Fred felt his temper slipping. ‘What the devil d’you mean?’
‘What I say.’ Audley took the wallet out of his hand. ‘Because they are – or were, in the majority of cases now, unfortunately – a group of officers and gentlemen, and scholars and gentlemen, working out of the Rheinische Landesmuseum at Trier – sort of official, and also semiofficial, like the old Gesellschaft fur nutzliche Forschung.’ He grinned. They were ... a sort of follow-up party to dummy4
the RAF you might say.‘
The Society for Useful Research (allowing for Audley’s barbarous German pronunciation) – ? The . . . RAF?‘
That’s right. Christ, you’ve seen what we’ve done to Germany, haven’t you? That pile of broken bricks on the way from the airfield was the city of Frankfurt – Frankfurt! And it’s the same everywhere else – or worse . . . Cologne’s worse ... or “Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensis”, as our beloved commanding officer insists on calling it.‘ Audley drew a deep breath, which became a sigh. ’A lot of fine old cities – German cities, I agree . . . but some of ‘em go back a thousand years – or even back to the Romans . . .
But all flattened now.’ He stared at Fred. ‘But also cleared and opened up, too. Okay?’
It wasn’t okay. But Fred was unable to describe what it was.
‘Great chance for the archaeologists, after the war, someone thought.’ Audley nodded. ‘After Germany had won the war – ’
Slight shrug ‘ – they thought ... a lot of rebuilding. But they mustn’t miss the opportunity to excavate first. So someone had to mark the sites for urgent excavation. They even invented a long German technical term for what they wanted to do ... which I can’t remember now, because I don’t actually speak the lingo – “urgent-rescue-excavation”, it translates, more or less. But Amos will tell you, if you ask him, anyway.’ Nod. ‘Great scholars, the Germans –
classical scholars.’ Audley touched his battle-dress blouse, where he had replaced the wallet. ‘Several of ’em in our picture. Stoerkel, Zeitzler, Peter von Mellenthin – the late Peter being Number 7 . . .‘
Audley shook his head slowly ’Enno von Mitzlaff – scholar and dummy4
soldier . . . Langer, Hagemann . . . and, of course, old Professor Schmidt himself – ex-Cambridge and Bristol Universities, friend of Mortimer Wheeler.‘ Audley paused. ’Dead, or “missing, presumed dead”, or still missing . . . but mostly dead, they are.‘
But not in battle, thought Fred. Because the military wrecks and the elderly civilians in the photograph were plainly not cannon-fodder. ‘How dead?’
‘Franz Langer was killed in the bombing. And we think Stoerkel was in Dresden when the RAF took it off the map – that’s near enough certain, the Crocodile says.’ No nod this time, just a stare.
‘And Enno von Mitzlaff was strung up on piano wire by the Nazis after the Hitler bomb of July 20, in spite of all his battle honours –
he was one of Rommel’s bright young men . . . And Willi Hagemann – Dr Hagemann being Number 13 ... he was unlucky, too: he was run over by a Russian staff car just as we were about to pick him up, would you believe it?’
‘Unlucky?’ There was something very wrong about this litany.
‘Yes. Apparently he didn’t look where he was going.’ Audley’s expression became curiously blank. ‘But then, we do look where we’re going. And we do seem to have the most damnable bad luck too. Our “useful researches” always seem to end up unusefully, I must say!’
Fred remembered Osios Konstandinos. ‘But they’re not all dead
– ?’
‘No, not all dead, my dear chap.’ Audley perked up suddenly. The elusive Number 16 isn’t dead, we think –“Sweet-Sixteen-and-dummy4
Never-Been-Kissed”! And we’re going for Number 21 – “Key-of-the-Door” – this very night ... in the wee small hours, when he shouldn’t be expecting us. And Number 21 is rather important in the scheme of things, I suspect.‘
‘Why?’ Fred hit the question-button quickly, and therefore naturally; although as he did so he knew that it was another attempt on The Crucial Question, from what Audley had just let slip.
‘ Why?’
‘Because he knows Number 16.’ Audley looked down. ‘You’ve finished your drink ... so now we’ll go – right?’
Fred looked down. ‘Yes – yes, of course – ’
The rain still slanted down in the courtyard, and the wet smell of earth and darkness mingled with the enveloping sounds of rainwater dripping off roofs and cascading over blocked guttering all around them.
