The '44 Vintage

He was going to die.

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

In ten minutes' time the major would arrive to find him naked and dead beside the stream.

With purple feet.

No, his brain screamed at him.

'Tommy—'

' Nein,' said Butler.

His own voice surprised him—it didn't sound like his voice: it was someone else's voice in someone else's language. But it also roused him to fight for his life with the only weapon he had. His eye fell on the Sten gun lying on the ledge in the bank, beside his boots and equipment. But that wasn't his weapon

—yet.

His weapon was time.

' Du hast'— he fumbled for the right word—' du hast uberhaupt keine Chance.' It was the first German sentence he had ever spoken to a German—it was like firing the first shot in anger. ' Du hast uberhaupt keine Chance—meine Kameraden werden bald zuruckkommen.'

'Eh?'

That had given the bugger something to think about, thought Butler —the confident assertion that he had no chance because the place would soon be crawling with British troops.

' Deine Kameraden?' The German seemed surprised.

' Ja.' Butler nodded vigorously. But then the thought hit him sickeningly that he had maybe given his captor a bloody good reason for pulling the trigger straight away and then getting clear as fast as he could.

He had said exactly the wrong thing, bugger it.

' Deine Kameraden?' the German repeated.

Think. Say something. Say anything.

' Ja . . .' The words dried up in Butler's throat. He must give the man a reason not to fire.

If he fired they would hear it.

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

' Ja. Wenn du mich totest—' To his horror Butler discovered that he couldn't remember the German word for hear. All he could think of as an alternative was to make a direct threat: if the German killed him then his mates would extract vengeance. ' Wenn du mich totest, werden sie dich sicher toten.'

The hedge was silent, and as the seconds ticked away a small flame of hope kindled inside Butler. Every second was a small victory advancing him towards the rendezvous hour.

Always supposing this Major O'Conor was a punctual man— God, please make Major O'Conor a punctual man!

The German chuckled nastily—it was the dry, contemptuous chuckle of the confident man who held all the cards in his hand and didn't care who knew it.

'Kummere dich nicht um mich, Tommy. Komm heraus and argumentiere nicht.'

The flame was gone as though it had never been. Instead there was only another wave of dead cow to remind him that in the moment he stepped out of the stream, away from the Sten, he was as dead as the cow.

Dead with his purple feet for the German to laugh at.

Dead without his boots on.

His boots.

From his hiding place in the hedge all the German could see of his equipment was a pair of boots—the rest was out of sight on the ledge. And what he couldn't see he couldn't know about.

What was the German for 'boots'?

Stiefel.

That one word carried Butler from despair to resolution.

' Meine Stiefel . . .' He tried to sound abject. ' Aber lass mich meine Stiefel aufnehmen.'

' Deine Stiefel?' Another chuckle. ' Ja, ja! Also—nimm deine Stiefel auf.'

The contempt in the man's voice was the final spur Butler needed. He took a step sideways, settling his feet firmly on the bed of the stream, and bent over slowly as though to pick up his boots. Then, in the Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

very instant that his right hand seemed about to close on them he doubled up below the lip of the bank.

The fruits of a hundred weapon drills were harvested in seconds: cocking handle slammed back to

'safety'—magazine from the open pouch snapped firmly home—stud on 'automatic'—cocking handle off 'safety'—