A New Kind of War

‘Trinidad rum.’ Audley nodded. ‘It’s rather amazing that Otto very quickly discovered that it’s Major McCorquodale’s favourite tipple

– his Achille’s heel, if you like ... in so far as a crocodile can have an Achille’s heel . . . But it’s absolutely amazing – quite incredible really – that he was then able to conjure up supplies of the stuff, here in Germany.’ He shook his head. ‘Trust our Otto!’

‘He’s the mess waiter – ?’ Fred sipped his whisky cautiously, aware that there were many other items of information he needed more urgently.

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‘Oh ... not really.’ Audley’s unlovely features screwed up conspiratorially. ‘He’s a lot more than that. In fact, he doesn’t usually honour us with his presence before dinner . . . unless we’re entertaining top brass, anyway.’ He brought his face close to Fred’s ear. ‘I rather suspect that the white-coat-and-gloves have been put on solely for Hughie’s benefit, to make sure that Major McCorquodale is well-oiled this evening. Because one of his very few virtues is that alchohol makes him mmm-more agreeable.’

It occurred to Fred that Audley, if not Major McCorquodale, had already drunk deeply. Which was at once surprising, but also somewhat disquieting, if there was some sort of night-operation ahead of them, as the Colonel had indicated. And with the whisky warming his empty stomach his surprise and disquiet concentrated his mind on that.

‘There’s something on tonight, I gather.’

‘Yes – uh-huh.’ Audley buried his face in his glass. There’s a kraut-hunt tonight, crowning all our recent inquiries. It’ll probably end in nothing – or disaster. But at least the weather’s on our side.‘

‘The weather?’ Fred recalled Audley’s umbrella.

‘Yes.’ Audley craned his neck, peering into their ill-lit surroundings from his full height. ‘You know, we really ought to start eating soon, or Otto’s jolly old porker will be spoilt . . . and the Crocodile does seem sufficiently well-oiled now . . . But Caesar Augustus is jawing poor old Amos again!’ He gave Fred an accusing look. ‘What on earth did you say to set him off?’

‘If I told you, you’d never believe me!’

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‘Oh yes, I would! Where Augustus Colbourne is concerned, nothing is unbelievable – ’ Audley caught his tongue. ‘You’re not a friend of his, by any unhappy chance? But no ... you are a Brigadier Clinton volunteer, aren’t you.’

That was too much. ‘I am not a volunteer.’ Fred felt his patience stretch thin. ‘I’ve only met your brigadier once, damn it – and it was you who introduced me. So I have you to thank for being here, when I could be sunning myself on a Greek beach – eh?’

‘Me?’ Audley blinked at him. ‘No – honestly ... I only told him who you were, that time.’ The boy’s mouth twisted nervously.

‘And I actually told him mostly about Matthew – I’d never met you before . . . And that uncle of yours, who used to come down to the school, and give Matthew fivers at half-term and on Foundation Day. And he seemed to know all about him the moment I opened my mouth.’ The mouth turned downwards. ‘Maybe I did lay it on a bit thick . . . but I thought you wanted to get away, I mean – ?’

‘I did. And you obviously did.’ The voices all around them sounded unnaturally loud, and full of alcohol-induced argument and bonhomie .But I haven’t, have I?‘

Audley looked crestfallen. ‘You must have impressed him. And I did warn you that he liked rich bankers, Fred.’

‘I’m hardly a banker.’ Fred felt himself weakening. ‘And I’m certainly not rich.’

‘Well, you are compared with me – I’ve just got debts, and mortgages, and things.’ The boy moved from defensive apology to bitter accusation. ‘So ... if you don’t like it, you can always dummy4

volunteer for the Far East. And then you can start a branch of Fattorini Brothers out there . . . It’s not my fault, anyway.’

There was no point in recrimination, thought Fred. And, in any case, young Audley was the nearest thing he had to a friend in this madhouse. ‘No – no, of course, David. I’m sorry . . . It’s just that I really don’t know what the hell is going on here tonight – ’ He smiled ‘ –like, why is the weather on our side, for a start?’

‘Oh . . . that’s simple.’ Audley relaxed. The rain drives the poor devils under cover – whoever we’re descending on. And it also damps down the sound of our elephantine approach, so we can creep up on ‘em more easily,’ He returned the smile as a grin.

‘Although, with the Yanks in attendance tonight, God only knows what’ll happen.’ The grin became almost ingratiating. ‘But it should be interesting. And as you and I are both in the front line we shall have a ringside seat, too – ’

The silver sound of a tinkling bell somewhere out in the courtyard cut Audley off, also momentarily hushing the hubbub of loud conversation of the other officers in the shadowy room, of whom and of which Fred had been only half aware. Or less than half aware, he thought quickly, as the hubbub started up again.

‘Otto’s pig will be quite ruined by now. So there’s no need to hurry.’ Audley raised his glass. ‘Would you like a re-fill? I really am a terribly bad host . . . and I haven’t introduced you to anyone either, have I? Otto!’

‘Hauptmann David!’ The tray, with two fresh glasses on it, and then the white glove-and-arm-and-coat, appeared as if by magic, in that order. ‘One Islay malt –one Black Label . . . and the pig, as dummy4

you say truly, is ruined, dried up, as a corpse in the desert of North Africa.’

‘You were never in North Africa, Otto.’ Audley swopped his empty tumbler for a well-filled one. ‘But you have been eavesdropping – eh?’

‘I already know all that there is to be known about the Herr Major.’ Otto presented the tray to Fred. ‘I do not need to eavesdrop.’

Fred looked at Audley. ‘Since when have I been a major?’

‘It was on Part Two orders yesterday, Herr Major,’ said Otto.

‘Captain Fattorini FA, RE, to T/Major – my congratulations, Herr Major, on your well-deserved advancement –’

‘ “Promotion”, Otto.’ Audley sniffed. ‘And now, will you kindly encourage the adjutant to get the CO to get us into dinner. Because, whatever the condition of your pig, I’m bloody starving. And we’ve got work to do tonight, while you’re safe and comfy in bed . . . and tucked up with whoever you’re tucked up with. So do be a good fellow – eh? Ring the bloody bell again – ?’ Audley delayed for a moment. Then he raised his glass in Fred’s direction.

‘But, like the man says – congratulations, Herr Major! And . . .

like I say ... make the best of it –okay?’ He grinned. ‘“Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish” – Book of Proverbs, chapter something, verse something-else – okay?’

Fred drank, adjusting to undeserved promotion: who was he to argue with the British Army, right or wrong? ‘Thank you, David.’

And yet, he had never expected to make field rank, however dummy4

temporarily. And certainly never like this, so equivocally, which made it not quite good enough, however good the Black Label was on his empty stomach. ‘But . . . make the best of what?’

‘What?’ Audley had been looking around, in the hope of dinner, while he had been thinking. ‘Oh . . . it’s not so bad – ’ Using his full height again, Audley continued to look around for movement ‘

– not if you’re like me ... no soldier – ’ He focused on Fred suddenly ‘ – no soldier, by God! Because when it was real soldiering, I was bloody-scared most of the time . . . and when I wasn’t scared, I was bored – bored – b-b-bored . . . bored.’ The focussed look became fixed. ‘But this is different: we’re VIPs now

– we can do what we bloody-like now!’ He nodded. ‘If we tangle with anyone, we pull “Colonel Colbourne” on ’em. And he pulls

“Brigadier Clinton” –and that rocks ‘em back on their heels, I can tell you.’ He nodded again. ‘Believe me, I know. Because I’ve seen it happen.’ Audley drank and then grinned happily. ‘Did it myself once, actually. GSO I, all red tabs and face to match, wanted to court-martial Jacko Devenish – my Sergeant Devenish – for gross insubordination . . . probably quite justifiably, because Jacko can be quite extraordinarily rude when he sets his mind to it ... and he hates staff officers . . . Yes, where was I?’ He drank again. ‘Good stuff, this malt: it completely dissolves my stutter. So I shall probably have to spend the rest of my life half-cut ... Where was I?

Ah ... Sar’ Devenish versus this GSO I, that’s right!‘ Nod. ’Well, guilty or not, we can’t do without Sergeant Devenish. Or, more accurately, I can’t do without him. Because he sometimes does what I tell him to do – and I always do what he tells me to do.‘

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Grin plus nod. ’Yes. So Temporary Hauptmann von Audley rips off a smart salute and begs to point out that the grossly-insubordinate is responsible to – and on a special mission for –

Brigadier Clinton, at the behest of Colonel Colbourne –‘

The silver bell tinkled again.

‘Yes?’ inquired Fred.

‘Second bell!’ Audley downed the remains of his drink. ‘First bell

– wait for the CO. Second bell – every officer for himself. Mess rules.’

‘Wait a moment.’ He would never get a better chance than now, Fred decided, with the young dragoon like this. Because, although Colbourne had instructed him to get an answer to his One Question from Audley, ‘no shop in the mess’ would undoubtedly inhibit him at dinner. And after that he might well be incoherent. ’I haven’t finished my drink, David.‘

‘Nor you have! I’m most frightfully sorry, old boy.’ Audley moved himself out of the doorway so that other officers might escape, shielding Fred from curious stares with his broad shoulders. ‘Do take your time.’

Fred took his time, judging that malt whisky and hunger in alliance might drive Audley to indiscreet frankness. ‘You were saying – ?’

‘I was?’ Audley looked politely vague. ‘Saying what?’

Fred took some more of his time. ‘Sergeant Devenish versus the GSO I – ?’

‘Ah! Well . . . “Instant Collapse of Empurpled Staff Officer”

would be the Punch cartoon caption.’ Audley fidgeted slightly.

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‘Lots of grunting, plus admonitions to me about the decline of discipline. And a ferocious threat about Devenish’s military future

– empty as a hot-air balloon, of course.’ Another familiar nod.

‘ Colonel Colbourne and Brigadier Clinton . . . between them, we’re all VIPs, like I said – okay?’ Audley looked at Fred’s glass, first hopefully, then with a hint of desperation in his ugly face.

It was about time to cash in on his opportunity, Fred thought, lifting his glass almost to his mouth, and then lowering it.

‘VIPs . . . doing what, David?’

Audley stared at him for a moment. ‘Christ, Fred – or is it

“Freddie” – ?’

Fred didn’t want him sidetracked. Take your pick, David.‘ He lifted the glass again. ’Go on – ?‘

‘Well – ’ Audley willed him to drink ‘ – it’s . . . it’s rather like peeling an onion if you ask me.’ He thought for another moment.

‘Fred.’

‘An onion?’ Fred decided that he didn’t wholly dislike David Audley. But, in the circumstances, he could only reward him with a sip. ‘Peeling an onion?’

‘Yes.’ Audley glanced into the open doorway, beyond which the rain still glinted in the lamplight as it fell. ‘Shall we go – ?’

‘In a moment.’ Another sip. ‘An onion – ?’

‘Yes.’ Audley hated him for an instant, fiercely but impotently, trapped by Good Manners and youth. ‘I mean . . . officially I’m supposed to be researching German tank development.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Which is bloody stupid, really . . .’

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‘Yes?’ Knowing that he still had a lot of Black Label, Fred took another sip. ‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Another twist downwards, on both sides. ‘I hate . . . tanks

– if I never saw another tank – or “Panzer-Kampfwagen” ... if I never saw another of the bloody great things . . . and the Germans were into bloody great things, so far as my researches go – my ersatz researches . . . Because they don’t give a damn about that actually.’ Twist. ‘Colbourne doesn’t, Clinton doesn’t ... If I never saw another fucking PanzerKampfwagen, or Panzer-Befehlswagen, or prototype Panzerjager Tiger Elefant, or whatever ... I saw enough German tanks in Normandy, to last me a lifetime . . .

although there were few enough of them, thank God! Few enough of them . . . and lots and lots of us – us being bloody cannon-fodder – ’ Twist ‘ – if I never see another one, that’ll be too-bloody soon!’

‘Officially.’ Fred cut through the whisky blur quickly. ‘What d’you really do then?’

‘Ah . . . well – ’ Audley stopped suddenly. ‘You really don’t know?’ He frowned. ‘Didn’t Amos tell you? And you were in with Caesar Augustus long enough, for God’s sake – didn’t he tell you?’

‘No.’ Audley wasn’t as drunk as he had seemed, Fred decided.

‘Nobody has told me anything.’

‘Then perhaps I’d better not. If my elders and betters –’

‘But Colonel Colbourne told me to ask you.’ Fred barely avoided snapping. ‘And he also told me “no shop in the mess”. So if you want your share of Otto’s pig before it’s cold, David . . .’ He lifted dummy4

his glass tantalizingly. ‘I can wait.’

‘It isn’t really a pig. It’s a wild boar.’ Audley’s voice was no longer slurred, and he was staring at Fred. ‘He hunts them in the forest with an illegal high powered hunting rifle. The Germans aren’t allowed guns, of course – not now. But rules don’t apply to Otto, because Colonel Augustus Colbourne likes wild boar for his dinner.’

Fred stared back at him without replying, aware both that he was every bit famished as the young dragoon and that the young dragoon was neither as drunk as he had seemed nor as young, in experience if not years.

‘Okay.’ Audley completed his scrutiny. ‘Officially, we’re related to the T-forces – the old SHAEF Target Subdivision. You’ve heard of them, maybe.’

Fred hadn’t. ‘Maybe. But you tell me, David. Just in case I haven’t.’ He smiled. ‘Now that I’m here.’

‘Yes.’ If not drink, then hunger and the prospect of a long night ahead of him had wearied Audley. ‘German military and technological material and research. All the stuff they were throwing at us latterly – V-1s and V-2s and jet-planes – and rocket planes – all the new weapons. But also, and rather more importantly, the stuff they hadn’t quite perfected – what’s called

“the next generation”.’ He cocked his head slightly. ‘“The next generation” – ?’

Fred waited until it became obvious that Audley expected some sort of reaction. ‘“The next generation”?’ He decided to frown.

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‘Yes.’ Audley accepted the frown. ‘It’s a pretty term, isn’t it! Here we are, all buddy-buddy and United Nations . . . and a Labour Government back home, to welcome us back to a Land Fit for Heroes. But here we are – “we are” meaning us, in this instance . . .

but the Yanks and the Russians too, just the same . . . Here we are, scrabbling for German tit-bits with which we can equip the next generation – the call-up class of 1955 Conscripts. Or, maybe ’56 –

the Crocodile’s money is on ‘56, mathematically. Mine’s a bit later, in our mess sweepstake. The Alligator is betting on 1950.

And Amos refuses to bet –he only bets on cards and horses, he says. Because he likes to enjoy his winnings, he says – and he says he won’t enjoy ours.’ He smiled. ‘But . . . anyway . . . we’re not actually responsible to T/HQ, anyway. But don’t ask me who we’re responsible to – Colbourne’s responsible to Clinton, and God only knows who he’s reporting to. Probably God Himself, is my guess. But I don’t know.’

It was curious, thought Fred. Because Audley had just said a lot.

And yet somehow he hadn’t said anything at all.

‘Yes.’ The ghost of Audley’s smile lingered. ‘So officially –

officially – we’re into our minor specializations: tanks for me, chemical warfare for the Crocodile, radar for the Alligator, communications and cyphers for Amos . . . and so on ... So you’ll probably get non-metallic mines, or something – or whatever the Royal Engineers are into. But all pretty small beer, really. And the Yanks and the Russians don’t worry about us too much, because they reckon we’re a bunch of drunken amateurs and loonies, trying to avoid boring regimental duty – or Far Eastern postings, fighting dummy4

mosquitoes and uncomfortably heroic Japanese, and suchlike . . .

Loonies led by the Chief Lunatic himself, Colonel Augustus Colbourne. Because he’s our best cover, by God!’

They were precisely back to the moment when Amos de Souza had first detached him from Audley, in the company office.

Audley nodded, as though he had caught Fred’s thought. ‘He is a looney, you know.’ Nod. ‘Bloody clever with it, admittedly.

Would have been a King’s Counsel long since, if there hadn’t been a war, for sure by now: Mr Augustus Colbourne, KC . . . Sir Augustus Colbourne – Mr Justice Colbourne – Lord Colbourne –

Amos says he was absolutely brilliant in court, even as a fledgling barrister . . . But quite mad, nevertheless.’

Fred could only remember the stark naked Colonel Colbourne, variously sunburned and white, and hairy, but utterly unconcerned.

But then another memory surfaced. ‘Where did he get his DSO?’

Audley gave him a sly look. ‘Oh . . . that was a good one, apparently: 8th Army, Desert Rats, ’42 – rallying the ranks at Alam Haifa, or somewhere. Amos says that if he’d been killed doing it, then it might have been a VC –he was only a captain at the time too.‘ The tousled head shook. ’Oh, he’s brave. But, for our purposes, he’s mad. Probably got too much sun in the desert, and it fried his brains.‘ The boy shrugged, and then gestured suddenly into the gloom around them. ’You know where we are – ? Eh – ?‘

That certainly was quite mad. ‘A ... Roman fort, Amos said –’

‘A Roman fort – right!’ Audley nodded. ‘The Kaiser rebuilt a fort just like this, on the old Roman frontier line – not far from here at dummy4

the Saalburg, back at the turn of the century, near Bad Homburg.

So this German industrialist – one of Krupp’s subsidiary suppliers

– he rebuilt another fort, on another original Roman site also on the limes, as they call it. And then he dedicated it to the Emperor Hadrian and Kaiser Wilhelm, right here. So we’re in the headquarters building of that fort right now –the “principia” –

which is cold, and dark, and draughty, and generally unpleasant . . .

instead of some agreeable American requisitioned premises, which Colonel Colbourne would certainly get, for the asking. Because he’s a great favourite with the Yanks, actually.’

Fred recalled his reception. ‘Because of his ... pigs?’

‘Otto’s pigs. And other things.’ Nod. ‘And because he insists that we all behave with unfailing politeness to our allies.’ Smile. ‘Also, he has a rich American wife, wooed on the Queen Mary before the war.’

‘He doesn’t sound . . . too mad, David.’

‘No? Well ... if I tell you that he believes he’s the reincarnation of Caesar Augustus – Julius Caesar’s nephew, who more or less invented the Roman Empire – ? The first Roman emperor – ?’ The smile became fixed. ‘Actually, he’s not really interested in Germany, A.D. 1945. It’s Roman Germania, A.D. 9, that he’s concerned with.’

He couldn’t be serious. ‘You’re not serious – ? Are you?’

‘No.’ Audley scratched his head. ‘Just. . . half serious.’

‘Half serious?’ Suddenly Fred remembered Colbourne’s irrational enthusiasm for photography’s revelation of the ancient past.

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‘How?’

‘How?’ Audley looked at him questioningly, and then at the doorway, and then came back to him. ‘We really ought to be joining the others now, don’t you think?’

Fred identified a mixture of hunger and despair in the young man’s expression, and knew that he shared the first, but not the second.

‘Of course. But just one thing, David –’

‘One thing – ?’ A glint of hope now. ‘What d’you want to know?’

In victory . . . caution. ‘You said Colonel Colbourne was . . . “our best cover”, was it?’ He paused for a fraction of a second before popping the vital question again, but now confident that he would get the vital answer.

‘Oh – Christ, yes!’ Audley forestalled him. ‘Everybody knows that Gus Colbourne’s only interested in one thing! The Yanks know it –

the bloody Russkis know it too, I shouldn’t wonder . . . Every bugger knows it, for sure! All he’s interested in is finding the long lost site of the battle of the Teutoburg Forest, where the Germans wiped out three Roman legions in the year A.D. 9 – where General Varus came unstuck.’

‘What – ?’ The young man’s bitter vehemence caught Fred unprepared in his moment of victory. ‘Varus – ?’

‘Varus. Publius Quinctilius Varus – “Varus, Fluch auf dich! Redde Legiones!” , as Otto says . . . Although Varus did have the grace to fall on his sword when all was lost, unlike von Paulus at Stalingrad, Otto also says.’

Otto says, like Amos says? With his mixture of German and Latin –

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Damn you, Varus! Give me back my legions! – What did it mean?

‘Now you’ve lost me, David – Varus?’ But then a spark of light, if not light itself, illuminated the incoherence momentarily. ‘Wasn’t he the Roman General who – ?’ The light flickered. ‘ That Varus

– ?’

“That Varus, uh-huh.‘ Audley nodded encouragingly. ’You know your Roman history, then?‘

The light guttered: any moment now it would go out, leaving him in a blind darkness inkier than before. ‘No.’ Everything Audley was saying was insane – ‘ He believes he’s a reincarnation of Augustus Caesar . . . Everybody knows that Gus Colbourne’s only interested in one thing . . . “Give me back my legions, Varus!” .

