A New Kind of War dda-17

by Anthony Price

  ‘Is that a fact?’ The Colonel shook out his shirt, and began to unbutton it. ‘Young Audley says you’re more commonly “Fred”.

  And although his behaviour is somewhat unreliable, his historical facts are usually to be relied upon.’

  It seemed extraordinary to Fred that he had come through his years of war in order to argue the diminutive of his Christian name with a madman in a Roman fort in Germany. But then he remembered the madman’s civilian background. And, if he was right about that, then he must allow the madman some latitude in cross-examination of the facts . . . especially as the madman was right, and he himself was lying through his teeth.

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  But meanwhile he was saved for a moment, while the Colonel struggled himself into his shirt. Which, like his own, was American-army issue, of the most luxurious and desirable sort.

  Audley, of course, had been the source of ‘Fred’, damn it! And damn David Audley too, if he had David Audley to thank for this posting! But that American shirt suddenly became a gift, offering him a line of counter-attack. ‘I have a message for you, sir ...

  actually,’ he addressed the hooded figure, which was still naked from the waist to the socks.

  ‘What’s that – ?’ The statement caught the Colonel in mid-struggle, with one arm raised vertically and his head poking out of the collar because he hadn’t bothered to unbutton his shirt all the way down, but had treated it like a British army garment ‘ – a message?’

  ‘I am to thank you for the pig.’ Ever since de Souza had mentioned pigs – ‘ one of your pigs’, indeed – the pig had been squealing in the background of his mind, he realized now. Only, he had been slow to listen to it. ‘There was this American officer who met me on the airfield, sir. I’m afraid I didn’t get his name.’ Fred adjusted his voice to his situation: he must seem deferential, but ever-so-slightly embarrassed. ‘He was most helpful ... in getting me through the formalities.’ That was enough. ‘But he said ... he said, I was to thank you for the pig. And . . . whatever you wanted, if you’d got more pigs, then he’s got more aircraft . . . sir.’

  ‘Hah . . . hmmm!’ The Colonel pulled down his shirt. ‘Thank you, Freddie.’

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  ‘Yes, sir.’ said Fred.

  ‘Pigs!’ The Colonel lilfted his chin in order to button-up his shirt.

  ‘It wasn’t a pig – that’s damned slander.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ Whatever the animal was, it had given him an edge, Fred thought exultantly. ‘It wasn’t a pig – ?’

  ‘ Fattorini – eh?’ The Colonel’s eye had fixed on him now.

  ‘Merchant bankers, right?’ Without unfixing his eye he snatched a tie from his bed. ‘ “Armstrong Fattorini Brothers”?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ This had always been where the cross-examination had been going. But if Colonel Colbourne had conducted Aunt Lydia’s divorce he would undoubtedly know all about Armstrong Fattorini ... if only to adjust the size of his fee. So what else did he want?

  ‘Armstrong.’ The Colonel examined his underpants critically. ‘An old Scottish border family of brigands and bandits, turned merchant bankers when the old ways became unprofitable – a natural enough progression. Who was it said “better to found a bank than rob one”?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Fred decided that he wouldn’t let the plain truth ruffle him.

  ‘And Fattorini.’ The underpants passed their test. So now it was the turn of the trousers. ‘Anglo-Italian. Late 18th century vintage – not to be confused with the distinguished watch-making family of the same name.’ Colonel Colbourne balanced himself on one hairy leg without looking at Fred. ‘ Your Fattorinis . . . smugglers, weren’t they? “Brandy for the parson, letters for a spy”, eh?’

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  That was interesting: the Colonel had evidently done his homework on the family’s history as well as on its modern creditworthiness. ‘I gather we were much the same as the Armstrongs, sir. Bandits, then bankers. And lawyers.’

  Colbourne looked up at him, one leg trousered. ‘Luke Fattorini – or Sir Luke, as I should call him now . . . your uncle, he would be, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The man knew damn well. But somehow the mention of Uncle Luke strengthened his confidence. In times of adversity, ever since Father’s death, Uncle Luke had always been a powerful and wise ally.

  ‘Clever man.’ Colbourne sniffed as be began to put on his glittering brown boots. ‘Influential, too . . . Dealt with that wastrel Ferguson – Captain the Honourable whatever-he-was – your aunt’s husband – he thought he had influence in high places . . . and so he did. But your Uncle Luke had more influence in higher places.

