‘Hullo there – Fred?’ Audley pitched his voice against the crescendo of sound, as the second plane swept overhead. ‘Jolly good!’
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‘Is it?’ There would soon come a point when this young man’s version of Amos de Souza’s nonchalance irritated him beyond endurance.
‘You’ve still got the bag, I hope?’ Audley’s cheerful confidence was worse than de Souza’s imitation. That last bit was bloody steep, wasn’t it?‘
Foul words presented themselves. But already the first aircraft was on its second circuit. ‘Yes – ’ He had to shout ‘YES!’
‘JOLLY GOOD!’ Audley waited then, until the first plane had passed over them for the second time. ‘We’re almost there – you heard Sar’ Devenish’s signal?‘
‘Yes.’ He couldn’t say that he hadn’t been warned: Audley had warned him that Colonel Colbourne was a lunatic, and Colonel Colbourne had warned him that all his officers were mad. And, long ago, Kyri Michaelides had warned him to steer clear of them all. ‘What sort of ditch is this?’
‘What – ?’ As Audley started to speak the drumming of the second aircraft increased. ‘WHAT?’
This time, impossibly, it was worse: in the black starless sky the second plane almost touched the tree-tops just ahead of them, with its red-and-white lights winking to outline it.
‘WHAT . . .’ Audley let the sound disperse before he continued
‘. . . sort of ditch?’
So he had heard, the first time. ‘Yes.’
‘Yes – of course! It’s – ’
Click-click!
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‘I didn’t have time to tell you – ’ Click-click-click Audley returned
‘ – it’s a Roman ditch, Fred. Because we’re spot on the old Roman front line, which curves up round Frankfurt – or “Moguntiacum”, as Caesar Augustus Colbourne is wont to call it – the old Roman limes, in Latin: it linked up with their Raetian defences, on the Danube, with the Antoine Line, on the Main . . . and then north and west through the Upper German lines, to reach the Rhine at
“Confluentes” – which is Coblenz to poor ignorant types like you and me, Fred – ’ Audley’s voice had been lifting as he continued, becoming a shout again ‘ – FRED – ’
It was no good replying. With the noise, he could hardly think.
‘The Romans dug a ditch, all the way from the Danube to the Rhine – ’ Now as the sound decreased, Audley adjusted to it again
‘ – with look-out posts, and forts . . . sort of, like Hadrian’s Wall, but not so good – sort of customs-and-excise, plus soldiers . . .
Hadrian’s Wall – ?’
‘I know what Hadrian’s Wall was. Go on, man.’ The planes were going away at last, it seemed. But he couldn’t be sure. ‘Go on – ?’
But Audley appeared to have been struck dumb by the mounting silence.
‘What’s the matter?’ After so much noise after so much silence, Fred cracked first. And he also heard one of the planes coming back again. ‘We’re in the Roman ditch – is that it?’
‘That’s right. Our billet – the fort ... is on the same line. Ten or twelve miles away, as the Roman legionary might walk it – eight or nine, as the crow flies. But twice as much, on the road tonight.
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And now we’ve done about a mile and a half, from A1.
Anyway . . . With another half a mile to do, to the objective. Which is also on the line –’
Click-click! came out of the darkness ahead of them.
‘ – and we should be moving now. Because A2 is damn close to A3, I tell you. And the Yanks’ll be in position now, I’d guess.’
The circling planes were only a drone, but they were still out there, higher up, yet not far away. And suddenly Fred knew why.
Click-click-click! Audley answered. ‘Right, Fred?’
‘The planes will be coming back as we close in, I take it? To drown our approach-sound?’ Amos de Souza had almost said as much, he remembered now. ‘Spot-on, major! An old trick – ’
‘They’ll be awake, of course.’
‘Oh, sure. And tired and irritable too, because Jake Austin’s been night-flying over them for the last week. So . . . awake, but not suspicious, supposedly.’ Audley spoke lightly. ‘An old trick ... an old British Army trick . . . first witnessed by Brigadier Clinton’s father in 1918 – his father being a lance-corporal at the time, according to Amos . . . night-flying noise, to conceal the real noise of hundreds of British tanks starting up outside Villers-Bretonneaux, near Amiens, on the night of August 7th/ 8th, 1918.’
