A New Kind of War

by Anthony Price

  ‘Because your Greek friends have been double-crossing you, in Greece?’ There was the very smallest nuance of surprise in the Brigadier’s expression. ‘Notably your friend, Colonel Michaelides?’

  That was mean—no matter how accurate. But at least it cleared the way for what Brigadier Clinton really wanted in that ‘truth’ of his. ‘Partly that, I suppose … but also partly because it’s comforting to be part of a double-cross which is itself double-crossed, but which still has a fail-safe extra built into it.’ Suddenly he knew what he wanted to say. ‘It’s rather like what happened to us in Italy once, along one particular stretch of road where we kept losing men—from booby traps.’

  Brigadier Clinton stared at him. ‘Go on, major.’

  Good men, Fred remembered. ‘But at least that had been the name of the game. There was this German—German sapper officer … And their sappers were good, you know —’

  ‘I know.’ Clinton stopped him sharply. ‘They were all good, damn it! Don’t teach me to suck eggs, Major Fattorini: I’ve been sucking German eggs for eight years now. So I know the taste of them better than you do. Go on.’

  ‘Yes, sir —’ Eight years? But that was … 1937—?

  ‘There was this German sapper … who was good with booby-traps—you were telling me—?’ Clinton spaced each word from the other carefully.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He would think about 1937 later. ‘At least, I think it was just this one man. Because when he set his booby-trap he always booby-trapped the actual trap. But he knew we’d tumble to that, so he used to rig an extra time-fuse under the first trap, which was quite independent of the second one, which he set not-too-obviously, so that a good trained sapper would spot that one first. And then, of course, our chap would lift them in reverse order, and … bang!’ He shrugged. ‘He was quite a character, I should think.’

  The Brigadier’s pale blue eyes were intent. ‘You don’t hate him, though?’

  ‘Hate him?’ Silly question—strangely silly question! ‘Christ—yes! I hated his guts! If I’d caught him I’d have made him walk back along the other side of the road, along the verge we hadn’t cleared!’ Silly question—? ‘Then he stopped playing games with us—maybe he was trying something new, and his hand slipped … is what I’ve always hoped … But we were fair game: it was him against us, with the extra traps—the riflemen who set off the first traps were your random victims, Brigadier. It was us he was after—’ He blinked suddenly, aware that he had almost lost the thread of his own anecdote ‘—what I mean is … it’s a nice change to be setting the trap, not having to defuse the bloody thing. We never got a chance to do that in Italy.’ Now he was aware that his mouth was twitching, too. ‘And fortunately … very fortunately … I moved to Bailey bridges before his successor arrived. Because I might have been caught by the next particular variation.’

  ‘Yes.’ The intentness misted up suddenly. ‘But it was a bridge that got you in the end, wasn’t it? The Volturno bridge was it—the eighth wonder of the world?’

  Fred was conscious of his hand for the first time that day. ‘You know a lot about me.’ He amended the question to a statement as he spoke.

  ‘I know everything about you, major. Except how your hand is today—how is it?’

  ‘It’s okay. Almost as good as new.’ Thinking about the damn thing always made it ache. ‘It does most things adequately.’

  ‘You’ve learnt to point with your left hand?’

  The bastard really did know everything, right down to that one particular crooked index finger. ‘I use my right hand to point round corners, actually. It does that very well.’

  ‘Good.’ Clinton accepted the tart reply without offence. ‘I have an acquaintance in the gunners who maintains that all sapper officers are mad: Would you agree with that?’

  It sounded like an exam question. ‘I have an acquaintance—no, a friend … who says that gunners are people who have just enough maths to pass School Certificate—just enough. If they were cleverer they’d have become sappers. But they aren’t—’ Damn! he thought suddenly, as he realized that he’d missed the correct answer—the required answer? Was there time—

  ‘Actually, he didn’t say “mad”—he said “stark staring mad”.’ Clinton smiled his terrible thin-lipped smile again.

  But that was obliging of him, thought Fred: it offered that second chance on a plate. ‘Then I have the necessary qualification for joining this unit, obviously. Apart from my banking connection, that is … Everyone’s been telling me, ever since I arrived, that everyone else is stark staring mad—or stark raving mad … everyone from Colonel Colbourne himself downwards … ’ He had gone too far—?

  ‘Downwards to young Audley? Your fellow spy?’

