‘Yes.’ The smile twitched hideously. ‘In Nelson’s day, when there were signs of indiscipline, they always used to ship out those who knew about it as far away as dummy4
possible, and as quickly as possible. Nothing like a long sea voyage to isolate contagion.’ The Brigadier pointed suddenly at a smaller statue alongside the path, to a carved stone trophy of Roman equipment presumably symbolizing loot from the ruin of Varus’s army: armour, shields, sword, eagle standard and helmet hanging on a central shaft. ‘The Romans weren’t so kind: they favoured decimation –crucify every tenth man, regardless.’
There was no escaping the man’s meaning. ‘Is that a threat?’
‘If you think it is ... then it is.’ Clinton studied the trophy. The Germans took three legionary eagles in the Teutoburger fight. And the Romans wasted a lot of effort trying to get ‘em back, as a matter of prestige.
But they only recovered two. And I’ll bet Gus Colbourne would give his pension for the missing one . . .’ He turned on his heel to study a matching trophy on the other side of the pathway. ‘Conventional war, for most people – for the young anyway – is a group activity, transacted by a majority vote. The generals – the generals and the politicians . . . they just want bodies to do as they are told. For the rest ... if the bodies are willing, then their job is to carry each other on to quite remarkable feats of heroism and self-sacrifice, equally in victory and defeat, in the execution of their orders.’ He looked from one trophy to the dummy4
other, as though comparing them. ‘All that is required additionally is a sense of comradeship and duty and proper training and decent leadership – decent leadership particularly in the lower ranks . . . and patriotism, of course – however misconceived – if possible. And then custom and practice – that’s very important. Because the Germans and the Russians both regarded soldiering as something quite natural and inevitable. The Germans particularly . . . but the Russians too, in spite of grossly inadequate training and deplorable leadership . . . Both of them performed miracles because of that, added to patriotism. Whereas the British and the Americans really have no military tradition – no military inclination. No self-respecting Englishman – or Welshman . . . with the Scots and the Irish I’m not so sure . . . but in general, no self-respecting Briton or American would dream of taking the King’s shilling, or Uncle Sam’s dollar, unless he was starving or otherwise unemployable. But in wartime, by a majority vote and with certain of those additions, you can still do a great deal with them. And, of course, in the First World War, thanks to greater ignorance and consequently greater patriotism, miracles were done with them, too.’ He turned to Fred at last. ‘But all that is in war . . . and all you temporary hostilities-emergency-only soldiers believe that you’ve more-or-less won this war, so now you can go home –
is that it?’
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That was exactly it, thought Fred. But, short of a direct order, he was not about to admit it. And, indeed, even with a direct order he would plead incomprehension, ignorance and stupidity if pressed.
‘Well, I have news for you, major.’ Mercifully, it was another rhetorical question. ‘We are still in a state of official war, even though the exceedingly formidable Japanese are far away. So, under the Rules of War –
and probably the Geneva Convention too, for all I know – I can have you court-martialled for having a tender conscience and disobeying any legitimate order.
Or, in the appropriate circumstances, I can shoot you myself, and almost certainly get away with it. Whereas, if you shoot me you will be shot yourself – at least, you will unless you can get Colonel Augustus Colbourne to defend you, anyway.’ Again the terrible smile. ‘But that is unlikely, partly because he won’t . . . but mostly because I will get you first, you see.’
Actually, thought Fred, he really could plead incomprehension, ignorance and stupidity honestly now. ‘Sir?’
‘Apart from all of which we haven’t won the war.
Even, most regrettably, we haven’t beaten the Germans. Because the Russians have done that for us, unfortunately. Although that does not oblige us to be grateful, because they didn’t do it either for us, or from choice: what they intended is that we should ruin each dummy4
other – the democrats and the fascists both – and then they could pick up the pieces, as they foolishly hoped they would do in Spain. But Hitler and European geography dictated differently. So don’t “but” me with foolish gratitude for Our Glorious Russian Allies, eh?’
