A New Kind of War

by Anthony Price

  What struck Fred first was the question of how Captain Audley ever fitted himself into such a small car; although, to be fair, the fact that it was parked in long summer grass which almost came up to its windows, and between two monstrous ten-tonners which diminished it further, belittled it cruelly.

  ‘It’s what Jerry called “The People’s Car”.’ Driver Hewitt patted the little car’s sloping bonnet through the grass. ‘Before the war Hitler promised ’em they’d all ‘ave one like this—an’ took their money. But uv course ‘e didn’t divvy up—’e just took their money an‘ scarpered wiv it. An’ what you’ve probably seen is the army version, what they called a “kooblewaggon”, wiv no top to it—‘ He looked up at Fred ’—like, it was their Jeep, wot the Yanks give us—‘ He returned to the car, patting its sloping roof affectionately ’—but this is the real thing, like a proper car. An‘ Major M’Crocodile sez this is one uv the very first wot they built, the Jerries did—’ Pat-pat ‘—wiv a lovely little air-cooled engine in the back, ’orizontally-opposed, what starts up a treat, no matter ‘ow ’ot or ‘ow cold it is … A little bloody marvel, is what this is … If you can get inside it, that is: we ’ave to take a shoe-‘orn to get Mister David in it, if there’s anyone in the back there—wiv ’is knees up under ‘is chin. But ’e likes it, all the same, ‘e does.’

  Fred bent down to look inside. ‘He does—?’

  ‘But we ain’t takin’ anyone in the back,‘ Driver Hewitt reassured him quickly. That’s Mister David’s—Captain Audley’s—kit in there. An’ yours too—all cleaned an‘ pressed by Trooper Lucy last night, while you were busy—don’t you worry, sir!’ Now he looked Fred up and down critically. ‘An’ if we get time, along the road, we can maybe change you up before—‘ He blinked, the wizened features contorting suddenly ’—before we gets to the Schwartzenburg for dinner, like, tonight … ‘ He looked away, up and down the lines, along which the men who had greeted them earlier were now mounting up, high above them ’—‘cause we’ve got a long drive ahead uv us, round about … if they ’aven’t repaired that bridge what’s fallen down, by the viaduct at Munchen-what’s-it, on the river there—?‘ He came back to Fred. ’If you’d get in then—right?‘ He opened the car door, pulling it against the tall grass.

  There was a curious odour inside the tiny vehicle, like nothing he could put an origin to, which made him sniff interrogatively as he searched for its source.

  ‘You don’t want to worry about that smell.’ Driver Hewitt got in much more easily behind the wheel. ‘That was from last night, when Otto was making ’is deliveries in it … I think ‘e may ’ave ‘ad something that was startin’ to go orf a bit, maybe.‘ Hewitt sniffed himself. ’But, then a lot of ‘is meat, it ain’t right until it’s been ’ung a few days—like pheasants an‘ rabbits, an’ such: they ‘ave to be goin’ orf before they’re just right—here we go!‘

  The engine whirred somewhere behind them, and fired immediately against the roar of the lorries’ engines, and the blue clouds ahead of them.

  ‘There! What did I say—?’ Hewitt squirmed in his seat. ‘You little beauty, you!’ He turned to Fred. ‘Got enough room, then—?’

  It was all too much: too much after yesterday, too much after yesterday evening … and far, far too much after last night—and even too much after what had been left of last night, running into this morning … which was also too much. ‘Yes.’ Somebody banged on the roof, half an inch from his head. Driver Hewitt shouted unintelligibly in answer, and Fred glimpsed a figure passing on up the line beyond them.

  ‘Aarrgh!’ Driver Hewitt turned to him again. ‘Good to be movin’ again—that’s what I like! An ‘specially now!’

  ‘Why especially now!’ The little man’s relief invited the question.

  ‘We bin up to somethink dodgey—dontcha know?’ Hewitt’s hand rotated the gear-lever in anticipation. ‘Dontcha know—?’

  What Fred knew was that Driver Hewitt knew a lot more than he did, even now. And what he didn’t know he was well-placed to guess at. But he needed leading on, all the same. ‘We’re still in the American Zone, are we?’

  ‘Too bloody right!’ The lorry ahead shuddered for a moment, and then lurched forward. ‘Come on, you bugger—come on!’

  That confrmed his suspicions. ‘You’ve been down here before, have you?’

