A New Kind of War

bloody woods –’ Audley pointed again, but over the lake ‘ – in dozens of hillsides like this, and ravines . . .

More like the way the Afghans cut up the British army in the Khyber Pass, only with dense forest, rather than mountains. But he thinks it might have ended here . . .

the big tribal celebration in a place consecrated to the gods, with the prisoners as sacrificial offerings.

Because, apparently, they didn’t only nail ’em up on trees and burn ‘em in wicker baskets, like in Britain –

they also trod ’em in water under hurdles, and cast ‘em off high places on to sharpened stakes.’ The boy dropped his hand and sighed. ‘Cheers him up no end, the Exernsteine does. But then, as I told you, he’s mad as a hatter. Because I think he may be right. Only . . .

that makes this place pretty nasty, in my reckoning: all those poor bloody Roman PoWs being crucified, and roasted, and drowned, and spiked here – d’you see?’

Fred stared for a moment at the oiled metal-grey sheen on the water of the lake, on which the brooding sky and the grey rocks were reflected. Then he shook his head.

‘Tell me about Professor Schmidt’s rules, David.’

‘Yes.’ Audley roused himself too. ‘Old Schmidt was dummy4

my main job, you see.’

‘Because he was a historian?’

‘That’s right, I guess. But I don’t really know whether he had any rules. Only ... he got these chaps together, all nice and safely, before the war. And the proper scientists among them all had something to contribute to his archaeology, it seems. Like, new methods of dating materials, and soil analysis, and suchlike –

“scientific archaeology” was what he called it – some long German words. And they kept their heads down and did their work, and minded their own business –

always very busy, they were. Like, they were good Germans. But they were always safely in the remote past.

‘But then Enno von Mitzlaff turned up in ’42, invalided out of the Wehrmacht, and looking for work – see?‘

‘Because he was an archaeologist?’

‘He was. And also he was old Schmidt’s godson. So maybe the old man just wanted to save him, too. Only, unfortunately, he wouldn’t stay saved – he probably knew more of what was going on elsewhere.’

So the boy didn’t know everything, then. ‘And he got involved in the plot against Hitler, of course – you said

– ?’

‘Yes. And then the fat was in the fire.’ Audley nodded.

‘Maybe Schmidt or one of the others was also in on it.

dummy4

I don’t somehow think so, but I don’t know yet for sure. Only, it didn’t matter anyway, because the Gestapo was in a vengeful mood by then – I got this from a fairly senior policeman in Bonn, whom we haven’t quite got round to sacking yet . . . But he says that old Schmidt put the police and the Gestapo off as long as he could.’ There was a bleak look in Audley’s eyes. ‘Schmidt was too old and fat to run himself. But he did his best for the others – which is really what has made our job so difficult, I suppose . . . But he was a brave man too, like his godson . . . One of the Crocodile’s “guid decent men”, I’d say.’

It was like receiving a delayed message of a friend’s death in Burma: it had all happened months ago, while he’d still been trudging through Italian mud, so it was too late for tears. ‘And then?’

‘There was a big fire in Schmidt’s office, in which all his records were conveniently destroyed – all the names of personnel, as well as the marvellous new scientific techniques they’d pioneered. Which, from an archaeological point of view, was a great tragedy. So Schmidt added a convenient heart attack to it. Not a fatal one, but enough to delay the investigation somewhat. So, by the time this smart Gestapo obergruppenfuhrer finally tumbled to the fact that the fire hadn’t been caused by a British incendiary bomb, and the heart attack wasn’t genuine, all the other birds dummy4

had flown.’

And I was probably on the beach at Vouliagmeni, thought Fred. ‘And Schmidt – ?’

‘He knew the form, when the game was up and the savages were closing in – just like old Varus did. Only swords are out of fashion now, so he shot himself with an old Webley revolver he’d taken off a British officer in his war, in 1917. So no piano wire for him, just like no wicker basket or high rocks for Varus.’ Audley looked at his watch again. ‘But the policeman did also give me more than he gave the obergruppenfuhrer, whom he insists he didn’t like.’ Another shrug. ‘Or maybe he just saw which way the wind was blowing by then ... Or it could even be the Gestapo was too busy shooting ordinary defeatists by then – I don’t know.

But that wasn’t what was really important.’

‘What was that?’

‘He gave us a cross-bearing on where Zeitzler might be holed up – Ernst Zeitzler, alias “Corporal Keys” . . .

Because Zeitzler was another genuine archaeologist.

And his particular specialization was – guess what? –

the study of the Roman frontier . . . which was why we moved down to the unspeakable Kaiserburg, of course . . . Although it was Amos who finally tracked him down, I must admit. So I can’t claim all the credit, even though I deserve most of it.’

Typical Audley! ‘And Zeitzler is Number 16’s best dummy4