Chapter 50 Chapter Forty-Nine

est.Tudsbury's sixty-year-old, white-haired secretary stood in the doorway and poked her head in. "There's a Leslie. Here comes Mr. Sloter, Pamela." Pamela wept in her father's swivel chair in the old little office on Belmerstrasse.The cold wind shook the loose sash, and at noon in the gloomy December weather, the windows were also a purple light.Wrapped in a sheepskin coat and a woolen shawl tied tightly around her head and ears, she still felt chilly.The ancient kerosene heater in the room didn't help either; there was just a little heat smell, so to speak, and that's all.

Sloter came in, and Pamela stood up quickly, wiping her eyes with her hands.In his hand he held a Russian fur coat and a large brown fur hat.He has always been a thin man, but now he seems to be hanging on a suit of thin striped clothes, and he is showing his hair, his eyes are red, and his eye sockets are black. "Hello, Leslie." "Pam, I am so sorry to hear the sad news of your father." "I'm not crying about my father's death, I've got it. What brought you to London? Is your work in Berne over so soon? Want some whiskey to warm you up?" "My God, it's a lifesaver."

Pointing to a typescript on the table, she said: "This is the last article he wrote. He didn't have time to finish it. The Observer wants it. I'm finishing it. I think it's probably the one that brought my tears to my eyes." brought out." "What article? A news wire?" "Ha, no, isn't that an antique? It's an essay on the battlefield. His title is "Sunset on the Kidney Ridge." Pamela handed him half a glass of straight whiskey and raised it to him. another cup. "Please. What happened was, he was dictating this, and the press officer from Montgomery called and asked him to come and see right away."

Pamela's sad countenance, swollen eyes, disheveled hair, weak voice could all be attributed to her grief, Slote thought, but now she seemed to have run out of fuel.The Pamela of yesteryear, even in her lowest moments--she had had days when they were very down--had never lost her indomitable edge, a kind of admirable quality beneath her unemotional exterior. handsome.Now Sloter saw a depressed woman in her late thirties. "Do you believe in premonitions?" The whiskey hoarse her voice. "I can't tell. What's the matter with you?" "Talky had a hunch. I knew I could have gone in that jeep too. Even the press officer in Montgomery gave me the green light, which was a special exception for a woman. Talky was suddenly as savage as a mule. Unreasonable, I pushed me away. He simply lost his temper and made me angry too. We broke up on the fire. That's how I survived, and I will sit here and drink with you." She raised her glass sadly, Drank it down. "Leslie, I don't believe in gods and ghosts at all. I only believe in things that can be seen, heard, and touched. But, he knows it. Don't ask me why, touching a landmine is a big problem. Unexpected misfortune, I know, but he had a premonition. That Kidney Ridge article was a last-minute or something."

"Do you remember Byron. Henry?" Stru asked. "No, of course I remember." "I met him in Lisbon last week. I'm afraid there will be worse news. The 'Northampton' has sunk." Sloter wanted to tell her the news with gloating jealousy. I don't feel ashamed at all.It wasn't that he had anything against Pamela, or Victor.How about Henry, but in the romance between the two of them, he once played the vulnerable rival in love, and this uncomfortable feeling has always remained in his heart.But she didn't look emotional when she heard it. "Pam, you have all kinds of acquaintances here, don't you? Could you inquire if Colonel Henry is still alive, and then send a telegram to Byron? The only news Byron can get in Lisbon is to listen to some people there." Navy officials say the ship was sunk during the naval battle."

"Why don't you go to your naval attache?" "He's gone to Scotland." "Well then," she said lightly, almost cheerfully, "let's inquire about Colonel Narry." It seemed to Slote an unusual gesture, unusual indeed, to treat the painful news in this way.The fact is that just talking about this man made her come alive.She told the secretary to call Air Force Major General Burner-Walker. "So, what's the matter with Byron? Where's Natalie?" "Byron found her. Found her, and the baby." "My God. Found it! Where is it?"

