The '44 Vintage

by Anthony Price

  Chateau Le Chais d’Auray, thought Butler quickly. Audley had let slip that name when the sergeant had pressed him for their destination. And he had let it slip in the German’s presence, that was what had been distracting him.

  So now they couldn’t leave him, they had to either shoot him or take him with them. And if they took him with them they needed to trust him.

  Butler stared at the young German with a curious sense of detachment. This, he told himself, was a genuine, one-hundred-per-cent German soldier, one of the species he’d been trained and primed to kill on sight without a second thought. The boy even looked like a German —even in his rumpled, sweat-stained uniform and without his officer’s hat he still looked a lot more like a German than the fat soldier with the loaves in Sermigny.

  So now, although we just don’t kill prisoners and a few hours ago they would have fought for that principle, what would he do if Audley was to say shoot him?

  He would do it, of course.

  The German was staring at him.

  “I was on the Eastern Front, with my battalion … in the 4th Army, near Vitebsk. An anti-tank battalion … in April I was promoted and sent on a special course at home, at—at home—on the use of the new Jagdpanzers … I saw my father, who was on the staff of Admiral Canaris. And my brother, my elder brother, who worked for General Olbricht, also in Berlin …

  “Halfway through the course I was posted to the staff of General von Stulpnagel in Paris … which I did not understand—killing tanks I understand, not paper-work. So I asked for a combat posting—if not to the Jagdpanzers, at least to one of the 8.8-centimetre gun battalions on the West Wall. They sent me to Nantes, to report on the state of the landward defences—the landward defences! ‘Landward defences—none.’ Then I am in command of … of transport despatch. I count horses into trains—the Amis bomb the trains, the French steal the horses. I am trained to destroy Josef Stalins, and I count horses—“

  (“Tough shit,” murmurs Sergeant Winston. “I’m trained to blow up blockhouses.”)

  “Then there is the attentat of the second July—we heard the Führer’s voice on the radio that night—I am in Nantes, counting horses …”

  (“Safest place to be,” murmurs Sergeant Winston.)

  (“Shut up,” says Second Lieutenant Audley.)

  “Then General Olbricht is executed … and I am afraid for my brother, that he will be unjustly suspected. And also Admiral Canaris is arrested … I am afraid for my father too. Even more afraid, for I have heard him speak criticisms, even before the war.

  “Then General von Stulpnagel is executed. And he has been a friend of my father, also from before the war.”

  (“Wow-ee,” murmurs Sergeant Winston. “Now it’s really getting close to home … except that you’re just still counting horses’ legs and dividing by four, huh?”)

  “And … at last I get a letter from my father. It was delivered to me by a man I do not know, but he is an Ahwehr officer I think … This is … maybe two weeks ago. But it is written, the letter, on nineteenth July—“

  (Hauptmann Grafenberg is speaking so softly now, almost whispering, that Butler has to move closer to hear his words. The German does not notice this at first, he is speaking to the ground in front of him now; when he finally does he clears his throat and speaks up; but not for long, and soon he is whispering again.)

  “He says that if I receive this letter—when I receive it—he will be dead. And my brother too.

  “But to tell me that is not the reason for which he writes, it is to tell me that I must go north to Normandy with the next convoy—that I can do that easily because I am the transportation officer, and I have the necessary documentation. And when I am in Normandy I must pass through the lines and surrender myself to the first Americans I meet—“

  And after that they had gone, with Audley setting the pace as though he was determined to outmarch them all.

  And then the endurance test became a nightmare.

  The side of Butler’s head had started to ache again and his toes began to itch inside his boot. He could also feel with every other step the impression which his Sten had punched into his buttock, where he had fallen on it in the staff car.

