Young Lions

by Irwin Shaw

  Finally Hardenburg sighed and sat up. He patted the wet bandage on his head. “Did you put this on?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “It will fall off the first time I move,” Hardenburg said coldly, objectively criticizing, without anger. “Where did you learn to put on bandages?”

  “Sorry, Sir,” said Christian. “I must have been a bit shaken myself.”

  “I suppose so,” Hardenburg said. “Still, it’s silly to waste a bandage.” He opened his tunic and took out an oilskin case. From the case he took a sharply folded terrain map. He spread the map on the desert floor. “Now,” he said, “we see where we are.”

  Wonderful, Christian thought, fully equipped for all eventualities.

  Hardenburg blinked from time to time as he studied the map. He grimaced with pain as he held the bandage on. But he figured rapidly, mumbling to himself. He folded the map and put it back briskly into the case and carefully tucked it away inside his tunic. “Very well,” he said. “This track joins with another one, leading west, perhaps eight kilometers away. Do you think you can make it?”

  “Yes, Sir,” said Christian. “How about you?”

  Hardenburg looked at him disdainfully. “Don’t worry about me. On your feet,” he barked, again to the phantom company he was continually addressing.

  Christian rose slowly. His shoulder and arm pained considerably, and he could move the arm only with difficulty. But he knew he could walk several of the eight kilometers, if not all of them. He watched Hardenburg push himself up from the sand with a furious effort. The sweat broke out on his face and the blood began to come through the bandage on his forehead again. But when Christian leaned over to try to help him, Hardenburg glared at him, and said, “Get away from me, Sergeant!”

  Christian stepped back and watched Hardenburg struggle to raise himself. He dug his heels into the grainy sand as though getting ready to take the shock of being hit by an onrushing giant. Then, with his right elbow held rigid, he pushed ferociously, with cold purpose, at the ground. Slowly, inch by inch, with the pain shouting mutely from his livid face, he raised himself till he was half-bent over, but off the ground. With a wrench, he pulled himself upright and stood there, wavering, but erect, the sweat and blood mixed with the grime on his face in a thick, alarming compost. He was weeping, Christian noticed with surprise, the tears making harsh lines down the nameless paste on his cheeks. His breath came hard, in dry, tortured sobs, but he set his teeth. In a grotesque, clumsy movement, he faced north.

  “All right,” he said. “Forward march.”

  He started out along the thick sand of the track, ahead of Christian. He limped, and his head bobbed crazily to one side as he walked, but he continued steadily, without looking back.

  Christian followed him. He was feverishly thirsty. The gun slung over his shoulder seemed maliciously heavy, but he resolved not to drink or ask for a rest until Hardenburg did so first.

  They shuffled slowly, in a broken, deliberate tandem, across the sand, among the occasional rusting wrecks, toward the road to the north where other Germans might be beating their way back from the battle. Or where the British might be waiting for them.

  Christian thought impersonally and calmly about the British. They did not seem real or menacing. Only two or three things were real at the moment: the coppery taste in his throat, like sour brewery mash, the crippled, animal-like gait of Hardenburg before him, the sun rising higher and higher and with increasing, malevolent heat, behind their backs. If the British were waiting on the track that was a problem that would have to be solved in its own time. He was too occupied to grapple with it now.

  They were sitting down for the second rest, stunned, sun-lacerated, their eyes dull with agony and fatigue, when they saw the car on the horizon. It was coming fast, with a swirl of dust like a plume behind it. In two minutes they saw that it was a smart open staff car, and a moment later they realized it was Italian.

  Hardenburg pushed himself up with a bone-cracking effort. He limped slowly out into the middle of the track and stood there, breathing heavily, but staring calmly at the onrushing machine. He looked wild and threatening with the bloody bandage angled across his forehead, and his purple, sunken eyes. His bloodstained hands hooked ready at his sides.

  Christian stood up, but did not go into the center of the track beside Hardenburg.