"Marseilles. He talked to me for two hours at dinner. He could write a novel." "Isn't it, the family! How did he find it? Where is Natalie now?" Sloter had just started telling Byron's story when the phone rang.It was Burner-Walker calling.Pamela immediately kissed Pug.Henry and Byron told him about it, calling him "my dear."She hung up and said to Sloter, "They have a direct line to Washington. He'll get through as soon as possible. Have you seen my fiancé?" "Saw it once. In a welcome procession at your embassy in Washington. You were there, but he wasn't your fiancé then."

"Oh, of course not. Colonel Henry was there, too, and Natalie. Now let's get on with what happened in Marseilles. Any more whiskey?" "That goes without saying, as long as you are willing." "Everyone treats me very well. I have plenty of wine." Slote told in considerable detail about the chance meeting with Byron, and said that Byron was still doing everything possible to find out the whereabouts of his family.The day the Allies invaded North Africa, the phone call to Marseilles was cut.It took a long time to resume the call intermittently, but he never got through.He had thirty days off, during which time he huddled around the offices of various rescue agencies in Lisbon. "

"What's the matter with Natalie? How can she be so timid? No wonder Byron is so angry," said Handsome B Milla. Slote stared at her blankly, and repeated blankly: "How did she do it?" "Leslie, do you remember that one day you lost the key to the door, and this was the girl who climbed into the second-floor window of your house in Scribe Road. Do you remember, at the Lehar Hotel When I broke Phil's head with a soup bowl. How did she face those gendarmes without fear? We called her a lioness at the time." "What's the matter? She'd be mad if she tried to sneak across the border with Byron."

"So what? Doesn't Byron have a diplomatic passport? Could it be worse than the current situation?" Slote's eyes, darkened with dark circles, shone red.It seemed to Pamela that he had a high fever.But he said to her gently and calmly: "Bite, my darling, let me tell you honestly how bad her situation might be. Can I have another small glass of soju?" Pamela was pouring wine, and Sloter pulled out a pen from his coat pocket, sat at Pamela's desk, and began to draw on a piece of yellow paper. "Look, this is Poland before the war, isn't it? Warsaw is to the north, Krakow is to the south, and the Vistula River runs through it." It was a skilfully drawn geographical sketch, drawn in one stroke. "Hitler came in, and he and Stalin divided the country. Sideways! To the west of this line is Poland under German occupation. Occupying the military government." A thick, twisted line divided Poland in two.Slote drew three thick, dark circles to the west of the line. "Look, have you heard of concentration camps?"

"Yes, I have, Leslie." "But you haven't heard of the concentration camps. I just spent four days talking to people from the Polish government-in-exile here. Actually, that's what I came to London for. Pam, it's pretty brilliant News stuff. Aren't you continuing your father's work?" "I'm trying." "Well, this content may become the most important news in this war. The reporter who reported this news will go down in history. In these three places-there are other places like this, but the Polish government-in-exile The materials provided by eyewitnesses in London are all about these three places-the Germans exterminate the living in groups like rats. Germany transports them to these places from all over Europe by train. This is a A massacre by railroad. As soon as the Jews arrived, the Germans killed them with carbon monoxide or with firing squad, and then burned the bodies." He circled circles with a pen and said: "This place It's called Treblinka, this is Lublin, this is Auschwitz. As I said, there are more places like this, but these three places have been confirmed." "Leslie, concentration