The '44 Vintage (7 page)

The jeep turned off the road, though mercifully it was moving so slowly that there was no danger of a twenty-second collision in the back. Ahead of them Butler saw a track leading across open fields towards a low huddle of farm buildings from which several slender columns of smoke rose vertically in the still air, pale blue in the evening light.

Cooking fires, decided Butler hopefully.

“Very good, David! All you need now is the right word,” said Major O’Conor.

The right word? There were vehicles under camouflaged netting among the trees ahead—the right word?

“
Chevauchée
,” said the major. “We’re going on a
chevauchée
, my boy.”

“A chevauchée?” The incredulity in Audley’s voice helped Butler to concentrate on his ears rather than his eyes. They would reach the buildings soon enough.

“One of Chandos’s specialities. You know what it means?”

“Well … in modern French it’s … ‘a ride,’ I suppose,” said Audley pedantically. “But in medieval French … it was a raid—and more than a raid.”

Audley had known more about the Hundred Years’ War than he had admitted, but the major let that pass.

“Yes, David?”

Audley drew a deep breath. “It was the classic English tactic for taking what they wanted—take and capture, or rape, burn, pillage, and plunder on the march. That is, unless the people agreed to s-s-submit to their rightful lord, King Edward. But our chaps usually forgot to ask first.”

There was a bearded man in a check shirt just ahead. He had a machine-pistol slung round his neck and a cigarette in his mouth.

“Yes … well I can’t promise you all of that, though we’ll do our best of course,” said the major. “But we are going to take something, certainly.”

The check-shirted man gave them a cheery wave without removing the cigarette. He wore khaki battle-dress trousers and army gaiters, Butler noticed with sudden surprise.

The farm buildings looked up ahead.

“What are we going to take?” asked Audley.

Major O’Conor chuckled. ‘Why—a castle of course, just as Chandos would have done. Except we’re going to take it from the Germans, naturally.”

How Second Lieutenant Audley chanced his arm

THE MEN
of Chandos Force shuffled into the barn in ones and twos for their final briefing.

From his chosen spot in the darkness just beyond the dim circle of light cast by the hurricane lamp Butler watched them with a sour mixture of contempt and disapproval.

The mixture embarrassed him, and also confused him because he couldn’t square it with his impression of either Major O’Conor or Sergeant-major Swayne, who belonged to the world of soldiering which he understood. But these men—the major’s men, the sergeant-major’s men, and also (Jesus Christ!) his new comrades—came from another world altogether, and one which he did not understand at all.

He knew he was green and raw and wet behind the ears, and that the memory of the only shots he’d ever fired in anger—at the major himself—made his cheeks burn at the very thought of it.

And he knew that first impressions could be false impressions—

Must
be false impressions.

It had looked more like a bandit encampment than a unit of the British Army about to go into action.

Not so much the weird assortment of non-uniforms—of knitted cap-comforters instead of berets or steel helmets, of flak jackets and camouflage smocks instead of battle dress, of bandoleers and belts of ammunition instead of standard webbing pouches… .

Not so much even the weirder assortment of weapons—machine pistols and automatic rifles, and LMGs which looked suspiciously German but just might be American; the anti-tank rocket launchers stacked by the farm gateway were certainly American; but there was not a Bren or a Sten to be seen, never mind an honest-to-God Lee Enfield rifle… .

No, not the dress and not the weapons … but the savoury cooking smells and the card games and the dice; and the casual greetings—no salutes—and the laughter in the background, all of which he had smelt or heard or glimpsed during the last half hour. All it had needed was a girl or two—say Dolores del Rio in a low-cut dress, with gipsy earrings— to complete the picture.

Chandos Force.

The Chandos Gang—

Must
be false impressions.

Butler struggled with the evidence of his senses and his limited experience, as the sudden glow of the half-smoked dog-end in the mouth of the next man to enter the barn caught his eye. As the man stepped briefly into the lamplight Butler saw that he sported an Uncle Joe Stalin moustache.

In the Lancashire Rifles no rifleman or junior NCO dared to grow a moustache. In the Lancashire Rifles men stood close to their razors every morning without fail.

