We Were Soldiers

58. A Bed of Leaves

Awareness crept slowly back into Sergeant Daniel Wells' mind, and with that awareness came the knowledge that he was dead. He knew he was dead, because there was only darkness, and everyone knew that when you died there was darkness. Everyone knew that next came the light at the end of the tunnel, the light you were supposed to move towards. So, he waited for it.

He waited for a long time. The light did not come. There was only darkness. How damn typical. The story of his life was now the story of his death.

Something hazy and blurry hovered in the darkness beside him, some fuzzy, indefinable thing. He tried to ignore it, but like a firefly at a campfire, it danced around him, taunting and enticing him. Curious, he reached out and touched it.

SLAM!

Everything hit him at once. Pain, terrible aching burning biting tearing pain ripped through him, starting in his right shoulder, spreading out across his back and his chest, sending bolts of lightning down his arm. There was a dull throbbing in his head, which steadily grew in a violent crescendo until it became like the ocean waves mercilessly pounding against the shore. There were other discomforts; his chest felt heavy and restricted, and something sharp was prickling at his face. All around him was the sound of the wind blowing through leaves on trees, and a horrible earthy smell of rotting vegetable matter, damp and mulchy, assaulted this nose.

When he dared to open his eyes, he found more darkness, but quickly realised the source of his discomfort; he was lying prone on the damp, leaf-strewn ground, various twigs poking into his cheek, scratching the skin on his face. But what the hell was he doing out here, out of the barracks tent?

The memory hit him as hard as the pain. The mission. The supply drop. The crack of German rifles firing. The burning sensation as his shoulder was hit. Then… nothing.

He turned his face, rolling his head to the other side to give his skin a reprieve, and saw the silhouette of something nearby. A sort of mound, in the darkness of the night. A mound which looked softer and lumpier than the rest of the forest floor. A mound which may have been somebody else. Maybe somebody injured, like him.

"Hey!" Danny hissed, his mouth dry, his throat hoarse. "Hey, wake up!"

Whoever it was didn't move, so he gathered himself and tried to push himself up off the ground. A new pain tore through him, pulling an agonised cry from his lips as his right shoulder failed to support him and he collapsed on the ground.

Okay. Shoulder not working. That's fine. I have another. Who needs two shoulders anyway? That's just greedy. Better try to keep quiet though, don't wanna attract Germans. Not even Germans wanna attract Germans. It's a wonder they manage to reproduce at all.

He cast his mind back to his basic training, to the advice the recruits had been given about what to do if they got shot. Dammit, what had the drill sergeants said? Oh yeah… Don't get shot.

Good going, Danny, your drill sergeants would be so proud if they could see you now.

Alright, so he couldn't rely on sage advice from his drill sergeants. He was on his own. That was fine. He was used to it. Growing up, he'd had a big family and a lot of friends, but he'd often felt like he was alone, no matter how big the crowd. Kinda ironic that for the first time in his life he was starting to feel like he wasn't actually alone, and now fate had thrown him yet another curve ball. One that had hit him on the head.

He rolled onto his left side, panting with effort and pain, keeping his right arm held tight to his chest. Around him were dark shapes dancing to the night breeze… branches of trees and bushes, the fronds of tall ferns. They seemed to be mocking his pain. Stupid trees. He'd show them. Later. For now, he had to figure out what the hell he was supposed to be doing.

Using his left arm, he pushed himself upright to his knees and immediately regretted it. The pounding in his head grew worse, bringing with it a rising urge to empty his stomach. He lowered himself down again and waited for the nausea to pass. As he waited, he lifted his left hand to his forehead and felt something warm and sticky trickling down from his temple. Blood.

Must'a hit my head when I fell. Hurts like hell. Why didn't my helmet protect me? Maybe it fell off before I hit the ground. Stupid helmet, it never fit right. I always thought the strap should fasten tighter. When I get back, I'll write the brass a strongly worded letter. Two letters. As many as it takes until they get me a better helmet.

It didn't occur to him that he wouldn't get back. He had to get back before the quartermaster redistributed all his stuff. Before the colonel wrote his parents a letter of condolence, and Danny had to go home and tell them he was still alive, and listen to his father tell him how useless the Army was at death, and how Danny should have joined the Navy like his brother Tim, because at least the Navy was more efficient at declaring people dead.

