Viewed from where he knelt in the water the stream was a wide, shallow trench meandering across the open field roughly parallel to the hedge and the road beyond. To his right the bank was open, but six yards to his left there was an enticing clump of willows. That was the obvious place to head for—but that was also the way the German would expect him to go—
And if the German had a grenade—
Butler's nerve snapped and his instincts took over: before he could stop himself he had straightened up and loosed half the magazine into the hedge. Dust and fragments of wood splattered around the foot of the gatepost in the opening.
'All right, Corporal Butler—cease fire!'
Butler was turned to stone.
'Put it on 'safety,' Corporal—d'you hear?' The voice came from the hedge where the German had been.
'Put it on 'safety' and then I'll come out. . . and if you shoot me I'll
Butler stared at the hedge uncomprehendingly.
'This is Major O'Conor speaking, Corporal. I'm ordering you to put that Sten on 'safety'—d'you understand?' the voice barked, with exactly the same shift in tone from the conversational to the peremptory which had characterised the original German order to surrender.
The same tone—and the same voice.
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
There was another sound too now, of a rapidly approaching vehicle. As Butler struggled to make sense of events a cloud of white dust rose from behind the bocage and a jeep skidded to a halt in the gateway.
The dust cloud swirled around the vehicle, enveloping its khaki-clad driver momentarily. Until it settled he sat like a statue, still grasping the steering wheel with both hands as though he was holding an animal in check.
'All right, Sergeant-major.' The voice from the hedge was almost back to conversational level. 'No damage, no casualties.'
'Sir!' The sergeant-major killed the engine, twisted towards Butler— and stiffened. '
The familiar formula broke Butler's trance. He lowered the Sten shamefacedly, automatically pulling back the cocking handle into the safety slot as he did so.
Butler was suddenly aware that he was no longer hot—he was deathly cold. There was a jumble of other feelings churning around inside him, some of which could not safely be expressed aloud in the presence of an officer—a field officer—never mind a sergeant-major. He was conscious that he had been cruelly and unfairly treated; that he had been the subject of some sort of joke which had been no joke at all, and which could have ended in tragedy. But chiefly he was conscious of feeling cold—the top half of him cold and clammy, the bottom half cold and soaking wet.
And he had also made a perfect fool of himself.
He set the Sten down on the bank beside his boots and reached for one of the magazines which had fallen into the muddy edge of the stream. As he did so he noticed the bottle of gentian violet still standing on its ledge, safe and sound. . . . Well, that at least was a mercy. There was no question of continuing the treatment here and now, but there would be other opportunities. He would beat that fungus if it was the last thing he did—
'Well now, Corporal Butler—'
Butler straightened himself into attention as best he could—it wasn't easy to smarten up while standing up to one's knees in muddy water and trying to conceal the telltale bottle at the same time—and steeled himself to look Major O'Conor straight in the eye.
In fact he found himself looking directly at Major O'Conor's fly, two buttons of which were undone. It Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
occurred to him irrelevantly that the major hadn't appeared as soon as the sergeant-major had arrived because he had been pissing in the hedge—and that might be why the sergeant-major had sat rigidly to attention in the dust cloud.
He raised his gaze to an angle of forty-five degrees.
Major O'Conor's eyes were a pale, washed-out blue, slightly bloodshot. Or at least one of them was—the kindlier of the two; the other was cold and fishlike in its intensity.
And the major was tall and thin and leathery and grey—grizzled . . . though the greyness might simply be due to the fine coating of dust that covered him.
And the major was also bleeding from a cut on his cheekbone; as Butler watched a small bright ruby of blood rolled down the major's cheek, slowing down as it gathered dust until it was caught in the grey stubble on his jaw.
'Hah!' The thin lips, dirt-rimmed where the dust and spittle had mixed, opened to reveal a glittering array of gold teeth. 'Nearly got my bloody head blown off—that's what the sergeant-major's thinking, isn't it, Sergeant- major?'
The sergeant-major came into Butler's range of vision beside the major, half a head shorter and half a body wider.
'Sir!' said the sergeant-major neutrally.
Eyes slitted under bushy eyebrows and a Guards moustache under a squashed-in red nose was all Butler had time to assimilate before the major spoke again—except that the sergeant-major exuded disapproval like body odour. It was going to take more than one lifetime to live down that improperly pointed Sten.
