The '44 Vintage

'Aye, sir . . .' Butler stared down the track. The young officer's pleasure at his own cleverness was a bit comical—he could imagine how it might annoy his superiors and make him a figure of fun among his NCOs and troopers. The very fact that he would often be right and one step ahead of the field—as he had been in the barn the night before —would make matters worse, not better. That was what Colonel Sykes had meant when he had observed that Mr. Audley was perhaps too clever for his own good: the function of second lieutenants was not to be clever but to obey orders and lead their men and be killed.

At least, that was their function in the Lancashire Rifles, as laid down by the adjutant. Those who were capable of more than that were expected to hide their light under a bushel, and that was obviously a lesson Mr. Audley hadn't learnt.

And yet, and yet... and yet even though under the young officer's innocent self-esteem there was also a suggestion of typical bloody-minded public-school arrogance—he hadn't learnt that lesson because such lessons didn't apply to him—there was a challenge. Rank meant nothing to David Audley: only the man who could outthink him was his superior officer.

'Aye.' He looked Audley in the eye. 'And we're close to the road, that means.'

The confirmation was there in Audley's face: the recognition that Corporal Butler was something more than cannon fodder.

'What d'you mean?'

Winston started towards the civilian car. 'He means nobody rode that goddamn bike here—not with a Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

broken front fork. They pushed it.' The last sentence was delivered over his shoulder as he reached for the clips on one side of the car's bonnet. 'Which means . . . we're close to the goddamn road.'

'Oh . . .' Audley looked chagrined. 'You're right—and I should have thought of that.'

'Hell, no! What you should have thought'—Winston threw back one half of the bonnet with a clang

—'is whether I can get this thing going. Because if we're going to catch up with those sons-of-bitches we've got to have wheels under us.' He glanced quickly at Butler. 'Check the gas, Corporal—the tank'll be round the back somewheres.'

On second thought maybe the American's practical common sense was going to be of more use than Audley's powers of deduction, decided Butler.

'Do you think you can?' said Audley excitedly. 'By God—d'you think you can, Sergeant?'

'I dunno, but I'm sure as hell going to try.' Winston frowned at the engine. 'It shouldn't be too difficult ... if the battery's okay . . . and if there's—now what the fuck is that, for God's sake? Oh, I get it ... yeah, I get it—the last time I tried this, Lieutenant, my pa kicked my ass so hard I couldn't sit down for a week.'

'Indeed? And why did he do that?'

'It was his car. . . . But whether it works with a kraut car . . .'

'It's a French car actually, I rather think.'

'Yeah? Now if there's gas—'

Butler skipped guiltily to the rear of the car. There was the filler cap, sure enough—but how was he expected to discover whether there was any petrol in the tank?

Winston lifted his head out of the engine. 'Any luck?'

There was a strong smell of petrol, in as far as any other smell could be called strong in the presence of the one from the back of the lorry.

'There's petrol in the tank,' he said hopefully. 'I can smell it.'

'Yeah . . . there's petrol this end. But whether there's more than a smell . . .' Winston looked at Audley.

'So we give it a try, Lieutenant?'

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

Audley shrugged. 'What have we got to lose?'

Winston smiled, his ugly face suddenly transformed, even though it was a rueful smile. 'Well, I guess if you don't know then it's too late to tell you. But . . . okay—here we go!'

Butler crossed his fingers. He didn't know what Winston meant, but he knew that Americans were wizards with machines.

The engine whirred—coughed—whirred again, coughed again, fell silent. Hope faded.

'It's no good?' said Audley.

'Hell no! One more try and I think we're there—'

' No!' said a new voice behind them.

For a fraction of a second Butler was aware that all three of them had frozen, Winston with the wires he had loosened in his hands, Audley and himself foolishly gawping into the engine at the magic the American was about to perform. It flashed through his mind that they had been behaving as though they were the last three people in the world, with all thoughts of caution blotted out by the prospect of pursuing the major. They had been caught as defenceless as babes-in-arms —babes without arms.

He turned round slowly.

Dreh dich langsam un—?

' Nous sommes des amis,' said Audley. ' Je suis un officier anglais.'

There was not one, but three men facing them—and now a fourth stepped out of the bushes farther down the