Disclaimer:  This story is a 'tag' to the episode 'Anatomy of a Patrol'.  I do use a quote directly from the episode; most of you will spot it. 

My title is a borrowed line from Alfred Lord Tennyson's Ulysses. 

…I mete and dole unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

Acknowledgements:  Thank you, a thousand times over, to Doc II.  No matter how often, during this long haul, I told her that I worked on, was working on, was going to work on, intended to work on, or even thought about working on this story, she never, ever, ever told me to shut up and get lost.  She patiently listened to me, encouraged me every step of the way and gave me a wonderful, honest beta.  Not to mention the great screen caps, and threats of valium to calm my stage fright.

Thank you, Doc, for everything.  You're a true blue friend.

And to Ricochet.  Thanks for your urgent missives, your blinding wit, and the gift of your friendship.  You never pull punches, and always make me strive to write that much better—and darker.  Always darker.

Hanley stood and stretched—another long day that was far from over.  With a wry grimace, he surveyed the piles of paperwork on his 'desk.'  Today he was lucky, it was an actual piece of furniture.  More often than not it was a plank across two chairs, half a broken wall or even a barrel top.  He should be feeling thankful, he mused.  Instead, Hanley was dreading what was to come next.  He was on his way to simultaneously chew out and send out his best sergeant.  And while he was at it, he intended to offer a bit of moral support—whether or not it would be accepted remained to be seen.

Hanley shook his head as he set out.  A short time ago he would have had trouble with what he was about to do.  He would have carefully selected his words and tone.  No longer—too many similar settings had hardened him to the scene.  What was bothering him this time was whom he was going to see.

After Crowley's death, Hanley wasn't all that surprised to be offered leadership of the platoon.  As platoon sergeant, he had been next-in-command.  What did surprise him was the lack of ceremony accompanying his promotion.  Desperate to replace a large number of junior officers after D-day, the brass had been happy enough to find an actual second-in-command still alive, and waived the transfer requirement.  Hanley had been given second platoon, K Company, with a pair of gold bars and a pat on the back.  His official discharge and swearing in followed a week or so later, he couldn't remember exactly when.

It was Saunders who pinned those first bars on him.  Hanley had wandered, dazed, outside the command tent where they had come to get their orders.  Saunders, waiting outside, looked at his friend's face.

"What's wrong, Hanley?" he asked, pushing away from the tree he had been leaning against.

Mutely, Hanley extended his still-clenched fist towards Saunders.

Saunders grasped it and turned it towards himself, gently prying Hanley's fingers apart.  He blinked, and then, "Congratulations, Lieutenant," was all the fanfare he gave the sudden change in their status.

"Crowley was a good man," croaked Hanley, still clutching his bars.

"A lot of good men have died in this war, Lieutenant, and a lot more will," Saunders replied, with a shake of his head.

Gently, he took the bars from his friend's hand.

"Here, let me help you."  Quickly, he approximated the proper measurements on Hanley's collar tabs, then pierced the fabric through.

"Borrow your knife, Lieutenant?" he asked.

Without thinking, Hanley acquiesced, and a moment later Saunders handed him his set of stripes.

"You'll wanna save these for sure," he said.

Hanley stuffed them in his pocket and turned to face his friend.  Sighing, he shed his thoughts and proceeded to issue his first set of orders as an officer to his waiting sergeant.

Hanley smiled to himself without realizing it as he stalled, lighting a cigarette.  It had never occurred to him to turn down the promotion, he had been raised to take power where it was offered, and often where it wasn't.  His upbringing had virtually assured him of command.  All his life he had been the leader; issuing orders was second nature to him.  Thus, he had stepped easily enough into the role, finding that he had been well prepared, but still a bit lacking.  It wasn't until now that Hanley realized he had always enjoyed the respect and rewards of leadership, but knew very little of the work and worry that went with it.

Hanley's learning curve was immediate and steep.  This wasn't a fraternity or social club.  Casual commands could—and did—result in regrettable death.  The first time he realized that a decision he had made was directly responsible for someone's death, he could barely breathe.  As the world had spun around him, he knew that life—and death—would never be the same again.  As an officer, he understood the importance of the mission.  As a leader, he understood the importance of his men.  To his superiors, he was a rarity in that he was able to accomplish most of his goals.  He had always been able to detach himself emotionally, and now he did so to survive.  Losses were meticulously logged onto reports, while mourning and retribution were carried out in private.  As private time became less and less, Hanley found himself becoming more and more automated.  Every now and again, he would need to remind himself that the eight-man squad he had just left behind to cover the company's retreat was, in fact, eight individual souls, all with separate wants and needs, all hoping to get home as well.  Sometimes he did this to himself to stay grounded, sometimes it was done for him, driven home in a way that would penetrate his carefully placed demeanor.  He would clutch a bloody dog tag, and remember a certain laugh or smile, a letter he had censored, or a pass he had denied.  Soon enough, however, he would return to his original state.  He had to, it was the only way through this, the only way to function at an optimal level.  He owed this to the men he still had.  He knew that his men were good, and he intended to see as many of them home as he could, himself included.

Unlike Saunders, whom the men instinctively followed, Hanley found, at first, that he had the advantage of rank.  Whether or not men wanted to follow him, they had to, and did.  Saunders shouldered the burden of leader easily, naturally—he was born to it.  Whatever it was that drew the men to him, Saunders never faltered in his role and kept the men's trust throughout.  It amused Hanley to no end to hear men call Saunders 'sir,' even his own squad sometimes.  But the real amusement came from the fact that half the time Saunders didn't even seem to notice it, as if it should actually be that way.

Soon enough, Hanley's men stopped treating him as an officer and began to act as if he were their lieutenant.  Now they looked up to him because he had earned their trust, proven himself to be a good leader, and stayed that way.  Equally important, Hanley knew he had earned their respect, and not just because the bars on his collar commanded it.  Hanley was more confident than ever in his role as a leader.  He had learned a lot about himself in the past few months.  Some things had surprised him, some reassured him, but nothing, thank God, had shamed him.  And for that, he was grateful.

