Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  “O.K.,” Noah said. He started through the hedge. He got through it quietly, with the wet branches flicking drops of water on his face. The road suddenly seemed very wide. It was badly rutted, too, and the rubber soles of his shoes slipped in the middle and he nearly fell. There was a soft jangle of metal as he lurched to right himself, but there was nothing else to do but go forward. He could see a break in the hedge where a tank had gone through and broken down the wiry boughs and sharp green leaves. The break was fifteen yards or so down the road, and he walked crouched over, near the edge of the road, feeling naked and exposed. He could hear the other men crouching behind him. He thought of Demuth, lying alone on the other side of the road, and he wondered how Demuth was feeling at that moment, solitary and full of surrender, waiting for the first light of dawn and the first German who looked as though he had heard of the Geneva Convention.

  Far behind him he heard the clatter of the BAR. Rickett, who never surrendered anything, cursing and killing at the up stairs bedroom window.

  Then a tommygun opened up. It sounded as though it was no more than twenty yards away, and the flashes were plain and savage in front of them. There were shouts in German, and other guns opened fire. Noah could hear the nervous whining of the bullets around his head as he ran, noisily and swiftly, to the opening in the hedge and hurled himself through it. He could hear the other men running behind him, their feet drumming wildly on the clay, and thrashing heavily through the stubborn barrier of the hedge. The firing grew in volume, and there were tracers from a hundred yards down the road, but the tracers were far over their heads. Somehow it gave Noah a sense of comfort and security, to see the wasted ammunition flaming through the branches of the trees.

  He was out in a field now. He ran straight across the field, with the others after him. Tracers were crisscrossing in front of him aimlessly, and there were loud surprised shouts in German off to the left, but there didn’t seem to be any really aimed fire anywhere near them. Noah could feel his breath soggy and burning in his lungs, and he seemed to be running with painful slowness. Mines, he remembered hazily, there are mines all over Normandy. Then he saw some moving figures loom in the darkness ahead of him and he nearly fired, on the run. But the figures made a low animal sound and he got a glimpse of horns rearing up to the sky. Then he was running among four or five cows, away from the firing, being jostled by the wet flanks, smelling the heavy milky odor. Then a cow was hit and went down. He stumbled over it and lay on the other side of it. The cow kicked convulsively and tried to get up, but couldn’t manage it, and rolled over again. The other men fled past Noah, and Noah got up again and ran after them.

  His lungs were sobbing again and it didn’t seem possible that he could take another step. But he ran, standing straight up now, regardless of the bullets, because the biting, driving pain across his middle did not permit him to bend over any more.

  He passed first one racing figure, then another and another. He could hear the other men’s breath, sawing in their nostrils. Even as he ran he was surprised that he could move so fast, out-distance the others.

  The thing was to get across the field to the other line of hedges, the other ditch, before the Germans turned a light on them …

  But the Germans were not in any mood to light up any part of the country that night, and their fire diminished vaguely and sporadically. Noah trotted the last twenty yards to the line of hedge rising blackly against the sky, with trees rearing up at spaced intervals from the thick foliage. He threw himself to the ground. He lay there, panting, the air whistling crookedly into his lungs. One by one the other men threw themselves down beside him. They all lay there, face down, gripping the wet earth, fighting for breath, unable to speak. Above their heads there was a whining arch of tracers. Then the tracers suddenly veered and came down in the other corner of the field. There was a frantic bellowing and thumping of hooves from that end of the field and a shout in German, distant and angry, and the machine gunner stopped killing the cows.

  Then there was silence, broken only by the dry gasping of the four men.

  After a long while, Noah sat up. There, registered some distant, untouched, calculating part of his brain, I’m the first one again. Riker, Cowley, he thought with a remote childishness that had nothing to do with the sweaty, heaving man sitting bent over on the dark ground, Riker, Cowley, Demuth, Rickett, they’ll have to apologize to me for the things they did in Florida …

  “Well,” Noah said coolly, “let’s go on down to the PX.”

