The usual disclaimer: no money, no ownership. Wish I had a time machine …

Memorials

by

tallsunshine12

Part I Mysterious Voices

The graveyard could have been anywhere, on any continent, at home or abroad. It was very nearly at its maximum capacity and could hardly take any more war dead, though several conflicts raged around the world even at the present moment. A light wind was blowing across the straight rows of white stones commemorating the dead. A whisper began that could have been the wind, or it could have been voices growing in volume and pitch.

"Caje, take the point. Kirby – rear."

"Sarge," said Littlejohn, "do you think we'll be back in time for chow?"

"Is that all you ever think about, you big ox?" asked Kirby, ribbing him in the old way.

"He's just a growin' boy," said Doc, his Arkansas accent as thick as ever. "He needs to eat."

Saunders smiled and everyone else laughed.

To the casual observer, there was nothing to see here. Just the short grass around the stones waving slightly in a warm breeze. But if the same observer was very sensitive, he or she might well have seen a column of men in dark pants and light jackets, decked out in war paraphernalia, walking along the rows of stones, once in a while turning back to speak to one another. They might have seen their eyes, roving as if they were passing through a deep wood, scouting for enemy patrols, instead of only an open cemetery.

Saunders looked up. It was beginning to rain (though sunny for the observer) and he hunkered down a bit in his army jacket, feeling a sudden chill. He swung his tommy gun around to hold it in front of him instead of at his side, the rifle's sling over his shoulder. His action earned a similar reaction in all the men, except for Doc, weaponless. It had been a quiet recon patrol so far, only a distant glimpse of Germans crossing a ridge. No contact, that had been Hanley's order. That suited the men of 1st Squad, 2nd Platoon, King Company, just fine, for only someone with rocks for brains would want to engage the enemy and make a wet day even worse. It was too easy to get killed out here.

The observer might have seen their backs, laden down with backpack, chow pack, entrenching tool (for digging foxholes), and web belt with canteen, as the men made their slow way up the aisles of stones, headed for a faraway place best known by its initials, CP, or command post.

"I don't like rain!" groused Kirby. "It rains all the time here in France. I'm glad I'm going back to Chicago when this war's over."

"To all that snow?" asked Saunders, always the pragmatist of the group. "I come from Illinois, too, remember?"

"What's that I hear?" asked Littlejohn.

"Just the wind." PFC Paul LeMay, or 'Caje,' a Cajun from Louisiana, at least he hoped it was only the wind.

"The wind – or Krauts! Hear 'em!"

Saunders said, "Pull up and take cover. I think they'll pass us by."

The men took 'cover,' dropping down among the stones as if they were fallen trees to hide behind. Not twenty yards away, there was a German patrol on the march, talking among themselves in a much louder way than the more circumspect GIs. As soon as they were past, Saunders rallied his men again and they emerged from the stones and continued on in single file, as before. Talk was hushed for now.

The observer would have heard nothing of the German voices, only the wind still sighing in the trees all about the graveyard.

Part II An Ending

In a hospital in Silvis, Illinois, about six miles outside of Cleveland, Illinois, a man of seventy-seven lay in the ICU ward, oxygen being delivered to his starved lungs. He was surrounded by family, the members of which alternated through the day and early evening. At the moment, three people were in the room. There was Brian, a balding, blond-haired man of fifty, John, two years younger, still with a full head of light-colored hair and sparkling blue eyes, and Irene, Paul's daughter, who'd been adopted by the Saunders clan years ago following her parents' untimely death in a plane crash.

The family was there to say goodbye. Muted voices filled the room, while in the outer waiting area, a worried Grace Saunders was being comforted by friends and family. A soft, husky voice suddenly entered the waiting room, a voice belonging to a man only three years younger than the ICU patient. He nodded to several people as he passed through them, making his way to Grace. Taking a seat vacated by Lisa, a Saunders grandchild, he took Grace's hands in his and gave her his most solemn attention.

"I came as soon as I heard," he said. "Brian called me."

Grace began to cry all over again, but then, catching sight of his face, squared her shoulders and smiled. "My husband's favorite goldbrick," she said. "I'm glad you got here in time."

"Has the doctor said anything about what they're going to do?"

Grace shook her head. "Bill, there isn't anything now. Too much smoking for too long. He's been suffering for a while."

"I'm glad I quit years ago. The army tried to get us all hooked."

She laughed through her tears, saying, "Well, in Chip's case, it succeeded."

"And in so many others," he murmured. "Do you think I might see him?"

Grace lifted her arm and gestured to the room door, while talking to a second grandchild, a boy this time. "David, go tell one of them to come out. An old friend's here."

The exchange of visitors was made. Instead of just one, all three left the room, giving the two old soldiers time to be together. Each of them in turn, the two men and the dark-eyed Irene, born in Breaux Bridge on Bayou Têche, the daughter of the unfortunate Paul LeMay, gave him a hug as they slipped by. When they were gone, Kirby took a seat by Saunders' bed. He glanced up once at the monitor beeping away monotonously in the background, felt a little chill, and then turned to his attention to his friend.

"Hi, buddy," he said, finding strength to smile. "I've been thinkin' about you a lot."

Waking up slightly, Chip Saunders, once Kirby's sergeant in the army – and his chief taskmaster – put up a hand for Kirby to grasp.

"It's good you're here," said the patient, smiling ever so slightly. He was hoarse, fighting to breathe even with the oxygen cannula. "Although, you might be a little late."

Kirby grinned from ear to ear. "I never was all that punctual. Remember the times you had to get Littlejohn to get me up for five o'clock patrol?"

"Yeah, he shook you until you rattled."

Both men laughed, in a way. For the ICU patient, laughing was a trial he didn't have the strength for. William G. Kirby, once PFC Kirby, found it hard to laugh with tears in his eyes.

"We should've got together more," Kirby said. "Brought both families together."

"There were times we did. Especially after Paul's memorial service."

"Only thirty-four. What a way to go. I'd just been speaking with him a day or two earlier."

"Irene's been a blessing."

"She's a beaut, too. And so sweet. You raised her right, Sarge."

"Call me Chip, Kirby."

"I will, if you call me Bill."

Saunders hesitated, taking in a deep breath. "I guess I can't. You'll always be 'Kirby' to me."

"And you'll always be Sarge. Don't ever forget it."

Grace, Bill Kirby, Brian, John and Irene were there for the last moments of life. There was weeping, but it was of a quiet kind. The nurse checked for a pulse and then glanced up at the overhead monitor for life signs. Finding none, she switched it off, removed the cannula, then flipped off the oxygen machine and slipped her hand over his eyes.

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