a look of terror on his face. His hands waved vaguely in front of him.
'No, no…' he said pleadingly.
Noah stopped and stared at him. He shook his head and plodded in. Both men swung at the same time, and Noah went down again. Brailsford was a large man and the blow had hit high on Noah's temple. Methodically, sitting with his legs crumpled under him, Noah took a deep breath. He looked up at Brailsford.
The big man was standing above him, his hands held tightly before him. He was breathing heavily, and he was whispering, 'Please, please…' Sitting there, with his head hammering, Noah grinned, because he knew what Brailsford meant. He was pleading with Noah to stay down.
'Why, you miserable hillbilly son of a bitch,' Noah said clearly. 'I'm going to knock you out.' He stood up and grinned as he saw the flare of anguish in Brailsford's eyes when he swung at him.
Brailsford hung heavily on him, clinching, swinging with a great show of willingness. But the blows were soft and nervous and Noah didn't feel them. Clutched in the big man's fat embrace, smelling the sweat rolling off his skin, Noah knew that he had beaten Brailsford merely by standing up. After this it was merely a matter of time. Brailsford's nerve had run out.
Noah ducked away and lashed out at Brailsford's middle. The blow landed and Noah could feel the softness of the clerk's belly as his fist dug in.
Brailsford dropped his hands to his sides and stood there, weaving a little, a stunned plea for pity in his eyes. Noah chuckled. 'Here it comes, Corporal,' he said, and drove at the white, bleeding face. Brailsford just stood there. He wouldn't fall and he wouldn't fight and Noah merely stood flat on the balls of his feet, hooking at the collapsing face. 'Now,' he said, swinging with all his shoulder, all his body behind the driving, cutting blow. 'Now. Now.' He gained in power. He could feel the electric life pouring down his arms into his fists. All his enemies, all the men who had stolen his money, cursed him on the march, driven his wife away, were standing there, broken in nerve, bleeding before him. Blood sprayed from his knuckles every time he hit Brailsford's staring, agonized face.
'Don't fall, Corporal,' Noah said, 'don't fall yet, please don't fall,' and swung again and again, faster and faster, his fists making a sound like mallets wrapped in wet cloth. And when he saw Brailsford finally begin to sway, he tried to hold him with one hand long enough to hit him twice more, three times, a dozen, and he sobbed when he no longer could hold the rubbery bloody mess up. Brailsford slipped to the ground.
Noah turned to the watching men. He dropped his hands. No one would meet his eyes. 'All right,' he said loudly. 'It's over.'
But they didn't say anything. As though at a signal, they turned their backs and started to walk away. Noah stared at the retreating forms, dissolving in the dusk among the barracks walls. Brailsford still lay where he fell. No one had stayed with him to help him.
Michael touched Noah. 'Now,' Michael said, 'let's wait for the German Army.'
Noah shook off the friendly hand. 'They all walked away,' he said. 'The bastards just walked away.' He looked down at Brailsford. The clerk had come to, although he still lay face down on the grass. He was crying. Slowly and vaguely he moved a hand up to his eyes. Noah went over to him and kneeled beside him.
'Leave your eye alone,' he ordered. 'You'll rub dirt in it this way.' He started to pull Brailsford to his feet and Michael helped him. They had to support the clerk all the way to the barracks and they had to wash his face for him and clean the cuts because Brailsford just stood in front of the mirror with his hands at his side, weeping helplessly.
The next day Noah deserted.
Michael was called down to the orderly room.
'Where is he?' Colclough shouted.
'Where is who, Sir?' Michael asked, standing stiffly at attention.
'You know goddamn well who I mean,' Colclough said.
'Your friend. Where is he?'
'I don't know, Sir,' said Michael.
'Don't hand me that!' Colclough shouted. All the sergeants were in the room behind Michael, staring gravely at their Captain. 'You were his friend, weren't you?'
Michael hesitated. It was hard to describe their relationship as friendship.
'Come on, Soldier! You were his friend.'
'I suppose so, Sir.'
'I want you to say yessir or nosir, that's all, Whitacre! Were you his friend or weren't you?'
'Yes, Sir, I was.'
'Where did he go?'
'I don't know, Sir.'
'You're lying to me!' Colclough's face had grown very pale and his nose was twitching. 'You helped him get out. Let me tell you something, Whitacre, in case you've forgotten your Articles of War. The penalty for assisting at or failing to report desertion is exactly the same as for desertion. Do you know what the penalty for that is in times of war?'
'Yes, Sir.'
'What is it?' Suddenly Colclough's voice had become quiet and almost soft. He slid down in his chair and looked up gently at Michael.
'It can be death, Sir.'
'Death,' said Colclough, softly. 'Death. Listen, Whitacre, your friend is as good as caught already. When we catch him, we'll ask him if you helped him desert. Or even if he told you he was going to desert. That's all that's necessary. If he told you and you didn't report it, that is just the same as assisting at desertion. Did you know that, Whitacre?'
'Yes, Sir,' Michael said, thinking, this is impossible, this could not be happening to me, this is an amusing anecdote I heard at a cocktail party about the quaint characters in the United States Army.
'I grant you, Whitacre,' Colclough said reasonably, 'I don't think a court-martial would condemn you to death just for not reporting it. But they might very well put you in jail for twenty years. Or thirty years. Or life. Federal prison, Whitacre, is not Hollywood. It is not Broadway. You will not get your name in the columns very often in Leavenworth. If your friend just happens to say that he happened to tell you he planned to go away, that's all there is to it. And he'll get plenty of opportunities to say it, Whitacre, plenty… Now…' Colclough spread his hands reasonably on the desk. 'I don't want to make a big thing out of this. I'm interested in preparing a Company to fight and I don't want to break it up with things like this. All you have to do is tell me where Ackerman is, and we'll forget all about it. That's all. Just tell me where you think he might be… That's not much, is it?'
'No, Sir,' Michael said.
'All right,' Colclough said briskly. 'Where did he go?'
'I don't know, Sir.'
Colclough's nose started to twitch again. He yawned nervously. 'Listen, Whitacre,' he said, 'don't have any false feelings of loyalty to a man like Ackerman. He was not the type we wanted in the Company, anyway. He was useless as a soldier and he was not trusted by any of the other men in the Company and he was a constant source of trouble from beginning to end. You'd have to be crazy to risk spending your life in jail to protect a man like that. I don't like to see you do it, Whitacre. You're an intelligent man, Whitacre, and you were a success in civilian life and you can be a good soldier, in time, and I want to help you… Now…' And he smiled winningly at Michael.
'Where is Private Ackerman?'
'I'm sorry, Sir,' Michael said, 'I don't know.'
Colclough stood up. 'All right,' he said quietly. 'Get out of here, Jew-lover.'
'Yes, Sir,' Michael said. 'Thank you, Sir.'
He saluted and went out.
Brailsford was waiting for Michael outside the mess-hall. He leaned against the building, picking his teeth and spitting. He had grown fatter than ever, but a look of uncertain grievance had set up residence in his features, and his voice had taken on a whining, complaining note since Noah had beaten him. Michael saw him waving to him as Michael came out of the door, heavy with the pork chops and potatoes and spaghetti and peach pie of the noonday
