his schoolboy confidence had only been shaken momentarily. It seemed more than unnecessary to restate the obvious now, deep in France in 1944—it almost seemed bad form.
The major rocked on his heels. 'Ah . . . now I think you may be in danger of mistaking me ... I cannot see all your expressions, but judging by the look on Sergeant Purvis's face—am I boring you, Purvis?'
All Butler could see of the moustachioed sergeant was his back, which was now rigid beneath its enveloping smock.
'Sir?' Purvis temporised. 'No, sir.'
'Perhaps you think I am making a patriotic address—do you think that, Purvis?'
'No, sir.' This time there was no hesitation.
'I should damn well think not!' The major paused. 'However, I can imagine that some of you may find it difficult to grasp literal truth when it is plainly stated. . . . Mr. Audley there, for example—his regiment has been mixing it with Panzer Group West and the German Seventh Army, who have no doubt been giving as good as they got.'
Audley's chin lifted. 'R-rather b-b-better than they g-got, actually,' he said defiantly.
'Indeed?' The major's eye lingered momentarily on Audley. 'Well then—I have good news for you, Mr.
Audley'—the eye lifted—'and for all of you. Within the next forty-eight hours Panzer Group West and the Seventh Army will have ceased to exist—what's left of them will be in the bag just south of Falaise, caught between our army and the Americans. And it'll be the biggest bag since Stalingrad.'
He paused more deliberately this time, to let
'But that isn't the point. The point is that there is no German army between Falaise and the Seine. And there is no German army behind the Seine ... in fact, gentlemen, there is no German army between this barn and the river Rhine.'
The place names bounced off Butler's understanding. The Seine was remote enough. But the Rhine—
that was a river on another planet.
'What it amounts to, quite simply, is that the German front in France has collapsed,' went on the major Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
in a flat, matter-of-fact voice. 'Last night a special light reconnaissance unit of the American Army crossed the Seine west of Paris, and they crossed unopposed. Their armoured columns are already beyond Chartres and Orleans—they delayed at Chartres to spare the cathedral, but elsewhere they're meeting virtually no opposition. Some of their tanks are making sixty miles a day—their main problem is petrol, not Germans. According to the Air Force, there isn't a single major enemy unit moving west.
What there is that's moving ... is heading east, towards the Fatherland, as fast as it can go.'
The Rhine—No German army between this barn and the Rhine—Sixty miles a day—
The sense of what the major was saying finally penetrated into Butler's brain and exploded there.
The literal truth:
'It's 1940 all over again,' said the major. 'Only this time they are on the receiving end, and they've no Air Force left and no Channel to hide behind. And there are ten million Russians breaking down their back door.'
The literal truth:
The war was ending too soon for him—it was ending and he would have no part in it. While the Rifles were advancing to victory, he would be pissing around interrogating prisoners for Major O'Conor, far in the rear. He would wear a Victory Medal, and all it would mean was that he had passed School Certificate in German. Peace loomed ahead of him like a desert.
'Very well, then!' The major's tone became brisker. 'The first answer leads to the second. To the north of us our armies and the Americans are tidying up. To the west they are taking the ports of Brittany. To the east they are in open country. To the south they have stopped along the line of the river Loire from the sea to Orleans.' He was playing with them, thought Butler bitterly. 'We are going south, across the river.'
Butler's heart sank. If there was any real fighting left it would be to the north and the east. The south could only be a backwater.
There was a slight stir in the darkness to his right, and the sound of a throat being cleared.
Major O'Conor picked up the signal. 'Yes?' he challenged.
The throat was cleared again. 'I was just wondering, sir . . .' The sing-song Welsh voice trailed off hesitantly, but Butler guessed instantly the question which must be uppermost in the Welshman's mind: there must still be a lot of unbeaten Germans south of the Loire who might not yet have heard that the war was over.
'Yes, Corporal Jones—you were just wondering?'
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
'Yes, sir—I was just wondering, see ... would that be where the wine comes from, in the south like?'
'The wine?' The major was as unprepared for the question as Butler was.
'Yes, sir. Lovely stuff it is, the French make—much better than the Eyeties even. But they don't make it round here—no grapes, see—and I was thinking . . . not warm enough here. But down south, that would be where they would be making it.' Corporal Jones sounded well pleased with his reasoning. 'And a lot of it, they make, too,' he added. 'So I believe.'
'Then we must hope the Germans haven't drunk it all,' said the major dryly.
'Oh . . . now I hadn't thought of that, sir.' The corporal took the hint obediently. 'Would there be enough of them to do that then, sir?'
