A New Kind of War

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But as I said last night, death by drowning is preferable to hellfire.’ The weary eyes softened. ‘Yet, as I also said last night ... I will not impose my fate on you, old friend.’

Zeitzler’s mouth twitched downwards as he glanced left and right, from his old trusted friend to his new untrusted ersatz British friend. But his eyes glittered behind his spectacles, as though at the enticing prospect of all those built-over Romano-British cities, which had been well-cleared by German bombs to open them up to archaeologists as they had not been open for a thousand years. ‘Do we have a choice?’

Fred so much hated the truth, which Zeitzler had reached at last, that he turned away from it in distaste, first towards Audley, and then to where Amos de Souza stood apart from them: and Amos, he saw, was directing the RSM’s attention to the menacing woods around them, and to the lake, and the rocks; while on young Audley’s face there was a mirror-image of his own feelings, uglified and brutalized by the face which God had given to the boy, which he couldn’t help.

‘No – you are right, as always!’ Number 16 accepted Number 21’s answer as untainted by self-interest, with heart-rending innocence. ‘Then we accept your offer, Herr Major: we are at your disposal, without any compulsion – we accept the word of a British officer.

Which is, of course, as strong as that of a German dummy4

officer.’

Shit! thought Fred, cutting off Audley’s face from the reckoning. ‘Major de Souza! If you please!’

Major de Souza disengaged himself from his contemplation of the Exernsteine Rocks. ‘Major Fattorini – ?’

‘We’re ready to go now. Would you ask the RSM to alert Sergeant Devenish?’ He worked at the formality of the command: because of de Souza, he no longer knew quite what would happen once they were on the road back to Schwartzenburg Castle, or thereafter. But the game had to be played to the last ball and the final whistle, regardless.

‘Mr Levin – !’ De Souza twisted on his heel, so that he was backing away from the woods. ‘Ready?’

‘Sah!’ The RSM snapped to even greater attention than before, first stiff as a board in preparation for obedience to orders, and then falling in behind the adjutant, while he attached an extension to his Sten’s barrel in a series of jerky, regimental movements.

‘Right.’ De Souza snapped open his webbing holster, lifting his arm high to clear his pistol from it. ‘As of now we assume the worst of all possible worlds until we’re in the clear – ’ his glance passed Audley, to fix on Fred himself‘ – right, major – ?’

Thump –

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De Souza jerked forward suddenly, arching his back and dropping his pistol, as his legs buckled beneath him –

“Steady, now!‘ As the RSM barked the words. De Souza continued forwards and downwards, unbalanced, as though fighting an irresistible blow from behind, until he finally sank on his knees, almost in an attitude of prayer.

‘ Steady, now!’ The RSM swung the curiously long-barrelled Sten left and right, right and left, taking them all in with it, but ending up with the muzzle pointing at Fred’s stomach.

An unintelligible groan came from de Souza, who was still on his knees, swaying in agony. And then Fred watched, hypnotized with frozen horror, as the adjutant began to reach forward towards his fallen pistol.

‘Don’t – ’ The bulbous silencing attachment on the end of the RSM’s Sten continued to point at Fred as he spoke ‘ – don’t make me do it, Major de Souza, sir –

don’t make me do it, I beg you!’

De Souza rocked slightly, but continued to stretch out slowly towards the pistol with a hand which shook uncontrollably, as though its overstretched arm was already bearing an invisible weight too great for it.

‘ Amos!’ Audley’s voice cracked. ‘ Amos – ’

Thump! This time the bullet crumpled de Souza dummy4

instantly, throwing him sideways, half on his back, with his legs kicking out like a pole-axed steer.

‘That was a pity.’ The RSM spoke slowly, his words all the more menacing for the hint of genuine regret in them. ‘Because it was not necessary as well as useless.’

‘You . . . b-b-b-bastard!’ Young Audley’s stutter was shrill with rage. ‘In the b-b-back, you fucking bastard!’

‘You want it in the front, Mr Audley?’ The RSM took the boy’s acting rank from him contemptuously. ‘I can oblige you now if you wish – ’ he made an unhurried adjustment to the sub-machine-gun ‘ – I can cut you in two before you can take another step, Mr Audley. And I will if I have to, if you want to be a hero too, like the adjutant.’

Fred’s mind began to race. They had their man now, albeit at a terrible and unnecessary cost. But now, also, they had to survive to tell the tale. So this was no moment for subaltern heroics. ‘Stand still, David.’ He looked up the track quickly. ‘And shut up.’

‘No good, sir. I have sent Sergeant Devenish and Driver Hewitt away.’ The RSM caught the look. ‘They are both guarding the road junction until I come to relieve them. And we shall not be leaving by that route.’

‘I see.’ It was no good trying to play games with the man when he was as quick as that. So what could he dummy4

do? ‘There are forest-tracks, are there, Mr Levin?’ All he could do was play for time. ‘And no Fusilier picquets guarding them, I take it?’ But, even as he spoke, the truth of what he was saying soured the words in his mouth: who better than the RSM, in his unique controlling position between the officers and the men, to know everything, and to order everything as he wished in seeming to carry out the orders of the adjutant and the commanding officer?

Christ! And, of course, to betray everything, being above suspicion himself!

‘As you say, Major Fattorini, sir.’ Levin saw through his ploy and shifted his attention to the two Germans, while carefully stepping back to distance himself from Fred, and even more from the temporarily silenced Audley, whose fuse was still more dangerously short, in spite of that recent warning. ‘Listen to me, you two –

right?’

That was curious, thought Fred with a detachment of his own which was also curious: in contrast to his deference to his officers, who were now his enemies to be shot down like dogs at need, the RSM’s attitude to these Germans, who were his prize, was uncompromisingly harsh.

‘In a little while, you-will-be-coming-with me – do-you-understand?’ Levin spaced his words, as though he was addressing British Army recruits of limited dummy4

intelligence.

Number 16 drew himself up. ‘And if we do not choose to come with you?’

‘Then I’ll shoot you where you stand.’ The RSM

pronounced this threatened sentence-of-death almost with relish. ‘Don’t you make any mistake about that.’

‘I make no mistake. But your Russian masters would not like us dead, I think – yes?’ Number 16 didn’t look at Fred, but he was playing the same delaying game now, hope against despair.