  The car raced toward them, its horn blowing loudly, losing itself somehow in the emptiness and sounding like the echo of a warning. Hardenburg didn’t move. There were five figures in the open car. Hardenburg stood cold and motionless, watching them. Christian was sure the car was going to run the Lieutenant down and he opened his mouth to call, when there was a squeal of brakes and the long, smart-looking machine skidded to a stop an arm’s length in front of Hardenburg.

  There were two Italian soldiers in front, one driving and the other crouched beside him. In the rear there were three officers. They all stood up and shouted angrily at Hardenburg in Italian.

  Hardenburg did not move. “I wish to speak to the ranking officer here,” he called coldly in German.

  There was more Italian. Finally a dark, stout Major said, in bad German. “That is me. If you have anything you wish to say to me, come over here and say it.”

  “You will kindly dismount,” Hardenburg said, standing absolutely still, in front of the car.

  The Italians chattered among themselves. Then the Major opened the rear door and jumped down, fat and wrinkled in what had once been a pretty uniform. He advanced belligerently on Hardenburg. Hardenburg saluted grandly. The salute looked theatrical coming from this scarecrow in the glaring emptiness of the desert. The Major clicked his heels in the sand and saluted in return.

  “Lieutenant,” the Major said nervously, looking at Hardenburg’s tabs, “we are in a great hurry. What is it you wish?”

  “I am under orders,” Hardenburg said coldly, “to requisition transportation for General Aigner.”

  The Major opened his mouth sadly, then clicked it shut. He looked hurriedly about him, as though he expected to see General Aigner spring suddenly from the blank desert.

  “Nonsense,” the Major said finally. “There is a New Zealand patrol coming up this road and we cannot delay …”

  “I am under specific orders, Major,” said Hardenburg in a sing-song voice. “I do not know anything about a New Zealand patrol.”

  “Where is General Aigner?” the Major looked around uncertainly again.

  “Five kilometers from here,” Hardenburg said. “His ar mored car threw a tread and I am under specific orders …”

  “I have heard it!” the Major screamed. “I have already heard about the specific orders.”

  “If you will be so kind,” Hardenburg said, “you will order the other gentlemen to dismount. The driver may remain.”

  “Get out of the way,” said the Major. He started back toward the car. “I have heard enough of this nonsense.”

  “Major,” said Hardenburg coldly and gently. The Major stopped and faced him, sweating. The other Italians stared at him worriedly, but not understanding the German.

  “It is out of the question,” said the Major, his voice trembling. “Absolutely out of the question. This is an Italian Army vehicle and we are on a mission to …”

  “I am very sorry, Sir,” said Hardenburg. “General Aigner outranks you and this is German Army territory. You will kindly deliver your vehicle.”

  “Ridiculous!” the Major said, but faintly.

  “At any rate,” Hardenburg said, “there is a road block ahead, and the men there have orders to confiscate all Italian transport. By force if necessary. You will then have to explain what three field grade officers are doing at a moment like this so far from their organizations. You will also have to explain why you took it upon yourself to disregard a specific order from General Aigner who is in command of all troops in this sector.”

  He stared coldly at the Major. The Major raised his hand in a strangled gesture.
Hardenburg’s expression had not changed at all. It still was weary, disdainful, rather bored. He turned his back on the Major and walked toward the car. Miraculously he even managed for these five steps not to limp.

  “Furi!” he said, opening the door to the front of the car. “Out! The driver will remain,” he said in Italian. The man beside the driver looked around beseechingly at the officers in the rear of the car. They avoided the man’s glance and stared nervously at the Major, who had followed Hardenburg.

  Hardenburg tapped the soldier in the front seat on the arm. “Furi,” he repeated calmly.

  The soldier wiped his face. Then, looking down at his boots, he got out of the car and stood unhappily next to the Major. They looked amazingly alike, two soft, dark, disturbed Italian faces, handsome and unmilitary and worried.

  “Now,” Hardenburg gestured to the other two officers, “you gentlemen …” The wave of his arm was unmistakable.

