A New Kind of War

Fred wished that he had a Beretta and a torch instead of a canvas bag. And it was odd, he thought, that the sergeant – Sergeant Huggins? – hadn’t gone in first, ahead of de Souza. But then, of course, it wasn’t odd, because de Souza wasn’t the sort of man to go anywhere second. And then he was comforted by everyone else’s eagerness to enter the doorway ahead of him, in whatever order of precedence. Because he was the bag-carrier, and he was certainly not about to draw the revolver which he had signed for so very recently. Because, at the best of times, nobody ever hit dummy4

the desired target with a revolver, outside Hollywood.

And there were too many men ahead of him, anyway.

And one of them was Devenish – which was somehow quite extraordinarily comforting –

Now there were flashing lights in the darkness –

Keep well back, Fattorini! he admonished himself: You’re just the man with the bag!

A foul stench suddenly enveloped him, even as different torchlights gyrated in a passage-way, with doors on each side being methodically kicked open ahead of him, to the sound of shouting and screaming as de Souza and Sergeant Huggins worked their way down the passage; and over this panicky rape-and-pillage noise he heard de Souza’s voice, uncharacteristically loud, but also still calm and controlled, repeating the same words –

‘Stay where you are! You are surrounded! Remain where you are – do not leave this room! Anyone trying to leave this building will be shot! You are surrounded

– that is a final warning!’

De Souza’s German was quite beautiful: it was far beyond Higher Certificate (distinction) German, like his own – it was colloquial, as to the manner born –

But this smell –

As Devenish passed one of the open doors, just ahead of him, a figure appeared in the doorway, half-naked dummy4

and half-draped in what looked like a Roman toga –

‘ Get fucking back!’ Devenish propelled the man back into the room with his free hand. ‘ You heard the British officer!’

The smell wafted round Fred as he passed the doorway.

And the last six years had vastly increased his dictionary of smells, from childish memories of roast beef and chicken, and the tobacco-richness of Uncle Luke’s library, and the linseed-oil-and-sweat changing room odours of school and university; and now he had barrack-room smells, and cordite, and a thousand army smells, all the way from trenches full of shit to the sweeter-rottener stench of fly-blown meat, human and animal, insufficiently buried . . . apart from all the good smells, from most recent memory, of spices and thyme and lavender, and olive oil frying on an open fire on crystal-clear Greek evenings. But this was something new –

Another door crashed open ahead of him –

‘Stay where you are! You are surrounded – ’

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Devenish addressed him solicitously.

‘Yes, sergeant.’ This was a different smell –

compounded of – what? But there was a more urgent question: ‘Are we going according to plan?’

‘Oh yes, sir.’ Devenish leaned back towards him dummy4

conspiratorially, while his torch illuminated the American major’s back two yards ahead. ‘This is just going through the motions, sir. This is just the usual rubbish down here – ’ The torch jerked left and right as he spoke, but on the last jerk uncovered a totally naked woman in the doorway ahead ‘ – Jesus Christ – sir?’

Not a woman, but an emaciated child, with thick-painted red mouth smudged and spread pathetically beyond her lips, and boney shoulders above inadequate breasts: and (what was far worse) a frightful welcoming smile on those lips, below wide terrified eyes.

‘Hullo, Tommie –’

Devenish’s same free hand was already on its way, fingers spread so wide that they took her from collar-bone to collar-bone. ‘ Get out of the road, you silly little bitch!’ He spun her back into the darkness. ‘Sorry about that, sir . . . But we’re going up the stairs – ’

‘Cap-itan!’ Another half-naked figure loomed in the doorway behind an ingratiating voice. ‘I am Polish officer – officer of dragoons – ’

‘ Get back!’ This time Devenish swung the machine-pistol menacingly to cut off the appeal. ‘You can be a general in the fucking Polish army, for all I care!’ The sergeant recovered himself as the sounds inside the room died down. ‘I’m sorry about that, sir – You bloody lot –don’t you move a fucking eyebrow! – but dummy4

we have to get on, sir! Up the stairs!’

‘Yes, Sergeant Devenish –’ But he was already addressing Devenish’s back as he spoke –

We’re going up the stairs –

But the smell was still with him: a sour-sweat, old-clothes-and-cabbage, unwashed-wet-undried, peculiar smell – just as all the other undifferentiated human smells had been peculiar, each with its unforgettable nuance –

Then they were out into the open suddenly, through the final door, with the staircase doubling round on his left, with Devenish already swinging round on to it, leading him on – with the crash of boots ahead of them on the wooden stairs.