Grantville Gazette, Volume 40 Read Online Free Page A

lines now; it was only a matter of time before he were found, killed, or died alone like whoever had died in this gross hole already.
    "You speak English?" Rice asked.
    " Ja, " the boy coughed. "A little."
    "Good, because I'll be damned if I'm going to speak your language. I don't know it too good anyway, and every word sounds like shouting. You got a knife?"
    The boy coughed again, nodded, and motioned weakly at his boot.
    Rice reached into the boot and found a small blade, nicely crafted, slim and sharp. He held it in the faint light bleeding through the dead canopy of leaves and branches above them. He recognized the markings: a swastika on the grip; a Reichszeugmeisterei inscription on a blade with no blood groove . He'd seen a knife like this once before.
    " Hitlerjugend ?"
    The boy nodded slowly.
    "I thought your unit was smashed at Normandy."
    " Ja , many dead. But not all."
    Rice huffed and shook his head. "I should kill you now, you brain-washed little fool. But I've already lost one boy today; I'll be damned if I lose another, no matter what color your uniform is."
    Rice leaned over the boy and opened his coat. The bleeding was not as bad as before, but it was still flowing. "I'm not good at this kind of business, but you learn a thing or two about gunshot wounds in the Pennsylvania hills. I've got to get that bullet out now or you're going to die. Do you understand?"
    The boy nodded as his eyes closed. He was weak and getting weaker.
    Rice reached into a pocket on the inside of his coat and pulled out a white handkerchief, nicely embroidered with tiny red and yellow flowers. He sighed. "I got this in France. I was going to give it to Ella Lou when I got back home, but I guess she won't mind me using it to save a life." He placed it near the wound and grabbed the boy's hand and pressed it against the soft, silk fabric. "Now, you push down as hard as you can, grit your teeth, and try to think about something pleasant. This is going to hurt."
    As Rice began cutting an incision around the wound, he said, "I don't understand how this bullet got lodged like this. At the range I fired, it should have torn right through your chest like it did your partner." Rice shook his head. "I don't know . . . must have had a bad ammo load. That's happened to me before. You're one lucky little sot."
    The boy gritted his teeth against the pain. " Ja , maybe." He reached feebly for his chest and grabbed the medallion that lay there. He held it forward with thumb and index finger. "But this helped."
    Rice stopped cutting and took the medallion. It lay somewhere between the size of a silver dollar pancake and a silver dollar. An heirloom of some kind, maybe, tarnished and worn in many places. He squinted to try to make out the pattern on the front of it: some religious symbol with a cross and the faint outline of a face. He turned it over and saw what the boy was talking about.
    The bullet had hit it near the bottom, chipping away a piece and leaving a gash that cut through some phrase that had been etched into it years ago. Rice tried to make out what was left of the words, but he could only discern Ich .
    "I . . . what?" Rice asked. "What did the rest of it say?"
    The boy did not answer. He had passed out.
    ****
    The Black Dragons roared all night.
    Rice heard the distinctive sound of the American 240mm heavy artillery, and it was music to his ears; that is, until some of the shells strayed into their area and rocked the ground below them. Rice did everything he could not to scream. Mighty flashes of heat and light broke through the lattice-work of tree limbs that covered their foxhole. Rice shook with fear, but held himself close to the boy, giving him as much warmth as possible. He had covered them both with a thin blanket he had pulled from his pack and had even piled up old, dried leaves over their legs for extra protection against the night freeze.
    The boy lay at his side, moaning quietly, feverish and fitful, but alive. The bullet