Introduction (Part 4)

"But look ... what's happened to your leg? Don't you know that it's bleeding?"

"I hadn't noticed. That flak sure gets around."

"Sit down ... right here!"

"Sure."

As she medicated and bandaged his leg they talked about Chuck's blindness, when and how it happened; she had to attend other wounded, but Orville was able to give her details.

For an hour or more the blitz thundered over the city, damaging buildings on Dalton Street, reverberating, flinging dust and sewer stench. Orville hated the place, this Red Cross hive of death.

"I've got to check in," he said, after the hell had died down; yet next day he was back, bringing her a potted azalea.

Here comes America ... here's somebody who knew Chuck ... somebody who cares ... tell me ...

"I've been thinking how we met," she said, as they walked.

"Yeah ... bad place."

She agreed.

"Better forget it," he said.

They walked to a diminutive temple under pines, beach and ash trees eighty or ninety years old. The temple was a semi-circular building of limestone, a soft brown limestone shell, its roof and pillars in a bad way; a couple of the pillars were lying on the ground, pigeons sitting on curving pediments, weeds among the floor stones.

"It's Rousseau's Temple de la Philosophie ... yeah, but it's falling down ... I used to play here. See that stone slab, lying at the entrance, you can read the inscription."

They bent over the stone but were unable to read the words for weeds and rubble.

"Was the temple made for Rousseau?"

"No ... it was made later ... he lived in the pavilion of the chateau."

"I've been here lots of times..."

"Have you visited the chateau? Is it open these days?"

"Lena took me ... it's closed ... but we got to see the place, the wonderful tapestries in the salon ... remember we don't have many chateaux in Wisconsin."

"Canoes," he said. "Canoes instead of chateaux."

"Are you good with the paddle?"

"Yes ... yes, I am ... and you?"

She nodded.

Separation, mustering out pay, back-pay, travel allowances: they could go to Wisconsin, New York, California. But when would mankind return to nature? Rousseau had said ... let nature repair mind and body ... who remembers? We're lucky to survive these days!

Lucky ... lucky to have Jean ... to be in E ... lucky to be on leave ... to walk in the park ...

As he kissed Jean good-bye at the hospital gate, he tried to summon an optimistic word. Something, during the last half hour or so, had come between them, as if they both admitted they were pawns, as if the miles across the Atlantic already separated them.

Her hair's exquisite copper gleamed in the light: fog was behind her hair: fog was flowing across the countryside, puffing, swirling, smoking in from the Nonette river, fog that smelled of newly mown clover.

"I'll see you tomorrow ... about two. If there's gasoline I'll come in the car ... if I can borrow the car." He smiled.

"Good night, darling." Then a long pause.

"Sleep well."

"See you."

To reach home, Orville followed a short-cut that bypassed the Petit Lac and its island; the path was weed choked: burdock, thistle, artichoke, and mustard. All were rain wet, fog wet. From a rock wall fence he took in the spires of the Ronde place, fog crawling over them, the fog in the pines and chestnut and elm toward the chateau, now fogged out. Crossing a bridge over the Nonette he found the fog thicker, smokier, on the bridge itself it seemed stuffed into the cracks of the 13th century masonry.

In the cemetery he paused by his dad's grave, weedy and foggy. Lighting a cigarette he felt the fog nip at his lighter flame.

You're buried there ... if I'm killed in the war what then? If all of us die ... not a bad idea. Not a bad idea!

He shrugged his shoulders and the shrug brought back painful memories of tank fatigue.

He blew smoke into the fog.

Lights in the windows of the Ronde place--vague in shape and size--recalled his Ithaca home: his dad's insurance policy had made it a reality.

Orville picked up a stone, considered it, dropped it.

I can arrange my papers ... Jeannette will be the beneficiary ... she can purchase a house in Wisconsin, for Mr. William J. Bruce, geometry teacher, football star ... three bedrooms ... split level ... nice ... or nice Ithacan place, by the wine dark sea!

What was that in the fog? Was it fear?

Fear gleaming out there?

Jean has faith, faith in man, faith in us. Lena has faith in the Maquis. Therese has faith in the past.

Maybe we ask too much of life.

Freedom?

What sort of freedom?

Rousseau's?

He flipped his cigarette into the fog and heard it spit derisively.

He walked until late and Lena was sitting in the living room, when he returned.

"Join me, Orv. Have something with me. Mom went to bed a long time ago ... I've been sitting here, reading. Cognac? Cordial? Whiskey?" She regarded him intently, his fog wet hat and jacket. "I guess it's still very foggy," she said, stroking her cat, wanting Orville to sit down next to her.

