The '44 Vintage (15 page)

Butler stared at him for a moment, and then down at himself. It didn’t seem surprising to him that Jones was dead—he had felt the bayonet sink in, like a garden fork into damp clay soil, and knew now that however useless that eight-inch spike might be for chopping wood and opening tins, it was more than sufficient for its designed purpose. But that blow above his heart—he had felt that … he had even heard it grate on the breastbone.

He ran his hand curiously over his left breast and then stared stupidly at it There was no pain … and no blood.

He was alive.

And Jones was dead.

K
ill him with the others!

Oh, God!

And the sound of those engines wasn’t in his head.

Automatic reflexes took over. His hands buckled his belt, straightened his equipment. His feet carried him limping across the sand to where Jones lay … one boot off, one boot on.

His bayonet was a black plug in Jones’s side: his hand plucked it out, eight bright shiny red inches to be wiped in the sand and slid back into the scabbard. Then there was Jones’s gun, the best little gun, and the knife, four razor-sharp unblooded inches of it …

Jones was no weight at all; such a little man to cause such a lot of trouble. But no trouble in the end when dragged feet first to the overhang, just a scuffed trail in the sand.

He threw the best little gun and the knife onto the body and picked up his sock and his gaiter and his boot, and last of all his Sten. Then he reached up and sank his fingers into the soft earth. He felt the lip of the overhanging bank tremble as he rocked his hands back and forward.

“
Corporal Butler!
”

The voice was pitched high and urgent, somewhere away to his left. He heaved desperately at the overhang.

“
Corporal Butler!
”

A
wide section of the overhang tore away, falling soundlessly onto the body, spreading over a face on which in the last instant before it was covered he saw that there were still flakes of crushed oatmeal.

It wasn’t enough—there was still a clenched hand protruding from the debris—but there was no time for anything more.

He prised his foot into his boot, picked up the sock and the gaiter and the Sten, and ran towards the voice.

Audley loomed out of the mist ahead of him. “For Christ’s sake, man —do you want to miss the boat?”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Butler adjusted his cap-comforter from the rakish angle Jones had pushed it in his last spasm of life.

“Didn’t you hear me calling?” snapped Audley.

Butler swallowed. “Yes, sir—sorry, sir. But you … you caught me at a disadvantage, sir.”

“What d’you mean—at a disadvantage?”

“Well, sir …” The truth flared up impossibly in front of Butler:
I was just hiding Corporal Jones’s body, Mr. Audley sir
.

How could he possibly say that?

“Yes?” said Audley irritably.

He tried to kill me because I overheard the major talking to the sergeant-major, sir. They
’
re planning to kill us both, sir—you and
we …
and Colonel Clinton, sir
.

It was hopeless: there was no way he could say that without Audley taking him for a raving madman—no possible way. At least, not now and not yet and not here.

“Yes, sir … well, with my trousers down, like, sir.” The lie blossomed on his tongue effortlessly. That must be how murderers lied, with the blood still wet on their hands.

He looked at his hands involuntarily. There was a vivid purple stain on the left thumb and forefinger, and on the palm too, but no spot of blood anywhere to be seen. It was a proper murderer’s weapon, that eight-inch spike, and no mistake.

“Oh,” said Audley.

A solitary jeep loomed up ahead. It was their jeep, but now it was surrounded by a group of American soldiers who were examining a Bren gun which lay on the top of its load of equipment.

“You don’t get a goddamn move on”—an American with no visible badges of rank addressed Audley familiarly—“you’re gonna be late for your own goddamn funeral, buddy.”

“Oh … righty-ho,” said Audley. He grinned encouragingly at Butler across the jeep. “We mustn’t miss that, must we, Corporal? It just wouldn’t be the same without us.”

The jeep lurched forward, its wheels spinning furiously as Audley put his foot down. Butler hung on, his mind spinning just as furiously as the wheels. He had tried many times to imagine what this moment would be like, the crossing of the last line into enemy country. But never in his darkest dreams had he conceived it would be like this—that he would be riding into it with death at his back more certain than any danger ahead, and the only incentive for going forward that horrible thing he had left behind him half covered with sand.