‘My Russian – ?’ The RSM stopped suddenly. And then he nodded towards what had been Major Amos de Souza without taking Fred or David Audley out of his reckoning. ‘You see that, do you?’

‘I see a dead man – ’ The German’s chin came up ‘ – I see a brave man – yes?’

‘Aye. And a good one, too.’ Levin matched the German’s measured insult with cold malevolence.

‘Worth ten of you, you bugger. So don’t bandy words with me.’

‘ Heinrich –’

‘Hush, Ernst!’ Number 16 cut off Zeitzler. ‘You have made yourself very plain, sir. But I also wish to make myself plain. For I wish to speak with my friend. And I do not think you will prevent me doing so.’

‘No?’ Levin had moved as the German spoke, circling dummy4

cautiously to keep everyone in view as best he could while also flicking a quick glance at the woods across the meadow.

‘No. For I do not think your Russian masters have paid you for a dead man. But I am not yet sure that I wish to be bought, you see.’

‘No?’ Levin’s lips compressed into a thin line, with a fleck of white at one corner. Without looking down, he kicked de Souza’s fallen pistol further away. Then he drew a deep breath, and glanced towards the woods again. ‘No?’

He was expecting company, thought Fred despairingly, And . . . there were no Fusilier picquets in those woods, of course!

Number 16 nodded. ‘So ... I will talk with my friend.

For, believe me or not as you will . . . I will decide what I shall do – not you – and not your masters ... do you understand?’

For a sick fraction of time Fred thought Levin was going to make good his threat, and tensed himself to attempt the impossible. But then the long black silenced barrel came round to cover him.

‘ Don’t make me do it, sir!’ The barrel passed him, to point at Audley. ‘Steady, Mr Audley – Captain Audley

– ’ There was something close to contempt in the RSM’s warning ‘ – you were going to be the example, dummy4

not the major, Mr Audley ... so you’re already on borrowed time, Mister Audley – ’

‘ David!’ Fred held the boy back. ‘Mr Levin – ’

‘That’s enough, sir.’ Levin looked at Number 16

quickly. ‘Very well, then! If you want to talk to your friend ... it won’t make no difference. But you talk in English to him – right? And you remember ... if I can’t have you alive, then I’ll have you dead – right?’ The long black barrel jerked slightly. ‘Go on, then – talk, then!’

‘ Heinrich –’

Fred fought the lethargy of helplessness and hopelessness: Number 16 had to give in . . . and once he had done that, when Mr Levin’s friends had arrived, then Major Fattorini and Captain Audley were surplus to requirements – useless even as hostages, after de Sauza’s death – ?

‘Mr Levin!’ He felt life within him fight against logic: in killing de Souza, Levin had burnt his boats, and there was no deal left to him. But he had to fight against logic. But how?

‘Steady, sir.’ Levin didn’t even look at him: Levin knew the score just as well as he did.

‘Mr Levin . . . this doesn’t make sense – ’ His tongue was thick in his mouth, hindering the words.

‘No, sir.’ Still Levin didn’t look at him. ‘I don’t dummy4

suppose it does, to you, sir. And I am sorry for that, believe me, sir. But that’s the way of it.’

The man’s politeness clogged his brain. And, more than such insane politeness, there was bitterness and regret and loss; and he wanted to use them all to save himself, but he didn’t know how to do it because he didn’t understand what was happening to him. ‘Mr Levin . . . why, Mr Levin – ?’

‘Sah!’ For an instant Levin became his old self again.

‘ Sah –’

‘ Heinrich – now there is no choice, truly! We must go with him – ’ He heard Zeitzler argue common sense and survival in the distance –

‘Mr Levin – ’ Fred tried to receive different messages simultaneously ‘ – what – ’

‘This is not how I wished it to be, sah – ’

‘There is always a choice, Ernst. Do you not remember

–’

‘It was Mr Audley who was to be the example, sah –

not the major – ’ Levin drew a huge breath ‘ – never the major – ’ The long silenced barrel swung slightly, and then steadied on the young dragoon beside Fred, who stood swaying and twitching, almost beyond reason and sense, waiting to be loosed.

‘But, Ernst-’

‘Steady, David!’ Survival was what mattered now!

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‘You are taking us prisoner now, are you, Mr Levin?’

Another deep breath. ‘If I can, then I will.’ Levin took in the woods again, almost desperately. ‘Because there is a message I wish Colonel Colbourne to receive ... if you would be so good as to deliver it ... sah – ?’

‘Yes, Mr Levin – ?’ Fred steadied the question, so as not to grasp at his own life too humiliatingly, even as he welcomed it and despised himself for his cowardice.

‘What is your message?’

‘ Heinrich – ’ Suddenly Zeitzler leaped into incomprehensible German.

‘ In English, you bugger!’ Levin snarled the order.‘

What was that– ?’

For a moment they were inside a huge silence. ‘Do you promise my friend’s life? And the lives of these British officers?’ Number 16 issued his demand in a flat and uncompromising voice, almost arrogantly.

The RSM stared at Fred, ‘Yes.’

‘On your honour?’ The German stretched his arrogance insultingly, leaving ‘ for what that may be worth’

unspoken, transcending insult. ‘Is that your word?’

‘Yes.’ Still the RSM stared at Fred, with a dead blankness as treacherous as Clinton’s, which scorned forgiveness, accepting only final responsibility, true or false. ‘Don’t believe him!’ Audley snarled. Tell him to go to hell! Tell him – ‘

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‘Shut up!’ Fred nodded to the German. Take the offer, sir. And we’ll take our chances.‘

The German looked at Levin. ‘Very well, then.’

Still that stare. So, their only hope left was that message to Colonel Colbourne. ‘Yes, Mr Levin? What is it you want me to tell the CO?’