"It's getting foggier," he said, standing in front of her, removing his hat and jacket.

"I don't like foggy weather," she said. "The airmen ... their missions--you know."

He dropped hat and jacket on a chair.

Lena and her angora, cousin Lena in yellow sweater, Persian slacks, a bird-pin at her throat, barefooted, ponytailed: she smiled the smile of long ago. But there was no turning back.

"I wish we hadn't changed," she said.

"Yes, of course ... but we've changed," he admitted.

"What can we do?"

"Nothing ... but if we could..."

"I was sixteen when you were here last. I was just a kid. Seven years ago ... a hell of a lot of years, with a war tossed in."

"I wondered about coming back ... about us."

"Who escapes change? Half the time Mama's disoriented ... Papa isn't the same..."

"I hear that you're one of the Maquis."

"Maybe better than a convent," she jibed. "More exciting ... do you disapprove? An honest answer."

"I disapprove of a lot of things but it doesn't matter in the least," he said, sitting beside her, making the cat relinquish a little space.

"Your girl is a fighter," Lena said.

"Fighting for men's lives."

"We Maquis fight for men's lives!" she exclaimed, her eyes glassy, and narrow-slitted: she was recalling her last parachute drop. "Better than capitulation! Better than fraternization!"

"I know, I know ... a great job! A tough job. I've heard some things! Without you ... it would be that much longer ... cost more lives ... I know!"

She puttered with whiskey that Claude had brought in. Standing in front of Orville she noticed that his wet clothes made his sex conspicuous. She felt his equal, as friend, as lover. As friend and equal she could confide her Maquis experiences: as part of the Ronde family, its military background, she admired his "uniform": they had much in common: she had been his Amelie.

"Take off your wet shoes ... don't you want to change? How about something? ... Your favorites are ready." Stooping, she touched his shoulder, her fingers moving along his collar, moving to his face. "Let's try to go on as we were ... We read our Atala and Rene by the lake. So, we lived two hundred years ago, climbed the hills, sailed our lake ... ours was all sweetness, as Chateaubriand would say."

Yet as she said this she wanted Orville naked, wanted herself naked, both of them lying by the fire. Lifting the cat onto her lap, she folded her feet under her skirt, and said:

"How's Jean?"

She was annoyed and amused by her own contradictions: perhaps it was two hundred wars ago they had been Chateaubriand's characters. Atala, a foolish fabrication. For that matter, so was the Rousseau legend: there had been little in that man's philosophy for her these last few years.

"How's Jeannette?" she repeated, envious of their love affair.

"She's okay ... do you see her now and then?"

"Now and then."

"Like her?"

"Not really."

"Are you away from Ermenonville a lot?"

"Yes ... and I don't know much about Jeannette ... she has her job."

Sipping his whiskey, he let his eyes wander: the Chopin bust, the tapestry, the books, the fireplaces, the girl. Bending forward, he wet his lips with his tongue.

Raising her glass, Lena began to sketch in the Maquis she worked with: she found them eccentric, unscrupulous, some of them capable, some over-dedicated: as she talked she appreciated Orville: he was Orv: most everything about him pleased her, his unbuttoned shirt, his wet clothes, the way he smoked, the way he talked, his family accent.

Impulsively, in a gentle voice, she began sharing her own life, her life in Paris:

" ... When I'm in Paris I stay most of the time at the Maison Croix ... no suspicions there ... part of the old place has been converted into a hospital ... ambulances ... men coming and going ... doctors ... Maquis ... I was in Marseilles for about a month, stayed with Dad. In Paris I usually stay with a fellow ... we share ... Charles Chabrun ... we sleep together..." She laughed at herself: it was a little like telling him that she had grown up.

The rose-grey Bravort rug stretched out from under her and her angora, its weave intricate and worn, a thing of flowers and wandering blue. Behind her, framed in narrow gold, matted in grey, was a 17th century Chinese waterfall, pointed rocks, clouds. Beyond it the tapestry from boyhood days--Galahad and the Grail.

Orville felt some of these things and they seemed a part of her face, part of her eyes (as he listened), her guilty eyes, the eyes of war. When she brought a tray of food and knelt in front of him he bent over and kissed her passionately.

Aware of his luck, he avoided, with the grin of a hypnotist, the words he could never say, both rapport and frustration.

"Lena?"

"Yes..."

"Can I have your car tomorrow ... Jean and I?"

