FRIENDSHIP
	
	Edward Loomis

	
	  HEN I FIRST knew him, Lev was first sergeant, hated by everybody except the sergeants who played cards with him. He was a faraway deity in his orderly room, and at company formations. He was a Jew, and looked like one, with a hooked nose that seemed all hard bone down to its very tip, but only once did I know anyone to call him Jew in anger, and that time was a victory for Lev, as things turned out.
	
	  t happened at Camp Kilmer when we were on our way overseas. A quarrelsome Southerner in my platoon, a private first class named Duval, returning late one evening from a pass to New York City, came across Lev and his cronies at a game of Hearts in the day room. Duval was drunk, and so he dared to ask for a place in the game, which was going along comfortably with four players. There was a silence. I looked up from my letter, and half a dozen others grew quite still over magazines.
	
	  We're playing partners," Lev said after a moment, raising his large, unblinking eyes from his hand. He was quite firm; it was known that he and his friends never played any game with partners.
	
	  Come on, Sarge, le'me sit in," Duval said. "I know that game. I'm a good Hearts player." He was leaning forward a little, a light-heavyweight approximately, known to have sought fights in bars, and respected for his strength and recklessness. "Don't hard-ass me, Sarge," he added. "Ain't we goin' overseas to fight the war together?"
	
	  ravely Lev looked at the members of the game, each in turn shaking his head in response. Then Lev looked up again and said: "We don't want you in the game, Duval. We only play with the first three grades here--staff sergeants and up, that is."
	
	  gain there was a silence, and after a moment, as it became apparent that Duval would not leave, I saw that something more was coming. Lev began dealing the cards; his lips were drawn back a little from his teeth, and for an instant his tongue appeared, licking his lower lip in a gesture which reminded me of a cat just come in from the out-of-doors.
	
	  he edge was all to Lev, for he was at home amid the trappings of his power. In the next room his clerk was laboring over the company papers. In the barracks most of his company was asleep within reach of his care, and at each side of the table were his friends expecting him to defend the privileges of the noncommissioned officer. The man at Lev's left said something about the Queen of Spades, and Lev responded with a little chuckle, saying: "He wants to know where the Bitch is, and nobody'll tell him." There was a laugh, and its effect was to seal the game into its ritual.
	
	  uval's face grew red. He lifted his right hand and looked at it intently, and then said quickly: "That ain't no way to treat a man." He was stubborn; now he proved it. "You didn't have to say it that way, Sarge."
	
	  I'll say it again if I want to!" Lev said sharply, not even looking up this time. "And don't point your finger at me."
	
	  y this time there was a look of helpless rage in Duval's face. "I ain't leaving," he said. "I'll be damned if I will. You don't give a man hardly a chance, Sarge!"
	
	  If you don't lay off, I'll give you something, though!" Lev said, and laughed boisterously. "Oh, I'll give it to you!" He raised his head and stared insolently at Duval, secure in his high place: who could be more at home than a first sergeant in his own company day room?
	
	  The hell with you, then," Duval said. He paused, and took courage from the thing already said. "God damn it, Sarge!"
	
	 All right," Lev said.
	
	"All right-all right! With you, Sergeant Lev. First Sergeant Lev, by God." Growing bolder, Duval looked around the room, smiling at the men he knew in order to claim their support. "Lev?" he said. What kind of a name is that, anyway? God damn it, I know what kind of name it is. It's a Yid name, ain't it? Sure it is." Again he looked at the others in the room, to rally their approval to his cause. "Come to think of it, there ain't no reason why a white man would want into a Yid card game anyway."
	
	  ev, without scraping his chair against the floor, and without making any kind of stir with his feet, had risen; and there he was. He moved out away from the table, walking straight up, with his hands at his sides, the fingers closed enough to be hook-like and alert for seizing. "Okay, Duval," he said. "It's a Yid name, all right. Watch yourself. I'm coming at you." A little skip appeared in his gait, and suddenly he was no longer quite walking. His right hand, still open, came up to his right cheek, where it hovered, and his left arm, weaving a little, like the head of an angry snake, extended itself in front of him.
	
	  quare and solid, Duval awaited him, scowling, and so for perhaps three seconds there was the prospect of a fight in the company day room; but there really was no fight. Lev had the movements of a fighter, the strength, and the willingness to commit himself, and he had these qualities with such intensity that as they happened they quite extinguished our sense of a combat.
	
	  uval did not strike a blow, and was himself hit perhaps two dozen times in the space of twenty seconds. He was hit first in the nose by a swinging hook, and there was the sound of the nose breaking like a cracked board; then he was hit in the belly and over the heart, in a flurry of punches, so that he was doubled over on himself, like a man bending down to tie a shoelace; and then he was hit twice on the jaw, once on the left, once on the right, and from these blows he began to fall; but since he was a tough, strong man he straightened up first, so that he toppled slowly, and then he was hit once more, by a sliding, dropping right-hand punch that sliced open his left eyebrow as a razor might slice open a ripe tomato.
	
	  t the end he was sitting dumped awkwardly on his hams, with his legs sprawled out crookedly, as if they did not quite belong to him. He was conscious; his right eye stared waveringly up and down at nothing, while blood streamed down the sightless pit of his left eye and spread out across his cheek and into the corner of his mouth, that now was opening and closing rhythmically, like the mouth of a hurt fish.
	
	  All right," Lev said. "All right, then, all right." He stood scowling down for a moment, his lips drawn back from his glittering teeth, his tongue working busily across his upper lip, as if he might be thinking about tasting the blood of his fallen enemy. For perhaps a minute he stood so, looking as I might imagine a veteran gladiator to look after surrounding the armored man with his net and finding his life with the barbed trident, while the crowd roars, and the Emperor, pleased a little, reaches out to touch the pearly thigh of a favorite boy.
	
	  hen Lev nodded once, approving, and turned to me his large bold eyes. "Go up to my room and get the little leather bag--it's like a suitcase--out of my green barracks bag. And hurry, God damn it, before this kid bleeds to death on our goddamned floor."
	
	   hurried, and returned quickly, having experienced a curious sensation of guilt on rummaging through the belongings of such an exalted personage. The bag was like the cases that doctors used to carry on calls, and in it, so we all discovered when Lev opened it on the day-room floor, were several kinds of hospital equipment, including a little steel case of scalpels. One of these Lev used to touch up the cut over Duval's eye, and then, with a large needle and something which looked like a coarse thread, he sewed up the cut, using a complicated sewing stroke that I could hardly follow. After that, he cleaned out the left eye with a glass eye-cup and delicate touches with a little cylinder of rolled-up gauze, and washed Duval's face, with an economical tenderness of movement startling in that atmosphere of ancient hate.
	
	  hen he was done, he had two of the watchers take Duval up to the barracks, leading him like a blind cripple, and then, clearly pleased with himself, and feeling rich, as any man might after such a scene, he returned to the game. For a moment he stood above his chair, appreciating it, and, I think, appreciating the opportunity for pleasure which would soon be laid out before him once again. "Good enough," he said, and sat down.
	
