A New Kind of War (12 page)

‘Eh?’ The question took the Colonel off-balance.

‘I said … are you a friend of Colonel Michaelides, sir?’ It was easier to study his naked commanding officer now that he was neither standing in the ill-lit doorway nor presenting his arse and twisting under his sponge: the upwards-directed light distorted his features, but he had a good, well-muscled hairy body—light-heavyweight … with the familiar distribution of tanned and untanned skin which Fred had observed among his own men in Italy and Greece, before they had had time to sunbathe peacefully. So that meant the Colonel had put in six years of open-air living, but hadn’t enjoyed any Mediterranean service in recent months, to spread that sunburn uniformly.

Major de Souza gave a little dry cough. ‘They’ll be waiting for us in the mess, sir … quite soon.’

‘Yes.’ The Colonel continued to stare at Fred. ‘Ah … you go on, Amos.’

‘Sir?’

‘I said … ’ The continued stare began to worry Fred, as it occurred to him that he had unwisely crossed swords with an expert ‘ … you heard me, Amos.
Go on
!’

‘Yes.’ But de Souza didn’t move. ‘I was going to introduce … Freddie … to the rest of them. That’s all.’

Fred suddenly knew perfectly what was happening. Adjutants were usually creatures of colonels, quite properly. But adjutants weren’t usually majors, and this wasn’t any sort of usual unit, so Major de Souza wasn’t a usual adjutant: he was a rescuer of junior officers in adversity, from whatever fate-worse-than-death awaited them—whether their name was
Audley
or
Fattorini
…
And that might be because it was peacetime, at least here in Germany, and he didn’t give a damn; or it might be because he disliked Colonel Colbourne, and still didn’t give a damn—for colonels, or Germans, or ELAS
andartes
, or anyone. Because that was Amos de Souza’s pleasure.

‘We’ve got one of your pigs tonight, sir.’ De Souza’s most casual voice was stretched to breaking point, it was so thin. ‘And that ham of Otto’s too.’

‘Thank you, Amos.’ The Colonel’s quick reply was polite on the surface, but equally stretched beneath. So he also knew what was happening. ‘And we have work to do tonight. I had not forgotten.’

‘No. Of course not, sir.’ Like a good soldier who had fought to his last round, de Souza surrendered quickly to save his life. ‘With your permission, I’ll withdraw, then.’

‘You do that.’ The Colonel sounded only partially mollified.

Thank you, sir.‘ De Souza turned away. ’I’ll see you in the mess shortly then, Freddie. It’s just up the colonnade—‘

‘
Thank you, Major de Souza
.’ This time the Colonel imposed his will as nakedly as his person. “That will be all for now.‘

As de Souza withdrew, Fred reviewed his position. The adjutant had bought him time with his obstinacy, but he didn’t quite know how to spend it because he had only the haziest idea of the internal politics of this unhappy unit, with its mad commanding officer who was evidently at odds with his own adjutant, never mind young Audley; and in itself that was confusing, because every commanding officer he had ever served under had soon got rid of those officers whose faces and attitudes didn’t fit. But then … but then if this
was
somehow the same bunch he’d fallen in with, by sheer bad luck, that day long ago in Greece … if it was … then he had to start thinking hard and fast, not about them but about himself.

‘Not good honest soldiers, like we were in Italy,’
Kyri had reiterated afterwards, carefully glossing over his own change-of-role. ‘
Those were hunters, old boy
—
a new breed. And if you’ll take my advice, you stay well clear of them, Captain Fattorini, my friend
.’

‘Well now, Major Fattorini—’ While Fred had been thinking, Colonel Colbourne had put on his socks, which made him look ridiculous, as he had never quite looked when he was stark bollock naked and unashamed ‘—“Freddie”, is it? Or “Fred”? I thought it was “Fred”.’

There was something worrying there, too. Because that special knowledge of ‘Fred’ fed his suspicion that the Colonel might know much more about him than was enshrined in the routine military record-of-service, fitness reports and details of next-of-kin he must have received. And because that irritated him, as well as worrying him, Fred felt bloody-minded resistance stir within him, against all common sense and experience and better judgement.

‘ “Freddie”, will do, sir.’ Until de Souza had arbitrarily re-named him a few minutes ago he had never been called ‘Freddie’ in his whole life. But if Colonel Colbourne thought he was better-informed, then maybe this was the moment to unsettle his reliance on his sources. ‘It’s of no consequence to me.’

