A New Kind of War

Somewhere along the way, beside a copse of silver birches standing up tall and thin, in the middle of nowhere, with his tongue furry thick in his mouth, and his eyes gummed together . . . they had stopped.

And young Audley’s face had been brown-grey: brown with the outdoor soldier’s tan, but grey with weariness, and lined like an old man’s, with that ugly sneer of his . . . which wasn’t really a sneer, but the defensive mask of a youth’s uncertainty among his confident elders – was that it – ?

‘What’s happening?’ His own exhaustion harshened the question. ‘What are we stopping for?’

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Audley’s features twitched. This is where we’re meeting up with the others, old boy – the bloody baggage train, and the camp-followers . . . tirones, as Caesar Augustus calls them. But . . . chiefly Otto, and his German auxiliaries, rather than the QM and his acolytes –they have to follow us, being allegedly part of the British Army . . . But Otto . . . everyone’s nightmare is that he will suddenly fade away, and go native – maybe even decamp to the Russian Zone, to do even better business, maybe.‘

Fred blinked. ‘The Russian Zone?’

‘Uh-huh.’ Audley nodded. ‘It’s not far away, you know. North-South – that’s a long way . . . but West-East . . .that’s not really so far, if you know the right highways.’ Another nod. ‘Of course, you’ve got to be able to handle them – the Russkis. But they’re quite extraordinarily amenable to the right stimulus, apparently.’ Another nod. Then a shrug. ‘Same with the French – they’re really buddy-buddy with the Germans – that is, with the Germans who know their business, and what’s what . . . The French are what they call “pragmatic”, you see, Fred. “Pragmatique” –

is that the word?’

Fred frowned. ‘What?’

Audley’s expression changed as he looked down the line of vehicles which had been parked nose-to-tail under the silver birches, alongside which the north-dummy4

bound convoy had come to rest.

‘Captain Audley!’ What Audley had actually been looking at was a figure which had issued out of the parallel lines, who was striding towards them now.

‘Captain Audley, sah!’

‘Mr Levin – ’ Audley blinked ‘ – I d-d-don’t think that you’ve h-had the p-p-p . . . opportunity ... of properly meeting Major Fattorini, who was with us during last night’s adventure – ?’

‘Sah!’ RSM Levin was at once very Jewish, but also a very British Army RSM: compact and immaculate and confident, and in his prime: Joshua, strong in battle, but with a hint of Joseph, with Pharaoh’s civil service at his command. ‘With your permission . . . sah!’

‘Mr Levin – ?’ Simultaneously (although also informed by what Audley had said in the past), Fred didn’t like RSM Levin, but was also a little afraid of him.

‘With your permission, sah – ’ Levin fixed him for an instant, and then dismissed him ‘ – Captain Audley is to report to the Colonel, sir – ’ the basilisk eye came back to Fred ‘ – and you are to travel with Driver Hewitt, as of now, in alternative transport . . . sah!’

‘Thank you, Mr L-L-L . . .’ Audley curled his tongue round the consonant impotently, nodding his head like an idiot.

‘Thank you, Mr Levin.’ Fred wondered, and not for the dummy4

first time, whether Audley’s impediment was nervous or deliberate. But, more than that, he knew that he must put Mr Levin firmly in his place now, or he would be lost forever. ‘When I’ve finished with Captain Audley . . . then I shall expect Driver Hewitt to find me ... here –here, right?’

RSM Levin’s square blue-black chin came up aggressively, almost arrogantly, with the thin lips above it tight, as though he well understood the nature of this deliberate challenge to his authority. ‘Sah! But, if I may – ’

‘Thank you, Mr Levin.’ Fred concentrated his failing courage on the RSM’s well shaved chin, aware that his own chin was undoubtedly stubbly, and even Audley’s ugly boxer’s-face had its own juvenile fuzz too –

And that poor dead bastard, from last night: the black frothy blood had dribbled down through several days’

razorless growth, blond and colourless as the pale eyelashes and eyebrows above the glazing dead eyes in that final moment of truth —

‘Thank you, Mr Levin.’ As he repeated the words he concentrated on Audley. ‘Now David – as you were saying – ?’

‘Y-Yes . . .’ Audley blinked and wrinkled his nose nervously, contriving to remind Fred of nothing so dummy4

much as an enormous and terrified rabbit as the RSM

stood his ground beside him.

‘With respect, sah – ’ There was no respect in the RSM’s tone, only cold certainty. But then he stopped.

‘Hullo there!’ Amos de Souza’s voice came sweetly to the ear as the distant trumpets of any relieving force to a doomed garrison. ‘Morning, Freddie – David . . . Mr Levin. Is there some sort of problem?’

‘No.’ In turning towards his rescuer Fred was careful not to show relief. ‘No problem at all. Mr Levin was just relaying information about my transport, that’s all

– ’

It was curious – now he could remember exactly the end of his dream: how the men had always hated stooking until the very end, when there was only a narrow strip of uncut corn left in the centre of the field because then they could stop stooking and pick up sticks, and chase the poor terrified rabbits which had been driven back and back until forced at the last to break cover or be cut to bloody ribbons by the binder’s knife-blades . . . Only this time, in his dream, there had been no rabbits, but wild boars in the corn; and also, striding through the stubble, there had come not