A New Kind of War (8 page)

‘How’s that again—by a mile?’ David blinked at him. ‘Missed … the point? What point?’

‘Your Russian friend, old man.’ Kyriakos gestured towards the line of corpses without disengaging his attention from Audley.

Audley followed the gesture and grimaced, his natural ugliness contorted by whatever Captain de Souza was now doing. But then, as he came back to them, his face composed itself into tell-tale innocence. ‘Russian? Well—that’s news to me, Captain Michaelides. But …
friend
—
whoever he was, he was no friend of mine, so far as I am aware.’ Much too late, the false innocence became polite enquiry. ‘What point would that be, which Captain Fattorini—or Fat-O’Rhiney—has missed by a mile?’

Kyriakos’s white teeth showed below his moustache. ‘You didn’t shoot him. Friend or enemy, you didn’t shoot him.’

‘No?’ The innocence increased. ‘Yes—well, you’re right. Because I certainly didn’t shoot him, Captain Michaelides. But then I am notoriously incapable of shooting people. Given a large enough gun, in a tank, I can sometimes hit buildings, though. In fact, I once demolished an entire church, you know.’

‘I didn’t mean
you
, old man.’ Kyriakos gestured dismissively.

‘No?’ Audley came back quickly, with an edge to his voice. ‘But … well, I can tell you, captain, that our chaps are damn good, even if I’m not.’ He nodded at the corpse line, and then frowned at the Greek. ‘The bastards got three good men with their first burst. But that’s because they must have got wind of us. And that’s
all
they got—all the rest were
ours
. And our chaps deserve the credit for it, I’d say.’

Fred started to warm to the young man, but then remembered the Greek’s warning and that falsely innocent expression. So all Audley was doing was drawing Kyriakos out in his own way, most likely.

‘No. Not all.’ Suddenly Kyriakos spoke mildly, without emphasis. ‘Your chaps didn’t shoot your Russian friend. Not unless they shoot other … chaps … in the back of the neck.’ He paused. ‘Which I’m sure they don’t—being decent chaps.’ Mild still. ‘And certainly not on this occasion.’ Cold, hard voice, suddenly: the voice of Captain Michaelides Mark II. ‘Because your Russian—friendly or unfriendly to you, old man …
he
was shot by his own side, from behind.’ If possible, the voice became harder and colder. ‘These last few weeks I’ve seen quite a lot of wounds like that, courtesy of
Hellenikos Laikos Apelefteroikos Stratos
…
and some understandable reprisals by the men I have the honour of trying to command, I’m sorry to say.’ The voice was ultimately frozen now. ‘So I know what a man’s face looks like when he’s been shot in the back of the neck while lying down. So do not argue with me, lieutenant.’

Fred stared at Kyriakos. He had started off watching the young dragoon, to see how he reacted to the Greek’s mild disagreement. But then Captain Michaelides Mark II had taken over. And finally, at the last, it hadn’t been Captain Michaelides Mark II either: it had been a complete stranger.

For a moment Audley didn’t reply, which drew Fred back to him to observe what he felt might well be a mirror-image of his own expression, although on a very different face.

‘I w-w-wouldn’t dream of arguing with you, Captain M-Mmm—’ Audley shook his head and scowled as his impediment got the better of him. ‘You can g-g …
go
and argue with the B-B-B—’

‘I will do just that, yes.’ The Greek drew himself up.

‘In there—’ Audley pointed towards the low doorway in the ruins ‘—he’s w-waiting to mmm-meet you both.’ He tore his attention from the Greek to Fred, and instantly relaxed. ‘I’ve told him all about you, and he’s jolly keen to make your acquaintance, he says. And—’ The boy just managed to avoid looking at Kyriakos again ‘—and the good news is that I’m to find you some transport, if possible—’

‘No,’ said Kyriakos.

They both looked at him.

‘I shall go and see the Brigadier by myself first.’ Kyriakos ignored Audley. ‘Im sorry, old boy. But that’s the way it is. Because this happens to be my country.’

He gave Fred a nod, and then ducked into the doorway without another word.

‘And he’s
b-b-bloody
welcome to it, if you ask me,’ murmured Audley. Then he looked inquiringly at Fred. ‘Bloody Greek Secret Police!’ Then he frowned. ‘And he’s a friend of yours—?’

‘Yes.’ It was true. Or it had been true.

