“My father?” Audley’s private source, whatever or whoever it was, was also a damn good one. “He would be delighted to hear himself described as ‘distinguished’, I am sure, Dr Audley.”
“ ‘David’—do call me ‘David’. It’s so much harder to sound offensive with Christian names, don’t you think? So may I call you
‘Benedikt’?” Audley hardly waited for a reply. “He certainly is—
and was—distinguished . . . Distinguished scholar now, and distinguished soldier once upon a time ... An anti-tank gunner, I believe? Eighty-eights in the desert, with the goth Light? I must say I’m extremely glad I was never in his sights!”
Benedikt realised the condition of the ‘good Germans’ to whom dummy1
Audley had been referring, which would be the same for ’good Englishmen‘—and ’good Indians‘—down history, and which was hardly reassuring now.
“The trouble is, Benedikt, that now I appear to be in your sights.
And I’m afraid that I must insist on your telling me why, without more ado,” concluded Audley.
“Insist?”
Audley gave a little shrug.
“Or else . . . what?” Benedikt did not like being leaned on. “If you keep me here I shall be missed—and there will be those who will come to look for me. You can depend on that . . . David.”
“My dear fellow! They may look—” Audley swept a hand over the valley “—it may not seem so very big, but it hid one German in it for fifteen centuries . . . Also the people here are good at digging deep holes, as you discovered last night. And if that sounds rather barbarous . . . there is one thing I’d perhaps better explain which you must bear in mind.”
“And that is?” He sensed that Audley was not so much threatening, whatever he sounded like, as softening him up to make a deal—
which might well be what Colonel Butler had intended all along.
Yet whatever he could get for free he might as well get. “And that is?”
“The Old General—‘the Squire’, interchangeably, as they call him . . . They really did love him . . . He seems to have been a good man in the oldest and best sense of the word—a man of instinctive . . . ‘goodness’ is the only word for it: there simply dummy1
wasn’t badness in him—rather the way some men are utterly brave because they simply don’t know how to be cowardly, like the rest of us ... I met men like that in the war—I’m sure there were lots of Germans just like them—they generally get a lot of other people killed without intending to, in my experience—but the completely good people are much rarer, and nicer . . . though it seems, from what is happening here, that they can produce the same unfortunate result . . .” He shook his head sadly. “But they really did love him.
And now they’re very angry indeed, because Gunner Kelly has undertaken to bring the Old General’s killer—or killers—back here, so they’ve got something to focus their anger on.”
“How is he bringing them back?”
“He won’t say. All he’ll say is that he was the real target of that bomb, so he has the contacts—”
“He was?” Benedikt simulated astonishment.
“That’s right. And he won’t explain that either—it’ll only make them targets as well, he says. And—” Audley stopped as he registered the change in Benedikt’s demeanour. “What’s the matter?”
“If Mr Kelly was the target. . .” Things were going very well indeed: they could hardly go better. “. . . that changes everything, Dr—David!”
“Changes everything—how?”
“Why I am here.” Apologetic sincerity was the proper note to strike. “You have been frank with me. I must return the compliment.”
dummy1
“That would be nice, I agree.” Cautious relief, slightly coloured by disbelief, was returned to him.
“It was because of the Old General. We were not satisfied with the progress of your investigations.”
“You—?” Audley frowned. “I don’t see what business the Bundesnachrichtendienst has with the Old General?”
Benedikt betrayed slight embarrassment. “The bomb was of an Irish make . . . but you appear convinced that it was not the work of the IRA. And he was certainly not a logical Irish target.”
“So?”
“So he was a former second-in-command of the British Army of the Rhine, with special responsibility for missile deployment in liaison with the Americans.”
“So he was. And Count von Gneisenau was second-in-command to Blücher at Waterloo—and Flavius Vespasianus commanded the Second Legion—so what?”
Benedikt frowned. “So—?”
“It was a hell of a long time ago. Fifteen years? More, maybe . . .”
“But he was once a prime target for assassination—”
“Oh—come on, man! Once upon a time—maybe . . . But the Russians . . . whatever their faults, they’re not vindictive about elderly generals.”
“Not the Russians, Dr Audley. Our own Red Army Faction, rather.”
“You’re pulling my leg! They were in nappies when he was in uniform. And you’ve got them more or less buttoned up, anyway dummy1
—”
“That is the point, Dr Audley—”
“David, please.”
“David. . . The survivors are looking for soft targets, to make headlines to show they aren’t finished. And . . . they have a reciprocal arrangement with the Irish National Liberation Army, to help each other at need.” Benedikt spread his hands. “We thought it just might be worth checking out, in case . . . And—I am sorry, David—but when I saw you down here yesterday ... I was wrong—
I acknowledge that now . . . But when I saw you, I thought I might take another look, to see what the British were up to. I did not think you would . ..,. tumble upon me so quickly.” He gave Audley a bitter smile. “And I did not expect a big hole in the ground, either.” He pointed at the sentry on the corner of the wood. “Or him.”
