“Yes, sir.” Butler stepped out of the jeep and was reminded immediately by his left foot of just how he ought to be making the most of these last precious minutes. This was not only the last opportunity he might get but also the last time he might have anything like privacy for what had to be done. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute or two, sir—“
“Okay, Corporal.” Audley had produced a dog-eared paperback book from inside his battle dress and a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles from his breast pocket. He looped the spectacles over his ears and settled them far down his nose—presumably he was farsighted—and then started to walk up and down, oblivious of everything and everyone around him.
Butler strolled down the line of jeeps. The bandits seemed to have taken the major’s advice in a variety of different ways: several of them were brewing up on a small primus stove; one was pumping up the tyres of one of the bicycles which were among the unit’s stranger items of equipment, while another loaded a big .50 Browning machine gun. At the end of the line a man was shaving.
Rubbing his hand over his own chin, Butler felt a fine sandpaper of stubble. It wouldn’t show yet, that was one small advantage of his red hair. But even if it had been black as night he wouldn’t have wasted any of his precious water on it—that was reserved for his treacherous foot. It was a pity there was no acceptable water close to hand, but the river (which he supposed lay on the other side of the island) was hardly safe, and he didn’t fancy the slimy green pools he had passed a few minutes earlier.
What he needed now was a little cover, and there ahead of him now lay just the place.
The spring floods had gouged a miniature cliff in the side of the island, and in so doing had undermined the roots of a tall willow and brought it down into the channel. Later floods hadn’t been quite powerful enough to wrench it out altogether but had festooned it with drifted branches and feathery debris. Behind that he would be snug as a bug in a rug.
He stepped carefully over the outflung branches and settled himself down on a little beach of fine sand which had gathered under the overhang behind the broad trunk of the willow. It was a relief to loosen his equipment, and an even greater relief to take his boot off and trickle water over his foot.
He examined his toes with familiar distaste. Beneath the faded purple the skin was crinkled and unwholesome, and the gentian violet stung as he dabbed it into the raw slits which the fungus had opened between them.
As always, he thought of Sammy Murch again as the purple stain spread over his skin, and the thought was more painful than the sting of the gentian violet. He would never be able to make it up with Sammy now: Sammy would be only another name chiselled on the town war memorial, which already had the names of two of his uncles from the previous war. One of them had been killed in the very last week of the war, he remembered, after three years in the trenches; which everyone agreed was rotten bad luck.
Then a colder thought struck him. If what the major had said was true they were getting near the end of this war too, but there was still time for more names to be added to Sammy’s. So with the same bad luck he might meet Sammy again after all. He might meet him this very day, even this very hour.
But that was a contemptible and unsoldierly thought, he told himself savagely. It was no good worrying about a thing like that—the general had warned him against it specifically: people who worried too much about themselves soon got themselves killed, the general had said, and what was worse they got other people killed with them. So he would think of something else—He would think of … of food.
The second oatcake he had taken out to eat in the truck was there waiting for him still, and it would be prudent to eat it now. So he would let his toes enjoy the fresh air while he ate it, at least until the RAF noise-maker returned.
He corked up the gentian violet bottle carefully and packed it back into his ammunition pouch. Then he set his back comfortably against the cliff and unpacked the oatcake. He would savour each separate mouthful, and he would take one small swallow of water to every two mouthfuls. And as a bonus he would also eat a slab of ration chocolate. It was a pity he hadn’t got a book to read, like Second Lieutenant Audley. It would be interesting to know what Audley was reading—it would be something strange and scholarly probably, because Audley was strange and scholarly—
As he lifted the oatcake towards his mouth a cascade of sand and small stones tumbled from the cliff overhang above him, pattering onto his feet.
“This will do, Sergeant-major.”
Butler went stiff with horror. It was happening again—it wasn’t possible, but it was happening again. “Sir!”
“Keep your voice down, man, damn itl”
Butler stared at one purple foot and one booted foot. Very slowly he began to draw them in— ‘Yes, sir—sorry, sir.”
—until his knees were raised tightly against his ammunition pouches. If he kept very quiet … if neither of them stepped any closer to the edge of the overhang … maybe—
Butler frowned at his knees. When the sergeant-major wasn’t shouting his voice became deeper and harsher, as though his throat was full of gravel. And he had heard that voice before. “All right. So what do we do with young Butler?’ The sergeant-major coughed. “I’m afraid he’s got to go, sir.” Butler’s heart shrivelled. He was going to be returned to his unit in disgrace, with the indelible black mark of drunkenness against his name.
“Pity. He seemed a pleasant enough lad—quite innocent, I would have thought.”
Butler’s hand closed on the oatcake in a spasm of shame. He had betrayed the major—and the general. And himself.
“That’s as may he, sir. But he asked a question about Sergeant Scott and Mr. Wilson all the same.”
“He did, did he?”
“Yes, sir. And near choked the life out of Taffy to get an answer, too.”
