The '44 Vintage

left, throwing water over him. The Bren stopped abruptly.

'Magazine!' he heard himself shouting. Out of nowhere Audley's hand appeared, snatching off the empty magazine and snapping another one in its place. The colonel's head lifted into view, almost in line with the muzzle of the Bren, and then bobbed down again in the instant that Audley slapped his shoulder. As he pressed the trigger again he felt the craft begin to change direction under him—the colonel was in the suicide spot, steering them back towards the shore. In the last seconds before the bank swung out of his sights he loosed off the whole magazine in an almost continuous roar, the gun bucking and hammering against his shoulder.

Audley was no longer with him—he felt the jeep's engine spring to life and there was a jarring crunch as they collided with the bank.

'Leave it! Leave it!' someone shouted, and Butler threw himself out of his seat into the water. The muzzle of his Sten raked his chin and the river closed over his head. Then a helping hand grabbed his arm and hauled him forward—he felt himself twisted in the water and rose gasping to catch a last glimpse of the jeep drifting away on the pontoon. Someone was swearing—swearing strange words—in his ear. Then the water closed in again, filling his eyes and his mouth—He was spewing up water and being pulled forward and upwards bodily. He could hear the sound of explosions in the distance.

'Are you hit, Corporal?' said Audley.

Butler blinked the water out of his eyes. They were already halfway up a steep bank, bushes all around Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

them. 'No, sir.'

'Just drowned—fine . . . Colonel, you're bleeding like a stuck pig, but we've got to get out of here—'

A machine gun chattered loudly a few yards away, but with an unnatural clarity Butler could distinguish its slower beat from the cloth-tearing sound of the gun which had caught them.

'Anyone alive down there?'

There was a crackling of undergrowth just below them on the slope. Audley fumbled with his holstered revolver, but before he could draw it the stocky American NCO who had directed them onto the pontoon emerged from the foliage, still swearing the strange oaths Butler had heard moments before. He took one look at them and then sank exhausted onto his face.

'Anyone alive down there?' The voice above them called again cautiously.

'No bloody dianks to you,' said Audley. 'But yes.'

'Then for fuck's sake come on out of there! We're pulling out any minute.'

'Then give us a hand, for fuck's sake,' snarled Audley. 'Colonel Clinton's hit—'

'I'm all right,' said the colonel. 'We're coming!'

Butler looked back at the American. 'Yank!'

'Okay.' The American raised himself suddenly. 'Let's go.'

Butler undid one of his ammunition pouches and extracted a Sten magazine. With it there came out a bright purple fragment of cotton waste, sopping wet—oh, God! he'd broken his bottle of gentian violet, he realised despairingly. Bloody hell!

'Butler—come on, man!' Audley called back to him.

The machine gun fired again, away to his right, and all of a sudden Epidermophyton inguinale ceased to be important. He checked the position of the top round under the lips of the magazine, cocked the Sten back to the safety slot, and pushed the magazine home. With friends like Major bloody O'Conor around, never mind the bloody Germans, it wouldn't do to leave anything to chance.

'Come on, Butler!'

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

Butler blundered in the direction of the voice, his feet squelching inside his boots. The side of the bank was high and steep—much higher and steeper than the island on the other side—so that he found himself sliding and slithering along its length, grabbing at branches and young trees to keep himself upright.

'Up here, lad,' commanded a familiar voice.

Butler scrambled up the last few yards of sandy soil and burst out onto a roadway. Directly in front of him a soldier was wrapping a bloodstained bandage round the colonel's arm.

'You the last?' said Sergeant Purvis.

'Yes, Sergeant,' Butler managed to pant. 'I think so.'

'Right.' Purvis turned up the road. 'Last one, sir.'

'Very good, Sergeant Purvis.' Major O'Conor's voice was calm, almost lazy. 'We'll be on our way, then. . . . You pick up Smith and Fowler and catch us up.'

Butler stared at the major. It didn't seem right that he should look the same and sound the same: treachery and murder ought to show.

'All right, sir? Jolly good!' The major addressed the wounded and ashen-faced Colonel Clinton briskly.

'If you'd be so good as to join me down the road there—' he pointed, then swung towards Audley.

'Now then, young David, we must get you remounted'—he looked up and down the line of jeeps, finally settling his eye on the last but one— 'Basset! You and Mason double up with the sergeant-major, and tell Corporal Jones to report to me on the double.'

Butler caught his breath. It hadn't even occurred to him that Jones would be missed, he hadn't thought about it.

Audley wiped his hand across his face. 'What happened, sir?' he said politely.