‘Yes.’ The man focused on him. ‘Tell Colonel Colbourne that I have joined another army now – now that his army has won its war . . . His army – ?’ Levin’s concentration outranked his own. Tell him to remember Bum-Titty Bay, at Haifa, after El Alamein –

tell him that, major – ?‘

Bum-Titty Bay? At ... Haifa – ? He couldn’t understand that –

‘Tell him that, major – Bum-Titty Bay? Then maybe he’ll understand.’ Levin fixed him for an instant, and then dismissed him as he looked away, through Number 16 and Zeitzler, towards the meadow and the woods. ‘ Tell him that –’

Bum-Titty Bay – ? The faint obscenity of it, which he still couldn’t place, delayed him for a moment, even as he was drawn towards the woods, as the RSM relaxed slightly –

Christ! The woods were no longer empty – Christ!

‘Time to go, sir.’ Levin’s voice, which had been close to conversational as he transmitted his final message dummy4

for Colonel Colbourne, became suddenly quite matter-of-fact, beyond argument. ‘So ... no trouble now, if you please, sir – ?’ Almost as it could never have been in any other age of the world, Regimental Sergeant-Major Levin’s voice pleaded with Major Fattorini not to take issue with him: not to go against Number 16’s acceptance, or Professor Zeitzler’s advice – never mind any foolishness Captain Audley might be tempted to, now that Major de Souza’s own foolishness had been demonstrated –

Time to –‘

As Fred stared at RSM Levin, accepting the inevitable, the RSM seemed to toss his head –

Fred felt his mouth open, without knowing what he was going to say, as he saw what he had never seen before, and had never imagined seeing, as the movement continued, and the bright red spot over the RSM’s eye flowered, and the RSM’s side-hair lifted, and his beret with it, and blood-and-brains, and beret-and-side-hair, exploded with it, outwards with the killing bullet –

The crack of the bullet overtook the nod, and the RSM’s eyes rolled with the impact, and the black barrel of the Sten whirled upwards as the man fell away from them.

‘ Fred.’ Audley pointed at the advancing figures in the meadow, and then threw himself towards the fallen weapon.

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Christ! thought Fred, as the figures began to run.

‘Shoot, David!’ he shouted, clawing at his own holster feverishly as he did so. But then he saw the two Germans frozen behind him, like waxwork figures.

‘ Run, for God’s sake.’ he screamed at them. But they didn’t seem to understand, and it came to him in a moment of exasperation that not all Germans were the world’s natural soldiers: that these were only ordinary middle-aged men confused by madness –

But at last Audley had the RSM’s Sten: there came a succession of increasingly-loud thumps as the boy discharged it wildly, more or less in the right direction, just as the enemy opened fire with an honest ear-splitting rattling bang-crack-bang-crack which deafened him as it echoed and re-echoed over the valley around him. ‘ Run!’ He directed the shout at Zeitzler, in the vague hope that the German had a more recent memory of murder, even while he saw Audley savagely trying to re-cock the RSM’s Sten. ‘ Shoot, David!’

Audley looked up at him, apologetically. ‘Oh . . . fuck.’

He made a face at Fred. ‘I never was very good with these things. So you’d better run too, Fred, I think – ’

He turned towards the Russians, raising the sub-machine gun to them. ‘Come on, you bastards!’

Fred managed to extract his own revolver at last, and turned it and himself to the enemy, in despair of dummy4

anything better.

It wasn’t the whole Russian Army, of course: it was no more than half a dozen men; and none of them were in any recognizable uniform – that one abortive fusillade of Audley’s seemed to have spread them out, left and right, sorting the brave men from the cowards; but the brave men were too bloody close for comfort now, all the same –

He managed to get an inadequate finger to the trigger.

But it pulled the pistol down, and then the remaining fingers couldn’t hold the weapon steady as he fired at the nearest of the Russians, who was trying to take a steady aim, but not at him –

Bang!

The pistol bucked, just as the Russian fired. And then Fred fired again – and again, with the same terrible clumsiness, as uselessly as before; and saw the man steady himself again, this time bringing up his weapon deliberately, even as David Audley ran forward towards him, brandishing the Sten and screaming like a Highlander, beyond reason.

Taking his cue from the Russian’s action, Fred clamped his good left hand to his right wrist to attempt a steadier aim just as the Russian turned to meet the boy’s insane charge. But before he could squeeze the trigger the man crumpled and fell, and Audley’s dummy4

scream turned into a shout of triumph as he bounded over the final yards and threw himself on his unresisting victim, flailing at him with the Sten.

The Russian’s sudden fall confused Fred for a second.

Then it came to him in a flash that the sniper who had killed Levin was finding new targets, and hope blazed within him as he squeezed off his next shot quite deliberately at the nearest surviving Russian, knowing that he would miss, and that he now had only three rounds left; and saw the man flinch at the sound of the bullet, and then turn towards him instinctively, steadying his own automatic pistol and turning himself into a statue for an instant, just as his comrade had done.

Shoot, prayed Fred to the invisible sniper as he jinked sideways – shoot, for Christ’s sake!

The Russian fired, and God only knew where the bullet went. But then one of his comrades was shouting at him –and Audley was shouting, too. And as Fred brought up his own pistol again both the Russians started to run – but not towards him, away from him –

what – ?

He observed Audley on his knees beside his victim: the boy had recovered the man’s pistol and was emptying it wildly at the retreating enemy, shouting his wild dragoon war-cry. And then he swivelled and waved at Fred, pointing past him –

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‘JACKO! TALLY-HO! TALLY-HO! AFTER THE

BASTARDS!’

Fred turned, and saw not just Sergeant Devenish: Sergeant Devenish was in the lead, but with him there were half a dozen Fusiliers – more now, with the jaunty red and white hackles in their berets bobbing as they came out of the trees on either side of the track, rifles at the high port –

And – oh God, no!

‘ GO ON! GO ON!’ Audley’s voice cracked, but with triumph as the line of Fusiliers reached them. ‘ TALLY-HO! GO ON, JACKO!’

The boy was oblivious to everything else around him, and not least to the two civilian figures on the ground, the one on his knees cradling the other in his arms –

two nondescript civilians, patched and shabby – oh God! Which was which?

His knees felt oddly stiff as he covered the dozen yards, past the bodies of Amos de Souza and the RSM.

