Greater Love Hath No Man, a combat! fanfic

To everything there is a season… (a)

Part 1: Greater Love Hath No Man…(b)

by: Queen's Bishop

2021 © Reg. No. TXu 2-280-049

()()()() Indicates time has passed or the focus of the story has shifted

to another character or location.

The news flew through the regiments, companies and platoons. A bridge over the Rhine had been captured! Although the Germans tried to blow it up, only a portion of the charges had detonated. If the Americans could hold the bridge and expand the small bridgehead that had been established on the far side of the Rhine, it would shorten the war. That was something every man wanted, to get the war over with and to go home. They had fought so long and so hard. But now, the end was in sight.

However, it wasn't over yet. The soldiers were all warned that there was still a lot of hard fighting left to do. And from now on, that fighting would be on German soil and the Krauts would defend their homeland at all costs.

Still, the end was in sight.

Once across the Rhine, it was like it had been in France in the early days, with the Americans trying to break out from the bridgehead. The capture of the bridge had not only been a surprise for them, but also for the Germans. They hadn't yet had a chance to regroup and consolidate their positions. So, small American reconnaissance patrols were sent out to probe the shifting defenses.

()()()()()()()()()()

Hanley stood up straight and stretched. He'd been bent over the map for what seemed like hours. The lines had become blurry and the small print giving the names of the roads and villages all seemed to run together.

"BROCKMEYER," he bellowed.

The corporal, who was putting new batteries into handy-talkie, quietly said, "Yes, Sir," without glancing up.

"Find Saunders and Bucknell."

"Yes, Sir," Brockmeyer replied. Before heading for the door of the house, he snapped the cover of the battery compartment back into place and set the handy-talkie beside the three others he had finished working on.

The two sergeants weren't hard to find. First Squad was billeted in a bombed out building not far from the CP and Second Squad was dug in on the perimeter of the tiny village providing security. The two men met just before entering the CP and exchanged knowing glances. They'd crossed the Rhine two days previously with several other companies from the 361st. King Company had yet to send out any patrols, so they both expected that their numbers were up.

"S-2 thinks the Krauts have pulled back to these sectors," the lieutenant said as he pointed out blocks of territory on the map. "They want that confirmed and they want to know what the defenses are. Get in as close as you can but avoid contact if possible."

"When do you want us to leave, Lieutenant?" Bucknell asked. He was a relatively new addition to the platoon, only having been assigned in late February. Although he had been wounded and out of action for much of the winter, he was an experienced sergeant and Hanley was glad to have him.

"0600. We've got some replacements coming and they should be here by then."

"Green?" Saunders asked. Like most of the veterans, the sergeant had no use for untested men who were just as likely to put the squad in danger as to be of any help. And after making it this far, nobody wanted to get killed so late in the war.

The lieutenant had no doubts that when he said "Yes," both of the sergeants would balk at having inexperience men with them on a potentially dangerous reconnaissance patrol. But he thought it was a gamble worth taking. Since these would be the company's first forays on the eastern side of the Rhine, having the extra fire power might be the difference between a successful mission and a disaster… and he didn't want a disaster so late in the game.

Hanley stated his position and endured the protests. The sergeants, neither one happy, left to prepare their squads for the morning patrol.

()()()()()()()()()()

Saunders sat on a crate with his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. His back was against a wall and his helmet was tilted down and resting on the bridge of his nose. The rest of the squad was likewise taking the opportunity to catch a quick nap. All that is except for Kirby who, as was his habit, was pacing back and forth in front of his comrades mumbling to himself. It was 0600 and the squad had been ready to move out since 0545.

The replacements didn't show up until 0630.

"Hey, is this First Squad?" one of the two young soldiers asked.

"Yeah, that's us. It's about time ya got here," Kirby answered gruffly.

The two privates, in their clean and crisp uniforms, assessed the grubby squad members before the second one replied with a smirk, "Yeah, it looks like ya could use all of the help ya can get. You old guys can step aside now an' let us young fellas take over an' finish the job." They both laughed.

Littlejohn, who had been curled up in the shade of a doorway, untwisted his arms and legs and stood, straightening to his full height as he moved to stand alongside Kirby.

"So, you two punks think you're gonna waltz in here an' end the war," replied the BAR man with a laugh.

"Well, it's obvious you an' Stretch haven't been able to get it done," the first one said with a sneer.

Saunders tilted his head back just enough to raise his helmet so he could see the replacements.

Kirby took a step toward the new men. "Why you little…" but Littlejohn put a hand on his shoulder. It was enough to restrain the forward momentum of the BAR man.

"Don't waste your energy, Kirby," the big man said. "They'll have to learn the hard way."

"An' who's gonna teach us…you?" punk number two asked with a derisive laugh.

Saunders sighed as he pulled his legs in and pushed his helmet back. Someone had to knock some sense into the new men and he guessed that was his job.

He stood and walked toward the replacements, "No, that would be me, if you live long enough to learn. What're your names?" he growled.

"I'm Grange an' that's Collins, Sarge," the taller of the two replied.