Fred shivered, although it wasn’t really cold – although it wasn’t really cold, through the thickness of battle-dress, even remembering how it would be now under the stars on the beach in Greece, this night. Because the cold was inside him now.
‘This way,’ Audley pointed. ‘And let me do the apologizing.’
‘Of course.’ He shivered again, involuntarily. ‘What’s so important about Number 16, David?’
‘I rather think that he’s the only one we’re really interested in.’
Audley pointed again, towards a bright doorway. ‘“Sweet Sixteen”
– let’s hope he lives to be kissed!’
Fred slowed deliberately. ‘Why do we want him?’
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‘God only knows!’ For the first time Audley touched him, trying to propel him into the light. ‘Nobody tells me anything – I just do as I’m told.’
‘But you must have some idea.’
‘Oh yes!’ Audley grinned at him conspiratorially. ‘A lot of people hunting Germans these days – it’s open season on Nazis, of course.’
Fred frowned. ‘But you said . . . these were decent chaps, David?’
That’s right.‘ The grin widened. That’s what makes it interesting: we seem to be trying to save these particular Germans for posterity. The only trouble is ... they don’t seem to want to be saved.’
3
Fred hunched himself miserably under David Audley’s umbrella, in the midst of utter darkness and the enveloping noise of the rain descending through the forest canopy above, which damped down every other sound, just as the young dragoon had promised.
‘ This is how it must have been,’ Audley had said, just before he’d disappeared into the dark, but without explaining what he meant; and then, ‘ Don’t go to sleep, Fred, for God’s sake – otherwise I’ll never find you again.’
He lowered the umbrella for a moment to let the rain refresh him –
mustn’t go to sleep . . . must think of something, anything – even the madness of dinner –
Dinner . . . dinner under candlelight winking silver-gold on cut dummy4
glass and heavy cutlery, served off delicate bone china boasting a many-quartered coat of arms, which were not the arms of any British unit, least of all TRR-2!
Loot! he had thought, but without daring to ask, as he had felt the weight of the glass and cutlery, and the lightness and strength of the plates, one after another. Or . . . not loot, but the legitimate spoils-of-war – remember where you are, Fred! But, loot or spoils, it had been unreal: unreal places, unreal people, unreal conversation, unreal candlelit setting, unreal food –
‘Deer ham, Herr Major – thinly sliced, slightly smoked . . . what you would call “venison”, Herr Major. Upon a leaf of the lettuce, with the cranberry sauce. And also with the horseradishes sauce –
so!’
‘Interesting word, “venison”.’ (Voice from down the table, not directed at him.) ‘Middle English, of course –Old French, too . . .
“Venery” – “Venerer” – “venison”; “hunting”, “huntsman”,
“hunted flesh”.’
‘“Venery”, Philip? I thought that was to do with sex, not animals.
Same thing though, I suppose.’
‘Not the same thing at all, Alec. Same spelling –different root.
That venery is from “Venus” – like “venereal” –’
‘Hah! Don’t hav
e to hunt for that, by God! Whole bloody army’ll be rotten with it by this time next year, mark my words. Once the fratting really starts – when everyone’s got his own woman.’ (Harsh voice, with the faintest Scottish roll to each ‘r: big angular face, with arched nose above a mouthful of teeth.) dummy4
’Interesting though, I would agree.‘
‘I didn’t mean that. What I meant was that all hunted flesh was originally “venison”, not just the deer. Boar, hare – any game animal. It was all venison.’
‘Oh aye? And would that include the two-legged variety, then?’
‘Pheasant, grouse –’
‘Och no! I mean man, old boy! The best game of all –the gamest game . . . our game, tonight – ’
Fred straightened up, conscious suddenly that he had slumped back against the trunk of his tree again.
Stand up straight – shoulders back – umbrella vertical –feet firmly placed (it was hard to keep them firm in the soft forest detritus into which they kept sinking) – mustn’t doze off (the utter darkness was disorientating: how the hell would Audley find his way back to this particular tree, for God’s sake?). Then he remembered the silly little metallic toy Audley had given him, which was still clenched in his hand.
‘It’s two clicks for the assault group, and one click in recognition,’
Audley had said. ‘ But if you hear three clicks, that’ll be me. And then you give four clicks back. And once I’ve left you, then you give me four clicks every five minutes, until you hear me. And then, when I give you three back, you give me four again. Right?’
