Young Lions

by Irwin Shaw

  “All right. Go ahead.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” Maeschen crawled away, his face ablaze with duty and determination.

  “Diestl,” Brandt said.

  “Yes,” Christian said coldly, without looking at him. “If you want, you can go back with Maeschen. You’re not under my command.”

  “I want to go along with you.” Brandt’s voice was controlled. “I’m all right now. I just had a bad moment.” He laughed a little. “I just had to get used to being shot at. You said you were going to ask them to give up. You’d better take me along. No Frenchman’ll ever understand your French.” Christian looked at him and they grinned at each other. He’s all right, Christian thought, finally, he’s all right.

  “Come along,” he said. “You’re invited.”

  Then with Brandt dragging his Leica, with his pistol in his other hand, thoughtfully on safety, and Kraus eagerly bringing up the rear, they crawled off through a bed of fern into the woods toward their right. The fern was soft and danksmelling. The ground was a little marshy and their uniforms were soon stained with green. There was a slight rise thirty meters away. After they had crawled over that, they could stand up and proceed, bent over, behind its cover.

  There was a small continuous rustling in the wood. Two squirrels made a sudden, deadly racket leaping from one tree to another. The underbrush tore at their boots and trousers as they cautiously tried to walk a course parallel to the road.

  It’s not going to work, Christian thought, it’s going to be a terrible failure. They can’t be that stupid. It’s a perfect trap and I’ve fallen perfectly into it. The Army will get to Paris all right, but I’ll never see it. Probably you could lie dead here for ten years and no one would find you but the owls and the wood animals. He had been sweating out on the road, and when he was crawling, but now the chill gloom struck through his clothes and the sweat congealed on his skin. He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. The woods were probably full of Frenchmen, desperate, full of hate, slipping in and out behind the trees which they knew like the furniture in their own bedrooms, furiously happy to kill one more German before going down in the general collapse. Brandt, who had lived all his life on city pavements, sounded like a herd of cattle, blundering through the brush.

  Why in God’s name, Christian thought, did it have to happen this way? The first action. All the responsibility on his shoulders. Just this time the Lieutenant had to be off on his own. Every other moment of the war the Lieutenant had been there, looking down his long nose, sneering, saying, “Sergeant, is that how you have been taught to give a command?” and “Sergeant, is it your opinion that this is the correct manner in which to fill out a requisition form?” and “Sergeant, when I say I want ten men here at four o’clock, I mean four o’clock, not four-two, or four-ten, or four-fifteen. FOUR O’CLOCK, SERGEANT. Is that clear?” And now the Lieutenant was sailing happily along in the armored car, down a perfectly safe road, stuffed full of tactics and Clausewitz and disposition of troops and flanking movements and fields of fire and compass marches over unfamiliar terrain, when all he needed was a Michelin road map and a few extra gallons of gasoline. And here was Christian, a dressed-up civilian, really, stumbling through treacherous woods in an insane, improvised patrol against a strong position, with two men who had never fired a shot at anyone in their lives.… It was madness. It would never succeed. He remembered his optimism out on the road and marveled at it. “Suicide,” he said, “absolute suicide.”

  “What’s that?” Brandt whispered, and his voice carried through the rustling forest like a dinner gong. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” Christian said. “Keep quiet.”

  His eyes were aching now from the strain of watching each leaf, each blade of grass.

  “Attention!” Kraus shouted crazily. “Attention!”