He sniffed. ‘Personally . . . it’s all bloody stupid, if you ask me.’
For a moment the memory of Brigadier Clinton, in the ruins of the Osios Konstandinos monastery, almost diverted Fred from his sudden doubts. But not quite. ‘You don’t like it, David?’
For a moment he could feel Audley staring at him in the darkness, dummy4
undecided, but weakening. ‘Spot-on again, major – if you must know . . . yes. I don’t think I like it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Audley couldn’t go back now. ‘Too-bloody complicated by half, if you ask me . . . even apart from our past debacles . . . one of which you witnessed, as I recall, major – back in Greece?’
Fred remembered Osios Konstandinos all too well. ‘So what do we do, David?’
There was silence for a moment. ‘We obey orders, like always.
But ... if you’ll watch my back tonight, Fred, then I’ll try to watch yours – right?’
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Click-click . . . click-click: the sound came out of the darkness ahead of them again, faint but clear against the distant drone of the night-flying aircraft.
‘That’ll be Devenish at A2 – good for old Jacko!’ Audley spoke cheerfully. ‘With Sergeant Devenish looking after us now we shalln’t come to any harm . . . Has it occurred to you, Fred, to wonder why we’ve been for this unpleasant and unnecessary perambulation tonight?’
‘It did cross my mind.’ Perambulation! ‘But shouldn’t we be clicking back, David?’
‘In good time. It was bloody Caesar Augustus’s idea . . . although dummy4
the Crocodile probably put him up to it – or maybe the RSM. They all conspire to make me do everything the hard way. If I had a nice German girlfriend they’d make me sleep with her in a hammock, I suspect.’
‘Why do they do that?’ Not that the question required an answer, thought Fred.
‘Oh ... to keep me “up to the mark”, Caesar Augustus says. So tonight was my bit of night map-reading, apparently – they knew I’d be bloody lost without Devenish . . . What they didn’t know was that Amos is a decent sort –hah!’ Audley chuckled. ‘He gave me the A-line, which follows the old Roman ditch. And even I couldn’t lose that, he reckoned.’
It might have been decency. But it might also be that the contents of the bag were too important to be lost, decided Fred.
Click-click
‘The truth is, they just don’t like cavalrymen,’ continued Audley innocently.
‘Especially cavalrymen who carry umbrellas?’
‘Ah ... I try not to let them see my brolly, actually. But it is a fine old cavalry tradition, you know – Salamanca and Waterloo . . . I’m just sorry you’ve had to suffer with me, is what I mean. They’ve got nothing against sappers, I’m sure – Is that you, Jacko?’
‘Sir.’ The answer was midway between a growl and a grunt, warning them that the sergeant had noted Audley’s failure to click his proper recognition signal.
‘Don’t be so bad-tempered, Jacko.’ For his part, Audley was quite dummy4
unabashed by this disapproval. ‘We’re the ones who should be pissed off, having had to blunder about in the rain quite unnecessarily, just because Caesar Augustus –’
‘Sir!’ Devenish interrupted his officer loudly. ‘Have you brought Major Fattorini with you?’
‘What?’ Audley’s tone was incredulous. ‘Fo
r Christ’s sake, Jacko!
Who the hell d’you think I’ve got? Field Marshal Montgomery? Or Caesar . . .’
‘Sir!’ Devenish’s voice changed. ‘Captain Audley is here with Major Fattorini, sir!’
‘Thank you, sergeant.’ Colonel Colbourne spoke out of the further darkness, beyond Devenish. ‘I heard.’
‘Oh b-b-bugger!’ whispered Audley. ‘Hullo there, sir . . .’
‘Captain Audley.’ The slight weariness in the Colonel’s voice was more eloquent than anger. ‘You are two minutes late.’
‘Sss – ’ Audley’s treacherous tongue tied itself up, and Fred crossed his fingers. ‘Sir!’
‘Yes?’ Although that was the correct and complete answer, Colbourne still pursued the boy. So those two lost minutes could hardly be crucial to the success of the operation. And, although the boy had only himself to blame, that altered the case somewhat.
