The '44 Vintage (36 page)

Butler felt strangely comforted. General Sir Henry Chesney had been right all along. And he, Corporal Butler, might live to be Second Lieutenant Butler yet if he survived the next few hours.

The ambulance doors swung open.

“Trouble,” said Winston instantly.

He was right, thought Butler: trouble was written all over De Courcy’s face.

“They are in the chateau.” His voice cracked.

“Who?” said Audley.

“Your comrades—your major!”

“But—how can they be?”

De Courcy pointed. “The German vehicles—the ones which have been passing on the road—they were from the chateau. They left four hours ahead of time. Louis-Marie saw the first of your men go in—men in khaki with blackened faces, from the woods opposite the main gate.”

Butler looked at Audley.

Everyone was looking at Audley.

“And also …” For once words failed Dr. de Courcy.

“Also?” echoed Audley.

“There are strangers on the road, Louis-Marie says. Frenchmen who are not from Civray.”

“Surprise, surprise,” said Winston.

Audley looked at him. ‘We should have reckoned on the Germans doing that, Sergeant,” he said mildly. “It was the obvious thing to do, when you think about it.”

“It was? So now what’s the obvious thing for us to do, Lieutenant?”

The obvious thing was to run away as fast and as far as possible, thought Butler. But that was the one thing they couldn’t do, nevertheless: they had a date with World War Three which couldn’t be broken.

“The obvious thing”—Audley blinked—“is to blacken our faces and harden our hearts—and go and see what’s happening.”

How they passed the gate of Chateau Pont-Civray

BUTLER JABBED
the barrel of the Sten into Hauptmann Grafenberg’s back, propelling him forward into the open.

Forty yards.

“
Hände hoch
, Fritz,” he ordered loudly, pitching his voice toward the gates. “Keep ‘em up high, you bugger—that’s it!”

One thing was for sure, he thought: the Anglo-Franco-American assault on the West Gate of Chateau Pont-Civray was in the best Chandos Force tradition.

It was bold as brass, ruthless, deceitful, and treacherous.

Thirty yards.

Another thing was for sure, too: if the man on the gate was one of the major’s gang, then the moment he recognised the features of the dead Corporal Butler beneath their disguise of burnt cork then the dead Corporal Butler would be dead. Sergeant Winston, snugged down in the undergrowth behind him with the Lebel, might avenge him. But at fifty yards’ range he could hardly be expected to read the enemy’s mind quickly enough to save him.

Funny to think so easily now of another British soldier as the enemy.

Twenty yards.

The man was gaping at them now—he could see the blacker hole of the open mouth in the soldier’s blackened face.

But would realisation follow surprise at the sight of the strange group which was approaching him—the German officer at British gunpoint, and behind them Audley bent almost double under the weight of Dr. de Courcy’s body?

He heard Audley grunt realistically behind him. The little Frenchman was a featherweight to the big subaltern, but Audley was much more concerned to keep his comical black-and-white minstrel face to the ground; it was odd that Audley still looked so very much like himself despite the burnt cork and the removal of his pips.

Ten yards.

The man’s mouth was still open, and the machine pistol was still held across his body.

Bold as brass
, Audley had said.
If he
’
s not in on it he
’
ll think twice hefore shooting you if you
’
ve got a prisoner—and I
’
m carrying a wounded man
!

They were up to the gateway.

Big iron gates, old and rusty and heavily wired.

Smaller iron gate, with a heavy iron chain and padlock But the padlock was oiled—

Bold as brass
! Everything depended on him now—

Brigadier MacDonald, who by valour and conduct—

“Up against the gates, Fritz—move.”

Hauptmann Grafenberg moved obediently up to the gates, facing the soldier on the other side. The soldier’s mouth closed, and his eyes flicked uncertainly from Butler to the German, then back again to Butler. At least he wasn’t an NCO, thought Butler gratefully; the blackened features were unrecognisable, and he could only pray that his own were equally so.

But he mustn’t think of that—and above all he mustn’t give the man himself time to think of it either.

But I
’
m no play-actor, sir.