  Something inhibited Fred from shopping young Audley, whose own big mouth caused him enough trouble as it was. ‘Captain Audley is an exception to the rule, I rather think.’

  ‘ “In more ways than one”?’ Clinton quoted the young man’s words cruelly. ‘He’s certainly poor, I grant you. But that comes of having a father addicted to fast women and slow horses before the war, which has mortgaged him to the hilt. Although we can’t blame him for that, poor boy. Any more than we can praise you for your great expectations, major.’

  For the first time Fred crossed the man’s stare with one of his own with a sense of steel sliding against steel, even though he knew it was anger and not courage which animated him. ‘Oh no?’

  ‘Oh yes, major—I also know all about Captain Audley. And all about Colonel Augustus Colbourne. And all his other officers. Which I should know, because each one of them has been hand-picked by me—each one, including you, major.’ He paused. ‘Or perhaps not quite all. And there’s the rub.’

  The coldness of those final words utterly extinguished Fred’s anger: from fancying himself as a duellist he saw himself for the rabbit he was.

  ‘Now—straight questions and short answers, major. You’ve talked to young Audley. And you’ve travelled with Driver Hewitt. And neither of them possesses the gift of silence … though Audley’s still young enough to learn, I hope. But between them they must have told you what they think TRR-2 is doing, eh?’

  Kyriakos had given him the answer to that one, long ago and long before Audley or Hewitt had talked. ‘You are man-hunters.’

  ‘Don’t say “you”—say “we”. What sort of men do we hunt?’

  ‘Germans.’ But then what the devil were they doing in Greece on the Eve of Scobiemas? So that answer wasn’t quite adequate. And then he remembered the group picture Audley had shown him—and, much more vividly, ‘Corporal Keys’ inability with a simple uniform. ’Civilians—scientists—?‘ But then he remembered the heavily-laden lorry. ’But also machinery, too—equipment.‘ But then he thought also of what Audley had said. ’But that may be a cover. Is it?‘

  ‘Partially. But not wholly. And, in fact, our chief cover has been Colonel Colbourne’s celebrated obsession with him—’ Clinton pointed upwards ‘—and with the final resting place of General Quinctilius Varus and the men of the XVIIth, XVIIIth and XIXth Roman Legions … whose bones are most likely scattered over many square miles of the Teutoburgerwald.’

  ‘And they—the Americans—actually believed that?’

  ‘For a time, perhaps. They, the Americans. And also they, the French. And they, the Russians, major. Because it happens to be a real obsession of Colbourne’s—an obsession in an otherwise extremely clever and well-balanced man. And one shared by a great many otherwise clever and well-balanced German professors and scholars down the years, also. But there’s nothing strange in obsessions, major—a lot of us have them. And at least Colbourne’s is an innocent one, which doesn’t hurt anyone.’

  Coming from such a cold fish, that was a surprisingly warm defence. Or maybe there was more to Brigadier Clinton than met the eye? ‘It just makes them—us—a laughing-stock—? But that was what you wanted, of course!’

  ‘Yes.’ Clinton looked up at Hermann for a moment, who w
as safely frozen in stone, before coming back to Fred. ‘Except that it didn’t require Augustus Colbourne’s private obsession to make a laughing-stock of us. Us, the British. Because we were that already, in this particular field of operations.’

  Lucky Hermann! ‘We were—?’

  ‘And not just among our loyal allies. Among the Germans, too—perhaps among them, above all … our defeated enemies, major. The only difference is that their laughter must be bitter as well as incredulous, watching us make such fools of ourselves.’

  That was what the Crocodile had said. But he hadn’t really understood it then, and he didn’t now. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Yes—of course.’ Clinton cocked an eye at him. ‘You’ve been too busy disporting yourself happily at Vouliagmeni beach with Colonel Michaelides’ cast-off mistresses.’ The eye became knowing. ‘I know all about you, major’, it reminded him. ‘Well, we haven’t had much time for that in Germany. Because we’ve been discovering just how clever the Germans really were, major, you see.’

