The Young Lions Part 49

There was a familiar little jangle as first Noah, then Burnecker, threw their dogtags.

"Hand them down here, Vernon," said the man in the hole. "I'll look at them."

"You can't see anything," said Vernon. "It's as black as a mule's a.s.s hole down there."

"Let me have them," said the man in the hole, reaching up. A moment later, there was a little scratching sound as the man bent, over and lit his cigarette. He had it shielded and Noah could not see any light at all.

The wind was gaining in strength, and the wet shirt flapped around Noah's frozen body. He held himself tightly with his arms in an attempt to keep warm. The man in the foxhole took a maddeningly long time with the dogtags. Finally he looked up. "Name?" he said, pointing to Noah.

Noah told him his name.

"Serial number?"

Noah rattled off his serial number, trying not to stutter, although his jaws were stiff and salty.

"What's this H here on the dogtag?" the man asked suspiciously.

"Hebrew," said Noah.

"Hebrew?" asked the man from Georgia. "What the h.e.l.l's that?"

"Jew," said Noah.

"Why don't they say so then?" said the man from Georgia aggrievedly.

"Listen," said Noah, "are you going to keep us here for the rest of the war? We're freezing."

"Come on in," said the man in the foxhole. "Make yourself at home. It'll be light in fifteen minutes and I'll take you on back to the Company CP. There's a ditch here behind me you can take cover in."

Noah and Burnecker went past the man in the foxhole. He threw them their dogtags and looked at them curiously.

"How was it back there?" he asked.

"Great," said Noah.

"More fun than a strawberry social," said Burnecker.

"I bet," said the man from Georgia.

"Listen," Noah said to Burnecker, "take this." He gave Burnecker his wallet. "The map's in there on the back of my wife's picture. If I'm not back here in fifteen minutes see that it gets to G2."

"Where you going?" Burnecker asked.

"I'm going to get Cowley," said Noah. He was a little surprised to hear himself say it. He hadn't thought about it or reasoned it out. Somehow, in the last three days he had become used to making decisions automatically, taking the responsibility for all the others, and now that he was safe the vision of Cowley crouched behind the bush on the other bank, forsaken because he thought the ca.n.a.l was too deep, had crowded into his mind.

"Where's this here Cowley?" asked the man from Georgia.

"Other side of the ca.n.a.l," said Burnecker.

"You must be mighty fond of Mr. Cowley," said the man from Georgia as he peered through the graying night across the ca.n.a.l.

"Crazy about him," said Noah. He wished the other men would refuse to let him go, but no one said anything.

"How long you figure to be gone?" asked the man in the foxhole.

"Fifteen minutes."

"Here," said the man, "here's fifteen minutes' worth of courage." He produced a bottle. It was muddy on the bottom from the cold slime the men had been standing in all night. Noah pulled out the cork and took a long deep drag. His eyes watered and his throat and chest burned intolerably and his stomach warmed up as though he had an electric heater there. "What the h.e.l.l is that?" he asked, handing back the bottle.

"Native drink," said the man in the hole. "Apple, I think. Good before crossing water." He handed the bottle to Burnecker, who drank slowly and carefully.

Burnecker put the bottle down. "You know," he said to Noah, "you don't have to go back for Cowley. He had his chance. You don't owe the son of a b.i.t.c.h anything. I wouldn't go. If I thought he had it coming to him, I'd go with you. He ain't got a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing coming to him, Noah."

"If I don't get back in fifteen minutes," Noah said, admiring the calm, logical, dispa.s.sionate way Burnecker's mind worked, "make sure that map gets back to G2."

"Sure," Burnecker said.