Fred had not been about to do that, either. But, also, he was not about to say anything, either.
‘But then you wouldn’t, would you?’ Clinton pressed the question with a disconcerting certainty, as though everything he had said had been perfectly understood and the answer was no more than a marriage-vow formality.
‘No. As it happens, I wouldn’t.’ The marriage image persisted oddly in Fred’s mind. On the face of it he was agreeing with the Brigadier’s scorn for those who confused the heroism and achievement of the Russians against a common enemy with selfless friendship for their western allies. But his recent exposure to the influence of Colonel Kyriakos Michaelides and the drunken misery of Captain Smith of the Intelligence Corps (who was probably sweltering in his Burmese jungle by now) had only confirmed a process started long before by Uncle Luke at Vincent’s. But there was also something curiously affirmative about that negative: it was like saying “I do” rather than “I wouldn’t”, – it was like saying “I, Frederick, temporary major, take thee, Frederick, to be my lawful dummy4
wedded Brigadier . . . for better, for worse . . . and to obey, if not to love, honour and cherish!” So he couldn’t leave it there. ‘But what makes you so sure that I wouldn’t?’
The Brigadier liked the question: it almost softened his gaze. ‘I know everything about you, Major Fattorini –
don’t you remember? You wouldn’t be here now if I didn’t – and neither would I.’
That was a challenge, as well as a statement.
‘Everything?’
‘Try me, and see.’
That was a nasty one. Because Clinton had already thrown in Bassie Cavendish and Bill Schuster ... so he could eliminate Uncle Luke from the reckoning. And after that he hardly knew where to begin – or even whether it would be good for his peace of mind.
Because, equally, he could eliminate Kyri from the trial: Colonel Michaelides and Brigadier Clinton would undoubtedly have talked together – and understood exactly what the other was saying, because they talked the same language, if not the same mother tongue.
‘Let’s see . . .’ Clinton cut through his irresolution.
‘Smith, Nigel John, major, “I” Corps, Rangoon?’ He paused deliberately to let the cut slice deeper. ‘Of course, he was only a captain when you put him to bed in Athens. But he also wasn’t as drunk as you thought he was . . . although he was genuinely miserable, and dummy4
also quite mutinous, I would agree.’ This time he nodded. ‘Which was why I had him shipped out east afterwards, instead of bringing him here instead of you, actually.’ Another nod. ‘Oh yes – he was a double-check on you. Which was necessary because of your reactions to Greece, in spite of your Greek friend’s recommendation. Because, as you yourself said, you
“didn’t much like that”, did you?’
There was treachery! thought Fred again. But what could he expect, now that former allies were enemies, and (after last night) even present allies had to be double-crossed?
‘But don’t think badly of Colonel Michaelides.’
Clinton read his face with disconcerting accuracy. ‘He tried hard to preserve you from me. But unconvincingly, I’m afraid: he said you were an honourable man, thinking that that would put me off.
Because, in his own way, he is also an honourable man
– just like your Uncle Luke. Although Luke didn’t try to put me off.’
There was no end to the villainy of friends and relations, it seemed. ‘He gave me to yo
u, did he?’ It rankled equally that Nigel Smith hadn’t been as drunk as he had seemed on that memorably argumentative evening – and that he himself hadn’t been as sober, maybe. So brother-officers couldn’t be trusted either, and he’d never again know for sure where he was with dummy4
any of them – friends, relations and equals . . . not for sure, as he had been able to know on that road to the north, in Italy, with that long-lost German engineer brother, who had at least been a trustworthy enemy.
‘He gave me to you?’
‘That he most certainly did not!’ No almost-softness now: cold authority now. ‘He said you might be difficult. But he said that, as a good Fattorini, you would listen to a fair offer. And that if you made a bargain you would keep your side of it.’
Again, a nasty one. And it was nasty both because brigadiers didn’t usually make offers to subordinates, and also because good Fattorinis always mistrusted fair offers. And, since Uncle Luke knew that rule better than he did, the very statement was a warning.
