‘Yes. Quite remarkable, his pictures—very fine. Never seen such eloquent testimony of the way the Roman field-systems continued.’ The Colonel’s voice was animated by something of the RAF intelligence officer’s enthusiasm. ‘Bit too taken up with the Etruscans, for my taste—a rum lot, the Etruscans. Like the damned Greeks.’ He frowned at Fred suddenly. ‘I wonder what he’s doing now.’
‘Sir?’ For a moment Fred thought that the latest frown was directed at him, and closed his open mouth smartly. But then he saw that the question was self-directed, and the Colonel wasn’t really looking at him at all. ‘You mean Flight-Lieutenant Bradford—?’
‘Ye-ess … I wonder whether we could get him up here, come autumn, when the leaves are off the trees.’
The frown went clear through Fred. ‘No problem with the equipment—the Yanks can take care of that, even if the RAF can’t. It might not produce anything … probably wouldn’t.’ The intensity of the pale eyes was most disconcerting. ‘But if Varus did build a marching camp—just one marching camp, mind you—just one … somewhere on the middle Weser or the upper Lippe.’ Nod. ‘In fact, we could draw an arc from Moguntiacum to Castra Vetera, coming back through Detmold, and try that for a start … And Bradford would be the very man to spot the slightest sign of one—he’d know a Roman marching camp from an iron age enclosure at a glance—at a glance!’ The eyes focused on Fred, with a fierce yellow lamp-light glint in them. ‘Good man, Major Fattorini—Freddie! I hadn’t thought of that—stupid of me, but I hadn’t! Air photography, by God! Should have thought of that, by God!’ He smacked his fist decisively into his other palm. ‘Yes. I suppose I could ask the RAF—in fact, they’ve probably got a million pictures of the whole area, full of bomb craters miles from the target … Detmold was quite well-bombed, as I recall—Luftwaffe station not too far away, I think … But it would be easier to borrow a pilot and a plane from the Yanks. They’ve got the planes and the pilots—yes.’
And you’ve got the pigs, thought Fred, utterly disorientated by this new and irrational turn of an interview which had never made much sense. But then, if the Colonel wanted to give him credit for a chance remark he might as well claim it while he could. ‘Flight-Lieutenant Bradford was an extremely competent interpreter, as I recall, sir.’
‘Yes, you’re absolutely right, Freddie.’ The Colonel seemed to have forgotten that he’d said as much himself, in his enthusiasm. ‘Good man!’ He nodded. ‘You’ll do—you’ll do, by God!’
Fred saw his chance at last, in a flash. ‘Do what, sir?’
‘What?’ Colbourne was still staring down from a great height inside his brain, at—what was it? Marching camps—? Somewhere on the middle of the Weser or the upper Lippe—‘What?’
‘Do what, sir?’ The Weser was a German river. In fact, it was the German river into which the Pied Piper of Hamelin had piped all the rats, before he’d piped away all the children. So the Lippe was probably another German river—another Rhine tributary. But what the bloody hell was a marching camp! ‘You said … I’d do.’ He mustn’t lose his temper. Not with his new commanding officer. ‘I was merely wondering why you wanted an officer of engineers, Colonel Colbourne. My posting orders were not precise on the point.’
Colbourne blinked at him, as though at a fool. ‘They weren’t—? No … well, of course, they wouldn’t have been—would they.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘But we’re late, so let’s go … You ask Amos—Major de Souza, whom you’ve met … Come on, come on—’
Fred started to move, but then stopped automatically, to give his Commanding Officer precedence. Colbourne also started to move, but then stopped, and faced him. ‘Or you could ask young Audley—he’ll tell you if you ask him, later tonight. Can’t talk shop in the mess … but you’ll be with him tonight afterwards, and you’ll have plenty of time then, I don’t doubt—go on, man, go on!’
Fred gave up, and went ahead, out into the feeble glow of the hanging lantern, not knowing where he was going and almost without hope, but remembering the ORs’ favourite litany as he did so: ‘Roll on death—demob’s bound to be a failure!’
‘Left, left—towards the light there—’ Colonel Colbourne pointed down the pillared cloister ‘—but don’t believe all he says, eh?’
The pillars were unreal: only the utter darkness beyond them—a darkness emphasized by the flashed reflection of the occasional raindrop out of the millions which were falling in the open square outside the pillars—only that darkness was real: Colbourne wasn’t real either, and Audley was a nightmare from the past … and the allegation that this was a Roman fortress set the seal on them both.