Audley grinned suddenly. “Yes ... I can imagine that. Although, oddly enough, it seems to come quite naturally to them. I suppose it’s because they’ve been hunting things hereabouts since the beginning of time—wolves and deer and foxes and rabbits . . . and each other after dark often enough, playing gamekeepers and the poachers.” He nodded at Benedikt. “If they’d had any man-traps still in working order it probably wouldn’t have been a hole you’d have stepped into last night, by God!” Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the grin vanished. “Or if Kelly had had his way there might have been fire-hardened stakes in it. Believe me, you weren’t altogether unlucky.”
Benedikt shivered in spite of himself. But now he had everything.
dummy1
“Then I must be glad you were here after all, in spite of what I did because of you . . . But ... I am sorry to have caused you such trouble unnecessarily.”
“No trouble, my dear fellow! You tested our defences, actually.”
Audley studied him. “So now you want to go home, I suppose?”
Exactly right! “I ... I rather think I am in your way now, perhaps?”
He mustn’t seem too eager though. “But if there is anything I can do ... to make amends?”
“Yes . . .” Audley continued to study him. “Well ... as a matter of fact, perhaps there is something, you know.”
Damn! “Yes?” Damn!
“It’s rather awkward, really . . . You see, Benedikt, I’m here ... as it were . . . unofficially, you might say ... In fact, you would say —
unofficially.”
“What?”
“Yes.” Audley looked uncomfortable. “I’m on leave, actually.”
Benedikt stared at him for a moment, then looked round the Chase
— from ridge to ridge, then down the Addle valley — and finally back to Audley. “God in heaven! Then this — ?”
“Is unofficial too. Nobody knows about it except us.” Audley paused. “You see, Benedikt, I came here as a favour ... to a young friend ... to stop Becky making
a fool of herself.”
He really was getting everything now, thought Benedikt. But he must look worried, not satisfied.
Audley waved a hand. “Oh ... I could have stopped this easily dummy1
enough. Just one word to the Police would have done that. But that wouldn’t have stopped Becky and Gunner Kelly trying again —
and trying somewhere where the odds were more against them.”
He shook his head. “And it wouldn’t have answered any questions about Gunner Kelly, either.”
“Gunner Kelly?” Now a frown of concentration.
“He’d have vanished. And he knows well how to vanish, I very much suspect. England or Ireland . . . and he can pass as English.”
Audley looked at his watch. “And then we’d never know.”
Curiosity? But it was more than that.
“Let’s start slowly back ... I have an appointment soon—an outing planned, in fact. And I’d like you to come along with me.”
What? “You would like me . . . ?”
“You’ll see some fine Dorset countryside—Hardy country too . . .
you know, they never did really approve of him—it was the divorce, of course, that stuck in their respectable throats . . . and Badbury Rings, under their big Dorset sky if the clouds are right . . . and other things—you’ll enjoy it, I promise you.”
There was more to this than a jaunt in the country. And whether he would enjoy it was another matter also.
“Or, to put it another way . . . they don’t trust you, and they don’t altogether trust me either, out of their sight—maybe Becky does, but Kelly and the rest don’t. . . And if I let you go they’ll trust me even less, and I wouldn’t like that, with all the effort I’ve put in.”
Audley had never intended to let him go. He was merely sugaring the pill now.
dummy1
“And, to be strictly honest, I don’t trust you either, Benedikt, my dear fellow ... ‘A good German’, I’m sure you are ... a loyal ally and all that, but goodness isn’t the prime quality of the Bundesnachrichtendienst, in my experience—it’s smart fellows they like . . . Or, let’s say, that I do trust you nine parts out of ten
—”
“Nine parts?” He had to react somehow to this.
“Nine parts—I do believe my contact, you see . . . And, to put it another way again, when I came here it was killing they were up to, and then burying deep. Only I’ve put a stop to that—it’s capturing now, they’ve agreed on.” He looked hard at Benedikt. “Now that we’re close to the house again let’s turn around and admire the view, eh?”
Benedikt turned obediently, and Audley pointed towards the ridge.
“See there—if those trees were a few feet lower we could see the banks of the Duntisbury Rings . . . No, I don’t trust you one hundred per cent. But I trust them even less—and I don’t trust Gunner Kelly at all out of my sight, because I’ve this lingering suspicion that he’s still after blood. I want to know a lot more about him therefore.”
David Audley and Colonel Butler both.
“In fact ... I want the Old General’s killers and Gunner Kelly, you might say—” Audley pointed to the right “—that’s the way Caesar’s Camp lies, as you will know, for it was a full guided tour those two terrible children gave you, wasn’t it? Yes . . . I’m greedy. I want to save Becky, because that’s what I promised to do.
dummy1
But I want all my questions answered as well. Because that’s the only way I’m going to be able to extricate myself from this business: bearing gifts to those above me . . . Indeed, if I wasn’t afraid that my colleagues would come down here heavy-footed, to be spotted straight away as you were spotted, I’d have thrown in my hand already . . . But as it is—what Miss Becky and Kelly think I’m doing now is enlisting you as another ally in the Chase—
I’ve promised them I can do that. . . I’ve told them that, as the Germans can have no axe to grind in this—and you’re a decent chap—you may be willing to hang around and help . . . whereas if we knock you on the head, or more likely incarcerate you for a few days in the manor cellar—which would actually be a rather agreeable place in which to be detained, with what the Old General put in it—then there’d be hell to pay, with hordes of Teutonic Fighting Men descending on the Chase again, and trampling the place flat.” He gave Benedikt another sidelong glance. “Which, to be fair to me, is pretty much what you’ve already threatened me with—isn’t it?”
