Combat! is owned by ABC TV. This story is meant only for the enjoyment of Combat! fans, with no intention to infringe on any copyrights, and no monetary compensation has been received.
This story has been a long time in the making. Due to some medical issues, it's been a stop/start project, but I didn't want to leave Saunders and his men in limbo, so it's finally seeing the light of day. It grew up out of a germ of an idea offered by Sandi McIntyre. So, thanks, Sandi. If you are reading my stories for the first time, I do strongly suggest you read them in order since many build on each other, and I have created a few new characters that pop in and out of various stories. Without having this previous knowledge, some of this story will not be meaningful for you.
All of that being said, here is another look at what goes on in Saunders' head while he continues to lead and protect his men in WWII France.
Thanks for reading…and thanks for your patience. Enjoy, and be sure to leave your thoughts at the end.
DEAD TO THE WORLD
CHAPTER 1
The sky was vivid blue and the sun was shining brightly, but Sergeant Saunders was walking in a fog as a dark cloud hung gloomily over his head. Everything seemed to be weighing heavily on his tired shoulders. It wasn't the first time, and he knew that it probably wouldn't be the last.
His men walked silently behind him, mindful of the somber mood that had spread through the squad. Another patrol…another casualty. Their sergeant reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the dog tag. Turning it over in his hand, he read the name. Timothy Triste.
Timothy. Saunders had never even known the soldier's first name, and he was already gone. Timothy…his mother probably called him Timmy. What would she call him now? My late son? Hopefully the Company would soon take that sector so at least Mrs. Triste had a body to bury and mourn over. A gravesite to visit and remember. And to imagine who he might have become.
The sergeant gave a slight, silent sigh and carefully slipped the dog tag back in his shirt pocket. Glancing over his shoulder at his men behind him, he thanked the stars that everyone else made it through the patrol. They'd been out on continuous patrols and various missions for almost two weeks straight. As usual, Saunders rotated his men, trying to give them much needed breaks. But he wasn't catching any breaks. He'd been out on every single one. Every…single…one. And he was really feeling it.
Their only respite was when they were assigned sector Charlie. They'd never come across any signs of kraut activity in sector Charlie. None. Not a single kraut or even a gum wrapper. But for Saunders it still felt like they'd had casualties practically every time they went out. Two wounded…one serious enough to be shipped stateside. And, he thought as he lightly touched his shirt pocket…1 dead. It seemed that the new guys fell as fast as they joined his squad.
The responsibility for the safety of his men had never weighed more heavily on his shoulders. And there just didn't seem to be any end in sight. Sometimes it felt like the weight of the entire war was on his tired shoulders. He'd been fighting since '41.
Three years was a brutally long time to be at war. Most of his men had barely seen six months of combat. Even that was too much, he thought. The stress would be much easier to handle if he didn't have the lives of his men to worry about. He tried to teach them what he could…give them as many breaks as possible.
He just wished he could see some results. They'd been stuck in this place for two weeks, waiting for the rest of King Company and Battalion to catch up. They knew there were krauts out there, but they had no idea exactly where or how many. No one had found them yet. Just random encounters with patrols. Until they had reinforcements, Captain Jampel was staying put…dug in and waiting.
Three years of war, Saunders thought. For what?
"Sun!" interrupted his thoughts as a shout came from the woods in front of him.
They'd reached their most forward lines. Saunders hadn't been paying attention.
"Beam!" the sergeant called out in return.
As the patrol went through the line of soldiers, Saunders gave a slight wave of acknowledgement. He mentally noted how young they all seemed to be, as he slowly led his men back to their bivouac.
Even though the Company was spread out and separated, Captain Jampel had pushed farther into German territory and taken a small French village at a strategic crossroads. Not far from a wide bridge crossing a swiftly flowing river, the village was key to the entire Battalion making a significant advance.
