"It's a question of being sensible," Riker said hoarsely. "Four guys together're just a big fat target. One guy alone can really hide. I don't know what you're going to do, but I'm going my separate way." Riker waited for them to say something, but nobody spoke. They lay in the wet grass close to the hedge, no expression on their faces.
"Well," said Riker, "there's no time like the present." He straightened up. He hesitated for a moment. Then he climbed through the hedge. He stood at the edge of the road, still half bent over. He looked large and bear-like, with his thick arms hanging loosely down, his blackened, powerful hands near his knees. Then he started down the road in the direction in which the prisoners had gone.
Noah and the other two men watched him. As he walked, Riker grew more erect. There was something queer about him, Noah thought, and he tried to figure out what it was. Then, when Riker was fifty feet away, and walking more swiftly, more eagerly, Noah realized what it was. Riker was unarmed. Noah glanced down where Riker had been crouched. The Garand was lying on the grass, its muzzle carelessly jammed with dirt.
Noah looked up at Riker again. The big, shambling figure, with the helmet square on the head over the huge shoulders, was moving fast by now, almost running. As Riker reached the first turn in the road, his hands went up, tentatively. Then they froze firmly above his head, and that was the last Noah saw of Riker, trotting around the bend, with his hands high above his head.
"Cross off one rifleman," Burnecker said. He reached down to the Garand and automatically took out the clip and pulled the bolt to eject the cartridge in the chamber. He reached down and picked up the cartridge and put it in his pocket along with the clip.
Noah stood up and Burnecker followed him. Cowley hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he stood up, too.
Noah went through the hedge and crossed the road. The other two men came after him quickly.
From the distance, from the direction of the coast, the sound of the guns was a steady rumbling. At least, Noah thought, as he moved slowly and carefully along the hedge, at least the Army is still in France.
The barn and the house next to it seemed deserted. There were two dead cows lying with their feet up in the barnyard beginning to swell, but the large grey stone building looked peaceful and safe as they peered at it above the rim of the ditch in which they were lying.
They were exhausted by now and moved, in their crawling, creeping, crouched-over progress, in a dull, dope-like stupor. Noah was sure that if they had to run, he could never manage it. They had seen Germans several times, and heard them often, and once Noah was sure two Germans on a motor-cycle had glimpsed them as they hurled themselves down to the ground. But the Germans had merely slowed down a little, glanced their way, and had kept moving. It was hard to know whether it was fear or arrogant indifference on the part of the Germans which had kept them from coming after them.
Cowley was breathing very hard each time he moved, the air snoring into his nostrils, and he had fallen twice climbing fences. He had tried to throw away his rifle, too, and Noah and Burnecker had had to argue with him for ten minutes to make him agree not to leave it behind him. Burnecker had carried the rifle, along with his own, for half an hour, before Cowley had asked for it again.
They had to rest. They hadn't slept for two days and they had had nothing to eat since the day before, and the barn and the house looked promising.
"Take off your helmets and leave them here," Noah said.
"Stand up straight. And walk slowly."
There was about fifty yards of open field to cross to the barn. If anyone happened to see them, they might be taken for Germans if they walked naturally. By now Noah was automatically making the decisions and giving the orders. The others obeyed without question.
They all stood up, and carrying their rifles slung over their shoulders, they walked as normally as possible towards the barn. The air of stillness and emptiness around the buildings was intensified by the sound of firing in the distance. The barn door was open, and they passed the odour of the dead cows and went in. Noah looked around. There was a ladder climbing through the dusty gloom to a hay loft above.
"Go on up," said Noah.
Cowley went first, taking a long time. Then Burnecker silently went after Cowley. Noah grabbed the rungs of the ladder and took a deep breath. He looked up. There were twelve rungs. He shook his head. The twelve rungs looked impossible. He started up, resting on each rung. The wood was splintery and old and the barn smell got heavier and dustier as he neared the top. He sneezed and nearly fell off. At the top he waited a long time, gathering strength to throw himself on to the floor of the loft. Burnecker knelt beside him and put his hands under Noah's armpits. He pulled hard, and Noah threw himself upwards and on to the hay-loft floor, surprised and grateful for Burnecker's strength. He sat up and crawled over to the small window at the end of the loft. He looked out. ›From the height he could see some activity, trucks and small, quickly moving figures about five hundred yards away, but it all looked remote and undangerous. There was a fire burning about half a mile off, too, a farmhouse slowly smouldering, but that, too, seemed normal and of no consequence. He turned away from the window, blinking his eyes. Burnecker and Cowley faced him inquisitively.
"We've found a home in the Army," Noah said. He grinned foolishly, feeling what he said had been clever and inspiring. "I don't know what you're going to do, but I'm going to get some sleep."
It was nearly dark when he woke up. A strange heavy clatter was filling the barn, shaking the timbers and rattling the floors. For a long while Noah did not move. It was luxurious and sweet to lie on the wispy straw, smelling the dry fragrance of old harvests and departed farm animals, and not move, not think, not wonder what the noise was, not worry about being hungry or thirsty or far from home. He turned his head. Burnecker and Cowley were still sleeping. Cowley was snoring, but Burnecker slept quietly. His face, in the dimness of the twilit loft, was childish and relaxed. Noah could feel himself smiling tenderly at Burnecker's calm, trusting sleep. Then Noah remembered where he was and the noises outside began to make sense to him. There were heavy trucks going past and creaking wagons pulled by many horses.
Noah sat up slowly. He crawled over to the window and looked out. German trucks were going past, with men sitting silently on top of them, through a gap in the hedge of the next field. There, other trucks and wagons were being loaded with ammunition, and Noah realized that what he was looking at was a large ammunition dump, and that now, in the growing darkness, when they were safe from the Air Force, German artillery outfits were drawing their ammunition for the next day. He watched, squinting to pierce the haze and the darkness, while men hurriedly and silently swung the long, picnic-like baskets containing the 88-millimetre shells into the trucks and wagons. It was strange to see so many horses, like visitors from older wars. It seemed old-fashioned and undangerous, all the big, heavy, patient animals, with men standing holding the reins at their heads.
My, he thought automatically, they would like to know about this dump back at Divisional Artillery. He searched through his pockets and found the stub of a pencil. He had used it on the landing craft – how many days ago was it? – writing a letter to Hope. It had seemed then like a good way of forgetting where he was, forgetting the shells searching across the water for him, but he had not got far with the letter. Dearest, I think of you all the time (routine, flat, you'd think that at a moment like that you would write something more profound, come forth with some deep-hidden secret that never before had been expressed). We are going into action very soon, or maybe you could say that we were in action now, except that ifs hard to believe you could be sitting writing a letter to your wife in the middle of a battle… Then he hadn't been able to write any more, because his hand began to jump, and he had put the letter and the pencil away. He looked through his pockets for the letter now, but he couldn't find it. He got out his wallet and took out a picture of Hope and the baby. He turned it over. On the back, in Hope's handwriting: "Picture of worried mother and unworried child."