A New Kind of War

by Anthony Price

  ‘David —’

  ‘—and the bravest of the brave, too—’

  ‘David —’

  ‘—and the brightest: Open Scholar of Magdalen, Oxford, with brains to prove it—I ought to know, by Christ! Because I’ve seen them—’

  ‘David —’

  ‘Sir—’ Devenish tried to get between them.

  ‘—spread all over the top of his fucking turret—brains everywhere, halfway across Normandy! And blood, too—brains over the turret, but blood inside the tank, after he got his head blown off.’ Audley drew a quick breath. ‘I tell you, it gives a chap a whole different slant on The Merchant of Venice to find out how much blood a Jew has in him. Because we mopped up and swilled out about half of it.’ Another breath. ‘The brains on the turret were easy … But there were about ten million flies—big fat greeny-blue flies … and they lived on Ben’s blood for a week, until the Germans brewed up his tank —’

  ‘Sir!’ Devenish’s voice was coolly disciplined. ‘We’ve got less than a minute now, before we should move, according to the time-table. And we don’t know what the lie of the land is like, between here and A2.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We shall have to move out in about … forty-five seconds, sir.’ From being disapproving first, and then mildly irritated, and finally neutral, Devenish became gently encouraging. ‘Major de Souza won’t like for us to be late at A3, sir. Because he’ll be waiting for us.’

  ‘Yes … yes, of course.’ Audley took hold of his voice. Well … any questions, Fred?‘

  ‘No, David.’ The enormity of the lie somehow made it true. But then he realized that he owed it to Audley to make amends more effectively than that. ‘Or … there is one thing that confuses me a bit, actually.’

  ‘Yes?’ The boy was hauling himself back from his private nightmares now, trying to recapture reality. ‘You want to know why we always operate in pairs—the Crocodile and Sergeant Wilson? And Caesar Augustus and Busy-Izzy? And … the unbeatable Devenish-Audley dynamic scrum-half-and-fly-half combination?’ The boy was almost back to his old self. ‘We always get the ball out, to the three quarters—don’t worry!’ Sniff. ‘But “two” is logic—and experience, Fred: ancient British Army logic-and-experience, actually.’

  ‘It is?’ Fred had wanted to know no such thing but he was so enormously relieved to get away from Jews and tanks and voracious flies that he pressed the question willingly. ‘How’s that, then?’

  ‘You don’t know your Kipling—obviously! Although it’s just plain commonsense, really—

  “When from ‘ouse to ’ouse you’re ‘unting,

  you must always work in pairs—

  It ’alves the gain, but safer you will find—

  For a single man gets bottled on them twisty-wisty stairs,

  An‘ a woman comes and clobs ’im from be’ind.”

  You take the point, Fred?‘

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes … Although, actually there’s no such word as “clob”, according to the Alligator—not in that form, anyway. He thinks it’s late nineteenth-century military slang, probably Anglo-Indian. But I think Kipling just made it up, you know.’ Audley paused. ‘However … I also think that there may be another reason. For always operating in pairs, I mean. Don’t you think so, Jacko?’

  ‘I think it’s time to go, sir.’

  Thank you, Sar‘ Devenish. But I will decide when we move out.’ Audley’s tone sharpened momentarily. ‘As it happens, Fred, the route to A3 will be much easier, if the map and the air photographs can be trusted … So, as I was saying … ’Loot‘ is the title of the poem, you see. And that happens to be the one thing all ranks of this unit are not allowed, in any shape or form—unconsidered trifles, black market … blackmail—the lot. No winking, no blind eyes turned—right, Sar’ Devenish?‘

  ‘Sir.’ Devenish filled the word with sullen anger.

  ‘Thank you, Sar’ Devenish. So you see, Fred, we don’t just watch over each other, so as not to get “clobbed” from “be’ind”—we also watch each other. Right, Sar‘ Devenish?’

  ‘If you say so, Captain Audley.’ If Devenish had been a piece of coal, he would be glowing orange-red now. ‘But don’t you think you’ve said enough, sir?’

  ‘Probably. I usually say too much, I agree. But that’s because I am quite unfitted for this dirty business. To a scholar and a gentleman, it just doesn’t come naturally, you know.’

  Fred felt sympathy for the long-suffering Devenish. ‘Don’t you think we should be moving, David?’

