‘But—?’ Audley seemed to have forgotten his hunger, together with his stutter and his simulated drunkenness. ‘Have you read I, Claudius?’
‘Who?’ The sharpness of the young man’s sidelong scrutiny sharpened Fred’s own wits, so that he instantly regretted the question.
‘It’s a book—by a chap named Graves. A poet, actually. But it isn’t a poetry book—you’ve heard of him—?’ Audley was suddenly embarrassed.
‘Of course I’ve heard of him. Robert Graves.’ Fred shared the boy’s embarrassment. ‘And I know about Varus.’
‘Yes. So it’s all in there—in his book, I mean. About the Romans—about Varus getting the chop, eh?’ Audley relaxed again. ‘Sorry! But I keep imagining that you’re one of Caesar Augustus’s men—another Roman history expert in disguise, leading me on—one of his fellow loonies, recruited by him, like the Alligator. But you’re a Clinton recruit, of course—out of our little Greek encounter.’ The grin became lop-sided. ‘Silly of me. But put it down to hunger. So let’s go and eat, then.’ He pointed the way.
The Alligator, thought Fred. And The Crocodile. And Colonel Caesar Augustus Colbourne. And now Publius Quinctilius Varus. It was all too much—just too damn much! ‘You still haven’t told me what we’re really doing, David.’
‘Haven’t I? Nor I have! Mmmm … that’s right—you were just asking me about Gus Colbourne—’ Audley looked past him and stopped.
‘Herr Hauptmann David, I can the meal delay no further.’ Otto bowed slightly to Fred. ‘Herr Major—’
‘No, Otto—not “I can the meal delay”. It has to be “I can delay the meal”, in that order.’
Otto shook his head. ‘I cannot the meal delay, I am telling you. The Colonel is come now, with Major Amos, at last.’ He fixed his good eye on Fred apologetically. ‘They have the United States Air Force hired. And I another pig must provide, in return.’
‘Okay, Otto. Tell them that Major Fattorini is just finishing his drink—okay?’ Audley waited until the German had bowed-and-scraped out into the darkness before turning back to Fred. ‘Poor old Otto! Out into the forest again, with his trusty rifle. And he says it isn’t so easy now, with other people hunting meat on the quiet. Not to mention dangerous, with all sorts of rough DPs still on the loose out there, he says … But there! Where was I? Colbourne, yes—“Gus” to the Yanks … “Der Kaiser” to Otto … and “Sir” to us. And “Caesar Augustus” to himself … Yes, well what he’s up to is no problem: he’s hell-bent on finding the actual site of the Hermannsschlacht—or the Varusschlacht, if you prefer.’ He grinned at Fred. ‘The site of the battle in the Teutoburg Forest where Hermann’s Germans wiped out Varus’s Romans, in A.D. 9 or A.U.C. 762, if you prefer.’ Audley slipped his hand inside his battle-dress blouse. ‘What we’re after is somewhat different, in A.U.C. 2698 … or A.D. 1945, as you and I might put it.’ He handed a leather wallet to Fred. ‘Go on—open it.’
It wasn’t actually a wallet, it was just wallet-sized: two pieces of scuffed and dog-eared stiffened cardboard, rexine-covered, held together by two snap-open metal rings.
‘Our bible,’ said Audley. ‘You’ll get one of your own. I’m surprised Amos hasn’t given you one already. But then, of course it is supposed to be Top Secret—not for strangers or other ranks, or any lesser breeds, without the law—huh!’
Something in Audley’s voice diverted Fred for an instant.
The young man’s mouth had twisted again into its familiar shape, which suggested a mixture of youthful doubt and uncertainty unnaturally aged with wartime cynicism. ‘I was only thinking that Otto probably has his own private picture-gallery … Go on—open it, man!’
