The Young Lions by Irwin Shaw Page A

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