The Young Lions

Michael blinked, wondering if the Chaplain had been drinking, but he drove the jeep with easy competence, as sober as a judge. The Army, Michael thought dazedly, everybody makes his own arrangements with it…

A figure stepped out from under the protection of a tree and waved to them, and the Chaplain slowed to a halt. An Air Force Lieutenant was standing there, wet, dressed in a Navy jacket, carrying one of those machine-pistols with a collapsible stock.

"Going to Rheims?" the Lieutenant asked.

"Hop in, Boy," said the Chaplain heartily, "get right on in there at the back. The Chaplain's jeep stops for everybody on all roads."

The Lieutenant climbed in beside Michael and the jeep rolled on through the thick rain. Michael looked sidelong at the Lieutenant. He was very young, and he moved slowly and wearily, and his clothes didn't fit him. The Lieutenant noticed that Michael was staring at him.

"I bet you wonder what I'm doing here," the Lieutenant said.

"Oh, no," said Michael hastily, not wishing to get into that conversational department. "Not at all."

"I'm having a hell of a time," the Lieutenant said, "trying to locate my glider group."

Michael wondered how you could lose a whole group of gliders, especially on the ground, but he didn't inquire further.

"I was on the Arnhem thing," the Lieutenant said, "and I was shot down inside the German lines in Holland."

"What happened?" Michael asked. Somehow it was hard to imagine this pale, gentle-faced boy being shot down out of a glider behind the enemy lines.

"It's the third mission I've been on," the Lieutenant said.

"The Sicily drop, the Normandy drop and this one. They promised us it would be our last one." He gri

"Though I don't believe them. They'll have us dropping into Japan before it's over." He shivered in his wet, outsize clothes.

"I'm not eager," he said, "I'm far from eager. I used to think I was one hell of a brave, hundred-mission pilot, but I'm not. The first time I saw flak off my wing, I couldn't bear to watch. I turned my head away and flew by touch, and I told myself, "Francis O'Brien, you are not a fighting man."

They drove in silence for a long time between the vineyards and the signs of old wars in the grey rain.

"Lieutenant O'Brien," Michael said, fascinated by the pale, gentle boy, "you don't have to tell me if you don't want, but how did you get out of Holland?"

"I don't mind telling," said O'Brien. "The right wing was tearing away and I signalled the tow plane I was breaking off. I came down in a field, pretty hard, and by the time I got out of the glider all the men I was carrying had scattered, because there was machine-gun fire coming in at us from a bunch of farmhouses about a thousand yards away. I ran as far as I could and I took off my wings and threw them away, because people're liable to get very mad at the Air Force when they catch them. You know, all the bombing, all the mistakes, all the civilians that get killed by accident, it doesn't do any good to be caught with wings. I laid in a ditch for three days, and then a farmer came up and gave me something to eat. That night he led me through the lines to a British reco

"A war," the Chaplain said officially, "is a very complex problem."

"I'm not complaining, Sir," O'Brien said hastily, "honest I'm not. As long as I don't have to make any more drops, I'm as happy as can be. As long as I know I'm finally going back to my diaper service in Green Bay, they can push me around all they want."

"Your what?" Michael asked dully.

"My diaper service," O'Brien said shyly, smiling a little. "My brother and I have a dandy little business, two trucks. My brother's taking care of it, only he writes that it's getting impossible to get hold of cotton materials of any kind. The last five letters I wrote before the drop, I was writing to cotton mills in the States to see if they had any material they could spare…" The heroes, Michael thought humbly, as they entered the outskirts of Rheims, come in all sizes.

There were MPs on the corners and a whole batch of official cars near the Cathedral. Michael could see Noah tensing in the front seat at the prospect of being dumped out in the middle of this rear-echelon bustle. Still, Michael couldn't help staring with interest at the sandbagged Cathedral, with its stained glass removed for safe-keeping. Dimly he remembered, when he was a little boy in grade school in Ohio, he had donated ten cents to rebuilding this Cathedral, so piteously damaged in the last war. Staring at the soaring pile now from the Chaplain's jeep, he was pleased to find that his investment hadn't been wasted. The jeep stopped in front of Communications Zone Headquarters. "Now you get out here, Lieutenant," the Chaplain said, "and go in there and demand transportation back to your Group, no matter where they are. Raise your voice nice and loud. And if they won't give you any satisfaction, you wait for me here. I'll be back in fifteen minutes and I'll go in and threaten to write to Washington if they don't treat you well."

O'Brien got out. He stood, looking, puzzled and frightened, at the shabby row of buildings, obviously lost and doubtful of Army cha

"I have an even better idea," the Chaplain said. "We passed a cafe two blocks back. You're wet and cold. Go in and get yourself a double cognac and fortify your nerves. I'll meet you there. I remember the name… Aux Boris Amis."

"Thanks," O'Brien said uncertainly. "But if it's all the same to you, I'll meet you here."

The Chaplain peered across Noah at the Lieutenant. Then he stuck his hand in his pocket and came up with a five-hundred-franc note. "Here," he said, giving it to O'Brien. "I forgot you weren't paid."

O'Brien's face broke into an embarrassed smile as he took the money. "Thanks," he said. "Thanks." He waved and started back to the cafe, two blocks away.

"Now," said the Chaplain briskly, starting the jeep, "we'll get you two jailbirds away from these MPs."

"What?" Michael asked stupidly.

"AWOL," the Chaplain said. "Plain as the noses on your face. Come on, lad, wipe that windshield."

Gri