A New Kind of War

by Anthony Price

  ‘So why did they run, at the last?’ He had to find out how much else the boy had worked out. ‘After we’d won?’

  ‘It wasn’t at the last.’ Audley blinked. ‘That threw me for a bit. But then I found out all about Colonel von Mitzlaff—he was mine because he was a Panzer specialist. And also not a scientist: just a poor damned would-be archaeologist who was put into a tank, like I’m a poor damned would-be historian who suffered the same fate—’ Now a grimace ‘—only his tanks had better guns and better armour than mine did, Fred.’

  ‘But you were a lot luckier, in the end.’ The memory of what Audley had said about von Mitzlaff’s fate after the Hitler bomb-plot harshened his voice.

  ‘Not luckier. Just braver.’ A muscle moved in Audley’s cheek. ‘But … unlucky, too—yes. But he also broke the rules, too—I think.’

  ‘What rules?’

  ‘What rules?’ Audley looked past him towards the vehicles on the brow of the track behind them, at Devenish and Hewitt. ‘Should I get those two under cover somewhere, do you think?’

  Softly now! thought Fred. ‘It wasn’t in their orders this time, was it?’

  ‘No.’ Audley turned his attention to the rocks again, then to a wide lake out of which the furthest of them rose precipitately, and finally across the broad meadow to the dark, encircling woods. ‘But I don’t like this place. I never have.’

  Fred looked at his own watch. They still had plenty of time. ‘Why not? You’ve been here before?’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s one of Caesar Augustus’s favourite spots. He brought me here a couple of times to help with his measurements.’

  Professor Schmidt’s rules could wait for a moment. ‘Measurements for what?’

  ‘He wants to drain the lake.’ Audley pointed. ‘See how the land falls away? It could be done with the right equipment.’ He gave Fred a lop-sided grin. ‘In my innocence, I did rather think that was why he’d recruited you, before I learnt better: as an officer of engineers, to advise on lake-drainage, you see.’

  ‘Why does he want to do that?’

  ‘Oh … it’s all to do with “saltus Teutoburgiensis”—how Tacitus described the Varus disaster … “saltus”, meaning “forest pass”, or “glade”, or some such.’

  ‘He thinks the battle was here, you mean?’

  ‘No, not exactly. Because it wasn’t actually a battle. In any sort of proper battle the Romans would have licked the pants off the Germans. It was more like a series of cumulative ambushes over miles and miles of trackless bloody woods —’ Audley pointed again, but over the lake ‘—in dozens of hillsides like this, and ravines … More like the way the Afghans cut up the British army in the Khyber Pass, only with dense forest, rather than mountains. But he thinks it might have ended here … the big tribal celebration in a place consecrated to the gods, with the prisoners as sacrificial offerings. Because, apparently, they didn’t only nail ’em up on trees and burn ‘em in wicker baskets, like in Britain—they also trod ’em in water under hurdles, and cast ‘em off high places on to sharpened stakes.’ The boy dropped his hand and sighed. ‘Cheers him up no end, the Exernsteine does. But then, as I told you, he’s mad as a hatter. Because I think he may be right. Only … that makes this place pretty nasty, in my reckoning: all those poor bloody Roman PoWs being crucified, and roasted, and drowned, and spiked here—d’you see?’

  Fred stared for a moment at the oiled metal-grey sheen on the water of the lake, on which the brooding sky and the grey rocks were reflected. Then he shook his head. ‘Tell me about Professor Schmidt’s rules, David.’

  ‘Yes.’ Audley roused himself too. ‘Old Schmidt was my main job, you see.’

  ‘Because he was a historian?’

  ‘That’s right, I guess. But I don’t really know whether he had any rules. Only … he got these chaps together, all nice and safely, before the war. And the proper scientists among them all had something to contribute to his archaeology, it seems. Like, new methods of dating materials, and soil analysis, and suchlike—“scientific archaeology” was what he called it—some long German words. And they kept their heads down and did their work, and minded their own business—always very busy, they were. Like, they were good Germans. But they were always safely in the remote past.

  ‘But then Enno von Mitzlaff turned up in ’42, invalided out of the Wehrmacht, and looking for work—see?‘

  ‘Because he was an archaeologist?’

