Lindemann noted, frowning. With his features tight he no longer
looked much like Kurt. Older. Much older.
Haber nodded. "Depends. Ranke, is there a place we
can turn?"
"There's a wide place about three kilometers down.
We'd have to sound first, though."
"What interests me," said von Lappus, coming to life and folding his hands before his mouth as if praying, "is how Wiedermann plans to lift his anchors off the bottom.
Our boats would be swamped by their weight. May I
suggest rafts? We've got one already. Wiedermann, build
another. Well, gentlemen, I've declared holiday routine.
We'd better take advantage of it. I'll want the crew at
quarters before sunrise, fed and ready to work. Wieder-
mann, you and Ranke will forego your holiday. Gunnery
Officer, issue the shore party sidearms."
Hans looked frightened. Kurt felt pique. He did not
want to go to that place again.
"Oh, Ranke," said von Lappus as they rose, "take a 45
shovel. Bury Beck and that other fellow." Even in his
dismay, Kurt noticed that Beck was no longer Mr. Beck.
"And see you recover his weapon."
"Yes sir." Greatly depressed, Kurt walked with Hans to the mess decks, for coffee. Afterward, he drew a shovel
from the boatswain's locker, joined Hans and his men in a
boat, dully accepted the pistol the Boatswain offered him.
He thrust it in his waistband, tried to forget it.
The meadow he found peaceful again, yet Kurt could
not keep his hand from straying to the gun. He was
frightened by this haunted place. A pair of ghosts seemed
somewhere near, mocking. The shell holes in the turf and
the shattered trees beckoned him, like the War itself, to
his own private little unremembered Armageddon. He
threw the shovel across his shoulder, bit his lower Up, and determinedly walked toward the bodies.
Flies buzzed in that part of the meadow. Franck had
already begun to bloat in the hot Norwegian sun. As he
paused by Beck, a small animal, lean and ratlike, scurried
off through the morning's trampled grass. A lonely bird
mourned in the woods. Tears welled in Kurt's eyes, his
throat became tight and sore. Such peace and beauty this
place had, and horror—like the world. He wanted to hurl
his shovel and pistol from him and run shrieking into the
wood, off to Telemark to wait for Karen....
Sounds stopped him: Hans shouting at his men, axes
striking trees, a groan.
"Hans," he called softly, "Hans. Hans!" This last was a scream. The shovel fell to his feet. His mouth hung open,
no articulate sounds coming forth. Hans came running,
accompanied by two men with weapons drawn.
"What?"
The words came, though forcing them was next to
impossible. "He's alive. God, he's still alive!" He pointed, and, as he did so, another weak groan fled Beck's scabby
lips. "He's been here all morning, and we never came to help. . . ."
"Fritz, Jupp, get Commander Haber." Hans's busi-
nesslike tone sent the seamen hurrying off. "Don't seem possible. Four arrows in him, one through the throat. He
can't be alive." He was silent a moment. Oarlocks
squealed on the river behind them. Then, thoughtfully,
Hans said, "He can't last much longer. Suppose he died before Haber got here?" He reached forward to cover
Beck's mouth and nose with his hand.
Kurt slapped his arm aside. "No! I don't like what he is 46
either, but ... well, he's a human being." Was this the Hans who had thrown up this morning?
"He'd probably thank me, if he was conscious." Hans's eyes narrowed, his face grew ugly. "If he lives, he'll be a burden for months, delirious, unreasonable. . . ." He
reached again.
Again Kurt forced the hand away, the while wondering
what was wrong with Hans. Why murder a dying man?
"If he has to die, let him go by himself."
"It'd be so easy, Kurt. Nobody'd ever know...."
"Too late, Hans." Kurt nodded. Hans's men were coming to see what had happened. They could not be ordered
off without questions being asked.
"Well, you want him to live,
looked much like Kurt. Older. Much older.
Haber nodded. "Depends. Ranke, is there a place we
can turn?"
"There's a wide place about three kilometers down.
We'd have to sound first, though."
"What interests me," said von Lappus, coming to life and folding his hands before his mouth as if praying, "is how Wiedermann plans to lift his anchors off the bottom.
Our boats would be swamped by their weight. May I
suggest rafts? We've got one already. Wiedermann, build
another. Well, gentlemen, I've declared holiday routine.
We'd better take advantage of it. I'll want the crew at
quarters before sunrise, fed and ready to work. Wieder-
mann, you and Ranke will forego your holiday. Gunnery
Officer, issue the shore party sidearms."
Hans looked frightened. Kurt felt pique. He did not
want to go to that place again.
"Oh, Ranke," said von Lappus as they rose, "take a 45
shovel. Bury Beck and that other fellow." Even in his
dismay, Kurt noticed that Beck was no longer Mr. Beck.
"And see you recover his weapon."
"Yes sir." Greatly depressed, Kurt walked with Hans to the mess decks, for coffee. Afterward, he drew a shovel
from the boatswain's locker, joined Hans and his men in a
boat, dully accepted the pistol the Boatswain offered him.
He thrust it in his waistband, tried to forget it.
The meadow he found peaceful again, yet Kurt could
not keep his hand from straying to the gun. He was
frightened by this haunted place. A pair of ghosts seemed
somewhere near, mocking. The shell holes in the turf and
the shattered trees beckoned him, like the War itself, to
his own private little unremembered Armageddon. He
threw the shovel across his shoulder, bit his lower Up, and determinedly walked toward the bodies.
Flies buzzed in that part of the meadow. Franck had
already begun to bloat in the hot Norwegian sun. As he
paused by Beck, a small animal, lean and ratlike, scurried
off through the morning's trampled grass. A lonely bird
mourned in the woods. Tears welled in Kurt's eyes, his
throat became tight and sore. Such peace and beauty this
place had, and horror—like the world. He wanted to hurl
his shovel and pistol from him and run shrieking into the
wood, off to Telemark to wait for Karen....
Sounds stopped him: Hans shouting at his men, axes
striking trees, a groan.
"Hans," he called softly, "Hans. Hans!" This last was a scream. The shovel fell to his feet. His mouth hung open,
no articulate sounds coming forth. Hans came running,
accompanied by two men with weapons drawn.
"What?"
The words came, though forcing them was next to
impossible. "He's alive. God, he's still alive!" He pointed, and, as he did so, another weak groan fled Beck's scabby
lips. "He's been here all morning, and we never came to help. . . ."
"Fritz, Jupp, get Commander Haber." Hans's busi-
nesslike tone sent the seamen hurrying off. "Don't seem possible. Four arrows in him, one through the throat. He
can't be alive." He was silent a moment. Oarlocks
squealed on the river behind them. Then, thoughtfully,
Hans said, "He can't last much longer. Suppose he died before Haber got here?" He reached forward to cover
Beck's mouth and nose with his hand.
Kurt slapped his arm aside. "No! I don't like what he is 46
either, but ... well, he's a human being." Was this the Hans who had thrown up this morning?
"He'd probably thank me, if he was conscious." Hans's eyes narrowed, his face grew ugly. "If he lives, he'll be a burden for months, delirious, unreasonable. . . ." He
reached again.
Again Kurt forced the hand away, the while wondering
what was wrong with Hans. Why murder a dying man?
"If he has to die, let him go by himself."
"It'd be so easy, Kurt. Nobody'd ever know...."
"Too late, Hans." Kurt nodded. Hans's men were coming to see what had happened. They could not be ordered
off without questions being asked.
"Well, you want him to live,
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