The '44 Vintage (22 page)

“You are SAS—you have a mission here?” he snapped.

Audley’s chin lifted. “Not locally. We were reinforcing an operation to the southwest. But we ran into some Germans—“

“What operation?”

Audley shrugged. “Does it matter? What matters is—we need some transport to catch up with our main party.” He slapped the car’s mudguard. “If it’s all the same to you, m’sieur, we’ll be on our way.”

The Frenchman compressed his lips. “For the moment that is not possible.”

“Indeed?” Audley managed to sound arrogant. “And may one ask why it isn’t possible?”

“One may, yes.” The Frenchman gave as good as he’d received. “One may also come and see for oneself.”

“See what?”

“Why you must delay your departure.” The Frenchman looked at his wristwatch. “Perhaps it would even be to your advantage.”

“Oh yes?”

“Oh yes.” The compressed lips twisted. “You wish for transport… . Well, we may perhaps be able to get you something better”— he pointed to the car—“than that.”

“Like what?” asked Winston. “Like a Sherman, maybe?”

“Not a tank, no.” The Frenchman raised an eyebrow at the sergeant. “But a German staff car—would that suit you?”

How Second Lieutenant Audley took a prisoner

BUTLER SNUGGLED
himself comfortably on the thick bed of leaves behind the beech tree, munched the last two squares of his bar of ration chocolate, and decided that things had taken another distinct turn for the better.

For one thing, and a most comforting thing too, he’d got the Sten back—
his
Sten. And this had been accomplished without recrimination simply by picking it up from where Sergeant Winston had laid it down, and not returning it to him. Winston had given him an old-fashioned look, true; but then he’d shrugged his acceptance of the repossession—and now one of the French Resistance men had obligingly furnished him with a Luger pistol, so that he couldn’t argue that he was unarmed even though the Luger looked well worn and would probably jam after the first shot.

And for another thing, and an equally comforting one for all that the condition was a temporary one, they were no longer alone in a sea of Germans. There were at least ten Frenchmen on this side of the road, and as many more on the other side; and if they were irregulars who could hardly be expected to stand up to real fighting like trained soldiers at least they were well armed—he’d seen two LMGs as well as a variety of submachine guns—and if they did run away it was their country, so they would know where to run.

And, possibly best of all, this was an ideal spot for an ambush.

He peered round the trunk of the beech tree down to the narrow roadway below, running his eye back along it from the culvert on his left to where it disappeared round the curve of the hillside fifty or sixty yards to his right.

It was a perfect killing ground. By the time anyone driving round that curve saw the ten-foot gap which had been blown in the culvert they would be smack in the middle of two converging fields of fire. They couldn’t go on, and with the narrowness of the road—the hill slope on one side and an eight-foot drop on the other—they couldn’t turn round. Their only chance was to back up, and to do that they’d have to stop dead first. And when they stopped dead they’d
be
dead.

It would be as easy as cowboys and Indians—He frowned suddenly at the image as it occurred to him that somehow he’d become one of the Indians. And although he tried to reverse the thought—for God’s sake, the men in the staff car would be
Germans
—it wouldn’t change.

Somewhere along the line of the past twenty-four hours everything had become mixed up, where before it had been so clear. On this, his first day of war, nothing had been as he had imagined it would be. Everything he had trained for, everything he knew, everyone he knew— the real world and the real war—it was all far away, back in Normandy.

Even the enemy was different.

In the last couple of hours—or however many hours it was—he had killed two men, two human beings, and both of them had been British soldiers like himself.

And yet both of those British soldiers had been his enemies. In fact, they had been his enemies more certainly than any of the Germans he had seen in the village square at Sermigny—more certainly even than the German soldier who had hurled the grenade at him in the alley.

Because that German had only been trying to kill the British soldier who had been trying to kill him. Whereas Corporal Jones and the machine-gunner beside the Loire had been set on killing
him—
944
Butler J, Jack Butler, little Jackie Butler-foim. And for no better reason than because the major preferred certainties to odds. Which made it not war, but plain murder— “Hey, mac—“

Butler blinked, and found that he’d turned away from the road and was staring fixedly at the dead leaves six inches from his nose. “Hey, mac—you okay?”

