The '44 Vintage

the dark.

At the same time he experienced a growing irritation with Audley for holding onto his precious Sten gun. He recognised the emotion as being no less childish than his fear of the noise they were making and his preoccupation with the pain of superficial scratches; and that the young officer had only taken the Sten in the first place as an act of kindness. But without it he felt naked and defenceless in the knowledge that if they did meet up with any Germans the lack of it left him no choice other than to surrender or to run like a rabbit. Which was not only unfair, but doubly unfair, because Audley still had his holstered pistol—which was the only other weapon they possessed between them.

For the first time he began to think of the impossibility of what Audley was proposing to do.

It wasn't just impossible—it was ridiculous. They didn't know where they were— They didn't know where they were going— They didn't know where the major was going— And even if they were able by some miracle to find out the answer to that last question they had no prospect of catching up with the major before he did whatever it was that he intended to do, whatever that was exactly, which they didn't know—Apart from which, there were still the sodding Germans to think about, because however experienced the major and his bloody bandits were at keeping out of harm's way, Second Lieutenant Audley's knowledge of war was limited to the destruction of tanks, and mostly British tanks, and Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

Sergeant Winston was of all things, for Christ's sake, a demolition expert who probably didn't know one end of a rifle from the other—

Not that they'd even got a rifle—all they'd got was a Sten and a bloody revolver, and Mr. Audley was now carrying both of those— 'Are you all right, Butler?' asked Audley. 'Sir?' Butler looked at his right hand.

'You were mumbling and'—Audley stared at him—'and you've started bleeding again, man.'

Butler could see that from the bright wet blood on his hand. Looking at it made him feel dizzy.

'Sit down,' ordered Audley.

'I'm okay.'

'I know you're okay. I'm just going to patch you up a bit, that's all. So sit down like a good fellow.'

Butler sat down. There was a crashing in the bushes and Sergeant Winston appeared. Audley must have sent him up ahead to scout the route, he decided. Look-see and movement, in the best Chandos Force manner, that would be.

There was a glugging sound and then Audley handed him a large red silk handkerchief, soaking wet.

'Wipe your face with that, Corporal—freshen up.' Audley's voice changed. 'What's it like up ahead?'

'Like this for about half a mile. But then there's a track goes more or less in the right direction.' Winston paused. 'And I guess you were right.'

'Right? . . . That's fine, Corporal. Now hold this dressing on the side of your head.' Audley took the silk handkerchief in exchange. 'How was I right?'

Butler applied the field dressing cautiously to the side of his head. He could well understand why Audley was so concerned about his well-being, since he constituted one third of the available manpower.

But the subaltern needn't have worried, he thought grimly: if there was one thing worse than the madness of going on it was the prospect of being abandoned as unfit.

'How bad is he?' asked the American.

'I'm perfectly all right,' said Butler.

'Huh?' Winston addressed the sound to Audley.

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

'The corporal?' Audley bent over him. 'Oh, he's okay . . . I'm going to tie the dressing down with this handkerchief, Corporal. When I tighten it—that's when it'll hurt. . . . Yes, he's okay. That second grenade went off right in his face and all he's got is a couple of scratches and mild shock—'

What second grenade? There had been a second grenade which had gone off somewhere behind them, on the other side of the wooden gates, but— ouch!

What second grenade?

'—so he was obviously born to be hanged, like Corporal Jones. . . . But how was I right, Sergeant?'

Audley surveyed his handiwork. 'Well, it doesn't improve your appearance much, I must say. As the Iron Duke said, I don't know what effect you'll have on the enemy, but by God you frighten me. . . . But I think it'll hold for the time being. How was I right, did you say, Sergeant?'

Winston lifted his hand, one finger raised to silence them. In the far distance there was an angry, buzzing drone—no, it was not so much far off as high up. He had been listening to it for a minute or two—it had been growing inside his mind while they had been talking, Butler realised. And he had heard it before.

'Yes . . .' Audley looked at Butler. 'Well, at least we won't have to be worrying about the Germans following us, not for the time being anyway ... all right, Corporal?'

They pushed on at a steady dogtrot, careless of the noise they made.

Butler was aware, with a curious sense of detachment, that he felt very much better. He couldn't quite work out what had happened back in the village: there seemed to be a gap in his memory now, although there hadn't been any loss of consciousness at the time. But after that there had been some bad moments

—he could see now that they had been bad moments by comparing the clarity of his present thoughts with the haziness of his recollection of their escape from the village into the woods.

He was also aware that the drone of limejuice was building up into a roar. The first time he had heard it the sound had been overlaid by the acceleration of the jeep's engine at the road crossing near the big house with the fairy-tale towers; now the trees surrounding them and the makeshift bandage which covered his damaged ear did nothing to mute it, but only seemed to spread it until it echoed all around them until it changed abruptly to a high- pitched shriek directly over their heads.