‘I keep telling you – I know all about you. So ... if you don’t believe me . . . then I challenge you to test me.’
Short of an answer, Clinton tried another tack. ‘Are you afraid of losing?’
Fred saw the trap just in time. ‘I’m not afraid. But if I lose, then I lose. But if I win, I lose. So I just don’t fancy playing, that’s all.’
‘That’s a pity. Because I was hoping you would ask me what it was that your Uncle Luke said, which you remembered just now . . . which I didn’t remind you of.
Because that’s the point now.’
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What Fred remembered at once was that, at the time, the Brigadier hadn’t seemed to understand what he’d said, then. But now it seemed that he himself hadn’t read the man correctly at all when it came to the very heart of the matter. ‘Very well: what did he say?’
‘He said that it wasn’t your body the Reds wanted in Spain – it was your soul they wanted, for future use.’
Clinton nodded. And then stopped nodding. ‘But I don’t want your soul, you see, major.’
That was exactly what Uncle Luke had said. ‘I wouldn’t give it to you if you wanted it.’ As he spoke, Fred decided that wouldn’t should be couldn’t. ‘I wouldn’t and couldn’t.’
‘I’m so glad to hear it. Because for what I have in mind I need men whose souls are their own.’ He watched Fred for a moment. ‘That surprises you?’
It was no good denying what his face must be betraying. ‘It surprises me that we’re discussing my soul. Or anyone else’s soul.’
‘Not in King’s Regulations – souls? Nothing about
“Free Will” in the Manual of Military Law?’ The man’s lack of emotion went with his placeless, classless, accent. ‘No mention of “Souls G. S., officers, for the use of or ” Souls G. S., other ranks“ — made out of coarser materials, of course – ” if damaged or lost on active service, report to Chaplain for replacement“
– ?’ There wasn’t the slightest hint of humour, either.
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‘No ... it was the word your Uncle used. And, as it happens, also the one Colonel Michaelides chose; although in his case it had a more narrowly religous connotation, I suspect. For myself, I might have selected a different one. But since you evidently understand what it means, then I shall use it to describe our bargain – very good?’
All the Fattorini warning bells rang simultaneously again. ‘On which side of this bargain is my soul supposed to be weighed – yours or mine?’
‘On which side?’ Clinton seemed almost surprised.
‘Why – on both sides, of course. And on neither side.
Your soul ... if there are such things, and if you have one – your soul is the scales on which your actions must be weighed. Isn’t that what souls are for?’
Damn the man! ‘My actions?’ Damn the man!
‘That’s right. On these terms, you come to me freely.
And you freely obey my orders. But you yourself take absolute responsibility for whatever you do, just as I take absolute responsibility for giving you the order to do it. So ... in effect, as of now, and probably for the first time in your life . . . you are a free man, major!’
Fred had never felt more unfree in his life. ‘It seems a rather one-sided bargain. If I have to take the responsibility for –’
‘Not at all! If you believe you have a soul, then you dummy4
must admit the possibility that I have one also. And you can’t have my soul in order to excuse yourself –
that’s all.’
There was something very dodgey about this bargain.
But there was also a much more urgent question. ‘And what if I disagree with your orders?’
‘Then you must question them. I have no use for unquestioning obedience: that is for slaves – and well-trained animals.’
‘And soldiers.’
‘And soldiers. But you are no longer a soldier.’
‘I’m not?’ Fred looked down on himself, past his tarnished brasses and crumpled and muddy battledress trousers to his disgracefully dirty boots. It was true that he looked unsoldierly: he hadn’t looked as dishevelled as this since Italy. Or, at least, since Osios Konstandios. ‘Aren’t I?’
‘You still wear the uniform. But that’s only because it suits the time and the place. And me, of course.
Civilians don’t have much clout here in Germany. But that will change very soon. And when it does, then you will change.’