None of this was how it was meant to be, he thought: not Amos, not the RSM, and not –

‘Ernst – ?’ Number 16 held Number 21 close to him: Sweet-Sixteen-and-Never-Been-Kissed held The-Key-to-the-Door–Corporal Keys, and the blood dribbled out of the corner of Number 21’s mouth, and down his chin on to his tightly-knotted tie and frayed shirt-collar, just dummy4

as it had done from another mouth so recently, only bright red now, not black –

‘ Ernst – !’ Suddenly Number 16 looked up at Fred, his face grey with anguish. ‘When they fired, he stood in front of me! Do you hear me? He stood in front of me!

Why would he do that? Why did he have to do that?’

Number 21 opened his eyes suddenly, and looked directly at Fred also.

‘Ernst–’

Number 21 arched his back, and the breath rattled in his throat and finally went out of him in a rush of blood from his mouth.

‘Oh, my God!’ Audley’s voice came from just behind him. ‘Which one – ahh!’ As the boy saw the expression on Fred’s face his lip drooped apologetically. ‘Sorry. But. . . well – ?’

Something behind Fred took his attention, and Fred’s with it. And there suddenly on the path was Driver Hewitt, blinking nervously and fidgeting with the seams of his battle-dress trousers with callused thumbs.

‘Yes, Hughie?’ Audley accepted the diversion gratefully.

Driver Hewitt took in the Germans without emotion, but then rolled his eye over the scatter of bodies beyond. ‘Cor bleedin’ ‘ell!’ The eyes blinked, and the wizened monkey-face screwed up. Then Driver Hewitt dummy4

remembered his officers again, and gave Audley an oddly philosophic sidelong glance. ‘You bin lucky again then, Mr Audley – aintcha?’

The boy had followed the little driver’s glance, but seemed unable to tear himself away from it now. For a moment silence flowed around them, but then there came a distant rattle of small-arms fire out of the woods, and a flock of birds rose from the trees on the crest of the ridge.

Audley sighed. ‘Yes, Hughie – I suppose we could say I bin lucky again.’ He turned to the little man at last.

‘What d’you want, Hughie?’

Driver Hewitt screwed up his face again. ‘Nothin’

really, sir, Mr Audley – Captain Audley . . . Except, it’s Mr Schild, sir – Otto, like, sir – ?‘

‘Otto Schild?’ Audley frowned at him. ‘What about him?’

“E’s back with the vehicle, sir. ‘E . . . wants to give hisself up, ’e says.‘

Audley studied the man. ‘What are you talking about, Hewitt?’

‘Yes, sir ... Well . . . like, ’e’s got this ‘untin’ rifle of ‘is wiv ’im, wot ‘e shoots ’is pigs with. Only – ‘ Driver Hewitt drew a deep breath ’ – ‘e says ’e’s shot Mr Levin with it this time. After Mr Levin shot the major.

An ‘e was only obeyin’ orders, anyways . . . sir.‘ The dummy4

words tumbled out in three quick bursts. ’Only . . . ‘e thinks it’ud be better for ’im if you was to take ‘im into custody now, just in case – ’ The little man cocked an eye back down the path ‘ – ’cause there’s a lotta Redcaps comin‘ up the road now ... So I put ’im in your car, sir.‘

Audley looked at Fred. ‘He was only obeying orders?

Whose orders. Major Fattorini?’

They both knew. ‘Not mine, Captain Audley.’ But now he had to take command. ‘Driver Hewitt, you will keep your mouth closed about this. Unless you want a Far East posting, that is.’

‘I ain’t seen nuthink, sir – ’

‘Shut up, Driver Hewitt. Just go back and tell the Redcaps to call an ambulance. And bring a groundsheet to cover Major de Souza. And ... we will attend to Herr Schild.’

‘Right, sir – major, sir.’ Hewitt swayed for a moment, and then gave Fred an old-fashioned narrow glance.

Then he took in the Germans, with Number 16 cradling Number 21 in tears, like Niobe. ‘But wot about them, sir? The Jerries – ?’

Fred felt Audley’s eyes on him. But he also remembered Clinton’s cold uncompromising stare, and his greed. ‘You leave them to us, Hewitt.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Hewitt assessed him momentarily, with a dummy4

hint of even more old-fashioned understanding, which accepted the insanity of all wars down the ages in which the innocent were always slaughtered. ‘That Otto – ’e always ‘ad a good word for the major . . . But

’e never liked the RSM, sir.‘

PART FIVE

War Without End

Somewhere in England

August 1945

‘There are three forms to sign, sir.’ The RAF flight-lieutenant presented his clipboard to Fred. ‘Actually, it’s the same form in triplicate, but we’ve run out of carbon-paper.’

Fred accepted the clipboard and the stub of indelible pencil. It was interesting, he observed, that Number 16

had lost his false cover-name as well as his number now that he was in England, and was his real self at last.

‘As you can see, we have already signed on our dotted lines.’ The flight-lieutenant pointed to two signatures, and then to an open space. ‘You sign there, sir. And then keep one copy, to return to your adjutant. And I dummy4

keep one, as station movements officer – ’

‘And I will keep the third.’ The civilian intercepted the clipboard.

The papers fluttered madly on the board as a gust of unseasonable August wind swept over the dead flat Cambridgeshire airfield. It was the same wind which the pilot of the plane had welcomed, which had come all the way from Russia over the equally flat North German plain to help them across the North Sea. But now it made him shiver, when taken with that mention of his adjutant and the mean disinheriting look in the civilian’s eye.

‘Thank you, sir.’ The flight-lieutenant’s good manners were deliberately directed at Fred as he finally recovered his board. That discharges your responsibility for your prisoner.‘

‘He’s not a prisoner,’ snapped Fred.

‘No, sir?’ The flight-lieutenant glanced at the shabby figure beside Fred. ‘Well, anyway, he’s ours now, sir.’

‘Mine,’ growled the civilian. ‘You will come this way.’

The words, addressed to Number 16, were not quite an order, but they certainly weren’t a request.

Number 16 looked at Fred. For a moment he seemed to be on the verge of speaking, but in the end nothing came out. And that was just about how Fred himself felt: there was so much to say, both about what had dummy4

happened and what looked like happening now, that there was really nothing to say by way of explanation and excuse.

‘Goodbye, sir.’ He couldn’t bring himself to add ‘and good luck’. But, in any case, the civilian was gesturing impatiently. And to be fair, maybe he was properly nervous in wide open spaces. ‘I think you’d better go, sir.’