  One by one the men sat up. They looked around them. There was no sound and no movement in the darkness. From the farmhouse there was a snarling, challenging burst from Rickett’s BAR, but it seemed to have no connection to them. There was an air raid going on far in the distance. The bright scratch of shells in the black sky and the occasional brief flare of an explosion looked like fireworks in an old silent picture. The Germans are raiding the beach, it must be the Germans, because we don’t fly at night over here, thought Noah. He was pleased at the accurate, helpful way his mind was taking in impressions and interpreting them. All we have to do is keep moving in that direction, keep moving, that’s all we have to do …

  “Burnecker,” Noah whispered crisply, as he stood up, “take hold of my belt with one hand, and Cowley, you hold Burnecker’s, and Riker, you hold Cowley’s, so we don’t get lost.”

  Obediently, the men stood up and took hold of each other’s belts. Then, in single file, with Noah in front, they started out through the darkness toward the long fiery pencil-lines on the horizon.

  It was just at dawn that they saw the prisoners. It was light enough so that it was no longer necessary to hold onto each other’s belts, and they were lying behind a hedge, getting ready to cross a narrow paved road, when they heard the steady, unmistakable shuffle of feet drawing near.

  A moment later the column of about sixty Americans came into view. They were walking slowly, in a shambling careless way, with six Germans with tommyguns guarding them. They passed within ten feet of Noah. He looked closely at their faces. There was a mixture of shame and relief on the faces, and a kind of numbness, half involuntary, half deliberate. The men did not look at the guards or at each other, or at the surrounding countryside. They shuffled through the wet light in a kind of slow inner reflection, the irregular soft scuffing of their shoes the only sound accompanying them. They walked more easily than other soldiers, because they had no rifles, no packs, no equipment. Even as he watched, so close by, Noah felt the strangeness of seeing sixty Americans walking down a road in a kind of formation, with their hands in their pockets, unarmed and unburdened.

  They passed and vanished down the road, the sound of their marching dying slowly among the dewy hedges.

  Noah turned and looked at the men beside him. They were still looking, their heads lifted, at the spot where the prisoners had disappeared. There was no expression on Burnecker’s face or on Cowley’s, just an overlay, a film, a fascination and interest. But Riker looked queer. Noah stared at him, and after a moment he realized that what he saw on Riker’s face, in the red, pouched eyes, under the muddy stubble of his beard, was the same mixture of shame and relief that had been on all the faces that had passed.

  “I’m going to tell you guys something,” Riker said huskily, in a voice that was very different from his normal voice. “We’re doing this all wrong.” He did not look at Noah or the others, but continued to stare down the road. “We ain’t got a chance like this, four of us all together. Only way is to divide up. One by one. One by one.” He stopped. Nobody said anything.

  Riker stared down the road. Faintly, half-heard, half-remembered, there was the shush-shush of the prisoners’ marching. “It’s a question of being sensible,” Riker said hoarsely. “Four guys together’re just a big fat target. One guy alone can really hide. I don’t know what you’re going to do, but I’m going my separate way.” Riker waited for them to say something, but nobody spoke. They lay in the wet grass close to the hedge, no
expression on their faces.

  “Well,” said Riker, “there’s no time like the present.” He straightened up. He hesitated for a moment. Then he climbed through the hedge. He stood at the edge of the road, still half bent over. He looked large and bear-like, with his thick arms hanging loosely down, his blackened, powerful hands near his knees. Then he started down the road in the direction in which the prisoners had gone.

  Noah and the other two men watched him. As he walked, Riker grew more erect. There was something queer about him, Noah thought, and he tried to figure out what it was. Then, when Riker was fifty feet away, and walking more swiftly, more eagerly, Noah realized what it was. Riker was unarmed. Noah glanced down where Riker had been crouched. The Garand was lying on the grass, its muzzle carelessly jammed with dirt.

  Noah looked up at Riker again. The big, shambling figure, with the helmet square on the head over the huge shoulders, was moving fast by now, almost running. As Riker reached the first turn in the road, his hands went up, tentatively. Then they froze firmly above his head, and that was the last Noah saw of Riker, trotting around the bend, with his hands high above his head.

