Chapter 3 The Merry Jouberts
Trudging through the high grass of the farmstead towards the barn, 1st Squad kept an eye out for any enemy patrol that might be lurking in the overgrown trees and brush. However, calm reigned in that regard. Only birdsong and the overly hot breezes moving through the rank grass disturbed the scene. Cicadas too held sway over the deserted yard, sending up their usual loud buzzing.
While Littlejohn ran on ahead to the ruined farmhouse, darting in the door and, checking for Germans, glancing upstairs through the broken floorboards, the rest of the squad entered the barn and looked for the wounded lieutenant. Saunders pulled up the rear, stumbling a bit over the uneven ground. While his men disappeared into the barn, he leaned against a tree and held his hand to his head, fighting off the dizziness that had been accompanying him for over an hour now, ever since they had left the young Germans and their tied-up corporal at the river.
No one saw him drop to his knees and roll over onto his back in the grass, unconscious, not even Littlejohn, who left the old, beaten-down house, crossed the yard and slipped into the barn after his inspection. Inside, in some confusion, he watched the other squad members pulling apart the piles of old straw in the stalls. They were looking for something—or, rather, someone. Hanley wasn't there. Caje and Kirby were in the back of the barn, Doc was nearer to the door.
"Here's some blood!" Doc called, bending down. To see it better, he moved some of the straw aside in one of the stalls closest to the door.
"Hey, fellas, there's a blood trail on this side of the door," said Littlejohn, pointing at it with his M1. Doc sped over to it, knelt and then stood to follow it out the door, where it met the high grass. He kept going, opposite from the place where Saunders had fallen. "Where's Sarge!" called Littlejohn to no one in particular.
"He's not out there?" asked Caje. "Littlejohn, go see where he is," he said, kicking apart a box-like manger where animals used to feed.
"Will do," said the big private. He left the barn and slogged through the grass, nearly stumbling over the same rusted harrow that Saunders had cut his hand on, its metal tines turned up to catch the unwary. When he had backtracked their path to the farm for about twenty-five yards, he saw Sarge's leg in the grass, the rest of him hidden. Littlejohn ran over, kneeling beside him and turning him over all at once. "Doc!" he shouted. "Come 'ere! On the double."
Doc loped up as quick as the grasses would allow and knelt down, too, feeling for Saunders' pulse and opening his eyelids with the edge of his thumb. "He's passed out," he said. "He just couldn't go on any further after bringing us all here." He fished around on his hip for one of his two canteens. "Hold his head up, Littlejohn." Scolding himself, he said, "Why didn't I keep a better eye on him?"
"Why didn't we all?" Littlejohn asked as the waking Sarge took several sips of water.
"Help me get him into the barn," said Doc, capping the canteen and replacing it in its pouch on his belt. He assisted Littlejohn to get Saunders back on his feet. Both of them then moved him towards the barn and met Caje and Kirby just coming out.
"What happened to him?" asked Kirby, suddenly feeling panicky as he too lent a hand with Sarge while Caje stepped in the barn and made up a straw bed for him, as the others walked him inside.
"He's bushed, that's what!" said Doc. "I could kick myself for letting him get this way."
"Doc, knock it off," said the ailing man, sitting up in the straw and taking a sip from Kirby's canteen this time. "We were all worried about Lt. Hanley." Saunders shook his roaring-hot head and, squinting, looked for his friend. "I don't … see him."
"He's not here, Sarge," said Caje, his breathlessness showing his worry. "He must've walked out. Doc found a blood trail."
Saunders nearly jumped up, but felt himself restrained by more than one pair of hands.
"You're sick, Sarge," said Doc. "The fever's got to you. Kirby, open your rations and give me a can of something."
"I don't want to eat, Doc," said Sarge, trying to struggle up and this time reaching his feet but not without their help. "Which way is the blood trail?"
"C'mon, Sarge, I'll show you." Doc was reluctant, but willing.
"Where's my helmet?" he asked, his eyes darting about nervously.
"I'll get it, Sarge," said Littlejohn. He exited the barn for the spot in the yard where he'd found him.
