Wind blew with unbridled ferocity, picking up anything and everything from the ground, forcing it directly into the faces of the men as they walked, eyes squinted to mere slits, lips twisted into grimaces of pain as dirt scoured the skin, leaving it sore and raw. Speech was impossible and hand signals went unanswered as the men had all they could do to put one foot before the other.

Finally Saunders noticed a low wall running across their path. He couldn’t have missed it since it was directly in the way of any forward momentum. Going over it first, he grabbed each man as he came over, pushing the soldier down behind what little protection the ancient stones offered.

Naturally it was Kirby who opened his mouth first, spitting grit and only making matters worse as he wiped his mouth off against his sleeve causing more dirt to be rubbed into the smarting lips and Kirby to swear loudly and with extreme vigor. This caused the rest of the squad to laugh.

“Always the clown, Kirby, whether you do it on purpose or not!” This was from Caje. The scout had hunkered down low, his back against the cold stones, long legs stretched out in front of him. He longed for a smoke but it would be impossible to get it lit in the wind even behind the limited protection the wall offered.

Before Saunders allowed himself to relax, he made a quick head count. Of course one had come up missing. Billy. How long had he been gone? The sergeant knew he’d pulled every man down behind the wall. His heart sank.

“When’s the last time you saw Billy?” he hissed into the face of each man as he crabbed his way down the line, praying for an answer. Surely Littlejohn would remember. He and Billy were brothers in all but blood. Littlejohn would have to know.

“Got me, Sarge. Thought he was right behind me all morning!” The big private’s face creased into a frown. “You mean he ain’t here?”

Saunders shook his head. Despair was quickly setting in. “No,” he replied, not waiting for more conversation instead moving on down to Coyle, the snotty know-it-all redheaded corporal from somewhere outside of Boston that he’d been saddled with for this mission and thank God it was this mission only. Saunders could not stand the man. Literally Coyle was slowly effectively eating his way through the sergeant’s belly and into an ulcer. Before he could even speak to the man, Saunders felt his stomach cramp and the burn begin. He hated himself for allowing the squeaky little bugger to effect him that way, but war was sure enough hell and Coyle his own private Devil.

“Seen Billy?” he shouted to be heard across the roar of wind. Of course Coyle couldn’t answer the question directly. “Billy?” he hedged. “Lemme see…yeah, hour or so back…saw him take off inta the woods. Guess he had ta drop his drawers. Couldn’t wait. Dumb kid. Wanted to tell somebody about it…musta slipped my mind, the wind and all…why? Ain’t he showed back up? Dumb kid.” Coyle squinted at Saunders through the tiny slits that were his eyes. How anyone could see out of openings so small baffled the sergeant. He was probably the one man in the squad who hadn’t gotten wind-driven dirt in his eyes.

Saunders wanted to grab the wise ass by his jacket and shake the stuffing out of him. He controlled himself. The burn in the pit of his belly escalated. Ever since he’d been saddled with Coyle, late afternoon of the day before, the Corporal had been on Billy Nelson’s case. He dogged the kid, rubbing his nose into any and everything he could, itching to get Nelson riled up enough to do something really stupid – like call him out. But unknown to Coyle, Billy might’ve been young and sometimes prone to be, well, a kid, but he was sure smart enough to steer as clear of troublemakers like Coyle as humanly possible.

As much as Sergeant Saunders did not want to issue the order, he swallowed back his gut instinct and did it anyway. “Take over the squad, Corporal. Lay low here. Do not move. I’m going back for Billy. If we’re not back in one hour, continue on the mission. Get the job done and the information back to the Lieutenant. Understood?”

Coyle smiled his enigmatic smile. Saunders never knew what the man was thinking. For the most part he didn’t want to know. “I got ‘cha, Sarge. Don’t worry. It’s a cinch.”

Inwardly Saunders groaned. On his way out he stopped in front of Caje and told him the plan. The Cajun scout looked anything but pleased that Coyle was now in charge and it showed plainly on his expressive face. But being the good soldier he was, he accepted the news with a nod. The Sarge didn’t have to say it; Caje understood what passed between them without words. “Watch Coyle.”

Retracing his steps was nigh on to impossible although the wind was now at Saunders’ back. Nothing seemed familiar. It was easy to see how even an experienced soldier like Billy could’ve gotten turned around somehow. Billy might be just barely out of short pants, but he was an experienced soldier. Saunders hoped that when he realized he’d lost the squad, he’d just sit down tight where he was and wait.

