water-meadow below.
The major came to his rescue, thoughtful as ever.
'Here, Corporal . . . there's a bit of a path just here . . . mind how you go ... left a bit—that's right . . .
steady, steady . . . you can rest up against that tree if you like.'
Butler was sweating. 'I'm all right, sir.'
'Just this last bit, then . . . well done!'
At last the ground was flat again under his boots, though they were still under the canopy of the trees which grew thickly all the way down the embankment. Butler stopped to get his breath.
Suddenly there was a thud—or a cross between a thud and a thump—away to his left somewhere. To Butler's ears it sounded suspiciously and horribly like a two-inch mortar going off, and a moment later he was aware of something descending through the leaves and branches above him to confirm his horrible suspicion.
Time slowed almost to a standstill as he stood, rooted to the spot, clasping the major's cases of champagne to his chest.
'Sir!' He appealed helplessly, trying to catch the major's attention.
But the major's attention was already caught: he was staring upwards into the branches as though to judge the line of the mortar bomb's descent—indeed, judging by the movement of his hands, almost as Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
though he intended to catch it.
Butler closed his eyes in the very instant that something crashed through the branches almost directly above them. There was another thump—
This time more a slapping thump than a thudding one—and then a second or two of silence finally broken by the distant whinnying of a horse.
He opened his eyes again.
The major was now holding a rugby football in his hands.
'Hmm . . .' he said, raising the eyebrow over his good eye at Butler. 'In my young days it was hunting, fishing, and shooting they played at. Now it seems to be hunting, fishing, and rugger. I suppose they've had a bellyful of shooting for the time being, poor devils. . . . Come on, Corporal.'
As they came out of the shadow of the trees a hulking young soldier, naked to the waist, appeared out of a gap in the bushes just ahead of them. If this was the rugger player, his side had been the losing one, thought Butler critically: he sported a great purple-black bruise on his left cheekbone, and another on his shoulder to match. There was a rather bedraggled field dressing on his right forearm.
He stopped abruptly as he saw the major, blinked in surprise, and opened and shut his mouth as though the first words he had thought of were not the ones he now wanted to say.
'Speak, thou apparition,' said the major.
The young soldier blinked again, and then produced a nervous half-smile. Under the tousled thatch of light brown hair his face was dead white, except for dark rings under his eyes, the angry bruise of his cheekbone, and an acne rash on his chin.
'C-can we have our b-ball b-back, sir?' he stuttered in an exaggerated public-school drawl.
Butler's normally dormant class prejudices stirred. The apparition was an officer, for all its appearance, which was not improved by a suggestion of pale stubble on its chin—though to be fair that might be due to the acne.
And, to be fair also (when the prejudices stirred Butler instinctively leaned over backwards to silence them), he wasn't a chinless wonder of the Guards variety; the stubbly chin was square and hard, and the pale blue eyes were hard too. It was a rugger player's face, and the physique below it was built to match.
It was the dead-giveaway voice, the arrogant stutter, which nettled him, reminding him that cavalry Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
regiments notoriously recruited just this type of subaltern, at least in the old days. In the Royal Lanes the officers were, with exceptions, gentlemen, and none the worse for that (and one day Butler himself intended to be one of them, and no exception). But in at least one of the county's yeomanry regiments the commissions before the war went exclusively to the gentry, to men with land under their belts (as his father put it), or to their sons and brothers. Even the general had counselled him against volunteering for that regiment, though he had produced other reasons for his counsel.
'By all means,' said the major suavely, tossing the ball to the apparition. 'Come on, Corporal.'
As he strode past the young officer, the crowns on his shoulder seemed to register for the first time, and the boy stiffened. 'Thanks most awf'ly, sir,' he called after the major's back. 'I'm afraid I sliced the k-k-kick rather b- b-b'—he paused to concentrate on the word, looking blankly at Butler—'rather
A very strange character, thought Butler as he stumbled past, aware that his arms were beginning to ache painfully under their burden. But then it seemed a rather strange unit, so no doubt the strangeness of its officers passed unremarked.
Something squashed under his right boot, and the rich smell of horse manure rose to his nose, reminding him sharply for a second of General Chesney's rose garden, onto which he had forked tons of the stuff.
Then, just as sharply, he was aware that the major had stopped just ahead of him, and that they had reached the horsemen.
He peered cautiously round the cases, wondering as he did so whether it would be safe to put them down. Better not, he decided; his arms were now locked in position, at the limit of their sockets. If he did put them down he might not have the strength to pick them up again.
'Willy, my dear fellow!' The third horseman—the one who had dismounted and who therefore must be Colonel
