Butler jabbed the barrel of the Sten into Hauptmann Grafenberg's back, propelling him forward into the open.
Forty yards.
'
One thing was for sure, he thought: the Anglo-Franco-American assault on the West Gate of Chateau Pont- Civray was in the best Chandos Force tradition.
It was bold as brass, ruthless, deceitful, and treacherous.
Thirty yards.
Another thing was for sure, too: if the man on the gate was one of the major's gang, then the moment he recognised the features of the dead Corporal Butler beneath their disguise of burnt cork then the dead Corporal Butler would be dead. Sergeant Winston, snugged down in the undergrowth behind him with the Lebel, might avenge him. But at fifty yards' range he could hardly be expected to read the enemy's mind quickly enough to save him.
Funny to think so easily now of another British soldier as the enemy.
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
Twenty yards.
The man was gaping at them now—he could see the blacker hole of the open mouth in the soldier's blackened face.
But would realisation follow surprise at the sight of the strange group which was approaching him—the German officer at British gunpoint, and behind them Audley bent almost double under the weight of Dr.
de Courcy's body?
He heard Audley grunt realistically behind him. The little Frenchman was a featherweight to the big subaltern, but Audley was much more concerned to keep his comical black-and-white minstrel face to the ground; it was odd that Audley still looked so very much like himself despite the burnt cork and the removal of his pips.
Ten yards.
The man's mouth was still open, and the machine pistol was still held across his body.
They were up to the gateway.
Big iron gates, old and rusty and heavily wired.
Smaller iron gate, with a heavy iron chain and padlock But the padlock was oiled—
'Up against the gates, Fritz—move.'
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
Hauptmann Grafenberg moved obediently up to the gates, facing the soldier on the other side. The soldier's mouth closed, and his eyes flicked uncertainly from Butler to the German, then back again to Butler. At least he wasn't an NCO, thought Butler gratefully; the blackened features were unrecognisable, and he could only pray that his own were equally so.
But he mustn't think of that—and above all he mustn't give the man himself time to think of it either.
'Don't just stand there, for Christ's sake!' he snarled. 'Open the bloody gate!'
The man licked his lips. 'But, Corporal—'
'Don't you bloody argue with me.' Butler bit off the protest furiously. 'If you don't get this gate open double quick the major'll have your guts for garters—and when he's finished with them I'll use them for bootlaces, by God!' He counted a three-second pause. 'Don't argue—
The machine pistol moved, not the man, and Butler's own guts turned to mush.
'But, Corporal—it's locked.' The soldier pointed the gun at the lock.
Butler was taken flat aback for a moment. Then common sense reasserted itself. The man was an idiot, but that was no reason why he should be an idiot too. He had guarded gates not unlike this in his time, and had been Corporal of the Guard on them too. There was an ugly little concrete pillbox just to the right of them: that had to be the guardhouse, and guardhouses the world over must be the same, British, German, or Chinese.
He nodded towards the pillbox. 'Don't talk daft—get the bloody key out of there,' he snapped.
The soldier looked from Butler to the pillbox, then back at the padlock, then back to Butler again. An idiot indeed, thought Butler; and it was surprising, almost disappointing, that Chandos Force had such boneheads in its ranks. But then perhaps he had a natural-born skill in weapons training which had endeared him to the major originally, and his deficiency in general intelligence and curiosity would now commend itself to the major for the simple job of covering the flank of the theft against intruders, with no questions asked.
But that didn't matter now, except insofar as it was a bonus for the intruders. Or intruders prepared to cloak subtlety with the bluster of an angry corporal, anyway—
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
'Don't just
The soldier's reflexes took over, in obedience to confident authority. 'Right, Corporal.'
Butler watched him disappear into the pillbox, his brief sense of triumph quickly overlayed by doubt. In the first place, depending on what sort of routine the Germans had for checking the outer wire here, there might not be a key in there at all. And in the second place even an idiot might have second thoughts once he was out of range of the strange corporal's blistering tongue—or he might even have time to remember more precise orders which the