camps aren't news anymore. They've been in the news for years." Slote gave her a wry smile. "You didn't hear me." He lowered his voice, reinforcing his tone with a gnashed whisper. "I'm talking about the organized, planned massacre of a million people. As I speak to you, the massacre is being carried out on a massive scale. It's a grotesque plan, a project that used A covert operation on a gigantic scale, carried out on a gigantic, purpose-built facility! Don't you call it news? What is news then? It is the most atrocious crime in the history of mankind. It dwarfs all past wars. This It's a new phenomenon of life on Earth. It's something that's happening, and it's about half done. Isn't that a news story, Pamela?" Pamela had seen many reports of massacres about gas chambers and mass shootings.None of this is new.Of course, the German secret police were a bloody thug.This war is worth fighting just to clear these guys from the world.The plan to exterminate all the Jews in Europe was, of course, an exaggerated and alarmist one, but she had seen it too.Apparently this was all sold to Sloter; perhaps because of his bad job, perhaps because he hadn't forgotten Natalie, and now he's too worried about abandoning a Jewish woman he admired. Feeling guilty again, so he is clinging to this matter now.She whispered, "Honey, there's nothing I can do about it." "I don't think so, but we were talking about Natalie. It takes a lot of courage to refuse to go with Byron, much more courage than climbing through a second-story window." She hasn't got her exit visa yet. The train is full of German secret police. If something goes wrong, they will throw her and the child off the train. Maybe put her in a concentration camp. Maybe put her in a prison Another train going east. And then they killed her and the baby and burned them to the ground. That was a risk, Pam, and even if she didn't know that detail, she knew it in her bones. She knew the exit visas were coming, and she knew that the Germans had a godly devotion to official papers, which was one of the keys to subduing them. She was right about it. I told Byron my opinion once, and he Turned pale with rage, and—” Then the phone rang, and she made an apologetic gesture and told him to stop talking. "Who? Ah, so fast?" Her eyes were wide open, shining like jewels.She nodded to Slote frequently. "Wow! Great! Thank you, thank you, honey, see you at eight." She hung up the phone, smiling at Slote. "Colonel Henry is safe and sound! You know it's going to take a week to get the news from the Admiralty. Your War Department immediately forwarded Duncan's call to the Office of Naval Personnel, and he got an answer right away. Colonel Henry is on his way back to Washington now. I'm on my way. Do you think it's me telegraphing Byron? Or you?" "This is Byron's address in Lisbon, Pam, you better call." Slote hurriedly wrote an address in a notebook and tore it out. "Listen, the Poles here are compiling their papers into a book. I can get you the proofs of the book. Also, they found a man who escaped from Treblinka. That's it Concentration camp,"—a scrawny finger flicking at the sketch on the table—"near Warsaw. He risked his life and death across Nazi Europe, sent the pictures, told the truth. I passed The interpreter talked to him. It is impossible not to believe what he said, his experience is an epic like the Odyssey. Words that are published first will cause a sensation, Pamela." Pam found it difficult to pay attention to what he was saying.Pug.Henry is alive and well!On the way back to Washington!It added new vistas to her plans, her life.As for Sloter's "rushing to break the news", in her opinion, he was a little too obsessed.She seemed to hear her father saying "Worthless, absolutely nothing. Outdated stuff."Victories were new, and after four years of disaster and setbacks, victories in North Africa, in Russia, in the Pacific, and against German submarines were the truly great turning points