A New Kind of War

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go on!’ He turned from Audley, favouring Fred and Kyriakos with the slightest of bows as he began moving towards the bodies. ‘And leave me to my ghoulish tasks . . . gentlemen, I confide that we may meet again in happier circumstances . . .’

Fred was torn between following de Souza and watching Audley bend almost double to enter the ruins. But then he remembered Kyriakos.

‘Are they all m – ?’ He bit off the word as the Greek shook his head, and followed the direction of his friend’s gaze instead.

Captain de Souza had thrown back the groundsheet from the body with the jackboots and was stripping it methodically.

‘ Mad?’ he whispered.

‘No!’ Kyriakos whispered back without looking at him. ‘Not mad.’

The languid captain from the Very Famous Regiment was dummy4

examining the corpse’s jacket with all the distaste of a man who knew from bitter experience that all andartes were flee-ridden and lousy. But his examination was nonetheless careful, pocket by pocket, seam by seam.

‘Not mad?’ He watched de Souza cast the jacket aside, and apply himself to one of the boots.

‘No!’ Kyriakos repeated the word out of the side of his mouth as de Souza unwound a piece of rag and then let the foot fall back to earth while he felt inside the boot.

Yuk – urch! Fred imagined the sweaty-clamminess of the inside of that boot. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ murmured Kyriakos, almost contemptuously.

Captain de Souza added the boot to the jacket and pulled at the second boot, and went through the same process, letting the second dirty white foot fall back, jarring the corpse with a false shudder of life.

‘Good boots, those.’ The Greek turned to Fred suddenly. ‘Do you remember where we last saw boots like that? And a rag instead of socks?’

‘No.’ He watched the careful examination of the second boot before it joined its comrade. But as the slender, fastidious fingers began to unbutton the corpse’s fly-buttons he decided that he had had enough of de Souza’s duty, and could more usefully pick over the contents of Kyriakos’s brains. And that concentrated his memory. ‘Yes. That Russian officer – the liaison fellow we had to put to bed – ?’

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That’s right.‘ Kyriakos returned his attention to the corpse-stripping as he replied. ’So ... now you know, eh?‘ Something almost approaching a smile, albeit a terrible one, lifted half the Greek’s mouth, under his moustache. ’It’s actually very comforting, old boy.‘

‘Comforting – ?’ Against his will and better judgement, Fred’s attention was drawn back to de Souza’s duty. And, although he instantly regretted the impulse, he was hypnotically held by the image which comforted Kyriakos, of Captain de Souza emptying the trouser pockets first –scrutinizing their pathetic contents, and then throwing them on the already checked pile . . . clasp-knife, coins, filthy handkerchief – and then ripping at the lining savagely.

That was a skill his Guards regiment had never taught him, and those hairy white legs, and the raised shirt above them exposing the dark bush of pubic hair and genitals, had never been included in his Army Training Instructions. ‘Comforting?’

‘Uh-huh.’ Kyriakos was hardly listening to him: his fascination was absolute as the trousers joined the pile. Instead he murmured something in Greek, which Fred wouldn’t have understood even if he heard it.

‘What’s that – ?’ He couldn’t not look now, even if he hadn’t wanted to look, as de Souza straddled the body, and turned it over, face in the dirt, arms flopping obscenely as gravity shifted their dead weight. ‘What was that you said – ?’

‘I said . . . “Go on – do it properly!”’ Kyriakos paused, as de Souza began to do something so revolting that Fred couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘ Ah – that’s right!’

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‘God Almighty!’ What was almost more revolting than what de Souza was doing was Kyriakos’s approbation of the unnatural act.

‘Nothing?’ Kyriakos exhaled slowly. ‘Bad luck! But. . . well done, de Souza!’ He came back to Fred at last. ‘You were saying – ?’

‘I wasn’t saying anything. I was feeling sick, that’s all.’

Then . . . the more fool, you!‘ The Greek’s eyes were hard. That’s where they hide things, when they have to, old boy.’

For the next foul moment, Fred found himself looking at de Souza again: he was stripping off the corpse’s shirt now, leaving the whole naked body leprous white, except for its brown hands and arms and ruined, bloody face.

‘But . . . but why, Kyriakos?’ He abandoned the final tableau of Captain de Souza doing his duty. ‘For God’s sake!’

Kyriakos bit his lip, under his moustache. ‘My poor Fred!’ He let go his lip. ‘These are professionals – they know what they want . . .

Which is not killing their enemies, any more. They have progressed beyond that – they are not mere soldiers . . . like you and me – do you understand?’ The lip drooped, one-sidedly. They are not crude – ?‘

‘ Crude!’ That was a joke he couldn’t laugh at.

‘Don’t be deceived by appearances.’

‘Appearances?’ The repeated word suddenly sounded foolish as he realized that he