"Of course you can. Claude will have it fixed I'm sure. It must be difficult to get away from the hospital these days ... so many wounded."

Did he know about the gas chambers at Auschwitz? Did he know about Dachau? We Maquis know ... we ... could he guess how often I cried after he left E ... does he know? ...

"Tomorrow," he managed to say, but now he was afraid, afraid of himself, ambivalence taking over, he continued eating goodies from the tray but the break had come.

She noticed his twisted mouth, his uncertain fingers.

"I'll find us some dance music ... I'll turn on the radio ... dance with me, Orv." Then, she blurted: "Orv, are you really in love with her?"

"I helped get her out of London ... Uncle Victor helped me get her out ... we couldn't leave her to those blitzes. Do you love ... do you really love anyone, Lena? Do any of us really love, any more? Hasn't life become rotted?"

"What are you saying?" she asked, evasively.

"Nothing ... nothing..."

He put down his glass and got up and went to the piano; he had not touched a piano for over a year and he had no notion of touching this one; he wanted to be near it, thinking, for the moment, as he stood by it, of his mother, missing her. In Ithaca their piano had become impotent, had given way to the radio. Unsatisfactory--like altering one's name.

He rubbed his face with both hands.

(Landel had said ... Zinc had said.)

Without seeing Lena, he walked about the room, hesitated by the Chopin bust, lingered in front of the fireplaces; then, rubbing his hands together roughly, shrugging his shoulders, he said, "Good night."

From the stairway, he called:

"See you tomorrow."

That wasn't his voice, Lena told herself. She listened to his steps, going up: two, four, five, eight: life was that way now: automation: death. The click of his bedroom door was the click of Amelie's door: with cold hands she fondled her cat, speculating about tomorrow, the uncertain tomorrows, if there were to be many of them? Softening the radio music, she remained on her knees, fingering dials, longing for Orville.

Orville switched on his bed lamp, and the rack of guns, the fishing tackle, the mounted bass over his bed appeared with a kind of jabbing abruptness. Jean had laughed at his trophy--his Nonette prize. He wished he had her in his room, had her sexiness.

Copies of Le Matin and Combat lay on the bed table and he rustled through them, sitting on the side of the bed, seeing Lena's body catwise. What changes. What irony. Something like double laughter ran through his brain.

He began undressing.

He called himself a fool.

A Rousseau thought came to mind:

"The innocent plans of the good hardly ever find fulfillment." Was that how it went?

Innocence in E?

In Ithaca, life had been innocent enough. Back there, there were thoughts of office plans, gas station blueprints, residential plans. At Cornell, he had a few things pretty well figured out. Not pat, yet ... well ... that new system for track was a good system, based on a series of camera studies of runners: position of the hands while running, the length of the stride: careful correlation had to be established: the same sort of studies for the crew, each oarsman photo fixed, the angles of his oar ...

He dropped his socks on the carpet.

When I was a freshman I used to wear a copper medallion with Rousseau's face stamped on it.

A news sheet fell on the floor and he kicked it aside; at the bottom of the page, in large type, he noticed war news of his arena.

No ... it's my leave ... goddamn the war!

Let them blow themselves up!

All the tanks can go to hell!

Zinc and Landel!

I've got a girl ... a redhead ... calm face ... freckles on her shoulders!

He felt her hand between his legs.

In bed, the lamp out, he saw the fog creeping along the Nonette, he saw a man walking along the river, he saw ... a door banged on the floor below and everything became more illusive, with the radio playing faintly.

Perhaps in the morning ...

Perhaps in the afternoon ...

In the afternoon he called for Jeanette, the gas tank of the old Renault half full; it was a warm, sunny afternoon, more summer than autumn; Bichain had tuned, washed, and polished the car. Agreeing with his suggestions, Orville was to drive a certain route (no Nazi interference). The car buzzed along and then, at the hospital, it refused to budge another inch.

Mme. Ronde, who spent many hours caring for the wounded, appeared on the hospital steps; she said:

"You two walk a while ... be together ... that old car! But you know it's going to rain soon ... when it rains come to the house ... we'll have tea."

And it worked out like that.

She was a true provincial: she had to show Orville that she was more than his aunt, that she was an all-out American:

"Jeannette, you from Visconseen ... I know where 'tis on our maps," she said, in her rough English. With her effusiveness she asked about Wisconsin, the winter sports: was it true the state had so many lakes: was it true that it got fearfully cold there in winter: was the snow deep?

As they drank tea in the living room, Orville sank into himself, the women talking E talk, a silver bowl of dahlias between them: a sense of vacuum haunted him: naked superficiality seemed to surround until scalding tea soaked into his body: the dignity of the old room came to his rescue.

