No Disclaimer:  I was nowhere near the tommygun when that thing happened!  Also, the characters of "Combat!" belong to the characters at Selmur.  I receive no recompense, just the pleasure of knowing the Fanfic squad.  Thank you Jester and DII for your honest input, and special thanks to my Native American spiritual guide, Running Nuts—mi amiga.  I honor and salute the men and women of the Armed Forces, especially my brother Ben, and pray for their safe return.

Saunders woke up hung over again.  Cheek pressed to the sheets, he lay with his eyes closed a moment longer.  He didn't know where he was, so he remained still, his muscles gathering tension.  The noise that had awakened him repeated itself; a furtive rustle in the bushes outside the window.  'Nazis!' his instincts hissed in alert.

Then a kid laughed and a dog barked and the world came rushing back to the present.

It was 1949.  He was thirty-two years old, a fireman, and a father.  No longer a husband.  Alone.  The same question he'd asked himself a million times before echoed in his mind.  Why must he always fight the worst battles alone?

Bloodshot eyes pried open, staring as if stunned at the empty closet.  A breeze from an open window jangled bare hangers together like tuneless bells.  The house was suffocating in silence.  Saunders couldn't even remember the sounds his family made.  In his mind, the phantom roar of bullets and bombardments had long ago overwhelmed their voices.

He lit a cigarette with an unsteady hand.  Every morning it took him longer to escape the illusions of war.  A vital portion of his being still roamed those devastated lands.  At one time, he'd prowled the rubble in search of enemies.  Now he returned there in his dreams, seeking meaning.  He often awoke exhausted, his pillow damp with sweat or tears or both.  Today was no exception.

He rolled out of bed stiffly, grimacing at the headache and stale taste in his mouth.  Dragging both hands through his hair, he wandered to the bathroom and drank thirstily from the tap.  Every evening he poured too much gin down his throat, yet he couldn't sleep without it.  Days were bad enough, but he dreaded the night.  Memories arrived without warning, crushing him in their path.

He shaved without looking himself in the eye, then showered and dressed in his uniform.  He was comfortable in these clothes; faded denim and heavy leather boots, familiar sergeant's insignia on his sleeve.  A uniform suited him.  It felt as though he had always worn one.

Of course that wasn't true.  At one time he'd been a civilian, a kid.  He'd been primarily concerned about his reputation and his hair, but that all changed.  He'd changed.  Brutal reality demolished his boyish American fantasies.  Every second of what he'd seen in campaigns across the globe was branded on his brain, never to fade.

His wife once told him his gaze seemed ancient.  He could never express to her the reasons why.  There were no words sufficient to describe the atrocities he'd witnessed; no incantation powerful enough to make him forget.

Month after month he'd stalked the scorched earth, until one day he found he couldn't smile anymore.  Violence and loss had defined his life for so long, it felt wrong to wake up without them.  Tranquility made him impatient; silence made him suspicious.

No wonder she'd left him.  She'd found marriage to a burned-out, bitter cynic intolerable.  He was addicted to action and anger, carnage and chaos, and who could handle that? No one sane, that was sure.

Now Saunders spent his days breathing the smoke of burning buildings, rescuing cats from trees and making the rounds of grade schools on Career Day.  Occasionally, he saved a few lives.  He appreciated the homemade meals and cookies the grateful survivors invariably sent to the station, but nothing could fill the emptiness at his core.

Leaving his house without bothering to lock it, Saunders began the long walk to the job, habitually settling into the wary saunter of patrol.  He walked everywhere, his muscles accustomed to the exertion, his turbulent mind craving the distraction.  In the haven of his own thoughts, he was accompanied by the squad.  His men silently guarded his back, kept strangers away.  And everyone was a stranger, now.

The sergeant moved down crowded sidewalks untouched.  Passing pedestrians averted their eyes, unsettled by his hawkish gaze.  Surrounded by people, Saunders felt isolated from humanity; alien and anonymous.  If he spoke, would they even understand his words?

Halting abruptly in a dark alcove, Sarge lit a cigarette and cursed the sting in his eyes.  He didn't know what was happening to him.  The war had left him numb inside, heartsick and unable to trust.  As much as he craved human contact, he cringed at the thought of reaching out.  It took too much effort, and he was so tired.

Moving on, Sarge berated himself for his weakness.  He'd never leaned on anybody and he wouldn't start now, but he didn't know how much longer he could bear himself up alone.  His world was collapsing inward, retreating from light and warmth and love, and no one knew it because he couldn't find the words to tell them.

He was sad beyond measure.  He saw no reason to continue.  He wished he were dead.  And those feelings never went away.

*****

The slender, dignified man in the trench coat entered the busy café and approached the counter.  "Espresso, sil vous plait," he murmured to the counter girl, reaching into his pocket.

When she returned with the hot beverage, he handed her a heavy gold coin.  Holding her palm open in front of her eyes, she stared at the coin in bewilderment.  How in the world should she make change for this?

"It's yours, cherie," the gentleman said quietly.  "If you will show me the back way out of this place."

Moments later, the dignified man nimbly hopped a dilapidated fence.  Lithe as a cat, he dashed down the littered alleyways of the city, dodging strewn obstacles, piles of rotting refuse and a trio of lethal hunters.  Not since the Gestapo had he known such relentless pursuers.

Only after putting several city blocks between himself and the busy café did he stop and look over his shoulder.  Reaching into his pocket, he felt the thin notebook nestled safely in the hidden lining of the coat.

So many names, some of them right here in D.C.  Caje hated every one of them; hated their treason and subterfuge, hated their lies and betrayal.

Of these, betrayal was the worst.  Instead of gratitude to the United States for using her might to help rid the world of tyranny, some sought to steal her secrets, leave her vulnerable to invasion and defeat.  Caje hated the disloyal cowards who plotted against his country.  He'd killed one of them today with no remorse.

Now he had the names of the rest.

