The '44 Vintage (8 page)

The place names bounced off Butler’s understanding. The Seine was remote enough. But the Rhine—that was a river on another planet.

“What it amounts to, quite simply, is that the German front in France has collapsed,” went on the major in a flat, matter-of-fact voice. “Last night a special light reconnaissance unit of the American Army crossed the Seine west of Paris, and they crossed unopposed. Their armoured columns are already beyond Chartres and Orleans—they delayed at Chartres to spare the cathedral, but elsewhere they’re meeting virtually no opposition. Some of their tanks are making sixty miles a day—their main problem is petrol, not Germans. According to the Air Force, there isn’t a single major enemy unit moving west. What there is that’s moving … is heading east, towards the Fatherland, as fast as it can go.”

The Rhine—No German army between this barn and the Rhine—Sixty miles a day—
The Rhi
ne
.

The sense of what the major was saying finally penetrated into Butler’s brain and exploded there.

The literal truth:
the German front in France had collapsed
.

“It’s 1940 all over again,” said the major. “Only this time they are on the receiving end, and they’ve no Air Force left and no Channel to hide behind. And there are ten million Russians breaking down their back door.”

The literal truth:
the Allies have won the war
. The full extent of the catastrophe overwhelmed Butler. The war was ending too soon for him—it was ending and he would have no part in it. While the Rifles were advancing to victory, he would be pissing around interrogating prisoners for Major O’Conor, far in the rear. He would wear a Victory Medal, and all it would mean was that he had passed School Certificate in German. Peace loomed ahead of him like a desert.

“Very well, then!” The major’s tone became brisker. “The first answer leads to the second. To the north of us our armies and the Americans are tidying up. To the west they are taking the ports of Brittany. To the east they are in open country. To the south they have stopped along the line of the river Loire from the sea to Orleans.” He was playing with them, thought Butler bitterly. “We are going south, across the river.”

Butler’s heart sank. If there was any real fighting left it would be to the north and the east. The south could only be a backwater.

There was a slight stir in the darkness to his right, and the sound of a throat being cleared.

Major O’Conor picked up the signal. “Yes?” he challenged.

The throat was cleared again. “I was just wondering, sir …” The sing-song Welsh voice trailed off hesitantly, but Butler guessed instantly the question which must be uppermost in the Welshman’s mind: there must still be a lot of unbeaten Germans south of the Loire who might not yet have heard that the war was over.

“Yes, Corporal Jones—you were just wondering?”

“Yes, sir—I was just wondering, see … would that be where the wine comes from, in the south like?”

“The wine?” The major was as unprepared for the question as Butler was.

“Yes, sir. Lovely stuff it is, the French make—much better than the Eyeties even. But they don’t make it round here—no grapes, see—and I was thinking … not warm enough here. But down south, that would be where they would be making it.” Corporal Jones sounded well pleased with his reasoning. “And a lot of it, they make, too,” he added. “So I believe.”

“Then we must hope the Germans haven’t drunk it all,” said the major dryly.

“Oh … now I hadn’t thought of that, sir.” The corporal took the hint obediently. “Would there be enough of them to do that then, sir?”

Butler watched the major intently. Every good unit had its self-appointed funny man, and although he himself was frequently unable to see the humour in the jokes they revelled in he had learnt from his platoon sergeant that they performed a useful function in relieving tension. The Welshman was a cut above most of them too: he had let the major call him back to the serious matter in hand without conceding that large numbers of Germans were more important than large quantities of alcohol. Now it would be interesting to see how the major handled his question, because clever officers never attempted to beat such men at their own game.

“Yes …” The major pretended to give the question serious consideration. “Well now, perhaps Colonel Clinton could answer that one for us?” He turned slowly towards the little group of officers.

Good
, thought Butler. The best way of all was to play humour straight, as though it was perfectly serious.