He had to get back before Barnes read his letter and thought he was some kinda pansy. He wasn't a pansy, he just cared about his friend. And maybe was perhaps possibly just a little bit in love. It was hard to tell. He'd never been in love before, and maybe this wasn't it. But whatever it was, it was different. What did it mean when you were happy when someone walked into a room? Or when seeing a person smile at you made your heart skip a beat? Plenty of dames had smiled at him, and the right dame with the right smile had certainly made things happen. They just hadn't happened above the belt.

Maybe he shouldn't have written that letter. Maybe he should'a said nothing. Just left things as they were. But then, he'd always intended to be dead by the time that letter got read. It wouldn't matter if he was dead, because Barnes could just read the thing then get rid of it and wouldn't have to think about it again, because there was nothing left to think about. But it was too late for regrets now. He'd written the letter and somehow he was going to have to get back to camp and retrieve it before his friend could read it. Or, if Barnes had already read it, try to assure the guy that Danny Wells was no pansy.

Or maybe he was a pansy. He didn't know that, either. Dames pushed the right buttons, but Barnes made his heart skip a beat. Maybe that was just friendship. Maybe it was a completely healthy and natural thing for a guy to feel. After all, it wasn't as if Barnes pushed those buttons like dames did. And that dream didn't count, because it had just been a dream, and it had just been the one time, and it had been a very disturbing dream that had left him unsettled for days. It didn't matter if someone pushed your buttons in a dream. It wasn't real. Dreams were just the mind's way of playing tricks on you. Of being cruel and deceiving you, taunting you with the things you couldn't have and, in this case, didn't want, because he definitely wasn't into men like that, not even if they made his heart skip a beat.

They'll call you Sergeant Fairy, he admonished himself. You'll get back and get a blue discharge. Worse than a dishonourable, that. Can't let them give you a blue discharge. Need to do something drastic before that happens. Get back and… and… punch Colonel Hawkswell. Yeah. Punch him in his stupid face. Then you'll get a dishonourable discharge instead, and when everyone back in civvy life asks why you got a dishonourable discharge, you can tell them it was for punching your CO. They'll be able to relate to that. Who hasn't dreamt of knocking the boss' lights out at some point?

He pushed himself up again, more slowly this time. His arm hurt and his shoulder hurt and his head hurt, but now he had a new mission. He had to get back to the camp and punch the colonel square on the jaw so that he got dishonourably discharged before anyone could find out about the letter and give him a blue discharge instead. Then at least he could still go back to his so-called life in the States and get a job and a place to live and be completely and utterly alone. Unless he could maybe convince Barnes to punch the colonel, too. Then they could both get dishonourably discharged and go home and… No, that was stupid. He couldn't ruin a guy's life just because he didn't want to be alone anymore. And he didn't even know if his friend could ever feel the same way, because Barnes definitely liked women. There was nothing for it; Danny was just gonna have to punch the colonel himself.

When he won the battle against nausea, he half-dragged, half-crouched his way over to the unmoving mound, and reached out his left hand to give a harsh shake of the leg beside him.

"Hey, pal, wake up!"

Might be a German.

He snatched his hand back, then groped for his sidearm.

Stupid Wells, should'a got your sidearm ready before moving. Can't go letting the Germans get the jump on you. Not again.

It was awkward, trying to hold the gun with his left hand, but it wasn't as if he had much choice. His right arm hurt too much to even think about doing anything with it, but at least he could still wiggle his fingers. That was a good sign. Like being able to wiggle your toes after a spinal accident.

He tapped the mound with the muzzle of the gun, ready to respond, to pull the trigger if whoever was lying there turned out to be a Kraut. But there was still no response.

Danny dragged himself forward until he reached the guy's head. Unlike Danny, this guy had fallen on his back, and now he was looking up at the trees above with unseeing eyes. It took a moment for him to realise that the guy was Private Hawkins, and when he did, his stomach wanted to empty itself again.

