Guilt By Any Other Name
         by
 
           Susan Balnek Ballard  

   There was little time to waste. The German shelling had been over a while now,but Allied artillery would commence at 1800 hours, just about dusk.
   The worst was over and still no sign of Sergeant Saunders or any of his squad. Lieutenant Hanley had a bad feeling about this - a very bad feeling indeed.
   His long strides carried him back the way he’d fought hours earlier. As he made his way through the carnage, the smoking ruins of what had once been thick forest, the tall officer wanted to avert his eyes, but he couldn't. The deeper he got, the more probable he’d spot Saunders' squad or part of it.
   At first soldiers struggled past on their way to reunite with separated squads. Most showed disorientation to some degree, nearly all were bloodied. Hanley helped where he could but he was on a quest. None of the men were from King Company. None knew Saunders.
   Soon the stragglers grew few. Soon there were only the bodies.
   Panic began to cramp at Hanley's stomach, twisting, squeezing. Sweat clouded his vision, burning his eyes, running off his thickly stubbled chin. He picked up the pace heading for the location held last seen the sergeant. But in the ruin, smoke still rising from the burn, craters where there had been flat land, Hanley was unsure of that position. Massive trees had been totally obliterated including the oak he had set his sites on finding. Everything looked the same, as if Armaggedon had taken place. Hanley half expected to see the souls of the dead rising up to meet the Lord. Indeed in his exhaustion the smoke began to take on form and shape.
   "That's it ... that's enough," he gritted as he located a flat rock, settled down onto it and pulled out his canteen, drinking nearly half the murky water it contained. He pressed the relative coolness of the tin against his cheek. It felt good and the fluid helped clear his head. He’d come back a good long way and hadn't found Saunders. Hell, the sergeant and his squad were probably back at HQ and here he was, bad feelings and all, roaming around where he had no business. He stood up, replaced the canteen and moved out, back toward headquarters.
   He hadn't gone 50 feet when he stumbled into a good sized crater, nearly losing his footing in the process. Within the hole were a number of men, Americans, all dead, caught by a shell. The most severely damaged bodies were those farthest from the blast. All were covered by a dusting of fine ash or powdery dirt. They seemed more like mannequins than men with their twisted limbs and stiffened bodies.
   Hanley found his footing and made to step out of the pit but something caught his eye. In the epaulet strap of one of the soldier's jackets was a green wool beret.
   Hanley felt his heart begin to pound - could hear nothing but the sound of the blood pulsing in his ears. He stepped back. Leaning down next to the soldier, he carefully turned the body over onto its back. It was Caje. There could be no mistake. The lieutenant laid a hand on the man's chest even though he knew it was a fruitless gesture. The cajun was long dead.
   In great apprehension, Lt. Hanley moved from body to body. In turn he would find Littlejohn, Billy Nelson, Kirby and all the replacements from the 2nd platoon. Lastly he came upon Saunders. Blond hair matted with blood, field jacket torn by a dozen ragged holes, his face was turned to the side. As the final gesture held given to all his men, Hanley lay a palm against Saunders' heart. The chest rose and fell in small quick breaths. Hanley collapsed next to the sergeant and began to cry - from grief as much as relief at finding the non-com alive. He gave himself only moments to release the overwhelming emotions before pulling himself together and seeing what he could do for Saunders.
   It seemed whatever he could do might not be enough. Many of the sergeant's shrapnel wounds seemed superficial, but there was a deep one in his abdomen and it still bled. While Hanley was attempting to patch up the hole, Saunders woke. Maybe it was shock, maybe something else, but Saunders did not seem surprised to see the lieutenant, neither surprised nor glad, though those feelings were not reciprocated. Hanley smiled broadly.
  "I'll get you home, Saunders. Take it easy. I'll get you back."
  Hanley finished the bandaging and reached for his canteen, offering the sergeant a drink. Saunders pushed the container away, nearly causing Hanley to drop it. He tried again, gently holding the wounded man’s head up. This time Saunders averted his face.
  "Drink it ... you need it badly," Hanley coaxed softly.
"No, Lieutenant. I don't want it. I don't want your help .... It's too late ... way too late." Saunders voice was hoarse and weak. But he was adamant. "Go back, Lieutenant. There's nothing left here for you ... nothing."
   Thinking it was delirium, Hanley decided to humor his sergeant. He put aside the canteen, took off his own jacket and covered Saunders with it, relaxing back in a crouch. His voice remainedsoft as he questioned, "What happened, Saunders? What happened here?"
   It was quite apparent to the officer what had happened, but he hoped it might help the sergeant to talk it out. He did not expect to hear what came next.
  "I killed ‘em. I killed ‘em all." It was stated matter of factly and in a voice numbed from grief and pain. Saunders avoided Hanley's eyes, closing his own against the reality of what surrounded him.
   Go on, Saunders," Hanley urged.
  "Kirby'd fallen down an embankment a ways back. You know Kirby. Always tripping over something ... nothing ... his own feet. I guess it was the B.A.R .... awkward weight threw his balance off .... Saunders' eyes were open now, staring off, past the death surrounding him in the present. He saw the morning, his men as they had been.
