A New Kind of War

‘And then . . . the Brigadier wouldn’t have asked for you if he didn’t think you were suitable – mmm?’ The Colonel rumbled question-and-answer in the back of his throat. ‘In fact, he said – Ah Amos! There you are!’

Major de Souza appeared in the wide double-doorway. ‘Gus!

You’re damned late for dinner. Your pig has been crying out for you – and so has Otto, actually.’

‘I’m sorry, old boy – I really am.’ The Colonel would have pushed past if Fred hadn’t already been trying to get out of the way. ‘But look here – I want you to get on to the RAF – try Wing Commander Fraser first, at Minden, he’ll know who to get on to ...

You remember him?’

‘I remember him.’ De Souza winced slightly. ‘But what do you want, Gus?’ He rolled an eye at Fred, sympathetically. ‘Can’t it wait?’

‘Air photography, Amos – what about that, eh – ?’

‘Air photography?’ De Souza abandoned Fred, expressionless now.

‘What about air photography?’

‘It’s the answer to all our problems.’ Colbourne lifted a tumbler off a silver tray which had materialized out of the darkness at his elbow, held by a white-gloved hand on the end of a disembodied white-coated arm, without taking his eyes off Amos. ‘Got it off Freddie here – he’s a friend of John Bradford’s. Very clever young dummy4

man.’

‘I never doubted it.’ Amos misunderstood the reference suavely.

‘But I haven’t got any problems, that I am aware of. Except in the matter of demobilization, that is. And who the hell is John Bradford?’ he looked sideways quickly. ‘Otto! Where is Major Fattorini’s drink?’

‘Herr Major!’ The disembodied arm acquired a substantial body –

an immaculately white-coated body topped by a beaming red-brick face slashed diagonally by a line holding a black eye-patch in place. ‘Herr Major! My most profound apologies! What is your pleasure?’

‘I didn’t mean Freddie, Amos,’ snapped Colbourne.

‘He’s not a clever fellow?’ Amos simulated surprise. ‘I rather thought he was. Oxford degree, and all that – and a better one than yours, Gus, actually . . . Mathematics was it, Freddie? Are you a musician too? They say music goes with maths, don’t they?’

Fred was caught once again with his mouth open, midway between the piratical Otto and the baffling proximity of his Commanding Officer, and Amos de Souza’s transformed behaviour, and all the questions which had suddenly been directed at him.

‘Good God, Amos! Let the poor man order his drink, damn it! First things first – eh, Freddie?’ Colbourne seemed oblivious of Amos’s scorn. ‘You order your drink – and you come away with me, Amos, and I’ll tell you all about young Bradford . . .’ As he trailed off, the Colonel raised his head and stared into the encircling lamp-lit gloom in a series of jerky movements, as though he was dummy4

searching for something. ‘Where is young David? He’s never there when I want him . . . where the devil is he–?’

De Souza turned slightly, ‘ David!’

A huge presence loomed from behind the one-eyed Otto. ‘You c-called, Amos?’

‘Look after your friend.’ De Souza returned his attention to the Colonel as he spoke. ‘Get him a drink and introduce him to everyone . . . Now, Gus . . . you just tell me all about this John Bradford of yours . . . and about air photography – right?’ He pointed into the gloom.

‘Herr Major – ’ One-eyed Otto tried desperately to catch Amos’s attention.

‘Gently, Otto, gently! Your pig will just have to keep . . . Gus – ?’

De Souza’s hand shrugged off Otto and directed his Commanding Officer in a flowing double-gesture. ‘Just give us a few minutes.’

Mess rules, Fred decided belatedly: outside wherever the mess happened to be Colonel Colbourne was God Almighty; but one inch over the threshold of the mess he was primus inter pares –

just another officer, who talked military shop at his peril. And since he made the rules, those were the goddamn rules.

‘Don’t w-worry, Otto!’ Audley wound a great arm round the white-coated pirate familiarly. ‘Your pig won’t run away squealing. More like, his crackling will c-c-crackle even better!’

‘Ach! He will crackle all right – he will crackle all through, is what he will do! But where will all his good juices go? Up the fucking chimney, I tell you, Captain David – up the fucking chimney!’ One-dummy4

eyed Otto rounded on Audley angrily.

‘Well I like my meat overdone. Better a burnt sacrifice than one bloody offering, any day.’

‘So?’ Otto almost accepted this reassurance, but then rejected it.

‘But you are a child – you know no better.’ He shook his head at Audley. ‘The war has ruined you: you think you have won . . . but the truth is, you have lost.’ The shake continued for a moment, and then became a shrug. ‘We have all lost – that is the truth!’

‘No.’ Audley shook his head back at the man. ‘ You have lost – and the Yanks and the Russians have won –remember?’

Otto brought both hands – white-gloved hands – in front of him, chest high and clenched. ‘But they don’t have