A New Kind of War

by Anthony Price

  ‘Yes.’ The man focused on him. ‘Tell Colonel Colbourne that I have joined another army now—now that his army has won its war … His army—?’ Levin’s concentration outranked his own. Tell him to remember Bum-Titty Bay, at Haifa, after El Alamein—tell him that, major—?‘

  Bum-Titty Bay? At … Haifa—? He couldn’t understand that—

  ‘Tell him that, major—Bum-Titty Bay? Then maybe he’ll understand.’ Levin fixed him for an instant, and then dismissed him as he looked away, through Number 16 and Zeitzler, towards the meadow and the woods. ‘Tell him that —’

  Bum-Titty Bay—? The faint obscenity of it, which he still couldn’t place, delayed him for a moment, even as he was drawn towards the woods, as the RSM relaxed slightly—

  Christ! The woods were no longer empty—Christ!

  ‘Time to go, sir.’ Levin’s voice, which had been close to conversational as he transmitted his final message for Colonel Colbourne, became suddenly quite matter-of-fact, beyond argument. ‘So … no trouble now, if you please, sir—?’ Almost as it could never have been in any other age of the world, Regimental Sergeant-Major Levin’s voice pleaded with Major Fattorini not to take issue with him: not to go against Number 16’s acceptance, or Professor Zeitzler’s advice—never mind any foolishness Captain Audley might be tempted to, now that Major de Souza’s own foolishness had been demonstrated—

  Time to—‘

  As Fred stared at RSM Levin, accepting the inevitable, the RSM seemed to toss his head—

  Fred felt his mouth open, without knowing what he was going to say, as he saw what he had never seen before, and had never imagined seeing, as the movement continued, and the bright red spot over the RSM’s eye flowered, and the RSM’s side-hair lifted, and his beret with it, and blood-and-brains, and beret-and-side-hair, exploded with it, outwards with the killing bullet—

  The crack of the bullet overtook the nod, and the RSM’s eyes rolled with the impact, and the black barrel of the Sten whirled upwards as the man fell away from them.

  ‘Fred.’ Audley pointed at the advancing figures in the meadow, and then threw himself towards the fallen weapon.

  Christ! thought Fred, as the figures began to run. ‘Shoot, David!’ he shouted, clawing at his own holster feverishly as he did so. But then he saw the two Germans frozen behind him, like waxwork figures. ‘Run, for God’s sake.’ he screamed at them. But they didn’t seem to understand, and it came to him in a moment of exasperation that not all Germans were the world’s natural soldiers: that these were only ordinary middle-aged men confused by madness—

  But at last Audley had the RSM’s Sten: there came a succession of increasingly-loud thumps as the boy discharged it wildly, more or less in the right direction, just as the enemy opened fire with an honest ear-splitting rattling bang-crack-bang-crack which deafened him as it echoed and re-echoed over the valley around him. ‘Run!’ He directed the shout at Zeitzler, in the vague hope that the German had a more recent memory of murder, even while he saw Audley savagely trying to re-cock the RSM’s Sten. ‘Shoot, David!’

  Audley looked up at him, apologetically. ‘Oh … fuck.’ He made a face at Fred. ‘I never was very good with these things. So you’d better run too, Fred, I think—’ He turned towards the Russians, raising the sub-machine gun to them. ‘Come on, you bastards!’

  Fred managed to extract his own revolver at last, and turned it and himself to the enemy, in despair of anything better.

  It wasn’t the whole Russian Army, of course: it was no more than half a dozen men; and none of them were in any recognizable uniform—that one abortive fusillade of Audley’s seemed to have spread them out, left and right, sorting the brave men from the cowards; but the brave men were too bloody close for comfort now, all the same—

  He managed to get an inadequate finger to the trigger. But it pulled the pistol down, and then the remaining fingers couldn’t hold the weapon steady as he fired at the nearest of the Russians, who was trying to take a steady aim, but not at him—

  Bang!

  The pistol bucked, just as the Russian fired. And then Fred fired again—and again, with the same terrible clumsiness, as uselessly as before; and saw the man steady himself again, this time bringing up his weapon deliberately, even as David Audley ran forward towards him, brandishing the Sten and screaming like a Highlander, beyond reason.