  Christian dived behind a tree. Brandt crashed into him and the shot hit the wood over their heads. Christian swung around and Brandt blinked through his glasses and struggled with the safety catch on his pistol. Kraus was jumping wildly to one side, trying to disentangle the sling of his rifle from the branches of a’ bush. There was another shot, and Christian felt the sting on the side of his head. He fell down and got up again and fired at the kneeling figure he suddenly saw in the confusion of green and waving foliage behind a boulder. He saw his bullets chipping the stone. Then he had to change the clip in his gun and he sat on the ground, tearing at the breech, which was stiff and new. There was a shot to his left and he heard Kraus calling, wildly, “I got him, I got him,” like a boy on his first hunt for pheasant, and he saw the Frenchman quite deliberately slide, face down, on the grass. Kraus started to run for the Frenchman, as though he were afraid another hunter would claim him. There were two more shots, and Kraus fell into a stiff bush and sprawled there, almost erect, with the bush quivering under him, giving his buttocks a look of electric life. Brandt had got the safety off his pistol and was firing erratically at a clump of bushes, his elbows looking rubbery and loose. He sat on the ground, with his glasses askew on his nose, biting his lips white, holding the elbow of his right arm with his left hand in an attempt to steady himself. By that time Christian had the clip in his pistol and started firing at the clump of bushes too. Suddenly a rifle came hurling out and a man sprang out with his hands in the air. Christian stopped firing. There was the quiet of the forest again and Christian suddenly smelled the sharp, dry, unpleasant fumes of the burnt powder.

  “Venez,” Christian called. “Venez ici.” Somewhere inside of him, with the buzzing of his head and the ringing of his ears from the firing, there was a proud twinge at the sudden access of French.

  The man, his hands still over his head, came toward them slowly. His uniform was soiled and open at the collar and his face was pasty and green with fright under the scrubbly beard. He kept his mouth open and the tongue licked at the corners of his mouth dryly.

  “Cover him,” Christian said to Brandt, who, amazingly, was snapping pictures of the advancing Frenchman.

  Brandt stood up and poked his pistol out menacingly. The man stopped. He looked as though he were going to fall down in a moment and his eyes were imploring and hopeless as Christian passed him on the way over to the bush where Kraus hung. The bush had stopped vibrating and Kraus looked deader now. Christian laid him out on the ground. Kraus had a surprised, eager look on his face.

  Walking erratically, with his head aching from the slap of the bullet and the blood dripping over his ear, Christian went over to the Frenchman Kraus had shot. He was lying on his face with a bullet between his eyes. He was very, young, Kraus’s age, and his face had been badly mangled by the bullet. Christian dropped him back to the ground hurriedly. How much damage, he thought, these amateurs can do. No more than four shots fired between them in the whole war, and two dead to show for it.

  Christian felt the scratch on his temple; it had already stopped bleeding. He went over to Brandt and told him to instruct the prisoner to go down to the block and tell them they were surrounded and demand the surrender of everyone there, upon pain of annihilation. My first real day in the war, he thought, while Brandt was translating, and I am delivering ultimatums like a Major General. He grinned. He felt lightheaded and uncertain of his movements, and from moment to moment he was not sure whether he was going to laugh or weep.

  The Frenchman kept nodding again and again, very emphatically, and talking swiftly to Brandt, too swiftly for Christian’s meager talent for the language.

  “He says he’ll do it,” Brandt said.

  “Tell him,” Christian said, “we’ll follow him and shoot him at the first sign of any nonsense.”

  The Frenchman nodded vigorously as Brandt told him this, as though it were the most reasonable statement in the world. They started out down through the forest toward the road block, past Kraus’s body, looking healthy and relaxed on the grass, with the sun slicing through the branches, gilding his helmet with dull gold.

  They kept the Fren
chman ten paces ahead of them. He stopped at the edge of the forest, which was about three meters higher than the road and along which ran a low stone fence.

  “Emile,” the Frenchman called, “Emile … It’s I. Morel.” He clambered over the fence and disappeared from view. Carefully, Christian and Brandt approached the fence, and knelt behind it. Down on the road, behind the block, their prisoner was talking swiftly, standing up, to seven soldiers kneeling and lying on the road behind their barricade. Occasionally, one of them would stare nervously into the woods, and they kept their voices to a swift, trembling whisper. Even in their uniforms, with their guns in their hands, they looked like peasants congregated in a town hall to discuss some momentous local problem. Christian wondered what stubborn, despairing flare of patriotism or private determination had led them to make this pathetic, inaccurate, useless stand, deserted, un-officered, clumsy, bloody. He hoped they would surrender. He did not want to kill any of these whispering, weary-looking men in their rumpled, shoddy uniforms.