Until Battalion and the rest of the Company caught up to them, however, it was up to what men they had to hold the town and protect the bridge. It was a familiar task and everyone knew what had to be done.
First squad was bivouacked in an open lean-to on the edge of town. It was something he frequently looked for. Sufficient enough to protect them from the recent rains, yet open enough for a small coffee fire. And if the Germans attacked, they'd see them coming. The rest of the soldiers were scattered throughout abandoned stores along the main street. Officers' quarters were in a tavern that had an inn above. The officers had the rare luxury of their own rooms.
Watching as each of his men wearily dropped their gear and lay down on their bedrolls, Saunders said, "I'll be at the officers' quarters with the Lieutenant if anyone needs me."
CHAPTER 2
"You look beat," Lieutenant Hanley remarked as he opened the door to his sergeant's knocking.
"I am beat," Saunders replied wearily. "We all are."
Opening the door wider, the officer said, "C'mon in."
Saunders removed his helmet and stepped in. A neatly made bed sat near a half-open window. An armoire stood in one corner, with a worn bureau in the opposite corner. The officer's helmet sat on a faded velvet chair, with his rifle leaning next to it. A small round table, laden with paperwork, was pulled up close to the bed.
Hanley pointed to the velvet chair. Saunders set the officer's helmet on the floor, unslung his Thompson and sat down. He dropped his helmet next to the officer's and leaned his Thompson against the wall next to the rifle.
With what still felt like the weight of the world on his back, it was wonderful…yet somehow completely foreign…to sit on a soft chair. Not a rock…or a fallen log…or the cold, damp ground. A real chair. He closed his eyes for a moment to just appreciate it.
"How'd the patrol go?" the officer interrupted his thoughts. "I heard rifle fire."
Saunders opened his eyes and silently sighed. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the dog tag.
"We lost Triste," the sergeant replied, holding out the tag.
Hanley stared at him for a moment, and then took the tag and sat down on the bed. He turned the tag over in his hand.
"He just got here."
Saunders nodded, reaching into his field jacket pocket and taking out his crumpled pack of cigarettes and his lighter. Lighting one, he inhaled deeply.
"Never even knew his first name."
The sergeant ran a hand through his gritty, blond hair, and looked at his Lieutenant. "It's Timothy…Timmy."
The two soldiers sat in silence for a long moment until Hanley dropped the tag on the bed next to him.
"So, what happened?"
Saunders took another deep drag on his cigarette and slipped his lighter back into his pocket.
"We went out looking for krauts…and we found 'em. More like they found us."
He watched as the smoke curled lazily around his hand, moving with the gentle breeze from the window.
"We were on the outer edge of the sector when we split up for a few moments to check something out. We were waiting for the others to join up with us again when we stumbled on a kraut patrol, probably doing the same thing we were doing. Triste was closest and went down. We fought for a short while, and then the krauts pulled back."
He took another drag on his cigarette. "Don't know why they pulled back. They had us outnumbered. Not the first time, either."
"You've been lucky," the officer replied.
"Yeah," Saunders echoed with a sigh. "Lucky."
The officer looked down at the map on the table. "I don't know why they don't just hit us with everything they've got. They probably have all of us outnumbered."
"They sure don't have mortars or artillery available, or they'd have hit us with it by now," Saunders remarked.
"We don't have it either," the officer replied. "But that doesn't mean the krauts won't have them sometime soon. And we're nowhere near full strength. They've got to know that."
Running a hand over the stubble on his cheek, the sergeant squinted at his Lieutenant through the smoke.
"When are we gonna stop this? Everyone's dead tired. And I'm running out of men. Why don't we just sit tight, hold our position and wait for Battalion?"
Hanley leaned forward and picked up the map. "We may be stuck here until Battalion and the rest of the Company catch up, but we do what the Captain orders."
He waved the map slightly. "Our orders are to hold this position and keep patrolling…and that's just what we're going to do."
"We've been here almost two weeks already," Saunders continued. "What's taking so long? What are the brass waiting for?"
