Irwin Shaw - The Young Lions

He shook Noah violently. His eyes were wild, his mouth was working, his voice was hoarse with the intensity of his belief, tested now so many times, on the water of the Channel, in the besieged stone farmhouse.

"You got to promise me, Noah," Burnecker whispered, "we don't let them break us up. Never! No matter how hard they try! Promise me!"

Noah began to cry, the tears rolling down his cheeks softly and helplessly at his friend's need and mystic faith. "Sure, Johnny," he said. "You bet, Johnny." And for a moment he believed, with Burnecker, that they had been given a sign, that they would survive whatever lay ahead of them, if somehow they clung to each other.

Twenty minutes later what was left of the Company got up from the line of foxholes and advanced to the positions from which they had withdrawn to give the planes a margin for error. Then they broke through the hedge and started across the bomb-marked field towards where the Germans were theoretically all dead or demoralized.

The men walked slowly, in a thin, thoughtful line across the cropped pasture grass, holding their rifles and tommy-guns at their hips. Is this the whole Company, Noah thought with dull surprise, is this all that's left? All the replacements who had been put in the week before, and who had never fired a shot, were they already gone?

In the next field, Noah could see another thin line of men, walking with the same slow, weary thoughtfulness towards an embankment with a ditch at its bottom that made a sharp traversing line across the green landscape. Artillery was still going over their heads, but there was no small-arms fire to be heard. The planes had gone back to England, leaving the ground littered with shining silver bits of tinsel that they had dropped to confuse the enemy's radar equipment. The sun caught the strips of brightness in sparkling pin-points among the rich green of the grass, attracting Noah's eye again and again as he walked side by side, close to Johnny Burnecker.

It seemed to take the line a long time to get to the cover of the embankment, but finally they were there. Automatically, without a signal, the men threw themselves into the small ditch, against the safe grassy slope of the shielding embankment, although there still hadn't been a shot fired at them. They lay there, as though this had been a dear objective and they had fought for days to reach it.

"Off your arse!" It was Rickett's voice, the same tone, the same vocabulary, whether he was snarling at a man to clean a latrine in Florida or to charge a machine-gun post in Normandy.

"The war ain't over. Get up over that there ditch."

Noah and Burnecker lay slyly, with heads averted, against the soft sloping grass, pretending that Rickett was not there, that Rickett was not alive.

Three or four of the replacements stood up, with a jangle of equipment, and started climbing heavily up. Rickett followed them and stood at the top shouting down at the rest of the men.

"Come on, off your arse, off your arse…"

Regretfully, Noah and Burnecker stood up and clambered up the slippery six feet. The rest of the men around them were slowly doing the same thing. Burnecker, who reached the top first, helped Noah. They stood for a moment, peering ahead of them. A long field, dotted with blown-up cows, stretched ahead of them towards a row of hedges, spaced with trees, in the distance. It still seemed very quiet. The three or four replacements who had been the first to climb up were tentatively walking out ahead, and Rickett was still snarling away.

As he took the first few steps across the quiet field, following the other men, Noah hated Rickett more fiercely than he ever had before.

Then, without warning, the machine-guns started. There were the high screams of thousands of bullets around him, and men falling, before he heard the distant mechanical rattling sound of the guns themselves.

The line hesitated for a moment, the men staring bewilderedly at the enigmatic hedge from which the fire came.

"Come on! Come on!" Rickett's voice yelled crazily over the noise of the guns. "Keep moving!"

But half the men were down by now. Noah grabbed Burnecker's arm, and they turned and raced, crouching low, the few yards back to the edge of the embankment. They flung themselves down, sobbing for breath, into the green safety of the ditch. One by one the other men came tumbling back over the edge to crash, sobbing and exhausted, into the ditch. Rickett appeared on the brink, swaying crazily, waving his arms around, shouting something thickly through an arching spurt of blood that seemed to come from his throat. He was hit again and slid face-down on top of Noah. Noah could feel the hot wetness of the Sergeant's blood on his face. He pulled back, although Rickett was clinging to him, his hands around Noah's shoulders, gripping into the pack-harness on his back.

"Oh, you bathtards!" Rickett said distinctly, "oh, you bathtards!" Then he relaxed and slithered into the ditch at Noah's feet.

"Dead," Burnecker said. "The son of a bitch is finally dead."

Burnecker pulled Rickett's body to one side while Noah slowly tried to wipe the blood off his face.

The firing stopped and it was quiet again, except for shouts from the wounded out in the field. When a man raised his head carefully to look over the embankment to see what could be done, the guns started again, and the grass on the edge of the embankment snapped and slashed through the air as the bullets cut through it. The remnants of the Company lay exhausted, then, along the ditch.

"The Air Force," Burnecker said coldly. "All opposition was going to be wiped out. Destroyed or demoralized. They're pretty demoralized, aren't they? The next soldier I see with wings, I swear to God…"

The men lay silently, breathing more normally now, waiting for someone else to do something with the war.

After a while Lieutenant Green showed up. Noah could hear the high, girlish voice as Lieutenant Green came hurrying along the ditch, imploring the men to move. "… impossible," Lieutenant Green was screaming. "Get up there. You've got to keep moving. Keep moving. You can't stay here. The second platoon is sending a party out on the left to get those machine-guns, but we have to keep them pinned down from here. Come on, get up, get up…"

There was a shrill, hopeless note in Lieutenant Green's voice, and the men didn't even look at him. They turned their faces into the soft grass of the slope, ignoring the Lieutenant.

Suddenly, Lieutenant Green clambered up the side of the embankment himself. He stood on top, calling out, imploring, but none of the men moved. Noah watched Lieutenant Green with interest, waiting for him to die. The machine-guns started up again, but Green kept jumping around wildly, like a maniac, shouting incoherently, "It's easy. There's nothing to it. Come on…"

Green jumped down again and walked away from the ditch, back across the open field. The guns died down again and everybody was pleased the Lieutenant had left.

This is the system, Noah thought craftily, I'll live for ever. Just do whatever everybody else is doing. What can they do to me if I just stay here?

On both sides of them there were the heavy sounds of battle, but they couldn't see anything, and there was no way of telling how things were going. But the ditch remained safe and quiet. The Germans couldn't reach them in the ditch, and the men had no desire to do any harm to the Germans from the ditch. There was a pleasant, warming sense of secure permanence about the arrangement. At some future time, the Germans might withdraw or be encircled from somewhere else, and then there would be time to think about getting up and moving on. Not before.

Burnecker took out his K ration and opened it up. "Veal loaf," Burnecker said flatly, eating slabs of it off his knife. "Who the hell ever invented veal loaf?" He threw the little bag of synthetic lemonade powder away. "Not if I was dying of thirst," he said.