A New Kind of War (25 page)

The man was trying to say something, but he was gargling and choking as he tried to speak, and he wasn’t even looking at Fred—he was arching his back and looking up into the dark sky, at nobody and nothing, as he died.

‘Fred—
Fred
?’ He heard Audley’s voice in the distance. ‘What the devil are you playing at—?’

Audley’s voice was one sound. And he could still hear the slaughter-house-din muted from the wrecked building behind him. And there was the roar of generators powering the false daylight, which blackened the man’s blood as his eyes rolled upwards and the breath rattled finally in his throat.

‘
Christ
!’ exclaimed Audley, above him.

That, among the other words of the ancient formula, was what Father de Vere had said over his dying sappers in Italy, Fred remembered. So, with no more time left, it would have to do for this poor unknown, who had just joined them. And, anyway, the exact words didn’t matter, Father de Vere always said.

He straightened up. ‘Come on, David.’

Audley looked at him. ‘What—’

‘Let’s go.’ For the first time he felt their roles reverse, and age and rank take precedence, together with self-preservation. ‘He’s dead. So he won’t mind.’ That last consideration hardened him: they were both still alive, but in the open, where it wasn’t safe. ‘Come on!’

Without waiting for Audley he ran towards the safety of the trees.

A Free Man
In the Teutoburg Forest,
Germany, August 7, 1945

AS THEY DROVE
northwards, Fred slept the sleep of exhaustion. But, unmercifully, it was not dreamless: rather, it was full of images—sharp images, but disjointed and unconnected, of things and people … and even words.

Or a word—

Wildschweinrücken —

In Audley’s jeep, at first, he slept almost upright and very uncomfortably, with his chin down on his breast, so that his neck stretched and stretched as his head rolled first one side, and then the other, over every pothole. And there were hundreds of potholes—thousands, millions, billions … an infinity of potholes, into which Audley deliberately and maliciously drove, out of the last vestiges of night, into a grey, cloud-swept day—

Wildschweinrücken
—

There were, at irregular intervals, villages untouched by war. Then there were towns: towns of rubble, with tall chimneys standing in the ruins …
buildings
—
burned, because they were not built to burn
…
but chimneys were built for fire, so they didn’t burn
—
that was the rule
!

And then there were long stretches of flattened open countryside, so often like, and yet unlike, bits of the English countryside he remembered, out of another world, in August—another August, long forgotten—

He had taken the men, one day in that other August long ago, to a farm, where they were harvesting. And … it was wheat—stiff, heavy-eared wheat, deep yellow-gold … but also with a fine crop of thistles in it, which made the men swear, who had never before taken hold of a wheat-sheaf let alone a handful of thistles: they were mostly conscripts, with a leavening of regulars and territorials like himself, but they were also sappers, and proud of it
—

Bridges, endless bridges! And the bridge over the Volturno was more than just a bridge: it was the eighth-bloody wonder of the bloody-world! And I saw Leese
—
Jolly Polly Leese!
—
drive on at one end, past irate, gesticulating Military Police, and approach a column of tanks
which had lumbered on to the other end
—
the far distant end
—
towards him
…
and he was driving himself, too, Jolly Polly! And he’d had to back up all the way, while the MPs were tearing their hair, because the first tank commander wasn’t going to back up for anyone, not even God Almighty himself, let alone the commander of the 8th Army
—
not for Jolly Polly, not for anyone! But at least he’d still been jolly at the end of it
—

Wildschweinrücken
! And then a nightmare wild boar’s head poking out of a wall, with its glaring red pig-eyes but its tusks dripping black blood—

Harvesting
! How the men had hated stocking! Men who fancied their skills with metal and wood—anything was grist to a sapper … but they couldn’t stand up two wheat-sheaves, one against another, in the stubble: while they were turning round to grab another sheaf, the first two had fallen over—to the loud contempt of the farm labourer driving the tractor, and the little gnarled man sitting high up on the binder behind him—‘
Garn! Can’t yer do it, then? It’s too ’ard for yer, is it? Too much like ‘ard work, like, is it
?’

Christ
! There were no tractors in the fields of Germany now! And there were no men, either: only women, bent down in the corn—the thin fields of a poor harvest—among the flattened crop, beaten down by the rain—

And …
was it the Crocodile or the Alligator who had said that they’d all be starving soon?
—

Somewhere along the way, beside a copse of silver birches standing up tall and thin, in the middle of nowhere, with his tongue furry thick in his mouth, and his eyes gummed together … they had stopped.

