The sky above him was blue and cloudless and for the first time he felt the warmth of the sun on his face.
'Come on, man!'
He blinked at the sun. Audley and Winston were already pounding down the lane ahead of him.
'Come on!' Audley was shouting at him.
He started to run again. His head seemed to be spinning, but his legs worked independently—it was like running downhill when the hill was so steep that the only way to keep upright was to run faster and faster.
There were trees now along the roadside, and he followed the other two off the lane into their shadow on the field's edge. The going was harder on the crumbly soil and he felt enraged with them that they should thus slow him down unnecessarily when he'd been running so well—
Audley pulled him down into the field between the vines.
'Crawl.' Audley pointed at the American's backside, which was disappearing down the leafy avenue of the row. '
Butler crawled as best he could, with the Sten banging backwards and forwards and sideways on its strap round his neck.
'Faster!' urged Audley from behind. 'Go on, go on,
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
Butler's heart was pounding on his chest now, but he drew reserves of strength from the anger within him
—he wasn't quite sure who or what he was angry with, but he certainly didn't intend to let any bloody tank officer, or any bloody American, outcrawl him. Marching, running or crawling, no one could beat a rifleman—
Suddenly his legs were jerked from under him and Audley was pressing him down into the dirt.
'Quiet!' Audley hissed into his ear.
All he could see was endless vine bushes, the stems of which were gnarled and knotted as though the vines had grown slowly and painfully out of the soil over many years.
He was also aware that his head ached—there was a hammer inside it which grew louder and louder . . .
and then faded.
'We'll crawl some more now . . . can you crawl some more, Corporal?' Audley's voice in his ear was solicitous.
Butler raised himself on one elbow. 'Yes, sir.'
'I'll take the Sten,' said Audley.
'That's all right, sir—'
'I'll take it,' Audley insisted.
'Yes, sir... I'd better put a fresh mag in then.' He fumbled for another magazine and rearmed the gun.
'There we are then, sir.'
Audley was looking at him strangely. 'You sure you feel okay?'
'Sir?' Butler frowned. 'Why shouldn't I feel okay?'
The strange expression changed to one of surprise. 'Don't you know you've been hit?'
'What?'
'Corporal . . .' Audley reached forward and touched the side of Butler's head. 'Let's just have a look—'
'Ouch!' The subaltern's fingers stung like fire. He brushed them away and touched the same spot.
'Ouch!'
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
His own fingers were covered with blood.
'Phew!' Audley breathed a sigh of relief. 'It's only a flesh wound, I think—but you look as if half the side of your head has been blown off ... yes ... I can see where it creased the side of your skull and clipped your ear: it just dazed you a bit, that's all.' He grinned at Butler. 'It's only blood, that's all—
that's a relief.'
Butler looked down at his hand in horror. It was
There was a rustle among the vines ahead of them.
Sergeant Winston crawled into view. 'We better shift our asses out of here before those motorcyclists come back,' he said.
Motorcyclists?
'You okay, Corporal?' Winston addressed Butler. He sounded remarkably casual in the circumstances, thought Butler.
'Yes,' he said sharply.
'Great.' Winston nodded encouragingly at him. 'That's head wounds for you—you can walk, you're alive. You can't walk, you're dead. So let's crawl instead, huh?'
They crawled.
The field went on and on forever, and Butler felt sicker and sicker, and angrier and angrier.
Then the hammering returned which had seemed before to be inside his skull, but which now came from the
