A New Kind of War

lieutenant presented his clipboard to Fred. ‘Actually, it’s the same form in triplicate, but we’ve run out of carbon- paper.’

Fred accepted the clipboard and the stub of indelible pencil. It was interesting, he observed, that Number 16

had lost his false cover-name as well as his number now that he was in England, and was his real self at last.

‘As you can see, we have already signed on our dotted lines.’ The flight-lieutenant pointed to two signatures, and then to an open space. ‘You sign there, sir. And then keep one copy, to return to your adjutant. And I dummy4

keep one, as station movements officer – ’

‘And I will keep the third.’ The civilian intercepted the clipboard.

The papers fluttered madly on the board as a gust of unseasonable August wind swept over the dead flat Cambridgeshire airfield. It was the same wind which the pilot of the plane had welcomed, which had come all the way from Russia over the equally flat North German plain to help them across the North Sea. But now it made him shiver, when taken with that mention of his adjutant and the mean disinheriting look in the civilian’s eye.

‘Thank you, sir.’ The flight-lieutenant’s good manners were deliberately directed at Fred as he finally recovered his board. That discharges your responsibility for your prisoner.‘

‘He’s not a prisoner,’ snapped Fred.

‘No, sir?’ The flight-lieutenant glanced at the shabby figure beside Fred. ‘Well, anyway, he’s ours now, sir.’

‘Mine,’ growled the civilian. ‘You will come this way.’

The words, addressed to Number 16, were not quite an order, but they certainly weren’t a request.

Number 16 looked at Fred. For a moment he seemed to be on the verge of speaking, but in the end nothing came out. And that was just about how Fred himself felt: there was so much to say, both about what had dummy4

happened and what looked like happening now, that there was really nothing to say by way of explanation and excuse.

‘Goodbye, sir.’ He couldn’t bring himself to add ‘and good luck’. But, in any case, the civilian was gesturing impatiently. And to be fair, maybe he was properly nervous in wide open spaces. ‘I think you’d better go, sir.’

‘Yes.’ Number 16 stared at him. ‘Goodbye, major.’

Fred watched the two men start down the runway, past a line of Dakotas, towards a low huddle of Nissen huts, the civilian purposeful and guardsman-straight –

policeman-straight? – and Number 16 trying to keep up with him, but walking as though his feet hurt, or his shoes didn’t fit. And it continued to feel strange to feel sorry for a German so soon after he had hated them all indiscriminately, and even stranger to feel guilt also.

But . . . vae victis, as the Romans said – as Colonel Colbourne might have said?

‘You don’t want to worry,’ murmured the flight-lieutenant. ‘He’s only a policeman of some sort. And there’s a couple of long-haired types waiting for your prisoner, down in the end hut here – they’re the real reception committee.’

‘He’s not my prisoner, damn it.’

‘Sorry!’ The flight-lieutenant grinned disarmingly.

dummy4

‘And you’re right, of course. Because they’re certainly not policemen, is what I mean. In fact, they look more like boffins of some sort, from Cambridge just down the road. So he’s getting the proper VIP treatment.’ He grinned at Fred again, and pointed. ‘And so are you, major: top brass on your reception committee. And you better not keep ’em waiting, because your return flight’s due off at 1500 hours. So cheerio then, major.‘

Fred saw Brigadier Clinton standing on the edge of the tarmac, with another officer beside him and the full length of the runway stretching beyond them. But he couldn’t identify the other man as anyone he’d seen on that night in the Kaiserburg on the limes, or in the Schwartzenburg afterwards, or anywhere in the Teutoburg Forest these last few days.

‘Thank you, Flight-Lieutenant – ’ But the wind blew his thanks away, and the young man had already gone with it, on the wings of his own signed responsibility, prudently leaving Fred and Number 16 each to their reception committees and their respective fates.

Belatedly, Fred felt that he ought to be experiencing some sense of occasion, and couldn’t quite believe that he had overlooked it, after all he’d dared to imagine: because this was his homecoming at long last – even if it was suddenly in the middle of England, not the welcoming White Cliffs of Dover seen from a smelly troopship, which he’d always longed for –

dummy4

But Brigadier Clinton was waving at him, acknowledging his presence. And that was the reality of his homecoming, and he had to bow to it, and march towards it.

‘Fred – my dear fellow!’

‘Sir.’ The answer came easily. But already he felt different chains binding him, very different from the old military ones to which he had become accustomed when his soul had not been his own. ‘I’ve just handed . . . Number 16 ... over– ’ To a brigadier, in the presence of an anonymous major of artillery, his salute was automatic, even though it felt foolish ‘ – as per Major M’Corquodale’s orders, in the absence of Colonel Colbourne.’

‘Well . . . thank God for that, then!’ Clinton tossed his head, and then nodded at the gunner. This is Colonel Stocker, Fred. Give your release to him . . . and then we can be done with playing Housey-Housey, thank God!‘

Fred looked directly at the major-who-was-no-longer-a-major, who had a pale desk-bound face which didn’t fit his Royal Artillery badges and his double deck of medal ribbons. And for an instant the scrap of paper fluttered in the wind between them. ‘Sir!’