And when the ACIs were pinned on the notice boards appealing for volunteers for the paratroops or any other strange and wonderful units like this one, Lancashire Riflemen did
not
volunteer—the senior NCOs saw to that, their official reasoning being that anyone wishing to quit the best battalion in the finest regiment in the whole British Army must be bloody mad, and it wouldn’t be right and proper to saddle other units with such madmen, particularly units which must already have more than their share of thugs, misfits, and criminals.

Over two happy years of mastering the basics of the only trade he had ever wanted to learn, Butler had become convinced of the inner truth of that simple logic. Everything he was told and everything he learnt fitted in with everything he had ever read and with those things which General Chesney had told him: that the highest moment in war was the ordinary line infantryman setting his face and his best foot toward the enemy in battle. All the rest—all the tanks and artillery and planes and staffs and generals—were but the means and the auxiliaries to that end.

He had tried to prepare himself for the ugly facts of pain and discomfort and dirt and smells which he knew would mask this truth. But he discovered now that he had relied far more on the shelter of the battalion itself: he had not prepared himself for this kind of war in this kind of unit.

He
wasn
’
t
afraid, he told himself. Because this wasn’t the feeling he had had by the side of the stream, when the major had shouted at him in German.

But he was alone, and he was unutterably and desolately
lonely
.

A sudden stir among the bandits, and then a spreading hush of their muttered conversations, roused him out of self-misery.

The sergeant-major strode into the lamplight and glowered around him into the darkness. He was still wearing his leather jerkin, but had forsaken his beret for a knitted cap-comforter.

“Purvis!” he barked into the gloom.

“S’arnt-major!” One of the bandits barked back.

“Everybody here?”

“S’arnt-major.” Purvis paused. “One extra.”

The sergeant-major frowned for a moment. “Corporal Butler!”

“Sergeant-major!” Butler attempted to bark, but his voice cracked with the effort.

“Right.” The sergeant-major swung round towards the doorway, his hand coming up to a quivering salute. “All present and correct, sir!” he roared into the darkness.

Second Lieutenant Audley stepped cautiously through the doorway into the circle of light, stooping to avoid the lintel.

The bandit in front of Butler inclined his head towards his neighbour. “Cor, bleedin’ ‘ell,” he said in a deliberate stage whisper.

It was true that Audley looked absurdly young, despite his size. Indeed, his size seemed to emphasise his youth as he blinked nervously around him, with the squatter but menacing figures of Purvis and the sergeant-major on the edge of the light on either side of him, like wolves bracketing a newly born bull calf.

“ ‘E wants ‘s mummy,” stage-whispered the other bandit.

Bastards—
Butler thought of the burnt-out Cromwells—
bastards
.

The sergeant-major swung sharply towards the direction of the whisper, his chest expanding. But Audley forestalled him.

“All right, Sergeant-major Swayne,” he said softly. “Let it … be.”

He stared around him slowly, no longer blinking, as though his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness and he could see every last cobweb in the barn. The bruise on his cheek seemed larger and blacker, brutalising one side of his face.

Maybe not a bull calf after all, thought Butler, but some other animal. Or at least not a newly born bull calf, but a young bull not so easily to be taken for granted.

Then the spell was broken as the other officers of Chandos Force came out of the darkness behind him, two of them almost indistinguishable from the rank-and-file bandits, but the third contrasting strangely with them because of his conventional smartness—Three pips for a captain—Butler craned his neck and strained his eyes—by God! not three pips, but a crown and two pips—a full colonel, and with ribbons to match too! So Major O’Conor wasn’t in command of Chandos Force after all… .

But it was the major who came in last, and it was the major who took the centre of the lamplight, with all four officers joining his audience.

The glass eye glinted unnaturally in its fixed stare as the good eye ranged among them fiercely for a moment or two.

“All right, then”—the eye stopped for an instant, then darted again left—right—left—“what I shall say now I shall say once and once only, as is my custom … which all of you know—and some of you know to your cost.”

