The '44 Vintage

'Not the real why. Not—well, not the tiger's why. They couldn't possibly know what we are planning to do, and it wouldn't worry them if they did know—Englishmen hunting Englishmen—what do they care about that? What they're after is what the major is after, don't you see!' He swung towards Butler, Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

'Right, Corporal?'

Butler swelled with pride. 'That's it, sir—right bang on the nose.' He nodded to the American. “We're the pig in the middle, Sarge. But there's more than one on each side of us, that's what we haven't realised.' Suddenly the pride dipped as it occurred to him that he wasn't sure what sides there were among the French.

'The Communists versus the Free French—General de Gaulle's people,' Audley supplied the answer.

'Good for you, Corporal!'

'Yes, sir.' Butler adjusted his expression to one of knowing approval. One thing his own general had been dead wrong about was that a soldier didn't need to know much about politics.

Winston stared from one to the other of them. 'But . . . but we don't—' he bit the end of the sentence off. ' Shit!' he said feelingly.

Audley laughed—a little too shrilly for Butler's peace of mind. 'That's exactly right, Sergeant: we don't—

and shit is the appropriate reaction.' The laugh caught in his throat and he stifled a cough. 'I'm sorry—

but it would be really rather funny if it wasn't happening to us, of all people!' He shook his head helplessly.

'Funny?' The American growled, looking to Butler for support. 'You think it's rah- ther funny, Jack— really rah-ther funny?' He stared at Butler menacingly. 'Does it seem funny to you?'

Butler didn't think it was in the least funny. The remembrance of what had happened on the banks of the Loire was still a raw wound in his mind, and the murderously efficient Frenchmen in the wood—the men who were hunting for him now—were all frightening, not funny. He didn't wish to be disloyal to Audley, but there was certainly nothing there which could conceivably be regarded as even faintly amusing. Even the game he'd just learnt to play was no joke, for all that the winning of it was intensely satisfying.

But Audley was still giggling—

And now, what was worse—much worse, was that the American sergeant's face was breaking up too: even as he stared at Butler he was losing control of it—he was smiling foolishly—he was beginning to laugh.

He was laughing, now.

'Shit!' The American suddenly draped his arm on Audley's shoulder familiarly. “We don't know—but they think we do! But we don't—'

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

He broke down feebly, shaking his head.

Butler looked around desperately, catching first the blank look on Hauptmann Grafenberg's face, and then the equally questioning expression on the doctor's.

'I'm sorry—I really am—' Audley began.

'Re-ally,' echoed Sergeant Winston. 'Doc—it's just that you're a horse trader—'

'A horse trader?' De Courcy frowned. 'What is—a horse trader?'

'Aw—they come in all shapes and sizes. But mostly crooked.'

Winston finally managed to control himself. 'You want me to tell him, Lieutenant?'

'Be my guest.' Audley gestured towards the doctor.

'Okay.' Winston bowed to Audley, then to the doctor. 'It's just . . . we don't have anything to trade. No horses, no mules—not even a goddamn donkey! All we've got is our boots—and Corporal Butler's gun.'

De Courcy stared at them. 'What do you mean?'

'He means'—Audley's voice was at last serious—'that we haven't the faintest idea what the loot is. If the Communists got us—or the Gestapo got us—even if the Spanish Inquisition got us—it wouldn't do them one damn bit of good. Because we don't know.'

De Courcy continued to stare at them, though now there was a hint of something else in his face; perhaps the beginning of either puzzlement or disbelief, Butler couldn't decide which.

Winston shook his head at Audley. 'I don't think we're getting through . . . and maybe that's not surprising when you think about it, Lieutenant. Because we have to be crazy to want to go to Pont-Civray, seems to me. Which means . . . unless he's crazy too there's no way we're going to convince him we're on the level. No way at all.'

It hadn't been real laughter, Butler realised belatedly as Audley's eyes shifted from the American to him: it had been something much closer to hysteria. However much the subaltern pretended that all this was more to his taste than tank warfare in the bocage— he might even believe that it was—he was near to the end of his resources.

And, what was more, the American was right: it was crazy, what he had been leading and driving them to do, this mad compulsion to catch up with the major. What would they do if they did catch up with Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

him, the three of them? The odds would still be hugely against them.

But then perhaps that was what he wanted.

Perhaps it wasn't so much a case of But now I want to know why, don't you see? as If they think they're going to get me back inside a tank, they're going to have