When the phone jangled, he jerked about in his chair.

"When our phone rings it bothers me too," Jeannette said.

Mme. Ronde answered the ring, saying it was Pierre Valeriaud.

"Pierre wanted to apologize for being intoxicated when he was here--he's a pretty nice man." As she lifted her cup, her facial expression became set, almost pained, as if this was something medicinal she was drinking.

In her ladderback chair she seemed to overfill it: for a while she had nothing to say: drinking her tea, biting sandwiches, she might have been a peasant overwhelmed by work or tragedy. When Claude entered and announced three priests, Mme. Ronde was displeased:

"They're men who help with refugees!" she exclaimed, and stalked off. "Have them sit in the dining room ... I have to go upstairs for a list."

While she was gone, Orville found Claude and asked him about the bikes: were they stored in the barn, in the house? Have they been used a lot?

"We've been using them ... there's not always gasoline ... I'll get the key. They're in the linen room. The tires are new. Lena has used one bike for a while. I guess a little oil might help--if we can find any oil."

Key in hand, Claude led Jean and Orville to a small windowless room, behind the kitchen; as Bichain unlocked the door, Orville felt her face against his; his mouth sought hers. The door unlocked with a pop, letting out the smell of soap and fabric.

"We kept our bikes in our barn," Jean said, following Orville inside.

"Big barn?"

"Three cow barn."

Bare light bulbs illuminated shelves of household things.

"There they are," said Claude.

"How are the tires?" Jean asked. "Enough air? Hmm, this one's hard enough."

"How about the rear wheel?" Orville asked. He checked the tire and checked the hand brakes as Claude tried another bike, other tires.

"Let's go," Orville said.

"Where?"

"The park ... along the Nonette."

"Okay."

As he wheeled a bike outside, Orville put together other rides, alone, or with Lena, or with Marcel or some school pal ... no details, just the realization that there had been so many pleasant rides, sun and countryside, picking apples, birds in hedges, chickens and dogs.

"I've got a good bike," Jean said.

"I don't want a girl's bike," Orville said.

"Okay."

Laughing, she mounted and was first away from the house, wishing they could ride a dozen times, ride to nearby places, Senlis maybe: France was bike country: and war controls were lax around Ermenonville.

"I'll lead the way," she sang out.

"Let's ride along the Nonette, to the forest..."

He had a British bike, hers was Swiss; both were scarred, squeaky at the fenders, slack-chained; with worn hand grips. They rode side by side down a slight slope, willows along one side, the four turrets of the chateau visible. The Petit Lac winked a blue wink. Tiled roofs sloped about a stand of chestnuts; a weather vane rose above trees; someone, at a dilapidated farm, had a pen jammed with swine and the swine squealed as the bikers rode past.

The Nonette's rows of willows appeared copper grey--cloud shadowed. The river had a few white swans at a curve and beyond the curve some men were rowing in a white rowboat. The water slid under a stone bridge and they biked across the bridge and followed a cobbled road.

"It's rough," Jean said. "Ride slowly."

"It's the best we can do."

On the bike road the wagon-car-truck ruts had tall grass between them; the surface was smooth; his handlebars looked down on her squatty ones as they peddled. He thought her dress amusingly sedate, hardly a dress for cycling, but then she hadn't planned to ride.

"When did you ride a bike last?"

"I dunno ... years ago, I guess."

As they rode she felt more and more at ease: it was fun knocking at weeds and grass with the pedals: all of a sudden France became USA, became Wisconsin, not foreignness, not isolation. The rooster on a fence, the dog barking at someone's gate, crows flying: weren't they home?

"This way, darling. Our path ends at a farm."

"Coming."

The sun was out now.

Someone's windmill squawked rustily as their route narrowed and ended at a barbed wire fence: the windmill vanished behind trees, behind time.

Orville got off his bike alongside a stile and laid the bike on the road; Jeannette leaned her handlebars against the wire of the fence. Beyond them, a field of grass stretched to another fence line, a smooth, green field, anchored in space by a red mowing machine deserted for the season.

"I used to mow hay in this field," he said.

"By hand?"

"Sure thing."

She climbed onto the stile and sat beside him, the weathered planks shaky, beetles crawling about under the bottom step ... Chuck had collected beetles as a kid ... Chuck would like it here, sitting in the sun.

"Now ... now where?" she made herself ask.

"Across the field," he said.

"Your aunt said it may rain."

"We can't let a little thing like rain stop us."