"I'm Saunders." He pointed out the rest of the men as he introduced them. Then he took another step forward so he was crowding the two new men. "Keep your mouths shut an' do what you're told. You got that?" he snapped at them.

The rest of the men in the squad didn't say anything as they got up and started gathering their gear.

"Drop your packs an' pick up a double basic load of ammo an' rations for a day from the supply tent at the end of the street. We move out in ten minutes," the NCO snarled.

The two replacements headed off for the supply tent. They didn't roll their eyes or smirk, but they did exchange small smiles. They'd been dealing with know-it-all authority figures since they'd been in knee pants, first their parents and teachers, then the coppers and judges, and most recently the army drill sergeants. All telling them what to do, thinking they could boss them around just because they were older. Well, these two had learned how to play the game: appear to be walking the straight and narrow but find the cracks in the system, take advantage of those cracks, then look contrite and blame someone else when things went sour, thus earning a second or even a third chance for redemption. This would be no different.

At 0640 the sergeant barked out the familiar orders, "Alright, saddle up. Caje take the point, Kirby the rear. Collins, radio an' fall in behind Littlejohn. Grange, behind McCall." He turned to face the waiting scout and, with a small flick of his wrist, he signaled the squad to move out.

()()()()()()()()()()

They made good time, zigzagging through the sector that was supposed to be clear. Caje spotted one enemy patrol and signaled the squad to take cover. Collins followed Littlejohn as he moved behind a large bush and crouched down. Grange continued to move forward toward the same bush, but McCall pulled him down into a ditch. The kid was ready to start an argument, but Doc dropped in beside the two soldiers and clamped his hand over the replacement's mouth. The veterans kept their attention focused on the Kraut patrol until it had passed.

When all was clear, Grange climbed out of the ditch and confronted both McCall and Doc. "What's the big idea! I was gonna get behind cover with Collins. You didn't have to pull me down. I can take care of myself. An' why'd you put your hand over my mouth. If I wanna talk…"

"You'll what? Talk an' get us all killed?" Kirby had joined the trio. "Sarge…"

Saunders walked slowly back to the site of the squabbling. He didn't need the details of what had happened. He had already decided it had been a big mistake to have brought these two replacements along. They didn't get it. This wasn't some exercise like they had done in boot camp. This was for keeps. There were no second chances.

He glared at Grange who seemed to be the source of this problem. Once again, he got in the young man's face as he growled, "This is the second an' last time I'm gonna say this. Keep your mouth shut an' do whatever one of us 'old guys' tells you to do or I'll save the Krauts the trouble an' shoot you myself. You got that?" He wheeled around and glared at Collins. "You got it?"

Collins and Grange both cast their eyes downward and contritely said, "Yes, Sergeant," in unison. When Saunders turned his back, they again smiled at each other. Just another authority figure who thought he was going to make them kowtow; fat chance of that happening.

()()()()()()()()()()

The scout and the sergeant sat at the top of the rise surveying the terrain ahead and comparing it with the map Saunders had taken from his breast pocket and unfolded. They were well into the second sector they were supposed to search with nothing to show for their efforts. At the foot of the rise the rest of the squad was taking the opportunity to get something to eat. The midday sun shone brightly, but there was still a chill in the air that was enhanced by a steady breeze.

"What do you want to do, Sergeant?" the Cajun asked.

Saunders again studied the map before answering. "Let's head east for another quarter mile. There's a river with a road of some sort running alongside. We'll check it for any signs of tank or heavy vehicle traffic an' then loop back toward home." He traced the route out with his finger as he talked while Caje committed to memory the landmarks he would need to lead the squad.

()()()()()()()()()()

The men were spread out on their bellies along the top of a high bank that sloped down to the road. On the opposite side of the road, the bank continued with a short sharp drop to the river. The sloped bank was dotted with trees, bushes, and depressions where trees, at one time, had been, all of which would provide good cover for the hundred yards between two curves in the road. The river was still running high and fast from the winter melt-off and the road appeared to be muddy and rutted. It should be easy to tell if there had been any recent military traffic.

The NCO signaled his squad to follow him as he rolled over and moved back down the way they had just come. Once the men had gathered around him, he laid out the plan.

"Caje, you're on me. We'll move down to the road an' see if anything of interest has been using it. The rest of you go about halfway down the slope. There are plenty of spots that'll provide good cover. If any Krauts come along, let them pass. Don't fire unless it's absolutely necessary." He stared hard at first Grange and then Collins before saying, "You got that?"

The two replacements dutifully nodded as if they understood and were going to obey the order.

"Any questions?…Let's go."

The men returned to the top of the bank and began to work their way down the slope. Kirby anchored one end of the line with Littlejohn ten yards to his left. Next were the new men sharing the same depression which ran behind a bush. About twenty yards beyond them McCall and Doc were also hunkered down in a dip in the landscape.

Once Saunders made it to the road, he searched the slope, looking for the rest of the squad. When he was satisfied that everyone, especially the two replacements, was well hidden, he joined Caje in examining the tracks that wheels and animals had recently made in the muddy road.

