The '44 Vintage dda-8

by Anthony Price

  strictly classified to field rank and above, his little secret." Major O'Conor savoured the thought like a sugarplum. "But don't tell me you weren't curious, young Audley— didn't you lie awake wondering about it? Of course you did, eh!"

  "The payroll?" Audley still gaped at him.

  "The sinews of war, my dear boy—and of peace too, by God! The last big payroll of the old British Expeditionary Force, no less . . . and as poor Clinton really doesn't need it any more, the sergeant-major and I—and the good Purvis there—we are going to draw it in lieu of back pay and allowances and demobilisation gratuities. Five years' devoted service in conditions of extreme discomfort and danger—

  you can look on it as payment in full for a job well done, or you can look at it as a winner-takes-all lottery." The major's tone sharpened. "Last time I was a loser. This time I'm a winner, that's the sum of it, boy."

  "No—" Audley began. "No—"

  " Yes. What did you think it was, eh? Objets d'art of some sort? Or a secret weapon? I'm sorry, my boy . . . just filthy lucre, that's all. Not worth missing Cambridge for—and certainly not worth dying for.

  So do be a sensible young fellow and tell your heroes to put down their weapons quietly. We don't want any shooting—once it starts it's apt to become infectious—"

  That was why, Butler realised suddenly: gunfire from within the chateau might spark off the confrontation at the main gate! The major's kindly concern for their survival was as false as his glass eye.

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

  "—but if the sergeant-major has to shoot, believe me young Audley— he will shoot." The threat at the last was as naked as a Windmill girl. "And that will be just ten seconds from now, I'm sorry to say."

  "Lieutenant—" Winston tensed up. "Lieutenant—"

  "No, wait!" Audley's voice cracked with strain. "He lied to you, Major—Colonel Clinton lied to you"—

  he pointed into the hole wildly— "there's no money in there. There never was any money in there—"

  "What?"

  "He lied to you—it was just a cover story—as Bullsblood was a cover for Chandos." Audley's face twitched uncontrollably at the name. "Chandos!" he repeated bitterly.

  "Hold it, Sergeant-major," snapped O'Conor. "What d'you mean, boy—a cover? What d'you mean?"

  Audley blinked. "It wasn't—money, sir. There's no money."

  "You're lying, damn you—he told me . . ." The major's voice trailed off. "He told me . . ." He choked on the words "He told me. . . ."

  It was no longer the voice of triumph: it was an old man with ashes in his mouth. Ashes which dried up his words.

  "How do you know it isn't money, sir?" The sergeant-major's bark cut through the silence.

  Audley's glance shifted. "Because I've been in there, Sergeant-major. And I've seen what's in there."

  The unasked question hung in the sunlight. Butler was aware suddenly that Audley was staring past him at a different angle, and staring with a peculiar intensity.

  "You want to know what's in there, Sergeant-major? You really want to know?" said Audley. "You want me to tell you?"

  That was odd, thought Butler: the meaningless repetition of the question, as though Audley had any possible doubt—

  And then, just as suddenly, Butler knew exactly where the sergeant-major stood on the steps behind him . . . behind, slightly to the right—slightly to the right, above—

  "You really want me to tell you, Sergeant-major?" said Audley again. He was fighting to take the Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  sergeant-major's attention, Butler knew. Or at least to take enough of it to give him that tiny fraction of a second's purchase for what had to be done.

  Don't you ever point that gun at me again—unless you intend to shoot me with it!

  "Well, I'll tell you, Sergeant-major—" Not yet.

  Because whatever Audley was going to say he must have judged that it would be enough to give Corporal Butler at least a chance.

  And at the moment he had no chance.

  "I hope you've got a sense of humour, Sergeant-major. Because you're going to need one—"

  Butler knew he was right now: whatever it was coming, it was designed to hurt.

  "He was right—money's not worth dying for. Not worth risking men's lives for either, with all the millions they've spent. It always had to be nastier than that—"

  Dad had been a sergeant-major: that was a funny thing to think of at a time like this. Sergeant-major Butler!

  "Not worth dying at all now, really. We've won the war—"

  He would never be a sergeant-major. He would be an officer—or a dead corporal.

  "But that's this war. We haven't won the next war yet, Sergeant-major. So that's still worth dying for—

  the Third World War—"

  The sergeant-major and the major . . . rather like Sergeant-major Butler and Colonel Chesney—General Chesney. The only two people in the world he loved.