He turned with a grim look of satisfaction on his face, then froze in his tracks.  His wide brown eyes, usually so warm and mild, now seemed as hard and cold as petrified wood.

Standing in the entrance of the alley, three men stared darkly at Caje.  They didn't need to say a word; their drawn guns eloquently conveyed their intentions.

The assailant in the center started toward Caje, his hand held out expectantly.  "Give me the notebook."

The former scout felt his fingers curl in his pocket, seeking the reassuring weight of his pistol.  It wasn't there.  He'd lost it during the fight on the bridge.  It had fallen out of his coat when he and his target plunged over the side.  Caje had managed to grab a cable before he hit the water; his opponent wasn't as fortunate.

The only weapon Caje had left was also sewn into the lining, and his fingers clutched its hilt and felt for the release button.  The click sounded incredibly loud to his ears, but the men didn't seem to hear it.

The first thug halted before Caje, his hand still out.  He had a triumphant sneer on his face and an arrogant tilt to his chin.  "Hand it over, frog."

That was all the impetus it took.  Caje whirled, quicksilver reflexes too fast for the eye to follow.  There was a flash of light, and then the scout straightened, wiping the bloody blade on the dead man's coat as he crumpled at his feet.

Normally a moment of shock ensued after such a gory spectacle, allowing Caje time to escape.  But the other men were combat veterans, too, albeit from a different front.  Ignoring their fallen comrade, they opened fire, the muffled crack of the silencers blending with the sounds of traffic.

No one noticed the drama in the dark alley.  No one saw the two men approach the distinguished gentleman and roughly tear open his coat.  If anyone witnessed the biggest man kick the fallen victim in the head, no one came forward with information.

When the police finally discovered Caje, he was alone in the alley, apparently the victim of a vicious robbery and nothing more.  At least, that's what the newspapers reported in a three-line paragraph buried on the back pages.  Within a day the story—and Caje—were all but forgotten by the public, just as planned.

*****

Hanley rested his head in his hands and suppressed a moan.  He'd thought paperwork in the Army was ridiculous, but this was insane!  Why did he ever think being his own boss was a good idea?  He didn't even have time to spend the money he earned!

"Gil?"

Hanley looked up.  Mary stood in the doorway, her face flushed with effort.  To say the slight blond woman was heavy with child would be a gross understatement.  Gil almost knocked over a lamp rushing to her side.  "What are you doing here?  Is anything wrong?  You shouldn't be on your feet!"

Mary grinned at him, both cheeks dimpling.  "At ease, soldier.  I have permission to move about freely."

Hanley stared at her.  Although she was lousy at it, she frequently slipped into Army dialect to tease her intense husband.  Feeling somewhat foolish, he relaxed.

"Is it too early for lunch?" Mary asked hopefully, azure eyes wide.  In the last months of her pregnancy, she'd been eating like a horse.  Gil grinned at her proudly.

Thirty minutes later, she said "Oh!" and dug in her purse for an envelope.  "This telegram came for you."  She handed it to Gil as her cheeseburger, onion rings, extra pickles, chocolate malted, and Key Lime pie arrived.

Watching her with a smile, Hanley crossed his long legs and tore open the envelope.  He idly scanned the letter.  Then he lost all color in his face.

He turned to Mary with a stricken gaze.  She couldn't have known what was in the telegram; couldn't have known the shock it would bring.  "Honey...." he said, the rich timbre of his voice faltering.

With uncanny intuition, Mary read the expression in her husband's eyes.  "Oh, Gil," she asked softly.  "Who is it?"

Hanley only needed to mention his name and she knew the depth of his dismay.  Gil gripped her hand in both of his.  That familiar feeling of urgency, of despair and fear that he'd felt so often in French fields, suddenly returned fully.  Here, in this lovely restaurant in midtown Manhattan, Hanley could hear the shrieks of men dying in pitched battle.

He looked at Mary, speechless with indecision.  His face betrayed his conflict.  He couldn't leave his wife now, but someone else needed him at this moment, and he couldn't turn away.

Mary took the choice from him.  One of the traits he valued most in her was the strength behind her pale beauty; he couldn't imagine going through life without her by his side.

She folded her napkin and stood awkwardly.  "We'd better hurry if you're going to the airport, Gil."  He began to argue, but she shook her head resolutely.  "If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have you," she said as explanation, her eyes bright.

*****

A small reading lamp was the only light in the room, but Hanley easily recognized the Cajun.  His forehead was wrapped in thick bandages, as were his ribs and left shoulder.  Blood and intravenous fluids dripped into his depleted body from numerous tubes, and an oxygen mask partially obscured his handsome features.  He was in a coma, yet furrows of pain cut into his cheeks.  The hair showing through the bandages was nearly all white.  Life had been hard on the scout.

Hanley walked across the darkened room and stood at the foot of the bed.  At his knees, a chart hung from a hook.  'LeMay, Paul,' read the caption.  With numb fingers, Hanley lifted the cover and struggled to read the incomprehensible scribble.

"Skull fracture, Lieutenant.  That's what all that Latin gobbledy-goop says," a weary voice spoke from the shadows.  "That'n a couple a bullet holes."

Startled, Hanley squinted into the dark corner at a figure beginning to rise.  "Doc?"

As the man stepped into the light, Hanley saw that it was indeed the gentle medic from the 361^st Infantry.  Despite his bleak thoughts, Gil smiled broadly and clasped Doc's hand, slapping him on the shoulder.

Neither man said anything as the years fell away and memories embraced them.  This was their first reunion since VE Day, and it was awkward.  Not all their memories were bad, but all had the war as a backdrop.

When he left the front lines for the final time, Gil never looked back, and he never regretted it.  He could see that knowledge in Doc's face, as well as the disappointment the man couldn't disguise.

"Been a long time, Lieutenant," Doc said softly, careful not to disturb the sleeping patient.  "You look good.  Put on a few pounds."

