A New Kind of War

by Anthony Price

  ‘So let’s go then. We can’t afford to waste any more time discussing free will and military n-n-necessity, anyway. So come on, Fred—’

  After a time Fred began to realize that he’d been going and coming on almost automatically, in almost total darkness and more by a mixture of sound and instinct. But then, when he lost the sound of Audley’s footsteps for an instant, his fear came back—

  ‘David—!’

  ‘Come on! We’ve got to move now! We can’t be late!’

  ‘David! How d’you know where we’re going?’

  ‘Don’t worry. Just follow me—’ It was no use worrying—

  Well … at least he could work out the logic of the assault: if there was anyone who could be trusted to do the clever stuff, it would be Amos de Souza—no problem there … And, by the same logic, Audley and Devenish were an ideal snatch-squad: the young dragoon was built like a brick shit-house, and Devenish was a veteran and a hard man, as he himself had reason to remember.

  He almost tripped up, on an invisible fallen branch thicker than anything he had encountered before, and saved himself with Audley’s stick; and caught the sound of the boy crashing his way ahead, regardless as a tank, and, in the surrounding silence, almost as noisy—

  Then the noise stopped. ‘Are you all right, Fred?’

  ‘Yes.’ Led by the voice, and with all his senses sharpened by the night, he could just see something darker in the darkness of the forest. Or he might just be imagining that he could? ‘But I can’t really see a damn thing.’

  ‘I can. So don’t worry—just follow me.’ Audley waited for him to close up again. ‘We’ve got to leg it now, too. Because we can’t be late for the fun—Amos would never forgive me if I missed the party, you know. Right?’

  Fred clenched his teeth, trying to forget the aftermath of those other Italian fun-parties when the dawn had revealed the bodies of the fun-party-goers on the river banks, with others bobbing in the shallows among the wrecked pontoons, or caught in the reeds. And the bobbing corpses were usually his men, too, because the heavily-laden infantry sank to the bottom quickly: they were the ones you trod on, who had drowned quietly in three-foot of water, when you went to recover the sodden engineer bundles later on—damn! Damn! Damn! Damn! ‘Right, David. But I hope you know what you’re doing—and where you’re going.’

  But Audley didn’t go. Instead his torch came on suddenly, blinding him totally.

  ‘Put that damn thing out!’ The old night-discipline asserted itself.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Audley soothed him quickly. ‘We’re still half a mile from A2. No one can see us here—and I know exactly where we are, too! Look—’ Instead of going out, the torch-beam swept left, and then right, into the forest ‘—see?’

  Fred tried to see. ‘We’re in … some sort of ditch—?’ That was all he could see in the pale yellow light as it moved, directing his eye: there were banks either side, humpy and uneven … but banks, nevertheless, with trees on either side, and only the minor debris of fallen branches in the bed of the ditch, ahead of them.

  The torch went out. ‘That’s right: we’re in a ditch. And so long as I don’t go up on the bank on either side—which I can feel with my feet … and my umbrella … because you’ve got my ashplant now, damn it!—then we’re on the right track to A2 … right?’ The tightness of Audley’s voice marked the end of his patience. ‘So we’re going, Fred—“quam celerrime”, as my old Latin master used to say—or “double-quick”—or “on the double”—?’

  They went, then. And they went almost, but not quite, ‘on the double’—the old sergeant-major’s double, hallowed on a thousand parade-grounds and route-marches … but as close to it as the ditch, and the debris in it, and Audley’s longer legs, permitted—

  (But—dear God Almighty! Damn you, Kyri, for getting me into this mess—damn you! And I could be dining with you in Athens, this very night, but for that, Colonel Michaelides, damn you!)

  (Phew! The bloody ditch was almost vertical now!) And—he could feel the sweat running down his chest—And—thank God he was nearly at the top now! He could even see, far off on his right, a few distant lights twinkling of what remained of German civilization.

  But—a ditch? Since when did ditches climb up almost vertical hillsides in forests—?

  ‘David!’ The name came out in a hoarse exhausted wheeze. But then, as he opened his mouth again to repeat it, the sound of an aircraft which had been droning in the back of his consciousness suddenly increased, drowning out his intention and replacing it with the fear that even if he clicked now, Audley wouldn’t hear him. So instead he felt around with his stick like a blind man, for the guidelines of the improbable ditch on either side of him.