“Hmm … very well then, Sergeant-major.” The major’s voice was suddenly hard and flat. “Kill him with the others.”
CHAPTER 9
How Chandos Force crossed the river of no return
“KILL HIM with the others.”
It was bitterly cold—sharp enough to see his teeth chattering. This far south in August it shouldn’t be freezing cold like this. But of course it wasn’t cold at all. He was cold.
“Kill him with the others—yes.”
“Very good, sir. You think they were both briefed then?”
“No, Sergeant-major—frankly, I don’t see how they could have been. For a start I don’t see how Military Intelligence could have known where I was going for replacements before they even knew the replacements were necessary.”
“Aye, you’re right there, sir. The colonel wasn’t main pleased when we turned up with them last night when it was too late to do anything about them.”
“In the circumstances that’s hardly surprising, Sergeant-major. He didn’t know about Scott and Wilson—and we weren’t meant to know that they were his men. But there was nothing he could do about Audley and Butler without admitting that he’d planted Scott and Wilson in our midst—the two youngsters are perfectly adequate interpreters, after all.”
“Just so, sir. And yet we’ve struck unluckily the second time too, so it seems …”
“Are you criticising me, Sergeant-major?”
“No, sir. I was just thinking to myself that we’ve been a bit unlucky, that’s all, not getting a pair of villains.”
“My dear man—I could hardly go looking for villains publicly. The whole object of the operation was to leave the record nice and clean behind us: we lost a couple of interpreters and we replaced them. I deliberately went to a couple of entirely different units which happened to be commanded by old friends of mine, so there’s no way these two can have been nobbled by Intelligence. It’s bad luck that neither of them appears corruptible, because they would have been useful. That’s all.”
“Then, begging your pardon, sir—why kill them?”
“Why? Because I prefer certainties to odds, t
hat’s why. Because Audley’s too damn quick-witted and Butler doesn’t know when to mind his own business—that’s why. And because Colonel Clinton is a man who obviously likes to take double precautions, and once we get over the river we’ll have enough on our plate without risking his getting at those two, that’s why! Right?”
“Right, sir. Point taken. And the colonel’s driver?”
“Ah—now he’s the man who has to be kept intact at all costs, Sergeant-major. He’s the key to the treasure house.”
“You don’t mean he’s Intelligence, like the colonel, sir?”
“On the contrary, Sergeant-major. He’s pure bone-headed Royal Army Service Corps of the pre-war regular variety. But he’s also the man who drove the loot out of Paris in ‘40, so he knows where it is even better than Clinton does.”
“Christ Almighty!”
“Ah, you can say that again, man. Driver Hewett is our ace in the hole—our walking map, Sergeant-major. He doesn’t know what it was he took out, apparendy, because they had some elaborate cover plan to put the French off the scent even back then. But he knows exactly where they planted it—“
Cold.
He sat hugging himself, trying to get the blood circulating again, staring at the thinning mist on the far side of the sandy channel.
He had started to feel cold while they were talking, and he had felt colder as they walked away. And now that he was alone he was freezing cold—
“Right you are, sir. All three of them.”
“And the sooner the better, I think. Just one … comprehensive accident, eh?”
“Won’t be an accident this time, sir.”
Freezing cold.
But there was something else now: the far distant drone of engines was louder—or was he imagining it?
He raised himself on one knee and cocked his head to catch the sound. Whatever happened he had to get back to Mr. Audley as quickly as possible—
The sound was louder. But there was also another sound: the sharp crack of a broken twig right behind him.
“Hullo, Jackie boyo,” said Corporal Jones.
Butler swivelled on his knee and started to rise.
“No—don’t get up for me—I like you better kneeling, boyo.” Jones gestured meaningfully with the stubby Beretta which he held pistol-fashion in his left hand. “That’s right … now put your hands up—“
Hände hoch—
“—and turn round—“
Dreh dich um—
It was all happening again. Only it was all different.
“Not towards me—away from me, boyo, away from me.”
Butler stared at Jones. There was something odd about the way the little man was standing—something odd about the way he was holding the submachine gun left-handed. He hadn’t been left-handed the night before when he’d pulled the corks and poured the wine, or when he’d stroked that gun of his, the best little gun ever made.
The gun moved again. “Nasty habit—eavesdropping,” said Jones softly. “So turn round, like I’m telling you.”
His right hand was held out of sight, that was the other thing that was strange about him.
And then, just as suddenly, it wasn’t strange at all. Until the noise of the plane was much louder the threat of the gun might be an empty one, but that right hand wasn’t empty—it was no more empty than the sound he had heard had been the crack of a dead twig snapping underfoot. There weren’t any twigs where Jones was standing, there was only soft sand.
He started to dig the toe of his right boot into the sand behind him.
It all depended which way the flick-knife was held, for the upwards or the downwards blow. The instructors always recommended the upwards one, which came in under the overlapping ribs. But Taffy Jones was planning a stab from behind and above, which surely meant a downward thrust.