  Their prisoner turned and waved to Christian.

  “C’est fait!” he shouted. “Nous sommes finis.”

  “He says, all right,” Brandt said, “they’re finished.”

  Christian stood up, to wave to them to put down their arms. But at that moment there were three ragged bursts from the other side of the road. The Frenchman who had done the negotiating fell down and the others started running back along the road, firing, and vanishing one by one into the woods.

  Himmler, Christian thought bitterly. At exactly the wrong moment. If you needed him, he’d never …

  Christian jumped over the wall and slid down the embankment toward the barricade. They were still shooting from the other side, but without effect. The Frenchmen had disappeared, and Himmler and his men didn’t seem to have any mind for pursuit.

  As Christian reached the road, the man who was lying there stirred. He sat up and stared at Christian. The Frenchman leaned stiffly over to the base of the barricade where there was a case of grenades. Awkwardly, he took one out of the box and pulled weakly at the pin. Christian turned around. The man’s face was glaring up at him and he was pulling at the pin with his teeth. Christian shot him and he fell back. The grenade rolled away. Christian leaped at it and threw it into the woods.’ He waited for the explosion, crouched behind the barricade next to the dead Frenchman, but there was no sound. The pin had never come out.

  Christian stood up. “All right,” he called. “Himmler. Come on out here.”

  He looked down at the man he had just killed as Himmler and the others came crashing down out of the brush. Brandt took a picture of the corpse, because photographs of dead Frenchmen were still quite rare in Berlin.

  I’ve killed a man, Christian thought. Finally. He didn’t feel anything special.

  “How do you like that?” Himmler was saying jubilantly. “That’s the way to do it. This is an Iron Cross job, I’ll bet.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Christian said, “be quiet.”

  He picked up the dead man and dragged him over to the side of the road. Then he gave orders to the other men to tear down the barricade, while he went up with Brandt to where Kraus was lying in the forest.

  By the time he and Brandt had carried Kraus back to the road, Himmler and the others had got most of the barricade down. Christian left the Frenchman who had been killed in the forest lying where he had died. He felt very impatient now, and anxious to move on. Somebody else would have to do the honors to the fallen enemy.

  He laid Kraus down gently. Kraus looked very young and healthy, and there were red stains around his lips from the cherries, like a small boy who comes guiltily out of the pantry after pillaging the jam jars. Well, Christian thought, looking down at the large simple boy who had laughed so heartily at Christian’s jokes, you killed your Frenchman. When he got to Paris, he would write Kraus’s father to tell him how his son had died. Fearless, he would write, cheerful, aggressive, best type of German soldier. Proud in his hour of grief. Christian shook his head. No, he would have to do better than that. That was like the idiotic letters in the last war, and, there was no denying it, they had become rather comic by now. Something more original for Kraus, something more personal. We buried him with cherry stains on his lips and he always laughed at my jokes and he got himself killed because he was too enthusiastic … You couldn’t say that either. Anyway, he would have to write something.

  He turned away from the dead boy as the other two cars drove slowly and warily up the road. He watched them coming with impatient, superior amusement.

  “Come on, ladies,” he shouted, “there’s nothing to be afraid of. The mice have left the room.”

  The cars spurted obediently and stopped at the road block, their motors idling. Christian’s driver was in one of them. Their own car was a wreck, he said, the engine riddled, the tires torn. It could not be used. The driver was very red, although he had merely lain in the ditch while all the firing was going on. He spoke in gulps, as though it was hard to get his breath, two short, gasping words at a time. Christian realized that the man, who had been quite calm while the action was on, had grown terribly frightened now that it was over, and had lost control of his nerves.