Then don
’
t play-act, Corporal. Just do what you
’
d do and say what you
’
d say if you had to get a prisoner to the
major.

“Don’t just stand there, for Christ’s sake!” he snarled. “Open the bloody gate!”

The man licked his lips. “But, Corporal—“

“Don’t you bloody argue with me.” Butler bit off the protest furiously. “If you don’t get this gate open double quick the major’ll have your guts for garters—and when he’s finished with them I’ll use them for bootlaces, by God!” He counted a three-second pause. “Don’t argue—
move
!”

The machine pistol moved, not the man, and Butler’s own guts turned to mush.

“But, Corporal—it’s locked.” The soldier pointed the gun at the lock.

Butler was taken flat aback for a moment. Then common sense reasserted itself. The man was an idiot, but that was no reason why he should be an idiot too. He had guarded gates not unlike this in his time, and had been Corporal of the Guard on them too. There was an ugly little concrete pillbox just to the right of them: that had to be the guardhouse, and guardhouses the world over must be the same, British, German, or Chinese.

He nodded towards the pillbox. “Don’t talk daft—get the bloody key out of there,” he snapped.

The soldier looked from Butler to the pillbox, then back at the padlock, then back to Butler again. An idiot indeed, thought Butler; and it was surprising, almost disappointing, that Chandos Force had such boneheads in its ranks. But then perhaps he had a natural-born skill in weapons training which had endeared him to the major originally, and his deficiency in general intelligence and curiosity would now commend itself to the major for the simple job of covering the flank of the theft against intruders, with no questions asked.

But that didn’t matter now, except insofar as it was a bonus for the intruders. Or intruders prepared to cloak subtlety with the bluster of an angry corporal, anyway—

“Don’t just
fucking
stand there”—Butler glowered through the gate— “get moving, man!”

The soldier’s reflexes took over, in obedience to confident authority. “Right, Corporal.”

Butler watched him disappear into the pillbox, his brief sense of triumph quickly overlayed by doubt. In the first place, depending on what sort of routine the Germans had for checking the outer wire here, there might not be a key in there at all. And in the second place even an idiot might have second thoughts once he was out of range of the strange corporal’s blistering tongue—or he might even have time to remember more precise orders which the major might have given him about admitting strangers.

The same disquieting thoughts had evidently passed through Audley’s head. “Watch him when he comes out, for God’s sake,” he hissed urgently out of the corner of his mouth, shuffling up to Butler’s shoulder.

If he comes out
, thought Butler, adjusting the angle of the Sten to the observation slit in the pillbox. From the moment the snout of the man’s machine pistol showed in that gap he’d have maybe a tenth of a second if he was lucky. And no time at all if he wasn’t.

“Let me go—“ Audley cut off the sentence abruptly at the first glimpse of movement in the entrance to the pillbox.

Butler felt his chest swell with indrawn breath; then he saw the soldier hold up a loop of wire, jingling the key and grinning foolishly as he did so.

“Got it, Corporal,” he called out happily.

“I can see that,” snapped Butler ungraciously. “Get stuck into it, then—I can’t stand here all bloody day.”

As the man fumbled awkwardly, one-handed, to insert the key info the lock, Audley moved up to the small gate.

Let me go first—
the movement answered the question which had been boiling up inside Butler. So Audley had plans for what he was going to do once he was inside, and it was his plain duty to attract the guard’s attention to give those plans their best chance.

The chain rattled loose, freed from the padlock.

“Watch it, Fritz!” Butler barked warningly to Hauptmann Grafenberg.

The German hadn’t in fact moved a muscle since reaching his assigned position: he had done his job simply by being there and being so obviously the genuine article. But now he stiffened automatically at Butler’s meaningless command, taking the soldier’s attention from the smaller gate at precisely the moment when Audley shuffled forwards towards it.

“Keep those arms up—high!” Butler reinforced the warning as Audley turned his unencumbered shoulder to push open the gate, an action which also very sensibly turned his face away from the man on the other side.