  And he knew how to use it too. So we took Captain the Honourable for a settlement that made his eyeballs pop, between us . . .’ The Colonel straightened up, and reached for his battledress blouse. ‘Clever man – yes!’

  There was a DSO among the Colonel’s ribbons. But that didn’t equal de Souza’s double-MC: it could have come up with the rations in the Judge Advocate’s department, even when teamed with the desert medal of the 8th Army – there had been more than a few undeserved DSOs wandering around Cairo and Alexandria in the bad old days before Monty, so it was said.

  ‘Yes.’ The Colonel tightened the belt of his blouse. ‘And you were dummy4

  in Italy, before Greece?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Now he was on safe ground. ‘4th Division.’

  ‘A very good division, too.’ Colbourne looked down suddenly.

  ‘How’s that hand of yours? Crushed under one of those bridges of yours, was it – ?’

  ‘It’s much better, sir.’ Praise of the 4th Div had momentarily weakened Fred’s critical faculty. But now caution reasserted itself.

  ‘I was lucky.’

  ‘You were?’ The Colonel’s lack of further interest showed that he didn’t know much about the hazards of Bailey bridging. ‘Did you see many Roman bridges in Italy?’

  Fred felt his mouth open. ‘Roman – ?’

  ‘Bridges. They built damn good bridges.’ Colbourne’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. ‘Good military bridges, too – don’t you recall Caesar’s bridge across the Rhine? Don’t you sappers know your history?’ The man’s face creased into what the lamplight made into a diabolical frown. ‘And you were up at Oxford before the war, so you must know your Gallic War, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘But I read – mathematics, sir.’ Fred began by snapping back, tired of saying, ‘Yes, sir’. But then that fanatical glint warned him, like the glint of metal on a roadside verge which betrayed the mine beneath it. ‘I did know a chap in Italy, though ... he was an expert on ... Roman remains.’

  ‘Yes?’ Suddenly, and for the first time, he had all Colonel Colbourne’s attention. ‘Who was that, then?’

  Fred had to search for the name. ‘Bradford, sir.’

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  ‘Bradford – ?’ Frown. ‘What regiment?’

  ‘No regiment.’ Now he knew he was on a winner. ‘He was RAF

  photographic reconnaissance and interpretation.’

  “Ahhh!‘ Colbourne beamed at him. ’ That Bradford – of course!

  How stupid of me! John Bradford – Flight Lieutenant . . . Roman centuration and Etruscan tombs – met him last year. Disciple of O.

  G.S. Crawford’s – next generation of aerial archaeology. Another clever fellow – yes?

  ‘Yes, sir.’ All Fred could recall (and then only vaguely) was the young RAF man’s 50-50 enthusiasm for German defensive activity at the mouth of the Tiber and incidental photographs he had acquired which also betrayed the town plan of the abandoned old Roman city of Ostia. ‘He had some very interesting pictures, I believe.’

  ‘Yes. Quite remarkable, his pictures – very fine. Never seen such eloquent testimony of the way the Roman field-systems continued.’ The Colonel’s voice was animated by something of the RAF intelligence officer’s enthusiasm. ‘Bit too taken up with the Etruscans, for my taste – a rum lot, the Etruscans. Like the dam
ned Greeks.’ He frowned at Fred suddenly. ‘I wonder what he’s doing now.’

  ‘Sir?’ For a moment Fred thought that the latest frown was directed at him, and closed his open mouth smartly. But then he saw that the question was self-directed, and the Colonel wasn’t really looking at him at all. ‘You mean Flight-Lieutenant Bradford – ?’

  ‘Ye-ess ... I wonder whether we could get him up here, come dummy4

  autumn, when the leaves are off the trees.’

  The frown went clear through Fred. ‘No problem with the equipment – the Yanks can take care of that, even if the RAF can’t.

  It might not produce anything . . . probably wouldn’t.’ The intensity of the pale eyes was most disconcerting. ‘But if Varus did build a marching camp – just one marching camp, mind you – just one . . . somewhere on the middle Weser or the upper Lippe.’ Nod.