The full colonel stepped into the light and swung on his heel towards the audience. In catching his badges of rank Butler had missed his face; now he saw that he was youngish for that extra pip and that he didn’t have the look of a regimental officer. The first of his three ribbons was a DSO certainly, but that could be won from a chair by brains or cunning. Only he also didn’t have the sleek authority of the staff officer … more a hungry, almost suspicious look which Butler hadn’t encountered before.

“Yes … well, it isn’t easy to say with any certainty what the present strength of the German First and Nineteenth armies is.” Colonel Clinton’s voice wasn’t regimental either; it was educated, but classless and quite different from both the drawl of Audley’s colonel and Audley’s own public-school stutter.

“Ten weeks ago they fielded thirteen infantry divisions, including five training divisions, plus three Panzer divisions and one Panzer grenadier division. But they’ve been bled white since then. Today … maybe eight infantry divisions, all well under strength and including Russian and Polish ex-POWs. Plus one first-class Panzer division—the 11th.” Colonel Clinton gazed into space for a moment, as though mentally adding long field-grey columns of figures. “With a substantial noncombatant military element … say a quarter of a million uniformed personnel.”

The figure of a quarter of a million hung in the darkness and silence of the barn. Butler hadn’t thought to count Chandos Force, but he knew it couldn’t be much over thirty.

“Thank you, sir,” said Corporal Jones. “Thank you very much, sir.” Military intelligence, thought Butler. Only military intelligence would have figures like that, down to divisional numbers, at its fingertips.

“Quarter of a million men”—as though by tacit agreement Major O’Conor took over again—“who are not of the slightest interest to us.”

It occurred to Butler that it was the Germans’ likely interest in Chandos Force, not Chandos Force’s lack of interest in the Germans, which was of more pressing concern; but nobody—not even Corporal Jones—seemed disposed to raise that point.

“Nor will we be of the slightest interest to them—certainly not since oh-eight hundred hours this morning”—the major paused very deliberately—“when the American Seventh Army and the French Second Corps landed in the South of France.”

There was a stirring of excitement in the barn, and Butler closed his eyes. He had already accepted the bitter truth—
the Allies have won th
e
war—but the acceptance was still raw enough to render each piece of confirmation painful.

“So as of this morning what fighting strength they have will be drawn southwest, to delay the Americans and the French while the rest of the ragbag heads for home.

“We’re not going to hinder them—we’re not going to lift a finger against them—and provided we can reach our objective without getting in their way, there’s no reason why they should want to lift a finger against us. All they want is a clear road to Germany, and we’re not going to knock down any signposts—is that clear?”

For a moment there was silence. Then Audley made a curious hissing noise.

“Ssss …” The young subaltern fought the stutter briefly, shaking his head against it. “S-supposing we do run into them?”

The major smiled. “That’s a fair question from a newcomer. And the answer is that we’re here now because we’re experts in not running into Germans behind their own lines. We’ve been doing it for six months in Jugoslavia in rather more difficult circumstances, and the powers-that-be reckon we can do it in France too. Does that answer your question, Mr. Audley?”

Butler found he could guess very well why Audley of all people would have found that fear uppermost in his mind: his whole brief military experience in the bocage country consisted of running headlong into Germans, with unpleasant results.

“Yes, sir,” said Audley manfully.

“Good. Now—are there any other questions?”

Sergeant Purvis’s back straightened again. “Sir!”

“
Yes
, Sergeant?”

“The objective, sir.”

Major O’Conor’s last remark in the jeep flashed into Butler’s memory:
We
’
re going to take a castle from the Germans
. But that didn’t quite square with not lifting a finger against them, somehow.

The major looked towards Colonel Clinton. “Sir?”

The colonel nodded. “The exact nature and location of the objective is still a classified secret, Sergeant. All I can tell you is that… we are going south of the Loire to repossess certain items of property belonging to His Majesty’s Government … extremely valuable property. You will be told the location when we are closer to it, but I’m afraid that I am not at liberty to reveal what the property is.”

Not a castle, but
property
, thought Butler quickly.

Or … property
in
a castle.