  They were still there—there first on one side, and then on the other, as the continuous drone became a steady drumming, and then graduated to a final ear-splitting roar as the plane swept over them finally, far too low for comfort, above the top of this Taunus hill.

  Eventually the sound died away. But then, even as it did so, he heard more droning engines—Click-click-click-click, he pressed desperately.

  Click-click-click came back to him, humiliatingly close—but then click-click—two more clicks, but further off and almost drowned by the second approaching aircraft.

  Christ! Maybe they weren’t so clever at that! thought Fred, clicking again instinctively. What if there were a couple of mad low-flying Yanks up there, practising their night-flying … or maybe helplessly lost, and circling the airfield on which he’d landed a few hours back—?

  ‘Hullo there—Fred?’ Audley pitched his voice against the crescendo of sound, as the second plane swept overhead. ‘Jolly good!’

  ‘Is it?’ There would soon come a point when this young man’s version of Amos de Souza’s nonchalance irritated him beyond endurance.

  ‘You’ve still got the bag, I hope?’ Audley’s cheerful confidence was worse than de Souza’s imitation. That last bit was bloody steep, wasn’t it?‘

  Foul words presented themselves. But already the first aircraft was on its second circuit. ‘Yes—’ He had to shout ‘YES!’

  ‘JOLLY GOOD!’ Audley waited then, until the first plane had passed over them for the second time. ‘We’re almost there—you heard Sar’ Devenish’s signal?‘

  ‘Yes.’ He couldn’t say that he hadn’t been warned: Audley had warned him that Colonel Colbourne was a lunatic, and Colonel Colbourne had warned him that all his officers were mad. And, long ago, Kyri Michaelides had warned him to steer clear of them all. ‘What sort of ditch is this?’

  ‘What—?’ As Audley started to speak the drumming of the second aircraft increased. ‘WHAT?’

  This time, impossibly, it was worse: in the black starless sky the second plane almost touched the tree-tops just ahead of them, with its red-and-white lights winking to outline it.

  ‘WHAT … ’ Audley let the sound disperse before he continued ‘ … sort of ditch?’

  So he had heard, the first time. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes—of course! It’s—’

  Click-click!

  ‘I didn’t have time to tell you—’ Click-click-click Audley returned ‘—it’s a Roman ditch, Fred. Because we’re spot on the old Roman front line, which curves up round Frankfurt—or “Moguntiacum”, as Caesar Augustus Colbourne is wont to call it—the old Roman limes, in Latin: it linked up with their Raetian defences, on the Danube, with the Antoine Line, on the Main … and then north and west through the Upper German lines, to reach the Rhine at “Confluentes”—which is Coblenz to poor ignorant types like you and me, Fred—’ Audley’s voice had been lifting as he continued, becoming a shout again ‘—FRED—’

  It was no good replying. With the noise, he could hardly think.

  ‘The Romans dug a ditch, all the way from the Danube to the Rhine—’ Now as the sound decreased, Audley adjusted to it again ‘—with look-out posts, and forts … sort of, like Hadrian’s Wall, but not so good—sort of customs-and-excise,
plus soldiers … Hadrian’s Wall—?’

  ‘I know what Hadrian’s Wall was. Go on, man.’ The planes were going away at last, it seemed. But he couldn’t be sure. ‘Go on—?’

  But Audley appeared to have been struck dumb by the mounting silence.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ After so much noise after so much silence, Fred cracked first. And he also heard one of the planes coming back again. ‘We’re in the Roman ditch—is that it?’

  ‘That’s right. Our billet—the fort … is on the same line. Ten or twelve miles away, as the Roman legionary might walk it—eight or nine, as the crow flies. But twice as much, on the road tonight. And now we’ve done about a mile and a half, from A1. Anyway … With another half a mile to do, to the objective. Which is also on the line —’

  Click-click! came out of the darkness ahead of them.

  ‘—and we should be moving now. Because A2 is damn close to A3, I tell you. And the Yanks’ll be in position now, I’d guess.’

  The circling planes were only a drone, but they were still out there, higher up, yet not far away. And suddenly Fred knew why.

  Click-click-click! Audley answered. ‘Right, Fred?’

  ‘The planes will be coming back as we close in, I take it? To drown our approach-sound?’ Amos de Souza had almost said as much, he remembered now. ‘Spot-on, major! An old trick—’

  ‘They’ll be awake, of course.’

