The Young Lions Part 58

Michael smiled at her. "In five minutes," he said, "when my head is cleared."

"Good." The girl nodded, smiling invitingly. "You know where I'm sitting ..."

"Yes, I certainly do," Michael said. He watched the girl slip through the dancers in a sinuous flowery movement. Nice, he thought, very nice for later. I should really make love to a Parisienne to make official our entry into Paris.

"There are volumes to be written," Ahearn said, "about the question of men and women in wartime."

"I'm sure there are," Michael said. The girl sat down at her table and smiled across at him.

"Relations are healthy and free, with a romantic undertone of haste and tragedy," said Ahearn. "Take my case, for example. I have a wife and two children in Detroit. Frankly, while I admire my wife immensely, I find I am now bored with the idea of her. She is a small, plain woman, and her hair is thinning. In London, I have been living with a voluptuous girl of nineteen who works in the Ministry of Supply. She has lived through the war, she understands things that I have gone through, I am very happy with her ... How can I be honest and say I would like to return to Detroit?"

"Everyone," said Michael politely, "has his own particular problems."

There were shouts from the other end of the room, and four young men with FFI armbands and rifles pushed their way through the dancers, dragging another young man whose face was bleeding from a long gash over his eyes. "Liars!" the 'b.l.o.o.d.y young man was shouting. "You're all liars! I am no more of a collaborationist than anybody in this room!"

One of the FFI men hit the prisoner on the back of the neck. The young man's head sagged forward and he was quiet. The blood made a thin arc to the dance floor. The four FFI men dragged him up the steps past the candles in their gla.s.s holders on the maroon walls. The orchestra played louder than before.

"Barbarians!" It was a woman's voice, speaking in English. A lady of forty was sitting in the seat that the French pilot had vacated next to Michael. She had long, dark-red fingernails and an elegant simple black dress, and she was still very handsome. "They all ought to be arrested. Just looking for an excuse to stir up mischief. I am going to suggest to the American Army that they disarm them all." Her accent was plainly American and both Ahearn and Michael stared at her puzzledly. She nodded briskly to Ahearn, and more coolly to Michael, after swiftly noting that he was not an officer. "My name is Mabel Kasper," she said, "and don't look so surprised. I'm from Schenectady."

"We are delighted, Mabel," Ahearn said gallantly, bowing without rising.

"I know what I'm talking about," the lady from Schenectady said feverishly, obviously three or four drinks past cold sobriety. "I've lived in Paris for twelve years. Oh, the things I've suffered. You're a correspondent-the stories I could tell you about what it was like under the Germans...."

"I would be delighted to hear," Ahearn began.

"The food, the rationing," Mabel Kasper said, pouring a large gla.s.s full of champagne and drinking half of it in one gulp. "The Germans requisitioned my apartment, and they only gave me fifteen days to move my furniture. Luckily, I found another apartment, a Jewish couple's, the man is dead now, but this afternoon, imagine that, the second day of liberation, the woman was around asking me to give it back to her. And there wasn't a stick of furniture in it when I moved in, I was d.a.m.n careful to have affidavits made, I knew this would happen. I have already spoken to Colonel Harvey, of our Army, he's been most rea.s.suring. Do you know Colonel Harvey?"

"I'm afraid not," Ahearn said.

"These are going to be hard days ahead of us in France." Mabel Kasper finished the gla.s.s of champagne. "The sc.u.m are in the saddle. Hoodlums, parading around with their guns."

"Do you mean the FFI?" Michael asked.

"I mean the FFI," said Mabel Kasper.

"But they've done all the fighting in the underground," said Michael, trying to puzzle out what this woman was driving at through all the noise.

"The underground!" Mabel Kasper snorted in a genteel, annoyed way. "I'm so tired of the underground. All the loafers, all the agitators, all the ne'er-do-wells, who had no families to worry about, no property, no jobs ... The respectable people were too busy, and now we'll all pay for it unless you help us." She poured herself another gla.s.s of champagne and leaned toward Michael. "You've liberated us from the Germans, now you must liberate us from the French and the Russians." She drained her gla.s.s and stood up. "A word to the wise," she said, nodding gravely.

Michael watched her walk along the jumbled line of tables, in her simple, handsome black dress. "Lord," he said softly, "and out of Schenectady, too."

"A war," Ahearn said soberly, "as I was saying, is full of confusing elements."

"What's the situation?" the first correspondent asked.

"My left flank has been turned," said the second correspondent. "My right flank is crumbling, my center has been driven back. I shall attack."

"You're relieved," said the first correspondent.

"After the war," the handsome British correspondent was saying, "I am going to buy a house outside Biarritz, and just stay there. I can't stand English food. When I am forced to go to London, I'll pack a hamper and take a plane for a weekend, eating in my hotel room ..."

