The '44 Vintage

by Anthony Price

Audley took the warning at last. “Of course …” The arrogance was gone from his voice. “Look, m’sieur—if they have no use, you said. Give us one of the cars and we’ll take him with us. Because where we’re going we may find a use for him. I’ll be responsible for him—personally.”

  This time the Frenchman’s lips twisted in the other direction. “Oh yes? And when you are a prisoner—a prisoner under your rules of war— and he is free again … and I am dead—and we are dead … and our little town is like Oradour-sur-Glane, where the women and children are also dead—you will still be responsible? Personally?”

  “What d’you mean, ‘when he’s free again’?” Audley grabbed the German’s handcuffed hands and lifted them up. “What the hell are these—charm bracelets?”

  The Frenchman stared at the handcuffs for a moment. Then he shrugged. “So he has committed some crime. But he is still a German officer.”

  “Very true. But if they’re taking the trouble to pull him out of the battle”—Audley dropped the German’s hands and pointed to the staff car—“then he’s in big trouble himself. And that makes him practically one of us.”

  Audley’s voice was no longer arrogant—it was vehement.

  “Lieutenant—“ Winston started to interrupt again.

  “Shut up, Sergeant!” snapped Audley.

  Winston raised his eyebrows at Butler hopelessly.

  “So you say ‘morte la bête, mort le venin’—vous voulez qu’il tombe de Charybde en Scylla,” went on Audley. “But I say that’s the very reason why he can be of use to us.”

  Butler saw, out of the corner of his eye, that the Resistance men were clearing up around them: one of them was lugging a body up the hillside while another scuffed leaves and dirt into the pool of blood which the dead soldier had left. And as they did so one piece of his mind was obstinately attempting to translate Audley’s French—“dead the beast, dead the” … what on earth was le venin?—while his finger lay on the trigger of the cocked Sten.

  Madness!

  “No, Lieutenant—“

  Why did everybody else pronounce that rank differently? thought Butler irritably. To the American it was loo-tenant and to the Frenchman it was lyuhtenon—

  “—because if his friends get him back—“

  “Why should they get him back?” cut in Audley.

  “Why?” The Frenchman sniffed. “Because the American tanks have not crossed the river. They are heading north and east past Orleans … so if his friends get him back—and when he feels the muzzle kiss the back of his neck—then he will remember that he is a German officer. And then he will trade us in exchange for his life—“

  “No!” said the German.

  The Frenchman looked at the German, at first impassively and then with a trace of pity. “Oh yes—there is your word of honour, I know—“

  “No.” The boy’s shoulders sagged.

  “What then?”

  The lock of hair had fallen across the white face again, and the German’s other eye had closed. The ring under it was so dark as to look almost like a bruise: it was not just the face of defeat, but of disintegration.

  “Ich bin ein Kind des Todes … aus dem Regen in die Traufe.” The eye opened, almost defiantly. “There are not enough Frenchmen in France to trade for me. There is in the car … a case …” He frowned. “A briefcase.”

  The Frenchman stiffened, looked quickly at the staff car, and then at Audley. “Un moment, Lieutenant …”

  They watched him dive into the staff car and retrieve the briefcase. But when he’d ripped it open he showed no inclination to share its contents with them.

  Winston leaned forward towards the German. “Captain … this had better be good.”

  Captain Grafenberg looked at him questioningly. “Please?”

  “I mean”—Winston heaved a sigh—“I hope you’ve done something real bad—like surrendered half the German Army maybe. Or put arsenic in Rommel’s coffee. Or given Himmler the V-sign.”

  “Please?” The captain looked as though he was ready to burst into tears.

  “Because if you haven’t, then I think you and the lieutenant there have got us into one hell of a mess.” Winston turned suddenly towards Audley, and Butler saw to his surprise that he was grinning. “Not that I don’t go along with you, Lieutenant sir. It’s just that I never thought I was going to die in the defence of the German Army, that’s all. The British Army—I’ve just about gotten used to that. But the German Army … I’d really like a little more time to adjust to that. What d’you think, Corporal Jack?” He tilted his head towards Butler.