  Audley answered this betrayal with a moment of silence. ‘Oh … have it your own way, then! No more questions, Major Fattorini? Jolly good—and good huntin’ and fishin‘, and all that—jolly good! So let’s go, then—?’

  The going was easier, just as David Audley had predicted. Or maybe, as the last clouds hurried away eastwards (as the American major had also forecast, who was still droning away in the distance), it was just that the darkness lightened even as his night-vision returned, and he no longer felt so lost and dependent.

  Yet that did not make for confidence. There were too many questions out there, unasked and unanswered—not only unasked, but unaskable, which was worse … even infinitely worse, because he had some inkling of what the answers must be, almost certainly now, after young Audley’s indiscretions … but even before that; and even long before that, from Kyri’s warnings long ago—

  Kyri … who was the antithesis of the ancient Greek virtue of moderation in all things: fatalistically brave, totally cynical and coldly cruel (it had come as a cold-water shock to learn after Osios Konstandinos how Colonel Michaelides was hated and feared by his enemies on the Left) … but also a wholly honourable man, unshakably loyal and honest with friends—

  And Kyri had said afterwards: ‘Don’t get mixed up with these people, Fred: they are not for you! Go back home, to your safe green England, and be a good Englishman and a good capitalist: make money … and find a good wife—and if you cannot find one in England, then you come to me … understood?—and make good sons, and better daughters, like my own father did … I have a little sister, in truth … No! But stay away from this man Clinton —’

  Clinton—

  He could see the loom of David Audley ahead of him: Audley moving fast and confidently on those great long legs of his, to make up time lost carelessly and obstinately, half in protest at this dirty business—

  The Brigadier had been a surprise—almost a shock—in the ruined monastery of Osios Konstandinos, after David Audley and Amos de Souza, so that even now it wasn’t difficult to remember him: a surprise not because of the searching questions beneath his surface apologies after Colonel Michaelides had finished with him—

  Clinton—a Brigadier, but not quite a gentleman, was it—?

  ‘Major—sir!’ Devenish’s voice came from just behind him, urging him on.

  ‘Yes—of course!’ Fred realized that the memory of Brigadier Frederick Clinton had slowed him down in the bottom of Audley’s Roman ditch. ‘I’m sorry —’ He started to move again.

  ‘That’s all right, sir.’ There was room for Devenish to come up beside him now. ‘You don’t want to worry about Mr Audley—Captain Audley, as I should say—you don’t need to worry about him, sir.’

  At first Fred found himself worrying that Audley should hear his confidence. Then he realized that the young dragoon was already well ahead of them. ‘No, Sergeant Devenish?’

  ‘No, sir.’ The man’s voice was perfectly pitched not to carry beyond them. But, much more arresting than that, it was confiding. ‘He’s a good officer.’ Devenish bit his tongue on that, as though momentarily undecided about continuing. ‘It’s just he talks too much, that’s all.’

  That was true. And it was also true that Devenish did not share that fault. ‘Why does he do that, Mr Devenish?’

  No reply. So whatever message the man had wished to impart had been imparted. But that wasn’t really good enough. But, then again, getting m
ore out of the man wouldn’t be easy. ‘I suppose he is very young.’ Fred pretended to speak to himself. ‘He’s much younger than the other officers … ’

  No reply. So what had sparked that curious confidence in defence of the young Audley? Was it just loyalty? And yet, after praising the boy as ‘a good officer’, Devenish had plainly suggested that he’d been talking nonsense.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Devenish agreed suddenly. ‘He is that.’

  ‘Of course.’ Fred matched the agreement encouragingly. It was nothing less than the truth, after all: apart from Colbourne himself (who must be forty if he was a day), neither McCorquodale nor Macallister would ever see thirty again; and such other officers as he had noticed in the gloom of the mess and across the candlelit dining table had all been older than he himself was; and, at a guess he had five or six years over Audley himself. And those years, lengthened by the rigours of war, made for self-confidence. ‘So I expect he’s a bit nervous, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ No delay this time. ‘I’m sure you’re right, sir: nervous is what he is. He had a bad time in Normandy. And—’

  ‘Fred! Are you there?’