A tiny, persistent voice inside his head told him to keep shaking, to keep trying to wake Hawkins, but the realist pointed out how grey and colourless Hawkins' face was, how blue his lips were, how stiff and hard his body. Hawkins was dead, and he had been dead for more than a couple of hours. That meant Danny had been unconscious for some time, and each moment he stayed increased the risk of getting caught if the Germans came back. He had to leave. He had to get back to base camp and tell the colonel what had happened, then punch him in the face so he could get the right sort of negative discharge.

He put down his gun and, with a trembling hand, reached out to feel beneath Hawkins' shirt for the tags around his neck. When he found them, he tugged the detachable one off the chain and stored it inside the inner breast pocket of his jacket. Then he looked down at Hawkins.

He's wearing his boots. And he still has his weapons, and his ammo, and his canteen. Why does he still have all his stuff?

It wasn't uncommon for beleaguered German troops to strip a fallen enemy of anything valuable. Usually it was boots, weapons, ammo and any kits a soldier happened to be carrying that were taken, though Danny had heard horror stories about… trophies. To stop the theft and desecration, if a soldier fell in battle and his comrades couldn't get his body back to base, they took their friend's gear so the Germans couldn't get it, and buried him if they had the time.

Mustn't've had the time, he thought, looking down at Hawkins' grey face. Under fire. Couldn't even get our tags. But why didn't the Krauts take our stuff? Oh yeah, supply drop. Why waste time on a couple of dead soldiers when you have an entire camp's worth of supplies to get out? Probably afraid of our guys coming back with reinforcements. Had to get our supplies back to their base and didn't wanna waste time on a couple of corpses.

"Sorry, Hawkins, but I need this more than you do," said Danny, taking the man's canteen. He poured the water from the canteen into his own, filling it to the brim.

There seemed no point taking his own rifle along; he couldn't hold and aim it properly with his left hand, and it would only weigh him down. He emptied his bandolier of all the rifle ammo, took Hawkins' spare Colt ammo and put the man's sidearm in his own holster so that he had a second gun to fall back on. Then, from Hawkins' first aid pouch, he pulled out a sling, and managed to rig up a support for his arm, keeping it held fast against his body to prevent his shoulder moving more than necessary. It made him sweat and groan to do it, because each tiny movement was an exquisite moment of agony, but he finally prevailed, then sat back to breathe deeply and recover his strength.

He was injured. Weak. Needed to shed himself of excess weight so he could go more than a dozen paces without collapsing. Had to give himself the best possible chance of getting back by taking only what was necessary.

He ditched his entrenching tool and his gas mask, because he couldn't employ either effectively with only one arm in use. He considered ditching his waterproof poncho, too, but decided it would be too valuable it if rained. No point adding hypothermia to his list of issues.

Didn't Hawkins have one of those K-ration chocolate bars stashed away?

The thought was not appealing. K-ration chocolate tasted bad and was tough to chew. It was claimed they were Hersheys, but they tasted nothing like what you got off the shelves in Mr. Mcreary's grocery store back home. They'd been designed to survive high temperatures and humidity in the Pacific Theater, so that they didn't melt easily, and then inflicted on unsuspecting soldiers in the European Theater too. It took seven or eight minutes of chewing before even a small mouthful was suitable for swallowing, and he knew one or two men who'd lost fillings because of the damn things.

Needs must, he thought, and spent a moment searching Hawkins for the bar. He found it and took a bite, chewing for a few moments to delay the inevitable.

Hawkins was dead, but Danny didn't wanna leave him. Didn't wanna be alone. Not yet.

"You were the only guy I knew who actually liked these things," he told the body of the young man, once he'd managed to swallow the foul stuff. "I really wish I could bury you, but I think if I tried to dig a hole, it would do me in. I don't even know if I can stand up. But I have to get back, because if I don't give Barnes his socks back, he'll kill me. Sorry, I guess that was an insensitive comment. Don't know what came over me. I know I should be sad, too, that you're dead, but I think I'm in shock. Maybe I should get moving before that wears off. Before reality kicks in and turns me into a gibbering wreck."

