‘I do not need telling about it. I know all about it: it was given to that driver of yours, Hewitt – “Driver”, huh! And it was given, against my express orders, by that insolent dog of yours, Devenish.
What have you to say to that?’
(Pause.) ‘Sergeant Devenish, you mean, Alec?’
‘What?’ (Pause.) ‘Man, I do not care if he is a field-marshal, and has a Civil List pension. I’ve had enough of his insolence. And now he has ignored my express orders. So he must go.’
(Pause.) ‘No.’
‘No?’ (Incredulity.) ‘What the blazes – ’
‘Alec!’ (Amos de Souza’s voice, from down the table.)
‘Amos? Did you hear me?’
‘I heard what sounded supiciously like shop, Alec, is what I heard.’
‘F-what?’ (Splutter.) ‘I was talking about that damned arrogant fellow of Audley’s – Devenish, damn it – ’
‘Not “Audley”, Alec, if you please. Christian names in the mess.’ (De Souza’s voice was deceptively casual.) ‘Really, I shouldn’t have to remind you of that . . . should I?’ (Pause.) ‘And if you wish to discuss a noncommissioned officer, or anyone else . . . this really isn’t the time or the place, don’t you know . . .
eh? And also David isn’t the officer with whom you should dummy4
discuss . . . whoever you want to discuss.’ (Pause.) ‘I am that officer, as it happens. And I am looking at this moment to enjoy my dinner.’ (Pause.) ‘Ah! Now here, at last, is Otto! What have you got for us tonight, Otto?’
‘Herr Major!’ (Otto had been hovering behind Amos in the candlelight, silver tray in hand, bobbing and weaving like a boxer looking for an opening between the adjutant and the Colonel as Amos had delivered his suave reprimand to the Crocodile.) ‘It is the steak of the boar, Herr Major: the steak from the – the . . .
wildschweinrucken–?
‘“Saddle”, Otto.’ (The Colonel’s voice, calm as a cucumber.)
‘Sir!’ (Otto barked out his British ‘Sir’ like a British sergeant-major.)
‘ The steak from the saddle of the wild boar, grilled . . . and the red cabbage, with apple and ham, and the spatzler – yes?’
‘He bagged this boar himself, you know – Otto did.’ (Audley delivered the information in a loud stage-whisper, in the hubbub of embarrassed conversation which followed the moment of embarrassed silence.) ‘In the Teutoburgerwald, up in the north, near our headquarters.’
‘Yes?’ (He had to think of something to say: the deer ham had been delicious, but the grilled wild boar looked even better; and now there were vegetables – delicate young peas and mounds of creamed potatoes, yellow with . . . Christ! It was afloat with butter!
And, apart from hunger, prudence advised silence in this company.) ‘Indeed?’
dummy4
‘What was the food in Greece like?’ (The other officer –Philip?
Philip the Pedant? Or Philip the Gourmet?) ‘It was quite deplorable when I was there in ’41. In fact, the one good thing about being comprehensively defeated by the Germans on that occasion was that at least they delivered us from the horrors of Greek cuisine. I only had one halfways decent meal the whole time I was there.‘
‘Yes?’ (Gourmet, for sure: gourmet if that was his chief memory of Greece; and gourmet equally from his reverence with Otto’s wildschweinrucken.) ‘Everyone’s pretty hungry in Greece just now.’ (Food was a safe topic, evidently.) ‘I was anticipating much the same here, to be honest.’ (God! The potatoes were sheer heaven.)
‘Oh aye.’ (Crocodilian chuckle, friendly-sardonic-smug.) ‘Well, the natives are on rather short commons, as a matter of fact.’ (The Crocodile piled potato on an impaled slice of boar, and then topped the edifice with peas.) ‘In fact – ’ (more peas) ‘ – in fact I was talking to one of those AMGOT fellas in Trier, the other day –
economist fella, fresh out of Whitehall – London University and Whitehall . . . never done an honest day’s work in his life, nor heard a shot fired in anger – shitting bricks, he was.’ (The Crocodile opened his jaws to full stretch, gold-filled teeth glinting in the candlelight.)
‘What was that, Alec?’ (De Souza again, from down the table; but all hostility forgotten now.)
‘Economist chap, Amos. Colonel’s rank . . . but he looked like a tramp in his ill-fitting uniform . . . one of those clever blighters dummy4
who told us there wouldn’t be any food problems, back in March.’ (The Crocodile munched happily, glancing round the table as he did so, sure of his audience.) ‘“Geairrman industrial base destroyed by Allied bombing . . . agricultural set-up intact. No problem.”’ (Munch, munch, munch.) ‘“Don’t want any more tanks, jet-planes, U-boats – just a bit of coal . . . Take over Nazi food distribution system – minus the Nazis of course. Put them all in jail.”’
(The Crocodile’s knife and fork were busy again, assembling another