  ‘He was. And also he was old Schmidt’s godson. So maybe the old man just wanted to save him, too. Only, unfortunately, he wouldn’t stay saved—he probably knew more of what was going on elsewhere.’

  So the boy didn’t know everything, then. ‘And he got involved in the plot against Hitler, of course—you said—?’

  ‘Yes. And then the fat was in the fire.’ Audley nodded. ‘Maybe Schmidt or one of the others was also in on it. I don’t somehow think so, but I don’t know yet for sure. Only, it didn’t matter anyway, because the Gestapo was in a vengeful mood by then—I got this from a fairly senior policeman in Bonn, whom we haven’t quite got round to sacking yet … But he says that old Schmidt put the police and the Gestapo off as long as he could.’ There was a bleak look in Audley’s eyes. ‘Schmidt was too old and fat to run himself. But he did his best for the others—which is really what has made our job so difficult, I suppose … But he was a brave man too, like his godson … One of the Crocodile’s “guid decent men”, I’d say.’

  It was like receiving a delayed message of a friend’s death in Burma: it had all happened months ago, while he’d still been trudging through Italian mud, so it was too late for tears. ‘And then?’

  ‘There was a big fire in Schmidt’s office, in which all his records were conveniently destroyed—all the names of personnel, as well as the marvellous new scientific techniques they’d pioneered. Which, from an archaeological point of view, was a great tragedy. So Schmidt added a convenient heart attack to it. Not a fatal one, but enough to delay the investigation somewhat. So, by the time this smart Gestapo obergruppenführer finally tumbled to the fact that the fire hadn’t been caused by a British incendiary bomb, and the heart attack wasn’t genuine, all the other birds had flown.’

  And I was probably on the beach at Vouliagmeni, thought Fred. ‘And Schmidt—?’

  ‘He knew the form, when the game was up and the savages were closing in—just like old Varus did. Only swords are out of fashion now, so he shot himself with an old Webley revolver he’d taken off a British officer in his war, in 1917. So no piano wire for him, just like no wicker basket or high rocks for Varus.’ Audley looked at his watch again. ‘But the policeman did also give me more than he gave the obergruppenführer, whom he insists he didn’t like.’ Another shrug. ‘Or maybe he just saw which way the wind was blowing by then … Or it could even be the Gestapo was too busy shooting ordinary defeatists by then—I don’t know. But that wasn’t what was really important.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘He gave us a cross-bearing on where Zeitzler might be holed up—Ernst Zeitzler, alias “Corporal Keys” … Because Zeitzler was another genuine archaeologist. And his particular specialization was—guess what?—the study of the Roman frontier … which was why we moved down to the unspeakable Kaiserburg, of course … Although it was Amos who finally tracked him down, I must admit. So I can’t claim all the credit, even though I deserve most of it.’

  Typical Audley! ‘And Zeitzler is Number 16’s best friend?’ Now they were very close to the bone, as well as the appointed hour. ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this the night before last?’

  ‘The night before last?’ Audley’s memory seemed momentarily to desert him.

  ‘Yes.’ There was only one thing remaining. ‘You had your orders, David. You were supposed to tell me what was happening.’

  Audley made one of his ugliest faces. ‘I get so many orders. And … hell! First, you were late—and then we were pretty damn busy, blundering around in the dark … then superintending the de
ath of some poor-bloody-totally-inoffensive German—or Pole, or Ukrainian DP—I don’t know, damn it!’ The boy’s square chin lifted, and he looked down on Fred from the height of his extra inches, and then looked around as though he really didn’t give a damn.

  Good boy! But that didn’t change anything. ‘And—?’

  The chin came down slowly, and Audley relaxed slightly, as though he was reassured by what he had seen. ‘And I didn’t enjoy that very much, actually.’

  That wouldn’t do. ‘And I asked you a question, David. So answer it, please.’

  The sharpness of his tone reclaimed Audley’s attention. And his face did the rest. ‘Christ, Fred! I know we met in Greece that time—and I know old Matthew—’ The wide mouth opened and shut on Matthew, like some great ugly deep-sea fish’s jaws trawling the sea-bed. And then it opened again and closed obstinately. ‘But we’ve had a lot of bad luck, you know. And I don’t really know you—now do I?’

