And no bloody-great lorry, either: as they whirred round the bend he saw the open road ahead, rising steeply – just a foul dream –
What–?
He sat bolt upright, and hit his head on the roof of the car–ouch!
‘How long have I been asleep – ?’ He addressed the driver thickly, only realizing gratefully in the next second it was still Driver Hewitt in broad daylight, and not some grinning stranger whom he’d never met and couldn’t remember.
‘You’ve ’ad a right good sleep – quiet as a baby.‘
Hewitt grinned at him encouragingly. ’Your ‘ead did knock against the side a bit ... but it didn’t seem to worry you none – ’ They came to the end of the straight stretch and Hewitt spun the wheel again, twisting the little car round another hairpin ‘ – so I dummy4
didn’t think to wake you.’
Fred squinted ahead, at another stretch of trees heavy with summer, and an open road still climbing ahead.
And then turned quickly to peer out of the divided rear-window behind them.
They drew away from the corner, and the road behind was as empty as the road in front. ‘Where’s the convoy?’ His voice was still thick with sleep: he could hear it outside himself, beyond the eternal whirring of the engine, but without any other sound.
‘Oh, we lost that – about ten miles back, before Detmold,’ replied Hewitt cheerfully. ‘I laid back for a bit, round Paderborn – the proper road’s no good there jus’ now ... I think they’re repairin’ a bridge what’s fallen down . . . An‘ then I went like the clappers, an’ I took the wrong turnin‘ . . . But you don’t need to worry none.’
‘I – what – ?’ Words failed him.
‘They knows the way.’ Hewitt agreed with himself.
‘They drove it enough times, so they oughta know it.
An’ we–we’re spot on, like.‘
‘Spot on?’ He had control of his tongue and his senses at last. ‘Spot on where?’
Driver Hewitt spun the wheel again, with the same maddening nonchalance. ‘Up on top of the Two-toe-burger- void – as they likes to call it: the Two-toe . . .
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burg . . . Woods, is what you-and-I’d say, though – ’
The little man pointed ‘ – see there – ?’
Something had flashed past Hewitt, outside the car just beyond the edge of the road in the trees, as he spoke, diverting Fred’s attention: it was a sculptured bust on a shaft of stone, it looked like. But it was gone before he could be sure.
‘What the hell – ?’ He turned in the direction the little man had indicated, and the question stifled itself. But the trees were in the way. And there was another long tree-lined avenue ahead of them, but this time it wasn’t empty: the rising avenue was blocked at its highest point by an immense monument, pillared and domed, and then surmounted by the gigantic statue of a warrior brandishing his sword far above the tree-tops.
‘Hewitt – ’ The monument rose up higher and higher as they approached it ‘ – what the hell is that?’ It wasn’t actually the question he started to ask, but the thing was so enormous that it crowded out his original intention.
‘Don’t rightly know – dontcha know, then?’ For his part, the little man seemed to be quite unimpressed by the view, some of which was already disappearing above them through the restriction of the windscreen.
Rather, he seemed to be looking for somewhere to park in the wide empty circle round the monument’s base.
‘One of the Colonel’s old Romans, would it be – ?’
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Fred rubbed his eyes as the car came to a stop. He wasn’t still dreaming, but he wished he was. And his mouth tasted of old unwashed socks.
‘Ah! There ’e is!‘ Hewitt relaxed suddenly. Then he turned to Fred. ’Orf you go then – look lively, now!
The Brigadier – ‘e don’t like to be kept waitin’, y‘
know –
2
Brigadier Clinton looked down on him from the top of a flight of steps leading up to a doorway in the monument, as from a great height.
‘You look a bit rough, major,’ he observed, unkindly but accurately.
Fred looked up at the Brigadier. ‘Yes, sir – ’
This, he thought, is where I came in, continued from the Eve of Scobiemas last February, when we last met: nothing much has changed since then, because I was looking pretty rough then — and I didn’t know what the hell was happening then either, come to think of it!