But now Hanley had to perform one of the more thankless parts of his job.  And for that, he was resigned.

*****

Doc lay still, every inch of his exhausted body screaming for a sleep that wouldn't come.

He looked up at the ceiling, silently thankful that there was one there.  Three walls remained in this building.  The fourth spilled out into a small alleyway, completely blown out in decreasing piles of rubble, coming to rest against the buildings on the other side of the road.

He and Saunders were the only two in the squad's billet; the rest, bar one, were bunked in the aid station.  Saunders had only just returned from there about an hour ago and was now restlessly stirring in his bedroll.

Kirby had waited until Saunders left to check on the others, and then left himself, in search of 'some fun.'  Doc knew Kirby would find that, along with a good dose of trouble too.  Doc had hoped, futilely, that Saunders wouldn't notice Kirby's empty spot.  But Saunders, with his usual perceptiveness when it came to Kirby, had noticed the private's absence immediately.  Feigning sleep so as to avoid interrogation, Doc heard Saunders leave again, most likely in search of Kirby.  The sergeant had returned a half hour later, cursing under his breath, settled into his bedroll and proceeded to toss and turn.

Finally giving up his struggles, Saunders stood, crossed the room into the open alley, and settled his back against a pile of debris.  As he bent his head to his cupped hand to light a cigarette, Doc caught a quick glimpse of the worried sergeant, the flame illuminating tired eyes and tousled mane.  Saunders took a long draw, then tipped his head back and exhaled into the crisp night air.  Closing his eyes, he sighed and let his head rest, the pale moon sketching only the barest portrait beyond a silhouette.  Doc was actually tempted to join Saunders and have one of his own rare cigarettes, but fear of what kind of reception he'd get stopped him.  For Doc knew that Saunders was upset over the men he had lost, and Doc knew that it was all his fault.

Kirby had told him, in one of those ramble-on Kirby modes, that the German sergeant had been all set to buy Saunders' setup.  Then he had found the empty vial of morphine.  It didn't take the sergeant long to figure out that he'd been duped.  Doc closed his eyes in despair.  All those months of training and what does he do?  Drops his waste in an open space.  Because of this, the two squads had spent the day in a running battle.  Saunders' squad had eventually come out on top, but Blocker, Johnson, and Gray had died, and all but Saunders and Kirby were casualties.  Doc himself had almost made it, then stumbled about a mile from camp, badly wrenching his ankle.  So, to add to his remorse and humiliation, Caje and Littlejohn, wounded themselves, had to help him hobble along, while the sergeant and Kirby carried the pilot's litter.

Saunders hadn't uttered a word of reproach to Doc, he'd actually complimented him on keeping the pilot alive.  But Doc was sure that this was the end for him.  He wasn't formally attached to this squad and knew now that he never would be.  He hadn't been with them long, but long enough to know that he wanted to stay.  He shifted in his bedroll, trying to find a more comfortable position for his ankle while watching the moonlit sergeant field strip his cigarette butt.

All was silent for a while, then Doc saw another figure looming over Saunders.  Looking up, without a word, Saunders moved over as Lieutenant Hanley sat down.  Settling back, also not speaking, Hanley lit two cigarettes, passing one on to Saunders.  They smoked companionably for a while in their silence.

Despite his own discomfiture, Doc was intrigued.  It was a rare sight to see these two men together in a quiet moment like this.  Doc had heard rumors of their friendship but hadn't really seen too much of it.  It gave him a weird feeling of comfort, reminding him of jostling for space with his siblings in the backseat of the car while his parents drove home after a late night family event.  Listening to the muted to and fro cadence of their voices melding into the night's soft silence while the miles rolled away beneath him had always lulled Doc into a drowsy state of calm.

Finally, Hanley spoke.

"It's not your fault, you know."

Saunders looked away, shifting slightly.  He didn't reply, just rolled his cigarette out between his fingers.

"I mean it, Saunders.  You've got to stop doing this to yourself, it's going to tear you apart."

There was still no answer from the motionless sergeant.  Then, with a hint of a sigh, he lowered his head to hands clasped around his upraised knees.  Yet, still he said nothing.

Hanley let out a frustrated sigh of his own as he pitched his cigarette away.  He'd known that he wouldn't get far with this, but as Saunders' leader he had to try.  Now came the rest.

"Where's Kirby?"

Saunders stiffened and lifted his head.

"I asked you a question, Sergeant!" Hanley's low voice edged.  "Where is Kirby?"

Saunders turned his head to look at Hanley.  His CO's face was taut with anger and etched with fatigue.  Something else was stirring there, and Saunders knew it wouldn't be long until he found out what.

Sure enough, Hanley continued on, without giving Saunders a chance to reply.  "You know what, Sergeant?  I know where Kirby is and so do you.  The point is, he isn't where he's supposed to be, which is here.  I've told you before, and I'm telling you now, you're too easy on him.  He tap dances all around you, and you let him.  I've also told you that one day it's going to cost you.  And now it will."

Hanley paused and lit another cigarette, intentionally omitting his sergeant this time.  "Well, do you know where he is?"

Silence, then—

"Yes, Lieutenant."  Low but firm, Saunders' voice carried its way to Doc's listening ears.

"And?"

Saunders looked at the ground.

Hanley growled and threw his barely smoked cigarette to the ground.

"Great.  Well, S2 is here.  They want to see the wreckage of that plane.  Apparently there was another camera on board, one that even the pilot didn't know about.  It's a prototype and they want it back before the Germans find it.  You're the only one who can guide them in.  I have two replacements to send with you and Kirby.  But now, no Kirby.  So it's all on you.  And I have no other men to send as backup."

Hanley stood and looked down at his friend for a moment.  Sighing, he shook his head.  When he spoke again there was an almost imperceptible softening in his voice.

"C'mon, Sergeant.  Let's get you on your way."