‘Yes.’ Number 16 stared at him. ‘Goodbye, major.’

Fred watched the two men start down the runway, past a line of Dakotas, towards a low huddle of Nissen huts, the civilian purposeful and guardsman-straight –

policeman-straight? – and Number 16 trying to keep up with him, but walking as though his feet hurt, or his shoes didn’t fit. And it continued to feel strange to feel sorry for a German so soon after he had hated them all indiscriminately, and even stranger to feel guilt also.

But . . . vae victis, as the Romans said – as Colonel Colbourne might have said?

‘You don’t want to worry,’ murmured the flight-lieutenant. ‘He’s only a policeman of some sort. And there’s a couple of long-haired types waiting for your prisoner, down in the end hut here – they’re the real reception committee.’

‘He’s not my prisoner, damn it.’

‘Sorry!’ The flight-lieutenant grinned disarmingly.

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‘And you’re right, of course. Because they’re certainly not policemen, is what I mean. In fact, they look more like boffins of some sort, from Cambridge just down the road. So he’s getting the proper VIP treatment.’ He grinned at Fred again, and pointed. ‘And so are you, major: top brass on your reception committee. And you better not keep ’em waiting, because your return flight’s due off at 1500 hours. So cheerio then, major.‘

Fred saw Brigadier Clinton standing on the edge of the tarmac, with another officer beside him and the full length of the runway stretching beyond them. But he couldn’t identify the other man as anyone he’d seen on that night in the Kaiserburg on the limes, or in the Schwartzenburg afterwards, or anywhere in the Teutoburg Forest these last few days.

‘Thank you, Flight-Lieutenant – ’ But the wind blew his thanks away, and the young man had already gone with it, on the wings of his own signed responsibility, prudently leaving Fred and Number 16 each to their reception committees and their respective fates.

Belatedly, Fred felt that he ought to be experiencing some sense of occasion, and couldn’t quite believe that he had overlooked it, after all he’d dared to imagine: because this was his homecoming at long last – even if it was suddenly in the middle of England, not the welcoming White Cliffs of Dover seen from a smelly troopship, which he’d always longed for –

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But Brigadier Clinton was waving at him, acknowledging his presence. And that was the reality of his homecoming, and he had to bow to it, and march towards it.

‘Fred – my dear fellow!’

‘Sir.’ The answer came easily. But already he felt different chains binding him, very different from the old military ones to which he had become accustomed when his soul had not been his own. ‘I’ve just handed . . . Number 16 ... over– ’ To a brigadier, in the presence of an anonymous major of artillery, his salute was automatic, even though it felt foolish ‘ – as per Major M’Corquodale’s orders, in the absence of Colonel Colbourne.’

‘Well . . . thank God for that, then!’ Clinton tossed his head, and then nodded at the gunner. This is Colonel Stocker, Fred. Give your release to him . . . and then we can be done with playing Housey-Housey, thank God!‘

Fred looked directly at the major-who-was-no-longer-a-major, who had a pale desk-bound face which didn’t fit his Royal Artillery badges and his double deck of medal ribbons. And for an instant the scrap of paper fluttered in the wind between them. ‘Sir!’

‘Major Fattorini.’ The new colonel’s mask relaxed slightly, into a curiously old-maidish smile. ‘How are things with TRR-2?’

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Fred didn’t know how to answer that. ‘Sir – ?’

The smile tightened, but the eyes above didn’t change.

‘How have they taken what happened? How is M’Corquodale coping?’

Fred amended his first confused impressions radically.

Gunners (even if they weren’t sappers) were rarely old maids. But, more than that, this was a dyed-in-the-wool Clinton follower. And that called for extra caution.

‘Major M’Corquodale had things well in hand when I left this morning, sir.’

‘Oh yes?’ The gunner colonel cocked his head slightly.

‘And in the absence of Colonel Colbourne – as you put it so diplomatically – what is your official story? About what happened when you finally made contact with Number 16?’

So that was the way the land lay. ‘One of our civilian contacts was bringing in a German for questioning, sir.’ He carefully didn’t look at Clinton. ‘But we had some serious trouble with an armed band of Ukrainian DPs and Russian deserters who were holed-up in the forest. And that was when the adjutant and the RSM

unfortunately became casualties. And one of our German contacts was caught in the cross-fire. And we have one other German civilian in custody, pending further inquiries.’

‘And that is your story?’ The gunner also didn’t look at dummy4

Clinton. ‘And you’re sticking to it?’

‘Yes. Until I’m told otherwise.’ Fred went so far as to touch his battle-dress blouse, over his heart and his envelope. ‘Or until I’m demobilized back to civvy street, sir – whichever comes first.’

‘I told you, Tommy.’ Clinton seemed to speak from far away. ‘He is a sapper . . . and he comes from a long line of close-mouthed merchant bankers. And that’s a damnable mixture.’

‘Yes. Thank you, Freddie.’ The scrutiny still remained.

‘And if I told you that I’ve already talked face-to-face with Colonel Colbourne, major? And if I added my considered opinion that you made a pretty fair balls-up of your first assignment with TRR-2 – what would you say then, major?’

With his envelope safe in his pocket and his feet on English ground, Fred decided that he had nothing to lose, and maybe a lot to gain. ‘I’d say that’s a fair enough opinion – from someone who wasn’t there, sir.’

That just about burnt his boats, and his return ticket to Germany with it, he judged. ‘And then I’d say that maybe I’m due for demob sooner than I’d expected.

But now that I’m in England again at last . . . that won’t be too difficult, sir.’

‘Indeed?’ The gunner smiled his deceptive smile again as he turned at last to Clinton. ‘All right, Freddie: I give you the best with this officer. Or ... I’ll grant you dummy4

him, if not young Audley.’

Even without understanding what the man meant, Fred wasn’t going to let that pass now. ‘I’d also say that Captain Audley is a promising young officer, whatever Colonel Colbourne may say.’

‘You would?’ The gunner nodded slowly. ‘Very well.

So now I will say several things, major: First, Colonel Colbourne will not be returning to Germany. Second, as of this moment I am in command of TRR-2, and when I need your advice I shall ask for it.’

Fred stiffened automatically, and held his tongue.

