'—and turn round—'
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
It was all happening again. Only it was all different.
'Not towards me—away from me, boyo, away from me.'
Butler stared at Jones. There was something odd about the way the little man was standing—something odd about the way he was holding the submachine gun left-handed. He hadn't been left-handed the night before when he'd pulled the corks and poured the wine, or when he'd stroked that gun of his, the best little gun ever made.
The gun moved again. 'Nasty habit—eavesdropping,' said Jones softly. 'So turn round, like I'm telling you.'
His right hand was held out of sight, that was the other thing that was strange about him.
And then, just as suddenly, it wasn't strange at all. Until the noise of the plane was much louder the threat of the gun might be an empty one, but that right hand wasn't empty—it was no more empty than the sound he had heard had been the crack of a dead twig snapping underfoot. There weren't any twigs where Jones was standing, there was only soft sand.
He started to dig the toe of his right boot into the sand behind him.
It all depended which way the flick-knife was held, for the upwards or the downwards blow. The instructors always recommended the upwards one, which came in under the overlapping ribs. But Taffy Jones was planning a stab from behind and above, which surely meant a downward thrust.
His toe was firm now. But he dare not watch that right hand, that would give the game away. Instead, he had to choose in advance whether to reach high or low for an arm which might swing either upwards or downwards, with no chance of changing his mind after he had chosen.
But first he must play innocent—innocent and beaten—to give himself the extra fraction of time he needed to cover the two yards between them, before Jones could swing that right arm up and back for the killing stab.
He let his shoulders droop submissively. 'For Christ's sake, Taf— what . . . what am I supposed to have done? If it's last night ... I don't know what came over me ... I didn't know what I was doing, Taf—I lost my rag—I was bloody sick—'
He threw himself at Jones.
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
Two thoughts—
His webbing belt was undone and his ammunition pouches were swinging—It was too far, and he wasn't going to reach that wrist—
Third thought—
Oh, God! It was coming upwards—he had chosen wrong—
As he hit Jones with the force of a battering ram he felt a tremendous blow on his chest, over his heart—
Jones was falling backwards, his feet swept from under him.
Jones's arms seemed imprisoned under him. With his left hand Butler scrabbled frantically for the knife arm—it was moving out, moving out—He rammed the oatcake into Jones's face, grinding it into the man's eyes. Jones let out an incoherent sound and wrenched his knife arm free. As it came round Butler caught the wrist and deflected the swing so that the knife plunged into the sand alongside them. While he held it there he pressed down on the smaller man with all his weight to keep the left hand imprisoned against the submachine gun, reaching at the same time with his own free hand for his bayonet in the tangle of equipment on his back. His fingers found the scabbard, then lost it again as Jones heaved under him, straining to lift the knife out of the sand. The equipment moved and the scabbard came into his hand again ... he ran his fingers up to the barrel-locking device-Stupid little spike bayonet, eight inches of steel with no handle . . . why couldn't he have had a proper sword-bayonet with a proper grip, like his father had had—
He couldn't get it out—the angle was wrong and the frog was twisted and his arm wasn't long enough—
and he couldn't hold Jones's wrist much longer—couldn't get it out and hold down Jones at the same time
—No more time! He rolled to his left. Jones's imprisoned left hand broke free and the clutching fingers caught his hair. In the same instant he pulled out the bayonet and stabbed upwards, under Jones's belt, with every last shred of strength that he had.
The little man's fingers gouged into Butler's scalp and the body arched under him convulsively, throwing him sideways. There seemed to be noise all round him: a ghastly rattling throaty cry of agony and the roar of aircraft engines above him.
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
He flung himself off the body and rolled away from it in an equal convulsion of panic, landing on all fours two yards away, the breath catching in his own chest like a death rattle.
The engines drummed in his head as though they were inside his brain.
Jones lay spread-eagled in the middle of a circle of churned up sand, his hands clenched like talons.
Butler stared at him for a moment, and then down at himself. It didn't seem surprising to him that Jones was dead—he had felt the bayonet sink in, like a garden fork into damp clay soil, and knew now that however useless that eight-inch spike might be for chopping wood and opening tins, it was more than sufficient for its designed purpose. But that blow above his heart—he had felt that ... he had even heard it grate on the breastbone.
He ran his hand curiously over his left breast and then stared stupidly at it There was no pain . . . and no blood.
He was alive.
And Jones was dead.
Oh, God!
