The '44 Vintage (16 page)

“Up here, lad,” commanded a familiar voice.

Butler scrambled up the last few yards of sandy soil and burst out onto a roadway. Directly in front of him a soldier was wrapping a bloodstained bandage round the colonel’s arm.

“You the last?” said Sergeant Purvis.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Butler managed to pant. “I think so.”

“Right.” Purvis turned up the road. “Last one, sir.”

“Very good, Sergeant Purvis.” Major O’Conor’s voice was calm, almost lazy. “We’ll be on our way, then… . You pick up Smith and Fowler and catch us up.”

Butler stared at the major. It didn’t seem right that he should look the same and sound the same: treachery and murder ought to show.

“All right, sir? Jolly good!” The major addressed the wounded and ashen-faced Colonel Clinton briskly. “If you’d be so good as to join me down the road there—“ he pointed, then swung towards Audley. “Now then, young David, we must get you remounted”—he looked up and down the line of jeeps, finally settling his eye on the last but one— “Basset! You and Mason double up with the sergeant-major, and tell Corporal Jones to report to me on the double.”

Butler caught his breath. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Jones would be missed, he hadn’t thought about it.

Audley wiped his hand across his face. “What happened, sir?” he said politely.

“A bit of bad luck, that’s all,” said the major.

“Horseshit,” said the American NCO. “You had a goddamn patrol out—you had
three
goddamn patrols out.”

The major ignored the American. “German patrol,” he said. “We’re dealing with it. But now we must get a bit of a move on before they start checking up on it.”

“Then they’ll be after us, sir—“ Audley began.

The major cut him off with a raised hand. “Don’t fret, my dear boy! In five minutes from now I’ll put a limejuice down on this spot to cover our tracks. By the time they sort things out—if they ever do—we shall be long gone.” He looked down his nose at the American. “Now as for you, Sergeant … you can stay here or swim back to your friends on the other side or come with us—which would you rather do now?”

Butler felt the blood rise to his cheeks with shame.

“Come with us, Sergeant,” said Audley quickly. “You’ll be m-most welcome to ride with us.”

The American glanced at Audley doubtfully, then down the line of jeeps, as though he had no very great confidence in the value of a British welcome.

“Corporal Butler here can smell Germans before anyone else can even see them,” said Audley, reacting to the doubtful glance.

The major’s good eye flicked disconcertingly onto Butler for a second, then returned to the American. “Make your mind up, Sergeant—stay, swim, or come.”

The machine gun fired again.

The American drew a deep breath. “Okay, Lieutenant, you’ve got yourself another passenger.”

Bassett came pounding down the road towards them. “Major, sir!” He skidded to a halt in front of the major. “Corporal Jones is missing, sir—the s’arnt-major says for me to tell you, sir.”

“Missing?”

“Yes, sir. He didn’t come across with the point section, and he hasn’t reported since, sir, S’arnt-major Swayne says.”

“Damnation!” exclaimed the major. He frowned, then turned suddenly to Audley. “He didn’t come with you by any chance, David?”

“Who, sir?”

“Jones—the man who drove you last night.”

“Oh, the Welshman! I don’t think so—if he was I certainly didn’t see him. Did you, Butler?”

There was a rustle in the bushes further down the road, beyond the last jeep, and Sergeant Purvis stepped out onto the grass verge. He carried a German light machine gun on his shoulder.

Butler shied away from the outright lie which had been on the tip of his tongue. A lie might be disproved later—the American sergeant could even contradict it here and now. But he could at least sow a seed of doubt—

“There was somebody in the front, sir—I thought … maybe it was Jones, I don’t know—but when the Germans opened up on us—I can’t say for sure, sir, to be honest.”

Another soldier appeared out of the hedge behind Purvis, who was frowning at them in surprise as though he hadn’t expected them to be still there. Which, if limejuice was already on its way, was hardly to be wondered at.

“Have you seen Jones, Purvis?” said the major.

“Jones? No, sir. He’s with the point section.” Purvis paused. “We lost Lance-corporal Fowler, sir.”

“You
what
?”

“Shot through the head, sir. Machine gun.”

Major O’Conor stared at the sergeant speechlessly for a moment. Butler noticed one of his bony hands opening and closing spasmodically as though he was releasing emotion through it.