  Taking his cue from the Russian’s action, Fred clamped his good left hand to his right wrist to attempt a steadier aim just as the Russian turned to meet the boy’s insane charge. But before he could squeeze the trigger the man crumpled and fell, and Audley’s scream turned into a shout of triumph as he bounded over the final yards and threw himself on his unresisting victim, flailing at him with the Sten.

  The Russian’s sudden fall confused Fred for a second. Then it came to him in a flash that the sniper who had killed Levin was finding new targets, and hope blazed within him as he squeezed off his next shot quite deliberately at the nearest surviving Russian, knowing that he would miss, and that he now had only three rounds left; and saw the man flinch at the sound of the bullet, and then turn towards him instinctively, steadying his own automatic pistol and turning himself into a statue for an instant, just as his comrade had done.

  Shoot, prayed Fred to the invisible sniper as he jinked sideways—shoot, for Christ’s sake!

  The Russian fired, and God only knew where the bullet went. But then one of his comrades was shouting at him—and Audley was shouting, too. And as Fred brought up his own pistol again both the Russians started to run—but not towards him, away from him—what—?

  He observed Audley on his knees beside his victim: the boy had recovered the man’s pistol and was emptying it wildly at the retreating enemy, shouting his wild dragoon war-cry. And then he swivelled and waved at Fred, pointing past him—

  ‘JACKO! TALLY-HO! TALLY-HO! AFTER THE BASTARDS!’

  Fred turned, and saw not just Sergeant Devenish: Sergeant Devenish was in the lead, but with him there were half a dozen Fusiliers—more now, with the jaunty red and white hackles in their berets bobbing as they came out of the trees on either side of the track, rifles at the high port—

  And—oh God, no!

  ‘GO ON! GO ON!’ Audley’s voice cracked, but with triumph as the line of Fusiliers reached them. ‘TALLY-HO! GO ON, JACKO!’

  The boy was oblivious to everything else around him, and not least to the two civilian figures on the ground, the one on his knees cradling the other in his arms—two nondescript civilians, patched and shabby—oh God! Which was which?

  His knees felt oddly stiff as he covered the dozen yards, past the bodies of Amos de Souza and the RSM. None of this was how it was meant to be, he thought: not Amos, not the RSM, and not—

  ‘Ernst—?’ Number 16 held Number 21 close to him: Sweet-Sixteen-and-Never-Been-Kissed held The-Key-to-the-Door—Corporal Keys, and the blood dribbled out of the corner of Number 21’s mouth, and down his chin on to his tightly-knotted tie and frayed shirt-collar, just as it had done from another mouth so recently, only bright red now, not black—

  ‘Ernst—!’ Suddenly Number 16 looked up at Fred, his face grey with anguish. ‘When they fired, he stood in front of me! Do you hear me? He stood in front of me! Why would he do that? Why did he have to do that?’

  Number 21 opened his eyes suddenly, and looked directly at Fred also.

  ‘Ernst—’

  Number 21 arched his back, and the breath rattled in his throat and finally went out of him in a rush of blood from his mouth.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Audley’s voice came from just behind him. ‘Which one—ahh!’ As the boy saw the expression on Fred’s face his lip drooped apologetically. ‘Sorry. But … well—?’

  Something behind Fred took his attention, and Fred’s with it. And there suddenly on the path was Driver Hewitt, blinking nervously and fidgeting with the seams of his battle-dress trousers with callused thumbs.

  ‘Yes, Hughie?’ Audley accepted the diversion grateful
ly.

  Driver Hewitt took in the Germans without emotion, but then rolled his eye over the scatter of bodies beyond. ‘Cor bleedin’ ‘ell!’ The eyes blinked, and the wizened monkey-face screwed up. Then Driver Hewitt remembered his officers again, and gave Audley an oddly philosophic sidelong glance. ‘You bin lucky again then, Mr Audley—aintcha?’

  The boy had followed the little driver’s glance, but seemed unable to tear himself away from it now. For a moment silence flowed around them, but then there came a distant rattle of small-arms fire out of the woods, and a flock of birds rose from the trees on the crest of the ridge.

  Audley sighed. ‘Yes, Hughie—I suppose we could say I bin lucky again.’ He turned to the little man at last. ‘What d’you want, Hughie?’

  Driver Hewitt screwed up his face again. ‘Nothin’ really, sir, Mr Audley—Captain Audley … Except, it’s Mr Schild, sir—Otto, like, sir—?‘

  ‘Otto Schild?’ Audley frowned at him. ‘What about him?’