And that is exactly what Billy had done. Saunders found him sitting forlornly at the side of the trail, legs drawn up, rifle across his knees, but alert beneath a tipped down helmet. When the boy saw Saunders appear suddenly out of the swirling gray cloud he leaped to his feet, yelling, his face suddenly that of a little boy, a very happy relieved little boy whose father had appeared to rescue him from the scary lonely place he’d found for himself. Naturally Saunders couldn’t hear a word and anything he had to say to the soldier could wait. They had to get back. Coyle was in charge of the squad, more devilment that tore away the sergeant’s relief at finding Billy safe and sound.

Grabbing Billy by the sleeve of his jacket, Saunders urged him ahead, his left hand on the boy’s shoulder guiding him in the general direction.

Suddenly and with no warning whatsoever, the wind stopped. So did Billy, so abruptly that Saunders rear-ended him.

“What the hell?” Those were the only words Saunders managed to get out before he saw what the youngster had been privy to – the rear of a column of Germans, the last man not 25 feet in front of the GIs. Where they had come from was anybodies’ guess and Saunders didn’t have time for guesses.

He froze, his hand on Billy’s shoulder squeezing tightly. Into the boy’s ear he whispered, “not a sound. Not a move.”

They waited until the Germans advanced around a bend and out of sight.

“Our men are up ahead, waiting. Those Krauts’ll walk right into ‘em.”

No contact. The squad was to make no contact with the enemy. Easy in and easy out. No contact. Those orders kept circling in Saunders’ mind. He knew Coyle would do the wrong thing. He knew he would fire on the German column, jeopardize the mission and put the men, his men, at risk.

“Comeon!” Saunders ran into the woods on his left, Billy on his heels. They could make it easily back to where the sergeant had left the men, easily get there before the Germans.

Saunders felt the toe of his boot catch in an exposed root and suddenly he was airborne, flying heels over head but the worst shock came when he landed. A broken off branch as sharp as though it had been honed so and the diameter of a nickel impaled him through his back, jacket and all, exiting the front of his left side somehow missing vital organs and ribs. The sight was grotesque and enough to make Billy Nelson retch as he knelt on the ground beside the man.

Grotesque and painful beyond belief and worse even that that, the sergeant was stuck. The branch was low to the ground but still attached to the tree upon which it grew. To get Saunders free, the branch would have to be cut off from behind.

Shock lasted only seconds and Saunders hadn’t had time to get out any orders. Now the pain came on him in a rush. His limbs seemed instantly numb and the Thompson dropped from his fingers. When he touched the branch end, realizing it was protruding from his body, waves of nausea washed over him. Billy watched his color change from ruddy to snow white.

“What can I do, Sarge?!” Billy knelt before Saunders, wiping a trembling hand back across his mouth and staring into the sergeant’s face, praying he’d answer, praying he’d tell Billy what to do to make it better, to make it all right, but Saunders was speechless, face creased in pain, tears eking from the corners of his eyes, breath coming in tiny gasps.

Everything came to a grinding halt. Where minutes earlier there had been woods and Krauts and urgency, now there were only the two soldiers, just the two men in a tiny bubble of time and place, alone.

Saunders could see exactly what Billy was feeling as it flashed across the youngster’s face not inches from his own. First was the disgust then fear and finally resolve.

Dumping his gear, including his rifle, Nelson looked behind Saunders checking the placement of the branch, checking to see if he had room to sever it from the tree. What he needed desperately was another pair of hands to hold Saunders while he was doing the cutting to keep him still, to keep him from pitching forward onto the protruding branch.
But there was no one else, no one to help or to advise. It was all up to the “dumb kid.”

“I’ll try to be careful as I can, Sarge,” Nelson whispered close to Saunders’ ear as he fumbled with the belt at his waist, dragging his bayonet free. A knife like the one Caje carried would’ve been better, sharper and with a serrated edge to cut through the green wood. He’d make do. There was no choice.

Blood dripped from the end of the branch in a steady patter, like a soft rain falling, the design on the ground random and a sharp contrast to the plain brown of dead leaves and
moist earth. As Saunders hung, suspended, supported only on his knees, his field of vision was limited to down. He tried to focus on the bright red dots that continued to fall, tried to force his mind to watch the pattern change, watch the droplets become bigger, merging one into the next, connecting like dots in a child’s book. What picture would they form? Simple? Complex?