It was a picture gallery—
For an instant out of time and place and circumstances—out of wet summer, and wet Germany, and all present insanity—Fred was reminded of all the group photographs he had seen over the years of his life, on the walls of school and college and home: fading sepia pictures, sharper modern pictures … pictures in which his predecessors, or even his ancestors, or even he himself had figured—stiff and unreal, in well-pressed or crumpled civilian suiting; or stiff and unreal, in unmuddied sports gear before the match, with clean rugger ball, or wicket-keeping pads, or with hockey stick, and striped jerseys or immaculate whites; or in the smartest-of-all passing-out battle-dress of OCTU, which would not be cherished and remembered by all those in it because not all those in it—that one grinning foolishly, and that one grimacing, and that one blurred—not all those were alive now, to grin or grimace, but were rotting in their graves, or off the beaches, or wherever new subalterns rotted, marked or unmarked—
But this was a gallery of Germans—
‘I always think Otto is the spit-and-image of Number 7,’ said Audley.
Some of them were in uniform, and some of them were in civilian clothes: smart, unsmart, handsome, ugly … But each one was numbered—
‘But he can’t be, of course.’
The numbers had been painted on crudely, across each chest, in white. And, since both the ‘7’ and the ‘17’ were unadorned by the continental mark, those numbers were of British origin, not German.
‘If you look closely, you’ll see that Number 7 has only got one arm,’ murmured Audley as Fred lifted the photograph closer to his eye in the uncertain light. ‘And, although Otto’s pretty-damn-clever, he’s not quite up to that—growing another arm … And also, if you turn on to the enlargements, the shape of the jaw is different, too.’
Fred delayed for a moment, as he ran his eye along the double row of mixed German military-civilian personnel, in search of a common denominator. Number 7’s right sleeve was indeed empty, and pinned under his number across his chest; and, for a fact, most of his uniformed comrades were more-or-less battered—legless, or armless, or hideously scarred … or merely old—
‘Come on.’ Audley held out his hand. ‘Amos’ll give you your own pictures in due course, Fred.’
Fred turned the group picture over, ignoring him. ‘Just a moment, David.’
Number 7, enlarged, certainly wasn’t Otto, he could see that. But somebody had done an amazingly good job of enlarging the group faces, he could see that too. It was like John Bradford had said: war had improved photography, as well as methods of navigation and surgery, and mass-murder.
‘Besides which, Number 7 is dead.’ Audley sighed. ‘Quite authentically dead. Which I know, because he was one of mine to research. And I don’t make mistakes.’ The familiar twist met Fred’s scrutiny. ‘We were rather unlucky there, as it happens.’
‘Unlucky?’
Audley shook his head. ‘Don’t make me go into details before dinner. It might put me off my food. Come on, for Christ’s sake, Fred!’ He held out his hand for the mock-wallet.
Fred folded the wallet up. Obviously there were enlargements of every one of the group, by the thickness of it. But he still kept hold of the collection. ‘What are they? War criminals?’
‘War criminals?’ Audley’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Good God, no! Perish the thought! We’re not … we’re not policemen, for God’s sake!’
Then what are they? Who are they?‘
‘Well … ’ Audley shrugged ‘ … really quite decent chaps, so far as I can make out. On the whole, I mean. That is, allowing for the fact that several of ’em were Nazi Party members. And all of ‘em are Germans, of course. Or were Germans—’ He stopped suddenly, cocking an eye at Fred. ‘You’re not one of those chaps who think the only good German is a dead one, are you?’
Fred felt his temper slipping. ‘What the devil d’you mean?’
‘What I say.’ Audley took the wallet out of his hand. ‘Because they are—or were, in the majority of cases now, unfortunately—a group of officers and gentlemen, and scholars and gentlemen, working out of the Rheinische Landesmuseum at Trier—sort of official, and also semiofficial, like the old Gesellschaft fur nutzliche Forschung.’ He grinned. They were … a sort of follow-up party to the RAF you might say.‘
That’s right. Christ, you’ve seen what we’ve done to Germany, haven’t you? That pile of broken bricks on the way from the airfield was the city of Frankfurt—Frankfurt! And it’s the same everywhere else—or worse … Cologne’s worse … or “Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensis”, as our beloved commanding officer insists on calling it.‘ Audley drew a deep breath, which became a sigh. ’A lot of fine old cities—German cities, I agree … but some of ‘em go back a thousand years—or even back to the Romans … But all flattened now.’ He stared at Fred. ‘But also cleared and opened up, too. Okay?’
It wasn’t okay. But Fred was unable to describe what it was.
