by Irwin Shaw
“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?”
“Ten million,” said Christian.
The girl threw up her hands in mock despair. “Oh, my God,” she said, “what will we do with them all? Here,” she offered him the flowers, “because you are the first.”
He looked at the flowers with surprise, then took them gently from her hand. What a young, human thing it was to do. How hopeful it was …
“Mademoiselle …” His French became halting. “I don’t know how to say it … but … Brandt!”
“The Sergeant wishes to say,” Brandt said smoothly and swiftly in his proper French, “that he is most grateful and takes this as a token of the great bond between our two great peoples.”
“Yes,” said Christian, jealous of Brandt’s fluency. “Exactly.”
“Ah,” said the girl, “he is a Sergeant. The officer.” She smiled even more widely at him, and Christian thought, amused, they are not so different from the ones at home.
There were steps behind him, clear and ringing on the cobblestones. Christian turned with the bouquet in his hand. He felt a glancing blow, light but sharp, on his fingers, and the flowers went spinning out of his grasp and scattered on the dirty stones at his feet.
An old Frenchman in a black suit and a greenish felt hat was standing there, a cane in his hand. The old man had a sharp, fierce face and a military ribbon in his lapel. He was glaring furiously at Christian.
“Did you do that?” Christian asked the old man.
“I do not talk to Germans,” the old man said. The way he stood made Christian feel that he was an old, retired regular soldier, used to authority. His leathery face, wrinkled and weathered, added to the impression. The old man turned on the girls.
“Sluts!” he said. “Why don’t you just lie down? Lift your skirts and be done with it!”.
“Ah,” the dark girl said sullenly, “be quiet, Captain, this is not your war.”
Christian felt foolish standing there, but he didn’t know what to do or say. This was not exactly a military situation, and he certainly couldn’t use force on a seventy-year-old man.
“Frenchwomen!” The old man spat. “Flowers for Germans! They’ve been out killing your brothers and you present them with bouquets!”
“They’re just soldiers,” the girl said. “They’re far away from home and they’re so young and handsome in their uniforms.” She. was smiling impudently at Brandt and Christian by now, and Christian couldn’t help laughing at her direct womanly reasoning.
“All right,” he said, “old man. We no longer have the flowers. Go back to your drink.” He put his arm in a friendly manner across the old man’s shoulders. The old man shook the arm off violently.
“Keep your hands off me!” he shouted. “Boche!”
He strode across the square, his heels clicking fiercely on the cobbles. “Ooo, la, la,” Christian’s driver said, shaking his head reprovingly as the old man passed the car.
The old man paid no attention to him. “Frenchmen! Frenchwomen!” he shouted to the town at large as he stalked toward the café. “It’s no wonder the Boches are here this time! No heart, no courage. One shot and they are running through the. woods like rabbits. One smile and they are in bed for the whole German Army! They don’t work, they don’t pray, they don’t fight, all they know how to do is surrender. Surrender in the line, surrender in the bedroom. For twenty years France has been practicing for this and now they have perfected it!”
“Ooo, la, la,” said Christian’s driver, who understood French. He bent over and picked up a stone and casually threw it across the square at the Frenchman. It missed him, but it went through the window of the café behind him. There was the sharp crash of the plateglass and then silence in the square. The old Frenchman didn’t even look around at the damage. He sat down silently, leaning on the head of his cane. Ferociously and heart-brokenly he glared across at the Germans.
Christian walked over to the driver. “What did you do that for?” he asked quietly.
“He was making too much noise,” the driver said. He was a big, ugly, insolent man, like a Berlin taxi-driver, and Christian disliked him intensely. “Teach them some respect for the German Army.”
“Don’t ever do anything like that again,” Christian said harshly. “Understand?”
The driver stood a little straighter, but he didn’t answer. He merely stared dully and ambiguously, with a lurking hint of insolence, into Christian’s eyes.
Christian turned from him. “All right,” he called. “On the road.”
The girls were a little subdued now, and didn’t wave as the cars lurched across the square and onto the road toward Paris.
Christian was a little disappointed when he drove up to the brown sculptured bulk of the Porte Saint Denis and saw the open square around it thronged with armored vehicles and gray uniforms, the men lounging on the concrete and eat
ing from a field kitchen, for all the world like a Bavarian garrison town on a national holiday, preparing for a parade. Christian had never been in Paris, and he felt it would have been a marvelous climax to the war to be the first to drive through the historic streets, leading the Army into the ancient capital of the enemy.