"I'll go on down the line here," said the man from Georgia, "and tell these trigger-happy Joe's not to shoot your a.s.s when they see you,"

"Thanks," Noah said, and started back toward the ca.n.a.l, the wet shirt tails flapping soggily around his bare legs, the alcohol rioting within him. At the bank of the ca.n.a.l he stopped. The tide was coming more strongly now, and the water was making a cold rustling noise against the banks. If he turned back now, he would be at the CP in a half hour, or in a hospital, perhaps, on a cot with blankets, with warm drinks, with nothing to do but sleep for days, for months ... He had done everything he could do, more, n.o.body could accuse him of any lapse, he had come through and he'd brought Burnecker through and he'd made the map, and he hadn't given up when it would have been so easy to give up, and he'd taken every chance, and all Lieutenant Green had told them was get back to our own people any way you can, and even if he found Cowley, Cowley might refuse again to try the ca.n.a.l, and the ca.n.a.l was deeper now than it had been, with the tide coming in ...

Noah wavered for a moment on the bank, kneeling, looking at the sliding water. Then he pushed himself over the bank and into the water.

He hadn't remembered that it was so cold. His chest seemed to cave in in the grip of the water. Then he took a deep breath and walked swiftly, losing his footing from time to time, toward the other bank. He reached the other bank, and started along it against the tide, trying to remember how far he and Burnecker had come, trying to remember what the spot on the bank that they had jumped off from had looked like. He walked slowly, feeling the cold water surge against his chest, stopping occasionally to see if he could hear anything. There was the sound of a single engine in the sky in the distance and desultory anti-aircraft fire, as the guns chased the last German flight before dawn back across the lines. But there was no sound in the immediate vicinity.

He came to a spot that looked familiar and pulled himself out slowly and painfully. He wriggled away from the ca.n.a.l toward a clump of bushes. He stopped five feet away from the bushes and whispered, "Cowley, Cowley." There was no answer. Somehow, Noah was sure that that was where they had left Cowley. He wriggled closer. "Cowley," he called more loudly. "Cowley ..."

There was a rustle in the bushes. "Leave me alone," Cowley said.

Noah crawled toward the voice. Cowley's head appeared, a blurred shadow among the dark leaves. "I came back for you," Noah whispered. "Come on."

"Leave me alone," Cowley said.

"It's not deep," Noah said fiercely. "G.o.dd.a.m.n you, it's not deep. You don't have to swim."

"Are you kidding me?" Cowley asked.

"Burnecker's there now. Come on. They're waiting for us. The pickets're all alerted, watching for us. Come on, before it gets light."

"You sure?" Cowley asked suspiciously.

"I'm sure."

"The h.e.l.l with it," said Cowley. "I'm not going."

Without a word, Noah started back toward the bank. Then he heard the rustling behind him and he knew Cowley was following him. At the edge of the ca.n.a.l, Cowley nearly changed his mind again. Noah didn't say anything to him, but merely slid back into the water. This time the water did not seem cold at all. I must be getting numb, Noah thought. Cowley fell in with a splash. Noah gripped him to keep him from floundering around. He could feel the man trembling through the heavy, soggy clothes.

"Hold onto me," Noah said, "and keep quiet."

They started across the ca.n.a.l. Now everything seemed to go very fast. It all was familiar and routine and Noah was almost careless as he made his way swiftly toward the opposite bank.

"Oh, Mother," Cowley kept muttering to himself, his voice shrill and nervous, "oh, Mother, Mother, Mother." But he stuck close behind Noah, and even in the deep part, he kept going steadily. When they reached the other bank, Noah did not stop. He turned and pushed against the tide, searching for the broken part of the bank up which he and Burnecker had gone before.

He reached it long before he expected to. "Here," he said, turning. "Let me help you up."

"Mother," Cowley said, "oh, Mother."

Shoving and pushing, Noah managed to get Cowley started up the bank. Cowley was heavy and clumsy and he knocked a stone out of place that fell with a loud splash. But he got one knee up to the top of the bank and started to get his other leg up. Then there was a short burst of gunfire.

Cowley stood up crazily and waved his arms around. He tried to lunge forward, but he whirled and fell back. His shoe hit Noah a heavy, stunning blow along the head. Cowley screamed once. Then he crashed into the water. He never came up. Noah stood under the bank, dazedly watching the spot where Cowley had disappeared. He took a step in that direction, but he couldn't see anything and he felt his knees begin to go. He lurched back to the bank. Then, slowly, numbly, he crawled up. He had a dream he was going to drown, Noah thought stupidly, he had a dream.

