The Young Lions

He stood hesitantly a little to one side of the door, staring at the Generals. He did not like their faces. They looked too much like the faces of businessmen, small-town merchants, factory owners, growing a little fat and over-comfortable, with an eye out for a new sales campaign. The German Generals have better faces, he thought. Not better, abstractedly, he thought, but better for Generals. Harder, crueller, more determined. A General should have one of two faces, he thought. Either he should look like a heavyweight prizefighter, staring out coldly with dumb animal courage at the world, through battered, quick slits of eyes, or he should look like a haunted man out of a novel by Dostoevsky, malevolent, almost mad, with a face marked by evil raptures and visions of death. Our Generals, he thought, look as though they might sell you a building lot or a vacuum cleaner, they never look as though they could lead you up to the walls of a fortress. Fortinbras, Fortinbras, did you never migrate from Europe?

"What're you thinking about?" Louise asked.

She was standing at his side. "The faces of our Generals," he said. "I don't like them."

"The trouble with you is," Louise said, "you have the enlisted man's psychology."

"How right you are." He stared at Louise. She was wearing a grey plaid suit with a black blouse. Her red hair, bright and severe above the small, elegant body, shone among the uniforms. He never could decide whether he loved Louise or was a

"Why," Michael asked, smiling soberly at her, conscious that two or three high-ranking officers were watching him stonily as he talked to Louise, "why do you bother with me?"

"I want to keep in touch with the spirit of the troops," Louise said. "The Common Soldier and How He Grew. I may write an article for the Ladies' Home Journal on the subject."

"Who's paying for this party?" Michael asked.

"The OWI," Louise said, holding his arm possessively.

"Better relations with the Armed Forces and our noble Allies, the British."

"That's where my taxes go," Michael said. "Scotch for the Generals."

"The poor dears," Louise said. "Don't begrudge it to them. Their soft days are almost over."

"Let's get out of here," Michael said. "I can't breathe."

"Don't you want a drink?"

"No. What would the OWI say?"

"One thing I can't stand about enlisted men," Louise said, "is their air of injured moral superiority."

"Let's get out of here." Michael saw a British Colonel with grey hair bearing down on them, and tried to get Louise started towards the door, but it was too late.

"Louise," said the Colonel, "we're going to the Club for di

"Sorry," Louise said, holding lightly on to Michael's arm.

"My date arrived. Colonel Treaner, PFC Whitacre."

"How do you do, Sir," said Michael, standing almost unconsciously at attention, as he shook hands.

The Colonel, he noticed, was a handsome, slender man with cold, pale eyes, with the red tabs of the General Staff on his lapel. The Colonel did not smile at Michael.

"Are you sure," he said rudely, "that you're going to be busy, Louise?"

He was staring at her, standing close to her, his face curiously pale, as he rocked a little on his heels. Then Michael remembered the name. He had heard a long time ago that there was something on between Louise and him, and Mincey, in the office, had once warned Michael to be more discreet when Mincey had seen Louise and Michael together at a bar. The Colonel was not in command of troops now, but was on one of the Supreme Headquarters Pla

"I told you, Charles," Louise said, "that I'm busy."

"Of course," the Colonel said, in a clipped, somewhat drunken way. He wheeled, and went off towards the bar.

"There goes Private Whitacre," Michael said softly, "on landing barge Number One."

"Don't be silly," Louise snapped.

"Joke."

"It's a silly joke."

"Righto. Silly joke. Give me my purple heart now." He gri

"Now," he said, "now that you have blasted my career in the Army of the United States, may we go?"

"Don't you want to meet some Generals?"

"Some other time," said Michael. "Maybe around 1960. Go and get your coat."

"O.K.," said Louise. "Don't go away. I couldn't bear it if you went away." Michael looked speculatively at her. She was standing close to him, oblivious of all the other men in the room, her head tilted a little to one side, looking up at him very seriously. She means it, Michael thought, she actually means it. He felt disturbed, tender and wary at the same time. What does she want? The question skimmed the edges of his mind, as he looked down at the bright, cleverly arranged hair, at the steady, revealing eyes. What does she want? Whatever it is, he thought rebelliously, I don't want it.

"Why don't you marry me?" she said.

Michael blinked and looked around him at the glitter of stars and the dull glint of braid. What a place, he thought, what a place for a question like that!

"Why don't you marry me?" she asked again, quietly.

"Please," he said, "go and get your coat." Suddenly he disliked her very much and felt sorry for the schoolteacher husband in the Marine uniform far away in the jungle. He must be a nice, simple, sorrowful man, Michael thought, who probably would die in this war out of simple bad luck.

"Don't think," Louise said, "that I'm drunk. I knew I was going to ask you that from the minute you walked in here tonight. I watched you for five minutes before you saw me. I knew that's what I wanted."

"I'll put a request through cha

"Don't joke, damn you," Louise said. She turned sharply and went to get her coat.

He watched her as she walked across the room. Colonel Treanor stopped her and Michael saw him arguing swiftly and secretly with Louise and holding her arm. She pulled away and went on to the cloak-room. She walked lightly, Michael noticed, with a prim, stiff grace, her pretty legs and small feet very definite and womanly in their movements. Michael felt baffled and wished he had the courage to go to the bar for a drink. It had all been so light and comradely, offhand and without responsibility, just the thing for a time like this, this time of waiting, this time before the real war, this time of being ludicrous and ashamed in Mincey's ridiculous office. It had been offhand and flattering, in exactly the proper proportions, and Louise had cleverly erected a thin shield of something that was less than and better than love to protect him from the comic, unending abuse of the Army. And now, it was probably over. Women, Michael thought resentfully, can never learn the art of being transients. They are all permanent settlers at heart, making homes with dull, instinctive persistence in floods and wars, on the edges of invasions, at the moment of the crumbling of states. No, he thought, I will not have it. For my own protection I am going to get through this time alone…