  The question caught Butler by surprise.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Winston. “Like The Charge of the Light Brigade, starring Enrol Flynn, you don’t think—not until the lieutenant has passed on the thought to you—“

  “Balls!” snapped Butler. “There isn’t anything to think about. We just don’t kill prisoners.”

  “You don’t?” Winston raised his voice in scorn. “Well, I think you’ve got a lot to learn, Jack old buddy. In fact—“

  “Bloody shut up—both of you!” said Audley angrily. “Hauptmann Grafenberg … would you please tell us what it is you’ve done?”

  Grafenberg straightened himself but didn’t answer.

  Audley waited patiently.

  “I am sorry,” said Grafenberg finally.

  “You’re sorry—“ Winston exclaimed.

  “Hush!” Audley paused. Then he pointed at Winston, without taking his eyes off the German’s face. “Sergeant … Frank Winston, United States Army.” With the other hand he pointed at Butler. “Corporal … Corporal Jack Butler, Lancashire Rifles.” He tapped his own chest. “Audley, David … second lieutenant, Queen Charlotte’s Own Royal South Wessex Dragoons.”

  Chandos Force, thought Butler irrelevantly—the real Chandos Force, even though it had lost its way en route to its unknown target. But then Hauptmann Grafenberg could hardly be expected to know that.

  But also he knew why Audley had made the introduction so formally: if we’re going to fight for you, Hauptmann Grafenberg, at least we’re going to know why!

  “I am sorry.” Grafenberg looked at each of them in turn, lastly at Audley. “Second Lieutenant—“

  Second Lef-tenant—

  “—I have not done … anything at all.”

  “What?” said Audley. “Nothing?”

  Grafenberg shook his head.

  “Well”—Audley’s voice cracked—“what’s in the briefcase, for God’s sake, man?”

  Winston nodded meaningfully to his right, past Butler’s shoulder. “I think we’re just about to find that out, Lieutenant.”

  Butler twisted round in the direction of the American’s nod, to find the Frenchman coming towards them again. He was aware of the Sten in his hands, still cocked and dangerous. But now it felt curiously heavy—heavy with the memory of the German machine-gunner who had been picked off with that first sniper’s shot before he could squeeze his trigger.

  The Frenchman faced Hauptmann Grafenberg. “Erwin Grafenberg, Hauptmann, 924th Anti-tank Battalion?”

  “Jawohl.”

  “So!” The Frenchman turned on his heel towards Audley. “Where do you wish to go?” he asked.

  “Where—?” Audley swallowed. “Yes … well, if you’d just give us one of these vehicles … then we’ll follow our noses.”

  “What is the name of your Operation?”

  “Our Operation?”

  “Yes. Your Operation.” The Frenchman’s tone was polite but firm. “It has a code name, naturally.”

  “Oh yes—naturally. Of course, that is …” Audley nodded. “Yes, it has.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is none of your business, m’sieur, I think,” said Audley firmly.

  “Oh Jesus Christ!” murmured Winston. “Here we go again!”

  “You want a vehicle, Lieutenant,” said the Frenchman.

  “No. I was promised a vehicle—by you.”<
br />
  “In exchange for a prisoner.”

  They stared at each other obstinately.

  Suddenly Sergeant Winston stirred restlessly, looking first to the right, then to the left, then behind him.

  “Hell now … I’ve been thinking”—he looked seriously at Audley, then at the Frenchman—“do the krauts ever come this way normally?”

  “M’sieur?”

  “I mean—do they come this way if you don’t steer ‘em this way? Like, it seems a kind of quiet back road, I mean.”

  The Frenchman frowned. “No, they do not come this way. It is not the main road.”

  “Great! So you and the lieutenant—and the kraut—can sit here and argue, and no one’s gonna disturb you … and me and the corporal can take the car … and when the war’s over we can come back and tell you who won it.” Winston spread his hands in the manner of one modestly offering his answer to a difficult problem. “Or, if you like, we’ll just tell you when it’s over—then you can go on arguing … about which of you won it, huh?”

  Audley and the Frenchman both stared at him for a second or two, and then again at each other.

