‘What’s that – ?’ He couldn’t not look now, even if he hadn’t wanted to look, as de Souza straddled the body, and turned it over, face in the dirt, arms flopping obscenely as gravity shifted their dead weight. ‘What was that you said – ?’
‘I said . . . “Go on – do it properly!”’ Kyriakos paused, as de Souza began to do something so revolting that Fred couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘ Ah – that’s right!’
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‘God Almighty!’ What was almost more revolting than what de Souza was doing was Kyriakos’s approbation of the unnatural act.
‘Nothing?’ Kyriakos exhaled slowly. ‘Bad luck! But. . . well done, de Souza!’ He came back to Fred at last. ‘You were saying – ?’
‘I wasn’t saying anything. I was feeling sick, that’s all.’
Then . . . the more fool, you!‘ The Greek’s eyes were hard. That’s where they hide things, when they have to, old boy.’
For the next foul moment, Fred found himself looking at de Souza again: he was stripping off the corpse’s shirt now, leaving the whole naked body leprous white, except for its brown hands and arms and ruined, bloody face.
‘But . . . but why, Kyriakos?’ He abandoned the final tableau of Captain de Souza doing his duty. ‘For God’s sake!’
Kyriakos bit his lip, under his moustache. ‘My poor Fred!’ He let go his lip. ‘These are professionals – they know what they want . . .
Which is not killing their enemies, any more. They have progressed beyond that –they are not mere soldiers . . . like you and me – do you understand?’ The lip drooped, one-sidedly. They are not crude – ?‘
‘ Crude!’ That was a joke he couldn’t laugh at.
‘Don’t be deceived by appearances.’
‘Appearances?’ The repeated word suddenly sounded foolish as he realized that he had been deceived: he had taken de Souza for a civilized man and the large young dragoon for a major, and then for a typical subaltern. But neither of them was what he had at first seemed.
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‘Actually, I really feel quite comforted.’ Kyriakos stared at him. ‘I am comforted . . . comforted and surprised – or, comforted and much reassured, anyway.’
‘Reassured?’ After six weeks in Greece, never mind all those months in Italy, Fred regarded himself as a veteran, and an expert on war’s idiocies. It irritated him to be treated like an innocent.
‘This has reassured you, has it? About what?’
That you British are beginning to know your business.‘ Kyriakos gestured to stop him replying. ’Oh yes – I know you came to Greece – ‘ he nodded ’ – and that proves someone knew his business . . . which would be your Mr Churchill of course. But you did not really anticipate events, did you?‘
‘I didn’t?’ Whenever the Greek talked high politics he always addressed Fred as though he was personally responsible for War Cabinet decisions. But then, as he controlled the temptation to adapt his answer accordingly, he saw the truth of the question: in early December the brigade – indeed, the whole division – had been under orders for Palestine, and had actually had to re-possess all the equipment it had surrendered on the eve of embarkation. So Greece had plainly been an unforeseen emergency. ‘No, we didn’t.
But – ’ As he spoke, Kyriakos nodded past him, in de Souza’s direction again.
‘See there, old man.’
Much against his will, and fortified only by the thought that de Souza couldn’t be doing anything nastier than what he had already done, Fred obeyed the injunction –and instantly regretted his dummy4
decision.
‘Ah . . .’ The Greek caught his arm. ‘He has something – yes – he has something, indeed!’
Captain de Souza had been taking a dentist’s view of the shattered head, probing inside the gaping mouth with a sliver of bright metal.
And, until the Greek spoke, all Fred had been thinking was . . . at least he’s not just using his finger now!
‘Yes!’ Kyri’s fingers tightened, then relaxed as de Souza examined what he had found. ‘So now we know!’
Fred swallowed. ‘What do we know, Kyri?’ But in that instant, as he asked his question, he realized that he did indeed know something now, even if it had nothing to do with the beastliness he had been witnessing. Or, not directly, anyway. ‘What do we know?’
Kyriakos caught the change in his voice. ‘Are you shocked?’
‘Not by that.’ Comparatively, that was the truth.
‘You know what he’s found then?’ Kyriakos misunderstood him.