"I'm game."

"Give me your hand."

"What about our bikes?"

"Nobody will bother them."

"Wait ... not so fast. My skirt's tight."

"Jump."

A field of grass: after the tank corps any field was inviting. In Ithaca, fields had extended toward the lake, downslope, fields between residences and groves: High above Cayuga's waters ... the Cornell song twanged for an instant.

He led the way.

Jeannette thought him handsome in his floppy trousers, tight striped jacket. How far off the hospital and its wounded! Orville, she said to herself. "Orv, Orv!" she said, as they walked through grass. Rushing forward she grabbed him, spun him around, and kissed him.

"You'd make a good tackle!"

"On your team."

He gestured:

"Over here there's a shed, if it hasn't been torn down ... see, there it is. That's it."

The shed was three-sided: a cattle feeder and temporary shelter, made of discarded timber and mismatched shingles, something flung together years ago, just high enough to walk under. As Orville and Jean stepped inside swallows flew away.

"It's nice and dry," Orville said. "It would be swell if we could picnic here ... there's a little spring nearby ... I like it here."

"I like it too."

Someone had left a horse blanket rumpled on the bench; straw and hay littered the floor, the place smelled of timothy and clover and cattle.

"You can stand there if you want to," she said. "I'm sitting down ... taking off my clothes." She was laughing at his expression, laughing with anticipation. "I'll get my clothes off before you get yours off. Do you want us to be sedate?"

As she undressed she noticed a pencil of clouds, the scattered hay and straw, the horse blanket: she knew how she was going to spread the blanket, where there was a little sun.

She wanted to say, darling, I love you, but busied herself with her clothes.

He had nothing to say: there was something in this nudity, this love-making, that perplexed him, annoyed him: as he took off his clothes he felt he was some sort of damn puritan: lying beside Jean he was more interested, for a moment, in the swallows as they returned.

Picking up a straw he stuck it between his teeth; he picked up a straw and stuck it into her mouth. Giggling, she took away his straw and substituted her own. Bending over him; she said:

"Bite it."

He bit the straw, staring into her face.

"Now."

She bit the straw and he pulled.

The game was on. They had to stifle their own laughter. Straw and hay got onto their bodies. Straws caught in her hair and fell on her shoulders, freckles and straws ... he was captivated ... his mouth covered hers. She rolled him off. Her fragrance came to him as he lay on her.

"Here's where a mosquito bit you," she said.

They were lying side by side.

"Here's where a flea bit you," he said.

The sun blinked out as they played.

He imagined her in Switzerland, at St. Peter's, old Rome's St. Peter's: domes, arches, pillars and bleeding crosses: they were camped on tiny St. Peter's island: silence, meadows, woods ... where Rousseau had been happy ... where ...

"You're lost to me ... you've drifted away ... where were you?" she objected.

"I was thinking of a trip with you ... Switzerland ... look, look there's a wad of hay in your belly button." And he crumpled some hay and filled her button.

"Love you ... love you ... love you!" she exclaimed.

Queer, he thought, queer about Lena, about us. We used to have fun. Did a lot of wacky things. At school together ... played ... sang together.

"How long will you be with me, Orv?"

The question troubled him.

"Two more days," he said. "Almost two days..."

"I didn't want to ask ... but..."

She avoided his eyes--faced the extensive field.

She felt herself fall away from him, fall through the present, parachute into far, nobody left, only the wounded, her drab quarters in the hospital: wash basin, neglected walls, dirty windows, cracked door, outworn throw rug.

He thought of Lena:

"She has a lover in Paris," he said.

"Who has?"

"Lena..."

"But we have each other ... so..."

"We have forty-eight hours ... ah no ... it doesn't do to count ... We..."

"Can't you stay longer?"

"You know I can't--it's impossible! And Lena ... she wants me to sleep with her." He half heard his own words, resenting them, resenting Lena's influence.

"Who does?" Jeannette was stalling: trying to erase the fact.

"Lena."

"Orv ... you're kidding..."

But she knew he was not kidding. But now, now she wanted to put on her clothes, the playful sex mood was over, she wanted to take her skirt and blouse off the nail, hide her sex. The hay and straw became ugly: why was she such a fool, risking pregnancy again? And in this stable! At this time! She was the biggest ass in France! Then, in spite of herself, in spite of her reasoning, she yanked her body over his and hugged him desperately, kissed him desperately, aware of the weeks ahead without him.

Like Chuck ... another blindness!

All right, then another blindness.

Chuck, Chuck, where are we?

