'Me?' said Noah. Then, because he knew Burnecker was depending upon him, 'I'm going through the hedge,' he whispered. 'I don't think Demuth ought to stay here.' He waited for one of the other men to whisper something to Demuth. Nobody whispered anything.
'OK,' Noah said. He started through the hedge. He got through it quietly, with the wet branches flicking drops of water on his face. The road suddenly seemed very wide. It was badly rutted, too, and the rubber soles of his shoes slipped in the middle and he nearly fell. There was a soft jangle of metal as he lurched to right himself, but there was nothing else to do but go forward. He could see a break in the hedge where a tank had gone through and broken down the wiry boughs. The break was fifteen yards or so down the road, and he walked crouched over, near the edge of the road, feeling naked and exposed. He could hear the other men crunching behind him. He thought of Demuth, lying alone on the other side of the road, and he wondered how Demuth was feeling at that moment, solitary and full of surrender, waiting for the first light of dawn and the first German who looked as though he had heard of the Geneva Convention.
Far behind him he heard the clatter of the BAR. Rickett, who never surrendered anything, cursing and firing from the upstairs bedroom window.
Then a tommy-gun opened up. It sounded as though it was no more than twenty yards away, and the flashes in front of them were plain and savage. There were shouts in German, and other guns opened fire. Noah could hear the nervous whining of the bullets around his head as he ran, noisily and swiftly, to the opening in the hedge and hurled himself through it. He could hear the other men running behind him, their feet drumming wildly on the clay, and thrashing heavily through the stubborn barrier of the hedge. The firing grew in volume, and there were tracers from a hundred yards down the road, but the tracers were far over their heads. Somehow it gave Noah a sense of comfort and security, to see the wasted ammunition flaming past through the branches of the trees.
He was out in a field now. He ran straight across the field, with the others after him. Tracers were criss- crossing in front of him aimlessly, and there were loud surprised shouts in German off to the left, but there didn't seem to be any really aimed fire anywhere near them. Noah could feel his breath soggy and burning in his lungs, and he seemed to be running with painful slowness. Mines, he remembered hazily, there are mines all over Normandy. Then he saw some moving figures loom in the darkness ahead of him and he nearly fired, on the run. But the figures made a low animal sound and he got a glimpse of horns rearing up to the sky. Then he was running among four or five cows, away from the firing, being jostled by the wet flanks, smelling the heavy milky odour. Then a cow was hit and went down. He stumbled over it and lay on the other side of it. The cow kicked convulsively and tried to get up, but couldn't and rolled over again. The other men fled past Noah, and Noah got up again and ran after them.
His lungs were sobbing again and it didn't seem possible that he could take another step. But he ran, standing straight up now, regardless of the bullets, because the biting, driving pain across his middle did not permit him to bend over any more.
He passed first one racing figure, then another and another. He could hear the other men's breath sawing in their nostrils. Even as he ran he was surprised that he could move so fast, outdistance the others.
The thing was to get across the field to the other line of hedges, the other ditch, before the Germans turned a light on them…
But the Germans were not in any mood to light up any part of the country that night, and their fire diminished vaguely and sporadically. Noah trotted the last twenty yards to the line of hedge rising blackly against the sky, with trees rearing up at spaced intervals from the thick foliage. He threw himself to the ground. He lay there, panting, the air whistling into his lungs. One by one the other men threw themselves down beside him. They all lay there, face down, gripping the wet earth, fighting for breath, unable to speak. Above their heads there was a whining arch of tracers. Then the tracers suddenly veered and came down in the other corner of the field. There was a frantic bellowing and thumping of hooves from that end of the field and a shout in German, distant and angry, and the machine-gunner stopped killing the cows.
Then there was silence, broken only by the dry gasping of the four men.