  ‘I never thought they weren’t clever, sir—’

  ‘I don’t mean German sappers.’ Clinton paused. ‘Although they did have some new plastic explosive which might have surprised you unpleasantly … But then they were way ahead of us in so many fields—synthetics, and optics, and radar and rocketry, and aircraft design—I’m told that even their aircraft-testing technology was years ahead of ours … In fact, I don’t think some of our chaps really understand what they’re looking at half the time—like a bunch of savages trying to make sense of a screwdriver. And that isn’t the end of it—and don’t, pray don’t, say to me now, as one very senior officer did quite recently, “By George, Freddie! If half you say is true, then we ought to have lost the jolly old war! But we didn’t now, did we.’

  ‘I wasn’t about to say such a thing, sir.’ Fred hastily amended his thoughts. ‘I was going to say … but we are here anyway.’ He remembered the lorry again.

  ‘Huh!’ For the first time Brigadier Clinton emitted something like the sort of explosive sound brigadiers usually made in Fred’s experience of them. ‘That is the other half of it, Major Fattorini: too late and too little, as well as too incompetently, is our story. I can’t call it a “policy”—it would be bad enough if it was an actual policy … But there isn’t any policy, so far as I can discover. So we’re actually ten times worse than even the Americans, at picking up German technology and the men who can explain it to us. And they’re slower than the Russians, and Americans are … because the Yanks have some Jewish officers, and some Jews in their State Department, who are at least decently concerned about shaking hands with Nazis who haven’t yet even had time to wash the blood off theirs—that is at least understandable … Or, it would be if the Russians weren’t making deals with everyone they can lay their hands on—which is easy enough for them, because their deal is “Work for us, and we’ll look after you, and your family, and no questions asked … or we’ll shoot the lot of you … except your daughter, who is pretty.” In which case, it isn’t too difficult to reach a sensible decision … And the French—they have an even better sales story: “Come and live in France, where it is warmer, and much more civilized … and serve your time with us, like a soldier in La Legion etrangere, also with no questions asked, but with better pay and better food, and finally become a Frenchman like us!” And who would refuse that offer, in Germany in 1945? Would you, major—if you were hungry, and had a Nazi record as long as my arm?’

  After that ‘huh’ … that was the longest and most uncharacteristic speech Fred had heard from any senior officer, anywhere, in all his years in uniform. But then this brigadier’s experience of Germans went back longer than most, he remembered: he had been sucking German eggs since … 1937—?

  So he could afford to jump the obvious answer. ‘So what are we doing then, sir?’

  ‘You may well ask, major—you may well ask!’ Clinton stared at Hermann’s inscription this time: ‘Arminius liberator haud dubie Germaniae—’ So Fred waited patiently to be liberated in his turn.

  ‘We started out … trying to pick up certain of the pieces, much too late … amongst other things. But now we’re living on borrowed time, I fear—even after last night’s famous victory.’ Clinton continued to study the inscription.

  Fred waited again, until his patience exhausted itself. ‘How so, sir?’

  Clinton turned quickly, to his surprise. ‘Don’t be downcast, major. Last night did go according to plan … except for your poor devil.’

  Fred thought for a moment. ‘And he was set up as a target?’

  ‘Not a target, as such.’ Clinton shook his head. ‘But there was a risk, I cannot deny that. But in this instance I did not expect it. And … there was always the chance that they would miss.’

  Fred didn’t know quite how much of that to believe. ‘Who would miss?’

  ‘The Russians, major.’ Clinton nodded, as though this had been the expected answer. “The Americans didn’t need to, because they had the men on the spot to take what they wanted. And, to be fair, their well-developed sense of self-interest … or patriotism, as it used to be called … is not yet so ruthless. Even though I seem to recall that it was an American who first said ”Our country, right or wrong“ … yes, it was. But not here, not now, and not yet, I think. And the French … they are undoubtedly capable of anything, since the very mention of ”France“ obviates the need for moral debate … But in this instance they are safely out of the picture—they’re much too busy pursuing their own very successful enterprises.‘ He nodded, at first almost to himself but finally at Fred. ’You see, major, there have been a great many people—and interests … and commercial interests as well as national, too—concerned with acquiring the details of German technical and industrial and scientific development. And with getting their hands on it before anyone else. Which you can call ”loot“ if you like … or ”spoils of war“. But strictly speaking it’s ”reparations“. And it’s really the only worthwhile reparation that’s to be had here—knowledge.‘ He paused deliberately, as though to let the word sink in. ’Oh … I know the Russians are carrying off whole factories. And you can’t really blame them for that. And, in spite of what the bomber fellows say, because they claim to have destroyed everything, there’s still a lot to carry off. In fact, there’ll still be a lot after they’ve had their pick … So there is equipment. But it’s the research that really matters. And some of it’s so damned far in advance of anything we’ve done that we need the researchers themselves to go with it, to explain it. Do you see?‘

  ‘The savages need help with the screwdrivers?’