"Hold me, love me love me," she begged.

He cuddled her, mouth to her shoulder, fingers exploring, enjoying her warmth, fumbling at the same time for something had spattered in his brain: a voice, then, a roar, the pressure of fighting, Landel at his cannon, Zinc and his machine gun, all the impotence of violence.

He watched her get dressed.

She was no longer his.

Buttoning the cuff of her blouse, she asked:

"Where will you be fighting ... your Corps?

"Germany."

Eyelids pinched tight, as she slipped on her skirt, she tried to pray, a prayer from her childhood, a prayer her Lutheran pastor had taught: nonsensical, not labelled for adultery, unlabelled for war.

"Will your hospital job get any easier?" he asked, pulling on his sock, sitting on the bench.

"I hope so..."

Dear Orv, I want to be your wife, I want to give you everything you want. Orv, I want to make things easy for you. I want us to have kids. I want us to be happy. It might really happen to us ... we can't tell. Maybe a farm, a Wisconsin farm, nine acres, white house, red barn, maple trees, pines, birch.

"There's a lot of hay in Wisconsin," she said, in a strained voice, wishing to say something amusing, maybe something sensible.

Orville nodded.

He was slipping on his shirt.

Crows specked the sky ... the swallows were above the field. The sun was much cooler, ready to blink out behind clouds.

I'll take her to Ithaca, to Mom's house--for a few days. Mom will love her. We'll hunt for an apartment. I'd rather get started in Ithaca than anywhere else. There used to be a little apartment on Landfair ... pretty good place ...

He was purchasing his ticket for the train to Paris, he was showing his fake ID, answering questions. The ticket agent was saying ... Kissing Jean, he forced himself to memorize her overcoat, its scarlet lining, the row of crummy buttons; he made himself memorize her rundown shoes, her wrinkled felt hat ...

Lena and Aunt Therese were standing close to the scaled walls of the depot, smudged plaster, egg yolk plaster: they were standing side by side, Therese crying.

"Write to me if you can," Jeannette said.

"I will."

"Take care of yourself.'"

"I will ... you, the same ... good-bye..."

"Au revoir."

His brain was scrambling words in French and English, asking questions: wasn't there something more he should tell Jeannette? Wasn't there something he could say to Lena? Wasn't there a word for Therese?

Astride a shabby suitcase, hating the Nazi uniforms around him, inside the beat-up train, he gazed at tiny E through filthy windows: the locomotive jerked pathetically, jerked faces, cobbles, swastikas, and tiled roofs.

3

Dennison examined the lanky civic tower of the town of Bretten, across the Roer River: he noticed the Teutonic coat-of-arms on its tiled side, the ivy climbing its brick walls. He guessed the tower might be 12th century. The clock face was of bronze and brass. The time was 8:10. Lowering his binoculars, he checked the buildings below the tower, then he studied the expanse of hedgerows between the town and the river.

"Can we get through those goddamn hedgerows?" Landel shouted.

"Yes," Dennison yelled.

As he raised his binoculars, at 8:12, he saw the tower explode: the disintegration directly inside the lens appalled him: dust burst from the ancient bricks and mortar, the big clock leaned, crumpled, its gears protruded, a hand tore off, brass inlay twisted, ivy rippled and fell. Bronze and brass gears shot upward, outward, pitched down onto roof tops, accompanied by a shower of debris.

Dennison lowered his binoculars, feeling that he had seen time destroyed: he said nothing.

A series of explosions ripped across the town as the heavy U.S. bombardment got under way: roofs collapsed, walls collapsed, fires broke out, smoke enveloped streets. With another glance at the base of the clock tower, Dennison leaned against his tank and witnessed the destruction as wave after wave of bombers dropped from a mackerel sky. He was architect enough to gauge the losses and realize how costly it would be to reconstruct after such bombings.

And the guys in those houses ... had they been born for that kind of death? Where was man's dignity? His sanity? Landel had a broad grin on his face: it said let the whole lousy German country blow up like this!

The Nazis have had it coming to them, had it coming to them for years: fucking around with their militarism! Bastard Hitler! Jew killer! Maniac!

Landel was sorry the war was drawing to a close.

Bretten ... what a sleazy town!

He timed their advance, eager to push on and crash his tank against opposition: kill. He wished he could invade Germany at the command of a tank division!

Zinc was tightening bolts on the hedge blades: large knives the crew had fixed across the front: without them it was impossible to buck the hedges. The blades gleamed in the bombed sun. Zinc's face shone, clean and fresh: after several days of good food and sleep he appeared rested. The length and toughness of the blades were in contrast to his jockey-built body and boyish face. Helmet on the ground, the wind whipped his hair.

