A New Kind of War

properly. But adjutants weren’t usually majors, and this wasn’t any sort of usual unit, so Major de Souza wasn’t a usual adjutant: he was a rescuer of junior officers in adversity, from whatever fate-worse-than-death awaited them –

whether their name was Audley or Fattorini. . . And that might be because it was peacetime, at least here in Germany, and he didn’t give a damn; or it might be because he disliked Colonel Colbourne, and still didn’t give a damn – for colonels, or Germans, or ELAS

andartes, or anyone. Because that was Amos de Souza’s pleasure.

‘We’ve got one of your pigs tonight, sir.’ De Souza’s most casual voice was stretched to breaking point, it was so thin. ‘And that ham of Otto’s too.’

‘Thank you, Amos.’ The Colonel’s quick reply was polite on the surface, but equally stretched beneath. So he also knew what was happening. ‘And we have work to do tonight. I had not forgotten.’

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‘No. Of course not, sir.’ Like a good soldier who had fought to his last round, de Souza surrendered quickly to save his life. ‘With your permission, I’ll withdraw, then.’

‘You do that.’ The Colonel sounded only partially mollified.

Thank you, sir.‘ De Souza turned away. ’I’ll see you in the mess shortly then, Freddie. It’s just up the colonnade – ‘

‘ Thank you, Major de Souza.’ This time the Colonel imposed his will as nakedly as his person. “That will be all for now.‘

As de Souza withdrew, Fred reviewed his position. The adjutant had bought him time with his obstinacy, but he didn’t quite know how to spend it because he had only the haziest idea of the internal politics of this unhappy unit, with its mad commanding officer who was evidently at odds with his own adjutant, never mind young Audley; and in itself that was confusing, because every commanding officer he had ever served under had soon got rid of those officers whose faces and attitudes didn’t fit. But then . . . but then if this was somehow the same bunch he’d fallen in with, by sheer bad luck, that day long ago in Greece ... if it was . . . then he had to start thinking hard and fast, not about them but about himself.

‘ Not good honest soldiers, like we were in Italy,’ Kyri had reiterated afterwards, carefully glossing over his own change-of-role. ‘ Those were hunters, old boy – a new breed. And if you’ll take my advice, you stay well clear of them, Captain Fattorini, my friend.’

‘Well now, Major Fattorini – ’ While Fred had been thinking, dummy4

Colonel Colbourne had put on his socks, which made him look ridiculous, as he had never quite looked when he was stark bollock naked and unashamed ‘ –“Freddie”, is it? Or “Fred”? I thought it was “Fred”.’

There was something worrying there, too. Because that special knowledge of ‘Fred’ fed his suspicion that the Colonel might know much more about him than was enshrined in the routine military record-of-service, fitness reports and details of next-of-kin he must have received. And because that irritated him, as well as worrying him, Fred felt bloody-minded resistance stir within him, against all common sense and experience and better judgement.

‘ “Freddie”, will do, sir.’ Until de Souza had arbitrarily re-named him a few minutes ago he had never been called ‘Freddie’ in his whole life. But if Colonel Colbourne thought he was better-informed, then maybe this was the moment to unsettle his reliance on his sources. ‘It’s of no consequence to me.’

‘Is that a fact?’ The Colonel shook out his shirt, and began to unbutton it. ‘Young Audley says you’re more commonly “Fred”.

And although his behaviour is somewhat unreliable, his historical facts are usually to be relied upon.’

It seemed extraordinary to Fred that he had come through his years of war in order to argue the diminutive of his Christian name with a madman in a Roman fort in Germany. But then he remembered the madman’s civilian background. And, if he was right about that, then he must allow the madman some latitude in cross-examination of the facts . . . especially as the madman was right, and he himself was lying through his teeth.

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But meanwhile he was saved for a moment, while the Colonel struggled himself into his shirt. Which, like his own, was American-army issue, of the most luxurious and desirable sort.

Audley, of course, had been the source of ‘Fred’, damn it! And damn David Audley too, if he had David Audley to thank for this posting! But that American shirt suddenly became a gift, offering him a line of counter-attack. ‘I have a message for you, sir ...

actually,’ he addressed the hooded figure, which was still naked from the waist to the socks.

‘What’s that – ?’ The statement caught the Colonel in mid-struggle, with one arm raised vertically and his head poking out of the collar because he hadn’t bothered to unbutton his shirt all the way down, but had treated it like a British army garment ‘ – a message?’

‘I am to thank you for the pig.’ Ever since de Souza had mentioned pigs – ‘ one of your pigs’, indeed – the pig had been squealing in the background of his mind, he realized now. Only, he had been slow to listen to it. ‘There was this American officer who met me on the airfield, sir. I’m afraid I didn’t get his name.’ Fred adjusted his voice to his situation: he must seem deferential, but ever-so-slightly embarrassed. ‘He was most helpful ... in getting me through the formalities.’ That was enough. ‘But he said ... he said, I was to thank you for the pig. And . . . whatever you wanted, if you’d got more pigs, then he’s got more aircraft . . . sir.’

‘Hah . . . hmmm!’ The Colonel pulled down his shirt. ‘Thank you, Freddie.’

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‘Yes, sir.’ said Fred.

‘Pigs!’ The Colonel lilfted his chin in order to button-up his shirt.

‘It wasn’t a pig – that’s damned slander.’

‘Yes, sir?’ Whatever the animal was, it had given him an edge, Fred thought exultantly. ‘It wasn’t a pig – ?’