"They haven't thought to inform me," the officer replied curtly.
After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, Hanley's face softened. "Look, I know everyone's tired," he added.
"Captain Jampel says we've got to hang onto this town. We've created another bulge in the kraut lines and the brass are thrilled. But now we're stuck defending three sides instead of one. We're spread thin with no new replacements in sight. You got the last one."
The sergeant gave a grim smile. "Yeah, Triste."
He leaned forward and looked at his Lieutenant. "The krauts are sending out patrols too, probably looking for our weak spots. They keep picking us off one at a time, sooner or later they're gonna find that weak spot…or create one."
Hanley picked up the dog tag, looked at it for a moment, and slipped it into his shirt pocket. "Just hang in and do the best you can. Try to get some rest. You'll be going out tomorrow night."
Staring at the last of his cigarette for a moment, Saunders finally nodded. "Figured as much."
Picking up his helmet, he stood up and grabbed his Thompson. Slinging it over his shoulder, he slipped on his helmet…and left.
CHAPTER 3
Nearing their bivouac, Saunders looked at his men, sprawled around a dead coffee fire ring. Kirby was poking the cold ashes with a stick.
"Anyone want coffee?" the BAR man asked. "We ain't gettin' any hot chow until tonight."
"Not even sure about that," their sergeant replied as he joined them.
"Sure," Caje replied, pulling out his cup. "I'm too tired to heat up any food. Hot coffee would be good."
"You want some, Sarge?" Kirby asked as he threw twigs and leaves in the ring.
Saunders unslung his Thompson and set it down next to his bedroll. Taking off his helmet, he dropped it next to the Thompson. He ran a hand through his hair quickly, and sat down on his bedroll.
"Sure."
The sergeant watched as their medic knelt next to Brockmeyer, bandaging the soldier's hand. Brockmeyer sat quietly watching as well.
"How is he, Doc?" Saunders asked. They certainly couldn't afford to have another man out of commission.
The medic looked over his shoulder. "He'll be ok. Not bad at all. Just gotta keep it clean."
Brockmeyer looked at his bandaged hand and wiggled his fingers. "Guess a little R is out, huh, Doc?"
The medic shut his med kit with a short laugh.
"Sorry."
Saunders laid back on his bedroll and momentarily closed his eyes. He took some small satisfaction from knowing that Brockmeyer would be ok. With yet another patrol coming the next night, he might need all the men he could get. Every patrol was in a different area, but they'd covered each sector several times over. He practically saw the terrain in his sleep.
He sighed inwardly. Another patrol. A night patrol this time.
"You gonna catch some shut eye, Sarge?" Littlejohn asked as he unbuckled his boots.
"If you wanna get some sleep," Billy offered, "we can all keep it down."
There were nods of agreement among the squad. Left unsaid was their concern for their sergeant. They could visibly see the change in the man in the past couple of weeks. He hadn't shaved for at least a week. And he seemed to have aged considerably. They could tell he was worn out. Exhausted. But what worried them most was the ominous beginnings of the thousand-yard stare.
They knew it wasn't good, but they had no idea what to do about it.
Saunders rubbed his eyes. "No…just resting. Have some of Kirby's coffee and I'll be fine."
But the sergeant knew that no amount of coffee would make him 'fine.' Sleep might help, but that had been elusive for him lately. He'd manage to fall asleep for an hour or two…dead to the world…but then he'd wake up in a cold sweat and all thoughts of sleep vanished. The faces of the dead came back to haunt him.
He'd come to hate the nights. He wasn't looking forward to Triste being added to the nightmarish parade of faces. But he knew it was inevitable. The bad dreams had descended upon him before, but they'd never lasted this long.
"I'll let you know when the coffee's ready, Sarge," Kirby offered.
His sergeant gave a slight wave and stared up at the sky. He resisted the almost overwhelming need to close his eyes and sleep.
