The '44 Vintage

'A bit of bad luck, that's all,' said the major.

'Horseshit,' said the American NCO. 'You had a goddamn patrol out—you had three goddamn patrols out.'

The major ignored the American. 'German patrol,' he said. “We're dealing with it. But now we must get a bit of a move on before they start checking up on it.'

'Then they'll be after us, sir—' Audley began.

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

The major cut him off with a raised hand. 'Don't fret, my dear boy! In five minutes from now I'll put a limejuice down on this spot to cover our tracks. By the time they sort things out—if they ever do—we shall be long gone.' He looked down his nose at the American. 'Now as for you, Sergeant . . . you can stay here or swim back to your friends on the other side or come with us—which would you rather do now?'

Butler felt the blood rise to his cheeks with shame.

'Come with us, Sergeant,' said Audley quickly. 'You'll be m-most welcome to ride with us.'

The American glanced at Audley doubtfully, then down the line of jeeps, as though he had no very great confidence in the value of a British welcome.

'Corporal Butler here can smell Germans before anyone else can even see them,' said Audley, reacting to the doubtful glance.

The major's good eye flicked disconcertingly onto Butler for a second, then returned to the American.

'Make your mind up, Sergeant—stay, swim, or come.'

The machine gun fired again.

The American drew a deep breath. 'Okay, Lieutenant, you've got yourself another passenger.'

Bassett came pounding down the road towards them. 'Major, sir!' He skidded to a halt in front of the major. 'Corporal Jones is missing, sir—the s'arnt-major says for me to tell you, sir.'

'Missing?'

'Yes, sir. He didn't come across with the point section, and he hasn't reported since, sir, S'arnt-major Swayne says.'

'Damnation!' exclaimed the major. He frowned, then turned suddenly to Audley. 'He didn't come with you by any chance, David?'

'Who, sir?'

'Jones—the man who drove you last night.'

'Oh, the Welshman! I don't think so—if he was I certainly didn't see him. Did you, Butler?'

There was a rustle in the bushes further down the road, beyond the last jeep, and Sergeant Purvis stepped Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

out onto the grass verge. He carried a German light machine gun on his shoulder.

Butler shied away from the outright lie which had been on the tip of his tongue. A lie might be disproved later —the American sergeant could even contradict it here and now. But he could at least sow a seed of doubt—

'There was somebody in the front, sir—I thought . . . maybe it was Jones, I don't know—but when the Germans opened up on us—I can't say for sure, sir, to be honest.'

Another soldier appeared out of the hedge behind Purvis, who was frowning at them in surprise as though he hadn't expected them to be still there. Which, if limejuice was already on its way, was hardly to be wondered at.

'Have you seen Jones, Purvis?' said the major.

'Jones? No, sir. He's with the point section.' Purvis paused. 'We lost Lance-corporal Fowler, sir.'

'You what?'

'Shot through the head, sir. Machine gun.'

Major O'Conor stared at the sergeant speechlessly for a moment. Butler noticed one of his bony hands opening and closing spasmodically as though he was releasing emotion through it.

'Right!' The hand became a fist. 'Let's get out of here. Mount up!'

'Can you drive, Sergeant?' Audley asked the American.

'Lieutenant?' The question seemed to throw the American.

'Silly question.' Audley smiled. 'Will you drive this thing?' He pointed to the jeep.

'Sure, Lieutenant—be pleased to.' The American looked doubtfully at Butler nevertheless, as though unwilling to usurp another NCO's job.

Audley intercepted the look. 'That'll free the corporal's nose for Germans,' he said lightly. 'And his trigger finger.'

Butler climbed into the back gratefully, making himself comfortable as best he could on the top of a Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

bazooka, carrying satchels of its projectiles and several cartons of C rations.

Audley climbed into the passenger's seat and at once offered his hand to the American. 'David Audley, late Royal South Wessex D-d-d . . . Dragoons,' he said.

That was very strange, thought Butler. Audley had hardly stuttered at all during the last few hours. But now he