He swung around. “Who fired that shot?” he demanded hotly.
“I did,” Devlin answered. He was still holding his rifle high against his chest.
“Dev, there’s people in those woods …”
“—I don’t give a shit if the population of the world is in those woods!” Devlin shouted at him. “Maybe Foch is in there—ever thought of that?—or that blood-sucking butcher Benoît …” He stopped then, and lowering his rifle rubbed his face with the back of his hand.
Damon opened his mouth, closed it again. There was something he ought to be saying at this moment; but he could not for the life of him think what it could be. He put his head down and went on walking quickly, flinching at the shell bursts and trying not to listen to Sorenson.
They were steaks, dipped in flour and pan-fried. Steaks for fifty men, and sixteen here to eat them. At the first bite Damon’s jaws ached so fiercely he could hardly chew. The catch on his canteen cup slipped, as it always did, and the hot coffee slopped over his knuckles, but he didn’t care; he sucked at the back of his hand absently. Food. Their first hot food in five days, their first honest-to-God meal in seven and a half. Peering at the oval mess gear in his lap piled high with other men’s meat he was swept with a mountainous surge of anger at a system that would snatch men up and lash them forward to such massive butchery on empty bellies, decimate them and starve them—and then fail to execute the simplest, most rudimentary principles of war. For a moment he was on the verge of hurling his mess kit into the bushes … Then that subsided and he went on eating, his eyes half-closed, thinking of nothing but the taste of the food, the swelling warmth in his belly from the coffee.
“What took you so all-fired long, Fudge?” Raebyrne was taunting the mess sergeant, a swarthy little man with powerful arms and no forehead. “Been doing a little horse trading with the Frogs along the way? selling company stores?”
Fucciano waved his arms wrathfully. “What you mean, selling company stores? I run an honest mess—”
“Oh, sure.”
“We been under fire! How could I move up? They been shelling us—oh Jesus-Mary-and-Joseph the shelling!”
Raebyrne guffawed at this and nudged Tsonka, who said in a flat, dry voice: “Jesus, Fudge, if we’d known that we’d have come over and bailed you out. We been having it easy …”
“Okay, you make fun, make jokes!” Fucciano put fingers and thumb together and shook his hand at them threateningly from the wrist. “We see who has last laugh, ah?”
“I declare,” Raebyrne said conversationally, “that Fudge is so downright contrary if you throwed him in the Marne River he’d float upstream …” He turned in surprise to La Brache, one of the new men, who was lying with his hand over his eyes; his helmet had plastered his hair against his forehead so that it looked like a shiny black wig. “Frenchy, better latch on to this baby beef. It’s licking good, son.”
“No. I can’t eat.”
“Why all not?”
“I—just can’t, that’s all.”
“Well, as the Cooper’s hawk said to the Leghorn: It’s your funeral.”
“—I told you not to use that word!” Devlin snapped at him.
“Don’t take on, Sarge,” Raebyrne said, aggrieved. “It’s only a turn of faze.”
“Well, cut it out … ” Devlin looked down at his mess gear, muttering, eating with taut ferocity; and watching him, Damon’s worry grew. The Sergeant’s features seemed sharper, more pinched and drawn, as though the past three days had burned and filed away the protective skin, leaving only bare nerve and sinew open to the air; his eyelids quivered.
“What the hell, Dev,” he said softly so that the others, who were arguing among themselves, couldn’t hear. “What the hell—we made it again.”
Devlin raised his head, and Damon was astonished at the savage grief in his eyes. “Sure. Isn’t that great? And then they’ll give us three days’ rest out of the goodness of their hearts, or maybe a week if they’re feeling particularly generous—or they haven’t got the training schedule set up yet—and we’ll get a mob of stupid, silly, fire-eating replacements who don’t know shit from Shinola about any of it at all—and then we can go up there and do it all over again. Won’t that be fun?” His voice rose. “Over and over again. Until we break, Sam. Until we wind up like Sorenson, there … ”
Damon felt a thick, boundless despair and looked away. Brewster was listening to them now, so was Clay. “Don’t talk rot,” he muttered.