  Damn!‘ Just as Devenish had been about to open up! ’We’re here, David.‘

  ‘Thank Christ for that! I thought I’d lost you for a moment!’ Audley’s voice came down to a whisper. ‘We’re almost there, I think. Jacko—if you’d go forward now. And two clicks if Major de Souza is in place—okay?’

  ‘Sir!’ Devenish lifted his own whisper, against the drone of American engines.

  Audley waited until they were alone. ‘What were you two gassing about?’

  ‘Nothing, really.’ Had Audley broken up their conversation deliberately? ‘I was just asking a few questions.’

  ‘Did you get any answers?’

  It sounded an innocent question, but Fred didn’t think it was. ‘Not really—no.’

  ‘No … you wouldn’t.’ Audley sounded relieved now. ‘He’s a good man, is our Jacko. The best, actually. But he doesn’t say much. Even the egregious Crocodile can only claim dumb insolence.’ He chuckled to himself suddenly.

  Fred echoed the chuckle, and not altogether falsely because of the sameness-with-difference of the two men’s opinions of each other. ‘Whereas your insolence will never be dumb, David?’

  Another nervous chuckle. ‘Oh … I’m only deliberately rude to the Old Croc. With everyone else it’s just accidental, Fred.’ Pause. ‘What were the jolly questions, then?’

  ‘Questions?’ Below the boy’s superficially innocent-curiosity Fred sensed wariness and suspicion—the same disturbing state of mind, in fact, which he now realized lay hidden beneath the eccentric chit-chat of all ranks of TRR-2 whom he had met so far, from the Colonel downwards. But perhaps that was the occupational disease of their ‘dirty business’, against which Kyri had warned him—?

  ‘What do you want to know?’ Silence always goaded Audley into trying again.

  ‘Ah … ’ Why doesn’t Devenish click-click and save me, damn it! ‘ … well … there was your umbrella, for a start, David.’

  ‘My—?’

  ‘Umbrella.’ Fred’s wits quickened. ‘An old cavalry tradition, you said?’

  ‘Oh … ’ Audley sounded disappointed. ‘Yes.’

  Fred knew he was on a winner. ‘Waterloo, was it?’

  ‘Yes.’ The boy sighed. ‘But actually, it started in the Peninsular War. Lots of cavalry officers had umbrellas. And then Wellington stopped it in 1814, when they crossed the Pyrenees into France—he said it was unmilitary … Although General Picton always carried an umbrella … and it came back in ’15, at Waterloo.‘ Audley paused. But then history became too strong for the future historian. ’I had an ancestor in the cavalry down there, in Spain. He was actually killed at Salamanca, charging with Le Marchant, you know. Bought into the King’s Own—the 3rd—from the West Sussex Yeomanry, my old regiment—‘ Audley stopped suddenly, again. ’Yes … well, Sergeant Devenish wouldn’t have given you anything on umbrellas—I can well understand that.‘

  ‘He doesn’t approve of them.’ Still no click-click! ‘Like the Duke of Wellington?’

  ‘Only more so. And what else did you ask of him?’

  There would be a time for real questions, but now wasn’t that time. And young Audley wasn’t the man, in spite of his inclination towards indiscretion. It was de Souza he needed for real questions. But what other unimportant questions were there?

  A single drop of rainwater, diffused through the network of overhanging branches above him, hit Fred on the tip of the nose. And that was the answer, of course.

  ‘When it was pissing down, earlier—’ He felt his voice lifting from a whisper to conversational level as the sound of the aircraft engines rose ‘—you said “This is how it would have been”, David.’ What was good about this utterly unimportant question, apart from the certainty that Devenish wouldn’t have had the answer to it, was that it actually had been irritating him, this last hour. ‘What did you mean by that?’

  ‘Oh … that’s not me, really—that’s Caesar Augustus.’

  Click-click! ‘Colonel Colbourne?’

  ‘Yes.’ Audley ignored the signal. ‘He says it every time it pisses down, Fred: “This is what it was like in A.D. 9” is what he means—’

  Click-click! ‘Ah … ’ A.D. 9? Fuck A.D. 9! ‘Was that Sergeant Devenish, David?’