  All of which was compounded by the confusion of his feelings over the German—

  (Bayonet practice: What the fucking hell are you doing, son—yoking that sandbag like you were sorry for it? That’s not a sandbag, son— that only looks like a sandbag. THAT’S A BLOODY GERMAN, THAT IS! He’ll rape your mother, he’ll rape your sister, AND BY GOD IF YOU DONT WATCH OUT HE’LL RAPE YOU! So you’re here to stick your hayonet in his guts and your butt plate in his teeth and your boot in his balls, and I want to hear you yell with joy when you do it—AND DON’T YOU DARE BE SORRY FOR HIM OR I’LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO BE SORRY ABOUT!)

  “But why didn’t you get out while you could, then?” Audley had asked. “Why did you wait for the Gestapo to come for you?”

  “You heard what the man said,” Sergeant Winston had answered for the German. “Because he hadn’t done anything—he’d counted his horses, like a good little boy—“

  Not true, Butler thought. Or not the whole truth.

  The whole truth was that when the utterly unbelievable happened ordinary blokes didn’t believe it, not until it was too late. The only thing they could think of doing was nothing at all—they just stood around like bullocks waiting their turn outside the municipal slaughterhouse.

  He’d stood in the mist that way, back on the riverbed, even after he’d heard the major sentence him to death—heard him with his own ears. Because if it had been Sergeant Purvis who had come out of the mist behind him, and not Corporal Jones, whom he already hated and distrusted in his heart… if it had been Sergeant Purvis, not Corporal Jones—then he would have been one of the bullocks.

  There came a time when all he wanted to do was to stop and lie down. But while he was deciding how many steps he would take before he would do that—fifty, or a hundred, or five hundred?—the effort involved in making the decision became greater than the effort required in not making it.

  And then the nightmare became a dream.

  He was inside E. Wilmot Buxton’s blue and gold Story of the Crusades, marching between the general and his father, because that way they couldn’t argue with each other about whether Winston Churchill had really ordered the troops to fire on the miners during the General Strike—

  The exhausted remnant of the crusading host, now much reduced, took the road to the Holy City, the end of all their endeavours—He was half aware that the Chateau Le Chais d’Auray was not the Holy City, and that it was certainly not the end of all their endeavours. But for the time being it would do, it would do.

  There was a scrunch of boots on gravel in the shadows thrown by the trees in the moonlight on the road.

  “Psst!” Winston hissed from the next row of vines. “Here, lieutenant!”

  Audley tiptoed out of the shadow across the pale line of the road and threw himself down on the earth beside them.

  “Anybody at home?”

  Audley breathed out. “There isn’t a sound, and not a light either— I’ve been right round the house and the buildings. Not a sound … but they’re there.”

  “How d’you know?”

  Audley picked up a handful of the dry earth and squeezed it out. “Not a weed to be seen. Another month, then they’ll be harvesting these grapes.” He reached out towards a bunch of grapes on the vine near him. “I wonder what the vintage of ‘44 will be like. … It would be nice if it was a really great one, to remember us by, wouldn’t it!”

  “Shit! The hell with the grapes! How d’you know they’re there?”

  The subaltern’s face was white in the moonlight. “Because the grapes are here, Sergeant. As they’ve been for a thousand years, since they learnt the art of pruning—you know that, Sergeant? They learnt the art of pruning here. The donkeys of the Abbey of Marmoutier got into the vines, and ate them. And when the vines grew
again the ones they’d eaten gave the finest grapes—that’s the one miracle of St Martin of Tours that they remember here. So you can drink a full pitcher of Loire wine and not hurt yourself, that’s what they say—“

  Not true, thought Butler.

  Or perhaps it was true. If he hadn’t drunk a full pitcher, and been sick as a dog—maybe that was another miracle of St. Martin of Tours—

  “So what do we do?” grated the American. “Drink a pitcher of Loire wine, and not hurt ourselves?”

  “That would be nice. But no …” Audley peered around him. “Corporal Butler, are you there?”

  “Sir!” said Butler. He had known one fraction of a second before Audley had spoken that the subaltern would say ‘Corporal Butler,’ because that was what he would have said.

  Because not being a bullock was what life was all about, even right outside the slaughterhouse. And especially right outside the towers of the Holy City.