His toe was firm now. But he dare not watch that right hand, that would give the game away. Instead, he had to choose in advance whether to reach high or low for an arm which might swing either upwards or downwards, with no chance of changing his mind after he had chosen.
Downwards, then. His own raised left hand was in a better position for that, anyway … and his right one was still full of crushed oatcake.
But first he must play innocent—innocent and beaten—to give himself the extra fraction of time he needed to cover the two yards between them, before Jones could swing that right arm up and back for the killing stab.
He let his shoulders droop submissively. “For Christ’s sake, Taf— what … what am I supposed to have done? If it’s last night … I don’t know what came over me … I didn’t know what I was doing, Taf—I lost my rag—I was bloody sick—“
He threw himself at Jones.
Two thoughts—
His webbing belt was undone and his ammunition pouches were swinging—It was too far, and he wasn’t going to reach that wrist—
Third thought—
Oh, God! It was coming upwards—he had chosen wrong—
As he hit Jones with the force of a battering ram he felt a tremendous blow on his chest, over his heart— The death blow—
Jones was falling backwards, his feet swept from under him. No pain—
Jones’s arms seemed imprisoned under him. With his left hand Butler scrabbled frantically for the knife arm—it was moving out, moving out—He rammed the oatcake into Jones’s face, grinding it into the man’s eyes. Jones let out an incoherent sound and wrenched his knife arm free. As it came round Butler caught the wrist and deflected the swing so that the knife plunged into the sand alongside them. While he held it there he pressed down on the smaller man with all his weight to keep the left hand imprisoned against the submachine gun, reaching at the same time with his own free hand for his bayonet in the tangle of equipment on his back. His fingers found the scabbard, then lost it again as Jones heaved under him, straining to lift the knife out of the sand. The equipment moved and the scabbard came into his hand again … he ran his fingers up to the barrel-locking device-Stupid little spike bayonet, eight inches of steel with no handle … why couldn’t he have had a proper sword-bayonet with a proper grip, like his father had had—
He couldn’t get it out—the angle was wrong and the frog was twisted and his arm wasn’t long enough—and he couldn’t hold Jones’s wrist much longer—couldn’t get it out and hold down Jones at the same time—No more time! He rolled to his left. Jones’s imprisoned left hand broke free and the clutching fingers caught his hair. In the same instant he pulled out the bayonet and stabbed upwards, under Jones’s belt, with every last shred of strength that he had.
The little man’s fingers gouged into Butler’s scalp and the body arched under him convulsively, throwing him sideways. There seemed to be noise all round him: a ghastly rattling throaty cry of agony and the roar of aircraft engines above him.
He flung himself off the body and rolled away from it in an equal convulsion of panic, landing on all fours two yards away, the breath catching in his own chest like a death rattle.
The engines drummed in his head as though they were inside his brain.
Jones lay spread-eagled in the middle of a circle of churned up sand, his hands clenched like talons.
Butler stared at him for a moment, and then down at himself. It didn’t seem surprising to him that Jones was dead—he had felt the bayonet sink in, like a garden fork into damp clay soil, and knew now that however useless that eight-inch spike might be for chopping wood and opening tins, it was more than sufficient for its designed purpose. But that blow above his heart—he had felt that … he had even heard it grate on the breastbone.
He ran his hand curiously over his left breast and then stared stupidly at it There was no pain … and no blood.
He was alive.
And Jones was dead.
Kill him with the others!
Oh, God!
And the sound of those engines wasn’t in his head.
Automatic reflexes took over. His hands buckled his belt, stra
ightened his equipment. His feet carried him limping across the sand to where Jones lay … one boot off, one boot on.
His bayonet was a black plug in Jones’s side: his hand plucked it out, eight bright shiny red inches to be wiped in the sand and slid back into the scabbard. Then there was Jones’s gun, the best little gun, and the knife, four razor-sharp unblooded inches of it …
Jones was no weight at all; such a little man to cause such a lot of trouble. But no trouble in the end when dragged feet first to the overhang, just a scuffed trail in the sand.
He threw the best little gun and the knife onto the body and picked up his sock and his gaiter and his boot, and last of all his Sten. Then he reached up and sank his fingers into the soft earth. He felt the lip of the overhanging bank tremble as he rocked his hands back and forward.
“Corporal Butler!”
The voice was pitched high and urgent, somewhere away to his left. He heaved desperately at the overhang.
“Corporal Butler!”
A wide section of the overhang tore away, falling soundlessly onto the body, spreading over a face on which in the last instant before it was covered he saw that there were still flakes of crushed oatmeal.
It wasn’t enough—there was still a clenched hand protruding from the debris—but there was no time for anything more.
He prised his foot into his boot, picked up the sock and the gaiter and the Sten, and ran towards the voice.
Audley loomed out of the mist ahead of him. “For Christ’s sake, man —do you want to miss the boat?”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Butler adjusted his cap-comforter from the rakish angle Jones had pushed it in his last spasm of life.
The '44 Vintage Page 11