  Good boy! Because that was as eloquent as anything else Audley might have said to prove that his mouth wasn’t always too big. ‘And who the hell was I? When you’ve had all the bad luck you’ve had—all the way from Greece, even?’

  Still nothing. So more than that: so Clinton was right about Audley being old for his years when it came to the crunch. So now was the moment for truth.

  ‘Yes, David—you are quite right.’ He nodded without disengaging Audley’s eyes. ‘There is a traitor in the camp. And if you didn’t know it for sure before, then you know it now.’

  Audley studied him for a moment. Then he slowly nodded his acceptance of all those words implied. ‘So you really are the Brigadier’s inside man?’

  ‘Yes.’ More than Audley’s acceptance, this was his own acceptance of that loyalty for the working day, whatever came after. ‘I am Clinton’s man. And so are you, David—no matter what. Because we have to know who the traitor is. Nothing less will do. So this is a trap, today.’

  Audley continued to stare at him. And it was also slightly comical to see the boy’s hand move up uncertainly to his webbing holster, and then drop down to wipe the palm on his leg beside it.

  ‘Oh … shit!’ Then Audley looked quickly across the meadow, and finally towards the vehicles up the track, where Sergeant Devenish had been walking up and down and Driver Hewitt had been leaning on the jeep, smoking one of his inexhaustible supply of dog-ends, neither able to communicate with the other. ‘What about them?’

  He had got it all, in that one brief exchange: all Clinton’s logic about the sufficiency of the bait, all his certainty about the traitor’s hard-driven determination to take Number 16 from them now, at the last, with all his murderous delaying tactics finally stretched beyond safety, and Major Fattorini here to make the final contact. So perhaps it wasn’t unreasonable that his trust, even in his own men, should weaken with these final certainties.

  ‘They’re all right. They’re both Clinton’s men from way back, David—’ He remembered that Audley too was in some sense Clinton’s man from way back, before TRR-2 had been called into existence ‘—from France, anyway —’

  ‘I know that, damn it!’ Audley made a face and shook his head simultaneously. ‘Hughie’s been babying me halfway across Europe—I should know that. Devenish too—’ The ugly features twisted as he glanced back up the track again for a moment. ‘—how does it go: “He was my servant, and the better man”—?’

  Fred floundered momentarily in his turn. ‘Then … what do you mean?’

  From being questioning, the look became haughty. ‘I mean, you’ve just told me exactly how the land lies. And I can accept that … because it explains a lot of things … a lot of things I haven’t quite understood. All the way from Greece, like you’ve just said—a whole lot of things, yes!’ From being haughty, the look blanked out into nothing. ‘But how much do they know—my men?’

  It only irked Fred for a second that he had misread the original question. But then he understood that Audley was still a subaltern at heart, and a well-taught one. So it was no shame on him that he should think of his own subordinates before he risked their lives in some madcap venture. And yet, by the same token, it was time that he got his priorities right. ‘D’you think anyone’s going to catch Sergeant Devenish with his trousers down?’ The memory of Devenish on the ridge above Osios Konstandinos, and Kyri’s estimation of the man, gave him confidence. ‘You let him take his chances now, David. Just as we’re about to take ours—okay?’

  ‘Mmm … ’ Audley had been looking round even before he had finished condemning the other ranks to their destined fate, taking in the rocks, and the lake and the encircling forest with what must be a tank commander’s eyes, which was all the experience he had from that other August, a year ago. But with nothing to see, he had to come back to Fred. ‘So who is the traitor then, eh?’ He fumbled again with his webbing holster, unbuttoning the flap, then rubbing his hand down his leg again, as though his palm were already sweating. ‘But, of course, you don’t know, do you? Otherwise we wouldn’t be baiting the jolly old mouse-trap, of course!’ He squinted up the track, past the vehicles. ‘And I don’t even see the cheese yet, anyway … ’ The squint cleared as he came back to Fred once more. ‘Not the Crocodile—that would not only be too good to be true … it would also be too confusing. Because no one can be such an absolute shit, and also a traitor: that just wouldn’t be fair! And the old Croc—he just isn’t … is he? Or, not compared with the unspeakable Johnnie—the fifth horseman of the Apocalypse—not him, surely—surely?’