Sergeant Winston had crawled from his position behind the neighbouring tree right up beside him.

He stared at the American. “It’s Jack, not mac,” he said automatically, wondering as he did so why the sergeant should take him for a Scotsman.

“Jack then. Are you okay?”

Butler frowned again. “Yes … of course I’m okay. I was just thinking—I was wondering whether we’re the cowboys or the Indians, that’s all.”

“Wondering
what
?” Winston’s face creased up in sudden bewilderment. “I don’t get you.”

Butler poked the leaves savagely with his finger, wishing he hadnt spoken. “I don’t get myself.”

“What d’you mean—cowboys and Indians?” Winston pressed him. “You kidding me or something?”

“No … I don’t know.” Butler concentrated on the miniature trench he was digging in the leaves. For no reason he thought of the German who had been carrying the armful of loaves. “I suppose … I don’t know … it doesn’t seem right, killing Germans like this—I didn’t think I’d ever feel like this. I thought it’d be the easiest thing in the world.” He looked at Winston. “I was looking forward to it.”

Winston appeared thunderstruck. “You never killed a German before?”

No, just two Englishmen
, thought Butler miserably. “No,” he said.

“What about back in the village?”

Butler swallowed. “I don’t think I hit anybody.”

“Well—Jee-sus Christ!” Winston rocked on his heels. “Jee-sus!” Then he started to chuckle. “Jee-sus!”

Butler flushed angrily.

Winston shook his head helplessly for a moment. “Man—Jack—don’t get me wrong! I’m not laughing at you—I tell you, I never
seen
a German until today, except prisoners. Not even on Omaha … But
yo
u
—I had you figured for a hard-nosed bastard, a real fire-eater.”

“Me?”

“Sure. Like—shoot first and to hell with the questions, and a bayonet in the guts if you haven’t got a gun handy—“ He stopped abruptly and stared hard at Butler. “You’re really not kidding me?”

A sound from the road drew Butler’s attention momentarily. Audley and the Frenchman in the suit were crossing it just beyond the culvert, followed by a party of Resistance men.

He turned back to Winston. “I wish I was.”

“Okay.” Winston nodded. “Then you just think how much the krauts would be worrying about you if they were up here waiting. Because my guess is—not one hell of a lot.”

Butler was still struggling with the idea of himself as one of Major O’Conor’s hardened veterans. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I know I’m right. They’re the Indians, Jack—and the only good Injun is a dead one, you can take that from me.”

The memory of the major had concentrated Butler’s mind. When he thought about it, it wasn’t the Germans who had confused the issue—it was the major.

He nodded. “I think it’s just that if there’s anyone I’d like to kill at this minute, it’d be Major O’Conor.”

“And that sonofabitch sergeant—now you’re talking!” Winston jabbed a finger towards him. “In fact, talking of cowboys and Indians, you ever seen a movie called
Stagecoach
?”

“No.”

“You should have—it’s a great movie. Got Claire Trevor in it, and I really go for her in a big way … but, see, there’s this young cowboy on the stagecoach wants to get to town to kill the three men who gunned down his pa. And they get chased by Indians on the way— yeah, the young guy lost his horse, just like us, which is why he has to take the stage. And they’re right down to their last bullet—“

“When the cavalry arrives.” Audley appeared round the side of the tree. “That’s
Stagecoach—
made by John Ford, who also made
The Grapes of Wrath—
I
saw it on my last leave. Right?”

Winston looked up at the officer, a trace of irritation in his expression. “That’s right, Lieutenant. Except it came out in the States about two years before the war,” he said coolly.

“Two years before your war, not ours,” said Audley. “But that’s beside the point just now. Because our joint war starts in about eight minutes. There’ll be two vehicles—a
Kübelwagen
with three men in it and the staff car with four. The
Kübel
is the escort—it has a machine gun mounted. Of the men in the staff car, at least two are in civvies— the French think they’re Gestapo. But there’s also a Wehrmacht officer, possibly a high-ranking one—could be Waffen SS. They want him alive if possible, or at least not too badly damaged. Make a useful hostage, apparently.”

“Okay, Lieutenant.” Winston nodded. “For him, we’ll aim low.”