Gil grinned bashfully.  "Well, I expect to snap back into shape once the baby's born."  He watched as Doc's expression changed to one of delight.

"A baby? No kiddin'?" he whispered, brightening.  "Well, that's great, sir, congratulations!"

Doc's smile was fleeting, but genuine.  Then, as though guilty for feeling pleasure while his friend lay nearby in pain, his doleful gaze shifted to Caje.  "Can't wait 'til he hears the news."

Subdued by sorrow and uncertainty, both men fell silent.  Hanley finally spoke.  "What happened to him, Doc?  Do you know?"

Doc shrugged.  "We met up a few times over the years, and while he didn't exactly say, I gather he works for the government.  Sort of a... a courier or something for a diplomatic liaison."  Reminded of something, he dug in his pocket and held up an ebony-handled switchblade.  "They found this in his hand, though.  Guess he tried to ward off his attackers."

"He carries a knife?"  Gil frowned, staring at the razor-sharp weapon, then at the bandages encircling the Cajun's head.  "Seems like a dangerous job, Doc.  What else did he tell you?"

Doc shook his head.  "I dunno, sir.  Like what?"

"Did he mention any enemies, any people who wanted to see him dead? He's been shot, Doc.  Who'd want to kill a courier on a diplomatic mission?  It doesn't make sense."

The former medic glanced at the tall man beside him.  An odd expression crossed his face.  Where had Hanley been these last four years?  The Communists had been on everyone's mind, not to mention the front page of every newspaper in America.  Far from being stunned into submission by the horrendous bombs dropped on Japan, Soviet Russia was rousing like a mighty, ferocious bear in the frigid East.

"This is still a troubled world, Lieutenant.  Our war is over, but others will follow, sure as the tide.  You know that."

Gil seemed startled that men were still fools enough to fight.  Although peripherally aware of growing hostilities, he'd apparently underestimated the scope of the threat.  Or maybe he'd just lost interest in the affairs of tyrants.

After the war ended, Gil shunned anything that dealt with conflict or cruelty.  The majority of his time was devoted to his family and business.  He rarely focused on anything else, and even then he was very selective.  He hardly read the newspaper anymore.  He only listened to classical music on the radio.  He and Mary attended theater or art galleries devoted to timeless works and, on the rare occasion they mixed socially, it was at cocktail parties with elite crowds too polite or uninformed to discuss politics.

Without realizing it, Hanley had gradually tuned out the world beyond his small sphere.  Safe in his comfortable cocoon, he allowed no other intrusions.  "I... I suppose I had other things on my mind, Doc."

"It's all right, Lieutenant," Doc said, his voice flat with disillusionment.  "It's not your fight, you don't need to concern yourself with it.  Our war was hell enough, and I can't blame a man for...."  He paused, then stuffed his hands in his pockets morosely.  "For wantin' to avoid anyone or anything that reminds him of it."

Hanley turned his head stiffly and looked at the medic.  "Is that what you think I'm doing:  hiding?"

Trying and failing to conceal the truth in his eyes, Doc answered honestly.  "Yes, sir, I do."

Gil faced him.  "Doc... you know me.  I've never run from responsibility in my life.  And I'm not running from it, now."  He hated the sound of pleading that crept into his tone, but he continued.  "I—I just have a lot of work...."

"Lieutenant Hanley," Doc interrupted gently.  "My job in the war was to help the sick and wounded, and I had a lot of help from the Good Lord above.  I thanked Him on my knees when the squad left for home, because all of us had survived.  Least I thought so at the time."

Despair crossed Doc's kind face and he shook his head.  "Only now, when I look at my friends, I realize I've never seen such deep wounds in my life, and there's nothing I can do about it."

Hanley swallowed tightly.  "Doc...." he began.

"You don't have to explain anything, Lieutenant, I was there with you," Doc said in the same soft tone.  "You earned the right to live in peace.  But, sir, don't forget the squad in your haste to forget the war.  Some of them need you as much as they ever did on the battlefield.  At least there, they knew you were coverin' their backs."

*****

Doc pulled his jacket on as he rode the empty elevator to the lobby of the hospital.  His expression was grim, his gaze troubled as he struggled to make sense of a disturbing situation.  What had happened to these men, these heroes?

Financially, Hanley was very successful, yet Doc hadn't heard from him in several years.  No one had.  While that hurt deeply, the medic rationalized the rejection by telling himself the lieutenant needed time to be alone; it wasn't personal.  Yet that was the problem.  Banishing the squad to exile wasn't personal to Hanley, and it should have been.

Kirby was divorced again, second time in four years.  He often wrote long, rambling letters to Doc; pages that started out crisp and hilarious, but unraveled into sloppy, barely legible litanies of regrets as the former BAR man got drunker.

Littlejohn's wife told Doc that her husband often disappeared for days without notice, leaving the farm duties to her while he wandered the flat, desolate prairie alone.  Upon his return, he wouldn't speak of it to anyone, even to his wife.  She didn't know how much more she could take.

And Caje.  Oddly enough, he was the one Doc saw most after the war, and he apparently had the most to hide.  Upon reflection, Doc realized that whenever they met for lunches or cocktails, a great deal of talking occurred, but no real information was exchanged.  The Cajun was still very much a mystery.  What little Doc knew of his history, he'd surmised from idle small talk.

Doc knew Caje had tried civilian life and found it lacking.  He knew vague details about a woman who'd broken his heart, and he suspected there had been the dashed promise of a child.  Doc would probably never know the rest.  Whatever Caje was doing, he wouldn't stop.  Or couldn't stop.

Sitting at the scout's sick bed earlier that evening, staring at the suffering man, Doc had felt pity flood his heart.  War was a job for the young or the foolish...or for those who knew no other way.

Crossing the hospital lobby, Doc stepped outside and looked around.  It was deep night, and the streets were dark and deserted.  No taxis or buses in sight.  Flipping his collar up, Doc began to trudge wearily to his hotel, hoping he'd find it.  He'd paid for a room he hadn't even seen yet.  He'd been at the hospital for the better part of a week, ever since a nurse called long-distance, saying Caje's records listed Doc as "family."

