The '44 Vintage

'Keep the pack. One thing we've got plenty of—and you won't find more of them where you're going, that's for sure.'

'Thanks.' Butler extracted a cigarette from the packet and leant forward towards the flame extended to him. He must remember not to inhale the smoke, which would make him cough if he did—

Christ! The broad white stripe and the white letters 'MP' on the American's helmet were momentarily illuminated in the light of the flame: he had cheerfully offered illicit alcohol to a Military Policeman in a forward combat area!

The smoke found its way into his lungs and set him coughing. If anything, American cigarettes tasted even fouler than British ones.

But the American MP seemed as friendly as ever, the red tip of his cigarette glowing bright as he drew on it. 'Ranger outfit, are you, mac?' he said amiably.

Butler managed to find his breath. Maybe American MPs were less bloody-minded than British ones; or maybe they took a more lenient view of foreign allies. 'Ranger?' he repeated stupidly.

'Aw, hell—what d'you British call 'em—Commandos, that's it.'

Butler thought of the brigands he had seen the previous night, and wasn't sure whether he was flattered or not. “Well—sort of, yes,' he admitted.

'Uh-huh.' The red tip flared. “Well, you should be okay getting across down there. There's a bunch of kraut infantry about five miles up river, where the bridge was—there was a couple of days back, anyway. But we haven't seen anything on this stretch so far. Real nice and quiet, it is.'

Butler stiffened. The way the American talked, the Loire was not far away, but right there in front of them in the fast dissolving darkness.

'We're near the river, then?' he asked, casually.

The cigarette glowed. 'Uh-huh.'

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

'How far?'

In the distance Sergeant Purvis's voice started up again: ' Mount up . . . mount up.'

'How far, Yank?' Butler repeated the question.

'Mount up.'

'Four-five miles, maybe.' The cigarette glowed and then out' into the vineyard. 'Couple of miles from here, we drop down into the flood plain. Another two, there's a levee—that's where the 921st is, the bottom land there this side of it.'

'Mount up.'

'What's the river like?'

The American glugged the last of the wine and then heaved the bottle carelessly among the vines.

'Nothing special. Wide, sandy bottom, lots of little islands covered in brush—not much water coming down now, so most of the channels are dry . . . pretty much like rivers back home, I guess: mean in the spring, but kind of lazy in the summer, 'cept where the current is.' He grunted reassuringly. 'No sweat crossing, that's for sure. I heard tell the 921st got a patrol on the other side a couple of days ago—no trouble. So you should get over real easy.'

The Americans hadn't let the grass grow under their feet, thought Butler approvingly. But that had been what the general back home had said about them out of his experience in the great battles of 1918, when he had had a regiment of them attached to his division: what they lacked in experience they made up for in enterprise.

'How far did your patrol go?'

'Aw, not more than maybe five-six miles.' The American paused. 'Where you heading for, mac? You going far?'

It was annoying not to be able to answer that question. If this was the Loire just ahead and Touraine started on the riverbanks, then they could be quite close to their objective. But if Touraine was the size of Lancashire or Yorkshire . . . ? 'I wish I knew,' he began apologetically. 'But I think—'

' Corporal Butler!' Sergeant Purvis's voice came sharply from just behind him.

Butler snapped to attention. 'Sergeant!'

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

'Are you all right, Corporal?'

'Yes, Sergeant.'

'Right. Fourth jeep in the rear, you'll find Mr. Audley. You'll be his driver from here on—understood?'

'Yes, Sergeant,' answered Butler automatically. Then a hideous thought struck him. 'But, Sergeant—'

'Don't bloody argue, man— move!' Sergeant Purvis banged the side of the truck with his fist. 'Mount up!'

'But, Sergeant—' Butler trailed off as he realised he was no longer talking to anyone. Even the American had turned away towards his motorbike. He was alone with his problem.

Leaden-footed—and the treacherous left one was reminding him again of its troubles, he realised bitterly

—he made his way down the line of vehicles. As he passed each one he could feel the eyes of the occupants on him in the fast-dissolving darkness.