Saints and Sinners
(Ok, once again with the disclaimer. I don't own any of these characters from the movie. And I cannot begin to tell you, My.Psuedonym.Was.Taken, how much your comments and suggestions have been. You've given me a lot of insight to become an even better writer. I hope this chapter blesses you. It did me.)
Chapter 6 - Refuge from the Storm
Onward they walked through through the snow. It was difficult and tiring, taking its toll on the exhausted men. The sun came out and warmed their faces, making their ordeal a little more bearable. But it was short lived as gray clouds trekked across the sky blocking out the sun. Had they known what Mother Nature had in store for them their hearts would have sunk.
"I haven't seen any movement by the Germans as of yet," Gunderson said to Winley as they stopped once again to get their bearings.
"They must be stalled somewhere in here," Winley pointed on his map.
"Yeah, this weather can't be helping them much either. How far is it to Manhay?"
"About 15 kilometers," Winley estimated.
"Alright, if this weather keeps up we should be able to beat 'em. Get there by dark. Alright, let's move out. Come on."
They hadn't gone three miles when the blizzard hit hard. The harsh winds hammered the trees and froze the men to the very core of their being. The going was nearly impossible as the snow thrashed and pummeled them and piled higher and deeper.
Kendrick led them down a small embankment barely able to see. Just as he reached the bottom, the ground gave away under his feet. The snow had disguised yet another bombed out shell of a house. As the timbers broke away he fell into a black hole landing with a hard crash.
"Kendrick!" Gould cried out to him as he rushed, or rather slid, down the same embankment. Gunderson followed close behind. The front of the building had been boarded shut. Wooden boards barred the entrance to keep anyone out of the dangerous building. Gould grabbed the boards pulling them off one by one until he was able to reach the moaning and disoriented Kendrick.
"Kendrick! I'm here, buddy." Gould checked him for broken bones but found none. "Kendrick can you hear me?" The big Southerner had been knocked senseless. "We can't do this here!" Gould frantically told Gunderson. "We can't keep going like this!"
"We gotta get him outta here," Gunderson said as the snow kept pouring down on them.
"If we stop now there's no way we're going to make it in time!" Winley said, anxiously.
"If we can't move, they can't move. And we can't move!" Gunderson yelled at Winley. "Come on," he reached down to help Kendrick up. He was already covered with snow.
"Come on, Kendrick. We're going," Gould and Winley both helped him to his feet.
Moving a short distance they came across a sturdy looking farmhouse built from field stones. It had a small storage building close by made from the same kind of stones. It seemed that every house in Belgium had their own storage buildings near by.
Moving stealthly across the grounds, Gunderson pushed open the storage door and checked to see if it was vacant. The inside had wooden boxes stacked against the far wall. They were the kind used for shipping fruit. There was a smattering of furniture but no one was there so he motioned for the others to come. As they entered he put a gloved finger to his lips to remind them to keep their voices down.
Gould and Winley helped Kendrick walk in, each of his arms over their shoulders. Kendrick moaned as he sat down on a crate. "I'm so cold. I'm so cold," he shivered.
Gunderson moved a chair by the window next to the door and sat down, guarding the men.
It was cold inside the shed but at least they were out of the cutting wind. As he watched the snow he began to hear music being played on a record player. It came from the direction of the house. They all listened.
"Sounds like opera music," Winley commented.
"I'm going to check it out. Winley, give me your pistol," Gunderson told him.
Deacon grabbed the rifle. "I'll go with ya," he said to Gunderson.
"I got it, Deac."
"But Sarge, I can …"
"Corporal!" he pulled rank on him. The two friends looked at each other for a moment. Deacon was like a son to him, a son he never had but would have wished for. Deacon looked to Gundy like a father. He was older by five years but a thousand years wiser. The two men admired and respected each other. Their trust was deep.
"Don't worry about it," Gunderson spoke softly to him. "Just open the door."
And Deacon did just that. As Gunderson slipped back out into the blizzard Deacon watched from the shed door, ready to come to his aid if necessary.
The music wafted down some wooden steps that led to a side door of the house. Cautiously, he climbed the snow covered steps making sure no one was watching. Ducking under a window he took off his helmet and peerede through the glass, but could see nothing. Leaving his helmet by the door he reached up and turned the door handle. It was unlocked. Stepping inside, he quietly closed the door behind him and listened.
A record turned on a player as a high lilting voice sang in French. In the kitchen a dark haired woman kneaded bread on a floured board. Gunderson watched her from an adjacent room not making his presence known yet. Finishing she went to the sink to wash her hands. Gunderson crept into the kitchen with the pistol drawn. The woman's back was to him as a floorboard creaked under his foot. He stopped.
"Le dîner sera prêt bientôt, Sophie," smiling she turned around but when she saw Gunderson she gasped in fright.
"It's Okay, Lady," he tried to reassure her. "I'm an American. I won't hurt you."
Grabbing a big butcher knife she held it out threateningly. "Si vous ne partez pas je vous tuerai!" she warned him.
"PUT - THE - KNIFE - DOWN!" he instructed her, trying to keep control of the situation.
The woman pointed her finger at the kitchen door and spoke to someone. "Sophie, n'entrent pas ici. Veuillez aller à votre pièce."
Gunderson looked down at a little girl with hair the same color as the woman. He had no intention of hurting either one of them.
"It's Okay, look … I'll put the gun down," he spoke as he uncocked the pistol and set it on the kitchen counter. "I'm an American … put the knife down." Watching him lay his weapon down she, likewise, laid down the knife by the sink.
"American?" she questioned, looking at him.
"Yes, American … American," he kept saying over and over,
"American," she sighed relieved.
"Mère," the little girl called her mother, frightened..
"Me venir," she held her arms out to her daughter. Running into her mother's arms, hugging her tightly for comfort. "American?" she questioned again.
"Yeah," Gunderson backed against the wall glad this was over. Deep inside he would have hated to kill the beautiful woman.
Gunderson burst into the storage building carrying an arm load of blankets, followed by the woman and child. The men sprung to their feet not knowing who was coming in on them.
"It's okay, fellas. This is Madam Theirrey," he introduced.
"Caterine," she smiled at them.
"Caterine," he corrected himself, trying to pronounce it like she did.
All of them men stood and nodded. Winley took off his woolen cap.
"Vous sont tous Américains?" she asked.
"Yes, we're all Americans. Except for Winley. He's British. He's from England."
"Ah, Anglais!" she smiled brightly and went over to Winley, greeting him with a kiss on each cheek. He returned the sentiment.
Caterine went to each man greeting them in the same manner, laughing when big Kendrick bent over. He seemed unsure of what to do. When she reached Deacon she also greeted him with a kiss. The little girl, who had simply been watching from her mother's side, yanked on Deacon's jacket. Taking off his helmet he bent down so she could look at him. With a hand on each side of his face she starred deeply into his eyes, smiled, and then kissed him on each cheek. Returning to her mother's side she smiled at him again. He was the only one she kissed.
"Bon. Vous êtes tout accueil ici. Je vous offrirai un bon soir," she smiled at them and left.
"Thank you, Caterine," Gunderson saw her back to her house.
"What did she just say?" Gould wondered out loud.
"Good-bye," Kendrick said behind him in his Louisiana accent. "In French." Gould looked at him and just shook his head.
Deacon sat down in a corner of the building and once again removed his helmet. A beam of sunlight shown through the window lighting his face. Sighing, he closed his eyes and, for the first time in along time, felt peace. But more than that, he felt forgiveness. With the kiss of a child his heart was beginning to heal.