A New Kind of War

Fred didn’t want him sidetracked. Take your pick, David.‘ He lifted the glass again. ’Go on – ?‘

‘Well – ’ Audley willed him to drink ‘ – it’s . . . it’s rather like peeling an onion if you ask me.’ He thought for another moment.

‘Fred.’

‘An onion?’ Fred decided that he didn’t wholly dislike David Audley. But, in the circumstances, he could only reward him with a sip. ‘Peeling an onion?’

‘Yes.’ Audley glanced into the open doorway, beyond which the rain still glinted in the lamplight as it fell. ‘Shall we go – ?’

‘In a moment.’ Another sip. ‘An onion – ?’

‘Yes.’ Audley hated him for an instant, fiercely but impotently, trapped by Good Manners and youth. ‘I mean . . . officially I’m supposed to be researching German tank development.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Which is bloody stupid, really . . .’

dummy4

‘Yes?’ Knowing that he still had a lot of Black Label, Fred took another sip. ‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Another twist downwards, on both sides. ‘I hate . . . tanks

– if I never saw another tank – or “Panzer-Kampfwagen” ... if I never saw another of the bloody great things . . . and the Germans were into bloody great things, so far as my researches go – my ersatz researches . . . Because they don’t give a damn about that actually.’ Twist. ‘Colbourne doesn’t, Clinton doesn’t ... If I never saw another fucking PanzerKampfwagen, or Panzer-Befehlswagen, or prototype Panzerjager Tiger Elefant, or whatever ... I saw enough German tanks in Normandy, to last me a lifetime . . .

although there were few enough of them, thank God! Few enough of them . . . and lots and lots of us – us being bloody cannon-fodder – ’ Twist ‘ – if I never see another one, that’ll be too-bloody soon!’

‘Officially.’ Fred cut through the whisky blur quickly. ‘What d’you really do then?’

‘Ah . . . well – ’ Audley stopped suddenly. ‘You really don’t know?’ He frowned. ‘Didn’t Amos tell you? And you were in with Caesar Augustus long enough, for God’s sake – didn’t he tell you?’

‘No.’ Audley wasn’t as drunk as he had seemed, Fred decided.

‘Nobody has told me anything.’

‘Then perhaps I’d better not. If my elders and betters –’

‘But Colonel Colbourne told me to ask you.’ Fred barely avoided snapping. ‘And he also told me “no shop in the mess”. So if you want your share of Otto’s pig before it’s cold, David . . .’ He lifted dummy4

his glass tantalizingly. ‘I can wait.’

‘It isn’t really a pig. It’s a wild boar.’ Audley’s voice was no longer slurred, and he was staring at Fred. ‘He hunts them in the forest with an illegal high powered hunting rifle. The Germans aren’t allowed guns, of course – not now. But rules don’t apply to Otto, because Colonel Augustus Colbourne likes wild boar for his dinner.’

Fred stared back at him without replying, aware both that he was every bit famished as the young dragoon and that the young dragoon was neither as drunk as he had seemed nor as young, in experience if not years.

‘Okay.’ Audley completed his scrutiny. ‘Officially, we’re related to the T-forces – the old SHAEF Target Subdivision. You’ve heard of them, maybe.’

Fred hadn’t. ‘Maybe. But you tell me, David. Just in case I haven’t.’ He smiled. ‘Now that I’m here.’

‘Yes.’ If not drink, then hunger and the prospect of a long night ahead of him had wearied Audley. ‘German military and technological material and research. All the stuff they were throwing at us latterly – V-1s and V-2s and jet-planes – and rocket planes – all the new weapons. But also, and rather more importantly, the stuff they hadn’t quite perfected – what’s called

“the next generation”.’ He cocked his head slightly. ‘“The next generation” – ?’

Fred waited until it became obvious that Audley expected some sort of reaction. ‘“The next generation”?’ He decided to frown.

dummy4

‘Yes.’ Audley accepted the frown. ‘It’s a pretty term, isn’t it! Here we are, all buddy-buddy and United Nations . . . and a Labour Government back home, to welcome us back to a Land Fit for Heroes. But here we are – “we are” meaning us, in this instance . . .

but the Yanks and the Russians too, just the same . . . Here we are, scrabbling for German tit-bits with which we can equip the next generation – the call-up class of 1955 Conscripts. Or, maybe ’56 –

the Crocodile’s money is on ‘56, mathematically. Mine’s a bit later, in our mess sweepstake. The Alligator is betting on 1950.

And Amos refuses to bet –he only bets on cards and horses, he says. Because he likes to enjoy his winnings, he says – and he says he won’t enjoy ours.’ He smiled. ‘But . . . anyway . . . we’re not actually responsible to T/HQ, anyway. But don’t ask me who we’re responsible to – Colbourne’s responsible to Clinton, and God only knows who he’s reporting to. Probably God Himself, is my guess. But I don’t know.’

It was curious, thought Fred. Because Audley had just said a lot.

And yet somehow he hadn’t said anything at all.

‘Yes.’ The ghost of Audley’s smile lingered. ‘So officially –

officially – we’re into our minor specializations: tanks for me, chemical warfare for the Crocodile, radar for the Alligator, communications and cyphers for Amos . . . and so on ... So you’ll probably get non-metallic mines, or something – or whatever the Royal Engineers are into. But all pretty small beer, really. And the Yanks and the Russians don’t worry about us too much, because they reckon we’re a bunch of drunken amateurs and loonies, trying to avoid boring regimental duty – or Far Eastern postings, fighting dummy4