Irwin Shaw - The Young Lions

By the time he and Brandt had carried Kraus back to the road, Himmler and the others had got most of the barricade down. Christian left the Frenchman who had been killed in the forest lying where he had died. He felt very impatient now, and anxious to move on. Somebody else would have to do the honours to the fallen enemy.

He laid Kraus down gently. Kraus looked very young and healthy, and there were red stains around his lips from the cherries, like a small boy who comes guiltily out of the pantry after pillaging the jam-jars. Well, Christian thought, looking down at the large, simple boy who had laughed so heartily at Christian's jokes, you killed your Frenchman. When he got to Paris, he would write to Kraus's father to tell him how his son had died. Fearless, he would write, cheerful, aggressive, best type of German soldier. Proud in his hour of grief. Christian shook his head. No, he would have to do better than that. That was like the idiotic letters in the last war, and, there was no denying it, they had become rather comic by now. Something more original for Kraus, something more personal. We buried him with cherry stains on his lips and he always laughed at my jokes and he got himself killed because he was too enthusiastic… You couldn't say that either. Anyway, he would have to write something.

He turned away from the dead boy as the other two cars drove slowly and warily up the road. He watched them coming with impatient, superior amusement.

"Come on, ladies," he shouted, "there's nothing to be afraid of. The mice have left the room."

The cars spurted obediently and stopped at the road-block, their motors running. Christian's driver was in one of them. Their own car was a wreck, he said, the engine riddled, the tyres torn. It could not be used. The driver was very red, although he had merely lain in the ditch when all the firing was going on. He spoke in gulps, as though it was hard to get his breath, two short, gasping words at a time. Christian realized that the man, who had been quite calm while the action was on, had grown terribly frightened now that it was over, and had lost control of his nerves.

Christian listened to his own voice as he gave orders.

"Maeschen," he said, "you will stay here with Taub, until the next organization comes down this road." The voice is steady, Christian noted with elation, the words are crisp and efficient. I came through it all right. I can do it. "Maeschen, go up there into the woods about sixty metres and you will find a dead Frenchman. Bring him out and leave him with the other two…" he gestured to Kraus and the little man Christian had killed, lying side by side now along the road, "so that they can be correctly buried. All right." He turned to the others. "Get moving."

They climbed into the two cars. The drivers put them in gear, and they went slowly through the space that had been cleared in the block. There was some blood on the road and bits of mattress and trampled leaves, but it all looked green and peaceful. Even the two bodies lying in the heavy grass alongside the road looked like two gardeners who were taking a nap after lunch.

The cars gathered speed and pulled swiftly out of the shade of the trees. There was no more danger of sniping among the open, budding fields. The sun was shining warmly, making them sweat a little, quite pleasantly, after the chill of the woods. I did it, Christian thought. He was a little ashamed of the small smile of self-satisfaction that pulled at the corners of his mouth. I did it. I commanded an action. I am earning my keep, he thought.

Ahead of him, at the bottom of a slope some three kilometres away, was a little town. It was made of stone and was dominated by two church steeples, medieval and delicate, rising out of the cluster of weathered walls around them. The town looked comfortable and secure, as though people had been living there quietly for a long time. The driver of Christian's car slowed down as they approached the buildings. He looked nervously at Christian again and again.

"Come on," Christian said impatiently. "There's nobody there."

The driver obediently stepped on the accelerator.

The houses didn't look as pretty or comfortable from close up as they had from out in the fields. Paint was flaking off the walls, and they were dirty, and there was an undeniable strong smell. Foreigners, Christian thought, they were all dirty.

The street took a bend and they came into the town square. There were some people standing on the church steps and some others in front of a cafe that surprisingly was open, "CHASSEUR ET PECHEUR" Christian read on the sign over the cafe. There were five or six people sitting at the tables and a waiter was serving two of them drinks on those little saucers. Christian grinned. What a war!

On the church steps there were three young girls in bright skirts and low-cut blouses.

"Ooo," the driver said. "Ooo, la, la."

"Stop here," Christian said.

"Avec plaisir, man colonel," the driver said, and Christian looked at him, surprised and amused at his unsuspected culture.

The driver drew up in front of the church and stared unashamedly at the three girls. One of the girls, a dark, full-bodied creature, holding a bouquet of garden flowers in her hand, giggled. The other two girls giggled with her, and they stared with frank interest at the two car-loads of soldiers.

Christian got out of his car. "Come on, Interpreter," he said to Brandt. Brandt followed him, carrying his camera.

Christian walked up to the girls on the church steps. "Bon jour, Mesdemoiselles," he said, carefully taking his helmet off with a graceful, unofficial salute.

The girls giggled again and the big one said, in French that Christian could understand, "How well he speaks." Christian felt foolishly flattered, and went on, disdaining the use of Brandt's superior French.

"Tell me, ladies," he said, only groping a little for the words, "are there any of your soldiers who have passed through here recently?"

"No, Monsieur," the big one answered, smiling. "We have been deserted completely. Are you going to do us any harm?"

"We do not plan to harm anyone," Christian said, "especially three young ladies of such beauty."

"Now," Brandt said, in German, "now listen to that." Christian grinned. There was something very pleasant about standing there in this old town in front of the church in the morning sunlight, looking at the full bosom of the dark girl showing through her sheer blouse, and flirting with her in the unfamiliar language. It was one of the things you never thought about when you started off to war.

"My," the dark girl said, smiling at him, "is that what they teach you in army school in your country?"

"The war is over," Christian said solemnly, "and you will find that we are truly friends of France."

"Oh," said the dark girl, "what a marvellous propagandist." She looked at him invitingly, and for a moment Christian had a wild thought of perhaps staying in this town for an hour.

"Will there be many like you following?"

"Ten million," said Christian.

The girl threw up her hands in mock despair. "Oh, my God," she said, "what will we do with them all? Here," she offered him the flowers, "because you are the first."

He looked at the flowers with surprise, then took them gently from her hand. What a young, human thing it was to do. How hopeful it was…

"Mademoiselle…" His French became halting. "I don't know how to say it… but… Brandt!"

"The Sergeant wishes to say," Brandt said smoothly and swiftly in his proper French, "that he is most grateful and takes this as a token of the great bond between our two great peoples."

"Yes," said Christian, jealous of Brandt's fluency. "Exactly."

"Ah," said the girl, "he is a Sergeant. The officer." She smiled even more widely at him, and Christian thought, amused, they are not so different from the ones at home.