They started on the far side of McCall and the medic and slowly worked their way down the road to about where Littlejohn was hidden. Suddenly, they both raised their heads. Something was coming and at a pace far too fast for the condition of the road. The sergeant and the scout exchanged glances. Saunders motioned for the squad to keep down before he and Caje ran across the road. Almost immediately they slipped down the steep bank and were thigh deep in the cold water. They held their weapons with one hand and grabbed onto tree roots and any other vegetation available with the other. With unsteady footing, they had to lean into the bank to keep from being pulled into the river by the fast-moving current.

A vehicle, a troop transport truck, came careening around the corner past Doc and McCall. Shouts and screams came from the truck as it skidded down the muddy road and came to an abrupt halt with the front right tire hanging over the bank just beyond where Saunders and Caje were clinging. The tailgate opened and eight Krauts jumped down, still cursing the driver for almost having gotten them killed. After a moment, the passenger door of the truck opened, and a sergeant and the driver slid out of the cab.

While the Krauts were still occupied with their brush with death, Saunders signaled the Cajun to move further down the bank, away from the truck. All too soon their attention would turn to getting the vehicle back on the road and at that point, the two Americans would be spotted if they remained where they were. Slipping their weapons over their shoulders, they lurched from one piece of vegetation to the next as quickly as they could.

The Krauts decided to look for something to use as a lever so they could lift the front tire up while pushing the truck back onto the road. They started to scour the sloping bank. The veterans hunkered down deeper into their cover and signaled the two green braggarts to stay put. Collins and Grange, however, after assessing the situation, decided this wasn't going to end well, and they weren't going to stick around for the conclusion. They started to crawl back up the slope.

"AMERIKANERS! AMERIKANERS!" one of the Krauts yelled as he pointed. Shots from rifles and then a Schmeisser ripped through the air.

McCall, Littlejohn and Kirby returned fire.

The Krauts dropped to the ground and both sides were instantly locked in a deadly contest.

Saunders and Caje struggled to pull themselves out of the river. Once they reached the top of the bank they opened fire, flanking the Germans.

For a moment, things swung in favor of the Americans. Then just as rapidly, Kirby crumpled over and the pendulum reversed direction.

McCall crawled to the end of the depression he was sharing with Doc and then continued to move in until he was close enough to toss a grenade, taking out several of the German riflemen. Caje and the sergeant pressed forward to finish the rest of them off just as one of the Krauts released a potato masher. It landed close to the helpless BAR man.

Without hesitation, Littlejohn got up and threw himself over his comrade, shielding him from the blast with his body. The sound of the explosion drowned out the big man's shriek of agony.

And then it was quiet.

Saunders didn't even have to yell 'hold your fire.' He and Caje checked the Krauts; there were no survivors. They headed up the slope toward where the Kraut grenade had gone off, not knowing what they were going to find.

Doc quickly checked Collins and Grange; there would be no second chance for either of them. He continued on to where Kirby and Littlejohn lay.

McCall was already at the big man's side, trying not to look at the bloody boot that lay a few yards away as he pulled off his belt and wrapped it around what was left of Littlejohn's lower right leg, pulling it as tight as he could to try to stop the life from flowing out of the severed limb.

Doc knelt on Littlejohn's other side and said, "McCall, give me your bayonet." Once he had the blade in hand, he sliced open the back of Littlejohn's winter coat to assess him for any other wounds from the grenade blast. Although the fabric on the back of his field jacket and trousers was torn in a number of places, probably from small pieces of shrapnel, none of the wounds was currently bleeding very much. Finding nothing else of significance, he told Saunders and Caje to help him roll Littlejohn off of Kirby.

The smaller man had been shielded from any injury by the grenade, but the front of his winter coat was stained with blood. Doc opened the coat, then Kirby's field jacket and pulled up his shirt and undershirt to reveal the bullet wound in the right side of his abdomen. He rolled Kirby over to his side and located the exit wound. Before returning to Littlejohn, he told Saunders and Caje to put sulfa on both of the wounds and then pressure, lots of pressure.

The tourniquet McCall had applied to the big man's leg had stopped much of the blood flow but not all of it. Doc pulled off his own belt and put it around Littlejohn's leg further up the shin. McCall asked if he should loosen his belt and Doc shook his head 'no.'

Time seemed to stand still as the four men worked to save the lives of their comrades. Doc continually moved from one to the other, doing what he could but very aware that neither man was likely to survive such serious wounds unless they quickly got back to an aid station.

Saunders leaned over and asked Caje, "You got this? I'll check out the truck."

When the scout nodded, the sergeant hurried down the slope back to the front end of the truck. Although the Krauts hadn't had time to inspect it for damage before the firefight broke out, Saunders was hoping that all he would find was the front tire dangling off the side of the road. However, when he carefully crawled down the bank, he discovered that besides the wheel being off the road, the front axle was broken. The NCO slammed his fist against the tire. The best means of getting his wounded men back was gone.

