“All right, Sergeant-major Swayne,” he said softly. “Let it … be.”
He stared around him slowly, no longer blinking, as though his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness and he could see every last cobweb in the barn. The bruise on his cheek seemed larger and blacker, brutalising one side of his face.
Maybe not a bull calf after all, thought Butler, but some other animal. Or at least not a newly born bull calf, but a young bull not so easily to be taken for granted.
Then the spell was broken as the other officers of Chandos Force came out of the darkness behind him, two of them almost indistinguishable from the rank-and-file bandits, but the third contrasting strangely with them because of his conventional smartness—Three pips for a captain—Butler craned his neck and strained his eyes—by God! not three pips, but a crown and two pips—a full colonel, and with ribbons to match too! So Major O’Conor wasn’t in command of Chandos Force after all… .
But it was the major who came in last, and it was the major who took the centre of the lamplight, with all four officers joining his audience.
The glass eye glinted unnaturally in its fixed stare as the good eye ranged among them fiercely for a moment or two.
“All right, then”—the eye stopped for an instant, then darted again left—right—left—“what I shall say now I shall say once and once only, as is my custom … which all of you know—and some of you know to your cost.”
No one laughed. So that wasn’t a joke, thought Butler; so perhaps the bandits knew more about discipline than he had thought on first sight.
“All except two.” The major paused. “Mr. Audley you have just seen. He comes to us from the South Wessex Dragoons and he speaks fluent French.” He paused again, and Butler tensed himself just in time. “Corporal Butler—come here!”
Butler shouldered his way to the light, managing in the process to tread heavily and satisfactorily on the foot of the bandit who had whispered about Audley’s mother.
“You see now Corporal Butler.” Butler glared into the darkness—it was surprising how this one dim light could be so blinding. “The corporal comes to us from the Lancashire Rifles and he speaks fluent German—right, Corporal.”
Butler made his way back to his original position. This time the bandit was ready for him, but this time he trod on the other bandit’s foot “Mr. Audley and Corporal Butler are replacements for Mr. Wilson and Sergeant Scott. As such they have no formal duties at present—“
Butler frowned in the darkness, wondering what had happened to Sergeant Scott. Possibly his German hadn’t been fluent enough for Major O’Conor’s purposes?
“—with me—right.” The all-seeing eye settled on Butler, as though the major knew that his attention was straying from the words which were only going to be said once. With an effort he shook himself free from Sergeant Scott.
The eye left him. “Now I am fully aware that there’s only one damn question you want answered—namely, why we should have been transported across the length of Europe from our own private war into someone else’s fight … particularly when our war was taking such a … promising turn.
“I am also fully aware that you are now confidently expecting the usual pack of lies which is the staple diet served to us by the Gadarene swine at GHQ.”
Butler stole a glance at the bandit beside him. Somewhat to his surprise he saw in the dim light that the bandit was grinning; evidently the major was running true to form.
“However … in this instance the answers I have been able to elicit may actually bear some resemblance to the truth … indeed, even more incredibly, they show some faint glimmering of rational thought and old-fashioned common sense—to our advantage.”
There was a slight ripple of movement among the bandits—either it was the word “advantage” or they knew that the preamble was over. What was certain, though, was that the major and his men understood each other perfectly.
“I say ‘answers’ because there are two of them.
“And the first one is that greater events swallow up smaller ones.” The major smiled. “By which I mean that while we have been busy bringing aid and comfort to an ungrateful collection of Communist cutthroats, the Allies have been winning the war.”
Butler frowned into the darkness. There had never been any doubt in his mind about that, not even in the blackest days of 1940 when he had known no better. Even when the Hood had been sunk his schoolboy confidence had only been shaken momentarily. It seemed more than unnecessary to restate the obvious now, deep in France in 1944—it almost seemed bad form.
The major rocked on his heels. “Ah … now I think you may be in danger of mistaking me … I cannot see all your expressions, but judging by the look on Sergeant Purvis’s face—am I boring you, Purvis?”
All Butler could see of the moustachioed sergeant was his back, which was now rigid beneath its enveloping smock.
“Sir?” Purvis temporised. “No, sir.”
“Perhaps you think I am making a patriotic address—do you think that, Purvis?”
“No, sir.” This time there was no hesitation.
“I should damn well think not!” The major paused. “However, I can imagine that some of you may find it difficult to grasp literal truth when it is plainly stated… . Mr. Audley there, for example—his regiment has been mixing it with Panzer Group West and the German Seventh Army, who have no doubt been giving as good as they got.”
Audley’s chin lifted. “R-rather b-b-better than they g-got, actually,” he said defiantly.
“Indeed?” The major’s eye lingered momentarily on Audley. “Well then—I have good news for you, Mr. Audley”—the eye lifted—“and for all of you. Within the next forty-eight hours Panzer Group West and the Seventh Army will have ceased to exist—what’s left of them will be in the bag just south of Falaise, caught between our army and the Americans. And it’ll be the biggest bag since Stalingrad.”
He paused more deliberately this time, to let Stalingrad sink in.