of the war.And the German terror of Europe and its atrocities against the Jews are as familiar as the tide tables. "Leslie, I'll go talk to the editor tomorrow." Slote held out a bony hand straight to her.With wet palms, he squeezed lightly. "Great! I will stay here for another two days. If you want to find me, you can call the Dorchester Hotel or the American Embassy at extension 739." He put on his fur coat and hat, The smile of old days in Paris came across his face, making his cheeks swollen and his eyes gleam. "Thank you for the wine, old lady, and for listening to a sailor's story" He staggered out the door. The next day, the editor-in-chief listened to her talk in a dispirited and listless manner, biting and gnawing on his extinguished pipe.He said that the Polish government-in-exile here had provided him with all these materials long ago.He published several of them.She can find these materials in the file, out-and-out promotional materials.These reports are unverifiable by any journalistic standard.The plan to massacre all Jews was revealed by the Zionists to force Whitehall to open up Palestine to Jewish immigrants.Still, he would like to see Mr. Sloot next week. "Oh, is he leaving tomorrow? What a coincidence." But the editor beamed when she said she was going to Washington to write about the war effort there. "Okay, go ahead then. Try your pen, Pam. We know you were the one who drafted all of Talkee's later manuscripts, when can you give us that "Sunset over Kidney Ridge" ? We are in a hurry.” Slote had heard that two diplomats had gone missing on a bomber flight between Scotland and Montreal to and from the Transatlantic Airlift Command.The North Atlantic air route is not a popular route, much less in the dead of winter.The large and comfortable passenger planes are all on the southern route. After going south to Dakar, one guy flies across the sunny sea to the Brazilian salient, then goes north to Bermuda, and then goes to Baltimore.But this route is for high officials.There are only two routes for him to choose, a ten-day voyage in the convoy, or a plane of the RAF Transatlantic Airlift Command. On the train to the Scottish airport, he met an American transatlantic pilot who was going to the United States on the same way. A pair of rolling eyes.There are three rows of medals on the khaki jacket, and he speaks dirty words, full of flying stories.The two of them sat in a small room together.The pilot kept sipping brandy and said he was going to get so drunk that he would stay that way until he was well off the runway at Prestwick Airport.There is a risk of a crash taking off at Prestwick Airport.He has attended several mass funerals for drivers who fell to their deaths on airport runways.When flying west into a hurricane in the North Atlantic, you have to risk overloading your gasoline.The Airlift Command had to send batch after batch of pilots back, because it would take a lot of time and effort to transport the disassembled aircraft by sea.And the German submarines took them off too much.Therefore, the air forces of the allied countries in each theater actually rely on these transatlantic pilots to gather strength.Although no one took them seriously, they played a key role throughout the war. The dusty old train rolls slowly across the snow-covered fields with eyes full of eyes.The driver opened up the chatterbox along the way, and Slutt heard a lot about his life story.His name is Bill.Fenton had been flying planes before the war.Since 1937, he has done civilian and military flight work for the governments of many countries.He has flown a transport aircraft ("over the hump", he says) on the India-China route.Takeoff involves chasing buffaloes and buffaloes off the runway in honking jeeps, then ascending more than five miles above the icy storm that swirls high above Mount Everest.He had flown to the UK with the Royal Canadian Air Force.Now he is flying bombers for the Army Air Corps, via South