He could feel Nelson at his back. God how it hurt when the branch moved and Billy had yet to begin cutting. Saunders clenched his jaws together but when Nelson put steel to limb, the sergeant groaned. If only he could reach the ground with his hands and hold himself up. This way he was helpless, totally and at even the slightest touch, his body swung and he swore he could feel the piece of branch through his side slip down, grating, tearing at his insides.

At the sergeant’s back Nelson sawed. Sweat dripped down into his eyes though the day was cold but he blinked it away, continuing the motions necessary to cut through and free Saunders.

“What a pickle,” he observed to himself in a whisper. “What a pickle this is.” Then to the Sarge, close to his ear gentle words of comfort, senseless words but offered to let the suffering man know that he was not alone, that Billy was there and that soon this nightmare would be over.

Getting through the green wood was easier than Nelson had first thought, but before he could cut completely through, the limb snapped, the sound a loud crack in the still air.

Saunders hit the ground hard but managed through luck or quick reflexes to get his hands down and brace the impact. Instead of hitting directly on the protruding branch, he landed on his right side. For a while at least he knew nothing of pain as he lost consciousness.

Billy knew there was no way he could remove the limb from the sergeant’s body. Even if there was a way to pull it free, Saunders would most certainly bleed to death as the pressure against vessels or arteries was suddenly released. And the youngster knew enough about field medicine to get the sergeant as warm as possible.

Stripping off his jacket, Billy covered Saunders with it. Already the injured soldier was shivering, his teeth clattering together. He’d lost a lot of blood and was losing still more and about that, Nelson could do nothing.

All about him lay leaves, tons of them. “Better than nothin’,” Nelson observed as he began gathering armloads, bunching them up around the wounded man’s body, covering his feet and legs and finally his back and chest. They also offered perfect camouflage and would work well to keep the Sarge from being discovered while Billy went for help.

Now that the wind had died down Nelson figured he knew which way the squad had gone, but he had not forgotten about the Krauts either. He felt for sure that he would’ve heard gunfire by now had the Germans run into the GIs. Perhaps he had been so pre-occupied with Saunders that he had just failed to hear it.

Gathering up his helmet and rifle, crouching down to check Saunders one last time and looking around to fix his position, Nelson trotted off.

But the squad was nowhere to be found. It was as if they had vanished into the wind, been picked up one by one and deposited elsewhere, like Dorothy and Toto in that “Wizard of Oz” movie, the one that had scared him so as child. Heck, that wasn’t that long ago, only 5 years and he’d already been 12. Kids that age, boys especially weren’t suppose to be scared by things in movies. Flying monkeys – wicked witches…munchkins…”what a lot a hooey,” Nelson mumbled to himself. In the past six months he’d found a lot of things, real things to frighten the pants off of him, Krauts being just one of those.

Coming to a meandering low stone wall he carefully clambered over it, checking this way and that for signs that someone had passed that way. And he did spot something. For about a 20-foot stretch, the grass had been matted down. Someone had been there for sure, sitting, waiting, probably the squad. It was out of the wind and offered a protected field of vision. But where had they gone from here and what the heck had happened to the Krauts?

Back in the forest beneath his blanket of leaves, Saunders slowly came to his senses. He wished he hadn’t. The pain was incredible and before he could stop himself, he moaned. Hesitantly he reached out with shaking fingers to touch the spot where the branch exited his side. The area was wet with blood and he could only imagine what it looked like, with that damned obscene thing poking out of him. Never, ever again would he string a fish onto a branch through its gills. Even now the memory of it made him want to puke. Hell everything right now made him want to empty his stomach. He was glad that it was way past lunch and that he’d only had time for coffee that morning.

Realizing there was nothing he could do to remedy his situation or to bring any relief from his suffering, Saunders attempted to let his mind wander to better things, more pleasant times, home, family, food, women….All that worked for a while, perhaps an entire five minutes but the pain overwhelmed everything else and he just could not remain still. Gritting his teeth he rocked slowly into the pain, arms wrapped around his hurting body. The movement helped to keep him warm as well but soon he grew too weak to rock, too weak to move at all and that was good in that the more he moved, the more blood he lost and that he could not afford. The cold settled in and down and his eyelids grew too heavy to keep open.

