The intrepid major was a very young major, as well as a very big one, he observed as the major closed the distance with immense upwards strides. And young majors, role-playing in their elders’ image, were always the worst ones—
But … if it was a British operation, what the hell was the British Army doing, breaking their own truce so deliberately—?
A very young major—
‘Sergeant Devenish! What the blazes are you up to?’ The young major heaved himself over a larger obstacle in the scree below them.
‘Sir!’ Sergeant Jacko—Sergeant Devenish—kept his eyes on both of them as he started to reply. ‘We spotted these coming up behind us, and—’
Then why the b-blazes didn’t you c-c-call in?‘ The young major stuttered with anger as he cut the sergeant off while slithering and stamping up the scree over the last few yards.
‘The set’s on the blink, sir. We couldn’t raise you.’ The sergeant sounded not so much over-awed by rank as weary of his fault-finding majors.
‘W-what d’you mean “on the blink”?’ The young major anchored himself on his stick for a moment, but took a closer look at Fred and Kyri for the first time, scowling horribly as he did so. ‘You mean some bloody fool dropped it—’ He stopped as he shifted his scowl back to Fred from Kyriakos.
‘The set was not dropped, Mr Audley.’ Sergeant Devenish answered the young major with quiet authority, still without taking his eyes off them. ‘It’s the one we’ve had trouble with before. It’s a duff set, is what it is.’
Mister Audley? The young major’s sheepskin jerkin concealed his badges of rank and Fred couldn’t identify the impossible heraldic quadruped on his cap-badge. But at this close range the man’s extreme, almost beardless, youth was simultaneously as apparent as his considerable ugliness (and he hadn’t been so much scowling as perhaps frowning nervously?). And then the full significance of the sergeant’s ‘Mister Audley’ and his slight disdain clinched the matter.
‘What the devil d’you mean by shooting at me?’ he snapped at the youth, even while keeping his hands close to the back of his neck with the sergeant’s eye still on him. ‘And who the devil are you?’
‘W-what?’ The scowl-frown returned. ‘Sergeant—who is this?
‘Captain Fat—’ The sergeant paused momentarily ‘—Fat-O’Rhiney, sir.’
‘O-what?’ The youth blinked.
‘O’Rhiney—Captain Fat-O’Rhiney, Mr Audley, sir,’ repeated the sergeant before Fred could correct him. ‘Royal Engineers.’
The youth raised his eyebrow at Fred. ‘What jolly bad luck! F-fat—F-fatto … what?’
Fred clenched his teeth. ‘Fattorini. Brigade Royal Engineers. Who are you, may I ask?’
The youth frowned again, this time staring at Fred with peculiar concentration. ‘Fattorini—?’
Kyriakos cleared his throat, but mercifully didn’t spit. ‘Captain Frederick Armstrong Fattorini, Royal Engineers, GSO Three, Brigade Staff,’ he said, with deliberate public school King’s English clarity.
The youth shifted his frowning stare to Kyriakos. ‘And may one ask who the hell you are?’ he inquired politely.
Kyri drew himself up. ‘Michaelides, Staff Captain, Rimini Brigade, Royal Hellenic Army … And may I ask whom I have the doubtful honour of addressing on the eve of Scobiemas?’
The youth’s ugly face broke up. ‘Scobiemas! Of course!’
Sergeant Devenish coughed. ‘Said his name was Alexander—Alexander—something, sir. And he said he had papers to prove it.’
‘My identity card is buried nearby,’ snapped Kyri. ‘When we heard the firing we thought you might be andartes—do you understand?’
The youth grinned. ‘All too well, I do—very sensible!’ Then he stopped grinning. ‘Would you be so good as to dig it up for me, then?’
Kyriakos nodded. ‘Of course—’
They’re both armed, sir,‘ said Sergeant Devenish quickly. ’And I haven’t had a chance to disarm them.‘
‘Yes?’ The youth was staring at Fred again. ‘Well, in these parts that would also be very sensible … And that’s why you’re still “reaching for the sky” as they say—is it?’ He nodded. ‘But I think we can dispense with the precaution now, Sergeant Devenish.’
‘Sir—?’ The doubt in Sergeant Devenish’s voice kept Fred’s arms up.