  Except now there was maybe a third—He hadn't thought of Madeleine Boucard for three whole hours—

  Third?

  Third World War?

  "That's right, Sergeant-major: the Third World War. Do you know we even guessed at it before we got here? What we didn't realise is that they'll have new weapons for the next war—King Tigers'll be as out of date as longbows next time—"

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

  Now?

  But he couldn't move. He wanted to know what Audley was going to say next.

  "And longbows are rather appropriate—you know that? Longbows are what Sir John Chandos had back in the 1350s. Killed a lot of Frenchmen with them, by golly—Agincourt, Poitiers—and Spaniards at Najera too. But he wasn't the top killer of the time, Sergeant-major—he was a real pro, but he wasn't in the same class as the Black Death, Sergeant-major—"

  Plague.

  Audley pointed into the hole. "The boxes in there have INSTITUT ZELLER stamped on them. And Institut Zeller is where they came from. And I don't know what the Zeller Institute was playing with in 1940, but I can make a damn good guess, Sergeant-major—"

  Butler stared into the hole in horror. War was one thing, but disease . . . loathsome and invisible, was a nightmare from the pit—

  "—because we've been playing with it too, Sergeant-major. A friend of mine in the Sappers had to wire off the beaches on a Scottish island, Sergeant-major—he said an experiment there had gone wrong. So nothing can live there for a hundred years now. It had sheep on it, but they were all dead—dead and rotting, dozens of them. The Sappers weren't allowed near them. They weren't even allowed off the beach."

  Butler's flesh crawled. Dead and rotting—

  "Plague?" croaked the major. " Plague."

  "Maybe not plague. It could be a dozen things. They were working on polio at the Institute—there's no cure for polio. If they found a virulent strain and a vaccine of some sort. . . polio or flu or plague ... an army that was vaccinated wouldn't need to fight if they had a weapon like that to clear the way ahead of them, by Christ!"

  The hole yawned in Butler's imagination, straining to swallow him into its darkness. He wanted only to run away.

  "No wonder they didn't want the Germans to get it in '40—the Zeller research files. And no wonder the Communists wanted it so badly." Audley paused. "And no wonder Colonel Clinton didn't tell you what we were really after—no wonder he lied to you, Major!"

  Butler came to himself again. Killing or dying wasn't even a choice any more. He had to get away from Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  the black hole under the bridge.

  Audley giggled insanely. "But the really funny thing is—"

  Now?

  "That it doesn't bloody matter—it's all for nothing, Sergeant-major—"

  The orders had gone out: Butler felt like an army poised for the last great offensive in a hundred-year war, with every nerve and muscle stretched like a millio
n soldiers waiting for the second-hand on the watch to reach the twelve on the dial, no longer conceivably stoppable—

  "Because that's the flood-arch on the bridge. See the gratings there —every time the river floods have come up in the last four years the water's been inside there— every winter, every spring—"

  It was already too late—

  "—the paper has all rotted . . . the rats and mice have crawled in and chewed it up and eaten it—or made their nests out of it—all the files, all the records ... all the experiments and the knowledge—all shredded and eaten and excreted and flushed down the river—so we're all going to die for nothing, Sergeant-major

  —for nothing—"

  Now—

  The second-hand hit the twelve and the bugles pealed out inside Butler.

  In the very instant that he rose on to his toes he heard a single sharp in-drawn breath—a scrape of nailed-boots on stone—and first syllable of a battle-cry.

  In that same instant he knew that he could never turn in time, even as he turned—

  The barrel of the sergeant-major's submachine gun rose in an arc as Hauptmann Grafenberg's body collided with his legs. The sergeant-major's knee smashed into the German's face throwing him sideways.

  The Sten jerked in Butler's hands and the sergeant-major's face dissolved in a bloody mask. It seemed strange to him that the face should disintegrate when he had aimed at the chest—

  Audley had been looking at the sergeant-major's face.

  Butler continued to swing on his heel—his bullets splashed into the stone, throwing dust and chips into Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  the air—

  The major—

  Major O'Conor was looking at him.

  Major O'Conor was reaching for his webbing-holster. Butler thought . . . That's silly—he can't possibly do that!