“I said fire, goddamnit! Now fire!” Coyle hissed. He was beside himself. The Krauts were directly in front of the squad, walking single file up the path, oblivious and open for attack. “I’m squad leader and I said fire!”

At that Coyle raised his rifle but he did not get off a shot. His big mouth had alerted a German scout behind and off their right flank. He fired first catching Coyle just above his left ear, spinning him around and dropping him to the ground like a pole-axed steer.

Now there was no choice and the squad opened up. Caje was blind mad at the turn of events. They had the information they required. They had been on the way home when they’d spotted the Kraut patrol. And now there was no damned choice at all. They were in a fight for their lives, all because of that loud-mouthed inept jerk, Corporal Coyle.
Men were going to die, that was a fact. Caje only hoped it would not be the men in his squad.

Kirby raked the tree line behind them, taking out the man who had shot Coyle though the BAR man silently thought the Kraut deserved a medal instead of a bullet. At Kirby’s feet Coyle was already coming around, moaning and clutching his head as blood poured between his fingers from the messy scalp wound. He’d have to wait until the firing stopped for help.

Actually the battle was more of a turkey shoot than an actual battle, the Krauts being of the turkey persuasion and it was pretty much over within minutes, except for one holdout. The Kraut sergeant had found himself a hole somewhere and had dug in for the long haul. From his position he had a clear view of the GIs placement and he was a good shot, a very good shot. No sooner would an American lift his head for a quick look-see and the sergeant would get a bead on him. Only remarkable reflexes had kept any of the squad from being picked off.

“Damn, this could go on for hours!” Kirby complained though his complaints were nothing compared to Coyle’s. As Doc tended his wound, dusting it with Sulfa powder and tightly wrapping a bandage around his skull, the Corporal whined, groaned and swore – loudly.

“Shudup can’t ya, Coyle or I’m gonna enlist you in the Kraut Korps. Even if that sharpshootin’ bastard over there couldn’t SEE us, he sure as hell could HEAR you!”

Usually Kirby’s comments were met with laughter or a snide remark from any number of his buddies, but this time there was only agreement all around, with nods and “you bets.”

As attention was focused away from Coyle and back where it belonged, on the German, something odd happened. Suddenly the Kraut threw his rifle out and raised his hands signaling surrender.

“Nicht schiessen!” He called out.

From behind the Kraut, directly behind him appeared a GI. At first the squad thought it had to be the Sarge. They were very surprised when it turned out to be their missing man, Private Billy Nelson.

“Thought you guys might miss this Kraut and accidentally shoot me! Had to crawl in the last 50 yards or so. Hey, ya know I could hear Coyle yellin’ from way back there!” Billy pointed off to some place behind him.

“Good ta see ya, Billy Boy!” This was from Littlejohn who patted his buddy heartily on the back causing the youngster’s helmet to fall forward over his eyes. Reaching a hand up, Nelson pushed it back out of the way. Doc noticed the blood caked on his hand and smeared across his shirtfront.

“You hurt?” The medic asked, reaching out to take the boy’s hand, turning the palm over.

“No, but the Sarge is, hurt almighty bad. We gotta get back there!” Nelson pointed vaguely off from where he’d come, from where they’d all come.  “Sure glad I found you when I did. It ain’t so far from here, where I left the Sarge I mean. We gotta go! We gotta get there fast!”

Caje decided to send Billy, Doc and Littlejohn ahead while he and Kirby followed along with the wounded Coyle and the Kraut prisoner.

The medic was amazed at Nelson’s ability to locate Saunders. To Doc the woods on either side of the trail looked remarkably similar, identical in fact to where they’d come from and to where they were heading. But the youngster ducked off the path and into the forest without hesitation, picking his way unerringly to a heap of fallen leaves that looked, yes exactly, like a hundred other piles the men has passed, fell to his knees and began uncovering the wounded sergeant.

Saunders looked up at Doc with bleary recognition, his lips moving as if trying to speak. His complexion was sheet white, eyes moist from pain and the beginnings of fever. The medic took off his gloves, stuffed them into a pocket and reached out to check the pulse beneath Saunders’ jaw. It raced.

“Don’t talk, Sarge. Just lie still. Everything’s all right. The squad’s headed back this way. Everything’s okay.”

As he spoke the medic readied an injection of morphine. Easing Saunders’ hand out from beneath Billy’s jacket, he injected the drug into a visible vein. It didn’t take long for the effects to be felt or noticed. Eyelids fluttered closed and the tense body relaxed. Then and only then did Doc lift the coat from the body and check the wound.