“Funny thing …” Audley spun the steering wheel as the jeep skidded out of the deep ruts he was following “… back in medieval times the French used to call the English soldiers ‘goddamns’ “—he spun the wheel in the opposite direction—“because that was their favourite swear word—“

There were more Americans ahead of them, and more American vehicles too—jeeps, half-tracks, and a couple of strange-looking lorries. A heavily built soldier in a soft field cap pointed decisively to the left and signalled them urgently in the same direction with his other hand, like a traffic policeman.

“—but now that’s an Americanism, and our favourite word is quite different.”

They were swinging round the end of the island.

“And it’s a good thing the French don’t call us by
that
word,” concluded Audley. “It wouldn’t be at all polite.”

Also he’d never expected to go into battle discussing medieval swear words, thought Butler with a touch of hysteria. Nothing was as he had imagined it.

The river!

It looked grey and placid, almost oily, what he could see of it, with the shapes on the far side still mist-shrouded. Moored broadside about ten yards out in it was a curious contraption which looked like a pair of small pontoons lashed together and covered with steel strips that reminded him of his old Meccano set back home. More ingenious American improvisation, obviously.

“Come on, Audley,” called an English voice out of the small group of men standing on the contraption.

Another of the soft-capped Americans appeared alongside them, a stocky man with an armful of NCO’s chevrons.

“Okay, let’s go—follow the tracks, Lieutenant—just keep to the tracks,” said the American quietly.

Audley guided the jeep down towards the water’s edge. Suddenly there was a metallic sound beneath them and the vehicle was running as smoothly as on a proper road: the Americans must have laid more of that Meccano under the sand here, right down to the river, where the going would be treacherous … and into it too, by God! thought Butler as the jeep moved just as smoothly through the water.

“That’s great”—the American was wading beside them—“now there’s a ramp just ahead—you’re doing fine.”

The jeep lifted miraculously in the water, and then up onto the pontoon, fetching up against chocks on the far side with a bump.

“Chocks under—okay, take her away!” The stocky NCO grinned at Butler as he pulled himself aboard. “No sweat, eh?”

The man’s quiet confidence and efficiency was infectious: Butler found himself grinning back.

“No sweat,” he said.

Two Americans with wooden poles were pushing the makeshift ferry out into the river. Behind them an outboard motor buzzed into life like an angry bee.

“We just go downstream a piece,” said the American. “Then you’re on your own, soldier.”

Butler stared around him. Obviously they weren’t crossing by the shortest route, but that was hardly surprising since the best—or the safest—landing point need not coincide with the perfect cover provided by the dry channel behind the island. Behind him the far end of the island was already indistinct, and he was relieved to see it go. He was still in the middle of a nightmare, but nothing worse could happen in it than had already happened back there. Half his mind was already struggling to erase Corporal Jones from the other half before the reality became indelible.

But it had happened. He stared down at the purple stain on his hand again, wanting it not to be there.

It had happened: he had heard the major—
He had killed Corporal Jones
.

“I’m not going to ask you what the hell you were doing back there, Audley,” said Colonel Clinton. “But just don’t do it again.”

Butler looked across the jeep.

“No, sir,” said Audley.

Butler stared for a moment at Colonel Clinton, then stared around wildly. The trees on the far side of the river were more distinct now, they were drifting diagonally towards them down the river. Away ahead the bank curved in a great arc as it bent northwards—

“
All three of them.
”

“
And the sooner the better, I think. Just one comprehensive accident.
”

The hair on his neck seemed to be moving. All three of them. The sooner the better. All three of them—

“
It won
’
t be an acci
dent this time, sir.
”

Thump—

Butler seized the Bren gun and slammed back the cocking handle.

“What the hell—?” said Colonel Clinton.