Lord, Lord, he said to himself, they're sure as hell wipin' out that pretty town ... listen ... listen. Ah, there goes a rough one. There's another! Jesus! Yet he did not pause to watch.

Bolts tight, he opened the tank turret and dropped inside, started the engine and began dickering with the carburetor, adjusting it to a faster, more dependable idle. Swiftly, expertly, he dumped in two quarts of oil--tossing away the empties.

Good engine, good V-8, good horses, good wiring.

They had twenty-two machines ready for this attack, most of them parked in a ruined dockyard along the Roer: tumbled bricks, fallen beams, smashed glass everywhere: four-by-fours, bent girders, bent pipes, and mauled boats around: a life preserver dangled from a post near Zinc: HEINRICH VARNA was lettered in red.

Orville, Zinc and Landel had tank 9: a fifteen ton Lee, measuring twenty by eight, nine feet high at the turret. 9 was tough, battered, lame on the port side. Rough terrain had knocked off some of her grousers. Zinc knew how to nurse the Chrysler engine but it drank excess water and extra oil. Her armament was first rate: her machine guns had been reconditioned and a new 78 cannon had been installed--for Landel.

Zinc lit a cigarette under the open turret, feet dangling from the driver's seat.

Jesus, god, we ought to be on our way--they don't know how to coordinate nuthin'--them brass. Peeling a stick of gum he chewed it quickly, spitting on the floor, longing for his 18-footer, slipped on the Vermillion River. As neat a boat as any! She could tack round like a frog.

With Millie they had sailed across Lake Erie, good ole windy Erie ... sunny weather, lie back, drink beer, toss the cans over ... Millie crawlin' over me, unzipping my zipper ... ah, Millie ... Millie ... good Buckeye kid ...

Suppose she's moved away by now: she said she was gonna move ... in her last letter ... job with the county welfare ... what a screwy kid ... beer and more beer ... but she wasn't fat ... now, now do you want to make me pregnant!

She liked it when we went to the synagogue ... Isaac, when you get back, sure ... you'll see, it was better to wait till after the war.

She'll have my letter pretty soon.

Okay, okay ... there's the signal: now, we'll move forward, we'll settle that dumb town, clean it up proper ... okay, I got the signal ... yeah, I've bolted the turret ... okay, Dennison, you okay? Okay, Captain? Okay ...

Caterpillar fashion the tanks crawled from the dockyard and headed for a pontoon bridge across the river: radio reported it should be a routine crossing, keep to the center, the artillery will throw in everything for cover.

The road leading to the bridge had craters and shelled potholes. Fog appeared.

Landel complained bitterly.

The bridge wobbled.

9 shook the planking violently: Dennison clung to his controls, feeling that the bus might keel over on the port side; the motor went sluggish; treads dragged; a Sherman in front of 9 bent the flooring; swayed, then shot ahead.

Say, Dennison thought, that guy's good. Send him to Indianapolis!

Waiting for radio communications, he leaned against the seat and wet his lips with his tongue. Crooked springs in the cushion jabbed him and he tried to avoid them by inching to one side. He wanted a drink. He wanted to rush across the bridge, rush through the town, finish. Wasn't this crossing something Napoleonic?

Through his periscope he tried to penetrate the smoke that hovered over Bretten: he remembered the pattern of hedgerows and remembered the route they had to follow to knife their way through: the rows worried him: supposing their engine conked.

There was a dangerous delay on the bridge, the pontoons fluctuating, exhausts smoking, GI's streaming past on the starboard, jogging by the hundreds. What's the delay, fussed Landel. He roared on the intercom.

Carefully, Dennison eased 9 along, working the carburetor gingerly: he edged to the starboard, increasing his speed little by little, fighting for space with the jogging GI's.

"We'll make it ... we'll get across," he muttered through the phone. "Here we go again! Hang on! Nah, have to cut speed ... have to give those guys a chance ... better run it on the center ... better chance ... won't tilt ... won't tilt..."

"Slow ... slower," Landel yelled. "Watch it ... watch it!"

The bridge had submerged as they approached the town, water sloshed across, brown, crawling with oil slicks.

A GI, wearing an orange helmet, gun belted, wigwagged the route into town. Yet water deepened and chunks of wood floated across the pontoons in front of Dennison. He wallowed through a quagmire at the last pontoon; down she dropped to solid ground with a terrific bump; slobbering and smoking she climbed a grade, the hedges to the right.

