TDTLBU Chapter Seventy-Six

                                        WARNING: This chapter contains emotionally upsetting scenes

They dragged him back to his barracks more dead than alive. Every sound seemed amplified to the point of causing even more pain. The tramp of military boots in the snow, the rattle of the keys in the lock, the creaking of the door on rusty hinges. They shoved him in, slamming the door behind him. He stumbled forward, expecting to collapse on the ground but instead fell into the waiting hands of his cellmates. He felt relief as they pulled away the ropes that bound his hands and his arms fell limp. But the next moment, his shoulders burned with pain as the numbness faded. They guided him gently to his bunk, helping him lie down.

"They hurt you bad, Son." The old Captain's voice shook with concern. For the first time he had forgone formalities, not addressing him by the title of lieutenant. Pulling a crumpled and ragged handkerchief from his pocket, he carefully wiped the blood from Ronnie's face. "What happened?"

"Th… they… beat the hell outta me," he rasped, barely able to find his voice. The effort to speak brought blood into his mouth. Coughing violently, he tried to spit it out. The Captain lifted his head to keep the blood from choking him.  His eyes were filled with the kind of concern that a father would have for his son.

"Looks like your jaw is broken," Roy grimaced.

"Not s'prised… hurts t' talk."

"Then don't talk," the Captain answered quietly. "There's more'n your jaw broken. Your nose… your fingers…"

"Why'd ya do it, Ronnie?" Roy's voice was filled with a sort of tired disbelief.

"Those kids were sick… Had t'... get 'em outta here… Was worth it."

"Kids." Roy grinned. "Why, you're a kid yourself. You're… how old did you say? Twenty-three?"

"Twen'y-four. 'M… older 'n you… Roy."

"Doesn't matter," the Captain shook his head. He laid a gentle hand on Ronnie's forehead, smoothing back the blond hair that was matted with blood. "This war's made old men out of all of us." 

The Captain frowned. Ronnie's eyes had closed and his breathing was labored. The frown deepened. Snapping into a firm, businesslike briskness, he unbuttoned the boy's jacket and the shirt beneath, impatiently pushing the rough woolen fabric aside. Ronnie's body was covered in blood and bruises… dark purple bruises and swollen red welts. His chest was caved in strangely. The captain tensed, alarm rushing over him like a wave.

"Broken ribs," he muttered. "That's gotta hurt like hell." But he made it sound like less than it was. This was the kind of beating that could kill a man. If there were internal injuries, and he was sure there were if he was bleeding from the mouth… he let the thought go unfinished.

"What can we do?" Elliot stood beside Roy, staring in alarm at Ronnie's unconscious body. He already looked dead.

"Nothing." The captain's voice was terse. "Pray. Pack snow on the wounds. Sit around and feel helpless." His hands fell, trembling, to his sides. "I've lost too many sons to this war. God… why don't You end it?"

It was the only prayer he could manage just now. Later, he would try to pray again.

✯✯✯

It could have been hours, it could have been days that Ronnie drifted in and out of consciousness, unable to move… he never knew how long it was. He was vaguely aware of voices, although he could barely distinguish the words. Hands on his face and body, holding handfuls of snow against his wounds, pressing rags on bloody gashes, bringing food to his lips that he could not make himself eat.

The pain was terrible… pressing on him from all sides. The slightest movement was agony. At times he felt that he could barely breathe. He was certain he was dying.

Hanging in that dream world that exists between life and death, he sometimes thought himself home again. A little boy, sick in bed, like the time he had chicken pox at eight years old. And Mama was bending over him with a steaming bowl of broth, her gentle eyes brimming with motherly love and concern. 

"Don't worry, Ronnie-boy," she smiled. She had happy lines around her eyes when she smiled… a testimony to a life of love and laughter. "You'll feel better soon and then you'll be able to go out and play again." She leaned down to wrap her arms around him and he felt warm and safe and comforted.

He wanted to hang onto that memory… to make it last forever. To stay a little boy… far away and untouched by the ravages of war. He tossed restlessly in his sleep, crying out for his mother. And the scene changed. 

It was spring and Lissie walked beside him in the orchard, bending her head over the chain of apple blossoms she was weaving. She glanced up at him, smiling her quick, shy smile as she showed him the crown of blossoms. 

"Ronnie… promise me…" she spoke softly. "Promise me you won't go to war. Promise me you won't leave me."

He took the blossoms from her and bent to kiss her cheek. As he dropped the crown on her golden hair, he answered her.

"Only God knows what the future holds, Lissie. If I have to go…"

His words hung in the air, unfinished. She looked at him, her eyes wide with alarm. Her face was fading as the scene around her grew dark. 

Black… everything was black. Somewhere close to him came the sharp cry of a baby and the hush of its mother. 

"Shhh, my little one, my shefela." Her voice echoed through the darkness. He could barely see her face, pale and terrified, her dark eyes staring at him, trusting him…

He reached out to her and she took his hand, holding it tight. The darkness softened… changing from threatening to comforting. The terror on her face faded into relief and gratitude… and then sadness. She reached up, gently brushing her fingers against his cheek. 

"I'm praying for you," she whispered… and then… she was gone.