Saunders wasn't waiting for it. "Take the lead, Caje. Doc, you show him where the blood is. Kirby, the rear."
The squad had more evidence than just the blood trail of the wounded lieutenant to follow. Growing more and more staggery, weaving to and fro and breaking off stems here and there, he had woven a higgledy-piggledy path through the grass. Coming to a fast-moving brook running in back of the farm buildings, he had crossed it in the same way, weaving and unsteady, falling on the bank once and leaving some of his blood on a pile of old leaves. Doc and Littlejohn supported Saunders across, the fast water reaching the knees of the two smaller men and threatening to trip them up.
It was late in the day now. The sun was still high in the sky, but shadows were lengthening on the ground. Caje exited the stream first, as he had the point. Turning with his M1 in his hands, he looked carefully at the woods to see if there were any darker shadows than those cast by the trees themselves, the shadows of men or machine gun. On the alert, the other men followed him out, but the scout had already disappeared into the trees.
In about a half-hour, losing even the trace of Hanley's blood, the squad arrived at a little group of trees in a tiny meadow surrounded by hills and knolls, where they found signs of several booted men. The grass had thinned out substantially beyond the overgrown farm fields, allowing them to see evidence of scuffed-up places. Who were these other men? Was it a scene of struggle? Had the lieutenant fallen in with a Kraut patrol?
"What's happened to him?" murmured Saunders, about ready to drop. He called a halt of fifteen minutes. Meeting the enemy at dawn, fighting, running a jeep off a bridge and now this all-afternoon, early evening tramp through farms and fields, he had to admit he was tired. Everyone was tired. Covered in sweat, August-sweat, hungry, thirsty, but mostly tired.
Sitting down with his back to a tree, using a sleeve to dab at his over-hot face, he pulled out his canteen and gulped heartily at it. He even tried some food from a can Kirby handed him, shaky as he brought the wooden spoon, provided in the K-ration, to his mouth.
Such a picturesque area like this should never have been fought over, he thought, with a surge of melancholy filling him, even though war had a way of finding out the innocent and driving them down to earth. He had seen it many times, so had the others. Not only in peaceful villages and farms, but also in the faces of children hiding in cubbyholes because of ceaseless bombing.
"We'll have to split up," he said, wiping a hand across his hot eyes and taking off his helmet to swipe at his sweaty hair underneath.
"Do you think that's wise, Sarge?" asked Caje. "What with the possibility of a patrol in this area?"
"What do you suggest, Caje?" He reset his helmet in place, keeping it on like the others. Though there was small chance of shelling or mortar-fire in this area, it was easier to wear it than carry it. "Can you follow a path in this short grass?"
"I'd only be guessing, Sarge, but I think so. I used to track wild pigs in the swamp."
Kirby laughed. "Wild pig dinner! Sounds great!"
Caje gave him an injured look. "It was," he said, miffed. "The bacon was out of this world."
Kirby laughed again, but Sarge threw up a hand and stilled further comment in that area. With help, he struggled to his feet and motioned the squad to proceed, letting Caje take the point again. Another half-hour passed. It was fully dark when the men of 1st Squad approached a farmhouse in a small hollow, ideally situated in the trees to be cool in summer, while out of the wind in winter. Thunder, not artillery, rumbled in the near distance. Static electricity filled the air, and while heat lightning played hopscotch in the cloudy sky, the insects buzzed at their loudest.
Saunders threw up a hand right at the edge of the trees, stopping his men in their tracks. They heard something like singing, and in addition to that, children's laughter. He signaled Caje to run up to a window and peek in. After a few seconds, Caje waved his hand, beckoning them to join him. It was strange to be emerging from the dark woods into such a cheery place. Lining up against the plastered stone wall of the old house, the men waited for Saunders to decide how they were going in. Like Stormtroopers, or as neighbors? On the other side of the window from Caje, he peered in and marveled at what he saw.
Several children were playing a skipping game on the hard, stone floor, a cooking fire sparked in the grate with a kettle hung over it on a metal rod, and two women, one young, one older, were clapping and singing a lively French tune. The only man in the room, Lt. Hanley, sat in an easy chair next to the fire, a bit pale, but laughing, too.
