'And quite right too.' The major nodded at Butler. 'Nearly
'Sir!' The sergeant-major had obviously perfected that neutral tone over long years of unanswerable questions.
'But . . .' The major's left eye blinked while the fishlike right one continued to stare through Butler.
'But we do know he really can speak German—we know that now, don't we, Sergeant-major? And we also know that he can lie in it when he has to, by God!'
This time the sergeant-major let the echo of his previous answer do the work. The major nodded again, but more appraisingly.
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
'Wouldn't pass for a German, though—not unless they have Germans in Lancashire.'
Butler's cheeks burned. He had worked for two years to eliminate that accent, and to have it betray him in a foreign language was galling.
'Lancashire—yes,' repeated Major O'Conor contentedly. 'But he wasn't taught by a Lancashireman—or by a German either, come to that.' He paused, pursing his lips for a moment. 'By a Pole, I'd say . . .
Remember that fellow in Mersa—the big chap with the fair hair . . . can't recall his name—couldn't pronounce it if I did—but I never forget a voice.'
'Sir.' There was a fractional variation in the sergeant-major's own voice.
'I knew you'd remember him. First-rate interrogator. Exactly the same German accent—minus the Lancashire, of course.' The major turned away from Butler at last, towards his sergeant-major. 'Stand at ease, Corporal.'
Butler twitched unhappily, unsure of himself. The major had stared at him and spoken to the sergeant-major. Now he was looking at the sergeant-major, but not talking to him.
'Are you
Butler stood at ease so quickly that he almost lost his balance in the mud.
'How old are you, Corporal?' As he spoke the major swung towards him again, his left eye blinking disconcertingly. In anyone else that might have been a wink, but it just wasn't possible that—
A glass eye—he had a glass eye!
'Are you
'Nineteen, sir.' Butler's voice cracked. 'And a half.'
'And a half?' Major O'Conor smiled. 'And have you ever fired a shot in anger . . . other than just now?'
Butler clenched his teeth. 'No, sir.'
'How long have you been in Normandy, Corporal?'
'Th-three days, sir.'
'Three days . . .' Major O'Conor nodded. 'Well, there's nothing wrong with his reflexes, Sergeant-Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
major. He ducked down like a jack rabbit—and came up like a jack-in-the-box. And nothing wrong with his guts, either.'
Butler warmed to the major, all his hatred transferring itself in that instant to the sergeant-major. The major was eccentric, but some officers were eccentric, it was a fact of life. And the major was also old —
that grey stubble on his bloodstained cheek was grey with age, not dust—but he was also wise and as sharp as a razor, the insight into his German accent proved that.
His eye was caught by the faded double strip of colour on the major's left breast: and the major was also brave. The blue-red-blue and white-blue-white which led other ribbons he had no time to distinguish were the badges of courage he coveted and dreamed of and honoured—He had seen them before, on another uniform . . .
The major had seen service, had fired shots in anger—had
The thing Butler desired above all things stood before him, the thing Butler wanted to be with all his heart.
And to be led by such a man was the next best thing to that, because by observing him he could learn how the thing was done. Learning was no problem—learning was the easiest thing in the world; and learning by example, as he had expanded his German by listening to the Polish sergeant in the NAAFI night after night, was the easiest way of all.
'Except that if I had been a German he'd be dead, of course,' said the major. 'Because he popped up in exactly the same spot as he went down, and Jerry would have been waiting for that. But next time he'll move first, Sergeant-major—he won't forget that next time, I'm willing to bet, eh?'
'No, sir,' said Butler.
''Willing to learn by his mistakes'—mark that up, Sergeant-major. . . . And taught himself German.'
Major O'Conor wagged a thin finger at the sergeant-major. 'He'll do. He'll do.'
At that moment whatever it was the major wanted him to do—whatever it was he had been taken from his friends and his battalion to do, even if it had involved charging a regiment singlehanded—Butler would cheerfully have done.
'Let's have you out of there, Corporal,' said the major, leaning forward to offer Butler a hand.
In the instant that Butler reached for the hand with his own free left hand—the bottle of gentian violet was still