Flying to Maryland at once, Doc had sat with Caje for days, first watching for any signs of recovery, then later listening as the scout feverishly called out his friends' names, summoning a spectral sergeant and a medic who was already at his side.

Standing constant vigil, Doc prayed and sent telegrams and quietly made arrangements on the phone.  He ended each conversation with, "and bring a dark suit... just in case."  At times, Doc felt like a general directing troop movements for a sad invasion, but he couldn't go on like this.  He was worn out and worried sick, yet the man he needed most could not be found.

Doc had called Saunders a dozen times in the last three days and telegraphed him twice, but no answer.  Finally he'd resorted to contacting Sarge's job.  Doc couldn't keep the stiffness from his voice as he relayed the message that a mutual friend was dying.  He intentionally failed to mention the friend's name; part of him wanted Sarge to worry as he had the last week.  Immediately upon hanging up, Doc regretted his petty actions.  Yet there was still no response from the sergeant.

Now, walking alone down the dark streets, the uncertainty and strain of the last few days caught up to Doc.  Exhausted, he felt tears well up in his eyes, and he didn't try to stop them.  Hell, he was lucky he could still cry, and he wept unashamedly for his friends.

He had just walked blindly past a phone booth when the receiver rang.  Nerves jolting at the noise, Doc hesitated, not sure what to do.  Dragging a sleeve across his damp face, he stepped forward to answer, but the moment his hand touched the booth, the phone stopped ringing.  Doc stared at his reflection in the smudged glass doors, slowly growing angrier at the impotence he saw there.

With a firm look of determination on his face, he yanked open the doors of the booth and snatched up the receiver.  Digging into his pocket, he fed a handful of coins to the phone, then began to dial.  Listening to the endless, unanswered ring on the other end of the line, he started to get mad.  He'd try one more time to reach Saunders, one more time... one more time!

And then one more time after that.

Doc jammed the same coins in the slot over and over, only to have them return after each unsuccessful connection.  Finally he slapped the phone down in his frustration.  Scooping up the change, he put his hand on the bi-fold doors, then paused.  He stared at the coins for a moment, then reached for the receiver again.  Under the weak, flickering lamp of the phone booth, he dialed the operator and requested a number he never thought he'd be calling.

The receiver rang several times, and Doc looked at his watch.  This was the granddaddy of all long shots.

There was a click and a pause, then a voice said cautiously, "Hello?"

Just as Doc opened his mouth to speak, the doors to the phone booth slammed open with a crash.  Rough hands reached in and grabbed him by the lapels and yanked him out, muffling his surprised shouts.

"Hello?  Who is this?" the voice on the other line demanded.

Smothering in the grip of a woolen sleeve pressed over his mouth and nose, Doc could only stare with ridiculously wide eyes as a big man in a dark overcoat lifted the wildly swinging receiver.  He held it to his ear for a moment, then put a finger to his lips.

"Shhh-hh...." he told the frightened medic.  Smiling, the stranger hung the phone up with exquisite care, then turned to his huge companion and his captive.  "Come," he told Doc, gesturing toward a waiting black sedan.  "We must talk."

*****

Floating weightless in a gray, featureless fog, Caje felt paralyzed by fatigue.  He didn't have the energy to open his eyes, much less turn his head.  He heard people talking, but he was too tired to even interpret their words.  Unresponsive, he let the hushed sound of their syllables wash over him like waves.

"...Can't wait 'til he hears the news..."

"...Is that what you think I'm doing, hiding?..."

"...I have no idea where he is..."

"...tomorrow, Lieutenant, bright and early..."

Fading in and out, the scout had no concept of time.  Whenever reality intruded upon his trance, he was unsure whether a minute had passed, or a month.  At one point he felt a cool hand on his forehead, and a woman spoke quietly.  A deep voice responded.  The voice tugged at Caje's memory, but before he could identify it, he fell back into the soft gray tunnel of oblivion.

The next time the Cajun came to, the room was deserted and dark and he was being smothered by his own pillow.

Awakened to impending death, Caje's mind cleared for the briefest of moments.  The scout clawed at the cushion covering his face, trying to ward off the attack.  It was no good.  He was too weak.  He felt the pressure mount as the assailant leaned into the task.  A kaleidoscope of colors exploded behind Caje's eyelids as he slowly suffocated.  The last thing he heard was a chime as an elevator door opened.  And then, with a final, stiff spasm of resistance, the scout's tortured body deeply relaxed.

Precariously balanced on the brink of death, Caje didn't hear the footsteps approach down glossy halls or feel the cushion quickly replaced beneath his head.  He didn't see his assailant rush across the room and ease out the open window, or witness him pause and glance back in, as though to acknowledge unfinished business.

None of this was apparent to Caje, who lay as though in peaceful repose on the narrow hospital bed.  When the dark figure of a man appeared in the doorway, the defenseless scout was oblivious to danger.

The man soundlessly crossed the room and bent over Caje.  A calloused hand descended lightly, patting the scout's tousled hair with tender affection.  "I'm here," the man whispered.  "I'm right here, Caje.  I got your back...."

*****

Hanley stifled a yawn and stared blearily at the percolator.  Tempted to start a fire on the nurse's desk and get the job done fast, Gil impatiently splashed some weak brew into a cup, dumped in sugar, and left cursing under his breath.  One thing never seemed to change:  cruddy coffee followed him everywhere he went.

The corridors were deserted at this hour.  Even the nurses had disappeared.  Hanley's gaze darted restlessly as he walked.  Four years in civilian life hadn't dulled his instincts.  He still felt jumpy passing dark, open doorways without a loaded carbine nestled in his hands.  Listening to the hum of the slumbering hospital, the former soldier strained to hear a discordant note.