Slowly, Saunders stood and ducked into the squad's billet.  Silently, he gathered his Thompson, jacket, and helmet.  Then, he rejoined the waiting Hanley, and together the two men walked out of Doc's sight.

Doc lay still, seething.  Normally very astute, he hadn't foreseen this.  He had told Kirby to stay in, not go looking for dames and games, but Kirby had shaken him off as usual.  At the time Doc had been thinking of Kirby's knack for finding trouble and imagining Saunders' ire when he found Kirby missing.  He hadn't figured on this, the lieutenant sending them out again when the entire squad was laid up.  Doc knew with his ankle he'd be more of a liability than an extra guide.  He couldn't go.  But Kirby could, and he had the firepower.  Kirby had picked a fine time to go AWOL, Doc thought bitterly.  Lying there, fire encircling his ankle and searing up his leg, worry and frustration gnawing at his heart, it took Doc a long time to settle into a very unrestful sleep.

*****

Carefully, very carefully, he turned his throbbing head towards the light trying to pierce his fuzzy haze.  Struggling, he opened first one sticky eye and then the other, quickly shutting them against what he could only guess were floorboards, undulating alongside his face.  Trying again, steeling his will and his stomach, he pushed himself up, only to sag backwards onto a wall behind him, useless legs stretched out in front.  Finally, in an attempt to gain his bearings, he lifted his head and peered through slitted lids—straight into the bemused eyes of a grinning, gum-smacking GI.  Tipping to and fro in a ragged, straight-backed chair, the soldier looked at him with a twinkle in his eye.

"How ya feeling, chum?" the soldier cracked, with a barely suppressed chuckle.

Kirby scowled and snarled at the happy chap opposite him.

The GI was laughing openly now as he offered Kirby a hand up.

"If I was you, and if you can, I'd hightail it outta here before Lucinda comes out.  She's plenty mad that you camped out on her floor last night, says you ain't good for business."

Lucinda?  Business?  Ohhhhh, that Lucinda.  That business.

Kirby swayed slightly before gaining his balance.  Bringing a hand to his head, he stifled a groan.  He could barely remember the woman 'hosting' the card game last night, let alone her name.  One of the few pros in a town where business was good, her time was in great demand.  Kirby vaguely remembered winning first shot at her last night with an ace high flush, but had no idea whether he'd claimed his winnings or not.

Shaking his head to clear it, and immediately regretting it, Kirby pushed his newfound friend away and stumbled out the door.  The corporal's laughter escorted him down the street where Kirby kept a wary eye for patrols.  He wandered a short way, stopped to answer a call of nature, and tried to figure out just exactly where he was.  Cursing over the finding of no cigarettes anywhere on his person, he tried to recall his evening.

He hadn't been this hung-over in a long time—just what did he drink last night?  He had gone out for a good time, trying to forget the patrol of the day before.  It had started out normally enough, if kill or be killed can be called normal, but ended up with a three-man loss.

Usually Kirby could deal with that, had learned how, because he had to.  What was different about this patrol was the Sarge.  Solid, steady and taciturn, Saunders rarely wavered off course.  Smiles were rare from the sergeant, insights into his psyche rarer still.  Thus, when Kirby caught him at the command post and offered what he felt was a compliment on Saunders' strategy, he was stunned when Saunders took it and turned it around.

"Yeah," he had said sarcastically.  "I was just brilliant!!"

Kirby knew Saunders was responsible for his men and had always guessed that Saunders felt responsible to his men.  Yet, Kirby had never glimpsed the weight that Saunders carried around with himself at all times.  It shook him to see Saunders second-guessing himself, showing a tiny chink in his armor of invincibility.  Kirby worried.  As mad as he ever got at Saunders, he always, somewhere deep in his soul, looked up to him.  He relied on his judgment and never doubted that 'Sarge knew best.'  Now, Kirby was left with a creeping feeling that Saunders just might be human.  And he didn't like it, not one bit.

Preparing to walk back to the squad's billet, he mentally prepared himself for the dressing down he was sure to receive.  Upon arriving, he was pleasantly surprised to find it empty.  Flopping down on his rack he was beginning to doze off when he finally caught a whiff of himself.  Recoiling in disgust, he decided to find a shower of sorts.  It definitely wouldn't help his case to be found smelling like this!  Wearily, he began to gather his things.  Shower, coffee, and a cigarette, not necessarily in that order.  After that, he'd stop by the aid station to see the guys.  Satisfied with his plans for the next hour or so, Kirby went in search of the showers he had heard were somewhere in camp.

*****

Billy was mad.

"Angry, dear," his grandmother always said.  "Only dogs are mad."

"Well, Grandma," he thought, "I'm mad!  And as a dogface, I'm entitled," he finished grimly to himself.  He looked at the somber group around him.  Caje and Littlejohn, mirror images, as each nursed opposite upper arm wounds and matching scowls on their faces.  Doc, squirming mightily as he tried to unobtrusively find an elevated spot for the ankle which 'didn't hurt at all anymore.'  Billy knew he didn't look much better.  No wonder everyone was giving them a wide berth.

"You think that we could catch up with them, Littlejohn, and help the sergeant out?" Caje asked, anger dropping his voice an octave and thickening his accent.

"I guess it's worth a try."  Littlejohn frowned, trying to rub the pain out of his arm.

"Don't be foolish," snapped Doc, jackknifing his body to grab his ankle as he gave up all pretense of a miraculously healed sprain.  "He's been gone for hours, you'll never catch up.  And besides, none of us would be much help right now."

"Yeah, but we could at least wait by the river for him," Littlejohn said, not yet willing to abandon their self-authorized mission.

"And where on the river would you wait?" crabbed Doc.  "There's no real crossing point now that the boats have been destroyed."

Caje looked away, nostrils flaring a plume of smoke.  He knew Doc was right, although he wasn't ready to admit it yet.

Billy sighed, completely forgetting that he was avoiding deep breaths.  He, too, knew that Doc was right, that a soldier who was having trouble breathing while lying down wouldn't be worth two cents on a mission.  Gingerly, he held his ribs.  Boy, Kirby had really fouled up this time!