"This wine," said a public-relations officer with a brand-new, s.h.i.+ning shoulder holster, at the other end of the table, "is not mature."

"If there is any hope in the future," Michael heard Pavone lecturing two young American infantry officers who were AWOL from their Division for the night, "it is in France. It is not enough for Americans to fight for France, they must understand it, stabilize it, be patient with it. That is not easy, because the French are the most annoying people in the whole world. They are annoying because they are chauvinistic, scornful, reasonable, independent, and great. If I were the President of the United States, I would send every young American to France for two years instead of to college. The boys would learn about food and art, and the girls would learn about s.e.x, and in fifty years you would have Utopia on the banks of the Mississippi ..."

Across the room, the girl in the flowered dress, who had been watching Michael intently, smiled broadly and nodded when she caught Michael's eye.

"The irrational element in war," Ahearn said, "is the one that has been missing from all our literature. Let me remind you once more of the Colonel in Stendhal ..."

"What did the Colonel in Stendhal say?" Michael asked dreamily, happily floating in the haze of champagne, smoke, perfume, candlelight, l.u.s.t ...

"His men were demoralized," Ahearn said sternly, his tone now martial and commanding, "and they were on the verge of running under a Russian attack. The Colonel swore at them, waved his sword, and shouted, 'My a.s.s-hole is as round as an apple, follow me!' And they followed him and routed the Russians. Irrational," Ahearn said professorially, "a perfect non-sequitur, but it touched some obscure spring of patriotism and resistance in the hearts of the soldiers, and they won the day."

"Ah," said Michael regretfully, "there are no Colonels like that today."

A drunken British Captain was singing, very loudly, "We're going to hang our was.h.i.+ng on the Siegfried Line," his voice bellowing strongly, drowning out the music of the orchestra. Immediately, other voices took up the song. The orchestra gave in and stopped the dance tune they were playing and began to accompany the singers. The drunken Captain, a huge, red-faced man, with glaring teeth, grabbed a girl and began to dance around the room among the tables. Other couples jumped up and attached themselves to the line, weaving slowly and loudly between the paper tablecloths and the wine buckets. In a minute, the line was twenty couples long, chanting, their heads thrown back, each person's hands on the waist of the dancer ahead of him, like a triumphant snake dance in college after a football game, except that it was all enclosed in a low-ceilinged, candle-lit room, and the singing was deafening.

"Agreeable," Ahearn said, "but too normal to be interesting, from a literary point of view. After all, after a victory like this, it is only to be expected that the liberators and the liberated sing and dance. But what a thing it would have been to be in the Czar's palace in Sevastopol when the young cadets filled the swimming pool with champagne from the Czar's cellar and tossed naked ballet girls by the dozen into the foam, while waiting for the arrival of the Red Army which would execute them all! Excuse me," Ahearn said gravely, standing up, "I must join this."

He wriggled out onto the floor and put his hands on the waist of the Schenectady-born Mabel Kasper, who was swaying her simple taffeta hips and singing loudly at the end of the line.

The girl in the flowered dress was standing in front of the table, looking at Michael, smiling through the clamor. "Now?" she asked softly, putting out her hand.

"Now," Michael said. He stood up and took her hand. They hitched onto the line, the girl in front of Michael, her hips living and slender under the frail silk of her gown.

By now everybody in the room was in the line, spiraling in a roaring, silk and uniformed line, over the dance floor, in front of the blaring band, among the tables. "We're gonna hang out the was.h.i.+ng on the Siegfried Line," they sang. "Have you any dirty was.h.i.+ng, Mother dear?"

Michael sang with the loudest of them, his voice hoa.r.s.e and happy in his ears, holding tight to the desirable slim waist of the girl who had sought him out of all the victorious young men in the celebrating city. Lost on a clangorous tide of music, shouting the crude, triumphant words, remembering with what savage irony the Germans had thrown those words back in the teeth of the British who had first sung them in 1939, Michael felt that on this night all men were his friends, all women his lovers, all cities his own, all victories deserved, all life imperishable ...

"We're gonna hang out the was.h.i.+ng on the Siegfried Line," the blended voices sang among the candles, "if the Siegfried Line's still there," and Michael knew that he had lived for this moment, had crossed the ocean for it, carried a rifle for it, escaped death for it.

The song ended. The girl in the flowered dress turned and kissed him, melting into him, clutching him, making him dizzy with the smell of wine and heliotrope perfume, as the other people around him sang, like all the gay, jubilating ghosts at every New Year's party that had ever been held, the sentimental and haunting words of "Auld Lang Syne."

The middle-aged pilot from Park Avenue, who had given the ingenious parties in 1928, and who had gone to Harlem late at night, and who had flown three complete tours in the Lorraine Squadron, and whose friends had all died through the years, and who now was finally back in Paris, was weeping as he sang, the tears unashamedly and openly streaming down his handsome, worn face ..."should old acquaintance be forgot," he sang, his arm around Pavone's shoulders, already hungry and nostalgic for this great and fleeting night of hope and joy, "and never brought to mind ...?"