Repossess
. That was a black word in his vocabulary: it was what the bailiffs did at home when someone fell too far behind with the rent.

The thought of home reminded Butler again that he was in the midst of strangers. And yet when he thought about his homesickness he realised that he wasn’t homesick for home, but for the comradeship and comfortable certainties of the battalion, where briefings were clear and concise, and objectives unclouded by mysterious secrets.

He was aware at the same time that he was desperately thirsty and lightheaded with hunger, and that the infection between the toes of his foot was itching abominably again. In the scale of his present unhappiness the first two weren’t at all serious: he had water in his water bottle and plenty of his favourite oatmeal blocks, which were the unexpected delicacy of the twenty-four-hour ration packs. But that treacherous foot presented a real problem now, after he had missed out on the last treatment and might not have any privacy for some time to come. Opportunities for foot and sock washing, not to mention the application of the gentian violet, would probably be few and far between once Major O’Conor’s chevauche’e had begun.

“From whom, sir?” said Audley.

Butler couldn’t make sense of the question, and from the look on his face neither could Colonel Clinton.

“From whom, Mr. Audley?” He repeated patiently. “What d’you mean—from whom?”

Butler felt sorry for the young officer. Whatever he was after, that patient tone made him look a fool. The odds were that even if he did get an answer now it would be a humiliating one.

“Y-yes, sir.” Audley swallowed, swayed nervously—but stuck to his guns. “You said … r-repossess His Majesty’s … property,” he said, fighting the words with obstinate deliberation.

“So I did—yes, Mr. Audley,” the colonel admitted.

“Will the … French Resistance … forces be co-operating with us in the … operation, sir?”

That was an unexpected question, but only because it didn’t seem to follow from the previous one. It was also a disappointingly unimportant line of inquiry; maybe Audley wasn’t so full of brains after all, but merely liked the sound of his own voice in spite of his stutter.

“No, Mr. Audley, they will not be.” The colonel’s tone was sharper now. ‘This is a strictly British military operation. We shall be travelling across the American Third Army zone—the Americans will assist us as necessary and will pass us through their southern flank info enemy territory. After that we will be on our own. We will thereafter use any local intelligence the French may be able to give us, but nothing more than that. Our only allies are speed and surprise. We’re going in quickly and we’re coming out quickly.”

He raised his eyes from Audley to include everyone in the barn. “I was coming to this part of the operation later, but I may as well deal with it now. I don’t need to spell out what will happen if you get caught—the rules are the same here as they were where you’ve come from. It’s up to you whether you want to be brave or not, but if you decide to talk … when you talk your cover story is that you are reinforcing an SAS party in the Morvan Mountains between Nevers and Dijon, but you’ve been airdropped prematurely because of engine failure. Your code name is Bullsblood, which they will have reason to believe because we’ve already planted it, and your rendezvous is at the old viaduct five kilometres south of Sauleuf. Your mission is to interdict the main road to the west—they’ll believe that too, for the sufficient reason that the SAS is already at work there.”

Buther wondered what the rules were that the colonel didn’t need to spell out. But he could ask about them later, even though he had the feeling that he wouldn’t like the answer.

“The difference this time is that your cover story goes for everyone you meet across the river, not just for the enemy. If you get separated and the Resistance or anyone else picks you up you are still Bullsblood, bound for Sauleuf. As far as you’re concerned Chandos doesn’t exist— you’ve never heard of it and you don’t want to join it.” The colonel’s gaze returned to Audley. “Does that answer your question, Mr. Audley?”

For a bet it had answered it more fully than Audley had expected, Butler thought grimly.

For a moment Audley said nothing. Then he nodded his head. “Not exactly, sir… . B-but I can add t-two and two.”

There was an undisguised note of arrogance in the subaltern’s voice that turned the words into a challenge. Butler had never heard a second lieutenant speak to a really senior officer like that—he had never heard
anyone
speak to a superior like that. Either Audley was unbelievably innocent or after having had three tanks blown from under him he just no longer gave a damn for anyone.