him. A soldier, any soldier deserved to be known. His family needed that little piece of comfort, of resolution. He summoned his will and tried to get to his feet.
Agony shot through his entire body, leaving him limp. He gasped in pain. Oh, God. It hurt to breathe. He had to take small breaths. Anything deeper was, was beyond toleration. He'd forgot about his leg and his ribs it seemed. He could breathe shallowly, he resolved, then put his mind back to figuring out how to get home. Not walking seemed like a good idea. Maybe some nice slow crawling. Yeah, that sounds like a plan. He remembered he'd been knifed, then shot high on his arm, near enough to be his shoulder, at least, he tried to think, three, four? days before. It didn't make a difference. Add the ribs. He'd have to deal with all that now. That'll make crawling hard. Well, maybe I can find a sturdy branch or something to support me.
I will not die here.
He began a slow painful exit from his exposed position. It wasn't exactly a crawl, more like a rather awkward roll-slither-scooch. Progress at least. Something hard beneath his fingertips. He found his watch and bracelet. Too numb to work the clasps, too clumsy to slide them over his swollen wrists, and still worried about being found again, he stuffed them deep into a pants pocket. Struggling onward and a bit uphill, he made several more yards before he found some rough material. Finally, something that wasn't mud or water. Where it came from, he didn't know. He didn't know if anyone else was out here in this godforsaken place, but for now he'd claim it. Laid his head down for a rest. Just a little rest. How long he laid there, he wasn't quite sure. It was dark when next he woke, and raining. Doesn't it do anything but rain?
That was some hard rain. Hail, that's what it was, hail. Little balls of ice pummeled him for some time, then stopped, just as suddenly as it had started. He caught a few in his hand as they fell from the sky. He popped them into his mouth and felt them cold on his hot tongue. He watched, fascinated, as they melted on his skin. He sucked greedily at the minute puddles of water the little melting stones left on his arms and hands. Something pure and clean in this desolate place and after his encounters with evil, welcome, even if they were making him cold, colder.
He realized he needed to get moving, to get out of the weather. "I must find shelter or I'm dead." He spoke aloud. No matter, nobody but a fool would be out in this weather, A fool or a desperate soldier trying to get home. He felt around and found a long hard something, a branch perhaps. "I can use this to help me get to my feet." As the thought formed, the words came out, encouraging him. He grasped the thing with his good arm and levered himself to his knees. He wobbled there, then toppled off to one side as his body rebelled against the position. Kneeling put too much pain on that thigh. He'd have to think about his next moves. Sitting seemed to be a better idea for now.
He remembered he had been resting on something. Material. Rough. Lumpy. He grasped it. It was solid. A pack? Please, God. Let it be. And let there be something in there I can use. He fumbled, clumsy and cold, but finally found a way in. He felt something soft and maybe not too wet. His hand burrowed into it, then as he got some dexterity back, he grabbed it and pulled it out. He felt. Underwear. He almost cried with frustration and threw it aside. Thought better of it. Gingerly, he put it on his sopping head, his poor aching head. He hoped it was clean. What would Mom think? He almost laughed at that thought. It could perch there until he found something better. The pack had another soft gift. He carefully drew it out. Buttons. A shirt, thin, but better than nothing. There were a few holes in it, and it didn't feel quite familiar. No matter. If he didn't get some more clothes on, he knew he would die. He determinedly slid one arm into a sleeve, pulled it as high as he could. He managed to find the back collar with his good arm. With great effort, he dragged the shirt over his back and shoulders, rolling his shoulders over to help it settle in place. He hissed with the pain of moving his torso, his shoulder. He grabbed the opposite shirt front with his not-so-good side and held on tight. He found the sleeve hole and managed to put his other arm into the sleeve. Whoever had worn this shirt before was bigger than he was. For that, he was grateful. That made it easier to put on.
The shirt was soaking wet by the time he managed to get it on. He was exhausted by the effort, the pain. He had to rest. He drew the pack close to his stomach. The thick canvas offered some insulation on his bare chest for he hadn't been able to manage the shirt buttons yet. His fingers were clumsy with cold. He shoved them back into the pack to try and warm them. They stung as feeling returned. Reluctantly, he pulled them out to button the shirt but could only manage a button or two. Maybe come daylight when he could see and his hands warmed up.
It was time to move on. He would have to leave the pack. He could not imagine trying to maneuver it onto his back. Bad ribs, bruises and cuts would keep him from even trying to fit it to his chest. He started to get back to his feet with the aid of his branch. The thing kept getting caught on something. He rolled the few feet forward, to see what was there. Oh, lucky day! More material, this much more substantial than what he was wearing. A jacket? Yes, he could feel sleeves, but it felt wrong, its texture and shape wrong. German. And there were a few holes in the thing. He decided if he was captured by either side, he'd be in big trouble, but for now, he needed the protection of this tunic. It wouldn't be the first time he'd had to wear another man's uniform. The previous owner wouldn't be needing it again. He repeated the same motions as he'd used to get the shirt on, coaching himself to perform each little step. Fighting through the pain the movements caused. "That's it, that's it." Finally. "Okay. Now head for home." Fortunately, there was no one to overhear the soldier's soliloquy as he struggled to turn words into action.
How he made it to his feet, he never remembered. He just did. He stumbled on through the night, scarcely able to put weight on his injured leg. He left the churned up field and got more substantial ground under him so he knew he'd made progress. In the right direction he hoped. He couldn't see stars or any other way to navigate. It was too dark and rainy, of course. Somehow, he'd never imagined France as being this wet. Occasionally, he'd breathe a bit too deeply and would get a painful reminder of other injuries. Sometimes he used that branch he found, but as he wore down, he spent more time dragging himself along, him and his branch. At least, he thought gratefully, only one leg is hurt. Don't think I'd get anywhere with two damaged ones. The rain continued, though it had slacked off to a steady soft rain. The best thing about the rain. He wasn't thirsty, he could have as much water as he wanted. And he drank from the sky. The next best thing. It was keeping soldiers away. No fighting, no vermin coming out after a skirmish to find him.
The sky grew lighter as the day approached. He needed to find a safe space to hide, to rest. He didn't think he could crawl much farther. He had abandoned his branch sometime back. His improvised cap disappeared during his trek. Pity, he rather missed how it had kept his hair off his face. He knew warm was leaching out through his uncovered head. He could make out trees, standing trees, in the gloom ahead. He hoped, not one of those carefully tended forests with no underbrush, but a nice wild stand with bushes and undergrowth. He could hide in that stuff and rest, hidden. He forced himself to his feet once more, just so he could get to the shelter of the trees a bit faster. He got a few trees in from the edge and said, "I'll just rest here for a bit," as he carefully slid down a tree trunk and into some underbrush. As soon as he felt the ground under his backside, he relaxed his hold on consciousness. There he lay, for over a day, as the rain finally slacked off, and bits of a wan blue sky could be seen through the overcast. He was fading, winding down.
Voices and the sounds of a skirmish woke him. Hide, he thought. I must hide. He grasped the tree trunk and struggled to his feet. He was so dizzy he only made a few steps before he wobbled and fell. He was unaware that just a few yards away, soldiers fought a running battle. Both Germans and Americans ran by him; but no one gave him more than a passing glance.