He pocketed the remainder of the barely edible bar and took a few deep breaths, bracing himself against pain. Before he could talk himself out of it, he used his left hand to push himself to his knees, then staggered up onto his feet. His stomach complained again, or perhaps it was complaining about the so-called chocolate he had inflicted on it. His head swam, too, in a thick haze of sparkles and stars that blurred his vision.

Another reason to get back. He'd told Barnes, in his letter, that he should marry Rita Hayworth. If he didn't get back to camp soon, Barnes might just do that, and that had been fine when Danny had been dead, but now that Danny was alive, nobody else could marry the Hollywood star. It wasn't right. It was a pity marriage couldn't be done on a rosta, so they could share Rita. Monday, Wednesday and Friday, Barnes could be married to her, and Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, Danny could be her husband.

But what about Sundays?

Sundays… Sundays could be troublesome.

But he couldn't think about Sundays now. First he had to get back to camp. Then he had to punch Sergeant Haven for leaving him and Hawkins behind. Then he had to punch the colonel so he could get dishonourably discharged, then nobody would ever find out that he was maybe possibly potentially a tiny little bit in love with his friend. Then he had to survive the voyage back home, U-boats and all, do some time in an a cell, and find a way to contact Rita. It should be easy enough to convince her to marry him. He was a lot nicer than the last jerk she'd married.

He made his mind up to set out, and began to walk. He only got a dozen steps before he found another body. Another fallen soldier, this one lying face down, like Danny had been. It wasn't right, that a man should die with his face in the dirt, so Danny crouched down and rolled the soldier over, so he could face the sky instead.

It was Jones. Corporal Jones. The corporal had been one of the first batch to ship out to Europe along with Sergeant Weiss, so Danny hadn't gotten to know him on the boat, but Jones had always seemed like a decent guy. Jones, Jones…

Can't remember his first name. Maybe it was Jones. Maybe Jones Jones really was his name. At least his eyes are closed. Not like Hawkins. I suppose he could be sleeping, if it wasn't for the fact that he's dead.

Because dead men needed no items, he went through the same process that he had with Hawkins, taking Jones' spare Colt ammo, his canteen, his first aid kit and the detachable metal tag around his neck. He found another chocolate bar in the man's pocket, and took that too, because even K-ration bars were better than starvation, and Danny needed to keep his energy up. After he was done, he stood looking down at Jones for a moment, and wondered whether he should offer some sort of prayer for the dead men. But what good would that do? God, if he even existed, wasn't listening. Certainly not to Danny, maybe not to anyone. No, it would be best for him to get the tags back to the chaplain, let that guy handle it. That was the chaplain's job, after all. It wasn't as if he was good for anything else.

What if bears eat him? Or wolves?

The thought made him lift his sidearm as he scanned the trees, peering at shadows that might have been wolves and bears waiting for a quick meal. A city boy, he had no idea whether northern Italy had wolves and bears, but this forest looked like prime wolf and bear territory… or so he imagined. The closest he'd come to wildlife was in a zoo, and though he'd spent time as a kid out at his Uncle Pete's ranch, it wasn't the same.

Sorry, Corporal Jones Jones. I wish I could stay to bury you, to stop the bears and wolves eating you, but I don't have the time and I don't think I have the strength. Don't worry, I'll get your tags back, and I'll make sure any letters in your locker are sent. At least your letters will probably be nice, normal letters to your family. Not the type of letters to get you a blue discharge if you were still alive and anybody found out about them.

He set off again, but some twenty paces back from his men he found another body, this one bearing the shoulder patch of the 9th Infantry. It took him a moment to recall the guy's name; Martland. Private Martland. He knew virtually nothing else about him.

Whilst performing a search of the private and taking his tag, he found a small packet of the hard biscuits included in the ration packs, and took them because they were considerably more edible than the chocolate. He considered taking Martland's canteen and his ammo, but he already had two near-full canteens, and more ammo than he could possibly need. There was no point weighing himself down. He needed to move fast, get back to camp before either side pushed the line again. Before the camp moved. Before somebody other than Barnes saw his letter.

"See you on the other side, boys," said Danny, offering the fallen men one final salute. Then he set off, into the darkness, to find his way back home.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Walking was hard. He'd never realised until that moment just how hard it was. Oh, carrying full gear it had been tiring, especially on those damned forced marches, but even marches had never been as hard as this. Every step made his arm ache and his head pound. His legs didn't seem to want to work properly, so instead of a walk he managed only to achieve a trudge.

