The '44 Vintage dda-8

by Anthony Price

He had always despised Callaghan, and now he despised himself and felt ashamed to think of the bugger in the same breath as Madeleine Boucard—Callaghan, whose endless seductions of local girls were the shame and the pride of the platoon.

  He thrust the coarse memory out of his mind. Jack Butler was not Pat Callaghan, any more than Madeleine Boucard was any hapless local girl—or the Chateau Le Chais d'Auray was a Lancashire Rifles barrack room.

  And yet, for all that, he found himself smiling now at Madame Boucard, and seeing in her features the source and origin of Madeleine's beauty.

  And she smiled back at him, and the smile caught his breath in his throat.

  The mother, the daughter, the wine and the food, the sparkle of flame reflected on glass and silver and polished mahogany—it was all as unreal as the calm which the books said lay in the centre of a hurricane. It was even more impossible than the other things that had happened to him.

  He touched the bandage on his head and let his glance touch the girl, and knew that both of them were real. And he knew that by the same token the promise he had made her was real too, even though he had been out of his depth and out of his class and more than half out of his head when he'd made it—real even though she'd probably only been humouring him, as any nice girl in an awkward spot might do: he couldn't blame her for that, with a crazy foreign soldier on her hands, a soldier who'd just come out of the dark from nowhere, and who was going back into the dark to nowhere soon enough—No, not real for her maybe. But real for him, and so binding on him that it would make him indestructible until he'd discharged it—

  Suddenly he was aware that she had said something to him, only he'd been too busy dreaming as he looked at her, and had missed the words.

  "Are you all right, Jack?" Her eyes were dark with concern. Butler shook off the dream. Ever since the fight in Sermigny everyone had been asking him if he was all right; it was time to set the record straight once and for all.

  "Aye—never better." He grinned at her and nodded. Then he swung towards Audley, switching off the grin as he turned. “Fit for duty."

  Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  It somehow didn't sound the way he'd intended it to sound—it came out not so much as a statement, but more something halfway between a question and a challenge. And yet when he thought about it in the silence which followed he wondered if he hadn't meant it to be just that: half a question and half a challenge. Because all they'd had since he'd sat down at the table was the small talk of polite conversation between Audley and the Boucards: small talk in which he couldn't have joined even if it hadn't been layered below his concern for his own behaviour, so that he only half-heard it anyway . . . —

  The excellence of Maman's supper—Monsieur Boucard's expressive shrug: Those living on their own land, with their own produce, they have been the fortunate ones, these four years . . .

  —And with the wine of Le Chais to drive away gloom—

  Alas, not such good years. Except perhaps the '43 ...

  —Not the '44?—

  Shrug. The prospects were not promising. Old Jean-Pierre—

  —Old Jean-Pierre! As crusty as ever? And Dominique and Marcel? And Dr. de Courcy?—

  Ah! Now it is Dr. de Courcy who—

  (Boucard had cut off there suddenly, as though an alarm bell had sounded inside his head, and had flicked the merest suggestion of a covert glance at Hauptmann Grafenberg.) (Hauptmann Grafenberg sat there between Madeleine Boucard and Sergeant Winston, very stiff and formal, swallowing his soup nervously for all the world as though he was as worried about his manners as was Butler himself.)

  (Hauptmann Grafenberg hadn't noticed Boucard's quick glance, he had been staring down at his plate; and when he did finally look up into the silence his eyes had the blank, withdrawn expression of a man who could only see the pictures that were running inside his own head; and, for a bet, those would be desolate pictures, thought Butler sympathetically; because if here at this table the young German was no longer altogether an enemy he was certainly very far from being among friends; his former friends were now his enemies, and his former enemies were not his friends—he had no family and no country and no cause; and none of it was his own fault and his own doing, God help him!)

  —Dr. de Courcy who—?

  Will be glad to see you, my boy . . .

  Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  Small talk. Polite phrases as far removed from the world outside as light was from darkness, and the soft curve of Madeleine Boucard's breasts from the aching muscles of his own body.

  "Fit for duty." Boucard repeated the words thoughtfully. "But what duty is this, with which I can help you? That is, if you are not escaping, as you say you are not?"

  As he spoke he glanced again in Hauptmann Grafenberg's direction, and this time the young German picked up the signal.

  "You will wish me to ... withdraw, I think." He pushed back his chair and stood up.

  "No. On the contrary, Hauptmann—I want you to stay," said Audley. "Do please sit down."

  Hauptmann Grafenberg remained standing. "I think it is better that I do not hear what you are to do. I would prefer not to, please."

  Sergeant Winston stirred. "He means you got his word of honour, Lieutenant, but he'd rather keep his peace of mind—what he's got left of it. Right, Captain?"

  The German looked at the American sergeant, brushing as ineffectively as ever at the hair which fell across his face, but before he could say anything, Audley held up his hand.

  "No. I understand that, but it can't be like that. First because we can't leave you here—"

  "David—" Boucard interrupted.

  "No, sir. We can't and we won't. I wouldn't have come here otherwise . . . but there's another reason too

  —for my peace of mind, you might say. Because I need a witness."

