The Young Lions, page 37
They waited. The wind, sweeping up from the valley, circled weightily within Christian's ears and up his nostrils and inside his sinuses. His head began to ache, especially around the eyes. He was very sleepy. He felt that he had been sleepy for three years.
Heims stirred as he lay outstretched, belly down, on the rockbed in front of Christian. Christian put down the glasses for a moment. The seat of Heims's trousers, blackened by mud, crudely patched, wide and shapeless, stared up at him. It is a sight, Christian thought foolishly, repressing a tendency to giggle, a sight completely lacking in beauty. The human form divine.
Then he saw the small mud-coloured figures slowly plodding in front of the poplars. "Quiet," he said warningly, as though the Americans could hear Heims and the other man if they happened to speak.
The mud-coloured figures, looking like a platoon in any army, the fatigue of their movement visible even at this distance, passed in two lines, one each side of the road, across the binoculars' field of vision. Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, forty-two, forty-three, Christian counted. Then they were gone. The poplars waved as they had waved before, the road in front of them looked exactly the same as it had before. Christian put down the glasses. He felt wide awake now, unexcited.
He stood up and waved his coat in large, delicate circles. He could imagine the Americans moving in their cautious, slow way along the edge of the ridge, their eyes always nervously down on the ground, looking for mines'.
A moment later he saw Dehn scramble swiftly out from beneath the bridge and run heavily up to the road. Dehn ran along the road, slowing down perceptibly as he tired, his boots kicking up minute puffs of dust. Then he reached a turn and he was out of sight.
Now the fuse was set. It only remained for the enemy to behave in a normal, soldierly manner.
Christian put on his coat, grateful for the warmth. He plunged his hands in his pockets, feeling cosy and calm. The two men at the machine-gun lay absolutely still.
Far off there was the drone of plane engines. High, to the south-west, Christian saw a formation of bombers moving slowly, small specks in the sky, moving north on a bombing mission. A pair of sparrows swept, chirping, across the face of the cliff, darting in a flicker of swift brown feathers across the sights of the gun.
Heims belched twice. "Excuse me," he said politely. They waited. Too long, Christian thought anxiously, they're taking too long. What are they doing back there? The bridge will go up before they get to the bend. Then the whole thing will be useless.
Heims belched again. "My stomach," he said aggrievedly to Richter. Richter nodded, staring down at the magazine on the gun, as though he had heard about Heims's stomach for years.
Hardenburg, Christian thought, would have done this better. He wouldn't have gambled like this. He would have made more certain, one way or another. If the dynamite didn't go off, and the bridge wasn't blown, and they heard about it back at Division, and they questioned that miserable Sergeant in the Pioneers and he told them about Christian… Please, Christian prayed under his breath, come on, come on, come on…
Christian kept his glasses trained on the approach to the bridge. There was a rushing, tiny noise, near him, and, involuntarily, he put the glasses down. A squirrel scurried up to the top of a rock ten feet away, then sat up and stared with beady, forest eyes at the three men. Another time, another place, Christian remembered, the bird strutting on the road through the woods outside Paris, before the French road-block, the overturned farm cart and the mattresses. The animal kingdom, curious for a moment about the war, then returning to its more important business.
Christian blinked and put the glasses to his eyes again. The enemy were out on the road now, walking slowly, crouched over, their rifles ready, every tense line shouting that their flesh inside their vulnerable clothing understood that they were targets. The Americans were unbearably slow. They were taking infinitely small steps, stopping every five paces. The dashing, reckless young men of the New World. Christian had seen captured newsreels of them in training, leaping boldly through rolling surf from landing barges, flooding on to a beach like so many sprinters. They were not sprinting now. "Faster, faster," he found himself whispering, "faster…" What lies the American people must believe about their soldiers!
Christian licked his lips. The last man was out from behind the bend now, and the officer in command, the inevitable childish lieutenant, was waving to a man with the mine detector, who was moving regretfully up towards the head of the column. Slowly, foolishly, they were bunching, feeling a little safer closer together now, feeling that if they hadn't been shot yet they were going to get through this all right.
