The '44 Vintage

to carry me kicking and screaming.

It wasn't fair—to be caught up in something like this.

It never had been fair—to be taken away from his battalion and his company, and from his platoon and his section—just because he spoke a few words of German.

With a Lancashire-Polish accent.

It wasn't bloody well fair.

Audley was looking at him as though he expected a clever answer to a question which had no answer at all. And although he was sorry for Audley . . . although he was sorry for Audley in the same way that he was sorry for Hauptmann Grafenberg ... he knew that he wouldn't have given him an answer even if he could think of one.

And then Audley wasn't looking at him any more; or, rather, not at him, as much as at his battle-dress sleeve, with its corporal's stripes.

He looked down at the stripes himself. The stout thread he had used to sew them on had come loose, so that one end was lifting away from the sleeve. He must have snagged them on something, probably a tree branch during their panic flight through the wood near Sermigny—

'Two reasons,' said Audley, turning suddenly back towards Dr. de Courcy. 'There are two reasons why you should believe us.'

'Two reasons?'

'Or six, if you like.' Audley glanced quickly at the American sergeant, then back once again to De Courcy. And he was smiling now. 'Or a dozen, even—take your pick, Doctor.'

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

'One would be enough, David.' Curiously, the doctor sounded almost relieved.

'One then.' The smile was gone from Audley's face as he reached across his chest to touch the pip on his left epaulette with his index finger. 'This one will do well enough.'

De Courcy frowned. 'That is—a reason?'

'Oh yes, it's a reason. It's a good reason—in fact it's the best damn reason in the world!' Audley's voice was bitter. 'I said we didn't know what the major was after, but that's not strictly true. We know the damn thing's valuable—we know it's top secret. And you know what we are?' The finger tapped the pip.

'Second lieutenant.' The finger left the single pip and pointed towards Butler's stripes. 'And a corporal'— and then at Winston—'and a sergeant.' He paused just long enough to take a fresh breath.

'And you know what that makes us, Doctor? I'll tell you: it makes us the lowest form of animal life.'

The bitterness was almost passionate. 'Second lieutenants don't have to think, Doctor —so they don't have to know. Who's going to tell us top secrets? Not the Colonel Clintons of this world, that's for sure.

And as for the major —he didn't intend us to get this far, we were just a bit of window dressing to keep the colonel happy, that's all. So telling us why wasn't necessary. We weren't damn well going anywhere!'

The subaltern's vehemence took Butler aback, coupled as it was with the extraordinary reason for it.

Anger at being betrayed by one's own comrades was one thing—he had felt that himself. But to get angry because one's superior officers didn't explain all the whys and wherefores of their orders, that was ridiculous. A bullock might just as well expect the slaughterman to explain why he was turning it into beef!

'Colonel—Clinton?' De Courcy's mouth opened and closed.

'Of Intelligence, so-called,' said Audley scornfully. 'He was supposed to be running this show—he could give you the answer to your question. Or he could have. But we can't.'

It really was not knowing why that enraged Audley, thought Butler. In one breath he admitted being the lowest form of animal life, but in the next was objecting to it, and the objection marked him for what he truly was: a mere civilian in uniform.

But the rage also gave his words sincerity—the proof of that was plain on Dr. de Courcy's face.

'Could have?' said De Courcy. 'What do you mean—could have?'

'Hell, Doc—the major had the same plans for the colonel as he had for us.' Sergeant Winston drew his finger across his throat. 'The colonel was strictly surplus to requirements.'

De Courcy stared at them all, then gestured abruptly as though gathering them to him. 'Come!' he commanded.

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

“To Pont-Civray?' Audley snapped the words out.

'To Pont-Civray.' De Courcy repeated the gesture more urgently. 'Those four men weren't the only . . .

casualties I saw yesterday, apart from those of Sermigny. There was also a British officer my people brought in—a colonel. From near a village not far from here, seven or eight kilometres. But there was no identification on him.'

'Dead?' said Audley.

'Not dead. But left for dead. He had a bullet in his back, David.'

Winston looked at Audley.

'Sounds like the major's style.'

'Hmm . . . yes.' Audley rubbed his chin. 'And it also sounds as though we may be too late, I'm thinking.

If the major was as close to Pont-Civray yesterday as we are now . . .'

'No.' De Courcy shook his head. 'We are not too late'—he drew a gold watch from his fob pocket

—'perhaps not quite too late. But we must hurry now.'