He was shaking uncontrollably when he reached the top of the bank. He was still shaking when Burnecker and the man from Georgia picked him up and ran with him, away from the ca.n.a.l.

A half hour later, dressed in a uniform three sizes too large for him that had been taken from a dead man outside the Company CP, Noah was standing in front of the Division G2. The G2 was a gray-haired round little Lieutenant Colonel with purple dye all over his face, staining his skin and grizzled beard. The G2 had impetigo and was trying to cure it while doing everything else that was expected of him.

Division CP was in a sandbagged shed and there were men sleeping everywhere on the dirt floor. It still wasn't light enough to work by and the G2 had to peer at the map Noah had drawn by the light of a candle, because all the generators and electrical equipment of Headquarters had been sunk on the way in to the beach.

Burnecker was standing dreamily beside Noah, his eyes almost closed.

"Good," the G2 was saying, nodding his head again and again, back and forth, "good, very good." But Noah hardly remembered what the man was talking about. He only knew that he felt very sad, but it was hard to remember just why he felt that way.

"Very good, boys," the man with the purple face was saying kindly. He seemed to be smiling at them. "Above and beyond the ... There'll be a medal in this for you boys. I'll get this right over to Corps Artillery. Come around this afternoon and I'll tell you how it came out."

Noah wondered dimly why he had a purple face and what he was talking about.

"I would like the photograph back," he said clearly. "My wife and my son."

"Yes, of course," the man smiled even more widely, yellow, old teeth surrounded by purple and gray beard. "This afternoon, when you come back. C Company is being re-formed. We've got back about forty men, counting you two. Evans," he called to a soldier who seemed to be sleeping standing up against the shed wall, "take these two men to C Company. Don't worry," he said, grinning at Noah, "you won't have to walk far. They're only in the next field." He bent over the map again, nodding and saying, "Good, very good." Evans came over and led Burnecker and Noah out of the shed and through the morning mist to the next field.

The first man they saw was Lieutenant Green, who took one look at them and said, "There are some blankets over there. Roll up and go to sleep. I'll ask you questions later."

On the way over to the blankets they pa.s.sed Shields, the Company Clerk, who had already set up a small desk for himself, made out of two ration boxes, in a ditch under the trees along the edge of the field. "Hey," Shields said, "we got some mail for you. The first delivery. I nearly sent it back. I thought you guys were missing."

He dug around in a barracks bag and brought out some envelopes. There was a brown Manila envelope for Noah, addressed in Hope's handwriting. Noah took it and put it inside the dead man's shirt he was wearing and picked up three blankets. He and Burnecker walked slowly to a spot under a tree and unrolled the blankets. They sat down heavily and took off the boots that had been given them. Noah opened the Manila envelope. A small magazine fell out. He blinked and started to read Hope's letter.

"Dearest," she wrote, "I suppose I ought to explain about the magazine right off. The poem you sent me, the one you wrote in England, seemed too nice to hold just for myself, and I took the liberty of sending it ..."

Noah picked up the magazine. On the cover he saw his name. He opened the magazine and peered heavily through the pages. Then he saw his name again and the neat, small lines of verse.

"Beware the heart's sedition," he read, "It is not made for war ..."

"Hey," he said, "hey, Burnecker."

"Yes?" Burnecker had tried to read his mail, but had given up, and was lying on his back under the blankets, staring up at the sky. "What do you want?"

"Hey Burnecker," Noah said, "I got a poem in a magazine. Want to read it?"

There was a long pause, then Burnecker sat up.

"Of course," he said. "Hand it over."

Noah gave Burnecker the magazine, folded back to his poem. He watched Burnecker's face intently as his friend read the poem. Burnecker was a slow reader and moved his lips as he read. Once or twice he closed his eyes and his head rocked a little, but he finished the poem.

"It's great," Burnecker said. He handed the magazine to Noah, seated on the blanket beside him.

"Are you on the level?" Noah asked.

"It's a great poem," Burnecker said gravely. He nodded for emphasis. Then he lay back.