	  e composed himself, arched his back, and slowly rotated his head, eyes hooded but glittering above his hawk's nose; and then he spoke once quite clearly to the whole room. "I'm a Yid, all right," he said. "But I'm the kind that always runs to a fight, and that's the worst kind, men. Whose deal is it? "
	
	  hen he bent to the game; and that was the man he was in those days.
	
	  ow much more he might have been I could not know for certain, but nowadays, thinking back, I have the feeling that there was a great deal to know. Certainly he was an imposing first sergeant--and we were proud of him, in spite of our hating him as all first sergeants must be hated. He was a possession we could mention knowingly to men of other companies in the battalion, and they had heard of him, usually, or at least heard rumors about him. He was an elegant marcher and a master of the manual at arms; when he gave the drill, he caused a precision in the movements of men who under other voices tended to slackness; and of course he was proud of what he could make us do. He liked his job, and clearly liked his company, though he was never heard to say so. According to our rosters, his full name was Murray B. Lev, though there was a rumor that his best friends were allowed to call him Moe, on occasion. He was one of those powerful, middle-sized men who seem to summarize the physical intensities of the male principle; he was hairy, with dense black curls matted over his chest and back, and fine silky hairs lying flat on the backs of his hands; his cheeks had a bluish tinge, and he shaved regularly twice a day, even after we entered the combat zone. He had a solid body neatly rigged, and could hardly move without suggesting grace and competence. He carried himself alertly, and his cold brown eyes took note of everything that happened in his little world. He seemed always ready to take advantage of an opportunity, and ready also to design an opportunity if that ever became necessary.
	
	  here were women to please him everywhere he went, it was said, but he was close-mouthed in such matters, and not even his best friends among the sergeants were allowed to follow him when he left camp on his Class A Pass, to be gone until reveille the next morning. Twice at our camp in Colorado he brought a pretty blonde girl to watch a parade, but I never saw him with a woman at any other time. He was a skillful lover, surely, but, like most men of that breed, he traveled by darkness, covering his tracks, and never took the same route twice in succession.
	
	  is past was not quite a mystery. He was from Chicago, and since he was in his early thirties when he was first sergeant, it was certain that he had lived variously in that dark city before he entered the army. He admitted owning what he called "an interest" in a bar on East 63rd Street, so I was told, and said he had "an income" from a hand laundry on 53rd Street. He did not talk about his civilian jobs, but he would admit earning money with golf at Jackson Park, and that seemed reasonable. He was a fine athlete; he was the shortstop on the regimental baseball team that won the division championship, and in our last season before we went to Europe he batted .419 in twenty-seven games.
	
	  e could play golf, I'll venture. Had he lived through the war, he might even now be standing in the shade of a palm tree on the practice green of a resort course in Florida. He would be amiable in the bright, watery light reflected off the Gulf; he would be available for a game, certainly, and he would bet if challenged, and win by a stroke on the last hole, to take all the money. After that, he might buy the drinks and listen modestly to the conversation about the majorleague baseball team training at a nearby town.
	
	  e was a natural citizen of twilight worlds; it was inevitable that someone should suggest, after seeing his doctor's case at Camp Kilmer, that he had probably been an abortionist in Chicago. He talked sometimes about Barney Ross, the Jewish welterweight champion from Chicago, and once, so it was said, refused to deny that he had worked as a cornerman for some of Ross's opponents. There was a tradition among those of us who cared about sports that Lev's father had been a friend to Abe Attell, the marvelous old-time bantamweight champion from San Francisco, who, growing soft, and aging, had represented the gamblers to the Black Sox of 1919.
	
	  owadays, as I think back, it seems entirely possible that Lev might have gone the way of Attell if he had lived long enough: Attell, who carried himself unmarked and unbeaten through hundreds of fights, and finally came around to secret meetings with Gandil and Jackson and Cicotte in a Chicago hotel room. We must guess that Attell was a friend to the gambler Arnold Rothstein, who was soft and fat and clever, and so might Lev have become a friend to a fat and clever man.
	
	   think it could not have been otherwise, had there been no war. Lev had talents, and so he was bound to use them. But the war came to provide a new ground for those talents, and so he became a wonderful soldier, famed for bravery and ferocity, and known for his extreme devotion to his company.
	
	  n fact, he was happy as a soldier, there can be no doubt of it. He was proud of his uniform, and had many, so that he was able to change twice and sometimes even three times a day. He was proud of his soldier's skills, and it was nothing to him that he was hated, for that was part of the job.
	
	  he chief symptom of his happy life in the war came in the curious nature of some of the friendships he made; and particularly in his friendship with a nineteen-year-old Oklahoma boy named Jim Bob Allison. This was a slender, sturdy boy who had lived most of his life in a town called Cedar Springs. He was innocent, goodhearted, and intelligent, just what a boy from a country town is supposed to be in America. His face might not have looked out of place under a Boy Scout hat, and he had the appearance of one who could make fire with a wooden disk, a stick, and a bow.
	
	  e was no athlete, being a little awkward and too long in the leg, but he had a face which was just about right for the skinny end on the high-school football team. His face was squarish, with a narrow bony jaw that might in time take on a formidable curve; his mouth was full but firm, the lips always lying close together, with a faint suggestion of coming maturity, and he had a straight nose which, with his clear blue eyes, gave him an attractive look as of a boy whom any girl's mother would be willing to trust on sight.
	
	  e often talked humorously about women, wanting them, but he was bashful and unasking. In Cedar Springs he had sometimes been in the vicinity of girls at ice-cream socials and picnics given by the Kiwanis Club, but he admitted freely that he had been one of those boys who make an uneasy group on the outskirts, hooting the well-combed boys who dare to approach the girls. He was a boy for the out-ofdoors, and it was true that he had fished for catfish in the Canadian River where it passes through Hardin County, and had killed his first deer at the age of sixteen, in one of the southern counties of the state, on a trip with his father and two uncles from Ponca City. He was a boy for the straw hat and bib overalls, and he had worn these, and gone barefoot too, of course, moving through his boy's life like some wise man's memory of Huckleberry Finn.
	
	  nd this boy became a close friend to Moe Lev in the heterogeneous complexity of the American army, where seeing them together became a normal sight, touching somehow, and faintly alarming, for each had much to learn from the other. They were thrown together initially by the fact that Jim Bob was for a while the company commander's runner and so spent most of his time near company headquarters, where Lev ruled. Jim Bob was noticed, but of course he was not close to Lev so long as we were in training, for Lev would not befriend a mere private first class at a time when he was teaching discipline. Jim Bob was willing to learn, however, and; like many boys of that army, he became startlingly professional in the way he regarded the army and his duties in it, largely because he had never known another job; it was the only life he had ever had away from home, and so he felt for it the respect and admiration which boys properly reserve for their first major commitment. He read the manuals, he drilled carefully, and he was a good marksman; thus he was available for Lev's regard when the time came.
	