  ‘Oh, sure. And tired and irritable too, because Jake Austin’s been night-flying over them for the last week. So … awake, but not suspicious, supposedly.’ Audley spoke lightly. ‘An old trick … an old British Army trick … first witnessed by Brigadier Clinton’s father in 1918—his father being a lance-corporal at the time, according to Amos … night-flying noise, to conceal the real noise of hundreds of British tanks starting up outside Villers-Bretonneaux, near Amiens, on the night of August 7th/ 8th, 1918.’ He sniffed. ‘Personally … it’s all bloody stupid, if you ask me.’

  For a moment the memory of Brigadier Clinton, in the ruins of the Osios Konstandinos monastery, almost diverted Fred from his sudden doubts. But not quite. ‘You don’t like it, David?’

  For a moment he could feel Audley staring at him in the darkness, undecided, but weakening. ‘Spot-on again, major—if you must know … yes. I don’t think I like it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Audley couldn’t go back now. ‘Too-bloody complicated by half, if you ask me … even apart from our past debacles … one of which you witnessed, as I recall, major—back in Greece?’

  Fred remembered Osios Konstandinos all too well. ‘So what do we do, David?’

  There was silence for a moment. ‘We obey orders, like always. But … if you’ll watch my back tonight, Fred, then I’ll try to watch yours—right?’

  4

  CLICK-CLICK … click-click: the sound came out of the darkness ahead of them again, faint but clear against the distant drone of the night-flying aircraft.

  ‘That’ll be Devenish at A2—good for old Jacko!’ Audley spoke cheerfully. ‘With Sergeant Devenish looking after us now we shalln’t come to any harm … Has it occurred to you, Fred, to wonder why we’ve been for this unpleasant and unnecessary perambulation tonight?’

  ‘It did cross my mind.’ Perambulation! ‘But shouldn’t we be clicking back, David?’

  ‘In good time. It was bloody Caesar Augustus’s idea … although the Crocodile probably put him up to it—or maybe the RSM. They all conspire to make me do everything the hard way. If I had a nice German girlfriend they’d make me sleep with her in a hammock, I suspect.’

  ‘Why do they do that?’ Not that the question required an answer, thought Fred.

  ‘Oh … to keep me “up to the mark”, Caesar Augustus says. So tonight was my bit of night map-reading, apparently—they knew I’d be bloody lost without Devenish … What they didn’t know was that Amos is a decent sort—hah!’ Audley chuckled. ‘He gave me the A-line, which follows the old Roman ditch. And even I couldn’t lose that, he reckoned.’

  It might have been decency. But it might also be that the contents of the bag were too important to be lost, decided Fred.

  Click-click.

  ‘The truth is, they just don’t like cavalrymen,’ continued Audley innocently.

  ‘Especially cavalrymen who carry umbrellas?’

  ‘Ah … I try not to let them see my brolly, actually. But it is a fine old cavalry tradition, you know—Salamanca and Waterloo … I’m just sorry you’ve had to suffer with me, is what I mean. They’ve got nothing against sappers, I’m sure—Is that you, Jacko?’

  ‘Sir.’ The answer was midway between a growl and a grunt, warning them that the sergeant had noted Audley’s failure to click his proper recognition signal.

  ‘Don’t be so bad-tempered, Jacko.’ For his part, Audley was quite unabashed by this disapproval. ‘We’re the ones who should be pissed off, having had to blunder about in the rain quite unnecessarily, just because Caesar Augustus —’

  ‘Sir!’ Devenish interrupted his officer loudly. ‘Have you brought Major Fattorini with you?’

  ‘What?’ Audley’s tone was incredulous. ‘For Christ’s sake, Jacko! Who the hell d’you think I’ve got? Field Marshal Montgomery? Or Caesar … ’

  ‘Sir!’ Devenish’s voice changed. ‘Captain Audley is here with Major Fattorini, sir!’

  ‘Thank you, sergeant.’ Colonel Colbourne spoke out of the further darkness, beyond Devenish. ‘I heard.’

  ‘Oh b-b-bugger!’ whispered Audley. ‘Hullo there, sir … ’

  ‘Captain Audley.’ The slight weariness in the Colonel’s voice was more eloquent than anger. ‘You are two minutes late.’