  The two officers looked at the Major. One of them spoke rapidly in Italian. The Major sighed and answered in three words. The two officers got out of the car and stood beside the Major.

  “Sergeant,” Hardenburg called without looking over his shoulder.

  Christian came up and stood at attention.

  “Clean the back of the car out, Sergeant,” Hardenburg ordered, “and give these gentlemen everything that belongs to them, personally.”

  Christian looked into the back of the car. There were water cans, three bottles of Chianti, two boxes of rations. Methodically, one by one, he lifted the rations and the bottles and put them at the Major’s feet on the side of the road. The three officers stared glumly down at their possessions being unloaded onto the desert sand.

  Christian fingered the water cans thoughtfully. “The water, too, Lieutenant?” he asked.

  “The water, too,” Hardenburg said without hesitation.

  Christian put the water cans beside the ration boxes.

  Hardenburg went to the rear of the car, where there were rolls of bedding strapped against the metal. He took out his knife. With three swift slashes he cut the leather thongs holding them onto the car. The canvas rolls dropped open into the dust. One of the officers started to speak angrily in Italian, but the Major silenced him with an abrupt wave of his hand. The Major stood very erect in front of Hardenburg. “I insist,” he said in German, “upon a receipt for the vehicle.”

  “Naturally,” Hardenburg said gravely. He took out his map. He tore off a small rectangular corner and wrote slowly on the back of it. “Will this do?” he asked. He read aloud in a clear, unhurried voice. “Received from Major So and So … I am leaving the place blank, Major; and you can fill it in at your leisure … one Fiat staff car, with driver. Requisitioned by order of General Aigner. Signed, Lieutenant Siegfried Hardenburg.”

  The Major snatched the paper and read it over carefully. He waved it. “I will present this at the proper place,” he said loudly, “in the proper time.”

  “Of course,” Hardenburg said. He stepped into the rear of the car. “Sergeant,” he said, sitting down, “sit back here.”

  Christian got into the car and sat down beside the Lieutenant. The seat was made of beautifully sewn tan leather and there was a smell of wine and toilet water. Christian stared impassively ahead of him at the burned brown neck of the driver in the front seat. Hardenburg leaned across Christian and slammed the door. “Avanti,” he said calmly to the driver.

  The driver’s back tensed for a moment and Christian saw a flush spreading up the bare neck from below the collar. Then the driver delicately put the car in gear. Hardenburg saluted. One by one, the three officers returned the salute. The private who had been sitting beside the driver seemed too stunned to lift his hand.

  The car moved smoothly ahead, the dust from its spinning wheels tossing lightly over the small group on the side of the road. Christian felt an almost involuntary muscular pull to turn around, but Hardenburg’s hand clamped on his arm. “Don’t look!” Hardenburg snapped.

  Christian tried to relax into the seat. He waited for the sound of shots, but they didn’t come. He looked at Hardenburg. The Lieutenant was smiling, a small, frosty smile. He was enjoying it, Christian realized with slow surprise. With all his wounds and with his company lost behind him and God knows what ahead of him, Hardenburg was enjoying the moment, savoring it, delighting in it. Christian couldn’t smile, but he sank back into the soft leather, feeling his racked bones settling luxuriously in his resting flesh.

  “What would have happened,” he asked after awhile, “if they had decided to hold onto the car?”

  Hardenburg smiled, his eyelids half-lowered in sensuous enjoyment as he spoke. “They would have killed me,” he said. “That is all.”

  Christian nodded gravely. “And the water,” he said. “Why did you let them have the water?”

  “Ah,” Hardenburg said, “that would have been just a little too much.” He chuckled as he settled back in the rich leather.

  “What do you think will happen to them?” Christian asked.

  Hardenburg shrugged carelessly. “They will surrender and go to British prison. Italians love to go to prison. Now,” he said, “keep quiet. I wish to sleep.”

  A moment later, his breath coming evenly, his bloody, filthy face composed and childlike, he was sleeping. Christian remained awake. Someone, he thought, ought to watch the desert and the driver who sat rigidly before them, holding the speeding, powerful car on the road.