	  hat time came gradually, after we reached France. It was not long before Lev ceased to be hated in the company, this being a normal phenomenon in most armies, I suspect. Once the shooting started, his harshness during training could be seen to have its uses, and his toughness was clearly valuable when there was a town to be attacked or a river to be crossed. He risked dangers he did not have to risk, and so in time, after we had moved up out of northern France and Belgium to the border of Holland, we came to have a strong feeling of respect for him.
	
	  im Bob became one of his most outspoken admirers, and learned to say judiciously: "Sure I like him. You goddamn right I like him. Ain't he the bravest man in the battalion? Everybody knows that." He would speak of Lev's exploits as if he were speaking of an honored brother or a hardy, loving father. "Do you remember when he set off the TNT against the wall of that stone barn on the Belgian border?" he would say, and wait for his audience to recall whatever images they might have of that time, when Lev, under fire from a nearby house and from two snipers in an adjoining wood, had blown an enormous hole in the wall of a stone barn, so that one of the rifle platoons could attack the Germans hidden in the barn. "Yes, indeedy," Jim Bob would continue. "We all remember that time, I guess. And how about when he led the charge against that Panther tank in the woods last week? 'A course there was some others went with him then, but most of them went because old Lev was there to say `Come on, let's go get that son-of-a-bitch!'" It had been a notable triumph: Lev had taken a group of eight men and destroyed a Panther tank and five German infantrymen who had been accompanying it, with no losses to his group.
	
	  here were other exploits, and Jim Bob made the most of them, and made no secret of his admiration, so that Lev came to be in a position where it was difficult for him not to like Jim Bob. Lev became a famous soldier in the regiment, and in due course was awarded both the Bronze Star and the Silver Star. Furthermore, he was a stable and consistent man, a soldier to be admired by his fellow soldiers. We had our share of heroes, there in our north European war, but only a few, like Lev, were truly sound. The others tended to be brave with a certain desperation for a few weeks or a few months, goaded into risk by some eccentricity in their motivations. Such men could be violent and effective, but they often wore themselves out with their violence, growing tired and fretful and even fearful sometimes.
	
	  hen that happened, the hero became a normal soldier or a psychological casualty, while Lev continued as he had been, expressing the deepest and truest bent of his life; and, naturally enough, affecting those around him, altering them sometimes in a quite startling fashion. Jim Bob, for example, being a hero-worshipper, taught himself war rather quickly, and then, more slowly, emulating Lev, taught himself a fine hardness of intention. Lev did not believe that a proper soldier should surrender unless he was wounded in such a way that he could no longer fight; and so Jim Bob accepted this belief, and one night proved his acceptance in action.
	
	  e had readled Germany in late November, and were engaged east of Aachen in the heaviest fighting we had yet seen. Jim Bob was sent with a message to a rifle platoon besieged in a factory, and was present during the German attack which broke the platoon's resistance. There was a Tiger tank to push the door in, and there was a large force of SS infantry. Our platoon leader and platoon sergeant were killed, along with half a dozen others, and of the remainder some ran away and some allowed themselves to be captured; but Jim Bob hid himself under a heap of waste rags, keeping his rifle ready, and stayed there for almost twelve hours, until the factory was retaken by another of our platoons. He stood up then, dusty and begrimed, and I remember how he looked. He was tired, his eyelids were heavy, but his eyes were bright; he was leaning on his rifle, and with his free hand, the left, he was making brushing movements at his jacket and pants. He looked a boy, but a boy precocious in a hard world, and he was not at all dismayed.
	
	  aturally, Lev was pleased. It became known that he had a special regard for Jim Bob, and the two of them began to be seen together rather frequently. They shared rations out of boxes and cans; they sat together when we had a meal from our own kitchen; and many times they dug holes together, sharing the narrow earthen walls. They talked, of course, with Lev telling stories of big-city adventure, and Jim Bob explaining country ways of fishing and hunting; and these conversations came to be a part of the company's legend about itself.
	
	  nd through all this Lev's instruction continued. Jim Bob acquired a willingness never to stop fighting, and the knowledge that there always came a time when decisive action was necessary. "Somewhere in a fight there's a time when a man has got to do something, and then he'd better do it," so Lev said, and demonstrated in his actions. Thus, when Jim Bob happened to be surprised on a message-carrying mission by a stray German rifleman somehow left behind in the general retreat to the Rhine River, he took care of himself very nicely. He had been caught in the open, with no cover; the German was hidden behind a tree, lying down with almost the whole of his body protected; but Jim Bob moved rapidly to his right on the open ground, rising, running, and falling to fire a shot, and then doing it again, until finally he had got far enough to the German's flank to have a clear shot at him; and then he killed with a bullet through the neck, afterwards like a hunter dipping his fingers in the blood from the wound, for it was first blood.
	
	  t was a rare thing, that individual combat, in a war of running and hiding and big guns fired from far away, and the news of it spread rapidly. Again Lev was pleased, and for several days he spoke admiringly of Jim Bob's exploit, returning Jim Bob's compliments. His favorite remark was, simply: "The kid's got that old ticker, men. If he had the built, he'd of made a hell of a fighter, that kid would."
	
	  igh praise; and of course it came back to Jim Bob multiplied and rhetorically enforced. He became, over a period of time, what Lev wanted all of us to be, a soldier who would not run, and who was capable of fierceness, and he had his reward one day in the outskirts of Cologne, when Lev took the trouble to save his life. Jim Bob, returning from one of the platoon leaders, whom he had visited with a message, was knocked down and stunned by a mortar shell exploding close to him. It was an accidental barrage, a piece of guesswork by German gunners trying to do their best with an impossible situation; and none of us knew how long the barrage might last.
	
	  ev, in the first let-up, ran out to Jim Bob and picked him up, put the limp body on his shoulder, and trotted to the safety of the house where the company command post was hidden in a cellar. There Jim Bob revived; he opened his clear blue eyes like one born again, while outside the barrage resumed with greater intensity than before.
	
	  Look at the kid," Lev said. "The kid's all right. He don't look it with that baby face, but he can't fool the old man. I knew plenty of tough fighters that had a baby face--sure, they were even the kind that liked to see blood!"
	
	  im Bob sat up, greatly moved, and, after a few moments of getting up his determination, said: "Then you must have brought me in. I don't remember what happened after ..."
	
	  Sure I brought you in," Lev said.
	
