James always had difficulty in saying nothing. Instead, he said:
‘I keep six honest serving-men,
(They taught me all I knew);
Their names are What and Why and When
And How and Where and Who . . .’
I’ve told you about Les. He chipped in with:
‘I send them over land and sea,
I send them east and west;
But after they have worked for me
I give them all a rest.’
Then he added, ‘That was Mr Kipling, weren’t it?’
James said, ‘Very good, Les. Where did you learn that?’
‘It was one of my dad’s favourite pieces.’
They were just stringing me along, so I played the part in life God had fitted me out for: the dumb laddie.
‘What does all that mean, Major?’
‘It means, sonny, that somebody is rattling my chain. And I’m going to find out who, how and why. Capiche? So Raffles and I shall be with you for the time being. Do you have a problem with that, Pilot Officer?’
‘No, sir. You’re in charge.’
‘Glad to have settled that.’ He was unusually waspish; I suppose that his leg might have been hurting. I know that my bloody arm was.
Les asked, ‘What about me?’
James grinned.
‘Bollocks. You can be in charge, too. My second-in-command. Charlie can be the cabin boy.’
‘Thanks,’ I told them. ‘I don’t suppose that either of my COs would care to accompany me to a Canadian field kitchen a couple of fields away? They appear to have set up some kind of a bar alongside it. It has a stuffed moose’s head on the ridge pole over the door flaps.’
That night we slept in the barn at Korne again, but weren’t disturbed. In the morning our hosts turned out to see us away. Les gave them a couple of good dollars, and a handful of forged deutschmarks. The old man put a hand on my bad arm, and indicated the road we were to take. It eventually curved down into a valley, and disappeared. His wife gave Les a fat, wet kiss. James pretended not to notice.
Twenty-Three
It was a strong flat valley, and once in it another one of those arrow-straight roads ran from one end to the other. I couldn’t remember who had won the argument about who built the damned things, but they were everywhere. The steep wall of hills to our right was densely clothed with pines. Between them and the road were fields of late winter feeding. That was good defensive country. James said that the northern Jerry fed his livestock on kale. I was partial to the irony taste of kale myself. James said that the first time German POWs were offered kale in England they refused it on the ground that it was animal food, and complained to the Red Cross.
The valley ridge to the west was flatter and closer, and clothed with good grazing grass. I could see a hill, or a further ridge, beyond it: perhaps it hid another valley. We seemed to be heading towards a distant forest of deciduous trees, without an obvious way through, but James and Les seemed to know what they were doing, and they didn’t seem to be in a hurry . . . which pissed me off a bit. James took his eyes from the landscape, or his map from time to time, to scribble in his notebook.
When he said, ‘Stop. Stop here, please,’ in majorly tones, it did occur to me to wonder why. I couldn’t see anything of significance for miles. Bollocks. He was away with the fairies again.
He said, ‘Let’s walk for ten minutes. All of us. It will do the pair of you good, instead of sitting around all day.’
Les muttered something about leaving someone to mind Kate, and volunteering himself for the duty. James said what I had been thinking.
‘Bollocks.’ Then, ‘Who’s in charge?’
I kept my mouth shut for once.
It was just as I had thought. As we moved gingerly on foot up to the west and north we were on dark, fine grass; like the South Downs around Hastings. There was thyme mixed in among it. We walked the walk, of course; James set a powerful pace as if he was in a hurry to get somewhere. Les was about six feet behind him, loping along with his Sten bouncing against his hip, and me a good ten feet behind him. We probably looked odd from a distance, if some Jerry sniper had a bead on us. James was taking a chance on the area being pacified, and I didn’t mind him taking chances, as long as it wasn’t with me. The ridge, which was our valley’s west rim, simply looked into another: a shallower and more serious affair. It was more serious because there were dead tanks all over it – some square Brits, and some American light jobs. The Yanks looked low and fast and racy. They looked just as dead as the British Comets close to them. Les knew their flash, and said, ‘Fife and Forfar Yeomanry. Scotch jobs. They have had a bit of a doing, haven’t they?’
I looked quickly for Albie’s past caring among the Americans. No sign.
James told us, ‘I knew it! There was once a battle here.’
Les gave him the If only you knew how pitiful you are look.
‘Would never have known that, sir.’
I added, ‘No, nor would I.’
‘Arseholes, the pair of you. Products of failed second-rate schools. I mean a real battle – swords against spears. This is where about eighteen hundred Jerries stopped a complete Roman legion dead in its tracks. One of the histories says that a year after, a man looking at this hillside from the tree line down there could be dazzled by the sun reflecting back from a carpet of white skulls. They weren’t Jerries back then, of course, merely barbarians.’
‘You’re sure about this, sir? You ain’t just making it up?’
‘Absolutely sure. I’ve been wanting to visit here for years.’
‘That’s what you said about Agincourt and Waterloo, sir.’ That was Les.
‘When were you