‘It’s pretty dark out there, sir.’ He kept the words level, as a statement rather than an excuse. ‘The terrain is difficult, too. I had difficulty keeping up with Captain Audley.’
Colbourne sniffed. ‘Thank you, major. I take it you still have the bag which the adjutant gave you?’
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‘Yes, sir.’ He felt himself relax.
‘Good.’ Another sniff. ‘This operation is meticulously planned. It is not going to go wrong. You will follow Captain Audley and Major de Souza, and do exactly what they tell you tonight, major.
Audley will have told you what’s happening.’
Another sniff came out of the dark, but it came from a different direction and was even more obviously derisive.
‘Very well, then – carry on, Captain Audley . . . and no more lost minutes, eh?’ Colbourne paused. ‘Mr Levin!’
‘ Sar! ’ The bark came from the direction of the second sniff.
No one spoke as the Colonel withdrew in the direction of the bark, vanishing into the night.
‘Whew!’ exclaimed Audley. ‘Thanks, Fred.’ He breathed out again. ‘I’ll bet it was that bastard Levin who wound him up.’
The boy was incorrigible. ‘The RSM?’
‘That’s right. Mister Levin to the likes of us – Mister Isaac Levin, DCM – ex-Desert Rat, with the emphasis on rat . . . scourge of subalterns and other ranks . . . but, more to the point, old comrade and chief informer and eminence grise to Colonel Augustus Colbourne, DSO –our beloved emperor.’ Audley produced a sniff of his own. ‘And “Busy-Izzy” behind his back – don’t they call him that, Jacko?’
Devenish cleared his throat. ‘If you say so, sir.’
‘Oh, come on, Jacko!’ Audley shrugged off his bodyguard’s disapproval. ‘You know they do – come on!’
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Another pause. ‘I ... have always found Mr Levin to be a most efficient warrant officer . . . sir.’
‘Oh yes? And you have also found yourself disliking him as much as I do – almost as much as we both dislike the Crocodile . . . The only difference is that Busy-Izzy is scared of you, because you know your King’s Regs like the back of your hand. So he knows he’ll burn his fingers if he tries to lay one of them on you . . .
Whereas he damn-well persecutes me. In fact, but for Amos he’d have had me tarred and feathered, and run out of Schwartzen-burg on a rail long ago – ’
Somehow Fred was beginning to see in the dark, but also in his imagination too, without sight. And so Audley had his mouth open now, but Devenish was tight-lipped, he imagined.
‘Major Fattorini’s all right. He’s one of us, Jacko.’ Their joint silence sucked Audley on. ‘Busy-Izzy is a circumcised shit – and you know it!’
‘I’m sure I can’t say, sir . . .’ Something goaded Devenish out of his own safe silence, forcing the words out into the open. ‘They may call Mr Levin names . . . behind his back ... for all I know. I expect they do.’
A most diplomatic answer, thought Fred: like any sensible soldier, Devenish was loyal to himself and his own interests first. But more to the point, he was learning something about Audley from his indiscretion. And he needed to know more, if this was the case.
‘You don’t like Jews then, David?’ As he spoke, he remembered that this same problem had also surfaced in Greece, as dummy4
replacements from the Middle East had percolated through, and there had been officers and other ranks posted from Palestine whose experiences (and consequent anti-Jewish prejudices) had conflicted horribly with all the ghastly information coming out of Europe.
‘ What?’ The presumption of Fred’s question stripped the copy-cat de Souza casualness from Audley’s voice. ‘ What? –’
Time’s getting on, sir – ‘ began Sergeant Devenish.
‘Shut up, Jacko! What did you say, Major Fattorini? I don’t . . .
what?’
The boy was angry. So maybe he had jumped to a wrong conclusion. But this wasn’t the time to explore the matter further.
‘I’m sorry, David. Forget it – okay?’
Wot?‘ Audley’s outrage cut him off. ’Let me tell you this, Major Fattorini: my best friend in the Wesdragons –he was a “Jew-boy”
as they say . . . And circumcised to prove it – and no church parades for him, lucky blighter –‘
‘David –’
‘ – and the bravest of the brave, too – ’
‘ David –’
‘ – and the brightest: Open Scholar of Magdalen, Oxford, with brains to prove it – I ought to know, by Christ! Because I’ve seen them – ’
‘ David –’
‘Sir – ’ Devenish tried to get between them.
