The Young Lions Part 56

"What if he doesn't show up?" Keane persisted.

"Then we'll make another decision. This is a lucky day for me," Michael said crisply. "I bet I'm good for three decisions before sunset."

"I think we ought to say the h.e.l.l with Pavone," said Keane, "and move right in on Paris. The BBC says ..."

"I know what the BBC says," Michael said, "and I know what you say, and I say we're going to sit here and wait."

He walked away from Keane and sat down on the gra.s.s, leaning against a low stone wall that ran alongside the stream. The two Armored Division soldiers looked at him doubtfully, then went back into their foxhole, pulling the branches cautiously over their heads. Stellevato leaned his tommygun against the wall and lay down and went to sleep. He lay straight out, with his hands over his eyes. He looked dead.

Keane sat on a stone and took out a pad of paper and a pencil and began writing a letter to his wife. He sent his wife a detailed account of everything he did, including the most horrible descriptions of the dead and wounded. "I want her to see what the world is going through," he had said soberly. "If she understands what we are going through, it may improve her outlook on life."

Michael stared past the helmeted head of the man who, at this distance, was attempting to improve the outlook on life of his frigid wife three thousand miles away. On the other side of Keane, the unscarred old walls of the town, and the shuttered, unbannered windows, held their enigmatic secret.

Michael closed his eyes. Someone ought to write me a letter, he thought, to make me understand what I am going through. The last month had been so crowded with experience, of such a wildly diversified kind, that he felt he would need years to sift it, cla.s.sify it, search out its meaning. Somewhere, he felt, in the confusion of strafing and capturing and b.u.mping in dusty convoys through the hot French summer, somewhere in the waving of hands and girls' kisses and sniping and burning, there was a significant and lasting meaning. Out of this month of jubilation, upheaval and death, a man, he felt, should have been able to emerge with a key, a key to wars and oppression, a key to unlock the meaning of Europe and America.

Ever since Pavone had so savagely put him in his place that night on sentry duty back in Normandy, Michael had almost given up any hope of being useful in the war. Now, he felt, in lieu of that, I should at least understand it ...

But nothing fell into generalities in his brain, he could not say, "Americans are thus and so and therefore they are winning," or "It is the nature of the French to behave in this fas.h.i.+on," or "What is wrong with the Germans is this particular misconception ..."

All the violence, all the shouting, ran together in his brain, in a turbulent, confused, many-threaded drama, a drama which endlessly revolved through his mind, kept him from sleeping, even in these days of heat and exhaustion, a drama which he never could shake, even at a time like this, when his life perhaps was silently being jeopardized in this quiet, gray, lifeless village on the road to Paris.

The hush-hush of the water going by between its banks mingled with the soft, busy scratching of Keane's pencil. With his eyes closed, leaning against the stone wall, drowsy from all the lost hours of sleep, but not surrendering to sleep, Michael sifted through the furious events of the month just pa.s.sed ...

The names ... The names of the sunlit towns, like a paragraph out of Proust: Marigny, Coutances, St. Jean le Thomas, Avranches, Pontorson, stretching away into the seaside summer in the magic country where Normandy and Brittany blended in a silvery green haze of pleasure and legend. What would the ailing Frenchman in the cork-lined room have said about his beloved Maritime Provinces during the bright and deadly August of 1944? What observations would he have made, in his s.h.i.+mmering, tidal sentences, about the changes in architecture of the 105s and the dive-bombers had brought about in the fourteenth-century churches; what would have been his reaction to the dead horses in the ditches under the hawthorn bushes and the burned-out tanks with their curious smell of metal and flesh; what elegant, subtle and despairing things would M. de Charlus and Mme. de Guermantes have had to say about the new travelers on the old roads past Mont St. Michel?

"I have been walking for five days now," the young Middle Western voice had said next to the jeep, "and I ain't fired a shot yet. But don't get me wrong, I ain't complaining. h.e.l.l, I'll walk them to death, if that's what they want ..."

And the sour-faced aging Captain in Chartres, leaning against the side of a Sherman tank across the square from the cathedral, saying, "I don't see what people've been raving all these years about this country for. Jesus Christ on the mountain, there ain't nothing here we can't make better in California ..."

And the chocolate-colored dwarf with a red fez dancing among the Engineers with minesweepers, at a crossroads, entertaining the waiting tankmen, who cheered him on and got him drunk with Calvados they had taken as gifts from the people along the road that morning.

