Dry throat but sharp eyes. They swept the room, the woman, as the narcotic receded and clarity returned. Cold eyes, windows to the soul, that might never know warmth again.

---

[i][b]Oosterbeek, September 20th, 1944[/b]

After dropping into Holland, boldly attempting to take Arnhem Bridge and end the war, the British 1st Airborne was a shell of itself. XXX Corps was supposed to reinforce with armor in two days. Now it was day four and the Red Devils, cut off, fought and died in the streets for feet, even inches. They expected light opposition, not two heavy SS Panzer divisions. 

Saul still had ammunition. He conserved it, knowing that the fighting was going badly. Like many others, Colin was down to just one Sten magazine.

There was movement, and his eyes tracked it automatically, the rifle already up and his cheek pressed to the oil-smooth rifle's stock, already sighting down the barrel at a man-shape in a camouflage jacket. Waffen-SS.

More emerged behind their pointman, once the all-clear was given. He breathed, steadying himself as he took up more slack on the trigger, exerting miniscule pressure toward the break.

One shot, crackling the air.

The German went down screaming, a bullet in the stomach. Saul was already working the bolt, butter smooth, to chamber the next one. But he didn't fire.

“Gonna finish him?” Colin asked, as the German cried for 'Mutti!' – his mother – but Saul gave a single curt shake of his head. Cold eyes focused ahead, waiting for others to come for their wounded man, so he might shoot another two.[/i]

--

He drank slowly. When his throat was soothed, he asked, softly, “So I'll live?” His chest was heavy with bandages and he didn't try to shift himself too much; the wounds already throbbed with pain.