The girl kissed Michael ever more fiercely. He closed his eyes and rocked gently with her, the nameless gift of the free city, locked in his arms ...

Fifteen minutes later, when Michael, carrying his carbine, and the girl in the flowered dress and Pavone and his bleached lady were walking along the dark Champs Elysees, in the direction of the Arch, near where Michael's girl lived, the Germans came over, bombing the city. There was a truck parked under a tree, and Michael and Pavone decided to wait there, sitting on the b.u.mper, under the moral protection of the summer foliage above their heads.

Two minutes later, Pavone was dead, and Michael was lying on the tarry-smelling pavement, very conscious, but curiously unable to move his legs below the hips.

Voices came from far away and Michael wondered whatever had happened to the girl in the silk dress, and tried to puzzle out how it had happened, because all the firing had seemed to be on the other side of the river, and he hadn't heard any bombs dropping ...

Then he remembered the sudden dark shape roaring across the intersection ... A traffic accident ... He chuckled remotely to himself. Beware French drivers, all his traveling friends had always said.

He couldn't move his legs and the light of the torch on Pavone's face made it seem very pale, as though he had been dead forever, and there was an American voice saying, "Hey, look at this, an American, and he's dead. Hey, look, it's a Colonel. What do you know ...? He looks just like a GI."

Michael started to say something clear and definitive about his friend, Colonel Pavone, but it never quite formed on his tongue. When they picked Michael up, although they did it very gently, considering the dark and the confusion and the weeping women, he dropped steeply into unconsciousness ...

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE.

THE REPLACEMENT DEPOT was on a sodden plain near Paris, a sprawling collection of tents and old German barracks, still with the highly colored paintings of large German youths and smiling old men drinking out of steins, and bare-legged farm-girls like Percheron horses on the walls, under the swastika and eagle. Many Americans, to show that they had pa.s.sed through this hallowed spot, had written their names on the painted walls, and legends like, "Sgt. Joe Zachary, Kansas City, Missouri" and "Meyer Greenberg, PFC, Brooklyn, USA" were everywhere in evidence.

In the November mud, the thousands of men, waiting in the camp to be sent up to divisions to make up combat losses, milled slowly about, in a restrained, quiet marnner that was very different, Michael thought, from the usual boisterous and loudly complaining habits of any other American soldiers he had ever seen. This camp, Michael thought, standing at the entrance to the tent in which he was quartered, peering out into the dull drizzle, and the men in the wet raincoats moving aimlessly and restlessly about on the long, thick streets, is not really human. The only thing it can be compared to is the stockyards at Chicago, with the beasts caught in the corrals, uneasily aware that doom is near, sniffing the scent of the waiting slaughter house.

"The infantry!" Young Speer was saying bitterly inside the tent. "They send me to Harvard for two years and I'm supposed to be an officer when I come out, and then they change their minds and stop the whole d.a.m.n thing! A Private in the infantry, after two years at Harvard! What an Army!"

"It's tough," Krenek, on the next bed, said sympathetically. "There's no doubt about it, this Army is in a terrible mess. It all depends who you know."

"I know plenty of people," Speer said sharply. "How do you think I got into Harvard? But they couldn't help when the transfer came through. My mother nearly died."

"Gee," Krenek said gently, "it must of been a real disappointment to everyone concerned."

Michael grinned sourly and turned back to look at Krenek, to see if he was making fun of the young man from Harvard. Krenek was a machine gunner from the First Division, who had been wounded in Sicily and then again on D Day, and was now going up for his third time around. But Krenek, who was a small, wiry, dark-faced boy from the slums of Chicago, was honestly sorry for the young lordling from Boston.

"Ah," said Michael, "maybe the war will be over tomorrow."

"You got any private information?" Krenek asked.

"No," Michael said, "but in Stars and Stripes it says the Russians are advancing fifty miles a day ..."

"Oh, the Russians," Krenek shook his head. "I wouldn't depend too much on the Russians winning any war for us. It's going to take the First Division, finally, to go into Berlin and finish it."

"You going to try to get sent back to the First Division?" Michael asked.

"G.o.d, no," said Krenek, shaking his head mildly, looking up from the Ml, which he was cleaning on his cot. "I want to come out of this war alive. The First Division is too good and everybody knows it. It's too famous. The publicity is murderous. Is there a tough beach to hit, is there a hill to take, is there an attack to lead, they call on the old Red One. You might just as well put a bullet right here between the eyes as join the First Division. I want to be sent to a nice, mediocre division that no one has ever heard of, that hasn't taken a town since Pearl Harbor. You join the First Division, the best you can hope for is a wound. I was Purple-Hearted twice and each time all the guys in my platoon congratulated me. They always give the First Division the best Generals in the Army, always fighting, ain't afraid of nothing, and that's Good night, Happy, for the enlisted man. I came through this far, my motto now is, Let the other fellow in on the glory." He went back carefully to cleaning the oily parts of the Ml.