‘ Third ... I need to promote a new senior NCO or warrant officer, in place of the late and unlamented Mr Levin. So who do you want, then?’ Colonel Stocker closed his mouth on the question, but then opened it again as Fred’s own mouth opened wordlessly.

‘Actually, that wasn’t quite in the right order. I should have said . . . third, you are my new adjutant and second-in-command de facto. Which makes the new RSM – or new senior warrant officer anyway, to run the show – fourth. So who do you want?’

‘Who do I want?’ Fred repeated the words almost automatically. But then they suddenly became a statement of fact, requiring nothing except an adjutant’s instant decision. ‘Sergeant Devenish, sir.’

‘Why Sergeant Devenish?’

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Fred toyed momentarily with Devenish’s conventional virtue of knowing how the army worked, allied to his initiative when it came to the crucial matter of disobeying suspect orders, which had helped to save his life recently. ‘I think I know which side he’s on, Colonel Stocker.’

‘Yes . . . that sounds reasonable.’ Stocker glanced to Clinton nevertheless. ‘Although, I shall want him properly checked out now, Freddie.’

‘Mmm . . .’ The sound deepened in Clinton’s throat.

‘Of course – yes!’

‘Agreed, then.’ Stocker nodded. But then cocked his head again. ‘But who looks after young Audley? He has a way of getting into scrapes, I gather.’

The burden of his new duties began to weigh on Fred before he’d accustomed himself to them. ‘You still want him, do you?’

The head stayed cocked. ‘Don’t you, major?’

Fred thought about David Audley as he had never quite done before, not as someone too young for this sort of work, but as someone whom they’d caught young and could train for it before he was set in his ways. ‘There is a driver who is ... attached to him. But we can’t promote him.’

‘Yes – Hewitt is unpromotable, I agree.’ Stocker nodded thoughtfully.

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Christ! Stocker’s admission called Fred to the truth: This bloody gunner had all the cards in the pack marked already! So . . . all this was . . . mere window-dressing – ?

He looked down the runway, towards the nearest Dakota, which was already surrounded by the RAF’s turn-round vehicles and their crews. ‘We’re going back to Germany . . . immediately?’

‘Of course.’ The wind blew Driver Hewitt and Captain Audley away. ‘What did you expect, Major Fattorini?

We’ve got a great deal of work to do.’ A hint of that deceptive smile, which Major McCorquodale would undoubtedly misinterpret, returned. ‘In fact, our work is only just begining . . . now that we’re free of treachery.’

Infinitely far down the runway, close to the end Nissen hut, Fred caught a last glimpse of Number 16: ‘Sweet-Sixteen’ who had survived the kiss of death, and was now about to be kissed by two boffins from Cambridge, to encourage him to do for England what he had refused to do for his own country.

But Number 16 was no longer his problem. ‘What I expect, if I’m coming back with you, are answers to questions, sir. And straight answers.’ He switched to Clinton. ‘Like, who gives Otto Schild his orders?’

The Brigadier gave him a little nod. ‘I am not very pleased with Otto Schild right now.’ The blank eyes dummy4

bored into him. ‘Was it you, or the Crocodile, who put him under close arrest, Fred?’

Fred decided to repay his debt to Otto Schild. ‘It was his own suggestion, actually.’

‘It was?’ Still no emotion. ‘He didn’t try to run, then?’

Where would Otto Schild run? Fred wondered. But then he thought that Otto Schild, being Otto Schild, might well have a bolt-hole prepared; even, if the worst came to the worst, he had information to sell to the Americans – or, if not information, then the odd wild boar, anyway.

But the debt wasn’t fully repaid. ‘He didn’t try to run.

And I rather think he saved my life and Audley’s, as well as Number 16’s, as it happens.’ He felt a twinge of anger as he spoke. ‘Or is that the reason why you aren’t pleased with him? Were we all expendable, if you could get your traitor in exchange for us?’

‘Major – ’ Stocker started to speak.

‘It’s all right, Tommy.’ The Brigadier raised his hand.

This is interesting . . . What do you think, Fred?

Obviously, you’ve been doing some hard thinking.‘

That was true. ‘I think you had a plan, and it went badly wrong – because of Amos de Souza. Because you didn’t trust him.’

‘I didn’t trust anyone. Except you and young Audley.’

Clinton nodded. ‘All I knew was that our traitor – and dummy4

the Russians – wanted Number 16 very badly. And alive, too. So I made it very easy for them to get him.

But they wouldn’t have got away with him.’ He stared at Fred for a moment. ‘But . . . you’re right about de Souza.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I judged that the enemy wouldn’t want a noisy massacre. A quiet kidnapping, with you two as hostages, was more likely.

But Amos . . . Amos blundered in. So now I have him on my conscience for my stupidity – is that what you want me to say, Fred?’

Clinton was always full of surprises. ‘On your conscience?’

‘Oh yes.’ The old blank stare was back. ‘Schild was there to see that everything went according to plan.

But . . . you’re probably right: once de Souza was dead . . . Levin probably would have shot you, too.’

‘Schild was your man.’ Fred frowned. ‘But it was Colbourne who took him on, surely.’

‘He thought he did, yes.’

‘So . . . where did Schild come from?’

Stocker stirred again. ‘I really don’t see how that is important to you, major.’

‘No.’ Clinton raised his hand. ‘In the circumstances, it’s a fair question. And poor Amos de Souza put two and two together, and made them five because he didn’t know enough . . . which is a burden I must bear, dummy4

because of my incompetence. So we’ll start right now, anyway.’ He nodded at Fred. ‘My man – yes: Schild is my man.’

‘Acting on your orders?’

‘Not to kill. I wanted our traitor alive. Though . . .

perhaps Schild has saved us more trouble than he’s caused, at that.’

Now another instalment of the debt could be paid. So he shrugged. ‘He said he went for a head-shot because the RSM was wearing ammunition pouches, so he couldn’t be sure his bullet wouldn’t be deflected. It was almost the only thing he said – apart from wanting to be taken into custody.’

Clinton shook his head. ‘Thin, Major Fattorini, thin.

Gehrd Schild liked Amos de Souza, he once told me so. He said Amos would have made a good German officer –he had the Wehrmacht touch with his men, Gehrd said. And he liked young Audley too, oddly enough. So ... he disobeyed orders, anyway.’

