A New Kind of War

‘What?’ Sergeant Jacko paused. ‘No – keep ’em up . . . sir – and you, Johnnie – up – that’s it ... Until I say you can put ‘em down, you keep ’em up, sir. Right?‘

Fred fumed in silence as he watched the figures approach. The large major was well in the lead now, unencumbered either by caution, like his rifleman, or by equipment, like the little wireless-man, who was falling further and further behind. Yet, even as he fumed – the sergeant’s caution really went beyond the bounds of prejudice – he identified a tingle of excited curiosity. That the Greeks on both sides might be indulging any opportunity to settle up during the truce really came as no surprise: their private scores dated from long before the war, so it seemed from Kyri’s chance remarks, which were all the more blood-curdling because by Greek standards he was an unusually unbloodthirsty and liberal royalist, thirsting for peace and wine and women after five years of war, but apparently resigned to achieving only the last two for the foreseeable future. But this was quite obviously a British operation, regardless of the truce –

The intrepid major was a very young major, as well as a very big one, he observed as the major closed the distance with immense upwards strides. And young majors, role-playing in their elders’

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image, were always the worst ones –

But ... if it was a British operation, what the hell was the British Army doing, breaking their own truce so deliberately – ?

A very young major –

‘Sergeant Devenish! What the blazes are you up to?’ The young major heaved himself over a larger obstacle in the scree below them.

‘Sir!’ Sergeant Jacko – Sergeant Devenish – kept his eyes on both of them as he started to reply. ‘We spotted these coming up behind us, and – ’

Then why the b-blazes didn’t you c-c-call in?‘ The young major stuttered with anger as he cut the sergeant off while slithering and stamping up the scree over the last few yards.

‘The set’s on the blink, sir. We couldn’t raise you.’ The sergeant sounded not so much over-awed by rank as weary of his fault-finding majors.

‘W-what d’you mean “on the blink”?’ The young major anchored himself on his stick for a moment, but took a closer look at Fred and Kyri for the first time, scowling horribly as he did so. ‘You mean some bloody fool dropped it – ’ He stopped as he shifted his scowl back to Fred from Kyriakos.

‘The set was not dropped, Mr Audley.’ Sergeant Devenish answered the young major with quiet authority, still without taking his eyes off them. ‘It’s the one we’ve had trouble with before. It’s a duff set, is what it is.’

Mister Audley? The young major’s sheepskin jerkin concealed his dummy4

badges of rank and Fred couldn’t identify the impossible heraldic quadruped on his cap-badge. But at this close range the man’s extreme, almost beardless, youth was simultaneously as apparent as his considerable ugliness (and he hadn’t been so much scowling as perhaps frowning nervously?). And then the full significance of the sergeant’s ‘ Mister Audley’ and his slight disdain clinched the matter.

‘What the devil d’you mean by shooting at me?’ he snapped at the youth, even while keeping his hands close to the back of his neck with the sergeant’s eye still on him. ‘And who the devil are you?’

‘W-what?’ The scowl-frown returned. ‘Sergeant – who is this?

‘Captain Fat – ’ The sergeant paused momentarily ‘ –Fat-O’Rhiney, sir.’

‘O-what?’ The youth blinked.

‘O’Rhiney – Captain Fat-O’Rhiney, Mr Audley, sir,’ repeated the sergeant before Fred could correct him. ‘Royal Engineers.’

The youth raised his eyebrow at Fred. ‘What jolly bad luck! F-fat –

F-fatto . . . what?’

Fred clenched his teeth. ‘Fattorini. Brigade Royal Engineers. Who are you, may I ask?’

The youth frowned again, this time staring at Fred with peculiar concentration. ‘ Fattorini– ?’

Kyriakos cleared his throat, but mercifully didn’t spit. ‘Captain Frederick Armstrong Fattorini, Royal Engineers, GSO Three, Brigade Staff,’ he said, with deliberate public school King’s English clarity.

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The youth shifted his frowning stare to Kyriakos. ‘And may one ask who the hell you are?’ he inquired politely.

Kyri drew himself up. ‘Michaelides, Staff Captain, Rimini Brigade, Royal Hellenic Army . . . And may I ask whom I have the doubtful honour of addressing on the eve of Scobiemas?’

The youth’s ugly face broke up. ‘Scobiemas! Of course!’

Sergeant Devenish coughed. ‘Said his name was Alexander –

Alexander – something, sir. And he said he had papers to prove it.’

‘My identity card is buried nearby,’ snapped Kyri. ‘When we heard the firing we thought you might be andartes – do you understand?’

The youth grinned. ‘All too well, I do – very sensible!’ Then he stopped grinning. ‘Would you be so good as to dig it up for me, then?’

Kyriakos nodded. ‘Of course – ’

They’re both armed, sir,‘ said Sergeant Devenish quickly. ’And I haven’t had a chance to disarm them.‘