And yet, on second thoughts, it wasn’t. Because Audley had tried to warn him, and Amos de Souza had echoed the warning in his own way . . . And, finally, Colonel Colbourne himself had rolled their warnings up in his own confided statement, which somehow seemed to confirm everything: ’ All my officers are mad, quite mad.‘ ’No. But . . .‘

‘But – ?’ Audley seemed to have forgotten his hunger, together with his stutter and his simulated drunkenness. ‘Have you read I, Claudius?’

‘Who?’ The sharpness of the young man’s sidelong scrutiny sharpened Fred’s own wits, so that he instantly regretted the question.

‘It’s a book – by a chap named Graves. A poet, actually. But it isn’t a poetry book – you’ve heard of him – ?’ Audley was suddenly embarrassed.

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‘Of course I’ve heard of him. Robert Graves.’ Fred shared the boy’s embarrassment. ‘And I know about Varus.’

‘Yes. So it’s all in there – in his book, I mean. About the Romans –

about Varus getting the chop, eh?’ Audley relaxed again. ‘Sorry!

But I keep imagining that you’re one of Caesar Augustus’s men –

another Roman history expert in disguise, leading me on – one of his fellow loonies, recruited by him, like the Alligator. But you’re a Clinton recruit, of course – out of our little Greek encounter.’

The grin became lop-sided. ‘Silly of me. But put it down to hunger.

So let’s go and eat, then.’ He pointed the way.

The Alligator, thought Fred. And The Crocodile. And Colonel Caesar Augustus Colbourne. And now Publius Quinctilius Varus.

It was all too much – just too damn much! ‘You still haven’t told me what we’re really doing, David.’

‘Haven’t I? Nor I have! Mmmm . . . that’s right – you were just asking me about Gus Colbourne – ’ Audley looked past him and stopped.

‘Herr Hauptmann David, I can the meal delay no further.’ Otto bowed slightly to Fred. ‘Herr Major – ’

‘No, Otto – not “I can the meal delay”. It has to be “I can delay the meal”, in that order.’

Otto shook his head. ‘I cannot the meal delay, I am telling you.

The Colonel is come now, with Major Amos, at last.’ He fixed his good eye on Fred apologetically. ‘They have the United States Air Force hired. And I another pig must provide, in return.’

‘Okay, Otto. Tell them that Major Fattorini is just finishing his dummy4

drink – okay?’ Audley waited until the German had bowed-and-scraped out into the darkness before turning back to Fred. ‘Poor old Otto! Out into the forest again, with his trusty rifle. And he says it isn’t so easy now, with other people hunting meat on the quiet. Not to mention dangerous, with all sorts of rough DPs still on the loose out there, he says . . . But there! Where was I?

Colbourne, yes – “Gus” to the Yanks . . .“Der Kaiser” to Otto . . .

and “Sir” to us. And “Caesar Augustus” to himself . . . Yes, well what he’s up to is no problem: he’s hell-bent on finding the actual site of the Hermannsschlacht – or the Varusschlacht, if you prefer.’ He grinned at Fred. ‘The site of the battle in the Teutoburg Forest where Hermann’s Germans wiped out Varus’s Romans, in A.D. 9 or A.U.C. 762, if you prefer.’ Audley slipped his hand inside his battle-dress blouse. ‘What we’re after is somewhat different, in A.U.C. 2698 ... or A.D. 1945, as you and I might put it.’ He handed a leather wallet to Fred. ‘Go on – open it.’

It wasn’t actually a wallet, it was just wallet-sized: two pieces of scuffed and dog-eared stiffened cardboard, rexine-covered, held together by two snap-open metal rings.

‘Our bible,’ said Audley. ‘You’ll get one of your own. I’m surprised Amos hasn’t given you one already. But then, of course it is supposed to be Top Secret – not for strangers or other ranks, or any lesser breeds, without the law – huh!’

Something in Audley’s voice diverted Fred for an instant.

The young man’s mouth had twisted again into its familiar shape, which suggested a mixture of youthful doubt and uncertainty unnaturally aged with wartime cynicism. ‘I was only thinking that dummy4

Otto probably has his own private picture-gallery . . . Go on – open it, man!’

It was a picture gallery –

For an instant out of time and place and circumstances –out of wet summer, and wet Germany, and all present insanity – Fred was reminded of all the group photographs he had seen over the years of his life, on the walls of school and college and home: fading sepia pictures, sharper modern pictures . . . pictures in which his predecessors, or even his ancestors, or even he himself had figured

– stiff and unreal, in well-pressed or crumpled civilian suiting; or stiff and unreal, in unmuddied sports gear before the match, with clean rugger ball, or wicket-keeping pads, or with hockey stick, and striped jerseys or immaculate whites; or in the smartest-of-all passing-out battle-dress of OCTU, which would not be cherished and remembered by all those in it because not all those in it – that one grinning foolishly, and that one grimacing, and that one blurred – not all those were alive now, to grin or grimace, but were rotting in their graves, or off the beaches, or wherever new subalterns rotted, marked or unmarked –

But this was a gallery of Germans –

‘I always think Otto is the spit-and-image of Number 7,’ said Audley.

Some of them were in uniform, and some of them were in civilian clothes: smart, unsmart, handsome, ugly . . . But each one was numbered –

‘But he can’t be, of course.’

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The numbers had been painted on crudely, across each chest, in white. And, since both the ‘7’ and the ‘17’ were unadorned by the continental mark, those numbers were of British origin, not German.

‘If you look closely, you’ll see that Number 7 has only got one arm,’ murmured Audley as Fred lifted the photograph closer to his eye in the uncertain light. ‘And, although Otto’s pretty-damn-clever, he’s not quite up to that – growing another arm . . . And also, if you turn on to the enlargements, the shape of the jaw is different, too.’

Fred delayed for a moment, as he ran his eye along the double row of mixed German military-civilian personnel, in search of a common denominator. Number 7’s right sleeve was indeed empty, and pinned under his number across his chest; and, for a fact, most of his uniformed comrades were more-or-less battered – legless, or armless, or hideously scarred ... or merely old –

‘Come on.’ Audley held out his hand. ‘Amos’ll give you your own pictures in due course, Fred.’

Fred turned the group picture over, ignoring him. ‘Just a moment, David.’

Number 7, enlarged, certainly wasn’t Otto, he could see that. But somebody had done an amazingly good job of enlarging the group faces, he could see that too. It was like John Bradford had said: war had improved photography, as well as methods of navigation and surgery, and mass-murder.

‘Besides which, Number 7 is dead.’ Audley sighed. ‘Quite dummy4

authentically dead. Which I know, because he was one of mine to research. And I don’t make mistakes.’ The familiar twist met Fred’s scrutiny. ‘We were rather unlucky there, as it happens.’

‘Unlucky?’

Audley shook his head. ‘Don’t make me go into details before dinner. It might put me off my food. Come on, for Christ’s sake, Fred!’ He held out his hand for the mock-wallet.

Fred folded the wallet up. Obviously there were enlargements of every one of the group, by the thickness of it. But he still kept hold of the collection. ‘What are they? War criminals?’

‘War criminals?’ Audley’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Good God, no! Perish the thought! We’re not . . . we’re not policemen, for God’s sake!’

Then what are they? Who are they?‘

‘Well . . .’ Audley shrugged ‘. . . really quite decent chaps, so far as I can make out. On the whole, I mean. That is, allowing for the fact that several of ’em were Nazi Party members. And all of ‘em are Germans, of course. Or were Germans – ’ He stopped suddenly, cocking an eye at Fred. ‘You’re not one of those chaps who think the only good German is a dead one, are you?’

Fred felt his temper slipping. ‘What the devil d’you mean?’

‘What I say.’ Audley took the wallet out of his hand. ‘Because they are – or were, in the majority of cases now, unfortunately – a group of officers and gentlemen, and scholars and gentlemen, working out of the Rheinische Landesmuseum at Trier – sort of official, and also semiofficial, like the old Gesellschaft fur nutzliche Forschung.’ He grinned. They were ... a sort of follow-up party to dummy4

the RAF you might say.‘

The Society for Useful Research (allowing for Audley’s barbarous German pronunciation) – ? The . . . RAF?‘

That’s right. Christ, you’ve seen what we’ve done to Germany, haven’t you? That pile of broken bricks on the way from the airfield was the city of Frankfurt – Frankfurt! And it’s the same everywhere else – or worse . . . Cologne’s worse ... or “Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensis”, as our beloved commanding officer insists on calling it.‘ Audley drew a deep breath, which became a sigh. ’A lot of fine old cities – German cities, I agree . . . but some of ‘em go back a thousand years – or even back to the Romans . . .

But all flattened now.’ He stared at Fred. ‘But also cleared and opened up, too. Okay?’

It wasn’t okay. But Fred was unable to describe what it was.

‘Great chance for the archaeologists, after the war, someone thought.’ Audley nodded. ‘After Germany had won the war – ’

Slight shrug ‘ – they thought ... a lot of rebuilding. But they mustn’t miss the opportunity to excavate first. So someone had to mark the sites for urgent excavation. They even invented a long German technical term for what they wanted to do ... which I can’t remember now, because I don’t actually speak the lingo – “urgent-rescue-excavation”, it translates, more or less. But Amos will tell you, if you ask him, anyway.’ Nod. ‘Great scholars, the Germans –

classical scholars.’ Audley touched his battle-dress blouse, where he had replaced the wallet. ‘Several of ’em in our picture. Stoerkel, Zeitzler, Peter von Mellenthin – the late Peter being Number 7 . . .‘

Audley shook his head slowly ’Enno von Mitzlaff – scholar and dummy4

soldier . . . Langer, Hagemann . . . and, of course, old Professor Schmidt himself – ex-Cambridge and Bristol Universities, friend of Mortimer Wheeler.‘ Audley paused. ’Dead, or “missing, presumed dead”, or still missing . . . but mostly dead, they are.‘

But not in battle, thought Fred. Because the military wrecks and the elderly civilians in the photograph were plainly not cannon-fodder. ‘How dead?’

‘Franz Langer was killed in the bombing. And we think Stoerkel was in Dresden when the RAF took it off the map – that’s near enough certain, the Crocodile says.’ No nod this time, just a stare.

‘And Enno von Mitzlaff was strung up on piano wire by the Nazis after the Hitler bomb of July 20, in spite of all his battle honours –

he was one of Rommel’s bright young men . . . And Willi Hagemann – Dr Hagemann being Number 13 ... he was unlucky, too: he was run over by a Russian staff car just as we were about to pick him up, would you believe it?’

‘Unlucky?’ There was something very wrong about this litany.

‘Yes. Apparently he didn’t look where he was going.’ Audley’s expression became curiously blank. ‘But then, we do look where we’re going. And we do seem to have the most damnable bad luck too. Our “useful researches” always seem to end up unusefully, I must say!’

Fred remembered Osios Konstandinos. ‘But they’re not all dead

– ?’

‘No, not all dead, my dear chap.’ Audley perked up suddenly. The elusive Number 16 isn’t dead, we think –“Sweet-Sixteen-and-dummy4

Never-Been-Kissed”! And we’re going for Number 21 – “Key-of-the-Door” – this very night ... in the wee small hours, when he shouldn’t be expecting us. And Number 21 is rather important in the scheme of things, I suspect.‘

‘Why?’ Fred hit the question-button quickly, and therefore naturally; although as he did so he knew that it was another attempt on The Crucial Question, from what Audley had just let slip.

‘ Why?’

‘Because he knows Number 16.’ Audley looked down. ‘You’ve finished your drink ... so now we’ll go – right?’

Fred looked down. ‘Yes – yes, of course – ’

The rain still slanted down in the courtyard, and the wet smell of earth and darkness mingled with the enveloping sounds of rainwater dripping off roofs and cascading over blocked guttering all around them.

Fred shivered, although it wasn’t really cold – although it wasn’t really cold, through the thickness of battle-dress, even remembering how it would be now under the stars on the beach in Greece, this night. Because the cold was inside him now.

‘This way,’ Audley pointed. ‘And let me do the apologizing.’

‘Of course.’ He shivered again, involuntarily. ‘What’s so important about Number 16, David?’

‘I rather think that he’s the only one we’re really interested in.’

Audley pointed again, towards a bright doorway. ‘“Sweet Sixteen”

– let’s hope he lives to be kissed!’

Fred slowed deliberately. ‘Why do we want him?’

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‘God only knows!’ For the first time Audley touched him, trying to propel him into the light. ‘Nobody tells me anything – I just do as I’m told.’

‘But you must have some idea.’

‘Oh yes!’ Audley grinned at him conspiratorially. ‘A lot of people hunting Germans these days – it’s open season on Nazis, of course.’

Fred frowned. ‘But you said . . . these were decent chaps, David?’

That’s right.‘ The grin widened. That’s what makes it interesting: we seem to be trying to save these particular Germans for posterity. The only trouble is ... they don’t seem to want to be saved.’

3

Fred hunched himself miserably under David Audley’s umbrella, in the midst of utter darkness and the enveloping noise of the rain descending through the forest canopy above, which damped down every other sound, just as the young dragoon had promised.

‘ This is how it must have been,’ Audley had said, just before he’d disappeared into the dark, but without explaining what he meant; and then, ‘ Don’t go to sleep, Fred, for God’s sake – otherwise I’ll never find you again.’

He lowered the umbrella for a moment to let the rain refresh him –

mustn’t go to sleep . . . must think of something, anything – even the madness of dinner –

Dinner . . . dinner under candlelight winking silver-gold on cut dummy4

glass and heavy cutlery, served off delicate bone china boasting a many-quartered coat of arms, which were not the arms of any British unit, least of all TRR-2!

Loot! he had thought, but without daring to ask, as he had felt the weight of the glass and cutlery, and the lightness and strength of the plates, one after another. Or . . . not loot, but the legitimate spoils-of-war – remember where you are, Fred! But, loot or spoils, it had been unreal: unreal places, unreal people, unreal conversation, unreal candlelit setting, unreal food –

‘Deer ham, Herr Major – thinly sliced, slightly smoked . . . what you would call “venison”, Herr Major. Upon a leaf of the lettuce, with the cranberry sauce. And also with the horseradishes sauce –

so!’

‘Interesting word, “venison”.’ (Voice from down the table, not directed at him.) ‘Middle English, of course –Old French, too . . .

“Venery” – “Venerer” – “venison”; “hunting”, “huntsman”,

“hunted flesh”.’

‘“Venery”, Philip? I thought that was to do with sex, not animals.

Same thing though, I suppose.’

‘Not the same thing at all, Alec. Same spelling –different root.

That venery is from “Venus” – like “venereal” –’

‘Hah! Don’t have to hunt for that, by God! Whole bloody army’ll be rotten with it by this time next year, mark my words. Once the fratting really starts – when everyone’s got his own woman.’ (Harsh voice, with the faintest Scottish roll to each ‘r: big angular face, with arched nose above a mouthful of teeth.) dummy4

’Interesting though, I would agree.‘

‘I didn’t mean that. What I meant was that all hunted flesh was originally “venison”, not just the deer. Boar, hare – any game animal. It was all venison.’

‘Oh aye? And would that include the two-legged variety, then?’

‘Pheasant, grouse –’

‘Och no! I mean man, old boy! The best game of all –the gamest game . . . our game, tonight – ’

Fred straightened up, conscious suddenly that he had slumped back against the trunk of his tree again.

Stand up straight – shoulders back – umbrella vertical –feet firmly placed (it was hard to keep them firm in the soft forest detritus into which they kept sinking) – mustn’t doze off (the utter darkness was disorientating: how the hell would Audley find his way back to this particular tree, for God’s sake?). Then he remembered the silly little metallic toy Audley had given him, which was still clenched in his hand.

‘It’s two clicks for the assault group, and one click in recognition,’

Audley had said. ‘ But if you hear three clicks, that’ll be me. And then you give four clicks back. And once I’ve left you, then you give me four clicks every five minutes, until you hear me. And then, when I give you three back, you give me four again. Right?’

It had sounded juvenile. But then Audley had said: ‘ The Yank paratroopers used it on D-Day, in Normandy –it’s a clever wheeze, Fred.’ And then it hadn’t been so childish –

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He pressed the toy: click-click-click-click!

Nothing. Only the sound of the rain –

‘Herr Major . . . Haul Brion, ’34 – please?‘

‘A good year.’ (Audley’s mouth was full of deer ham.) ‘Eh?’

The best since ‘29, Captain David.’ (Otto bobbed agreement.)

‘Besides which, it’s the best wine we have with us. But if you want to enjoy it then steer clear of the horseradish.’ (The voice was friendly, slightly slurred.) ‘Alec McCorquodale – Frederick Fattorini, is it – ?’

‘Yes.’ (The Crocodile, at last! But he had guessed that from the teeth already.) ‘Thanks for the advice . . . Alec.’

‘It’s “Freddie” actually, Alec.’ (Amos de Souza, from down the table.)

‘No, it isn’t – ’ (Audley was still wolfing his deer ham.)

‘Freddie? You wouldn’t be Luke Fattorini’s boy, by any chance?’

‘He’s my uncle.’ Everyone seemed to know Uncle Luke.

‘Oh aye?’ (The Crocodile pointed his big nose like a weapon, sighting Fred down it.) ‘Now, it was his elder brother married Angus Armstrong’s daughter – eh?’

‘Yes.’ (His own mouth was full.) ‘My . . . father – ’ (Chew!)‘ – and my mother.’

‘F-f-fff . . .’ (The sound came from Audley.) ‘It’s “Fred”, not F-ff . . . “Freddie”.’

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‘What?’ (The big nose changed direction.) ‘Ah . . . now, I’ve a bone to pick with you, young David. Rrrelat-ing to my vehicle.’

‘Oh?’ (Innocence.) ‘Ah . . . yes, Alec. I w-was going to tell you about that. But I had to look after F-f-Fred, you see –’

‘I do not need telling about it. I know all about it: it was given to that driver of yours, Hewitt – “Driver”, huh! And it was given, against my express orders, by that insolent dog of yours, Devenish.

What have you to say to that?’

(Pause.) ‘Sergeant Devenish, you mean, Alec?’

‘What?’ (Pause.) ‘Man, I do not care if he is a field-marshal, and has a Civil List pension. I’ve had enough of his insolence. And now he has ignored my express orders. So he must go.’

(Pause.) ‘No.’

‘No?’ (Incredulity.) ‘What the blazes – ’

‘Alec!’ (Amos de Souza’s voice, from down the table.)

‘Amos? Did you hear me?’

‘I heard what sounded supiciously like shop, Alec, is what I heard.’

‘F-what?’ (Splutter.) ‘I was talking about that damned arrogant fellow of Audley’s – Devenish, damn it – ’

‘Not “Audley”, Alec, if you please. Christian names in the mess.’ (De Souza’s voice was deceptively casual.) ‘Really, I shouldn’t have to remind you of that . . . should I?’ (Pause.) ‘And if you wish to discuss a noncommissioned officer, or anyone else . . . this really isn’t the time or the place, don’t you know . . .

eh? And also David isn’t the officer with whom you should dummy4

discuss . . . whoever you want to discuss.’ (Pause.) ‘I am that officer, as it happens. And I am looking at this moment to enjoy my dinner.’ (Pause.) ‘Ah! Now here, at last, is Otto! What have you got for us tonight, Otto?’

‘Herr Major!’ (Otto had been hovering behind Amos in the candlelight, silver tray in hand, bobbing and weaving like a boxer looking for an opening between the adjutant and the Colonel as Amos had delivered his suave reprimand to the Crocodile.) ‘It is the steak of the boar, Herr Major: the steak from the – the . . .

wildschweinrücken–?

‘“Saddle”, Otto.’ (The Colonel’s voice, calm as a cucumber.)

‘Sir!’ (Otto barked out his British ‘Sir’ like a British sergeant-major.)

‘ The steak from the saddle of the wild boar, grilled . . . and the red cabbage, with apple and ham, and the spätzler – yes?’

‘He bagged this boar himself, you know – Otto did.’ (Audley delivered the information in a loud stage-whisper, in the hubbub of embarrassed conversation which followed the moment of embarrassed silence.) ‘In the Teutoburgerwald, up in the north, near our headquarters.’

‘Yes?’ (He had to think of something to say: the deer ham had been delicious, but the grilled wild boar looked even better; and now there were vegetables – delicate young peas and mounds of creamed potatoes, yellow with . . . Christ! It was afloat with butter!

And, apart from hunger, prudence advised silence in this company.) ‘Indeed?’

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‘What was the food in Greece like?’ (The other officer –Philip?