  ‘’E’s back with the vehicle, sir. ‘E … wants to give hisself up, ’e says.‘

  Audley studied the man. ‘What are you talking about, Hewitt?’

  ‘Yes, sir … Well … like, ’e’s got this ‘untin’ rifle of ‘is wiv ’im, wot ‘e shoots ’is pigs with. Only—‘ Driver Hewitt drew a deep breath ’—‘e says ’e’s shot Mr Levin with it this time. After Mr Levin shot the major. An ‘e was only obeyin’ orders, anyways … sir.‘ The words tumbled out in three quick bursts. ’Only … ‘e thinks it’ud be better for ’im if you was to take ‘im into custody now, just in case—’ The little man cocked an eye back down the path ‘—’cause there’s a lotta Redcaps comin‘ up the road now … So I put ’im in your car, sir.‘

  Audley looked at Fred. ‘He was only obeying orders? Whose orders. Major Fattorini?’

  They both knew. ‘Not mine, Captain Audley.’ But now he had to take command. ‘Driver Hewitt, you will keep your mouth closed about this. Unless you want a Far East posting, that is.’

  ‘I ain’t seen nuthink, sir—’

  ‘Shut up, Driver Hewitt. Just go back and tell the Redcaps to call an ambulance. And bring a ground-sheet to cover Major de Souza. And … we will attend to Herr Schild.’

  ‘Right, sir—major, sir.’ Hewitt swayed for a moment, and then gave Fred an old-fashioned narrow glance. Then he took in the Germans, with Number 16 cradling Number 21 in tears, like Niobe. ‘But wot about them, sir? The Jerries—?’

  Fred felt Audley’s eyes on him. But he also remembered Clinton’s cold uncompromising stare, and his greed. ‘You leave them to us, Hewitt.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Hewitt assessed him momentarily, with a hint of even more old-fashioned understanding, which accepted the insanity of all wars down the ages in which the innocent were always slaughtered. ‘That Otto—’e always ‘ad a good word for the major … But ’e never liked the RSM, sir.‘

  PART FIVE

  War Without End

  Somewhere in England

  August 1945

  ‘THERE ARE three forms to sign, sir.’ The RAF flight-lieutenant presented his clipboard to Fred. ‘Actually, it’s the same form in triplicate, but we’ve run out of carbon-paper.’

  Fred accepted the clipboard and the stub of indelible pencil. It was interesting, he observed, that Number 16 had lost his false cover-name as well as his number now that he was in England, and was his real self at last.

  ‘As you can see, we have already signed on our dotted lines.’ The flight-lieutenant pointed to two signatures, and then to an open space. ‘You sign there, sir. And then keep one copy, to return to your adjutant. And I keep one, as station movements officer—’

  ‘And I will keep the third.’ The civilian intercepted the clipboard.

  The papers fluttered madly on the board as a gust of unseasonable August wind swept over the dead flat Cambridgeshire airfield. It was the same wind which the pilot of the plane had welcomed, which had come all the way from Russia over the equally flat North German plain to help them across the North Sea. But now it made him shiver, when taken with that mention of his adjutant and the mean disinheriting look in the civilian’s eye.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ The flight-lieutenant’s good manners were deliberately directed at Fred as he finally recovered his board. That discharges your responsibility for your prisoner.‘

  ‘He’s not a prisoner,’ snapped Fred.

  ‘No, sir?’ The flight-lieutenant glanced at the shabby figure beside Fred. ‘Well, anyway, he’s ours now, sir.’

  ‘Mine,’ growled the civilian. ‘You will come this way.’ The words, addressed to Number 16, were not quite an order, but they certainly weren’t a request.

  Number 16 looked at Fred. For a moment he seemed to be on the verge of speaking, but in the end nothing came out. And that was just about how Fred himself felt: there was so much to say, both about what had happened and what looked like happening now, that there was really nothing to say by way of explanation and excuse.

  ‘Goodbye, sir.’ He couldn’t bring himself to add ‘and good luck’. But, in any case, the civilian was gesturing impatiently. And to be fair, maybe he was properly nervous in wide open spaces. ‘I think you’d better go, sir.’

  ‘Yes.’ Number 16 stared at him. ‘Goodbye, major.’

