The '44 Vintage

What's-'is-name with the stutter.'

Taffy nodded his agreement. 'You're dead right there, Harry. It'll be like before the war—not what you are, but who you are. And not what you know, but who you know.'

Butler looked from one to the other. They were good blokes, he decided—the best, in fact. But they were absolutely wrong.

The only problem was that he couldn't remember why they were wrong any more.

'Influence in high places, that's what you want,' said Taffy Jones wisely. 'Influence in high places—and that's what you and me haven't got, boyo.' Influence—Suddenly it all came back to Butler with a rush, why it wouldn't be the same as last time.

Because this time there were the Russian Communists—millions and millions of them, all armed to the teeth. That was why there'd be a big Army still, and a place for him in it.

The arguments were all there now, at his fingertips. But they were jumbled up like the pieces of a jigsaw. It hadn't been his father who had said that about the Russians, for all that he loathed the Communists and was always scheming to keep them out of the union's affairs. They weren't to be trusted

—the general said the same thing, and when his father and the general agreed on something then it had to be true, he felt that in his bones. The general!

He pointed triumphantly at Jones. 'But that's just it, Taffy: I have got influence in high places—I've got the general-in-chief of the regiment, who is a colonel. . .' That didn't sound right. '... I mean, the colonel-in-chief of the regiment, who is a general—he's a very good friend of mine. A friend of the family. My father was his sergeant-major.'

He found to his surprise that he was looking at the end of his finger, which was waving in the front of the blur of Taffy Jones's face. He noticed that he'd broken the nail on something.

Someone took his arm—it was Sergeant Purvis.

'What you need, mate, is something solid in your stomach,' said Purvis distantly. 'Taffy—there's some Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

cold stew in the pot. Get it heated up.'

Butler had just been thinking happily that the irritation between his toes had entirely disappeared—he couldn't feel a thing even when he stamped his foot. But now there was something very strange and unpleasant going on in his stomach—something the mention of cold stew was causing to rise—

'No—' he began thickly, as the room started to tip up under him.

7. How Corporal Jones answered a civil question

The darkness was thick and warm, and it revolved around Butler not in a circle but in a great swirling ellipse. He steadied in it and was sick.

Then he was on his knees, the sweat clammy on his face, and he was being sick again. And again.

Now there was a hand on his shoulder.

'That's right, boyo—get it off your chest—that's right . . . Now, put your finger down your throat—go on . . .'

Butler leaned forward until he lost his balance. His head struck something hard and rough, preventing him tipping over altogether. It was a stone wall, and he felt grateful to it for being there.

Then he was sick again, and this time his stomach hurt with the spasm of it. He'd made a terrible fool of himself, but the sickness mattered more than the foolishness.

Then he felt a little better.

'Jack?' A hand touched his shoulder.

Feeling better made the foolishness matter more than the sickness. He pretended not to hear the voice.

'He still out?' Another voice, harsher and further away.

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

'Doesn't know whether it's Monday or Christmas. Proper waste of good wine.'

Taffy Jones.

'But you got what we wanted?'

Harsher voice.

'Oh yes . . . spilled the beans he did, before he spilled his guts. Like taking chocolate from a baby.'

Taffy Jones's voice grew fainter. 'I tell you—'

A wave of nausea cut off the fading words. There wasn't anything left inside him to throw up, but his stomach was still behaving as though there was. More than that though, he was angry that he was missing what was being said about him. Beans and chocolate weren't things he wanted to think about, but there was something there which he must try to remember, and already he was beginning to forget it.

The stone wall was hurting his head, so he put his hands flat on it and took the strain.

That was better. And he wasn't feeling so bad now either—he was just feeling awful.

Also . . . there was something he had been meaning to ask Sergeant Purvis, and he had forgotten to ask it, and now he couldn't remember what it was. Or he'd meant to ask somebody, and Sergeant Purvis would be more likely to give him a straight answer than Taffy Jones.

Because like the Communist Party, Taffy Jones wasn't to be trusted.