The Young Lions

"The Privilege of Rank," said Pavone.

"The General loves girls," said one of the correspondents. "He was in Cairo for two weeks and he had four Red Cross girls. They gave him the Legion of Merit when he returned to Washington."

"Did you get one of these?" Pavone waved one of Mrs Kearney's cards.

"One of my most treasured souvenirs," said Michael gravely, producing his card.

"That woman," said Pavone, "must have an enormous printing bill."

"Her father," said one of the correspondents, "is in beer. They have plenty of dough."

"I don't want to join the Air Force," sang the RAF in the back room, "I don't want to go to war. I'd rather hang around Piccadilly Underground, Living off the earnings of a high-born – ladeeee…"

The air-raid sirens blew outside.

"Jerry is getting very extravagant," said one of the correspondents. "Two raids in one night."

"I take it as a personal affront," said another of the correspondents. "Just yesterday I wrote an article proving conclusively that the Luftwaffe was through. I added up all the percentages of aircraft production reported destroyed by the Eighth Air Force, the Ninth Air Force, the RAF, and all the fighter planes knocked down in raids, and I found out that the Luftwaffe is operating on minus one hundred and sixty-eight per cent of its strength. Three thousand words."

"Are you frightened by air raids?" A short, fat correspondent by the name of Ahearn asked Michael. He had a very serious round face, mottled heavily with much drinking. "This is not a random question," said Ahearn. "I am collecting data. I am going to write a long piece for Collier's on fear. Fear is the great common denominator of every man in this war, on all sides, and it should be interesting to examine it in its pure state."

"Well," Michael began, "let me see how I…"

"Myself," Ahearn leaned seriously towards Michael, his breath as solid as a brewery wall, "I find that I sweat and see everything much more clearly and in more detail than when I am not afraid. I was on board a naval vessel, even now I ca

"Well," said Michael, "the truth is I haven't…"

"I also find difficulty breathing," said Ahearn, staring sternly at Michael. "It is as though I am very high in an aeroplane, speeding through very thin air, without an oxygen mask." He turned suddenly away from Michael. "Pass the whisky, please," he said.

"I am not very interested in the war," Pavone was saying. The guns in the distance coughed the overture to the raid. "I am a civilian, no matter what the uniform says. I am more interested in the peace later."

The planes were overhead by now, and the guns were loud outside the house. The planes seemed to be coming over in ones and twos. Mrs Kearney was handing a card to the MP Top Sergeant who was coming from the kitchen now with his fish.

"Oh, what a beautiful mornin'," sang an American voice near the piano, "Oh, what a beautiful day. I got a beautiful feelin', Everything's goin' my way…"

"America ca

Two Polish Captains came in, in their harsh pointed caps, that always reminded Michael of barbed wire and spurs, and went, with set, disapproving faces, over to the bar.

"The world," said Pavone, "will swing to the left. The whole world, except America. The world will swing, not because people read Karl Marx, or because agitators will come out of Russia, but because, after the war is over, that will be the only way they can turn. Everything else will have been tried, everything else will have failed. And I am afraid that America will be isolated, hated, backward, we will all be living there like old maids in a lonely house in the woods, locking the doors, looking under the beds, with a fortune in the mattress, not being able to sleep, because every time the wind blows and a floor creaks, we will think the murderers are breaking in to kill us and take our treasure…"

There was a high whistle outside and above, a roaring, crowding, thundering, clattering scream, that grew out of the blackness like a train wreck in a storm, and hurtled towards them. Everyone hit the floor.

The explosion crashed through every eardrum. The floor heaved. There was the sound of a thousand windowpanes blowing out. The lights flickered, and in the crazy moment before they went out, Michael saw the sleeping proprietress slide sideways out of her chair, her glasses still hanging from one ear. The explosion rumbled on in waves, each one less strong, as buildings collapsed, walls broke, brick tumbled into living-rooms and areas. The piano in the back room hummed as though ten men had struck chords on it all at once.

The lights flickered on. Everyone got to his feet. Somebody lifted the proprietress from the floor and put her back on the chair, still sleeping. She opened her eyes and stared coldly out in front of her. "I think it's despicable," she said, "stealing an old woman's scarf while she sleeps." She closed her eyes again.

The two Polish Captains put on their pointed caps. They looked around them disdainfully, then started out. At the door they stopped. On the wall was a poster of Roosevelt, Churchill, Chiang Kai-shek and Stalin. One of the Poles reached up and tore off the picture of Stalin. Then he ripped the picture in quarters, swiftly, and threw it back into the room, in angular confetti. "Bolshevik pigs!" he shouted.

The Frenchman who ate martini glasses got up from the floor and threw a chair at the Poles. It clattered on the wall next to the pointed caps. The Poles turned and fled.

"Salauds!" shouted the Frenchman, wavering at his table.

"Come back here and I will…"

"Those gentlemen," said the proprietress, keeping her eyes closed, "are to be denied admission to these premises from now on."

Michael looked over to the end of the bar. The Major-General had his arms comfortingly around Louise and was tenderly patting her buttocks. "There, there, little woman," he was saying.

"All right, General." Louise was smiling icily. "The battle is over. Disengage."

The siren went off, indicating, in its long, sustained note, that the raid was over.

Then Michael began to shake. He gripped the bottom of his chair with his hands and he set his teeth, but they clattered in his jaws. He smiled woodenly at Pavone, who was relighting his cigar.

"Whitacre," said Pavone, "what the hell do you do in the Army? Whenever I see you, you're holding up a bar some place."

"I don't do anything much, Colonel," Michael said, then kept quiet, because one more word would have been too much, and his jaw would have worked loose.

"Can you speak French?"

"A little."

"Can you drive a car?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Would you like to work for me?" Pavone asked.

"Yes, Sir," said Michael, because Pavone outranked him.

"We'll see, we'll see," said Pavone. "The man I had working for me is up for court-martial, and I think he's going to be found guilty."