The '44 Vintage

'Yes, sir.' Butler stepped out of the jeep and was reminded immediately by his left foot of just how he ought to be making the most of these last precious minutes. This was not only the last opportunity he might get but also the last time he might have anything like privacy for what had to be done. 'If you'll excuse me for a minute or two, sir —'

'Okay, Corporal.' Audley had produced a dog-eared paperback book from inside his battle dress and a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles from his breast pocket. He looped the spectacles over his ears and settled them far down his nose—presumably he was farsighted—and then started to walk up and down, oblivious of everything and everyone around him.

Butler strolled down the line of jeeps. The bandits seemed to have taken the major's advice in a variety of different ways: several of them were brewing up on a small primus stove; one was pumping up the tyres of one of the bicycles which were among the unit's stranger items of equipment, while another loaded a big .50 Browning machine gun. At the end of the line a man was shaving.

Rubbing his hand over his own chin, Butler felt a fine sandpaper of stubble. It wouldn't show yet, that was one small advantage of his red hair. But even if it had been black as night he wouldn't have wasted any of his precious water on it—that was reserved for his treacherous foot. It was a pity there was no acceptable water close to hand, but the river (which he supposed lay on the other side of the island) was hardly safe, and he didn't fancy the slimy green pools he had passed a few minutes earlier.

What he needed now was a little cover, and there ahead of him now lay just the place.

The spring floods had gouged a miniature cliff in the side of the island, and in so doing had undermined the roots of a tall willow and brought it down into the channel. Later floods hadn't been quite powerful enough to wrench it out altogether but had festooned it with drifted branches and feathery debris. Behind that he would be snug as a bug in a rug.

He stepped carefully over the outflung branches and settled himself down on a little beach of fine sand which had gathered under the overhang behind the broad trunk of the willow. It was a relief to loosen his equipment, and an even greater relief to take his boot off and trickle water over his foot.

He examined his toes with familiar distaste. Beneath the faded purple the skin was crinkled and unwholesome, and the gentian violet stung as he dabbed it into the raw slits which the fungus had opened between them.

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

As always, he thought of Sammy Murch again as the purple stain spread over his skin, and the thought was more painful than the sting of the gentian violet. He would never be able to make it up with Sammy now: Sammy would be only another name chiselled on the town war memorial, which already had the names of two of his uncles from the previous war. One of them had been killed in the very last week of the war, he remembered, after three years in the trenches; which everyone agreed was rotten bad luck.

Then a colder thought struck him. If what the major had said was true they were getting near the end of this war too, but there was still time for more names to be added to Sammy's. So with the same bad luck he might meet Sammy again after all. He might meet him this very day, even this very hour.

But that was a contemptible and unsoldierly thought, he told himself savagely. It was no good worrying about a thing like that—the general had warned him against it specifically: people who worried too much about themselves soon got themselves killed, the general had said, and what was worse they got other people killed with them. So he would think of something else—He would think of ... of food.

The second oatcake he had taken out to eat in the truck was there waiting for him still, and it would be prudent to eat it now. So he would let his toes enjoy the fresh air while he ate it, at least until the RAF

noise-maker returned.

He corked up the gentian violet bottle carefully and packed it back into his ammunition pouch. Then he set his back comfortably against the cliff and unpacked the oatcake. He would savour each separate mouthful, and he would take one small swallow of water to every two mouthfuls. And as a bonus he would also eat a slab of ration chocolate. It was a pity he hadn't got a book to read, like Second Lieutenant Audley. It would be interesting to know what Audley was reading—it would be something strange and scholarly probably, because Audley was strange and scholarly—

As he lifted the oatcake towards his mouth a cascade of sand and small stones tumbled from the cliff overhang above him, pattering onto his feet.

'This will do, Sergeant-major.'

Butler went stiff with horror. It was happening again—it wasn't possible, but it was happening again.

' Sir!'

'Keep your voice down, man, damn itl'

Butler stared at one purple foot and one booted foot. Very slowly he began to draw them in— 'Yes, sir—

sorry, sir.'

—until his knees were raised tightly against his ammunition pouches. If he kept very quiet ... if neither of them stepped any closer to the edge of the overhang . . . maybe—

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

Butler frowned at his knees. When the sergeant-major wasn't shouting his voice became deeper and harsher, as though his throat was full of gravel. And he had heard that voice before. ' All right. So what do we do with young Butler?' The sergeant-major coughed. ' I'm afraid he's got to go, sir.' Butler's heart shrivelled. He was going to be returned to his unit in disgrace, with the indelible black mark of drunkenness against his name.

'Pity. He seemed a pleasant enough lad—quite innocent, I would have thought.'

Butler's hand closed on the oatcake in a spasm of shame. He had betrayed the major—and the general.

And himself.

'That's as may he, sir. But he asked a question about Sergeant Scott and Mr. Wilson all the same.'