Eugene “Doc” Roe
A Cajun Traiteur from the early 1940s

Eugene G. “Doc” Roe Corporal Medic 101st Airborne 2nd Battalion Easy Company

December 22nd 1944 Bastogne, Belgium 5:47 pm

“MEDIC!”

Eugene “Doc” Roe sprinted across the hard packed snow towards the sound of the voice. The Clack, Clack, Clack, Chink sound of M1 Garands shooting empty all around him as he darted between the exploded remnants of evergreens. His breath chugged steam like a locomotive.

German bullets whizzed around his body hitting trees and snow, but always missing their target of the small man with the flopping bag full of bandages and morphine. Eugene Roe had never been injured in combat but he had had dozens of men die in his arms. Men crying for mothers, men praying with lips that no longer moved, men dying with holes in their guts asking him to be there with them so they wouldn’t have to be alone. He carried the souls of these men with him as he carried the bag emblazoned with the red and white cross. Eugene Roe was Mercy in a place that had none.

In Bastogne, he was the only thing Easy Company had between themselves and the field at the end of the path.

A cry from a fox hole immediately off to his right made Doc pivot on his heel mid gallop. Wayne ‘Skinny’ Sisk lay there with his bloody hands over his privates. Roe jumped in the hole and pried Sisk’s hands away.

“They got me, Doc. Goddam’ krauts shot my goddam’ balls off.”

Doc went into his bag and came out with scissors, cutting the fabric away from the wound.

“They still there, Doc?” Sisk asked nervously.

“Yeah. Just a graze across the thigh.”

Sisk laid his head back and sighed heavily, “Mary Mother of God.”

Doc rolled as little gauze over the leg as he could and still have it protect, but not an inch more. Easy was cut off and he had been rounding up what little supplies there was to be had for days now. He needed it for later. He reached for morphine, but hesitated for just a second. They were running low on that too.

“Can you handle the pain?” Doc asked

“Sure, sure Doc. Tough as nails, you know me.”

“Good, I’ll be back to check on you. Keep applying pressure.”

Sisk nodded tiredly and Doc was out of the foxhole running hard moments later.

Doc Roe’s brown boots crunched through refrozen snow as he ran towards the forward fox holes. The mortars had stopped and were replaced by German small arms fire. Bullets thwaped through foliage and trees next to him, his medical bag absorbing exploding chunks of wooden debris.

“MEDIC!!”

Ahead and to his right. His mind registered the oddity of the call coming from well to the flank of 2nd Platoon. Probably some paratrooper shot down on his way back from the bathroom. He turned on his heel and headed towards the call.

Fog closed around him, and the woods seem to hush suddenly. Gunfire became muted and then faded out all together. Eugene Roe slowed his pace and began to walk, feeling wary and confused. The fog was thicker. He walked among the evergreens, noticing that these had not been destroyed by mortars. They were whole, tall, and very alien. The fog began to lift and Doc Roe realized he was entering a clearing in the woods. Ahead of him was the soft flickering of a campfire and he neared, drawn into that beacon of dancing orange. Moments later, he stood before the campfire, looking down into the glowing embers.

“Eugene Gilbert Roe” an amused voice to his left said.

He turned and looked at the most curious sight he had ever seen. A man of indeterminable age, wearing blue jeans and cowboy boots. He had on a denim jacket covered in buttons. The only one he remembered later was the yellow smiley face. He looked up from that button into a face that was a sick mimicry of the same expression. It could be called a smile, except the malice, hunger, and evil behind it made that word unfitting. His long, brown hair flitted about his face, making the man’s unwavering stare seem all the more imposing.

“Doc” the man said, his face breaking the intensity into an almost childlike look of amusement.

Roe didn’t say a word, but stood there, staring at Cowboy Boots, not quite believing what he was seeing.

The man held out his hand to shake, and Doc took it unconsciously. It was too warm for the temperature outside.

“The name’s Flagg,” Cowboy Boots said the name with the hesitation of a mind unused to lying, “Randall Flagg.”

Roe still did not answer, but let his arm fall limply to his side.

“You look pretty rough there, Doc. Guess it’s been a while since you’ve had a shave and a hot meal. Hell, it looks like it’s been years since you’ve slept. I can relate.”

“The men needed looking aft…” Roe began, but was silenced with an upraised palm and an expression that told him explanation was not needed.

“I know they have, Doc. That’s why I called you to me.”

For the first time, Roe seemed to process the conversation and looked confused.

The Stranger went on, “You see, Doc. I have troops of my own. Good men that need looking after by capable sorts. Capable sorts just like you, Doc.”

