A New Kind of War

‘ BERT! ’ The sergeant shouted past him, and past Kyri. ‘ WATCH

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THEM! ’ So they were flanked from the other gulley too then, thought Fred: a careful man, this sergeant.

He took his ordered steps back, until he sensed Kyriakos behind him, and watched the sergeant retrieve his identification.

But enough was enough. ‘Just what is going on, sergeant?’

The sergeant took his time with the identification, giving Fred a long moment’s scrutiny against his four-year- old photograph held up shoulder high for easier comparison. And even at the end of this examination his suspicions were by no means allayed, judging by the stony expression he maintained as his attention shifted to Kyriakos. ‘And who might he be ... sir?’ He pronounced the last word grudgingly.

‘Can I lower my arms now?’ He had been half-expecting the question, but half-expectation hadn’t helped him choose the right answer. Because if the sergeant was still suspicious of his identity, how much more so might he not be with an evident Greek if that evident Greek admitted to two identities, one in his pocket and the other artistically concealed a yard away?

‘No!’ The Thompson, held one-handed, jerked menacingly. ‘ No-sir.’

‘For Christ’s sake!’ Fred had hoped that Kyri would decide for him, but for once he seemed cowed in silence. ‘How long do you intend to keep this bloody charade up, sergeant?’

‘Sir?’ The sergeant weakened for a fraction of a second under his onslaught, but then his chin lifted. ‘For as long as I say so ... sir.’

The moment of weakness passed. ‘Who is this person, sir?’

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‘Please – thank you!’ Kyri leapt into the breach at last. ‘ Riris, sir –

Alexander Riris – driver and guide. And good friend to British officers, sir.’ He laid heavy emphasis on officers. ‘Speaking English well – and with copious personal documentation, please –

thank you!’

‘Oh yes?’ The sergeant sounded as though he had heard similar protestations of friendship all the way from the Suez Canal, and was long past believing them. ‘Well, let’s have a shuftee, then –

STOP!’ The weary disbelief vanished instantly, and Fred’s identification fell to the ground, as the sergeant caught up the Thompson with both hands. ‘What’s that under your jerkin, Johnnie? Lift it up – slowly . . . the jerkin, I mean, you silly bugger! Watch it!’

Fred stood like a statue – if there had ever been a statue of surrender – aware that the sergeant had seen the bulge of Kyri’s holster.

‘He has a side-arm, sergeant.’ As Fred intervened, the reason for Kyri’s earlier emphasis came to him belatedly. ‘With my permission.’ The sergeant was scared, perhaps. But he was also a well-trained soldier, almost certainly Field Security, although he wore no badge or flash, only his stripes. ‘Where’s your officer?

You get him – I demand to speak to him, sergeant.’ Well trained –

and cautious and observant: a good sergeant, for his dirty job, just as Sergeant Procter was a good sergeant for his dangerous and unrewarding one. And . . . somehow that was reassuring. ‘Then I think we can resolve this situation – right?’

The sergeant didn’t relax. Even, Fred’s shift from that peremptory dummy4

demand to a more reasonable statement increased his wariness.

‘ Jacko!’ The shout came from behind, from the other gulley – that must be Bert with the Browning.‘

Still no relaxation. ‘ Yes?’

‘Tiny’s down below – with Hughie and the lads, Jacko.’

Sergeant Jacko gave ‘down below’ one lightning-quick glance.

‘Well . . . you’re in luck, sir.’ But even now he didn’t relax: that was the difference between the men and the boys. All he did was to raise an eyebrow. ‘You wanted an officer. So here is one . . . sir.’

Fred took that as an invitation, and looked down into the valley.

There were two vehicles on the track, a jeep and a 15-hundredweight, each with twin Vickers-Berthiers mounted on them which were manned and trained on the ridge while the other occupants fanned out on each side, sinking behind what little cover there was.

‘Give ’em a wave, Bert,‘ ordered Sergeant Jacko.

Three figures rose on Bert’s wave and started uphill, the rest remaining under cover. The most diminutive of them (presumably

‘Tiny’) struggled under the weight of a back-packed wireless. As for the other two, one carried a rifle and the third and largest (Hughie?) appeared to be armed only with a walking-stick. So Hughie would be the officer, thought Fred with an inner sigh. But from his Italian experience he disliked officers who carried sticks: majors or above, they were usually outrageously brave, and often arrogant with it, and given to chivvying the poor devils of sappers required to build their bridges and clear their minefields under fire.

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‘May I lower my arms now, sergeant?’ It would probably be a most uncomfortable interview, because the intrepid major wouldn’t thank them for disrupting his operations, however accidentally and innocently. And he would probably be rude to Kyri, who was most likely on a short fuse now, after having been shot at and held up by his allies in his own country. But at least they were safe now.