The '44 Vintage

which the British Army had acquired two of its recruits. His own '42' date might stump them a bit, but they'd probably take the fifty-one-year gap as separating grandson from grandfather.

Which in a manner of thinking wasn't completely wide of the truth, he understood quite suddenly and for the first time: in a way the general had become the grandfather he'd never had, and he had become the grandson the general lacked. The odds had been hugely against its happening, not just because of the difference between the little terrace houses of Jubilee Street and the stately homes of Lynwood Road but also because of the greater gulf between his father's position and politics and those of the general. But it had happened.

And it had begun happening during one lunchbreak, when he'd been curled up with his book on the edge of the rhododendrons, out of sight, so he had thought—

'What are you reading, boy?'

' The River War, sir. It's by Mr. Winston Churchill.' (If he asks you a question always answer loud and clear, Sands had told him. And truthfully too—he can see clear through you like a sheet of glass.)

'Not studying?'

'It's history, sir.' (Was that a lie? 'Isn't it?')

'Hmm . . . well, perhaps it is. Mr. Churchill would be pleased to hear you say so, anyway. . . . And which bit do you like best—the battle of Omdurman?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Of course. And in the battle the charge of the 21st Lancers, I suppose, eh?'

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

'No, sir. The bit about MacDonald's brigade—the Soudanese and the Egyptians, sir—how they and the Lincolns fought off the Green Flag dervishes.'

'Indeed? Then read it to me, boy.'

'Yes, sir—it comes after the Black Flags had been beaten. Then the Green Flags suddenly came down from the hills . . .' (His fingers ran through the pages, but the book knew the place better than he did, opening itself ready for him.) ' 'Had the Khalifa's attack been simultaneous with that which now developed, the position of MacDonald's brigade must have been almost hopeless— '

(This was the great passage, the one he knew so well that he could close his eyes on it.)

' ' All depended on MacDonald, and that officer, who by valour and conduct in war had won his way from the rank of a private soldier to the command of a brigade, was equal to the emergency— ''

(The words flowed on. Not even E. M. Wilmot Buxton could equal Winston Churchill in describing a battle.)

''Thus ended the Battle of Omdurman—the most signal triumph ever gained by the arms of science over barbarians.''

'Most signal massacre, more like, my boy. They didn't have a chance, the poor barbarians.'

'Against MacDonald they did, sir.' (He couldn't have MacDonald slandered, not even by the general.)

'Were you there, sir?'

'Hah . . . no. The Lancashire Rifles did not have that honour . . . Well, maybe against MacDonald the barbarians did.' (The general's blue eyes were looking at him: he was a sheet of clear glass.) 'But you don't want to be a soldier, surely?'

'Yes, sir. Like MacDonald.'

'Like MacDonald? And what does your father say about that?'

'My father?' (He was still clear glass: they both knew what his father would say to that.) 'Yes—your father.'

'I don't know. But I'm going to be a soldier all the same.'

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

Ambition, thought Butler. That was the bridge between Jubilee Street and Lynwood Road.

'Move out!' Sergeant Purvis shouted from ahead of them.

The rise ahead was empty now except for the sergeant's jeep, with its massive .50 Browning mounted in front. The sergeant himself was standing up in it, one hand on the gun and the other waving them forward.

Over the crest the road curved away through the trees, past a fork with a gaudily painted cavalry, its hanging Christ bright with blood, and a signpost bearing the legend 1k. 7 SERMIGNY 6k 4 ST.

LAURENT. At least they were on the right road.

'About a mile,' said Winston. 'Have you decided, Lieutenant?'

'We can't break off here,' said Audley. 'Not with two jeeps behind us.'

Butler looked back. The jeep behind them was closing up, but Sergeant Purvis's was only just topping the crest. The sergeant was taking his tail-end Charlie role as seriously as he would have expected.

Now there were houses ahead of them, the first outliers of Sermigny, and behind them a jumble of roofs surmounted by a stubby little church spire. With any luck he was about to see his first Frenchman since joining Chandos Force.

Not that they were going to make an exactly triumphant entrance into the village; the forest road was hardly more than an overgrown farm track and the houses he had seen along it were more like broken-down barns than homes. Between them he could just glimpse orderly rows of vines.

And there at last was a real live Frenchman, a little fat man in worn blue dungarees. He stared pop-eyed at Butler across the narrow street, and then started to wave wildly.