Free Back in her time by Patricia Corbett Bowman Page A

Let’s sample the wares, boys. Opened one yet?” Mac said.
    â€œIs George the King of England?” said Red as he pulled out a bottle he had hidden behind his back.
    Mac looked questionably at Red and Whitey. “Glasses?”
    â€œWell, the brewmaster must taste, mustn’t he?” said Whitey, pulling four pewter cups off a shelf.
    Mac rubbed his hands together. “I knew these monks must have had a good reason to live way up here in the middle of nowhere.”
    Whitey distributed the cups, and Red poured. The boys sipped the thick, mellow liquid at first and then gulped it down when they tasted the nectar. They were just refilling their glasses when they heard footsteps coming.
    Too late to hide, they stood still like deer in headlights as a torch carried by a soldier appeared. “I knew you were on to something when you came back for your friends,” said the man. “In here, boys. They’re up to no good, and we’re about to join them.”
    The room filled with several others from the platoon. The men started pulling bottles off the racks.
    â€œHow do you open them?” Then there were smashing sounds as impatient soldiers broke open the bottle tops. The small, cold room was soon littered with broken glass and thirsty soldiers taking their full.
    â€œI think I’m drunk,” Red said and plopped down on the floor on a pile of glass. He hadn’t spilled a drop so he tilted his cup toward his mouth and finished his drink. Struggling to stand up, Red tripped on some more glass and fell forward. Taylor caught him before he hit the floor.
    â€œSomebody help me, here,” Taylor said as she tried to drag Red toward the door.
    Someone shouted drunkenly, “Gawd. Look at the poor bugger. He’s been hit in the arse.”
    Mac crossed the room and assisted Taylor in pulling Red up so he could look at his back. “Cripes! You’ve gone and cut yourself, you chump,” he said. “Your backside has more cuts than Junior’s face.”
    â€œWill Sarge string me up?” Red smiled and leaned into Taylor, almost knocking her over.
    Taylor took charge. “Come on, everyone. The party’s over. Let’s try to return upstairs quietly and find a medic for Red.”
    â€œI’m a medic,” said a man with slurred speech.
    Mac and Taylor lifted Red and carried him toward the stairs. The others followed, but not before grabbing numerous bottles off the racks and stuffing them in their pants and under their shirts. More than one crashed to the floor, soaking the men’s feet and pants cuffs.
    Struggling with their charge, Mac said, “You seem awfully sober, Junior. Weren’t you drinking?”
    â€œCan’t stand brandy. Got into my grandfather’s liquor cabinet a few years ago and got sick. My grandfather left it open to teach me a lesson. Haven’t been able to stand the smell or taste of it ever since. While you guys were busy drinking, I was finding places to dump mine.”
    â€œSuch a waste,” Mac grinned.
    The stairs seemed more slippery than before as the two carried and dragged Red up them. Finally they reached the top and dragged him to the lit torch Whitey had replaced.
    â€œLay him on his stomach here, Mac. Let’s see if we can pick out the bigger shards under the light.”
    The other soldiers staggered by not quite as quietly as Taylor would have liked and disappeared back into the sleeping room. Taylor worked, diligently pulling out glass.
    â€œWe’ll have to pull down his trousers,” said Mac.
    â€œWe’ll need tweezers to get the rest,” said Taylor. “Can you slip into the room and find that medic and get some gauze and tape?”
    â€œYes, sir, Junior, sir.” Mac stood, saluted, and stumbled toward the door.
    Taylor slid to the floor from her knee position and patted the semi-conscious Red on the head. “You’re going to have to go to the field