palmed in the right one —he remembered his purple feet. But there was no possible way of rejecting the bony fingers which fastened on his wrist in the very next instant; all he could do was to try and hold that one good eye with his own, and let himself be heaved up the bank.
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
Even that was a failure: the major released his hand and looked him up and down—down to his feet.
And then up again—
'All right, then. Get yourself cleaned up, and we'll be on our way again.' The major nodded and turned away as though there had been nothing to see, leaving Butler with his mouth open.
The sergeant-major leaned forward. 'Get that carbine of yours unloaded, Corporal,' he hissed. 'And don't you ever point it at me again—unless you intend to shoot me with it. ... Is that clear?'
'Yes, Sergeant-major.' Butler fixed his eyes on an imaginary block of concrete three inches above the sergeant-major's head.
'I hope so—for your sake, Corporal.' The sergeant-major's gaze moved inexorably downwards, his nose wrinkling. It could be the cow to begin with—the poor rotting beast seemed to have ripened measurably in the last quarter of an hour. But at the end it would be the feet, thought Butler despairingly.
'And get those feet of yours cleaned up ... on
Butler looked down at his feet in surprise. They were encased in thick brown mud.
2.
There hadn't been much room in the back of the jeep even before Butler had added himself and his belongings to its cargo, but that didn't worry him; in exchange for the privilege of not having to march he was prepared to adjust himself to almost any discomfort. What shocked him now was not the amount of the cargo but its nature: it looked most suspiciously like plunder.
Then shock became instant embarrassment as the major swiveled in his seat to catch the expression naked on his face.
'Not for us, Corporal, I'm sorry to say. Not for us.' The major shook his head and grinned at him, the gold of his smile matching exacdy the gold of the serried ranks of botde tops. 'Besides ... it wouldn't taste very good in this heat, you know. Chilled is the only way to drink it.' Butler stared fascinated at the bottle tops. Champagne, it must be, and that was one drink he'd never had the opportunity of trying. Or, to be honest, one of the many drinks; he'd not even had the chance of any of the cider for which this bit of France was supposed to be famous, like Somerset back in England—He felt the major's eyes on him.
'Yes, sir.' He found himself automatically copying the sergeant-major's impassivity. 'No, sir.'
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
'No—' The jeep jerked forward sharply and widiout warning under the sergeant-major's hands, cutting off the major's sentence and nearly dislocating Butler's neck with the whiplash. As with men, so with machines, he thought critically: both were there to be driven hard. But with the major it would be different.
'No, indeed.' The major had the trick of riding the sergeant-major's driving, rolling easily with each jar and bump. 'You see, Corporal, this is a trading mission we're on now. And these'—he patted the champagne bottles —'these are the trade goods for our next port of call.'
The sergeant-major grunted—it was the most eloquent sound he had made yet—and swung the jeep regardlessly off the track onto the main road in a cloud of dust, tyres squealing, missing by a full yard the burnt-out hulk of a Sherman which had been shunted into a gateway almost opposite the junction. In the very nick of time Butler tensed himself and leaned into the swerve, pressing against the side of the jeep to counteract the force which threatened to hurl him at the Sherman. He had just been getting the hang of the major's easy riding technique—Trading mission?
The major took in his bafflement. 'He wants to know what we're trading in, Sergeant-major,' he murmured. 'The old merchandise, that's what—the old merchandise . . . not sandalwood and cedarwood, or emeralds and amethysts ... or cheap tin trays either . . . just the old merchandise, the perishable goods, that's what.'
He flicked another quick glance backwards, and then shrugged away a second before Butler could find his wits and give him some sign of recognition.
He flushed with annoyance at his slowness in meeting the challenge, even though it wasn't fair expecting him—expecting anyone—to pick up poetry straight off in this place, at this time—
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
The verses, hard-learned under the eagle eye of the Third Form English master at King Edward's, came back now to mock him as he stared at a German Mark IV stranded in the cornfield just ahead on his left, its long gun drooping submissively. That corn had been harvested after the tank had been knocked out, he could see that from the thin screen of standing stems along its side: the farmers had come back after the battle and—
It wasn't fair. And it was doubly unfair because he wasn't used to being talked to like this by anyone, least of all by an officer—and a field officer too, a major.
But that was this officer's way of going about things, he told himself grimly, to test men with the unexpected to gauge their capabilities. Where the sergeant-major was looking for the exact performance of a man's duties, the major was looking for something more.
Looking—and not bloody well finding this time, he thought bitterly.
He had been tested once, in oral German, and he had passed by the skin of his teeth. But he had failed the cultural test and the major would have him tagged as a German-speaking clod with quick reflexes.
And it was far too late now—and he was far too shy anyway—to tap the officer on the shoulder and say
'John Masefield, sir, that was, sir.' All he could do was to learn his lesson and be ready for—
Ready for what?
