Mission: Mojo Entry
By: Ricochet

Crouched in a deep trench, the lieutenant peered uselessly into the night. In the dense forest, surrounded by the enemy, Hanley valued the crickets nearly as much as he did his rifle. The chittering insects were excellent lookouts: they only paused in their chorus whenever someone, such as an armed Nazi, walked by.

The dark French countryside was awash in a comforting susurrus of soft chirping. Rubbing his tired eyes, Hanley could easily imagine he was home in the States, clean and safe, filled with a hot meal and enjoying a cool evening on a balcony with a beautiful girl.

Seconds later, he wrenched his eyelids open, alarmed to realize he'd started to doze. Horrified at the thought that one of the men had seen, he turned his head and checked behind him. Several gray-green helmets were just visible from a dozen foxholes, like smooth stones in a path. Someone was lightly snoring, but Hanley couldn't bring himself to chew the man out. The guy's buddy woke him with a nudge, and Hanley turned around again to face the silent forest.

The squad hadn't slept in two days; he couldn't order them not to succumb to exhaustion. Yet he couldn't permit himself to relax, even if he was dead tired. He still had men out there in the field; and one indispensable man, in particular.

If Hanley was the brains of the outfit, Sergeant Saunders was the stout heart. As hellish as this war was, Hanley knew it would be much worse without Saunders.

With his rumpled countenance and streetwise saunter, Sarge didn't look the part of courageous warrior or skilled tactician. But behind those piercing blue eyes lay an intelligent and agile mind. He was reserved but cunning, and a superb judge of human nature. Tough and direct, Saunders appeared detached at times; almost a mechanism of war, like his gun.

Yet Hanley understood the sergeant, knew how determined he was to hold on to his humanity in the midst of widespread brutality. Far from being a cold soldier of conflict, sometimes the pain in Saunders' eyes was terrible to see.

At an unknown signal, the crickets fell silent. Nerves honed since D-Day months ago, Hanley snatched up his rifle and braced to meet the enemy.

Enormous relief rushed through him as he saw a gleam of gold hair in the moonlight. He watched the sergeant stealthily move through the menacing forest, leading his silent squad. Hanley counted the trudging figures behind him and let out a breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. Five men had gone out hours ago, and five men came back: a good day.

Slipping through the shadows, the patrol returned to the relative safety of the encampment. Sarge watched protectively as the troops disappeared into foxholes, then prowled over to Hanley's trench. He lowered himself in, then slouched against a dirt wall and lit a Lucky. Shoving his helmet back on his head, he exhaled wearily. A veil of smoke hung like ghostly strata in the air.

The lieutenant waited as Saunders divested himself of his field gear. After several bloody months that had seemed to last a lifetime, after surviving D-Day and countless deadly patrols, the two soldiers had developed an unspoken language. Hanley knew that if Sarge had seen something to report, he would've reported it. He was a man of few words, usually reserving comment until spoken to.

"Find anything?" Even half-whispering, Hanley's deep voice resonated richly.

Saunders shook his head. "Nothing. Might have to move up, Lieutenant."

He stared at Hanley in that intense way of his, awaiting orders, despite his obvious exhaustion. He looked a decade older than twenty-eight, and Hanley scrubbed at his own lined, bearded face.

"We’ll head out early. Those guns are here, and we've got to find them before regiment moves in." He glanced at the starry sky. "Hit the sack; I'll take first watch."

Nodding, Saunders reclined on the soft dirt, cigarette dangling from his lips. In seconds, he was deeply asleep. Sighing, Hanley reached over and gently confiscated the cigarette, envious of Sarge's ability to rest wherever he was. The lieutenant's sleep was always troubled.

Idly smoking as he stood watch, Gil felt unease nibble at his conscience. He glanced at Saunders. Some logical part of his mind said it wasn't right to depend so heavily upon one man; it wasn't safe.

It also wasn't wise to become friends in the field. The bitter truth of it was, Saunders might seem immortal, but he was flesh and blood like the rest of them. It hurt too much to lose a brother in arms, and in the lieutenant's esteem, emotions weakened the effectiveness of command. Yet with each patrol he and Saunders undertook, their risk of death increased along with their respect for each other.

Hanley allowed his thoughts to wander back to the years before the war.  In those days, truth was a malleable, subjective thing.  At the university, he and his friends enjoyed debating lofty ideas over brandy and cigarettes, indulging in intellectual observations about distant lands. The growing aggression overseas didn't touch them personally, so they could afford to be cavalier with their opinions.

One fellow in the group even went so far as to admire Hitler's skill in uniting his nation, from a purely philosophical viewpoint, of course. His date chirped that she thought German uniforms were much more attractive than those worn by U.S. troops.

Now, looking at the sergeant asleep in the dirt, his clothes ragged and grimy with the foreign soil of an occupied nation he'd come to defend, Hanley thought her remark incredibly asinine.  He had never seen such a grand uniform in all his life.

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