No one laughed. So that wasn’t a joke, thought Butler; so perhaps the bandits knew more about discipline than he had thought on first sight.

“All except two.” The major paused. “Mr. Audley you have just seen. He comes to us from the South Wessex Dragoons and he speaks fluent French.” He paused again, and Butler tensed himself just in time. “Corporal Butler—come here!”

Butler shouldered his way to the light, managing in the process to tread heavily and satisfactorily on the foot of the bandit who had whispered about Audley’s mother.

“You see now Corporal Butler.” Butler glared into the darkness—it was surprising how this one dim light could be so blinding. “The corporal comes to us from the Lancashire Rifles and he speaks fluent German—right, Corporal.”

Butler made his way back to his original position. This time the bandit was ready for him, but this time he trod on the other bandit’s foot “Mr. Audley and Corporal Butler are replacements for Mr. Wilson and Sergeant Scott. As such they have no formal duties at present—“

Butler frowned in the darkness, wondering what had happened to Sergeant Scott. Possibly his German hadn’t been fluent enough for Major O’Conor’s purposes?

“—with me—right.” The all-seeing eye settled on Butler, as though the major knew that his attention was straying from the words which were only going to be said once. With an effort he shook himself free from Sergeant Scott.

The eye left him. “Now I am fully aware that there’s only one damn question you want answered—namely, why we should have been transported across the length of Europe from our own private war into someone else’s fight … particularly when our war was taking such a … promising turn.

“I am also fully aware that you are now confidently expecting the usual pack of lies which is the staple diet served to us by the Gadarene swine at GHQ.”

Butler stole a glance at the bandit beside him. Somewhat to his surprise he saw in the dim light that the bandit was grinning; evidently the major was running true to form.

“However … in this instance the answers I have been able to elicit may actually bear some resemblance to the truth … indeed, even more incredibly, they show some faint glimmering of rational thought and old-fashioned common sense—to our advantage.”

There was a slight ripple of movement among the bandits—either it was the word “advantage” or they knew that the preamble was over. What was certain, though, was that the major and his men understood each other perfectly.

“I say ‘answers’ because there are two of them.

“And the first one is that greater events swallow up smaller ones.” The major smiled. “By which I mean that while we have been busy bringing aid and comfort to an ungrateful collection of Communist cutthroats, the Allies have been winning the war.”

Butler frowned into the darkness. There had never been any doubt in his mind about that, not even in the blackest days of 1940 when he had known no better. Even when the
Hood
had been sunk his schoolboy confidence had only been shaken momentarily. It seemed more than unnecessary to restate the obvious now, deep in France in 1944—it almost seemed bad form.

The major rocked on his heels. “Ah … now I think you may be in danger of mistaking me … I cannot see all your expressions, but judging by the look on Sergeant Purvis’s face—am I boring you, Purvis?”

All Butler could see of the moustachioed sergeant was his back, which was now rigid beneath its enveloping smock.

“Sir?” Purvis temporised. “No, sir.”

“Perhaps you think I am making a patriotic address—do you think that, Purvis?”

“No, sir.” This time there was no hesitation.

“I should damn well think not!” The major paused. “However, I can imagine that some of you may find it difficult to grasp literal truth when it is plainly stated… . Mr. Audley there, for example—his regiment has been mixing it with Panzer Group West and the German Seventh Army, who have no doubt been giving as good as they got.”

Audley’s chin lifted. “R-rather b-b-better than they g-got, actually,” he said defiantly.

“Indeed?” The major’s eye lingered momentarily on Audley. “Well then—I have good news for you, Mr. Audley”—the eye lifted—“and for all of you. Within the next forty-eight hours Panzer Group West and the Seventh Army will have ceased to exist—what’s left of them will be in the bag just south of Falaise, caught between our army and the Americans. And it’ll be the biggest bag since Stalingrad.”

He paused more deliberately this time, to let
Stalingrad
sink in.

“But that isn’t the point. The point is that there is no German army between Falaise and the Seine. And there is no German army behind the Seine … in fact, gentlemen, there is no German army between this barn and the river Rhine.”