America to Africa, and across Africa to Persia and the Soviet Union.He's made a ditch-landing in the desert; floated for two days on a rubber life raft in the Irish Sea; parachuted into Japanese-occupied Burma and trekked to India on foot. They arrived in Prestwick during a snowstorm, and Sloter was not only exhausted and lethargic, sharing Bill.Fenton's brandy was drunk afterward and he had a new vision of war.Pictures flashed in his drowsy mind: all kinds of planes, tens of thousands of bombers, fighter jets, and transport planes flying across the earth from north to south, from east to west, fighting against the weather and fighting the enemy to the last; Bombing cities, railroads, and marching columns; crossing seas, deserts, and mountains; it was a war such as Thucydides could not have imagined, a war like Bill.The aircraft piloted by Fenton's gang is rampant in wars all over the planet.War in the air never occurred to him to this day.At least at this moment, the "Wannsee Conference Minutes" that he can't forget, the map of Poland with three black circles, and the European trains that carry tens of thousands of Jews to the slaughterhouse every day, can be regarded as never. It disappeared from his mind.And he was even more frightened by this flight, and he was so frightened that he almost couldn't get off the train. When they arrived at the airport, the plane was getting ready for takeoff.Wearing bloated and clumsy flight suits, life vests, and thick gloves, with parachutes swinging below their knees, they walked out of the reporting room evasively.It was snowing heavily outside, and they couldn't see the plane clearly at once.Fenton led Sloter toward the sound of the plane's motor.Airplanes can take off in weather like this, to Leslie.It's incredible for Slote.It was a four-engine bomber with no seats inside.On the floor of the engine room, there were more than a dozen returning ferry drivers lying on the pallet in disorder.The plane took off with difficulty, cold sweat dripping from Sloter's armpits, and Fenton screamed into his ear that the forecast was headwind of a hundred miles an hour.They might have to land in that arctic ass hole in Greenland. Leslie.Slote is a coward.He knew this and had long since given up wanting to get over it.Even in a car driven by a fast driver, his nerves are high.Every flight, even a short one-hour flight in a DC-3, was an ordeal for him.The man himself is now flying westward across the Atlantic in the dead of December in a four-engine bomber with all its equipment dismantled; the howling, creaking old plane with cold wind through the air leaks Continuously drilling into the cabin, the sound like crying hunger and howling cold has been incessant.The plane was rising against the hail, and the hail hit the fuselage like a machine gun. It bumped, up and down, left and right, like a kite.By the light coming through the frozen windows, Sloter could see the blue faces, sweaty brows, and trembling hands of the lying drivers. Move the cigarette or bottle closer to the closed lips.The pilots looked exactly like him, and they were scared out of their wits too. Fenton had told him on the train that the North Atlantic headwind was strongest at low altitudes.Airplanes have to climb up and out of this airflow and into the thinner air to save fuel; but at these altitudes, ice builds up on the fuselage so quickly that the deicers don't have time to work.At the same time, the carburetor would freeze and freeze in sub-zero temperatures, and the engine would stall.There is no doubt that many aircraft are reimbursed in this way.Of course, when the ice starts to freeze, you can manage to keep going higher, crossing the wet and cold air into the dry and cold air, and you will have to rely on oxygen masks to maintain your life.Otherwise a rapid descent would be required, perhaps to a level close to the surface, where warm currents could melt the ice.Slote asked him knowingly: "Is there no freezing