Philip the Pedant? Or Philip the Gourmet?) ‘It was quite deplorable when I was there in ’41. In fact, the one good thing about being comprehensively defeated by the Germans on that occasion was that at least they delivered us from the horrors of Greek cuisine. I only had one halfways decent meal the whole time I was there.‘

‘Yes?’ (Gourmet, for sure: gourmet if that was his chief memory of Greece; and gourmet equally from his reverence with Otto’s wildschweinrücken.) ‘Everyone’s pretty hungry in Greece just now.’ (Food was a safe topic, evidently.) ‘I was anticipating much the same here, to be honest.’ (God! The potatoes were sheer heaven.)

‘Oh aye.’ (Crocodilian chuckle, friendly-sardonic-smug.) ‘Well, the natives are on rather short commons, as a matter of fact.’ (The Crocodile piled potato on an impaled slice of boar, and then topped the edifice with peas.) ‘In fact – ’ (more peas) ‘ – in fact I was talking to one of those AMGOT fellas in Trier, the other day –

economist fella, fresh out of Whitehall – London University and Whitehall . . . never done an honest day’s work in his life, nor heard a shot fired in anger – shitting bricks, he was.’ (The Crocodile opened his jaws to full stretch, gold-filled teeth glinting in the candlelight.)

‘What was that, Alec?’ (De Souza again, from down the table; but all hostility forgotten now.)

‘Economist chap, Amos. Colonel’s rank . . . but he looked like a tramp in his ill-fitting uniform . . . one of those clever blighters dummy4

who told us there wouldn’t be any food problems, back in March.’ (The Crocodile munched happily, glancing round the table as he did so, sure of his audience.) ‘“Geairrman industrial base destroyed by Allied bombing . . . agricultural set-up intact. No problem.”’ (Munch, munch, munch.) ‘“Don’t want any more tanks, jet-planes, U-boats – just a bit of coal . . . Take over Nazi food distribution system – minus the Nazis of course. Put them all in jail.”’

(The Crocodile’s knife and fork were busy again, assembling another mountain.) ‘All bloody nonsense, of course.’

‘How so?’ (Fred spoke before he could stop himself.)

‘Huh! Wish-fulfilment – the old, old story!’ (In goes the mountain.) ‘Industrial base not destroyed ... If we want the best tanks, the most advanced aircraft, then they could soon start making them for us ... Only problem is the transport system, which has been blown to smithereens. But that can be restored effectively enough, and quite quickly, given a few competent engineer units, and pioneer battalions – you should know that, of all men, Freddie

– having done that halfway across Europe, in the wake of extremely efficient demolition by your Geairrman opposite numbers – eh?’

‘Yes.’ (Very true. But there was heresy here, somewhere.) ‘But the bombing – I thought their factories were destroyed?’

‘Propaganda. We knocked down their cities – flattened ’em. And latterly the transport system. But the industrial base is still there, most of it. Minus spare parts and fuel, of course . . . but that’s mostly a transport problem.‘ (The Crocodile actually put down his dummy4

knife for a moment, in order to wag a finger at Fred.) ’But their agriculture’s gone to hell, so the farmers are hoarding what they’ve got ... which isn’t much. And their distribution system was never very efficient. And we’ve clapped most of the petty civil servants who knew what little there was to know in jail, anyway –‘

‘Nazis, Alec.’ (Mouth full of wild boar now, Audley swallowed urgently.) ‘Only Nazis, Alec.’

‘“Nazis, Alec – only Nazis, Alec”? Oh aye!’ (The Crocodile mimicked Audley exactly.) ‘“Wicked bluidy Geairrmans” is it?’

‘You should know, Alec.’ (Audley wasn’t scared of his elders and betters, evidently. And unwisely.) ‘You were in Belsen ahead of most of us.’

‘So I was. But that doesna make me a fool, by God!’ (Pause. And then the finger wagged again, this time at Audley.) ‘You know where I was, in the winter of ’39?‘

(Pause.) ‘You were in on the poison gas trials in the Sahara, Alec.

You’ve told us.’ (The boy’s voice fell just short of disrespect.)

‘So I was. And on the anthrax trials, on that wee island – that wee island where no man nor beast will step in our lifetime, and live to tell the tale. So what would that make me, if the Geairrmans had won, eh?’

(Pause.) ‘A war criminal, Alec. You told us.’

‘A war criminal. And they would have stretched my neck for it.

And me just a slip of a lad, obeying orders.’ (Contempt.) ‘Nazis!’

‘Nazis – yes.’ (Amos de Souza, smooth as ever from down the table.) ‘Get to your point Alec.’

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‘My point? Why, I’m there, man: none of ye understand what the Nazis were all about . . . and how the Geairrmans didna understand the man Hitler, until he had them in the palm of his hand – how the Right saw the man as something temporary, which they could cut down to size. And the Left – the Socialists and the Communists both . . . they didna understand him either: they thought he was parrt of the Right. Whereas in fact he was sui generis.“

(Longer pause, while ‘sui generis’ echoed in the dark, above the candle-light in the wet-smell, faint-alcoholic-tobacco-soap-and-underarm-sweat-and-khaki-smell . . . British-Army-smell, not so different from Greece – Germany-now-smell; but what was different now was that this man was in an altogether different officers’ mess from anything Fred had experienced before: it was bloody weird –)

‘Alec, my dear fellow . . . regardless of your quaint theories about Hitler himself – ’ (Now it was Colonel Colbourne himself at last, equal-to-equal, and slightly cautious.)‘ – to pursue Amos’s point . . . Nazis – ?’

(Pause.) ‘Aye, sir – Gus . . . We’ve been arresting the wrong men, is what I’m saying – it’s a bluidy nonsense, is what it is.’ (Pause.)

‘And I don’t mean just us, of course . . . But it’s beginning to be our problem, with nobody to talk to, who can give us answers.’ (Pause.) ‘Och ... I mean, they’ve been taking in the police inspectors, and their sergeants . . . and the wee bluidy postman, and the station-master, and the schoolmaster . . . never mind the mayor, and the little civil servants . . . And I’m fed up, and sick, and bluidy tired of getting “don’t know” from what’s left, dummy4

when I ask what you want me to ask.’

‘So what are you suggesting, then?’

(Pause.) ‘What I am suggesting, sirrr – Gus ... is that we do like the Russians and the French have already done: we either shoot them out of hand, if we don’t like them. Or we leave them where they are, to do our work, which needs to be done.’ (Pause.) ‘And we get back all the middle rank servants too, from the camps – all young David’s Nazis, who had to join Corporal Hitler’s democratically-elected Party, or lose their jobs . . . They’re the ones who’ll do our work for us now, much better then we can do. And then we can always shoot them afterwards, if someone tells us to do so.’ (Pause.) ‘Because, having won the war, that’s our privilege –

right? But, in the meantime, we have to make this country work, do you see?’

(Pause.) ‘We see what you mean, Alec – and we have heard it all before, actually.’ (Major Macallister’s voice was calm and donnish now that his plate was empty.) ‘And ... I do agree that our work would be a lot easier if our people – ours and the Americans’ –

behaved more pragmatically, as the Russians and the French are doing ... I would agree there. But – ’

‘But it isn’t our job to run this country.’ (Amos de Souza’s tone poured oil on troubled waters, in default of imposing ‘mess rules’

on his brother officers in a more generalized grey area of argument.) ’Our job ... is to obey our orders as best we can, with things as they are.‘

(Pause.) ‘And there are still people who can help us, you know, dummy4

Alec.’ (Audley sounded eager and very young suddenly, and ingratiating with it; but that might be to keep the Crocodile away from Sergeant Devenish and Driver Hewitt!) ‘I found a super policeman, just the other day. And he said – ’

‘Shut up, David!’ (Colonel Colbourne’s sharp command belied its own ‘mess rules’ friendliness.) ’That’s enough.‘

‘You were saying, Alec – ’ (De Souza moved in smoothly behind his commanding officer, to obliterate Audley’s gaffe.) ‘ – you met this AMGOT fellow, who was shitting bricks ... so what did he have to say, then?’

‘Eh?’ (The Crocodile struggled with de Souza’s direct question for a moment, unable to avoid it.) ‘Listen to the rain, man – do ye no hear it?’

(For another moment they all listened to the sound of the rain splashing distantly over brimming gutters.) ‘So it’s raining?’ (Amos de Souza smiled.) ‘According to Gus’s American friend, Major Austin, it’s raining all the way from here to London

– and Land’s End in Cornwall ... So what?’

‘Aye. And that’s the sound of Europe starving this winter, man.’ (The Crocodile had forgotten his Nazis, and Sergeant Devenish and Driver Hewitt with them. But suddenly he was looking at Fred now.) ‘Was it England ye flew from this day, man

– ?’

‘What – ?’ (The memory of the hair-raising flight was equally best-forgotten!.) ‘No. It was . . .’ (Best forgotten!)

‘Oh aye! From Greece, it was – ?’ (Pause.) ‘Are they starving dummy4

there?’ (Pause.) ‘If it goes on raining, and the harvest fails . . . then the Americans will be feeding us by the autumn – aye, and feeding the Geairrmans too, if they’re lucky – the Nazis and all the rest, as well as Number 21 in the picture tonight – ’

‘Alec!’ (Colbourne didn’t say ‘Shut up!’ to Major McCorquodale, but he came close to doing so.)

‘I was in England not so long ago, actually.’ (A new voice came from down the table, almost as lazy as de Souza’s, from one of the faceless officers outside Fred’s direct range of vision.) ‘In London ... it was quite dreadfully . . . threadbare, you know. So I thought about Paris. But, apparently, it’s just as bad there – the fellow at the Embassy I spoke to said that you had to bow and scrape to head waiters to get any sort of decent meal . . . and as I wasn’t going to do that I ended up going down to our place in the country, where my wife is ... where I thought I might at least get a square meal – away from the rationing with no bowing and scraping – ?’

‘Oh aye?’ (The Crocodile leant forward to fix an insulting eye on the interrupter.) ‘And, of course, your family does own half of Wiltshire, doesn’t it, Johnnie. Or is it Berkshire? So they wouldn’t be starving, then.’

‘Starving – ?’

They say – ‘ (Amos overbore the beginnings of Johnnie’s outrage diplomatically, like the good adjutant he was.) ’ – they do say that the hunting in the shires will be exceptionally good this autumn. Is that true, Johnnie?‘

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‘Is that a fact?’ (The Crocodile got in first.) ‘And how do they eat the foxes down in Wiltshire? Da they roast them over a slow fire?

I’d have thought fox-meat would be a wee bit tough, and stringy . . . Maybe you should ask Otto how he cooks foxes, man?

That is, unless Oscar Wilde knew what he was talking about – “the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable”, didn’t he say?’

(Christ! The Colonel must do something now! Because that was as naked an insult as might be imagined in this company – not even Amos de Souza’s diplomacy could gloss over the Crocodile’s deliberate scorn!) ‘

‘Eh – ?’ (Down among the candles and the silver and the glasses

‘Johnnie’ wasn’t quite sure he’d heard what the Crocodile had said.) ‘Who – ?’

‘My ancestors ate rats,’ said de Souza. ‘The rats ate the ship’s biscuits – and then they ate the rats. But that was in Nelson’s time, in the navy. But they used to say that a biscuit-fed rat was as good as a rabbit. So maybe rabbit-fed fox isn’t so bad, perhaps?’

That’s a most interesting proposition, you know.‘ (The mention of food enlivened Philip Macallister’s otherwise dry, academic delivery.) ’Dog, which I ate in Shanghai . . . dog is perfectly edible

– even potentially delicious. And rat certainly has a long and honourable history of consumption in the extremities of siege-warfare.‘ (Now the voice was gourmet-academic.) ’Human flesh is preferable to both, I’m told. But I’ve never been reduced to that extremity.‘ (Horribly, the voice was characterized by faint regret, rather than distaste.) ’I believe that sailors ate it often enough in the old days. But as it was usually uncooked; they left no recipes dummy4

for it.‘

‘Oh aye?’ (The favourite Crocodilian-Scottish interruption.) ‘Well, there’ll be Gearrimans able to satisfy your curiosity there, Philip, before this time next year, I shouldna wonder. So dinna give up hope, man.’

(Pause – pause elongating into embarrassed and horrified silence as those who had not finished their wild boar suddenly contemplated it with wilder doubt for an instant, and then with distaste.)

‘I see.’ (Amos coughed politely.) ‘What you’re saying, Alec ... is that the Germans will be starving soon – is that all?’

(Fred swallowed his last mouthful of boar with an effort, feeling it go down insufficiently chewed, to join the deer ham which was churning up in his guts.)

‘What I have been saying, Amos – ’ (The Crocodile pushed his empty plate away and reached for a toothpick with which to dislodge a morsel of meat from between his teeth.)‘ – is that the wee foolish men who are supposed to be making policy for us do not know what they are doing. They are starving the Geairrmans by accident, not by design. While the Russians, they have no such problems because they have no romantic notions about their roles as conquerors. So, with them, the Geairrmans know exactly where they are . . . Whereas, with us – why man, they know us for the fools we are! So the clever ones among them . . . they are neither scairt of us, nor do they trust us.’ (The Crocodile reached for his glass, and held it up to the candles’ light for an instant, and then drained it in one swallow, knowing that he had the whole table dummy4

hanging on his next pronouncement.) ‘Waiter!’ (He waited while the one-eyed Otto refilled his glass and then raised it mockingly to the Colonel.) ‘Which may well be why this unit is having such little success, I’m thinking – eh, Colonel sirrr? Or may we hope for better luck tonight – ?’

Click-click-click!

For Christ’s sake! thought Fred, in a panic: he should have been clicking and he’d clean forgotten!

Click-click-click!

‘Fred?’

Utter darkness, all around him: dripping, utter darkness.

And . . . ‘ This is how it must have been,’ Audley had said. But what had he meant?

‘David?’

A sodden, muted-crunching sound. ‘Thank God for that! I thought I’d never find you – I’ve been straining my ears, but I couldn’t bloody-well hear a sound . . . You have been clicking, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, of course.’ He still couldn’t really see Audley. But somehow the voice created the person.

‘It’s the rain.’ Amos de Souza’s voice came out of an adjacent area of darkness. ‘Don’t let it confuse your senses.’

‘It doesn’t seem to confuse you, I must say,’ Audley half-grumbled. ‘But I suppose we should be comforted by that. Or is it dummy4

just adjutant’s quiet, misplaced confidence?’

‘Probably. Hullo there, Freddie. Sorry you’ve been left alone like this. Hope you’re not too wet.’

‘I’m fine. David gave me his umbrella.’ He could just make out the loom of them now. And de Souza’s quiet confidence was somehow comforting. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Yes, there is, actually. David explained what’s happening, did he?’

‘Ah ... no, I didn’t actually – ’

‘Why the devil not?’ De Souza’s tone sharpened.

‘Hold on, Amos! I didn’t get the chance before dinner –or after.

And then we had the devil of a job getting to the start line here, I tell you. So there just wasn’t time. Apart from which we should have left him behind, in any case – ’ Audley caught his complaint.

‘I don’t mean that insultingly, Fred. But we had Caesar Augustus’s briefing before you arrived. And I thought you’d rather have a decent night’s kip than tag along behind this shambles – ’

‘Do shut up, David, there’s a good fellow.’ Mild reproof overlaid de Souza’s earlier sharpness. ‘It isn’t a shambles–’

‘Thank God for that! We can’t afford another – ’

‘ Shut up . . . Captain Audley.’ De Souza paused just long enough to make sure that discipline had been reestablished. ‘Let me assure you that it isn’t a shambles, major. In fact, thanks to the efficiency of our loyal American allies, it seems to be going strictly according to plan at this moment.’

A shaded flashlight illuminated the ground between them suddenly in a pale yellow circle. ‘Don’t worry, major – we’re a mile from dummy4

the objective, and several hundred feet of well-forested undulations. But I want to show you the map. And then Captain Audley can fill you in with the details . . . Just hold your umbrella up, over us – okay?’

Fred glimpsed a cellophane-covered map, and below it a soiled canvas bag at de Souza’s feet on the edge of the yellow circle, as he raised Audley’s umbrella over them both.

‘We’re here – ’ The flashlight seemed to be attached to de Souza’s waterproof jacket somehow, leaving him a free hand ‘ – that red circle marked “A1”. And next we’re moving up to “A2” – there.’

It was not an issue map. But that didn’t matter – what mattered was that he could see the operation at a glance: the objective was an isolated building in thick forest, and there were a number of routes

– forest tracks? – converging on it; and each was marked with a series of numbered letters and times which brought different groups to precise points simultaneously on the circumferences of ever-smaller circles, until they reached the centre.

‘Yes, sir?’ It all seemed rather elaborate, until he remembered all TRR-2’s ‘bad luck’ in the past. And it wasn’t for him, as a new recruit, to criticize, anyway. ‘Nobody’s going to get out of there.’

But then he became aware of the darkness outside their own yellow circle. ‘Except ... it is damnably dark – ?’

‘Don’t worry. Our American friends are bringing up searchlights –

“B”, “D” and “F” will illuminate the objective at 0230 hours precisely. Then it’ll be brighter than daylight around the whole perimeter. And in case you’re wondering how we’re going to dummy4

manage a silent final approach, just don’t give it a thought.’

‘No – yes?’ Fred had been worrying about no such thing, but the mention of the American involvement made de Souza’s confidence all the more surprising. This was their zone, of course, so presumable they had a right to be involved. But he remembered floundering all-too-noisily in Italian darkness (and Italian mud), hauling equipment across country to several disastrous river-crossing attempts.

‘Yes.’ De Souza chuckled softly. ‘Dealing with silence will be Major Jake Austin’s contribution – you met him this afternoon, off the plane, I believe – ?’ The adjutant bent down to retrieve the canvas bag. ‘A most efficient officer, Jake . . . But here, Freddie – ’

He thrust the bag at Fred ‘ – you hold on to this, and follow David here . . . And David – you tell him what’s what, eh? Any questions?’

Audley emitted a strangled sound, but then silenced himself.

‘You were going to say something David?’ The torch went out, leaving them in blind man’s darkness. ‘Spit it out, man!’

How the hell were they going to find their way to A2? thought Fred despairingly as he hugged the bag. For Christ’s sake ask that!

‘N-no.’ Audley trailed off.

‘Good. Then I’ll see you again at A2. And do try to be on time for once.’

Gradually Fred’s night-sight returned, so that he could just make out the large vague shape of Audley as he squeezed the bag’s contents. It had an incomprehensively soft feel to it ... but it wasn’t dummy4

entirely soft: in fact, from its weight it almost certainly contained a weapon of some sort, wrapped in some sort of thick material . . .

and also what felt uncommonly like ... a pair of boots. A pair of boots – ?

There were two slight crack-crunch sounds as de Souza trod on fallen branches in departing. Then the sodden, dripping forest-silence closed in on them – a not-so-quiet silence, to go with the not-quite darkness.

‘God, it’s miserable, isn’t it!’ exclaimed Audley. ‘Although, you know, I don’t think it’s raining quite so hard, actually. And the American weather chaps said it would be clearing from the west before dawn – that was Jake Austin’s final contribution at this afternoon’s briefing before he went off to collect you . . . Do you think it’s clearing, Fred?’

Dawn was still a very long way away, thought Fred. ‘Jake Austin is the pig-fancier, is he?’

‘Yes. Good chap, though – jolly efficient, like Amos said. Ex-Mustang pilot . . . but into all sorts of nefarious enterprises now.

Shall we go, then?’

He sounded confident! ‘You know which way to go, then?’

‘Oh yes – sure . . . You know, it is raining less – good show!

Actually, I’m blind as a bat at night – it was a great mercy that we couldn’t fight tanks in the dark, in the late nastiness . . . “Just follow the rear light of the tank in front”, when they wanted to get us somewhere before dawn, out of the laager . . . and I could depend on my driver for that. But at least they didn’t expect us to dummy4

fight. Next time round, it’ll be done by radar – goggling at screens and pushing little buttons. But with a bit of luck I shall n’t be there

– I hope I’ll be too old ... or doing something safer, somewhere else . . . Shall we go?’

Next time round? ‘What’s in this bag?’

‘The bag? Oh yes! Battle-dress, blouse and trousers, medium size . . . belts – one, gaiters – two, boots GS –one pair . . . beret –

one. But don’t ask me about badges and rank, and all that – Amos has a funny sense of humour there, so it could be anything. And he forgot to tell me, anyway.’

Christ! ‘What’s it all for, David?’

