The '44 Vintage (2 page)

He had said exactly the wrong thing, bugger it.

“
Deine Kameraden
?” the German repeated.

Think. Say something. Say
anything
.

“
Ja
…
” The words dried up in Butler’s throat. He must give the man a reason not to fire.

If he fired they would hear it.

“
Ja. Wenn du mich tö
test—
“
To his horror Butler discovered that he couldn’t remember the German word for
hear
. All he could think of as an alternative was to make a direct threat: if the German killed him then his mates would extract vengeance. “
Wenn du mich tötest, werden si
e dich sicher töten
.”

The hedge was silent, and as the seconds ticked away a small flame of hope kindled inside Butler. Every second was a small victory advancing him towards the rendezvous hour.

Always supposing this Major O’Conor was a punctual man—
God, please make Major O’Conor a punctual man
!

The German chuckled nastily—it was the dry, contemptuous chuckle of the confident man who held all the cards in his hand and didn’t care who knew it.

“Kummere dich nicht um mich, Tommy. Komm heraus and argumentiere nicht.”

The flame was gone as though it had never been. Instead there was only another wave of dead cow to remind him that in the moment he stepped out of the stream, away from the Sten, he was as dead as the cow.

Dead with his purple feet for the German to laugh at.

Dead without his boots on.

His boots.

From his hiding place in the hedge all the German could see of his equipment was a pair of boots—the rest was out of sight on the ledge. And what he couldn’t see he couldn’t know about.

What was the German for “boots”?

Stiefel.

That one word carried Butler from despair to resolution.

“
Meine Stiefel
…
” He tried to sound abject. “
Aber lass mich meine Stiefel aufnehmen
.”

“
Deine Stiefel
?” Another chuckle. “
Ja, ja! Also—nimm deine Stiefel
auf
.”

The contempt in the man’s voice was the final spur Butler needed. He took a step sideways, settling his feet firmly on the bed of the stream, and bent over slowly as though to pick up his boots. Then, in the very instant that his right hand seemed about to close on them he doubled up below the lip of the bank.

The fruits of a hundred weapon drills were harvested in seconds: cocking handle slammed back to “safety”—magazine from the open pouch snapped firmly home—stud on “automatic”—cocking handle off “safety”—

Now it
’
s not meine Stiefel, you bugger—it
’
s meine Sten!

Viewed from where he knelt in the water the stream was a wide, shallow trench meandering across the open field roughly parallel to the hedge and the road beyond. To his right the bank was open, but six yards to his left there was an enticing clump of willows. That was the obvious place to head for—but that was also the way the German would expect him to go—

And if the German had a grenade—

A grenade?

Butler’s nerve snapped and his instincts took over: before he could stop himself he had straightened up and loosed half the magazine into the hedge. Dust and fragments of wood splattered around the foot of the gatepost in the opening.

“All right, Corporal Butler—cease fire!”

Butler was turned to stone.

“Put it on ‘safety,’ Corporal—d’you hear?” The voice came from the hedge where the German had been. “Put it on ‘safety’ and then I’ll come out… and if you shoot me I’ll
never
forgive you—d’you hear?”

Butler stared at the hedge uncomprehendingly.

“This is Major O’Conor speaking, Corporal. I’m ordering you to put that Sten on ‘safety’—d’you understand?” the voice barked, with exactly the same shift in tone from the conversational to the peremptory which had characterised the original German order to surrender.

The same tone—and the same voice.

There was another sound too now, of a rapidly approaching vehicle. As Butler struggled to make sense of events a cloud of white dust rose from behind the bocage and a jeep skidded to a halt in the gateway.

The dust cloud swirled around the vehicle, enveloping its khaki-clad driver momentarily. Until it settled he sat like a statue, still grasping the steering wheel with both hands as though he was holding an animal in check.

“All right, Sergeant-major.” The voice from the hedge was almost back to conversational level. “No damage, no casualties.”