And the two drunken old men, weaving down the shattered street, with little bouquets of pansies and geraniums in their hands, who had given the bouquets to Pavone and Michael, and had saluted and welcomed the American Army to their village, although they would like to ask one question: Why it was on July fourth, with not a single German in the town, the American Army had seen fit to come over and bomb the place to rubble in thirty minutes?

And the German Lieutenant in the First Division prisoner-of-war cage who, in exchange for a clean pair of socks, had pointed out on the map the exact location of his battery of 88's, to the Jewish refugee from Dresden who was now a Sergeant in the MP's.

And the grave French farmer who had worked all one morning weaving an enormous "Welcome USA" in roses in his hedge along the road to cheer the soldiers on their way; and the other farmers and their women who had covered a dead American along the road with banks of flowers from their gardens, roses, phlox, peonies, iris, making death on that summer morning seem for a moment gay and charming and touching as the infantry walked past, circling gently around the bright mound of blossoms.

And the thousands of German prisoners and the terrible feeling that you got looking at their faces that there was nothing there to indicate that these were the people who had torn Europe from its roots, murdered thirty million people, burned populations in gas-ovens, hanged and crushed and tortured through three thousand miles of agony. There was nothing in their faces but weariness and fear, and you knew, being honest with yourself, that if they were dressed in OD's, they would all look as though they came from Cincinnati.

And the funeral of the FFI man in that little town-what was its name?-near St. Malo, with the artillery going off all around it, and the procession winding behind the black plumed horses and the rickety hea.r.s.e up the hill to the cemetery, and all the people of the town in their best clothes, shuffling along in the dust, to shake the hands of the murdered man's relatives who stood at the gate in a solemn reception line. And the young priest, who had helped officiate at the funeral services in the church, who answered, when Michael asked him who the dead man was, "I don't know, my friend. I'm from another town."

And the carpenter in Grariville, who had been born in Canada and had worked on the German coastal fortifications, who had shaken his head and said, "It makes no difference now, Friend. You've come too late. 1942, 1943, I'd've shaken your hand and greeted you gladly. Now ..." He had shrugged. "Too late, Friend, too late ..."

And the fifteen-year-old boy in Cherbourg who had been furious with the Americans. "They are fools," he had said hotly. "They take up with exactly the same girls who lived with the Germans! Democrats! Pah! I give you democrats like that! I, myself," the boy, boasted, "have shaved the hair off five girls in the neighborhood for being German wh.o.r.es. And I did it when it was dangerous, long before the invasion. And I'll do it again, oh, yes, I'll do it again ..."

And the brothel with the girls dressed in short skirts, and the Madam at the counter, taking the money from the line of soldiers, and giving them a towel and an infinitesimal piece of soap, saying, "Be gentle to the little girl, my dear, remember to be gentle." And the soldiers going up to the rooms, still carrying their M-l's and their tommyguns ...

Stellevato was snoring, and the noise of Keane's pencil went on steadily. There was no sound from the gray village around them and Michael stood up and went over to the little bridge and stared down at the dark-brown water eddying gently below. If the 800 Germans were going to put in an attack, he wished they'd do it fast. Or even better, if the task force would only show up, and Pavone with it. A war was more bearable when you were surrounded by hundreds of other men and all responsibility was out of your hands, and you knew that trained minds somewhere were busy with your problem. Here, on the old, mossy bridge over the nameless, dark stream in a forgotten, silent town, you had the feeling that you had been deserted, that no one would care if the 800 Germans came down and shot you, no one would care whether you fought them, surrendered to them, or ran from them.... It is almost like civilian life, Michael thought with a grin, n.o.body gives a d.a.m.n whether you live or die ...

I'll give Pavone and that task force another thirty minutes, Michael decided, then I'll pull out. Go back and find an American Army to attach myself to.

He stared uneasily up at the sky. It was too bad it was so gray and threatening. There was something ominous about the swollen low clouds. All the rest of the time had been so sunny. The sun had brought you a feeling of luck, so that when you had been sniped at, you felt that it was normal that they'd missed you, when you'd been strafed on the road outside Avranches and jumped into the ditch on top of the dead Armored Division Corporal, you were sure they weren't going to hit you, and they hadn't ... And when the Regimental CP outside St. Malo had been sh.e.l.led, and the visiting General had started yelling, in the room full of tense, red-eyed men at telephones, "What the h.e.l.l is that son of a b.i.t.c.h in the Cub doing? Why doesn't he spot that gun? Call him and ask him to locate the b.a.s.t.a.r.d!", even then, with the house rocking from the sh.e.l.ls and the men outside crouched in their holes, you felt that you were going to come out all right ...