Not only was it hard, it was also hot. The air felt heavy and close. Soon his clothes were soaked with sweat, and moisture dripped constantly from his hair into his eyes. Every so often he'd use his sleeve to wipe at his face, but it wasn't long before he was wet through again. Never before had he experienced so hot a night.

Not the night that's hot. It's me. Shoulder feels like it's on fire. Might be something lodged in there. Bullet or two, maybe. Have to get back to camp so the docs can take it out. Then I'll be able to use my arm again. I need my right arm to punch the colonel. Not so good at punching with my left.

He stopped and pulled one of the canteens from his belt, and took the top off with his teeth. At the rate he was sweating he'd be dehydrated by sunrise, and if that happened, he would be up shit creek. He had to drink. To replace the fluids he was losing. God only knew how much blood he'd already lost. Maybe that's why he felt weak. Light-headed.

I must stink of blood. I hope the wolves and bears can't smell it. They might come looking for an easy meal. At least I've got my gun, and Hawkins' gun, and plenty of ammo. No bears or wolves are gonna get the drop on Sergeant Danny Wells.

CRACK!

The snap of a twig being broken nearby made him jump. The canteen slipped from his damp fingers, and he dropped quickly to the floor to scramble for it before all his water could leak out everywhere. As soon as he had the stopper back on the bottle, he hooked it onto his belt, stood up and drew his sidearm, aiming the gun up ahead, to where the cracking sound had come from. He pointed the Colt wildly from side to side, at any moment expecting a wolf or a bear to come rushing out to eat him.

A man stepped out of the shadows, and Danny's finger ached to pull the trigger. But he couldn't. Not yet. Not until he knew who it was. Might be other injured soldiers out here. Might be someone else from the 107th, or the 9th. He couldn't be responsible for shooting an ally, not even if it meant letting a German so close he could see the whites of his eyes.

It wasn't a German. The first thing Danny saw was a uniform that couldn't possibly be real, because what the hell would a captain of the Navy be doing so far from sea?

Then he saw the face above the uniform, and very nearly pulled the trigger.

"This is a fine mess you've gotten yourself into," his father said.

Danny closed his eyes. Hallucinating. You're hallucinating. Exhausted. Dehydrated. In pain. Alone. But why the hell'd you have to hallucinate that bastard? Out of all the people you could be seeing right now, you're seeing him. Why don't you dream up Rita Hayworth instead?

He opened his eyes, but it wasn't to the sight of a sultry red-head. His father looked disappointed. Scornful.

"Four sons, and you're the one who screwed up. You always screwed up, even as a kid," his father said. "Ever since you slithered out of your mom, screaming and wailing, you've done nothing but screw everything up."

"Oh, shut the hell up," Danny growled. He lifted his gun, pointed it as his father. "And get lost. I'm free of you, now."

"Free of me? Boy, I'm your family. That's not a responsibility you can just walk away from. Do your friends in the Army know that's why you signed up? Because it was the only way you could find to run away from home? Do they know what a coward you are?"

Danny squeezed the trigger of his Colt to just before the firing point… and held back.

Can't fire your gun out here, idiot. Not unless you're being attacked by wolves or bears. Might still be Germans lurking around. Can't give away your position. Ignore the old fool. He's not here. He's not real. Gotta keep moving. Don't let him slow you down. Don't let him try to stop you from getting back to camp.

He lowered his gun and set off again. His father didn't follow, but after a while, another familiar figure appeared. And now Danny knew for one-hundred percent sure he was hallucinating, because dead men did not walk.

"Sarge," said Hawkins, his uniform spattered with blood. "You left me behind."

"It's not like that, Hawkins," he mumbled tiredly. "You were dead. I had no choice. I gotta get out of here. Find a way back. Take your tags to camp so they're not left forever wondering what happened to you."

"I'd still be alive, if it wasn't for you."

Hawkins' words stopped him in his tracks, and he looked up at the young private.

"I know."

