A New Kind of War

None of this was how it was meant to be, he thought: not Amos, not the RSM, and not –

‘Ernst – ?’ Number 16 held Number 21 close to him: Sweet-Sixteen-and-Never-Been- Kissed held The-Key-to-the-Door–Corporal Keys, and the blood dribbled out of the corner of Number 21’s mouth, and down his chin on to his tightly-knotted tie and frayed shirt-collar, just dummy4

as it had done from another mouth so recently, only bright red now, not black –

‘ Ernst – !’ Suddenly Number 16 looked up at Fred, his face grey with anguish. ‘When they fired, he stood in front of me! Do you hear me? He stood in front of me!

Why would he do that? Why did he have to do that?’

Number 21 opened his eyes suddenly, and looked directly at Fred also.

‘Ernst–’

Number 21 arched his back, and the breath rattled in his throat and finally went out of him in a rush of blood from his mouth.

‘Oh, my God!’ Audley’s voice came from just behind him. ‘Which one – ahh!’ As the boy saw the expression on Fred’s face his lip drooped apologetically. ‘Sorry. But. . . well – ?’

Something behind Fred took his attention, and Fred’s with it. And there suddenly on the path was Driver Hewitt, blinking nervously and fidgeting with the seams of his battle-dress trousers with callused thumbs.

‘Yes, Hughie?’ Audley accepted the diversion gratefully.

Driver Hewitt took in the Germans without emotion, but then rolled his eye over the scatter of bodies beyond. ‘Cor bleedin’ ‘ell!’ The eyes blinked, and the wizened monkey-face screwed up. Then Driver Hewitt dummy4

remembered his officers again, and gave Audley an oddly philosophic sidelong glance. ‘You bin lucky again then, Mr Audley – aintcha?’

The boy had followed the little driver’s glance, but seemed unable to tear himself away from it now. For a moment silence flowed around them, but then there came a distant rattle of small-arms fire out of the woods, and a flock of birds rose from the trees on the crest of the ridge.

Audley sighed. ‘Yes, Hughie – I suppose we could say I bin lucky again.’ He turned to the little man at last.

‘What d’you want, Hughie?’

Driver Hewitt screwed up his face again. ‘Nothin’

really, sir, Mr Audley – Captain Audley . . . Except, it’s Mr Schild, sir – Otto, like, sir – ?‘

‘Otto Schild?’ Audley frowned at him. ‘What about him?’

“E’s back with the vehicle, sir. ‘E . . . wants to give hisself up, ’e says.‘

Audley studied the man. ‘What are you talking about, Hewitt?’

‘Yes, sir ... Well . . . like, ’e’s got this ‘untin’ rifle of ‘is wiv ’im, wot ‘e shoots ’is pigs with. Only – ‘ Driver Hewitt drew a deep breath ’ – ‘e says ’e’s shot Mr Levin with it this time. After Mr Levin shot the major.

An ‘e was only obeyin’ orders, anyways . . . sir.‘ The dummy4

words tumbled out in three quick bursts. ’Only . . . ‘e thinks it’ud be better for ’im if you was to take ‘im into custody now, just in case – ’ The little man cocked an eye back down the path ‘ – ’cause there’s a lotta Redcaps comin‘ up the road now ... So I put ’im in your car, sir.‘

Audley looked at Fred. ‘He was only obeying orders?

Whose orders. Major Fattorini?’

They both knew. ‘Not mine, Captain Audley.’ But now he had to take command. ‘Driver Hewitt, you will keep your mouth closed about this. Unless you want a Far East posting, that is.’

‘I ain’t seen nuthink, sir – ’

‘Shut up, Driver Hewitt. Just go back and tell the Redcaps to call an ambulance. And bring a groundsheet to cover Major de Souza. And ... we will attend to Herr Schild.’

‘Right, sir – major, sir.’ Hewitt swayed for a moment, and then gave Fred an old-fashioned narrow glance.

Then he took in the Germans, with Number 16 cradling Number 21 in tears, like Niobe. ‘But wot about them, sir? The Jerries – ?’

Fred felt Audley’s eyes on him. But he also remembered Clinton’s cold uncompromising stare, and his greed. ‘You leave them to us, Hewitt.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Hewitt assessed him momentarily, with a dummy4

hint of even more old-fashioned understanding, which accepted the insanity of all wars down the ages in which the innocent were always slaughtered. ‘That Otto – ’e always ‘ad a good word for the major . . . But

’e never liked the RSM, sir.‘

PART FIVE

War Without End

Somewhere in England

August 1945

‘There are three forms to sign, sir.’ The RAF flight-