The '44 Vintage

'I don't get you now, Lieutenant. They didn't—and they did?'

'That's right. They were laying it on for us, the colonel, the corporal and me—three birds with one stone

—the birds who weren't wanted any more en voyage. And then the corporal messes things up with his quick reflexes and his Bren gun: they were expecting sitting ducks, and they got thirty rounds rapid just where it hurt.' Audley's thin lips twisted. 'Naughty Corporal Butler!'

Winston rocked in his seat uneasily. 'Hell—but how d'you know they weren't Germans? That guy had an MG 42—and that was an MG 42 firing at us, I'd know that goddamn noise anywhere!' He shook his head. 'I heard that first time on Omaha Beach and I'm not ever going to shake that out of my head, Lieutenant, you can believe that for sure.'

'They've got all sorts of guns with them,' said Butler.

'That's right.' Audley nodded at him. 'These people are weapon specialists. The job they had in Jugoslavia was instructing the partisans in weapon training. The major's second in command—Captain Crawford—was explaining to me last night . . . half the men Marshal Tito has don't know one end of a gun from the other, they're shepherds and schoolboys, and they have to fight with what they can get—

not just our weapons, but German and Italian . . . and Russian too, now. And the marshal asked our people for a squad to train his chaps, and these are one lot of them. They're a sort of mobile musketry school.'

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

They stopped again.

This time the woods were all around them, thick and silent. Friendly woods, Butler told himself: friendly and concealing woods where no enemies were, and the feeling of unease and watching eyes all around him was just the town-bred boy's unfamiliarity with anywhere away from bricks and mortar and stone and slate, and straight ordered lines and sharp angles of houses and walls and roofs.

But he knew he was deceiving himself now, and that the enemy was all around him, much closer than what might lie hidden behind the green tangles.

Major O'Conor was striding towards them again, the ashplant swinging nonchalantly for all the world as though he was a country gentleman walking his acres.

'Ah, David!' The major waved the stick. 'Limejuice to your liking, eh?'

'Yes, sir. B-b-b . . .'—Audley fought the word—'better them than us, sir.'

The major laughed a quick, mirthless laugh. 'I couldn't agree with you more. I had a bit of that in 1940—

and another bit in Crete in '41. So I'm quite content to see them on the receiving end, I can tell you, by jiminy.' His eye swept over Butler. 'No Germans to smell here, Corporal. . .' The eye came to the American sergeant. 'Bit short with you back there by the river, Sergeant, but not much time, you understand—Germans and all that. . . But welcome to Chandos Force, anyway.'

'Major, sir'—Winston gripped the wheel with both hands—'I'm sure we'll get along just fine.'

'That's the spirit!' The eye roved over the jeep. 'Sergeant-major! Get this bazooka out of this jeep—and the projectiles too. I want that up front in Cranston's jeep. He knows how to use the damn thing.' The major's golden smile showed. 'They can carry some more petrol instead.'

'Sir!' shouted the sergeant-major in the distance.

The major tapped the bonnet of the jeep. 'Another main road two or three miles ahead, David,' he said conversationally. 'All being well, we'll hop that in the next stride. Then we should be right as rain for quite a way . . . my chaps know the drill backwards. Just follow instructions and you'll have no trouble.'

Audley nodded. 'Righty-ho, sir. . . how's the colonel, sir?'

'Hah! Lost a bit of blood, but nothing serious. Fleshy part of the arm, that's all—orderly's got him nicely wrapped up. Good night's rest and he'll be as right as rain too.'

Butler surrendered the bazooka and its ammunition to a couple of bandits in exchange for jerrycans of Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

petrol. It was hard to equate this major, all friendliness and businesslike confidence, with the coldblooded bugger he'd overheard under the bank of the island beside the Loire. He glanced at Audley to reassure himself that he wasn't dreaming: the subaltern was watching the major with a strangely blank look on his face, as though he too found the adjustment beyond him.

'Jolly good!' The major lifted the ashplant in farewell, and strode back up the road.

The American sergeant watched him go for a few seconds, and then turned towards Audley. For another two or three seconds the Englishman and the American stared at each other.

'Horseshit?' said Audley.

Winston nodded. 'Horseshit.' He paused. 'But that's how it feels . . . how it really is—well, you better know better than I do, because that isn't quite the brand of horseshit I'm used to, Lieutenant.'

They moved on again, but more slowly this time.

'Back at the river—'Germans and all that'. . .' said Audley.

'Yeah?'

'A patrol, he said. And 'we're dealing with it,' he said too.'

'That's right. And he sure as hell wasn't very worried by it either.' Winston agreed. 'Which seems kind of surprising to me in the circumstances.'

'Right! And particularly in the circumstances that he'd sent only two men to deal with it.'

'Smith and Fowler,' said Butler. 'And he lost Fowler. And he was angry.'

'He wasn't just angry.' Audley stared from one to the other quickly. ' He was surprised.'

'Man—you're dead right,' Winston nodded so quickly that the jeep swerved slightly. 'He