Gunner Kelly

So Audley had been right not to trust Gunner Kelly, whether it was Aloysius or the KGB out there: and prudence, in the most remote possibility that they were both wrong about Aloysius, decreed that he should be slowed down.

“But what about Miss Becky? Do you not have an obligation to her?”

“Ah—she’ll be all right. It’ll all be over, and her no part of it.”

Gunner Kelly looked at him. “I mind a time . . . Dr Audley said your dad was an anti-tank gunner—is that a fact, now?”

“Yes.” Benedikt frowned. What had Papa to do with this— with Gunner Kelly and Miss Becky?

“So he was, then! Well, I mind a time—it was in Tunisia it was, when I was with the Squire . . . And we bedded down in this little valley, minding our own business, an‘ thinking there wasn’t a Jerry within fifteen miles of us—an’ nothing in front of us, do you see . . . not that it was our affair what was in front of us—it was 25

pounders we had, and gunners we were . . . An‘ then there was all this terrible row one night—and it was bloody Jerries—” Kelly registered Benedikt suddenly “— that’s to say, it was Germans out dummy1

in front of us somewhere, where they’d no right to be at all... It was a wearying night, we had, not knowing what was going on over the ridge in front. But the Squire and all, they reckoned there was nothing we could do, an’ it was best to leave it to whoever was busy there, because the Germans weren’t coming forward, so far as we could make out, an‘ they weren’t shooting at us—they didn’t seem to be shooting at anything much, they were just shooting over our little valley. ... I think the Squire did get out for a bit, because that was the sort of thing he did. But he came back pretty smartish . . . Anyway, in the morning, a whole lot of Gordons came through—Scotsmen, anyway—infantry, clearing up the way they do ... walking along an’ shooting a few people, and taking prisoners, an‘ that . . . An’ the Squire says to me ‘Come on, Kelly, an’ let’s go an‘ have a look over the top there.’ And the first thing we saw was these Bofors guns—anti-aircraft guns . . . But they hadn’t been attacked, the crews had spent the whole night cowering in their emplacement, just like us ... So we went on a bit

—for they said there was guns in front of them down the ridge, which we took to be more Bofors . . . But then we came upon this extraordinary gun—begod, we more like tripped over it, for it was almost invisible, with no shield that I recall, an‘ no more than knee-high to a little fella . . . but with this great long barrel along the ground, pointing across the next valley. And there were its owners in their slit-trench just nearby, brewing up. So the Squire says:

’Who the devil are you, then?‘ And looks at the long gun, ’An‘

what the devil is that?’ says he, pointing at it ... An‘ they says

’Why, that’s the new 17-pounder, that is—an‘ if you want to know what it does, just you look across yonder’. An‘ they points across dummy1

the valley, an’ there’s four—maybe half a dozen—Jerry tanks, that’s come round the side across their front, poor devils—twelve hundred yards away . . . twelve hundred yards, if it was an inch!”

He shook his head in wonderment which had evidently not decreased in forty years. “That was the first time the 17-pounder ever went into action—in front of our gun position, saving our bacon. We couldn’t believe our eyes, I tell you!”

Benedikt looked at the Irishman questioningly. “Yes?”

“Aargh! Do ye not see?” Kelly cocked his head at such obtuseness.

“ ‘Tis us that are the 17-pounders here—you and me, and Dr Audley . . . An’ maybe Blackie Nabb and one or two others at a pinch. So if it’s Miss Becky you’re worried about— why, she shall sleep sound in her bed while we’re doing the business that has to be done, an‘ her none the wiser.” Then he smiled at Benedikt, and for the first time there was a hint of something more than mere calculation in his eye. “I understand you, Captain: a fine young lady, she is—and with a heart as big as her grandsire’s. But she has her life before her . . . And the rest of us can look after ourselves well enough.”

Somewhere far away, but still within the house, a bell rang out a tuneless electrical alarm.

Kelly looked at his watch. “There now! That’ll be young Mr Bradley calling me to my duty with him, havin‘ all our people placed where they should be. The marvels of science!” He smiled at Benedikt again. “Your concern does you credit, Captain. Once upon a time it would have been a pleasure to have fought you—an’

now it’s glad I am that you’re on the same side. But you must dummy1

excuse me while I go to see how young Peter’s getting on. Then I’ll be with you for supper in the kitchen before we put our defences through their paces—eh?”

Schneider knew there was something wrong then, but only by instinct, not by reason, so he says. Kelly was too calm and confident—‘ laid back’, is it? ‘Serene’ almost, Schneider says: not so much like the old phoenix before it goes into the fire, but more like the new one which comes out of the flames, born again.

So he knew something was wrong, just as I always knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it any more than I could, because neither of us is a computer with total instantaneous recall. But he thought he still had some time in his pocket, and he knew Kelly was with Peter Bradley in what passed for their control room, so he went to look for Becky to find out whether she’d confirmed my alleged whereabouts.

Becky was making the supper. She’d phoned my wife, who had said that I was in the bath and would phone back, as I’d instructed her to do. And he talked with her for a few minutes, for the sake of politeness. Only, by that time the thing in the back of his mind, which had been nagging him, but which he still couldn’t reach, was on the way to driving him half frantic. He went out from the kitchen, down the passage and into the main hall.

The main hall at Duntisbury Manor is where a lot of the family portraits are: a selection of military Maxwells down the years, with the Sargent picture of Colonel Julian, the poet, in pride of place.

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No picture of the Old General, of course— he was never self-considering