"How could Kirby be so—so—how could he do that?!" Billy plaintively asked.  "How could he go off like that and leave the Sarge alone on a mission?"

Littlejohn cast a worried glance at his friend.  The flush in Nelson's face wasn't entirely due to anger.  The doctor had been able to remove the bullet from his side but still wasn't sure if the ribs were cracked or broken.  A working x-ray machine would be nice, but of course they didn't have one.  The ambulance that was supposed to bring Billy back was to bring one up, but that wasn't here yet either.

"Now Billy," interjected Doc, desperate to keep the peace no matter what his own feelings towards Kirby were at the moment.  "How was anyone to know that the Lieutenant would send a two-man squad out?"

But Billy wasn't about to let it go.  "Yeah, well, you know what?  I don't care!  Can't Kirby last a day without getting into trouble?"  He tried to quell the rapid breathing that hurt so much.

At that precise moment, as if summoned to fill the void left by the ebb of negative energy in the room, a dampish Kirby strolled through the door.

"Hey you guys, what's going on?"

Surly silence met his greeting.  Lighting a cigarette, Kirby didn't notice it at first.  But eyes drifting over cupped hands finally did.

"What gives?  Why the long faces?"

"Jerk!" snarled Littlejohn.

"Wh—well, what'd I do ta you, ya big ox?!?!" an indignant Kirby shot back.

"Did you have a nice time last night, Kirby?" rasped Littlejohn.  "Did you find everything you were looking for?"

"As a matter of fact, I did!" snipped Kirby.  "I think," he muttered to himself, dropping his voice a register.  Then, suspicious, "Why do you want to know?"

"Cuz while you were out looking for a good time, the Sarge had to go out—alone—with two replacements!"

"Two replacements means he wasn't alone, Littlejohn," Kirby spit out, trying to comprehend what was being said to him.

"You know what I mean," Littlejohn countered.

Finding no help in Littlejohn, Kirby turned to the rest of the squad.  "Will someone please tell me what's going on?  Caje?  Doc?"

"Kirby, after you left, the lieutenant came looking for you and Sarge," Doc said.

"Yeah?  So?  I'm in trouble for being AWOL, is that it?"

"No, Kirby," sighed an exasperated Doc.  He hated it when Kirby took such a bull-headed stance.  "He had a mission for you guys.  They both knew you were missing.  I don't know if they're gonna make an AWOL issue out of it."

"Well, why was the lieutenant coming to us?  We's down to only two guys, hardly enough for a mission," Kirby hedged.

"Because, Kirby," said Doc, an edge rounding out his reply.  "The patrol was back to the airplane.  And you and Sarge were the only able-bodied guys who knew where it was."

"Yeah, well, so, I missed it!" barked Kirby, now thoroughly angry with his squad mates as well as himself, but equally determined not to show it.  "Whadya gonna do to me, huh?"

He looked from face to face.  Billy's fevered eyes, accusing.  Littlejohn, glowering, angry.  Doc, tired, concerned.

"Caje?  Caje?" Kirby threw it out, questioning, tentative, desperate.

Caje looked at Kirby for a moment, dark eyes deeply unreadable.  Then, he looked down at the ground, unwilling to condemn his friend, yet unable to defend him.

At that, Kirby turned, and, without a word, walked out the door.

*****

Shivering in the cool darkness of the night, Saunders called a halt to his sodden group of soldiers.  They were far enough past the tree line that they wouldn't be caught out in the open by any passing German patrols.  Besides, he mused wryly to himself, any watching Germans were probably still laughing if they were witness to their comedic river crossing.

They had started out well enough.  Since there were no boats with which to cross, Saunders had the men tie their weapons, ammo, and coats in their rain gear.  Halfway across, Lieutenant Morris had gone under and panicked.  Stultmeyer, the closest man, had tried to help him.  He almost had Morris, but Morris' panic, coupled with his lunging attempts to regain his bundle, took out Stultmeyer.  Saunders ended up grabbing the two of them, and promptly went under himself, as Morris climbed up his back.  It was only by diving straight down that he was able to escape Morris' frantic grabs.  Shoving a gasping Stultmeyer ahead of him, Saunders then put Lieutenant Morris in a headlock and hauled him ashore.  Sputtering, the men had made their way into the trees and partway up the hill.  That's when Saunders called a break.

Short, snuffling pants were the only sounds the men made while they did their best to sluice as much water off themselves as possible.  A little way off from the others, Saunders took stock of his men.  Stultmeyer and Andersen, the two replacements, had never been on the line before.  They seemed alert enough, however, and had moved quickly and quietly along the trail.  Stultmeyer was a little taller than Saunders, with sandy hair and brown eyes.  Andersen, as blond as his name would suggest, had the ruddy checks and blue eyes to match.  Although they had just met en route to the 361^st, they already seemed to make a good team.

Saunders' meditative gaze took him next to the S2 officers on the mission.  Captain Baxter was a small, compact man, who moved with an air of confidence and authority.  Saunders guessed that the professionalism Baxter exuded was the same that he expected from everyone else.  He knew his job and was secure enough to delegate to others without feeling threatened.  Thus, Saunders' ability to call a halt to this detail; Baxter had charged him with getting the group to the plane in question.

Then there was Lieutenant Morris.  Baxter hadn't expounded much on Morris, but Saunders had gathered from remarks here and there that this was Morris' first time out.  His job was to blow the plane, hopefully after the camera was removed.  If all else failed, he was to blow it with camera in place.  He had shamefacedly thanked Saunders and Stultmeyer for their help and then sat idle under a tree, no longer having weapons of his own to check and load.

Saunders finished wringing himself out as much as possible and proceeded to check the status of his weapons.  He noticed that Morris was shivering so much that he was barely able to sit still.  Stultmeyer and Andersen, sitting near Morris, noticed as well.