‘Ah . . .’ A shielded light showed suddenly. ‘Sorry about this – but I can’t read my wrist-watch in the dark ... it just doesn’t seem to show up, the way it should ... or maybe I need spectacles, I don’t know – ah! Okay! We’ve got a full five minutes in hand, actually.

So ... what’s it all for, did you ask? It’s quite simple, really: we are about to deceive our loyal American allies, that’s all.’ The light went out.

‘How?’ Madness! ‘Why?’

‘How? Ah . . . well, you remember what we’re doing –I did tell you just before dinner. Rather hurriedly, I admit. But I did.

Number 21, and all that –remember – ?’

‘Number 21? The man in the photograph?’

‘That’s right: “Key-of-the-Door”, like in Housey-Housey – a mindless game of quite excruciating boredom, which I shall never forget because we were obliged to play it endlessly while we were dummy4

in readiness for Normandy. You know it?’

‘For Christ’s sake, David!’ Steady! ‘Number 21 – we’re going to pick up Number 21 – does he have a name?’

‘He does. But he won’t be using it tonight, and neither will we. For our purposes he’s now “Keys”, Fred. But the name you’ve got to remember is “Krausnick” in any case –“Krausnick” – okay?’

‘Is that his real name?’

‘Lord no! Krausnick is an entirely different fellow – a scientific fellow . . . But he’s the one we’re officially supposed to be picking up tonight, you see. Are you with me?’

It was no good saying ‘no’. ‘Yes. We’re pretending to go after a scientist named Krausnick. But we’re actually after . . . “Keys”.

And that’s the deception?’

‘Partly. Because . . . actually, we’re not going to get him, of course.’

‘Keys – ?’

‘No. Krausnick.’

‘Why not?’

‘We don’t want him. Or . . . I suppose we do want him, actually.

But he won’t be there anyway. In fact, the truth is, he’s probably nowhere. Because the last time he was spotted was in Berlin, back in late April, at the very end of things there. So the Russians have probably got him, if he’s still alive.’

‘So why are we after him? Or pretending we are – ?’

‘Ah! Well, he’s big-time stuff still, even if he is “Missing, dummy4

presumed” et cetera. On everyone’s “Most Wanted” list, with his picture in every sheriff’s office, Fred, is friend Krausnick.’

‘A big-time Nazi?’

‘Nazi? No ... or maybe he is – was that, too. But nobody seems to be worrying much about that now – not with scientists, anyway.’

Audley was shaking his head: Fred couldn’t see him doing it, but he was, nevertheless. ‘Krausnick’s a rocket-propulsion expert –

one of the Crocodile’s alleged specialities. So when we’ve got the prisoners all lined up, the old Croc will be striding up and down muttering “Krausnick” loudly, and f-frowning at each of ’em and saying “Not that one – not that one”, and so on ... All for the benefit of the Americans, you see?‘

It was still no good saying ‘no’. At least, not directly. ‘But this isn’t the deception – or only partly?’

‘Right.’ This time it was an invisible nod. ‘Because they’ll be watching us like a hawk. Because they’re hellbent on picking up every rocket-expert they can lay their hands on, Fred. Because . . .

because . . . the word is that the Germans had plans for super-rockets which could fizz their way clear across the Atlantic. And you just imagine rockets landing among all those skyscrapers –eh?’

Audley allowed him time for a brief catastrophic vision. ‘In fact ...

if, by any remotest accident, Herr Krausnick did turn up in the line-up . . . then they’d probably grab him from us – and apologize afterwards, the old Croc says. But maybe he’s doing them an injustice. But . . . but . . . the possibility of that happening has wonderfully encouraged their co-operation, at all events. Hence the searchlights. Plus a large number of their military intelligence dummy4

chaps too, more’s the pity! Although, of course, they don’t take us too seriously – or not Caesar Augustus, anyway!’

There was method in Colonel Colbourne’s madness, decided Fred.

But there was also rather too much risk-taking for his taste. ‘Did we tell them about Krausnick?’

‘Lord, no! But we did accidentally let them find out, just to encourage them to help us.’ Audley’s torch went on again, illuminating his wrist-watch. ‘We’ll have to go soon, Fred –’

‘Just to deceive them?’ Routine Anglo-American military double-dealing had been par for the course in Italy, Fred remembered. And everyone had tried to fuck-up the French, as a matter of routine enmity (although the Frogs had had the last laugh – and his admiration with it). But this was all curiously depressing, nevertheless. ‘Why?’

The torch went out. ‘We had to tell them something – for God’s sake, Fred – they’re not stupid: they know we’re up to something, I mean!’

The depression hardened him. ‘So what is our deception then – our real deception? Just picking up “Keys”, instead of Krausnick?’

Audley said nothing for a moment. ‘Wait and see. We ought to be moving now – ’

‘No.’ Apart from the hardening, there was the prospect of blundering about in the sodden darkness of the forest. ‘If I’m going to carry this bloody bag . . . then, apart from what the adjutant said

– what he told you to do, David ... I want to know what’s happening, damn it!’

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Again, Audley said nothing for a moment. ‘Oh . . . very well, then!’

Fred waited for another moment. ‘Yes?’ He lowered the umbrella, and found that Audley was substantially right about the weather: apart from the spattering drips from the thick foliage above, the rain had almost ceased. ‘And you can have your brolly back now, David.’

‘I don’t need it – you can have it, Fred.’

The very last thing Fred wanted to be seen carrying, either by his commanding officer, or by the Americans, was an umbrella. ‘I don’t want it, David – thank you.’

‘Oh . . . have it your own way!’ The umbrella was seized from him with an accuracy which suggested that Audley’s night-vision wasn’t really so bad. ‘Here – you take this, then.’

It was ... a stick? A walking stick? ‘Thank you.’ That wasn’t so bad, anyway. ‘All I want is an answer to my question, David.’ He felt himself almost pull rank – over-inflated majority over over-promoted captaincy – and weakened slightly. ‘I’ve had a long day, you know.’

‘Sure – of course!’ Audley accepted the olive-branch. ‘Okay. So ...

we go into this damn place like a dose of salts . . . It’s a house, with some out-buildings. Like stables – or kennels, I don’t know ... I think it was an old hunting lodge of some sort, in the Kaiser’s days.

When he hunted Otto’s boars hereabouts, and suchlike –I don’t know . . . But it’s been empty for years, anyway. Because it’s in the middle of nowhere, Amos says. Right?’

He had heard briefings like this, from other over-promoted infantry dummy4

subalterns of tender years, full of the same careless confidence. But now wasn’t the time to remember them. ‘So?’

‘So you follow me. With the bag.’ Audley drew a deep breath, and an overloaded branch above suddenly deluged Fred. ‘And we’ll have Devenish with us by then –he’ll be waiting for us at A2.’

Fred’s morale lifted slightly, at the thought of Devenish. ‘And then?’

‘Then we wait patiently for H-Hour. And when that comes, all the pretty searchlights go on, and loud and frightening military noises are made for a moment or two. And then Colonel Augustus addresses his cowering victims – that is, assorted Germans-on-the-run, and hard-case DPs who don’t want to go home, and the odd American deserter no doubt. . .he – our Glorious Leader –

addresses all of them in his execrable German. Which will only serve to confuse them, undoubtedly. But over the loudspeakers he will address them nevertheless, because he fancies his German . . .

Although I’ve heard him address one unfortunate group of Teutons for all of quarter of an hour, and none of ’em understood a word he said . . . But maybe then Amos or the Crocodile will take over – or even the Alligator. And it’ll be okay, then, because they each spraken quite reasonable Deutsch.‘

Audley’s own German accent was on a par with his commanding officer’s. ‘But you don’t speak it?’

‘No. How did you guess?’ Audley seemed amused. ‘Just a few necessary phrases, that’s all. I’m supposed to be the unit’s French-speaker – all the rest have more German then me, even Driver Hewitt, I suspect. But then I’m an exception to the TRR-2 rule in dummy4

more ways than one . . . Shall we go, then?’

Fred stood his ground obstinately. ‘What happens then.’

‘We go in – like I said.’ Audley was trying to be languid, in the style of his admired Major de Souza. But he couldn’t conceal an undercurrent of juvenile excitement which Fred recognized. It was something he could still remember from his own youth: the foolish optimism of young subalterns who knew no better, without which wars would be impossible. But he had lost all that in Italy.

‘Like a dose of salts?’ Once it was lost, it never came back.

‘We go in behind Major de Souza and his warrant officer.’ Audley caught the mocking edge in the question, and his voice stiffened.

‘We always operate in pairs, Major Fattorini. I shall be with Jacko Devenish – ’

That made five, not two. ‘The four of you – plus me?’

‘You are a supernumerary, Major Fattorini. Shall we go?’

‘But I’m carrying the bag, Captain Audley.’ Fred played his ace.

‘I’ll go when you explain that. Not before.’

‘Oh . . . okay, Fred – damn it!’ Mercifully, the young man realized when he was being ridiculous. ‘Amos fingers Number 21 – “Keys”

– for us. And then he and his man cover us while we dress him up as a British soldier. Savvy?’

Fred savvied instantly, suddenly aware that he had been halfway there already, with his bag and David’s deception of their allies.

‘We put “Keys” into this uniform – ?’ He sensed Audley staring at him in the dark. ‘As one of ours?’

dummy4

‘That. . . that is exactly right.’ For a moment there was silence between them. ‘Full marks – join the club, and all that . . . Like,

“God Bless America” – but “God, don’t let’s trust the Yanks” –

exactly right, Fred!’

The sudden bitterness in the young man’s voice caught Fred’s interest. ‘You don’t like what you’re doing, David?’

‘Like it? Huh!’ Audley paused. ‘You should hear Sar’ Devenish on that subject!‘

‘He doesn’t like it – ?’

‘On the contrary, old boy! Sergeant Devenish poached me to rights long ago, when we were in Greece together, when I made the mistake of saying that I didn’t much like killing Greeks, when I’d been hired to kill Germans –huh!’

Even more interest. ‘What did he say?’

‘He said: “Well Mr Audley – ” I was a humble lieutenant then . . .

and I can’t do his voice – I’ve got no ear for mimickry . . . But, anyway, he said: “Well, Mr Audley, I don’t remember being signed up to do anything but obey orders. And I certainly never expected to do what I liked. Because if I could do what I liked, then I’d be doing my job back in England, and I’d be going home to the wife and the kids every evening. And none of this foolishness.”’

God! A super-saturated branch gave way above them, spattering Fred with German rain. God–this foolishness!

‘So let’s go then. We can’t afford to waste any more time discussing free will and military n-n-necessity, anyway. So come dummy4

on, Fred – ’

After a time Fred began to realize that he’d been going and coming on almost automatically, in almost total darkness and more by a mixture of sound and instinct. But then, when he lost the sound of Audley’s footsteps for an instant, his fear came back –

‘David – !’

‘Come on! We’ve got to move now! We can’t be late!’

‘David! How d’you know where we’re going?’

‘Don’t worry. Just follow me – ’ It was no use worrying –

Well ... at least he could work out the logic of the assault: if there was anyone who could be trusted to do the clever stuff, it would be Amos de Souza – no problem there . . . And, by the same logic, Audley and Devenish were an ideal snatch-squad: the young dragoon was built like a brick shit-house, and Devenish was a veteran and a hard man, as he himself had reason to remember.

He almost tripped up, on an invisible fallen branch thicker than anything he had encountered before, and saved himself with Audley’s stick; and caught the sound of the boy crashing his way ahead, regardless as a tank, and, in the surrounding silence, almost as noisy –

Then the noise stopped. ‘Are you all right, Fred?’

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‘Yes.’ Led by the voice, and with all his senses sharpened by the night, he could just see something darker in the darkness of the forest. Or he might just be imagining that he could? ‘But I can’t really see a damn thing.’

‘I can. So don’t worry – just follow me.’ Audley waited for him to close up again. ‘We’ve got to leg it now, too. Because we can’t be late for the fun – Amos would never forgive me if I missed the party, you know. Right?’

Fred clenched his teeth, trying to forget the aftermath of those other Italian fun-parties when the dawn had revealed the bodies of the fun-party-goers on the river banks, with others bobbing in the shallows among the wrecked pontoons, or caught in the reeds. And the bobbing corpses were usually his men, too, because the heavily-laden infantry sank to the bottom quickly: they were the ones you trod on, who had drowned quietly in three-foot of water, when you went to recover the sodden engineer bundles later on – damn!

Damn! Damn! Damn! ‘Right, David. But I hope you know what you’re doing –and where you’re going.’

But Audley didn’t go. Instead his torch came on suddenly, blinding him totally.

‘Put that damn thing out!’ The old night-discipline asserted itself.

‘It’s all right.’ Audley soothed him quickly. ‘We’re still half a mile from A2. No one can see us here – and I know exactly where we are, too! Look – ’ Instead of going out, the torch-beam swept left, and then right, into the forest ‘ – see?’

Fred tried to see. ‘We’re in ... some sort of ditch – ?’ That was all dummy4

he could see in the pale yellow light as it moved, directing his eye: there were banks either side, humpy and uneven . . . but banks, nevertheless, with trees on either side, and only the minor debris of fallen branches in the bed of the ditch, ahead of them.

The torch went out. ‘That’s right: we’re in a ditch. And so long as I don’t go up on the bank on either side – which I can feel with my feet . . . and my umbrella . . . because you’ve got my ashplant now, damn it! – then we’re on the right track to A2 . . . right?’ The tightness of Audley’s voice marked the end of his patience. ‘So we’re going, Fred – “quam celerrime”, as my old Latin master used to say – or “double-quick” – or “on the double” – ?’

They went, then. And they went almost, but not quite, ‘on the double’ – the old sergeant-major’s double, hallowed on a thousand parade-grounds and route-marches . . . but as close to it as the ditch, and the debris in it, and Audley’s longer legs, permitted –

(But – dear God Almighty! Damn you, Kyri, for getting me into this mess – damn you! And I could be dining with you in Athens, this very night, but for that, Colonel Michaelides, damn you!) (Phew! The bloody ditch was almost vertical now!) And – he could feel the sweat running down his chest –And – thank God he was nearly at the top now! He could even see, far off on his right, a few distant lights twinkling of what remained of German civilization.

But – a ditch? Since when did ditches climb up almost vertical hillsides in forests – ?

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‘David!’ The name came out in a hoarse exhausted wheeze. But then, as he opened his mouth again to repeat it, the sound of an aircraft which had been droning in the back of his consciousness suddenly increased, drowning out his intention and replacing it with the fear that even if he clicked now, Audley wouldn’t hear him. So instead he felt around with his stick like a blind man, for the guidelines of the improbable ditch on either side of him.

They were still there – there first on one side, and then on the other, as the continuous drone became a steady drumming, and then graduated to a final ear-splitting roar as the plane swept over them finally, far too low for comfort, above the top of this Taunus hill.

Eventually the sound died away. But then, even as it did so, he heard more droning engines – Click-click-click-click, he pressed desperately.

Click-click-click came back to him, humiliatingly close –but then click-click – two more clicks, but further off and almost drowned by the second approaching aircraft.

Christ! Maybe they weren’t so clever at that! thought Fred, clicking again instinctively. What if there were a couple of mad low-flying Yanks up there, practising their night-flying ... or maybe helplessly lost, and circling the airfield on which he’d landed a few hours back – ?

‘Hullo there – Fred?’ Audley pitched his voice against the crescendo of sound, as the second plane swept overhead. ‘Jolly good!’

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‘Is it?’ There would soon come a point when this young man’s version of Amos de Souza’s nonchalance irritated him beyond endurance.

‘You’ve still got the bag, I hope?’ Audley’s cheerful confidence was worse than de Souza’s imitation. That last bit was bloody steep, wasn’t it?‘

Foul words presented themselves. But already the first aircraft was on its second circuit. ‘Yes – ’ He had to shout ‘YES!’

‘JOLLY GOOD!’ Audley waited then, until the first plane had passed over them for the second time. ‘We’re almost there – you heard Sar’ Devenish’s signal?‘

‘Yes.’ He couldn’t say that he hadn’t been warned: Audley had warned him that Colonel Colbourne was a lunatic, and Colonel Colbourne had warned him that all his officers were mad. And, long ago, Kyri Michaelides had warned him to steer clear of them all. ‘What sort of ditch is this?’

‘What – ?’ As Audley started to speak the drumming of the second aircraft increased. ‘WHAT?’

This time, impossibly, it was worse: in the black starless sky the second plane almost touched the tree-tops just ahead of them, with its red-and-white lights winking to outline it.

‘WHAT . . .’ Audley let the sound disperse before he continued

‘. . . sort of ditch?’

So he had heard, the first time. ‘Yes.’

‘Yes – of course! It’s – ’

Click-click!

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‘I didn’t have time to tell you – ’ Click-click-click Audley returned

‘ – it’s a Roman ditch, Fred. Because we’re spot on the old Roman front line, which curves up round Frankfurt – or “Moguntiacum”, as Caesar Augustus Colbourne is wont to call it – the old Roman limes, in Latin: it linked up with their Raetian defences, on the Danube, with the Antoine Line, on the Main . . . and then north and west through the Upper German lines, to reach the Rhine at

“Confluentes” – which is Coblenz to poor ignorant types like you and me, Fred – ’ Audley’s voice had been lifting as he continued, becoming a shout again ‘ – FRED – ’

It was no good replying. With the noise, he could hardly think.

‘The Romans dug a ditch, all the way from the Danube to the Rhine – ’ Now as the sound decreased, Audley adjusted to it again

‘ – with look-out posts, and forts . . . sort of, like Hadrian’s Wall, but not so good – sort of customs-and-excise, plus soldiers . . .

Hadrian’s Wall – ?’

‘I know what Hadrian’s Wall was. Go on, man.’ The planes were going away at last, it seemed. But he couldn’t be sure. ‘Go on – ?’

But Audley appeared to have been struck dumb by the mounting silence.

‘What’s the matter?’ After so much noise after so much silence, Fred cracked first. And he also heard one of the planes coming back again. ‘We’re in the Roman ditch – is that it?’

‘That’s right. Our billet – the fort ... is on the same line. Ten or twelve miles away, as the Roman legionary might walk it – eight or nine, as the crow flies. But twice as much, on the road tonight.

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And now we’ve done about a mile and a half, from A1.

Anyway . . . With another half a mile to do, to the objective. Which is also on the line –’

Click-click! came out of the darkness ahead of them.

‘ – and we should be moving now. Because A2 is damn close to A3, I tell you. And the Yanks’ll be in position now, I’d guess.’

The circling planes were only a drone, but they were still out there, higher up, yet not far away. And suddenly Fred knew why.

Click-click-click! Audley answered. ‘Right, Fred?’

‘The planes will be coming back as we close in, I take it? To drown our approach-sound?’ Amos de Souza had almost said as much, he remembered now. ‘Spot-on, major! An old trick – ’

‘They’ll be awake, of course.’

‘Oh, sure. And tired and irritable too, because Jake Austin’s been night-flying over them for the last week. So . . . awake, but not suspicious, supposedly.’ Audley spoke lightly. ‘An old trick ... an old British Army trick . . . first witnessed by Brigadier Clinton’s father in 1918 – his father being a lance-corporal at the time, according to Amos . . . night-flying noise, to conceal the real noise of hundreds of British tanks starting up outside Villers-Bretonneaux, near Amiens, on the night of August 7th/ 8th, 1918.’

He sniffed. ‘Personally . . . it’s all bloody stupid, if you ask me.’

For a moment the memory of Brigadier Clinton, in the ruins of the Osios Konstandinos monastery, almost diverted Fred from his sudden doubts. But not quite. ‘You don’t like it, David?’

For a moment he could feel Audley staring at him in the darkness, dummy4

undecided, but weakening. ‘Spot-on again, major – if you must know . . . yes. I don’t think I like it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Audley couldn’t go back now. ‘Too-bloody complicated by half, if you ask me . . . even apart from our past debacles . . . one of which you witnessed, as I recall, major – back in Greece?’

Fred remembered Osios Konstandinos all too well. ‘So what do we do, David?’

There was silence for a moment. ‘We obey orders, like always.

But ... if you’ll watch my back tonight, Fred, then I’ll try to watch yours – right?’

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Click-click . . . click-click: the sound came out of the darkness ahead of them again, faint but clear against the distant drone of the night-flying aircraft.

‘That’ll be Devenish at A2 – good for old Jacko!’ Audley spoke cheerfully. ‘With Sergeant Devenish looking after us now we shalln’t come to any harm . . . Has it occurred to you, Fred, to wonder why we’ve been for this unpleasant and unnecessary perambulation tonight?’

‘It did cross my mind.’ Perambulation! ‘But shouldn’t we be clicking back, David?’