After a long while, Noah sat up. There, registered some distant, untouched, calculating part of his brain, I'm the first one again. Riker, Cowley, he thought with a remote childishness that had nothing to do with the sweaty, heaving man sitting bent over on the dark ground, Riker, Cowley, Demuth, Rickett, they'll have to apologize to me for the things they did in Florida…
'Well,' Noah said coolly, 'let's go on down to the PX. Burnecker,' Noah whispered crisply, as he stood up 'take hold of my belt with one hand, and Cowley, you hold Burnecker's, and Riker, you hold Cowley's, so we don't get lost.'
Obediently, the men stood up and took hold of each other's belts. Then, in single file, with Noah in front, they started out through the darkness towards the long fiery pencil-lines on the horizon.
It was just at dawn that they saw the prisoners. It was light enough so that it was no longer necessary to hold on to each other's belts, and they were lying behind a hedge, getting ready to cross a narrow paved road, when they heard the steady, unmistakable shuffle of feet drawing near.
A moment later the column of about sixty Americans came into view. They were walking slowly, in a shambling careless way, with six Germans with tommy-guns guarding them. They passed within ten feet of Noah. He looked closely at their faces. There was a mixture of shame and relief on the faces, and a kind of numbness, half involuntary, half deliberate. The men did not look at the guards or at each other, or at the surrounding countryside. They shuffled through the wet light in a kind of slow inner reflection, the irregular soft scuffing of their shoes the only sound accompanying them. They walked more easily than other soldiers, because they had no rifles, no packs, no equipment. Even as he watched, so close by, Noah felt the strangeness of seeing sixty Americans walking down a road in a kind of formation, with their hands in their pockets, unarmed and unburdened.
They passed and vanished down the road, the sound of their marching dying slowly among the dewy hedges.
Noah turned and looked at the men beside him. They were still looking, their heads lifted, at the spot where the prisoners had disappeared. There was no expression on Burnecker's face or on Cowley's, just an overlay, a film, of fascination and interest. But Riker looked queer. Noah stared at him, and after a moment he realized that what he saw on Riker's face, in the red, pouched eyes, under the muddy stubble of his beard, was the same mixture of shame and relief that had been on all the faces that had passed.
'I'm going to tell you guys something,' Riker said huskily, in a voice that was very different from his normal voice. 'We're doing this all wrong.' He did not look at Noah or the others, but continued to stare down the road. 'We ain't got a chance like this, four of us all together. Only way is to divide up. One by one. One by one.' He stopped. Nobody said anything. Riker stared down the road. Faintly, half-heard, half-remembered, there was the shush-shush of the prisoners' marching.
'It's a question of being sensible,' Riker said hoarsely. 'Four guys together're just a big fat target. One guy alone can really hide. I don't know what you're going to do, but I'm going my separate way.' Riker waited for them to say something, but nobody spoke. They lay in the wet grass close to the hedge, no expression on their faces.
'Well,' said Riker, 'there's no time like the present.' He straightened up. He hesitated for a moment. Then he climbed through the hedge. He stood at the edge of the road, still half bent over. He looked large and bear-like, with his thick arms hanging loosely down, his blackened, powerful hands near his knees. Then he started down the road in the direction in which the prisoners had gone.
Noah and the other two men watched him. As he walked, Riker grew more erect. There was something queer about him, Noah thought, and he tried to figure out what it was. Then, when Riker was fifty feet away, and walking more swiftly, more eagerly, Noah realized what it was. Riker was unarmed. Noah glanced down where Riker had been crouched. The Garand was lying on the grass, its muzzle carelessly jammed with dirt.
Noah looked up at Riker again. The big, shambling figure, with the helmet square on the head over the huge shoulders, was moving fast by now, almost running. As Riker reached the first turn in the road, his hands went up, tentatively. Then they froze firmly above his head, and that was the last Noah saw of Riker, trotting around the bend, with his hands high above his head.
'Cross off one rifleman,' Burnecker said. He reached down to the Garand and automatically took out the clip and pulled the bolt to eject the cartridge in the chamber. He reached down and picked up the cartridge and put it
