No infringement upon the rightful owners of 'Combat! ' and the characters thereof, is intended.
This piece of fan fiction is for enjoyment only, and in no way will the author gain monetary profit from its existence.

Point of View ( added scene )
by Dog Tags

"Allez-vous-en!" the exasperated voice shouted.

When Caje knocked again, more insistently, the door opened a few inches. Bracing her weight against it
in an attempt to prevent him from pushing his way in, an irate Frenchwoman bluntly informed him,
"Je suis occupé, Monsieur. Revenez plus tard."

Caje stopped her from shutting the door in his face. "L'Américain, l'homme qui a quitté le bar avec vous
la nuit dernière, est-il ici?"

"Cet Américain, est-il votre ami?" she asked cautiously.

"Oui."

There was a moment's hesitation, then she stepped back, allowing him entrance.

In the early morning light Caje scrutinized her. She was young. Not more than twenty. Thin, but standing there,
wearing nothing but a soldier's hastily buttoned dark brown shirt, she could be thought pretty.

She gestured in the direction of the other room. "Il dort."

Caje caught her scent. Sweat and cigarette smoke with an underlying fragrance of musk and something
indefinable and stimulating. Hunger rose in him so sharply he could taste it. He reached for her.

She struggled instinctively for release before wartime's realities awakened her acquiescence. Expectations
and prices were quickly negotiated. When agreement was reached she unbuttoned the shirt and led him
to the couch.

She trailed her mouth lightly along his jawline as her fingers played down his chest to his stomach, moving lower.
"Me désirez-vous?" she murmured provocatively.

His breathing harsh and ragged Caje peeled the shirt off her shoulders, down her arms, exposing her breasts
to his gaze. He stilled. His eyes roamed her body, his mind refusing to comprehend what he was seeing.
Finally, dreading her response, Caje forced himself to ask the question. "Qui vous a fait ca? L'Américain?"

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Shaking Saunders' shoulder, Caje insisted, "C'mon, Sarge. You gotta wake up."

Saunders cursed viciously as he opened his eyes. Scowling at the private, he warned him,
"Caje, you'd better have a damn good reason for being here."

"R&R's been cancelled, Sarge. Lieutenant's waiting for you over at the CP."

Saunders closed his eyes and mumbled something indecipherable.

"Sarge—"

"Yeah-yeah, Caje. I'm awake." Saunders flung back the blankets and sat on the edge of the bed.
Scratching himself in a distracted manner, he admitted, "Had too much to drink last night."

There was no comment from his silent observer who simply tossed the squad leader his pants.

Saunders rubbed an index finger across his teeth as he glanced at his watch. "There was a girl here.
Where is she?"

"She left." Caje eyed the exposed bed sheet revealing evidence of what had happened in the night.
"Said she'd already earned her pay."

"Doesn't sound like my performance impressed her," Saunders muttered sourly as he looked around
trying to locate his boots.

Handing him the shirt, remembering how the girl had used it to cover her bruises, Caje stated coldly,
"She's a whore, Sarge. She's used to it."

Giving himself time to think Saunders focused his attention on the task of buttoning the shirt, unsure
if he had only imagined the note of contempt in the Cajun's tone. Finished, he looked up. Perceiving
condemnation in the other man's eyes his ire was roused. "Look, Caje, if you've got something to say—"

"Sarge," Caje began hotly. "You—" His eyes dropped to the stripes on Saunders' sleeve and his words
died unspoken. Stiffly he walked across the room to the window where he stared out at the street. When
at last he turned back his hazel eyes were shielded, impenetrable to any attempt at reading his thoughts.
"It's nothing, Sarge. I'm just tired."

Saunders cursed under his breath as he considered his second-in-command. Raised in Louisiana's
backcountry bayous, Caje's ability to speak the language had certainly been advantageous in dealing
with the French population. Unfortunately, this advantage was off-set by his inability to keep emotional
distance when confronted with hardships the people endured.

While he buckled his boots Saunders cast his mind back to the previous day. Lieutenant Collins had
brought up charges that Saunders' negligence and poor judgment had caused the death of two of his men.
After an informal hearing resulted in the charges being dropped Lieutenant Hanley had given the squad
some downtime.

Saunders, still angry at having to defend his actions against O'Neill's accusations of incompetence
had wandered into an out-of-the-way bar. Seating himself in a dark corner he began downing drinks
in an attempt to quell his conscious' whisperings that maybe the other sergeant had been correct.
A lot of men under his command had ended up dead.

An hour or so later Caje and Kirby discovered his hideout but he made so obvious his desire to be
alone they retreated to another table. After another hour the girl approached offering her services.
Saunders agreed to her price, and she, perhaps anticipating he would pass out as soon as he got there,
led him to her home.

What happened after that?

His effort to remember rewarded him with only the dim recollection of her voice protesting his hard use,
his rough handling.

Saunders picked up his camouflage helmet and trifled with the interior webbing before putting it on,
lowering it over his eyes. Quashing any feelings of remorse he reminded himself that he'd done
a lot of things in this war he was not proud of.

This was just one more thing not to think about.