‘In good time. It was bloody Caesar Augustus’s idea . . . although dummy4

the Crocodile probably put him up to it – or maybe the RSM. They all conspire to make me do everything the hard way. If I had a nice German girlfriend they’d make me sleep with her in a hammock, I suspect.’

‘Why do they do that?’ Not that the question required an answer, thought Fred.

‘Oh ... to keep me “up to the mark”, Caesar Augustus says. So tonight was my bit of night map-reading, apparently – they knew I’d be bloody lost without Devenish . . . What they didn’t know was that Amos is a decent sort –hah!’ Audley chuckled. ‘He gave me the A-line, which follows the old Roman ditch. And even I couldn’t lose that, he reckoned.’

It might have been decency. But it might also be that the contents of the bag were too important to be lost, decided Fred.

Click-click

‘The truth is, they just don’t like cavalrymen,’ continued Audley innocently.

‘Especially cavalrymen who carry umbrellas?’

‘Ah ... I try not to let them see my brolly, actually. But it is a fine old cavalry tradition, you know – Salamanca and Waterloo . . . I’m just sorry you’ve had to suffer with me, is what I mean. They’ve got nothing against sappers, I’m sure – Is that you, Jacko?’

‘Sir.’ The answer was midway between a growl and a grunt, warning them that the sergeant had noted Audley’s failure to click his proper recognition signal.

‘Don’t be so bad-tempered, Jacko.’ For his part, Audley was quite dummy4

unabashed by this disapproval. ‘We’re the ones who should be pissed off, having had to blunder about in the rain quite unnecessarily, just because Caesar Augustus –’

‘Sir!’ Devenish interrupted his officer loudly. ‘Have you brought Major Fattorini with you?’

‘What?’ Audley’s tone was incredulous. ‘For Christ’s sake, Jacko!

Who the hell d’you think I’ve got? Field Marshal Montgomery? Or Caesar . . .’

‘Sir!’ Devenish’s voice changed. ‘Captain Audley is here with Major Fattorini, sir!’

‘Thank you, sergeant.’ Colonel Colbourne spoke out of the further darkness, beyond Devenish. ‘I heard.’

‘Oh b-b-bugger!’ whispered Audley. ‘Hullo there, sir . . .’

‘Captain Audley.’ The slight weariness in the Colonel’s voice was more eloquent than anger. ‘You are two minutes late.’

‘Sss – ’ Audley’s treacherous tongue tied itself up, and Fred crossed his fingers. ‘Sir!’

‘Yes?’ Although that was the correct and complete answer, Colbourne still pursued the boy. So those two lost minutes could hardly be crucial to the success of the operation. And, although the boy had only himself to blame, that altered the case somewhat.

‘It’s pretty dark out there, sir.’ He kept the words level, as a statement rather than an excuse. ‘The terrain is difficult, too. I had difficulty keeping up with Captain Audley.’

Colbourne sniffed. ‘Thank you, major. I take it you still have the bag which the adjutant gave you?’

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‘Yes, sir.’ He felt himself relax.

‘Good.’ Another sniff. ‘This operation is meticulously planned. It is not going to go wrong. You will follow Captain Audley and Major de Souza, and do exactly what they tell you tonight, major.

Audley will have told you what’s happening.’

Another sniff came out of the dark, but it came from a different direction and was even more obviously derisive.

‘Very well, then – carry on, Captain Audley . . . and no more lost minutes, eh?’ Colbourne paused. ‘Mr Levin!’

‘ Sar! ’ The bark came from the direction of the second sniff.

No one spoke as the Colonel withdrew in the direction of the bark, vanishing into the night.

‘Whew!’ exclaimed Audley. ‘Thanks, Fred.’ He breathed out again. ‘I’ll bet it was that bastard Levin who wound him up.’

The boy was incorrigible. ‘The RSM?’

‘That’s right. Mister Levin to the likes of us – Mister Isaac Levin, DCM – ex-Desert Rat, with the emphasis on rat . . . scourge of subalterns and other ranks . . . but, more to the point, old comrade and chief informer and eminence grise to Colonel Augustus Colbourne, DSO –our beloved emperor.’ Audley produced a sniff of his own. ‘And “Busy-Izzy” behind his back – don’t they call him that, Jacko?’

Devenish cleared his throat. ‘If you say so, sir.’

‘Oh, come on, Jacko!’ Audley shrugged off his bodyguard’s disapproval. ‘You know they do – come on!’

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Another pause. ‘I ... have always found Mr Levin to be a most efficient warrant officer . . . sir.’

‘Oh yes? And you have also found yourself disliking him as much as I do – almost as much as we both dislike the Crocodile . . . The only difference is that Busy-Izzy is scared of you, because you know your King’s Regs like the back of your hand. So he knows he’ll burn his fingers if he tries to lay one of them on you . . .

Whereas he damn-well persecutes me. In fact, but for Amos he’d have had me tarred and feathered, and run out of Schwartzen-burg on a rail long ago – ’

Somehow Fred was beginning to see in the dark, but also in his imagination too, without sight. And so Audley had his mouth open now, but Devenish was tight-lipped, he imagined.

‘Major Fattorini’s all right. He’s one of us, Jacko.’ Their joint silence sucked Audley on. ‘Busy-Izzy is a circumcised shit – and you know it!’

‘I’m sure I can’t say, sir . . .’ Something goaded Devenish out of his own safe silence, forcing the words out into the open. ‘They may call Mr Levin names . . . behind his back ... for all I know. I expect they do.’

A most diplomatic answer, thought Fred: like any sensible soldier, Devenish was loyal to himself and his own interests first. But more to the point, he was learning something about Audley from his indiscretion. And he needed to know more, if this was the case.

‘You don’t like Jews then, David?’ As he spoke, he remembered that this same problem had also surfaced in Greece, as dummy4

replacements from the Middle East had percolated through, and there had been officers and other ranks posted from Palestine whose experiences (and consequent anti-Jewish prejudices) had conflicted horribly with all the ghastly information coming out of Europe.

‘ What?’ The presumption of Fred’s question stripped the copy-cat de Souza casualness from Audley’s voice. ‘ What? –’

Time’s getting on, sir – ‘ began Sergeant Devenish.

‘Shut up, Jacko! What did you say, Major Fattorini? I don’t . . .

what?’

The boy was angry. So maybe he had jumped to a wrong conclusion. But this wasn’t the time to explore the matter further.

‘I’m sorry, David. Forget it – okay?’

Wot?‘ Audley’s outrage cut him off. ’Let me tell you this, Major Fattorini: my best friend in the Wesdragons –he was a “Jew-boy”

as they say . . . And circumcised to prove it – and no church parades for him, lucky blighter –‘

‘David –’

‘ – and the bravest of the brave, too – ’

‘ David –’

‘ – and the brightest: Open Scholar of Magdalen, Oxford, with brains to prove it – I ought to know, by Christ! Because I’ve seen them – ’

‘ David –’

‘Sir – ’ Devenish tried to get between them.

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‘ – spread all over the top of his fucking turret – brains everywhere, halfway across Normandy! And blood, too –brains over the turret, but blood inside the tank, after he got his head blown off.’ Audley drew a quick breath. ‘I tell you, it gives a chap a whole different slant on The Merchant of Venice to find out how much blood a Jew has in him. Because we mopped up and swilled out about half of it.’ Another breath. ‘The brains on the turret were easy . . . But there were about ten million flies – big fat greeny-blue flies . . . and they lived on Ben’s blood for a week, until the Germans brewed up his tank –’

‘Sir!’ Devenish’s voice was coolly disciplined. ‘We’ve got less than a minute now, before we should move, according to the time-table. And we don’t know what the lie of the land is like, between here and A2.’

‘What?’

‘We shall have to move out in about . . . forty-five seconds, sir.’

From being disapproving first, and then mildly irritated, and finally neutral, Devenish became gently encouraging. ‘Major de Souza won’t like for us to be late at A3, sir. Because he’ll be waiting for us.’

‘Yes . . . yes, of course.’ Audley took hold of his voice. Well . . .

any questions, Fred?‘

‘No, David.’ The enormity of the lie somehow made it true. But then he realized that he owed it to Audley to make amends more effectively than that. ‘Or . . . there is one thing that confuses me a bit, actually.’

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‘Yes?’ The boy was hauling himself back from his private nightmares now, trying to recapture reality. ‘You want to know why we always operate in pairs – the Crocodile and Sergeant Wilson? And Caesar Augustus and Busy-Izzy? And . . . the unbeatable Devenish-Audley dynamic scrum-half-and-fly-half combination?’ The boy was almost back to his old self. ‘We always get the ball out, to the three quarters – don’t worry!’ Sniff.

‘But “two” is logic – and experience, Fred: ancient British Army logic-and-experience, actually.’

‘It is?’ Fred had wanted to know no such thing but he was so enormously relieved to get away from Jews and tanks and voracious flies that he pressed the question willingly. ‘How’s that, then?’

‘You don’t know your Kipling – obviously! Although it’s just plain commonsense, really –

“When from ‘ouse to ’ouse you’re ‘unting, you must always work in pairs –

It ’alves the gain, but safer you will find –

For a single man gets bottled on them twisty-wisty stairs,

An‘ a woman comes and clobs ’im from be’ind.”

You take the point, Fred?‘

‘Yes.’

‘Yes . . . Although, actually there’s no such word as

“clob”, according to the Alligator – not in that form, dummy4

anyway. He thinks it’s late nineteenth-century military slang, probably Anglo-Indian. But I think Kipling just made it up, you know.’ Audley paused. ‘However ... I also think that there may be another reason. For always operating in pairs, I mean. Don’t you think so, Jacko?’

‘I think it’s time to go, sir.’

Thank you, Sar‘ Devenish. But I will decide when we move out.’ Audley’s tone sharpened momentarily. ‘As it happens, Fred, the route to A3 will be much easier, if the map and the air photographs can be trusted ... So, as I was saying . . . ’Loot‘ is the title of the poem, you see. And that happens to be the one thing all ranks of this unit are not allowed, in any shape or form –

unconsidered trifles, black market . . . blackmail – the lot. No winking, no blind eyes turned – right, Sar’

Devenish?‘

‘Sir.’ Devenish filled the word with sullen anger.

‘Thank you, Sar’ Devenish. So you see, Fred, we don’t just watch over each other, so as not to get “clobbed”

from “be’ind” – we also watch each other. Right, Sar‘

Devenish?’

‘If you say so, Captain Audley.’ If Devenish had been a piece of coal, he would be glowing orange-red now.

‘But don’t you think you’ve said enough, sir?’

‘Probably. I usually say too much, I agree. But that’s because I am quite unfitted for this dirty business. To a dummy4

scholar and a gentleman, it just doesn’t come naturally, you know.’

Fred felt sympathy for the long-suffering Devenish.

‘Don’t you think we should be moving, David?’

Audley answered this betrayal with a moment of silence. ‘Oh . . . have it your own way, then! No more questions, Major Fattorini? Jolly good – and good huntin’ and fishin‘, and all that – jolly good! So let’s go, then – ?’

The going was easier, just as David Audley had predicted. Or maybe, as the last clouds hurried away eastwards (as the American major had also forecast, who was still droning away in the distance), it was just that the darkness lightened even as his night-vision returned, and he no longer felt so lost and dependent.

Yet that did not make for confidence. There were too many questions out there, unasked and unanswered –

not only unasked, but unaskable, which was worse . . .

even infinitely worse, because he had some inkling of what the answers must be, almost certainly now, after young Audley’s indiscretions . . . but even before that; and even long before that, from Kyri’s warnings long ago –

Kyri . . . who was the antithesis of the ancient Greek virtue of moderation in all things: fatalistically brave, dummy4

totally cynical and coldly cruel (it had come as a cold-water shock to learn after Osios Konstandinos how Colonel Michaelides was hated and feared by his enemies on the Left) . . . but also a wholly honourable man, unshakably loyal and honest with friends –

And Kyri had said afterwards: ‘ Don’t get mixed up with these people, Fred: they are not for you! Go back home, to your safe green England, and be a good Englishman and a good capitalist: make money . . .

and find a good wife – and if you cannot find one in England, then you come to me . . . understood? – and make good sons, and better daughters, like my own father did . . . I have a little sister, in truth . . . No! But stay away from this man Clinton –’

Clinton –

He could see the loom of David Audley ahead of him: Audley moving fast and confidently on those great long legs of his, to make up time lost carelessly and obstinately, half in protest at this dirty business –

The Brigadier had been a surprise – almost a shock – in the ruined monastery of Osios Konstandinos, after David Audley and Amos de Souza, so that even now it wasn’t difficult to remember him: a surprise not dummy4

because of the searching questions beneath his surface apologies after Colonel Michaelides had finished with him –

Clinton – a Brigadier, but not quite a gentleman, was it –?

‘Major – sir!’ Devenish’s voice came from just behind him, urging him on.

‘Yes – of course!’ Fred realized that the memory of Brigadier Frederick Clinton had slowed him down in the bottom of Audley’s Roman ditch. ‘I’m sorry –’ He started to move again.

‘That’s all right, sir.’ There was room for Devenish to come up beside him now. ‘You don’t want to worry about Mr Audley – Captain Audley, as I should say –

you don’t need to worry about him, sir.’

At first Fred found himself worrying that Audley should hear his confidence. Then he realized that the young dragoon was already well ahead of them. ‘No, Sergeant Devenish?’

‘No, sir.’ The man’s voice was perfectly pitched not to carry beyond them. But, much more arresting than that, it was confiding. ‘He’s a good officer.’ Devenish bit his tongue on that, as though momentarily undecided about continuing. ‘It’s just he talks too much, that’s all.’

That was true. And it was also true that Devenish did dummy4

not share that fault. ‘Why does he do that, Mr Devenish?’

No reply. So whatever message the man had wished to impart had been imparted. But that wasn’t really good enough. But, then again, getting more out of the man wouldn’t be easy. ‘I suppose he is very young.’ Fred pretended to speak to himself. ‘He’s much younger than the other officers . . .’

No reply. So what had sparked that curious confidence in defence of the young Audley? Was it just loyalty?

And yet, after praising the boy as ‘a good officer’, Devenish had plainly suggested that he’d been talking nonsense.

‘Yes, sir.’ Devenish agreed suddenly. ‘He is that.’

‘Of course.’ Fred matched the agreement encouragingly. It was nothing less than the truth, after all: apart from Colbourne himself (who must be forty if he was a day), neither McCorquodale nor Macallister would ever see thirty again; and such other officers as he had noticed in the gloom of the mess and across the candlelit dining table had all been older than he himself was; and, at a guess he had five or six years over Audley himself. And those years, lengthened by the rigours of war, made for self-confidence. ‘So I expect he’s a bit nervous, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’ No delay this time. ‘I’m sure you’re right, sir: nervous is what he is. He had a bad time in dummy4

Normandy. And –’

‘ Fred! Are you there?’

Damn!‘ Just as Devenish had been about to open up!

’We’re here, David.‘

‘Thank Christ for that! I thought I’d lost you for a moment!’ Audley’s voice came down to a whisper.

‘We’re almost there, I think. Jacko – if you’d go forward now. And two clicks if Major de Souza is in place – okay?’

‘Sir!’ Devenish lifted his own whisper, against the drone of American engines.

Audley waited until they were alone. ‘What were you two gassing about?’

‘Nothing, really.’ Had Audley broken up their conversation deliberately? ‘I was just asking a few questions.’

‘Did you get any answers?’

It sounded an innocent question, but Fred didn’t think it was. ‘Not really – no.’

‘No . . . you wouldn’t.’ Audley sounded relieved now.

‘He’s a good man, is our Jacko. The best, actually. But he doesn’t say much. Even the egregious Crocodile can only claim dumb insolence.’ He chuckled to himself suddenly.

Fred echoed the chuckle, and not altogether falsely dummy4

because of the sameness-with-difference of the two men’s opinions of each other. ‘Whereas your insolence will never be dumb, David?’

Another nervous chuckle. ‘Oh . . . I’m only deliberately rude to the Old Croc. With everyone else it’s just accidental, Fred.’ Pause. ‘What were the jolly questions, then?’

‘Questions?’ Below the boy’s superficially innocent-curiosity Fred sensed wariness and suspicion – the same disturbing state of mind, in fact, which he now realized lay hidden beneath the eccentric chit-chat of all ranks of TRR-2 whom he had met so far, from the Colonel downwards. But perhaps that was the occupational disease of their ‘dirty business’, against which Kyri had warned him – ?

‘What do you want to know?’ Silence always goaded Audley into trying again.

‘Ah . . .’ Why doesn’t Devenish click-click and save me, damn it! ‘. . . well . . . there was your umbrella, for a start, David.’

‘My – ?’

‘Umbrella.’ Fred’s wits quickened. ‘An old cavalry tradition, you said?’

‘Oh . . .’ Audley sounded disappointed. ‘Yes.’

Fred knew he was on a winner. ‘Waterloo, was it?’

‘Yes.’ The boy sighed. ‘But actually, it started in the dummy4

Peninsular War. Lots of cavalry officers had umbrellas.

And then Wellington stopped it in 1814, when they crossed the Pyrenees into France – he said it was unmilitary . . . Although General Picton always carried an umbrella . . . and it came back in ’15, at Waterloo.‘

Audley paused. But then history became too strong for the future historian. ’I had an ancestor in the cavalry down there, in Spain. He was actually killed at Salamanca, charging with Le Marchant, you know.

Bought into the King’s Own – the 3rd – from the West Sussex Yeomanry, my old regiment – ‘ Audley stopped suddenly, again. ’Yes . . . well, Sergeant Devenish wouldn’t have given you anything on umbrellas – I can well understand that.‘

‘He doesn’t approve of them.’ Still no click-click!

‘Like the Duke of Wellington?’

‘Only more so. And what else did you ask of him?’

There would be a time for real questions, but now wasn’t that time. And young Audley wasn’t the man, in spite of his inclination towards indiscretion. It was de Souza he needed for real questions. But what other unimportant questions were there?

A single drop of rainwater, diffused through the network of overhanging branches above him, hit Fred on the tip of the nose. And that was the answer, of course.

‘When it was pissing down, earlier – ’ He felt his voice dummy4

lifting from a whisper to conversational level as the sound of the aircraft engines rose ‘ – you said “This is how it would have been”, David.’ What was good about this utterly unimportant question, apart from the certainty that Devenish wouldn’t have had the answer to it, was that it actually had been irritating him, this last hour. ‘What did you mean by that?’

‘Oh . . . that’s not me, really – that’s Caesar Augustus.’

Click-click! ‘Colonel Colbourne?’

‘Yes.’ Audley ignored the signal. ‘He says it every time it pisses down, Fred: “This is what it was like in A.

D. 9” is what he means – ’

Click-click! ‘Ah . . .’ A.D. 9? Fuck A.D. 9! ‘Was that Sergeant Devenish, David?’

‘Yes.’ But Audley didn’t move. ‘He reckons it was probably raining then, up in the Teutoburgerwald, when poor old Varus was trying to march his three legions through it – with all their transport, and such . . . Because it was pretty much a peace-time march, apparently: just showing the Roman flag –

showing the Eagles – to the conquered German tribes . . . Three full legions, plus auxiliary regiments, plus the usual camp followers, and NAAFI waggons and all that, and the Roman ABCA people – education-wallahs, peddling the Roman Way of Life to the troops and the German natives . . . When, of course the dummy4

German natives were leading him astray, into ambush, and sharpening their assegais and licking their lips –

poor old Varus! Up to his knees in German mud, with millions of German trees around him – and thousands of bloodthirsty Germans, too – ’

Click-click!

‘David! Isn’t that Sergeant Devenish?’

‘ – and the rain pissing down!’ Audley caught himself at last. ‘So it is – yes – ’ Click-click-click! ‘ – so we’d better be going. But . . .’

But he still wasn’t going. ‘But what?’

‘Illusion and reality – that’s what, old boy – ’ Audley touched his arm, out of the darkness, pushing him in the desired direction ‘ – illusion and reality . . . also like now, I very much fear!’

‘What – ?’ Fred let himself be steered, but then slowed down.

‘Oh . . . we’re not about to be massacred, like Varus –

don’t worry!’ Audley’s hand dropped away as he moved. ‘But if I pick up Amos’s signals a-right, then we just may be more into illusion than reality just now, is what I mean –’

That was worrying – and worrying because Audley wasn’t passing on his juvenile ideas now: he was parroting Major de Souza’s fears, which would be well-matured by knowledge and experience and judgement –

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‘Captain Audley – ?’ For some unfathomable reason de Souza’s whisper out of the dark reassured Fred that things couldn’t be as bad as he had just feared. ‘David?