  Suddenly the Frenchman raised his hands apologetically. “M’sieur— Lieutenant—you will understand that we have learnt to be cautious … to ask questions. Perhaps too many questions. But it is how we have stayed alive, you see.”

  Audley nodded slowly. “Yes,” he agreed.

  “So … you shall have your vehicle—and your prisoner … and we will also help you find your way—I shall give you a driver to guide you … Pierrot!”

  One of the Resistance men who had been working on the restoration of the plank bridge over the crater straightened up and turned towards them obediently.

  Audley relaxed. “Well … I suppose there are times when we’re a bit too jolly careful for our own good, at that!” He glanced for a moment towards Butler. “Eh, Corporal?”

  “Sir?” Butler had the distinct impression that the look Audley had given him had been for one fraction of a second much less friendly than his tone of voice. “Yes, sir.”

  Audley grinned at the Frenchman. “Bulldog—Operation Bulldog, that’s us.”

  The Frenchman frowned. “Bull… dog?”

  Audley struck his forehead. “I’m an idiot! I mean Bullsblood, of course. Just got the wrong word-association—Bullsblood it is.”

  “Ah—Bullsblood.”

  “That’s right. It’s a road interdiction mission.” Audley grinned again. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll spare you the details.”

  “A very proper precaution.” The Frenchman nodded. “And now … Pierrot, mon vieux—“

  “Hey, m’sieur, just hold it a sec!” Sergeant Winston pointed towards the German. “You never did get round to telling us what he did—was it real bad?”

  “Bad?” The Frenchman gave Grafenberg a curious glance. “No, it was not bad. It was what he did not do that was bad … and that— that was very bad.”

  “And what was it he didn’t do, then?”

  “He failed to kill Adolf Hitler, m’sieur.”

  CHAPTER 15

  How they encountered the Jabos

  IT WAS TRUE what Dad had said, thought Butler: Germans smelt differently from Englishmen.

  But then, to be fair, Captain Grafenberg was probably thinking much the same thing. And whenever the captain had last washed, he knew for a fact that he himself hadn’t had anything like a decent wash for a week, so he must be ripening up a treat on his own account. In addition to which, since the captain was wedged between him and Sergeant Winston in the back of the staff car, he would have both American and British smells to contend with.

  The car completed its backward passage up the road and swung sharply into the entrance to the track along which the other ambushed vehicles were hidden.

  Butler caught a strong whiff of garlic on Pierrot’s breath: that made, altogether, a pretty formidable Allied presence, he decided.

  They backed up the track for ten yards. Then the Kübel backed in ahead of them.

  “We gonna have an escort?” asked Winston.

  Audley watched the Kübel set off ahead of them. “For the first ten kilometres, according to the schoolmaster,” he said.

  “The schoolmaster?”

  “Yes. It seems that he’s a schoolmaster when he’s not killing Germans,” said Audley. “Or that’s what they call him, anyway.”

  “Like Bullsblood?” said Butler.

  “Or Bullshit?” said Winston.

  Audley turned towards them from the front seat “Now just hold it,” he said warningly.

  Pierrot put the car in gear and pulled onto the road a hundred yards behind the Kübel.

  “We get to know where we’re going, though?” said Winston.

  Audley stared ahead of him. “To their headquarters. Then they’re going to see if there’s any information about the main party.” He turned towards them again. “I said … hold it.”

  Winston frowned across the German at Butler.

  Audley smiled at Pierrot. “Do you have the key to the handcuffs, m’sieur?” he enquired politely.

  “Huh?” Pierrot looked at him quickly.

  “Do—you—have—the—key—to—the—handcuffs?” repeated Audley slowly.

  Butler lifted up the German’s handcuffs. “La clef?” he said.

  “Oh, la clefl” Pierrot nodded. “C’est dans ma poche.”

  Audley gave Butler an exasperated look, then turned back to Pierrot. “Do—you—speak—English?”

  “M’sieur?”

  Audley smiled. “Is it a fact that your sister sleeps with your father?” he said amiably.