  The major was fumbling with the holster with one hand—an old man's hand with the heavy veins raised on it. He still held his ashplant stick in the other, half raised. The stick somehow seemed more menacing than the revolver, half drawn from the holster.

  Don't, Major— the voice was inside Butler.

  The Sten jumped in his hand before the words could come out and Butler saw the good eye shut—or was it the good eye? In that last living moment one of the major's eyes contradicted the other, and Butler never knew which as the old man was thrown backwards against the wall by the force of the bullets.

  "Come on, Jack—for Christ's sake!" shouted Audley.

  Butler was suddenly aware that the subaltern was lifting Hauptmann Grafenberg off the pavement at the foot of the stair, where the sergeant-major's knee had tumbled him. The German seemed half stunned, and as Audley raised him blood sprayed from his nose onto the pavement.

  " Es geht mir gut," mumbled the German thickly. "Es geht mir gut."

  Butler started towards him, but Audley waved him away. "Get up the stairs—cover us," he ordered.

  "Cover us, damn it! Doctor—get back over the bridge."

  The command unlocked Butler's brain, and he sprinted up the stair round the great curve of the tower.

  To his right the bridge was still open and unguarded, but there was a British soldier running up the drive towards them on his left.

  Butler opened fire automatically and the soldier cartwheeled off the drive in a tangle of arms and legs just as the empty magazine cut off the burst.

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

  He could hear firing in the distance now, out of sight down the drive, both the stammer of automatic weapons and the crack of single shots.

  He thought, with a curious clarity: the major was right—killing is infectious.

  Another magazine for the Sten. There were men in the trees two hundred yards away, and at that range there was no chance of hitting them. But at least he could bloody well frighten them—

  The clarity persisted. It was all quite mad, all utterly pointless. Chandos Force was fighting its last battle, against the French and against itself, and for nothing.

  "Come on, Jack—get moving," said Sergeant Winston from just behind him.

  "I'm okay." Butler fired again at the trees.

  "Sure you are. But it's time to say good-bye."

  Butler thought that was a funny thing to say in the circumstances. He also thought that the solid comfort of the tower was preferable to the open stretch of the bridge.

  Suddenly he remembered Sergeant Purvis.

  "Where's that bugger Purvis?" He fired again.

  "The hell with Purvis! Get going, Corporal."

  It didn't seem right that Sergeant Purvis of all people should get away.

  He turned towards the American. "Where's Purvis?"

  The look on Sergeant Winston's face answered the question: the sergeant was grinning at him like a wolf.

  Butler swung back towards the trees.

  The Sten jammed.

  As his hand closed on the magazine he felt himself being dragged away from the wall and propelled onto the bridge. For an instant he was angry, and then fear started his legs moving.

  The bridge was longer and narrower than it had been before, and the firing behind him was louder and closer. As he ran he heard a sudden swishing-hissing sound alongside him, and the gravel spurted madly Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  on his left and away in a writhing snake ahead of him.

  Audley grabbed him as he came to the end of the parapet and pulled him down onto the cover of the stonework, half knocking the breath out of him. The chateau and the blue sky and the gravel spun round as he rolled sideways.

  A shadow blocked out the light.

  "No!" shouted Audley. "For Christ's sake, man—"

  Butler found himself staring from ground level down the long funnel of the bridge parapets, back the way he had come.

  Halfway down the funnel Hauptmann Grafenberg was trying to disentangle a body which was curled up against the stonework. As he tugged at one arm another long snake of spurting gravel raced up the drive and onto the bridge towards him.

  The arm suddenly seemed too heavy for him. He knelt down slowly beside the American, as though the problem of lifting him was one which required special thought and he needed time to work it out. Then, just as slowly, he toppled over alongside him.

  The firing was very loud now, echoing all around them.

  Butler started ro rise, but Audley's hand pressed him down.

  "It's no good," whispered Audley. "They're done for."

  It was no good, thought Butler. They were done for.

  "An' we'll be done for an' all if we stay 'ere any longer," said a voice from behind them.

  Butler looked over his shoulder in surprise to find Driver Hewett crouching a yard away, nodding at him with ancient wisdom.

  No winners and losers, only the survivors and the dead. Driver Hewett had been born with that knowledge, he'd never needed to learn it.

  Without looking back at the bridge Butler crawled away in Audley's wake towards the safety of the woods.

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

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