  ‘Too bloody right!’ Driver Hewitt advanced the little car in the wake of the lorry. ‘We’ve bin all over—up an’ down, in an‘ out—we’ve bin there! Arsk no questions—an’ I’ll tell you no lies … that’s where we bin—‘ A half-grown bush sprang up behind the lorry, and Hewitt swung the wheel to avoid it. ’But now we’re runnin‘—an’ it’ll be back roads, wiv no questions arsked at road blocks by soddin‘ great Yank MPs swingin’ their truncheons likes they own the place. I ‘ates them … almost as much as I ’ates the Redcaps, what never done an honest day’s work in their lives, let alone a day’s soldierin‘ … But the Major—Major Amos—’e knows ‘ow to deal wiv the Redcaps. They don’t bother ’im none.‘ The little man pronounced this accolade with relish. Only then he shook his head. ’But the Yanks is different, I tell you.‘ Another shake. ’Wouldn’t want them pokin‘ around.’

  ‘Poking around … where?’

  Hewitt nodded towards the ten-tonner which bumped up and down over the ruined road surface ahead of them. ‘Inside there, for a start—inside that ’ippo.‘

  ‘Ippo?’ Hewitt might, or might not, know all about ‘Corporal Keys’. But Fred hadn’t seen the German get into the lorry.

  ‘Leyland ’ippo—one uv the new ones they was bringin‘ over last year, the Mark 2. For long-distance ’eavy work, like.‘ Driver Hewitt lapsed suddenly into uncharacteristic professionalism. ’The Mark I ‘ad an open cab. So you got boiled or froze in it—or drownded. But that’s a Mark 2 —’fact, it’s a 2A—see them dual tyres on the back? Six-inline soddin‘ diesel, what I never liked. But we’ve got some proper mechanics, thank Gawd! Not to mention Major Kenworthy, ’oo’s a bloody marvel wiv any sort of engine … An‘ it’s ’im as filled it up this time, I shouldn’t wonder—see ‘ow ’eavy it’s loaded … ‘Cause ’e was out the night before last wiv some ‘eavy liftin’ gear, too. So ‘e’s got somethink dodgey in there, too.’

  Fred sorted Major Kenworthy out from the dozen or so officers to whom he had been finally and briefly introduced after dinner. The hunting and fishing major had been … Carver-Hart—Johnnie Carver-Hart? And there had been a thin-faced, dark-haired KRRC major … but he had been Liddell—? And then a roly-poly-faced one—but he had been Ingrams, with an oak-leaf mention on his European ribbon.

  ‘Major Kenworthy?’ Everything Audley had let slip suggested that Colonel Colbourne’s Band of Brothers were collectors of men, even before last night’s raid. But one didn’t need a Leyland Hippo Mark 2A to transport human cargo.

  ‘Wiv the spectacles,’ explained Hewitt simply. ‘Now … can I arsk you somethink—if I may?’

  ‘Ah!’ Small, bespectacled and donnish-looking—and with no regimental or corps identification: Major Kenworthy! ‘What—? Yes, of course.’ He looked at Hewitt expectantly. ‘Ask away, Hewitt.’

  ‘Ah … ’ The little engine in the back whirred as Hewitt changed down, as the lorry ahead of them laboured up a slight incline in the midst of another tract of birches. ‘What’s “reciprocal”? An’ ‘oo’s Sappho—Sappho was it? The one that loves an’ sings, anyway—?‘

  A wave of tiredness engulfed Fred momentarily. But he mustn’t sleep yet. ‘“Reciprocal” means … “equal”—“equal in return”, you might say—’ He struggled for another moment to find a better definition, but then decided against it. ‘And Sappho is … or was … a Greek poet, Hewitt. A female one.’

  ‘A lady poet—a girl, is that?’ The little man persisted.

  ‘Yes.’ The problem of defining Sappho further sorely taxed him. ‘At least … she was a girl a long time ago—two or three thousand years ago. And she preferred women to men then, act
ually, Hewitt.’

  ‘Aarrgh! I knew it!’ The little man breathed out in relief.

  ‘Knew what?’ The lorry reared up dangerously ahead. ‘Steady, man!’

  ‘I knew ’e didn’t know no girls in Greece—Mister David didn’t.‘ Hewitt braked sharply. “E didn’t ’ave no time, see—I didn’t think.‘

  ‘No?’

  ‘Naow! An’ ‘e wouldn’t ’ave known what to do, anyway - ‘e don’t know nothink about girls, except in ’is books … so ‘e’s shy wiv ’em, see—‘ Hewitt screwed up his face sideways at Fred ’—we ‘ad some Queen Alexandra’s nurses come to the Schwartzenburg one night, what ’ad lost their way. So they was in for dinner, an‘ one uv ’em was sittin‘ next to ’im—a real cracker … see, I was waiterin‘ that night, ’cause Otto was short-‘anded … An’ ‘e ’adn’t a word to say for hisself—would you believe it—not a word!‘

  ‘No—?’ The idea of David Audley wordless in any circumstances was hard to accept. But there was more to this surprising confidence than that. ‘Indeed?’ He nodded encouragingly.

