A New Kind of War

in the midst of the wreckage of their bedding – old army blankets and stained mattresses.

‘Right then! Let’s be having you, then!’ Devenish’s voice took on something of the tones of any sergeant-major addressing an awkward squad of recruits, mixing resignation and brutality in equal parts, with only the merest Angostura dash of encouragement.

The huddle shuffled uncertainly within itself, those more at the back resisting the efforts of those more at the front to replace them, terrified by the sound of the words without understanding any single one of them.

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‘Get them up against the wall, Sar’ Devenish – if you please.‘ Audley’s voice, by contrast, was conversational, edged with fastidious distaste.

‘Sir!’ Devenish took a step forward, his boot crunching on something breakable and already broken in the darkness below him. ‘Get in line there! Hands high –

up – up! Come on, you buggers! In line – in line!’ The jerk of his gun galvanized the huddle into feverish activity, if not actual obedience, with those who half-understood hampering those who didn’t.

‘Come on!’ Patience exhausted, Devenish took another step forward, jabbing at the disobedient minority of the group with the combined torch-beam and muzzle of his gun to encourage them to imitate the majority. ‘Against the wall! Hands up – up – up – UP!’

All this flurry of activity seemed to stir up the smell, so that it was pungent in Fred’s nostrils, and bitter tasting in his mouth: it was as though their fears were increasing their smell, adding the sweat of terror to all their other odours, like foxes hounded to no-escape by hounds.

‘Faces-to-the-wall – if you please, Sar’ Devenish.‘

Audley pronounced the words carefully, one after another, as though he was concerned not to stutter.

‘Sir!’ For an instant Devenish said nothing, as he struggled with the problem of obtaining obedience.

‘ ABOUT- TURN!’

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The furthest man on the right turned immediately, to face the wall. And then the man next to him turned after him, as though by osmotic action.

‘Go on! Face the wall!’ Devenish jabbed at the next man, and as he followed suit at the next, down the line, until they were presented with a line of backs, in creased shirts and dirty vests overlapping crumpled trousers or hairy legs, as the last of the line conformed.

‘Yrrch!’ Audley’s torch beam fell away, momentarily sweeping over the room, over the blankets and mattresses and across scuffed suitcases and an ammunition box on which a bottle with an encrusted candle in its mouth was set. Then it came up again, and an untidily-furled umbrella stabbed along its line, towards the obedient man on the right. ‘That’s one, Sar’ Devenish – thank you.‘

‘Sir!’ Devenish stepped forward again. ‘ YOU THERE!’

But then, to Fred’s surprise, he jabbed the man next to Audley’s choice in the small of the back with his gun.

‘ AND YOU – AND YOU – ’ He touched each man in turn, down the line ‘ – OUT!’

The marked men lowered their arms uneasily, almost unwillingly, half-turning towards their persecutor.

‘ NOT YOU.’ Devenish addressed the obedient man, who was also lowering his arms now, ‘ YOU STAND

FAST!’ The obedient man’s hands shot up again, dummy4

higher than ever.

‘ The rest of you – ’ Devenish’s voice came down to ordinary harshness ‘ – out you go, then!’

And out they went then, shepherded past Fred by Devenish, with Audley’s torch-beam playing on them, one after another, and Devenish bringing up the rear.

‘Major Fattorini!’ Audley addressed Fred for the first time since they had broken into the place. ‘Empty out the bag – on the floor, please.’ He indicated a patch of bare floorboards, on the edge of one of the filthy mattresses.

An army boot – a tangle of unfolding battledress uniform: trousers mixed up with blouse, and beret falling with them, accelerated by gaiters and belt, and another boot . . . but inhibited by something else, which had become entangled in them – He shook the bag again. –

Christ! It was a Sten! And complete with its magazine!

‘Don’t worry about that, old boy – it’s got no firing pin.’ Audley stirred the uniform with the tip of his umbrella, flipping out one arm from the blouse. ‘A corporal, by God!’ The corporal’s chevrons showed.

‘So it’s “Corporal Keys” then!’ Pause. ‘Right then, Sar’ Devenish – get on with it if you please.‘

‘Sir!’ Devenish grabbed the man by his shoulder, swinging him round. ‘Right then, you bugger! You get dummy4

your clothes off – and you get into that British uniform down there . . . understood?’

The man stood still, his arms only half-lowered, gaping into the light uncomprehendingly in a moment of silence within the room, which somehow separated them from the more general world of noise outside it –

a confused commotion of bangs and crashes and shouting, and boots stamping.

‘ Whoof.’ The man broke their private moment with the pain of receiving the butt of