condition on the water surface?" "Nevertheless, of course," Fenton replied, "I'll tell you about an experience I had." Then he narrated a shocking incident from the past.Once in the sea off Newfoundland, the fuselage was covered with thick ice and almost spun into the sea. The plane continued to climb upwards, and scattered objects continued to slide backwards.Some drivers huddled in ragged blankets and snored.Fenton also stretched his limbs and lay down and closed his eyes.There was a sudden metallic thud on the fuselage that stopped Sloter's heart - or so he thought.Fenton opened his eyes, grinned at him, and gestured to indicate that the wings were icy and the rubber deicers were working. In the unbearable noise of the plane, amidst the pounding of breaking ice, Sloter couldn't figure out how to sleep peacefully.He thought that such a person would fall asleep immediately even if he was crucified.His nose was frozen and he lost feeling in his hands and feet.But he did have a brain attack, too, but a sickening sensation woke him up: a smell of rubber, and something cold pressed against his face, as if under anesthesia.In the darkness, he opened his eyes, and Fenton's shout sounded in his ears: "Oxygen." A vague figure was staggering around with an oxygen mask dragging a long rubber tube.Never in his life had Sloter felt so cold, so numb, so wretched, and never so ready to die. Suddenly, the plane roared and dived downward.The pilots sat up, rolled up their white eyes and looked around.Sloter felt an indescribable sense of relief in the agony that these experienced pilots were so afraid.After a terrible, deep vertical dive, the ice on the fuselage was shaken again.The plane returned to level flight. "Not going to Newfoundland," Fenton growled in Sloter's ear. "This is Greenland." "We are the superior race," the Führer instructed. Let's shout long live (Puff girl!) Long live (poof girl!) Aim at the Führer's face. In the barracks of the wooden house next to the runway at the Greenland airport, the record player played the song non-stop, hour after hour.This is the only record.The airfield was a barren field surrounded by barbed wire, sunken in mud and covered with snow.Sloter had never imagined such a desolate place in the world.The runway was so short that takeoffs were hit and miss, so after refueling the plane had to wait until there were at least passable takeoff conditions. If you don't love the head of state, you are shameless. So we yell hooray (poof!) Long live (poof!) Aim at the Führer's face. Here and now, Sloter argues, this prosaic ditty expresses the fatally lenient American conception of Hitler and the Nazis—blooming chumps, inexplicable travellers, shouting hooray, chirp, chirp.The musical arrangement mixes a cacophony of noise—cowbells, toy horns, tin cans—with the bass accompaniment of a German marching band.Some of the pilots were playing cards, and some were lying lazily. When the record was played, someone moved the stylus to the beginning. Fenton lay in Sloter's lower bunk, reading a magazine full of girls.Slote leaned forward and asked him how he was doing with the ditty "The Face of the Führer."Fenton yawned and said that that bastard Hitler would be uncomfortable.Sloter climbed down from the top, sat down next to the captain, poured out his feelings on the Holocaust to him, and said angrily that if such songs could make people feel happy, no wonder no one would believe what was happening before them. thing. bill.As Fenton flipped through the pages of pictures of naked women, he said nonchalantly, "Nonsense. Who wouldn't believe it, man? I believe it. Those Germans are really weird; they would follow such a lunatic as Hitler. There are many of them Good pilots, but as a people they are a scourge." Goebbels said, "The world and the universe are ours." Let's shout long live (Puff girl!) Hooray (poof!) Aim at Goebbels' face. Goering said, "They're not going to bomb this place." Let's shout