CHAPTER 4
Saunders followed his men to mess.
"Sure glad Cook could make dinner tonight," Billy said as they walked.
"So am I," Littlejohn replied with a big grin. "Wonder what he made?"
"Who cares?" Brockmeyer asked. "Long as it's hot."
Saunders had no idea what Hash was making either, and he really didn't care. His preference would have been to stay on his bedroll drinking Kirby's coffee. He wasn't even thinking about needing food to keep his strength up. He just knew that trying to sleep on an empty, aching stomach would only add to his problems.
"You want bread, Sarge?" broke into his thoughts.
Saunders looked up to see Petey holding out a slice of bread. Glancing down, he realized that he was already in line with a plate of food. Staring blankly at his plate for a moment, the sergeant finally blinked a few times, and looked around self-consciously. Reaching out, he took the bread and moved out of line to find a place to sit.
"There's room here, Sarge," Littlejohn called out, pointing to a crate between him and Doc.
Saunders went over, sat down and stared at his plate. Eat, Saunders, he thought to himself. He picked up his fork and forced some food into his mouth. Tasted like cardboard.
"Pretty good for Army chow, ain't it?" Nelson asked, shoveling corn into his mouth.
"Hash is a good cook," Doc agreed.
"Well don't tell him," Kirby huffed. "It'll go to his head."
Saunders put another forkful in his mouth, not even aware of what he was eating. He'd hoped that all of the coffee he'd had would help clear the fog and cobwebs that had settled over his brain. But it hadn't worked. Maybe the food would do the trick.
The men sat in silence until Caje looked at Doc and jerked his head toward their sergeant. He mouthed, 'Go on.'
The medic took a deep breath.
"How've you been feeling, Sarge?" the medic broke into Saunders' thoughts.
The sergeant looked at his medic. "Fine."
"You seem kinda…tired," Doc continued carefully with concern.
"I am," Saunders replied with a faint smile. "We all are."
"I'm fine," he repeated, and put another forkful of food in his mouth.
All the men knew that their sergeant was far from fine. Doc was sure something more was going on. But he also knew that as far as their sergeant was concerned, the discussion was over. He glanced at the other men, and everyone went back to eating their meal.
The squad ate in uncomfortable silence, stealing occasional glances at their sergeant and each other.
"Sergeant Saunders?" interrupted the almost deafening silence.
"Yeah, Price?" Saunders replied wearily without looking up.
"Lieutenant Hanley wants to see you," the soldier explained. "After you're done eating."
Price stood awkwardly staring at the sergeant's back. "Sorry."
Saunders sighed inwardly and dropped his fork on his plate. What little appetite he'd had was gone now. He stood up to go scrape the rest of his meal into the barrel.
CHAPTER 5
"Finish eating?" the officer asked as he motioned to the velvet chair.
Saunders nodded silently. Sitting down, he dropped his helmet on the floor and pulled out his cigarettes.
Hanley took a map from his table and handed it over. The sergeant unfolded it and spread it across his thighs. He studied it while fishing in his field jacket pocket for his lighter. Taking it out, he lit his cigarette, snapped the lighter shut and tucked it back in his jacket with the pack.
"Why a night patrol?" he asked, taking a deep draw on his cigarette. "And why there? We've already been through this sector many times. I could do it with my eyes closed. Never saw a single kraut."
The Lieutenant sat on the bed. "Sector Charlie is our weakest. I know we haven't seen any activity there. But that's been during the day. Captain Jampel wants to check it out at night as well. We don't want any surprises. They hit us from that direction and we could get cut off from Battalion."
"Why not just beef up that sector if the Captain is worried about the krauts breaking through?" the sergeant asked as he stared at the map.
The officer sat up straighter, beginning to lose patience. "We both know how short-handed we are. We beef up that area and we just end up weakening another. Our left flank is pretty weak as it is with Lieutenant Norris out of it. With all the enemy activity in the other sectors, we've had to strengthen them as much as we can."