Fred stared at him. ‘ Gehrd- ?’

‘Oh yes. Gehrd Schild is his real name. Otto the pork-butcher from Minden was his elder brother. Gehrd used to help in the shop when he was on leave, so he knew all about the family business. And so when Otto was killed at the very end – killed by one of our delayed action bombs while digging survivors out, actually . . .

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when he was killed, Gehrd quietly took over his identity as he mingled with the refugees. Quietly and prudently . . . and, of course, he was well-placed to doctor the necessary documents, even apart from his acquired pig-butchering skills, you see.’

Fred didn’t see, but waited nevertheless.

‘Gehrd was an Abwehr man.’ Clinton nodded. ‘Same rank as you, major. Division II – anti-sabotage and

“special tasks”, stationed in Northern France until the Hitler bomb-plot. And then the Sicherheitsdienst and the Gestapo moved in on the German military intelligence, of course, when they went for his boss, Admiral Canaris . . . Not that Canaris was really in on the Hitler plot. But the Nazis had been gunning for him for a long time. But . . . but our Major Schild was in the clear, having run his particular “special tasks”

efficiently – ’

‘What special tasks?’ Fred could understand very well why a German major of intelligence might want to swop identities with his civilian brother, whatever his tasks might have been. But if Brigadier Clinton was turning a blind eye to the imposture for his own purpose, and now he, Major Fattorini, was being admitted to the secret, he needed to know how deep the water was under such thin ice. ‘What was his job?’

Clinton lifted a hand again. ‘Fortunately nothing too embarrassing – nothing worse than Majors dummy4

McCorquodale and Macallister might have pleaded guilty to if things had gone the other way, let’s say.

But . . . since Herr Major Gehrd Schild no longer exists, for our purposes, that is a hypothetical question.

And, in any case, our concern is only with what Otto Schild did next, Fred – eh?’

Now he was being tested. But he didn’t know enough yet. ‘What did he do?’

‘He was seconded to co-ordinate Abwehr Division III personnel, in support of the Gestapo and the civil police in certain investigations in Germany,’ Clinton answered him suavely. ‘So what do you think that involved, then?’

With teacher’s help, suddenly the test wasn’t so difficult. ‘He drew Professor Schmidt’s name from the hat – ?’ Even as he asked the question it became unnecessary. ‘How did you get on to him, sir?’

‘I didn’t. Gehrd Schild – I beg your pardon! Otto Schild now . . . he got on to me – ’ Clinton watched him ‘ – now are you beginning to add two and two, eh?’

‘Yes – ’ That wasn’t quite true, because the information was coming to him too fast now, as he tried to marry it to what David Audley had told him.

And already, as he thought about it, there was a bone sticking in his throat; but he couldn’t work out the dates and the timing ‘ – he didn’t go to Colonel Colbourne – ’

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‘Precisely.’ Clinton almost looked pleased. ‘The truth is that the Abwehr knew about Professor Schmidt’s little game from way back, is what he told me. But Canaris sat on the information. Or, rather, he didn’t sit on it, we have reason to suspect – he fed it to a man named Rosseler – Rudolf Rosseler . . . who worked for the Russians. And that’s how the Russians got on to Professor Schmidt – this is what Schild came to tell me: that Moscow had been after Number 16 for months, you see?’

Fred saw. And saw also that once Clinton had known that, after Schild had learnt that the British were also hot on the trail of Professor Schmidt’s Romano-German archaeologists, then Schild had a new master.

And then the Brigadier would have realized at last that TRR-2’s misfortunes weren’t just bad luck, but treason.

But all this brought him to what he still couldn’t quite believe, even though it must be true. ‘The Colonel, sir –

Colonel Colbourne? Levin was his man – ?’

‘Gus Colbourne?’ The nuances of the Brigadier’s range of facial expressions were as indiscernible as ever. But this time he almost looked sad. ‘Gus Colbourne is another of our casualties, I’m afraid. Maybe not as final as poor de Souza . . . but, for our purposes . . .

final, I’m afraid – ’ he took the responsibility to the gunner colonel quickly. ‘ – Gus belongs to you, Tommy – ?’

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‘Yes, sir.’ Colonel Stocker took his dismissed predecessor on the chin, for the benefit of his newly-appointed adjutant. ‘These are early days yet, major.

We’ve got a lot of checking still to do. But for my money, Colonel Colbourne is no traitor.’

‘Sir – ?’ It galled Fred that a gunner was bemusing a sapper.

‘Of course, we shall never be able to clear him absolutely. And, for this war ... of the Brigadier’s – ’

Stocker steadfastly didn’t look at Clinton ‘ – we can only use men who have no mark against them – who are utterly above suspicion, major. So he has to go. But it’s a pity, all the same.’ Stocker watched him digest this ultimate disqualification, until all its implications had been assimilated. ‘We don’t know the full story yet, major . . . although Colonel Colbourne has been very frank with us, so we do have the beginings of it, I think. And we have to talk to our people in Palestine before we can draw the picture with any certainty . . .

from Bum-Titty Bay in ’43.‘

Bum-Titty – ? Suddenly Fred was hideously back in the Teutoburg Forest, gaping at RSM Levin, not at the gunner colonel. ‘ P-P-Palestine, sir?’

‘Haifa. On the beach at Haifa, major.’ The fact that Stocker understood his astonishment, and sympathized with it, didn’t make his slow smile more acceptable.

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‘Colbourne and RSM Levin went up there – Major Colbourne and CSM Levin then – to a leave-camp, after El Alamein . . . which was well-deserved, after what they’d achieved in the desert, between them.’ He gave Fred a slow nod. ‘“Bum-Titty Bay” – all those pretty Jewish girls in swim-suits on the beach . . . and most of them were already in the Haganah, of course.