“Sir!” The sergeant-major killed the engine, twisted towards Butler— and stiffened. ‘
You—
“
he shrieked, stabbing his finger after the word, “
don
’
t point that machine carbine at me! What d
’
you think you
’
re playing at
?”

The familiar formula broke Butler’s trance. He lowered the Sten shamefacedly, automatically pulling back the cocking handle into the safety slot as he did so.

“
Th
at
’
s better!
”

Butler was suddenly aware that he was no longer hot—he was deathly cold. There was a jumble of other feelings churning around inside him, some of which could not safely be expressed aloud in the presence of an officer—a field officer—never mind a sergeant-major. He was conscious that he had been cruelly and unfairly treated; that he had been the subject of some sort of joke which had been no joke at all, and which could have ended in tragedy. But chiefly he was conscious of feeling cold—the top half of him cold and clammy, the bottom half cold and soaking wet.

And he had also made a perfect fool of himself.

He set the Sten down on the bank beside his boots and reached for one of the magazines which had fallen into the muddy edge of the stream. As he did so he noticed the bottle of gentian violet still standing on its ledge, safe and sound… . Well, that at least was a mercy. There was no question of continuing the treatment here and now, but there would be other opportunities. He would beat that fungus if it was the last thing he did—

“Well now, Corporal Butler—“

Butler straightened himself into attention as best he could—it wasn’t easy to smarten up while standing up to one’s knees in muddy water and trying to conceal the telltale bottle at the same time—and steeled himself to look Major O’Conor straight in the eye.

In fact he found himself looking directly at Major O’Conor’s fly, two buttons of which were undone. It occurred to him irrelevantly that the major hadn’t appeared as soon as the sergeant-major had arrived because he had been pissing in the hedge—and that might be why the sergeant-major had sat rigidly to attention in the dust cloud.

He raised his gaze to an angle of forty-five degrees.

Major O’Conor’s eyes were a pale, washed-out blue, slightly bloodshot. Or at least one of them was—the kindlier of the two; the other was cold and fishlike in its intensity.

And the major was tall and thin and leathery and grey—grizzled … though the greyness might simply be due to the fine coating of dust that covered him.

And the major was also bleeding from a cut on his cheekbone; as Butler watched a small bright ruby of blood rolled down the major’s cheek, slowing down as it gathered dust until it was caught in the grey stubble on his jaw.

“Hah!” The thin lips, dirt-rimmed where the dust and spittle had mixed, opened to reveal a glittering array of gold teeth. “Nearly got my bloody head blown off—that’s what the sergeant-major’s thinking, isn’t it, Sergeant-major?”

The sergeant-major came into Butler’s range of vision beside the major, half a head shorter and half a body wider.

“Sir!” said the sergeant-major neutrally.

Eyes slitted under bushy eyebrows and a Guards moustache under a squashed-in red nose was all Butler had time to assimilate before the major spoke again—except that the sergeant-major exuded disapproval like body odour. It was going to take more than one lifetime to live down that improperly pointed Sten.

“And quite right too.” The major nodded at Butler. “Nearly
did
get my bloody head blown off—and serve me jolly well right—the sergeant-major’s also thinking that … eh, Sergeant-major?”

“Sir!” The sergeant-major had obviously perfected that neutral tone over long years of unanswerable questions.

“But …” The major’s left eye blinked while the fishlike right one continued to stare through Butler. “But we do know he really can speak German—we know that now, don’t we, Sergeant-major? And we also know that he can lie in it when he has to, by God!”

This time the sergeant-major let the echo of his previous answer do the work. The major nodded again, but more appraisingly.

“Wouldn’t pass for a German, though—not unless they have Germans in Lancashire.”

Butler’s cheeks burned. He had worked for two years to eliminate that accent, and to have it betray him in a foreign language was galling.

“Lancashire—yes,” repeated Major O’Conor contentedly. “But he wasn’t taught by a Lancashireman—or by a German either, come to that.” He paused, pursing his lips for a moment. “By a Pole, I’d say … Remember that fellow in Mersa—the big chap with the fair hair … can’t recall his name—couldn’t pronounce it if I did—but I never forget a voice.”