‘All my officers are mad, quite mad,’ Colbourne confided, from just behind him.
Kaiserburg, he had been thinking. But now Colonel Colbourne and Captain Audley were in total agreement—
‘Quite mad.’ Colbourne agreed with himself. ‘In any sort of military sense … almost unemployable, in fact.’
The Kaiser’s Burg, Fred applied himself to his original thought, unwilling to let Colbourne and Audley agree with each other. But perhaps that wasn’t Kaiser Wilhelm’s Castle: perhaps it was Castra Caesaris … or would it be ‘Castrum’ Caesaris—?
‘But as a sapper you’ll have no trouble with them—’ Colbourne touched his arm ‘—round the corner, then on your left there.’
He was exhausted, and filthy, and he wanted a pee. But if that was the officers’ mess, he needed a drink, and a strong one, and a large one even more urgently.
‘And then … the Brigadier wouldn’t have asked for you if he didn’t think you were suitable—mmm?’ The Colonel rumbled question-and-answer in the back of his throat. ‘In fact, he said—Ah Amos! There you are!’
Major de Souza appeared in the wide double-doorway. ‘Gus! You’re damned late for dinner. Your pig has been crying out for you—and so has Otto, actually.’
‘I’m sorry, old boy—I really am.’ The Colonel would have pushed past if Fred hadn’t already been trying to get out of the way. ‘But look here—I want you to get on to the RAF—try Wing Commander Fraser first, at Minden, he’ll know who to get on to … You remember him?’
‘I remember him.’ De Souza winced slightly. ‘But what do you want, Gus?’ He rolled an eye at Fred, sympathetically. ‘Can’t it wait?’
‘Air photography, Amos—what about that, eh—?’
‘Air photography?’ De Souza abandoned Fred, expressionless now. ‘What about air photography?’
‘It’s the answer to all our problems.’ Colbourne lifted a tumbler off a silver tray which had materialized out of the darkness at his elbow, held by a white-gloved hand on the end of a disembodied white-coated arm, without taking his eyes off Amos. ‘Got it off Freddie here—he’s a friend of John Bradford’s. Very clever young man.’
‘I never doubted it.’ Amos misunderstood the reference suavely. ‘But I haven’t got any problems, that I am aware of. Except in the matter of demobilization, that is. And who the hell is John Bradford?’ he looked sideways quickly. ‘Otto! Where is Major Fattorini’s drink?’
‘Herr Major!’ The disembodied arm acquired a substantial body—an immaculately white-coated body topped by a beaming red-brick face slashed diagonally by a line holding a black eye-patch in place. ‘Herr Major! My most profound apologies! What is your pleasure?’
‘I didn’t mean Freddie, Amos,’ snapped Colbourne.
‘He’s not a clever fellow?’ Amos simulated surprise. ‘I rather thought he was. Oxford degree, and all that—and a better one than yours, Gus, actually … Mathematics was it, Freddie? Are you a musician too? They say music goes with maths, don’t they?’
Fred was caught once again with his mouth open, midway between the piratical Otto and the baffling proximity of his Commanding Officer, and Amos de Souza’s transformed behaviour, and all the questions which had suddenly been directed at him.
‘Good God, Amos! Let the poor man order his drink, damn it! First things first—eh, Freddie?’ Colbourne se
emed oblivious of Amos’s scorn. ‘You order your drink—and you come away with me, Amos, and I’ll tell you all about young Bradford … ’ As he trailed off, the Colonel raised his head and stared into the encircling lamp-lit gloom in a series of jerky movements, as though he was searching for something. ‘Where is young David? He’s never there when I want him … where the devil is he—?’
De Souza turned slightly, ‘David!’
A huge presence loomed from behind the one-eyed Otto. ‘You c-called, Amos?’
‘Look after your friend.’ De Souza returned his attention to the Colonel as he spoke. ‘Get him a drink and introduce him to everyone … Now, Gus … you just tell me all about this John Bradford of yours … and about air photography—right?’ He pointed into the gloom.
‘Herr Major—’ One-eyed Otto tried desperately to catch Amos’s attention.
‘Gently, Otto, gently! Your pig will just have to keep … Gus—?’ De Souza’s hand shrugged off Otto and directed his Commanding Officer in a flowing double-gesture. ‘Just give us a few minutes.’