  ‘Sss—’ Audley’s treacherous tongue tied itself up, and Fred crossed his fingers. ‘Sir!’

  ‘Yes?’ Although that was the correct and complete answer, Colbourne still pursued the boy. So those two lost minutes could hardly be crucial to the success of the operation. And, although the boy had only himself to blame, that altered the case somewhat.

  ‘It’s pretty dark out there, sir.’ He kept the words level, as a statement rather than an excuse. ‘The terrain is difficult, too. I had difficulty keeping up with Captain Audley.’

  Colbourne sniffed. ‘Thank you, major. I take it you still have the bag which the adjutant gave you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He felt himself relax.

  ‘Good.’ Another sniff. ‘This operation is meticulously planned. It is not going to go wrong. You will follow Captain Audley and Major de Souza, and do exactly what they tell you tonight, major. Audley will have told you what’s happening.’

  Another sniff came out of the dark, but it came from a different direction and was even more obviously derisive.

  ‘Very well, then—carry on, Captain Audley … and no more lost minutes, eh?’ Colbourne paused. ‘Mr Levin!’

  ‘Sar!’ The bark came from the direction of the second sniff.

  No one spoke as the Colonel withdrew in the direction of the bark, vanishing into the night.

  ‘Whew!’ exclaimed Audley. ‘Thanks, Fred.’ He breathed out again. ‘I’ll bet it was that bastard Levin who wound him up.’

  The boy was incorrigible. ‘The RSM?’

  ‘That’s right. Mister Levin to the likes of us—Mister Isaac Levin, DCM—ex-Desert Rat, with the emphasis on rat … scourge of subalterns and other ranks … but, more to the point, old comrade and chief informer and eminence grise to Colonel Augustus Colbourne, DSO—our beloved emperor.’ Audley produced a sniff of his own. ‘And “Busy-Izzy” behind his back—don’t they call him that, Jacko?’

  Devenish cleared his throat. ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Jacko!’ Audley shrugged off his bodyguard’s disapproval. ‘You know they do—come on!’

  Another pause. ‘I … have always found Mr Levin to be a most efficient warrant officer … sir.’

  ‘Oh yes? And you have also found yourself disliking him as much as I do�
��almost as much as we both dislike the Crocodile … The only difference is that Busy-Izzy is scared of you, because you know your King’s Regs like the back of your hand. So he knows he’ll burn his fingers if he tries to lay one of them on you … Whereas he damn-well persecutes me. In fact, but for Amos he’d have had me tarred and feathered, and run out of Schwartzen-burg on a rail long ago—’

  Somehow Fred was beginning to see in the dark, but also in his imagination too, without sight. And so Audley had his mouth open now, but Devenish was tight-lipped, he imagined.

  ‘Major Fattorini’s all right. He’s one of us, Jacko.’ Their joint silence sucked Audley on. ‘Busy-Izzy is a circumcised shit—and you know it!’

  ‘I’m sure I can’t say, sir … ’ Something goaded Devenish out of his own safe silence, forcing the words out into the open. ‘They may call Mr Levin names … behind his back … for all I know. I expect they do.’

  A most diplomatic answer, thought Fred: like any sensible soldier, Devenish was loyal to himself and his own interests first. But more to the point, he was learning something about Audley from his indiscretion. And he needed to know more, if this was the case.

  ‘You don’t like Jews then, David?’ As he spoke, he remembered that this same problem had also surfaced in Greece, as replacements from the Middle East had percolated through, and there had been officers and other ranks posted from Palestine whose experiences (and consequent anti-Jewish prejudices) had conflicted horribly with all the ghastly information coming out of Europe.

  ‘What?’ The presumption of Fred’s question stripped the copy-cat de Souza casualness from Audley’s voice. ‘What? —’

  Time’s getting on, sir—‘ began Sergeant Devenish.

  ‘Shut up, Jacko! What did you say, Major Fattorini? I don’t … what?’

  The boy was angry. So maybe he had jumped to a wrong conclusion. But this wasn’t the time to explore the matter further. ‘I’m sorry, David. Forget it—okay?’

  Wot?‘ Audley’s outrage cut him off. ’Let me tell you this, Major Fattorini: my best friend in the Wesdragons—he was a “Jew-boy” as they say … And circumcised to prove it—and no church parades for him, lucky blighter—‘