The Young Lions

"They'll be killed," Michael said urgently, staring down at the three men sliding on the dirty snow.

"Well, now," Houlihan said, and Michael was frightened by the look of loathing and hatred on his fine, thin-mouthed, scholarly face, "which would you prefer, man? Why shouldn't some of those bastards get killed once in a while? They're in the Army, aren't they? Souvenirs!"

"You've got to stop them!" Michael said hoarsely. "If you don't stop them, I'll put in a report, I swear to God I will…"

"Shut up, Whitacre," Noah said.

"Put in a report, eh?" Houlihan never took his eyes off the opposite ridge. "You want to go yourself, is that it? You want to get killed this afternoon yourself out there, you want Ackerman to get killed, Crane, Pfeiffer, you'd rather have your friends get it than three fat pigs from the Services of Supply. They're too good to be killed, is that it?" His voice which had been trembling with malice suddenly became smooth and professional as he addressed the other men. "Don't watch them down on the field," he said. "Keep your eyes on the ridge. There'll only be two, three short bursts, you'll have to look sharp. And keep your eyes on the spot and call it out… Still want me to call them back, Whitacre?"

"I…" Michael began. Then he heard the firing and he knew it was too late.

Down on the field along the river, the brindle coat was slowly going down, deflating on to the ground. Louis and the other man started to run, but they did not get far.

"Sergeant," it was Noah's voice, very calm and level, "I see where it's coming from. To the right of that big tree, twenty yards, just in front of those two bushes that stick up just a little higher than the others… See it?"

"I see it," Houlihan said.

"Right there. Two or three yards from the first bush."

"You sure?" Houlihan said. "I missed it."

"I'm sure," Noah said.

God, Michael thought wearily, admiring and hating Noah, how much that boy had learned since Florida.

"Well," Houlihan finally turned to Michael, "do you want to send in your report now?"

"No," Michael said. "I'm not going to report anything."

"Of course not." Houlihan patted his elbow warmly. "I knew you wouldn't." He went over to the field telephone and called the Company CP. Michael listened to him, giving the exact location of the German gun for the mortars.

Now, again, the afternoon was totally silent. It was hard to remember that, just one minute ago, the machine-gun had torn the quiet, and that three men had died.

Michael turned and looked at Noah. Noah was kneeling on one knee, holding his rifle with its butt in the mud, the barrel resting against his cheek, looking like old pictures of frontiersmen in the Indian wars far away in Kentucky and New Mexico. Noah was staring at Michael, his eyes wild and burning and without shame.

Michael slowly sat down, averting his eyes from Noah's, realizing finally the full implications of what Noah had tried to tell him in the replacement depot about going, in the Army, only to places where you had friends.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

IT didn't look bad, it looked almost like an ordinary Army camp, quite pleasant, in the middle of wide, green fields, with the sloping, forested hills behind it. The barracks-like buildings were a little close together, and the doubled, barbed-wire fences, spaced with watch towers, tipped you off, of course – and the smell. Two hundred metres away, the smell suffused the air, like a gas that, by a trick of chemistry, is just about to be transformed into a solid.

Still Christian didn't stop. He limped hurriedly along the road towards the main gate, through the shining spring morning. He had to get something to eat, and he needed information. Perhaps somebody inside the camp was in telephone communication with a functioning headquarters, or had been listening to the radio… Maybe, he thought hopefully, remembering the retreat in France, maybe I can even pick up a bicycle…

He grimaced as he neared the camp. I have become a specialist, he thought, in the technique of personal retreat. It was a good skill to have in the spring of 1945. I am the leading Nordic expert, he thought, on disengaging tactics from dissolving military organizations. I can sniff surrender in a Colonel two days before the Colonel realizes himself what is passing through his mind.

Christian did not want to surrender, although it had suddenly become very common, and millions of men seemed to be spending their entire time thinking up the most satisfactory means of accomplishing it. For the last month, most of the conversation in the Army had been an examination of that subject… In the ruined cities, in the sketchy and hopeless little islands of resistance set Up across main roads and town-entrances, the discussion had always followed the same course. No hatred for the Air Forces which had destroyed cities that had stood unmolested for a thousand years, no feeling of revenge for the thousands of women and children stinking and buried in the rubble, only, "The best ones to hand yourself over to are, of course, the Americans. After that, the British. Then, the French, although that is a last emergency. And if the Russians take you, we'll see you in Siberia…" Men with the Iron Cross, first class, men with the Hitler Medal, men who had fought in Africa and in front of Leningrad, and all the way back from St. Mere Eglise… It was disgusting.

It did not fit in with Christian's plans to die. He had learned too much in the last five years. He would be too useful after the war to throw it all away now. He would have to lie low, of course, for three or four years, and be agreeable and pleasant to the conquerors. Probably at home the tourists would come again for the skiing, probably the Americans would set up huge rest camps there, and he could get a job teaching American Lieutenants how to make snow-plough turns… And after that… Well, after that he would see. A man who had learned how to kill so expertly, and handle violent men so well, was bound to be a useful commodity five years after the war, if he preserved himself carefully…

He didn't know what the situation was in his home town, but if he could manage to get back there before troops got in, he could put on civilian clothes, and his father could invent a story for him… It wasn't so far away, here he was deep in Bavaria, and the mountains were just over the horizon. The war had finally turned convenient, he thought with grim humour. A man could fight his final action in his own front garden.

There was only one guard on the gate, a pudgy little man in his middle fifties, looking out of place and unhappy with his Volkssturm armband and his rifle. The Volkssturm, Christian thought contemptuously – that had been a marvellous idea. Hitler's home for the aged, the bitter joke had run. There had been a great deal of resounding talk in the newspapers and over the radio, to the effect that every man, of whatever age, fifteen or seventy, would, now that their very homes were threatened, fight like raging lions against the invader. The sedentary, hardened-arteried gentlemen of the Volkssturm had obviously not heard about their fighting like lions. One shot over their heads and you could pick up a whole battalion, with their eyes ru