Freddie?’

‘Sir!’ Audley.

‘David – ’ With that calm voice there were people in the half-dark, and there was subdued activity all around them suddenly ‘ – this is Major Hunter, of the United States Army, with me.’

‘Hullo there, Captain Audley!’ Deep familiar American whisper, oddly comforting.

‘Oh!’ For an instant Audley was taken aback by the presence of the United States Army. But then he rallied. ‘Hi there, major!’

‘And Major Fattorini, Royal Engineers, major.’ De Souza’s voice became very British, almost parodying itself. ‘Major Fattorini has just joined us from the Middle East, major.’

‘Major.’ Fred wondered what the collective noun for

“majors” might be. “Majors” were the army’s alpha and omega: the last and highest rank for some (including all “hostilities only” officers like himself), but the “field rank” beginning of promotion to higher command, and fame and fortune, for the generals of the next generation. ‘Major.’ Major Hunter couldn’t see dummy4

Major Fattorini, so neither of them knew what sort of major he was up against.

‘Slight change of orders, David. But nothing to worry about.’ Wisely, Amos did not introduce Sergeant Devenish. ‘Major Hunter will be accompanying us. But I shall be looking after him. So you just watch out for Krausnick –eh?’

‘Right-oh, Amos,’ Audley answered lightly. ‘G-g-gettin’ to be quite a crowd of us. But the more, the merrier!‘

‘Now, major ... as I was saying ... we are going to the back entrance, which is in the angle of the wall, partly concealed by some bushes, so far as we can make out from the photograph – ’ De Souza’s words faded as he turned away to address the American, against the continuous background drone of the planes.

‘Shit!’ Audley whispered. ‘Nothing to worry about!’

‘No?’ As the young man put his head close, Fred picked up the familiar winter’s night smells of front-line Italy: wet uniform, sweat and alcohol, to which –

less familiarly, amongst the British anyway – this evening’s dinner had added an unBritish whiff of garlic.

‘The Yanks suspect we’re up to something ... or, rather, they don’t suspect – they know!’ The grip tightened.

‘Surprise, surprise!’

‘But I thought you already expected that, David?’

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Jollying-along depressed young engineer subalterns was another Italian memory: it came quite naturally to him to do the same for Audley. ‘Isn’t all this – ’ he almost said ‘ nonsense’ – ‘ – all this elaborate business a sort of smokescreen?’

‘Oh sure! But there’s so much bloody smoke about now that I can’t see either. Not that I ever can see much.’ The boy’s tone was bitter. ‘The trouble with the bloody army is that you never really know what you’re doing – I haven’t known for years ... or since last year, anyway.’ He sighed. ‘I thought I was liberating Europe and winning the war. But I wasn’t doing that at all, you know.’

It’s just he talks too much! So much the better! ‘Then what were you doing?’

‘Jesus Christ! You may well ask! God only knows!

Or . . . He probably doesn’t – only Brigadier Frederick J. Clinton knows – ’ Audley bit his tongue. ‘Do you really know what you are doing, Major Frederick Fattorini? I’ll bloody-bet you don’t, by God!’

Audley’s voice had been rising as he spoke. But it didn’t matter, because the engine-noise had been rising at the same time, from that steady drone to a drumming which Fred recognized for the first time: there was a pair of good old Dakotas out there, circling one behind the other in the darkness, separated by the diameter of their circles; and he had already survived one Dakota-dummy4

crash, outside the Bari, in which the pilot had ploughed neatly through two lines of poplars and an olive-grove, losing more and more of the aircraft at each obstacle –

wing-tips, wings and engines, and at the last even tail-planes –until only the fuselage had remained when it came to a halt, with its human cargo bruised and bloody, but unbowed. Good old Dakota!

And . . . what the hell was Audley complaining about?

He’d survived the war, when a million – or ten million

–better men hadn’t! Christ – what more did he want!

He could see the Dakota’s lights now, dead ahead through a gap in the trees, and almost level with him –

God Almighty! – almost below him as it roared up from the plain below the hills, so that he felt himself willing the pilot to pull the stick: Pull the stick, man!

Get the nose up – up, for Christ’s sake!

With an ear-splitting crash of sound, which made him duck instinctively, the Dakota was on them – and over them, and gone, sucking its noise after it.

‘God Almighty!’ he murmured – or not murmured, he realized, but shouted.

‘No. Not God Almighty, Fred – ’ Audley shouted back at him ‘ – that’ll be Our Jake – Jake Austin ... He likes low-flying, does Our Jake!’

‘ Ready, David?’ De Souza was almost shouting too, now: the sound of the second Dakota was increasing in dummy4

its turn. “Let’s go, then!‘

Suddenly everyone was moving, and it was all familiar: the shadow-shapes, and the nearer-sounds of heavy footfalls and the chink-chink of equipment –

sounds which he couldn’t really hear, except in his memory – all brought back the recent past, and he felt his blood pump as he became part of the movement forward and thought the old familiar prayer – sweet Jesus Christ! let it not be me tonight!

Then his heart lifted, and it was like – it was exactly like – waking from that old black examination nightmare, in which the terrible fear of total lack of knowledge and inevitable failing always enveloped him – waking to the sweet realization that it was all long in the past, and over-and-done-with: that he’d taken the exam long ago, and passed it ... and now this wasn’t Italy, but Germany with the war over-and-done-with-and-finished-forever, with no mines and booby-traps on the river bank, and no machine-guns and shells waiting to seek him out in the darkness ahead!

He giggled to himself with pure joy at the thought. He had been tired, and that was why his memory had played cruel tricks on him – tiredness notoriously distorted rational thought. But now he wasn’t tired at all. Which was funny – although not half as funny as the thought of Audley going into action umbrella-in-hand, just like his dragoon ancestor – that was funny –

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Thump!

He half-checked. But then knew he couldn’t stop –

Thump –

But then he identified the mortar-sound instinctively out of all the other sounds, and automatically threw himself full-length on the ground, and Sergeant Devenish tripped over him –

For a confused moment they were a tangle of arms and legs and equipment and breathless grunting. Then they pushed clear of each other, scrabbling for recovery just as the first parachut-flare burst into unearthly brightness far above them.

‘F-----’ Devenish started to swear, but then stopped.

‘Sir?’

Fred found himself staring up at the unearthly, flickering light as it descended beneath its trail of smoke: it was odd how quickly one’s own side’s flares seemed to come down, compared with the agonizing slowness of the enemy’s, which always took forever, as though they were suspended on invisible wires –

‘Are you all right, sir?’ inquired Devenish doubtfully.

The second flare ignited high above simultaneously with another thump-pause-thump of two more going up from somewhere on their left.

‘Yes.’ Fred remembered, from his long distant subaltern-past, a grizzled major of engineers dummy4

admonishing him: ‘ You are a perfect idiot Mr Fattorini

– in-so-far as perfection is attainable!’ ‘Thank you, Sergeant Devenish.’ Well . . . now he was a major, too!

So even closer to perfection, by God! ‘I tripped over a tree-root – ’

‘Yes, sir – so you did!’ Devenish was on his feet, and already moving – ‘Don’t forget the bag, sir – ’

The bloody bag! ‘Go on, sergeant – go on! I’m coming.’

With no dignity left to salvage, Fred hated himself and Devenish equally as he grabbed the bag and launched himself in the sergeant’s wake, desperate not to be left behind.

Another engine-sound, very different from that of the departing planes, startled him from somewhere away in the forest on his left. Almost simultaneously, even as the light from the second flare faded and another ignited, much brighter light burst alive ahead, silhouetting moving figures sharply in the final fringe of trees – trees which themselves seemed to move against a background of fiercely-illuminated buildings in the clearing beyond them.

The most distant figure stopped suddenly, raised its arm, and dropped to one knee. Almost magically, the other figures followed suit, moving left and right behind convenient tree-trunks and sinking out of sight.

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‘Come on, come on, come on!’ Audley stage-whispered irritably. ‘What’s the old bugger waiting for? Let’s get on with it!’

So this was Audley beside him, with Devenish just ahead to the right; and the American in his distinctive pot-helmet had dropped down to Amos de Souza’s left

–of all the figures, de Souza’s was the only one in the open, and the other big silhouette, which he had assumed to be Audley’s, must be the major’s accompanying escort, whom he had not yet encountered.

‘What are we waiting for?’ Audley’s nervousness infected him. ‘Amos – ?’

Two new silhouettes intruded from the rear left, half-crouching and half-walking, and distinctively American both by their helmets and the rich flow of invective which they trailed. More Americans – ?

One of the Americans was unreeling a line. The other offered something to Major de Souza. And, as he did so, a sudden crackling noise, unnaturally loud – a fish-fried-in-batter sound, multiplied a thousand-fold –

overlaid the roar of the searchlight generators.

Another flare ignited, high up in the now-impenetrable blackness above, making all the shadows around them dance madly as a loud and hopelessly-distorted gibberish of words started up against the ‘Fish-frying-tonight’ crackling.

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‘Oh – bloody-wonderful!’ exclaimed Audley. ‘Makes you wonder how we won the war!’

‘Do shut up, David – there’s a good fellow.’ By one of life’s mischances the crackling had stopped just as the young dragoon had started speaking, so that his opinions were as clearly audible as Major de Souza’s flattening rebuke.

‘Sorry, sir.’ Yet, against all odds, Audley didn’t sound flattened. ‘But . . . Amos ... if that’s Caesar Augustus calling on the Germans to surrender – ’ the boy started to shout as the crackling began again ‘ – they’re not going to –’

‘Shut up, David!’ De Souza waved away the nearest American, who was offering him a megaphone, and stood up,and looked around him.

‘Major Hunter?’ He addressed the American officer beside him almost conversationally, without urgency.

‘If you would be so good as to follow Sergeant Huggins, after me . . . Shall we go then?’

That was the way to do it, of course, when it had to be done: matter-of-fact, and prosaic, and quietly confident . . . not with young Audley’s edge-of-disaster nervous tension, right or wrong. When it was done right, it always sounded the same, whatever happened afterwards –

Always the same! Fred felt disembodied then, as he dummy4

always had done in the past, when whatever was going to happen wasn’t going to happen to him – not this time –next time, maybe, but not this time!

All the different silhouettes rose. Even the two recent Americans stood up, after their recent useless journey, although they didn’t move forward with the rest: for a moment they were ahead of him, and then he was beyond them, running forwards by the majority decision through the last trees, into the open.

But . . . it wasn’t the same, nevertheless! he reassured himself: those were not real Germans out there, in that false daylight – if this was another nightmare, it was a different bloody nightmare, for a different bloody exam!

He saw the cluster of buildings, clearly, at last –

Just a bunch of alien buildings, shuttered at ground-level, blank-windowed above, without any sign of life in them –

(In Italy, they said, most of the Germans will be up above, with a clear field of fire, and ready to drop grenades on you if you reach the outside walls; and the civilians will be in the cellar, if there is one, if they’re still there, hoping that you won’t toss a grenade down among them, just in case!)

They were coming in from the back: he was running behind Devenish now, towards a tangle of bushes, out dummy4

of which rose a black-leafed tree – no, those weren’t black leaves ... it was a holly-tree – a black holly-tree without berries, because it was a long way from Christmas –

Scobiemas!

They were converging on the bushes, towards a gap –

towards a back-door in the gap – and de Souza was trying the door – trying it once, almost perfunctorily, as though he didn’t expect it to open, then springing back from it to one side, to let the big soldier behind him get at it.

The soldier backed up, and Fred saw that he was a giant: not only was de Souza insignificant beside him, but even David Audley was diminished, at his shoulder; and, for a moment out of time, he watched the giant balance himself before delivering the full force of the heel of his boot accurately alongside the door handle.

The door splintered inwards with a tremendous concussion, and he saw a sliver of wood cartwheel into the light, and then disappear as Audley ducked to avoid it; and then, in the same slow-motion timelessness, he saw the giant – sergeant’s stripes, rain-darkened leather jerkin –swing sideways almost gracefully to let de Souza go in ahead of him, as any gentleman might do who had opened a door for his lady.

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Then time speeded-up, making up for lost time: de Souza moved, and then the American major tried to move, and so did Audley. But both of them were shouldered aside unceremoniously as de Souza’s sergeant reversed his original swing in order to follow closely behind his officer. The American cannoned off the bigger man into Audley, who staggered back against Devenish, who stepped back smartly and trod heavily on Fred’s foot.

‘ Ouch!’ Fred saw Devenish’s sub-machine gun, which was an Italian Beretta with a solid walnut stock – an officer’s customized model now rendered even more useful with a flashlight neatly taped to its delicate barrel –then he felt the pain of Devenish’s full weight.

‘Sorry – sir!’ Devenish plunged into the doorway behind the American.

Fred wished that he had a Beretta and a torch instead of a canvas bag. And it was odd, he thought, that the sergeant – Sergeant Huggins? – hadn’t gone in first, ahead of de Souza. But then, of course, it wasn’t odd, because de Souza wasn’t the sort of man to go anywhere second. And then he was comforted by everyone else’s eagerness to enter the doorway ahead of him, in whatever order of precedence. Because he was the bag-carrier, and he was certainly not about to draw the revolver which he had signed for so very recently. Because, at the best of times, nobody ever hit dummy4

the desired target with a revolver, outside Hollywood.

And there were too many men ahead of him, anyway.

And one of them was Devenish – which was somehow quite extraordinarily comforting –

Now there were flashing lights in the darkness –

Keep well back, Fattorini! he admonished himself: You’re just the man with the bag!

A foul stench suddenly enveloped him, even as different torchlights gyrated in a passage-way, with doors on each side being methodically kicked open ahead of him, to the sound of shouting and screaming as de Souza and Sergeant Huggins worked their way down the passage; and over this panicky rape-and-pillage noise he heard de Souza’s voice, uncharacteristically loud, but also still calm and controlled, repeating the same words –

‘Stay where you are! You are surrounded! Remain where you are – do not leave this room! Anyone trying to leave this building will be shot! You are surrounded

– that is a final warning!’

De Souza’s German was quite beautiful: it was far beyond Higher Certificate (distinction) German, like his own – it was colloquial, as to the manner born –

But this smell –

As Devenish passed one of the open doors, just ahead of him, a figure appeared in the doorway, half-naked dummy4

and half-draped in what looked like a Roman toga –

‘ Get fucking back!’ Devenish propelled the man back into the room with his free hand. ‘ You heard the British officer!’

The smell wafted round Fred as he passed the doorway.

And the last six years had vastly increased his dictionary of smells, from childish memories of roast beef and chicken, and the tobacco-richness of Uncle Luke’s library, and the linseed-oil-and-sweat changing room odours of school and university; and now he had barrack-room smells, and cordite, and a thousand army smells, all the way from trenches full of shit to the sweeter-rottener stench of fly-blown meat, human and animal, insufficiently buried . . . apart from all the good smells, from most recent memory, of spices and thyme and lavender, and olive oil frying on an open fire on crystal-clear Greek evenings. But this was something new –

Another door crashed open ahead of him –

‘Stay where you are! You are surrounded – ’

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Devenish addressed him solicitously.

‘Yes, sergeant.’ This was a different smell –

compounded of – what? But there was a more urgent question: ‘Are we going according to plan?’

‘Oh yes, sir.’ Devenish leaned back towards him dummy4

conspiratorially, while his torch illuminated the American major’s back two yards ahead. ‘This is just going through the motions, sir. This is just the usual rubbish down here – ’ The torch jerked left and right as he spoke, but on the last jerk uncovered a totally naked woman in the doorway ahead ‘ – Jesus Christ – sir?’

Not a woman, but an emaciated child, with thick-painted red mouth smudged and spread pathetically beyond her lips, and boney shoulders above inadequate breasts: and (what was far worse) a frightful welcoming smile on those lips, below wide terrified eyes.

‘Hullo, Tommie –’

Devenish’s same free hand was already on its way, fingers spread so wide that they took her from collar-bone to collar-bone. ‘ Get out of the road, you silly little bitch!’ He spun her back into the darkness. ‘Sorry about that, sir . . . But we’re going up the stairs – ’

‘Cap-itan!’ Another half-naked figure loomed in the doorway behind an ingratiating voice. ‘I am Polish officer – officer of dragoons – ’

‘ Get back!’ This time Devenish swung the machine-pistol menacingly to cut off the appeal. ‘You can be a general in the fucking Polish army, for all I care!’ The sergeant recovered himself as the sounds inside the room died down. ‘I’m sorry about that, sir – You bloody lot –don’t you move a fucking eyebrow! – but dummy4

we have to get on, sir! Up the stairs!’

‘Yes, Sergeant Devenish –’ But he was already addressing Devenish’s back as he spoke –

We’re going up the stairs –

But the smell was still with him: a sour-sweat, old-clothes-and-cabbage, unwashed-wet-undried, peculiar smell – just as all the other undifferentiated human smells had been peculiar, each with its unforgettable nuance –

Then they were out into the open suddenly, through the final door, with the staircase doubling round on his left, with Devenish already swinging round on to it, leading him on – with the crash of boots ahead of them on the wooden stairs.

And-

They knew where they were going! They had known long before they had smashed down the back-door –

‘ This is just going through the motions, sir!’ – and all that had been for the American major – they knew where they were going!

He accelerated after Devenish, with the canvas bag flying out behind him spinning off the wall on one side, and then off the banisters on the other.

And they were the real assault group, too! That was obvious now, not simply because no else had burst in ahead of them, from the front of the building, but for a dummy4

crowd of other good reasons which should have occurred to him, from the composition of the group –

Amos de Souza as its brains, and Sergeant Muggins, David Audley and Sergeant Devenish as its brawn – to the simple clinching detail that he was carrying the bag

—

‘Whoa there, sir!’ Devenish restrained his headlong progress at the top of the stairs, his flashlight beam arcing over an ancient collection of trophies of the chase fixed high up on the wall above them: moth-eaten antlered stag’s-heads and yellow-tusked boars drooling cobwebs from gaping dusty mouths. ‘Steady now! Let the dog see the rabbit, then!’

Crash! Huggins had put his boot through another door, just down this new passage to the right, that explosion announced.

Boom! This time the concussion reverberated from behind and beneath them, echoing through the building just as Amos began his formula ahead down the passage: Colonel Colbourne’s assault on the main door below had commenced belatedly, even as they were deep inside the building.

Boom! It sounded as though they were using a battering ram.

‘If you’d just like to come this way a bit, out of the road, sir.’ Devenish addressed him politely. ‘They’ll be coming up behind us – Major Macallister’s party. But dummy4

they’ll be going the other way, like.’

Boom-CRASH! The main door had come off its hinges in one piece, it sounded like. But Fred’s attention was drawn to his left in the same instant by Devenish’s torch, to a collection of tattered white-faced ghosts which was milling in the other passage, crying out in terror.

‘ GET BACK THERE!“ Devenish roared, blinding the leading ghost even as the hallway below filled with the noise of Major Macallister’s party.

Crash! Another door splintered ahead of them! ‘This way – up the stairs!’ Major Macallister’s shout from below reminded Fred unbearably of his old games-master, with its half-hectoring, half-encouraging note only a hair’s-breadth from falsetto. ‘Captain Hornyanski – are you with me? Sergeant Little – see to the American officer!’

So Major Macallister had his attendant American too: Fred looked quickly up their own passage, where torch-beams were flashing in between the silhouettes of moving figures. Was this good honest allied co-operation, or well-founded allied mistrust? Much more likely the latter!

‘Just hold it, sir.’ Devenish restrained him again. ‘Any moment now – get back there!’

With the heavy clump of Major Macallister and his dummy4

minions on the stair below him, Fred resisted the urge to move. But looking to the left he saw that the flock of ghosts were shrinking back into their own darkness under the combined threat of Devenish’s gun, the major’s shout, and that metal studded tread, and felt a pang of sympathy for them: whatever they were, innocent or guilty, they were the conquered – and vae victis – the conquered had no rights!

Crash! Another door caved in –

Fred abandoned the ghosts, with the metallic taste of powder in his mouth and the old excuse in his brain, which he remembered all too well from Italy and Greece: We didn’t start this – and we didn’t make the rules . . . so hard fucking-luck, then!

‘Come on, sir – this way!’ Even with the sound of Major Macallister at his back Fred also remembered the snappy reply from the ferret-faced drunken gunner captain to that anodyne disclaimer: Then what’s the difference between us and your average Jerry, then?

So . . . they obey their orders – right? Hic! And we –

hic – we obey orders too!

‘For Christ’s sake, sir! Come on!’