Thump—

“Christ—a mortar!” exclaimed Audley. “Christ—“

As Butler fought to lift the Bren to bear on the riverbank downstream the water ahead of them burst into spray and there was a sharp, cloth-tearing burst of noise. The American alongside Butler was slammed into the side of the jeep and then bounced off outwards into the river. The sound of an explosion echoed out of the mist behind them, then another—

The cloth-tearing noise chattered out again, cutting through the sound of the engines above them. The American steering the outboard motor was plucked off the back of the pontoon—one minute he was there in front of Butler’s eyes, then he was gone. The craft slewed round stern away from the current, out of control, but the movement brought the Bren to bear on the bank ahead.

Butler loosed off a long burst, then another, hosing down the undergrowth. Something clanged loudly in his ear.

“Get the tiller!” shouted Audley. “We’re drifting towards them!”

Butler fired again—the longest burst he had ever fired from a Bren. The water exploded again, three feet to his left, throwing water over him. The Bren stopped abruptly.

“Magazine!” he heard himself shouting. Out of nowhere Audley’s hand appeared, snatching off the empty magazine and snapping another one in its place. The colonel’s head lifted into view, almost in line with the muzzle of the Bren, and then bobbed down again in the instant that Audley slapped his shoulder. As he pressed the trigger again he felt the craft begin to change direction under him—the colonel was in the suicide spot, steering them back towards the shore. In the last seconds before the bank swung out of his sights he loosed off the whole magazine in an almost continuous roar, the gun bucking and hammering against his shoulder.

Audley was no longer with him—he felt the jeep’s engine spring to life and there was a jarring
crunch
as they collided with the bank.

“Leave it! Leave it!” someone shouted, and Butler threw himself out of his seat into the water. The muzzle of his Sten raked his chin and the river closed over his head. Then a helping hand grabbed his arm and hauled him forward—he felt himself twisted in the water and rose gasping to catch a last glimpse of the jeep drifting away on the pontoon. Someone was swearing—swearing strange words—in his ear. Then the water closed in again, filling his eyes and his mouth—He was spewing up water and being pulled forward and upwards bodily. He could hear the sound of explosions in the distance.

“Are you hit, Corporal?” said Audley.

Butler blinked the water out of his eyes. They were already halfway up a steep bank, bushes all around them. “No, sir.”

“Just drowned—fine … Colonel, you’re bleeding like a stuck pig, but we’ve got to get out of here—“

A machine gun chattered loudly a few yards away, but with an unnatural clarity Butler could distinguish its slower beat from the cloth-tearing sound of the gun which had caught them.

“Anyone alive down there?”

There was a crackling of undergrowth just below them on the slope. Audley fumbled with his holstered revolver, but before he could draw it the stocky American NCO who had directed them onto the pontoon emerged from the foliage, still swearing the strange oaths Butler had heard moments before. He took one look at them and then sank exhausted onto his face.

“Anyone alive down there?” The voice above them called again cautiously.

“No bloody dianks to you,” said Audley. “But yes.”

“Then for fuck’s sake come on out of there! We’re pulling out any minute.”

“Then give us a hand, for fuck’s sake,” snarled Audley. “Colonel Clinton’s hit—“

“I’m all right,” said the colonel. “We’re coming!”

Butler looked back at the American. “Yank!”

“Okay.” The American raised himself suddenly. “Let’s go.”

Butler undid one of his ammunition pouches and extracted a Sten magazine. With it there came out a bright purple fragment of cotton waste, sopping wet—oh, God! he’d broken his bottle of gentian violet, he realised despairingly. Bloody hell!

“Butler—come on, man!” Audley called back to him.

The machine gun fired again, away to his right, and all of a sudden
Epidermophyton inguinale
ceased to be important. He checked the position of the top round under the lips of the magazine, cocked the Sten back to the safety slot, and pushed the magazine home. With friends like Major bloody O’Conor around, never mind the bloody Germans, it wouldn’t do to leave anything to chance.

“Come on, Butler!”

Butler blundered in the direction of the voice, his feet squelching inside his boots. The side of the bank was high and steep—much higher and steeper than the island on the other side—so that he found himself sliding and slithering along its length, grabbing at branches and young trees to keep himself upright.