The '44 Vintage

'Sir . . .' Purvis just managed to prevent himself shrugging. 'The major put three recce patrols from the advance party across the river about an hour ago.'

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

'I thought the Americans were patrolling the other side.'

Purvis shuffled his feet. 'They have been, sir. But the major wanted to look-see for himself, like we always do.'

'When are they due back?'

This time Purvis did shrug. 'I dunno, sir—pretty soon, I'd say. But you'll have to ask the major.'

Audley accepted that with a nod. 'Righty-ho, Sergeant. Carry on.'

Purvis swung away and Audley turned to Butler. 'So he doesn't trust our American friends, then. And come to that, he probably doesn't trust anyone else much either ... a downy bird, as I said, Corporal.'

There was just enough light now for Butler to see that he was grinning. ' 'Downy' meaning 'crafty'—you don't remember your Kipling, then?'

'Only Kim and The Jungle Book, sir—and some of the poetry, like If . . . and the Barrack-Room Ballads, sir.' This time Butler was determined not to be thought an illiterate, even at the risk of seeming to show off.

'Good man! But this is from Stalky,'— Audley reached towards the gear lever as the jeep in front started to move—'you should read that. There's a touch of Stalky about the major, I'd like to think.'

The sergeant's fifty yards seemed more like two hundred, but at length the vehicles in front turned sharply before a wall of tangled branches. As Audley followed, Butler saw a wide expanse of open ground walled in by mist in which he could make out the vague outlines of men and vehicles.

'Hold tight,' said Audley.

The front wheels of the jeep fell away into nothing and they half-drove and half-slithered down a steep, sandy bank already deeply rutted by other wheels. For a moment or two the tyres spun sand, lost their grip, found it again, lost it, and finally pulled forward onto a firmer track between two brackish lakes of green-scummed water. As they moved out into the open, Butler saw a line of jeeps drawn up nose to tail, and behind them tree tops growing out of the mist. They must now be in one of the dry channels of the river, behind one of the islands the American MP had spoken of.

Audley followed the jeep ahead into the line and switched off the engine. Behind them the last two jeeps pulled into position. Chandos Force was on its start-line at last, thought Butler. Now the worst time would begin, the waiting time.

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

A figure materialised out of the mist ahead of them, tall, thin, and unmistakable.

It paused at the jeep in front. 'Morning, Bassett—morning, Mason . . . stretch your legs, have a bite to eat. We've a few minutes in hand, so make the most of them.'

'Morning, sir.'

'Yes, sir.'

Major O'Conor advanced towards them, grinning broadly. 'Ah, the modern languages section! Bonjour, David—guten Morgen, Oberjager Butler.' He raised his ashplant stick in salute.

' Bonjour, mon commandant,' said Audley.

Butler couldn't bring himself to play silly games. 'Sir,' he said. 'Good morning, sir.'

The major nodded. 'Well, so far it does look like a good morning, I'm happy to say. We've had three patrols on the other side, and so far two have reported a clear run, so we shall probably go in about fifteen minutes.' He looked up into the lightening sky, from which the noise of engines had now diminished to a distant hum. 'When we shall summon back our RAF friend, don't you worry.'

'Do we have any air support today, sir?' asked Audley.

'Oh yes. If we get into real trouble—which we won't—but if we do, we've access to a limejuice strike of our very own, David.'

Audley took a deep breath. 'Well, that's a relief, sir—limejuice saved our bacon several times back in Normandy.'

'Oh, we shall be all right, don't you fret,' the major reassured him. 'The Hun's thin on the ground, where we're going—plenty of back roads, thick, wooded country. We've operated in far worse than this . . .

Anyway, stretch your legs while you can, both of you. Just don't stray too far. Wouldn't want to lose you just when the fun's beginning, eh?'

They watched him move on down the line, silent for a moment. Then Audley took another deep breath.

'Phew! Looks as if we're playing for the First Fifteen after all, with a limejuice of our own, by God!'

''Limejuice,' sir?'

'Rocket-firing Typhoons—ground-strafing experts. When we ran into anything we couldn't handle—

which was anything bigger than a German with a pea-shooter in a biscuit tin, if the FOOs couldn't get Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

their guns on it they'd give us a limejuice.' Audley's face clouded suddenly, and he seemed to be staring at something in the mist beyond Butler's right shoulder. 'Last time they did it, it went wrong. The Germans shot down our spotter plane, and the Tiffies couldn't find the target . . . and then the Germans made mincemeat of us.' He swallowed, shook his head and focussed on Butler again. 'That's water under the b-b-b-bridge now, anyway. So let's stretch our legs like the man said, Butler.'