The Young Lions

Methodically, Noah took off his leggings, his shoes, his jacket and trousers, the long woollen pants. He took off his shirt and pulled off the woollen vest 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 towards 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 gasp, and made his head ache as it went up his nose. He scrambled around to get his feet under him and stood up, holding on to 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 cha

The machine-gun opened up and they stopped. But the bullets were far over their heads and to the right, the machine-gu

"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 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 round and helped Burnecker up. An automatic weapon opened up close by and the bullets whistled past them. They ran, sliding and slipping on their bare feet, towards 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."

"OK," 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 towards the voice out of the depth 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, towards 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 levelled 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, Vernon," 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 arse 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 lighter. 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 maddening 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."