“But that isn’t the point. The point is that there is no German army between Falaise and the Seine. And there is no German army behind the Seine … in fact, gentlemen, there is no German army between this barn and the river Rhine.”
The place names bounced off Butler’s understanding. The Seine was remote enough. But the Rhine—that was a river on another planet.
“What it amounts to, quite simply, is that the German front in France has collapsed,” went on the major in a flat, matter-of-fact voice. “Last night a special light reconnaissance unit of the American Army crossed the Seine west of Paris, and they crossed unopposed. Their armoured columns are already beyond Chartres and Orleans—they delayed at Chartres to spare the cathedral, but elsewhere they’re meeting virtually no opposition. Some of their tanks are making sixty miles a day—their main problem is petrol, not Germans. According to the Air Force, there isn’t a single major enemy unit moving west. What there is that’s moving … is heading east, towards the Fatherland, as fast as it can go.”
The Rhine—No German army between this barn and the Rhine—Sixty miles a day— The Rhine.
The sense of what the major was saying finally penetrated into Butler’s brain and exploded there.
The literal truth: the German front in France had collapsed.
“It’s 1940 all over again,” said the major. “Only this time they are on the receiving end, and they’ve no Air Force left and no Channel to hide behind. And there are ten million Russians breaking down their back door.”
The literal truth: the Allies have won the war. The full extent of the catastrophe overwhelmed Butler. The war was ending too soon for him—it was ending and he would have no part in it. While the Rifles were advancing to victory, he would be pissing around interrogating prisoners for Major O’Conor, far in the rear. He would wear a Victory Medal, and all it would mean was that he had passed School Certificate in German. Peace loomed ahead of him like a desert.
“Very well, then!” The major’
s tone became brisker. “The first answer leads to the second. To the north of us our armies and the Americans are tidying up. To the west they are taking the ports of Brittany. To the east they are in open country. To the south they have stopped along the line of the river Loire from the sea to Orleans.” He was playing with them, thought Butler bitterly. “We are going south, across the river.”
Butler’s heart sank. If there was any real fighting left it would be to the north and the east. The south could only be a backwater.
There was a slight stir in the darkness to his right, and the sound of a throat being cleared.
Major O’Conor picked up the signal. “Yes?” he challenged.
The throat was cleared again. “I was just wondering, sir …” The sing-song Welsh voice trailed off hesitantly, but Butler guessed instantly the question which must be uppermost in the Welshman’s mind: there must still be a lot of unbeaten Germans south of the Loire who might not yet have heard that the war was over.
“Yes, Corporal Jones—you were just wondering?”
“Yes, sir—I was just wondering, see … would that be where the wine comes from, in the south like?”
“The wine?” The major was as unprepared for the question as Butler was.
“Yes, sir. Lovely stuff it is, the French make—much better than the Eyeties even. But they don’t make it round here—no grapes, see—and I was thinking … not warm enough here. But down south, that would be where they would be making it.” Corporal Jones sounded well pleased with his reasoning. “And a lot of it, they make, too,” he added. “So I believe.”
“Then we must hope the Germans haven’t drunk it all,” said the major dryly.
“Oh … now I hadn’t thought of that, sir.” The corporal took the hint obediently. “Would there be enough of them to do that then, sir?”
Butler watched the major intently. Every good unit had its self-appointed funny man, and although he himself was frequently unable to see the humour in the jokes they revelled in he had learnt from his platoon sergeant that they performed a useful function in relieving tension. The Welshman was a cut above most of them too: he had let the major call him back to the serious matter in hand without conceding that large numbers of Germans were more important than large quantities of alcohol. Now it would be interesting to see how the major handled his question, because clever officers never attempted to beat such men at their own game.
“Yes …” The major pretended to give the question serious consideration. “Well now, perhaps Colonel Clinton could answer that one for us?” He turned slowly towards the little group of officers.
Good, thought Butler. The best way of all was to play humour straight, as though it was perfectly serious.
The full colonel stepped into the light and swung on his heel towards the audience. In catching his badges of rank Butler had missed his face; now he saw that he was youngish for that extra pip and that he didn’t have the look of a regimental officer. The first of his three ribbons was a DSO certainly, but that could be won from a chair by brains or cunning. Only he also didn’t have the sleek authority of the staff officer … more a hungry, almost suspicious look which Butler hadn’t encountered before.
“Yes … well, it isn’t easy to say with any certainty what the present strength of the German First and Nineteenth armies is.” Colonel Clinton’s voice wasn’t regimental either; it was educated, but classless and quite different from both the drawl of Audley’s colonel and Audley’s own public-school stutter.
“Ten weeks ago they fielded thirteen infantry divisions, including five training divisions, plus three Panzer divisions and one Panzer grenadier division. But they’ve been bled white since then. Today … maybe eight infantry divisions, all well under strength and including Russian and Polish ex-POWs. Plus one first-class Panzer division—the 11th.” Colonel Clinton gazed into space for a moment, as though mentally adding long field-grey columns of figures. “With a substantial noncombatant military element … say a quarter of a million uniformed personnel.”