Fred faced a bitter truth. There had once been a Captain Michaelides he had known, who had been a Greek soldier much beloved by the Canadians with whom he was liaising, who didn’t love fools and cowards. And that had been his own Captain Michaelides, devoted to war and wine and women in whichever order the immediate circumstances allowed.
‘You lied to me, Kyri.’ He thought about the new Captain Michaelides, with whom he had made happy contact in Athens, who had seemed exactly the same as the first one, except for the moustache . . . and a slight tendency to talk politics, which had dummy4
seemed fair enough now that he was in his homeland.
Kyriakos frowned. ‘I lied to you?’
‘Yes.’ As always, thinking for himself paid dividends . . . even though this pay-out sickened him as he remembered how very interested Kyriakos had been in the morale of General Scobie’s troops, and their feelings about what they were doing in Greece; and although he had never thought about it until now, he didn’t know what Captain Michaelides had been doing . . . except that he always knew what was going on, and where (until this last hour or two) the safety line could be drawn.
‘Yes?’ To his credit, the second Captain Michaelides didn’t try to add to his deceptions. ‘When?’
‘Just now.’ Even as Fred knew he was right, he knew also that he had no right to judge the man in his own poor bloodthirsty, blood-stained and ruined country. ‘You said you and I were different from this lot – just another pair of simple soldiers, eh?’ He watched the Greek narrowly. ‘But you know exactly what is happening here
– don’t you?’
Kyriakos stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Not . . .
not exactly!’ Then he smiled. ‘If I knew that, then we wouldn’t be here.’ The smile vanished. ‘But you’re right, of course – I know what these men are, if not who they are, shall we say?’
This was the moment to ask questions, Fred sensed. ‘What did Captain de Souza find? Or would you rather let me guess?’
The Greek shrugged, aware that he had lost a friend, but also that his hospitality-invitation to an ally still obligated him. ‘A happy dummy4
pill.’ He let the memory of the shrug do its work. ‘When you don’t want to talk, but you think you may, then you crunch it ... and then you don’t talk ever again.’
‘Oh . . .’ He didn’t really know what he would have guessed. But he wouldn’t have guessed that. ‘And that’s happiness, is it?’
‘Compared with being tortured by experts – yes it is.’
That was nasty. And, more than nasty, it was libellous. ‘But we don’t torture our prisoners, Kyri.’ He could recall having leaned quite heavily on the rare German rearguard prisoner he’d been given, who might be expected to know where the booby-traps were. But that had been in the nature of give-and-take, and it really only stretched the Geneva Convention somewhat, falling infinitely short of torture. And then an alternative possibility presented itself.
‘Could be he was expecting to be captured by your lot though –
eh?’
‘Could be.’ Kyriakos accepted the insult without taking offence.
‘Except, old man, he didn’t crunch the pill, did he – eh?’
Fred resisted the renewed temptation to see what Captain de Souza was doing now. ‘Obviously, no – if that was what Captain de Souza found.’ Thinking about the stripped white-hairy-defiled body was bad enough: it didn’t need a d
ouble check. Indeed, he had no desire either to think about it or discuss it. Nor, come to that, was he particularly keen to face up to the implications of Captain Michaelides’ too-professional interest and expertise in such matters. But since they could not be ignored he could hardly leave those matters unresolved. ‘Didn’t do him any good though, did it!’
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‘No –’
‘No. His name was on a bullet, not a pill.’ Fred was simultaneously pleased and ashamed of passing himself off as a hardened veteran.
‘So what?’
‘Ah!’ Kyriakos pounced on him. ‘But you have missed the point, old man – missed it by a mile – ’ As he spoke, David Audley ducked out from the little doorway again‘ –by a mile!’ He repeated the distance for Audley’s benefit. ‘Would you not agree, Mr Audley, David?’
‘How’s that again – by a mile?’ David blinked at him. ‘Missed ...
the point? What point?’
‘Your Russian friend, old man.’ Kyriakos gestured towards the line of corpses without disengaging his attention from Audley.