	  Then you're a brave, good man, Sergeant Lev! I want to say-" But he did not really know what he wanted to say, and so he paused, resting in what he had already said.
	
	  nd that was the way things were when we reached the Rhine, where the character of the war began to change. We had a few days of rest in Cologne, during which Lev was awarded a commission as second lieutenant and given my platoon, which had lost its platoon leader just west of the city in the last of our attacks there. It had been apparent for a long time that Lev would have to accept this honor, though he had been heard to protest against the possibility. I was by then a squad leader, having moved up through the ranks as one squad leader after another had fallen or died, and of course I was glad to have Lev control my future, for he was known to be careful with his men. I was further pleased that Lev brought with him, to take over another of the platoon's squads, Jim Bob, newly promoted to staff sergeant for the occasion. By this time they were close friends of the wartime sort, having shared enough intense experience in a few months so that they would never run out of matter for talk so long as the war lasted.
	
	  here was a chance of awkwardness in the fact that Duval, once Lev's victim in the famous fight, had become the platoon sergeant, and in fact there were a few difficult moments in Cologne, before we returned to the fighting. We were quartered in two big houses whose owners had stripped them to the walls, and we were not comfortable there; our footsteps had a flat, vicious sound on the polished floors. We were caged by the barren walls, and thus it was impossible for Lev not to make his presence heavily felt when he arrived with his bright new insignia of rank. He spoke his requests in the normal style of the combat zone, of course, which was a friendly sound, but it was difficult for him to use a friendly sound on Duval without seeming apologetic. "We'll have to find a time to talk to those two new men," he would say, and look perplexed, while Duval guardedly watched him. Or: "I'll have to go up to the Company CP for a briefing, Duval. I ought to be back soon."
	
	  he whole platoon was close at hand; there was no chance of privacy in which the two might parse their differences. During the first day Lev turned rather frequently to me, as to a neutral observer; we had been coming closer together during the months just past, and he had several times allowed himself to talk to me at some length, but now he let me feel that he was somehow dependent on me. That I liked, for it was an achievement to be of use to such a man. I understood that I was expected to serve as a mediator, and so I tried to make up conversations to include both lieutenant and sergeant.
	
	  here was not much I could do, though I intimated to each man in turn that the other was willing to forget the bitter quarrel in their past; and this may have helped. Duval, who had lived in both Alabama and Georgia, was a proud Southerner, a farmer, a man who had kept coon dogs; he would never understand Lev, and certainly he would never be able to ask for a reconciliation. But he was a good soldier and an honest man; he could hold a grudge, but by that time I am sure he recognized something wrong in his speech to Lev before their fight; he had been driven to words he might not have found in other circumstances. He was not inflexible; he may even have admired Lev's skill with his hard brown fists. Toward the end of Lev's second day with us we were all happy to notice an easing of tension, a softening of official courtesy.
	
	  fter three days of fighting in the Remagen bridgehead to the south, all old differences had been forgotten, and Lev and Duval were close and friendly as if the past had never been. Certainly there had existed a great violence to hold them apart in other days, in that other world where there was no war, but a greater violence bound them together in a time of combat.
	
	  n fact, there were only a few of us who could know that old time on the American shore, for of the twenty-five men in the platoon at the time Lev took it over, only seven had been in the company when we left Camp Kilmcr to come to Europe: Lev, Jim Bob, Duval, and myself, with three others. We were the old-timers, and that fact was a bond.
	
	  ithin ten days of Lev's arrival in the platoon we even had a game of Hearts, the four of us, Lev, Duval, Jim Bob, and I, lions and lambs all squatting together in a hole in the ground. It was daytime, of course, the front having moved out ahead of us for several miles, under the attacks of our armor; over us, a blue sky, and all around the smell of sap running in the trees, and the sound of wind in the first leaves. We played for perhaps two hours in the middle of the afternoon, with Lev a little more quiet than he normally was, and Duval carrying himself quite delicately, like a young man on probation in the family of a new girl friend. Jim Bob and I, being spectators at the formal making of a peace, were able to be a little more loud than the principals, and a little more obviously joyous.
	
	  he newly cut earthen walls smelled damply of spring, and a little later of cigar smoke, when Lev distributed the last of his little stock. At the end of the game we all sat back comfortably smoking.
	
	"This is nice," Lev said. "This is all right," nodding his head emphatically, his guard down, his face gently smiling like that of a father at the head of his family table.
	
	 Why, it is," Jim Bob said. "I never smoked a cigar before."
	
	  It's a damn good cigar," Duval said. "A good, free-drawing cigar, by God."
	
	  hings began to go very well in our platoon after that, with our organization firm and the men well hardened; but of course it was not long before the character of the war changed most dramatically. Within a week of the breakthrough from the Remagen bridgehead it was apparent to all of us that the war was coming to an end. We had very few fights, though some of them were bitter; for the most part, we traveled to the east like explorers, riding on trucks or tanks sometimes, but mostly marching. We were in a green and pleasant land, and we lived on the fat of it. In little villages of the Rhineland we found eggs, and hams, and fragrant country breads, which we enjoyed on the spot where we found them. We stole fat chickens, after the immemorial style of soldiers, and carried them to our night resting places, where a way could always be found to roast or broil them. There began to be women available to the more resourceful men among us, and surely we must have left some swelling bellies in the wake of our advance.
	
	  he war eased off on us, and then, quite naturally, it happened that our own army began to oppress us once again. There came an order from regimental headquarters that all men were to shave at least once a day, and that irregularities of uniform were not to be tolerated; there was an order, very fiercely phrased, which forbade any soldier or officer to fraternize with any German civilian. To these exactions Lev surprisingly paid no attention. "That stuff was all right before. We don't need it now," he said, and we remained comfortable.
	
	  nd once when a young officer from battalion headquarters attempted to reassert the old power system by driving my squad from an attractive house-in a Thuringian village, Lev appeared to stop him. It was a fine evening in late March; above us was a pale sky, all that was left of a great arching day; in the air was a little smell of cooking, and the cheerful voices of men settling down for a night of rest. I was busy with my squad in the front room when the neatly uniformed first lieutenant arrived. We had a goose cooking in the kitchen, and a case of Rhine wine open on the floor of the front room, and we were as cheerful as infantry soldiers can ever be.
	
	  Who's in charge here?" the lieutenant said from the door. He was young; he was wearing a little mustache, and he carried his automatic pistol in a flamboyant shoulder holster.
	
	 You men!" he said. "I'm afraid I'll have to commandeer this house for Battalion S- 2! You hear? I'm sorry-"
	
	  e moved a little to the side as Lev came in from outside; and then Lev, seeming almost clumsy in his movements, as if he did not intend them, eased the young officer out the door, not touching him, but rather suggesting direction and force.
	
	  Ah, Lieutenant Lev," the officer said gratefully. "You see, I've got orders from the boss-" and he waved his right arm gaily. "You know how it is! "
	
	  Of course," Lev said. "You want the house for yourself."
	
	  Well, yes," the officer said, in a tone which suggested that gentlemen could agree without worrying themselves over what the men might think.
	
	  It's a nice house," Lev said mildly.
	
	  Why, yes, it's all right," the officer agreed, not quite so comfortable.
	
	  But you can't have it," Lev said. "These men got here first. Their company captured the goddamned town! And we lost a man here too. So you think of something."
	
	  ev sounded quite cheerful, but not very reasonable, not quite open to argument.
	
	  I don't see, Lieutenant .." the other began. "After all, Lieutenant, I outrank you. .
	
	  Sure you do!"
	
	  I mean it, Lieutenant. I want the house!"
	