The man with the mine detector began to sweep the road twenty metres in front of the bridge. He worked slowly and very carefully, and as he worked, Christian could see the Lieutenant, standing in the middle of the road, put his binoculars to his eyes and begin to sweep the country all round him. Zeiss binoculars, no doubt, Christian's mind registered automatically, made in Germany. He could see the binoculars come up and almost fix on their boulders, as though some nervous, latent military sense in the young Lieutenant recognized instinctively that if there were any danger ahead of him, this would be the focus of it. Christian crouched a little lower, although he was certain that they were securely hidden. The binoculars passed over them, then wavered back.
"Fire," Christian whispered. "Behind them. Behind them."
The machine-gun opened up. It made an insane, shocking noise as it broke the mountain stillness, and Christian couldn't help blinking again and again. Down on the road two of the men had fallen. The others were still standing there stupidly, looking down in surprise at the men on the ground. Three more men fell on the road. Then the others began to run down the slope towards the ravine and the protection of the bridge. They are sprinting now, Christian thought, where is the camera-man? Some were carrying and dragging the men who had been hit. They stumbled and rolled down the slope, their rifles thrown away, their arms and legs waving grotesquely. It was remote and disconnected, and Christian watched almost disinterestedly, as though he were watching the struggle of a beetle dragged down into a hole by ants.
Then the first mine went off. A helmet hurtled end over end, twenty metres straight up in the air, glinting dully in the sunlight, its straps whipping in its flight.
Heims stopped firing. Then the explosions came one on top of another, echoing and re-echoing along the walls of the hills. A large dirty cloud of dust and smoke bloomed from the bridge.
The noise of the explosions died slowly, as though the sound was moving heavily through the draws and along the ridges to collect in other places. The silence, when it came, seemed unnatural, dangerous. The two sparrows wheeled erratically, disturbed and scolding, across the gun. Down below, from beneath the arch of the bridge, a single figure came walking out, very slowly and gravely, like a doctor from a deathbed. The figure walked five or six metres, then just as slowly sat down on a rock. Christian looked at the man through his glasses. The man's shirt had been blown off him, and his skin was pale and milky. He still had his rifle. While Christian watched, the man lifted his rifle, still with that lunatic deliberation and gravity. Why, thought Christian with surprise, he's aiming at us!
The sound of the rifle was empty and flat and the whistle of the bullets was surprisingly close over their heads. Christian grinned. "Finish him," he said.
Heims pressed the trigger of the machine-gun. Through his glasses, Christian could see the darting spurts of dust, flickering along a savage, swift line in an arc around the man. He did not move. Slowly, with the unhurried care of a carpenter at his workbench, he was putting a new clip in his rifle. Heims swung the machine-gun, and the arc of dust-splashes moved closer to the man, who still refused to notice them. He got the clip in his rifle and lifted it once more to his naked shoulder. There was something insane, disturbing, about the shirtless, white-skinned man, an ivory blob against the green and brown of the ravine, sitting comfortably on the stone with all his comrades dead around him, firing in the leisurely and deliberate way at the machine-gun he could not quite make out with his naked eye, paying no attention to the continuous, snapping bursts of bullets that would, in a moment or two, finally kill him.
"Hit him," Christian murmured irritably. "Come on, hit him."
Heims stopped firing for a moment. He squinted carefully and jiggled the gun. It made a sharp, piercing squeak. The sound of the rifle came from the valley below, meaningless and undangerous, although again and again there was the whine of a bullet over Christian's head, or the plunk as it hit the hard-packed dirt below him.
Then Heims got the range and fired one short burst. The man put down his gun drunkenly. He stood up slowly and took two or three sober steps in the direction of the bridge. Then he lay down as though he were tired.
At that moment the bridge went up. Chunks of stone spattered against the trees along the road, slicing white gashes in them and knocking branches off. It took a long time for the dust to settle, and when it did, Christian saw the lumpy, broken, mud-coloured uniforms sticking out here and there, at odd angles from the debris. The half-naked American had disappeared under a small avalanche of earth and stones.