Today, somehow, seemed different. It was not sunny, and he didn't feel lucky today.

The hilarious sunny march seemed over. The little girl singing the Ma.r.s.eillaise in the bar at Saint James, the spontaneous bursting parade of the inhabitants of the little town of Miniac when the first infantrymen came through, the free bottles of brandy in Rennes, the nuns and the little children lined up alongside the road near Le Mans, the troop of serious-faced boy scouts marching on their Sunday hike near Alenon, alongside the armored columns, the family parties bathing stubbornly along the banks of the Vilaine in the sunny weather, the V signs, the banners, the proud-faced FFI men with their prisoners-all seemed vanished, belonging to another age. Today seemed like the beginning of a new time, a gray time, without luck ...

"The h.e.l.l with it," Michael said, turning to Keane. "Let's get into the middle of town and see if anything's happening there."

Keane grinned bleakly. "O.K., Bo," he said, putting away the pad he was writing on. "You know me. I'll go anywhere."

The son of a b.i.t.c.h, Michael thought, I bet he would. Michael went over to Stellevato, and bent over and tapped on Stellevato's helmet. Stellevato moaned softly, lost in some warm, immoral iceman's dream. "Lea' me alone," Stellevato mumbled.

"Gome on, come on!" Michael tapped more impatiently on the helmet. "We're going to go win the war."

The two Armored Division soldiers came out of their hole.

"You leaving us here alone?" the pudgy man said accusingly.

"Two of the best-trained, best-fed, best-equipped soldiers in the world," Michael said, "ought to be able to handle 800 Krauts any day in the week."

"You're full of jokes, ain't you?" the pudgy man said aggrievedly. "Leaving us alone like this."

Michael climbed into the jeep. "Don't worry," he said, "we're just going to take a look around the town. We'll notify you if you're missing anything."

"Full of jokes," the pudgy man was repeating, looking mournfully at his partner, as Stellevato slowly drove across the bridge.

The town square, when they rolled cautiously into it, with their fingers on the triggers of their carbines, seemed completely deserted. The windows of the shops were covered with their tin shutters, the doors of the church were closed, the hotel looked as though no, one had gone in or out for weeks. Michael could feel a muscle in his cheek begin to pull nervously as he stared around him. Even Keane, in the back seat, was quiet.

"Well?" Stellevato whispered. "Now what?"

"Stop here," Michael said.

Stellevato put on the brakes and they stopped in the middle of the cobbled square.

There was a loud, swinging noise. Michael jumped around, bringing his carbine up. The doors of the hotel had opened and a crowd of people was pouring out. Many of them were armed, some of them with Sten guns, others with hand grenades stuck in their belts, and there were some women among them, their scarves making bright bobbing bits of color among the caps and dark heads of the men.

"Frogs," Keane said from the back seat, "with the keys of the city."

In a moment the jeep was surrounded, but there was no air of celebration about the group. They looked serious and frightened. A man in knickers, with a Red Cross band on his arm, had a b.l.o.o.d.y bandage around his head.

"What's going on here?" Michael asked in French.

"We were expecting the Germans," said one of the women, a small, chubby, shapeless middle-aged creature in a man's sweater and men's work boots. She spoke in English, with an Irish accent, and for a moment Michael had the feeling that some elaborate, dangerous practical joke was being played on him. "How did you get through?"

"We just rode into town," Michael said irritably, annoyed unreasonably at these people for being so timid. "What's the matter, here?"

"There are 800 Germans on the other side of town," said the man with the red cross on his arm.

"And three tanks," Michael said. "We know all about that. Have there been any American convoys going through here this morning?"

"A German truck went through here this morning," the woman said. "They shot Andre Fouret. Seven-thirty this morning. Since then, nothing."

"Are you going to Paris?" asked the Red Cross man. He had no cap, and his hair was long and blond over the stained bandage. He was wearing short socks and his legs were bare, sticking out of the baggy knickers. Michael looked at him, thinking: This man is made up for something, these can't be real clothes. "Tell me," the man said, eagerly, leaning into the jeep, "are you going to Paris?"