"Here, Lieutenant," Stultmeyer said, reaching into his bundle.  "Why don't you wear my jacket for a while until you warm up?"

Stultmeyer passed his still new, somewhat stiff, field jacket over to Morris.

Morris seemed about to protest, but another bout of violent shivers forced him to reconsider.  "Th-th-th-thanks," he chattered, as he took the jacket from the private's hands.  Shrugging his way into it, Morris' hands automatically checked out the pockets.  Finding a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, a smile crossed his pale face.  "Hey, Stultmeyer, do you mind?" he asked, flicking his hand over to reveal the treasure.

"No sweat, Lieutenant," Stultmeyer replied, as he looked down the barrel of his Garand.

Saunders looked up at the sharp click-hiss of the lighter and was at Morris' side in an instant.

"Put that out right now!  What's wrong with you, do you want to let every German within ten miles know where we are?"  Saunders' fury was in no way muted by the necessary whispering.  The fiasco at the river, and now this, were combining to make him forget he was speaking to an officer.

Morris quickly stubbed out the cigarette, pale eyes huge in his white face.  His hair was beginning to dry and flame red tufts were appearing all over his head.  "I'm sorry, Sergeant, I didn't think," he said.

"Not thinking can get you killed, Lieutenant," said Saunders, trying for a kinder tone, while hoping to avoid charges of insubordination.  "You and all the rest of us."  He sighed, and then handed his sidearm to Morris.  "Here, Lieutenant.  Why don't you hang on to this until we get you something else."

Looking over to Stultmeyer and Andersen, he noticed that they were observing the give and take between him and Morris.  "You two make sure that your weapons are fully operational," Saunders told them brusquely.

He glanced sideways at Morris, hoping that he wouldn't have to offer the same 'suggestion' to the lieutenant.  Morris gave a slight start, as though he knew what Saunders was thinking.  About to drop his cigarette butt on the ground, he thought the better of it and pocketed it.  He then proceeded to check out the Colt .45.

Saunders mentally shook his head and headed back over to his own pile of stuff.  He was clipping his web belt on when Captain Baxter approached him.

"Sergeant," began the captain.

"Yes, sir," Saunders replied, settling the belt down on his frame.

"We're far enough out now that I can let you know the rest of the mission," Baxter stated.

Saunders paused, head down.  Without raising it, he asked, "The rest of the mission, sir?"

"Yes," Baxter said.  "There's one crucial piece of information that I wasn't able to let you know before now."

"What's that, Captain?" queried Saunders, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"The Germans know we're coming."

Saunders couldn't believe his ears.  "What did you say, Captain Baxter?" he said, in the low, icy calm tone his men feared so well.

Baxter forged onwards.  "Battalion G2 intercepted some radio chatter before I left.  The Germans know that there is a camera still on the plane, and they know that the 'wrong' one was retrieved earlier today.  They aren't sure where the camera is located, but they are sure that we are coming to get it."

Baxter paused and sighed deeply, then continued, "Sergeant, there's been a leak somewhere between G2 and S2.  No one knows who or where it is, but the last few missions with K Company S2 have been compromised.  It could be anyone in the company, not just an intelligence officer.  That's why you weren't privy to this information before.  I still shouldn't be telling you, but I've come to doubt that you are the leak.  I want you to know our status, so you'll be prepared for what may come."

Saunders couldn't believe what he was hearing.  Missions were tough enough.  The paranoia and gut-knotting fear that went with them were ever present, even when he had his own men to back him up.  Responsibility for repple depples, until they reached 'maturity,' increased the burden ten-fold.  To find out that he was leading men into a possible trap pushed the needle right off the meter.

"Sergeant."  Captain Baxter was still standing beside Saunders.

"Yes, sir," Saunders managed.

"Sergeant, this doesn't change the scope of our mission in any way.  We are still going to retrieve the camera and blow up that plane.  This information is only meant to enhance your security measures.  Don't make me regret imparting it to you."

Saunders' head snapped up.  He looked into the steady eyes of the waiting captain.

"Yes, sir," he said again.

"Good."  Baxter turned, and paused.  "When you're ready, Sergeant."  He then walked away.

Saunders took a minute to digest the news.  Then, he put it behind him, while trying to figure out how to use it.  He had gotten good at that—putting things behind him.  Forgotten but not gone, as he liked to think of it.  But that wasn't right either, because he knew he'd never forget.  Whether he was awakened by a sharp noise, a quick movement, or a sweat-soaked dream, the past was always there with him.  He knew he couldn't dwell on his decisions or their consequences, nor did he have the luxury of reliving the scenes that his life was playing out now.  Later, he knew he would.  For now, he had to be content with compartmentalizing them in his mind.  Putting the bad behind him, hanging onto the good, and forgetting it all.  That was how he was managing tonight's mission after today's battles.  As upset and angry at himself that Saunders was over the loss of his men, he let it go.  There was nothing he could do for them now, but he could do something for Stultmeyer and Andersen.  And that meant doing his best to keep them alive, at least long enough for them to become veterans.  As their sergeant and fellow soldier, he owed it to them.  Hopefully they would live long enough to owe him back.

Saunders sniffled, swiped his nose, and donned his helmet.  Man, was he cold!  The full body dunking, combined with the lack of sleep, and cool night air, were really sapping at his strength.  Better to get moving and warm up a little.  Motioning to the others, he said softly, hoarsely, "Let's go.  Andersen, you take the rear."

Taking the point himself, he started the group on its way.  Without further incident, they reached the hill which occluded the plane.  Gesturing everyone down with a 'wait here,' he bellied up the hill to check things out.

Keeping himself as flat as possible, he slowly worked his way into a position to see the plane.  It was then that he knew Captain Baxter had been telling the truth.

There were two guards on the plane, one at each end.  Try as he might, Saunders couldn't see anymore from his point of view.

"Figures," he mused to himself.  He watched the guards, to see if they had any routine to their assignment.  After a few minutes, he eased back into the bushes and made his way down the hill.  By the time he reached the four men waiting for him, he had figured out what he wanted to do.