‘Is that a fact?’ The Colonel shook out his shirt, and began to unbutton it. ‘Young Audley says you’re more commonly “Fred”. And although his behaviour is somewhat unreliable, his historical facts are usually to be relied upon.’

It seemed extraordinary to Fred that he had come through his years of war in order to argue the diminutive of his Christian name with a madman in a Roman fort in Germany. But then he remembered the madman’s civilian background. And, if he was right about that, then he must allow the madman some latitude in cross-examination of the facts … especially as the madman was right, and he himself was lying through his teeth.

But meanwhile he was saved for a moment, while the Colonel struggled himself into his shirt. Which, like his own, was American-army issue, of the most luxurious and desirable sort.

Audley, of course, had been the source of ‘Fred’, damn it! And damn David Audley too, if he had David Audley to thank for this posting! But that American shirt suddenly became a gift, offering him a line of counter-attack. ‘I have a message for you, sir … actually,’ he addressed the hooded figure, which was still naked from the waist to the socks.

‘What’s that—?’ The statement caught the Colonel in mid-struggle, with one arm raised vertically and his head poking out of the collar because he hadn’t bothered to unbutton his shirt all the way down, but had treated it like a British army garment ‘—a message?’

‘I am to thank you for the pig.’ Ever since de Souza had mentioned pigs—‘
one of your pigs’
, indeed—the pig had been squealing in the background of his mind, he realized now. Only, he had been slow to listen to it. ‘There was this American officer who met me on the airfield, sir. I’m afraid I didn’t get his name.’ Fred adjusted his voice to his situation: he must seem deferential, but ever-so-slightly embarrassed. ‘He was most helpful … in getting me through the formalities.’ That was enough. ‘But he said … he said, I was to thank you for the pig. And … whatever you wanted, if you’d got more pigs, then he’s got more aircraft … sir.’

‘Hah … hmmm!’ The Colonel pulled down his shirt. ‘Thank you, Freddie.’

‘Yes, sir.’ said Fred.

‘Pigs!’ The Colonel lilfted his chin in order to button-up his shirt. ‘It wasn’t a pig—that’s damned slander.’

‘Yes, sir?’ Whatever the animal was, it had given him an edge, Fred thought exultantly. ‘It wasn’t a pig—?’

‘
Fattorini
—
eh?’ The Colonel’s eye had fixed on him now. ‘Merchant bankers, right?’ Without unfixing his eye he snatched a tie from his bed. ‘ “Armstrong Fattorini Brothers”?’

‘Yes, sir.’ This had always been where the cross-examination had been going. But if Colonel Colbourne had conducted Aunt Lydia’s divorce he would undoubtedly know all about Armstrong Fattorini … if only to adjust the size of his fee. So what else did he want?

‘Armstrong.’ The Colonel examined his underpants critically. ‘An old Scottish border family of brigands and bandits, turned merchant bankers when the old ways became unprofitable—a natural enough progression. Who was it said “better to found a bank than rob one”?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Fred decided that he wouldn’t let the plain truth ruffle him.

‘And Fattorini.’ The underpants passed their test. So now it was the turn of the trousers. ‘Anglo-Italian. Late 18th century vintage—not to be confused with the distinguished watch-making family of the same name.’ Colonel Colbourne balanced himself on one hairy leg without looking at Fred. ‘
Your
Fattorinis … smugglers, weren’t they? “Brandy for the parson, letters for a spy”, eh?’

That was interesting: the Colonel had evidently done his homework on the family’s history as well as on its modern creditworthiness. ‘I gather we were much the same as the Armstrongs, sir. Bandits, then bankers. And lawyers.’

Colbourne looked up at him, one leg trousered. ‘Luke Fattorini—or
Sir
Luke, as I should call him now … your uncle, he would be, I take it?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The man knew damn well. But somehow the mention of Uncle Luke strengthened his confidence. In times of adversity, ever since Father’s death, Uncle Luke had always been a powerful and wise ally.

‘Clever man.’ Colbourne sniffed as be began to put on his glittering brown boots. ‘Influential, too … Dealt with that wastrel Ferguson—Captain the Honourable whatever-he-was—your aunt’s husband—
he
thought he had influence in high places … and so he did. But your Uncle Luke had
more
influence in
higher
places. And he knew how to use it too. So we took Captain the Honourable for a settlement that made his eyeballs pop, between us … ’ The Colonel straightened up, and reached for his battle-dress blouse. ‘Clever man—yes!’