He slowly climbed up the slope, trying to come up with another option, but in the end, he accepted that he must, as always, take responsibility for what had to be done. When Doc stopped his ministrations for a moment, the sergeant pulled him aside.

"Are they both going to make it?" the NCO quietly asked.

"They both need to get to a hospital as quick as possible, Sarge."

"If they got to a hospital, would they both make it?" Saunders asked earnestly.

Doc furrowed his brow, puzzled, until he realized what the sergeant was asking. There were only four of them. It would take all four to carry Littlejohn leaving nobody to carry Kirby. If they carried Kirby, there weren't enough of them to get the big man back. Saunders was asking him to pick who would be left behind.

"Sarge, Ah don't know. Ah'm not a doctor."

Saunders didn't say anything. He waited, with pain-filled eyes. They were his friends, too.

Finally, the medic softly said, "Ah don't think Littlejohn is gonna make it. Ah just can't get the bleeding stopped…It's gonna take a long time to get him back."

"Okay, Doc. I'll get a litter rigged up. You get Kirby ready to go."

Saunders walked over to Collins and Grange and removed a dog tag from the chains around their necks and slipped them into his breast pocket. He took all of the first aid supplies from their kits and tucked them into the front pocket of his winter coat. Finally, he pulled Collins' bayonet from its scabbard and vented his anger on the two saplings he would use to make the litter.

When he'd finished, he carried the litter over to where his wounded comrades lay. Kirby had regained consciousness and was moaning as Caje continued to apply pressure. Doc rolled the BAR man's sleeve up and gave him a shot of morphine.

"McCall, Caje an' Doc. You're gonna carry Kirby back. I'll stay here with Littlejohn," the sergeant said.

The men were dumbfounded as the meaning of what the sergeant had said slowly dawned on them.

"No," Kirby cried out. "You take Littlejohn. He got hurt protectin' me. The big moose never did have no sense."

"Sarge, we can't just leave Littlejohn," McCall said in exasperation. "I won't!"

"You'll all do what I say! Now get Kirby on the litter. Caje, do you need to look at the map?"

Caje understood the choice that had to be made. Although he was glad Kirby, his buddy, would have a chance, Littlejohn was also his friend and he didn't want him to be sacrificed. Not for the first time, he was thankful Saunders wore the stripes.

The scout shook his head. "No, Sarge, I know de route to take."

The medic walked over and quietly said, "Sarge, Ah'm staying here with you and Littlejohn."

"Doc…"

"Ah'm staying."

Littlejohn had regained consciousness several minutes earlier. He'd kept his eyes closed trying to deal with the pain. He'd hear what Saunders had said and the gentle giant understood. "Caje," he softly said.

The scout knelt by his side, leaning over so he could hear the faint words the big man said. As always, the Cajun was struck by how different they were, Littlejohn, so clumsy yet so open and friendly with everyone he met, and himself, so agile and graceful yet so guarded with his feelings.

"I know it's the only way," the big man said with difficulty. "I want you to visit Billy. Make him understand so he doesn't blame the Sarge. Promise me you'll do that."

"But, Littlejohn…"

"That's all you can do for me. Promise!"

"Okay, Littlejohn, but…"

"And Kirby…Take care of him. He's not as tough as he pretends to be," Littlejohn said, his voice now no more than a whisper.

"I will, mon ami, don't worry." The scout put his hand on Littlejohn's shoulder to seal his promise. He stood and took a last look at the man who had fought alongside him for so many months before he returned to Kirby.

Saunders continued to glare at Doc, but the medic held his ground. "Alright, Doc," the sergeant finally said.

They got the now unconscious BAR man on the litter. Doc gave Caje three of the remaining five vials of morphine and most of the bandages he had left in his rucksack. McCall said a final goodbye to Littlejohn who had become his closest companion in the squad. Then he and Caje picked up the litter and, without looking back, headed for home as the medic and the sergeant sat down at the big man's side to begin their vigil.

()()()()()()()()()()

The two men sat quietly. Every so often Saunders would get up and walk down to the road or climb to the top of the slope to scan for enemy soldiers, but the three comrades remained undisturbed.

Littlejohn moaned and started to thrash about, but Doc spoke to him softly and confidently, as he had to so many others since he'd joined the squad. Sometimes he thought that was all he could really do for the young soldiers who fell in battle, hold their hands so they didn't have to die alone. He checked the two tourniquets. He couldn't get them any tighter but the stump continued to ooze blood.

"Even if Ah could get the bleeding to stop, there's no way we can get him back," the medic said to himself.

"What did you say, Doc?"

"Oh, just that there'd be no way to get him back even if Ah could stop the bleeding."

"Let me worry about getting him back. Can you stop the bleeding?"

"Well, it's not something Ah've ever done, but Ah've seen doctors cauterize wounds in the operating room…"

The sergeant blanched as the terrible memories (c) came flooding back.

"…not that Ah'd try it myself…Sarge, are you alright?"

"Yeah, Doc, I'm fine. Do you think there's a chance it could save his life?"