He paused to see if his sergeant would respond. When Saunders remained silent, Hanley continued.
"We're flying blind right now. We have no idea where the krauts are, how many there are or what they're up to. We can only guess and react until we get some support."
"The krauts sure know where we are," Saunders replied, taking another draw on his cigarette.
The officer remained silent.
"Anything else?" Hanley finally asked sternly. He wasn't used to so many questions about his orders. He knew Saunders was tired…but so was he.
"Why my squad?" Saunders asked abruptly.
"Why not?" the Lieutenant replied, glaring at his sergeant.
Saunders remained silent, recognizing how close he was to crossing the line. He stared at the map. A map he wouldn't even need.
Both soldiers sat in tense silence for a long moment. When the Lieutenant received no response, he continued.
"Leave tomorrow night after mess. Take who you want. Rest up for now."
Saunders stuck the last of his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and folded the map. Shoving the useless paper into his field jacket pocket, he picked up his helmet and slipped it on.
He knew when he was being dismissed.
CHAPTER 6
Rest up, the sergeant thought to himself as he walked down the stairs of the inn and wove his way through the tables of the Command Post in the tavern below. Stepping out onto the front porch, Saunders removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm. He took one last drag on his cigarette and flipped it out into the fading light, watching as it bounced on the cobblestones and disappeared in the gutter.
Rest up. If only it was that easy. He couldn't remember his last decent night's sleep. It'd never been like this before. A parade of faces that kept waking him up. So many faces of men lost under his command. And for what?
The futility of his own actions had been creeping up on him for quite awhile now, but until lately he'd managed to keep those feelings buried. Now he felt like he was losing the battle. He just couldn't shake the feeling that everything he'd done for the last three years had been pointless.
The war just kept rolling on. He'd left North Africa before he saw much progress. Same with Italy. He'd almost lost his good friend Syd Thomas in Italy…and he had lost his friend Grady Long here in France.
Bury the dead and move on. It all seemed so…pointless.
With a heavy heart, the sergeant ran a quick hand through his tangled hair and slipped his helmet on. He looked at his wrist to check the time. Nothing. He'd forgotten that he'd given it to Kirby when they'd split up the patrol. Man had no sense of time, he thought. Especially military time. He'd have to remember to get it back from him. After waiting for a few soldiers to pass, he headed back to their bivouac.
At least the patrol will be in Sector Charlie, he thought as he pulled out his cigarettes once again. Good bet he wouldn't lose any more men. Odds were slim they'd see a single kraut. But… he still wouldn't take that bet.
By the time he'd reached their bivouac he'd decided that he'd only bring Caje and Brockmeyer on the patrol. Give the other men a well-deserved break. He wished he could just do it alone. He sighed deeply. He knew how foolish that would be, and Hanley would never agree to it.
He lit another cigarette and stuffed the pack and lighter back into his field jacket.
CHAPTER 7
"Coffee, Sarge?"
Kirby held up the pot as his sergeant came into their bivouac. "Still some left."
Saunders shook his head. Coffee wasn't going to help his mood. He dropped his helmet next to his bedroll. As it bounced against his Thompson, Saunders realized that he hadn't bothered to take his weapon. Knowing Hanley, it probably didn't go unnoticed. They were hardly in a secure area. He should've had the Thompson.
He knew the officer was not happy with him lately. Their conversations for the last few days had been growing more and more strained. Hanley hadn't brought up the question 'Why?' and Saunders hadn't volunteered what he'd been experiencing.
Try as he might, the sergeant just couldn't break through the gloom. Maybe tomorrow would be better, he thought hopefully. It had to break sometime.
He rummaged through his haversack and pulled out a blank V-mail and the stub of a pencil. Sitting on his bedroll, he turned to the fire and settled in to write his mother and sister. Between the constant patrols and his mood, he hadn't written to them in over a week. He knew that they would begin to worry.