  ‘In fact, we could draw an arc from Moguntiacum to Castra Vetera, coming back through Detmold, and try that for a start . . . And Bradford would be the very man to spot the slightest sign of one –

  he’d know a Roman marching camp from an iron age enclosure at a glance – at a glance!’ The eyes focused on Fred, with a fierce yellow lamp-light glint in them. ‘Good man, Major Fattorini –

  Freddie! I hadn’t thought of that – stupid of me, but I hadn’t! Air photography, by God! Should have thought of that, by God!’ He smacked his fist decisively into his other palm. ‘Yes. I suppose I could ask the RAF – in fact, they’ve probably got a million pictures of the whole area, full of bomb craters miles from the target . . . Detmold was quite well-bombed, as I recall – Luftwaffe station not too far away, I think . . . But it would be easier to borrow a pilot and a plane from the Yanks. They’ve got the planes and the pilots–yes.’

  And you’ve got the pigs, thought Fred, utterly disorientated by this new and irrational turn of an interview which had never made much sense. But then, if the Colonel wanted to give him credit for a chance remark he might as well claim it while he could. ‘Flight-Lieutenant Bradford was an extremely competent interpreter, as I dummy4

  recall, sir.’

  ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right, Freddie.’ The Colonel seemed to have forgotten that he’d said as much himself, in his enthusiasm.

  ‘Good man!’ He nodded. ‘You’ll do –you’ll do, by God!’

  Fred saw his chance at last, in a flash. ‘Do what, sir?’

  ‘What?’ Colbourne was still staring down from a great height inside his brain, at – what was it? Marching camps – ? Somewhere on the middle of the Weser or the upper Lippe – ‘What?’

  ‘Do what, sir?’ The Weser was a German river. In fact, it was the German river into which the Pied Piper of Hamelin had piped all the rats, before he’d piped away all the children. So the Lippe was probably another German river – another Rhine tributary. But what the bloody hell was a marching camp! ‘You said ... I’d do.’ He mustn’t lose his temper. Not with his new commanding officer. ‘I was merely wondering why you wanted an officer of engineers, Colonel Colbourne. My posting orders were not precise on the point.’

  Colbourne blinked at him, as though at a fool. ‘They weren’t – ?

  No . . . well, of course, they wouldn’t have been – would they.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘But we’re late, so let’s go ... You ask Amos – Major de Souza, whom you’ve met. . . Come on, come on

  – ’

  Fred started to move, but then stopped automatically, to give his Commanding Officer precedence. Colbourne also started to move, but then stopped, and faced him. ‘Or you could ask young Audley

  – he’ll tell you if you ask him, later tonight. Can’t talk shop in the dummy4

  mess . . . but you’ll be with him tonight afterwards, and you’ll have plenty of time then, I don’t doubt – go on, man, go on!’

  Fred gave up, and went ahead, out into the feeble glow of the hanging lantern, not knowing where he was going and almost without hope, but remembering the ORs’ favourite litany as he did so: ‘ Roll on death – demob’s bound to be a failure!’

  ‘Left, left – towards the light there – ’ Colonel Colbourne pointed down the pillared cloister ‘ – but don’t believe all he says, eh?’

  The pillars were unreal: only the utter darkness beyond them – a darkness emphasized by the flashed reflection of the occasional raindrop out of the millions which were falling in the open square outside the pillars – only that darkness was real: Colbourne wasn’t real either, and Audley was a nightmare from the past . . . and the allegation that this was a Roman fortress set the seal on them both.

  ‘All my officers are mad, quite mad,’ Colbourne confided, from just behind him.

  Kaiserburg, he had been thinking. But now Colonel Colbourne and Captain Audley were in total agreement –

  ‘Quite mad.’ Colbourne agreed with himself. ‘In any sort of military sense . . . almost unemployable, in fact.’

  The Kaiser’s Burg, Fred applied himself to his original thought, unwilling to let Colbourne and Audley agree with each other. But perhaps that wasn’t Kaiser Wilhelm’s Castle: perhaps it was Castra Caesaris . . . or would it be ‘Castrum’ Caesaris – ?

  ‘But as a sapper you’ll have no trouble with them – ’ Colbourne touched his arm ‘ – round the corner, then on your left there.’

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  He was exhausted, and filthy, and he wanted a pee. But if that was the officers’ mess, he needed a drink, and a strong one, and a large one even more urgently.

