Chapter 5 Reunion

Infantry followed artillery the following day. For such a tumultuous night, it was a bright, sunny morning, full of the promise of a cold, but brilliant winter. 2nd Lt. Hanley arrived in a jeep, his speed-delirious driver bouncing all over the rubble of the old medieval square at great risk to the jeep's tires, while the men of 1st Squad—Caje, Kirby, Littlejohn and Doc—walked through, over and past it. Their sharp eyes scanned left and right, and then up and down, for snipers.

Hanley exited the jeep none the worse for wear and swept his arm in an arc. "Fan out. Search for any remaining enemy," he told the men.

Stepping over the bodies in the streets, poking at them to see if they were really dead or only playing 'possum, the squad kept as alert as possible to corners, alleys and upper stories where they might encounter enemy gunfire.

Caje stepped up to a fountain blown apart by a shell. It was a huge structure, with several bowls to catch the spilling water, and ornate in a decadent French way with garlands and Cupids. A tree had fallen into the middle of it. He raised his M1 Garand and walked cautiously around it, looking for a lurking German. He saw no one and kept going a few more yards to a heavily-bombed building. A swinging sign on only one hook read, Boulangerie. Bakery.

As he turned the corner into a leafy alley beside the bakery, he stopped cold. A camo-covered helmet lay upturned in the rubble of the passageway. He looked beyond it to a body—a mere collection of rags—lying against what was left of the stucco and brick wall on the bakery's stone foundation.

Warily, afraid of what he might find, he stepped over to it and knelt, his Garand across his knees. Catching his breath, he started throwing off bricks and roof debris from the prone man. Then when he had the area on top of the body cleared, he turned it over.

Falling back against the foundation stones, with warring emotions, he laid his gun beside him, reached out and heaved the man in the torn U.S. army jacket up on his legs.

Throwing aside bits and pieces of brick and mortar and terracotta tiles that still clung to him, Caje experienced a sudden wash of tears filling his eyes and he dropped his head over Saunders' face. A soft exhalation of warm air on his cheek made him look back at the man.

"Caje, what are you … doing?" asked Lt. Hanley as he came around the corner. He moved up and gawked in surprise at the GI holding the body of a dead man, then even through the dust, he saw the light-colored hair and the jacket's three stripes.

As soon as it registered on him what he was seeing, he squatted down and placed a hand on Saunders' arm. "Is he—?" he asked, feeling for a pulse in the wrist. He couldn't feel one. He tried Saunders' neck next, and shook his head.

Caje looked up at him with such distress in his dark, Gallic eyes that Hanley had to turn away. Spinning around on his heels, he yelled, "Doc!" Once more, with extra voice, he cried, "Doc! Littlejohn! Get over here—quick!"

Doc, shadowing the big Nebraskan Littlejohn, ran over to the scene where Hanley now stood and Caje leaned against the collapsed wall with a man's body on his lap. It was easy now that the debris had been cleared away to see who it was. Both men stopped and stared at the sight of the ragged bundle that had once been their sergeant.

Hanley backed off as, kneeling quickly, Doc took Saunders' twin pulses in wrist and neck. Undaunted by the lack of a beat, he fished around in his rucksack for bandages and sulfa, his eyes abruptly wet. "God, I can't see!" he murmured.

"No good, Doc. Save your stuff," Caje said, choking up with fresh tears. "It won't help him. I should've stopped him from going to the stream. It's my doin' he's like this."

Doc rose and stepped out of the way. He began to close up his bag. There really was nothing he could do. Sarge wasn't breathing, nor moaning. He had no pulse. He was officially—

He looked up at Hanley as the lieutenant put a hand on Caje's tan uniform jacket, of the same style and color as Saunders', and said, "Caje. Caje!" He waited until Caje looked up at him again. "It's not your fault. Saunders knew what he was doing when he agreed to this solo mission."

Another man stepped up, a small-built private carrying a very big BAR, or Browning Automatic Rifle, across his midsection, where it hung on a strap around his neck. Kirby swallowed hard, his own eyes beginning to water. "Those Krauts threw a grenade, they shot at him, and dragged him up a hill when he could barely walk. We had to watch the whole thing!"

"Kirby," said a voice that didn't belong to any of the five other men. "What … 'appened?"

When he realized who had spoken, Kirby flew to Caje's side while Littlejohn, still within earshot, kept an eye out for Krauts.

"Can you hear me, Sarge?" Kirby asked. "You gotta wake up!" With repeated entreaties, he tried to find a way to penetrate the cloud of concussion swirling in Saunders' brain.

A flutter of an eyelid caught everyone's attention.

Hanley passed a canteen to Kirby, as Caje sat his burden up a bit more. After unscrewing the cap, Kirby gently forced the rim of the canteen between Saunders' bruised lips, giving him time to swallow before attempting another.

Hanley pulled the BAR man aside, as Doc knelt again. Realizing that now he had a live man under his care, he checked for broken bones, especially likely after the shelling. He didn't find any extensive injuries, just a lot of bruises and cuts. He shook sulfa powder on the worst lacerations he could see and gave Saunders a morphine shot.

"You heard 'im!" exclaimed Kirby, practically weeping. Looking up at the others for confirmation, he said, "He knew me! He said my name!"

"Can we move him, Doc," asked Hanley, looking around, his drawn face betraying his worry that there might still be Germans in hiding, knowing that his men hadn't finished scouting the town yet.

"I think we can," Doc said. "We'll have to take it slow. Real slow."

"We'll have to use the jeep," said Hanley. "We'll need a stretcher of some sort."

"Count on us, lieutenant," said Littlejohn, gulping. He had waited until he was needed. Now he was needed.

Turning back, he said, "C'mon, Kirby, we'll find something to carry him on."

"Watch out for Krauts!" Hanley called, as the pair took off. They returned soon with a wide board that had been part of a counter in a butcher shop, still stained with blood and now newly liberated from its base in service to the Allied cause. Littlejohn moved up, reached down and quite tenderly lifted Saunders so that Caje could get his own legs under him again.

With Kirby and Doc's help, he moved him to Hanley's jeep on the makeshift stretcher, laying the board lengthwise across the back of the jeep and using some found rope to tie it down, both at the head and the foot. Small murmurs moved the lips of the injured sergeant.

"Kirby," he said again, "where …?"

At his side, Doc ran his hands over Saunders' mouth, stopping further talk. He'd need to save his strength over the next few hours, at least until they reached the Allied CP, if he was going to live.

"Can you steady this board while I get in?" asked Doc. All hands were ready to help as he climbed into the rear of the jeep to ride beside Saunders. It was a super-tight fit, and he seemed suddenly to be all knees, but it worked. He had to face forward, but he clasped the board with one strong hand.

Everyone backed away and waved as the jeep sped off with Hanley, his insane, but intrepid driver, Doc, and the now-sleeping Saunders. Caje and the rest of the squad would stay, and if there were any Germans left in town, flush them out.

It was going to be a challenging trip over miles of shelled terrain to reach the camp aid station, but no man doubted that they could get him back. Alive.

At times, Saunders awoke, murmuring and shifting precariously on the board. Every time, Doc whirled to face it, steadying it with both hands and a throbbing heart.

At his call, twice, the jeep stopped on the road and a canteen found its way to Saunders' lips. Saunders came back to the CP almost as hydrated as Kirby intended to get—on something stronger than water—once they finally got Sarge tucked into a cot at the aid tent!

30

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