The '44 Vintage

Butler started to move again, and then stopped.

Meine Stiefel!

He turned towards Jones. 'What happened to Sergeant Scott?' He stared blindly into the torch's beam.

'And Mr.—Mr. Wilson—the men we're replacing?'

There was noise and movement all round him, he could sense it in the darkness. But he could also sense the silence behind the beam of light which blinded him.

Then the light left his face. 'None of your business, boyo,' said Jones, reaching forward to push him towards the truck again. 'None of your business.'

Butlers anger erupted. Before he could stop himself he had swept Jones's arm out of the way and had grabbed the little Welshman by the throat with one hand while the other spun him round against the tailboard. The man's cry of surprise, half stifled by the choking hand at his neck, turned to one of pain as he was bent backwards into the jerrycans.

'I said—what happened to Sergeant Scott?' Butler brought his knee up into Jones's crotch menacingly as he felt a hand clawing at him. The hand went limp.

'Arrgh-arrgh-arrgh,' mouthed Jones.

Butler slackened his throat-grip, at the same time grasping the free hand which had tried to claw him and slamming it hard against the truck.

'You f— ahhh!' Whatever Jones had planned to say was cut off by renewed pressure. 'You're breaking my—breaking my back.'

'What happened to Sergeant Scott?' Butler repeated, wishing he could see the Welshman's face.

Jones whispered something, but Butler resisted the temptation to lean forward to catch the words. The strength of his grip depended on his straight arm; once he bent his elbow he would also bring his face into range of a head-butt, which was the oldest last resort of all.

'Speak up, you little bugger,' he snarled.

Jones relaxed. 'Accident,' he said hoarsely. 'Had—an—accident.'

'What sort of accident?'

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

Jones lay very still. 'Shot himself.'

'How?' Butler frowned in the darkness. He hadn't expected this answer, but when he thought about such an accident it wasn't so very surprising, particularly with the outlandish selection of weapons favoured by Chandos Force.

'Cleaning his rifle,' said Jones.

Butler was disappointed. 'And Mr. Wilson?'

This time Jones seemed unwilling to remember. Butler lifted his knee a little to jog his memory.

'Accident,' said Jones quickly.

'Cleaning his revolver?' Butler kept the knee in position.

'No. Stepped on a mine.' Jones's voice rose plaintively.

' Corporal Jones!' The sergeant-major's shout was unmistakable.

Jones struggled convulsively.

' CORPORAL JONES!' The shout was louder and nearer.

Butler held him down. 'Next time I ask a civil question, you give a civil answer—remember that,' he said, quickly letting go of the Welshman and stepping smartly to the side out of his reach as he did so.

The sergeant-major loomed up in the darkness just as Jones had managed to straighten himself. 'Are you deaf, Corporal Jones?'

'Sergeant-major!' Jones's voice cracked.

'Well—get that man into the truck double-quick and then report to Sergeant Purvis on the double, Corporal!'

Butler didn't wait to be helped. Pushing Jones out of the way he hauled himself up among the jerrycans.

' Tailboard!' roared the sergeant-major.

Jones slammed the tailboard up and groped in the darkness for the locking pin. He had lost his torch, Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

thought Butler with malicious satisfaction. Serve the little bugger right!

'Remember?' Jones hissed at him. 'I'll remember, boyo—you can bet on that.'

'You do,' said Butler.

'Don't you worry'—the little man was clumsy with rage; Butler could hear the pin scraping as he searched for the hole—'don't you worry about that'

'I won't,' said Butler.

'No. You worry about having another accident—you worry about that, boyo . . . just you worry about that.'

The truck rocked as its crew came aboard. Away to the right a motorcycle was kicked into life. The shaded headlights of first one jeep, then another, then others, were switched on.