  "Littlejohn offered to check the ankle. Kirby could hardly walk .... So I called a halt ... right here. These were my exact words, Lieutenant .... This place looks as good as any!"
   Saunders laughed, a strangled sick sound. Coughing followed the laughter and tears of pain that tracked down his pale cheeks. This time his gaze found Hanley's worried face. He took the water the lieutenant offered.
  "This place looks as good as any," Saunders whispered now. "We heard the shell coming, but there wasn't a thing we could do but cover our heads. When I came to, they were all dead I guess, except for Murphy, the new kid. He cried for his dad. Begged me to help ‘im. But I couldn't seem to move. I could scream though and I screamed then, for a medic, for help. Nobody came. When I woke again later, Murphy was dead. I was alone.
   Lieutenant ... I been in this war since ‘42. I was in Africa, Sicily, Italy , here. As far as I know, I've outlived every guy I came over with. I watched ‘em all die and Lieutenant ... it's past my time. This is it. I belong here...with my men."
   Saunders voice trailed off and for a moment Hanley thought indeed it might be over for the sergeant. But no, he was still breathing, faintly, but breathing.
  "That's bullshit, Saunders and when you wake up, I'll tell you so.”
   If Hanley was to get Saunders back they had to leave soon. it was a long walk and carrying the wounded man would not be an easy task.
   Clambering up out of the hole, Hanley made a quick recon of the immediate area and found several items he could use, including a medic's knapsack. Finding the dead man reminded him that their own medic, Doc, was safe back at Company. He’d been grabbed at the last minute by Captain Jampel. Saunders would be glad of that.
   Back with Saunders, Hanley added more bandaging around the soldier's body. As a bit of good fortune, the medic's kit still contained one ampule of morphine. Without it Saunders would probably die from the shock and pain of movement. He still could. Shrapnel was usually razor sharp and multi-edged. The piece deep within Saunders' body could penetrate deeper still, severing an artery, entering the stomach, liver, any number of places.
   The lieutenant administered the drug. Saunders' breathing became a bit more regular and he woke briefly, again admonishing the officer to "leave me here! Just leave me be!"
   But Hanley ignored him completely, reminded of the young sergeant held known in England - so cocky, self-assured and full of vibrant youth. The man now bore almost no resemblance to the Chip Saunders of only months ago. Even in looks he had aged 10 years. Had his hair been dark like Hanley's, the lieutenant was certain it would be flecked with gray even as his own was.
   One last thing to do before he could leave and it was acutely painful. Hanley knelt by each of his men and removed one dog tag hooking them together and dropping them into his shirt pocket. Pain seemed to threaten his very sanity. He’d known most of these men so long - owed more than one of them his life. He owed Saunders that and more. He finished his goodbyes - slung his rifle and stooped down to gather Saunders up into his arms.
   The first barrage of shelling shook the earth, throwing Hanley and his charge hard to the ground. Saunders screamed in pain while Hanley used his body to shield him. At the first pause, Hanley was up and ready to pick up the sergeant. His body was an agony of strained and knotted muscles, but there was no giving up, or giving in. A hand on his shoulder and a voice shouting in this ear stopped him cold; a medic and a pair of stretcher bearers. Hanley took a second to look around and was shocked to see many soldiers. He was back or nearly so. He collapsed onto the ground, buried his face in his hands while his lanky body shook in release.
   When he awoke, it was Saunders sitting next to his field cot. An IV line ran from the inside of Hanley's arm back behind his head. Saunders was smiling, smoking one of his endless Lucky Strikes. He held it out to the lieutenant. Hanley reached out for it, grimacing in pain at his effort. He hurt everywhere. Saunders shook his head and placed the smoke between Hanley's lips. He took one drag and impatiently removed it.
  "Saunders... I thought you were hurt - badly. You were hurt. I carried you...!
   Where are the men? Kirby, Caje, Littlejohn? I....They were dead ... all of them. Dead!”
   Saunders no longer looked amused. He was worried by Hanley's outburst and called for a doctor.
 But the officer was doing well. He was only confused and that in turn upset him. Only Saunders could set him straight.
  "Lieutenant, I brought you back. Seems you thought you'd sent us out into that enemy barrage, and at the first chance, took off to locate us. If you'd stopped and checked with Captain Jampel - who’s not too happy with your doing a solo act, he would’ve told you he re-assigned King 2. We were nowhere near the shelled out area. But Lieutenant ... "Saunders laid a quieting hand on his friend's shoulder, "Lieutenant ... Charlie Company was sent in our place. They lost every man but their medic. Held been temporarily re-assigned. So, against the captain's orders, I went after you. Guess you could say we're both in trouble."
  "But Saunders ... it was real ... all of it. So real."
  "Yeah, I know it was. Different faces but death all the same. Get some sleep, Lieutenant. It'll all look better in the morning.” The blond sergeant smiled and though it was meant to be reassuring, Hanley felt no warmth only a dark chill of apprehension.
  "Will it be, Saunders? Will it really?"