‘And you really did break down—and all that?’

The innocent look was back. And if Kyriakos hadn’t warned him he would have believed it. But now he didn’t believe either of them. ‘Yes.’

Audley breathed in deeply. ‘Well … you’ve got some funny friends, then. So you’d better watch out, if you ask me—if you’re stuck here.’ He breathed out slowly. Thank God we’re posted elsewhere after this, to where the real war is! Not that we’ll see much of it, more’s the pity!‘ He grinned at Fred. ’I never thought I’d ever say that, you know!‘

Was he being led on
? Fred wondered. ‘What d’you mean—“the real war”?’ If he was, then he’d be safer among questions than answers.

Audley glanced nervously at the doorway. ‘Well … this isn’t the
real
war, is it?’ The glance came back to Fred, but then went past him, towards whatever Captain de Souza might be doing now, if he was still at work among the bodies behind them; but whether he was or wasn’t, Fred wasn’t tempted to find out. Yet he felt the presence of the dead at his back nevertheless.

This isn’t war—?‘ He almost felt that he was putting the question on behalf of those nearby who could no longer ask it.

Audley shrugged. ‘If it is, then it’s a different kind of war. And don’t ask me what kind.’ Then he looked past Fred again. ‘An “in-the-back-of-the-neck” war? A most unkind war, I’d call that—eh?’

The Unkind War
On the Roman Frontier,
Germany, August 6, 1945

THE MOMENT
he set eyes on the driver, Fred was sure that he’d seen him before somewhere, sometime. But then, in the next moment, he knew that it couldn’t be so. And it wasn’t just one of those tricks which the very anonymity of uniform perversely played on occasion: it was a simple case of wish-fulfilment brought on by intense loneliness. For nothing, not even changing boarding-schools (and certainly not leaving home itself), was more inner-desolation making than being torn untimely from the bosom of one’s own unit, and from long-time friends and comrades. He had started to feel it in the very second that the adjutant had shown him the order, this loneliness. And he had felt himself as utterly forlorn and abandoned as Alexander Selkirk on his desert island among these crowds of noisy, gum-chewing, cigarette-smoking Americans in the leaking, badly-repaired airfield building—forlorn and abandoned even after the altogether surprising American Air Force major beside him had plucked him out of the scrum like a long-lost buddy.

‘See there—over there!’ The American addressed him cheerfully over the butt of his cigar. There’s your man—and there’s your transport. And … now that is
some
transport, by Gahd!‘

It was also the uniform, of course, thought Fred: the crowds of Yanks de-bussing from their huge lorries were no different from all those he had seen in Italy—more than half a year ago now, but it seemed more like a lifetime; except (and it was a bloody big difference, on second thoughts) these Yanks were happily loaded down with what looked like loot, and presumably destined for home … whereas the Yanks he remembered had been
unhappy
, and loaded with weaponry and combat gear, and destined for the meat-grinder of generals quite notoriously unconcerned with casualty lists, unlike their British opposite numbers—

But
…
it was the uniform
, of course: one little British soldier, albeit in surprisingly well-pressed and well-fitting battle-dress, stood out from among them like a rough-haired terrier among a pack of sleek fox-hounds with their tails up after feeding time.

‘Yes?’ It was the uniform, of course. He felt the forlornness dilute slightly, if not the bewilderment; if anything, the bewilderment increased from the high point it had reached when the major had hailed him by name out of the line of disembarked Dakota passengers while they were still appreciating the feel of solid ground underfoot after that hair-raising landing, and more simply glad to be alive than to be where they wanted to be. ‘Yes—I see him, major.’

For a moment he lost sight of his man and his transport, as a phalanx of huge Americans, more or less in disciplined ranks, cut them off from their objective,
en route
to flight departure and God’s Own Country and Betty Grable. And Fred wasn’t outraged by their bulldozing interruption, even though he could hear the Air Force major swearing at them beside him. Because …
one day that’ll be me
—
me en route to Mother, Julia, and Uncle Luke, and tea in the Savoy, and a World fit for Heroes inside Armstrong, Fattorini Brothers
—
by God!

The thought warmed him even as the soldiers slowed and concertinaed from a more-or-less ordered column into a jostling crowd, and the major continued to blaspheme impotently—
one day, in God’s good time, this will be me
…
but, in the meantime, even if this was dark, ruined Germany, and not his own dear sunny Greece, at least it wasn’t an embarkation depot
en route
to a crowded troopship and the dreaded Far Eastern posting of everyone’s nightmares. At least he was safe from that now!