“Right, Fritz—
jildi
, you bugger,” Butler addressed the German again just as Audley went through the gate. He didn’t know what
jildi
meant, but it was his old CSM’s standard word for rousing sluggards to their duty and it came to his tongue naturally.

Hauptmann Grafenberg didn’t understand it either, but he swayed uncertainly at the sound of it, and the movement was just enough to distract the soldier’s eye from Audley as the subaltern began to lower Dr. de Courcy’s body to the ground two yards inside the gate and slightly behind him. Given the choice of watching either a comrade with a wounded civilian or a German prisoner he was instinctively drawn to the known enemy.

“Here, you!” said Audley.

“What—?”

The soldier had no time for a second word before Audley leapt at him. Butler had a blurred impression of the subaltern’s large fist coming up from ground level and overtaking his body to connect with the man’s jaw with his full weight behind it: it was as though Audley had packed into one blow every ounce of the accumulated anger and frustration he felt at being cannon fodder.

The soldier’s legs shot from under him and his body cannoned off the fist into the gates with a force that shook them and made Butler himself wince. The padlock and the machine pistol flew off in different directions, clattering against the wrought ironwork; the man himself bounced off the gates to receive Audley’s other fist in the guts.

Butler levelled the Sten through the bars at the two men as they rolled on the ground, but he knew it was no longer necessary: not even Joe Louis could have taken a punch like that and still come up fighting.

The struggle ended before it started, with Audley astride a body which had obviously been unconscious even before he had grappled with it, but which he still hammered at unmercifully.

“Stop it, for Christ’s sake—he’s finished, can’t you see!” Butler cried out. “Stop it!”

Audley checked his raised fist, and sat motionless for a moment as the dust settled around him, his chest and shoulders heaving. “Let him be, sir,” said Butler.

Audley lowered his fist slowly—there was blood on it, and he stared at the blood uncomprehendingly.

Butler could hear footsteps behind him. Beyond the gates Dr. de Courcy was on his knees, staring at Audley. Then he got up and put his hand on the subaltern’s shoulder.

“That was one hell of a Sunday punch,” said Winston. “Better him than me!”

Audley stood up quickly. He shook his head, and then stared around him. “Yes,” he said huskily to no one in particular.

“We got to get moving, Lieutenant,” said Winston.

“Yes—right—“ Audley started to wipe his face with his bloodstained hand, and then stopped abruptly. He looked at Butler, then at Winston. “Get… his gun, Sergeant. Take off his battle-dress blouse and put it on”—he pointed down at the body without looking at it—“and give the rifle to Dr. de Courcy … don’t bother about the trousers, no one’ll notice—and they’re all wearing different bits of uniform, anyway.” His cheek twitched nervously under its minstrel disguise, but Butler no longer felt like laughing at him. “The blouse’ll be enough—and the beret.”

Winston bent over the body and Audley stared across him to Hauptmann Grafenberg.

“This is as far as you go, Captain. We’re quits now—one all. I give you back your parole.” He blinked furiously. “You can wait for us to come back if you like—or you can take your chance from here. Just… thanks for helping us, anyway.”

Grafenberg frowned. “But I have not done anything.”

Audley shook his head. “From where I’m standing you’ve done quite a lot.”

“Then perhaps I can do more.” The German gave a tiny shrug.

“Yeah. And perhaps you can get yourself killed.” Winston didn’t even bother to look up.

“Perhaps.” Grafenberg didn’t bother to look down.

Audley swallowed. “It really isn’t your war, you know, Captain.”

“Huh!” Winston rolled the unconscious body over. “You can say that again for me.”

Grafenberg moved sideways until he stood in the open gateway. “True. But then I do not have a war any more.”

“Then you ought to quit while you’re ahead.” Winston peeled off the blouse.

“And since you have given back to me my parole—my word of honour—then I am at liberty to volunteer, I think?” Grafenberg ignored the American. “And also … with me you may do again what you have done here—I think that also.”

Winston stood up between them, ripping open his own combat jacket as he did so. “And I think you’re right—and I
also
think you’re nuts.” He nodded to Butler as he stripped off the jacket “Give us the gun then, Jack. And the—whatever it is—“