	  Then take it, kid. But let me tell you I'll fight you for it, and not with my hands either. So go ahead--so think of something! "
	
	  t was a challenge to a duel, though I have no idea whether Lev would have fought it. But he did not have to fight, for it was not long before the young officer backed off, growling fitfully, and even swearing.
	
	  t was a clear victory for us over all others, for Lev over battalion headquarters, and so we celebrated it that night by getting drunk down to the last man.
	
	  he incident became an emblem for us of the coming end of the war. There were not many Germans left to fight, and so Lev fought the tyranny which came from above us in our own army. He arranged a magnificent theft of liquor from a stock which was being reserved for officers of the regimental headquarters, and he himself led the raid. He stole rations and bargained for them with the bright intensity he had formerly shown in battle. Day after day he committed exploits of loving care.
	
	  e was fully committed to us, that was the fact, and acknowledged no other duties. He might have been a father passionately raising children, and certainly he needed us as much as we needed him. Toward the end, in fact, it seemed that he could not do without us. Once a German tank hit a house he was in with an 88-millimeter shell and knocked a wall over on him, but when he rose from the rubble, dizzy and sick, he refused the offer of hospitalization which was made to him by the company commander.
	
	  e came up smelling of the damp interior of that ancient wall; he was whitened with a light dust of plaster, and his nose was stopped up, so that he had to breathe hoarsely and with effort, like an asthmatic when the fit is on. He was dizzy from near-suffocation, and he was sick several times, crawling about in this misery like an old dog with infirm bowels, but even at this time, before he had fully come to his senses, he shouted: "I'm all right! Leave me alone! I'm going to stay right where I am! I got to stay!"
	
	  e had not been too badly hurt, in fact, though he had a cough from that moment which he was never to lose; a memory his body preserved, I think, of the cold, pulverous silence under the wall, like the silence of earth in a grave. He was shaken, but when I asked him later why he had been so anxious not to be evacuated to the comforts of hospitals, he had little to say. He seemed perplexed, faintly ill at ease, even a little unhappy. We were standing on the bank of a small river, near the ruins of a bridge the Germans had blown up in their retreat; a short way behind us was the house where the wall had fallen. Lev was leaning against an elm tree, his strong body at ease but not sagging against the finely combed black bark. Delicate prongs of pale green were showing in the branches above his head, and there was a smell of greenery, of cut hay, of flowers in the soft air. The Germans had already left that valley, with the tank which had given us trouble, and so we had the brilliant peace of a battle's end. The day was clear, and the sun so bright and mild that I could almost smell the warmth of it.
	
	  Ah, well, comes the summer and the war'll be over," Lev said. "Back in Chicago, the White Sox will be playing at Comiskey Park, even!"
	
	  is face was cold and resolved beneath his steel helmet, and there was something statue-like in his expression, as if he were remembering an ancient tribal image of King David--the old King, the warrior remembering battles and feats of love.
	
	  I'm sad to see the war ending, kid," Lev said. "You know? Why couldn't the war go on forever? I wish the war would go on and never stop!"
	
	  nd then we moved on, as we had to, until toward the middle of April we reached the Harz Mountains, where for a little while we had again the sharp battles of the old lively war. In those small green mountains a considerable force of miscellaneous German troops had gathered, and they were ready to fight. How did they feel about things, I wonder, as they waited in the hills, in the greening forest? Below them on the plain was a vast army of enemies; behind them only the hills, and, for some of them perhaps, an ancient German memory of Druid priests at work in a leafy darkness, of warriors wearing helmets armed with the horns of bulls.
	
	  hey were desperate, certainly, and they fought hard. In our first battle with them, which happened at the very edge of the hills, we lost five riflemen and an officer. The next day, in a town which lay enclosed in a canyon, we had even greater losses, and in fact had the last serious losses of the war: there we lost the last remnants of our innocence.
	
	  t was a pretty town, and might have been a resort, I think. There were several big inns; there was a hospital with a solarium on the south wing; perhaps that was a town famous for healing waters. On the square there were fine old chestnut trees in stately rows, each tree established in a masonwork pit filled with black earth. There were iron benches, and there was a bandstand, with rosebushes dependent from its latticed sides.
	
	  pring was blooming in the square, and we would have been happy to stay there; but we--Lev's platoon and a machine-gun squad--were obliged to leave the town and ascend the canyon toward a force of German infantry supposed to be waiting there. There was a zone of gardens on the edge of town; each garden had its board fence. Then there was a little meadow, with a brook running through it. The grass was stiff and high, a purplish green. A milk cow--a bright pastel tan--stood heavily in the grass, her teats brushing against the grass tops. It happened that I passed close to her, and got a smell of the warm, rank odor of her, and of her breath, invisibly staining the heavy spring air.
	
	  hen we were in a forest of black fir, a darkness with ferns swaying in it, that sunlight riddled. Suddenly the air was cool; icy currents billowed down from the heights, which in those small mountains could not have been very far away, and certainly from the bluish plateaus we had dimly seen from the valley--lifted horizons of wavy line and watery surface. Slowly, almost gently, we made our way, in open order. Jim Bob was to my left with his squad; Lev and Duval were to the right with the third squad; I was in the middle with the six men remaining to me. We were scattered out, fearing snipers, but we were ready for almost anything.
	
	  he first problem was to find the enemy, and we were lucky in that. As we began climbing out of the canyon, we came across signs of German troops: a helmet, shiny, black, brand new; two grenades stuck in the crotch of a fir tree. There was a smell of people about, interrupting the dense eddies of forest smells. In a little while the climb began to seem ominous, and we found the enemy at about the time I began to sweat with the effort of climbing.
	
	   burst from a German machine gun ripped its way down through the shady silence of the hillside. The fight was on; there was a sound of rifle fire as we answered the challenge that came down upon us. I was in cover behind the trunk of a tree--what kind of tree I will never know, for I was only concerned that it be thick--and I was trying to make out the contours of the little battle. That was difficult; near me were two men of my squad, but I could see no one else. I had a sense of heavy fire from the invisible Germans; it sounded serious this time, seeming to swarm and rise through the thickets. Now and then a bullet clipped a bough from a fir tree, and then that bough would settle to the ground with a faint, sighing flutter, gentle as falling snow.
	
	  hen from my right, where Lev was at work, someone called quite clearly: "Go on up the hill. Lev says everybody go on up the hill."
	
	  hat was reassuring word, suggesting that we had nothing unusual ahead of us. I called my squad to move up, and began making my way; that meant running and falling. I caught sight of Jim Bob, not far to my left, and perceived that he had already got the message; he was on his way. And so we proceeded, and for a while I had the feeling that we would simply ascend the hill and there kill or capture the people who had offered us battle thus late in the war. I was not hoping trustfully; I was only expecting what I had a right to expect. The war was coming to an end, and everybody knew it--even the Germans knew it, who had been coming sadly into our lines for a long time, tired, reluctant, bemused.
	
	  hen, as I was moving from one tree to another, a bullet shattered the stock of my rifle. The shock did not quite twist the rifle from my hand, but it brought me up, and made me angry and resentful. I paused, hiding behind the tree trunk, and inspected the damage. The stock was gone, from about two inches behind the trigger guard; there was only a jagged stump, still quivering. "Son of a bitch!" I said. I hefted the rifle, and it felt crazily new and strange; it did not feel like a rifle at all, and suddenly I felt defenseless, there in that handsome forest.
	