Fred let himself be pulled, with all the commotion of Major Macallister meeting the ghosts behind him, beyond the first and second doors down the passage.

And then Devenish was pushing past him into the third door, without deference, leaving him no choice but to dummy4

follow.

Once again, the concentrated sweaty-clothes-and-cabbage smell assailed him, stronger in the confined space of the room than outside, even before he could sort out its contents in the combined light of Devenish’s and Audley’s torches. And then for a moment Audley and Devenish seemed themselves to be the main contents, well-armed, well-fed and well-washed in the centre of their stage, and dominating the room’s occupants huddled in its furthest corner.

There were five of them, he saw: all males – and somehow it was a merciful relief that there wasn’t another naked painted-and-smudged child like down below – all males, in varying states of dishevelled undress and standing in the midst of the wreckage of their bedding – old army blankets and stained mattresses.

‘Right then! Let’s be having you, then!’ Devenish’s voice took on something of the tones of any sergeant-major addressing an awkward squad of recruits, mixing resignation and brutality in equal parts, with only the merest Angostura dash of encouragement.

The huddle shuffled uncertainly within itself, those more at the back resisting the efforts of those more at the front to replace them, terrified by the sound of the words without understanding any single one of them.

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‘Get them up against the wall, Sar’ Devenish – if you please.‘ Audley’s voice, by contrast, was conversational, edged with fastidious distaste.

‘Sir!’ Devenish took a step forward, his boot crunching on something breakable and already broken in the darkness below him. ‘Get in line there! Hands high –

up – up! Come on, you buggers! In line – in line!’ The jerk of his gun galvanized the huddle into feverish activity, if not actual obedience, with those who half-understood hampering those who didn’t.

‘Come on!’ Patience exhausted, Devenish took another step forward, jabbing at the disobedient minority of the group with the combined torch-beam and muzzle of his gun to encourage them to imitate the majority. ‘Against the wall! Hands up – up – up – UP!’

All this flurry of activity seemed to stir up the smell, so that it was pungent in Fred’s nostrils, and bitter tasting in his mouth: it was as though their fears were increasing their smell, adding the sweat of terror to all their other odours, like foxes hounded to no-escape by hounds.

‘Faces-to-the-wall – if you please, Sar’ Devenish.‘

Audley pronounced the words carefully, one after another, as though he was concerned not to stutter.

‘Sir!’ For an instant Devenish said nothing, as he struggled with the problem of obtaining obedience.

‘ ABOUT- TURN!’

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The furthest man on the right turned immediately, to face the wall. And then the man next to him turned after him, as though by osmotic action.

‘Go on! Face the wall!’ Devenish jabbed at the next man, and as he followed suit at the next, down the line, until they were presented with a line of backs, in creased shirts and dirty vests overlapping crumpled trousers or hairy legs, as the last of the line conformed.

‘Yrrch!’ Audley’s torch beam fell away, momentarily sweeping over the room, over the blankets and mattresses and across scuffed suitcases and an ammunition box on which a bottle with an encrusted candle in its mouth was set. Then it came up again, and an untidily-furled umbrella stabbed along its line, towards the obedient man on the right. ‘That’s one, Sar’ Devenish – thank you.‘

‘Sir!’ Devenish stepped forward again. ‘ YOU THERE!’

But then, to Fred’s surprise, he jabbed the man next to Audley’s choice in the small of the back with his gun.

‘ AND YOU – AND YOU – ’ He touched each man in turn, down the line ‘ – OUT!’

The marked men lowered their arms uneasily, almost unwillingly, half-turning towards their persecutor.

‘ NOT YOU.’ Devenish addressed the obedient man, who was also lowering his arms now, ‘ YOU STAND

FAST!’ The obedient man’s hands shot up again, dummy4

higher than ever.

‘ The rest of you – ’ Devenish’s voice came down to ordinary harshness ‘ – out you go, then!’

And out they went then, shepherded past Fred by Devenish, with Audley’s torch-beam playing on them, one after another, and Devenish bringing up the rear.

‘Major Fattorini!’ Audley addressed Fred for the first time since they had broken into the place. ‘Empty out the bag – on the floor, please.’ He indicated a patch of bare floorboards, on the edge of one of the filthy mattresses.

An army boot – a tangle of unfolding battledress uniform: trousers mixed up with blouse, and beret falling with them, accelerated by gaiters and belt, and another boot . . . but inhibited by something else, which had become entangled in them – He shook the bag again. –

Christ! It was a Sten! And complete with its magazine!

‘Don’t worry about that, old boy – it’s got no firing pin.’ Audley stirred the uniform with the tip of his umbrella, flipping out one arm from the blouse. ‘A corporal, by God!’ The corporal’s chevrons showed.

‘So it’s “Corporal Keys” then!’ Pause. ‘Right then, Sar’ Devenish – get on with it if you please.‘

‘Sir!’ Devenish grabbed the man by his shoulder, swinging him round. ‘Right then, you bugger! You get dummy4

your clothes off – and you get into that British uniform down there . . . understood?’

The man stood still, his arms only half-lowered, gaping into the light uncomprehendingly in a moment of silence within the room, which somehow separated them from the more general world of noise outside it –

a confused commotion of bangs and crashes and shouting, and boots stamping.

‘ Whoof.’ The man broke their private moment with the pain of receiving the butt of Devenish’s sub-machine gun in the pit of his stomach, which bent him double, and then muttered in agonized German.

‘Stop it!’ The umbrella rapped Devenish across the shoulder sharply. ‘That’s not the way – ’ Audley caught his anger too late as the German quickly started to disprove him by stripping his clothes off even before he had undoubled himself from the pain of the blow, throwing off the unbuttoned shirt and then ripping at his trouser buttons.

‘Sir – ?’ Devenish pivoted slightly between his target and Audley, but remained still balanced, ready to deliver more encouragement.

Now the shapeless trousers had joined the shirt, revealing spidery-thin hairy legs and genitals pathetically wizened in adversity, when fear out-ranked every other feeling.

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‘No matter.’ All the shame and embarrassment was Audley’s from his voice. ‘Just get on with it.’

‘Sir!’ The answering growl started with Audley, but continued over the German who was already busy proving that he understood English by fumbling with the unfamiliar khaki uniform with clumsy fingers.

‘Christ O’Reilly!’ exclaimed Devenish in sudden exasperation, thrusting his sub-machine gun into Fred’s empty hand. ‘Take hold of this, sir – and keep the light on the bugger – right?’ He threw himself down on his knees in front of the man, slapping the hands away, and addressed himself to the fly-buttons urgently. ‘Stand still, damn you!’

Fred watched, fascinated, as Devenish pulled and pushed and buttoned and tightened the man into the uniform, cursing and blinding in a continuous monologue undertone as he did so –

‘Christ O’Reilly – hold still! – if I hadn’t been born unlucky I wouldn’t be here – hold still! – where’s the other boot, then? – I had a good wife, and good kids, and I left ’em all – lift your foot then, for fuck’s sake –

and a good job in a safe reserved occupation – where’s the sodding gaiter? – but I was born stupid, as well as unlucky, wasn’t I! – that’s the bloody left one –

where’s the bloody right one? – oh no! I wanted to be a soldier didn’t I! – could have been building aeroplanes, I could – sleeping between sheets every dummy4

night – drawing good money – give us your bloody arm then – what am I doing, then? – I’m fucking-dressing fucking-Jerries in the middle of the fucking-night, is what I’m doing?

Finally he stood back and surveyed his handiwork for a moment, before stepping forward again to readjust the beret, tugging it round and down savagely until the cap-badge was at the regulation level above the German’s left eye.

‘I beg your pardon, sir!’ He glanced at Audley, and then bent down and came up with the Sten. ‘Best I can do, in the circumstances. Everything’s a size too big, but I’ve laced the boots up tight – and the belt too. So he’s not going to come apart right away, any road.’ He plucked the Beretta out of Fred’s grasp with his free hand and held up the Sten with the other. ‘Shall I give it to him, sir?’

‘Thank you, Sar’ Devenish – yes.‘ Audley spoke with curious formality as he moved to get a better view.

’Yes-esss ... he doesn’t look exactly like the spearhead of the British Liberation Army. But I’ve seen worse.

And it’s a dark night.‘ He sighed.

‘Huh!’ Devenish grunted throatily, and thrust the Sten towards the German. ‘Here you are, Jerry – take hold of this then!’

The ersatz Corporal Keys stared at them uncomprehendingly, breathing heavily as though he’d dummy4

been running to keep up with a forced march which had left him behind. And suddenly Fred felt for him, in his incomprehension.

‘Please – ?’ He spoke in English, ‘What is this – ?’

‘Go on, Jerry – take it.’ From the slight change in Devenish’s voice, from rough to gruff, there was also some human understanding. ‘We’re going to get you away from here, is what we’re going to do –

understand?’

The German took the gun unwillingly, looking at Audley as he did so.

‘Not like that!’ Devenish’s harsher voice came back as the German accepted the weapon. ‘Hold it properly –

not like a bleeding lavatory brush!’

‘Please – ?’ The German fumbled with the Sten, as though it was too hot to hold, blinking at them.

‘But. . .’ Then he took hold of it and himself, squaring his shoulders. ‘But I do not understand, I am telling you, sir –captain!’

‘Of course not.’ Audley accepted the appeal. But then he nodded to Devenish. ‘Jacko – get outside and see what’s happening . . . Look for Major de Souza – ’ In the half-light of their torches, he lifted his arm (with his umbrella hooked over it now) to consult his wrist-watch, shining his own beam directly on to it ‘ – we’re two minutes over schedule. So he should be in the dummy4

offing out there now – right?’

Fred realized that he had lost track of time altogether, ever since they had first moved out of the safe darkness of the forest into the naked light and confusion of the assault on the hunting lodge: there were, as always, two separate times – the fast time of pleasure and happiness, and the slow, elongated time of pain and fear, which seemed to last forever. And they had been in the stretched concertina of it, within this room, with six hundred seconds to every minute.

‘Now then – ’ Audley addressed the German with that curiously formal voice of his ‘ – the sergeant is right, of course – as always: we are going to get you out of here, sir. Which is for your own good and safety – you have my word on that. Do you understand?’

What Fred understood was that, with Audley’s flashlight shining straight into the man’s eyes, never mind that British officer’s promise, the German could understand nothing at all – and least of all because of that strangely deferential ‘ sir’ which Audley had thrown in. Better by far, at this stage, to have stuck to Devenish’s approach.

‘No!’ The German dropped one hand from the Sten to shield his eyes. ‘Please – ’

‘Sir!’ Devenish barked the word from the doorway.

‘Major de Souza is here, sir – now! He is with the American officer, and he says to tell you that he has a dummy4

prisoner for us to escort to the assembly area . . . sir!’

The bark increased to a stentorian military shout, raised to reach the other side of any parade ground.

‘Thank you, Sar’ Devenish.‘ Audley matched Devenish’s shout. ’The corporal and I have processed everyone from here. So we’ll take the major’s prisoner!‘ Then his torch came back to the German.

’ We have to go, sir –now! So . . . you are a British NCO – non-commissioned officer ... You are

“Corporal Keys”, if anyone asks you who you are –

“Corporal Keys” – ?‘ He stepped forward and caught the German by the arm. ’Come on, sir – we must go –‘

‘No!’ The German resisted him, pulling away. No!‘

‘What the devil – ?’ The beam of Audley’s torch gyrated over the room, across sharp angles and damp-stained walls, down to the tangle of blankets in which a uniformed corporal in the British Army was now rummaging desperately.

‘ My spectacles! My spectacles – ! ’ The corporal was on his knees beside the ammunition box, scrabbling desperately with searching fingers in the blanket folds.

‘Without my spectacles . . . I cannot see!’ The search stopped suddenly. ‘I have them! Gruss Gott!’ The German held something up high, fumbling with it.

‘ Don’t put them on!’ Audley’s voice cut through the man’s action decisively. ‘ You mustn’t look like dummy4

yourself, sir – we can’t risk that! Put them in your pocket – don’t put them on: that’s an order!’

A light came in from the doorway, silhouetting Audley and the German before blinding Fred himself.

‘Sir . . .’ The slight pause encompassed Devenish’s surprise on finding Fred among the probably flea-ridden bedding ‘. . . if you please, sir – ?’

‘Right, Sar’ Devenish.‘ Audley started to move. ’Major Fattorini – Corporal Keys – MOVE!‘

Fred moved all the faster, to be free of the bedding before he inherited its inhabitants, pushing Corporal Keys ahead of him all the more unmercifully.

The corridor outside was crowded with people. And there was David Audley, using his size and weight to shoulder his way through them – bulldozing an opening down the passage to the entrance hall, with its an tiered trophies and cobweb-drooling heads at the top of the staircase –And there was Major Macallister too –

or was it the Crocodile? – with British and American soldiers in attendance, and a crowd of ghosts dressed and half-dressed, but all outraged and protesting their innocence as Audley smashed through them regardless

–

God! It was like Paddy’s Market on Quarter Day!

Except that he caught sight of Major de Souza dummy4

suddenly, at the head of the stairs with the hint of a smile on his face, holding back all the criminals and deserters, and displaced persons, and homeless bombed-out refugees who had found this roof over their heads, when there were so few roofs anywhere to be found umbombed in Germany; and alongside Major de Souza, larger and wider, and built like a brick shit-house, was Sergeant Huggins, with one meat-plate hand grasping the shoulder of one of the ghosts – a terrified ghost, draped in a field-grey blanket –

Audley reached the de Souza-Huggins block, and Huggins released his prisoner to him, and Sergeant Devenish accepted the prisoner, pushing him down the stairway just ahead of Corporal Keys and Major Fattorini: and Audley’s incongruous umbrella was lashing out ahead of them, to clear the way for the snatch-squad; and Fred could hear Sergeant Devenish swearing as they cut into the maelstrom of the hunting lodge with British and American uniforms like currants and sultanas in a swirling suet pudding of civilians –

The black opening of the main doorway gaped ahead of them, at the foot of the stairway where the main door had come off its hinges. But Audley wasn’t going that way: he was turning back round the last carved banister, to lead them again towards the passage to the rear entrance, through which they had come: that had been the way in, so now that was the way out – right?

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Right!‘ And . . . right, because Devenish was urging their new prisoner in that direction, relying on Major Fattorini to encourage Corporal Keys, with his useless Sten and clumping over-sized boots. And whatever blurred images of chaos and panic were left to Corporal Keys without his spectacles, whatever they were, they didn’t matter. What mattered was that their way was not impeded: either the inhabitants of the rooms in the passage were still inside them, or they’d been chivvied out to join the terrified crowd in the entrance hall – all that mattered now was that the passage was empty . . .

Or almost empty. For there in the doorway ahead of them, caught in the beam of someone’s torch, just inside it and silhouetted against the fierce mock-daylight of the searchlights outside, was an American soldier, rain-caped and armed.

‘Make way there!’ Audley’s voice was loud and offensively British. ‘Out of the way, soldier!’

Corporal Keys bridled just ahead of Fred, as though unwilling to take part in the charade at this last and most important moment, so Fred gave him a brutal shove to get him moving again, conscious at last that he was a full and paid-up member of the TRR-2.

‘Get on, you bugger!’ Devenish, ahead of Corporal Keys, admonished their newer prisoner angrily – that poor confused devil had also baulked momentarily, like dummy4

Corporal Keys, at the prospect of finally exchanging his smelly freedom for the bright uncertainty of captivity beyond the doorway.

The American soldier stood aside, blank faced and holding his carbine close to his chest, and Fred caught an incongruous whiff of eau-de-cologne as he pushed by the man, as distinctive against all the doss-house smells as the perfume of roses in a midden. And then they were outside, in the open chiaroscuro of night-and-searchlights.

For a moment the bushes on each side of the doorway protected Fred’s eyes from the harshness of the searchlights, but after two or three strides the delicate tracery of leaves was gone, and he was suddenly blind in the full glare, transfixed by it as though it was focused on him only –

This way!‘ shouted Audley. ’Follow – ‘ The ear-splitting explosion overwhelmed the rest of the shout, seeming to come from all around them in the millisecond of its concussion, but then galvanizing Fred to grab instinctively at Corporal Keys, to pull him down on to the wet ground.

The next elongated fraction of time was filled with the aftermath of the explosion, beyond rational thought.

Then in the midst of its confusing echoes, as he began to think and hear again, Fred knew that the explosion hadn’t harmed them, and that they must get moving dummy4

again.

But now there was another sound: where there had been a continuing babel of noise behind him, coming out of the passage from the entrance hall, now there was a terrible mixture of shrieks – which together became a thin wailing – God! He had heard that wail before, in Italy: it was the appalling distillation of maimed surviving flesh-and-blood on the edge of a bomb’s impact in a cellar crowded with human beings!

He raised himself slightly, above the body of Corporal Keys, which he had pulled down with him. First, the pitiless continuing glare of the searchlight blinded him; then Audley was on his knees ahead of him, cutting off the beam.

‘Get up – for Christ’s sake, get up!’ Audley was up now, and gesturing at him. ‘Get him up, Fred!’

Fred felt the wet earth under his hand, and the cold damp through his trousers at his knees as he levered himself up.

‘Jacko! Help him!’ shouted Audley.

Fred was suddenly aware of Corporal Keys beside him, and that only Corporal Keys mattered. But when he grasped the German’s arm, it was a dead weight, tensed against him: the man was hugging the ground almost literally, for the illusion of protection it gave him when everything else around him had gone mad.

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Sergeant Devenish appeared out of nowhere, on the other side of the German.

‘Come on now, sir – let’s do like the officer says then, shall we?’ The sergeant addressed the German in a voice quite different from any he had ever used before in Fred’s hearing: unhurried, gentle, almost as though wheedling a frightened child. But without the slightest effect, nevertheless.

‘Right, then – ’ Devenish spoke the two words to himself, and then his chest expanded ‘ – take my weapon, if you’d be so good, sir – ’ he thrust his gun into Fred’s hands a second time across the inert body ‘

– LET’S BE HAVING YOU THEN, YOU BUGGER!’

Whether it was the effect of the sudden transition from gentleness to roaring anger, or the grasping hand-on-the-collar with every ounce of the sergeant’s muscle-power in the lift, or both, Fred never knew. But in the next second Corporal Keys was on his knees, and in the second after that he was moving, even before his legs were fully straightened, with one of Devenish’s hands still grasping the collar, and the other pulling his battle-dress blouse.

‘Fred!’ Audley gesticulated as he came alongside Devenish. ‘The other one – bring him!’

Fred followed the direction of the boy’s hand. Major de Souza’s prisoner, who had been lately Sergeant Devenish’s, was now all alone in the open and in the dummy4

glare of the searchlights, hunched under his blanket and imprisoned by the same fear which had rooted Corporal Keys to the ground.

‘Right!’ He heard his forced acknowledgement of the boy’s order, and felt angry with himself for the inadequacy of his performance so far, for which the excuse of six peaceful months in Greece was no bloody excuse at all – damn, damn and damn!

The prisoner was no more than half-a-dozen yards away — the prisoner who, for a guess, didn’t matter a damn, compared with Corporal Keys – damn, damn and damn! But at least he’d get this right, damn it!

‘Come on!’ The wretched fellow had rolled sideways, into a twitching blanket-covered ball, even as he covered the distance between them. But Audley’s much-admired Sergeant Devenish was his model now, even though he couldn’t match either of the sergeant’s voices. ‘Get up!’

A bare foot, emaciated and filthy-white in the unnatural light, kicked out from under the blanket.

‘Damn you – GET UP!’ Fred seized an edge of the blanket and ripped it aside. ‘ DAMN – ’ But then the Devenish-words died on his lips as he saw the blood, black as ink, bubbling out of the man’s mouth and streaming to join the great spreading wound on his chest – God!

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The man was trying to say something, but he was gargling and choking as he tried to speak, and he wasn’t even looking at Fred – he was arching his back and looking up into the dark sky, at nobody and nothing, as he died.

‘Fred – Fred?’ He heard Audley’s voice in the distance. ‘What the devil are you playing at – ?’

Audley’s voice was one sound. And he could still hear the slaughter-house-din muted from the wrecked building behind him. And there was the roar of generators powering the false daylight, which blackened the man’s blood as his eyes rolled upwards and the breath rattled finally in his throat.

‘ Christ!’ exclaimed Audley, above him.

That, among the other words of the ancient formula, was what Father de Vere had said over his dying sappers in Italy, Fred remembered. So, with no more time left, it would have to do for this poor unknown, who had just joined them. And, anyway, the exact words didn’t matter, Father de Vere always said.

He straightened up. ‘Come on, David.’

