The '44 Vintage

Butler watched the major intently. Every good unit had its self-appointed funny man, and although he himself was frequently unable to see the humour in the jokes they revelled in he had learnt from his platoon sergeant that they performed a useful function in relieving tension. The Welshman was a cut above most of them too: he had let the major call him back to the serious matter in hand without conceding that large numbers of Germans were more important than large quantities of alcohol. Now it would be interesting to see how the major handled his question, because clever officers never attempted to beat such men at their own game.

'Yes . . .' The major pretended to give the question serious consideration. 'Well now, perhaps Colonel Clinton could answer that one for us?' He turned slowly towards the little group of officers.

Good, thought Butler. The best way of all was to play humour straight, as though it was perfectly serious.

The full colonel stepped into the light and swung on his heel towards the audience. In catching his badges of rank Butler had missed his face; now he saw that he was youngish for that extra pip and that he didn't have the look of a regimental officer. The first of his three ribbons was a DSO certainly, but that could be won from a chair by brains or cunning. Only he also didn't have the sleek authority of the staff officer . . . more a hungry, almost suspicious look which Butler hadn't encountered before.

'Yes . . . well, it isn't easy to say with any certainty what the present strength of the German First and Nineteenth armies is.' Colonel Clinton's voice wasn't regimental either; it was educated, but classless and quite different from both the drawl of Audley's colonel and Audley's own public-school stutter.

'Ten weeks ago they fielded thirteen infantry divisions, including five training divisions, plus three Panzer divisions and one Panzer grenadier division. But they've been bled white since then. Today . . .

maybe eight infantry divisions, all well under strength and including Russian and Polish ex-POWs. Plus one first-class Panzer division—the 11th.' Colonel Clinton gazed into space for a moment, as though Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

mentally adding long field-grey columns of figures. 'With a substantial noncombatant military element . . . say a quarter of a million uniformed personnel.'

The figure of a quarter of a million hung in the darkness and silence of the barn. Butler hadn't thought to count Chandos Force, but he knew it couldn't be much over thirty.

'Thank you, sir,' said Corporal Jones. 'Thank you very much, sir.' Military intelligence, thought Butler.

Only military intelligence would have figures like that, down to divisional numbers, at its fingertips.

'Quarter of a million men'—as though by tacit agreement Major O'Conor took over again—'who are not of the slightest interest to us.'

It occurred to Butler that it was the Germans' likely interest in Chandos Force, not Chandos Force's lack of interest in the Germans, which was of more pressing concern; but nobody—not even Corporal Jones—

seemed disposed to raise that point.

'Nor will we be of the slightest interest to them—certainly not since oh-eight hundred hours this morning'—the major paused very deliberately—'when the American Seventh Army and the French Second Corps landed in the South of France.'

There was a stirring of excitement in the barn, and Butler closed his eyes. He had already accepted the bitter truth— the Allies have won the war—but the acceptance was still raw enough to render each piece of confirmation painful.

'So as of this morning what fighting strength they have will be drawn southwest, to delay the Americans and the French while the rest of the ragbag heads for home.

'We're not going to hinder them—we're not going to lift a finger against them—and provided we can reach our objective without getting in their way, there's no reason why they should want to lift a finger against us. All they want is a clear road to Germany, and we're not going to knock down any signposts—

is that clear?'

For a moment there was silence. Then Audley made a curious hissing noise.

'Ssss . . .' The young subaltern fought the stutter briefly, shaking his head against it. 'S-supposing we do run into them?'

The major smiled. 'That's a fair question from a newcomer. And the answer is that we're here now because we're experts in not running into Germans behind their own lines. We've been doing it for six months in Jugoslavia in rather more difficult circumstances, and the powers-that-be reckon we can do it in France too. Does that answer your question, Mr. Audley?'

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

Butler found he could guess very well why Audley of all people would have found that fear uppermost in his mind: his whole brief military experience in the bocage country consisted of running headlong into Germans, with unpleasant results.

'Yes, sir,' said Audley manfully.

'Good. Now—are there any other questions?'

Sergeant Purvis's back straightened again. 'Sir!'

' Yes, Sergeant?'

'The objective, sir.'

Major O'Conor's last remark in the jeep flashed into Butler's memory: We're going to take a castle from the Germans. But that didn't quite square with not lifting a finger against them, somehow.

The major looked towards Colonel Clinton. 'Sir?'

The colonel nodded. 'The exact nature and location of the objective is still a classified secret, Sergeant.

All I can tell you is that... we are going south of the Loire to repossess certain items of property belonging to