When Barnes had advised Hawkins to go home and be with his family after Drew's death, Danny had advised him to stay. He should've agreed with Barnes. Told the kid to accept the General's offer. But he hadn't. And now, Hawkins' parents had lost both sons to war. And that was on Danny.

He stumbled on again, his thoughts going back to those first days at Camp Shanks, when everything had been easy, and simple, and light. Before the fighting had started. Before the death and the loss which wore down every soldier whether they showed it or not.

Carrot appeared next, his blue eyes full of innocence and confusion.

"I don't understand, Sarge. Why were you always a jerk to me? I looked up to you, wanted only to earn your trust and approval… yet you always put me down and made fun of me and my girl. Why?"

He had no answer. Carrot was right. Danny had done those things to get a laugh out of himself and others. Because it had seemed a good way to keep everyone at arms' length. To stop them asking questions and wanting to get close. Because it was easier to be a jerk than to care. It had been easy, at first, when everyone in the 107th had been strangers. Would've stayed strangers, if Danny had had his way. But no, Barnes had to go and ruin that, too. Started to make him care about all the chumps who'd signed up because they thought they were doing the right thing. Because they were brave, stupid idiots. Better men than Danny, who was only there because it was easier to be in the army than it was to be at home, even with being shot at.

"Hey there, soldier," a woman's voice purred by his ear. He spun on the spot and found Rita Hayworth beside him. Tall, slender, wearing a blue dress that brought out the copper in her hair, and with pins to die for. "Looks like you're trying to get somewhere."

"Gotta get back to camp," he said, no longer surprised by the visitations.

"Are you sure that's where you're going?"

"Of course. Where else would I be going?"

"Seems to me that a man like you could go just about anywhere he wanted."

"Yeah, well, what do you know?" he scoffed. "You're just a figment of my imagination."

"Am I?"

"God, I hope so." Because why the hell would the real Rita be out here in the middle of fascist Italy wearing a gown like that?

"Is this better?" she asked, and when he looked again he found her wearing combat fatigues which hugged her curves and actually managed to make her look even sexier than the dress had. Her voluptuous red curls had been tamed into plait, which hung out from beneath an olive drab peaked cap.

"Sure. Wanna get married?"

"Okay," she shrugged. "But only for Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Right?"

"What about Sundays?"

"I don't do Sundays, hun. God's day of rest, you know. You'll have to figure something out. Tell you what, why don't you go lie down over there and think about it for a while?"

"Lie down where? On the damn forest floor? Where I'll get eaten by bears or wolves or Nazis? No thanks."

She laughed, a rich, melodic sound. "Oh, you're so funny! Of course you shouldn't sleep on the floor. That would be uncomfortable. No, there's a bed over there. Take a look for yourself."

He did, and saw that she was right. Up ahead, there was a four-poster bed. In fact, there was a whole bedroom, missing one of the walls so that Danny could see into it. It was obviously a dame's room, because the vanity was covered with bottles of perfume and small tubes of lipstick, and there was a huge mirror standing up from it. At the foot of the bed was a chaise-longue, on which another Rita lounged; the Rita wearing the dress, watching him with a come-hither stare.

"There's a bedroom in a forest. That's not normal."

"It's my bedroom," the fatigue-wearing Rita by his side told him. "You wouldn't believe how comfortable that bed is. Go and give it a try."

"I'm not tired," he lied. He was exhausted. His mouth was parched, his head was swimming in a fog, and his shoulder was so painful it had actually ceased hurting. A sort of numbness had settled over him. A tiredness he no longer wanted to ignore.

He reached the bedroom and the Rita there smiled at him as he prodded the bed to test its comfortableness. If that was even a word. The bed did indeed feel quite comfortable, so he got into it and lay his head down on the pillow. But he kept hold of his gun, because he wasn't a complete idiot, and one of these Ritas might actually be a German double-agent.

"What day is it?" he asked.

"What day do you want it to be, sugar?"

He couldn't answer. He was too tired to think about that now. Exhausted, he closed his eyes and fell into a sleep so deep that he didn't feel it when a hedgehog came snuffling up to him because he lay in its path, and when the sun began to rise, revealing his bed of dirt and leaves, not even the light and the dawn chorus could rouse him.

This is a cliffhanger.