randomplaces | WW2 France. Tiny Village off the Track. A Battle and a Surprise.

It was just some little village. No one caught the name, because there were no signs and the inhabitants other than the doctor had either run off or been killed. Sargent Smith's troops had been holed up for three days, throwing the occasional grenade or insult at the Germans who were holed up across the no man land that was the row of little houses and its street. The men were bored. Two of them developed black eyes as the time passed.

Then, the evening of that third day, a German came up out of their trench with a white flag in his hands.

Ettienne LaFitte was heard offering to throw an egg at the guy, and then yelping as he encountered his cousin's elbow. Sgt. Smith was still shaking his head as he stepped out to speak to the German.

The man was well over six foot tall, and built like the proverbial outhouse, with buzzed blond hair and cold blue eyes above an arrogant smirk. He looked down at the Sgt, who was the bantam rooster type, and then announced in accented English that he was Werther Richter, and that his commander had told him to fight a champion from the American side.

"You think this is a [bleeping] rooster pit or something?" Smith scowled up at the larger man. "We're not here to amuse you [bleeps]."

Richter's expression didn't change. "My commander says that if your champion wins, then we'll leave this place. But if I win, then you leave this place."

Smith considered, his eyes going toward where a German officer's cap was peeking over the edge of the enemy trench. Germans were arrogant creeps, sure, but some of the lesser officers seemed to have a pretty good idea of honour. Plus he'd heard of this particular young idiot and his betting habits. And his men probably needed to resupply as badly as Smith's did.

The small Nebraskan turned and looked toward his own trench, his mind going to the destruction that had happened a week or so ago when a couple of the enemy had tried sneaking up on a wooden communications hut protected by a certain Private in his squad. Mouth twitching slightly, he turned back to the German Goliath and nodded.

"Fine."

Richter's smirk increased as he tossed the flag away and started to remove his shirt. "I hope that your man's mother is not a widow."

"Funny." Smith stopped to give the big man a cheesy grin. "I was just going to say the same thing about yours."

Richter's smirk dimmed to a scowl, but then his eyebrows shot upward as he saw the American champion.

Charlie LaFitte stood in the range of seven foot, a concrete slab of Creole bad temper and antisocial tendencies, with hard hazel eyes under lowering sandy brows and a face that would probably give a scarecrow nightmares. He was stripping off his shirt as he came, and had his arms crossed over his chest as he came to frown at the German.

"What beasts you primitive races spawn," said Richter admiringly. "But brawn is not all one needs in a fight."

Charlie snorted and spat to one side.

"Right." Richter swung into fighting stance and cut loose a blow that would have gone through tin roofing. "I forgot you're a beast. You have no knowledge of the fine art of conversation."

Charlie made no reply other than to move just enough to dodge that blow and the ones that followed, his attitude scalding with contempt. At the end of three minutes Richter was working up a sweat and starting to lose his temper. The cultured mockery started to be replaced by insults and words that had the Americans watching the fight seething or jeering.

"I wanted to fight a champion!" the German raged. "Not a coward who knows nothing of fighting! What are you, a woman?"

Charlie shook his head reprovingly, then gave Richter a single sledge hammer blow to the face. The German flew backward and landed on the ground, his body sprawled like a discarded rag doll. He didn't get up.

Amid American cheering another German ran to the fallen champion and looked at his face, recoiling with a cry before checking for a pulse. "He's dead!"

The young commander came up over the side of his trench to look down at the body, then gestured to two men to come and get it. After they'd carried it back to the trench he saluted toward the Americans. "You win. This ground is yours."

The bravest or stupidest of the Americans were pushing each other around and daring each other to go smack Charlie on the back when the shot rang out from somewhere in the tail of the train of departing Germans. The big Creole's arms went up as red blossomed on his back, and then he fell on his face.

* * *

Smith was sitting and watching Ettienne pace when the doctor came out of his little shop. He looked up toward the old man, then stood quickly and walked toward him when he saw him gesture. "What is it?"

"Sir," said the doctor in French, which Smith could get a good gist of from listening to the LaFittes argue for the past couple months. "You must come see this."

"Alright." Smith nodded and followed the man back inside the shop. He was out again so quickly that it looked like he'd been propelled by a rocket. "LaFitte! Get your [bleeping bleep] over here!"

"Sir, yessir!" Ettienne hastened to obey, then stood at attention in front of his commander, nervousness and guilt oozing off him in every direction.

"You wanna tell me why a GIRL's been marching with my men all this time?" Smith's voice was low and furious.

"De priest back home's a [bleepity bleep] 'n don' like de swamp families dat much," rumbled Ettienne quietly. "He said nine LaFittes gotta enlist, but Charlie's oldest brother, he gotta new baby 'n a sick wife. Charlie's papa was gonna go, but Charlie, she took his papers 'n gear 'n went instead." He squared his jaw. "She always kick de [donkies] of every man 'n boy in de bayou, so she figure she can soldier too."

Smith heaved a massive sigh. "Charlie my [donkey]. What's her name?"

"Charleen. She be Charleen LaFitte."

Smith shook his head as he dropped back down onto the mounting block he'd been sitting on, inwardly marveling that the destruction that he'd been witness to that day and earlier had been wrought by a young woman. Then it occurred to him that the haughty German champion had been one-shotted by a girl with Native and black blood.

He nearly laughed himself sick.