  Merse Matruh was like a candy-box in which a death had taken place. They tried to find someone to report to, but the town was a chaos of trucks and staggering men and broken armor among the ruins. While they were there a squadron of planes came over and dropped bombs on them for twenty minutes. There were more ruins and an ambulance train was spilled open, with men shouting like animals from the twisted wreckage, and everybody seemed intent only upon pressing west, so Hardenburg ordered the driver into the long, slowly moving stream of vehicles and they made their way toward the outskirts of the town. There was a control post there, with a gaunt-eyed Captain with a long sheet of paper mounted on a board. The Captain was taking down names and organization designations from the caked and exhausted men streaming past him. He looked like a lunatic accountant trying to balance impossible accounts in a bank that was tottering in an earthquake. He did not know where their Division Headquarters were, or whether they still existed. He kept saying in a loud, dead voice, through the cake of dust around his lips, “Keep moving. Keep moving. Ridiculous. Keep moving.”

  When he saw the Italian driver he said, “Leave that one here with me. We can use him to defend the town. I’ll give you a German driver.”

  Hardenburg spoke gently to the Italian. The Italian began to cry, but he got out of the car, and stood next to the Captain with the long sheet of paper. He took his rifle with him, but held it sadly near the muzzle, dragging it in the dust. It looked harmless and inoffensive in his hands as he stared hopelessly at the guns and the trucks and the tottering soldiers rolling past him.

  “We will not hold Matruh forever,” Hardenburg said grimly, “with troops like that.”

  “Of course,” the Captain said crazily. “Naturally not. Ridiculous.” And he peered into the dust and put down the organization numbers of two anti-tank guns and an armored car that rumbled past him, smothering him in a fog of dust.

  But he gave them a tank driver who had lost his tank and a Messerschmitt pilot who had been shot down over the town to ride with them, and told them to get back to Solum as fast as possible, there was a likelihood things were in better shape that far back.

  The tank driver was a large blond peasant who grasped the wheel solidly as he drove. He reminded Christian of Corporal Kraus, dead outside Paris long ago with cherry stains on his lips. The pilot was young, but bald, with a gray, shrunken face, and a bad twitch that pulled his mouth to the right twenty times a minute. “This morning,” he kept saying, “this morning I did not have this. It is getting worse and worse. Does it l
ook very bad?”

  “No,” said Christian, “you hardly notice it.”

  “I was shot down by an American,” the pilot said, wonderingly. “Imagine that. The first American I ever saw.” He shook his head as though this was the final and most devastating point scored against German arms in all the campaigns in Africa. “I didn’t even know they were here. Imagine that!”

  The blond peasant was a good driver. They darted in and out of the heavier traffic, making good time on the bombed and pitted road alongside the shining blue waters of the Mediterranean, stretching, peaceful and cool, to Greece, to Italy, to Europe …

  It happened the next day.

  They still had their car and they had siphoned gasoline out of a wrecked truck along the road, and they were in a long, slow line that was moving in fits and starts up the winding, ruined road that climbs from the small, wiped out village of Solum to the Cyrenaican escarpment. Down below, the fragments of walls gleamed white and pretty about the keyhole-shaped harbor, where the water shone bright green and pure blue as it sliced into the burned land. Wrecks of ships rested in the water, looking like the deposit of ancient wars, their lines wavering gently and peacefully in the slight ripples.

  The pilot was twitching worse than ever now and insisted upon looking at himself in the rearview mirror all the time, in an effort to catch the twitch at the moment of inception and somehow freeze it there to study it. So far he had not been successful, and he had screamed in agony every time he fell off to sleep the night before. Hardenburg was getting very impatient with him.

  But there were signs that order was being restored down below. There were anti-aircraft guns set up about the town, and two battalions of infantry could be seen digging in on the eastern edge, and a General had been seen striding back and forth near the harbor, waving his arms about and delivering himself of orders.