“Yeah. Some frog general gave it to me.”
“What’d you do?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Well, you must ‘ye done something, trooper, that hot stuff in the French Army. Say, could I impose on you? I’m writing this piece on the battle, you know, kind of the big picture of what happened. Can I read it to you, you bein’ there and all?”
Keegan nodded. “Sure.”
Rudman had sat there, reading from his tattered papers, stopping occasionally to scratch out a correction or take a sip of coffee as Keegan listened in awe, not because the words were that stunning, although it was clear that Rudman knew how to write, but because for the first time he understood the panorama of the battle he had been part of the decisions made by the officers, the attacks and counterattacks, the strategy and terrible price that had been paid to drive the Germans back across the Marne and break their march toward Paris.
He was struck by the realization that what had been a traumatic and monumental moment in his life had been an infinitesimal part of the battle, by the insignificance of his part in the brutal encounter. And as Rudman read on, the story gathered a kind of chilling energy unto itself and Keegan began to feel its power.
“Belleau Wood is silent now,” Rudman said, wrapping up the lengthy tome. “What was once a beautiful picnic spot has been reduced to tree stubs, great gaping holes in the ground, and mud. It is as if the earth itself at Chateau-Thierry has been mortally wounded and lies bleeding at the fret of the victors.
“Perhaps this is the beginning of the end for the Germans who sought this war and have paid so dearly for it. For white our victories are clear, the cause of this war is still clouded and obscure. Perhaps we will learn that from the peace, for until we understand why this war happened, we can never be sure it will not happen again.”
He looked over at Keegan, who sat speechless.
“Well, what you think?”
“Why, it’s great. Just great, “Keegan said softly and took a deep, slow breath. “They really call us Devil Hounds ?“
“You bet. You boys fought like hell out there. And you really think it’s good, the story I mean?”
Keegan nodded emphatically.
“Okay. O kay! Say, what ‘d you say your name was again?”
“Francis Keegan.”
Rudman scribbled a phone number and tore it off the bottom of one of the sheets of paper.
“Look here, Francis, here’s my number. You get back to Paris, call me. We’ll have dinner together, on the Trib.”
“Can I bring my buddy? He lost an eye in the fight.”
“An eye! Goddamn those Krauts! Why, sure enough, bring him along, we’ll make a night of it. And say, thanks for listening, okay?”
“Sure. Thanks for letting me hear it.”
“No kidding,” Keegan finally said. “A cow Lam, eh. No plaque or anything to commemorate the occasion?”
“Nothing but a salt lick.”
“I’m insulted,” Keegan said. “Are you insulted?”
“Cut to the quick.”
“So they’ve got you covering politics now, huh?”
Rudman nodded, “Hear about Hitler’s speech in Munich?”
“He makes a speech every time his auto stalls.”
“Not like this one. Talk about choreography? They were climbing the walls before he was through. You could hear the mob heiling Hitler in Brooklyn. It was scary. I still get goose pimples thinking about it. He’s got something, this guy. He’s dangerous, Francis. Did you read my piece on Munich?”
“I read it,” Keegan said.
“And... ?“
“A little hysterical.”
“Hysterical! Have you seen him? Heard him speak?”
“Sure. That line about Hitler being a demonic vision of God was lovely. Keep writing stuff like that you’ll lose your visa—or end up with a bullet in the back.”
“Now who’s being hysterical? They’re not going to fool around with the Herald Trib.”