  Obedience was duty. But duty was free will—the soldier’s free will, which was the last and best free will of all. The general had tried to teach him that, but he’d never understood until now what the general had meant. But now he knew.

  “Sir.”

  Audley looked into the shadow where he lay. “We’ll go in and find out. You’ll cover me.” He turned to the sergeant’s patch of shadow. “You wait with Hauptmann Grafenberg. If there’s trouble, then you’re on your own. Just get to blazes out of here—“

  “Hell, no—“

  “Hell, yes! This is our show. So if it’s a balls-up then it’s our balls-up.” Audley’s voice softened. “Don’t worry, Sergeant. My thumbs tell me we’re okay. If my thumbs are wrong, there’ll be nothing you can do about it. But then somebody’s got to survive, otherwise we’ve done all this for nothing, don’t you see?”

  Done all what? Butler asked himself. He really didn’t know any more what it was they were doing. They were chasing the major, of course. But what he was doing, and what they would do if they ever caught up with him, that had somehow ceased to be of any real importance. It was the doing, not the objective, that mattered.

  “Okay, Lieutenant.” Winston conceded the point doubtfully. “But then I do what I want—right?”

  “Okay. Just so long as the chateau isn’t full of Panzer Grenadiers—“ Audley caught the words. “Hauptmann …”

  The vines stirred. “Lieutenant?”

  “We’re going to have a look at the chateau, the corporal and I—you understand?”

  “I understand. You have my word.”

  “But I want you to understand something else, Hauptmann. We are not fighting your chaps now.”

  “I understand. You are escaping.”

  “No. For Christ’s sake—“ Audley stopped short, suddenly at a loss. “Oh, damn it, Sergeant, you tell him … if you can. I’m past caring almost… come on, Corporal—“

  The muscles in Butler’s legs were double-knotted, he could feel them twist with each step.

  “I’m absolutely buggered, you know, Jack,” said Audley conversationally. “It is Jack—isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes …” Audley nodded to himself. “I thought that was it. Is that short for John or James, I never have worked out which?”

  “John, sir.” Butler wanted to say more, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “John, is that it?” Audley nodded again. “You know, the first time I walked down this road—or whatever you’d call it—I was nine years old. And there are forty-eight trees in this road, from the main road to the chateau—twenty-four each side.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Twenty-four each side. The first time I made it forty-nine, and the second time forty-seven. But there are actually forty-eight. Would you I have guessed as many as that?”

  “I don’t rightly know, sir.”

  “Well, of course, you can’t really see in the dark.” Audley pointed towards the house. “I had a room up there, near the tower. I had a feather bolster instead of a pillow—I never could get used to it. That, and not having porridge for breakfast.”

  They came off the compacted surface of the roadway onto a side square of loose gravel in front of the house—gravel which crunched noisily under their boots, much more loudly than the scatters of small stones on the roadway.

  There was the rattle of a chain, faint but sharp in the dark ahead of them, and a dog began to bark inside the house, each bark echoing and re-echoing as the animal roared against itself furiously.

  Butler cocked his Sten automatically and set his back on one side of the doorway as Audley reached up to bang on the door with the side of his fist. The dull thump—thump-thump-thump—drove the dog inside frantic with rage: Butler could hear its paws scrape and skid on the floor as it strained against its chain. Audley banged on the door again. Suddenly the barking subsided into a continuous growl. “Qui est il?”

  Audley pressed his face to the edge of the door. “M’sieur Boucard?”

  “Qui est il?”

  “M’sieur Boucard, c’est David Audley … David Audley, le fils de Walter Audley, de Steeple Horley, en Angleterre.”

  The growling continued.

  “C’est David Audley, M’sieur Boucard—tu ne me remets pas?”

  There were other sounds behind the door now; someone even hushed the watchdog into silence.

  A man’s voice and a woman’s voice … but Butler couldn’t catch any of the words.

  Audley placed both palms against the door and leant forward on them. “M’sieur Boucard—“

  “C’est toi, David?”