Trying to concentrate, however, he couldn't seem to get past 'Dear Mom and Louise'. His thoughts kept straying back to his mood and how he knew it had to be affecting his men. The sergeant looked around at the soldiers as they began to settle in for the night. He kept having the nagging feeling that with everything hanging over his head, his men would be better off without him.
All of it had certainly caused friction with the Lieutenant over the last few days. He could tell that Hanley was cutting him some slack, but the man's patience was definitely wearing thin. It had to be spilling over to his men, too. They were hiding it well.
Saunders tried to remind himself that everyone in the Company was tired and stressed. But it just didn't help to lighten the feeling of…hopelessness…that seemed to cling tenaciously to every bone, muscle and cell in his body.
He knew he had to shake this off. Soon. For the good of the squad and for his own good. He just didn't know how.
With a silent sigh, he tucked the paper and pencil back into his haversack. Another time. Slipping off his field jacket, he laid it next to his Thompson and helmet. Stretching out on his bedroll, he stared at his boots. He was too tired to even think about taking off his boots. Pulling up his blanket, he rolled over onto his side with his back to his men, and closed his eyes.
After a few minutes, Kirby stood up.
"Hey, Sarge?"
"Quiet, Kirby," Doc said in a loud whisper. "He's asleep."
Looking at his wrist, Kirby slipped off the watch, went over to his sergeant's spot, and tucked the watch into a pocket of the field jacket lying next to the Thompson.
"He's gonna need this."
"You never gave it back to him?" Caje asked with a touch of anger.
The BAR man looked around at the other men.
"I forgot."
CHAPTER 8
Saunders slept the sleep of the dead until scores of soldiers' faces crept over him, crowding out anything pleasant. When Triste's haunting face appeared, the sergeant woke with a start.
Sitting up, he looked around. All was quiet. Everyone had turned in and settled down for the night. Slight snuffles and snores were the only sounds in their bivouac... except for Saunders' ragged breathing. His blanket was lying in a tangled heap around his feet.
Saunders wiped the sweat from his forehead, and shakily ran both hands through his damp hair. Fumbling through his field jacket pockets, he pulled out his watch. With a slight smile, he realized that Kirby must have slipped it into his jacket while he was asleep. He'd forgotten it again.
Setting it aside, the sergeant took out his cigarettes and lighter. Pulling a cigarette from the pack, he quickly lit it and inhaled deeply. He slipped the pack and lighter back into his field jacket.
Another sleepless night, he thought. Usually, he tried to get back to sleep, but this time he dreaded the idea of seeing Triste's face again. He stood up and looked around.
No use lying here staring up at the stars, he thought. Maybe a walk would help. Except for the normal numerous sentries, the entire billet had settled in for the night.
Walking through the deserted cobblestone streets, the sergeant passed the tavern and inn. He paused a moment and looked up. Although the tavern was dark, he could see several dim, flickering lights barely showing in windows of the inn above.
Probably Captain Jampel and maybe even Hanley still at it. Pouring over maps and papers by candlelight, trying to figure out where the krauts might be, and what they might be up to. Battalion couldn't get here soon enough to suit Saunders. It would take the pressure off the Company, and maybe Saunders and his men could get a little down time. And give him some time to get his head straight again. Hopefully Battalion would decide to move forward. That would certainly give Saunders other things to think about. And it would feel like they were making some progress.
The sergeant turned a corner and almost ran into one of the sentries. Startled, the soldier raised his rifle.
"Whoa!" Saunders said in alarm. "It's ok. Just taking a walk."
He held out both hands to show the soldier he was unarmed. The young man relaxed, pointing his weapon down toward the street.
"Make some noise next time, Sarge. I coulda shot you."
The soldier looked around. "You alone? Where you headed?"
"Down to the river," Saunders replied. "Just me. Couldn't sleep. Felt like taking a walk. Maybe wash some of this sweat and dirt off me."