"Okay," he said, after gathering the others around him.  "There are two guards, but it could be more.  We need to make sure before you try for the camera, Captain."

Baxter looked at Saunders.

"Do you have a plan, Sergeant, or shall I take it from here?" he asked, a barely visible smile tugging at the downtrodden right corner of his mouth.

"Well, sir, I figure that we need to take those guards out."  At Baxter's go ahead nod, Saunders continued.  "Stultmeyer, you go around the front of the plane, I'll go around the back."  Saunders paused to look at Stultmeyer.  He had no idea how to explain to this kid what to do, he never did.  You would think by now he would, but no.  Usually he had Kirby or Caje to show by example.  Shrugging off his doubts, since they wouldn't accomplish anything, he went on.:  "Andersen, you give us cover from the top of the hill.  Sir," he said, turning to Baxter, "when you see us take out the guards, then you'll be able to retrieve the camera.  And after that," he turned to Morris, "you can blow the plane, Lieutenant."

At everyone's nod, Saunders turned to lead the way back up the hill.  Arriving at the top, Saunders pointed out the plane and guards.  Flanked by the two officers, he twisted around, making sure the others could see.  Morris gave a very low whistle and shook his head.

"Well, Baxter," he said.  "I guess it's a good thing we heard about the possibility of guards on the plane, huh?"  Morris' pale eyes were darting back and forth.  Suddenly, he stilled.  Sucking in his breath, he looked at Baxter over Saunders' back.  "Um, you did tell the sergeant, didn't you?" he asked belatedly.

Captain Baxter gave Morris a sour look and pointedly ignored him.  Turning his attention to Saunders, he pulled him aside.

"Sergeant," he said, frowning, "perhaps I should go around, instead of Stultmeyer. "  The captain's calm demeanor belied his worried eyes.

"No, sir," Saunders said.  "With all due respect, Captain, you're the only person here who knows where the camera is and how to remove it without damaging it.  We can't send you around."

"Okay, Sergeant," Baxter said, with a tip of his head.  "See you at the bottom."

Saunders nodded and looked around a moment more.  Crawling over to Andersen, he issued a few basic instructions, mainly to make sure that Andersen understood the meaning of covering fire.  Saunders knew he shouldn't have to doubt the fact that any U.S. Army soldier knew what it meant, but he also knew just how many replacements he had met who didn't.  Gratified to see that Andersen did understand, Saunders paused briefly, then asked to borrow his bayonet.  Making sure that Andersen and the officers found good cover, he then took Stultmeyer and moved out a bit.

"Stultmeyer, see that tree by the front of the plane?"  At Stultmeyer's nod, Saunders continued.  "Use the hill's cover to come up behind it.  On your way, look for any other patrols or guards.  If you can take them out without alarming the rest, do it.  Otherwise, go back to the top of the hill.  I'll be doing the same on the other side.  Once you get to that tree, I'll see you.  Then we can take out the two guards together.  Their radio is on the wing, first one done takes care of it.  Any questions?"

Stultmeyer shook his head, although his hands moved up and down his rifle nervously.  Saunders pretended not to notice.

"Okay, Stultmeyer, let's go."

It seemed to take an eternity, crawling through the underbrush to come up behind the plane.  Saunders kept his head down and his eyes open, but he didn't see any additional German troops.  Finally reaching his own staging point, he looked towards the tree that Stultmeyer should be behind.

No Stultmeyer.

Stilled by necessity, Saunders felt himself growing colder as the wind bit right through his wet clothing.  The sweat from his exertions was no longer an insulator, instead it turned traitor and joined with the rest of the forces trying to freeze him into submission.  The damp scratch of wet wool would truly drive him mad before the war ever did, Saunders mused wryly.  He cursed the wool, he cursed the war, and was just about to start cursing Stultmeyer when he saw movement from behind the tree.

Stultmeyer.

From the look the private gave him, Saunders deduced that all had been clear for him as well.  Silently, Saunders held up a hand, hoping to God that the kid would know to go on three.

He did.

They both charged their marks at the same time.  Stultmeyer's guard was looking at the ground and didn't see him until he was right on top of him.  It was a brief, but furious, struggle.  Evenly matched, the German wasn't going to give up easily.  Stultmeyer's pure terror-driven fury was the only thing that made up for his lack of experience, and, in the end, that was what triumphed.

Saunders, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky.  His guy topped him by six inches and forty pounds, at least.  While Saunders had the element of surprise, the German seemed to have all the other aces in the deck.  After the initial surprise, he seemed to be more amused than scared.  With little effort, he grasped Saunders by the neck and proceeded to beat his head against the plane.  Saunders choked in the firm grasp, seeing spots before his eyes.  The German then threw the dazed sergeant to the ground and jumped on top of him.  Grasping the front of Saunders' jacket with one hand, he dealt him several hard, swift, stinging blows with the other before Saunders had even gathered his wits together.  The few shots that Saunders did get in seemed to annoy his foe, rather than deter him.  Finally, the German stood, and Saunders rolled, attempting to gain his feet.  He had barely made it to his knees, when a well-placed kick forced him back down to the ground.  As he lay there stunned, trying to catch his breath, the German continued to kick the prone sergeant in his kidneys and ribs.

"Forget this," Saunders thought, as his world began to turn.  Not liking to fight dirty didn't mean he wouldn't.  With all his might, he double-fist hammered the German in the balls.  A strangled cry, and the soldier went down.  Saunders immediately straddled the man and made use of Andersen's bayonet.

When he looked up, he saw Stultmeyer standing over his guard, motionless.  Rising gingerly, Saunders made his way over to the German radio and smashed it with the butt of his Tommy gun.  He then went to Stultmeyer.