‘It’s all right, sergeant.’ Another nod. ‘You were quite right to be careful—they do look a dodgy pair, I agree.’
‘We spotted them on the hillside. And I think they spotted us, too.’
That was careless of you! So—?‘
They were lurking behind this rock, sir—‘ Doubt and anger filled the sergeant’s voice.
‘We weren’t “lurking”,’ said Kyriakos. ‘We were just taking the short-cut to the village. And then we heard the firing. So we took cover.’
‘Ah!’ Another nod. ‘But may one ask why you were going to the village, Captain Michaelides?’
Fred had been waiting for his chance. ‘Captain Michaelides was taking me to see Delphi. But our jeep broke down two or three miles back —’ Not knowing the youth’s name and rank inhibited him ‘—you are … who?’
‘Audley—David Audley, West Sussex Dragoons.’ The youth grinned. ‘Lieutenant—strictly expendable cannon-fodder … Hughie.’
‘Mr Audley, sir?’ It was the little wireless operator who answered.
‘Hughie—be a good fellow and tell Sunray that everything’s okay here … Tell him that Charlie Three was defective. But also tell him that we’re bringing in two innocent bystanders for him to meet—got that?’
‘Right-o, Mr Audley.’ The little man shambled away, uncomplaining although the sweat shone on his face. ‘Hullo, Sunray—hullo Sunray! Charlie One to Sunray —’
‘Do please lower your arms, gentlemen … And Captain Michaelides—’ Lieutenant Audley nodded at Kyriakos, and then carried the nod to Sergeant Devenish. ‘It’s all right, sergeant, I can vouch for Captain Fattorini personally—don’t worry!’
Kyriakos looked questioningly at Fred. ‘You’ve met before—?’ As he observed Fred’s incomprehension he stopped, and transferred the question back to the ugly Dragoon.
‘No. But the face is familiar.’ Audley grinned once more at Fred, hugging his secret knowledge to himself as warmly as his sheepskin jacket. ‘Right, Captain Frederick Armstrong Fattorini? Border Armstrong—which side, Captain Fattorini?’
Who the hell was he? ‘Scottish—of course.’ Who the hell was he?
‘Could have been either. But in your case—Scottish.’ Audley nodded his delight at Kyriakos. ‘Border family—English and Scottish, but all brigands of the worst sort … No surprise meeting one here—all brigands here—right, Captain Michaelides?’
Kyriakos stared at him for a moment, and then knelt down to retrieve his buried identity while Fred frowned at the Dragoon, trying to place him at one remove from actual acquaintance.
Kyri stood up again, with his papers and his torn-off epaulets in his hand. ‘Do you wish to see—’ But then the expression of idiotic pleasure on the youth’s face stopped him even before the youth waved his offering away.
‘Good Lord, no!’ The pleasure almost transformed the Dragoon’s ugliness into beauty as he continued to grin at Fred. ‘Thought I knew that face—no bloody mistaking it, even without the name—’ He stopped suddenly, as he remembered his sergeant, who was still holding the owner of the face at unmoving gunpoint. ‘It’s okay, Sar’ Devenish—you can relax—I can vouch for this officer, even though I’ve never met him in my life—right?‘
The Thompson remained pointing at them. ‘Sir—?’ The Dragoon’s happiness tortured the question from his careful sergeant.
‘It’s all right.’ The youth nodded positively at Sergeant Devenish. ‘I’ve played rugger with this officer’s brother, Sar’ Devenish—same name … not a lot of Fattorinis in the British Army … but also same face.‘ He took the nod to Fred. ’I’ve seen blood pour out of a Roman nose just lik
e that one—Matthew Fattorini’s blood, from his nose—a family nose, that is, Sar‘ Devenish: three peas from the same pod—Matthew, Mark and Fred … God knows what happened to “Luke” and “John”, if they were baptizing ’em out of the New Testament!‘ Another grin. ’Lower your arms, Captain Fat-O’Rhiney!‘
The Thompson still didn’t move. ‘And the Greek … officer, sir?’ The sergeant’s voice was still doubtful.
‘Captain Michaelides,’ said Fred. ‘And, as it happens, my father’s name was John. And I have an uncle named Luke.’