Roe started to speak but was cut off.

“Your grandmother was what they call, a ‘traiteur’, right?”

Roe nodded.

“Traiteur,” Flagg said again slowly, tasting the unusual Cajun word. “Faith Healer,” he continued, his eyes flaring with passionate greed.

“Yes,” Roe replied.

Flagg began to pace, smiling to himself. He ended up by the campfire and flicked his wrist absently at the embers. The fire flared to life immediately. The flames reaching out hungrily for oxygen in a way that reminded Roe of Flagg’s own greedy expression moments earlier.

“Traiteur,” Cowboy Boots and Blue Jeans said one more time, “Sounds a lot like ‘Traitor’, doesn’t it?”

Roe recognized the laziness of the question as a rhetorical one.

“I can’t abide traitors, myself. Traitors deserve painful deaths, right Doc?”

Eugene stared right into Flagg’s eyes, “No.”

Flagg erupted in another huge grin, “You have an honest face, Doc. It’s one of the things I like about ya!”

Randall Flagg walked up in front of Roe and squatted down on his haunches.

“Take a squat, Doc,” he said and Roe did, his oversized medical bag rustling noisily in the process.

“Liars sit, Doc. Honest men just sort of hunker down. And I’m going to be honest with you now. I have a use for you, Doc. Not now, no no. But in the future, I do. At another time, on another level of The Tower.”

Roe puzzled over the curious phrase, but instinctively understood the meaning.

“What do ya say, Doc? Wanna help a pal out? Save some lives? Be a hero?”

This close to Flagg, Eugene Roe was almost overwhelmed by the underlying malevolence of this man. No, not a man. This Stranger. He smelled of sulfur, and the smell made Roe feel like his soul was being torn apart at the seams.

Roe stood up and looked warily at Flagg as he began to back up. Flagg’s expression turned from one of good natured friendliness to one of deadly promises. Doc had no idea how he would get away from this creature. He had no idea of where he even actually was. It had suddenly dawned on him that while his surroundings looked somewhat like those near Bastogne, they were probably in reality no where near 2nd Platoon. He wasn’t even sure he was even on Earth anymore.

“C’mon, Doc. I’m trying to do you a favor,” Flagg said, attempting to salvage the situation and letting his broad grin make a reappearance.

Doc turned and broke into a flat out run. His boots dug deeply into the hard packed snow, slowing his sprint. But he still thought it would take Flagg a moment or two to get off his haunches and take up the chase. And it very well might be the moment or two he needed to put enough distance between himself and this denim-clad Dark Man. He swung his head around to see if Flagg was taking up the chase, but when he looked back, Randall Flagg was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly a hot hand slammed into his throat, gripped it tightly and lifted him off the ground. His eyes came back around front to look into the face of something entirely inhuman.

Still wearing the cowboy boots, blue jeans and denim jacket, this creature no longer had the human face and long hair of some deep country good ‘ol boy. Bright red leathery skin was stretched taunt over bony ridges appearing along its elongated skull. Yellow reptilian eyes peered through slits and a maw full of needle-like teeth opened with a deep voiced cackle.

Doc’s eyes widened considerably, but he actually wasn’t as scared as he thought he would be. At that moment he actually felt more alive than he’d ever felt, even though his wind pipe was being crushed beneath Flagg’s clawed hand.

“Whats’a matter, Doc? Don’t want to fuck me anymore?” Flagg laughed as he threw Roe backwards powerfully. Doc sailed through the air and braced himself to hit the hard packed snow, but instead was caught heavily and dropped to the ground. He smelled sulfur again. Roe looked up to see Randall Flagg standing above him with an all-too-human face looming down.

“I didn’t want to do this, Doc” Cowboy Boots said and his eyes rolled far back in his head.

Eugene Roe was assaulted.

His mind began racing through images of all of his friends and fellow soldiers in 2nd Platoon and Easy Company. Began shuffling through everyone he knew in the entire 101st Airborne and everyone he knew back home in Bayou Chene, Louisiana. And they were all dying. Dying out of reach, and he could do absolutely nothing about it. He couldn’t help them. They were reaching out for him, calling for him. Begging for him to help them. And he could do nothing but watch them die. They lay there, holding their organs in, crying. They peered at him through bullet holes in their eyes. They twitched spasmodically on the ground in their death throes. Family, friends, fellow paratroopers. Flagg killed them all. Because he refused to help. Everyone he cared about suffered because of him. They all died because of him.

“Enough?!” he heard Flagg scream from a million miles away.

Eugene Gilbert Roe nodded weakly and the darkness took him.