The '44 Vintage

Sykes, appeared from between the horses. 'So you found us all right.'

Colonel Sykes shook the major's hand warmly.

'No problem at all.' The major cocked his head on one side. 'The trail was . . . unmistakable.'

'Hah!' Colonel Sykes shook his head. 'Yes ... I suppose it must be, at that.'

'It looked as though you've been having a rough time, Chris.'

'Perfectly bloody, not to put too fine a point on it. All the way from just south of Caumont—perfectly bloody, Willy. If it wasn't Tigers it was damned self-propelled guns, and this bocage country is no place to fight either of them, especially with these wretched Cromwells. So ... we've been swapping at about the rate of six to one half the time.'

Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

The colonel stroked his horse abstractedly, and the two men shook their heads at each other. Butler forgot about his arms and thought instead of the anglers on the bridge, and also of the burnt-out tanks they'd passed along the way. There had been rather a lot of them, he remembered now.

'And here am I, come to deplete your strength further,' said the major apologetically. 'I'm sorry about that, Chris.'

'My dear fellow!' Colonel Sykes raised his hand to cut off the apology. 'Think nother of it. Fact is, it's all the same to me now—we're being disbanded, you see.'

'Good Lord! I'm sorry to hear that. That's damn bad luck.' The major managed to make the banal phrases sound sincere, Butler thought. But if the two were old friends, maybe he really meant them. 'No good crying about spilt milk. The same thing's happening to the 2nd Northants, they've caught a packet too . . . once you go beyond a certain point it's the best thing to do, really.' Colonel Sykes shrugged. 'So I'm off to 21 Army Group and the rest are mostly going to the 7th Armoured—they've got Cromwells too, poor devils . . . No, as a matter of fact, Willy, you're doing me a good turn if what I hear is true.'

The major half-turned, and for the first time since the conversation had started Butler could see his face.

But then he saw it was still only the blind side, which never seemed able to betray any emotion.

'What do you hear?' The major's question was as devoid of curiosity as the blind side was of expression. 'What's that, then?'

'Well, Brigade made it sound like a holiday jaunt—a sort of tourist excursion to some desirable resort, with no Tigers or such things in attendance,' said the colonel airily. 'Didn't say what it actually was—

that was all hush-hush as usual. But they made it sound like just what the doctor ordered for my lad, certainly.'

'What the doctor—?' The major sounded wary now. 'Come on, Chris—you're not giving me walking wounded, are you?'

'I don't mean literally what the doctor ordered.' Colonel Sykes swung on his heel, taking in the whole scene: the anglers, the bathers, the horsemen who had mounted up and were cantering away over the meadow. 'They're all a bit battered, but there's nothing wrong with any of them. Tanks—third-rate; morale—first-rate, you might say. Could give you any one of them, and you'd have a bargain. Fact is, I'm giving you one of the best . . . absolutely bulging with brains, almost too much for his own good.'

'I want one bulging with French, Chris. Not brains, just French.'

The colonel waved his hand. 'Fluent, even though he's a history scholar—French, Latin, Greek—

Russian too, for all I know. Even a bit of German.'

Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

'Just French.'

Butler was beginning to think faster. There had been a requirement for a German-speaking NCO; presumably there was also a requirement for a French-speaking one too. On a holiday jaunt, a tourist excursion.

'Speaks it like a native, Willy. I've heard him myself—he was apologising to an old Frenchwoman who came out of her front door with a bottle of calvados and a Union Jack thirty seconds after we'd put a burst of machine-gun fire through her bedroom window.' Colonel Sykes stared past Butler across the field. 'I sent young Pickles to rout him out, so he should be appearing any minute now—' He broke off, staring this time directly at Butler.

The major followed the stare and started guiltily as he set eyes on Butler. 'Good God, Corporal—put those cases down at once! They must be killing you!'

Butler lowered the cases to the ground. He hoped devoutly that no sort of introduction requiring a salute would now take place, or at least not until he had the use of his right arm again.

But the major merely gestured towards the cases. 'Present for your mess, Chris—in exchange for one guaranteed French-speaker. Top case is champagne, courtesy of the German Army. The rest is scotch, which is said to have fallen off the back of an American half-track ... I heard tell you were living on cider and army rum.'

'My dear fellow—too kind! We have been rather short just recently —ah, here he comes now—'

Butler was standing at ease, with his hands clasped behind his back, which was about the most comfortable position his arms had been able to find. But as the major stared fixedly over his shoulder—

the good eye appeared as fixed suddenly as the false one, so that for a moment he couldn't make out which was which—he couldn't resist turning himself to get a look at his comrade in good or bad fortune, the French- speaking NCO.

He understood instantly why the major was staring. Of course, no one had actually said the French-speaker was to be a two-striper like himself, he had simply assumed it to be so. And he had assumed wrong.

Even in immaculate Canadian battle dress, trouser creases knife-edged from the iron, pistol at his hip, there was no mistaking the Apparition. If anything, the smart black beret, its prancing horses badge catching the red of the setting sun, emphasised the black and white of the face.

'Ah, David . . . good of you to join us'—Colonel Sykes acknowledged the OCTU-fresh salute—'David, this is Major Willy O'Conor, to whom you are being lent for the time being, as I explained to you this Price, Anthony -