It had sounded juvenile. But then Audley had said: ‘ The Yank paratroopers used it on D-Day, in Normandy –it’s a clever wheeze, Fred.’ And then it hadn’t been so childish –
dummy4
He pressed the toy: click-click-click-click!
Nothing. Only the sound of the rain –
‘Herr Major . . . Haul Brion, ’34 – please?‘
‘A good year.’ (Audley’s mouth was full of deer ham.) ‘Eh?’
The best since ‘29, Captain David.’ (Otto bobbed agreement.)
‘Besides which, it’s the best wine we have with us. But if you want to enjoy it then steer clear of the horseradish.’ (The voice was friendly, slightly slurred.) ‘Alec McCorquodale – Frederick Fattorini, is it – ?’
‘Yes.’ (The Crocodile, at last! But he had guessed that from the teeth already.) ‘Thanks for the advice . . . Alec.’
‘It’s “Freddie” actually, Alec.’ (Amos de Souza, from down the table.)
‘No, it isn’t – ’ (Audley was still wolfing his deer ham.)
‘Freddie? You wouldn’t be Luke Fattorini’s boy, by any chance?’
‘He’s my uncle.’ Everyone seemed to know Uncle Luke.
‘Oh aye?’ (The Crocodile pointed his big nose like a weapon, sighting Fred down it.) ‘Now, it was his elder brother married Angus Armstrong’s daughter – eh?’
‘Yes.’ (His own mouth was full.) ‘My . . . father – ’ (Chew!)‘ – and my mother.’
‘F-f-fff . . .’ (The sound came from Audley.) ‘It’s “Fred”, not F-ff . . . “Freddie”.’
dummy4
‘What?’ (The big nose changed direction.) ‘Ah . . . now, I’ve a bone to pick with you, young David. Rrrelat-ing to my vehicle.’
‘Oh?’ (Innocence.) ‘Ah . . . yes, Alec. I w-was going to tell you about that. But I had to look after F-f-Fred, you see –’
‘I do not need telling about it. I know all about it: it was given to that driver of yours, Hewitt – “Driver”, huh! And it was given, against my express orders, by that insolent dog of yours, Devenish.
What have you to say to that?’
(Pause.) ‘Sergeant Devenish, you mean, Alec?’
‘What?’ (Pause.) ‘Man, I do not care if he is a field-marshal, and has a Civil List pension. I’ve had enough of his insolence. And now he has ignored my express orders. So he must go.’
(Pause.) ‘No.’
‘No?’ (Incredulity.) ‘What the blazes – ’
‘Alec!’ (Amos de Souza’s voice, from down the table.)
‘Amos? Did you hear me?’
‘I heard what sounded supiciously like shop, Alec, is what I heard.’
‘F-what?’ (Splutter.) ‘I was talking about that damned arrogant fellow of Audley’s – Devenish, damn it – ’
‘Not “Audley”, Alec, if you please. Christian names in the mess.’ (De Souza’s voice was deceptively casual.) ‘Really, I shouldn’t have to remind you of that . . . should I?’ (Pause.) ‘And if you wish to discuss a noncommissioned officer, or anyone else . . . this really isn’t the time or the place, don’t you know . . .
eh? And also David isn’t the officer with whom you should dummy4
discuss . . . whoever you want to discuss.’ (Pause.) ‘I am that officer, as it happens. And I am looking at this moment to enjoy my dinner.’ (Pause.) ‘Ah! Now here, at last, is Otto! What have you got for us tonight, Otto?’
‘Herr Major!’ (Otto had been hovering behind Amos in the candlelight, silver tray in hand, bobbing and weaving like a boxer looking for an opening between the adjutant and the Colonel as Amos had delivered his suave reprimand to the Crocodile.) ‘It is the steak of the boar, Herr Major: the steak from the – the . . .
wildschweinrücken–?
‘“Saddle”, Otto.’ (The Colonel’s voice, calm as a cucumber.)
‘Sir!’ (Otto barked out his British ‘Sir’ like a British sergeant-major.)
‘ The steak from the saddle of the wild boar, grilled . . . and the red cabbage, with apple and ham, and the spätzler – yes?’
