A New Kind of War (41 page)

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 ground-sheet 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 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.‘

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 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 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. ‘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
—

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?’

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 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
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?’

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.

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 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?’