"Ah don't know, but it would be too painful…the whole stump would have to be cauterized…The pain and shock…And there's always the problem of infection afterward…." The medic shook his head. "No, it's too risky."

"Doc, if you do nothing, he's gonna die, right?"

The medic sat quietly for what seemed like a long time. Finally, as tears welled up in his eyes he said, "If Ah give him morphine and he survives the cauterization, Ah'd only have one vial left for the trip back."

"If he regains consciousness, won't he pass out from the pain?"

Doc slowly nodded. "We'd need a fire. What about the Krauts?"

"I think those guys were deserters. There're no other truck tracks on the road. Where do you want me to build the fire?"

Doc wanted to be able to easily reach the bayonets he would need to heat up for the cauterization so Saunders build the fire close to the stump of Littlejohn's leg. The medic laid out the few sulfa packets and bandages he had to dress the stump once he was finished. The sergeant added the first aid supplies he had removed from the replacements as well as his own to the meager pile. He went back to the truck and checked all of the Krauts, but none of them had been carrying anything.

Once the fire had burned down, Doc cleaned the three bayonets, the two the sergeant had gotten off of Collins and Grange and the other from Littlejohn's scabbard, with alcohol and then put them on the remaining hot coals. He told the sergeant to find something for Littlejohn to bite down on and to be prepared to hold the big man's arms. Saunders removed his web belt and slid the leather holster off. He set the Colt .45 and the web belt aside.

Littlejohn came around again, and Doc explained what he and the sergeant were about to do and the pain it would cause. He asked the private if he wanted them to go through with it.

The big man thought for a moment, gave a weak smile and said, "My Ma will kill me if I don't at least try to make it home."

Doc checked the bayonets, turning each one over so that both sides got red hot. He went over in his mind what he had to do. The most important thing was not to stop once he had started. When he was ready, he nodded to Saunders and the sergeant straddled Littlejohn.

"I'm sorry," Saunders softly said as he positioned the holster for the private to bite down on. Then he leaned forward and grabbed the big man's wrists, pinning them down. He gave Littlejohn a last look before he closed his own eyes and said, "Ready. Doc!"

Doc pulled one of the bayonets from the coals and placed it on the stump where most of the bleeding was still coming from. As he counted "one…two," Littlejohn shrieked in pain and arched his back, battling with Saunders as he tried to free his hands.

The medic quickly turned the bayonet over and once again counted "one…two" as he applied it to the bloody stump. Again, Littlejohn shrieked, but the cry died out as he lost consciousness.

As soon as Littlejohn passed out, Saunders released his hands. He pushed himself to his feet and staggered away. With the smell of Littlejohn's singed flesh in his nostrils, he dropped to his knees and vomited.

Doc continued with the second and then the third bayonet, cauterizing as much of the ragged surface of the stump as he could. When he was finished, he liberally sprinkled sulfa powder over the seared surface and wrapped the stump in bandages. Then he leaned back on his haunches, covered his face with his hands, and wept.

It was several minutes before both the medic and the sergeant recovered.

Doc examined the dressing. There were no signs that the bleeding had resumed, so he slowly released the tourniquets. The singed blood vessels held. He waited until Saunders returned to his side before asking, "Now what, Sarge?"

"Now we get him home."

()()()()()()()()()()

Neither Caje nor McCall said anything as they trudged along. There were occasional incoherent mumblings from Kirby, but otherwise the trio traveled in silence. They stopped frequently to rest and to check the dressings on Kirby's abdomen and back. Caje applied pressure, trying to get the wounds to stop bleeding before he tightly tied more dressings on top of the blood-soaked ones that were already there. The bleeding did seem to stop, but as soon as they resumed the trek home and Kirby was jostled in the litter, it would eventually start again.

The scout recognized a rock formation the squad had passed earlier in the day. He figured they were about half-way back to the American lines. Kirby was becoming more and more agitated. Although Doc had said to wait four hours and it wasn't quite time, Caje briefly debated with himself whether to give the BAR man another shot of morphine. Kirby's distress won out and the scout picked a secluded spot to ease the litter to the ground. As he had at previous stops, McCall sat a distance away and stared off into space as Caje tended to the BAR man. His listless eyes didn't appear to be seeing anything.

"McCall, grab Kirby's arm so I can give him anoder dose of morphine."

McCall slowly turned to look at him, his dull eyes suddenly full of rage. "HE'S YOUR FRIEND! YOU TAKE CARE OF HIM!" In an instant, all of his anger, at the Krauts, at Collins and Grange, and at Saunders for having made the terrible decision was spent. He sagged and held his head in his hands, as he slowly shook it back and forth.

Caje glanced at Kirby. He was lying quietly, either because he had heard McCall's outburst or because he had sunk back into unconsciousness. The scout left his side to sit next to his squad mate.

"Look, McCall, I know you're hurting, but Littlejohn made de choice to save Kirby. You need to honor his decision. And Littlejohn…he was my friend, too."

The Cajun got up and returned to Kirby's side and checked that the wounds weren't bleeding.