  ‘Aarrgh! But that don’t mean ’e don’t need watchin‘—no!’ Hewitt warmed to his subject without needing any stimulus. ‘More like, ’e needs more watching—‘specially now, see.’

  ‘Specially now—‘ Fred echoed him automatically ’—is that so?‘

  ‘Oh yes.’ Hewitt nodded back. ‘You bin in Greece. But there’s still men in Greece. Not like ’ere—‘ere all the men’s PoWs now. We got millions of ’em. An‘ the Yanks got millions. An’ the Russians ‘as got millions of ’em, Gawd ‘elp ’em!‘ He grinned unsympathetically. ’An‘ we’ve got all the girls?’

  Fred felt a frown was required. ‘But … I thought there were strict regulations against fraternization, Hewitt? In fact, there are—’

  ‘Reg’lations!’ The little man chuckled. ‘Cor! I ain’t never ’eard of any reg’lation that ‘ud keep soldiers orf uv women—’specially when the women are ‘ungry … an’ ‘ungry for food, as well as for men—an’ for soap—an‘ for fags, wot they can buy food wiv.’ This time the repeated chuckle was mirthless. ‘You want to talk to Otto, Major Fattorini, sir: a bar of soap, an’ a packet of Players, or Luckies … an‘ a nice bar uv chocolate or an ’ershey bar … an‘ you can take yer pick. An’ this is only the beginnin‘, too: we ’aven’t bin ‘ere but a few months—they ain’t bin really ’ungry an‘ cold yet. But that’ll come, you see—that’ll come!’

  He had seen it already in Italy of course, thought Fred. But that had at least been under pressure of war, and battle and murder and sudden death, which was a pretty bloody-good excuse as well as an explanation. But … but now he was being naive and childish—and something more (or worse) than that after his own Athenian experience, courtesy of Colonel Kyriakos Michaelides.

  ‘Well! But —’

  ‘Aarrgh! I can ’ear what you’re thinkin‘!’ Driver Hewitt caught him cruelly. ‘ ’E’s an orrficer—an‘ a captain, too! An’ a gentleman—an‘ a scholar, maybe?’

  ‘No.’ Hewitt had picked up that phrase from Audley himself most likely, if not from Amos de Souza. ‘I wasn’t thinking that at all, actually—’

  ‘No?’ Newly-promoted majors of engineers answering stiffly didn’t disconcert Driver Hewitt one bit. ‘Well, I bet a pound to a pinch uv—a pinch uv snuff … that you wasn’t thinking uv old Greek lady poets, sir—right on?’

  ‘No … no, I wasn’t, Hughie.’ Fred decided simultaneously that he would lie to Driver Hewitt while ingratiating himself with that diminutive. ‘I was just thinking that everything David Audley has told me about you is true, actually. And he’s a gentleman and a scholar, as you say.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Hewitt liked that, quite evidently. Because, of course, it signalled that he had another officer-and-gentleman in the bag. And yet also that didn’t perhaps do Driver Hewitt absolute justice, either. ‘ ’E’s a caution, is wot I knows.‘

  ‘Yes.’ The problem was, they were on delicate ground now. Or … not on ground at all … but very thin ice, over deep cold water. ‘You’ve been with Captain Audley long, have you?’

  ‘Since last year, sir.’ The ice creaked with that warningly-repeated ‘sir’. ‘Just about this time, it was—August.’

  August was Normandy, near enough. ‘In France, that would be—?’

  This time Hewitt didn’t reply instantly. ‘Beg pardon, sir—?’

  In Normandy, August 1944, Audley would have been how old—nineteen? With maybe two years’ military service, and a qualified tank commander … and maybe never kissed a girl, other than his mother (who wasn’t a girl) and his sister (if he had a sister; but who still didn’t qualify, anyway); and now he was in Germany, Anno Domini 1945 (or AUC whatever-it-was), where girls were to be had from Otto Schild for a bar of soap, and a packet of Players Medium Navy Cut, and a bar of ration-chocolate (all three together? Or individually? He wasn’t sure of the rate-of-exchange yet, anyway)—

  ‘Fraternization reg’lations don’t apply to us, sir.’ Hewitt changed the subject quite out of the blue. ‘Or … not to the orfficers of this unit: they ’ave the right to … to interrogate former enemy persons, oosoever an‘ where-soever—’ The precision as well as the emphasis of the wording indicated its official source—‘—as may be necessary in the course uv their duties—their duties—’ The little man’s memory betrayed him for a second ‘ —’avin‘ the appropriate orders an’ authority thereto, all signed an‘ sealed, like—’ Hewitt gave up the unequal struggle there, aware that he was obviously extemporizing the incantation now, and that Major Fattorini must know he was, and changed gear and accelerated.