Then a patient's muffled groan brought Hanley back to the present.  With a scornful noise, he shook his head.  Stupid, you're an architect, now.  War's over.  Besides, he reasoned, he could just throw a cup of hot water on any lurking Krauts he saw.

Entering Caje's room, Hanley frowned, mildly perplexed.  The window had been shut when he left; now it was open.  Perhaps a nurse had finally appeared to check her patient and decided he needed fresh air.  Turning his head, Hanley listened to Caje's breathing; it seemed irregular and rough, almost a struggle.

Crossing the dark room, Gil closed the window and latched it tightly.  Air was one thing, he thought with a touch of annoyance; pneumonia was another.  Even as he stood there, Caje's breathing improved steadily, and Hanley nodded in satisfaction.

With a quick, dry rasp, a match flared to life behind him.  Badly startled, Hanley jerked around, scalding his hand with hot coffee.  "What the hell—!" he barked.

Slouching against the wall, a man bent his head to light his cigarette, and Hanley caught a glimpse of thick blond hair.  "Who... Saunders?"  He could hardly believe it.  He found a place to set his cup and searched for the light switch.  "Is that you, Sarge?"

"Yes, Lieutenant," the low voice responded.  "You wanna keep the lights off?  You got a hurt man over here."

Gil's hand dropped away from the switch.  Saunders' voice had an odd quality to it, something Hanley couldn't quite place.  Coldness rimed the tough tone, or perhaps it was his imagination.  Nevertheless, this reunion might also be tainted by the past.

Hanley decided to ignore the attitude.  He approached the shadowy figure.  "Well, I'll be damned," he said.  "I didn't think I'd see you for awhile."

"Yeah?" Saunders said quietly, shifting his stance.

Hanley nodded once.  "Yeah."

He noticed that Sarge drew away as he moved closer, clearly reluctant to participate in this conversation.  The sergeant turned his shoulder to Hanley, keeping him in his sight but not speaking.  He just listened, as always; listened and weighed his options.  Eyeing the door.

Gil's brow crimped in confusion.  It was three o'clock in the morning.  Saunders didn't keep weird visiting hours; he'd known Hanley was here but had waited for him to leave.  He'd mistakenly thought Gil had gone home when he only went for coffee.

Now the sergeant felt trapped.  Hanley had seen that tense posture many times before, an eternity ago.  And he knew Saunders was a very dangerous man when trapped.  "You live on the East Coast now?" the lieutenant asked in a casual tone.

Sarge shook his head.

"Where do you live?" Hanley inquired patiently.

"Chicago."

"Yeah?  They serve great steaks in Chicago."

Saunders didn't respond and Gil sighed.  God, this was tough.  He'd never met a man who played his cards so close to the vest, and the trait seemed to have gotten more pronounced.

"You married?  Got kids?"

Hitching his shoulders edgily, Sarge paced farther away.  When his voice did come, it surprised Gil with its unusual undercurrent of defeat.  "Divorced.  One boy, his name is Jason."

Gil didn't so much hear the words as see the effort it took Sarge to speak them.  "That's a good name.  For your son, I mean."

Saunders gave a listless shrug.  "She chose it."

"How old is he?" Gil asked, trying to steer the conversation to what must certainly be a happier topic for the sergeant.

"Two."

That was it.  A nearly inaudible, one-word response.  No bragging, no stories, no photo in the wallet.  Somehow, Hanley knew he'd discovered by accident the focus of his friend's pain.

Saunders paused before the window and gazed out.  Silhouetted against the city lights, Gil got his first look at the sergeant.  His wayward blond hair was the same, but the lean face beneath had relinquished nearly all its fierce vitality.  For a man still in the ripeness of youth, Saunders seemed spent, world-weary.  The dull luster of defeat was evident in his eyes.

Staring at him, Hanley searched for inspiration, something to help untie his tongue.  What could he say to the sergeant?  You've changed so much, I barely recognize you?

"So... what are you doing these days, Sarge?" he asked slowly, disturbed by the sight before him and trying not to show it.

Bathed in bluish moonlight, Saunders seemed ghostly, unreal.  His pale eyes appeared colorless, and he stared at Hanley without blinking.  "Same thing I've done all my life, Lieutenant," he murmured.  "Surviving...."

*****

Saunders saw the emotions cross Hanley's face in a tide.  Just to have someone look at him, really see him, proved almost more than he could bear.  He said something just to say something.  It didn't matter; just something to get that piercing green gaze off him.

Then he felt an invisible shield surround him, impenetrable to stray fears.  It was instinct now.  The war had taught him to cover his pain like a pearl, smooth the sharp edges and bury it deep.  Perhaps he'd learned too well.

For years, he'd watched helplessly as people he met began to avoid him, thinking him cold.  He'd earned a reputation as being demanding and distant.  Maybe he deserved it, he didn't really know.

Now here was a face from his past, staring at him with a mixture of regret and alarm.  For his part, Saunders didn't know what Hanley saw.  He'd avoided taking a hard look at himself for years.  Part of him was afraid of what he'd see.

"When was the last time you slept, Saunders?" Hanley asked bluntly.  "When was your last decent meal?  I've seen you come back from two weeks in the field in better shape than this."

"I'm fine—"

"Like hell you are!  I knew I shouldn't have let you out of my sight.  Why didn't you call me?  Does your family know where you are?  Maybe I should contact your mother."

Despite himself, Saunders was amused.  Neither man could help it; when they were together, they were like brothers, squabbling yet caring deeply for each other.

"No," he said quietly.  "Don't tell Mom.  I promise to behave."

Hanley fell silent, then looked away.  He seemed shaken, as though he'd suddenly realized up was down and right was left.  If Doc was correct—if even Saunders had buckled trying to readjust to civilian life—what must have happened to the others?