After a few minutes, McCall said, "Do you want to give him the morphine now or wait until he starts to wake up again?"

"Let's wait. If you're ready, we'll go."

The two soldiers picked up the stretcher and once again set out for the safety of the American bridgehead.

()()()()()()()()()()

Saunders picked up one of the bayonets and returned to the Kraut truck. He searched it thoroughly, looking for anything that might be useful. In the end, he settled for a coil of rope, which he slung over his shoulder, and a flashlight, which he left on the hood of the truck to be picked up later.

He started to slowly walk down the road in the direction the truck had been heading. If the Krauts were deserters, they were headed away from their own lines. He had walked about a quarter of a mile when he spotted something. It was a dory pulled up to the bank and tied to a tree. Although he carefully searched the area, all he found was a path that led back into the woods, probably to the owner's house; the owner who had only left one oar in the boat, hoping that would prevent someone from stealing it. Saunders thought about heading down the path but decided against it. He didn't want to tangle with any irate German civilians.

The sergeant tossed the coil of rope into the bottom of the small boat, cut the line to the tree, and eased the boat into the water. It began drifting downstream. When he spotted the truck, he examined the bank for the best place to be able to get Littlejohn down to the river. Using the one oar, he managed to maneuver the boat to the bank. Then he jumped out and pulled the dory out of the water. He walked back to the truck and stripped all of the Krauts of their winter coats and picked up the flashlight. He lay most of the coats on the floor of the dory and stowed the light.

Dusk was fast approaching when Saunders wearily climbed back up the slope, dragging a piece of the tarp that had formed the roof of the truck bed. "How's he doing?" he asked as he crouched down beside Doc and Littlejohn.

"He's holding his own. There hasn't been any bleeding so that's a good sign. He's been in and out of consciousness."

As if on cue, Littlejohn opened his eyes.

Saunders bent over him and said, "Littlejohn, I need you to help us. We're gonna get this tarp under you an' then pull you down this slope. There's a boat waiting an' we'll float down the river back to our lines."

Littlejohn slowly blinked, his soft brown eyes looking at the NCO just as he had gazed at him a hundred times before when Saunders had given him an order that might have led to his death, 'Littlejohn, give us cover while Caje an' I try to flank them,' 'Littlejohn, move off to your left an' try to get a grenade in,' Littlejohn…' The answer was always the same, 'Okay, Sarge.'

The big man groaned as he was rolled first on one side and then on the other until he was laying on the tarp. Doc loaded all of his remaining supplies into his rucksack and then he and the sergeant grabbed hold of the front corners of the tarp and slowly managed to pull it down the slope to the road. It slid easily through the mud for another thirty yards past the truck to where Doc could see the boat pulled half out of the water and tied to a tree.

"Sarge, won't the Krauts see us?"

"It'll be dark by the time we get started an' since we'll be moving downstream, I'm hoping they'll think we're local fishermen. This river flows into the Rhine, so if we can make it across, we should run into Allied forces."

"We'll need to keep his leg elevated."

"Okay, Doc. We'll lie him on the floor an' put his leg up on one of the benches." Saunders paused for a moment, studying the big man's pale face. His eyes were closed, like he was peacefully sleeping – or dead. "Littlejohn?"

"Yeah, Sarge…what do you want me to do?" the big man weakly said.

"We're gonna pull you down this bank. It's gonna be bumpy so hang on. When we get to the boat, we'll need you to help us get you into it."

"Okay, Sarge."

They eased him down the bank, trying to be as gentle as possible over the rocks and exposed roots. When they reached the water's edge, the two men pulled him to a sitting position and, with his arms slung over their shoulders, they maneuvered him so his hips were in line with the boat.

Saunders bent Littlejohn's left leg, setting the big man's foot as close to his thigh as he could before shaking him awake. "Come on, Littlejohn! You've got to stand up."

Once again, with his arms over their shoulders, and Littlejohn pushing up a bit with his left leg, they heaved and managed to raise him enough to get him over the side of the boat and then to lower him down onto the middle bench. Then they carefully laid him back onto the coats and positioned his right leg so it was supported by the bench. When Littlejohn was as comfortable as they could make him, Saunders untied the line and he and Doc pushed the little boat into the river. While Doc gave Littlejohn one of the two remaining morphine ampoules, the NCO paddled to maneuver the boat to the middle of the river.

As the dory drifted downstream in the current, the sergeant kept a close watch on both shores. He hoped they would float down the tributary and reach the Rhine well before daybreak. Once they made it that far, he'd worry about how to get them across.

()()()()()()()()()()

By dusk Caje figured they were close enough to the American lines that it was worth sending McCall ahead to get help. But, to his surprise, McCall insisted that the scout would be able to make better time. He would stay and tend to Kirby.