  Pierrot shrugged. “Je ne comprends pas, m’sieur.”

  Winston leaned forward suddenly. “Okay, Lieutenant”—he held up a finger behind Pierrot’s back—“when we slow down at the next intersection, I’ll stick this knife of mine into his back—right?”

  “Exactly right, Sergeant.” Audley nodded. “And I’ll grab the steering wheel. Just make sure you stick that knife of yours in the right spot, eh?”

  Winston waggled his finger. “You betcha.”

  Audley stared ahead again. “Here we go, then.”

  The Kübel slowed in front of them as the road forked. Butler watched fascinated as Winston placed the tip of his finger gently below Pierrot’s shoulderblade.

  “Now, Sergeant,” said Audley conversationally, tapping the dashboard with his left hand.

  Winston jabbed his finger.

  Pierrot wriggled slightly. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

  “Sorry, mac”—Winston leaned forward apologetically—“I was just stabbing you by accident. Pardonnez, huh?”

  Pierrot shrugged.

  “Okay, Lieutenant,” said Winston. “You can take it from my finger that he’s not with us. So now what?”

  “So now we’re in trouble again,” said Audley.

  “You don’t say!” Winston gave a grunt. “And what sort of trouble this time?”

  “We’re being double-crossed.” Audley nodded at Butler. “D’you remember the colonel gave us the cover if we got picked up—no matter who we were picked up by?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes … well, I thought it smelt to high heaven then, and now I’m bloody sure of it.” Audley gave Pierrot another friendly grin. “These people know there’s something in the wind.”

  “How d’you figure that?” asked Winston.

  “The wrong code name,” said Butler suddenly. “You gave him the wrong code name—and he knew it was the wrong one. He was waiting for you to give the cover—the right cover.” Then he frowned at Audley. “But how did you come to suspect him, sir?”

  “I didn’t exactly suspect him. But when he was showing me the ambush setup he kept asking questions in between—he wanted to know where the main party was, and where they were going.”

  Winston nodded. “Yeah, I get you … and when you wouldn’t play ball he gave us lover-boy here, to make sure you did
n’t run out on him.” He patted Pierrot’s shoulder. “You’re doing a great job, man.”

  Butler stared blindly at the road ahead. If Audley was right they were in all kinds of trouble now—trouble multiplied by ten. What they had run into had been practically a reception committee lying in wait for them. The German at his side had fallen into the trap almost incidentally—the Frenchman had picked him up almost as a man hunting a fox might bag a rabbit or two on the side for the pot while he searched for the killer of his chickens.

  And, what was more, it meant that the major himself had slipped through the net.

  “Wow-ee …” Winston breathed out noisily. “You really got yourself into the shit right up to your chin, Lieutenant!”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Man—I mean when that schoolteacher gets you home he’s going to take you apart piece by piece to find out where the major’s heading for.” Winston shook his head. “And the joke is—you don’t know … and he’s not going to believe you one little bit.”

  Audley scowled at the American. “But that goes for you too, Sergeant,” he said nastily.

  “Me? Hell no!” Winston sat back. “I’m just a poor Yankee who’s got caught up in a private fight.” He gestured with his head towards the German. “Me and the kraut—we’re just a couple of innocent bystanders … Say, Captain—did you really try and kill the Führer? I heard tell someone tried to blow him up just recently—was that you?”

  Captain Grafenberg looked around him a little wildly, from the American to Audley and back. As well he might, thought Butler bitterly: if ever there was a case of aus dem Regen in die Traufe it was now.

  “No—nein,” he said hoarsely.

  “Well, Captain, I wouldn’t deny it if I were you. Right now, in this company, I’d say I did it and I was just sorry it hadn’t worked out. Because that’s going to be almost as good as saying that you voted for FDR in the last election—if you say it loud enough and often enough they’ll probably make you a general after the war, if you live so long.” Winston winked at Butler. “If any of us live so long, that is.”

  The German captain looked at Audley. “Lieutenant … if you please …” He trailed off miserably.

  “Okay!” Winston lifted his hand. “So he didn’t try to kill the Führer. But I still think I’ve given him good advice.”