Fred looked up again. Things were already changing, but they were doing so far too fast, from a taken-for-granted present to an indefinite future which threatened to stretch even beyond the war’s far off and bloody end dummy4
in Japan sometime next year, if they were lucky.
‘So there are no King’s Regulations between us now,’
Clinton continued before he could speak. ‘And no Rules of War or Geneva Conventions either. Nothing but our bargain, freely entered into on both sides –
“bargain” is also your uncle’s word. But the exact word doesn’t matter so long as we both understand its meaning.’
‘But . . . I’m not sure that I do understand it.’ Fred’s voice sounded thick to his ears. ‘Whatever the word may be.’
‘In what respect do you not?’
Fred cleared his throat. ‘The war must end soon.’
‘Very soon.’ Clinton shook his head. ‘But our war will not end soon.’
Our war? ‘I have a Release Number which says mine will.’
‘You have no Release Number any more – as of this moment.’
This time he wasn’t going to say that he didn’t understand. ‘But . . . you said I am “a free man”. How do I exercise my freedom?’
‘Very simply.’ Clinton undid the top button of his battledress blouse and drew a long buff-coloured envelope from his inside pocket. ‘This is my side of the bargain, major. It contains a special release from His dummy4
Majesty’s service, properly signed and officially stamped. Your demobilization papers, in fact – go on, major – take it!’
Fred’s right hand refused to move. Instead he felt his good fingers clench into a palm which was unaccountably sweating.
‘Go on – take it.’ Clinton sounded almost dismissive.
‘Have you got a pen?’
‘A pen – ?’ The envelope seemed to hang in the air between them.
‘It’s undated. So if there comes a day when you cannot obey my orders, then all you have to do is date it from that day. All my officers have a similar document –
except young David Audley of course.’
Of course? The words repeated themselves stupidly inside Fred’s brain. But, then, young Audley had said he was an exception to all the rules, of course.
‘The King hasn’t had his money’s worth out of that boy yet. And neither have I.’ Clinton paused. ‘But for the rest ... I have no uses for any man who has no use for me. For my work I need free men, nothing els
e will serve. Otherwise I cannot do the work and neither can they. And, also, I should very soon become a mirror-image of my enemy. And then the work would not be worth doing.’
The envelope was still in mid-air. And Fred was dummy4
remembering that old feeble joke, which he’d first heard in 1939, on Salisbury Plain, and thereafter at intervals, through bitter Italian winters and the last time in a gun-pit within sight of the Acropolis in Athens on Christmas Day (the real Christmas Day, not Scobiemas) –
‘ There was this squaddie, see ... an’ ‘e’d ’ad enough . . . an‘ ’e reckoned to work ‘is ticket by pretendin’ ‘e was a looney –’
(‘He’s mad,’ David Audley had said; and ‘All my officers are mad,’ Colonel Colbourne had replied – )
‘ – so ev’ryfink ’e touches, or picks up ... ‘ e sez “No!
That’s not it!” Like it might be ’is rifle, or ‘is boots, or
’is bleedin‘ mess-tin – ’e sez “No! That’s not it” . . .
Until, in the end, after the doc ‘ad seen ’im, an‘ the padre an’ all, they reckoned that ‘e really was a looney
– ’
(And, also, hadn’t Clinton himself said: ‘All sappers are mad’? –)
‘ – so they give ’im ‘is discharge. An’, as ‘e grabs it, ’e sez: “Gor‘ blimey! THAT’S IT!”’
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It had never been very funny, that joke – and not least because it had always been told and re-told in situations of extreme unfunniness. But it had never been more unfunny than now, as he stretched out and accepted the long-dreamed-of manumission.
‘Why do I need a pen?’ He heard himself reject his freedom even as he touched it, as though from far away.
‘It’s August 7th today.’ The Brigadier re-buttoned his blouse with his newly-freed hand. ‘You can date it from today if you wish. Although Major de Souza will have to process it, and arrange transport. But that will only be a formality, for he has all the necessary Army Instructions to hand.’
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