Christian sighed and put down his glasses. Amateurs, he thought; what are they doing in a war?
Heims sat up and twisted round. "Can we smoke now?" he asked.
"Yes," said Christian, "you can smoke."
He watched Heims take out a packet of cigarettes. Heims offered one to Richter, who took it silently. The machine-gunner did not offer a cigarette to Christian. The miserly bastard, thought Christian bitterly, and reached in and took out one of his two remaining cigarettes.
He held the cigarette in his mouth, tasting it, feeling its roundness, for a long time before he lit it. Then, with a sigh, feeling, well, I've earned it, he lit the cigarette. He took a deep puff and held the smoke in his lungs as long as he could. It made him feel a little dizzy, but relaxed. I must write about this to Hardenburg, Christian thought, taking another pull at the cigarette, he'll be pleased, he wouldn't have been able to do better himself. He leaned back comfortably, taking a deep breath, smiling at the bright blue sky and the pretty little clouds racing overhead in the mountain wind, knowing that he would have at least ten minutes to rest before Dehn got there. What a pretty morning, he thought.
Then he felt the long, quivering shiver sliding down his body. Ah, he thought deliciously, the malaria, and this is going to be a real attack, they're bound to send me back. A perfect morning. He shivered again, then took another pull at his cigarette. Then he leaned back happily against the boulder at his back, waiting for Dehn to arrive, hoping Dehn would take his time climbing the slope.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
"THE… th Fighter Group wants a comedian and some dancers," Michael said to Captain Mincey, his superior officer, sitting at the desk in the room that was lined with pictures of all the famous people who had passed through London for the USO. "And they don't want any more drunks. Johnny Sutter was posted up there last month, and he insulted a pilot in the ready room and was knocked out twice."
"Send them Flanner," Mincey said, weakly. Mincey had asthma and he drank too much, and the combination of Scotch and the climate of London always left him a little forlorn in the morning.
"Flanner has dysentery and he refuses to leave the Dorchester."
Mincey sighed. "Send them that lady accordionist," Mincey said, "what's her name, with the blue hair."
"They want a comedian."
"Tell them we only have accordionists." Mincey sniffed, pushing a tube full of medicine up his nose.
"Yes, Sir," said Michael. "Miss Roberta Finch cannot continue up into Scotland. She had a nervous breakdown in Salisbury. She keeps taking her clothes off in the enlisted men's mess and tries to commit suicide."
"Send that crooner to Scotland," Mincey sighed, "and make out a full report on Finch and send it back to Headquarters in New York, so we'll be covered."
"The MacLean troupe is in Liverpool Harbour," Michael said, "but their ship is quarantined. A seaman came down with meningitis and they can't come ashore for ten days."
"I can't bear it," said Captain Mincey.
"There is a confidential report," Michael said, "from the… nd Heavy Bombardment Group. Larry Crosett's band played there last Saturday and got into a poker game Sunday night. They took eleven thousand dollars from the Group and Colonel Coker says he has evidence they used marked cards. He wants the money back or he is going to prefer charges."
Mincey sighed weakly, poking the glass tube into his other nostril. He had run a night club in Cincinnati before the war and he often wished he was back in Ohio among the comedians and speciality dancers. "Tell Colonel Coker I am investigating the entire matter," he said.
"A Chaplain at the Troop Carrier Command," Michael said, "objects to the profanity used in our production of 'Folly of Youth'. He says the leading man says damn seven times and the ingenue calls one of the characters a son of a bitch in the second act."
Mincey shook his head. "I told that ham to cut out all profanity in this theatre of operations," Mincey said. "And he swore he would. Actors!" He moaned. "Tell the Chaplain I absolutely agree and the offending individuals will be disciplined."
"That's all for now, Captain," Michael said.
Mincey sighed and put his medicine in his pocket. Michael started out of the room.
"Wait a minute, Whitacre," Mincey said.