‘Yes?’ The Dragoon looked from Fred to the sergeant, and then back again. ‘Well, I’m sure Captain Michaelides is … whoever he says he is, in Captain Fattorini’s company.’ He spoke lightly, quite unaware that he was unnecessarily humiliating a good NCO. ‘How are things on the ridge, then?’
‘Everything’s under control.’ The sergeant breathed in through his nostrils as he lowered his gun. ‘No one has tried to come up the path after we put a burst over their heads … as ordered.’
‘Well, thank God something went according to plan!’ The Dragoon nodded at the sergeant. ‘So you came over this side because there seemed to be a problem here—is that it?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The sergeant clenched his jaw. ‘I left Corporal Weekes in charge.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Another casual nod. ‘Well, you just trot on back there—there’s no problem here now. And you can take Hughie with you. His set’s not on the blink. Hughie.’
‘I ’eard, Mr Audley, I ‘eard!’ The little man groaned audibly. ‘Fuckin’ mountains! Up yer go—down yer go … up yer go—down yer go!‘ He trudged off in the sergeant’s wake, mumbling and cursing repetitively under his breath.
Audley watched him go. ‘The trouble with Driver Hewitt … apart from the fact that he’s a perfectly d-d-d-—awful driver … or one of the many troubles with him … is that he comes from East Anglia, where everything is p-p-pancake flat!’
The little man swung round, almost unbalancing under the weight of the set on his back. ‘I ’eard that, Mr Audley—‘
‘Go on, Hughie, go on! The unwonted exercise will strengthen your legs!’ Audley turned back to Fred. ‘Now, let’s go back and explain ourselves, shall we?’
Kyriakos rolled his eyes at Fred as Audley set off downhill. ‘Who is this eccentric friend of yours, old man?’
Fred blinked. ‘No friend of mine, Captain Michaelides. But it would seem he’s acquainted with my little brother Matthew—luckily for us.’ He stared at the large departing figure, whose long legs had already taken him far down the slope. ‘But Matt’s with the Guards, on the German frontier by now.’
‘And he’s from an armoured unit—that badge I do not recognize … But I wouldn’t have thought you have a tank large enough for him.’ Kyriakos stared in the same direction, at Lieutenant Audley’s back.
‘Must be some obscure yeomanry regiment.’ Fred accepted his own Royal Engineers’ disdain for the rest of the British Army, from Matt’s snooty Guards to Audley’s mindless ex-horseman from the local hunt. But that reminded him unbearably of how young Matt was, with Mark still missing over Northern Italy. ‘If he played rugger with Matt he must have been at school with him.’ He tried to put Northern Italy and the RAF out of his mind. ‘That’s probably it.’
‘But you never met him?’
‘No. But we each went to different schools—it was one of Father’s conceits … That way, we didn’t compete with each other’s reputation—Mark and Matt were much cleverer than I was … And Matt was a better sportsman than Mark … And … I rather suspect Father reckoned we’d make three different sets of influential friends, to help business along in the future.’ He turned to smile at Kyriakos, but then he saw that the expression on the Greek’s face was not one of polite curiosity. ‘Why do you ask? What’s the matter, Kyri?’
Kyriakos pointed. ‘We must go! See—he is summoning us—’
Fred caught the Greek’s arm. ‘You bloody answer me, Kyri! Why?’
‘Why?’ Kyriakos shrugged. ‘I have a feeling about him, that’s all.’ He pulled at Fred’s grip. ‘We must go—’
‘A feeling?’ Fred looked down towards the track again, where the big dragoon subaltern was even now chivvying his drivers into attempting to turn their vehicles round in what was quite obviously an inadequate space for the 15-hundredweight, if not the jeep. ‘He’s a baby, Kyri. And he isn’t too smart when dealing with NCOs who know more about his business than he does, even if they can’t pronounce my name. I’ve seen a hundred like him—a thousand … all babes-in-arms—all cannon-fodder —’ He stopped suddenly, as he remembered that that was Audley’s own description of himself.
‘His business—yes!’ The tone in Kyriakos’s voice drew his attention away from the balls-up on the track, where the jeep had been turned successfully, only to be blocked by the broadside truck. ‘But what business is that, would you guess? What business has your army, breaking the truce here?’