‘He bagged this boar himself, you know – Otto did.’ (Audley delivered the information in a loud stage-whisper, in the hubbub of embarrassed conversation which followed the moment of embarrassed silence.) ‘In the Teutoburgerwald, up in the north, near our headquarters.’
‘Yes?’ (He had to think of something to say: the deer ham had been delicious, but the grilled wild boar looked even better; and now there were vegetables – delicate young peas and mounds of creamed potatoes, yellow with . . . Christ! It was afloat with butter!
And, apart from hunger, prudence advised silence in this company.) ‘Indeed?’
dummy4
‘What was the food in Greece like?’ (The other officer –Philip?
Philip the Pedant? Or Philip the Gourmet?) ‘It was quite deplorable when I was there in ’41. In fact, the one good thing about being comprehensively defeated by the Germans on that occasion was that at least they delivered us from the horrors of Greek cuisine. I only had one halfways decent meal the whole time I was there.‘
‘Yes?’ (Gourmet, for sure: gourmet if that was his chief memory of Greece; and gourmet equally from his reverence with Otto’s wildschweinrücken.) ‘Everyone’s pretty hungry in Greece just now.’ (Food was a safe topic, evidently.) ‘I was anticipating much the same here, to be honest.’ (God! The potatoes were sheer heaven.)
‘Oh aye.’ (Crocodilian chuckle, friendly-sardonic-smug.) ‘Well, the natives are on rather short commons, as a matter of fact.’ (The Crocodile piled potato on an impaled slice of boar, and then topped the edifice with peas.) ‘In fact – ’ (more peas) ‘ – in fact I was talking to one of those AMGOT fellas in Trier, the other day –
economist fella, fresh out of Whitehall – London University and Whitehall . . . never done an honest day’s work in his life, nor heard a shot fired in anger – shitting bricks, he was.’ (The Crocodile opened his jaws to full stretch, gold-filled teeth glinting in the candlelight.)
‘What was that, Alec?’ (De Souza again, from down the table; but all hostility forgotten now.)
‘Economist chap, Amos. Colonel’s rank . . . but he looked like a tramp in his ill-fitting uniform . . . one of those clever blighters dummy4
who told us there wouldn’t be any food problems, back in March.’ (The Crocodile munched happily, glancing round the table as he did so, sure of his audience.) ‘�
��Geairrman industrial base destroyed by Allied bombing . . . agricultural set-up intact. No problem.”’ (Munch, munch, munch.) ‘“Don’t want any more tanks, jet-planes, U-boats – just a bit of coal . . . Take over Nazi food distribution system – minus the Nazis of course. Put them all in jail.”’
(The Crocodile’s knife and fork were busy again, assembling another mountain.) ‘All bloody nonsense, of course.’
‘How so?’ (Fred spoke before he could stop himself.)
‘Huh! Wish-fulfilment – the old, old story!’ (In goes the mountain.) ‘Industrial base not destroyed ... If we want the best tanks, the most advanced aircraft, then they could soon start making them for us ... Only problem is the transport system, which has been blown to smithereens. But that can be restored effectively enough, and quite quickly, given a few competent engineer units, and pioneer battalions – you should know that, of all men, Freddie
– having done that halfway across Europe, in the wake of extremely efficient demolition by your Geairrman opposite numbers – eh?’
‘Yes.’ (Very true. But there was heresy here, somewhere.) ‘But the bombing – I thought their factories were destroyed?’
‘Propaganda. We knocked down their cities – flattened ’em. And latterly the transport system. But the industrial base is still there, most of it. Minus spare parts and fuel, of course . . . but that’s mostly a transport problem.‘ (The Crocodile actually put down his dummy4
knife for a moment, in order to wag a finger at Fred.) ’But their agriculture’s gone to hell, so the farmers are hoarding what they’ve got ... which isn’t much. And their distribution system was never very efficient. And we’ve clapped most of the petty civil servants who knew what little there was to know in jail, anyway –‘
‘Nazis, Alec.’ (Mouth full of wild boar now, Audley swallowed urgently.) ‘Only Nazis, Alec.’
‘“Nazis, Alec – only Nazis, Alec”? Oh aye!’ (The Crocodile mimicked Audley exactly.) ‘“Wicked bluidy Geairrmans” is it?’
‘You should know, Alec.’ (Audley wasn’t scared of his elders and betters, evidently. And unwisely.) ‘You were in Belsen ahead of most of us.’
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