  ‘Huh!’ Clinton repeated his brigadierial growl. ‘The trouble is, some of our savages don’t believe in the existence of the screwdriver: they think it’s some sort of blunt chisel. And some of our chiefs don’t want to know. Or they can’t bring themselves to talk to the screwdriver-makers, anyway, either because of their stupidity, or because of their tender consciences.’

  ‘Because the screwdriver-makers are Nazis?’ The unplesant truth beneath the imagery made Fred uneasy in spite of the Brigadier’s earlier honest recognition of it. ‘Is that so wicked—not to want to do business with Nazis?’

  Clinton’s coldest stare returned. ‘Are you about to lecture me on the nature of Fascism, major? And what our attitude should be?’

  ‘No, sir. But—’

  ‘I should hope not. Because I’ve forgotten more about that subject than you are ever likely to know.’ The stare continued. ‘So what were you going to say?’

  Fred felt himself backed into a corner. The wide circle round the Hermann monument was silent and empty behind him, and the forest was silent and empty behind that—empty even of birds, judging by its silence. And the whole of Germany might be ruined and empty behind the forest. But he was nevertheless in a corner. And the bugger of it was that he hadn’t even had the chance of taking Kyri’s good advice, he had simply had the soldier’s choice of no choice at all.
And Devenish had summed that up for him.

  The thought of Kyri reminded him of Audley’s words in Greece. ‘It’s a new kind of war. And I can’t say that I like it. I suppose I expected it to be different, that’s all. But now I shall have to get used to it, just like I did with the other kind.’

  Clinton considered that non-answer in a silence which lengthened uncomfortably out of time. ‘Well, I suppose that’s as much as I have any right to expect from you. Although you are almost entirely wrong, major, as it happens.’

  ‘I am?’ After that silence the man’s not-unkind tone surprised him. ‘Almost?’

  ‘Yes. It’s exactly the same war, in essence. And you must never get used to it—never, never, never, major.’ The stare became uncompromising. ‘You must hate it with all your heart—always, no matter how long you have to soldier in it.’ This time the silence was mercifully shorter. ‘Do you know where I was eight years ago?’

  Eight years ago—? 1937? ‘In 1937, sir—?’

  ‘You were in the middle of your first long vacation from Oxford, major—August 1937. You were staying with friends, first in New York, then in New England. Then you went out West—you stayed at Jackson Hole, in Wyoming, and climbed up into the Grand Tetons, with a boy named Bill—William T. Schuster. August 1937—remember?’ Clinton paused momentarily. ‘Agreed?’

  ‘Yes.’ That August he had been with Uncle Luke’s Wall Street friends. And the following August he had been at his first TA camp, on Salisbury Plain. But the man would surely know that too—and the extent of his knowledge was terrifying! ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I was in Spain, on the Northern Front—the Basque campaign. Near a place called Barruelo.’

  It wasn’t so much surprising that the man had been in Spain, which would certainly have been professionally interesting to any soldier, as that he was swopping his past for nothing in exchange. And, for some reason, this information was also frightening. But he mustn’t betray his fear. ‘On which side?’

  ‘The Nationalists’—the full-blown Fascist one.’ The reply came matter-of-fact, without excuse. ‘I was a stretcher-carrier with the Navarrese—the 6th—next to Bastico’s Italians. And I used to lie on my back and watch the German planes make mincemeat of the Russian Ratas. The Russians had supplied old stuff, and the Condor boys were trying out their latest Me-109s, so it wasn’t really a fair fight. But I didn’t stay to see the finish of it, after the Italians broke their promise and handed over their prisoners to Franco to be murdered—I got myself conveniently killed in action—“missing, presumed”—so that I could join the Republican side, in Barcelona. Because the only fellow in the British battalion of the International Brigade—the XVth, that was … the only fellow who might have recognized me had conveniently got himself killed on the Ebro. So … in answer to your most intelligent question, major … I am a hero of both sides. Which I can admit to you now because both sides know it now. But, fortunately, they didn’t know it then, of course.’