‘As a matter of fact, I feel a bit rough, too.’ He brought down his saluting hand, which had at least done its job more smartly than his legs had performed on the way from the car, one foot having gone to sleep to inflict dummy4
agonizing pins-and-needles on him, while the muscles behind the opposite knee had contracted with some form of partial paralysis during the journey –
Then the thought expanded: Rough I may be – but I never asked to be a rough major in this God-forsaken place! So you must want Major Frederick Fattorini –
must need him – far more than Captain Frederick Fattorini ever wanted or needed (or even expected) to exchange three perfectly-respectable pips for this questionable crown –
He found himself glancing down sideways at his shoulder-strap and rubbing his chin simultaneously. He not only hadn’t had time to have that questionable crown replace those honest pips, but he also hadn’t had time to shave, the rasp of stubble under his hand reminded him.
And, further down, if there had ever been decent creases in this uniform, last night’s rain and today’s journey had obliterated them; and there was a muddy patch on the half-paralysed knee, to remind him of how he had knelt beside a dying man – a man who had died for this man Clinton?
He looked up at the Brigadier again. ‘It was a fairly rough night, actually, sir. One way or another.’
‘Yes. So I gather.’ The pale-blue eyes fixed on his intently. ‘But also a successful one.’
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What was wrong with that voice? Fred now found himself absurdly rethinking the same nagging question which had quite uselessly weakened his concentration six months before, in the ruined monastery of Osios Konstandinos. The man’s setting had changed (although the war had reached this unlikely place: the stone-work above was pitted and pock-marked with bullets or shell-splinters, and the steps were littered with fragments), but that voice was the same – the same and somehow wrong . . . but how–?
Absurd! ‘Yes, sir?’ He heard Jacko Devenish’s far more accurate and embittered formula “If you say so, sir – I’m sure I don’t know!‘ inside his head. But majors couldn’t say that to brigadiers on such short acquaintance, if ever, he decided.
The Brigadier smiled an unsmiling smile at him, which his thin lips were ideally designed to do. ‘You don’t really know what is happening, do you, major?’ He began to descend the steps, his boots crunching noisily on the stone fragments. ‘Or do you?’ He stopped suddenly, still above Fred. ‘What do you think – and how much do you know? Tell me, eh?’
Fred envied Jacko Devenish, whose certain reply to such a dirty question would have been that neither had he joined up to think, nor did his rank entitle him to do so. But those escapes were not open to officers of field rank. ‘Come on, major!’ The Brigadier crunched down dummy4
the last few steps. ‘Don’t disappoint me.’
Close up, he was surprisingly young – at least, for a brigadier: mid-thirties, at a guess, no more. But much more than that – much more, thought Fred with a cold inward certainty – he was a damned, bloody-dangerous character, who’d shop his mother without a second thought, and then buy drinks in the mess afterwards to celebrate.
‘I was just thinking, sir – ’ Oddly enough, that certainty steadied him. But, then again, not oddly at all: it was uncertainty that was unsteadying. The only thing that was odd was that he hadn’t been more frightened at Osios Konstandinos. But then he had had Kyri with him, of course. And he had only been an innocent bystand
er, too –
‘That’s what I want you to do – go on!’ What was wrong with the voice was that it had no origins. It wasn’t public school and Sandhurst (as he had a right to expect), or Oxbridge, or BBC, or Home Counties or Scottish or soft Irish (Welsh was not to be expected) –
it was from nowhere, by God!
‘I didn’t mean that.’ He mustn’t think any more about that voice: it would only unsettle him again. ‘I was thinking about what a friend of mine once said – not so long ago, actually.’ As he smiled at the Brigadier he felt his unwashed, unshaven face crinkle with the effort. ‘He advised me against getting mixed up with dummy4
units like this one. He said I should stick to bridge-building . . . and mine-clearance and bomb-disposal.
Because that would be healthier for me, he said.’
The Brigadier looked at him expressionlessly for a long moment. Then quite unexpectedly the eyes disengaged, staring past him. ‘ YOU THERE-!’
The sound of the People’s Car-door opening was quickly succeeded by a boot-stamping sound: Driver Hewitt must be actually standing to attention, that sound suggested, unlikely as it seemed.
