The '44 Vintage

by Anthony Price

  Audley giggled insanely. “But the really funny thing is—“

  Now?

  “That it doesn’t bloody matter—it’s all for nothing, Sergeant-major—“

  The orders had gone out: Butler felt like an army poised for the last great offensive in a hundred-year war, with every nerve and muscle stretched like a million soldiers waiting for the second-hand on the watch to reach the twelve on the dial, no longer conceivably stoppable—

  “Because that’s the flood-arch on the bridge. See the gratings there —every time the river floods have come up in the last four years the water’s been inside there—every winter, every spring—“

  It was already too late—

  “—the paper has all rotted … the rats and mice have crawled in and chewed it up and eaten it—or made their nests out of it—all the files, all the records … all the experiments and the knowledge—all shredded and eaten and excreted and flushed down the river—so we’re all going to die for nothing, Sergeant-major—for nothing—“

  Now—

  The second-hand hit the twelve and the bugles pealed out inside Butler.

  In the very instant that he rose on to his toes he heard a single sharp in-drawn breath—a scrape of nailed-boots on stone—and first syllable of a battle-cry.

  In that same instant he knew that he could never turn in time, even as he turned—

  The barrel of the sergeant-major’s submachine gun rose in an arc as Hauptmann Grafenberg’s body collided with his legs. The sergeant-major’s knee smashed into the German’s face throwing him sideways.

  The Sten jerked in Butler’s hands and the sergeant-major’s face dissolved in a bloody mask. It seemed strange to him that the face should disintegrate when he had aimed at the chest—

  Audley had been looking at the sergeant-major’s face.

  Butler continued to swing on his heel—his bullets splashed into the stone, throwing dust and chips into the air—

  The major—

  Major O’Conor was looking at him.

  Major O’Conor was reaching for his webbing-holster. Butler thought … That’s silly—he can’t possibly do that!

  The major was fumbling with the holster with one hand—an old man’s hand with the heavy veins raised on it. He still held his ashplant stick in the other, half raised. The stick somehow seemed more menacing than the revolver, half drawn from the holster.

  Don’t, Major—the voice was inside Butler.

  The Sten jumped in his hand before the words could come out and Butler saw the good eye shut—or was it the good eye? In that last living moment one of the major’s eyes contradicted the other, and Butler never knew which as the old man was thrown backwards against the wall by the force of the bullets.

  “Come on, Jack—for Christ’s sake!” shouted Audley.

  Butler was suddenly aware that the subaltern was lifting Hauptmann Grafenberg off the pavement at the foot of the stair, where the sergeant-major’s knee had tumbled him. The German seemed half stunned, and as Audley raised him blood sprayed from his nose onto the pavement.

  “Es geht mir gut,” mumbled the German thickly. “Es geht mir gut.”

  Butler started towards him, but Audley waved him away. “Get up the stairs—cover us,” he ordered. “Cover us, damn it! Doctor—get back over the bridge.”

  The command unlocked Butler’s brain, and he sprinted up the stair round the great curve of the tower. To his right the bridge was still open and unguarded, but there was a British soldier running up the drive towards them on his left.

  Butler opened fire automatically and the soldier cartwheeled off the drive in a tangle of arms and legs just as the empty magazine cut off the burst.

  He could hear firing in the distance now, out of sight down the drive, both the stammer of automatic weapons and the crack of single shots.

  He thought, with a curious clarity: the major was right—killing is infectious.

  Another magazine for the Sten. There were men in the trees two hundred yards away, and at that range there was no chance of hitting them. But at least he could bloody well frighten them—

  The clarity persisted. It was all quite mad, all utterly pointless. Chandos Force was fighting its last battle, against the French and against itself, and for nothing.

  “Come on, Jack—get moving,” said Sergeant Winston from just behind him.

  “I’m okay.” Butler fired again at the trees.

  “Sure you are. But it’s time to say good-bye.”

  Butler thought that was a funny thing to say in the circumstances. He also thought that the solid comfort of the tower was preferable to the open stretch of the bridge.

  Suddenly he remembered Sergeant Purvis.

  “Where’s that bugger Purvis?” He fired again.

  “The hell with Purvis! Get going, Corporal.”

  It didn’t seem right that Sergeant Purvis of all people should get away.

  He turned towards the American. “Where’s Purvis?”

  The look on Sergeant Winston’s face answered the question: the sergeant was grinning at him like a wolf.

  Butler swung back towards the trees.

  The Sten jammed.

  As his hand closed on the magazine he felt himself being dragged away from the wall and propelled onto the bridge. For an instant he was angry, and then fear started his legs moving.

  The bridge was longer and narrower than it had been before, and the firing behind him was louder and closer. As he ran he heard a sudden swishing-hissing sound alongside him, and the gravel spurted madly on his left and away in a writhing snake ahead of him.

  Audley grabbed him as he came to the end of the parapet and pulled him down onto the cover of the stonework, half knocking the breath out of him. The chateau and the blue sky and the gravel spun round as he rolled sideways.

  A shadow blocked out the light.

  “No!” shouted Audley. “For Christ’s sake, man—“

  Butler found himself staring from ground level down the long funnel of the bridge parapets, back the way he had come.

  Halfway down the funnel Hauptmann Grafenberg was trying to disentangle a body which was curled up against the stonework. As he tugged at one arm another long snake of spurting gravel raced up the drive and onto the bridge towards him.

  The arm suddenly seemed too heavy for him. He knelt down slowly beside the American, as though the problem of lifting him was one which required special thought and he needed time to work it out. Then, just as slowly, he toppled over alongside him.

  The firing was very loud now, echoing all around them.

  Butler started ro rise, but Audley’s hand pressed him down.

  “It’s no good,” whispered Audley. “They’re done for.”

  It was no good, thought Butler. They were done for.

  “An’ we’ll be done for an’ all if we stay ‘ere any longer,” said a voice from behind them.

  Butler looked over his shoulder in surprise to find Driver Hewett crouching a yard away, nodding at him with ancient wisdom.

  No winners and losers, only the survivors and the dead. Driver Hewett had been born with that knowledge, he’d never needed to learn it.

  Without looking back at the bridge Butler crawled away in Audley’s wake towards the safety of the woods.

  The End