Would the terrain support her weight?

Were there minefields?

Word had gotten around that the Nazis were to stage a last ditch stand here: SS troops, reserves, god knew what all: the engineers had had ample time to plant mines, there was no doubt about that: earlier Landel had picked up radio warnings: three divisions in the vicinity. Now it was mud, smoke, hedgerows, hedgerows, with red leaves, red hedgerows raked by gunfire.

A week or so ago the Corps had lost eight tanks to skillfully laid mines and tank traps.

Dennison braked and brought 9 around to avoid a pile of rocks a farmer had heaped up for a boundary.

"Hedgerow," Landel belted through the phone.

"Okay!"

Does the fool think I'm blind?

Slicing through the first was rough: branches and leaves swept over the periscope and viewer, climbed onto the cab, then toppled to one side. The ground held. They climbed toward Bretten. Smoke foamed out of a tree. A shell exploded. Climbing higher, 9 ran into machine gun fire. Dennison snaked the bus, falling, rising, smashing bushes. Leaning forward in his seat he tried to say something to Landel.

Landel grabbed the butt of his gun: he had no notion of being caught: if the Nazi gunners raked their underbelly it would not be because he was slow: where were they: camouflaged: over there, higher, behind those bushes ... yes?

A tank appeared, off starboard, a Pershing, traveling fast.

Zinc detected riflemen behind a hedge: through a slot in the smoke he shot low, retracing, raising the muzzle, screaming his anger as he triggered the gun.

"You won't get away ... I've got you..." he yelled.

9's motor was working hard: she was doing her best at 8 mph, the heat increasing, hitting against the white walls, oozing out the ports, clogging the ceiling: African, German heat. Heat of combat swung the machine.

Landel's burst, as Dennison cut through a hedgerow, accounted for men at an anti-tank gun: the men were assembling it, one was rigging the tripod, another hoisting the barrel: gun, knapsacks, rifles, and ammunition spun into the air. Machinegun slugs plowed into a fellow as he attempted to flee. With a half turn, Dennison rolled over the gun crew and crushed men and gun.

A shell burst beside 9.

Another detonation, and they were in the midst of a barrage, explosive forces yanking at the treads, hammering at the armor plate, slugging mud and gravel against the turret, smoke and acid penetrating inside.

The tank rocking, Dennison stopped until the smoke cleared: they stripped to the waist and dumped their shirts on seats and floor. The sky crackled. The sky flamed. Dennison let the engine idle--he felt the pressure of shellfire on his skull, outside and inside his skull.

Landel was firing: the recoil of his gun made him snap open his mouth and hang his jaw. The cab reeked of cordite and powder.

Move ... advance, Landel signalled.

Dennison worked the tank over rough ground, butting, rearing. He beat his hands on his knees to limber them. A shell hole gaped directly in front; he swung his bus expertly. His mind was numb: he was unafraid: he felt he would get Landel and Zinc through. When the tank stalled, the treads circling, circling, Dennison swore shrilly.

His hands felt greasy and he rubbed then over his trousers and on the seat cushion.

Landel signalled:

Left

Dennison watched the compass fluctuate, watched the gas gauge, the engine temperature: heat was climbing.

Smoke bombs were dropping.

Some bastard should bob up with a flame thrower, he told himself. Here he comes from behind that hedge. Look at those infantrymen retreating ... now we'll cross that plowed field ... other M4's ... cross together ... what did they raise here, wheat? Isn't that a horse over there, across the field?

As they advanced it was curious how the smoke trapped them and then exposed them. Several houses appeared out of the smoke trap; riflemen fronted one of the houses; others rushed into a small barn; a geyser of earth and smoke replaced the barn.

Dennison grinned when the barn disappeared.

He observed a grove of elm trees: are we lost? No grove was indicated on the maps! He tried to signal Landel but a plunge of the machine almost pitched him out of his seat. Shellfire sprayed white, like flung salt, over the line of vision.

Not on any map!

Up front someone was signalling: standing in the path of their tank he waved both arms. An officer? Some Nazi trick, Dennison thought. Then he saw another GI and identified them as Americans. The nearest GI had his helmet squashed over his eyes; stooping, he pointed to the ground. Hands upraised, he signalled stop.

Without hesitating he rushed to their bus and beat on a forward port. Landel let him inside.

"Minefields," the GI screamed.

"What?" Landel yelled. "Can't hear!"

"Minefield!" the sergeant yelled.

"Louder."'

The fellow grabbed at Landel's leg pad and scribbled on it: