‘I did. And you obviously did.’ The voices all around them sounded unnaturally loud, and full of alcohol-induced argument and bonhomie .But I haven’t, have I?‘
Audley looked crestfallen. ‘You must have impressed him. And I did warn you that he liked rich bankers, Fred.’
‘I’m hardly a banker.’ Fred felt himself weakening. ‘And I’m certainly not rich.’
‘Well, you are compared with me—I’ve just got debts, and mortgages, and things.’ The boy moved from defensive apology to bitter accusation. ‘So … if you don’t like it, you can always volunteer for the Far East. And then you can start a branch of Fattorini Brothers out there … It’s not my fault, anyway.’
There was no point in recrimination, thought Fred. And, in any case, young Audley was the nearest thing he had to a friend in this madhouse. ‘No—no, of course, David. I’m sorry … It’s just that I really don’t know what the hell is going on here tonight—’ He smiled ‘—like, why is the weather on our side, for a start?’
‘Oh … that’s simple.’ Audley relaxed. The rain drives the poor devils under cover—whoever we’re descending on. And it also damps down the sound of our elephantine approach, so we can creep up on ‘em more easily,’ He returned the smile as a grin. ‘Although, with the Yanks in attendance tonight, God only knows what’ll happen.’ The grin became almost ingratiating. ‘But it should be interesting. And as you and I are both in the front line we shall have a ringside seat, too—’
The silver sound of a tinkling bell somewhere out in the courtyard cut Audley off, also momentarily hushing the hubbub of loud conversation of the other officers in the shadowy room, of whom and of which Fred had been only half aware. Or less than half aware, he thought quickly, as the hubbub started up again.
‘Otto’s pig will be quite ruined by now. So there’s no need to hurry.’ Audley raised his glass. ‘Would you like a re-fill? I really am a terribly bad host … and I haven’t introduced you to anyone either, have I? Otto!’
‘Hauptmann David!’ The tray, with two fresh glasses on it, and then the white glove-and-arm-and-coat, appeared as if by magic, in that order. ‘One Islay malt—one Black Label … and the pig, as you say truly, is ruined, dried up, as a corpse in the desert of North Africa.’
‘You were never in North Africa, Otto.’ Audley swopped his empty tumbler for a well-filled one. ‘But you have been eavesdropping—eh?’
‘I already know all that there is to be known about the Herr Major.’ Otto presented the tray to Fred. ‘I do not need to eavesdrop.’
Fred looked at Audley. ‘Since when have I been a major?’
‘It was on Part Two orders yesterday, Herr Major,’ said Otto. ‘Captain Fattorini FA, RE, to T/Major—my congratulations, Herr Major, on your well-deserved advancement —’
‘ “Promotion”, Otto.’ Audley sniffed. ‘And now, will you kindly encourage the adjutant to get the CO to get us into dinner. Because, whatever the condition of your pig, I’m bloody starving. And we’ve got work to do tonight, while you’re safe and comfy in bed … and tucked up with whoever you’re tucked up with. So do be a good fellow—eh? Ring the bloody bell again—?’ Audley delayed for a moment. Then he raised his glass in Fred’s direction. ‘But, like the man says—congratulations, Herr Major! And … like I say … make the best of it—okay?’ He grinned. ‘“Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish”—Book of Proverbs, chapter something, verse something-else—okay?’
Fred drank, adjusting to undeserved promotion: who was he to argue with the British Army, right or wrong? ‘Thank you, David.’ And yet, he had never expected to make field rank, however temporarily. And certainly never like this, so equivocally, which made it not quite good enough, however good the Black Label was on his empty stomach. ‘But … make the best of what?’