  ‘And then . . . the Brigadier wouldn’t have asked for you if he didn’t think you were suitable – mmm?’ The Colonel rumbled question-and-answer in the back of his throat. ‘In fact, he said – Ah Amos! There you are!’

  Major de Souza appeared in the wide double-doorway. ‘Gus!

  You’re damned late for dinner. Your pig has been crying out for you – and so has Otto, actually.’

  ‘I’m sorry, old boy – I really am.’ The Colonel would have pushed past if Fred hadn’t already been trying to get out of the way. ‘But look here – I want you to get on to the RAF – try Wing Commander Fraser first, at Minden, he’ll know who to get on to ...

  You remember him?’

  ‘I remember him.’ De Souza winced slightly. ‘But what do you want, Gus?’ He rolled an eye at Fred, sympathetically. ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘Air photography, Amos – what about that, eh – ?’

  ‘Air photography?’ De Souza abandoned Fred, expressionless now.

  ‘What about air photography?’

  ‘It’s the answer to all our problems.’ Colbourne lifted a tumbler off a silver tray which had materialized out of the darkness at his elbow, held by a white-gloved hand on the end of a disembodied white-coated arm, without taking his eyes off Amos. ‘Got it off Freddie here – he’s a friend of John Bradford’s. Very clever young dummy4

  man.’

  ‘I never doubted it.’ Amos misunderstood the reference suavely.

  ‘But I haven’t got any problems, that I am aware of. Except in the matter of demobilization, that is. And who the hell is John Bradford?’ he looked sideways quickly. ‘Otto! Where is Major Fattorini’s drink?’

  ‘Herr Major!’ The disembodied arm acquired a substantial body –

  an immaculately white-coated body topped by a beaming red-brick face slashed diagonally by a line holding a black eye-patch in place. ‘Herr Major! My most profound apologies! What is your pleasure?’

  ‘I didn’t mean Freddie, Amos,’ snapped Colbourne.

  ‘He’s not a clever fellow?’ Amos simulated surprise. ‘I rather thought he was. Oxford degree, and all that – and a better one than yours, Gus, actually . . . Mathematics was it, Freddie? Are you a musician too? They say music goes with maths, don’t they?’

  Fred was caught once again with his mouth open, midway between the piratical Otto and the baffling proximity of his Commanding Officer, and Amos de Souza’s transformed behaviour, and all the questions which had suddenly been directe
d at him.

  ‘Good God, Amos! Let the poor man order his drink, damn it! First things first – eh, Freddie?’ Colbourne seemed oblivious of Amos’s scorn. ‘You order your drink – and you come away with me, Amos, and I’ll tell you all about young Bradford . . .’ As he trailed off, the Colonel raised his head and stared into the encircling lamp-lit gloom in a series of jerky movements, as though he was dummy4

  searching for something. ‘Where is young David? He’s never there when I want him . . . where the devil is he–?’

  De Souza turned slightly, ‘ David!’

  A huge presence loomed from behind the one-eyed Otto. ‘You c-called, Amos?’

  ‘Look after your friend.’ De Souza returned his attention to the Colonel as he spoke. ‘Get him a drink and introduce him to everyone . . . Now, Gus . . . you just tell me all about this John Bradford of yours . . . and about air photography – right?’ He pointed into the gloom.

  ‘Herr Major – ’ One-eyed Otto tried desperately to catch Amos’s attention.

  ‘Gently, Otto, gently! Your pig will just have to keep . . . Gus – ?’

  De Souza’s hand shrugged off Otto and directed his Commanding Officer in a flowing double-gesture. ‘Just give us a few minutes.’

  Mess rules, Fred decided belatedly: outside wherever the mess happened to be Colonel Colbourne was God Almighty; but one inch over the threshold of the mess he was primus inter pares –

  just another officer, who talked military shop at his peril. And since he made the rules, those were the goddamn rules.

  ‘Don’t w-worry, Otto!’ Audley wound a great arm round the white-coated pirate familiarly. ‘Your pig won’t run away squealing. More like, his crackling will c-c-crackle even better!’

  ‘Ach! He will crackle all right – he will crackle all through, is what he will do! But where will all his good juices go? Up the fucking chimney, I tell you, Captain David – up the fucking chimney!’ One-dummy4