The Young Lions

"Eighty," Himmler whispered. He looked around him bitterly.

"And thirteen of us. Thirteen. Only that son of a bitch would take thirteen men out on a patrol. Not twelve, not fourteen, not…"

"Are they up yet?" Christian broke in.

"They're up," Himmler said. "Sentries all over the place. It's just a miracle they haven't spotted us so far."

"What is he waiting for?" Christian looked at the Lieutenant, lying tensely, like a crouching animal, just under the ridge.

"You ask him," Himmler said. "Maybe for Rommel to come down and watch this personally and give him a medal after breakfast."

The Lieutenant slid down from the top of the ridge and waved impatiently for Christian. Christian crept slowly up towards him, with Himmler following.

"Had to set the mortar himself," Himmler grumbled.

"Couldn't trust me. I'm not scientific enough for him. He's been crawling over and playing with the elevation all night. I swear to God, if they examined him for lunacy, they'd have him in a strait-jacket in two minutes."

"Come on, come on," Hardenburg whispered harshly. As Christian came up to him, he could see that Hardenburg's eyes were glowing with what could only be happiness. He needed a shave and his cap was sandy, but he looked as though he had slept at least ten refreshing hours.

"I want everyone in position," Hardenburg said, "in one minute. No one will make a move until I tell them. The first shots will be from the mortar and I will give a hand signal from up here."

Christian, on his hands and knees, nodded.

"On the signal, the two machine-guns will be raised to the top of the ridge and will begin firing, and continuous fire will be kept up by the riflemen until I give the command to stop. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir," Christian whispered.

"When I want corrections on the mortar I will call them myself. The crew will keep their eyes open and watch me at all times. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir," said Christian. "When will we go into action, Sir?"

"When I am good and ready," Hardenburg said. "Make your rounds, see that everything is in order and come back to me."

"Yes, Sir." Christian and Himmler turned and crawled over to where the mortar was set up, with the shells piled behind it and the men crouched beside it.

"If only," Himmler whispered, "that bastard gets a slug up his arse I will die happy today."

"Keep quiet," Christian said. Himmler's nervousness was unsettling. "You do your job, and let the Lieutenant take care of himself."

"Nobody has to worry about me," Himmler said. "Nobody can say I don't do my job."

"Nobody said it."

"You were about to say it," Himmler said pugnaciously, glad to have this intimate enemy to argue with for the moment – to take his mind off the eighty Englishmen three hundred metres away.

"Keep your mouth shut," Christian said. He looked at the mortar crew. They were cold and shivering. The new one, Schoener, kept opening and closing his mouth in an ugly, trembling yawn, but they seemed ready. Christian repeated the Lieutenant's instructions and crawled on. Making certain to raise no dust, he approached the machine-gun crew of three on the right end of the ridge.

The men were ready. The waiting, through the night, with the eighty Englishmen just over the scanty ridge, had told on everyone. The vehicles, the two scout cars and the tracked carrier, were barely hidden by the small rise. If an RAF plane on an early patrol appeared in the sky and came down to investigate, they would all be lost. The men kept peering nervously, as they had done all the previous day, too, into the clear, limitless sky, lit now by the growing light of dawn. Luckily, the sun was behind them, low and blinding. For another hour the British on the ground would have a difficult time locating them against its glare.

This was the third patrol through the British lines that Hardenburg had taken them on in five weeks, and Christian was sure that the Lieutenant was volunteering again and again at Battalion Headquarters for the job. The line here, far over on the right of the shifting front, among the waterless, roadless sand and scrub, was lightly ma

Here there was a sensation of uneasy stillness, a premonition of disaster hanging over the landscape.

In a way, Christian thought, it was better in the last war. The slaughter was horrible in the trenches, but everything was organized. You got your food regularly, you had a feeling that matters were arranged in some comprehensible order, the dangers came through regular and recognizable cha

Christian dropped carefully to the sand beside the Lieutenant, keeping his head down under the sky-line. There was a slight, sour smell from the leaves of the desiccated brush that clung to the sharp soil of the ridge.

"Everything is ready, Lieutenant," Christian said.

"Good," said Hardenburg, without moving.

Christian took off his cap., Slowly, very slowly, he raised his head until his eyes were over the line of the ridge.

The British were brewing tea. They had a dozen fires going in small tins that had been half-filled with sand, and then soaked with petrol. The fires flared palely. The men were grouped around them and waited with their enamel cups. The white of the enamel picked up little glitters of sunshine and gave a curious impression of restless movement to the groups. They looked very small, three hundred metres away. Their trucks and cars in their desert paint looked like battered toys.

There was a man on duty at the machine-gun mounted on a circular bar above the cab of each truck. But apart from that, the entire scene had a kind of picnic quality, city people who had left their women at home on a Sunday to rough it for a morning. The blankets on which the men had slept still lay about the vehicles and here and there Christian could see men shaving out of cups of water. They must have a lot of water, Christian thought automatically, to waste it like that.

There were six trucks, five open and laden with boxes of rations, and one covered. Ammunition in that one, probably. The sentries had drifted in towards the fires, still holding their rifles. How safe they must feel, Christian thought, thirty miles behind their own lines, on a routine run to the posts to the south. They had dug no holes for themselves and there was no cover anywhere, except behind the trucks. It was incredible that eighty men could move about so long and so unconcernedly under the guns of an enemy who was only waiting the move of a hand to kill them. And it was grotesque that they were shaving and making tea. Well, if it was going to be done, now was the time to do it.

Christian looked at the Lieutenant. There was a slight, fixed smile on his face, and he was humming, as Himmler had said. The smile was almost a fond one, like the smile of a grown-up watching the touching, clumsy movements of an infant in a play-pen. But Hardenburg made no sign. Christian settled himself in the sand, squinting to keep the men below in focus, and waited.

The water boiled below and little gusts of steam spurted up into the wind. Christian saw the Tommies domestically measuring out the tea into the water, and sugar from sacks, and ti