The figure of a quarter of a million hung in the darkness and silence of the barn. Butler hadn’t thought to count Chandos Force, but he knew it couldn’t be much over thirty.
“Thank you, sir,” said Corporal Jones. “Thank you very much, sir.” Military intelligence, thought Butler. Only military intelligence would have figures like that, down to divisional numbers, at its fingertips.
“Quarter of a million men”—as though by tacit agreement Major O’Conor took over again—“who are not of the slightest interest to us.”
It occurred to Butler that it was the Germans’ likely interest in Chandos Force, not Chandos Force’s lack of interest in the Germans, which was of more pressing concern; but nobody—not even Corporal Jones—seemed disposed to raise that point.
“Nor will we be of the slightest interest to them—certainly not since oh-eight hundred hours this morning”—the major paused very deliberately—“when the American Seventh Army and the French Second Corps landed in the South of France.”
There was a stirring of excitement in the barn, and Butler closed his eyes. He had already accepted the bitter truth—the Allies have won the war—but the acceptance was still raw enough to render each piece of confirmation painful.
“So as of this morning what fighting strength they have will be drawn southwest, to delay the Americans and the French while the rest of the ragbag heads for home.
“We’re not going to hinder them—we’re not going to lift a finger against them—and provided we can reach our objective without getting in their way, there’s no reason why they should want to lift a finger against us. All they want is a clear road to Germany, and we’re not going to knock down any signposts—is that clear?”
For a moment there was silence. Then Audley made a curious hissing noise.
“Ssss …” The young subaltern fought the stutter briefly, shaking his head against it. “S-supposing we do run into them?”
The major smiled. “That’s a fair question from a newcomer. And the answer is that we’re here now because we’re experts in not running into Germans behind their own lines. We’ve been doing it for six months in Jugoslavia in rather more difficult circumstances, and the powers-that-be reckon we can do it in France too. Does that answer your question, Mr. Audley?”
Butler found he could guess very well why Audley of all people would have found that fear uppermost in his mind: his whole brief military experience in the bocage country consisted of running headlong into Germans, with unpleasant results.
“Yes, sir,” said Audley manfully.
“Good. Now—are there any other questions?”
Sergeant Purvis’s back straightened again. “Sir!”
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“The objective, sir.”
Major O’Conor’s last remark in the jeep flashed into Butler’s memory: We’re going to take a castle from the Germans. But that didn’t quite square with not lifting a finger against them, somehow.
The major looked towards Colonel Clinton. “Sir?”
The colonel nodded. “The exact nature and location of the objective is still a classified secret, Sergeant. All I can tell you is that… we are going south of the Loire to repossess certain items of property belonging to His Majesty’s Government … extremely valuable property. You will be told the location when we are closer to it, but I’m afraid that I am not at liberty to reveal what the property is.”
Not a castle, but property, thought Butler quickly.
Or … property in a castle.
Repossess. That was a black word in his vocabulary: it was what the bailiffs did at home when someone fell too far behind with the rent.
The thought of home reminded Butler again that he was in the midst of strangers. And yet when he thought about his homesickness he realised that he wasn’t homesick for home, but for the comradeship and comfortable certainties of the battalion, where briefings were clear and concise, and objectives unclouded by mysterious sec
rets.
He was aware at the same time that he was desperately thirsty and lightheaded with hunger, and that the infection between the toes of his foot was itching abominably again. In the scale of his present unhappiness the first two weren’t at all serious: he had water in his water bottle and plenty of his favourite oatmeal blocks, which were the unexpected delicacy of the twenty-four-hour ration packs. But that treacherous foot presented a real problem now, after he had missed out on the last treatment and might not have any privacy for some time to come. Opportunities for foot and sock washing, not to mention the application of the gentian violet, would probably be few and far between once Major O’Conor’s chevauche’e had begun.
“From whom, sir?” said Audley.
Butler couldn’t make sense of the question, and from the look on his face neither could Colonel Clinton.
“From whom, Mr. Audley?” He repeated patiently. “What d’you mean—from whom?”
Butler felt sorry for the young officer. Whatever he was after, that patient tone made him look a fool. The odds were that even if he did get an answer now it would be a humiliating one.
“Y-yes, sir.” Audley swallowed, swayed nervously—but stuck to his guns. “You said … r-repossess His Majesty’s … property,” he said, fighting the words with obstinate deliberation.
“So I did—yes, Mr. Audley,” the colonel admitted.
“Will the … French Resistance … forces be co-operating with us in the … operation, sir?”
That was an unexpected question, but only because it didn’t seem to follow from the previous one. It was also a disappointingly unimportant line of inquiry; maybe Audley wasn’t so full of brains after all, but merely liked the sound of his own voice in spite of his stutter.
“No, Mr. Audley, they will not be.” The colonel’s tone was sharper now. ‘This is a strictly British military operation. We shall be travelling across the American Third Army zone—the Americans will assist us as necessary and will pass us through their southern flank info enemy territory. After that we will be on our own. We will thereafter use any local intelligence the French may be able to give us, but nothing more than that. Our only allies are speed and surprise. We’re going in quickly and we’re coming out quickly.”
The '44 Vintage Page 6