long live (poof!) Hooray (poof!) Aim at Goering's face. "But who can help the Jews?" Fenton threw the magazine aside, stretched and yawned. "By the time this war is over, fifty million people will die. The Japanese have been beating the Chinese since 1937. Do you know how many Chinese have starved to death? No one knows. Maybe ten million, maybe more Plenty. Have you ever been to India? It's a powder keg and the British won't keep the lid on for long. Once India explodes, you'll see Hindus, Sikhs, Mohammedans, Buddhists, Zoroastrians all killing each other , killed more than hell can hold. The Germans killed more Russians than Jews. Dude, the world is a slaughterhouse, and it always was. " Aren't we superhuman? Pure Aryan superman? ah ah ah!We are supermen, super, super supermen! Fenton was very happy to hear what he said, and became even more excited.He sat up straight, patted Sloter on the shoulder, and said, "Tell me, is Stalin better than Hitler? I think he's a murderer too. But we still fly half of my bombers over there and send him— — for free, for nothing, for nothing. Some very good pilots got killed for it. I'm doing it now too. For what? Because he's a murderer on our side, that's why. What we're doing Not for humans, or Russia, or anything, but to save our own dogs. God, I feel bad for the Jews. Don't think I'm not. There's nothing we can do about them, except for Germany People beat the shit out of it." So, we shout hooray (poof girl!) Hooray (poof!) Aim at the Führer's face. At the sprawling Canadian Air Force base outside Montreal, Sloter called the Division of European Affairs, who told him to catch the first flight to New York or Washington immediately at the Montreal airport.When Sloter made the call, Fenton was walking past the phone booth, with on his arm a tall, pretty girl in a red fox fur coat, with swaying hips and green eyes. Staring at Fenton as if to swallow him up.With a smoking cigar in his hand, Fenton waved casually at Slote, grinned knowingly, and walked over.A short life, a happy life, a poignant thought of envy flashed through Sloter's mind. Sloter was surprisingly pleased that he hadn't bothered to take off the DC-3 and climb through the thick clouds.This airliner looks really big, the cabin is luxurious, the seats are comfortable and soft, and the waitresses are so charming, it seems that you are on the "Queen Mary" cruise ship instead of something that flies into the sky.He couldn't tell whether it was because his fear of flying had been numbed by his previous bomber ride, or whether he was simply insane, on the verge of a total breakdown.Either way, it's always nice not to be afraid anymore. He hastily bought a copy of the Montreal Gazette from a news stand.Now he spread the newspaper, and there was a picture of Erist on the front page.The picture of Tudsbury and Pamela made him sit up straight.They stood beside a jeep, Tudsbury grinning happily in a baggy soldier's smock, Pamela in slacks and shirt, looking thin and weary. Sunset Erist from Kidney Ridge.Tudsbury London Radio Communications.This telegram dated November 4, 1942, was the last of the eminent British journalist's dictation shortly before Alamein triggered a landmine and died.The unfinished first draft was later written by his daughter and collaborator Pamela.Published by Tudsbury and reprinted with permission from The Observer, London. A round of red and big sun hangs over the distant horizon of undulating yellow sand.The cold desert night had begun to descend on the Kidney Mountains.This gray sand dune highland has been wiped out by this time, and only the dead are left, and the two intelligence officers and me.Even the flies flew away.Earlier, the flies were still gathering here, and the black stars gathered on the corpse.They entangle the living; they stay in groups around people's eyes and wet mouths, sucking people's sweat.Of course, they prefer dead people.When the sun climbs across the horizon tomorrow, the