	I became reluctant to move on, and so I took time to look about me and listen; and then I heard, from the left, where Jim Bob had his squad, a dim cry of "Medic, Medic!" and from the right, where Lev and Duval were, a cry, a mere susurrus that proposed: "I'm hurt, I'm hurt, I'm really hurt."
	
	  Hold up, second squad," I called, feeling guilty, and began searching carefully through the area to my right, trying to find a sign from the source of authority; and so I saw a man down, not far from me. He was lying on his back, and appeared to be trying to turn over; his body made spasmodic flopping movements, like a beached fish. I looked a little closer and saw that he was covering his face with his hands. In fact, he was clutching his face, as if to hold it against slipping. His hands were claw-like, grasping, and suddenly one of the hands went red with blood.
	
	  I got to go there," I said, and began crawling; but that was slow, and so I got up and raced for him, so that I brought up on the ground at his side. I was winded, and scared, now. I looked down fearfully and saw that the hurt creature under the hands was Platoon Sergeant Duval, struck down in what would surely be the last month of the war. For a moment I paused, thinking what to do. Then, as I was resolving to look at the wound, I heard Lev's voice calling my name. The voice was whispering fiercely, and it said: "Who is it? Who is it? Is it Duval? He was over there."
	
	   nodded, and whispered: "Yes, Duval. He's hit, bad."
	
	   looked again to my right and saw Lev rise up, square and firm and very soldierly, and start running toward me; he was beautifully balanced on the steep slope, and he carried his carbine as an ancient savage might carry his spear. He came fast, and dropped lightly to the ground on the other side of Duval. He had his carbine up in firing position; he took aim carefully and then fired twice. I looked to see what he was shooting at, but could see no target; you understand, I did not expect to. As I looked up the steep hill, I saw the lightspotted shade of the forest; I had a sense of trees, bushes, garlands of fern, but I could see no enemy. It was rare in that war to see a live enemy during a battle, for the great infantry tactic of both sides was to stay hidden, to keep close to the dark.
	
	  There," Lev said. "This isn't going right. It's like the old war. It's a battle. Hey, you got your rifle busted! Well, take Duval's--he won't be needing it for a while."
	
	  ev was looking at me over Duval's slowly writhing body, and Lev's face was intent, concentrated, as if he were aiming a gun. The lines of the face were clearly drawn: the big nose, the harsh jaw, the powerfully controlled stare of the eyes, unblinking and bright as a snake's. The mouth was cruel; the face was calm, and Lev was no more disturbed or upset than he might have been during a training maneuver. So it seemed at that moment; and so it was, I believe, though change was imminent, already setting in like a sunset against bright day.
	
	  You're okay, kid," Lev said to me. "Now, how's old Duval?" He looked down, and instantly there was a change in his expression. He was startled; his lips came apart slowly, and then his tongue appeared; uncertainly touching his upper lip. "Uh-oh," he said. "Hey, Duval, how you makin' it, kid? It's Lev. It's your corner."
	
	  uval's right hand was oily with blood. I touched it, hoping he might lift his hand so that I could see the wound. His body jerked; his hips lifted convulsively, like a hooked fish splashing at the surface just out of reach of the boat. There was a great pool of blood under his head, and its margin, smoothly spreading, had begun to reach my left elbow. "Well, it's no joke, then," Lev said. "Let's get the bandage out. Duval--old buddy?--I'm going to bandage you up, and run a tourniquet if I have to. Hey, it's Lev, it's the old cut man. I fixed you up before, I can do it again. Sure I can!"
	
	  is fingers went to work--they were spindly and lean, with tufts of black hair between the knuckles; and the fingers were crooked--oddly bent, and that must have been a result of the prize ring, in old Chicago times. Lev was crouching now, exposing the arch of his body to the enemy fire, if it should happen to come that way. His body seemed merely to preside over his nimble hands; his body was something for the arms and hands to hang from.
	
	  hen Duval spoke, in a voice absolutely unchanged from
	
	his normal voice. "That you, Sarge?" he said. "Lieutenant,
	
	I mean. Shoot, ah've had it." The voice stopped eccentrically; there seemed no principle for either stopping or continuing.
	
	  Just take it easy," Lev said. "I'm with you, kid."
	
	  Ah've had it, Sarge," Duval said, and now both his hands were bloody. "In the face. In the neck too. You can't see it. It's awright, Sarge. Ah done my best, comin' up here. You send my stuff to my wife, will you, now? And write her? Hush! Ah can't see! It must of been in the eyes too." He moaned, and viciously his body bucked; this time he turned himself onto his right side, facing me with his mask of red hands, and spilling blood--pouring it, as from a basin--onto my sleeve. Lev moved over, continuing his work, and now had the bandage out; it was the packaged dressing we used to wear at our belts. He held it poised. "Here it is," he said quickly. "I got it right here, kid. I'm right with you-"
	
	  hen there was a change in Duval; what was that change? I could not mark its happening, though I noticed a momentary tremor in leg and arm. His blood still warm upon me, he died, and his hands stayed at his face. "Hold on, kid!" Lev shouted. "Don't think about that blood. I'm a cut man, I'll fix it!" Then Lev took Duval's left hand, moved it away from the face, and slipped his fingers over the wrist; and that was to take the pulse, surely, though at that moment, being confused, I could not understand what he intended. Then he dropped the wrist, and there was a look of dismay on his face. "No!" he said. "Why, hell, the war's ending-" Then he bent suddenly over the body and put his helmeted head to the still chest; his face, turned sidewise, looked up at me, the eyes dazed and staring. Then a grimace of disgust came over the face, followed instantly by a look of wrenching sorrow. That strong face came away from all its conventions to look so. "Oh, no!" he said, and raised himself so that he could look down at the body.
	