  So he wasn’t going to get any more about Audley, Fred understood: even, he had already got more than he had any right to expect. But then …

  ‘I think I’ll try and get some sleep now—’ He stretched his legs as best he could, knowing that there was too much in the back of the little car to permit any more room; but at least he wasn’t right next to that whirring engine! ‘—wake me up when we get to … wherever it is … okay?’

  ‘Right!’ Hewitt settled back comfortably himself, like the old soldier he was.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Fred saw the trees—delicately-leafed birch branches and dark, uncompromising evergreens, rocket-stiff—swim past, against a grey sky.

  One last try, perhaps—

  ‘What’s Major Kenworthy got in the Hippo then, d’you think?’ He tried to sound sleepy and not-very-interested.

  Once again, no instant reply. ‘I’m sure I can’t say, sir.’ Pause. ‘Major Kenworthy … ’e likes gadgets, an‘ bits-an’-bobs of machinery—‘eavy stuff.’

  Heavy stuff—

  People were light stuff: you didn’t need a Hippo to carry off people.

  Although … that poor devil, last night, when he was dead … he’s seemed heavy, even though there was nothing to him really: but then the dead were always heavy—heavy and awkward, as though they objected to going, and were set on causing as much trouble as they could to the living, if it was the last thing they did … Which of course it was—

  Kenworthy: that was his ten-tonner—his Leyland Hippo Mark 2A, making heavy weather of every dip and undulation, with the weight of its contents …

  Kenworthy, Liddell, Ingrams, Carver-Hart, Simpson—Simpkins?—Simpkins … M’Crocodile—McCorquodale, damn it! And Then Macallister—not Macalligator: mustn’t say that!—and then Colbourne, de Souza and Audley (that was easy, like learning the dates of the Kings and Queens of England, which mathematicians always had trouble with, by some perverse illogic: 1066-1087—1087-1100—1100-1135 … the Normans were easy, and the Stuarts and Hanoverians too, later … 1714-1727—1727-1760—“George the Third remarked with a smile/ There are seventeen-sixty yards in a mile”—but the Plantagenets and the Wars-of-the-Roses lot were confusing … not like Colbourne, de Souza and Audley!)

  Mustn’t dream again: must just go out like a light and sleep, with no silly nightmares: must remember that
the war’s almost over—almost over—almost over-and-over-and-over—over-here, if not out-there … and I’m over-here, and not out-there—ignoble thought! Ignoble-sensible thought—sensible-ignoble thought—sensible-sensible thought—

  Huge, amorphous nightmare: yawning great lorry, heavy-loaded with inadequately-secured Bailey bridge components, bouncing up-and-down and shifting, because the silly-bloody driver was exceeding the speed restriction—must slow down, get off the road—get off the road—!

  Fred shook himself awake, with his mouth full of foul, leathery tongue and empty-stomach taste, quite absurdly sorry for himself, and yet also ashamed of his over-imagined horrors. Because this wasn’t Italy, the home of all Bailey bridges … this was Germany, of course!

  And it was doubly Germany, because there were trees everywhere—tall, trees, rising up on every side—and ahead, as they swung round a hairpin corner, with the engine whirring at his back—

  And no bloody-great lorry, either: as they whirred round the bend he saw the open road ahead, rising steeply—just a foul dream—

  What—?

  He sat bolt upright, and hit his head on the roof of the car—ouch!

  ‘How long have I been asleep—?’ He addressed the driver thickly, only realizing gratefully in the next second it was still Driver Hewitt in broad daylight, and not some grinning stranger whom he’d never met and couldn’t remember.

  ‘You’ve ’ad a right good sleep—quiet as a baby.‘ Hewitt grinned at him encouragingly. ’Your ‘ead did knock against the side a bit … but it didn’t seem to worry you none—’ They came to the end of the straight stretch and Hewitt spun the wheel again, twisting the little car round another hairpin ‘—so I didn’t think to wake you.’

  Fred squinted ahead, at another stretch of trees heavy with summer, and an open road still climbing ahead. And then turned quickly to peer out of the divided rear-window behind them.

  They drew away from the corner, and the road behind was as empty as the road in front. ‘Where’s the convoy?’ His voice was still thick with sleep: he could hear it outside himself, beyond the eternal whirring of the engine, but without any other sound.