"What's it like?" Speer asked nervously. He was a nice-looking blond boy, with wavy hair and mild blue eyes, and you got a vision, looking at him, of a long line of governesses and aunts and related women who took him to hear Koussevitsky on Sat.u.r.day afternoons. "What's it like in the infantry?"

"What's it like in the infantry," Krenek sang, "You walk, walk, walk ..."

"No, I mean seriously," Speer said. "What do they do, just take you up there and leave you out there to fight right away?"

"If you want to know, do they do it gradual," Krenek said, "they don't do it gradual. Anyway, not in the old Red One."

"How about you?" Speer asked Michael. "Which division were you in?"

Michael went over to his cot and sat down heavily. "I wasn't in any division. I was in Civil Affairs."

"Civil Affairs," Speer said. "That's what they should have put me in."

"Civil Affairs?" Krenek said, surprised. "How the h.e.l.l could you get a Purple Heart in Civil Affairs?"

"I was run over by a French taxicab in the city of Paris, Michael said, "and my left leg was broken."

"You'd never get a Purple Heart in the First for anything like that," Krenek said proudly.

"I was in a ward with twenty other guys," Michael said, "and one morning a Colonel came in and he handed them out to everybody."

"Five points," Krenek said, "toward graduation. Some day, you're liable to be mighty grateful to that busted leg."

"My heavens," Speer said, "what a cla.s.sification system-putting a man with a broken leg in the infantry."

"It isn't broken now," Michael said mildly. "It works. It is cosmetically unsatisfactory, according to the doctors, but it is guaranteed to work, especially in dry weather."

"Even so," Speer went on, "why don't you go back to your Civil Affairs unit?"

"Sergeant or below," Krenek chanted, "they do not bother to send you back to your original organization. Sergeant or below, you are an interchangeable part."

"Thanks, Krenek," Michael said soberly. "That's the nicest thing anybody has said about me in nine months."

"What's your Army Specialty number?" Krenek asked.

"745," Michael said.

"745," said Krenek. "Basic rifleman. That is some specialty. An interchangeable part. We are all interchangeable parts."

Michael could see Speer's soft, pleasant young mouth twisting a little in nervousness and distaste. Speer obviously did not like the concept of himself as an interchangeable part. It did not fit in with the picture of himself which had been built up by the rosy years among the governesses and the Harvard cla.s.srooms.

"There must be some divisions that're better to be a replacement in than others," Speer persisted, working on his problem.

"It is possible to get killed," Krenek said wisely, "in any division in the American Army."

"I mean," said Speer, "a division where they break a man in gently. Not all at once, I mean."

"That must of been some course they gave you at Harvard College, feller," Krenek said, bending over his rifle. "They must of told you some pretty rich stories about the service."

"Papuga!" Speer turned to the other man in the tent, who had been lying straight out on his cot in silence, his eyes open, staring unblinkingly up at the damp, sloping canvas above his head. "Papuga, what division were you in?"

Papuga did not turn his head. He continued to stare reflectively at the canvas. "I was in the anti-aircraft," Papuga said, in a flat, remote voice.

Papuga was a fat man of about thirty-five, with a sallow, pock-marked face and long dry black hair. He lay on his cot all day long, and Michael had noticed that he often skipped meals. On all Papuga's clothes there were the faded marks where Staff Sergeant's stripes had been ripped off. Papuga never joined in the conversations in the tent, and with his dark, daylong staring into s.p.a.ce, and his habit of not eating, and the signs of his broken rank on his sleeve, he was something of a mystery to the other men.

"The anti-aircraft," Krenek said, nodding judiciously. "Now, there's a nice a.s.signment."

"What're you doing here?" Speer wanted to know. Speer was looking for comfort on this wet, November plain, with the smell of the slaughterhouse in his nostrils, and he would take it away from any of the veterans around him. "Why didn't you stay in the anti-aircraft?"

"One day," Papuga said, without looking at Speer, "I shot down three P-47's."

There was silence in the tent. Uncomfortably, Michael wished Papuga wouldn't say anything else.

"I was on a 40 mm gun," Papuga said after awhile, in his flat, automatic-sounding voice. "Our battery was guarding a P-47 airstrip. It was nearly dark, and the Germans had a habit of sending planes over to strafe us just at that time. I hadn't had a day off for two months, and I never sleep good, anyway, and I'd just got a letter from my wife, she told me she was having a baby, only I hadn't been home in two years ..."