A New Kind of War

‘ Fattorini – eh?’ The Colonel’s eye had fixed on him now.

‘Merchant bankers, right?’ Without unfixing his eye he snatched a tie from his bed. ‘ “Armstrong Fattorini Brothers”?’

‘Yes, sir.’ This had always been where the cross-examination had been going. But if Colonel Colbourne had conducted Aunt Lydia’s divorce he would undoubtedly know all about Armstrong Fattorini ... if only to adjust the size of his fee. So what else did he want?

‘Armstrong.’ The Colonel examined his underpants critically. ‘An old Scottish border family of brigands and bandits, turned merchant bankers when the old ways became unprofitable – a natural enough progression. Who was it said “better to found a bank than rob one”?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Fred decided that he wouldn’t let the plain truth ruffle him.

‘And Fattorini.’ The underpants passed their test. So now it was the turn of the trousers. ‘Anglo-Italian. Late 18th century vintage – not to be confused with the distinguished watch-making family of the same name.’ Colonel Colbourne balanced himself on one hairy leg without looking at Fred. ‘ Your Fattorinis . . . smugglers, weren’t they? “Brandy for the parson, letters for a spy”, eh?’

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That was interesting: the Colonel had evidently done his homework on the family’s history as well as on its modern creditworthiness. ‘I gather we were much the same as the Armstrongs, sir. Bandits, then bankers. And lawyers.’

Colbourne looked up at him, one leg trousered. ‘Luke Fattorini – or Sir Luke, as I should call him now . . . your uncle, he would be, I take it?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The man knew damn well. But somehow the mention of Uncle Luke strengthened his confidence. In times of adversity, ever since Father’s death, Uncle Luke had always been a powerful and wise ally.

‘Clever man.’ Colbourne sniffed as be began to put on his glittering brown boots. ‘Influential, too . . . Dealt with that wastrel Ferguson – Captain the Honourable whatever-he-was – your aunt’s husband – he thought he had influence in high places . . . and so he did. But your Uncle Luke had more influence in higher places.

And he knew how to use it too. So we took Captain the Honourable for a settlement that made his eyeballs pop, between us . . .’ The Colonel straightened up, and reached for his battledress blouse. ‘Clever man – yes!’

There was a DSO among the Colonel’s ribbons. But that didn’t equal de Souza’s double-MC: it could have come up with the rations in the Judge Advocate’s department, even when teamed with the desert medal of the 8th Army – there had been more than a few undeserved DSOs wandering around Cairo and Alexandria in the bad old days before Monty, so it was said.

‘Yes.’ The Colonel tightened the belt of his blouse. ‘And you were dummy4

in Italy, before Greece?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Now he was on safe ground. ‘4th Division.’

‘A very good division, too.’ Colbourne looked down suddenly.

‘How’s that hand of yours? Crushed under one of those bridges of yours, was it – ?’

‘It’s much better, sir.’ Praise of the 4th Div had momentarily weakened Fred’s critical faculty. But now caution reasserted itself.

‘I was lucky.’

‘You were?’ The Colonel’s lack of further interest showed that he didn’t know much about the hazards of Bailey bridging. ‘Did you see many Roman bridges in Italy?’

Fred felt his mouth open. ‘Roman – ?’

‘Bridges. They built damn good bridges.’ Colbourne’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. ‘Good military bridges, too – don’t you recall Caesar’s bridge across the Rhine? Don’t you sappers know your history?’ The man’s face creased into what the lamplight made into a diabolical frown. ‘And you were up at Oxford before the war, so you must know your Gallic War, for heaven’s sake!’

‘But I read – mathematics, sir.’ Fred began by snapping back, tired of saying, ‘Yes, sir’. But then that fanatical glint warned him, like the glint of metal on a roadside verge which betrayed the mine beneath it. ‘I did know a chap in Italy, though ... he was an expert on ... Roman remains.’

‘Yes?’ Suddenly, and for the first time, he had all Colonel Colbourne’s attention. ‘Who was that, then?’

Fred had to search for the name. ‘Bradford, sir.’

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‘Bradford – ?’ Frown. ‘What regiment?’

‘No regiment.’ Now he knew he was on a winner. ‘He was RAF

photographic reconnaissance and interpretation.’

“Ahhh!‘ Colbourne beamed at him. ’ That Bradford – of course!

How stupid of me! John Bradford – Flight Lieutenant . . . Roman centuration and Etruscan tombs – met him last year. Disciple of O.

G.S. Crawford’s – next generation of aerial archaeology. Another clever fellow – yes?

‘Yes, sir.’ All Fred could recall (and then only vaguely) was the young RAF man’s 50-50 enthusiasm for German defensive activity at the mouth of the Tiber and incidental photographs he had acquired which also betrayed the town plan of the abandoned old Roman city of Ostia. ‘He had some very interesting pictures, I believe.’

‘Yes. Quite remarkable, his pictures – very fine. Never seen such eloquent testimony of the way the Roman field-systems continued.’ The Colonel’s voice was animated by something of the RAF intelligence officer’s enthusiasm. ‘Bit too taken up with the Etruscans, for my taste – a rum lot, the Etruscans. Like the damned Greeks.’ He frowned at Fred suddenly. ‘I wonder what he’s doing now.’