Audley followed the gesture and grimaced, his natural ugliness contorted by whatever Captain de Souza was now doing. But then, as he came back to them, his face composed itself into tell-tale innocence. ‘Russian? Well –that’s news to me, Captain Michaelides. But . . . friend – whoever he was, he was no friend of mine, so far as I am aware.’ Much too late, the false innocence became polite enquiry. ‘What point would that be, which Captain Fattorini – or Fat-O’Rhiney – has missed by a mile?’
Kyriakos’s white teeth showed below his moustache. ‘You didn’t shoot him. Friend or enemy, you didn’t shoot him.’
‘No?’ The innocence increased. ‘Yes – well, you’re right. Because I certainly didn’t shoot him, Captain Michaelides. But then I am notoriously incapable of shooting people. Given a large enough dummy4
gun, in a tank, I can sometimes hit buildings, though. In fact, I once demolished an entire church, you know.’
‘I didn’t mean you, old man.’ Kyriakos gestured dismissively.
‘No?’ Audley came back quickly, with an edge to his voice.
‘But . . . well, I can tell you, captain, that our chaps are damn good, even if I’m not.’ He nodded at the corpse line, and then frowned at the Greek. ‘The bastards got three good men with their first burst.
But that’s because they must have got wind of us. And that’s all they got – all the rest were ours. And our chaps deserve the credit for it, I’d say.’
Fred started to warm to the young man, but then remembered the Greek’s warning and that falsely innocent expression. So all Audley was doing was drawing Kyriakos out in his own way, most likely.
‘No. Not all.’ Suddenly Kyriakos spoke mildly, without emphasis.
‘Your chaps didn’t shoot your Russian friend. Not unless they shoot other . . . chaps ... in the back of the neck.’ He paused.
‘Which I’m sure they don’t – being decent chaps.’ Mild still. ‘And certainly not on this occasion.’ Cold, hard voice, suddenly: the voice of Captain Michaelides Mark II. ‘Because your Russian –
friendly or unfriendly to you, old man . . . he was shot by his own side, from behind.’ If possible, the voice became harder and colder.
‘These last few weeks I’ve seen quite a lot of wounds like that, courtesy of Hellenikos Laikos Apelefteroikos Stratos . . . and some understandable reprisals by the men I have the honour of trying to command, I’m sorry to say.’ The voice was ultimately frozen now.
‘So I know what a man’s face looks like when he’s been shot in the dummy4
back of the neck while lying down. So do not argue with me, lieutenant.’
Fred stared at Kyriakos. He had started off watching the young dragoon, to see how he reacted to the Greek’s mild disagreement.
But then Captain Michaelides Mark II had taken over. And finally, at the last, it hadn’t been Captain Michaelides Mark II either: it had been a complete stranger.
For a moment Audley didn’t reply, which drew Fred back to him to observe what he felt might well be a mirror-image of his own expression, although on a very different face.
‘I w-w-wouldn’t dream of arguing with you, Captain M-Mmm – ’
Audley shook his head and scowled as his impediment got the better of him. ‘You can g-g . . . go and argue with the B-B-B – ’
‘I will do just that, yes.’ The Greek drew himself up.
‘In there – ’ Audley pointed towards the low doorway in the ruins ‘
– he’s w-waiting to mmm-meet you both.’ He tore his attention from the Greek to Fred, and instantly relaxed. ‘I’ve told him all about you, and he’s jolly keen to make your acquaintance, he says.
And – ’ The boy just managed to avoid looking at Kyriakos again ‘
– and the good news is that I’m to find you some transport, if possible – ’
‘No,’ said Kyriakos.
They both looked at him.
‘I shall go and see the Brigadier by myself first.’ Kyriakos ignored Audley. ‘Im sorry, old boy. But that’s the way it is. Because this happens to be my country.’
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He gave Fred a nod, and then ducked into the doorway without another word.
‘And he’s b-b-bloody welcome to it, if you ask me,’ murmured Audley. Then he looked inquiringly at Fred. ‘Bloody Greek Secret Police!’ Then he frowned. ‘And he’s a friend of yours – ?’
‘Yes.’ It was true. Or it had been true.
‘And you really did break down – and all that?’