“It’s not rot. It’s the flat, black truth,” Devlin went on, “and you know it yourself. Isn’t it the truth—isn’t it?”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Sure.”
They heard it then—a wire-born humming that swelled to a deep drone off to the east.
“That’s the way to fight this cotton-ass old war,” Raebyrne observed. “Come, Josephine, in my flying machine. Clean shucks and a batman and three hots a day, up in the blue all morning long …”
“I wouldn’t want that duty,” Brewster said.
“Why not?”
“I can’t stand heights.”
“Tim, you got more grabofrobias than my Grand Aunt Tirzah.”
The droning was louder now—broke off into a series of muttering snarls behind the woods, and they could hear the sound of machine guns; a faraway, toylike popping.
“Shoot each other up, you good-time Barney Googles,” Turner swore at them. “You’re getting paid for it. Fill each other full of holes.”
“There he goes—see him?” Raebyrne shouted. “Right behind that clump of sycamores, cutting up didos …”
The plane, it looked like a Spad—they had a glimpse of the red-white-and-blue roundel on the fuselage—dipped down behind the trees, curving and twisting. The faint popping came again, there was a crash, and another plane soared up over the fringe of woods, indistinguishable against the late morning sun.
“Ain’t he the acree-o-bat, though? Will wonders never cease!”
“Come on, Reb, you know they’ll never replace the turkey buzzard,” Tsonka said, his mouth full of food.
“Yah-hoo! And here comes the happy cavalry—”
The droning increased, faded, rushed to a full-throated roar—and all at once there they were—three planes coming low over the screen of woods, their wings rocking and dipping.
“No, wait—”
“They’re Boche—!” Damon screamed into the roar, “—Boche! Take cover!” He lurched to his feet, still holding his mess kit, and threw himself behind a bush. He had one last, fevered image of a narrow, angular, blood-red nacelle and the floating shimmer of the propeller—and then bullets were raining through the branches, ripping into the tree trunks and hitting the ground with quick, flat thuds. Something jarred his hand. He looked stupidly at his mess gear, which was suddenly three feet away and overturned, a great hole blown through the smooth, shiny tin. The hellish hailstorm ceased; above them there was a flat knocking snarl, and looking up he saw the black formée crosses, a leather helmet from which a chartreuse scarf streamed gaily. Then they were gone, climbing fast toward a group of gentle little clouds, and he heard the stuttering blast of a Chauchat as Tsonka led one of them up and away, his shoulders shaking with the recoil.
Damon got up. “All right? Is everybody—”
He stopped. La Brache was staring in amazement at his hand, from which blood streamed in thick, uneven spurts. “I’m wounded,” he cried, stunned by the discovery. “Oh, I’m wounded!”
“All right,” Damon said. “We’ll get somebody, don’t you—” And then, turning, he saw little Turner lying flat on his back with his arms clasped over his belly, staring at him fearfully. “Hit?” He mouthed the word. “Hit?” Turner nodded once, his eyes wide and unblinking, glazed with dread. Sam bent over and tried to lift his hands away.
“No, no,” Turner breathed in a plaintive tone, like a child about to be deprived of a favorite plaything. “No, no, no …”
“—Oh, no,” B
rewster was saying, his face working queerly, “not—Terry—”
Damon stood up and roared “Stretch-er bear-er!” until his voice cracked. “Ellison!” he thundered at a runner hurrying by them two hundred feet away. “Get some of those people over here! We’ve got trouble …”
The planes were far away now, climbing high under the clouds like little red toys. If they can do that, he thought with alarm, if they can just swoop down and do that, and then be gone—
Two men were running from the bivouac in the woods. He saw the brassards on their arms and sighed with relief. Most of the group were gathered around Turner, who still hadn’t moved a muscle; but blood was seeping out above and below his cartridge belt and creeping up the back of his blouse. Devlin was bent over him, talking to him urgently, his face contorted with anguish; Turner didn’t seem to hear a word.
