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."
Noah stared out of the window. On a direct line with the dump, perhaps half a mile away, there was a church steeple. Carefully he drew a tiny map, putting in the steeple and marking the distance. Five hundred yards to the west there was a cluster of four houses and he put that in. He looked at his map critically. It would do. If he ever got back to their own lines it would do. He watched the men methodically loading the straw baskets under the protecting trees, eight hundred yards from the church, five hundred yards from the four houses. There was an asphalt road on the other side of the field in which the dump was situated, and he put that in, being careful about the way the road curved. He slipped the picture into his wallet. With fresh interest, he peered out across the countryside. Some of the wagons and trucks were turning into a side road that crossed the asphalt road six hundred yards away. Noah lost sight of them behind a clump of trees, and they did not reappear on the other side of the trees. There must be a battery in there, he thought. Later on, he could go down and see for himself. That would make interesting news for Division, too.
They were on the edge of a canal. It was not very wide, but there was no telling how deep it was, and the oily surface gleamed dangerously in the moonlight. They lay about ten yards back from the bank, behind some bushes, looking out doubtfully across the rippling water. It was low tide and the bank on the other side showed dark and muddy above the water. As nearly as they could tell, the night had nearly worn away and dawn would break very shortly.
Cowley had complained when Noah had led them close to the concealed battery, but he had stuck with them. "Goddammit," he had whispered bitterly, "this is a hell of a time to go chasing medals." But Burnecker had backed Noah, and Cowley had stuck.
But now, lying in the wet grass, looking across the silent band of water, Cowley said suddenly, "Not for me. I can't swim."
"I can't swim, either," said Burnecker.
A machine-gun opened up from somewhere across the canal, and some tracers looped over their heads.
Noah sighed and closed his eyes. It was one of their own guns across the canal, because it was firing towards them, and it was so close, twenty yards of water, no more, and they couldn't swim… He could almost feel the photograph in his wallet, with the map on the back of it, with the position of the dump, the battery, a small reserve tank park they had passed, all marked accurately on the back of the photograph, over Hope's handwriting. Twenty yards of water. It had been so long, it had taken so much out of him, if he didn't cross now he would never make it, he might as well tear up the photograph and give himself up.
Methodically, Noah took off his leggings, his shoes, his jacket and trousers, the long woollen pants. He took off his shirt and pulled off the woollen vest with the long sleeves. Then he put the shirt back on and buttoned it carefully, because his wallet was in it, with the map.
The night air curled bitterly around his bare legs. He began to shiver, long, deep spasms.
"Cowley," Noah whispered.
"Get out of here," Cowley said.
"I'm ready," Burnecker said. His voice was steady, emotionless.
Noah stood up. He started down the decline towards the canal. He heard the soft, crushing sound of Burnecker following him. The grass was very cold and slippery under his bare feet. He crouched over and moved swiftly. He did not wait when he got to the side of the canal. He dropped in, worried about the soft splash of his body. He slipped as he went in. His head went under the water, and he swallowed a great draught of it. The thick, salty water made him gasp, and made his head ache as it went up his nose. He scrambled around to get his feet under him and stood up, holding on to the bank. His head was above the water. Close to the bank, at least, it was only five feet deep.
He looked up. There was the pale blur of Burnecker's face, peering down at him. Then Burnecker slid in beside him.
"Hold my shoulder," Noah said. He felt the savage, nervous grip of Burnecker's fingers through the wet wool of his shirt.
They started out across the canal. The bottom was slimy and Noah insanely worried about water snakes. There were mussels, too, and he had to hold himself back from crying out with pain when he stubbed his toe on the sharp edges. They walked steadily across, feeling with their feet for holes or a sudden deepening in the channel. The water was up to Noah's shoulders and he could feel the pull of the tide sweeping sluggishly in from the sea.
The machine-gun opened up and they stopped. But the bullets were far over their heads and to the right, the machine-gunner aiming nervously in the general direction of the German Army. Step by step, they made their way towards the other side. Noah hoped Cowley was watching them, seeing that it could be done, that he could do it, that he didn't have to swim… Then it got deeper. Noah was nearly under, but Burnecker who was a head taller than Noah, still had his mouth and nose out of the water, and he supported Noah, his arm and hand strong under Noah's armpits. The other bank got closer and closer. It smelled rankly of salt and rotting shellfish, like the smell of fishing wharves back home. Still moving cautiously through the water, feeling their way, holding each other up, they peered at the bank for a place where they could climb up quickly and silently. The bank was steep ahead of them, and slippery.
"Not here," Noah whispered, "not here."
They reached the bank and rested, leaning against it.
"That dumb son of a bitch Cowley," Burnecker said.
Noah nodded, but he wasn't thinking of Cowley. He looked up and down the bank. The pull of the tide was getting stronger, gurgling against their shoulders. Noah tapped Burnecker and they started cautiously along the bank, going with the tide. The spasms of shivering were coming more violently now. Noah tried to jam his teeth together to keep his jaw steady. June, he repeated foolishly and silently deep in his brain, bathing on the French coast in the June moonlight, in the moonlight in June…