  ‘Yes.’ But Audley didn’t move. ‘He reckons it was probably raining then, up in the Teutoburgerwald, when poor old Varus was trying to march his three legions through it—with all their transport, and such … Because it was pretty much a peace-time march, apparently: just showing the Roman flag—showing the Eagles—to the conquered German tribes … Three full legions, plus auxiliary regiments, plus the usual camp followers, and NAAFI waggons and all that, and the Roman ABCA people—education-wallahs, peddling the Roman Way of Life to the troops and the German natives … When, of course the German natives were leading him astray, into ambush, and sharpening their assegais and licking their lips—poor old Varus! Up to his knees in German mud, with millions of German trees around him—and thousands of bloodthirsty Germans, too—’

  Click-click!

  ‘David! Isn’t that Sergeant Devenish?’

  ‘—and the rain pissing down!’ Audley caught himself at last. ‘So it is—yes—’ Click-click-click! ‘—so we’d better be going. But … ’

  But he still wasn’t going. ‘But what?’

  ‘Illusion and reality—that’s what, old boy—’ Audley touched his arm, out of the darkness, pushing him in the desired direction ‘—illusion and reality … also like now, I very much fear!’

  ‘What—?’ Fred let himself be steered, but then slowed down.

  ‘Oh … we’re not about to be massacred, like Varus—don’t worry!’ Audley’s hand dropped away as he moved. ‘But if I pick up Amos’s signals a-right, then we just may be more into illusion than reality just now, is what I mean —’

  That was worrying—and worrying because Audley wasn’t passing on his juvenile ideas now: he was parroting Major de Souza’s fears, which would be well-matured by knowledge and experience and judgement—

  ‘Captain Audley—?’ For some unfathomable reason de Souza’s whisper out of the dark reassured Fred that things couldn’t be as bad as he had just feared. ‘David? Freddie?’

  ‘Sir!’ Audley.

  ‘David—’ With that calm voice there were people in the half-dark, and there was subdued activity all around them suddenly ‘—this is Major Hunter, of the United States Army, with me.’

  ‘Hullo there, Captain Audley!’ Deep familiar American whisper, oddly comforting.

  ‘Oh!’ For an instant Audley was taken aback by the presence of the United States Army. But then he rallied. ‘Hi there, major!’

  ‘And Major Fattorini, Royal Engineers, major.’ De Souza’s voice became very British, almost parodying itself. ‘Major Fattorini has just joined us from the Middle East, major.’

&nb
sp; ‘Major.’ Fred wondered what the collective noun for “majors” might be. “Majors” were the army’s alpha and omega: the last and highest rank for some (including all “hostilities only” officers like himself), but the “field rank” beginning of promotion to higher command, and fame and fortune, for the generals of the next generation. ‘Major.’ Major Hunter couldn’t see Major Fattorini, so neither of them knew what sort of major he was up against.

  ‘Slight change of orders, David. But nothing to worry about.’ Wisely, Amos did not introduce Sergeant Devenish. ‘Major Hunter will be accompanying us. But I shall be looking after him. So you just watch out for Krausnick—eh?’

  ‘Right-oh, Amos,’ Audley answered lightly. ‘G-g-gettin’ to be quite a crowd of us. But the more, the merrier!‘

  ‘Now, major … as I was saying … we are going to the back entrance, which is in the angle of the wall, partly concealed by some bushes, so far as we can make out from the photograph—’ De Souza’s words faded as he turned away to address the American, against the continuous background drone of the planes.

  ‘Shit!’ Audley whispered. ‘Nothing to worry about!’

  ‘No?’ As the young man put his head close, Fred picked up the familiar winter’s night smells of front-line Italy: wet uniform, sweat and alcohol, to which—less familiarly, amongst the British anyway—this evening’s dinner had added an unBritish whiff of garlic.

  ‘The Yanks suspect we’re up to something … or, rather, they don’t suspect—they know!’ The grip tightened. ‘Surprise, surprise!’

  ‘But I thought you already expected that, David?’ Jollying-along depressed young engineer subalterns was another Italian memory: it came quite naturally to him to do the same for Audley. ‘Isn’t all this—’ he almost said ‘nonsense’—‘—all this elaborate business a sort of smokescreen?’

  ‘Oh sure! But there’s so much bloody smoke about now that I can’t see either. Not that I ever can see much.’ The boy’s tone was bitter. ‘The trouble with the bloody army is that you never really know what you’re doing—I haven’t known for years … or since last year, anyway.’ He sighed. ‘I thought I was liberating Europe and winning the war. But I wasn’t doing that at all, you know.’