There was a DSO among the Colonel’s ribbons. But that didn’t equal de Souza’s double-MC: it could have come up with the rations in the Judge Advocate’s department, even when teamed with the desert medal of the 8th Army—there had been more than a few undeserved DSOs wandering around Cairo and Alexandria in the bad old days before Monty, so it was said.

‘Yes.’ The Colonel tightened the belt of his blouse. ‘And you were in Italy, before Greece?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Now he was on safe ground. ‘4th Division.’

‘A very good division, too.’ Colbourne looked down suddenly. ‘How’s that hand of yours? Crushed under one of those bridges of yours, was it—?’

‘It’s much better, sir.’ Praise of the 4th Div had momentarily weakened Fred’s critical faculty. But now caution reasserted itself. ‘I was lucky.’

‘You were?’ The Colonel’s lack of further interest showed that he didn’t know much about the hazards of Bailey bridging. ‘Did you see many Roman bridges in Italy?’

Fred felt his mouth open. ‘Roman—?’

‘Bridges. They built damn good bridges.’ Colbourne’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. ‘Good military bridges, too—don’t you recall Caesar’s bridge across the Rhine? Don’t you sappers know your history?’ The man’s face creased into what the lamplight made into a diabolical frown. ‘And you were up at Oxford before the war, so you must know your
Gallic War
, for heaven’s sake!’

‘But I read—mathematics, sir.’ Fred began by snapping back, tired of saying, ‘Yes, sir’. But then that fanatical glint warned him, like the glint of metal on a roadside verge which betrayed the mine beneath it. ‘I did know a chap in Italy, though … he was an expert on … Roman remains.’

‘Yes?’ Suddenly, and for the first time, he had all Colonel Colbourne’s attention. ‘Who was that, then?’

Fred had to search for the name. ‘Bradford, sir.’

‘Bradford—?’ Frown. ‘What regiment?’

‘No regiment.’ Now he knew he was on a winner. ‘He was RAF photographic reconnaissance and interpretation.’

‘
Ahhh!‘
Colbourne beamed at him. ’
That
Bradford—of course! How stupid of me!
John
Bradford—Flight Lieutenant … Roman centuration and Etruscan tombs—met him last year. Disciple of O.G.S. Crawford’s—next generation of aerial archaeology. Another
clever
fellow—
yes
?

‘Yes, sir.’ All Fred could recall (and then only vaguely) was the young RAF man’s 50-50 enthusiasm for German defensive activity at the mouth of the Tiber and incidental photographs he had acquired which also betrayed the town plan of the abandoned old Roman city of Ostia. ‘He had some very interesting pictures, I believe.’

‘Yes. Quite remarkable, his pictures—very fine. Never seen such eloquent testimony of the way the Roman field-systems continued.’ The Colonel’s voice was animated by something of the RAF intelligence officer’s enthusiasm. ‘Bit too taken up with the Etruscans, for my taste—a rum lot, the Etruscans. Like the damned Greeks.’ He frowned at Fred suddenly. ‘I wonder what he’s doing now.’

‘Sir?’ For a moment Fred thought that the latest frown was directed at him, and closed his open mouth smartly. But then he saw that the question was self-directed, and the Colonel wasn’t really looking at him at all. ‘You mean Flight-Lieutenant Bradford—?’

‘Ye-ess … I wonder whether we could get him up here, come autumn, when the leaves are off the trees.’

The frown went clear through Fred. ‘No problem with the equipment—the Yanks can take care of that, even if the RAF can’t. It might not produce anything … probably wouldn’t.’ The intensity of the pale eyes was most disconcerting. ‘But if Varus did build a marching camp—just
one
marching camp, mind you—
just one
…
somewhere on the middle Weser or the upper Lippe.’ Nod. ‘In fact, we could draw an arc from Moguntiacum to Castra Vetera, coming back through Detmold, and try that for a start … And Bradford would be the very man to spot the slightest sign of one—he’d know a Roman marching camp from an iron age enclosure at a glance—
at a glance
!’ The eyes focused on Fred, with a fierce yellow lamp-light glint in them. ‘Good man, Major Fattorini—Freddie! I hadn’t thought of that—stupid of me, but I hadn’t! Air photography, by God!
Should have thought of that, by God
!’ He smacked his fist decisively into his other palm. ‘Yes. I suppose I could ask the RAF—in fact, they’ve probably got a million pictures of the whole area, full of bomb craters miles from the target … Detmold was quite well-bombed, as I recall—Luftwaffe station not too far away, I think … But it would be easier to borrow a pilot and a plane from the Yanks. They’ve got the planes and the pilots—yes.’