  ‘No?’ He had to make light of it, just as Audley was trying to do, and for the very same sound military reason: because, to give it its proper due would be to make it something beyond bearing. ‘Why not, David?’

  ‘Too unbelievable, Fred.’ The boy came back like lightning.‘And therefore too clever for comfort.’ Nod. ‘So … who—who—?’ He frowned finally, turning the nod into a doubtful shake. ‘It doesn’t make sense, you know.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because everyone’s been so damned carefully chosen by Clinton, that’s why.’ The shake continued for a moment, then Audley grinned. ‘Except me, of course—I was wished on him by my godfather last year, more or less as a favour, when he was suddenly short of a French-speaker. So I’m still here only on trial … or more like sufferance. But the others … he chose ’em. And then he checked ‘em back to the cradle, so the story goes. No one forced ’em on him—and there’s no bloody “old boys’ network” from school and university with him, either. Or “ the jolly old regiment”, come to that—definitely not the Clinton style.‘

  ‘No?’ Anything about Brigadier Clinton interested Fred mightily. ‘You once said he likes … bankers, was it?’

  ‘He likes people with enough money not to be tempted by it. Doesn’t matter where it comes from—landed-gentry money, like Johnnie Carver-Hart’s, or a whisky distillery, like the Croc’s … “McCorquodale’s Highland Cream”—which is apparently so awful that it accounts for the Croc’s own preference for rum … and Kenworthy made his fortune from writing physics text-books, so they say.’

  ‘But where does Clinton come from—himself? Do you know that?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ Audley cocked an eye at him. ‘No … well, nobody knows the answer to that. No regimental background that anyone can discover—or the right school, or university … definitely not Eton and Sandhurst, or Eton and Trinity. More like some little grammar school somewhere, my godfather thinks. And then into the army by some back-door, straight to the General List—“a self-made man”, you might call him.’

  A self-made man, Fred thought of Clinton as he repeated the thought to himself: no class and no past … but also with no burden of preconceived and inbred prejudices or illusions, for or against those he had chosen?

  ‘But now he’s come a cropper, and no mistake!’ Audley spoke as though to himself. ‘Because if one of us—or one of them—has been on the other side all these months … Christ! That could mean his whole me
thod of selection is up the bloody spout—if his Tenth Legion turns sour on him! Because—’ He stopped suddenly. ‘Oh God—no!’

  ‘What—?’ Fred stopped just as quickly as he saw the boy’s immense shoulders sag. Then he realized that Audley was looking directly past him, across the meadow by the rocks and the lake. And in that very instant, the shoulders straightened again and Audley raised his arm in greeting.

  ‘HULLO THERE!’ Audley bellowed into the silence of the Teutoburg Forest. ‘Don’t you think you ought to turn round and have a look?’

  Fred had to make himself turn, in the desolate knowledge that all this time Audley had been looking past him at someone else behind him, in the open meadow. And now, that this victory, even if they came out of it to tell the tale, would be a bitter one.

  ‘HULLO THERE, AMOS!’ Audley lowered his arm. ‘Amos, Fred—? Amos—?’

  As he stared, Fred didn’t want to believe it either.

  ‘Why not Amos?’

  The silence came back for an instant. ‘I don’t believe it.’ Audley blinked at him. ‘Last night—no, the night before … it was Amos who made the plan to get Zeitzler out—he could have had him hit just as easily, as those grenades went off … or whatever they were—time-charges, were they? But, if that was a diversion, he could have done it, anyway—’ Audley blinked again, and glanced quickly across the meadow again before coming back to him. ‘And even now … it still doesn’t make sense.’

  Fred watched Amos de Souza still ignore them as he completed his scrutiny of the lake, and then the meadow, and finally the towering Exernsteine rocks. ‘Why not?’

  Audley thought for a moment, watching the same charade. ‘If they’re going to kill Number 16 … it doesn’t need to be done here. They can do that perfectly well with him back in the orderly room at Schwartzenburg, with Amos minding his own business, Fred. Even if he let Zeitzler go, to get at Number 16 … he’s throwing it all away by coming here now, isn’t he? Isn’t he?’