flies will be back to continue their feast. Looking as far as the eye can see in the red light that is already at dusk, there are only corpses everywhere, and it is not only these German soldiers and British soldiers who died in battle here.Afrika Korps also died in the land of El Alamein.The Afrika Korps is a legend, an enemy capable of attack, a menace as well as an honor and, in Churchill's words, an enemy worth fighting.It is not yet known whether Rommel has escaped death, or whether his defeated superhuman soldiers will be caught by the Eighth Army.Anyway, the Afrika Korps had been wiped out, crushed by British weapons.Here we have won in the great desert of West Africa, a victory as great as Crécy, Agencourt, Blenheim, and Waterloo. The lines from Southey's "Battle of Brenning" echo here, on Kidney Ridge, to my ear: The victorious field, it is said, is a dreadful sight, for there are thousands of Corpses rot in the hot sun, but you know that's what happens after a famous victory. The sheer number of corpses is indeed shocking to look at, but what is even more conspicuous is that in this strangely beautiful wasteland, bombed and burned tanks are everywhere; The cannon barrels cast extended slate-gray shadows on a wide range of sands of soft off-white, tan, and pink.Here is a scene most incongruous with Kidney Ridge: piles of wrecked and overturned twentieth-century machinery in a primeval desert wilderness; Scenes of ancient warriors in armor riding on camels, war horses or on the back of Hannibal's elephant. From what distant lands these soldiers and machines came to die here!What an extraordinary sequence of events sent these young men from the banks of the Inn and Prussia, from the Scottish Highlands and London, from Australia and New Zealand, in this far away Africa, here as dry and desolate as the moon where, fighting each other with fire-breathing machines? Yet such is the hallmark of this war that there has never been such a war.This war has been fought all over the globe, and battlegrounds like Kidney Ridge abound on our little planet.人们离乡背井，被送到不能再远的地方，带着人类为之骄傲的勇敢和耐力，用人类为之感到羞耻的可怕的器械相互残杀。 再过一会，我就要坐吉普车回开罗去，在那里我将口授一篇我在这里所见的电讯。现在太阳已接触地平线，我看到离我不到五十码的地方，两个情报官员正从一辆炸毁的德国坦克里往外拖一个驾驶员。这个德国驾驶员浑身焦黑，头已经没有了，只剩下身子、手臂和腿，一股臭猪肉的气味，脚上穿着一双漂亮的靴子，只烧焦了一点儿。 我感到十分疲惫。有上个我所厌恶的声音对我说，这次战役是英国在陆地上所取得的最后胜利，我们的军事历史可以拿这一堪称最辉煌的胜利作为终结。取得这一胜利主要依靠不远万里从美国工厂运来的机械。今后不论在什么地方作战，英国士兵将一如既往，英勇地去战斗，但战争的主动权正从我们手中消失。 我们人数少，力量弱。现代战争是对工业的一场血淋淋的、叫人为之胆寒的检验。德国工业的生产能力在一九零五年就超过了我们。我们是全凭毅力撑过第一次世界大战的。今天地球上的两个工业巨人是美国和苏联，德国和日本已不是它们的对手。现在它们已从出其不意的挫折中振奋起来，从事征战了。托克维尔的预想行将在我们这个时代实现，它们两家将要瓜分天下。 在基德尼山脊下沉的太阳是在大英帝国的土地上沉落的，我们还在小学的时候老师就教过我们，大英帝国的太阳永不沉落。我们的帝国是在探险家们的技能中诞生的；是在我们的义勇骑兵的骁勇中诞生的；是在我们的科学家和工程师们天才的创新精神中诞生的。我们抢先起步，潜据世界前列已长达二百年之久。我们陶醉于庞大舰队保护下的长期太平盛世，我们认为这种太平盛世会永世长存。于是我们昏昏入睡。 在这里，基德尼山脊上，我们抹去了嗜眠症带来的耻辱。如果说历史就是兵戎相见，那就让我们现在开始体面地退出这个舞台；但如果历史体现了人类精神向世界自由边进的进程，那我们就永远离不开这个舞台。英国的思想、英国的制度、英国的科学方法将以新的面貌在其他国家为人们指引道路。英语将成为这个星球的语言，这一点现在业已肯定无疑。我们已经是新时代的希腊了。 你们也许会反对说，可是新时代的主题是社会主义，对此我还不能十分肯定。即使能肯定，那么卡尔。马克思，这个传播经济上的伊斯兰教、一文不名的穆罕默德，他的嘈杂脱耳的教义就是建立在英国经济学家理论上的。他的基督启示录式的幻想就是在大英博物馆对他的盛情接待中创立的。他阅读的是英国书籍，生活靠英国的慷慨大度，写作得到英国自由的保障，同英国人合作，死后葬在伦敦的一个墓地里，而这一切人们都忘记了。 The sun was setting.夜幕就要降临，寒冷顷刻将至。两位情报官员招呼让我搭他们的卡车。靛蓝的天空中涌现出第一批星星。我最后朝阿拉曼战场上的死者环顾一眼，轻声地为这些可怜的亡灵祈祷，曾几何时，这些德国人和英国人在托布鲁克的咖啡馆里一遍又一遍地唱着“丽丽。玛琳”，搂着同一批卖笑姑娘。现在他们一起躺在这里，他们的青春欲望已经冰冷，他们的思念家乡的歌曲也沉寂了。 “晦，这件事可真是下践作孽！” 小威廉明妮说。 “不，不，我的小姑娘！”他说——帕米拉。塔茨伯利写道：正当我父亲用惯常韵味背诵这些诗句时，电话铃响了。是叫他去会见蒙哥马利将军的电话，他立刻去了。可是第二天上午一辆卡车却送回来了他的遗体。作为第一次世界大战的一个预备役军官，他被葬到亚历山大郊外的英国军人公墓里。 伦敦《观察家》要我续完这篇文章。我试了试。我虽然还有父亲手写的三段笔记手稿，但我写不下去。我只能为他续完骚塞的诗句，我父亲战地报道的生涯也就是以这句诗结束的——“这是一个著名的胜利。” 这时飞机在恶劣天气的上空嗡嗡飞行，天空明亮湛蓝，阳光照射在覆盖大地的白云上，使人目眩。斯鲁特心情沉重地倒在椅子里。他心里在想，从伯尔尼一路来，不仅仅在距离上而且在思想上都经历了一段漫长的道路。在瑞士首都的暖房里，在中立的舒适气氛笼罩下，对犹太人的关怀好似一株疯长的植物在他心头成长。现在他已回到现实中来了。 如何才能唤醒美国的舆论呢？怎样才能摆脱“元首的脸”那样的傻笑、芬顿的玩世不恭和冷嘲热讽呢？最重要的是，怎样才能和“基德尼山脊”这样的文章竞争呢？塔茨伯利的那篇文章写得感人肺腑、扣人心弦，描绘了一场大屠杀，但对欧洲犹太人来说，不存在基德尼山脊这样的机会。他们手无寸铁，根本谈不上战斗。他们大部分人甚至连想也没想到，一场大屠杀正在进行。送往屠宰场的绵羊是令人不忍思考的。人们要转而去想别的东西。现在有一场惊心动魄的世界性戏剧供人观看，这是一场赌注下得最大的竞赛，主队最后会获胜。特雷布林卡集中营终究是无法同基德尼山脊相比的。