"Eventually," Michael said.

"Follow me," the Red Cross man said. "I have a motorcycle. I have just come from there. It will only take an hour."

"What about the 800 Germans and the three tanks?" Michael asked, certain this man was somehow trying to trap him.

"I go by back roads," said the Red Cross man. "I was only fired on twice. I know where all the mines are. You have three guns. We need every gun we can find in Paris. We have been fighting for three days and we need help ..."

The other people standing around the jeep nodded soberly and talked to one another in French too rapid for Michael to follow.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute." Michael took the arm of the woman who spoke English. "Let's get this straight. Now, Madame ..."

"My name is Dumoulin. I am an Irish citizen," the woman said loudly and aggressively, "but I have lived in this town for thirty years. Now, tell me, young man, do you propose to protect us?"

Michael shook his head numbly. "I shall do everything in my power, Madam," he said, feeling: This war has got completely out of hand.

"You have ammunition, too," said the man with the Red Cross armband, peering hungrily into the back of the jeep where there was a jumble of boxes and bedrolls. "Excellent, excellent. You will have no trouble, if you follow me. Just put on an armband like this, and I will be very surprised if they shoot at you."

"Let Paris take care of itself," Mrs. Dumoulin snapped. "We have our own problem of the 800 Germans."

"One at a time, please," Michael said, spreading his hands out dazedly, thinking: This is one situation they never told me about at Fort Benning. "First, I'd like to hear if anyone actually saw the Germans."

"Jacqueline!" said Mrs. Dumoulin loudly. "Tell the young man."

"Speak slowly, please," Michael said. "My French leaves a great deal to be desired."

"I live one kilometer outside town," said Jacqueline, a squat girl with all her front teeth missing, "and last night a Boche tank stopped and a Lieutenant got out and demanded b.u.t.ter and cheese and bread. He said he would give us some advice, not to welcome the Americans, because the Americans were just going to pa.s.s through the town and leave us alone. Then the Germans were coming back. And anybody who had welcomed the Americans would be shot and he had 800 men waiting with him. And he was right," Jacqueline said excitedly. "The Americans came and one hour later they were gone and we'll all be lucky if the Germans don't burn the whole town down by evening ..."

"Disgraceful," said Mrs. Dumoulin firmly. "The American Army ought to be ashamed of itself. Either they should come and stay or they should not come at all. I demand protection."

"It is criminal," said the man with the Red Cross armband, "leaving the workers of Paris to be shot down like dogs without ammunition, while they sit here with three guns and hundreds of cartridges."

"Ladies and gentlemen," Michael stood up and spoke in a loud, oratorical voice, "I wish to state that ..."

"Attention! Attention" It was a woman's shrill cry from the edge of the crowd.

Michael swung around. Coming at a fair rate of speed into the square, was an open car. In it two men were standing with their hands above their heads. They were dressed in field gray.

The people around the jeep stood for a moment in surprised silence.

"Boches!" someone shouted. "They wish to surrender."

Then, suddenly, when the car was almost abreast of the jeep, the two men with their hands in the air dived down into the body of the car and the car spurted ahead. Out of the back of it a figure loomed up and there was the ugly high sound of a machine pistol and screams from people who were hit. Michael stared stupidly at the careening car. Then he fumbled at his feet for his carbine. The safety was on, and it seemed to take hours to get it off.

From behind him there was the sharp, beating rhythm of a carbine. The driver of the car suddenly threw up his hands and the car hit the curb, wobbled, turned and crashed into the epicerie on the corner. There was a cymbal-like sound as the tin shutter came down, and the splintering of the window behind it. The car slowly fell on its side and two figures sprawled out.

Michael got the safety catch off his carbine. Stellevato was still sitting, his hands on the wheel, frozen in surprise. "What happened?" Stellevato whispered angrily. "What the h.e.l.l's going on here?"

Michael turned. Keane was standing up behind him, his carbine in his hand, grinning bleakly at the broken Germans. There was the acrid smell of burned powder. "That'll teach them," Keane said, his yellowish teeth bared with pleasure.