"This is my fault," he said somberly.  "I should have called you, kept in touch.  I should've known you wouldn't ask for help, but I never dreamed you'd be the one who'd need it."  He glanced at Saunders in dismay.  "I guess I thought you'd conquer the world in your usual, capable way, Sarge."

He left unsaid the obvious conclusion:  that instead, the world had conquered the sergeant.

Saunders absorbed the truth without flinching.  He was well-acquainted with cruelty, it was kindness he couldn't accept.  His wife had burst into tears one night after counting his scars, and those were only the visible ones.  When she ran from the room, he didn't follow, rejecting her compassion and, ultimately, their marriage.  He didn't even know why.  It took a lot for others to injure the sergeant, yet he seemed to hurt himself almost effortlessly.

After the divorce, his life became an aimless path of difficult days and unbearable nights.  It was disturbing to realize his best years were behind him, especially at an age where most men were only just hitting their stride.  Somehow he knew he'd never again be as awake, as vigorously alive, as he was on the killing fields of France.

Yet returning home—the illusion that had sustained him throughout the war—was shocking.  Two weeks after arriving on U.S. soil, he found himself lying awake at night, camped on the hard floor of his old bedroom, listening for the sounds of battle.  Missing it, actually.  Dozing restlessly in the unaccustomed quiet, he was often jolted awake by the echoes of mayhem in his mind.

Fearing himself jaded or even sick, Saunders threw his efforts into being as normal as possible.  He married the first girl he even remotely liked, bought a house in the suburbs, went to law school on his G.I. bill... and developed an unslaked thirst for gin.

His first mistake was the girl.  After two years of marriage and a son, he didn't even know what color her eyes were.  That she hated him when she left was no surprise.  He'd reserved his worst contempt for her, blaming her for his unhappiness and frustration; blaming her for staying and blaming her for leaving.  There were no fights, no arguments; he simply froze her out.  She didn't even bother saying goodbye.

His second mistake was law school.  Legal arguments bored him.  The best argument he knew was a fully loaded Thompson submachine gun.  There were never any disagreements with anyone after that.

His third mistake was seeking out the very thing that poisoned him.  Impatient and unfulfilled by the boring legal studies, he became a firefighter because the smoke and destruction and terror appealed to him.  That was something he hid from everyone, including himself.  Action was a dangerous addiction, but every wailing siren and every flaming explosion brought him closer to the life he left behind.  Unwittingly, he had replaced the vanquished German aggressor with his other mortal enemy:  fire.

The nightmares grew in force.  At first he tried to ignore them, throwing himself into his job with such conspicuous courage he rose to the rank of sergeant in record time.  It helped that he was a decorated combat veteran.  Soon he was leading a squad again.

Yet the dreams continued to haunt him, some so vivid he'd awaken in the middle of the night bellowing orders and breaking furniture.  He not only terrified the neighbors, he scared himself.

Exhausted, he often sought oblivion in a sea of Seagram's.  He didn't sleep so much as pass out.  It was the only way he could stop the visions, silence the voices.  But still, somehow, they always found him.

A hand touched Saunders' sleeve, and he blinked up into the somber face of his former lieutenant.  Hanley stared at him in profound worry, not speaking.  Saunders didn't know how long he'd been standing there, his gaze focused inward.  A loner, he frequently sought refuge in his own thoughts, unnoticed by everyone else.  Only this time someone noticed and took exception.

Hanley felt a knot of fear settle in his belly as he stared at his friend.  What had happened to the Saunders he once knew? That man was tempered and tough, prepared to fight to the death for what he believed in.

Now, looking at the silent, unsmiling stranger before him, Hanley wondered what overwhelming calamity had made Sarge stop believing in himself.

"Come with me, Saunders," Hanley said, sparing a quick glance at Caje.  "I want to talk to you."

Gripping Saunders' arm, he escorted him to an empty visitor's lounge across the hall.  Once the door had safely shut behind them, Hanley turned to the sergeant with a concerned frown.

"I don't know what's wrong, Saunders," he said quietly.  "But I'm worried about you.  I think you need to talk to somebody."  His words touched a raw nerve in the brooding man.

"I'm not crazy!"  Saunders' strong voice rang out in the stark room, echoing loudly down the linoleum halls.

"I didn't say you were," Hanley shot back, reminded anew of the sheer impact of Sarge's temper.  "I only meant you need to get some help before you explode.  Look at you; you're hurt so bad you can hardly stand, but you won't let anyone near you!"

"Oh, for—  You sound like her!"  Unnerved by the lieutenant's insight, Saunders prowled around the room, turning his back on Gil.  "Go home, why don't you?  Leave me alone!"

"No," Hanley said firmly.  "I won't make the same mistake twice."  The disgraceful memory of the day he'd abandoned Saunders for dead would never fade from his mind.  Without realizing he did it, he held out a hand, desperate to reach his friend now.  "Sarge...you don't have to be in the field to call for help."

Saunders stopped pacing at the far window.  A humorless laugh escaped his throat, and he shook his head.

If he were in the field, he wouldn't need help.  If he were in the field, he'd be too busy fighting and killing to feel the despair undoing his mind.  He'd be too busy to think of those he'd loved and lost.  And there were so many; their faces overwhelmed his dreams, their voices echoed in his empty house.

"This isn't the Army, Hanley," he said in a dull tone.  "You're not responsible for my life, anymore."

Offended, Hanley answered stiffly:  "That's bullshit and you know it."  They owed each other a debt they could never repay; how could Saunders question or belittle that?

Because he was lost and alone, and he didn't know how either thing had happened to him.  Hanley could see it plainly.  Sarge would never seek pity or the consolation of others.  Yet his burdens were killing him, and he had no one to share the weight.  If not for Mary, Hanley wondered if he'd be strong enough to endure the aftermath of front line combat in solitude.  Somehow, he doubted it.

Frightened for his friend and angry at his own helplessness, Hanley spoke in the flinty tone of command, praying that the soldier in Saunders would respond.  "All right, let's get it out in the open:  you're suffering and you won't get help.  That sounds like a death wish to me, Saunders.  Are you trying to die?"