“No.” Audley shook his head quickly. “We don’t shoot at all, unless we absolutely have to. The French have got it all worked out, they’ve done it before on this very spot. The only difference is that this time they’re going to try to keep the vehicles unmarked so we can use them afterwards.”

“You mean … we just sit and watch?”

“Not quite. They do the shooting. But in return for the staff car—or the
Kübel
if we prefer it—we take the prisoner for them.”

“Oh, just great! They sit behind their trees and pick the bastards off, and we take the risks!” Winston grunted scornfully. “You sure drive a hard bargain, Lieutenant—or they do.”

“They’ll be taking risks too, don’t you worry, Sergeant,” snapped Audley. “And if you thought for a moment instead of bellyaching you’d realise it makes sense, our trying for the general or whoever he is. These Frenchmen aren’t choosy about taking prisoners—I think this lot are all Communists and they’re settling old scores. And if the general knows that, which he certainly will know, then he’ll fight like the rest of them. But if he sees our uniforms then there’s a good chance he’ll surrender—that’s the whole bloody point.”

“Huh!” Winston subsided. “Okay, Lieutenant.”

Audley looked at Butler. “Any questions, Corporal?”

Butler thought for a moment. “How do the French know so much about the Germans, sir—how do they know they’re coming this way, even?”

The corner of Audley’s mouth twisted. “They’ve got it all organised as I said. They come from a village down the road, and they wait until one or two German vehicles come through on their own—they let the bigger convoys through. But when something like this lot comes along they put up a sign on the main road—a sign in German, a proper Wehrmacht diversion sign—saying the bridge farther along is down. And they’ve got one of their own chaps in Milice uniform who offers to take the Germans round a back road which is safe… . You just wait and see, anyway.”

“Seems a lot of trouble. Why don’t they deal with them there and then?” murmured Winston, staring down at the road.

“Because they’re scared stiff of reprisals. It seems the SS wiped out a village down south where one of their divisions was held up …”

“Wiped out?”

“That’s what they say. So the stragglers they cut off have to disappear completely—that’s what we found back there”—Audley nodded in the direction they’d come—“the evidence, you might say.”

“The smell is what I remember,” said Winston.

Audley stood up, and incredibly he was grinning. “Yes, the smell…” He looked at his watch. ‘Three minutes … Yes, they killed the poor devils. But they did bury them.”

Winston frowned, first at Butler, then at Audley. “Huh?”

Audley looked from one to the other. “The first time they were after weapons and ammunition—in the lorry. But they were unlucky.”

“Unlucky?”

Audley started to move. “Yes. They captured a ton of overripe cheese,” he said over his shoulder.

Butler watched him move to a nearby tree.

“Cheese,” whispered Winston. He stared past Butler towards Audley. “Now … there goes a genuine one-hundred-per-cent hard-nosed sonofabitch.” He looked at Butler. “We’ve got to watch ourselves, you and me, Jack—like the young guy in
Stagecoach
had to watch the sheriff.”

“What d’you mean?” asked Butler.

The American continued to look at him. “Yeah … I didn’t finish, did I? They were down to their last bullet when the cavalry arrived and killed off the Indians. And then when they got to town the sheriff let the young guy go and settle up with the bad guys—he even offered him some more ammunition. So he was okay—the sheriff was.”

“Yes?”

Winston looked again towards Audley. “I just don’t know about the lieutenant …” He turned towards Butler. “But then the young guy took off his hat—and you know what there was in it?”

“No?”

“Three bullets. And you know … I think we’d better keep a couple of bullets too, just in case.”

Cheese.

Butler lowered his head until his chin was touching the leaves. There was a one-inch gap between them and the fallen tree trunk behind which he’d settled in preference to his original position. As a firing position it was too low and narrow to be any use, but it was a perfect observation slit, giving him a clear view of the road, and if he wasn’t going to be able to take part in the ambush, he was determined to watch.

Well, it hadn’t smelt like any cheese he’d ever smelt; at least, not like the soapy mousetrap Cheddar favoured by the Army, which sweated and grew grey-green hairy mould in its old age but didn’t smell much. But then he’d never been close to a ton of it; and French cheese was obviously very different from English—that smell had been a fearful, liquid-putrescent one.