The Young Lions

"A vermouth," Christian said to the proprietor, who was standing nervously behind the bar. "No, a brandy."

He leaned against the bar and stared at the four soldiers. The champagne was probably awful. Brandt had told him the French put any kind of label on any kind of miserable wine. The Germans didn't know better, and it was the French way of fighting back, patriotism mixed, of course, with profit. The four soldiers noticed Christian watching them. They became a little self-conscious and lowered their voices as they drank. Christian saw one of the men rub his hand guiltily across his unshaven cheek. The proprietor put the brandy down in front of Christian and he sipped at it, staring stonily at the four soldiers. One of the men took out his wallet to pay for a new bottle of champagne and Christian saw that it was bulging carelessly with francs. God, was it for these soft, co

"You," Christian said, to the man with the wallet. "Come over here!"

The man with the wallet looked at his comrades thoughtfully. They were very quiet and they stared down into their glasses. The man with the wallet stood up slowly and stuffed his money away in a pocket.

"Move!" Christian said fiercely. "Get over here."

The soldier shuffled over to Christian, his face growing pale under his stubble.

"Stand up!" Christian said. "Stand at attention!" The man stiffened, looking more frightened than ever.

"What's your name?" Christian snapped.

"Private Hans Reuter, Sergeant," the man said, in a low, nervous voice.

Christian took out a pencil and a slip of paper and wrote the name down. "Unit?" he asked.

The soldier swallowed unhappily. "147th Battalion of Pioneers," he said.

Christian wrote that down. "The next time you go out to drink, Private Reuter," he said, "you will shave and keep your tunic buttoned. You will also stand at attention when addressing your superiors. I'm submitting your name for disciplinary action."

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Dismissed."

Reuter sighed and turned back to his table.

"All of you," Christian called bitingly, "dress like soldiers!" The men buttoned their tunics. They sat in silence. Christian turned his back on them and stared at the proprietor.

"Another brandy, Sergeant?"

"No."

Christian put some money on the bar for the drink, finished the brandy. He stalked out without looking at the four soldiers sitting in the corner.

Lieutenant Hardenburg was sitting in the orderly room with his cap and gloves on. He sat erect, as though he was on a horse, staring across the room at the Propaganda Ministry's map of Russia, with the battle lines, as of last Tuesday, drawn on it in victorious black and red strokes. The orderly room was in an old French police building, and there was a smell of ancient small crimes and unwashed French policemen that all the brisk cleanliness of the German Army had failed to eradicate. A single small bulb burned overhead and it was hot because the windows and blinds were closed for the blackout and the ghosts of all the petty criminals who had been in the room seemed to be hovering in the stale air.

When Christian came into the room, a little, greasy man in the uniform of the French Milice was standing uneasily near the window, occasionally glancing at Hardenburg. Christian stood at attention and saluted, thinking: This ca

Hardenburg paid no attention to him and it was only because Christian knew him so well that he was sure Hardenburg was aware he was in the room, and waiting. Christian stood rigidly at the doorway, examining the Lieutenant's face.

As Christian watched Hardenburg, he knew that he hated that face worse than the faces of any of his enemies. Worse than Churchill, worse than Stalin, worse than any tank captain or mortar gu

Hardenburg looked at his watch. "Ah," he said, without looking round, "the Sergeant's on time."

"Yes, Sir," said Christian.

Hardenburg strode over to the paper-littered desk and sat down behind it. He picked up one of the papers and said, "Here are the names and photographs of three men we have been looking for. They were called for Labour Service last month and have evaded us so far. This gentleman…" with a slight, cold gesture towards the Frenchman in the Milice uniform… "this gentleman pretends to know where all three can be found."

"Yes, Lieutenant," the Frenchman said eagerly. "Absolutely, Lieutenant."

"You will take a detail of five," Hardenburg said, going on as though the Frenchman were not in the room, "and pick up these three men. There is a truck and a driver in the courtyard and the detail is already in it."

"Yes, Sir," said Christian.

"You," said Hardenburg to the Frenchman. "Get out of here."

"Yes, Sir." The Frenchman gasped a little as he spoke, and went quickly out of the door.

Hardenburg stared at the map on the wall. Christian felt himself begin to sweat in the warm room. All the lieutenants in the German Army, he thought, and I had to get Hardenburg.

"At ease, Diestl." Hardenburg did not stop looking at the map.

Christian moved his feet slightly.

"Everything in order?" Hardenburg asked in a conversational tone. "You have all the proper papers for your leave?"

"Yes, Sir," said Christian. Now, he thought, this is going to happen. It's going to be cancelled. Unbearable.

"You're going to Berlin first, before going home?"

"Yes, Sir."

Hardenburg nodded, without taking his eyes from the map.

"Lucky man," he said. "Two weeks among Germans, instead of these swine." He made an abrupt gesture of his head, indicating the spot where the Frenchman had been standing. "I've been trying to get leave for four months. Can't be spared," he said bitterly. "Too important here." He almost laughed. "I wonder if you could do me a favour?"

"Of course, Sir," said Christian, and then was angry with himself for the alacrity with which he spoke.

Hardenburg took out a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked one of the desk drawers. He lifted a small, carefully wrapped package out of the drawer and locked it methodically again. "My wife," he said, "lives in Berlin. I've written the address down here." He gave Christian a slip of paper. "I've er… secured… a beautiful piece of lace here." He tapped the package gravely. "Very beautiful. Black. From Brussels. My wife is very fond of lace. I had hoped to be able to give it to her in person, but the prospect of leave… And the mail system." He shook his head. "They must have every thief in Germany in the post offices. After the war," he said angrily, "there should be a thorough investigation. However… I was thinking, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, my wife lives quite near the station…"

"I'd be delighted," Christian said stiffly.

"Thank you." Hardenburg handed Christian the package.

"Give her my most tender regards," Hardenburg said. He smiled frostily. "You might even say I think of her constantly."

"Yes, Sir," said Christian.

"Very good. Now, about these three men." He tapped the sheet in front of him. "I know I can depend upon you."

"Yes, Sir."

"I have been instructed that it might be advisable to be a little rough in these matters from now on," Hardenburg said. "As an example to the others. Nothing serious, you understand, but a little shouting, a blow with the back of the hand, a show of guns…"

"Yes, Sir," said Christian, holding gently on to the package of lace, feeling it soft under the paper.

"That will be all, Sergeant." Hardenburg turned back to the map. "Enjoy yourself in Berlin."

"Thank you, Sir." Christian saluted. "Heil Hitler."