A New Kind of War

Fred felt tired. And . . . although he conceded within himself that young Audley was an intriguing youth, in spite of all his defects (which must certainly be a sore trial to Amos de Souza) ... far too tired now to argue the toss, about the Jews and the Germans, never mind RSM Levin, anyway.

‘Oughtn’t I to be finding Driver Hewitt, David – ?’ He took the coward’s way out, disdaining to remind the boy that he himself, although C of E, came from an old Jewish family too.

‘Yes. Perhaps you ought.’ Audley looked around, reaching up to his full height from his normally slightly-hunched stance . . . which must, thought Fred, dummy4

offend RSM Levin every time he glimpsed it. ‘And I ought to be finding Caesar Augustus, too, I suppose . . .’ The big chest expanded, and Audley’s height increased another inch with it. ‘ HUGHIE!

Where are you?’

Silence. High above the line of vehicles Fred saw the silver-birch leaves shiver in a breath of wind against the grey sky.

‘He’s out there somewhere – brewing tea and smoking his eternal dog-end . . . and probably watching us.’

Audley’s chest expanded again.

‘DRIVER HEWITT! LET’S BE HAVING YOU!’

More silence. Then –

‘ SIR!’ The answer came as a muted cry of recognition.

Audley sniffed. ‘He’s even now dodging round the back somewhere, so he can pretend he’s been looking for you . . . Wait and see!’

Fred followed Audley’s glance, and saw a diminutive figure straighten up at the further end of the line of vehicles.

‘Sir! Mr Audley – Captain Audley – coming – !’

Fred observed the figure critically, recalling Driver Hewitt’s well-pressed turnout at the airfield. ‘He seems remarkably . . . smart.’ In fact when he thought about it, he had never seen such a well-pressed and blancoed and polished RASC driver.

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‘Oh yes – ’ Audley drew breath ‘ – you can thank Mr Levin for that, if for nothing else . . . Where the hell have you been, Hughie?’

Driver Hewitt came to attention. ‘Attending to your vehicle – Mr Audley – Captain Audley – sir!’ Hewitt rolled an eye at Fred. ‘Or . . . Major Fat – Fatto –

Fattorini’s vehicle . . . sir!’

‘Oh yes.’ Audley hunched up again. ‘Well, then . . .

you look after both of them now – right?’

‘Both of them?’ The eye rolled back at Audley.

‘Yes.’ Audley sighed. ‘For Christ’s sake, Hughie . . .

you know that I intend to take that little car back to England somehow ... so I want it all in one piece, remember.’ He bent over the little man, driving home his point with a single raised finger which stopped one inch from Hewitt’s nose. ‘Any damage to it will result in reciprocal damage to you, Hughie – right?’ Then he straightened up, grinning at Fred with a suddenly disarming youthfulness. ‘Not to mention any damage to Major Fattorini . . . you are to ensure, rather, that he has a few hours’ undisturbed rest, en route to Schwartzenburg: those are the adjutant’s exact orders.

Because he hasn’t had a proper kip since he left the isles of Greece, where burning Sappho loved and sang

–’ He swung back towards Hewitt as he spoke ‘ –

right?’

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‘Sir!’ Driver Hewitt’s wizened monkey-face remained impassive, but he infused the acknowledgement with the weariness of the old soldier long-accustomed to being patronized and talked-down-to by young officers who didn’t know any better, but who were nonetheless useful to him.

‘Good.’ Such implicit wisdom was lost on Audley.

‘Well, Fred ... I suppose I must go to receive my wigging from the headmaster. And you’d better wish me something better than the best of British luck now.

Because I expect Busy-Izzy has sneaked to him about us both by now ... So I expect it’s the 14th Army for me – Burma, here I come – !’

They both watched the young dragoon depart, slouched for the first few steps – however had he fitted all those long bones into a tank? wondered Fred; but at least he wasn’t still carrying his umbrella to judgement! – and then suddenly straighten up as though he felt their eyes on him – shoulders back! Swing those arms! Go take your medicine, David Audley!

Driver Hewitt chuckled throatily beside him, below him. And then checked the chuckle, turning it into a controlled cough, and swallowed the sound and the phlegm together.

‘What was that, Hewitt?’ In any sort of conventional unit, Driver Hewitt’s considered opinions wouldn’t have mattered. But this was not any sort of dummy4

conventional unit, and it was quite outside his military experience. For a start, it seemed to have more chiefs than Indians . . .or, as a private soldier of the Royal Army Service Corps, Driver Hewitt was an exception to the rule which had promoted both Audley and himself, anyway. ‘What was that you said – ?’