A Fable

         'What's his gripe?' Buchwald said. 'He knows he's for it, dont he?'

         'Oh sure,' the sergeant-major said. 'He knows he's gone. That aint the question. He aint kicking about that. He just refuses to let them do it that way-swears he's going to make them shoot him not in the front but in the back, like any top-sergeant or shave-tail that thinks he's too tough to be scared and too hard to be hurt.

         You know: make the whole world see that not the enemy but his own men did it,'

         'Why didn't they just hold him and do it?' Buchwald said.

         'Now now,' the sergeant-major said. 'You dont just hold a French major-general and shoot him in the face,'

         'Then how are we supposed to do it?' Buchwald said. The sergeant-major looked at him. 'Oh,' Buchwald said. 'Maybe I get it now. French soldiers dont. Maybe next time it will be an American general and three frogs will get a trip to New York,'

         'Yeah,' the sergeant-major said. 'If they just let me pick the general. You ready now?'

         'Yes,' Buchwald said. But he didn't move. He said: 'Yeah. Why us, anyway? If he's a Frog general, why didn't the Frogs do it? Why did it have to be us?'

         'Maybe because an American doughfoot is the only bastard they could bribe with a trip to Paris,' the sergeant-major said. 'Come on,'

         But still Buchwald didn't move; his pale hard eyes were thought-ful and steady. 'Come on,' he said. 'Give,'

         'If you're going to back out, why didn't you do it before you left Blois?' the sergeant-major said.

         Buchwald said something unprintable. 'Give,' he said. 'Let's get it over with,'

         'Right,' the sergeant-major said. They rationed it. The Frogs will have to shoot that Frog regiment, because it's Frog. They had to bring a Kraut general over here Wednesday to explain why they were going to shoot the Frog regiment, and the Limeys won that. Now they got to shoot this Frog general to explain why they brought the Kraut general over here, and we won that one. Maybe they drew straws. All right now?'

         'Yes,' Buchwald said, suddenly and harshly. He cursed. Tes. Let's get it over with,'

         'Wait!' the lowan said. 'No! I-'

         'Dont forget your map,' Buchwald said. 'We wont be back here,'

         'I haven't,' the lowan said 'What you think I been holding onto it this long for?'

         'Good,' Buchwald said. 'Then when they send you back home to prison for mutiny, you can mark Leavenworth on it too,'

         They returned to the corridor and followed it. It was empty, lighted by spaced weak electric bulbs. They had seen no other sign of life and suddenly it was as though they apparently were not going to until they were out of it again. The narrow corridor had not descended, there were no more steps. It was as if the earth it tunnelled through had sunk as an elevator sinks, holding the corridor itself intact, immune, empty of any life or sound save that of their boots, the whitewashed stone sweating in furious immobility beneath the whole concentrated weight of history, stratum upon stratum of dead tradition impounded by the Hotel above them-monarchy revolution empire and republic, duke farmer-general and sans culotte, levee tribunal and guillotine, liberty fraternity equality and death and the people the People always to endure and prevail, the group, the clump, huddled now, going quite fast until the lowan cried again: 'No, I tell you! I aint-' until Buchwald stopped, stopping them all, and turned and said to the lowan in a calm and furious murmur: 'Beat it,'

         'What?' the lowan cried. 'I cant! Where would I go?'

         How the hell do I know?' Buchwald said. 'I aint the one that's dissatisfied here,'

         'Come on,' the sergeant-major said. They went on. They reached a door; it was locked. The sergeant-major unlocked and opened it.

         'Do we report?' Buchwald said.

         'Not to me,' the sergeant-major said. 'You can even keep the pistol for a souvenir. The car'll be waiting where you got out of it,' and was about to close the door until Buchwald after one rapid glance into the room turned and put his foot against the door and said again in that harsh calm furious controlled voice: 'Christ, cant the sons of bitches even get a priest for him?'

         They're still trying,' the sergeant-major said. 'Somebody sent for Thursday Night the priest out at the compound two hours ago and he aint got back yet. They cant seem to find him,'

         'So we're supposed to wait for him,' Buchwald said in that tone of harsh calm unbearable outrage.

         'Supposed by who?' the sergeant-major said. 'Move your foot,' Buchwald did, the door closed, the lock clashed behind them and the three of them were in a cell, a cubicle fierce with whitewash and containing the single unshaded electric light and a three-legged stool like a farmer's milking stool, and the French general. That is, it was a French face and by its expression and cast it had been used to enough rank long enough to be a general's, besides the insignia and the dense splash of ribbons and the Sam Browne belt and the leather puttees, though the uniform which bore them were the plain G. I. tunic and trousers which a cavalry sergeant would have worn, standing now, erect and rigid as though enclosed by the fading aura of the convulsive movement which had brought him to his feet, who said sharply in French: 'Attention there!'

         'What?' Buchwald said to the Negro beside him. 'What did he say?'

         'How in hell do I know?' the Negro said. "Quick!' he said in a panting voice. That lowan bastard. Do something about him quick,'

         'Right,' Buchwald said, turning. 'Grab the Frog then,' and turned on to meet the lowan.

         'No, I tell you!' the lowan cried. 'I aint going to-' Buchwald struck him skilfully, the blow seeming not to travel at all before the lowan catapulted backward against the wall, then slid down it to the floor, Buchwald turning again in time to see the Negro grasp at the French general and the French general turn sharply face-to and against the wall, saying over his shoulder in French as Buchwald snapped the safety off the pistoclass="underline" 'Shoot now, you whorehouse scum. I will not turn,'

         'Jerk him around,' Buchwald said.

         Tut that damn safety back on!' the Negro panted, glaring back at him. Tou want to shoot me too? Come on. It will take both of us,' Buchwald closed the safety though he still held the pistol in his hand while they struggled, all three of them or two of them to drag the French general far enough from the wall to turn him. 'Hit him a little,' the Negro panted. 'We got to knock him out,'

         'How in hell can you knock out a man that's already dead?' Buchwald panted.

         'Come on,' the Negro panted. 'Just a little. Hurry,' Buchwald struck, trying to gauge the blow, and he was right: the body col-lapsed until the Negro was supporting it but not out, the eyes open, looking up at Buchwald then watching the pistol as Buchwald raised it and snapped the safety off again, the eyes not afraid, not even despaired: just incorrigibly alert and rational, so alert in fact as apparently to have seen the squeeze of Buchwald's hand as it started, so that the sudden and furious movement turned not only the face but the whole body away with the explosion so that the round hole was actually behind the ear when the corpse reached the floor. Buchwald and the Negro stood over it, panting, the barrel of the pistol warm against Buchwald's leg.