Noah looked at his name in print, but the other writing was too small for his eyes at the moment. He put the magazine inside the dead man's shirt again and lay back under the warm blankets.

Just before he closed his eyes he saw Rickett. Rickett was standing over him and Rickett was shaved clean and had on a fresh uniform. "Oh, Christ," Rickett said, off in the distance high above Noah, "oh, Christ, we still got the Jew."

Noah closed his eyes. He knew that later on what Rickett had said would make a great difference in his life, but at the moment all he wanted to do was sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

THERE WAS a sign on the side of the road that said "You Are Under Observed Sh.e.l.lfire for the Next One Thousand Yards. Keep an Interval of Seventy-five Yards."

Michael glanced sideways at Colonel Pavone. But Pavone, in the front seat of the jeep, was reading a paper-covered mystery story he had picked up in a staging area in England while they were waiting to cross the Channel. Pavone was the only man Michael had ever seen who could read in a moving jeep.

Michael stepped on the accelerator and the jeep spurted swiftly down the empty road. On the right there was a bombed-out airdrome, with the skeletons of German planes lying about There was a strip of smoke farther off in front, lying in neat folds over the wheatfields in the bright summer afternoon air. The jeep bounced rapidly over the macadam road to the shelter of a clump of trees, and over a little rise, and the thousand observed yards were crossed.

Michael sighed a little, to himself, and drove more slowly. There was a loud, erratic growling of big guns ahead of them, from the city of Caen, that the British had taken the day before. Just what Colonel Pavone wanted to do in Caen, Michael didn't know. In his job as a roving Civil Affairs officer, Pavone had orders which permitted him to wander from one end of the front to another, and with Michael driving him, he visited all over Normandy, like a rather sleepy, good-humored tourist, looking at everything, when he wasn't reading, nodding brightly to the men who were fighting at each particular spot, talking in rapid, Parisian French to the natives, occasionally jotting down notes on sc.r.a.ps of paper. At night Pavone would retire to the deep dugout in the field near Carentan, and type out reports by himself, and send them on some place, but Michael never saw them, and never knew exactly where they were going.

"This book stinks," Pavone said. He tossed it into the back of the jeep. "A man has to be an idiot to read mystery stories." He looked around him, with his perky, clown's grimace. "Are we close?" he asked.

A battery concealed behind a row of farmhouses opened fire. The noise, so near, seemed to vibrate the windshield and Michael had, once again, the expanding, tickling concussion feeling low down in his stomach, that he never seemed to get over when a gun went off nearby.

"Close enough," Michael said grimly.

Pavone chuckled. "The first hundred wounds are the hardest," he said.

The son of a b.i.t.c.h, Michael thought, one day he is going to get me killed.

A British ambulance pa.s.sed them, fast, going back, loaded, b.u.mping cruelly on the rough road. Michael thought for a moment of the wounded in back, gasping as they rolled on the stretchers.

On one side of the road was a burned-out British tank, blackened and gaping, and there was a smell of the dead from it. Every new place you approached, every newly taken town which represented a victory on the maps and over the BBC, had the same smell, sweet, rotting, unvictorious. Michael wished vaguely, as he drove, feeling his nose burn in the strong sun, squinting through his dusty goggles, that he was back on the lumber pile in England.

They came over the brow of a hill. Ahead of them stretched the city of Caen. The British had been trying to take it for a month, and after looking at it for a moment, you wondered why they had been so anxious. Walls were standing, but few houses. Block after block of closely packed stone buildings had been battered and knocked down, and it was the same as far as the eye could reach. Tripe a la mode de Caen, Michael remembered from the menus of French restaurants in New York, and the University of Caen, from a course in Medieval History. British heavy mortars were firing from the jumbled books of the University library at the moment, and Canadian soldiers were crouched over machine guns in the kitchens where the tripe had at other times been so deftly prepared.

They were in the outskirts of the town by now, winding in and out of stone rubble. Pavone signaled Michael to stop, and Michael drew the jeep up along a heavy stone convent wall that ran beside the roadside ditch. There were some Canadians in the ditch and they looked at the Americans curiously.