Scott Turow - Ordinary Heroes

"No disrespect, Lieutenant, but what the heck is it you call yourself doin?"

I tried to explain the logic of the rules that required me to follow where Martin led.

"This here," said Biddy, "is how the law sure enough don't make sense. Figures Martin'd use it against you. Ain't no tellin what kinda trouble a huckster like that is gonna get us into, Lieutenant."

"This is my frolic and detour, Biddy. You're not required."

"Hell, I'm not. You think they send an MP sergeant out here with you, Lieutenant, just to drive? Ain't no way I can let you go do this whatever on your lonesome. Only I'd think a grooved man would have the sense to ask what he was doin 'fore he said yes." Biddy had never been this direct with me, but after the scolding I'd given him on the way here, he apparently felt inclined to speak his mind. And there was no question of his loyalty. Still shaking his head, he walked beside me toward the little castle to see what was in store for us.

By 3:30, we had moved out. In a time of short provisions, Martin was remarkably well supplied. He may have been the scourge of General Teedle, but in these parts he was widely respected, and the Quartermaster with the Yankee Division had given the Major whatever he needed for this venture more than a month ago. Biddy and I had our choice of combat and cargo packs, cartridge belts and MIA' carbines. I hadn't fired a weapon since training camp, and I spent some time handling the rifle to bring back the feel of it. We had come with our own raincoats, which we folded behind us over our belts, following the example of the rest of our party, which consisted of Gita, Martin, Antonio, and two locals, Christian and Henri. They were frumpy-looking farmers, a father and son, both shaped like figs. They trudged along in silence at Martin's side, acting as guides, with American rifles over their shoulders. Beside me, Gita was in farm overalls, but wore a surplus Army helmet with the liner tightened to the maximum so it fit her.

"Do you like battle, Mademoiselle Lodz?"

"No one should like battle, Dubin. It is much too frightening. But Martin's style is most successful when not a gun is fired. You will see."

"But it remains strange to me to think of a woman in combat."

She laughed, but not in good humor. "ca, c'est le comble!" That's the last straw. "Men think only they can fight. With guns? With planes? With artillery. Who is not strong enough to pull a trigger, Dubin, or throw a grenade?"

"Yes, but a man who does not fight is called a coward. No one expects this of you. Quite the contrary. Do you think fighting is as much in a woman's nature as a man's?"

"Knowing what is right is in the nature of everyone. I allow, Dubin, that I do not enjoy killing. But many men feel as I do, and fight nonetheless."

Martin had turned back to us with a finger to his lips, inasmuch as we were leaving the Comtesse's lands. I still had little idea where we were headed. Martin would brief us only when we'd made camp for the night. For the time being, he wanted to use the weakening daylight to move ahead. We proceeded due north, across adjoining farms. Knowing the fence lines and the old paths, Henri led us along at a good pace. The rains held off while we hiked, but the ground everywhere was soft and in the lowlands we splashed through standing water, soaking my wool trousers and the socks inside my shoepacs.

As darkness encroached, I was certain we were behind Nazi lines. Martin, Biddy, and I were in uniform and stood at least a chance, if captured, of being taken prisoner, rather than executed. The Frenchmen with us were all but certain to be shot on the spot. But there was no sign of Germans. In these parts, the locals were firmly committed to the Free French, and Martin regarded his intelligence on enemy positions as virtually faultless. Nonetheless, whenever possible, we remained on the other side of the shallow hills, so we were not visible from the road, and ducked into the trees if we were near a wooded draw. When there was no choice but to cross an open field, we ambled along in pairs, as if we were hikers.

At one point, as we stopped briefly to refill our canteens in a spring, Martin came back to check on me. Gita and Antonio were on lookout at the perimeter, apparently enough security for a quiet conversation.

"Holding up?"

I was hardly laboring with a full pack. I had a bedroll, a canteen, a bayonet, and ammunition, but I hadn't been out on maneuvers since basic and Martin was right to suspect I was tired. I told him I was fine.

"Nothing like this in the past, I assume?" he asked.

"I was trained as an infantry officer, but aside from exercises, no."

"You'll have an exciting time. You'll be thanking Gita for suggesting this." He waited. "She seems to have taken a shine to you."

"Has she? I'm honored. She is very charming." Then as the only avenue to approach the lingering question, I added, You have a charming woman.

"Oh, yes," he said, "very charming. Only I doubt that Gita would agree.

"That she's charming?"

"That she is my woman. Candidly, I wonder if Gita would ever choose but one man. Besides," he said, "she is much too young for me." He had raised his eyes to her up on the hill, where the wind tossed around the kinks of dark gold hair that escaped her helmet. "I have only one thing I want for her, really. Most of all, Dubin, I would like to see her safe. That would be my last wish. Were I permitted one. I owe her that." Catching Martin's eye as we were looking her way, Gita knotted her small face in an open frown.

"There, you see. She is always displeased with me." His glance fell to the ground. "Does she speak ill of me?"

I didn't understand the crosscurrents here, only that they were treacherous.

"On the contrary," I answered. "She is your admirer.''

"Surely not always. She calls me a liar to my face."

"Does she?" I felt certain that Martin knew exactly what Gita had said to me the last time I was here. "It is the nature of this life, Dubin. Somewhere, buried in the recesses of memory, is the person I was before I was Robert Martin." He pronounced his full name as if it were French: Ro-bear Mar-tan. "But I was trained to tell every tale but his. And it suits me well, Dubin. No soul in war is the same as she or he was before. You'll learn that soon enough."

He took a tiny humpbacked metal cricket from his pocket and gave its twanging steel tongue two clicks, calling an end to our respite. Scampering down from the prominence, Gita fell in at the head of our column but shortly worked her way back to me, as we were weaving through a small woods. She had heard her name and wanted to know what Martin had said. I tried to satisfy her with the most neutral remark I remembered.

"He told me he hopes you are safe. When the war ends."

"He lies. As always. That is not what he hopes. He would much prefer we die side by side in battle. Tellement romantique."

Long ago I'd learned not to be the messenger in couples' disagreements, a lesson originally taken from childhood. The more I heard from both Gita and Martin, the less sure I was of the dimensions of their relationship. Nor did it seem that it was very clear to either of them. I was better off with another subject and asked her about Bettjer, the radioman, whose absence I had noticed.

"Peter? Peter is no good anymore. For some, bravery is like blood. There is only so much in your body. He was very courageous, very bold, but with a month to sit and think about all he has survived, every fear he did not feel before has rolled down on him like a boulder off a mountain. He will drink three bottles of cognac in the day we are gone. Ainsi va la guerre," she added in a tragic tone. So goes war.

This discussion of Bettjer and his anxieties somehow became a gateway to my own worries. I had felt my nervousness growing as we tromped along. Now, with the description of Bettjer as unmanned by fear, I was attacked full-on by shrieking doubts. Apparently, I did a poor job of concealing them.