The innocent look was back. And if Kyriakos hadn’t warned him he would have believed it. But now he didn’t believe either of them. ‘Yes.’
Audley breathed in deeply. ‘Well . . . you’ve got some funny friends, then. So you’d better watch out, if you ask me – if you’re stuck here.’ He breathed out slowly. Thank God we’re posted elsewhere after this, to where the real war is! Not that we’ll see much of it, more’s the pity!‘ He grinned at Fred. ’I never thought I’d ever say that, you know!‘
Was he being led on? Fred wondered. ‘What d’you mean – “the real war”?’ If he was, then he’d be safer among questions than answers.
Audley glanced nervously at the doorway. ‘Well . . . this isn’t the real war, is it?’ The glance came back to Fred, but then went past him, towards whatever Captain de Souza might be doing now, if he was still at work among the bodies behind them; but whether he was or wasn’t, Fred wasn’t tempted to find out. Yet he felt the presence of the dead at his back nevertheless.
This isn’t war – ?‘ He almost felt that he was putting the question dummy4
on behalf of those nearby who could no longer ask it.
Audley shrugged. ‘If it is, then it’s a different kind of war. And don’t ask me what kind.’ Then he looked past Fred again. ‘An “in-the-back-of-the-neck” war? A most unkind war, I’d call that – eh?’
PART TWO
The Unkind War
On the Roman Frontier,
Germany, August 6, 1945
I
The moment he set eyes on the driver, Fred was sure that he’d seen him before somewhere, sometime. But then, in the next moment, he knew that it couldn’t be so. And it wasn’t just one of those tricks which the very anonymity of uniform perversely played on occasion: it was a simple case of wish-fulfilment brought on by intense loneliness. For nothing, not even changing boarding-schools (and certainly not leaving home itself), was more inner-desolation making than being torn untimely from the bosom of one’s own unit, and from long-time friends and comrades. He had started to feel it in the very second that the adjutant had shown him the order, this loneliness. And he had felt himself as utterly forlorn and abandoned as Alexander Selkirk on his desert island among dummy4
these crowds of noisy, gum-chewing, cigarette-smoking Americans in the leaking, badly-repaired airfield building –forlorn and abandoned even after the altogether surprising Ame
rican Air Force major beside him had plucked him out of the scrum like a long-lost buddy.
‘See there – over there!’ The American addressed him cheerfully over the butt of his cigar. There’s your man –and there’s your transport. And . . . now that is some transport, by Gahd!‘
It was also the uniform, of course, thought Fred: the crowds of Yanks de-bussing from their huge lorries were no different from all those he had seen in Italy – more than half a year ago now, but it seemed more like a lifetime; except (and it was a bloody big difference, on second thoughts) these Yanks were happily loaded down with what looked like loot, and presumably destined for home . . . whereas the Yanks he remembered had been unhappy, and loaded with weaponry and combat gear, and destined for the meat-grinder of generals quite notoriously unconcerned with casualty lists, unlike their British opposite numbers –
But . . . it was the uniform, of course: one little British soldier, albeit in surprisingly well-pressed and well-fitting battle-dress, stood out from among them like a rough-haired terrier among a pack of sleek fox-hounds with their tails up after feeding time.
‘Yes?’ It was the uniform, of course. He felt the forlornness dilute slightly, if not the bewilderment; if anything, the bewilderment increased from the high point it had reached when the major had hailed him by name out of the line of disembarked Dakota passengers while they were still appreciating the feel of solid dummy4
ground underfoot after that hair-raising landing, and more simply glad to be alive than to be where they wanted to be. ‘Yes – I see him, major.’
For a moment he lost sight of his man and his transport, as a phalanx of huge Americans, more or less in disciplined ranks, cut them off from their objective, en route to flight departure and God’s Own Country and Betty Grable. And Fred wasn’t outraged by their bulldozing interruption, even though he could hear the Air Force major swearing at them beside him. Because . . . one day that’ll be me – me en route to Mother, Julia, and Uncle Luke, and tea in the Savoy, and a World fit for Heroes inside Armstrong, Fattorini Brothers – by God!
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