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The
City of Light Shadowy
fingers slipped amongst the ivy climbing the wall, creating a moving
mosaic that was at once both calming and disturbing.
The mature trees dotted here and there in the courtyard seemed to
have forgotten it was spring. Bare
branches reached skyward with leafless, amputated limbs, casting no
shade over the scattered stone benches and the lifeless gardens.
A lone man sat there, as motionless as any of the disfigured
statuary. Sergeant
Saunders leaned on the gate, shoving his shoulder against the rotted
wooden door until it swung slowly inward.
Oddly enough, the hinges kept silent and the soldier passed
through unnoticed. It only took him a second to see the other man and he paused,
running one hand through his hair with undisguised relief.
Saunders' other hand pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket
and he slipped it between his lips, lighting it with the battered
lighter that had survived every firefight and bar brawl in which the
sergeant had participated since D-day. He
hadn't been sure how his squad would react to the R&R in Paris.
If he was being perfectly honest, and Saunders had given up that
little habit long ago, he hadn't been exactly thrilled at the prospect
himself. The months of
living in holes in the ground hadn't prepared him for the comparative
luxury of a civilized city. Saunders
wasn't sure if he wanted his first and likely only visit to the City of
Light to be while taking a momentary breath between battles.
A clean bed and plenty of food and drink -- that's all he really
needed. But Hanley had
insisted, and what Hanley wanted, Hanley got. The
sergeant took another deep drag on the cigarette and approached his
missing soldier, smoke trailing behind him in wispy plumes that slowly
dispersed in the gentle breeze. Following
the broken cobblestone walkway, Saunders avoided the larger holes, his
gaze flickering between his footing and his destination.
He hadn't been sure where he'd find the private, Paris being,
after all, a fairly large city. As
it turned out, it had been a woman who'd tipped him off, much to his
surprise. “Le
docteur? <I can show you, come with me.>” Saunders
would have followed her anywhere, his gaze sliding over her trim figure
and meeting her startlingly blue eyes with his own.
She wore a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with flowers that cascaded in
riotous confusion below her shoulders.
The sergeant had no idea what color her hair was, or its length,
or even if she had any, so captivated was he by those eyes.
He glanced back at the rest of the squad, one eyebrow cocked in
silent challenge. He'd been
both amused and gratified at Kirby's audible swallow as he left to find
his wayward squad mate. “Doc?” The
medic looked up, blue eyes dark as the North Sea.
He frowned, shifting something in his arms as he shoved up one
sleeve and studied his watch. “Sarge!
I didn't realize, I lost track of, I didn't--“ Doc's voice trailed off, his cheeks flushing a dull red.
Climbing to his feet, he turned to face Saunders, the puppy in
his arms whimpering and burrowing deeper into the safety of the medic's
sleeves. Saunders
took a step closer, coming around the edge of a low wall, and he saw
what he'd failed to notice initially.
A row of small children, each clutching an animal of some sort,
seated in a semicircle at the medic's feet.
They stared up at the blond soldier, eyes huge in faces
punctuated by smears of chocolate. Saunders grinned, imagining Doc dolling out his precious
stash of Hershey bars. “What's
goin' on, Doc? Storytime?”
He suddenly thought of Christmas Eve when the soft-voiced medic
had lulled the squad, Hanley and Saunders, too, into an all-too-short
respite from the war, transporting them back in time to Bethlehem and
the birth of the Christ child. Saunders
wasn't sure if he was religious or not, especially with all that he'd
seen in the last year, but that night, he was a believer.
He smiled again, wondering how the young man from Arkansas had
been able to communicate with the bedraggled group of French kids. Doc
shook his head. Holding out
the struggling puppy, he nodded at the clean white bandage wound around
its paw. “Ain't been a vet through here in a long time.
This lady saw my armband, asked if I was a doctor.
I couldn't make her understan' what a medic was.
She dragged me here an' the kids an' the animals, well, they jus'
started showin' up.” Saunders
looked around the circle, marveling at the stillness of the children and
the variety of beasts held in their laps.