The kid's first.  He'd never forget it, never get over it.  It couldn't have even been in a firefight, when you had the comfortable cushion of distance.  Instead, it was a face-to-face take-out.  Saunders wanted to tell him that he'd be okay.  He wanted to tell him to leave it behind.  He wanted to let him know what he himself had learned through this long, long war.  But he knew that Stultmeyer would have to learn it on his own.  So, Saunders contented himself with what he always asked the new guys after their first kill.

"You okay?"

Stultmeyer looked up, startled, as if he had forgotten where he was.

"Yeah, Sarge, I'm okay."

Saunders nodded.  He turned and signaled up the hill to the others, then felt the back of his aching head.  When he pulled his hand away, it was covered with blood.  Looking over, he saw Stultmeyer's dazed look.  He then decided to teach Stultmeyer the next article of war.

"Help me move these bodies out of the way.  We don't want them to get blown up with the plane."

Stultmeyer looked confused and repulsed at the same time.  But he didn't question Saunders, just followed his lead.  As they placed the bodies under a copse of bushes, Saunders decided to break a rule and give Stultmeyer a little more information.

"You'd want someone to do it for you, Stultmeyer."

Stultmeyer looked shocked, as if he finally realized what was going on.  Quickly recovering, he nodded his head.

"Got it, Sarge."

And Saunders knew he did.

Making their way back to the plane, Saunders found that Captain Baxter was in the middle of removing the camera.  Unlike the camera he had retrieved earlier in the day, this camera was in the tail.  Baxter was busily working to free it from its connecting wires.

"Captain," Saunders asked.  "Where's Lieutenant Morris?"

"I left him up there with Andersen.  If anything goes wrong for us down here, at least he can still blow the plane later."  Baxter stopped his labors and looked directly at Saunders.  "I told Andersen not to attempt to give us any cover if he was outgunned.  This mission is too important."

Saunders met Baxter's gaze and nodded.  He then sent Stultmeyer to one end of the plane to keep watch, while he took the other.

As soon as Baxter was done, he made for the top of the hill.  Soon enough, Lieutenant Morris was at Saunders' side.

"I'll need about five minutes, Sergeant, to wire up this plane.  The fuse will have a sixty second burn, so be ready to move when I say."

Well, at least Morris seemed sure about something, Saunders thought, as he headed over to Stultmeyer to relay the news.  He had just settled back into position, when he heard a noise.  Catching Stultmeyer and Morris' attention, he signaled them that he was going to check it out.

There, a little way down the road, was a patrol of about six German soldiers.  They were headed directly for the plane.  Quickly making his way back, he let the other two know.

"Stultmeyer, you set up over here; I'll be over there.  Lieutenant, how much longer?"

"Almost done, Saunders."  Morris' hands flew at their task, while their owner barely paid them mind.  "I just need another minute."

Another minute might just be all we have, Saunders thought.  Nonetheless, he prepared for the inevitable.

Crouching in the brush, he heard the soldiers approach.  They stopped a little way from the plane.

<Franz!  Karl!>

Saunders held his breath.  He could see Morris creeping along the plane's wing as he attached the final charge.  Morris gave him a furtive thumbs up, then lit the fuse.

Saunders' eyes widened.  One minute, right?  Okay, he thought, let's go.  He let loose with his Tommy gun and was relieved to see two of the Germans go down.  Well, that cut their odds a little.

Within a heartbeat, Saunders heard the congested coughing of Stultmeyer's Garand, followed, surprisingly, by the sharp crack of his own .45.  There was nothing from the hillside.

The Germans immediately dropped to the ground and began to return fire.  Focused on the task in front of him, Saunders still remained fully aware of the time limit they were facing.  Twisting around, he caught Stultmeyer and Morris' attention.  "Move out!" he yelled over the sounds of gunfire.  "I'll give you cover!"

The two soldiers ran, crouching, to the brush at the bottom of the hill.  They were unable to climb up it, however, due to the withering fire they began to endure from above.

Above?

Saunders looked over, just in time to see Stultmeyer dive backwards down the hill.  What in the world is going on, he wondered, turning his attention back to the problem in front of him.

As he returned the fire of a particularly good shot, who kept coming way too close, it hit him, almost mummifying him in its vastness.

Intelligence had a leak.

A leak between G2 and S2.

Well, he had found it.

Glancing towards Stultmeyer and Morris, he could read the hesitation in their movements.

"Move out!" he screamed.

With only seconds to spare, Saunders crouched up to run himself.  He had only gotten about ten feet, when the airplane exploded.

Airborne, Saunders barely had time to wonder just what had Morris used to wire the plane before he hit a tree.  Dead on, full force, so hard that his arms and legs instinctively wrapped around it.  Which didn't help anyway, instinct being all they had to go on, since they had stopped listening to the increasingly feeble signals his brain was trying to send out.  Pieces of the plane flew outward in several different directions.

Saunders fell to the ground in a red, foggy haze of pain and confusion.  Try as he might, he couldn't move.  He was dimly aware of the light and heat from the now burning plane giving away any last hope of hiding from the Germans.  Everything seemed to exist in a vacuum that was rapidly sucking him in.  The last conscious thought he had before everything went black was that he hoped his men got away.

*****

Caje and Littlejohn were released from the aid tent that afternoon—if being kicked out due to lack of cot space could be euphemistically called release.  The ambulance for Nelson finally arrived, along with the x-ray machine that didn't work anyway.  Nelson was loaded into the back with smiles and encouragement from his squad mates, and the promise of weekly letters from Littlejohn.  Then the others returned to their billet to worry and wait.

Caje smoked long, endless cigarettes, deep eyes staring straight ahead, giving away nothing.  Doc started a letter home, but gave up after several false starts.  He put away the tangible reminders of a life existing outside his current cosmos and settled instead for checking and organizing his medical bag, his own special reality.  Littlejohn looked to want some conversation, shifting this way and that on his bedroll, clearing his throat several times.  But there were no takers, and Littlejohn resigned himself to tossing playing cards into his helmet, missing often and cursing his aim.

So it was a quiet group that occupied the squad's billet that evening.  Quiet, but not the peaceful kind of quiet that these men so often sought.  It was a tense silence, that begged to be broken by any means.