The planes were gone; Damon couldn’t hear the faintest murmur of their engines. Out of nothing. A clear sky, out of the line, eating their first hot meal, sitting around eating—
“You bastards,” he said with cold hatred. “God help any one of you if I ever get my hands on you …” His hands were shaking badly and he thrust them into his pockets. He was hollow with impotence and rage. Standing there watching the two medics come running up he knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, all it was to be an infantryman: defenseless, pitiable, and alone; armed with nothing but one’s own flesh and blood.
Everyone was moving back. It had been a victory—even the French said it was a victory—but the scenes they met were those of disaster and defeat. The enemy artillery still searched for them; gas shells dropped nearby with their soft, gurgling, plopping sounds, and their contents spread in a dense evil mist, staining the grass a hideous yellow. Dickey cried out and put his gas mask on, but the rest were too wretched to care: they hurried on, longing only for a place where they could sleep undisturbed for half a dozen hours …
There was a shout, and a gaunt, dejected group came toward them out of the woods with Traprock Merrick at their head. His face was flushed, and there were two Lugers jammed in his web belt. One arm was in a rag sling and he was twirling a shiny spiked helmet by its strap with his good hand. When he caught sight of Damon he threw back his head.
“Christ, if we haven’t still got the Medal of Honor …”
Damon said, “Hello, Merrick.”
“I thought they knocked you off long ago.”
“No, I’m still around.”
“Shame.” Merrick slipped the German dress helmet back on his wrist, pulled a Cognac bottle out of a bulging musette bag and took a long drink. “Where have you been? Embuskaying it back at Cotterets?”
“That your company?” Damon asked.
“That’s it.” The Captain’s mouth drooped in a mirthless sneer. “Chicken-livered bastards—I had to kick their asses every step of the way to Paulnay Ridge. Jesus, if they had any guts at all, any of them, we’d be dipping our peckers in the Rhine right now.” He replaced the cork with finger and thumb and shoved the bottle away out of sight, grinning contemptuously at the remains of Damon’s platoon, who watched him apathetically. “That’s a gutty little crew you’ve got, buster. And with a couple of prisoners. How dainty …” His eyes had begun to glitter. “Know what I do with prisoners, Damon? I line them up in little stacks of three, like dominoes, and then zip-zip-zip!—and they’re paying their respects to Valhalla …” He walked with leisurely menace toward the two German prisoners, who drew together, stiff with fear. “Look at them” he muttered, nodding. “Big tough hombres. Full of piss, aren’t you? Ah? Let’s see you dance.” He pointed at their heavy boots, making little circling motions with his forefinger. “That’s right. Tanz.”
“Leave them alone,” Damon said sharply.
Traprock turned in amused surprise. “Anything you say, Medal. They don’t mean a thing to me—plenty more where they came from.” For a moment he scratched at his belly through his open shirt. “When we going up again? You hear anything from the Old Man? You’ve been brown-nosing with him long enough …”
Sam gazed at him—the flat, ruddy face with its slack mouth and black bristle of beard, the little brown eyes glinting with what could only be the most blissful anticipation. He was barely recognizable as the sergeant Damon had played against in Texas.
“… I’d think even you’ve had enough for a while, Merrick.”
“Me?” The Captain laughed thickly. “Not on your tintype. I’m having the time of my life. Why didn’t we get over here sooner? Shit, man, I hope they keep it going for fifty fucking years, and then some …” He patted the swollen musette bag protectively. “High on the hog. Don’t tell me you haven’t been making out, Damon. Getting your rocks well rolled down there at Charme—”
“Shut your filthy mouth!”
Damon turned; Devlin was glaring at the Captain, one arm extended. Merrick’s presence seemed to have roused him from the mute despair that had gripped him since Turner’s death. “Just shut your face, you hear?”
Traprock grinned. “Well, if it isn’t the crummy little Mick jailbird, still hanging a—”
Devlin started for him. Sam called, “Dev!” but the warning was unnecessary. Merrick’s good hand flowed back to his belt, reappeared with a trench knife—a fearfully quick gesture. Devlin stopped, his eyes on the blade.