‘God knows!’ Fred’s eye was drawn irresistibly back to the confusion on the track, where Audley now had his men trying to lift the truck bodily, after its own turning-circle had baffled him. ‘I doubt whether he knows, whatever it is, anyway.’
That may be. But I wouldn’t stake my life on it.‘ Kyriakos was also watching the truck. ’A baby he may be … But I recall fighting German babies in Italy who were not so childish when it came to killing. And … as you say, that sergeant of his knew his business. And he was a very cautious man, I think—not a trusting man, would you say?‘ The Greek pulled up at his grip again. ’I have seen his breed before. But not in the British army—no, not before in your army, Captain Fattorini … ‘
What Fred saw was that they were actually turning the truck, with brute force triumphing over ignorance, in the best British Army tradition when there were not Royal Engineers present. But what he thought as he watched was that Captain Michaelides’ experience of different armies went back a long way—all the way from the triumph of 1940 to the 1941 debacle, and from victory through defeat and escape to the long, hard slog up Italy, which they had shared … So, compared with Captain Michealides, he was a baby too, maybe. ‘What breed would that be, Kyri? And what business?’
Kyriakos didn’t reply immediately, even though Fred released his grip. ‘Who knows?’ They were letting the truck do its own work now. ‘We Greeks have our business to settle, here in Greece.’ He didn’t move. ‘For which we need you bloody British, most regrettably … At least, until we can involve the Americans in it, I am thinking.’
The Yanks?‘ Fred heard the incredulity in his voice. ’What have they got to do with it?‘
‘Nothing yet.’ Kyriakos didn’t look at him. ‘I think we had better move, old man. Because your brother’s old school-fellow will be remembering us again very soon. And … and I would not have him mistrust us, after having trusted us so foolishly—even though he had us in his sights all the time, as he very well knew—eh?’
Fred looked down at the road and understood; because young Mr What’s-his-name—young Mr David Audley, the big baby dragoon—had spoken to his two machine-gunners on the vehicles, and they had kept their guns trained up the hillside, by God!
‘What you want to think about, old man, is—’ Kyri waved deliberately at Audley without looking at Fred ‘—is … why did your great Mr Winston Churchill come all the way to Greece on Christmas Day—not Scobiemas Day tomorrow, but your real Christmas Day, when we were both so busy—eh?’
And it was so bloody cold! remembered Fred irrelevantly: his Greek baptism had been that bitter wind cutting him to the bone. In fact … in fact, he hadn’t registered Christmas Day at all—that gunners’ party for the children hadn’t actually been on Christmas Day, he remembered now: it had been after Boxing Day actually. Because all the bloody days had been just bloody days, one after another—
‘He came here because he had business here.’ Kyri waved again. ‘So when you think about this business, maybe you’d better think
of Mister Winston Churchill’s business—okay?’
‘Yes—okay!’ Fred checked for an instant, and then jumped past the Greek knowing that he really hadn’t the faintest idea what the man was talking about, but also that he didn’t like it: this was all bloody politics, and no one in his right mind trusted politicians—the bloody politicians fucked things up, everyone was agreed on that: the bloody politicians had never heard an S-Mine go click underfoot on the roadside verge, beside a blown bridge, in that single careless moment—or felt all the bones in a good right hand go crunch between unyielding metal—
But Audley was waving and beckoning at them. And the real mercy now was that Audley’s business was none of his business, even if Kyri wanted him to think about it.
He waved back, suddenly light-hearted. Because the real mercy, now that he thought about it, was that Audley’s business hadn’t been the accidental death of them back there on the hillside. ‘Hullo there!’
He jumped down on to the track, quickly composing his happy lack of responsibility into a straight serious face. Young Mr Audley’s problems (no doubt relating to his ‘business’, whatever it was) rated a little sympathy, but no more than that. Every junior officer had his problems—so what? ‘Ready to go?’
‘You took your time, Captain Fat-O’Rhiney.’ Audley looked past him.
Cheeky! ‘You seemed rather busy. I didn’t want to disturb you.’
‘What was all the conversation about?’
But observant as well as cheeky. So it might be as well to approach the question truthfully. ‘Captain Michaelides was interrogating me about you—how you knew who I was … Or, at least, how you were prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt because you know Matthew, anyway.’
A New Kind of War Page 3