‘It’s all right, major.’ He felt that he had to say something, if only by way of common civility, to his rescuer. ‘I’m in no hurry.’

‘No?’ The major looked at his watch. ‘Well, I sure as hell am!
God-damn
army!’

‘Well, if you have other duties, I beg you not to wait for me.’ What Fred would dearly have loved to have asked was how the major had come to be waiting for one
God-damn
Limey officer—and a junior one at that—off one particular transport plane, the very arrival of which must have been problematical, what with the bad weather and the re-routing. But, against the possibility that Colonel Colbourne (whoever the hell Colonel Colbourne might be) wielded such huge influence (enough to transmute base junior officer metal into VIP gold), there still lurked the suspicion that he might be the beneficiary of some case of Anglo-American mistaken identity. ‘I saw where my transport was. It’s not going to leave without me.’

The major looked at him, and then studied the press of GIs, as though estimating their chances of ever getting through it unscathed and without a fight. ‘You reckon—? But … hell! I promised Gus I’d see you safely on your way—’

‘It’s quite all right, major.’ Who ‘Gus’ might be was beside the point, but ’on your way‘ wasn’t, Fred decided. All that mattered was that there was a staff car and a driver out there, beyond this near-mutinous half of the United States Army. And whether or not it was intended for Captain Fattorini, Captain Fattorini intended to have that car. But he stood a better chance of keeping it if the major wasn’t in attendance when he commandeered it. ’I’ll tell Gus you put me on my way—I’ll make a point of it.‘

‘You will? Great!’ The major beamed at him. ‘Okay, then … And, say … while you’re about it, tell him “thanks”—for the pig … Okay?’

‘“Thanks”—’ Fred steadied his voice ‘—for … the Pig?’

‘
Dee-licious
!’ The major made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Tell Gus
any time
—
okay?’ A faint thunder of aircraft engines penetrated the hubbub. ‘Tell him, if he’s got the pigs, then I’ve got the planes—tell him that, huh?’

Fred returned the nod, and watched the major stride away towards whatever pressing matter had recalled him to his duties. Then, a loud cheer distracted him, turning him back to the United States Army: the concertina was expanding at last, as whatever obstacle ahead that compressed it gave way, and all the incurious eyes which had been taking him in (as though they’d never seen a British uniform, but if he’d been stark naked it wouldn’t have mattered, because he wasn’t in their way)—all the eyes dismissed him as the cheering crowd surged forward again.

It must be mistaken identity, but if it wasn’t then he had been traded in return for a pig, it seemed.

The column expanded, and accelerated, affording him an adequate glimpse of what lay beyond it, as he thought of pigs.

Pigs
—

The car was still there. And so was the driver—

Pork
, rather—pork had been conspicuous by its absence in both Italy and Greece. There had been some ration bacon, of a sort … and there had latterly been endless Spam, which had allegedly been pig-related. But he hadn’t seen a good piece of smoked ham, let alone a real slice of pork with the crackling still attached to it, since 1942.

The American Army vanished as suddenly as it had arrived, just as he was vividly recalling Uncle Luke carving a vast leg of pork on the last day of his embarkation leave: ‘
Give thanks to God for this, young Fred, first. And then to a certain farmer of my acquaintance, who supplied it. And last, but not least to your great-greatgrandfather, whose apostasy from the Jewish faith enables us to indulge ourselves as devout Anglicans
—
’

‘Major!’

Across the suddenly opened space, the driver was saluting him. He was a little ratty RASC man of indeterminate age—a very typical RASC driver, except for the smartness of his battle-dress. And that was really why he looked so familiar, of course. But, much more to the point, he was also compounding the American’s mistake, that was certain. But with his inferior rank safe under his trench-coat, Fred held to his objective, returning the salute and dumping his valise at the little man’s feet.

‘Right! Let’s go, then.’

The driver ignored the valise, opening the rear door of the car instead.

Fred had intended to get in the front, but the important thing was to get going. So he accepted the offer without demur, and sank back into the luxury within—real leather, softly padded and sprung—while the little man banged around, stowing the valise and then bestowing himself just in time as the first spatter of rain, which had followed the Dakota all the way from Austria, pitter-pattered the windscreen.