“Threatening an officer, ah?” Merrick taunted him, his eyes alight with the feverish glitter. “Three months’ confinement and reduction to next inferior rank, forfeiture of all pay and allowances—but I’ll waive that. Come on, Mick.” Devlin made no reply. “Want to play, Mick? Do you? Come on, then …”
Devlin looked at him, his mouth working—unslung his rifle with a snap of his arm and elbow. Damon lunged out and gripped him around the shoulders, pinning the weapon to his body. Devlin struggled against him in silence.
“—Dev,” he said, “cut this out, now! I mean it!”
“Let him go,” Merrick was saying, “let him try it—I’ll blow a hole in him you could put your fist through …”
“—You bastard,” Devlin shouted all at once at Merrick, “—go ahead, kill me, kill every frigging living thing on earth!—that’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“Dev—”
“Then you’d be happy, wouldn’t you—you rotten no-good blood-drinking son of a bitch!—”
Sam had his rifle and was pushing him back now, murmuring, “Dev, Dev …”
The Sergeant dropped his arms. “Ah, the bastards,” he moaned; he was shivering and tears were running down his dirty cheeks. “The no-good, butchering bastards …” And looking past his anguished, bony face, Damon saw four old men in baggy blue blouses, moving steadily across the long field, around the black lumps of bodies, their scythes rising and falling in an even rhythm. The field where they had left Krazewski and Moore and Saunders. Watching the mowers, he felt his own eyes fill with tears. He turned away and called, “All right! Let’s move out …”
“Ah, you milksops,” Merrick shouted hoarsely. “You timid old women—you want sugar-titty to suck …?”
His laughter followed them across the long field.
8
The rain kept falling, as though there were a hidden purpose in it, some clever strategic plan to inundate all of Western Europe, perhaps wash it clean again. When they reached the bridge Damon told the driver to pull off under the trees, and got out.
“I won’t be more than twenty minutes. Don’t leave this wagon for any reason, will you?” He slapped the door of the big army Dodge.
“No, sir. I won’t.”
It was the same bridge, the same promenade under the chestnut trees, the same narrow, upturning streets without curbs or sidewalk. It was the same, and yet somehow strangely altered—as though the past several weeks, the coming of autumn had laid it under some spell. A pretty little town, as French towns on the rim of the war zone went these days. He turned up the collar of his trench coat and buttoned it. The big guns couldn’t be heard anymore; the leaves were
ocher and yellow and hung limply, waiting for death. The stone towers at the ends of the bridge looked curiously worn and insubstantial, like sugar towers dissolving in the cold rain.
He walked past the railroad station, turned left and went uphill, past the bakery, the confectioner’s shop, still closed—when would it open again?—the forge, where he could hear the dry sizzle of steel being ground against stone. Without pausing, he swung open the great oak door and went in, climbed the stairs in silence and paused. Inside he could hear someone moving, the clink of a plate. He knocked twice, briskly. The movement stopped, there was a swift subdued murmur; then footsteps came to the door and Michele’s voice said: “Qui est là?” A wary, guarded tone.
“Courier, Madame,” he said in a hoarse sing-song, and stood motionless. After nearly twenty seconds the bolt was shot back and the door swung open a crack.
“Oh, Sam,” Michele said. “What a surprise!—You make a joke with me …” She still had not opened the door any farther. “Denise is in Pontoise, she has been there for three weeks now, I thought you knew—”
“I’ve come to see Dev,” he said.
Her face gave an almost imperceptible little quiver. “Jack?” she queried. “Jack is not here, Sam, I am sorry, why should he be here?”
“That’s what I don’t know,” he answered.
She must have sensed something from his tone, for she said: “I am sorry, Sam, but I cannot visit with you now. Perhaps tomorrow, all right?”—and she tried to close the door; but he had eased the toe of his right boot into the crack while they’d been talking, and now blocked it. Slowly he forced the door open with his hand.
“Sam, I have already said—”
“I just want to talk to him, Michele. Nothing more than that. I know he’s here.” He moved into the room and sat down in the high-backed wooden chair near the table.
“I tell you, he is not here …” Her slim, pretty face was pinched with fear and anger. “I ask you to go.”