  “Cross off one rifleman,” Burnecker said. He reached down to the Garand and automatically took out the clip and pulled the bolt to eject the cartridge in the chamber. He reached down and picked up the cartridge and put it in his pocket along with the clip.

  Noah stood up and Burnecker followed him. Cowley hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he stood up, too.

  Noah went through the hedge and crossed the road. The other two men came after him quickly.

  From the distance, from the direction of the coast, the sound of the guns was a steady rumbling. At least, Noah thought, as he moved slowly and carefully along the hedge, at least the Army is still in France.

  The barn and the house next to it seemed deserted. There were two dead cows lying with their feet up in the barnyard, beginning to swell, but the large gray stone building looked peaceful and safe as they peered at it above the rim of the ditch in which they were lying.

  They were exhausted by now and moved, in their crawling, creeping, crouched-over progress, in a dull, dope-like stupor. Noah was sure that if they had to run, he could never manage it. They had seen Germans several times, and heard them often, and once Noah was sure two Germans on a motorcycle had glimpsed them as they hurled themselves down to the ground. But the Germans had merely slowed down a little, glanced their way, and had kept moving. It was hard to know whether it was fear or arrogant indifference on the part of the Germans which had kept them from coming after them.

  Cowley was breathing very hard each time he moved, the air snoring into his nostrils, and he had fallen twice climbing fences. He had tried to throw away his rifle, too, and Noah and Burnecker had had to argue with him for ten minutes to make him agree not to leave it behind him. Burnecker had carried the rifle, along with his own, for a half, hour, before Cowley had asked for it again.

  They had to rest. They hadn’t slept in two days and they had had nothing to eat since the day before, and the barn and the house looked promising.

  “Take off your helmets and leave them here,” Noah said. “Stand up straight. And walk slowly.”

  There was about fifty yards of open field to cross to the barn. If anyone happened to see them, they might be taken for Germans if they walked naturally. By now Noah was automatically making the decisions and giving the orders. The others obeyed without question.

  They all stood up, and carrying their rifles slung over their shoulders, they walked as normally as possible toward the barn. The air of stillness and emptiness around the buildings was intensified by the sound of firing in the distance. The barn door was open, and they passed the odor of the dead cows and went in. Noah looked around. There was a ladder climbing through the dusty gloom to a hayloft above.

  “Go on up,” said Noah.

  Cowley went first, taking a long time. Then Burnecker silently went after Cowley. Noah grabbed the rungs of the ladder and took a deep breath. He looked up. There were twelve rungs. He shook his head. The twelve rungs looked impossible. He started up, resting on each rung. The wood was splintery and old and the barn smell got heavier and dustier as he neared the top. He sneezed and nearly fell off. At the top he waited a long time, gathering strength to throw himself onto the floor of the loft. Burnecker knelt beside him and put his hands under Noah’s armpits. He pulled, hard, and Noah threw himself upward and onto the hayloft floor, surprised and grateful for Burnecker’s strength. He sat up and crawled over to the small window at the end of the loft. He looked out. From the height he could see some activity, trucks and small, quickly moving figures about five hundred yards away, but it all looked remote and undangerous.

  There was a fire burning about a half mile off, too, a farmhouse slowly smoldering, but that, too, seemed normal and of no consequence. He turned away from the window, blinking his eyes. Burnecker and Cowley faced him inquisitively.

  “We’ve found a home in the Army,” Noah said. He grinned foolishly, feeling what he said had been clever and inspiring. “I don’t know what you’re going to do, but I’m going to get some sleep.”

  He put down his rifle carefully and stretched out on the floor. He closed his eyes, hearing Cowley and Burnecker making themselves comfortable. He fell asleep. Ten seconds later he woke up, feeling straw tickling his neck. He moved his head in a little, sharp jerk, as though he had forgotten how to control his muscles. Two shells landed near by, and he had a slight uncomfortable feeling that one of them ought to stand guard while the others slept, and he told himself that in another moment he was going to sit up and discuss it with Burnecker and Cowley. Then he fell asleep again.

