The Barnby
Susan M. Ballard
Cold, wet, shivering, that was all he could ever remember feeling, oh and yes the pain - the constant sickening pain that even the cold couldn’t numb.
But that had suddenly changed and he now felt a creeping subtle warmth. It began in his body, slowly fanning out to the extremities, ending in the fingers and finally finally the toes which he believed he’d never actually feel completely again.
Someone held his head up and a tin mess cup to his lips, coffee, hot. He gulped it down regardless of the heat. It was wonderful, soothing, calming and comforting.
Voices came and went, in and out, around him, never actually coming close enough for him to touch with his mind - to make out who was doing the talking to whom.
He’d been carried to this place the evening before in the cover of night, not a house; it was more a barn. Nothing remained within, not a piece of wood partitioning stalls, not a pane of glass in a window, not a board in the floor, not a blade of straw. Everything had been pilfered over the years and used, everything. But four walls still remained and most of the roof and to the suffering men of King Company, that was plenty.
Using branches and wood gathered from outside, the men built a fire on the hard earthen floor. It offered warmth and a place to brew coffee. Bedrolls were laid out close by and men slept. Not one man had even enough energy left to snore.
Lieutenant Hanley had sanctioned a fire since the countryside had recently been shelled and buildings and rubble still smoked covering whatever their relatively small blaze could put up into the air.
Sergeant Saunders had been wounded two days before and the shrapnel from a grenade peppered his side and left arm. Infection had taken hold and with it fever and chills. He was bad and getting worse and there was little the medic could do for him. With what little he did have, Doc did his best.
Warm blankets and a spot near the fire ended the chills. Plenty of water and fluids helped the fever and when the pain became unbearable, there was morphine. But that was in low supply and had to be rationed.
What was not in short supply and what was given regularly and without reserve was the comfort of friends. If Doc had to be elsewhere, there was always someone to sit at the Sarge’s side. Littlejohn sat close, huge body bent nearly double as he spoke softly to the sergeant about something or nothing. It hardly mattered since it was the voice itself that soothed.
Or Kirby, feeling awkward as he sat stiffly at first, then also bending near, regaling the wounded man with his escapades, real or imagined, sexual or otherwise, ribald or not, in a voice unnaturally muted in concern. Again, it was not so much the content but the sound of the familiar voice that was important.
Caje sat, body relaxed as he smoked, speaking softly to Saunders in a mix of French and English, his voice the most calming and soothing of all. Caje was a natural storyteller borne of generations of storytellers in his native Louisiana and his words flowed smoothly and in an endless narrative.
Saunders watched Caje as the man smoked and talked. Even had the words been in English only, the wounded man wouldn’t have been able to understand them by half. Fever sapped his strength as well as the ability to focus and his ears buzzed and he was disconnected to the real world. And that was all right with Chip Saunders. For nearly three years his world had been one of fear and discomfort and pain and death. At least now it was only discomfort and pain - better by half.
Shelling began again and the men had to move. Nelson had located a basement beneath the barn, more a fruit cellar than a true basement but it offered some protection from the overhead bombardment.
Moving Saunders caused the man pain and he cried out as the hands shifted and twisted the injured body, no matter that they’d tried their best to be gentle but in haste had hurt him badly.
In the cellar away from the fire the chills returned and the fever spiked. Delirium set in and Saunders begged for water. The men pooled their canteens so he could have as much as he needed though not as much as he wanted.
Being cooped up in the dank moldy basement was bad enough but Saunders, in the throes of his fever and pain made it almost impossible to stand. The sergeant’s suffering was done as he did everything - close to himself with soft incoherent mumblings and gritted back moans. But each man felt what he felt.
Ignoring the shelling above and the dirt that sifted down from huge supporting beams overhead, Kirby paced, restlessly driven. They all smoked; even Doc lit up, hands shaking. Tiny points of red light glowed in the all pervasive darkness and when the Sarge was suddenly quiet, a current of fear ran through every soldier until Doc quelled it with a whispered, “it’s okay. He passed out. He’s breathing.”
The shelling finally stopped and the men were able to return to the surface, blinking like half blind moles coming into the bright light after a lifetime spent below ground.
Saunders had not regained consciousness and Doc sat close, worry making his youthful face seem older, much older and tired beyond measure.
The men were depressed. Watches were kept but that left too much time to think and in any case all they had to think about was a dying friend. If only they could move out, find help, do something!
Kirby was close to breaking. He knew it, could feel it and the others felt it as well. He radiated a static sort of energy as if any word, any action might cause him to explode.
