The City of Light
By: Doc II 2005

Shadowy fingers slipped amongst the ivy climbing the wall, creating a moving mosaic that was at once both calming and disturbing. The mature trees dotted here and there in the courtyard seemed to have forgotten it was spring. Bare branches reached skyward with leafless, amputated limbs, casting no shade over the scattered stone benches and the lifeless gardens. A lone man sat there, as motionless as any of the disfigured statuary.

Sergeant Saunders leaned on the gate, shoving his shoulder against the rotted wooden door until it swung slowly inward. Oddly enough, the hinges kept silent and the soldier passed through unnoticed. It only took him a second to see the other man and he paused, running one hand through his hair with undisguised relief. Saunders' other hand pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket and he slipped it between his lips, lighting it with the battered lighter that had survived every firefight and bar brawl in which the sergeant had participated since D-day.

He hadn't been sure how his squad would react to the R&R in Paris. If he was being perfectly honest, and Saunders had given up that little habit long ago, he hadn't been exactly thrilled at the prospect himself. The months of living in holes in the ground hadn't prepared him for the comparative luxury of a civilized city. Saunders wasn't sure if he wanted his first and likely only visit to the City of Light to be while taking a momentary breath between battles. A clean bed and plenty of food and drink -- that's all he really needed. But Hanley had insisted, and what Hanley wanted, Hanley got.

The sergeant took another deep drag on the cigarette and approached his missing soldier, smoke trailing behind him in wispy plumes that slowly dispersed in the gentle breeze. Following the broken cobblestone walkway, Saunders avoided the larger holes, his gaze flickering between his footing and his destination. He hadn't been sure where he'd find the private, Paris being, after all, a fairly large city. As it turned out, it had been a woman who'd tipped him off, much to his surprise.

“Le docteur? <I can show you, come with me.>”

Saunders would have followed her anywhere, his gaze sliding over her trim figure and meeting her startlingly blue eyes with his own. She wore a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with flowers that cascaded in riotous confusion below her shoulders. The sergeant had no idea what color her hair was, or its length, or even if she had any, so captivated was he by those eyes. He glanced back at the rest of the squad, one eyebrow cocked in silent challenge. He'd been both amused and gratified at Kirby's audible swallow as he left to find his wayward squad mate.

“Doc?”

The medic looked up, blue eyes dark as the North Sea. He frowned, shifting something in his arms as he shoved up one sleeve and studied his watch.

“Sarge! I didn't realize, I lost track of, I didn't--“ Doc's voice trailed off, his cheeks flushing a dull red. Climbing to his feet, he turned to face Saunders, the puppy in his arms whimpering and burrowing deeper into the safety of the medic's sleeves.

Saunders took a step closer, coming around the edge of a low wall, and he saw what he'd failed to notice initially. A row of small children, each clutching an animal of some sort, seated in a semicircle at the medic's feet. They stared up at the blond soldier, eyes huge in faces punctuated by smears of chocolate. Saunders grinned, imagining Doc dolling out his precious stash of Hershey bars.

“What's goin' on, Doc? Storytime?” He suddenly thought of Christmas Eve when the soft-voiced medic had lulled the squad, Hanley and Saunders, too, into an all-too-short respite from the war, transporting them back in time to Bethlehem and the birth of the Christ child. Saunders wasn't sure if he was religious or not, especially with all that he'd seen in the last year, but that night, he was a believer. He smiled again, wondering how the young man from Arkansas had been able to communicate with the bedraggled group of French kids.

Doc shook his head. Holding out the struggling puppy, he nodded at the clean white bandage wound around its paw. “Ain't been a vet through here in a long time. This lady saw my armband, asked if I was a doctor. I couldn't make her understan' what a medic was. She dragged me here an' the kids an' the animals, well, they jus' started showin' up.”

Saunders looked around the circle, marveling at the stillness of the children and the variety of beasts held in their laps. Dogs, cats, birds, even a pig. And was that a... yes, it was. It was a rat, its beady eyes staring furtively at him for a moment before the creature nestled under the threadbare sweater of a grimy little boy. He understood the poverty these young Parisians must have suffered before the liberation and also after. He also understood the comfort an animal could bring to an otherwise empty life.

Looking back at the stricken face of his medic, Saunders shook his head, wondering for not the first time how deep was the well of compassion from which Doc drank. All the death they'd seen. And caused. And yet here Doc was, spending his time away from the killing fields still dealing with the wounded. Saunders suspected it wasn't only the animals being healed.

He cleared his throat, wanting his voice not to be that of a superior but rather that of a friend. “We gotta get back, Doc. Truck's waiting to take us back.” As he said the words, Saunders suddenly wished he'd chosen different ones. Take us back. Who'd ever want to leave this peaceful courtyard and these trusting faces?

Doc nodded, turning to place the dog in the outstretched arms of a cherubic little girl. He touched her softly on the cheek, smiling down at her and then picked up his medical pack, shoving the contents back in with a careless abandon.

Saunders blinked, forcing his gaze away from his medic's discomfiture, and waved at the children. He turned back toward the heavy gate.

The sharp snap of the rifle caught them all by surprise. Saunders lurched off the path, slamming into Doc and pitching them both into the loamy earth of what was once a garden. They lay there motionless for an instant before the medic felt the warm dampness seeping into the back of his uniform. He twisted under the sergeant's weight, frantically hooking his fingers into Saunders' jacket and hauling him behind the base of a statue.

“Where ya hit, where ya hit?” Doc's voice ratcheted up an octave in his anxiety.

A bullet ricocheted off the smooth marble head of the baby Jesus, showering them with chips. Saunders gripped the back of the medic's neck hard, snarling into the man's face. “Shut up! I'm okay, it's just my arm.” He doubled his knees to his chest, pulling himself further behind the statue.

Doc nodded, his nose bare inches from the dirt. He reached instinctively for his helmet before realizing that it was back with everyone's gear at the camp. With Saunders' Thompson. He clutched his medical ruck tightly to his chest, glad that he'd managed to bring it along. Truth was, he'd felt naked without it and had snuck back just before the truck had left, stuffing it inside his jacket. Now he could only be grateful to whatever gods might be looking out for them. Then again, he might not get a chance to use it. A rapid volley of shots whined overhead and Doc squeezed his eyes shut, praying silently.

***

It could only have been a couple of moments but it seemed hours. The Germans had easily surrounded the wounded sergeant and his medic, dragging them from behind their hiding place and sending them sprawling in the dirt at the feet of an impressively bedraggled looking Kraut lieutenant. The man stared down at them.

Saunders sat up, gripping his left bicep with his right hand. He made no move to get to his feet, content for the moment to let the Germans make their intentions known. How they'd managed to hide in the middle of Paris, Saunders couldn't imagine. And as for hiding, where the hell had all those kids gone? They'd melted away like butter when the shooting started.

Doc stood, glaring at the lieutenant. “Kin I see to his wound?” He turned his left bicep toward the man slightly, the clean brassard gleaming on his upper arm.

Gaze shifting from the medic to the sergeant on the ground, the lieutenant nodded his head, but not at Doc.

Two men stepped forward, hauling Saunders up and holding him firmly between them. He didn't struggle, blue eyes signaling the medic frantically to just be calm, but knowing all the same that Doc wouldn't.

“HEY!” Doc tried to shove his way to Saunders, pushing away the Germans who stepped in front of him. “He's wounded, you can't....”

Saunders flinched away, unable to watch, as one of the Krauts raised his rifle and clubbed the medic with it.

Doc went down without a sound, lying in a heap on the broken cobblestones.

to be continued!