"Oh, for God's sake—"

"Are you?" Gil roared.  Few men could out-shout Sarge.  Considering the occasion, Hanley took no pride in the accomplishment.

"What does it matter?" Saunders muttered, his voice rough with resentment.  "You don't owe me, Hanley.  You didn't owe me coming into the war, and you don't owe me on the way out.  So let's keep it that way, huh?"

The bitter words landed like a blow, staggering Hanley.  It took him a moment to find his voice.  "How can you say that, Sarge?"

"Because it's true!" Saunders snapped.  "Because it's what you wanna hear!"  He jabbed a finger in the direction of Caje's room.  "You got a man in there with no real good reason to live, except he's used to it.  It's like a bad habit he can't break, but there's no purpose to his life except to kill.  That's what he does, Lieutenant; he kills people for a living.  He's got a real knack for it, too; courtesy of the Army!  Now what're you gonna do—tell him to go see a shrink and charge it to Uncle Sam?"

Hanley opened his mouth, stunned.  "I—I didn't know, Saunders...."

Turning away, Sarge glared out the window, his voice harsh.  "You don't know anything, Hanley, and you don't want to."

That airless sensation had returned to Gil's chest, anxiety squeezing his ribs.  It was coming back, all of it.  The more he spoke with his former sergeant, the more he absorbed the man's agony and alienation, and the more his own guilt grew.  Why had he survived when other, more deserving men had not?

Beyond Sarge's shoulder, Hanley watched a distant flight depart from the airport; a single glittering star ascending to the sky.  Suddenly Gil thought of Mary, and his miserable heart constricted with longing.  He would give anything to be home with her now, surrounded by serenity and security.  Away from the poisonous, pointed barbs that Saunders threw.

Almost as though Sarge read his mind, Hanley heard him remark cynically, "You always were lucky in love, Lieutenant.  What's your secret, huh? How do you keep 'em from running away:  silk nylons and perfume?  Chocolate bars and three-day passes?"

Hanley's eyes narrowed.  "Watch it, Sergeant," he said coldly.

Saunders glanced at him over his shoulder, a trace of a smirk on his lips.  For a brief moment, Gil saw the specter of a ruthless young street punk in his posture.  He seemed to be inviting Hanley's wrath.

Suddenly the differences between them were displayed in stark contrast; Hanley was Ivy League, Saunders was City College.  Gil played a devastating game of billiards; Chip was a pool shark.  The lieutenant was a tall, refined officer from a wealthy, well-bred family; Sarge was a scrappy Scottish noncom from a broken home in the Bronx.

Their single commonality was the war.  Their friendship, Hanley once thought, was the only good thing to come out of the conflict.  Now he was not so sure.

Reaching an unpleasant impasse with the willful sergeant, Gil breathed out hard and headed for the door.  Saunders got there first.  "Where you goin', Lieutenant?" he asked in a deadly soft tone.  "Too hot for you in here?"

Gil's hands balled into fists.  That was the second time in as many hours that he'd been called a coward.  "Let me out of here or I'll bust you in the mouth," he grated.

"Yeah?"  Sarge cocked his head, taunting the furious officer.  "And risk your good conduct medal—?"

Hanley's first punch was to Saunders' stomach, his second to his jaw.  He had little time to savor his victory.  Launching himself off the floor like a wildcat, Sarge tackled Hanley around the waist.  Both men crashed heavily to the ground, bruising themselves on sturdy, sharp-edged furniture.  Incredibly, no one came to investigate the racket; nor could they have done anything about it.

Getting his elbows under him, Gil tried to rise, but Saunders quickly straddled his chest.  With one fist tangled in the lieutenant's collar, Sarge hauled back and punched as hard as he could, flaying open Hanley's left cheek.  The knuckles of his right hand also fractured, but that was secondary to the satisfaction he derived.

Squinting through ruined vision, Hanley twisted mightily, shoving Saunders to the floor.  The sergeant was quick, scrambling to his feet, but Gil had the advantage of greater reach.  Lashing out, he kicked Sarge's legs out from under him, then watched in horror as Sarge stumbled and fell, his head slamming against the hard wooden arm of a chair.  Almost as soon as it began, the fight was over.

"Oh, God," Hanley breathed.  Pushing himself up, he crawled to the dazed man's side.  "Saunders... talk to me.  Talk to me!"

Reviving painfully, Sarge pressed his broken hand to his bleeding head and croaked:  "Screw you, Hanley."

Gil sat back on his heels.  Not exactly what he'd had in mind, but under the circumstances, it would suffice.

Reaching up, Saunders attempted to rise.  Hanley gripped his arm and helped him to his feet.  Standing with effort, Sarge soundlessly blew out a bracing breath, then pressed his lips together.  When the room finally stopped weaving around him, he glanced at Gil and asked, "Give up?"

Hanley laughed in relief.  Then he scowled.  "You ever pull a stunt like that again, Sergeant, I'll leave you where you fall...."  It was an old, inoffensive quip, but suddenly it left a sour taste in Gil's mouth.

In the awkward silence, he pretended to survey the wrecked room.  Clearing his throat, he joked, "Think they'll notice?"

Saunders never had an opportunity to answer.  In that brief moment of silence, the two men heard the distinct sound of breaking glass.  Glancing at each other, they both said, "Caje" and rushed for the door.

*****

Doc felt squashed flatter than a flapjack in the backseat of the black sedan.  The two big men sat on either side, crowding his shoulders and knees.  The medic knew it was on purpose.  They were trying to intimidate him and, frankly, it was working.

The kidnappers were well-muscled men, dressed in heavy woolen coats of European design.  Their accents were foreign, although Doc couldn't rightly place them.  The older man was graying at the temples, and the younger man had piercing eyes and flaring nostrils.  Whatever their motivations, Doc knew they intended to succeed at all costs.