‘What?’ Audley had been looking around, in the hope of dinner, while he had been thinking. ‘Oh … it’s not so bad—’ Using his full height again, Audley continued to look around for movement ‘—not if you’re like me … no soldier—’ He focused on Fred suddenly ‘—no soldier, by God! Because when it was real soldiering, I was bloody-scared most of the time … and when I wasn’t scared, I was bored—bored—b-b-bored … bored.’ The focussed look became fixed. ‘But this is different: we’re VIPs now—we can do what we bloody-like now!’ He nodded. ‘If we tangle with anyone, we pull “Colonel Colbourne” on ’em. And he pulls “Brigadier Clinton”—and that rocks ‘em back on their heels, I can tell you.’ He nodded again. ‘Believe me, I know. Because I’ve seen it happen.’ Audley drank and then grinned happily. ‘Did it myself once, actually. GSO I, all red tabs and face to match, wanted to court-martial Jacko Devenish—my Sergeant Devenish—for gross insubordination … probably quite justifiably, because Jacko can be quite extraordinarily rude when he sets his mind to it … and he hates staff officers … Yes, where was I?’ He drank again. ‘Good stuff, this malt: it completely dissolves my stutter. So I shall probably have to spend the rest of my life half-cut … Where was I? Ah … Sar’ Devenish versus this GSO I, that’s right!‘ Nod. ’Well, guilty or not, we can’t do without Sergeant Devenish. Or, more accurately, I can’t do without him. Because he sometimes does what I tell him to do—and I always do what he tells me to do.‘ Grin plus nod. ’Yes. So Temporary Hauptmann von Audley rips off a smart salute and begs to point out that the grossly-insubordinate is responsible to—and on a special mission for—Brigadier Clinton, at the behest of Colonel Colbourne—‘
The silver bell tinkled again.
‘Yes?’ inquired Fred.
‘Second bell!’ Audley downed the remains of his drink. ‘First bell—wait for the CO. Second bell—every officer for himself. Mess rules.’
‘Wait a moment.’ He would never get a better chance than now, Fred decided, with the young dragoon like this. Because, although Colbourne had instructed him to get an answer to his One Question from Audley, ‘no shop in the mess’ would undoubtedly inhibit him at dinner. And after that he might well be incoherent. ’I haven’t finished my drink, David.‘
‘Nor you have! I’m most frightfully sorry, old boy.’ Audley moved himself out of the doorway so that other officers might escape, shielding Fred from curious stares with his broad shoulders. ‘Do take your time.’
Fred took his time, judging that malt whisky and hunger in alliance might drive Audley to indiscreet frankness. ‘You were saying—?’
‘I was?’ Audley looked politely vague. ‘Saying what?’
Fred took some more of his time. ‘Sergeant Devenish versus the GSO I—?’
‘Ah! Well … “Instant Collapse of Empurpled Staff Officer” would be the Punch cartoon caption.’ Audley fidgeted slightly. ‘Lots of grunting, plus admonitions to me about the decline of discipline. And a ferocious threat about Devenish’s military future—empty as a hot-air balloon, of course.’ Another familiar nod. ‘Colonel Colbourne and Brigadier Clinton … between them, we’re all VIPs, like I said—okay?’ Audley looked at Fred’s glass, first hopefully, then with a hint of desperation in his ugly face.
It was about time to cash in on his opportunity, Fred thought, lifting his glass almost to his mouth, and then lowering it. ‘VIPs … doing what, David?’
Audley stared at him for a moment. ‘Christ, Fred—or is it “Freddie”—?’
Fred didn’t want him sidetracked. Take your pick, David.‘ He lifted the glass again. ’Go on—?‘
‘Well—’ Audley willed him to drink ‘—it’s … it’s rather like peeling an onion if you ask me.’ He thought for another moment. ‘Fred.’
‘An onion?’ Fred decided that he didn’t wholly dislike David Audley. But, in the circumstances, he could only reward him with a sip. ‘Peeling an onion?’
‘Yes.’ Audley glanced into the open doorway, beyond which the rain still glinted in the lamplight as it fell. ‘Shall we go—?’
‘In a moment.’ Another sip. ‘An onion—?’
‘Yes.’ Audley hated him for an ins
tant, fiercely but impotently, trapped by Good Manners and youth. ‘I mean … officially I’m supposed to be researching German tank development.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Which is bloody stupid, really … ’
‘Yes?’ Knowing that he still had a lot of Black Label, Fred took another sip. ‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Another twist downwards, on both sides. ‘I hate … tanks—if I never saw another tank—or “Panzer-Kampfwagen” … if I never saw another of the bloody great things … and the Germans were into bloody great things, so far as my researches go—my ersatz researches … Because they don’t give a damn about that actually.’ Twist. ‘Colbourne doesn’t, Clinton doesn’t … If I never saw another fucking PanzerKampfwagen, or Panzer-Befehlswagen, or prototype Panzerjager Tiger Elefant, or whatever … I saw enough German tanks in Normandy, to last me a lifetime … although there were few enough of them, thank God! Few enough of them … and lots and lots of us—us being bloody cannon-fodder—’ Twist ‘—if I never see another one, that’ll be too-bloody soon!’
‘Officially.’ Fred cut through the whisky blur quickly. ‘What d’you really do then?’