"Careful," the sentry warned.
"Krauts?" the sergeant asked in alarm.
The young soldier shook his head. "Nah, quiet as usual over in that sector. But the water's moving pretty fast, what with all the rain we had last week. It's really dark out there. You sure you wanna do that?"
"Been out that way a lot," the sergeant replied. "Know my way around pretty good."
I could do it in the dark, he said to himself. With my eyes closed.
"Suit yourself," the young man replied.
As he started to leave, the sentry turned back. "Remember to make some noise when you're done. Wouldn't wanna shoot ya."
With a slight smile, Saunders replied, "Will do."
CHAPTER 9
Saunders continued, stopping when he reached the center of the bridge. Leaning on the low stone wall, he stared down into the dark water as he drew on his cigarette. He could just barely make out the white foam of the swirling water below. But he could certainly hear the steady, rolling roar as the swift current flowed under the bridge and around the pilings.
He closed his eyes. Memories of home and the Rock River came flooding back, crowding out his unpleasant thoughts. With a faint smile, he allowed himself to be swept away home.
It didn't last.
Triste's smiling face slowly took form, pushing all thoughts of home aside. Saunders opened his eyes and sighed. With one last draw on his cigarette, he flipped the butt into the darkness below. He watched as the glow disappeared into the black water. Then he turned away and continued walking across the bridge.
Whenever Saunders knew that his unit would be stopped in one place for a little while, he liked to find a spot for himself. Somewhere out of the way…quiet. Someplace he could unwind, rest…forget. Try to remember that his real life was home and family. Not just war and death. He kept reminding himself that the war would end and he'd return home. It was what got him through most days.
He'd found a quiet place right by the river where the woods surrounded him. Secluded. No prying eyes. No one interrupting his time alone. As he approached it, he could feel a calm begin to settle within him. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and knelt down next to the water's edge. He dipped a hand into the cold water.
The shoreline configuration had created a slow-moving eddy, protected by a fallen tree limb and trapped debris. The water was moving in gentle circles in contrast to the roiling water flowing past on the other side of the tree limb.
Saunders used both hands to splash the cold water on his face. He rubbed his neck and ran his wet hands through his gritty hair. The cold, clean water felt good as he washed away some of the sweat and grime. He scooped up a handful of water and filled his mouth. Swishing it around, he spit it out on the water's edge. Hadn't brushed his teeth in days, he was reminded. Drawing a hand over his cheek, he was also reminded that it'd been a while since he'd shaved. Maybe he'd do that before the next night's patrol.
Sitting back, he wiped his hands on his thighs. Brushing his teeth and shaving. Those were the first signs he'd seen that just might mean he was beginning to pull himself out of his mood. He began to have a flicker of hope. Maybe he just needed more time alone like this.
Saunders sat still for a long moment, just listening to the steady low roar of the river. The sounds of that power even blotted out the gentle sounds of the crickets. He smiled slightly. First time he'd noticed that since he'd been coming there.
Running a sleeve across his face, the sergeant closed his eyes. It felt good to be a little cleaner…and to have that glimmer of hope. The water was refreshing in many ways, but now he knew for certain that sleep would elude him. He was wide awake.
He reached into his shirt pocket and grunted in frustration. His cigarettes and lighter were in his field jacket pocket…next to his helmet and Thompson…back in their bivouac by his bedroll. Angry with himself, he couldn't believe he'd left his helmet and Thompson behind, never mind his field jacket. If Hanley found out, it would probably be the last straw for the officer. Saunders wasn't looking forward to that dressing down…but he deserved it.
Now he needed a cigarette more than ever. With a deep sigh, he leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes. He wouldn't stay long. Just appreciate the calm and quiet for a bit and then get back. Maybe give sleep another try.
Saunders' thoughts began to stray back home when he felt the cold, hard metal of a rifle muzzle against his temple.
TO BE CONTINUED