A New Kind of War

For an instant out of time and place and circumstances –out of wet summer, and wet Germany, and all present insanity – Fred was reminded of all the group photographs he had seen over the years of his life, on the walls of school and college and home: fading sepia pictures, sharper modern pictures . . . pictures in which his predecessors, or even his ancestors, or even he himself had figured

– stiff and unreal, in well-pressed or crumpled civilian suiting; or stiff and unreal, in unmuddied sports gear before the match, with clean rugger ball, or wicket-keeping pads, or with hockey stick, and striped jerseys or immaculate whites; or in the smartest-of-all passing-out battle-dress of OCTU, which would not be cherished and remembered by all those in it because not all those in it – that one grinning foolishly, and that one grimacing, and that one blurred – not all those were alive now, to grin or grimace, but were rotting in their graves, or off the beaches, or wherever new subalterns rotted, marked or unmarked –

But this was a gallery of Germans –

‘I always think Otto is the spit-and-image of Number 7,’ said Audley.

Some of them were in uniform, and some of them were in civilian clothes: smart, unsmart, handsome, ugly . . . But each one was numbered –

‘But he can’t be, of course.’

dummy4

The numbers had been painted on crudely, across each chest, in white. And, since both the ‘7’ and the ‘17’ were unadorned by the continental mark, those numbers were of British origin, not German.

‘If you look closely, you’ll see that Number 7 has only got one arm,’ murmured Audley as Fred lifted the photograph closer to his eye in the uncertain light. ‘And, although Otto’s pretty-damn-clever, he’s not quite up to that – growing another arm . . . And also, if you turn on to the enlargements, the shape of the jaw is different, too.’

Fred delayed for a moment, as he ran his eye along the double row of mixed German military-civilian personnel, in search of a common denominator. Number 7’s right sleeve was indeed empty, and pinned under his number across his chest; and, for a fact, most of his uniformed comrades were more-or-less battered – legless, or armless, or hideously scarred ... or merely old –

‘Come on.’ Audley held out his hand. ‘Amos’ll give you your own pictures in due course, Fred.’

Fred turned the group picture over, ignoring him. ‘Just a moment, David.’

Number 7, enlarged, certainly wasn’t Otto, he could see that. But somebody had done an amazingly good job of enlarging the group faces, he could see that too. It was like John Bradford had said: war had improved photography, as well as methods of navigation and surgery, and mass-murder.

‘Besides which, Number 7 is dead.’ Audley sighed. ‘Quite dummy4

authentically dead. Which I know, because he was one of mine to research. And I don’t make mistakes.’ The familiar twist met Fred’s scrutiny. ‘We were rather unlucky there, as it happens.’

‘Unlucky?’

Audley shook his head. ‘Don’t make me go into details before dinner. It might put me off my food. Come on, for Christ’s sake, Fred!’ He held out his hand for the mock-wallet.

Fred folded the wallet up. Obviously there were enlargements of every one of the group, by the thickness of it. But he still kept hold of the collection. ‘What are they? War criminals?’

‘War criminals?’ Audley’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Good God, no! Perish the thought! We’re not . . . we’re not policemen, for God’s sake!’

Then what are they? Who are they?‘

‘Well . . .’ Audley shrugged ‘. . . really quite decent chaps, so far as I can make out. On the whole, I mean. That is, allowing for the fact that several of ’em were Nazi Party members. And all of ‘em are Germans, of course. Or were Germans – ’ He stopped suddenly, cocking an eye at Fred. ‘You’re not one of those chaps who think the only good German is a dead one, are you?’

Fred felt his temper slipping. ‘What the devil d’you mean?’

‘What I say.’ Audley took the wallet out of his hand. ‘Because they are – or were, in the majority of cases now, unfortunately – a group of officers and gentlemen, and scholars and gentlemen, working out of the Rheinische Landesmuseum at Trier – sort of official, and also semiofficial, like the old Gesellschaft fur nutzliche Forschung.’ He grinned. They were ... a sort of follow-up party to dummy4

the RAF you might say.‘

The Society for Useful Research (allowing for Audley’s barbarous German pronunciation) – ? The . . . RAF?‘

That’s right. Christ, you’ve seen what we’ve done to Germany, haven’t you? That pile of broken bricks on the way from the airfield was the city of Frankfurt – Frankfurt! And it’s the same everywhere else – or worse . . . Cologne’s worse ... or “Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensis”, as our beloved commanding officer insists on calling it.‘ Audley drew a deep breath, which became a sigh. ’A lot of fine old cities – German cities, I agree . . . but some of ‘em go back a thousand years – or even back to the Romans . . .

But all flattened now.’ He stared at Fred. ‘But also cleared and opened up, too. Okay?’

It wasn’t okay. But Fred was unable to describe what it was.

‘Great chance for the archaeologists, after the war, someone thought.’ Audley nodded. ‘After Germany had won the war – ’

Slight shrug ‘ – they thought ... a lot of rebuilding. But they mustn’t miss the opportunity to excavate first. So someone had to mark the sites for urgent excavation. They even invented a long German technical term for what they wanted to do ... which I can’t remember now, because I don’t actually speak the lingo – “urgent-rescue- excavation”, it translates, more or less. But Amos will tell you, if you ask him, anyway.’ Nod. ‘Great scholars, the Germans –

classical scholars.’ Audley touched his battle-dress blouse, where he had replaced the wallet. ‘Several of ’em in our picture. Stoerkel, Zeitzler, Peter von Mellenthin – the late Peter being Number 7 . .