‘Ah … well—’ Audley stopped suddenly. ‘You really don’t know?’ He frowned. ‘Didn’t Amos tell you? And you were in with Caesar Augustus long enough, for God’s sake—didn’t he tell you?’
‘No.’ Audley wasn’t as drunk as he had seemed, Fred decided. ‘Nobody has told me anything.’
‘Then perhaps I’d better not. If my elders and betters —’
‘But Colonel Colbourne told me to ask you.’ Fred barely avoided snapping. ‘And he also told me “no shop in the mess”. So if you want your share of Otto’s pig before it’s cold, David … ’ He lifted his glass tantalizingly. ‘I can wait.’
‘It isn’t really a pig. It’s a wild boar.’ Audley’s voice was no longer slurred, and he was staring at Fred. ‘He hunts them in the forest with an illegal high powered hunting rifle. The Germans aren’t allowed guns, of course—not now. But rules don’t apply to Otto, because Colonel Augustus Colbourne likes wild boar for his dinner.’
Fred stared back at him without replying, aware both that he was every bit famished as the young dragoon and that the young dragoon was neither as drunk as he had seemed nor as young, in experience if not years.
‘Okay.’ Audley completed his scrutiny. ‘Officially, we’re related to the T-forces—the old SHAEF Target Subdivision. You’ve heard of them, maybe.’
Fred hadn’t. ‘Maybe. But you tell me, David. Just in case I haven’t.’ He smiled. ‘Now that I’m here.’
‘Yes.’ If not drink, then hunger and the prospect of a long night ahead of him had wearied Audley. ‘German military and technological material and research. All the stuff they were throwing at us latterly—V-1s and V-2s and jet-planes—and rocket planes—all the new weapons. But also, and rather more importantly, the stuff they hadn’t quite perfected—what’s called “the next generation”.’ He cocked his head slightly. ‘“The next generation”—?’
Fred waited until it became obvious that Audley expected some sort of reaction. ‘“The next generation”?’ He decided to frown.
‘Yes.’ Audley accepted the frown. ‘It’s a pretty term, isn’t it! Here we are, all buddy-buddy and United Nations … and a Labour Government back home, to welcome us back to a Land Fit for Heroes. But here we are—“we are” meaning us, in this instance … but the Yanks and the Russians too, just the same … Here we are, scrabbling for German tit-bits with which we can equip the next generation—the call-up class of 1955 Conscripts. Or, maybe ’56—the Crocodile’s money is on ‘56, mathematically. Mine’s a bit later, in our mess sweepstake. The Alligator is betting on 1950. And Amos refuses to bet—he only bets on cards and horses, he says. Because he likes to enjoy his winnings, he says—and he says he won’t enjoy ours.’ He smiled. ‘But … anyway … we’re not actually responsible to T/HQ, anyway. But don’t ask me who we’re responsible to—Colbourne’s responsible to Clinton, and God only knows who he’s reporting to. Probably God Himself, is my guess. But I don’t know.’
It was curious, thought Fred. Because Audley had just said a lot. And yet somehow he hadn’t said anything at all.
‘Yes.’ The ghost of Audley’s smile lingered. ‘So officially—officially—we’re into our minor specializations: tanks for me, chemical warfare for the Crocodile, radar for the Alligator, communications and cyphers for Amos … and so on … So you’ll probably get non-metallic mines, or something—or whatever the Royal Engineers are into. But all pretty small beer, really. And the Yanks and the Russians don’t worry about us too much, because they reckon we’re a bunch of drunken amateurs and loonies, trying to avoid boring regimental duty—or Far Eastern postings, fighting mosquitoes and uncomfortably heroic Japanese, and suchlike … Loonies led by the Chief Lunatic himself, Colonel Augustus Colbourne. Because he’s our best cover, by God!’
They were precisely back to the moment when Amos de Souza had first detached him from Audley, in the company office.
Audley nodded, as though he had caught Fred’s thought. ‘He is a looney, you know.’ Nod. ‘Bloody clever with it, admittedly. Would have been a King’s Counsel long since, if there hadn’t been a war, for sure by now: Mr Augustus Colbourne, KC … Sir Augustus Colbourne—Mr Justice Colbourne—Lord Colbourne—Amos says he was absolutely brilliant in court, even as a fledgling barrister … But quite mad, nevertheless.’
Fred could only remember the stark naked Colonel Colbourne, variously sunburned and white, and hairy, but utterly unconcerned. But then another memory surfaced. ‘Where did he get his DSO?’
