‘
(‘He’s mad,’ David Audley had said; and ‘All my officers are mad,’ Colonel Colbourne had replied – )
‘ – so
(And, also, hadn’t Clinton himself said: ‘All sappers are mad’? –)
‘ –
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It had never been very funny, that joke – and not least because it had always been told and re-told in situations of extreme unfunniness. But it had never been more unfunny than now, as he stretched out and accepted the long-dreamed-of manumission.
‘Why do I need a pen?’ He heard himself reject his freedom even as he touched it, as though from far away.
‘It’s August 7th today.’ The Brigadier re-buttoned his blouse with his newly-freed hand. ‘You can date it from today if you wish. Although Major de Souza will have to process it, and arrange transport. But that will only be a formality, for he has all the necessary Army Instructions to hand.’
The bloody man was so bloody-sure of himself that Fred was tempted for a fraction of a second to put him to the test. But then he remembered that his pen was dry, and he’d lost his indelible pencil. And it would be no joke to face Amos de Souza, who possessed the same document, even as a joke, anyway – any more than he could face Uncle Luke if it hadn’t been, damn him –
He transferred the envelope to his good left hand and began to fumble with his own top button, forcing his clumsy promoted second finger to do its new work in default of its useless superior.
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‘So – ’ It pleased him absurdly that his bad hand obeyed him faultlessly with the Brigadier watching it ‘
– what are my first orders then . . . Freddie?’
The Brigadier stopped watching his hand and met his eyes. But now, at least, he was truly ready for that steel to rasp down his own. Which was wonderfully more exciting than anything which had happened to him for a very long time –
‘Good.’ Clinton seemed to take his victory for granted, without pleasure. ‘But they’re not simple ones. You may not like them.’
Fred felt the weight of the envelope inside his blouse, against his heart. ‘That doesn’t surprise me one bit.’
All he had to do was think of that weight as
then he could accept it. Because freedom ought to be heavier than servitude. ‘Who are you hunting now?’
Clinton’s stare became blank. ‘What makes you think I’m hunting anyone?’
Fred knew he was right. ‘Kyri – Colonel Michaelides ... he said you were a man-hunter. Isn’t that what TRR-2 has been doing: hunting Germans?’
‘Yes.’ Clinton paused. ‘But I am not hunting a German now, major. It’s an Englishman I want now, I’m sorry to say.’
PART FOUR
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The Price of Freedom
In the Teutoburg Forest,
Germany, August 8, 1945
1
Down in the castle courtyard below, someone started singing in a high, sweet voice, quite destroying Fred’s concentration in an instant.
‘Als die Romer frech geworden,
Zogen sie nach Deutschlands Norden,
Vorne beim Trompetenschwall
Ritt der Generalfeldmarschall,
Herr Quinctilius Varus – ’
For a moment the very sweetness of the sound, rendered crystal-clear in the morning air by some acoustic accident even within his bedroom, deceived him. Then the meaning of the words registered.
‘Doch in Teutoburger Walde
Hu, wie pfiff der Wind so kalte;
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Raben flogen durch die Luft,
Und es war ein Morderuft
Wie von Blut und Leichen!’
That was quite enough, thought Fred vengefully, throwing back the sheet and starting towards the window across the bare boards.
‘Plotzlich aus des Waldes Duster
Brachen krampfhaft die Cherusker
Mit Gott fur Furst und Vaterland – ’
Far below him, foreshortened by the angle of sight, there was a German soldier – or, anyway, a man in field-grey overalls and German steel helmet – washing the Brigadier’s Humber Snipe as he sang. But as Fred opened his own mouth there was a sharp knock on the door behind him.
‘Come in!’ He turned from the window quickly.