  Fred watched the two men start down the runway, past a line of Dakotas, towards a low huddle of Nissen huts, the civilian purposeful and guardsman-straight—policeman-straight?—and Number 16 trying to keep up with him, but walking as though his feet hurt, or his shoes didn’t fit. And it continued to feel strange to feel sorry for a German so soon after he had hated them all indiscriminately, and even stranger to feel guilt also. But … vae victis, as the Romans said—as Colonel Colbourne might have said?

  ‘You don’t want to worry,’ murmured the flight-lieutenant. ‘He’s only a policeman of some sort. And there’s a couple of long-haired types waiting for your prisoner, down in the end hut here—they’re the real reception committee.’

  ‘He’s not my prisoner, damn it.’

  ‘Sorry!’ The flight-lieutenant grinned disarmingly. ‘And you’re right, of course. Because they’re certainly not policemen, is what I mean. In fact, they look more like boffins of some sort, from Cambridge just down the road. So he’s getting the proper VIP treatment.’ He grinned at Fred again, and pointed. ‘And so are you, major: top brass on your reception committee. And you better not keep ’em waiting, because your return flight’s due off at 1500 hours. So cheerio then, major.‘

  Fred saw Brigadier Clinton standing on the edge of the tarmac, with another officer beside him and the full length of the runway stretching beyond them. But he couldn’t identify the other man as anyone he’d seen on that night in the Kaiserburg on the limes, or in the Schwartzenburg afterwards, or anywhere in the Teutoburg Forest these last few days.

  ‘Thank you, Flight-Lieutenant—’ But the wind blew his thanks away, and the young man had already gone with it, on the wings of his own signed responsibility, prudently leaving Fred and Number 16 each to their reception committees and their respective fates.

  Belatedly, Fred felt that he ought to be experiencing some sense of occasion, and couldn’t quite believe that he had overlooked it, after all he’d dared to imagine: because this was his homecoming at long last—even if it was suddenly in the middle of England, not the welcoming White Cliffs of Dover seen from a smelly troopship, which he’d always longed for—

  But Brigadier Clinton was waving at him, acknowledging his presence. And that was the reality of his homecoming, and he had to bow to it, and march towards it.

  ‘Fred—my dear fellow!’

  ‘Sir.’ The answer came easily. But already he felt different chains binding him, very different from the old military ones to which he had become accustomed when his soul had not been his own. ‘I’ve just handed … Number 16 … over—’ To a brigadier, in the presence of an anonymous major of artillery, his salute was automatic, even though it felt foolish ‘—as
per Major M’Corquodale’s orders, in the absence of Colonel Colbourne.’

  ‘Well … thank God for that, then!’ Clinton tossed his head, and then nodded at the gunner. This is Colonel Stocker, Fred. Give your release to him … and then we can be done with playing Housey-Housey, thank God!‘

  Fred looked directly at the major-who-was-no-longer-a-major, who had a pale desk-bound face which didn’t fit his Royal Artillery badges and his double deck of medal ribbons. And for an instant the scrap of paper fluttered in the wind between them. ‘Sir!’

  ‘Major Fattorini.’ The new colonel’s mask relaxed slightly, into a curiously old-maidish smile. ‘How are things with TRR-2?’

  Fred didn’t know how to answer that. ‘Sir—?’

  The smile tightened, but the eyes above didn’t change. ‘How have they taken what happened? How is M’Corquodale coping?’

  Fred amended his first confused impressions radically. Gunners (even if they weren’t sappers) were rarely old maids. But, more than that, this was a dyed-in-the-wool Clinton follower. And that called for extra caution. ‘Major M’Corquodale had things well in hand when I left this morning, sir.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ The gunner colonel cocked his head slightly. ‘And in the absence of Colonel Colbourne—as you put it so diplomatically—what is your official story? About what happened when you finally made contact with Number 16?’

  So that was the way the land lay. ‘One of our civilian contacts was bringing in a German for questioning, sir.’ He carefully didn’t look at Clinton. ‘But we had some serious trouble with an armed band of Ukrainian DPs and Russian deserters who were holed-up in the forest. And that was when the adjutant and the RSM unfortunately became casualties. And one of our German contacts was caught in the cross-fire. And we have one other German civilian in custody, pending further inquiries.’

  ‘And that is your story?’ The gunner also didn’t look at Clinton. ‘And you’re sticking to it?’

  ‘Yes. Until I’m told otherwise.’ Fred went so far as to touch his battle-dress blouse, over his heart and his envelope. ‘Or until I’m demobilized back to civvy street, sir—whichever comes first.’