Except, thought Benedikt, it would be Colonel Butler’s British Fighting Men. But he could never admit that now.
He opened his mouth to reply, but the familiar snap of the postern latch cut the words off.
“Don’t turn round.” Audley spoke conversationally, pointing again at nothing in front of them. “Whereas in fact I’m doing no such thing. Although I am certainly trying to enlist you—true enough—”
Another enlistment? Colonel Butler had enlisted him once. And then the people of Duntisbury Chase, where no one seemed to trust dummy1
anyone, had wanted him. And now—
“But I want you just for myself. Because I need an ally here more than anyone— now you can turn round—” Audley followed his own instructions “—ah! Gunner Kelly! Are the boys ready?”
“Ready and waiting, sir.” Kelly looked inquiringly from Audley to Benedikt. “And the Captain?”
“He’s coming with me,” Audley smiled at Benedikt. “Okay, Benedikt?”
That was taking acceptance for granted— alliance for granted—
without leaving the ally any real choice.
He smiled back at both of them. “Okay, David,” he said.
There was at last another German foederatus in Duntisbury Chase.
But this one, at least, would be on his guard, he decided.
VII
All military establishments were somehow alike, decided Benedikt critically, but one had to allow for national peculiarities.
The alikeness here—the true alikeness, apart from the unnaturally tidy ugliness—was its aura of impermanence. It wasn’t that the buildings weren’t substantial. . . the brick-built barracks and married quarters which he had glimpsed were if anything more solid than some of the ancient Dorset villages through which they had passed . . . But those little thatched cottages and small corner shops were part of the landscape, where God and man both dummy1
intended them to be, while this place had merely been drawn on a map by some far-off bureaucrat to serve a finite need, and when that need evaporated it would decay quickly.
Yet at this moment, as Audley slowed the car to turn across the traffic, the British peculiarities were more obvious: not only was this camp bisected by a public road, without any visible sign of security, but there were children climbing on that tank—and wasn’t that an ice-cream van—
The last of the oncoming vehicles passed by, and his view was no longer partially obstructed.
It was an ice-cream van. And there were several tanks, and they were all festooned with children, the nearest of whom machine-gunned them noisily with his pointing fingers as they came within his range.
And there were more tanks—and a pale grey howitzer of ancient aspect—it was all antediluvian equipment in a graveyard of armoured elephants: he craned his neck to the left as the car halted, towards a harassed mother shepherding her ice-cream-licking offspring from the van to the nearest monster; and then to the right, where on the roadside forecourt in front of a hangar-sized shed, he caught sight of the distinctive rhomboid of the sire of all these beasts, squatting on an angled concrete plinth facing the road, which until now he had seen only in old photographs, but which had once crawled out of the smoke and mud against Grandpapa.
“These are the ones they don’t care about,” said Benje disdainfully from behind him. “The proper ones are inside.”
dummy1
“These are just for kids to climb on,” supplemented Darren. “You can’t climb on the ones inside.”
Benedikt loo
ked questioningly from one to theother. “Inside?”
“Inside the museum.” Benje raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you know where we were going?”
“The museum?” The progression of questions was beginning to make him feel a trifle foolish, but Audley was too busy finding a space in an already well-filled car park to rescue him.
“The tank museum,” said Darren.
“Museum machinationum,” said Benje, seizing this unlikely opportunity to demonstrate his Latin vocabulary further. “Or it could be plain machinarum— lacuum doesn’t sound right . . . But David says why not testudinum, from the way the Romans used to lock their shields together into a testudo—what do you think?”
“Yes.” What he thought was that Benje’s obsession with all things Roman, unleashed on the mistaken assumption that Herr Wiesehöfer was a fellow enthusiast, was as exhausting as it was surprising. But Papa would never forgive him for discouraging a young classicist, so he must consider the problem seriously.
“Testudo—a tortoise ... I suspect, if there had been armoured vehicles in the Roman Army they would have had a proper name, as we have in my country—whatever the Latin for Panzerkampfwagen may be ... or perhaps Schuetzenpanzerwagen might be closer to what they might have had. But for a nickname I think testudo does very well—unless the Roman who invented that objected to such an infringement of his copyright.” He frowned at dummy1
Benje. “Was there a Roman copyright law?”
Benje returned the frown. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of that.
They had a lot of laws . . . What do you think, David?”
Audley had finally found a space and was nosing into it. “I think testudo—there is actually an appalling monster in there called ‘The Tortoise’ ... 78 tons and quite useless—we started building it in ‘42
and finally got it to move in ’46, to no possible purpose that I can imagine, unless they wanted to play snooker inside it under fire.”
Gunner Kelly dda-13 Page 16