Mess rules, Fred decided belatedly: outside wherever the mess happened to be Colonel Colbourne was God Almighty; but one inch over the threshold of the mess he was primus inter pares—just another officer, who talked military shop at his peril. And since he made the rules, those were the goddamn rules.
‘Don’t w-worry, Otto!’ Audley wound a great arm round the white-coated pirate familiarly. ‘Your pig won’t run away squealing. More like, his crackling will c-c-crackle even better!’
‘Ach! He will crackle all right—he will crackle all through, is what he will do! But where will all his good juices go? Up the fucking chimney, I tell you, Captain David—up the fucking chimney!’ One-eyed Otto rounded on Audley angrily.
‘Well I like my meat overdone. Better a burnt sacrifice than one bloody offering, any day.’
‘So?’ Otto almost accepted this reassurance, but then rejected it. ‘But you are a child—you know no better.’ He shook his head at Audley. ‘The war has ruined you: you think you have won … but the truth is, you have lost.’ The shake continued for a moment, and then became a shrug. ‘We have all lost—that is the truth!’
‘No.’ Audley shook his head back at the man. ‘You have lost—and the Yanks and the Russians have won—remember?’
Otto brought both hands—white-gloved hands—in front of him, chest high and clenched. ‘But they don’t have my pig.’
‘But the Colonel won’t blame you, Otto—he won’t know, will he?’ Audley matched Otto’s gesture, except that his big hands were unclenched and placatory, as though he was trying to sell the over-cooked pig.
‘Fuck the Colonel! It is my pig—and I know!’ Otto looked up at Audley. ‘And he was a good one—he deserves better, Captain David.’
Audley nodded seriously. ‘Fuck the Colonel—I quite agree: a very p-p-p-proper sentiment. But—’ Suddenly he became aware of Fred, and clapped his hand to his mouth, looking from Otto to Fred, and then back again ‘—b-but, hadn’t you better offer Herr Major Fattorini a drink, like you were ordered to—?’
‘Ach, du lieber Gott!’ Otto faced Fred, open-mouthed. ‘Sir?’
‘What would you like?’ Audley moved into the instant of silence.
It took Fred another second to gather his wits. ‘What have you got?’
Audley grinned. ‘You name it—we’ve got it. Except … if you’ve acquired a taste for that dreadful Greek retsina … and we’re not actually very good on Italian wines, either.’ He paused. ‘Bordeaux and Burgundy … we have some unconsidered trifles, which are almost settled down now. But we shall be offering them with Otto’s pig. And I would personally recommend the Haul Brion, rather than the lighter clarets. But, then, I am not a Burgundy man—Otto thinks that is a sign of callow youth, but it’s still my opinion—right, Otto?’
Otto spread his hands. ‘The Haul Brion is superb.’
‘Ex-Luftwaffe Haut Brion.’ Audley nodded. ‘But we’ve also got some delectable Hocks and Moselles—very refreshing and invigorating. And you can still have the Haut Brion with the pig—’ He looked towards Otto ‘—and with the deer ham before, maybe? Would that be okay, Otto?’
But Otto was staring at Fred. ‘I think the Herr Major may be thinking of something stronger at this moment.’
Christ! The Herr Major was thinking of anything! thought Fred, despairingly.
‘Well … if it’s a sherry, we have it.’ Another Audley nod. “The most delicate dry sherry—also courtesy of the Luftwaffe … and presumably, General Franco—‘
‘We have whisky.’ Otto knew his man better. ‘Ration Red Label and VAT 69. Black Label. Single Malt—and an Islay Malt, which is good. And good gin, Booth’s and Gordon’s—’ He stopped suddenly. ‘And we have also Tennessee whiskey, of Jack Daniel. And several other American whiskies. And rum from Puerto Rico and Cuba, as well as Jamaica. But only a little Trinidad rum, I regret.’
‘Yes. That’s because the Crocodile likes it. So you’d better lay off that,’ agreed Audley hastily. ‘But brandy, of course. And a whole lot of Russian vodkas, of varying toxicity … which I wouldn’t actually recommend. And a whole lot of other things—just try us, and see—okay?’
Curiosity was great. But thirst was greater. ‘I’ll have a large Black Label—as soon as possible, please.’ Fred looked around. There were other officers in the gloom, but as Audley wasn’t trying to introduce them he’d better let that go. ‘You don’t travel light then? Alcoholically speaking.’
‘No, we don’t.’ Audley grinned happily. ‘We inherited all the contents of the Schwartzenburg cellars, and it was a Luftwaffe headquarters. And we’re a very small unit, you see … So the aim is to drink the place dry by New Year’s Day, 1946.’