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‘ – spread all over the top of his fucking turret – brains everywhere, halfway across Normandy! And blood, too –brains over the turret, but blood inside the tank, after he got his head blown off.’ Audley drew a quick breath. ‘I tell you, it gives a chap a whole different slant on The Merchant of Venice to find out how much blood a Jew has in him. Because we mopped up and swilled out about half of it.’ Another breath. ‘The brains on the turret were easy . . . But there were about ten million flies – big fat greeny-blue flies . . . and they lived on Ben’s blood for a week, until the Germans brewed up his tank –’
‘Sir!’ Devenish’s voice was coolly disciplined. ‘We’ve got less than a minute now, before we should move, according to the time-table. And we don’t know what the lie of the land is like, between here and A2.’
‘What?’
‘We shall have to move out in about . . . forty-five seconds, sir.’
From being disapproving first, and then mildly irritated, and finally neutral, Devenish became gently encouraging. ‘Major de Souza won’t like for us to be late at A3, sir. Because he’ll be waiting for us.’
‘Yes . . . yes, of course.’ Audley took hold of his voice. Well . . .
any questions, Fred?‘
‘No, David.’ The enormity of the lie somehow made it true. But then he realized that he owed it to Audley to make amends more effectively than that. ‘Or . . . there is one thing that confuses me a bit, actually.’
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‘Yes?’ The boy was hauling himself back from his private nightmares now, trying to recapture reality. ‘You want to know why we always operate in pairs – the Crocodile and Sergeant Wilson? And Caesar Augustus and Busy-Izzy? And . . . the unbeatable Devenish-Audley dynamic scrum-half-and-fly-half combination?’ The boy was almost back to his old self. ‘We always get the ball out, to the three quarters – don’t worry!’ Sniff.
‘But “two” is logic – and experience, Fred: ancient British Army logic-and-experience, actually.’
‘It is?’ Fred had wanted to know no such thing but he was so enormously relieved to get away from Jews and tanks and voracious flies that he pressed the question willingly. ‘How’s that, then?’
‘You don’t know your Kipling – obviously! Although it’s just plain commonsense, really –
“When from ‘ouse to ’ouse you’re ‘unting, you must a
lways work in pairs –
It ’alves the gain, but safer you will find –
For a single man gets bottled on them twisty-wisty stairs,
An‘ a woman comes and clobs ’im from be’ind.”
You take the point, Fred?‘
‘Yes.’
‘Yes . . . Although, actually there’s no such word as
“clob”, according to the Alligator – not in that form, dummy4
anyway. He thinks it’s late nineteenth-century military slang, probably Anglo-Indian. But I think Kipling just made it up, you know.’ Audley paused. ‘However ... I also think that there may be another reason. For always operating in pairs, I mean. Don’t you think so, Jacko?’
‘I think it’s time to go, sir.’
Thank you, Sar‘ Devenish. But I will decide when we move out.’ Audley’s tone sharpened momentarily. ‘As it happens, Fred, the route to A3 will be much easier, if the map and the air photographs can be trusted ... So, as I was saying . . . ’Loot‘ is the title of the poem, you see. And that happens to be the one thing all ranks of this unit are not allowed, in any shape or form –
unconsidered trifles, black market . . . blackmail – the lot. No winking, no blind eyes turned – right, Sar’
Devenish?‘
‘Sir.’ Devenish filled the word with sullen anger.
‘Thank you, Sar’ Devenish. So you see, Fred, we don’t just watch over each other, so as not to get “clobbed”
from “be’ind” – we also watch each other. Right, Sar‘
Devenish?’
‘If you say so, Captain Audley.’ If Devenish had been a piece of coal, he would be glowing orange-red now.
‘But don’t you think you’ve said enough, sir?’
‘Probably. I usually say too much, I agree. But that’s because I am quite unfitted for this dirty business. To a dummy4
scholar and a gentleman, it just doesn’t come naturally, you know.’
Fred felt sympathy for the long-suffering Devenish.
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