Audley gave him a sly look. ‘Oh … that was a good one, apparently: 8th Army, Desert Rats, ’42—rallying the ranks at Alam Haifa, or somewhere. Amos says that if he’d been killed doing it, then it might have been a VC—he was only a captain at the time too.‘ The tousled head shook. ’Oh, he’s brave. But, for our purposes, he’s mad. Probably got too much sun in the desert, and it fried his brains.‘ The boy shrugged, and then gestured suddenly into the gloom around them. ’You know where we are—? Eh—?‘
That certainly was quite mad. ‘A … Roman fort, Amos said —’
‘A Roman fort—right!’ Audley nodded. ‘The Kaiser rebuilt a fort just like this, on the old Roman frontier line—not far from here at the Saalburg, back at the turn of the century, near Bad Homburg. So this German industrialist—one of Krupp’s subsidiary suppliers—he rebuilt another fort, on another original Roman site also on the limes, as they call it. And then he dedicated it to the Emperor Hadrian and Kaiser Wilhelm, right here. So we’re in the headquarters building of that fort right now—the “principia”—which is cold, and dark, and draughty, and generally unpleasant … instead of some agreeable American requisitioned premises, which Colonel Colbourne would certainly get, for the asking. Because he’s a great favourite with the Yanks, actually.’
Fred recalled his reception. ‘Because of his … pigs?’
‘Otto’s pigs. And other things.’ Nod. ‘And because he insists that we all behave with unfailing politeness to our allies.’ Smile. ‘Also, he has a rich American wife, wooed on the Queen Mary before the war.’
‘He doesn’t sound … too mad, David.’
‘No? Well … if I tell you that he believes he’s the reincarnation of Caesar Augustus—Julius Caesar’s nephew, who more or less invented the Roman Empire—? The first Roman emperor—?’ The smile became fixed. ‘Actually, he’s not really interested in Germany, A.D. 1945. It’s Roman Germania, A.D. 9, that he’s concerned with.’
He couldn’t be serious. ‘You’re not serious—? Are you?’
‘No.’ Audley scratched his head. ‘Just … half serious.’
‘Half serious?’ Suddenly Fred remembered Colbourne’s irrational enthusiasm for photography’s revelation of the ancient past. ‘How?’
‘How?’ Audley looked at him questioningly, and then at the doorway, and then came back to him. ‘We really ought to be joining the oth
ers now, don’t you think?’
Fred identified a mixture of hunger and despair in the young man’s expression, and knew that he shared the first, but not the second. ‘Of course. But just one thing, David —’
‘One thing—?’ A glint of hope now. ‘What d’you want to know?’
In victory … caution. ‘You said Colonel Colbourne was … “our best cover”, was it?’ He paused for a fraction of a second before popping the vital question again, but now confident that he would get the vital answer.
‘Oh—Christ, yes!’ Audley forestalled him. ‘Everybody knows that Gus Colbourne’s only interested in one thing! The Yanks know it—the bloody Russkis know it too, I shouldn’t wonder … Every bugger knows it, for sure! All he’s interested in is finding the long lost site of the battle of the Teutoburg Forest, where the Germans wiped out three Roman legions in the year A.D. 9—where General Varus came unstuck.’
‘What—?’ The young man’s bitter vehemence caught Fred unprepared in his moment of victory. ‘Varus—?’
‘Varus. Publius Quinctilius Varus—“Varus, Fluch auf dich! Redde Legiones!”, as Otto says … Although Varus did have the grace to fall on his sword when all was lost, unlike von Paulus at Stalingrad, Otto also says.’
Otto says, like Amos says? With his mixture of German and Latin—Damn you, Varus! Give me back my legions!—What did it mean? ‘Now you’ve lost me, David—Varus?’ But then a spark of light, if not light itself, illuminated the incoherence momentarily. ‘Wasn’t he the Roman General who—?’ The light flickered. ‘That Varus—?’
‘That Varus, uh-huh.‘ Audley nodded encouragingly. ’You know your Roman history, then?‘
The light guttered: any moment now it would go out, leaving him in a blind darkness inkier than before. ‘No.’ Everything Audley was saying was insane—‘He believes he’s a reincarnation of Augustus Caesar … Everybody knows that Gus Colbourne’s only interested in one thing … “Give me back my legions, Varus!”. And yet, on second thoughts, it wasn’t. Because Audley had tried to warn him, and Amos de Souza had echoed the warning in his own way … And, finally, Colonel Colbourne himself had rolled their warnings up in his own confided statement, which somehow seemed to confirm everything: ’All my officers are mad, quite mad.‘ ’No. But … ‘
A New Kind of War Page 11