“God awmighty,” he whispered as he leaned closer to inspect the area. “God awmighty.” Even to the battle hardened medic the injury looked horrendous. He silently prayed that no major organs had been hit. Without moving the man to get a better look, there was no way he could be sure, but then he figured had the worst case scenario been realized, Saunders would almost certainly already be dead.

Doc took a moment to look across at Billy. Squatted down next to the boy was Littlejohn. Their faces were mirror images of emotion and unanswered questions.

“You did the right thing for him, Billy…did all you could. Good job.”

At the praise Nelson actually beamed, his boyish face wreathed in smiles, though the smiles quickly vanished.

“I did okay and all, but what about the Sarge? He gonna be okay?”

“All we can do now is get him to a hospital. He’s not getting any worse and that’s good.”

When Doc said no more, Littlejohn reached over and rested a beefy hand on his friend’s shoulder, squeezing gently. Nelson looked up at him and nodded. “He’ll make it.” His voice was full of confidence though his expression still showed doubt. He needed Littlejohn’s confirmation and he got it.

“Sure he will, Billy. The Sarge ain’t no quitter,” the big man assured in a whisper.

By the time the rest of the squad had caught up with them, Doc had finished tending to Saunders’ wound. There was little enough the medic could do for him. The foreign object would have to be removed surgically. About the best Doc could do he had already done, administer morphine and somehow pad around the injury front and back to control the bleeding, dusting it with Sulfa first. But Saunders was alive and if he wasn’t jolted too much on the trip back, he might just stay that way.

A makeshift litter was rapidly thrown together using coats Caje had had Kirby strip from the dead German soldiers back at the confrontation point. The Kraut prisoner came in handy as a litter bearer, the squad members spelling each other before they could get too tired.

Nelson stuck close to Saunders, holding his hand part of the time when the sergeant briefly came to and before Doc’s second ampoule of morphine had taken effect.

Again Doc was impressed by the youngster’s seeming growth from immature kid to confident adult. The metamorphosis appeared to have happened almost instantaneously but then the medic figured that this was war and things were wont to happen in the blink of an eye, when you least expected it and out of the blue. As he paced the litter on one side, Nelson on the other still holding Saunders’ hand though the non-com was now asleep, Doc asked him pointedly,

“Were you afraid back there, Billy, when the sergeant was hurt, were you scared?”

Nelson looked over at him, cocked his head and got a pensive look on his face as if that question had never occurred to him. It hadn’t.

“At first I was – a lot…but then, no. At first I wanted Sarge to tell me what to do. When he couldn’t…I just went ahead and did what I thought was best. Just glad I didn’t do somethin’ stupid…ya know, somethin’ a dumb kid would do.”

At the phrase “dumb kid” Nelson’s eyes inadvertently darted to Coyle walking along slightly ahead of the stretcher and to his left, Kirby’s arm around the other man’s waist helping him along. Nelson could only imagine what was going through the BAR man’s mind right about now. Again, “dumb kid” spoken in Coyle’s grating Boston dialect, berating, slurring, hurting, popped into his head, uninvited. Almost as if Doc was reading his thoughts, the medic said,

“Don’t worry about Coyle any more, Billy. There’s not a man in the squad would let him say a word to you, not after what you did for the Sarge. Not after you takin’ that Kraut without firin’ a shot. Don’t let him worry you. He’s not worth the powder it would take to blow him back to Boston.”

“Oh, I ain’t worried none about him, Doc.” Nelson smiled, all innocent boy, all freckles and brace-straightened perfect teeth. “Not at all, cause I think Kirby’ll probably kill him before we even make it back!”

A scuffle had broken out between Coyle and Kirby. Something about Coyle stepping on Kirby’s hurting blistered right baby toe just one time too many. Kirby had shoved him off and Coyle, obviously feeling none the worse for his scalp injury, pushing right back. The shoving had escalated into a shouting match, which Kirby was obviously winning. Littlejohn stepped in to quell the commotion and the procession proceeded on with Kirby walking off to relieve Caje on point and Littlejohn taking his place, reluctantly, at Coyle’s side.

“Well at least one member of this squad grew up today. Guess that’s a start.” Doc nodded at Nelson and Billy grinned back. His days as the “dumb kid” were definitely over.