  Madame Boucard leaned forward. "A witness, David? A witness for what?"

  "For what we may have to do, maman." Audley blinked at her uncertainly, as though still unable to reconcile his twin roles of small godson and large dragoon lieutenant.

  "What you may have to do?" Madame had no such difficulty: for her the years and inches and the King's Commission had clearly changed nothing. "And what is it that you may have to do which requires the attendance of a German officer?"

  "It doesn't exactly . . . require a German," said Audley hastily. "It just happens he'll make a damn good witness, is what I mean."

  Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  "There's no need to swear."

  "No, maman—I beg your pardon." The unbruised cheek reddened in the lamplight. Audley swayed from side to side for a moment, and then suddenly seemed to notice the German again. "Oh, do sit down, for God's sake, there's a g-g-good chap."

  Hauptmann Grafenberg brushed at his hair again, but remained standing. "Herr Leutnant—"

  Madame Boucard gave a small cough. "Please be so good as to sit, Captain."

  Hauptmann Grafenberg sat down.

  "Now, David—?" She turned back to Audley.

  But all Audley's courage seemed to have deserted him, together with his wits and the power of speech.

  Instead he began to straighten the place mat in front of him, and then the plate on the place mat, and after that the knife on the plate.

  The trouble was that silence didn't make matters better, it made them worse by answering the question in Butler's mind with a terrifying certainty.

  What we may have to do.

  "Hell!" said Sergeant Winston. "I beg your pardon, ma'am—but hell all the same. Because we got ourselves into one hell of a mess, so hell is right. But it isn't the lieutenant's fault, he's just doing his duty the way he sees it." He paused defiantly. "And the way I see it too, come to that, so I guess you can freeze me too."

  Butler felt ashamed that he had left it to a foreigner to defend his officer, which was what he should have done without a second thought.

  "An
d me too, madame," he said.

  Madame Boucard smiled at him, and then at the sergeant "I never doubted that for one moment."

  "No, ma'am?" Sergeant Winston tested the statement to destruction. "That's good, ma'am."

  "I agree, Sergeant." She took the verdict like a lady—and an equal. "Very well, then, David—so you are going to assassinate someone."

  Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  Audley's mouth opened, then closed again.

  She nodded at him. "Very well—kill, if you prefer the word."

  Audley swallowed. "Yes—I prefer the word."

  "Of course. Killing is what soldiers do."

  "We're soldiers, maman."

  Madame Boucard inclined her head fractionally, as though to concede what could hardly be denied but not one jot more.

  Sergeant Winston stirred restlessly. "Seems to me, ma'am, you know a lot more than you're telling." He gave Audley a thoughtful glance. "But then you're not the first person we met today like that."

  "No." Audley shook his head. "My godmother's just a very good guesser. She always was."

  "Uh-huh? So she still is." Sergeant Winston regarded Madame Boucard speculatively. "But I'd still be obliged to know how you guess so good, godmother."

  The expressive eyebrow lifted again. "Is it of so much importance to you, Sergeant—to know how an old woman guesses?"

  Winston shook his head. "Normally, ma'am—no. I had a grandma could see clear through me and a brick wall both, so it's no surprise you can figure us. But then it was just my ... backside was at risk. This time it's my skin. And the way things have been happening to us today —I guess I'm more suspicious than I was yesterday, even of godmothers."

  Both eyebrows came down into a frown. "The way things have been happening to you?"

  "Uh-uh." The American grinned and shook his head. "I got my question in first, ma'am. So I get my answer first."

  For an instant she looked at him severely, but then the corner of her mouth lifted. " Vraiment... I can see why your grandmother kept her eye on you, Sergeant. But—very well. When a man says there is something he may have to do, then it is usually something he doesn't want to do. And when the man wears a uniform and protests that he is also only doing his duty, then that is even more certainly the case

  —for then he is about to do something either very brave or very wicked. Or perhaps both ... or perhaps he doesn't know which, even."

  Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  She paused to look for a moment at Audley. "Now ... my godson there—your lieutenant—if he was here to blow up a bridge or destroy a railway line ... if there are still such things left in France that have not already been destroyed ... he would not need to explain that it was his duty. It would not even occur to him to explain it ... nor would he need a witness to it.

  "Nor, I think, if he was merely engaged in killing Germans"—she gave Hauptmann Grafenberg a grave little bow—"would he need to justify such an action, any more than our guest would need to explain why he was forced by his duty to kill Englishmen and Americans. . . .

  "And also my godson is not so insensitive that he would invite a German officer to witness such . . .

  duty. Which really leaves us with only one possibility." She looked for the first time towards her husband.

  "Which we have already foreseen, my husband and I—a sad but necessary duty, which we will not hinder."

  Butler frowned at Audley, suddenly mystified.

  Audley's face was a picture—a mirror image of his own mystification. And then suddenly it was transformed by understanding and relief.

  "My God, maman! Is that what you think we're here for?"

  Boucard shook his head. "Not the British, my boy—or not the British by themselves. But we realise that General de Gaulle and the Allies are not going to let the Communists take over, and ever since they have started to move Popular Front units into this area we've been expecting a countermove of some sort from the Free French and the Allies—particularly after today's news from the south."