And the means was on its way.

Kirby had had it.  He was mad at the world.  Mad at the guys for blaming him, mad at the lieutenant who hadn't even chewed him out, but, most of all, he was mad at himself.  Mad because he had screwed up, again.  His mind was buzzing with emotion, and his body was trembling from the effort it was taking to hold it all together.  He knew he only had so much more left in him.  Stalking down the alley leading up to the entrance to the squad, he made no effort to be quiet.  He strode through the non-existent wall and stood there, fist-clenched hands on hips.

The others looked up at him, then down again to what they were doing.  Kirby stood a heartbeat longer and then exploded.

"All right, that's it!  I've had enough of you guys here!"  He struck a cocky stance, ready for an unusual battle.

The others looked up again, and this time no one looked back down.

"You've had enough?!"  Littlejohn's voice cracked in its surprised intensity.  "Enough of what?  C'mon, Kirby, tell us!  Enough of what?"

Kirby was so angry, he could barely speak past the red haze in front of him.  But he persisted in trying to pierce through it, to the men with whom he was so angry, but who were the only ones who would be able to understand and forgive him.

"You-you-you—  You know what?  There ain't none of you can point a finger at me!!  You hear me?  None of yous!!  Who do you think you are, setting me up to be the fall guy, sitting there like you ain't never done nothing wrong, huh?  Well?!?!?!"

Kirby paused and took a breath.  The broken silence lingered, fractured and waiting for its final farewell.

"Caje, don't you dare pretend to me that you always do right!  Who was with me just last week, trying to score a date with those three girls!?  Who almost fouled a mission up cuz of some little urchin orphan, huh?  And there's plenty of other things you done that the guys don't know about.  You ain't always perfect!

"Littlejohn, Sarge himself said you have two left feet!  You're always screwing up the missions, dropping primer cord in the road, or not staying put, or, or— "  Kirby stopped.  Even in his rage, he couldn't throw out the words describing how Littlejohn had fumbled the grenades when they took that farmhouse and bridge.

But Littlejohn knew where he'd been headed.  Flushing, he looked to the ground for help, large features contorting with shame at the memory.

Kirby continued on, trying to draw the attention away from that.  "And Billy, when he gets back, I sure will remind him of last week with me 'n Caje, or about the time he lost his grenade pins, or washed his rifle in soap and water!  Just cuz he got evaced don't mean he's out of this!

"And Doc!  Doc, you, you,—oh, never mind Doc, you don't count."  Having run out of steam, Kirby sagged against the wall.  He had so much to say, and he had said it all wrong, as usual.

But someone else was now ready to speak.  Doc was standing, favoring his ankle a little, but standing as tall as he could.  "I don't count!"  Blue eyes snapping revealed the depths of Doc's passion.  "How dare you stand there and say I don't count!"

"Well, well, I don't mean you don't count, Doc, I-I-I just mean that you, that you—" Kirby stuttered and stammered, not at all sure what he meant anymore.

"I know exactly what you mean, Kirby!"  Doc took a step in Kirby's direction.  "You mean that I don't count cuz I don't carry a weapon, cuz I don't shoot nobody.  Cuz when you guys are all in the thick of it, I'm just lying down somewhere, doing nothing!"  Doc's own frustration at exactly that was seeping into his tone.  "Well, lemme tell you something, Kirby!  Maybe I don't count for that!  But I sure do count when you want some aspirin for another hangover, or some foot powder for your ever-lovin' feet!  I sure do count when one of you guys needs a ride back to the aid station, I count then, now, don't I Kirby?"

Doc was now up in Kirby's face, having gotten there somehow in the midst of his tirade.  Hovering in as close as he dared, he continued.  "You think that I'm not a full-fledged member of this squad, Kirby, just cuz I'm a medic!  I know what you think!  It doesn't matter what I do or how often I do it, I'm just a tag-along to you!"  Doc paused and closed his eyes.  He wanted to make himself stop, but he couldn't do it.  Way down deep, he knew that he was accusing Kirby of exactly what he himself had been thinking all day.  And he wondered just how much of it was true, and how much he was projecting onto Kirby for himself.  But the anger overlaying his logic was paramount, and he was about to continue, when—

"Doc."

It came from the corner, shock and distress overwhelming the simple word.  Everyone turned to look at Caje, wondering what he would add to this conversation.

"Doc, you know that's not true."  Caje's brow was furrowed, he was genuinely upset.  "You know that we consider you a part of us.  Don't talk like that."

"That's easy for you to say, Caje," Doc shot back.  He felt like a kid, totally unable to stop the damaging words he was saying.  "It's easy for you to say, you're not the one who screwed up the whole mission!"

Surprise now settled on every face in the room.

"Doc, what are you talking about?" Littlejohn asked in bewilderment.

"You know!  It's my fault you all got it.  I tipped the Krauts off to us getting there first, they found the empty syrette of morphine I dropped!"

To Doc's chagrin, Caje began to laugh.  This was mirrored in Littlejohn's face by the barest of grins, while Kirby hung back, hoping that this would prove to be his break.

"Doc," Caje said, not unkindly, "Doc, you've got to be kidding!  Listen, none of us is perfect, all of us have made mistakes."  Caje paused, and shook his head, involuntarily closing his eyes as he recalled a certain dark-haired orphan he had left behind.  He opened his eyes and, looking at Doc, continued in a more sober tone.  "You have to get over it, Doc.  You can't bring back what was, fix what has already happened.  You have to let it go, forget about it.  There'll be a lot more opportunities for you to get it right, don't worry."

Doc looked from face to face, trying to find any hint of recrimination.  But each one wore the same look.  The look of someone who had been in his shoes, who had made his own mistakes, and who, despite it all, was able to go on.  It was a look that Doc hoped to cultivate for his own some day.

"And Kirby," Littlejohn broke in, "I reckon all of us has done something wrong, somewhere along the way. "

Kirby began to visibly brighten with relief.