“Sir.” There was a fractional variation in the sergeant-major’s own voice.

“I knew you’d remember him. First-rate interrogator. Exactly the same German accent—minus the Lancashire, of course.” The major turned away from Butler at last, towards his sergeant-major. “Stand at ease, Corporal.”

Butler twitched unhappily, unsure of himself. The major had stared at him and spoken to the sergeant-major. Now he was looking at the sergeant-major, but not talking to him.

“Are you
hard of hearing
, Corporal?” snapped the sergeant-major.

Butler stood at ease so quickly that he almost lost his balance in the mud.

“How old are you, Corporal?” As he spoke the major swung towards him again, his left eye blinking disconcertingly. In anyone else that might have been a wink, but it just wasn’t possible that—

A glass eye—he had a glass eye!

“Are you
dumb
as well as half deaf?” The sergeant-major paused for a half second. “Answer the officer!”

“Nineteen, sir.” Butler’s voice cracked. “And a half.”

“And a half?” Major O’Conor smiled. “And have you ever fired a shot in anger … other than just now?”

Butler clenched his teeth. “No, sir.”

“How long have you been in Normandy, Corporal?”

“Th-three days, sir.”

“Three days …” Major O’Conor nodded. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with his reflexes, Sergeant-major. He ducked down like a jack rabbit—and came up like a jack-in-the-box. And nothing wrong with his guts, either.”

Butler warmed to the major, all his hatred transferring itself in that instant to the sergeant-major. The major was eccentric, but some officers were eccentric, it was a fact of life. And the major was also old —that grey stubble on his bloodstained cheek was grey with age, not dust—but he was also wise and as sharp as a razor, the insight into his German accent proved that.

His eye was caught by the faded double strip of colour on the major’s left breast: and the major was also brave. The blue-red-blue and white-blue-white which led other ribbons he had no time to distinguish were the badges of courage he coveted and dreamed of and honoured—He had seen them before, on another uniform …

The major had seen service, had fired shots in anger—had
led
men in battle.

The thing Butler desired above all things stood before him, the thing Butler wanted to be with all his heart.

And to be led by such a man was the next best thing to that, because by observing him he could learn how the thing was done. Learning was no problem—learning was the easiest thing in the world; and learning by example, as he had expanded his German by listening to the Polish sergeant in the NAAFI night after night, was the easiest way of all.

“Except that if I had been a German he’d be dead, of course,” said the major. “Because he popped up in exactly the same spot as he went down, and Jerry would have been waiting for that. But next time he’ll move first, Sergeant-major—he won’t forget that next time, I’m willing to bet, eh?”

“No, sir,” said Butler.

“’Willing to learn by his mistakes’—mark that up, Sergeant-major… . And taught himself German.” Major O’Conor wagged a thin finger at the sergeant-major. “He’ll do. He’ll do.”

At that moment whatever it was the major wanted him to do—whatever it was he had been taken from his friends and his battalion to do, even if it had involved charging a regiment singlehanded—Butler would cheerfully have done.

“Let’s have you out of there, Corporal,” said the major, leaning forward to offer Butler a hand.

In the instant that Butler reached for the hand with his own free left hand—the bottle of gentian violet was still palmed in the right one —he remembered his purple feet. But there was no possible way of rejecting the bony fingers which fastened on his wrist in the very next instant; all he could do was to try and hold that one good eye with his own, and let himself be heaved up the bank.

Even that was a failure: the major released his hand and looked him up and down—down to his feet.

And then up again—

“All right, then. Get yourself cleaned up, and we’ll be on our way again.” The major nodded and turned away as though there had been nothing to see, leaving Butler with his mouth open.

The sergeant-major leaned forward. “Get that carbine of yours unloaded, Corporal,” he hissed. “And don’t you ever point it at me again—unless you intend to shoot me with it. … Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sergeant-major.” Butler fixed his eyes on an imaginary block of concrete three inches above the sergeant-major’s head.