	  Come on back," he said. "You don't have to die. Don't die! You got the stuff, kid--come on through! Hey, this is Lev! We had a fight, remember! You showed how you could take it! No," he concluded aimlessly.
	
	  e raised his face to me, now purged of its old fierceness. He held out his hands, palms up, the white bandage in his right hand like some mysterious piece of clothing, swaddling for a creature no longer available. "He was my friend," he said. "I didn't have so many. You, hey. You listen to his heart and tell me-- No! No good in that." He bent his head and lowered his hands, though the hand holding the bandage continued to rise and fall; and that was a futile gesture, the skilled hand reaching out toward something that skill could never reach. Lev began to cry; and so he was a strong man abandoning the conventions of his strength. His powerful body was kneeling now; a devotional posture had erected itself within that massive back and delicately curved those heavy arms. "Come back," he said, "come back. I want you to come back. See if you can't make it. Go ahead, try."
	
	   looked away, rolled over and looked back toward my squad, and saw, not ten feet away, the face of Jim Bob Allison intently watching. He was crouching behind a tree; his face was white, horror-stricken. I turned over once again so that I could look at the ground, and for some time I stared, atomizing the rich black dirt and stones and leaves. I watched the vein of a leaf. I watched a spider--the long-legged breed--ascend with stately elegance a little stack of leaves, and there pause. Lev was crying; I could hear him, and I continued hearing him for a long time after he stopped.
	
	  he battle had grown quieter, lacking Lev's purpose to make it happen; and suddenly the forest grew still, as if no battle had been there. I raised my head and looked at Lev, who now was squatting beside Duval, but facing the slope. He was looking up the hill, and his face was once again the familiar face of the warrior, the leader in battle. A speculative look was in his eyes as he turned to me, and he looked gentle. "Well," he said, "what we gonna do? I know."
	
	  e picked up his carbine and cleared the bolt; he looked down and inspected the chamber, casually running his little finger along the face of the bolt. "Look to your piece," he said. "I mean Duval's-there." He waited while I took up the rifle. "Well, check it," he said. "It's had a fall, it may have gotten dirty." He watched while I inspected the rifle, and then he said: "Good work, kid. Now we've got to get at it again. Stay here a minute. I m going to start this battle again." He rose; he paused for a moment, standing at the side of his fallen comrade, and then slowly walked to a nearby tree; he stood behind it, not behind the trunk but only behind the green skirt of spreading boughs. He stood for a moment carelessly, and then, like a bugler preparing to sound a call, he drew his body up and straightened himself. He took the position of the soldier at attention.
	
	  Well," he muttered, and then, in his old parade-ground voice that I had not heard for many months, he called: "Third p'toon, tench-hut! Hear me, third p'atoon! Come alive! This is Lev! You know me! Get ready now, and I'll give the word!" Then, casually, he relaxed and looked down at me. "Just like an old first sergeant, eh, kid? Well, that's about all there is to it. You ready to go? I want to give the boys a chance to get ready, 'cause we're going up this hill. Huh! The fact is, I can't stand the war to end. You know, that Barney Ross, that fighter-champion he was!--he used to say that a body feint was a good thing, but sometimes you just had to take a shot to give one, and go on in. Well, that's what I'm going to do. I've got to do something." He turned away, almost indifferently, and again set himself in his position of command; and again his electrifying cry rang out along the hillside: "Third p'atoon, tench-hut! Ready, now! come out shooting! Now's the time. Ee-yahh!" That was a battle shout, and the real David might have roared something like it as he lightly stepped into the deep shadow of Goliath.
	
	  ev moved out from behind the tree, his carbine at his hip; he fired twice up the hill and began running. "Charge, third platoon," he shouted. "Charge, God damn it! Let's git those sons-of-bitches!"
	
	  here was firing all along our line; we were moving; the surge was rising! And in a little while there came an answering fire, sweeping down the hill; the battle was alive! We charged, and charged successfully. Up we went, and even now I can remember something of the ardor that thickened in my legs and back as I pounded up that hill. It is the joy of life that respires in a tired body at such times, when death is near; and sweat is a sign of noble striving. Lovers ascending a peak of feeling are not more passionate than men when the spirit finds a precise expression in brute movement; complex motives running into a simple result--making a fury, melting the bonds of normal possibility.
	
	  e assaulted the hill, and there are good American army precedents for that. Some years after the war I read about Sheridan's gesture at the foot of Missionary Ridge in the Tennessee mountains; and perhaps Lev was not so vastly different from that illustrious soldier, who had a fierce mustache and a dark face, and said "Here's how!" drained his half-pint flask of whisky, and started up through the rocks toward the Confederate rifle pits.
	
	  or myself, I forgot my surroundings and went shouting up the hill. I fell once, but otherwise did not stop, for I felt that others were with me; I hoped that Lev was not too far ahead, and I expected that Jim Bob, somewhere to my left, was already beyond me. I fired my rifle now and then, but only in a formal military fashion; there was a battle, and firearms were being carried; it was only right that they should be discharged now and then. For some time the charge was an exhilaration of movement, a very pure joy, and then, as it reached the German positions, there began to be fighting, though I saw only a little of it.
	
	  ust to my left I saw two German soldiers suddenly rise up out of their holes with their arms held high in the gesture of surrender. They were quite close to me; their faces were blurred, mask-like, childish somehow in their anticipation; they were white, scared faces of boys, wanting to surrender; but the moment of surrender is a delicate moment which fate governs, and their fate was to die that day, and so they went down as if swept by wind--shot from somewhere to the left of me. I myself stepped on a wounded German as I crashed over his hole; and he only bent down closer to earth, crouching, covering his helmeted head with crossed hands--and his smell of an earth-bound animal, rank and fetid, came up to me. Later I saw him marching in the little column of prisoners we took down the mountain.
	
	  he charge ended for me in a gradual slowing-down as I beat my way through a thicket. I became aware of a cobweb; I felt it distinctly, and that was how I knew the charge was over. It came to me that there was no more German smallarms fire; and, a little later, no more fire of any sort, as the after-battle stillness began reaching out from its sources, from the dead, and the hurt, and the suddenly exhausted survivors. I stopped. Bemused, I looked about me, and noticed the details of the forest with a new precision. I even bent down to look at a fern, for I was feeling quiet and content, ready to consider a new thing. I touched it; the underside was waxy, and the upper surfaces had a kindling green feel that was like some essence of life, guessed at but never before touched. I turned around and wandered back toward the German line; I walked cautiously, for in those days I never walked any other way; thus I came upon the battle's end with a certain measure of mental coolness returned. I was already having reservations about the battle, like a newly successful lover considering the obligations his victory has fastened to him. There is an aftertaste of pleasure to such moments, which yields readily to darker feelings, by a process of conversion in the normal irony of change. I was ready to be sad; I felt pale and wan, in a preliminary way, for I was beginning to be afraid about the battle's cost.
	
	  hus I was almost able to accept the news I had from my comrades that the battle had been costly indeed; that seemed right. Seven men had been killed outright, including Lev, who had not gone thirty feet before he took a bullet dead center in the heart; and there were many wounded, so that our platoon--the third platoon--had almost destroyed itself on that little hill. But that was the way the charge happened, and I can remember imagining how, as Lev began his charge, some still-unfrightened German rifleman had carefully taken aim, waiting for his chance as the leader of the enemy came up the slope. I considered how it must have been, the German concentrating, his eye squinting, trying to stay calm so that he could squeeze off his shot. For Lev there must have been a numbing shock and, perhaps, a dim sensation of falling; and then he was down for good, who had once walked boldly on the bleak sidewalks of Chicago.
	