He drove slowly through the lounging troops and the stacked rifles to the base of the monument. He signaled to Himmler in the car behind him to stop. This was the rendezvous point at which he had been ordered to wait for the rest of the company. Christian took his helmet off and stretched in his seat, taking a deep breath. The mission was finished.
Brandt leaped out of the car and busied himself taking pictures of troopers eating, leaning against the base of the monument Even with his uniform and the black leather holster strapped around his waist, Brandt still looked like a bank-clerk on vacation, taking snapshots for the family album. Brandt had his own theories about pictures. He picked out the handsomest and youngest soldiers. He made a point of picking very blond boys most of the time, privates and lower-grade, non-commissioned officers. “My function,” he had once told Christian, “is to make the war attractive to the people back home.” He seemed to be having some success with his theories, because he was up for a commission, and he was constantly receiving commendations from the propaganda headquarters in Berlin for his work.
There were two small children wandering shyly among the soldiers, the sole representatives of the French civilian population of Paris on the streets that afternoon. Brandt led them over to where Christian was cleaning his gun on the hood of the little scout car.
“Here,” Brandt said, “do me a favor. Pose with these two.”
“Get someone else,” Christian protested. “I’m no actor.”
“I want to make you famous,” Brandt said. “Lean over and offer them some candy.”
“I haven’t any candy,” Christian said. The two children, a boy and a girl who could not have been over five years old, stood at the wheel of the car, looking gravely up at Christian, with sad, deep black eyes.
“Here.” Brandt took some chocolate out of his pocket and gave it to Christian. “The good soldier is prepared for everything.”
Christian sighed and put down the dismantled barrel of the machine pistol. He leaned over the two shabby, pretty children.
“Excellent types,” Brandt said, squatting, with the camera up to his eyes. “The youth of France, pretty, undernourished, sad, trusting. The good-natured, hearty, generous German sergeant, athletic, friendly, handsome, photogenic …”
“Get away from here,” Christian said.
“Keep smiling, Beauty.” Brandt was busily snapping a series of angles. “And don’t give it to them until I tell you. Just hold it out and make them reach for it.”
“I would like you to remember, Soldier,” Christian said, grinning down at the somber, unsmiling faces below him, “that I am still your superior officer.”
“Art,” said Brandt, “above everything. I wish you were blond. You’re a good model for a German soldier, except for the hair. You look as though you once had a thought in your head and that’s hard to find.”
“I think,” said Christian, “I ought to turn you in for statements detrimental to the honor of the German Army.”
“The artist,” said Brandt, “is above these petty considerations.”
He finished his pictures, working very fast, and said, “All right.” Christian gave the candy to the children, who didn’t say anything. They merely looked up at him solemnly and tucked the candy in their pockets and wandered off hand-in-hand among the steel treads and the boots and rifle butts.
An armored car, followed by three scout cars, came into the square and moved slowly alongside Christian’s detachment Christian felt a slight twinge of sorrow when he saw it was the Lieutenant. His independent command was over. He saluted and the Lieutenant saluted back. The Lieutenant had one of the smartest salutes in military history. You heard the rattle of swords and the jangle of spurs down the ages to the campaigns of Achilles and Ajax, when he brought his arm up. Even now, after the long ride from Germany, the Lieutenant looked shiny and impeccable, as though he had just come from the graduation exercises of Spandau, with his diploma in his white-gloved hand. Christian disliked the Lieutenant and felt uncomfortable before that rigid perfection. The Lieutenant was very young, twenty-three or -four, but when he looked around him with his cold, light-gray imperious stare, a whole world of bumbling, inaccurate civilians seemed to be revealed to his merciless observation. There were very few men who had ever made Christian feel inefficient, but the Lieutenant was one of them. As he stood at attention, watching the Lieutenant climb crisply down from the armored car, Christian hastily rehearsed his report, and felt all over again the inadequacy and sense of guilt and neglect of duty that he had felt walking through the forest into the trap.
