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"
None
,
"
Golz
said
.
"
Your
haircut
is
all
right
.
I
tease
you
.
You
are
very
different
from
me
,
"
Golz
had
said
and
filled
up
the
glasses
again
.
"
You
never
think
about
only
girls
.
I
never
think
at
all
.
Why
should
I
?
I
am
Général
Sovietique
.
I
never
think
.
Do
not
try
to
trap
me
into
thinking
.
"
Some
one
on
his
staff
,
sitting
on
a
chair
working
over
a
map
on
a
drawing
board
,
growled
at
him
in
the
language
Robert
Jordan
did
not
understand
.
"
Shut
up
,
"
Golz
had
said
,
in
English
.
"
I
joke
if
I
want
.
I
am
so
serious
is
why
I
can
joke
.
Now
drink
this
and
then
go
.
You
understand
,
huh
?
"
"
Yes
,
"
Robert
Jordan
had
said
.
"
I
understand
.
"
They
had
shaken
hands
and
he
had
saluted
and
gone
out
to
the
staff
car
where
the
old
man
was
waiting
asleep
and
in
that
car
they
had
ridden
over
the
road
past
Guadarrama
,
the
old
man
still
asleep
,
and
up
the
Navacerrada
road
to
the
Alpine
Club
hut
where
he
,
Robert
Jordan
,
slept
for
three
hours
before
they
started
.
That
was
the
last
he
had
seen
of
Golz
with
his
strange
white
face
that
never
tanned
,
his
hawk
eyes
,
the
big
nose
and
thin
lips
and
the
shaven
head
crossed
with
wrinkles
and
with
scars
.
Tomorrow
night
they
would
be
outside
the
Escorial
in
the
dark
along
the
road
;
the
long
lines
of
trucks
loading
the
infantry
in
the
darkness
;
the
men
,
heavy
loaded
,
climbing
up
into
the
trucks
;
the
machine
-
gun
sections
lifting
their
guns
into
the
trucks
;
the
tanks
being
run
up
on
the
skids
onto
the
long
-
bodied
tank
trucks
;
pulling
the
Division
out
to
move
them
in
the
night
for
the
attack
on
the
pass
.
He
would
not
think
about
that
.
That
was
not
his
business
.
That
was
Golz
’
s
business
.
He
had
only
one
thing
to
do
and
that
was
what
he
should
think
about
and
he
must
think
it
out
clearly
and
take
everything
as
it
came
along
,
and
not
worry
.
To
worry
was
as
bad
as
to
be
afraid
.
It
simply
made
things
more
difficult
.
He
sat
now
by
the
stream
watching
the
clear
water
flowing
between
the
rocks
and
,
across
the
stream
,
he
noticed
there
was
a
thick
bed
of
watercress
.
He
crossed
the
stream
,
picked
a
double
handful
,
washed
the
muddy
roots
clean
in
the
current
and
then
sat
down
again
beside
his
pack
and
ate
the
clean
,
cool
green
leaves
and
the
crisp
,
peppery
-
tasting
stalks
.
He
knelt
by
the
stream
and
,
pushing
his
automatic
pistol
around
on
his
belt
to
the
small
of
his
back
so
that
it
would
not
be
wet
,
he
lowered
himself
with
a
hand
on
each
of
two
boulders
and
drank
from
the
stream
.
The
water
was
achingly
cold
.
Pushing
himself
up
on
his
hands
he
turned
his
head
and
saw
the
old
man
coming
down
the
ledge
.
With
him
was
another
man
,
also
in
a
black
peasant
’
s
smock
and
the
dark
gray
trousers
that
were
almost
a
uniform
in
that
province
,
wearing
rope
-
soled
shoes
and
with
a
carbine
slung
over
his
back
.
This
man
was
bareheaded
.
The
two
of
them
came
scrambling
down
the
rock
like
goats
.
They
came
up
to
him
and
Robert
Jordan
got
to
his
feet
.
