Young Lions

by Irwin Shaw

  “I’m not taking off anything,” Cowley said. “I had enough of this.”

  “Cowley …” Noah began.

  “I’m not talkin’ to you no more. I had enough of you. I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing, but I’m not doing it with you.” Cowley’s voice was rising hysterically. “I thought you was crazy back in Florida and I think you’re even crazier now. I can’t swim, I can’t swim …” He was almost shouting now.

  “Keep quiet,” Noah said harshly. If he could have done it silently, he would have shot Cowley.

  Cowley didn’t say anything more. Noah could hear him breathing heavily in the darkness, but he didn’t talk.

  Methodically, Noah took off his leggings, his shoes, his jacket and trousers, the long wool underwear. He took off his shirt and pulled off the wool underwear top with the long sleeves. Then he put the shirt back on and buttoned it carefully, because his wallet was in it, with the map.

  The night air curled bitterly around his bare legs. He began to shiver, long, deep spasms.

  “Cowley,” Noah whispered.

  “Get out of here,” Cowley said.

  “I’m ready,” Burnecker said. His voice was steady, emotionless.

  Noah stood up. He started down the decline toward the canal. He heard the soft, crushing sound of Burnecker following him. The grass was very cold and slippery under his bare feet. He crouched over and moved swiftly. He did not wait when he got to the side of the canal. He dropped in, worried about the soft splash of his body. He slipped as he went in. His head went under the water and he swallowed a great draught of it. The thick, salty water made him gag, and made his head ache as it went up his nose. He scrambled around to get his feet under him and stood up, holding onto the bank. His head was above the water. Close to the bank, at least, it was only five feet deep.

  He looked up. There was the pale blur of Burnecker’s face, peering down at him. Then Burnecker slid in beside him.

  “Hold my shoulder,” Noah said. He felt the savage nervous grip of Burnecker’s fingers through the wet wool of his shirt.

  They started out across the canal. The bottom was slimy and Noah insanely worried about water snakes. There were mussels, too, and he had to hold himself back from crying out with pain when he stubbed his toe on the sharp edges. They walked steadily across, feeling with their feet for holes or a sudden deepening in the channel. The water was up to Noah’s shoulders and he could feel the pull of the tide sweeping sluggishly in from the ocean.

  The machine gun opened up and they stopped. But the bullets were far over their heads and to the right, the machine gunner aiming nervously in the general direction of the German Army. Step by step, they made their way toward the other side. Noah hoped Cowley was watching them, seeing that it could be done, that he could do it, that he didn’t have to swim … Then it got deeper. Noah had to swim, but Burnecker, who was a head taller than Noah, still had his mouth and nose out of the water, and he supported Noah, his arm and hand strong under Noah’s armpits. The other bank got closer and closer. It smelled rankly of salt mud and rotting shellfish, like the smell of fishing wharves back home. Still moving cautiously through the water, feeling their way, holding each other up, they peered at the bank for a place where they could climb up quickly and silently. The bank was steep ahead of them, and slippery.

  “Not here,” Noah whispered, “not here.”

  They reached the bank and rested, leaning against it.

  “That dumb son of a bitch Cowley,” Burnecker said.

  Noah nodded, but he wasn’t thinking of Cowley. He looked up and down the bank. The pull of the tide was getting stronger, gurgling against their shoulders. Noah tapped Burnecker and they started cautiously along the bank, going with the tide. The spasms of shivering were coming more violently now. Noah tried to jam his teeth together to keep his jaw steady. June, he repeated foolishly and silently deep in his brain, bathing on the French coast in the June moonlight, in the moonlight in June … He grinned idiotically. He had never been so cold before in his life. The bank was steep and greasy with sea moss and damp, and there was no sign that they would reach a place they could manage before it got light. Calmly, Noah thought of taking his hand from Burnecker’s shoulder and floating into the middle of the canal and sinking quietly and peacefully there, once and for all …

  “Here,” Burnecker whispered.

  Noah looked up. Part of the bank had crumbled away and there was a foothold there, rough and overgrown, with rounded rock edges jutting out of the dark clay.

  Burnecker bent and put his hands under Noah’s foot. There was a splashing, loud noise as he helped heave Noah up the bank. Noah lay for a second on the edge of the bank, panting and shivering, then he scrambled around and helped Burnecker up. An automatic weapon opened up close by and the bullets whistled past them. They ran, sliding and slipping in their bare feet, toward a rim of bushes thirty yards away. Other guns opened fire and Noah began to shout, “Stop it! Cut it out! Stop shooting! We’re Americans. Company C!” he screamed, “Charley Company!”

  They reached the bushes and dived down into the shelter behind them. From across the canal, the Germans were firing now, too, and flash followed flash, and Noah and Burnecker seemed to have been forgotten in the small battle they had awakened.

  Five minutes later, abruptly, the firing stopped.

  “I’m going to yell,” Noah whispered. “Stay low.”

  “O.K.,” Burnecker said quietly.

  “Don’t shoot,” Noah called, not very loud, trying to keep his voice steady. “Don’t shoot. There are two of us here. Americans. C Company. Company C. Don’t shoot.”

  He stopped. They lay hugging the earth, shivering, listening.

  Finally they heard the voice. “Get on up out o’ theah,” the voice called, thick with Georgia, “and keep yo’ hands over yo’ haid and fetch yo’selves over heah. Do it right quick, now, an’ don’t make any sudden moves …”

  Noah tapped Burnecker. They both stood up and put their hands over their heads. Then they started walking toward the voice out of the depths of Georgia.

  “Jesus Christ in the mawnin’!” the voice said, “they ain’t got no more clothes on them than a plucked duck!”

  Then Noah knew they were going to be all right.

  A figure stood up from a gunpit, pointing a rifle at them. “Over this way, Soldier,” the figure said.

  Noah and Burnecker walked, their hands over their heads, toward the soldier looming up out of the ground. They stopped five feet away from him.

  There was another man in the foxhole, still crouched down, with his rifle leveled at them.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on out here?” he asked suspiciously.

  “We got cut off,” Noah said. “C Company. We’ve been three days getting back. Can we take our hands down now?”

  “Look at their dogtags, Vemon,” said the man in the hole.

  The man with the Georgia accent carefully put his rifle down. “Stan’ where you are and throw me yo’ dogtags.”

  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 ass 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 hell’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 canal was too deep, had crowded into his mind.

  “Where’s this here Cowley?” asked the man from Georgia.

  “Other side of the canal,” said Burnecker.

  “You must be mighty fond of Mr. Cowley,” said the man from Georgia as he peered through the graying night across the canal.

  “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 hell 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 bitch anything. I wouldn’t go. If I thought he had it coming to him, I’d go with you. He ain’t got a goddamn thing coming to him, Noah.”

  “If I don’t get back in fifteen minutes,” Noah said, admiring the calm, logical, dispassionate 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 ass when they see you,”

  “Thanks,” Noah said, and started back toward the canal, the wet shirt tails flapping soggily around his bare legs, the alcohol rioting within him. At the bank of the canal 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, nobody 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 canal, and the canal 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 canal 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. “Goddamn 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 hell 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 canal, 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 canal. 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 h
e 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 canal.

  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.