	  here were some little matters to tend to then. Prisoners had to be guarded, and there were six of these. The wounded had to be looked to, and this was done by calling in another platoon for assistance; and the dead had to be taken down the hill to the town, and this we did ourselves. Jim Bob it was who carried Lev, and I carried Duval, and the burden was hcavy. Duval was a big man, and his body seemed to drive itself into my shoulder, as if it were really seeking the earth. I have never carried a heavier burden, but I was not unhappy, for I wanted something to do, and wanted to do the right thing. It happened that we met stretcher-bearers at the foot of the hill, and then we were able to turn over our burdens to them.
	
	  im Bob and I, with what was left of the platoon, some eleven men, counting ourselves, went on back into the town, seeking the square. We were tired; that was sure. We were looking for liquor, and looking for a place to sleep; and when we reached the square we found that the company commander had arranged to give us a little rest. We were set free and told to find quarters and something to eat, but we were not quite ready for such things. We got liquor and wine, and I began to drink wine, standing with Jim Bob in the shadow of the bandstand in the little square. After a time he wandered off, carrying a bottle of wine, and I settled down to the business of conceiving a drunkenness; I managed a thin, clear intoxication that worked only in my head and left my legs firm. I walked about in the square; I approached the budding roses, and smelled the grainy roughness of the bark of chestnut trees. What else could I do? I wondered about Jim Bob, and grew angry at the sun, glowing across every surface of the pretty little square.
	
	  oward five thirty I saw Jim Bob, walking meditatively on his high, skinny legs; he was across the square, and he was looking down at a body--Lev's body, so I guessed--that had been laid out on a stretcher under somebody's blanket. Lev was gone, assuredly; he had been approaching this end for a long time, and come away from the nearness of it so often that there was a kind of justice in his being touched by it at last. I did not look at the body--that little hooded and narrow thing; I watched Jim Bob, who was having his struggles. After a while two men from another platoon marched a group of eight prisoners into the square, stopped them, and then stood leaning on their rifles, awaiting orders. In the group of prisoners I thought I recognized some of those who had surrendered after killing my friends; and I began to feel resentment and even hate.
	
	  he town was quiet. A pale bluish light was dying above the canyon, and the hills were irregularly tipped with fir trees growing thickly; it was a time when there was nothing to say. I sat on one of the iron benches, with liquor in my head, heavy and stupid, unable to move. Such quiet is not far from death, I think, with the mind intact but ineffective. I got up once and found a little branch from a rosebush on the bandstand; I took it to the bench, and there played with it, as if there might be contained in it some principle of dignified regret for the death of old friends. The leaves had not yet come, but the thorns were left from other seasons, and I let them catch at the skin of my hands.
	
	   was all alone, surely, just as Jim Bob was all alone, but he was at least capable of action; and perhaps that defines him. In that dim evening light he looked a boy, but he could move and change of his own power; he could accept his fate as if he were choosing it, and that is a rare gift. He got up. I could see him quite clearly. He went to the two riflemen guarding the prisoners, and talked with them. Their heads inclined to him, and they nodded. They stood patiently, servants to a just intention grown corrupt in its happening; they were careless and blind, and now, if they are still alive, perhaps they have quite forgotten that day.
	
	   faint sibilance in the air was all I could hear of that talk, but of course I knew what was being said. How could I not? I understood that Jim Bob was selecting the prisoner he thought had killed his friend Lev; and Jim Bob was preparing a revenge.
	
	  hen it was decided. Jim Bob unsheathed his bayonet and fixed it to his rifle. With the bayonet point he picked out one of the prisoners and began marching him out of the square. Slowly the figures of the two men merged in the distance. As the day weakened, they went out of sight, into an alley perhaps, where there would be the dung of dogs, and scraps of paper blowing on the wind.
	
	  hen there came a shot, bursting into the heavy silence. At the shock of it, I drove one of the rose thorns deep into the palm of my right hand, and it seemed a proper thing to do. There was another crash, incredibly loud, and I held the thorn in place, waiting for the little flow of blood which ought to come. There were eight shots in all, but it was almost fifteen minutes between the first and the last. Truly, Jim Bob was in no hurry. He was not submitting to an accident; he intended every blow of the little copper-jacketed bullets. Thin and harsh, he must have stood with the rifle held firmly, counting the rounds, and watching the effect of them.
	
	  hen it was over, I sat sweating and exhausted on my bench. I threw away my sprig of rose; death had been done, and long before Jim Bob returned, I had begun the process of recovery. I was an expert on recoveries, and still am. When Jim Bob stood before me, his rifle slung over his right shoulder, I was ready for him.
	
	  You know where I've been," he said. "I saw you watching me. The truth is--damn it, it's so!--I loved that man, and now he's dead. Dead, I wouldn't have believed it." His boy's face was shadowy under his helmet; only his outline was clear, drawn against the last light of day, and it was a dense, formal darkness in the shape of an armed man. "Well, I got even," he said. "You know."
	
	   nodded, and he leaned forward a little before continuing; he was still on the attack. "But it was funny what happened," he said. "Up there on the hill, I mean. Who'd ever think he'd feel that bad about Duval? And that's what made him charge like that, I guess."
	
	I shook my head, keeping silence, for I thought I understood why Lev had felt that bad about Duval. Once again I could not help thinking that war is not all bad; and to that thought I cling now, though it is a belief hard to cherish and impossible to defend in a peaceful society.
	
	  nd then Jim Bob changed the subject, saying: "But I got even with the bastard that killed him--or with some one of the bastards. Yes I did!" Tears of rage appeared in his eyes and ran untended down his cheeks. "Bastard, coming in to surrender after shooting us up! Don't you ever think I didn't get something back, though, up there in the alley with that German son-of-a-bitch! It was close range-" And here Jim Bob raised his free hand and clenched it into a fist. "Close range. I could see the bullets hit him--I never saw that before. A bullet punches a man, and you miss that when you pot him at long range. By God, a bullet fairly knocks the life out of a man--it's like stomping him to death! And I took my time about it, you know that. And learned something about life, I reckon. You bet I did! And old Lev was the man who taught me how to be that way!" Then he went away victorious, a fierce boy who had done what he wanted to do, and he will have that as long as he lives.
	
	  ut the next day it was plain that his hair had begun to turn gray during the night, and three weeks later, with the war all but over, his hair was streaked with broad silvery bands. His face had not changed much; it was still a boy's face, but for the white hair, which darkened the features into something resembling an image of fallen man; a handsome face, and hard-eyed, that had been quite undistinguished in other days.
	
	  or a long time I ignored this oddity, out of politeness and respect, but of course in the end we had to talk about it, if only to arrange mutually friendly attitudes toward it. I mentioned the white hair, and Jim Bob said: "It scares me. I don't know what to think about it. But maybe it'll be all right. Maybe it'll help me look older, so I can get a woman back in the States. And then it reminds me of old Lev, and how we used to play Hearts together, and I like that. Though, God damn it, he was a bad influence on me, making me mean like I am. Wasn't he? Why, he may have made a killer out of me!
	
	  But I like to remember him. I want to remember him. He was a good man, wasn't he? The best I ever knew in all my life. Wasn't he?"
	
	  He was a good man," I said. "Sure he was."

	

	

	

	

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