Gunner Kelly

“What Mr Burton says is that you’ve got verbal diarrhoea—” As he spoke, Darren squared up to resist physical assault.

“Out of the car!” Audley shot an arm between them. “I’ve got a surprise for you both.” He winked at Benedikt.

Benedikt climbed out of the car, and then stared at Audley across its roof. “And for me—a surprise also?”

“For you the museum is the surprise. It’s strictly old hat for these dummy1

two time-expired legionaries.” Audley led the way towards the entrance to the hangar. “They have to have something new every time— semper aliquid novi ex Bovingtonio, as Mr Burton would say.”

“What’s new?” Darren, skipping backwards in order to face them, overtook them.

“They do collect new things all the time—” Benje started out in a blase tone for Benedikt’s benefit, but suddenly an idea lit up his face and he switched to Audley “—have they got one of those Argentinian personnel carriers from the Falklands? Is that it, David? Is that it?”

“No . . . but you’re warm, young Benjamin.” Audley cocked an eye at Benedikt. “They may very well have bits of General Galtieri’s war surplus before long, they do collect such unconsidered trifles . . . They acquired their Russian SU-100 self-propelled gun from Suez in ‘56—they’re probably negotiating with the Israelis for a Syrian T6a, I shouldn’t wonder. Though where they’ll put it, God only knows.”

Benedikt measured the enormous hangar with his eye. “That is filled with tanks?”

“Bursting at the seams.” Audley nodded proprietorially. “They’ve got pretty well the whole British range, from 1915 onwards, including experimental vehicles and the ‘funnies’ from the last war

—Crabs and suchlike . . . and armoured cars . . . And a very fair foreign cross-section, too—French and American, and all your Panzer marks.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “They’re particularly good on Tigers. Got a 1942 one, and a Royal Tiger dummy1

with the Porsche turret. . . and a bloody great Hunting Tiger the size of a London bus.” He squeezed his eyes shut again, and then looked directly at Benedikt. “I met a Tiger once, on the edge of a wood in Normandy ... I don’t know which one it was, I didn’t wait to find out. All I remember is this enormous gun traversing, and I knew we couldn’t get out of the way quick enough—it was like looking Death himself in the eye and knowing that it was me he’d been expecting all morning. . . We were in a Cromwell, half his size, and we’d lost half our troop already since breakfast.” He shrugged. “Very nasty moment.”

“What happened?” inquired Benje politely. “Did you shoot him—

the Tiger?”

“With my pea-shooter? Not likely! We just looked at each other for about a quarter of a second—maybe he was out of ammunition, having used it all on my late comrades ... or maybe he’d had his ration of Cromwells for that morning, and he was feeling generous

—I don’t know—but in the next quarter-second he didn’t shoot, and after that I’d remembered a pressing engagement for lunch elsewhere.”

“You retreated?” Benje sounded disappointed.

“Well . . . let’s say I advanced in the opposite direction.” Audley looked at Benedikt. “You know, for years I couldn’t bring myself to visit this place. I hated the very thought of tanks, Cromwells as well as Tigers—and Panthers, they were just as bad, if not worse . . . And then one day it didn’t matter at all: it was as though there was a Statute of Limitations on bad memories, and after a certain time the badness no longer had any power. Or perhaps men dummy1

change, and I have changed ... I don’t know. It’s interesting, though.”

The boys were fidgetting now, a little disappointed with Audley’s lack of heroism and quite lost with his theories on the healing quality of time, but above all desperate to discover the nature of their surprise.

Audley observed their impatience. “Shall we go in?”

It was a museum without an entrance fee, but the entrance hall was like a shop dedicated to selling tanks in every form: in books and booklets, pictures and picture postcards, models and elaborate construction kits; and through a wide opening to his right Benedikt caught a glimpse of a vast hall packed with Panzers.

But right in front of him were two soldiers in uniform who showed no sign of moving out of the way, and both of them were looking at Audley.

One of the soldiers came to attention. “Mr Audley, sir?”

“Yes.” Audley’s lack of surprise indicated that this, in some form, was the surprise. “Major Kennedy sent you?”

“That’s right, sir.” The soldier wore sergeant’s chevrons on his arm and the mailed fist of the Armoured Corps on his beret. And now he was looking at Benje and Darren. “And these are the lads, eh?”

“They are.” Audley turned to the boys. “The sergeant here is going to take you both for a ride. In a Scorpion.”

“That’s right.” The sergeant gave the boys a brisk nod. “The Scorpion tracked reconnaissance vehicle, as used recently in the Falklands to put the fear of God up the Argies. Aluminium alloy dummy1

armour, and a Jaguar 4.2 litre engine—road speed 55 miles per hour. A very nice little runabout if you don’t have to pay for the petrol. What would you say to a ride in that, then?”

Surprisingly, Benje looked slightly doubtful.

The other soldier, a button-nosed corporal who reminded Benedikt slightly of Gunner Kelly, grinned at the boys. “And you can drive it, too—what about that?”

Benje thought for a moment. “We haven’t got driving licences,” he demurred.