Because of that, Lieutenant Hanley sent him out on a recon - just a walk around the barn’s perimeter, but it kept the man active and occupied.
When he returned, Kirby made his report to the lieutenant, found an unoccupied corner close to the fire and curled up into a tight ball. Glancing over to where Saunders lay, Doc sitting beside him looking drawn and worried, Kirby decided not to think about Saunders at all. He needed sleep. To think was to stay awake. To stay awake would bring him closer to cracking. He had to sleep and he did, hard and deep.
When he finally woke it was to a room full of silent grieving men. There were no sounds at all - only silence and a heaviness that weighed down on Kirby like a weight pressing him into the floor.
Slowly he got to his feet, each muscle protesting. The men stood about, some idling in a semi-circle around Saunders. Others stood off alone, staring down at the floor or out of glassless windows, staring, just staring.
Pushing past men who paid him no heed whatsoever, Kirby made it to where Saunders lay. The sergeant was awake but looked god-awful, complexion pale to the point of being bloodless, his eyes darkly smudged from exhaustion. It took all he had just to breathe and even that was done shallowly, weakly, through parted lips. One of his hands was being held by Doc, ostensibly feeling the failing pulse, but really the medic did it to offer comfort and a connection to life.
Saunders’ gaze rested on Kirby and with a supreme effort he attempted a smile. Mostly it showed in his eyes, they crinkled a bit at the edges and life sparked out from them. Then the spark was gone and the life with it and Kirby just stood there in shock. Looking down at Saunders’ lifeless body and it was just a body now, a corpse, like a hundred, like a thousand he’d seen before, Kirby opened his mouth and once he began to shriek, he couldn’t stop.
Then there was darkness and he was warm and clean and dry and comfortable and he thought too he must’ve died right along with the Sarge and now he was in heaven.
An IV snaked into his left arm feeding him. A second dripped medication into the vein on top of his right hand. But he was drowsy and calm and contented and when he finally came to his senses, Kirby found himself in a field hospital. Lazily moving only his eyes he could see the men in beds on either side of him. One was a soldier unknown to him and the other was Sergeant Saunders. Saunders looked like hell, heavily bandaged across his upper body, IVs running into both arms. Kirby too felt bandaging around his own chest, just tight enough to make him feel like a butterfly in a cocoon. He could wiggle a bit but that was all.
Tentatively he reached his less restricted right hand up to touch the bandage around his head. The skin beneath itched and he scratched, sighing in relief when the itch was no longer a problem.
And then he remembered - Sarge was dead! He’d seen him die and Doc was there too and the rest of the squad. In a panic Kirby cried out for the nurse. Barely able to life his head he could just see the rise and fall of Saunders’ chest as he breathed. Breathed!
“You have to be quiet, Private. You don’t want us to sedate you again, do you?”
The nurse spoke kindly but Kirby was agitated and even her soft hands gentle against his wrist as she felt his pulse did nothing to calm him.
“Sarge! He’s okay? He’s all right, ain’t he?”
Smiling, the nurse nodded. “Yes - for the third time since they brought you in here...yes, Sergeant Saunders will be just fine. If you’d let him get some rest. Every time you wake up, you ask me the same question. He’ll live. You will too if you ever calm down and get some sleep.” Her sweet face set into a motherly frown, the young woman patted Kirby on the shoulder and tucked the clean sheets in around him. He looked perplexed, brow wrinkled, dark eyes questioning.
“Seems the two of you were wounded by the same grenade. Spent a day or two in an old barn before being evacuated. You were delirious when you were brought in. Sleep now.”
Smiling a smile that Kirby did not take to be either motherly or sisterly, the nurse walked off and the soldier thought that yeah, he might live after all. But what brought him peace of mind and of heart was the fact that the Sarge would make it as well.
“I hate dreams,” Kirby murmured to himself, aware now that what had happened before, what he’d thought had happened must’ve just been a nightmare or some delirious fabrication. Slipping down into the warm place where he could sleep without dreams, without fear, he slept.
When he woke again the room was cold, the fire gone out and he was alone with Sergeant Saunders. The high ceiling of the old barn arched above him and the hard packed earth floor upon which he lay offered no comfort. His unvoiced thoughts bounced back to him from the emptiness of the huge structure and its four bare walls. And when he asked where everyone was and what the hell was going on and why Saunders lay so still and pale on the floor next to him, there was no answer. When the screams came now, no one was there to hear them.
Copyright 04/05/01 - Susan M. Ballard. All rights reserved.