The '44 Vintage

' Bravo, mon camarade! Bien joue!' he cried loudly, kissing the little man first on one cheek, and then on the other. 'Jolly good show!' He released the little man and grabbed the hand of the man next to him, pumping it vigorously. ' Je vous remercie—je vous remercie beaucoup. Au nom des armees anglaises et americaines je vous remercie—vive la Resistance! Vive la Liberation! Vive la France!'

' Monsieur—' The man in the suit raised his hand to silence him, but Audley took not a blind bit of notice. Instead he gestured to include everyone in earshot.

' Mes amis—j'ai de bonnes nouvelles pour vous—de tres bonnes nouvelles. Aujourd'hui des chars americains font le passage de la Loire, Le debarquement des puissances alliees au sud de la France a commence. Les allemands sont finis. C'est la victoire!' Audley raised his arms to suit his words, his fingers giving the V-sign.

The Resistance men stared at him as though he was mad.

Winston stepped forward to Audley's side, stuffing his pistol into his waistband as he did so. 'That's dead right—this is a big day. And I can tell you—General Patton's sure going to be glad to hear how you boys helped us. Yes, sir!'

Butler looked around despairingly. Audley could hardly have got less reaction from his listeners if he'd been speaking in ancient Greek—or if he'd been telling them that the war was not won, but lost.

There came a scraping sound from behind him, followed by a quick half-suppressed grunt of pain.

The young German officer stumbled forward, prodded from behind. The man in the suit looked at him in astonishment.

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

'Yes . . .' Audley smiled ruefully. 'Well, we don't seem to have got ourselves a general after all. And it does rather look as if we've actually released a prisoner, not captured one, eh?'

The Frenchman ignored him. ' Sprechen Sie franzosisch?'

' Nein.' The prisoner brushed at a lock of straw-coloured hair which had fallen across his face.

Audley gave a grunt. 'But he speaks good English.' He half-turned towards the German. 'Name and rank?'

The German stiffened, abandoning the attempt to shift the hair. 'Grafenberg, Hauptmann—captain,' he said.

There were only two pips on the boy's shoulder strap—but that was right for a captain, Butler remembered. What was more to the point was that there was no other telltale badge, which meant he was straight Wehrmacht. It didn't surprise him that there were now captains just out of nappies in the German Army: back in 1940 there'd been plenty of flight-lieutenants like that in the RAF.

'Unit?' said Audley quickly. 'What unit, stationed where?'

Captain Grafenberg looked at him helplessly, rocking slightly on his heels as though the questions hurt him. 'Grafenberg, Hauptmann,' he whispered.

Audley grinned. 'Of course! Just name, rank and number—and I'm not going to bother about that. I accept your surrender, Captain.'

'No—' began the Frenchman.

'Yes. And in the circumstances I also require your parole— your word of honour'— Audley fired the words in a machine-gun burst— ' immediately.'

'No!' snapped the Frenchman.

'Yes!' said Captain Grafenberg. 'Yes—my word of honour—I give my word of honour—'

'Good. I accept your word of honour, under the rules of war. It will hold good until I hand you over to the first Allied unit we meet, which will probably be one from the American Army—is that clearly understood, Captain?'

'Yes, lieutenant.' Captain Grafenberg brushed the hair out of his face with his manacled hands. 'I understand.'

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

'Very good.' Audley nodded. 'Corporal Butler!'

'Sir!'

'You will take charge of the prisoner, Corporal.' Audley turned back to the Frenchman. 'Now, m'sieur . . . you wanted a senior officer, but all we've caught is a junior one, who can't possibly be of any use to you —he'll just be an embarrassment—an encumbrance . . . un embarras, n'est-ce pas?'

The Frenchman gave Audley a very old-fashioned look, and then flicked a quick glance at Butler just in time to catch him lowering his Sten.

He watched Butler for a moment before speaking. 'You are ... a rash young man, Lieutenant, I think.'

'Maybe.'

'Not maybe. Morte la bete, mort le venin— if they have no use they are better dead.'

'You can't kill them all.'

'But we can kill as many as we catch.' The Frenchman's lips drooped at one corner. 'You have not had four years of them.'

'No?' Audley's chin lifted in that characteristically arrogant way of his. 'You know, I could have sworn we'd been fighting them too.'

Winston coughed. 'Lieutenant,' he said out of the side of his mouth, 'we got some distance to make,