A New Kind of War

go and argue with the B-B-B – ’

‘I will do just that, yes.’ The Greek drew himself up.

‘In there – ’ Audley pointed towards the low doorway in the ruins ‘

– he’s w-waiting to mmm-meet you both.’ He tore his attention from the Greek to Fred, and instantly relaxed. ‘I’ve told him all about you, and he’s jolly keen to make your acquaintance, he says.

And – ’ The boy just managed to avoid looking at Kyriakos again ‘

– and the good news is that I’m to find you some transport, if possible – ’

‘No,’ said Kyriakos.

They both looked at him.

‘I shall go and see the Brigadier by myself first.’ Kyriakos ignored Audley. ‘Im sorry, old boy. But that’s the way it is. Because this happens to be my country.’

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He gave Fred a nod, and then ducked into the doorway without another word.

‘And he’s b-b-bloody welcome to it, if you ask me,’ murmured Audley. Then he looked inquiringly at Fred. ‘Bloody Greek Secret Police!’ Then he frowned. ‘And he’s a friend of yours – ?’

‘Yes.’ It was true. Or it had been true.

‘And you really did break down – and all that?’

The innocent look was back. And if Kyriakos hadn’t warned him he would have believed it. But now he didn’t believe either of them. ‘Yes.’

Audley breathed in deeply. ‘Well . . . you’ve got some funny friends, then. So you’d better watch out, if you ask me – if you’re stuck here.’ He breathed out slowly. Thank God we’re posted elsewhere after this, to where the real war is! Not that we’ll see much of it, more’s the pity!‘ He grinned at Fred. ’I never thought I’d ever say that, you know!‘

Was he being led on? Fred wondered. ‘What d’you mean – “the real war”?’ If he was, then he’d be safer among questions than answers.

Audley glanced nervously at the doorway. ‘Well . . . this isn’t the real war, is it?’ The glance came back to Fred, but then went past him, towards whatever Captain de Souza might be doing now, if he was still at work among the bodies behind them; but whether he was or wasn’t, Fred wasn’t tempted to find out. Yet he felt the presence of the dead at his back nevertheless.

This isn’t war – ?‘ He almost felt that he was putting the question dummy4

on behalf of those nearby who could no longer ask it.

Audley shrugged. ‘If it is, then it’s a different kind of war. And don’t ask me what kind.’ Then he looked past Fred again. ‘An “in-the-back-of-the-neck” war? A most unkind war, I’d call that – eh?’

PART TWO

The Unkind War

On the Roman Frontier,

Germany, August 6, 1945

I

The moment he set eyes on the driver, Fred was sure that he’d seen him before somewhere, sometime. But then, in the next moment, he knew that it couldn’t be so. And it wasn’t just one of those tricks which the very anonymity of uniform perversely played on occasion: it was a simple case of wish-fulfilment brought on by intense loneliness. For nothing, not even changing boarding-schools (and certainly not leaving home itself), was more inner-desolation making than being torn untimely from the bosom of one’s own unit, and from long-time friends and comrades. He had started to feel it in the very second that the adjutant had shown him the order, this loneliness. And he had felt himself as utterly forlorn and abandoned as Alexander Selkirk on his desert island among dummy4

these crowds of noisy, gum-chewing, cigarette-smoking Americans in the leaking, badly-repaired airfield building –forlorn and abandoned even after the altogether surprising American Air Force major beside him had plucked him out of the scrum like a long-lost buddy.

‘See there – over there!’ The American addressed him cheerfully over the butt of his cigar. There’s your man – and there’s your transport. And . . . now that is some transport, by Gahd!‘

It was also the uniform, of course, thought Fred: the crowds of Yanks de-bussing from their huge lorries were no different from all those he had seen in Italy – more than half a year ago now, but it seemed more like a lifetime; except (and it was a bloody big difference, on second thoughts) these Yanks were happily loaded down with what looked like loot, and presumably destined for home . . . whereas the Yanks he remembered had been unhappy, and loaded with weaponry and combat gear, and destined for the meat-grinder of generals quite notoriously unconcerned with casualty lists, unlike their British opposite numbers –

But . . . it was the uniform, of course: one little British soldier, albeit in surprisingly well-pressed and well-fitting battle-dress, stood out from among them like a rough-haired terrier among a pack of sleek fox-hounds with their tails up after feeding time.

‘Yes?’ It was the uniform, of course. He felt the forlornness dilute slightly, if not the bewilderment; if anything, the bewilderment increased from the high point it had reached when the major had hailed him by name out of the line of disembarked Dakota passengers while they were still appreciating the feel of solid dummy4

ground underfoot after that hair-raising landing, and more simply glad to be alive than to be where they wanted to be. ‘Yes – I see him, major.’

For a moment he lost sight of his man and his transport, as a phalanx of huge Americans, more or less in disciplined ranks, cut them off from their objective, en route to flight departure and God’s Own Country and Betty Grable. And Fred wasn’t outraged by their bulldozing interruption, even though he could hear the Air Force major swearing at them beside him. Because . . . one day that’ll be me – me en route to Mother, Julia, and Uncle Luke, and tea in the Savoy, and a World fit for Heroes inside Armstrong, Fattorini Brothers – by God!