  It was nearly dark when he woke up. A strange heavy clatter was filling the barn, shaking the timbers and rattling the floors. For a long while Noah did not move. It was luxurious and sweet to lie on the wispy straw, smelling the dry fragrance of old harvests and departed farm animals, and not move, not think, not wonder what the noise was, not worry about being hungry or thirsty or far from home. He turned his head, Burnecker and Cowley were still sleeping. Cowley was snoring, but Burnecker slept quietly. His face, in the dimness of the twilit loft, was childish and relaxed. Noah could feel himself smiling tenderly at Burnecker’s calm, trusting sleep. Then Noah remembered where he was and the noises outside began to make sense to him. There were heavy trucks going past and creaking wagons pulled by many horses.

  Noah sat up slowly. He crawled over to the window and looked out. German trucks were going past, with men sitting silently on top of them, through a gap in the hedge to the next field. There, other trucks and wagons were being loaded with ammunition, and Noah realized that what he was looking at was a large ammunition dump, and that now, in the growing darkness, when they were safe from the Air Force, German artillery outfits were drawing their ammunition for the next day. He watched, squinting to pierce the haze and the darkness, while men hurriedly and silently swung the long, picnic-like baskets containing the 88 millimeter shells into the trucks and wagons. It was so strange to see so many horses, like visitors from older wars. It seemed old-fashioned and undangerous, all the big heavy patient animals, with men standing holding the reins at their heads.

  My, he thought automatically, they would like to know about this dump back at Divisional Artillery. He searched through his pockets and found the stub of a pencil. He had used it on the landing craft, how many days ago was it, writing a letter to Hope. It had seemed then like a good way of forgetting where he was, forgetting the shells searching across the water for him, but he had not got far with the letter. Dearest, I think of you all the time (routine, flat, you’d think that at a moment like that you would write something more profound, come forth with some deep-hidden secret that never before had been expressed). We are going into action very soon, or maybe you could say we were in action now, except it’s hard to believe you could be sitting writing a letter to your wife in the middle of a battle … Then he hadn’t bee
n able to write any more, because his hand began to jump, and he had to put the letter and the pencil away. He looked through his pockets for the letter now, but he couldn’t find it. He got out his wallet and took out the picture of Hope and the baby. He turned it over. On the back, in Hope’s handwriting, “Picture of worried mother and unworried child.”

  Noah stared out the window. On a direct line with the dump, perhaps a half mile away, there was a church steeple. Carefully he drew a tiny map, putting in the steeple and marking the distance. Five hundred yards to the west there was a cluster of four houses and he put that in. He looked at his map critically. It would do. If he ever got back to their own lines it would do. He watched the men methodically loading the straw baskets under the protecting trees, eight hundred yards from the church, five hundred yards from the four houses. There was an asphalt road on the other side of the field in which the dump was situated, and he put that in, being careful about the way the road curved. He slipped the picture into his wallet. With fresh interest, he peered out across the countryside. Some of the wagons and trucks were turning into a dirt road that crossed the asphalt road six hundred yards away. Noah lost sight of them behind a clump of trees, and they did not reappear on the other side of the trees. There must be a battery in there, he thought. Later on, he could go down and see for himself. That would make interesting news for Division, too.

  He felt impatient now, and energetic. It was intolerable just to sit here with all this information in his pocket, while just five miles away, perhaps, the Division’s guns were firing blindly and wastefully into empty fields. He moved away from the window and went over to where Burnecker and Cowley were sleeping. He bent over to wake Burnecker up, but then stopped himself. It would not be dark enough to leave the barn for another fifteen minutes. They might as well get the extra rest.

  Noah crossed back to the window. A heavy wagon was rolling past just beneath him. A soldier was leading the team slowly, the horses’ heads bobbing powerfully up and down. Two other soldiers were walking alongside, looking like farmers coming thoughtfully home from their fields after a day’s work. They did not look up, but kept their eyes on the ground in front of them, as they walked beside the creaking wagon. One of the soldiers had his arm up, his hand resting on the side of the wagon for support.