And young Audley’s face had been brown-grey: brown with the outdoor soldier’s tan, but grey with weariness, and lined like an old man’s, with that ugly sneer of his … which wasn’t really a sneer, but the defensive mask of a youth’s uncertainty among his confident elders—was that it—?

‘What’s happening?’ His own exhaustion harshened the question. ‘What are we stopping for?’

Audley’s features twitched. This is where we’re meeting up with the others, old boy—the bloody baggage train, and the camp-followers …
tirones
, as Caesar Augustus calls them. But … chiefly Otto, and his German auxiliaries, rather than the QM and his acolytes—they
have
to follow us, being allegedly part of the British Army … But Otto … everyone’s nightmare is that he will suddenly fade away, and go native—maybe even decamp to the Russian Zone, to do even better business, maybe.‘

Fred blinked. ‘The Russian Zone?’

‘Uh-huh.’ Audley nodded. ‘It’s not far away, you know. North-South—that’s a long way … but West-East … that’s not really so far, if you know the right highways.’ Another nod. ‘Of course, you’ve got to be able to handle them—the Russkis. But they’re quite extraordinarily amenable to the right stimulus, apparently.’ Another nod. Then a shrug. ‘Same with the French—they’re really buddy-buddy with the Germans—that is, with the Germans who know their business, and what’s what … The French are what they call “pragmatic”, you see, Fred. “
Pragmatique”
—
is that the word?’

Fred frowned. ‘What?’

Audley’s expression changed as he looked down the line of vehicles which had been parked nose-to-tail under the silver birches, alongside which the north-bound convoy had come to rest.

‘Captain Audley!’ What Audley had actually been looking at was a figure which had issued out of the parallel lines, who was striding towards them now. ‘Captain Audley,
sah!’

‘Mr Levin—’ Audley blinked ‘—I d-d-don’t think that you’ve h-had the p-p-p …
opportunity
… of properly meeting Major Fattorini, who was with us during last night’s adventure—?’

‘Sah!’ RSM Levin was at once very Jewish, but also a very British Army RSM: compact and immaculate and confident, and in his prime: Joshua, strong in battle, but with a hint of Joseph, with Pharaoh’s civil service at his command. ‘With your permission …
sah!’

‘Mr Levin—?’ Simultaneously (although also informed by what Audley had said in the past), Fred didn’t like RSM Levin, but was also a little afraid of him.

‘With your permission, sah—’ Levin fixed him for an instant, and then dismissed him ‘—Captain Audley is to report to the Colonel, sir—’ the basilisk eye came back to Fred ‘—and you are to travel with Driver Hewitt, as of now, in alternative transport …
sah!’

‘Thank you, Mr L-L-L … ’ Audley curled his tongue round the consonant impotently, nodding his head like an idiot.

‘Thank you, Mr Levin.’ Fred wondered, and not for the first time, whether Audley’s impediment was nervous or deliberate. But, more than that, he knew that he must put Mr Levin firmly in his place now, or he would be lost forever. ‘When I’ve finished with Captain Audley … then I shall expect Driver Hewitt to find me … here—here, right?’

RSM Levin’s square blue-black chin came up aggressively, almost arrogantly, with the thin lips above it tight, as though he well understood the nature of this deliberate challenge to his authority. ‘Sah! But, if I may—’

‘Thank you, Mr Levin.’ Fred concentrated his failing courage on the RSM’s well shaved chin, aware that his own chin was undoubtedly stubbly, and even Audley’s ugly boxer’s-face had its own juvenile fuzz too—

And that poor dead bastard, from last night: the black frothy blood had dribbled down through several days’ razorless growth, blond and colourless as the pale eyelashes and eyebrows above the glazing dead eyes in that final moment of truth —

‘Thank you, Mr Levin.’ As he repeated the words he concentrated on Audley. ‘Now David—as you were saying—?’

‘Y-Yes … ’ Audley blinked and wrinkled his nose nervously, contriving to remind Fred of nothing so much as an enormous and terrified rabbit as the RSM stood his ground beside him.

‘With respect, sah—’ There was no respect in the RSM’s tone, only cold certainty. But then he stopped.

‘Hullo there!’
Amos de Souza’s voice came sweetly to the ear as the distant trumpets of any relieving force to a doomed garrison. ‘Morning, Freddie—David … Mr Levin. Is there some sort of problem?’