  Christian listened to his own voice as he gave orders. “Maeschen,” he said, “you will stay here with Taub, until the next organization comes down this road.” The voice is steady, Christian noted with elation, the words are crisp and efficient I came through it all right I can do it. “Maeschen, go up there into the woods about sixty meters and you will find a dead Frenchman. Bring him out and leave him with the other two …” He gestured to Kraus and the little man Christian had killed, lying side by side now along the road, “so that they can be correctly buried. All right.” He turned to the others. “Get moving.”

  They climbed into the two cars. The drivers put them in gear, and they went slowly through the space that had been cleared in the block. There was some blood on the road and bits of mattress and trampled leaves, but it all looked green and peaceful. Even the two bodies lying in the heavy grass alongside the road looked like two gardeners who were catching a nap after lunch.

  The cars gathered speed and pulled swiftly out of the shade of the trees. There was no more danger of sniping among the open, budding fields. The sun was shining warmly, making them sweat a little, quite pleasantly, after the chill of the woods. I did it, Christian thought. He was a little ashamed of the small smile of self-satisfaction that pulled at the corners of his mouth. I did it. I commanded an action. I am earning my keep, he thought.

  Ahead of him, at the bottom of a slope some three kilometers away, was a little town. It was made of stone and was dominated by two church steeples, medieval and delicate, rising out of the cluster of weathered walls around them. The town looked comfortable and secure, as though people had been living there quietly for a long time. The driver of Christian’s car slowed down as they approached the buildings. He looked nervously at Christian again and again.

  “Come on,” Christian said impatiently. “There’s nobody there.”

  The driver obediently stepped on the accelerator.

  The houses didn’t look as pretty or comfortable from close up as they had from out in the fields. Paint was flaking off the walls, and they were dirty, and there was an undeniable strong smell. Foreigners, Christian thought, they are all dirty.

  The street took a bend and they were out into the town square. There were some people standing on the church steps and some others in front of the café that surprisingly was open. “Chasseur et Pecheur” Christian read on the sign over the café. Hunter and Fisher. There were five or six people sitting at the tables and a waiter was serving two of them drinks on those little saucers. Christian grinned. What a war.

  On the church steps, there were three young girls in bright skirts and low-cut waists.

  “Ooo,” the driver said, “ooo, la, la.”

  “Stop here,” Christian said.

  “Avec plaisir, mon colonel,�
� the driver said, and Christian looked at him,’ surprised and amused at his unsuspected culture.

  The driver drew up in front of the church and stared unashamedly at the three girls. One of the girls, a dark, full-bodied creature, holding a bouquet of garden flowers in her hand, giggled. The other two girls giggled with her, and they stared with frank interest at the two carloads of soldiers.

  Christian got out of the car. “Come on, Interpreter,” he said to Brandt. Brandt followed him, carrying his camera.

  Christian walked up to the girls on the church steps. “Bon jour, Mesdemoiselles,” he said, carefully taking off his helmet with a graceful, unofficial salute.

  The girls giggled again and the big one said, in French that Christian could understand. “How well he speaks.” Christian felt foolishly flattered, and went on, disdaining the use of Brandt’s superior French.

  “Tell me, Ladies,” he said, only groping a little for the words, “are there any of your soldiers who have passed through here recently?”

  “No, Monsieur,” the big one answered, smiling, as though what she had just said were a coquettish invitation. “We have been deserted completely. Are you going to do us any harm?”

  “We do not plan to harm anyone,” Christian said, “especially three young ladies of such beauty.”

  “Now,” Brandt said, in German, “now listen to that.” Christian grinned. There was something very pleasant about standing there in this old town in front of the church in the morning sunlight, looking at the full bosom of the dark girl peeping from above her sheer blouse, and flirting with her in the unfamiliar language. It was one of the things you never thought about when you started off to war.

  “My,” the dark girl said, smiling at him, “is that what they teach you in military school in your country?”

  “The war is over,” Christian said solemnly, “and you will find that we are truly friends of France.”

  “Oh,” said the dark girl, “what a marvelous propagandist.” She looked at him invitingly, and for a moment Christian had a wild thought of perhaps staying in this town for an hour. “Will there be many like you following?”