Fred started to think Audley wasn’t stuttering. But then Otto materialized at his elbow, with his silver tray again, and a glass on it.
‘Thank you.’ The glass was large and heavy, and there was a lot in it.
‘We have no ice. But you would not have wanted that.’ Otto bowed slightly. ‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen—?’
‘Go on, Otto, go on.’ Audley waved at the man. ‘Just make sure you keep the Crocodile’s glass full, that’s all—I want him in a benign mood this evening.’
‘Because of the injury to his car?’ Otto checked, and nodded. ‘Yes?’
‘Oh, you know, do you? But of course you do!’ Audley leaned towards Fred. ‘All is known to Otto—Otto knows everything. Otto can get you anything—isn’t that true, Otto?’
‘Have no fear.’ Otto raised a white-gloved hand. ‘The master has been well-attended.’ He bowed to Audley and backed away into the gloom again.
‘Yes, I don’t doubt.’ Audley watched the white coat disappear before turning back to Fred. ‘Otto likes Hughie—they’re thick as thieves. Which, of course, is what they both are. So they recognize the other’s worth … Amazing, really, when you think about it.’
‘Amazing?’ Somehow, Fred didn’t think Audley was referring to the Otto-Hughie entente, from the way he spoke. ‘What is?’
‘Trinidad rum.’ Audley nodded. ‘It’s rather amazing that Otto very quickly discovered that it’s Major McCorquodale’s favourite tipple—his Achille’s heel, if you like … in so far as a crocodile can have an Achille’s heel … But it’s absolutely amazing—quite incredible really—that he was then able to conjure up supplies of the stuff, here in Germany.’ He shook his head. ‘Trust our Otto!’
‘He’s the mess waiter—?’ Fred sipped his whisky cautiously, aware that there were many other items of information he needed more urgently.
‘Oh … not really.’ Audley’s unlovely features screwed up conspiratorially. ‘He’s a lot more than that. In fact, he doesn’t usually honour us with his presence before dinner … unless we’re entertaining top brass, anyway.’ He brought his face close to Fred’s ear. ‘I rather suspect that the white-coat-and-gloves have been put on solely for Hughie’s benefit, to make sure that Major M
cCorquodale is well-oiled this evening. Because one of his very few virtues is that alchohol makes him mmm-more agreeable.’
It occurred to Fred that Audley, if not Major McCorquodale, had already drunk deeply. Which was at once surprising, but also somewhat disquieting, if there was some sort of night-operation ahead of them, as the Colonel had indicated. And with the whisky warming his empty stomach his surprise and disquiet concentrated his mind on that.
‘There’s something on tonight, I gather.’
‘Yes—uh-huh.’ Audley buried his face in his glass. There’s a kraut-hunt tonight, crowning all our recent inquiries. It’ll probably end in nothing—or disaster. But at least the weather’s on our side.‘
‘The weather?’ Fred recalled Audley’s umbrella.
‘Yes.’ Audley craned his neck, peering into their ill-lit surroundings from his full height. ‘You know, we really ought to start eating soon, or Otto’s jolly old porker will be spoilt … and the Crocodile does seem sufficiently well-oiled now … But Caesar Augustus is jawing poor old Amos again!’ He gave Fred an accusing look. ‘What on earth did you say to set him off?’
‘If I told you, you’d never believe me!’
‘Oh yes, I would! Where Augustus Colbourne is concerned, nothing is unbelievable—’ Audley caught his tongue. ‘You’re not a friend of his, by any unhappy chance? But no … you are a Brigadier Clinton volunteer, aren’t you.’
That was too much. ‘I am not a volunteer.’ Fred felt his patience stretch thin. ‘I’ve only met your brigadier once, damn it—and it was you who introduced me. So I have you to thank for being here, when I could be sunning myself on a Greek beach—eh?’
‘Me?’ Audley blinked at him. ‘No—honestly … I only told him who you were, that time.’ The boy’s mouth twisted nervously. ‘And I actually told him mostly about Matthew—I’d never met you before … And that uncle of yours, who used to come down to the school, and give Matthew fivers at half-term and on Foundation Day. And he seemed to know all about him the moment I opened my mouth.’ The mouth turned downwards. ‘Maybe I did lay it on a bit thick … but I thought you wanted to get away, I mean—?’
A New Kind of War Page 10