‘No.’ In turning towards his rescuer Fred was careful not to show relief. ‘No problem at all. Mr Levin was just relaying information about my transport, that’s all—’

It was curious
—
now he could remember exactly the end of his dream: how the men had always hated stooking until the very end, when there was only a narrow strip of uncut corn left in the centre of the field because then they could stop stooking and pick up sticks, and chase the poor terrified rabbits which had been driven back and back until forced at the last to break cover or be cut to bloody ribbons by the binder’s knife-blades
…
Only this time, in his
dream, there had been no rabbits, but wild boars in the corn; and also, striding through the stubble, there had come not the farmer, but Colonel Colbourne and RSM Levin, both dressed in civilian tweeds, yet with their medals at the breast
—

‘—that’s all … Thank you, Mr Levin. I shall look for Driver Hewitt as soon as I’ve finished talking to Captain Audley … and the adjutant.’

No one enlarged on that for a moment. Then the RSM saluted de Souza smartly, and strode away, stiff-backed. And, for another moment, no one enlarged on that, either.

‘Phew!’ murmured Audley finally.

‘Oh yes … ’ De Souza looked from one to the other, more philosophically than expecting a straight answer. ‘So what mischief have you two been up to, then? Not annoying Mr Levin, I hope—?’

‘G-Good Lord, no!’ Audley relaxed like a schoolboy. ‘P-p-p …
perish
the thought, Amos!’ Then he straightened up belatedly. ‘Actually, Amos—’

‘The truth, please.’ De Souza shook his head. ‘Come on, young David—I have to run this Fred Karno’s outfit … one way or another—the truth, please.’

‘Of course!’ Audley was plainly delighted by this unwise admission of weakness. ‘I was just going to tell you—’

‘Yes, Amos.’ Fred overruled the boy sharply. ‘I was. And I’m sorry.’

‘Yes?’ De Souza raised a hand to silence Audley, without looking at him. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing, really.’ Also without looking at the young man Fred understood the problem the boy represented: brains and over-promoted youthful arrogance, and immaturity, plus a tongue like a cow-bell, would not endear him to an RSM with no other subalterns to bully. ‘I rather think the RSM was pulling rank … or pushing it, if you like.’ He shrugged. ‘But I was tired, so when he pushed, I pushed back, I’m afraid.’ As always, honesty eased his conscience. ‘It wasn’t necessary. But I did—and I’m sorry, Amos.’

‘Yes … you will be—huh!’ There was no sympathy in Audley’s murmur. ‘Busy-Izzy’s a bad enemy—as I can testify from bitter experience, by golly!’

‘Shut up, David.’ De Souza didn’t bother to look at Audley. ‘That’s fair enough, Freddie—take no notice of that. Levin’s a good man.’

But that wasn’t all, Fred sensed. ‘He is?’

‘Actually, yes.’ De Souza accepted his doubt. ‘He knows his duty, and he does it.’

That still wasn’t all. So Fred waited for more.

De Souza nodded. ‘He was with the CO in the desert. Hence his DCM. That was at Alam Haifa. When things weren’t so good.’

From de Souza that was no small accolade, that understatement. But it still wasn’t what the Major wanted to say. And that whetted Fred’s appetite even more.

‘Yes-?’

‘All your service has been in Italy, hasn’t it—?’ Beneath the innocent inquiry there was a curious hesitancy, almost embarrassment. ‘And in Greece, of course—as we all know!’

What the hell did that mean? Of course they all bloody-well knew!

‘For God’s sake, Amos!’ Having been hopping and twitching and charing on the sideline, like a reserve in a losing game, Audley exploded suddenly. ‘Levin’s a swine, for God’s sake! So —’

‘
Shut up, David!’
De Souza’s snarl was as uncharacteristic as his hesitancy, with its suddenly-undisguised anger glowing red now.

‘Sorry!’ From trying to push himself into the action, Audley shrank into himself. ‘Amos, I didn’t m-m-mean —’

‘
Shut up
—
’ De Souza caught his anger quickly ‘—I know you didn’t mean to interrupt me. You just wanted to hear the sound of your own voice, that’s all.’ He disengaged himself from Audley. ‘As I was attempting to say, Freddie … we were pulled out of Greece pretty soon after you happened to cross our path, and we ended up more or less attached to VIII Corps in their final advance. Between Hanover and Hamburg, we were … And you heard of the concentration camps, obviously—eh?’