‘Great chance for the archaeologists, after the war, someone thought.’ Audley nodded. ‘After Germany had won the war—’ Slight shrug ‘—they thought … a lot of rebuilding. But they mustn’t miss the opportunity to excavate first. So someone had to mark the sites for urgent excavation. They even invented a long German technical term for what they wanted to do … which I can’t remember now, because I don’t actually speak the lingo—“urgent-rescue-excavation”, it translates, more or less. But Amos will tell you, if you ask him, anyway.’ Nod. ‘Great scholars, the Germans—classical scholars.’ Audley touched his battle-dress blouse, where he had replaced the wallet. ‘Several of ’em in our picture. Stoerkel, Zeitzler, Peter von Mellenthin—the late Peter being Number 7 … ‘ Audley shook his head slowly ’Enno von Mitzlaff—scholar and soldier … Langer, Hagemann … and, of course, old Professor Schmidt himself—ex-Cambridge and Bristol Universities, friend of Mortimer Wheeler.‘ Audley paused. ’Dead, or “missing, presumed dead”, or still missing … but mostly dead, they are.‘
But not in battle, thought Fred. Because the military wrecks and the elderly civilians in the photograph were plainly not cannon-fodder. ‘How dead?’
‘Franz Langer was killed in the bombing. And we think Stoerkel was in Dresden when the RAF took it off the map—that’s near enough certain, the Crocodile says.’ No nod this time, just a stare. ‘And Enno von Mitzlaff was strung up on piano wire by the Nazis after the Hitler bomb of July 20, in spite of all his battle honours—he was one of Rommel’s bright young men … And Willi Hagemann—Dr Hagemann being Number 13 … he was unlucky, too: he was run over by a Russian staff car just as we were about to pick him up, would you believe it?’
‘Unlucky?’ There was something very wrong about this litany.
‘Yes. Apparently he didn’t look where he was going.’ Audley’s expression became curiously blank. ‘But then, we do look where we’re going. And we do seem to have the most damnable bad luck too. Our “useful researches” always seem to end up unusefully, I must say!’
Fred remembered Osios Konstandinos. ‘But they’re not all dead—?’
‘No, not all dead, my dear chap.’ Audley perked up suddenly. The elusive Number 16 isn’t dead, we think—“Sweet-Sixteen-and-Never-Been-Kissed”! And we’re going for Number 21—“Key-of-the-Door”—this very night … in the wee small hours, when he shouldn’t be expecting us. And Number 21 is rather important in the scheme of things, I suspect.‘
‘Why?’ Fred hit the question-button quickly, and therefore naturally; although as he did so he knew that it was another attempt on The Crucial Question, from what Audley had just let slip. ‘Why?’
‘Because he knows Number 16.’ Audley looked down. ‘You’ve finished your drink … so now we’ll go—right?’
Fred looked down. ‘Yes—yes, of course—’
The rain still slanted down in the courtyard, and the wet smell of earth and darkness mingled with the enveloping sounds of rainwater dripping off roofs and cascading over blocked guttering all around them.
Fred shivered, although it wasn’t really cold—although it wasn’t really cold, through the thickness of battle-dress, even remembering how it would be now under the stars on the beach in Greece, this night. Because the cold was inside him now.
‘This way,’ Audley pointed. ‘And let me do the apologizing.’
‘Of course.’ He shivered again, involuntarily. ‘What’s so important about Number 16, David?’
‘I rather think that he’s the only one we’re really interested in.’ Audley pointed again, towards a bright doorway. ‘“Sweet Sixteen”—let’s hope he lives to be kissed!’
Fred slowed deliberately. ‘Why do we want him?’
‘God only knows!’ For the first time Audley touched him, trying to propel him into the light. ‘Nobody tells me anything—I just do as I’m told.’
‘But you must have some idea.’
‘Oh yes!’ Audley grinned at him conspiratorially. ‘A lot of people hunting Germans these days—it’s open season on Nazis, of course.’
Fred frowned. ‘But you said … these were decent chaps, David?’
That’s right.‘ The grin widened. That’s what makes it interesting: we seem to be trying to save these particular Germans for posterity. The only trouble is … they don’t seem to want to be saved.’