"Schnell! Schnell! On your feet!" The shouted words were accompanied by a string of angry curses in German. Ronnie fought to open his eyes as rough hands pulled at him, dragging him from his cot. The moment he stood, a terrible pain shot through his leg… the worst pain he had ever felt in his life… and he sank to the floor, passing out again. He came to immediately, wincing as a hard boot connected with his side. Afraid of receiving another beating, he tried to struggle to his feet, barely able to keep his balance as he reached out for something to hold on to. The pain was so bad it nearly blacked out his vision. It was all he could do to keep from falling again. With a muttered German oath, the guard gripped his arm, dragging him out of the hut and into the blinding winter sunlight.

The compound was lined with prisoners, standing at attention in neat, straight rows. Every man in the entire camp was out. Ronnie stumbled, falling limply to the ground as the guard shoved him towards the line. Something was wrong with his left leg. He couldn’t bend it and the slightest bit of pressure sent waves of pain coursing through his body. He could hear angry shouting in German above him, but he couldn’t seem to get to his feet again. Two of the prisoners stepped out of line, pulling him up and into formation. He managed to stay upright with the help of the men around him.

The guards offered no explanation. They simply kept shouting mingled orders and curses, gesturing wildly toward the skies and the woods beyond. Each man wondered silently for himself what was happening and no one could be certain. Were they all to be shot? That seemed the most logical explanation. 

It's the end of something, Ronnie told himself. Could be the end of the battle at the Bulge… could be the end of the war… or at least the beginning of the end. Or maybe… maybe it's just the end of us.

Following the shouted orders, the prisoners turned to the right, marching forward at gunpoint. They stumbled blindly in the snow, silent with their dread of the unknown.

Ronnie struggled to keep up with the others, pushing himself forward as he focused on one step at a time. He hadn’t gone more than a few steps before he faltered, feeling himself falling and yet unable to stop himself. He collided against the man who walked beside him. Without a word, the other man pushed him back to his feet, wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him upright. Ronnie leaned heavily on him, barely using his left leg and yet even then, it was still the worst pain he had ever known. He grit his teeth, tears filling his eyes.

For hours they marched on, wondering if it would ever end. The sun disappeared behind heavy gray clouds. The wind was howling wildly, slicing through ragged uniforms with the intensity of a blade. The temperature was well below freezing and even those who had woolen greatcoats were suffering terribly. The cold was so fierce that it hurt. It was terrifying, moving and not knowing where. The men stayed silent all through the hours of endless marching, relying on the scenery to glean what information they could of their situation. It wasn’t much to go on. They knew nothing. And they were afraid.

At last the shouted order came for a brief rest. Ronnie’s companion stepped away from him and he collapsed immediately into the snow, groping desperately at his leg. 

"Vat is wrong?"The voice was a German one, but the tone was strangely kind. Ronnie glanced up in surprise to see an officer kneeling beside him in the snow.

"My leg…" he muttered, surprised he was even answering. For all he knew, the officer probably intended to shoot him, since he couldn't keep up with the others. "I… can't walk…" There. That was it. He would be shot right there and they'd keep on marching, leaving his body on the side of the road. He would never see Rachel and Benjie again and his family would wonder what had happened to him…

"May I look?"

Ronnie frowned at the officer, but nodded. The German unlaced Ronnie's gaiter and rolled up his pants leg to the knee. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he felt around the kneecap, shaking his head.

"I see the trouble," he remarked. "Your knee… it is dislocated."

"Darn it," Ronnie groaned. The German grinned at him.

"I can fix it. If you want me to. I… I was studying to be a doctor… before…" he shrugged and let his voice trail off. Ronnie nodded again, still bracing himself for the gunshot that would end it all. That one of the enemy would truly and sincerely be kind to him was beyond his understanding, after everything that had happened in the past several weeks.

"This will hurt bad," the officer was saying. "Brace yourself, okay? Just a few seconds and it will all be over." 

Darn right, it'll be over, Ronnie thought grimly. He closed his eyes and grit his teeth as the German gripped his leg above and below the knee, giving it a violent wrench. He cried out as he felt the bone snap back into place. Relief flooded his body and he fell back in the snow, his strength spent. The German was laughing ruefully.

"Sorry," he shrugged. "That part is awful. But it feels better now, jah?"

"It does," Ronnie whispered, stunned by the sudden turn of events. 

"Here," the German shoved a canteen in his hands. "Drink up. It will help."

Ronnie obeyed, expecting water and finding schnapps instead. Not used to liquor, his eyes watered as it burned its way down his throat. The German laughed again as he laced Ronnie's gaiter. 

"Is good, jah? I get it sent from home. Better than sour beer. Looks like you can use it… I heard vat they did to you…" he was grinning, but Ronnie could detect something akin to sympathy in his eyes. Down the line, orders were being shouted in mixed German and English. The officer rolled his eyes and groaned. 

"Time to get going," he winced. "I would rather be home by the fire. You too, jah? I hope you make it. Come on." He bent to help Ronnie to his feet and led him back into line with the rest of the prisoners. "You there," he called to a tired-looking young private. "This man needs help. He's hurt."

"What's goin' on with the Kraut?" The boy whispered to Ronnie as he moved to support him. Ronnie shook his head in disbelief as the German saluted him and stepped back to watch the prisoners move forward. 

"Guess not all of 'em are so bad," he whispered back.