Giving Thanks

                                                          by

                                                     Susan Balnek-Ballard
                                               
                                          



        Trying to give Saunders something else to occupy his mind, Caje began to talk as he
worked, rambling on about whatever came into his head.  Then, almost as an afterthought, almost
like it surprised even him, he’d added “ Sarge, the day after tomorrow is Thanksgiving!”
        Fleetingly the memories of Thanksgivings past flooded over Saunders - the feelings of
home, love, friendship, hope - fleeting - gone.
        That had been yesterday, moments after the Company had been caught in a withering
cross fire.  The squads had broken apart.  The situation quickly became every man for himself; get
out of there; survive!  The din had been deafening, the screams terrifying.  Total chaos was the
only rule.
        Today Saunders lay on his back gazing upward at the late November sky.  Snow
threatened to fall, the scent of it was clean in the cold air.  Dark clouds ambled by, dragging great
gray tails resembling trailing soot which eventually reached the ground not as snow, but wet sleet. 
It fell upon the unprotected soldier, adding to his misery and the fact that he was unable to make
his own way to better cover than the tall grass afforded.
        Caje had been gone for only a couple hours, but to Saunders it seemed time was standing
still.  120 minutes, give or take, felt like days.  In his present state of near immobility, the sergeant
had little to do but either give in to the pain that washed over him at very regular intervals, that
and the cold, or to occupy his mind with other things.  Being the man he was and he was not one
to give in to anything without a fight, Saunders thought.
        He pondered the fact that time was creeping by, snail-like or standing still altogether. 
Why was it that when you were doing something that brought you great pleasure, or sublime
peace, the minutes flew past.  Yet when you were waiting, as he was now in the cold, wet dull of
a late November day, trying your damnedest to keep pain and despair at bay, time stood stock
still?  Why?  For the life of him, Saunders could figure out no answer.  If only he could sleep, time
would at least pass and he would be unaware of how slowly it dragged along.  But he couldn’t
sleep.  He was afraid.  In the cold he might not wake, and then time would hold no value
whatsoever, for him.
        The other thought that kept intruding into the young sergeant’s mind was not so much a
thought as another question; what did he have this year, this day, this very moment to be thankful
for?  Back home in Illinois, Thanksgiving had been his favorite holiday, enjoyed more even than
Christmas.  What was there to be thankful for now?  What indeed!  He closed his eyes and drifted.
        Waiting the endless hours for Caje to return, Saunders became aware of the smell.  It
verged on nauseating, sort of a rotten smell.  Not as bad as the time they’d found a dead mouse
behind the canned goods in grandma’s pantry.  It had fallen into a narrow necked bottle and had
been unable to climb back up again and escape.  Not that bad, but close to the time mother’s little
spaniel had dragged a half devoured chicken carcass she’d found in the neighbor’s garbage merrily
and without remorse, down the hallway and through the kitchen before Chip could wrench the
stinking thing from between her strong jaws and dispose of it.  Yes, very nearly that bad.  To his
horror, Saunders realized that the smell was coming from him!
        He’d been wounded nearly 36 hours before, a bullet through the shoulder.  Blood had
poured from him, soaking his wool shirt and the t-shirt beneath before Caje had gotten the
bleeding to stop, or nearly so, through direct pressure and sheer force of will.  The wound
continued to seep.  His shirts stayed damp.  The odor the old blood produced was close to
making him gag.  Just one more tribulation he had to try his best to ignore.
        Near dusk, Caje returned, out of breath, cheeks colored from the cold and his exertion,
but with a smile he offered to Saunders as he knelt at the sergeant’s side.
        “Had to wait forever for a kraut patrol to leave the area before I could get back, 
Sarge.  Sorry it took me so long.”  As Caje spoke, he checked Saunders’ bandages and pulled the
jacket closer around the wounded non-com.
        “Found a house, about 2 miles from here - big, stone, looks like a small castle or
something.  Can’t imagine why it wasn’t marked on the map. Anyway, there was smoke coming
from the chimney.  I waited to be sure it was clear, then made it to the door.”  The Cajun paused
to pull a cigarette out of his jacket.  Lighting it, he took a drag and offered it to Saunders, who
took a couple quick puffs, refusing more.  Caje inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke out and away
from the sergeant.  “Haven’t had a smoke all day.  Krauts were too close.”  Satisfaction lit his
drawn features.
        “A lady answered,” he continued.  “I told her about you.  She looked plenty scared, but
said it was okay to bring you there.  So, comeon, Sarge, let’s go before it gets too dark.”
        Caje hauled Saunders to his feet.  The sudden change of position and the blood draining
from his head made Saunders very nearly pass out.  He groaned and slumped against the slender
scout whose slim build belied a wiry strength.  Slinging his M1 and Saunders’ Thompson, Caje
supported the sergeant with an arm around his waist.  Two miles was going to be a tough row to
hoe.
        By the time the 2 GIs made it to the stone house, Caje had been carrying Saunders over
his shoulder for the better part of the last half mile.  His slender body trembled with fatigue and he
was afraid - afraid that Saunders was dead.  He couldn’t stop to check.  If he’d put the sergeant
down, he knew he never would’ve been able to pick him up again.
        Caje knocked on the heavy oak door, timidly at first, then when there was no response, he
pounded with his fist.  Long moments passed.  Sweat ran down under Caje’s helmet to dampen
the neck of his shirt, the sweat of fear, of anxiety.  Something wasn’t right.  Even though the
windows were shuttered, faint light seeped out from beneath the thick door.  Someone was home. 
Someone would answer.
        Finally, the door creaked open, a hair, then a crack, then enough for a woman’s face to
peer out.
        “Go away!”  Her whisper was urgent.  Her voice trembly.  “You must leave now!”  Her
eyes were darting from Caje to the body slung over his shoulder and back again.
        “You said I could bring him here.  You said you’d help him!”  Caje’s voice automatically
muted in response to her whisper.  But he was becoming angry.  His gaze was strong and steady;
he wouldn’t allow her to look away, to escape.  She hesitated, but before she could respond, Caje
pushed the door in and the woman fell back out of the way.
        There was no furniture at all to be seen in the spacious room, but a fire burned in the huge
fireplace at its center.  Several blankets were laid out on the floor before it.
        As gently as possible, Caje laid Saunders on the blankets.  The sergeant was still breathing. 
The woman appeared suddenly, seeming ready to help now, a bowl of steaming water and some
toweling in hand.
        Before any help could be rendered, a bellow broke the silence and caused Caje to reach
for the Thompson lying by his knee.  He brought the weapon up into his arms and raised his eyes
to the threat.  A huge bull of a man lumbered toward the small group from a far doorway.  In his
hands he held a shotgun of equally massive proportions, long barreled and large bored.
        “Get out of here!  Go now!  We don’t want you here!” The giant roared.  “GET OUT!”
        Caje’s finger tightened on the Thompson’s trigger.  Was it worth Saunders’ life to take
this man’s?  His finger continued to apply pressure.  Before he had a chance to react in any way
or to make that split second decision, a child appeared in the doorway behind and to the left of the
big man.  Caje moved his finger off the trigger, slowly and with deliberation slung the Thompson
and picking up the M1, slung it as well.
        The woman made no sound, clearly she was cowed by this huge man, her husband, was
cowed and submissive.  She remained kneeling and silent, not even acknowledging the little girl
who continued to stand in the doorway as silent as she.
        Soundlessly, the Cajun gathered the semi-conscious Saunders from the blankets and half
carrying, half dragging him, left the way they’d come, with nothing to show for a two mile forced
march except bitter disappointment and utter exhaustion.


