The Young Lions

"I think I can put you into Special Service," the interviewer had said, "with your qualifications…" That would probably have meant a job in New York in an office all during the war. And Michael's self-consciously noble reply: "Not for me. I'm not in this Army to sit at a desk." What was he in the Army for? To cross the state of Florida on foot? To re-make beds that an ex-undertaker's assistant found not made to his liking? To listen to a Jew being tortured? He probably would have been much more useful hiring chorus girls for the USO, would have served his country better in Shubert Alley than here on this hot, senseless road. But he had to make the gesture. A gesture wore out so quickly in an army.

The Army. The Regular at Fort Dix who had been in the Army thirteen years, playing on Army baseball and football teams in time of peace. Jock-strap soldiers, they called them. A big, tough-looking man with a round belly from beer drunk at Cavite and Panama City and Fort Riley, Kansas. Suddenly, he had fallen into disfavour in the orderly room and had been transferred out of the Permanent Party and had been put on orders to a regiment. The truck had driven up and he had put his two barracks bags on it, and then he had started to scream. He had fallen to the ground and wept and screamed and frothed at the mouth, because it was not a football game he was going to today, but a war. The Top Sergeant, a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound Irishman who had been in the Army since the last war, had come out of the orderly room and looked at him with shame and disgust. He kicked him in the head to quiet him, and had two men lift him and throw him, still twitching and weeping, into the back of the truck. The Sergeant then turned to the recruits who were silently watching and said, "That man is a disgrace to the Regular Army. He is not typical. Not at all typical. Apologize for him. Get the hell out of here!"

The orientation lectures. Military courtesy. The causes of the war which You Are Fighting. The expert on the Japanese question, a narrow, grey-faced professor from Lehigh, who had told them that it was all a question of economics. Japan needed to expand and take over the Asian and Pacific markets and we had to stop her and hold on to them ourselves. It was all according to the beliefs that Michael had had about the causes of the war for the last fifteen years. And yet, listening to the dry, professional voice, looking at the large map with spheres of influence and oil deposits and rubber plantations clearly marked out, he hated the professor, hated what he was saying. He wanted to hear that he was fighting for liberty or morality or the freedom of subject peoples, and he wanted to be told in such ringing and violent terms that he could go back to his barracks, go to the rifle range in the morning believing it. Michael looked at the men sitting wearily beside him at the lecture. There was no sign on those bored, fatigue-doped faces that they cared one way or another, that they understood, that they felt they needed the oil or the markets. There was no sign that they wanted anything but to be permitted to go back to their bunks and go to sleep…

In the middle of the speech Michael had resolved to get up and speak in the question period scheduled after the speaker had finished. But by the time the professor had said, "In conclusion, we are in a period of centralization of resources, in which… uh… large groups of capital and national interests in one part of the globe are… uh… in inevitable conflict with other large groups in other parts of the globe, and in defence of the American standard of living, it is absolutely imperative that we have… uh… free and unhampered access to the wealth and buying power of China and Indonesia…" Michael had changed his mind. He had wanted to say, as he thought, "This is horrible. This is no faith to die by," but he was tired, and like all the other men around him, he wanted to go back to his barracks and go to sleep.

In front of Michael, as he marched, Ackerman stumbled. Michael quickened his pace and held Ackerman by the arm. Ackerman looked at him coldly. "Let go," he said, "I don't need any help from anybody."

Michael took his hand away and dropped back. One of those Jews, he thought angrily, one of the proud ones. He watched Ackerman's rolling, staggering walk without sympathy as they crossed the brow of the hill.

"Sergeant," Noah said, standing before the desk in the orderly room behind which the First Sergeant was reading Superman, "I would like permission to speak to the Company Commander."

The First Sergeant did not look up. Noah stood stiff in his fatigues, grimy and damp with sweat after the day's march. He looked over at the Company Commander, sitting three feet away, reading the sports page of a Jacksonville newspaper. The Company Commander didn't look up.

Finally, the First Sergeant glanced at Noah. "What do you want, Soldier?" he asked.

"I would like permission," Noah said, trying to speak clearly through the down-pulling weariness of the day's march, "to speak to the Company Commander."

The First Sergeant looked blankly at him. "Get out of here," he said.

Noah swallowed dryly. "I would like permission," he began stubbornly, "to speak to…"

"Get out of here," the Sergeant said evenly, "and when you come back, remember to wear your class A uniform. Now get out."

"Yes, Sergeant," Noah said. The Company Commander did not raise his eyes from the sports page. Noah went out of the small, hot room into the growing twilight. It was hard to know about the uniform. Sometimes the Company Commander saw men in fatigues, and sometimes not. The rule seemed to change every half-hour. He walked slowly back to his barracks past the lounging men and the loud sound of many small radios blaring ti

When he got back to the orderly room, in his class A uniform, the Captain wasn't there. So Noah sat on the grass across the street from the orderly room entrance and waited. In the barracks behind him a man was singing, softly, "I didn't raise my boy to be a soldier, the dying mother said…" and two other men were having a loud argument about when the war would end.

"1950," one of the men kept saying. "The fall of 1950. Wars always end right as winter sets in."

And the other man was saying, "Maybe the German war, but after that the Japs. We'll have to make a deal with the Japs."

"I'll make a deal with anyone," a third voice said. "I'll make a deal with the Bulgarians or the Egyptians or the Mexicans or anybody."

"1950," the first man said loudly. "Take my word for it. And we'll all get a bullet up our arse first."

Noah stopped listening to them. He sat on the scrub grass in the darkness, with his back against the wooden steps, half asleep, waiting for the Captain to return, thinking about Hope. Her birthday was next week, Tuesday, and he had ten dollars saved up and hidden away at the bottom of his barracks bag, for a gift. What could you get for ten dollars in town that you wouldn't be ashamed to give your wife? A scarf, a blouse… He thought of how she would look in a scarf. Then he thought of how she would look in a blouse, preferably a white one, with her slender throat rising from the white stuff and the dark hair capping her head. Maybe that would be it. You ought to be able to get a decent blouse, even in Florida, for ten dollars.

Colclough came back. He moved heavily up the orderly room steps. You could tell he was an officer at a distance of fifty yards, just by the way he moved his behind.

Noah stood up and followed Colclough into the orderly room. The Captain was sitting at his desk with his cap on, frowning impressively at some papers in his hand.

"Sergeant," Noah said quietly. "I would like permission to speak to the Captain."

The Sergeant looked bleakly at Noah. Then he stood up and went the three steps over to the Captain's desk. "Sir," he said, "Private Ackerman wants to talk to you."