Audley looked at him. ‘What – ’

‘Let’s go.’ For the first time he felt their roles reverse, and age and rank take precedence, together with self-preservation. ‘He’s dead. So he won’t mind.’ That last consideration hardened him: they were both still alive, dummy4

but in the open, where it wasn’t safe. ‘Come on!’

Without waiting for Audley he ran towards the safety of the trees.

PART THREE

A Free Man

In the Teutoburg Forest,

Germany, August 7, 1945

I

As they drove northwards, Fred slept the sleep of exhaustion. But, unmercifully, it was not dreamless: rather, it was full of images – sharp images, but disjointed and unconnected, of things and people . . .

and even words.

Or a word –

Wildschweinrücken —

In Audley’s jeep, at first, he slept almost upright and very uncomfortably, with his chin down on his breast, so that his neck stretched and stretched as his head dummy4

rolled first one side, and then the other, over every pothole. And there were hundreds of potholes –

thousands, millions, billions ... an infinity of potholes, into which Audley deliberately and maliciously drove, out of the last vestiges of night, into a grey, cloud-swept day –

Wildschweinrücken –

There were, at irregular intervals, villages untouched by war. Then there were towns: towns of rubble, with tall chimneys standing in the ruins . . . buildings –

burned, because they were not built to burn . . . but chimneys were built for fire, so they didn’t burn – that was the rule!

And then there were long stretches of flattened open countryside, so often like, and yet unlike, bits of the English countryside he remembered, out of another world, in August – another August, long forgotten –

He had taken the men, one day in that other August long ago, to a farm, where they were harvesting.

And ... it was wheat – stiff, heavy-eared wheat, deep yellow-gold . . . but also with a fine crop of thistles in it, which made the men swear, who had never before taken hold of a wheat-sheaf let alone a handful of dummy4

thistles: they were mostly conscripts, with a leavening of regulars and territorials like himself, but they were also sappers, and proud of it –

Bridges, endless bridges! And the bridge over the Volturno was more than just a bridge: it was the eighth-bloody wonder of the bloody-world! And I saw Leese –

Jolly Polly Leese! – drive on at one end, past irate, gesticulating Military Police, and approach a column of tanks which had lumbered on to the other end – the far distant end –towards him . . . and he was driving himself, too, Jolly Polly! And he’d had to back up all the way, while the MPs were tearing their hair, because the first tank commander wasn’t going to back up for anyone, not even God Almighty himself, let alone the commander of the 8th Army – not for Jolly Polly, not for anyone! But at least he’d still been jolly at the end of it –

Wildschweinrücken! And then a nightmare wild boar’s head poking out of a wall, with its glaring red pig-eyes but its tusks dripping black blood –

Harvesting! How the men had hated stocking! Men who fancied their skills with metal and wood –

anything was grist to a sapper . . . but they couldn’t dummy4

stand up two wheat-sheaves, one against another, in the stubble: while they were turning round to grab another sheaf, the first two had fallen over – to the loud contempt of the farm labourer driving the tractor, and the little gnarled man sitting high up on the binder behind him – ‘ Garn! Can’t yer do it, then? It’s too ’ard for yer, is it? Too much like ‘ard work, like, is it?’

Christ! There were no tractors in the fields of Germany now! And there were no men, either: only women, bent down in the corn – the thin fields of a poor harvest –

among the flattened crop, beaten down by the rain –

And . . . was it the Crocodile or the Alligator who had said that they’d all be starving soon? –

Somewhere along the way, beside a copse of silver birches standing up tall and thin, in the middle of nowhere, with his tongue furry thick in his mouth, and his eyes gummed together . . . they had stopped.

And young Audley’s face had been brown-grey: brown with the outdoor soldier’s tan, but grey with weariness, and lined like an old man’s, with that ugly sneer of his . . . which wasn’t really a sneer, but the defensive mask of a youth’s uncertainty among his confident elders – was that it – ?

‘What’s happening?’ His own exhaustion harshened the question. ‘What are we stopping for?’

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Audley’s features twitched. This is where we’re meeting up with the others, old boy – the bloody baggage train, and the camp-followers . . . tirones, as Caesar Augustus calls them. But . . . chiefly Otto, and his German auxiliaries, rather than the QM and his acolytes –they have to follow us, being allegedly part of the British Army . . . But Otto . . . everyone’s nightmare is that he will suddenly fade away, and go native – maybe even decamp to the Russian Zone, to do even better business, maybe.‘

Fred blinked. ‘The Russian Zone?’

‘Uh-huh.’ Audley nodded. ‘It’s not far away, you know. North-South – that’s a long way . . . but West-East . . .that’s not really so far, if you know the right highways.’ Another nod. ‘Of course, you’ve got to be able to handle them – the Russkis. But they’re quite extraordinarily amenable to the right stimulus, apparently.’ Another nod. Then a shrug. ‘Same with the French – they’re really buddy-buddy with the Germans – that is, with the Germans who know their business, and what’s what . . . The French are what they call “pragmatic”, you see, Fred. “Pragmatique” –

is that the word?’

Fred frowned. ‘What?’

Audley’s expression changed as he looked down the line of vehicles which had been parked nose-to-tail under the silver birches, alongside which the north-dummy4

bound convoy had come to rest.

‘Captain Audley!’ What Audley had actually been looking at was a figure which had issued out of the parallel lines, who was striding towards them now.

‘Captain Audley, sah!’

‘Mr Levin – ’ Audley blinked ‘ – I d-d-don’t think that you’ve h-had the p-p-p . . . opportunity ... of properly meeting Major Fattorini, who was with us during last night’s adventure – ?’

‘Sah!’ RSM Levin was at once very Jewish, but also a very British Army RSM: compact and immaculate and confident, and in his prime: Joshua, strong in battle, but with a hint of Joseph, with Pharaoh’s civil service at his command. ‘With your permission . . . sah!’

‘Mr Levin – ?’ Simultaneously (although also informed by what Audley had said in the past), Fred didn’t like RSM Levin, but was also a little afraid of him.

‘With your permission, sah – ’ Levin fixed him for an instant, and then dismissed him ‘ – Captain Audley is to report to the Colonel, sir – ’ the basilisk eye came back to Fred ‘ – and you are to travel with Driver Hewitt, as of now, in alternative transport . . . sah!’

‘Thank you, Mr L-L-L . . .’ Audley curled his tongue round the consonant impotently, nodding his head like an idiot.

‘Thank you, Mr Levin.’ Fred wondered, and not for the dummy4

first time, whether Audley’s impediment was nervous or deliberate. But, more than that, he knew that he must put Mr Levin firmly in his place now, or he would be lost forever. ‘When I’ve finished with Captain Audley . . . then I shall expect Driver Hewitt to find me ... here –here, right?’

RSM Levin’s square blue-black chin came up aggressively, almost arrogantly, with the thin lips above it tight, as though he well understood the nature of this deliberate challenge to his authority. ‘Sah! But, if I may – ’

‘Thank you, Mr Levin.’ Fred concentrated his failing courage on the RSM’s well shaved chin, aware that his own chin was undoubtedly stubbly, and even Audley’s ugly boxer’s-face had its own juvenile fuzz too –

And that poor dead bastard, from last night: the black frothy blood had dribbled down through several days’

razorless growth, blond and colourless as the pale eyelashes and eyebrows above the glazing dead eyes in that final moment of truth —

‘Thank you, Mr Levin.’ As he repeated the words he concentrated on Audley. ‘Now David – as you were saying – ?’

‘Y-Yes . . .’ Audley blinked and wrinkled his nose nervously, contriving to remind Fred of nothing so dummy4

much as an enormous and terrified rabbit as the RSM

stood his ground beside him.

‘With respect, sah – ’ There was no respect in the RSM’s tone, only cold certainty. But then he stopped.

‘Hullo there!’ Amos de Souza’s voice came sweetly to the ear as the distant trumpets of any relieving force to a doomed garrison. ‘Morning, Freddie – David . . . Mr Levin. Is there some sort of problem?’

‘No.’ In turning towards his rescuer Fred was careful not to show relief. ‘No problem at all. Mr Levin was just relaying information about my transport, that’s all

– ’

It was curious – now he could remember exactly the end of his dream: how the men had always hated stooking until the very end, when there was only a narrow strip of uncut corn left in the centre of the field because then they could stop stooking and pick up sticks, and chase the poor terrified rabbits which had been driven back and back until forced at the last to break cover or be cut to bloody ribbons by the binder’s knife-blades . . . Only this time, in his dream, there had been no rabbits, but wild boars in the corn; and also, striding through the stubble, there had come not the farmer, but Colonel Colbourne and RSM Levin, both dressed in civilian tweeds, yet with their medals at the breast –

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‘ – that’s all ... Thank you, Mr Levin. I shall look for Driver Hewitt as soon as I’ve finished talking to Captain Audley . . . and the adjutant.’

No one enlarged on that for a moment. Then the RSM

saluted de Souza smartly, and strode away, stiff-backed. And, for another moment, no one enlarged on that, either.

‘Phew!’ murmured Audley finally.

‘Oh yes . . .’ De Souza looked from one to the other, more philosophically than expecting a straight answer.

‘So what mischief have you two been up to, then? Not annoying Mr Levin, I hope – ?’

‘G-Good Lord, no!’ Audley relaxed like a schoolboy.

‘P-p-p . . . perish the thought, Amos!’ Then he straightened up belatedly. ‘Actually, Amos – ’

‘The truth, please.’ De Souza shook his head. ‘Come on, young David – I have to run this Fred Karno’s outfit . . . one way or another – the truth, please.’

‘Of course!’ Audley was plainly delighted by this unwise admission of weakness. ‘I was just going to tell you – ’

‘Yes, Amos.’ Fred overruled the boy sharply. ‘I was.

And I’m sorry.’

‘Yes?’ De Souza raised a hand to silence Audley, dummy4

without looking at him. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing, really.’ Also without looking at the young man Fred understood the problem the boy represented: brains and over-promoted youthful arrogance, and immaturity, plus a tongue like a cow-bell, would not endear him to an RSM with no other subalterns to bully. ‘I rather think the RSM was pulling rank ... or pushing it, if you like.’ He shrugged. ‘But I was tired, so when he pushed, I pushed back, I’m afraid.’ As always, honesty eased his conscience. ‘It wasn’t necessary. But I did – and I’m sorry, Amos.’

‘Yes . . . you will be – huh!’ There was no sympathy in Audley’s murmur. ‘Busy-Izzy’s a bad enemy – as I can testify from bitter experience, by golly!’

‘Shut up, David.’ De Souza didn’t bother to look at Audley. ‘That’s fair enough, Freddie – take no notice of that. Levin’s a good man.’

But that wasn’t all, Fred sensed. ‘He is?’

‘Actually, yes.’ De Souza accepted his doubt. ‘He knows his duty, and he does it.’

That still wasn’t all. So Fred waited for more.

De Souza nodded. ‘He was with the CO in the desert.

Hence his DCM. That was at Alam Haifa. When things weren’t so good.’

From de Souza that was no small accolade, that understatement. But it still wasn’t what the Major dummy4

wanted to say. And that whetted Fred’s appetite even more.

‘Yes-?’

‘All your service has been in Italy, hasn’t it – ?’

Beneath the innocent inquiry there was a curious hesitancy, almost embarrassment. ‘And in Greece, of course – as we all know!’

What the hell did that mean? Of course they all bloody-well knew!

‘For God’s sake, Amos!’ Having been hopping and twitching and charing on the sideline, like a reserve in a losing game, Audley exploded suddenly. ‘Levin’s a swine, for God’s sake! So –’

‘ Shut up, David!’ De Souza’s snarl was as uncharacteristic as his hesitancy, with its suddenly-undisguised anger glowing red now.

‘Sorry!’ From trying to push himself into the action, Audley shrank into himself. ‘Amos, I didn’t m-m-mean

–’

‘ Shut up – ’ De Souza caught his anger quickly ‘ – I know you didn’t mean to interrupt me. You just wanted to hear the sound of your own voice, that’s all.’ He disengaged himself from Audley. ‘As I was attempting to say, Freddie ... we were pulled out of Greece pretty soon after you happened to cross our path, and we ended up more or less attached to VIII Corps in their dummy4

final advance. Between Hanover and Hamburg, we were . . . And you heard of the concentration camps, obviously – eh?’

‘Yes.’ He sensed de Souza wanted him to say more than that. ‘Of course we did. We heard they were . . .

pretty disgusting.’

‘Pretty disgusting?’ De Souza stared at him. ‘Yes . . .

well let’s just say they were worse than anything you care to imagine and leave it at that, shall we?’ He drew breath. ‘And Mr Levin had the bad luck to run into this particular camp, at Bergen-Belsen, near Celle, where most of the poor devils were Jews, you see. There were others there: resistance prisoners from all over, and quite a few Russians . . . and Germans, too – politicals and the like . . . and even the odd Englishman and American, by courtesy of the Gestapo. But most of them were Jews. And as young David here has no doubt reminded you so tactfully, Mr Levin is a Jew.’

He cocked his head slightly. ‘An acting Warrant Officer, Class I, late Queen’s Own South London Rifles. Holder of the Distinguished Conduct Medal.

Religion, Jewish. Do you see?’

‘Yes – ’ All this time, though really without consciously thinking about it, Fred had been conditioned by Amos de Souza’s languid Brigade of Guards drawl, pink complexion and pale-brown hair.

But, however English and C of E he was now, his dummy4

ancestors could well have been Portuguese immigrants, as Jewish as the original Italian Fattorinis ‘ – I see, yes.’

‘Do you?’ De Souza’s mouth twisted slightly. ‘Our much-esteemed Brigadier, whom you did of course meet so briefly in Greece . . . he has ordered us to cultivate a proper soldierly sense of detachment, if not proportion, now that it has fallen to us to obtain particular Germans, safe-and-sound and in mint condition for his collection. But that is more difficult for some than for others ... so I would appreciate it if you exercised a certain tolerance –toleration? – with regard to Mr Levin’s irascibility, Freddie ... d’you see.’

Fred nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Point taken.’

‘Excellent.’ De Souza smiled at last. ‘ Now . . . what I have done in your case, Freddie ... so that you can maybe make up for lost hours of sleep on the way north, to our home billet, is to give you both Captain Audley’s private transport and Captain Audley’s favourite driver, whom you know – who collected you at the airfield, indeed: Driver Hewitt, no less . . . And you, young David, for your sins . . . you will reinforce Corporal Keys’ escort, when the CO is finished with you – okay?’ De Souza shared his gentle smile between them. ‘Whilst I . . . I will attend to the undoubted disagreement which is almost certainly even now developing between Mr Levin and Herr Schild over the contents of Herr Schild’s three-tonner – ’ The dummy4

last words were delivered over de Souza’s shoulder as he departed ‘ – and you may both wish me the best of British luck, for I shall need it.’

Fred watched the adjutant’s departing back (which, irritatingly, was still immaculately-pressed, battle-dress blouse pleats and trousers separated by a newly blancoed belt with glittering brasses, in spite of their wet and disastrous night and an uncomfortable morning). Then he heard Audley stuttering beside him.

‘What?’ He had to be ready for the boy’s recriminations.

‘I s-said “b-b-b-bullshit” .’ Audley got it out at last.

‘What?’ It irked him that Audley presumed to criticize a better man.

‘ Bullshit? Having mastered the word once, the boy repeated it vehemently. ’He was rotting you – about Busy-Izzy . . . bullshitting you, Amos was — Amos, of all people! God! It makes me sick, I tell you!‘

‘Why should he do that?’ All Fred wanted to do now was to find Driver Hewitt, not explore David Audley’s juvenile prejudices.

‘God knows! Guilt, most likely – ’

‘Guilt?’ In spite of his preoccupation with trying to spot his driver among the vehicles, Fred caught up the word. ‘Guilt?’

‘Oh yes – guilt.’ Audley nodded. ‘There’s a lot of it dummy4

about, since they found the camps. But it takes different forms with different people. We had some chaps who just wanted to shoot up the Germans indiscriminately – not just the SS and Gestapo, but anything that moved. Made ’em feel better, apparently.

But Amos isn’t that sort, of course.‘

Fred frowned. ‘But he’s not ... Jewish?’

‘Amos? Good Lord, no! Amos is RC – high class old Catholic. Talks about “taking mahss” , and all that.’

Audley grinned momentarily, but then erased the grin quickly. ‘With some of them – like the Crocodile – it’s guilt because they know they’re actually anti-semitic themselves, basically. So they have to take a hard line now, because they’ve a sneaking suspicion that if God had made them German they might have ended up with two lightning flashes on their collars. But with Amos . . . with him I think it’s the feeling that we ought to have done something more positive to stop it.

Or maybe he thinks the Pope should have done something – I don’t know . . . But he did once say – to the Old Croc, he said it, too – “We are to blame.

Perhaps even more than the Germans themselves” – I heard him say it.’

It was a novel concept of war guilt, thought Fred. ‘How are we to blame, David?’

‘God knows! He clammed up after that. So you’d better ask him, old boy.’ Audley shrugged. ‘But what I dummy4

know is that Busy-Izzy was a bad-tempered, officious, bullying, d-d-double c-c-c-crossing, 24-carat shit long before we crossed the Rhine – long before he and the CO went in to Belsen, not to put too fine a point on it.’

He fixed an eye on Fred suddenly. ‘And don’t get any ideas about me being anti-semitic. Because I’m bloody-not!’ The brutal chin lifted. ‘My regiment had Jews in it – including a damn-good full-back named Isaacs, who got his silly head blown off in Normandy, as I told you – didn’t I – ?’ Audley blinked at him, and then shook his own unblown-off head and bared his teeth. ‘I did! But that doesn’t mean I have to be nice to Mister Levin . . . who is one of God’s – or Jehovah’s –

Gadarene Swine.’

Fred felt tired. And . . . although he conceded within himself that young Audley was an intriguing youth, in spite of all his defects (which must certainly be a sore trial to Amos de Souza) ... far too tired now to argue the toss, about the Jews and the Germans, never mind RSM Levin, anyway.

‘Oughtn’t I to be finding Driver Hewitt, David – ?’ He took the coward’s way out, disdaining to remind the boy that he himself, although C of E, came from an old Jewish family too.

‘Yes. Perhaps you ought.’ Audley looked around, reaching up to his full height from his normally slightly-hunched stance . . . which must, thought Fred, dummy4

offend RSM Levin every time he glimpsed it. ‘And I ought to be finding Caesar Augustus, too, I suppose . . .’ The big chest expanded, and Audley’s height increased another inch with it. ‘ HUGHIE!

Where are you?’

Silence. High above the line of vehicles Fred saw the silver-birch leaves shiver in a breath of wind against the grey sky.

‘He’s out there somewhere – brewing tea and smoking his eternal dog-end . . . and probably watching us.’

Audley’s chest expanded again.

‘DRIVER HEWITT! LET’S BE HAVING YOU!’

More silence. Then –

‘ SIR!’ The answer came as a muted cry of recognition.

Audley sniffed. ‘He’s even now dodging round the back somewhere, so he can pretend he’s been looking for you . . . Wait and see!’

Fred followed Audley’s glance, and saw a diminutive figure straighten up at the further end of the line of vehicles.

‘Sir! Mr Audley – Captain Audley – coming – !’

Fred observed the figure critically, recalling Driver Hewitt’s well-pressed turnout at the airfield. ‘He seems remarkably . . . smart.’ In fact when he thought about it, he had never seen such a well-pressed and blancoed and polished RASC driver.

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‘Oh yes – ’ Audley drew breath ‘ – you can thank Mr Levin for that, if for nothing else . . . Where the hell have you been, Hughie?’

Driver Hewitt came to attention. ‘Attending to your vehicle – Mr Audley – Captain Audley – sir!’ Hewitt rolled an eye at Fred. ‘Or . . . Major Fat – Fatto –

Fattorini’s vehicle . . . sir!’

‘Oh yes.’ Audley hunched up again. ‘Well, then . . .

you look after both of them now – right?’

‘Both of them?’ The eye rolled back at Audley.

‘Yes.’ Audley sighed. ‘For Christ’s sake, Hughie . . .

you know that I intend to take that little car back to England somehow ... so I want it all in one piece, remember.’ He bent over the little man, driving home his point with a single raised finger which stopped one inch from Hewitt’s nose. ‘Any damage to it will result in reciprocal damage to you, Hughie – right?’ Then he straightened up, grinning at Fred with a suddenly disarming youthfulness. ‘Not to mention any damage to Major Fattorini . . . you are to ensure, rather, that he has a few hours’ undisturbed rest, en route to Schwartzenburg: those are the adjutant’s exact orders.