As he sat at the BAR man's side, again putting pressure on the bullet's entrance and exit wounds, McCall thought about what Caje had said, that Littlejohn had made the decision to sacrifice himself to save Kirby. But why? Since he joined the squad, it had seemed obvious that the two soldiers didn't get along. They had constantly bickered over everything. He smiled when he realized how much it reminded him of himself and his own brothers. They had always been squabbling, too. And yet, how many times had they stood up for each other when one of them had gotten himself into a jam because… because that's what brothers do. McCall was glad the scout wasn't around when his eyes filled with tears.

Caje traveled quickly, slipping from shadow to shadow as the German night closed in around him. As he approached the forward sentry positions, he called out the sign and when one of the guards gave the countersign, he stood and slowly walked toward the sentries. In less than thirty minutes he was leading Lt. Hanley and a small group of soldiers, including a medic with a bottle of plasma, back to where his two comrades waited.

Kirby was transported over the Ludendorff Bridge and by sunrise he was on a flight to England.

Meanwhile, back at the bridgehead, Hanley began filling out the paperwork necessary for Littlejohn's parents to receive the Bronze Star for Valor in recognition of their son's heroic act of self-sacrifice.

()()()()()()()()()()

The sound of the river gently lapping against the sides of the boat changed to a more frenzied tattoo as they neared the Rhine. Both the sergeant and the medic hunkered down below the sides of the dory so that, hopefully, it would look like a derelict boat that would eventually float out to sea. No shots were fired. They were pulled into the Rhine and the boat picked up speed. However, they were moving parallel to the shoreline, not out into the center of the river. Saunders got the oar out and began paddling.

"Doc, it's gonna be light in another thirty minutes. We've got to get closer to the Allied shore. You take over paddling an' I'll tie the rope to the oarlock on this side an' pull it as I swim."

"Sarge, the water's too cold…"

"Doc, that's not gonna matter if we're caught in the middle when the sun comes up."

Saunders took off his boots and coat. He tied the rope to one of the oarlocks and the other end around his waist. As he slipped into the water, the cold immediately sucked his breath away. It took him a minute to get control of his breathing before he could start to swim slowly and steadily while Doc paddled on the other side of the dory. Together, they made slow but steady progress toward the opposite shore.

Neither of them was aware that in the semi-darkness two boats were approaching.

"Alright you men, stop right there," a deep voice with a decidedly British accent called out from one of the boats.

Saunders kept slowly swimming, but Doc stopped paddling and stared in the direction of the voice. He was suddenly exhausted. "Help us. We're Americans. We've got a badly wounded man… please…help us," he slowly said.

"Yanks! Well, blimey!"

Suddenly, the ping of rifle fire hitting the water gave the Brits a sense of urgency. "Alright lads, get that chap out of the water. Get a line around the bow…That's right…Now put your backs into it and let's get out of here!"

The shivering sergeant was plucked from the water. One of the Brits took off his coat and put it around him as the three boats headed for the safety of Allied lines.

()()()()()()()()()()

Caje and McCall sat on the ground with their backs against a building. They hadn't even had time to say good-bye to Kirby before he was whisked away. The scout was smoking and when he took the cigarette out of his mouth, McCall reached over and took it from him. "Do you think he'll be alright?" he asked.

"Yeah, Kirby's tough. Maybe not as tough as he dinks he is, but he's tough. It might take a while, but he'll make it." They sat in silence for a few minutes.

"Are you gonna visit Littlejohn's parents?" McCall finally asked.

"Yes. We have been squad mates since right after D-Day. He saved my life more dan once. It's what de big guy would want."

"You know where they live?"

"Mullen…Littlejohn said it's a real small town in Nebraska. He told me once dat you can ask anybody how to get to the farm because everyone knows everybody."

They again lapsed into silence as Caje took the cigarette back.

At last, McCall asked, "When do you think the Sarge an' Doc will get back?"

"I don't know." The Cajun didn't want to speculate on how long it had taken Littlejohn to bleed to death.

()()()()()()()()()()

"Here you go, laddie. A nice hot mugga with a wee spot of whiskey will fix you right up," the British sergeant said as he filled half the mug with the contents of a flask he pulled from his field jacket. He started to hand the mug to Saunders, but Doc intercepted it and held it for the still shaking NCO.

"L…L…Littlejohn?"

"He's in surgery, Sarge. They'll let us know when we can see him."

Saunders sipped some of the hot liquid and slowly began to feel his limbs as a bit of warmth spread throughout his body.

Several hours passed and still no word arrived about the big private. The impatient Americans finally got directions and walked to the makeshift British hospital. Once inside, they were directed to an empty room and told to wait. Finally, a man wearing a bloody lab coat with captain's bars on the collar entered the room.

"You're the chaps who brought in the man with the amputated foot. Sorry we didn't get back to you, but he's gone."

Doc's mouth fell open as he stared at the captain. "Gone…but he can't be gone. We got him back…" (d)

"I know. I don't think I would have had the nerve myself. So many things can go wrong, you know." The captain gave a tired sign, then continued, "However, you probably don't and that's why you went ahead and cauterized the stump."

Doc was crushed, now knowing that his desperate measure had, in the end, not saved Littlejohn's life, only caused him needless pain.