“Right!” The hand became a fist. “Let’s get out of here.
Mount up
!”

“Can you drive, Sergeant?” Audley asked the American.

“Lieutenant?” The question seemed to throw the American.

“Silly question.” Audley smiled. “Will you drive this thing?” He pointed to the jeep.

“Sure, Lieutenant—be pleased to.” The American looked doubtfully at Butler nevertheless, as though unwilling to usurp another NCO’s job.

Audley intercepted the look. “That’ll free the corporal’s nose for Germans,” he said lightly. “And his trigger finger.”

Butler climbed into the back gratefully, making himself comfortable as best he could on the top of a bazooka, carrying satchels of its projectiles and several cartons of C rations.

Audley climbed into the passenger’s seat and at once offered his hand to the American. “David Audley, late Royal South Wessex D-d-d … Dragoons,” he said.

That was very strange, thought Butler. Audley had hardly stuttered at all during the last few hours. But now he was back on form.

The American took the hand. “Frank Winston … late Combat Engineers, I guess.”

“Ah—so you’re the river-crossing expert!”

“Some crossing!” Sergeant Winston grimaced. “I’m a demolition specialist actually …” He pointed to Audley’s cap badge, with its prancing horses. “So you’re a horse soldier?”

“I w-wish I w-was,” said Audley, reminding Butler of the fisherman on the bridge in Norman Switzerland. “But up to n-now I’ve been more of a d-demolition specialist.” He paused. “And this is Corporal Butler, late of the Lancashire Rifles.”

Sergeant Winston looked at Butler curiously. “With a nose for Germans, huh?”

The jeeps ahead were starting to move, and not before bloody time, thought Butler.

“Ye-ess …” Audley was also regarding him thoughtfully. “You were
remarkably
quick off the mark back there in the river, Corporal.”

“I heard the mortar, sir.” The lie came out automatically; lying was a reflex like any other, once the right stimulus was applied.

The jeep moved forward smoothly.

But Audley was still watching him. “You did? I could have sworn you were reaching for that Bren even before I heard it, you know … and I also could have sworn Corporal Jones wasn’t on that boat-thing of the sergeant’s—there were just the three Americans and Colonel Clinton when I drove onto it.”

Sergeant Winston nodded. “That’s the way it was.”

Suddenly Butler knew how tired and wet and frightened he was. And he was aware also that the weight of fear and knowledge—knowledge that he didn’t understand and which made no sense to him—was greater than he could bear.

“No, sir—he wasn’t,” he said. “And those weren’t Germans who machine-gunned us, either.”

How Master Sergeant Winston joined the British Army

THEY TRAVELLED
half a mile along the road before Butler realised that they weren’t on the proper bank of the Loire at all, but on another flood embankment matching the one they’d crossed on the friendly northern shore.

Which wasn’t friendly any more, with what he’d left behind him half-buried in the sand for the next passer-by to see …

He thrust the foul memory into the back of his mind before it could panic him and concentrated on his new surroundings: this was enemy country at last, in which every piece of cover might conceal a German, and he must keep his wits about him.

The jeeps were turning sharply, one after another, onto a narrow track which twisted off the embankment road down its landward side. Sergeant Winston swung their vehicle after the jeep ahead of them, spinning the wheel with a skill Butler envied. At the bottom of the track they passed a small farmhouse shuttered like the ones on the far bank, its ancient paint flaking from the woodwork. Whatever the French were like, they weren’t house-proud like back home, where a scrubbed step and a well-polished door-knob mattered more than a threadbare coat and a patched elbow.

It didn’t surprise him that there was no sign of life to be seen: the rattle of those machine guns and the thump of the mortar bombs would have sent sensible civilians into their cellars, to pray that they hadn’t drawn the card in the lottery that decreed which house should be smashed to rubble and matchwood and which should be left without a scratch.

The jeep turned again sharply, manoeuvred between two more blankly shuttered houses, and set off down a long, straight road in a dead flat countryside of small fields and lines of poplar trees. It was like the landscape he had glimpsed in the misty half-light on the nightmare side, only now he could see that the strange dark balls in the trees weren’t bee swarms at all, but some sort of parasitic vegetation … and the fields—vines and vegetables and orchards—were as well tended as gardens: it was funny that the houses should be so unkempt but the land so cherished.