Dogs, cats, birds, even a pig.
And was that a... yes, it was.
It was a rat, its beady eyes staring furtively at him for a
moment before the creature nestled under the threadbare sweater of a
grimy little boy. He
understood the poverty these young Parisians must have suffered before
the liberation and also after. He
also understood the comfort an animal could bring to an otherwise empty
life. Looking
back at the stricken face of his medic, Saunders shook his head,
wondering for not the first time how deep was the well of compassion
from which Doc drank. All
the death they'd seen. And
caused. And yet here Doc was, spending his time away from the killing
fields still dealing with the wounded.
Saunders suspected it wasn't only the animals being healed. He
cleared his throat, wanting his voice not to be that of a superior but
rather that of a friend. “We gotta get back, Doc.
Truck's waiting to take us back.”
As he said the words, Saunders suddenly wished he'd chosen
different ones. Take
us back. Who'd ever want to
leave this peaceful courtyard and these trusting faces? Doc
nodded, turning to place the dog in the outstretched arms of a cherubic
little girl. He touched her
softly on the cheek, smiling down at her and then picked up his medical
pack, shoving the contents back in with a careless abandon. Saunders
blinked, forcing his gaze away from his medic's discomfiture, and waved
at the children. He turned back toward the heavy gate. The
sharp snap of the rifle caught them all by surprise.
Saunders lurched off the path, slamming into Doc and pitching
them both into the loamy earth of what was once a garden.
They lay there motionless for an instant before the medic felt
the warm dampness seeping into the back of his uniform.
He twisted under the sergeant's weight, frantically hooking his
fingers into Saunders' jacket and hauling him behind the base of a
statue. “Where
ya hit, where ya hit?” Doc's
voice ratcheted up an octave in his anxiety. A
bullet ricocheted off the smooth marble head of the baby Jesus,
showering them with chips. Saunders gripped the back of the medic's neck hard, snarling
into the man's face. “Shut
up! I'm okay, it's just my
arm.” He doubled his
knees to his chest, pulling himself further behind the statue. Doc
nodded, his nose bare inches from the dirt.
He reached instinctively for his helmet before realizing that it
was back with everyone's gear at the camp.
With Saunders' Thompson.
He clutched his medical ruck tightly to his chest, glad that
he'd managed to bring it along. Truth
was, he'd felt naked without it and had snuck back just before the truck
had left, stuffing it inside his jacket.
Now he could only be grateful to whatever gods might be looking
out for them. Then again,
he might not get a chance to use it.
A rapid volley of shots whined overhead and Doc squeezed his eyes
shut, praying silently. *** It
could only have been a couple of moments but it seemed hours.
The Germans had easily surrounded the wounded sergeant and his
medic, dragging them from behind their hiding place and sending them
sprawling in the dirt at the feet of an impressively bedraggled looking
Kraut lieutenant. The man stared down at them. Saunders
sat up, gripping his left bicep with his right hand.
He made no move to get to his feet, content for the moment to let
the Germans make their intentions known.
How they'd managed to hide in the middle of Paris, Saunders
couldn't imagine. And as
for hiding, where the hell had all those kids gone?
They'd melted away like butter when the shooting started. Doc
stood, glaring at the lieutenant. “Kin
I see to his wound?” He
turned his left bicep toward the man slightly, the clean brassard
gleaming on his upper arm. Gaze
shifting from the medic to the sergeant on the ground, the lieutenant
nodded his head, but not at Doc. Two
men stepped forward, hauling Saunders up and holding him firmly between
them. He didn't struggle,
blue eyes signaling the medic frantically to just be calm, but knowing
all the same that Doc wouldn't. “HEY!”
Doc tried to shove his way to Saunders, pushing away the Germans
who stepped in front of him. “He's
wounded, you can't....” Saunders
flinched away, unable to watch, as one of the Krauts raised his rifle
and clubbed the medic with it. Doc
went down without a sound, lying in a heap on the broken cobblestones. to be continued! |
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