The '44 Vintage

something in the way the colonel spoke made me think this stuff's been there a tidy old time—in Jack's castle—

maybe ever since 1940, say. And what I was thinking was that it 'ud make sense if they couldn't get it out of France then to hide it away somewhere safe-like, just so the Germans didn't get it, whatever it is.

But now maybe the Frenchies have got wind of it, see.'

'But if it's British property—the property of our government—' Butler protested.

'British property? British property?' Taffy Jones repeated the words, his voice rising incredulously.

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

'Boyo, you know what we are?' he tapped his chest with the new bottle.

'We—are?' Butler blinked. 'Well. . . we're Chandos Force.'

Jones tutted sarcastically. 'No, no—we're the British Liberation Army, that's what we are. And the French, they are the French Liberation Forces. And this'— he put down his glass and his bottle carefully on the table beside him and pulled back his cuff—'what do you think this is?'

'It's a watch,' said Butler.

'It's a gold watch—a liberated gold watch. I know, because I liberated it myself. And I hope to liberate a lot more before I'm finished'— Jones picked up the glass and the bottle again—'like liberating this Grand Vin de Touraine.'

Butler couldn't help smiling back at the grinning Welshman. The doctrine was familiar—everything that wasn't screwed down was fair game, and there were plenty of men like Taffy who also carried screwdrivers; even the general had praised the Aussies as being the finest thieves in the 1918 army as well as the best assault troops. But this was still accepting robbery on a grander scale than was right and proper.

Sergeant Purvis clapped him on the back, laughing. 'You stick close to Taf, Jack—he's born to be hanged. . . . But the little bugger's right: the bloody Germans had been stealing the bloody frogs blind, so you can't blame them for trying to do the same to us. Only I still want to know where this Touraine place is, that's what I want to know.'

'Now there you have me,' said Taffy Jones. 'If it was Koritsar, or Monastir, or Gostivar . . . but Touraine

—' He looked at Butler questioningly. 'You have the sound of an educated man, Jack. Or maybe you have a map of France in your pocket like you have a corkscrew, eh?'

Butler grinned back a little foolishly. He was far from the bit of western Normandy he'd studied back in England, and School Certificate geography had left him no memory of the different parts of France. But Touraine sounded as though it was connected with Tours, which so far as he could recall was a city right in the middle of the country—a city on the river Loire, which they were about to cross. 'I think it's just across the river—the river Loire,' he said hesitantly.

'Go on! Maybe we're not going to have to travel so far, then!' said Jones enthusiastically. 'I don't really like all this driving down roads like we owned the place—it's all very well for our Willy, he travels in the middle, like. But I always seem to be in that front jeep, clinging onto a bloody great machine gun—I think the Swine's got it in for me, you know.' He wagged his head at Butler. 'That's our good friend Company Sergeant-major Swayne, in case you haven't met him, Jack.'

'I have met him,' said Butler. For once his shyness had deserted him, he felt. But then it was impossible Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

to be shy in this friendly company. 'I pointed a Sten at him, and he didn't like it.'

'What happened? Did it jam?' said someone.

'Of course it jammed,' said Jones. 'Here now—we'll give you something better than a Sten, you don't want that cheap mass-produced rubbish.' He reached under the table and produced a stubby submachine gun with a wooden stock, quite unlike anything Butler had ever seen. 'Beretta .38—best little gun ever made, you take it from me, Jack. None of your Thompsons or Schmeissers, so-called. That's real high-quality steel, that is, machined the hard way. You wouldn't get better stuff out of Ebbw Vale than that—

that's made to last, that is.'

The Welshman stroked the gun with the same reverence he had earlier bestowed on the wine bottle. His enthusiasm was clearly split fifty-fifty.

'Did you really point a Sten at the sergeant-major?' asked someone.

'Well—not deliberately—' began Butler.

'Swayne by name and swine by nature,' said Jones to no one in particular. 'But a good soldier, I'll give him that'

'Wonder what he'll do now we've won the war.'

'They'll send him to fight the Japs.'

'Buggered if I'm going to fight the Japs. He's welcome to them.'

'The Americans'll fight the Japs.'

'What about the 14th Army in Burma—they're fighting the Japs. I've got a brother in the RAF there. He says they call it 'the Forgotten Army'.'

'Ah—well that must be why I'd forgotten about them, then.'

Everyone laughed, and Butler found that he was laughing with them. It was a good joke, that one: the forgotten Forgotten Army.

Taffy Jones tugged at his sleeve. 'Have you that corkscrew of yours handy?' He upended the bottle he was holding in order to illustrate his need.

Butler fumbled in his pockets, eventually found the knife and promptly split his thumbnail prizing open Price,