Audley swivelled in his seat. “All right, Corporal,” he said conversationally, “
talk
.”

“Yes, sir …”

But when it came to the ultimate point, he found he didn’t know what to say, or even how to start.

I
’
ve got this trouble with my foot, sir—

“Come on, Corporal—they weren’t Germans? Well, who the hell were they, for God’s sake?”

That was the end of the story, not the beginning of it. But where was the beginning?

“I don’t know how to start, sir,” he said.

“Just tell it like it was, man,” said Sergeant Winston.

Butler gritted his teeth. “I’ve got this trouble with my foot, sir—it’s called ‘athlete’s foot’, sir—“

“What?” said Audley incredulously.

“Let him tell it his way,” said Sergeant Winston.

He started to tell it like it was.

The jeep in front slowed down again and finally pulled in alongside others parked on the edge of a small copse.

Sergeant-major Swayne came down the road towards them, accompanied by a soldier Butler didn’t recognise.

The sergeant-major stopped beside Audley. “Main road ahead, sir. When we’re sure it’s still clear we’ll be going across.” He looked across at the American. “You keep your foot down when we start moving— understand?” he said.

Sergeant Winston studied him for a second or two. “Okay.” The soldier had continued on past them.

Butler heard the crunch of boots on the road behind them and Sergeant Purvis appeared.

“You wanted me, Sergeant-major?” Purvis found time to give Butler a friendly nod.

“You take over point section, Sergeant,” said the sergeant-major. “Hobbes and Macpherson are out ahead of you.”

“Taffy not turned up then?” Purvis shook his head in disbelief. “I’d never have thought it of him—I always thought he was born to be bloody hanged.”

“Harrumph!” grunted the sergeant-major disapprovingly.

“What happens after the main road, Sergeant-major?” asked Audley.

“Two miles of open country, sir. We take that at the double if the road doesn’t throw up the dust … Then there’s good wooded country, sir.” The sergeant-major straightened. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir—“

“Carry on, Sergeant-major.” Audley smiled at the American as Swayne marched away, carrying Sergeant Purvis in his wake. “You’ve just heard my favourite command, Sergeant Winston. It’s the only one I can rely on not to get me into trouble. At least until now.”

“Is that a fact?” Winston turned towards Butler. “But I think I’d like to hear you say ‘Carry on, Corporal’ right now.”

Butler looked over his shoulder, then back at Audley. Of all the bandits, Sergeant Purvis was the only one he would have been inclined to half-trust. But the villainous-looking replacement in Purvis’s jeep was another matter.

“I think we’ll just wait a minute,” said Audley, evidently coming to the same conclusion. “When we get on the road again …”

Far away behind them there came a whining snarl of distant engines; not the steady beat of the aircraft which had circled above them at the river, but a sharper and more malevolent sound.

“Limejuice,” whispered Audley, staring back into the pale bluish morning sky. “Limejuice!”

“Huh?” said Winston.

“Typhoons.” Audley searched the sky. “If there are any Germans left back at the river, then God help the poor devils.”

“Jee-sus!” murmured Winston, looking in the same direction. “The stubby bastards with the rockets—Typhoons?”

Audley’s mouth twisted one-sidedly, as though the sergeant had touched his bruised shoulder. “That’s right.”

Winston whistled softly. “Man—I saw some of their handiwork at Mortain. But how’d they get here so quickly?”

“Standing patrol in the air. The major must have put them up before dawn, just in case.”

The American looked around him. “Just for … you guys? A standing fighter-bomber strike on call?” His eyes came back to Audley. “You’re not joking?”

Audley shook his head. “No joke.”

Engines burst into life ahead of them, drowning the sound of those other more powerful engines away to the north just as their note changed.

“No joke,” muttered Sergeant Winston. “Then let’s get to hell out of here, like the man said.”

They’d just reached the road junction when the sound behind overtook them. The jeep ahead bounced into the air as it roared up the incline of the minor road onto the major one, warning Butler to hold on for dear life. He felt the bazooka and the C rations lift under him as the distant crash of the exploding rockets and the ratde of cannon fire passed over his head. He wondered how the little shuttered homes beside the embankment had fared.