The Young Lions

Michael's platoon had been there two weeks, and apart from the occasional fire at night (and the last burst had been three nights ago) there was no real evidence that the enemy was there at all. For all Michael knew, the Germans might have packed up and gone home.

But Houlihan didn't think so. Houlihan had a nose for Germans. Some men could sniff out authentic masterpieces of the Dutch school of painting, some men could taste a wine and tell you that it came from an obscure vineyard outside Dijon, vintage 1937, but Houlihan's speciality was Germans. Houlihan had a narrow, intelligent, high-browed Irish scholar's face, the kind you thought of when you imagined Joyce's room-mates at Dublin University, and he kept looking out through the brush on top of the ridge, and saying, doubtfully and wearily, "There's a nest there, somewhere. They've set up a machine-gun, and they're just laying on it, waiting for us."

Until now it hadn't made much difference. The platoon hadn't been going anywhere, the river presented too large an obstacle for patrols, and the machine-gun, if it was there, couldn't reach them behind the safety of the ridge. If the Germans had mortars back in their woods, they were conserving them. But at dusk, the word was, a company of Engineers was to come up and try to throw a pontoon bridge across the fifty-yard river, and Michael's Company was to cross the bridge and make contact with whatever Germans were holding the opposing ridge. After that, the next morning, a fresh company was to go through them and keep moving… It undoubtedly looked like a fine scheme at Division. But it didn't look good to Houlihan, peering out through his glasses at the icy black river and the silent, brush-covered, snow-patched slope before him.

Houlihan was talking to Green over a field telephone strapped to a tree when Noah, Michael, Pfeiffer and Crane reached him.

"Captain," he said, "I don't like it. They've been too quiet. There's a machine-gun concealed somewhere along that ridge. I just know it. They'll send up flares tonight when they get good and ready. They'll have 500 yards of cleared land and the bridge to lay it on to us. Over."

He listened. The Captain's voice scratched faintly in the receiver. "Yes, Sir," Houlihan said, "I'll call you when I find out." He sighed and hung up the receiver. He peered out across the river, sucking in his cheeks thoughtfully, looking pained and scholarly. "The Captain says for us to send out a patrol this afternoon," Houlihan said. "Keep going, in plain view, down to the river, if necessary, to draw fire. Then we can spot the place where the fire originates from, and he will get mortars working on it and wipe it out." Houlihan brought his binoculars up and squinted through the grey afternoon at the i

Michael looked around. There were seven men who had heard Houlihan. They squatted in shallow rifle pits just under the line of the ridge and they took a great interest in their rifles, in the texture of the ground in front of them, in the pattern of the brush before their faces. Three months ago, Michael realized, he probably would have volunteered, proving something foolish, expiating something profound. By now, Noah had taught him better. He examined his nails minutely in the silence.

Houlihan sighed softly. A minute passed, with everybody thinking earnestly and almost solidly of the moment when the leading man of that patrol would draw the fire of the German machine-gun.

"Sergeant," a polite voice said. "Do you mind if we join you?"

Michael looked up. The Services of Supply Lieutenant and his two travelling companions were making their way clumsily up the slippery hill. The Lieutenant's request hung in the air, over the men in the rifle-pits, insanely debonair, like a line from a duchess in a Hungarian comedy.

Houlihan turned round in surprise, his eyes narrowing.

"Sergeant," Crane said, "the Lieutenant is here to hunt souvenirs to take back to Paris."

A fleeting and unfathomable expression crossed Houlihan's thin, long-jawed face, blue-black with beard. "By all means, Lieutenant," Houlihan said heartily, and at the same time with an unusual note of obsequiousness. "We're honoured to have you, we are indeed."

The Lieutenant was panting heavily from the climb. He is not in as good condition as he looks, Michael thought. He is not getting his polo these days back in the Communications Zone.

"I heard this was the Front," the Lieutenant said, capitalizing it, taking Houlihan's helping hand. "Is it?"

"In a ma

"It's awfully quiet," the Lieutenant said, looking around him puzzledly. "I haven't heard a shot in two hours. Are you sure?"

Houlihan laughed politely. "I'll tell you something, Sir," he said, in a confidential whisper. "I do believe the Germans pulled out a week ago. If you ask me, you could conduct a walking tour from here to the Rhine."

Michael stared at Houlihan. The Sergeant's face was open and child-like. Houlihan had been a conductor on a Fifth Avenue bus before the war, but, Michael thought, he could not have learned this on the run up from Washington Square.

"Good," the Lieutenant said, smiling. "I must say, it's a lot more peaceful here than it is back in our message centre. Isn't it, Louis?"

"Yes, Sir," said Louis.

"No Colonels ru

"No, Sir," said Houlihan, "we don't have to shave every day."

"I hear," the Lieutenant said confidentially, looking down the slope towards the river, "that a man could pick up some German souvenirs down there."

"Oh, yes, Sir," said Houlihan, "a man certainly could. That field is covered with helmets and Luegers and rare cameras."

He's gone too far, Michael thought, now he's gone too far. He looked up to see how the Lieutenant was taking it, but there was only an expression of eager greed on the healthy, ruddy face. God, Michael thought disgustedly, who gave you your commission?

"Louis, Steve," the Lieutenant said, "let's go down and take a look."

"Wait a minute, Lieutenant," Louis said doubtfully. "Ask him if there are mines?"

"Oh, no," said Houlihan. "I guarantee there are no mines." The seven men of the platoon squatted in their rifle-pits, looking at the ground, motionless.

"Do you mind, Sergeant," the Lieutenant said, "if we go down and browse around for a while?"

"Make yourself absolutely at home, Sir," Houlihan boomed.

Now, Michael thought, now he is going to tell them it's a joke, show them what fools they are, and send them home… But Houlihan was standing motionless.

"You'll keep an eye on us, won't you, Sergeant?" the Lieutenant asked.

"I certainly will," said Houlihan.

"Good. Come on, Boys." The Lieutenant pushed clumsily through the brush and started down the other side of the ridge, with the two men following.

Michael turned and looked at Noah. Noah was watching him, his elderly, dark eyes steady and threatening. Michael knew that Noah was fiercely signalling him, in his silent gaze, to keep still. Well, Michael thought defensively, it's his platoon, he's known these men longer than I have…

He turned back and looked down the slope. The Lieutenant, in his bright trench coat, and the two Sergeants were sliding heavily down the cold, muddy incline, hanging on here and there to bushes and the trunks of trees. No, Michael thought, I don't care what they think about me, I can't let this happen…

"Houlihan!" He sprang up beside the Sergeant, who was peering, with a steady, fierce expression, across the river to the other ridge. "Houlihan, you can't do that! You can't let them go out there like that! Houlihan!"

"Shut up!" Houlihan whispered ferociously. "Don't tell me what to do. I'm ru