Michael sighed, then looked around him. The Frenchmen were getting slowly and warily to their feet, their eyes on the wreck. Two figures lay in contorted heaps on the cobblestones. One of them; Michael noticed, was Jacqueline. Her dress was high over her knees. Her thighs were thick and yellowish. Mrs. Dumoulin was bending over her. A woman was weeping somewhere.

Michael got out of the jeep, and Keane followed him. They walked carefully across the square, their guns ready, to the overturned car.

Keane, Michael thought bitterly, his eyes on the two gray figures sprawled head down on the pavement, it had to be Keane. Faster than I, more dependable, while I was still fiddling with the catch. The Germans could've been in Paris by the time I got ready to shoot them ...

There had been four men in the car, Michael saw, three of them officers. The driver, a Private, was still alive, with blood bubbling unevenly between his lips. He was trying to crawl away, on his hands and knees, with stubborn persistence, when Michael got to him. He saw Michael's shoes and stopped trying to crawl. Keane looked at the three officers.

"Dead," he reported, smiling his sick, humorless smile. "All three of them. We ought to get a Bronze Star, at least. Get Pavone to write it up for us. How about that one?" Keane indicated, with his toe, the wounded driver.

"He's not very healthy," Michael said. He bent down and touched the man's shoulder gently. "Do you speak French?" he asked.

The man looked up. He was very young, eighteen or nineteen, and the froth of blood on his caked lips, and the long lines of pain cutting down from his eyes, made him look animal-like and pathetic, He nodded. The effort of moving his head brought a spasm of pain to his lips. A gob of blood dripped down to Michael's shoes.

"Do not move," Michael said slowly, bent over, speaking softly into the boy's ear. "We'll try to help you."

The boy gently let himself down to the pavement. Then he slowly rolled over. He lay there, staring up through pain-torn eyes at Michael.

By now the Frenchmen were grouped around the wrecked car. The man with the Red Cross armband had two machine pistols. "Wonderful," he was saying happily, "wonderful. These will be most welcome in Paris." He came over to the wounded boy and briskly yanked the pistol out of the boy's holster. "Good," he said, "we have 38 caliber ammunition for this."

The wounded boy stared dumbly up at the red cross on the Frenchman's arm. "Doctor," he said slowly, "Doctor. Help me."

"Oh," said the Frenchman gaily, touching the red cross, "it is just a disguise. Just for getting past your friends on the road. I am not a doctor. You will have to find someone else to help you, old man ..." He took his treasures off to one side and began to inspect them minutely for damage.

"Don't waste any time on the pig." It was the voice of Mrs. Dumoulin, stony and cold. "Put him out of his misery."

Michael stared disbelievingly at her. She was standing at the wounded boy's head, her arms crossed on her chubby bosom, speaking, Michael could tell from their harsh faces, for the men and women grouped behind her.

"Now, wait a minute," Michael said. "This man is our prisoner and we don't shoot prisoners in our Army."

"Doctor," said the boy on the cobbles.

"Kill him," said someone from behind Mrs. Dumoulin.

"If the American doesn't want to waste ammunition," another voice said, "I'll do it with a stone."

"What's the matter with you people?" Michael shouted. "What are you, animals?" He spoke in French so that they could all understand, and it was very difficult to translate his anger and disgust in his high-school accent. He stared at Mrs. Dumoulin. Inconceivable, he thought, a plump little housewife, an Irish lady improbably in the middle of the Frenchmen's war, violent for blood, outside the claims of pity. "He's wounded, he can't do you any harm," Michael went on, furious at his slow searching for words. "What's the sense in it?"

"Go," Mrs. Dumoulin said coldly, "go look at Jacqueline over there. Go see Monsieur Alexandre, that's the other one, lying there, with a bullet in his lung ... Maybe you'll understand a little better."

"Three of them are dead," Michael pleaded with Mrs. Dumoulin. "Isn't that enough?"

"It is not enough!" The woman's face was pale and furious, her dark, almost purple eyes set maniacally in her head. "Maybe it's enough for you, young man. You haven't lived here under them for four years! You haven't seen your sons taken away and killed! Jacqueline was not your neighbor. You're an American. It's easy for you to be humane. It is not so easy for us!" She was screaming wildly by now, shaking her fists under Michael's nose. "We are not Americans and we do not wish to be humane. We wish to kill him. Turn your back if you're so soft. We'll do it. You'll keep your pretty little American conscience clean ..."