The '44 Vintage

The check-shirted man gave them a cheery wave without removing the cigarette. He wore khaki battle-dress trousers and army gaiters, Butler noticed with sudden surprise.

The farm buildings looked up ahead.

'What are we going to take?' asked Audley.

Major O'Conor chuckled. 'Why—a castle of course, just as Chandos would have done. Except we're going to take it from the Germans, naturally.'

5. How Second Lieutenant Audley chanced his arm

The men of Chandos Force shuffled into the barn in ones and twos for their final briefing.

From his chosen spot in the darkness just beyond the dim circle of light cast by the hurricane lamp Butler watched them with a sour mixture of contempt and disapproval.

The mixture embarrassed him, and also confused him because he couldn't square it with his impression of either Major O'Conor or Sergeant-major Swayne, who belonged to the world of soldiering which he understood. But these men—the major's men, the sergeant-major's men, and also (Jesus Christ!) his new comrades—came from another world altogether, and one which he did not understand at all.

He knew he was green and raw and wet behind the ears, and that the memory of the only shots he'd ever fired in anger—at the major himself—made his cheeks burn at the very thought of it And he knew that first impressions could be false impressions—

Must be false impressions.

It had looked more like a bandit encampment than a unit of the British Army about to go into action.

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

Not so much the weird assortment of non-uniforms—of knitted cap-comforters instead of berets or steel helmets, of flak jackets and camouflage smocks instead of battle dress, of bandoleers and belts of ammunition instead of standard webbing pouches. . . .

Not so much even the weirder assortment of weapons—machine pistols and automatic rifles, and LMGs which looked suspiciously German but just might be American; the anti-tank rocket launchers stacked by the farm gateway were certainly American; but there was not a Bren or a Sten to be seen, never mind an honest-to-God Lee Enfield rifle. . . .

No, not the dress and not the weapons . . . but the savoury cooking smells and the card games and the dice; and the casual greetings—no salutes—and the laughter in the background, all of which he had smelt or heard or glimpsed during the last half hour. All it had needed was a girl or two—say Dolores del Rio in a low-cut dress, with gipsy earrings— to complete the picture.

Chandos Force.

The Chandos Gang—

Must be false impressions.

Butler struggled with the evidence of his senses and his limited experience, as the sudden glow of the half- smoked dog-end in the mouth of the next man to enter the barn caught his eye. As the man stepped briefly into the lamplight Butler saw that he sported an Uncle Joe Stalin moustache.

In the Lancashire Rifles no rifleman or junior NCO dared to grow a moustache. In the Lancashire Rifles men stood close to their razors every morning without fail.

And when the ACIs were pinned on the notice boards appealing for volunteers for the paratroops or any other strange and wonderful units like this one, Lancashire Riflemen did not volunteer—the senior NCOs saw to that, their official reasoning being that anyone wishing to quit the best battalion in the finest regiment in the whole British Army must be bloody mad, and it wouldn't be right and proper to saddle other units with such madmen, particularly units which must already have more than their share of thugs, misfits, and criminals.

Over two happy years of mastering the basics of the only trade he had ever wanted to learn, Butler had become convinced of the inner truth of that simple logic. Everything he was told and everything he learnt fitted in with everything he had ever read and with those things which General Chesney had told him: that the highest moment in war was the ordinary line infantryman setting his face and his best foot toward the enemy in battle. All the rest—all the tanks and artillery and planes and staffs and generals—

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

were but the means and the auxiliaries to that end.

He had tried to prepare himself for the ugly facts of pain and discomfort and dirt and smells which he knew would mask this truth. But he discovered now that he had relied far more on the shelter of the battalion itself: he had not prepared himself for this kind of war in this kind of unit.

He wasn't afraid, he told himself. Because this wasn't the feeling he had had by the side of the stream, when the major had shouted at him in German.

But he was alone, and he was unutterably and desolately lonely.

A sudden stir among the bandits, and then a spreading hush of their muttered conversations, roused him out of self-misery.

The sergeant-major strode into the lamplight and glowered around him into the darkness. He was still wearing his leather jerkin, but had forsaken his beret for a knitted cap-comforter.

'Purvis!' he barked into the gloom.

'S'arnt-major!' One of the bandits barked back.

'Everybody here?'

'S'arnt-major.' Purvis paused. 'One extra.'

The sergeant-major frowned for a moment. 'Corporal Butler!'

'Sergeant-major!' Butler attempted to bark, but his voice cracked with the effort.

'Right.' The sergeant-major swung round towards the doorway, his hand coming up to a quivering salute. 'All present and correct, sir!' he roared into the darkness.

Second Lieutenant Audley stepped cautiously through the doorway into the circle of light, stooping to avoid the