3
FRED HUNCHED himself miserably under David Audley’s umbrella, in the midst of utter darkness and the enveloping noise of the rain descending through the forest canopy above, which damped down every other sound, just as the young dragoon had promised.
‘This is how it must have been,’ Audley had said, just before he’d disappeared into the dark, but without explaining what he meant; and then, ‘Don’t go to sleep, Fred, for God’s sake—otherwise I’ll never find you again.’
He lowered the umbrella for a moment to let the rain refresh him—mustn’t go to sleep … must think of something, anything—even the madness of dinner—
Dinner … dinner under candlelight winking silver-gold on cut glass and heavy cutlery, served off delicate bone china boasting a many-quartered coat of arms, which were not the arms of any British unit, least of all TRR-2!
Loot! he had thought, but without daring to ask, as he had felt the weight of the glass and cutlery, and the lightness and strength of the plates, one after another. Or … not loot, but the legitimate spoils-of-war—remember where you are, Fred! But, loot or spoils, it had been unreal: unreal places, unreal people, unreal conversation, unreal candlelit setting, unreal food—
‘Deer ham, Herr Major—thinly sliced, slightly smoked … what you would call “venison”, Herr Major. Upon a leaf of the lettuce, with the cranberry sauce. And also with the horseradishes sauce—so!’
‘Interesting word, “venison”.’ (Voice from down the table, not directed at him.) ‘Middle English, of course—Old French, too … “Venery”—“Venerer”—“venison”; “hunting”, “huntsman”, “hunted flesh”.’
‘“Venery”, Philip? I thought that was to do with sex, not animals. Same thing though, I suppose.’
‘Not the same thing at all, Alec. Same spelling—different root. That venery is from “Venus”—like “venereal” —’
‘Hah! Don’t have to hunt for that, by God! Whole bloody army’ll be rotten with it by this time next year, mark my words. Once the fratting really starts—when everyone’s got his own woman.’ (Harsh voice, with the faintest Scottish roll to each ‘r: big angular face, with arched nose above a mouthful of teeth.) ’Interesting though, I would agree.‘
‘I didn’t mean that. What I meant was that all hunted flesh was originally “venison”, not just the deer. Boar, hare—any game animal. It was all venison.’
‘Oh aye? And would that include the two-legged variety, then?’
‘Pheasant, grouse —’
‘Och no! I mean man, old boy! The best game of all—the gamest game … our game, tonight—’
Fred straightened up, conscious suddenly that he had slumped back against the trunk of his tree again.
Stand up straight—shoulders back—umbrella vertical—feet firmly placed (it was hard to keep them firm in the soft forest detritus into which they kept sinking)
—mustn’t doze off (the utter darkness was disorientating: how the hell would Audley find his way back to this particular tree, for God’s sake?). Then he remembered the silly little metallic toy Audley had given him, which was still clenched in his hand.
‘It’s two clicks for the assault group, and one click in recognition,’ Audley had said. ‘But if you hear three clicks, that’ll be me. And then you give four clicks back. And once I’ve left you, then you give me four clicks every five minutes, until you hear me. And then, when I give you three back, you give me four again. Right?’
It had sounded juvenile. But then Audley had said: ‘The Yank paratroopers used it on D-Day, in Normandy—it’s a clever wheeze, Fred.’ And then it hadn’t been so childish—
He pressed the toy: click-click-click-click!
Nothing. Only the sound of the rain—
‘Herr Major … Haul Brion, ’34—please?‘
‘A good year.’ (Audley’s mouth was full of deer ham.) ‘Eh?’
The best since ‘29, Captain David.’ (Otto bobbed agreement.)
‘Besides which, it’s the best wine we have with us. But if you want to enjoy it then steer clear of the horseradish.’ (The voice was friendly, slightly slurred.) ‘Alec McCorquodale—Frederick Fattorini, is it—?’
‘Yes.’ (The Crocodile, at last! But he had guessed that from the teeth already.) ‘Thanks for the advice … Alec.’
‘It’s “Freddie” actually, Alec.’ (Amos de Souza, from down the table.)
‘No, it isn’t—’ (Audley was still wolfing his deer ham.)
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