        Full morning found the two men in a shelter provided by a small cave dug back into a
hillside.  The walls were shored up by  hundreds of flat stones and the low doorway was made up
of a stone reinforced arch.  It was a shelter for sheep, but the animals were gone now, long ago
slaughtered for food by the farmer, the enemy and the allies.  It was a decent structure though,
solid and lined with straw, fairly overgrown on the outside.  A minor miracle had allowed the
bleary eyed, exhausted Caje to stumble upon it in the pale pink light of the new day.  He’d had to
crawl in first, dragging Saunders in after.  An hours sleep and Caje was off again.  Sheep meant
shepherd, shepherd meant farm, farm meant food even if it had to be ‘confiscated.’
        Saunders woke in near darkness but no, it wasn’t totally dark.  Light was coming in
through a small portal.  His chest was wrapped in clean, rough bandaging, his stinking shirts
having been cut away at some point between now and when...yesterday?  All he smelled now was
hay and it was sweet and pleasant.
        Somehow he remembered the stone house, of being yelled at and turned out into the cold. 
He remembered Caje mostly carrying him though the endless night, the two of them like homeless
gypsies.
        A sudden rustling of hay and movement and Saunders realized that he wasn’t alone.  Caje
was there.  The scout seemed leaner than ever, with dark shadows beneath light brown eyes and
cheeks deeply hollowed by hunger and lack of sleep.  But still there was a smile on the dry,
cracked lips.
        In one hand Caje held a mess cup.  Saunders was to discover that it contained goat’s milk
- fresh if not still warm.  Carefully the scout helped Saunders to drink, encouraging him to “Have
it all, Sarge.  Go on.  I drank my fill already.”  Saunders did as requested and for the first time in
several days had more in his stomach than water and memories.
        Urging Saunders to finish every drop, Caje grinned in satisfaction. “There’s plenty more
where this came from, Sarge and I found a few things we could use in the barn, too - a blanket,
some clean sacks and if I play my cards right, an egg or two for dinner.  Might not be such a bad
Thanksgiving after all, “ he commented.
        “Today?’’ Saunders questioned.
        “Today.” Was his answer.
        Saunders closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander back to when Caje had first
reminded him that Thanksgiving was coming.  Then he remembered questioning what he had to
feel thankful for.  Old memories had flooded back and the future had seemed non-existent.  But
that was then.  What did he, Sergeant Chip Saunders have to give thanks for now, today?  He
fingered the clean sacking that bandaged his wound and he let his hand rest against the scratchy
warmth of the wool blanket that covered him.  He looked up at Caje, worn and tired, yet
determined and tireless in his efforts.  What indeed!































Copyright 11/99 - Susan Balnek-Ballard.  All rights reserved.