The car meandered through back streets, affording the two men time to interrogate their captive.  "Don't be afraid, Doctor; we are not here to harm you.  We only want information," the older man said in a soothing tone.

Staring at him, Doc swallowed with difficulty.  When he spoke, his voice was reedy with fright.  "It's 'Doc', mister.  It's just a nickname from the Army...I'm not a real doctor."

The man smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement.  He leaned closer to the medic, his tone avuncular.  "'Doc,' is it? Well, then, we shall call you 'Doc.'  Now then, 'Doc'... as I said, we require information."

Doc shook his head.  "I don't know any—"  The air exploded from his lungs as the henchman grabbed the front of his jacket roughly.  The medic flinched as the young thug yanked back a meaty fist to strike him.

"Wait...."  The older man averted the impending beating with a flick of his finger.  The medic's panicked gaze darted between the henchman's ham-sized fist and the mildly interested onlooker nearby.

"We are tired, Doc," the older man explained with a sigh.  "It was a very long flight.  Please don't try Yuri's patience with pointless lies."

Doc's complexion was dead white.  "What is it you want?" he asked weakly.

"The notebook your friend had in his coat, give it to us."

"I don't know about any notebook, mister.  Caje was robbed—they took everything!"

"If that is true, then he must have told you some names," the man argued.

"What—what names? Who are...?"

"Do not lie to me, Doc, the consequences could be very grave.  Those names are of the utmost importance, and time is short.  You have been at LeMay's side for days.  He must have told you something!"

Oh, yes, Doc thought, Caje told him many things.  He told of how he'd shot a man who was on a fishing trip with his grandson.  Later at the hotel, Caje pressed the pistol to his temple and almost blew his own head off.  He told of exterminating men like vermin; taking their lives and trying not to care, but failing.  He revealed his fear of letting the squad down, of losing his nerve or his edge.

Of course, none of this came from lucid discourse.  It came from three days and nights of pure hell, for both of them.  Deeply respectful of a man's right to privacy, the medic would never reveal what he'd heard.  Yet Caje's fevered confessions only confirmed what Doc already suspected—the scout was lost.

Meeting the kidnappers' intense scrutiny with a level gaze, Doc answered quietly.  "He didn't tell me anything I didn't already know, mister.  I can't help you."

The older man held Doc's gaze for a moment, then leaned back in the car and shook his head.  "Such a pity," he said in false remorse.

*****

"Got any peanuts left?  Anything?  Chewing gum?"

"No!"  The bigger man sighed in exasperation.  "For cryin' out loud, Kirby, stop beggin' for rations I don't have!"  Littlejohn glanced at the bus station behind them.  "I'm about ready to stuff you in a duffel bag and send you back!"

"Aw."  The wiry man kicked the curb petulantly.  "I'm so hungry my stomach thinks my throat's been cut!"

"Don't give me any ideas," Littlejohn muttered darkly, searching in vain for the cab they'd called.  Kirby scowled, but said nothing.  A few minutes passed in silence, then:  "Think they're servin' breakfast at the hospital right now?"

Littlejohn let his suitcase drop.  As he turned to shove a finger in Kirby's face, a long black sedan screeched over the top of the hill.  The thunder of its pistons echoed off empty brick buildings as it raced down the boulevard, heedless of pedestrians or traffic.  Fortunately, at this hour the streets were deserted.

The two soldiers stood transfixed as the sedan wheeled and swung wildly down the broad avenue, its headlights flashing off storefront windows.  Watching the bizarre display, they wondered where and when the car would finally crash.  Their curiosity was soon satisfied.

"Watch out!" Littlejohn yelled as the sedan headed straight for them, gobbling up the pavement like a roaring monster.

Grabbing Kirby's collar, Littlejohn yanked the BAR man out of the way just as the car jumped the curb in a tremendous spray of sparks and smashed into the side of the bus station.  An almost-human screech of rending metal filled the air.  Geysers of fluid gushed from the crumpled engine.  A hubcap flipped and spun wildly across the intersection before coming to rest.  Sirens went off as the night manager panicked and hit the burglar alarm.

The two soldiers ran toward the wreck at once, yanking the dented doors open and peering in.  The driver was alive, but moaning and clutching at an ebony-handled switchblade embedded in his shoulder.  In the backseat, three men lay tangled in a heap, the one in the middle writhing in a desperate attempt to escape the unconscious weight of the others.

Littlejohn reached in and grabbed the man's arm and pulled.  His deep voice rose in delight as the medic tumbled out onto the pavement.  "Doc!" he said with a baffled grin.  "What're you doin' in there?  Who're those men?"

"Bad guys!" Doc cried shortly, still shaken by the horrendous accident.  "We gotta get outta here!  Help me up!"

Obliging without question, Littlejohn and Kirby helped Doc to his feet just as their taxi drove up.  Hustling the medic into the cab, they fled the scene only seconds ahead of the police.

Twisting around in the taxi, his face bathed in the flashing lights of the local law enforcement, Kirby gave the other two men a reckless, brilliant grin.  "Now this is my kinda town!"

*****

A split-second after bursting into Caje's room, Saunders spotted the pistol aimed through a jagged hole in the window.  "Sniper!" he shouted, shoving Hanley out of harm's way.

The startled assassin only had time to squeeze off a single wild shot before darting up the fire escape.  Kicking the remaining glass out of the shattered window, the sergeant quickly gave chase as Hanley checked on Caje's welfare.

"Nurse!" the lieutenant bellowed before joining Saunders in the manhunt.

The sky was navy blue as night waned.  The hospital was too high to benefit from the illumination of the streetlights.  Saunders and Hanley were practically blind as they searched for the assailant among the hulking rooftop obstacles.

Kneeling behind a grimy vent, Hanley dragged the sleeve of his expensive shirt over his bloody cheek and began to trace a plan in the dirt with his finger.  "Let's try this; I'll swing around and flush him out, and when