  “Oui, maman, c’est moi—what’s left of me,” said Audley wearily.

  CHAPTER 17

  How Corporal Butler made a promise to a lady

  THE LAMP on the hall table was turned down so low that Butler couldn’t make out the woman’s features even after she had stopped hugging Audley, but more particularly because most of his attention was on the shotgun which the man of the house was pointing at him.

  “Oh … my little David—but you have grown so much! You are so big!” The woman held Audley at arm’s length.

  “And so smelly, maman … I’m afraid I didn’t wash behind the ears this morning, as you always taught me to,” said Audley carefully, as though he was pronouncing a password.

  The shotgun stopped pointing at Butler: perhaps it really was a password at that, thought Butler—an old shared memory which Audley had deliberately produced to prove that he was indeed that long-lost “little David.”

  “My dear boy!” Monsieur Boucard’s English was not merely perfect!, it was decidedly upper-class. “My dear boy!”

  “It’s good to see you again, sir … Maman, allow me to present my friend Corporal Jack Butler—Corporal, Madame Boucard, my godmother, and M’sieur Boucard, one of my father’s oldest friends.”

  Butler just had time to wipe his sweaty hand before accepting Madame Boucard’s.

  “Corporal Jack, I am so pleased to meet you—“ Madame Boucard peered up at him. “Turn up the lamp, if you please, Georges.”

  The lamp flared into brightness, shooting great shadows all around. For a moment Butler registered only the substantial remains of what must once have been marvellous beauty, but then her expression changed to one of alarm and concern.

  “Oh—mon Dieu!” Madame Boucard raised a hand towards him. “You are hurt, Corporal Jack—you are wounded.” She swung round quickly. “Madeleine! Madeleine! Le caporal est blessé—vite, vite!”

  There came a scuffling from the back of the hallway, from the darkness on the far side of the great bare staircase which rose up ahead of them.

  Butler blinked stupidly from the darkness back to Madame Boucard. “It’s quite all right, madame. It’s only a”—he shied away from the word “scratch,” which was the sort of thing Audley would have said, but which didn’t sound right on his own lips—“a graze … and it happened hours ago. I’m okay now, really I am.”

  “So …” Boucard frown
ed at him for a couple of seconds, then turned towards Audley. “You have been prisoners, David? And you have escaped from the Germans?”

  It was a sensible conclusion, thought Butler. Whatever they looked like, they could hardly be mistaken for the spearhead of a victorious army pursuing a defeated enemy. And in any case the French in these parts would be expecting the Americans, not the British.

  “No, sir. At least, not exactly, that is,” Audley floundered.

  “What do you mean ‘not exactly’?” Boucard’s voice was businesslike.

  “Well, sir—we’re not exactly escaping from … the Germans. We haven’t seen a German for hours—“ Audley trailed off, obviously remembering suddenly the German he’d left beside the road a couple of hundred yards away. “I mean, the Germans aren’t following us. But … we aren’t alone, sir.”

  “You have comrades outside?”

  “Just nearby, yes,” Audley admitted reluctantly.

  “How many?”

  “Just two, sir. One of them’s an American and …” Audley broke off nervously. “We won’t stay, sir—that wouldn’t be right. What I really want is food and drink—and some information. I think you may be able to give me a line on a place … a place we must rendezvous with someone. But we won’t stay here.” He shook his head. “I was thinking —maybe we could hide for the night in the old mill, down by the stream—“

  Butler felt a half-hysterical urge to laugh. This was a new Audley far removed from the obstinate dragoon subaltern; this was “little David” in a soldier’s battle dress many sizes too big for him.

  Boucard chuckled. “My dear David, kindly don’t be ridiculous. Do you really think you are the first escaper to come through Le Chais? My dear boy, the only difference between you and all the others is that you have come on your own initiative, because you knew us. Which is why we weren’t expecting you … whereas all the others—they have come down the line—British, American, French, Polish … they were expected. But no one is more welcome than you and your friends, believe me!”

  There was another scuffle in the shadows.