It was clear there were no Krauts here. The only danger came from too much merriment. Saunders turned to the door, raised his hand and graciously knocked. When the room had quieted, he opened the door and went inside, followed by Caje and the rest of the squad.
Audible gasps filled the room, but Caje spoke up and declared that they were friends, not enemies, and that they had come looking for the man who sat comfortably by the fireplace.
"Sgt. Saunders!" exclaimed Hanley. "Come join us!"
"We've been looking for you, sir," said Saunders, rather put out just then that Hanley hadn't waited for him to return. "Why didn't you stay in the barn?"
Hanley grew serious. "I don't rightly know, Saunders. I just found myself walking, how far or how long, I couldn't say. These kind folks found me and brought me home."
Doc sped over to the lieutenant, but turned to Caje. "Caje, ask them if there's a place where I can examine the lieutenant."
"Will do," said Caje, as he translated Doc's request.
In response, the younger woman, about thirty-five, got up to show him where he could make an examination. She had to step over two of her children—there were three now sitting on the floor—as she made her way to the bedroom at the back of the house. It was a simple dwelling, with one main room for both living and cooking, and a sleeping nook just off of it. Doc and Littlejohn helped hoist Hanley to his feet and walk him into the other room.
Saunders sat down on the floor against the wall and looked around. He took his helmet off, put it on the floor beside him, and was just about to scratch his head in his customary way, when the younger girl stood up, came over, and placed her doll on his knee. Bleary-eyed, he looked down at it, wondering if it might be hiding a grenade or something, then common sense got hold of him again and he smiled at her. An older lady, probably the children's Grand-mère, went to the kettle and poured out some tea in clay cups for all the guests. Saunders, with the girl still at his knee and looking up at him, rapt-eyed, sipped the tea with some apprehension.
"It's good," he finally said, raising the cup in salute to the grandmother and then taking another sip. Caje translated for him, but as the young mother and Littlejohn rejoined the party, the older lady was already smiling at the pleasure on his face.
Kirby laughed, "I bet it's the first time I'll like tea!" He downed the warm beverage in one gulp, rolling it around in his mouth appraisingly. "Yeah, it's good, Sarge. Imagine that. Imagine me drinkin' this stuff."
The grandmother now sat down again and began to talk in rapid French, moving her eyes from Caje to the rest of the group. "She says it's made from herbs collected in the fields and woods," said Caje. "Very healthy."
"Next time," said Kirby, with a smile, "ask her to put a little cognac in it, just to spice it up a bit."
Caje laughed and then ignored him.
Doc and Hanley reentered the living room, Doc supporting the lieutenant to his chair, Littlejohn rising to help him, and accepting a couple of cups of tea, Doc handed one to the lieutenant and taking one himself went over to another chair.
"How's his wound, Doc?" Saunders asked. Jokingly, he said, "Will he live?" That brought smiles all around and a deep chuckle from Littlejohn, back in his own space on the floor now.
"The bullet just creased him across the back," said Doc, taking a sip of the tea. "Ah, this is good."
"Yeah, well?" asked Sarge.
"The wound had become infected. That's why he had some fever. It's clean now, though, thanks to these good folks, who bandaged it up again." Looking at the children, winking at the other little girl, he said, "I sprinkled some of my 'magic' powder on it and re-bandaged it."
"Due to the storm, we'll have to spend the night here," said Hanley. "Is that okay with the Jouberts, Caje?"
The younger woman had told him their name earlier, using copious sign language to indicate herself, her children and her mother, even as the older lady had fetched a basin of cool water, some soap and a towel. Caje asked the women if they minded having them for houseguests, since there was a storm picking up outside.
"Oui, Lieutenant, nous ne voulons pas que vous et vos hommes sortiez dans la tempête," said the grandmother. Yes, Lieutenant, we do not want you and your men out in the storm.
"Merci," said Hanley, speaking deeply and smiling in his most charming manner. Grandmother laughed a bit, like the girl she'd been about forty years ago.