travelling at breakneck speed, far too fast for safety, as though the Americans were determined to deliver them on time for some impossible pre-arranged zero hour. But it looked as though they hadn't come nearly as far south towards the river as he had estimated —that they were still in the middle of nowhere in the newly conquered territory of the Third Army.
Which was disappointing. They'd never manage a dawn crossing of the Loire now, which was the obvious moment to slip across the river and through the German lines.
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
Someone was coming, he could hear the sharp tap of metal heelplates on the tarmac.
'Five minutes . . . five minutes . . .' The voice that went with the metallic taps was Sergeant Purvis's.
'Five minutes . . .'
Butler ducked down inside the back of the truck. Sergeant Purvis was one man he was ashamed to meet after his performance of the previous night.
'Five minutes'—the flap was jerked aside—'are you awake in there, Corporal Butler?'
'Yes, Sergeant,' said Butler quickly.
A torch shone into his face. 'How d'you feel, lad?' asked the sergeant, not unkindly.
'Okay, Sergeant.'
'Then you must have a head like a bloody rhinoceros,' said the sergeant. “We'll be stopping here for five minutes, anyway. So if you want a quick shit, now's your chance.'
Butler thought of the water he'd just drunk. 'Right, Sergeant.'
Purvis watched him as he climbed out of the truck, which reminded him of the trouble he'd had getting into it. If Jones had told the sergeant about it, then this might be the occasion when the sergeant would choose to dress him down for his behaviour. Or he might be just checking to see that he was in a fit state for duty.
He stamped his feet and pulled his equipment straight. His knees ached a bit, but the ground had a good firm feeling to it. He reached back inside the truck and lifted out his Sten.
The sergeant was still watching him.
'Anything the matter, Sergeant?'
'Here, lad—' Sergeant Purvis handed something to him—it was smooth and cold. It was a bottle. 'The hair of the dog ... if you're feeling as rough as I think you are that'll set you up again.'
Before Butler could reply the sergeant had turned on his heel and continued down the road.
'Five minutes . . . you've got five minutes—'
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
He hefted the bottle in his hand. It was about half full, he judged, and there was nothing in the world he felt less like than drinking. But in this darkness that at least was no problem. He made his way cautiously off the road onto a grass verge beside which a big motorcycle was parked. He had the vague impression that there was a field of low bushes, maybe waist-high, beyond it, but as he was about to cast the bottle into the bushes there was a movement among them. A moment later a string of curses in an exasperated American voice issued out of the darkness and a match flared among the bushes.
For a bet, that must be the owner of the motorbike, decided Butler. And for another bet, the owner of the motorbike would know where the convoy was heading.
The flame kindled again—it was a cigarette lighter, not a match—and there came a satisfied grunt with it: the Yank had found whatever it was he was looking for. Butler waited patiently beside the motorbike, listening to his precious minutes tick away, until a darker nucleus loomed up out of the field.
'Who's that?' said the Yank
'A friend—British,' said Butler. 'Would you like a drink, Yank?'
The figure approached him. 'What you got?'
Butler remembered that Americans were devoted to whisky. 'Only wine, I'm afraid,' he answered apologetically.
'Hell, mac, that's better than nothing. I've swallowed enough dust, my mouth's like the bottom of a birdcage.'
'Help yourself then.' Butler thrust the bottle into the American's hands. 'I'll be back in a minute.'
'Okay. But watch yourself down there . . . and don't eat any of those goddamn grapes—they'll give you the runs.'
Grapes! So the low bushes were vines, Butler realised—and so they had indeed come far south of Normandy. He strained his eyes into the darkness as he unbuttoned his fly. He could just see—or now imagined he could see —a faint difference between the blackness of the sky and that of the land. But it was impossible to estimate how big the vineyard was—if it was a big one then the Loire couldn't be too far away.
He made his way back to the road.
'Thanks, mac,' said the Yank.
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
'Keep the bottle, Yank,' said Butler. 'Where I'm going I'm told there's more of it.'
'Uh-huh?' The American chuckled. 'Smoke?'
It was on the tip of Butler's tongue to admit he didn't smoke, but then he remembered what he was about.
'Thanks.'