“Yes, Sergeant?” The Lieutenant had a cutting, weary voice, a voice that might have belonged to Bismarck in military school. He didn’t look around him; he had no interest in the old closed buildings of Paris around him; he might just as well have been on an enormous bare drillfield outside Königsberg as in the center of the capital of France on the first day of its investment by foreign troops since 1871. What an admirable, miserable character, Christian thought, what a useful man to have in your army.
“At ten hundred hours,” Christian said, “we made contact with the enemy on the Meaux-Paris road. The enemy had a camouflaged road block and opened fire on our leading vehicle. We engaged him with nine men. We killed two of the enemy and drove the others in disorder from their position and demolished the block.” Christian hesitated for the fraction of a second.
“Yes, Sergeant?” the Lieutenant said flatly.
“We had one casualty, Sir,” Christian said, thinking, this is where I start my trouble, “Corporal Kraus was killed.”
“Corporal Kraus,” said the Lieutenant. “Did he perform his duty?”
“Yes, Sir.” Christian thought of the lumbering boy, shouting enthusiastically, “I got him! I got him!” among the shaking trees. “He killed one of the enemy with his first shots.”
“Excellent,” said the Lieutenant. A frosty smile shone briefly on his face, twisting the long, angled nose for a moment. “Excellent.”
He is delighted, Christian noted in surprise.
“I am sure,” the Lieutenant was saying, “that there will be a decoration for Corporal Kraus.”
“I was thinking, Sir,” Christian said, “of writing a note to his father.”
“No,” said the Lieutenant. “That’s not for you. This is the function of the Company Commander. Captain Mueller will do that. I will give him the facts. It is a delicate matter, this kind of letter, and it is important that the proper sentiments are expressed. Captain Mueller will say exactly the correct thing.”
Probably, Christian thought, in the military college there is a course, “Personal Communications to Next of Kin. One hour a week.”
“Sergeant,” the Lieutenant said, “I am pleased with your behavior and the behavior of the rest of the men under your command.”
“Thank you, Sir,” said Christian. He felt foolishly pleased.
Brandt came over and saluted. The Lieutenant saluted back coldly. He didn’t like Brandt, who never could look like a soldier. The Lieutenant made clear his feelings about men who fought the war with cameras instead of guns. But the directives from Headquarters down to the lower echelons about giving photographers all possible assistance were too definite to be denied.
“Sir,” Brandt said, in his soft civilian voice, “I have been instructed to report with my film as soon as possible to the Place de l’Opera. The film is being collected there and is to be flown back to Berlin. I wonder if I might have a vehicle to take me there. I’ll come back immediately.”
“I’ll let you know in a little while, Brandt,” the Lieutenant said. He turned and strode across the square to where Captain Mueller, who had just arrived, was
sitting in his amphibious car.
“Just crazy about me,” Brandt said. “That lieutenant.”
“You’ll get the car,” Christian said. “He’s feeling pretty good.”
“I’m crazy about him, too,” Brandt said. “I’m crazy about all lieutenants.” He looked around him at the soft stone colors of the tenements rising from the square, with the helmets and the gray uniforms and the large, lounging, armed men looking foreign and unnatural in front of the French signs and the shuttered cafés. “The last time I was in this place,” Brandt said, reflectively, “was less than a year ago. I had on a blue jacket and flannel trousers. Everybody mistook me for an Englishman, so they were nice to me. There’s a wonderful little restaurant just around that corner there and I drove up in a taxi and it was a mild summer night and I was with a beautiful girl with black hair and I’d slept with her for the first time that afternoon …” Brandt closed his eyes dreamily and leaned his head against the armored side of a tracked personnel carrier. “It was her notion that the function of the female sex was to please men and she had a voice that made you want her if you heard it a block away, and she had the most remarkable breasts this side of the Danube. We had champagne before dinner and she was wearing a dark-blue dress. Very demure and young. When you looked at her it was impossible to believe you’d been in bed with her just an hour ago. We sat and held hands across the table and I think tears came into her eyes, and we had a marvelous omelet and a bottle of Chablis and I’d never heard of Lieutenant Hardenburg and I knew I was going to be back in bed with her in an hour and a half and I could have shot my brains out I felt so marvelous.”
“Stop it,” Christian said. “My morale is tottering.”
“That was in the old days,” Brandt said, his eyes still closed, “when I was a loathsome civilian. The old days, before I became a military figure.”