Time Enough for Love (90 page)

“Hey down in there! Corporal Bronson. Send him out.”

Lazarus climbed slowly up out the dugout, letting his eyes adjust to darkness. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Wire-cutting job. I want you to volunteer.”

Lazarus said nothing.

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“I heard you, sir.”

“Well?”

“You asked for a volunteer, sir.”

“No, I said I wanted
you
to volunteer.”

“Lieutenant, I volunteered on April sixth last year. That used up my quota for the duration.”

“A latrine lawyer, eh?”

Lazarus again said nothing.

“Sometimes I think you want to live forever.”

Lazarus still said nothing. (You are so right, you seven-pound bliffy—and so do
you
, you haven’t been over that parapet even once. God help this platoon when you do.)

“Very well, since you want it the hard way. I
order
you to lead this party. Find three more volunteers from your squad. If they don’t volunteer you know what to do. Once you pick ‘em, tell ’em to get ready—then you haul ass to C.P. and I’ll show you the map.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Bronson, make damn sure you do a good job…because a little bird told me that you’re going to lead the way through the holes. Dismissed.”

Lazarus went unhurriedly back down below. So we’re going over the top? Big secret. Nobody knows it but Pershing and about a hundred thousand Yanks and twice that many Boches and the Imperial High Command. Why do they advertise a “surprise attack” with three days of “softening-up” bombardment that does nothing worth mentioning but tells the Boche where to bring up his reserves and gives him time to position them? Forget it, Lazarus, you’re not in charge. Put your mind on picking out three who can go out, do it, and come back.

Not Russell, you’ll need your automatic rifleman before dawn. Wyatt was out last night. Dinkowski might as well have a cowbell around his neck. Fielding is on the sick list, damn it. So it has to be Schultz, Talley, and Cadwallader. Two of them old unkillables and Talley the only repple with too little experience—and a shame Fielding has la grippe or whatever it is; I need him. All right, Schultz, gets Cadwallader; I’ll nurse Talley through it.

It was a two-squad dugout; his squad was sacked in on the left, the other squad had a card game going by candlelight on their side. Lazarus called his squad into a huddle, waking Cadwallader and Schultz to do so. Russell and Wyatt stayed in their bunks, as the huddle took place against them. “The Lieutenant wants us to cut wire and told me to ask for three volunteers.”

Schultz nodded at once, as Lazarus knew he would. “I’ll go.” In Lazarus’ opinion his assistant squad leader should have a section. Schultz was forty, a married volunteer, and trying hard to offset his name, his trace of German accent (second generation)—but doing it steadily, methodically, without flash. No glory hound. Lazarus hoped that not many of the Germans they faced were of Schultz’s quality—but he knew they were, especially veterans pulled back from the collapsed Russian front. His only fault in Lazarus’ eyes was that he disliked Dinkowski.

“That’s one. Don’t all speak at once.”

“What’s the matter with
them?
” Cadwallader said loudly, jerking a thumb at the other squad. “Teacher’s pets? They haven’t done anything for a week.”

Corporal O’Brien answered for his squad: “‘Tell your troubles to Jesus; the Chaplain’s gone over the hill!’ Whose deal?”

“Who’s next?”

Dinkowski gulped. “Take me, Corporal.”

Talley shrugged. “Okay.”

(Damn you, Dinky—why didn’t you wait and simply make it unanimous? And damn that silly second john for ordering me to ask for volunteers. Better to tell ’em.) “Let’s hear some more voices. This isn’t the S.O.S.” (Lieutenant Birdbrain, you postnasal drip, Cadwallader is right; it’s
not
our turn. Why didn’t you go through the platoon sergeant and section leader? they’re fair about handing out dirty details.)

Russell and Wyatt spoke up together. Lazarus waited, then said, “Cadwallader? You’re the only holdout.”

“Corporal, you asked for three volunteers. How come you want the whole squad?”

(Because I want
you
, you unappetizing ape. You’re the best soldier in the squad.) “Because I need you. Will you volunteer?”

“I ain’t no volunteer, Corporal; I was drafted.”

“Very well.” (Damn all officers who interfere where they shouldn’t.) “Wyatt, you were out last night; get back in your bunk. Russell, you get some sleep, too; you may be busy soon. Schultz, I’ll take Dinkowski; you take Talley. Black me up first and make it fast; I’ve got to see the Lieutenant. Get out the cork.”

Lazarus got through their own wire without much trouble by enlarging breaks German shells had made. He did all the work himself, simply requiring Dinkowski to stay flat and follow him. There was the regular
crump!
of artillery, their own and the German howitzers. Lazarus ignored them, there being nothing better he could do. The chattering cough of machine guns he ignored, too, as long as the sound came from far enough along his flanks. Snipers he did not worry about other than to stay low.