Michael turned round. Mincey regarded him sourly, his asthma-oppressed eyes and nose red and watery. "For Christ's sake, Whitacre," Mincey said, "you look awful."
Michael looked down without surprise at his rumpled, overlarge tunic and his baggy trousers. "Yes, Captain," Michael said.
"I don't give a damn for myself," Mincey said. "For all I care you could come in here in blackface and a grass skirt. But when officers come in from other outfits, they get a bad impression."
"Yes, Sir," said Michael.
"An outfit like this," Mincey said, "has to look more military than the paratroopers. We have to shine. We have to glisten. You look like a KP in the Bulgarian Army."
"Yes, Sir," said Michael.
"Can't you get yourself another tunic?"
"I've asked for one for two months, now," Michael said.
"The Supply Sergeant won't talk to me any more."
"At least," Mincey said, "polish your buttons. That's not much to ask, is it?"
"No, Sir," said Michael.
"How do we know," Mincey said, "General Lee won't show up here some day?"
"Yes, Sir," said Michael.
"Also," Mincey said, "you always have too many papers on your desk. It gives a bad impression. Put them in the drawers. Only have one paper on your desk at any one time."
"Yes, Sir."
"One more thing," Mincey said damply. "I wonder if you have some cash on you. I got caught with the bill at Les Ambassadeurs last night, and I don't collect my per them till Monday."
"Will a pound do?"
"That all you got?"
"Yes, Sir," said Michael.
"O.K." Mincey took the pound. "Thanks. I'm glad you're with us, Whitacre. This office was a mess before you came. If you'd only look more like a soldier."
"Yes, Sir," said Michael.
"Send in Sergeant Moscowitz," Mincey said. "That son of a bitch is loaded with dough."
"Yes, Sir," said Michael. He went into the other office and sent Sergeant Moscowitz in to see the Captain.
That was how the days passed in London, in the winter of 1944.
"O, my offence is rank," the King said, when Polonius had gone, "it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon't, A brother's murder!"
In the little shadow boxes on each side of the stage, put there for that purpose, the sign "Air Raid Alert" was flashed, and a moment later came the sound of sirens, and immediately after, in the distance, towards the coast, the rumble of gunfire.
"Pray can I not," the King went on, "Though inclination be as sharp as will: My strongest guilt defeats my strong intent…"
The sound of gunfire came rapidly nearer as the planes swept across the suburbs. Michael looked around him. It was an opening night, and a fashionable one, with a new Hamlet, and the audience was decked out in its wartime best. There were many elderly ladies who looked as though they had seen every opening of Hamlet since Sir Henry Irving. In the rich glow from the stage there was an answering glow from the audience of piled white hair and black net. The old ladies, and everyone else, sat quiet and motionless as the King strode, torn and troubled, back and forth across the dark room at Elsinore.
"Forgive me my foul murder?" the King was saying loudly.
"That cannot be since I am still possess'd Of those effects for which I did the murder, My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen."
It was the King's big scene and he obviously had worked very hard on it. He had the stage all to himself and a long, eloquent soliloquy to get his teeth into. He was doing very well, too, disturbed, intelligent, cursed, with Hamlet in the wings making up his mind whether to stab him or not.
The sound of guns marched across London towards the theatre, and there was the uneven roar of the German engines approaching over the gilt dome. Louder and louder spoke the King, speaking across the three hundred years of English rhetoric, challenging the bombs, the engines, the guns. No one in the audience moved. They listened, as intent and curious as though they had been sitting at the Globe on the afternoon of the first performance of Mr Shakespeare's new tragedy.
"In the corrupted currents of this world," the King shouted, "Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law: but 'tis not so above; There is no shuffling…"
A battery of guns opened up just behind the back wall of the theatre, and there was a double explosion of bombs not far off. The theatre shivered gently "… there the action lies in his true nature," said the King loudly, not forgetting any of his business, moving his hands with tragic grace, speaking slowly, trying to space his words between the staccato explosions of the guns.