And some of them were in the Irgun Tzvai Leumi – in the ETZEL . . . which is already killing our men out there, in the cause of an independent Jewish state.’ The nod steadied. ‘And ... it seems possible that one particularly beautiful girl named Rachel may have picked up Company Sergeant-Major Levin, as she picked up other Jewish officers and senior NCOs. And, if she did, then it’s tolerably certain that she introduced him to a man whom we know as “Ze’ev”, who is a link-man between ETZEL and the Soviet Union. Because the Russians are strong supporters of what is already being called “The State of Israel”. Not because they like Jews, but because they see us as supporting all the Arab states, against the Jews.’ His lips twisted as he spoke, but he watched Fred just as sharply as Clinton had ever done as he did so. ‘What ETZEL thinks

“Ze’ev” is doing is getting them arms and ammunition.

But what we think is that he’s also taking orders from Moscow. And in ’43 Colbourne was marked down for special assignments in Europe, because of his record in the desert. And Levin had been his right hand, through dummy4

thick and thin, in operations in Syria and Iraq, long before El Alamein. So they were a winning team already.‘

God! thought Fred. Syria and Iraq . . . and Palestine –

they were all a far cry from the Teutoburg Forest!

Almost the only thing which united them was that they had all once been parts of the Roman Empire, almost –

almost two thousand years ago, when both were trouble-spots!

‘We know that “Ze’ev” has made other deals, you see, major: Russian arms in exchange for treason – and the promise of air-lifted material, from Czechoslovakia and Bulgaria, through an airfield somewhere in Syria, where the locals have been bought off – Druse, probably ... we don’t know for sure.’ Nod. ‘But once Levin was committed ... because “Ze’ev” would have fed him with true horror stories of what was happening in Germany and Poland – even before he arrived here in Germany Stocker looked sidelong at Clinton as he spoke.

‘Yes.’ Clinton accepted the look. ‘Levin was a damn good warrant officer – almost the perfect warrant officer, I would have said: brave and intelligent. And he knew King’s Regs to the last letter of the small print.’ He threw the look at Fred. ‘So maybe he argued himself into splitting what belonged to the King of England from what he thought was due to the Promised dummy4

Land . . . But, thanks to Gehrd Schild, that’s one thing we’ll never know now, Fred.’

And perhaps there were some things it was better not to know? thought Fred. But then he remembered Amos de Souza. ‘So what do we know?’

The wind gusted between them, smelling only very slightly of hot engine oil and aircraft fuel. And he knew that it had been blowing over them fitfully all the time while they had been testing him, even though he hadn’t noticed it until now . . . just as he knew, beyond certainty, that they were both relaxing as he hardened his heart, as they had both long ago hardened theirs to the loss of all those simplicities of their old war, which Professor Schmidt and Number 16 had tried in vain to avoid, and which had killed Amos de Souza and Number 21 in failing to do so. And RSM Levin, too.

Clinton caught his glance down the runway, across grey concrete to the grey sky. ‘We know that it’s going to be a bad time, for all of us. Because nothing is going to be easy for us any more – not when good men like Levin betray us for reasons which seem honourable to them . . . reasons which may even be honourable. Apart from others who are already working for the Russians

– ’

All this was only what Kyri had said, showing his teeth under his brigand’s moustache. Long ago, thought Fred. So ... he couldn’t say that he hadn’t been warned, dummy4

anyway. But what he missed now was the Greek’s cheerful sense of good-and-evil, and his trust that the first would always outweigh the second in some final reckoning.

‘More to the point – we have to get back to Germany, major,’ snapped Stocker. ‘Because we have work to do.’

‘Sir – ?’ He felt the man take command. But he also felt Clinton’s envelope in his pocket. ‘You don’t want me to find the exact site of the battle of the Teutoburgerwald, I hope?’

‘No.’ Stocker’s face hardened. ‘I shall be going on to Berlin with Major McCorquodale tomorrow. You will be staying behind, ostensibly to pull the rest of them together before they follow me.’

‘Yes, sir.’ It hadn’t been a very good joke, at that. But the thought of Sergeant Devenish at his side raised his spirits. Also, reaching Berlin finally had always been the height of his military ambition, ever since 1939.

For then the war would be truly ended, he had foolishly believed. ‘I’ll do my best to get them to you as quickly as possible.’

‘No you won’t. You’ll make a hash of it, major.

Including, among other things, allowing Gehrd Schild to escape.’ Stocker drew a deep breath, and then looked down the runway towards the Dakota. ‘I’ll fill in the details during the flight, major. But . . . you dummy4

won’t be going to Berlin, anyway.’

Fred felt the blood flare in his cheeks. ‘What – ?’

‘Colonel Stocker will be back from Berlin in ten days.

That should give you time to put everyone’s back up.’

Clinton nodded at him. ‘Then you will have a public stand-up quarrel with him in the mess. And then you will use the contents of the envelope I gave you, and become a civilian.’

The wind felt cold on his cheeks. Becoming a civilian was something he’d dreamed of all these years. But now the thought of it was as desolate as the airfield around him.

‘You will, of course, rejoin your family firm then –

your Uncle Luke will put you in the right place. But in three months’ time there will be a civilian vacancy on the British Control Commission in Germany, in the economic section. And the circumstances of your departure from TRR-2 as well as your name and qualifications, plus the influence I will arrange, will get you the job. So then you will be where I want you to be. Because, although this new bomb has given us a breathing space, I foresee trouble in Germany first.

And I must have someone right inside the commission to keep an eye on things, Fred.’

For a moment all Fred could think of, almost irrelevantly, was so I’m not going to get to see Berlin dummy4

after all. But then it occurred to him that this was a properly symbolic failure if his war wasn’t ending, but just beginning. The only question was . . . did he still want to continue fighting?

‘You aren’t leaving me much choice, it seems.’ He stared at Clinton.

‘On the contrary. The choice is all yours. I told you that you were a free man, and you are. And in a fortnight’s time you will be altogether beyond my reach, if that’s where you want to be. It’ll be entirely up to you then to decide your own right and wrong, and whether you want to serve undercover.’

One of the Dakota’s engines coughed, and then came explosively to life. Colonel Stocker was already a dozen yards away, striding towards the plane as though Major Fattorini’s decision was a foregone conclusion.

‘Yes, sir.’ Because there didn’t seem much else either to say or to do, he saluted Clinton. Which meant that Stocker was right – at least for the time being, anyway.

The Brigadier returned his salute. ‘Well then . . . you’d better be starting, Major Fattorini,’ he said.

The End

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