  "You know about the landing?" Audley said quickly.

  Boucard smiled. "The Americans captured St. Tropez this afternoon, and their paras are already closing in on Draguignan . . . yes, we know. But what matters to us now is what happens here."

  "Jee-sus Christ!" Winston exploded.

  "Sergeant!"

  "I'm sorry, ma'am—but"—Winston appealed to Audley—"what the hell are they on about?

  Communists?"

  Audley grinned wryly at him. "Welcome to Europe, Sergeant. They think we're here to kill Frenchmen—

  Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  and French Communists for choice."

  Butler found himself staring at Hauptmann Grafenberg—he didn't know why, but perhaps it was because of all the faces at the table the young German officer's was the most completely bewildered.

  Except that the German was also staring at him.

  A few minutes before he had felt sorry for his enemy, because he had seen in his painful confusion the bitter truth that there was more to losing a war than just being beaten in fair fight by the stronger side.

  But now he himself was discovering that winning a war was more complicated than beating the enemy—

  that when one enemy was beaten there were suddenly more enemies and new enemies. Enemies stretching away into infinity—Germans killing Germans.

  Frenchmen killing Frenchmen.

  "Hell, ma'am—for once you really guessed wrong," said the American. "We're not here to kill Frenchmen. We're here to kill the goddamn British."

  It was perfectly logical, thought Butler.

  Or, if not perfectly logical, it had five years' blessing, all but a couple of weeks, behind it. And that was how Dad would have argued it, first with the other union officials round the kitchen table, then with the bosses—

  Custom and practice.

  “We have the custom and practice of the shop floor behind us. There's no getting away from that, lads."

  And the only difference was that then it was peacetime, and you struck—or they locked you out—and the one that broke first was the loser.

  But since September 3, 1939, it had been war, and the custom and practice of war was killing, and the one that dies first was the loser.

  "Traitors, you mean," said Boucard.

  Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  "Not. . . traitors, exactly," Audley shook his head. "More like criminals, sir—thieves, certainly."

  "And murderers," cut in Winston, looking at Audley. "What happened in that village—to those other guys—that was murder, by God. Even though they got the krauts to pull the trigger."

  And Mr. Wilson and Sergeant Scott, the dead interpreters whose shoes they were wearing, thought Butler fiercely. That had been murder plain and simple.

  "Aye—murderers," he echoed the American, the anger within him edging the words. When he thought about it, the trail of death Major O'Conor had left behind him had all been plain murder, not war at all: not just the two interpreters and the men in the jeep behind them at Sermigny, but the dead men at the river ambush, and those who must have died in the limejuice strike on Sermigny—Germans and French civilians alike, and even the Resistance men strafed by the Mustangs. They had all been the victims of the major's greed.

  Even Corporal Jones—it had been the major's hand on the bayonet in Taffy's guts, not his own.

  None of that had been war, just murder.

  "I see." Boucard stared at each of them in turn. "So you have been sent to ... execute them, is that it?"

  Audley blinked. "It isn't quite as simple as that. We have to stop their doing . . . what they're planning to do."

  "And killing them is the only way?" Madame Boucard paused. "Is that it, David?"

  Audley blinked again, shifting nervously in his chair.

  "Is it, David?" she repeated softly.

  "It's the o
nly way I can think of." Audley looked directly at her. "Maman—if I was a general or a colonel ... if we had a squadron of Cromwells parked in your drive, ready to go ... maybe I could come up with something clever." He shook his head. "But I'm not, and there aren't. There are just three of us, and we have to do the job somehow."

  "Huh!" Sergeant Winston grunted. "Always supposing we can even find the bastards."

  Audley glanced at him sidelong. "Oh, we can find them now, I think," he said.

  "So you do know where they're heading?" Winston made the question sound like an accusation.

  Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  "No." Audley looked at Winston for a second, then turned to Boucard. "But I think you'll know, sir. In fact I'm betting on it."

  "Me?" Boucard frowned. "Then I'm afraid you have lost your bet, my boy. Because I know of only two Englishmen in Touraine at this moment, and both of them are guests under my roof—they are sitting at this table."

  "Yes, sir. But you'll know where the men we're after are heading all the same, I think."

  Boucard shook his head. "No, David. We are an escape route, not a resistance group. Unless they are escaping—"

  "They're sure as hell not doing that," said Winston.

  "Then I simply do not have the sort of information you need." Boucard shrugged. "I might try to get it for you, it is true . . . there are ways, there are people . . . but it would take time. And I would guess that it is time that you lack?"

  "Yes, sir . . ." Audley turned suddenly towards Madame. "Maman, you remember we once went on a picnic to that chateau built right across a river—you had a special place just downstream on the south bank, on the towpath, where we had a terrific view of it?" Madame looked at him in surprise. "Just north of here, maman?"

  "Yes ... I remember. Chenonceaux." She nodded. "You made the occasion memorable by falling in the river."

  "So I did ... though actually Madeleine pushed me." Audley's lips twitched. "The river Cher?"

  "The Cher—yes." She nodded again. "Is that the place you are seeking?"