‘ SIR?’ The little man’s reply came as a falsetto pig-squeal. ‘ ME, SIR? –’
The Brigadier drew a breath. ‘ CAN YOU SEE
ANYONE ELSE HERE, DRIVER HEWITT?’
‘ SIR!’ The boots stamped again.
‘Now . . .’ The Brigadier smiled his smile at Fred again, stepping forward as he did so until he was alongside him, and then draping a friendly arm across his shoulders ‘. . . we shall walk a little way, and – and kindly don’t pull away from me, major ... I have no contagious or infectious disease, I do assure you –
relax, if you please –’
‘No, sir – ’ If the Brigadier had struck him Fred would have been less astonished, so that it took a considerable effort of will to simulate even partial relaxation ‘ – yes, sir –’
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‘“Freddie” is how my intimates address me – ’ The Brigadier steered Fred with an iron hand ‘ – and that is what you will call me in the mess tonight, when we meet again – do you understand, major?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Fred had the impression that he wasn’t being steered back towards the car, but obliquely to it.
‘But . . . that will maybe be a bit confusing.’
‘Confusing?’ The Brigadier’s head came closer. ‘How so?’
Fred swallowed. ‘There’s a move ... to call me
“Freddie”, sir.’
There is?‘ The pale eyes were terrifying at close quarters. ’But your diminutive is “Fred”. So whose idea was that, eh? One of Colbourne’s little jokes, I suppose –eh?‘
‘I . . .’ Words failed him.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll correct that.’ The iron hand actually patted him. ‘In fact . . . we’ll make a joke of it ourselves. And you can practise laughing right now –
so laugh!’
It was so unarguably an order that Fred instinctively tried to obey – the more so as Brigadier Clinton was himself obeying the order.
Another pat. ‘That is, without doubt, the poorest parody of laughter I have ever seen, Major Fattorini.
Do you always obey orders so inadequately?’
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Fred tried again, but stopped as he saw not laughter, but hysteria grinning at him from out of the trees ahead. ‘I was laughing inside actually, sir – Freddie – ?’
That’s better!‘ The Brigadier dropped his arm suddenly, and swung round. ’ WHAT ARE YOU
DOING, STANDING THERE LIKE AN IDIOT, HEWITT?‘
‘ Sir–?’ Pause. ‘ SIR!’
The Brigadier took several steps towards the rigid little man. ‘You were told to bring Major Fattorini here, and then proceed to Schwartzenburg Castle. Can’t you obey a simple order, man?’
Silence.
‘Well?’
‘Sir ... I – ’ Another pause. ‘Yes, sir!’
‘Well then – what are you waiting for? GET MOVING!’
‘ SIR.’‘ Pause (salute!) – stamp (about turn!): Driver Hewitt was now actually attempting to get into the People’s Car while at attention, which was not physically possible. But he was doing his best, certainly.
The engine whirred instantly, and the little car jerked nervously several times, before turning in a wide circle round the monument and disappearing behind it in a cloud of blue exhaust fumes.
The Brigadier’s eyes returned to Fred. ‘I think we’ll dummy4
share another joke now, major – just to see Driver Hewitt on his way properly, eh?’
A joke at attention – or at ease? wondered Fred as he laughed obediently. But somehow that made it easier anyway, as the People’s Car appeared again, at a speed which only just enabled it to straighten out in time to retreat down the avenue.
‘So!’ Brigadier Clinton waited until the avenue was clear. ‘Driver Hewitt is insatiably inquisitive, and garrulous with it ... So that is one job well done, at least.’ He looked up at the monument. ‘Do I need to explain?’
There was a long Latin inscription carved into the stonework between two of the square pillars, Fred saw.
‘No, not really.’
Clinton himself seemed to be more interested in the carved inscription than in his reply, which goaded Fred towards a smart and undiplomatic answer. ‘I assume he’ll tell everyone from Otto Schild upwards that you’ve recruited another spy inside TRR-2.’
‘Another spy?’ The Brigadier still appeared to be fascinated by the inscription.
‘He said Audley was a special friend of yours. Not that it’s done the boy any good with the Colonel and the RSM. But I suppose I can live with that.’