His prime wariness was directed at German patrols—if any—and at starshells—far too many. The latter were the reason he had Dinkowski stay belly down; he did not trust his assistant to freeze and hold it if caught on his knees when a star shell burst.

Once past the last of their own entanglements he led Dinkowski, both belly-crawling, into a shell hole, then put his mouth to the private’s ear. “Stay here till I get back.”

“But, Corporal, I don’t want to stay behind!”

“Not so loud; you’ll wake the baby. Whisper against my ear. If I’m not back in an hour, go back alone.”

“But I can’t find my way back!”

“There’s the Dipper, there’s the Pole Star. Go back southwest. If you miss the gaps, you’ve got wirecutters. Just remember this: When a star shell bursts
—freeze!
The time to move is just as it goes out, while their eyes are still dazzled. And try to be quiet; you remind me of two skeletons on a tin roof. Don’t get shot by our own people at the last minute. What’s the password?”

“Uh—”

“Oh, hell, it’s ‘Charlie Chaplin.’ Forget it again and you’ll get more than a blighty; some of our lads are trigger-happy. Now repeat back.”

“Corporal, I’m going to cut wire with
you.
”

Lazarus sighed inwardly. The clumsy little clown wanted to soldier. If I don’t let him tag along, it can kill his spirit. But if I do let him, it might kill both of us. Cadwallader, I admire your good sense—and hate your guts. And wish I had you along.

“All right. Not a word from here on. Pat my foot and point if you have to—and stay that close. Remember what I said about star shells. See any Boche, don’t breathe. If they surprise us—surrender at once.”

“‘Surrender’?”

“If you want to be a grandfather. You can’t kill a German patrol all by your lonesome. Even if you could, it would make so much racket that their machine guns would chop you in two. Stick close and stay down.”

Lazarus could almost touch the first German wire when a star shell burst and the private panicked—tried for a shell hole they had just come through and was hit as he fell into it.

Lazarus lay still and listened to screams as the dazzling star burned above him. One of our own, he mused; a German shell would burst to backlight the American trenches. If that poor little dope doesn’t shut up, the air around here is going to be thick with merry greetings. Can’t cut wire with all that advertising. And—oh, hell, he’s my boy; I’ve
got
to take care of him. Probably be a favor to Dinky to finish him off—but Maureen wouldn’t like that. Okay, let’s get him back—then come back and finish this crummy detail. No sleep tonight and over the top about oh-four-hundred. Next time join the Navy.

The flare died out and Lazarus was up fast and moving—as another star shell flared. Machine-gun bullets stitched his side and knocked him into the shell hole. One struck a hard implant in the right side of his belly, tumbled, and chewed its way out just above his left hip. Others did other damage—nothing too difficult to repair in 4291
A.D.
, but, this being the Dark Ages, any one of them was enough.

Lazarus felt it only as a mighty blow that knocked him off his feet and into the shell hole. He did not become unconscious at once; he had time to realize that he was mortally wounded. He lay as he had fallen and looked up at his stars, realizing that he had come to his ending place.

Every animal finds its ending place. Some find it in a trap, another in a fight it cannot win, some happy few in a quiet place to wait for the end. Whatever it is, it is the ending place and most of us know when we reach it. This is mine.

Did Dinky know? I think so, he’s stopped screaming—I think he
looked
for his. Odd that it doesn’t hurt. Thanks for making it worthwhile, Maureen… Llita… Dorable… Tamara… Minerva… Laz, Lor… Ira… Maureen—

He heard wild geese honking high overhead, looked up at his stars again as they blacked out.

CODA

“You still don’t understand,” the Gray Voice droned on. “There is no time, there is no space. What was, is, and ever shall be. You are you, playing chess with yourself, and again you have checkmated yourself. You are the referee. Morals are your agreement with yourself to abide by your own rules. To thine own self be true or you spoil the game.”

“Crazy.”

“Then vary the rules and play a different game. You cannot exhaust her infinite variety.”

“If you would just let me look at your face,” Lazarus muttered pettishly.

“Try a mirror.”

CODA

From the Kansas City
Post
November 7, 1918:

CODA

“Ira! Galahad! Got him?”

“Yes! Hoist us in! Oh, what a mess! Ish, about two liters and lots of jelly.”

“Get him inside and let me see him. Lor, you can get us out of here now.”

“Seal up, Dora, and bounce it!”

“Sealed and zooming! Screens down! What the goddamn hell have they done to Boss?”