Saunders could only sadly shake his head. They'd tried but it hadn't mattered. Littlejohn hadn't made it. In the end, they'd only added to his suffering.

The doctor nodded and grinned. "Yes, when he wakes up, he'll be looking into some lovely bird's smiling face and wondering where he is, lucky bloke."

"But you said…you said he was gone," the stunned sergeant said.

"Yes, on his way back to hospital in London. Sorry you didn't get the chance to see him off."

As the realization that Littlejohn was alive slowly took hold, the two Americans could only look at each other and grin.

()()()()()()()()()()

The trip back across the Rhine was a little more harrowing than the first time when they had walked across the Ludendorff Bridge along with deuce-and-a-half trucks full of supplies. By now, the Krauts were raking the bridge and the river with artillery fire. They were throwing everything they had at the structure, trying to destroy it and stop the wave after wave of American soldiers and material that were pouring across the Rhine.

Because of the near-constant barrage on the bridge, the sergeant and the medic joined other soldiers who were crowded into LCM assault boats for the 1,066-foot journey across the river a bit further down the Rhine. Doc hadn't come ashore on Omaha Beach with Saunders and the Cajun, but this landing was more than enough for him. Once across, the two men rejoined the 361st and King Company.

()()()()()()()()()()

Lt. Hanley stopped working on the report he was writing as the two weary men entered. He wasn't expecting a cheery reunion; he expected to hear of the death of a man who had been under his command through months of hard fighting. So, he was astonished that Doc was grinning from ear to ear.

"He made it, Lieutenant! Littlejohn's alive and in England by now!" the medic said.

Saunders gave the lieutenant a tired smile. "Lieutenant, Doc can fill you in. He's the one who saved Littlejohn. I'm beat, so with your permission…"

Before the lieutenant could say anything, the sergeant turned and walked out of the CP.

Seeing the perplexed expression on Hanley's face, Doc said, "It's been a hard two days, Sir."

"Well, I know a couple of GIs that want to hear all about it. BROCKMEYER!"

As always, the ever-present corporal immediately responded. "Yes, Sir?"

"Find McCall and Caje."

"Yes, Sir!" It was the best order Brockmeyer had carried out for a long time.

After assuring Caje and McCall that Littlejohn was alive and in England, Doc told them and Lt. Hanley and Brockmeyer of the decision he and Saunders had made to cauterize Littlejohn's leg in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding and hopefully save his life. The lieutenant immediately thought back to the burning barn (e) and realized how difficult the decision must have been for Saunders. Only Caje understood how truly traumatic it was for the sergeant (c). Then the medic told of their journey, how they had crossed the Rhine, were picked up by the British, and finally re-crossed the river upstream from the Ludendorff Bridge.

As McCall and Caje filled Doc in on Kirby, the lieutenant sat quietly reflecting on the lengths the First Squad leader had gone to, and not for the first time, to save his men and how little recognition the men of the squad had received. That, he knew, was his fault and he decided to do something to remedy the situation. After the squad members had left the CP, he began the paperwork to promote each of them up a grade and to award Saunders a long-overdue Silver Star.

When the men returned to the cellar where they were bivouacked, they were not surprised to find Saunders sound asleep. The Cajun moved his bedroll so he would be closer to the sergeant should the nightmares return (c). However, his caution was unnecessary. The NCO, knowing all of his chicks (f) were alive and safe, slept peacefully.

()()()()()()()()()()

(a) Ecclesiastes 3:1, 8 – (1) To Everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven: (8) a time to love and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace.

(b) John 15:13 – Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.

(d) In World War II, over 85% of the soldiers who underwent emergency operations in a mobile field or evacuation hospital survived. Fewer than 4% of all patients admitted to a field hospital died. Although wonder drugs and advanced surgical techniques made the survival rates possible, it was the medics who kept the wounded alive long enough to make it into a hospital so the nurses and the drugs and the surgeons could do their work who deserved much of the credit. Source: Citizen Soldiers by Stephen E. Ambrose.

(e) Reference to "Survival" season 1 of Combat!

(f) Reference to "The Bridge at Chalon" from season 2 of Combat!

Author's Note: The average Rhine River water temperature in 1945 is estimated to have been about 11 degrees Centigrade (52 degrees Fahrenheit). (Source: European Environmental Agency) Expected survival time in water 40-50 degrees Fahrenheit is one to three hours. This drops to thirty to sixty minutes if exhausted or unconscious. (Source: United States Search and Rescue Task Force)

Historical Note: For ten days, beginning March 7, 1945, until it finally collapsed, six divisions, 25,000 soldiers, used the Ludendorff Bridge at Remagen to cross the Rhine River and establish a 'bridgehead.' On March 8th, one of the units to make it across was Company C of the 90th Chemical Mortar Battalion. The company was, at that time, attached to the 60th Infantry, and for the next week, was the only allied artillery on the east bank of the river. The author's father was an ammunition handler with Charlie Company. Source: The Story of the Ninetieth in Training and in Action (the official history of the 90th Battalion)