The '44 Vintage

Or, since Major O'Connor was obviously not a conventional officer of the line, he didn't know exactly what was going to happen, but he had a bloody shrewd idea.

One way or another young Mr. Second Lieutenant Audley was going to be put to the test, as Corporal Butler had been.

There was a part of him which was already protective of the subaltern, and sorry that he had had no opportunity to warn him of what was to come. Because that was what a good NCO should do—and because one day he hoped there'd be a good NCO to do it for him, the Second Lieutenant Butler of the future, God willing.

But there was another (and larger) part of him which awaited events with more than professional curiosity. Knowing one's officer was almost as important as knowing one's sergeant, and he had another bloody shrewd idea that there wouldn't be much time to get the measure of Mr. Audley before life-and-death matters were put to the test. Because that casual banter between Colonel Sylces and the major about a 'holiday jaunt' had had a distinct whiff of sulphur about it: they had been reassuring each other and lying to each other in the same breath, and both had known it—like a couple of RAF types he had once heard talking in a pub about a raid which was going to be 'a piece of cake,' when the scraped white look on each of their faces had belied what they were saying.

He took a quick surreptitious look at Mr. Audley, whose black and white countenance had that same air-crew pallor.

Second Lieutenant Audley would bear watching. About the major he had not the very slightest doubt: he had seen it all and survived it all, and that talk of surviving at any cost had been just talk. But not all Mr.

Audley's injuries—the bandaged arm and the bruises—were on the outside, for a guess. And they might be the result of being blown out of his tank, which to be fair sounded like an uncommonly unpleasant experience— especially when he remembered all those knocked-out Cromwells along the way to the Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

bridge. Yet they might also be the symptoms of that dreadful incurable disease the general had once spoken of which was stamped on the records of failed officers. Lack of moral fibre.

If Second Lieutenant Audley suffered from LMF then it was better to discover it now, at the major's hands, than later, at the Germans'.

One thing was for sure: Mr. Audley might be bulging with brains and scholarships, but he was bloody slow adjusting to the sergeant-major's driving. Every time the jeep juddered over a pothole or skidded to the left (which was every time they came to a pothole, because the sergeant-major drove in a straight line, and every time they came to a corner, because he drove too fast, he rolled heavily against Butler.

Each time they collided Butler was enveloped in a mixed smell of carbolic soap and sweat, and had his hipbone gouged by the subaltern's pistol butt.

Each time they collided Mr. Audley winced with pain and apologised.

And each time Butler couldn't quite summon up enough courage to suggest that if Mr. Audley would just hold onto his side of the jeep the collisions would not be necessary.

The jeep lurched again, and Audley lurched with it.

Carbolic soap, sweat, and ouch!

'Sorry,' said Audley for the twentieth time.

'Sir,' said Butler for the twentieth time.

The major turned in his seat and fixed his good eye on Audley. He hadn't said a word since they'd set off, so it might be that he was coming to the same conclusions about his fluent French-speaking dragoon subaltern, thought Butler.

'Where did you pick up your French, David?' The major spoke conversationally. 'School?'

'And F-France, sir,' said Audley, rubbing his shoulder.

'On holiday, you mean?'

'F-f-friends of the f-family, sir. I was b-billeted on them every summer holiday up to '38, to learn the language. W-wouldn't say a w-word of English to me—bloody awful.'

'But you learnt the language, eh?'

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

Audley grimaced, which with his bruised face was easy. 'It w-was that or starve to death, sir. W-wouldn't even let the doctor speak English to me when I w-was sick—even though he spoke it better than I did.' He grinned suddenly. 'Matter of fact, I've g-got a rotten accent—no ear for it. But I know the right words.'

'Well, that's all we shall be needing.' Major O'Conor nodded at Butler. 'Corporal Butler here wouldn't pass for an Obergefreiter— not unless the Germans have been recruiting in Lancashire anyway. But he knows the words, I'll say that for him.'

Butler's cheeks burned as Audley turned to him. 'Good show, Corporal,' said Audley.

Butler searched the white face for the patronising expression which ought to go with the words, but found only a polite innocence worn like a mask. Whatever Audley thought about his situation was locked up inside his head.

'You've got some German too, I gather?' said the major.

'S-school Certificate German. I can maybe read it a bit, but not much more as yet,' said Audley self- dismissively.

Butler bit his lip. Not so long ago the acquisition of School Certificate German had been the limit of his ambition, looming larger than anything else except the Army itself. But here was Audley shrugging it off as a thing of little importance.

'You have a history scholarship?' The major's tone was casual. 'Am I right there?'

Hande hoch! thought Butler. The complete unimportance of Mr. Audley's education could only conceal a hidden ambush to come—and there was nothing he could do to warn the subaltern.