‘You can? No ... it wouldn’t, I suppose . . .’ Then the dummy4
Brigadier’s lips moved soundlessly. So perhaps he was attempting to translate the Latin, but was finding it rather too difficult, Fred thought nastily.
‘Is he your spy? Unlike me.’ Nastiness encouraged cheekiness.
‘No ... at least, not yet, anyway.’ The Brigadier paused.
‘Now . . . “florentissimum imperium” – that’s rather good, that superlative . . .’
It was time to join the Latin lesson, Fred decided.
‘ “Arminius – ”’ he began to read the inscription aloud.
‘“ – liberator haud dubie Germaniae – ”’ The meaning registered suddenly. ‘Of course! How stupid of me!
This is Hermann’s monument, isn’t it – ’ He stepped back to look up at the colossus ‘ – the German who defeated the Romans – Varus in the Teutoburg Forest, and all that!’
‘Yes. That’s right.’ The Brigadier looked up too, nodding as he did so. ‘The Germans themselves killed him in the end, of course – a successful 20th July Plot, you might say ... But you’re right: this is “Arminius liberator” – Hermann, without doubt the liberator of Germany ... who ...“ – lacessierit” is a bit difficult . . .
“provoked” isn’t right. Although he certainly was provoking. What it ought to mean is “resisted”, even more than “hurt”. So let’s say “resisted” – “resisted the Roman people, not in their early days, like other kings and leaders, but at the very height of their power” –
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“florentissimum imperium” : I like that! – “at the very height of their power, with mixed fortune in battle, but in war undefeated”!’ The Brigadier nodded again.
‘Hmmm . . . not bad. Tacitus, of course – from his Annals. In fact, quite graceful, really.’ He looked at Fred. ‘The German translation’s underneath – “Armin, ohne Zweifel Deutschlands Befreier” – or am I insulting a properly educated mathematician twice over now? I suppose I am, at that!’
Thank you, Hermann! thought Fred gratefully. ‘No. My Latin’s damned rusty.’ Somehow the Brigadier had reduced himself to a human dimension. ‘And ... so this is the Teutoburg Forest, of course – where the battle took place, by God!’
‘Yes. A
nd no.’ The Brigadier agreed and disagreed.
‘This is the “Hermannsdenkmal” – and this is the Teuto-burgerwald, haud dubie as Tacitus would say.
But whether this is the site of the Hermannsschlacht –
or the Varusschlacht . . . nobody knows. There are dozens of other possible sites, and the German scholars have been arguing over them for years. Not that it’s of the slightest historical importance – the site. As opposed to the fact.’
Fred saw his opening. ‘It is to Colonel Colbourne, I rather got the idea.’ Even, he was tempted irresistibly to presume on his “friendship”. ‘In fact, I think he’s going to organize the RAF – or the USAF – to conduct dummy4
a photographic reconnaissance for him in the near future.’ He grinned hopefully. ‘And isn’t this why – ’
He felt the grin freeze on his lips as he saw the Brigadier’s face and instantly amended what he had been about to say ‘ –actually, it isn’t a half bad idea.
Because air photography’s going to revolutionize archaeology, these next few years, so I’m told . . .’ The spreading cold reached his heart, and he trailed off, bitterly aware that he’d made the same mistake as the Liberator of Germany above him in pushing his luck –
proeliis-bloody-ambiguus – like a fool, only in his case, by talking too much, like David Audley.
‘You take Colonel Colbourne for a clown, do you, major?’
‘No, sir.’ Ordinarily he would have stopped there. But with this man, it was no good trying to say nothing: now, because he had already talked too much, he had to talk more. ‘Or, at least ... so far as the battle of the Teutoburg Forest is concerned . . . yes, I do.’ Instinct reinforced reason. ‘But successful barristers aren’t clowns . . . unless they want people to think they are – ’
that was an insight which hadn’t even occurred to him until this instant ‘ – and – ’ another insight hit him between the eyes, even more belatedly: a man like this wasn’t going to employ clowns to do his work. But he couldn’t say that – least of all when he still didn’t know what the work really was.
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