A New Kind of War (27 page)

Well … there was the truth, pure and unvarnished as only an RASC driver could impart it, thought Fred: the anomaly of young Audley’s presence here, among his elders and betters, could be explained as simply as that:
he had influence
!

‘Come on, then!’ Driver Hewitt gestured urgently, and disappeared in a gap between two of the vehicles.

Fred skipped after him smartly into the gap as he observed the reason for the little man’s urgency aproaching in the distance: Colonel Colbourne was waving a finger at Captain Audley (who for once seemed to be keeping his mouth shut), with the RSM just behind them. And he felt a slight pang of conscience as he did so, but then allowed himself to be consoled by Driver Hewitt’s judgement of the young man’s ability to defend himself, added to the boy’s special relationship with Brigadier Clinton. And besides, as a new boy himself, what could he do, anyway?

More engines started up—and Hewitt was beckoning him into another gap—and there, sure enough, was another argument in progress: he glimpsed Major McCorquodale addressing an imperturbable Amos de Souza while (so it seemed) shaking his fist at Otto Schild, at the adjutant’s shoulder, and a Schild now British from the waist down, in battle-dress trousers, boots and gaiters, and German from the waist up, in a badgeless Wehrmacht jacket and forage cap. Better to avoid that encounter, too—!

On the furthest side of the two lines of vehicles, under the dripping branches (and, presumably, discreetly avoiding both those disagreements), there were several other officers, whom he vaguely remembered from the night before, and two or three NCOs beside their transport.

‘Mornin’ Freddie—‘ and ’Hullo there, Freddie—‘—they seemed to know him better than he knew them; and the NCOs straightened up as he passed them; and the smartness of everyone’s turn-out made him feel crumpled and shabby: what was not least tantalizing about this unit was its mixture of extreme eccentricity and positively regimental smartness—even little Hewitt was marching stiff and straight ahead of him now, as though on a parade-ground—and that, with an RASC old sweat, was a commentary on Mr Levin’s standards which aroused admiration and incredulity equally.

‘ ’Ere we are!‘ Hewitt presented Captain Audley’s vehicle without a hint of apology. ’It don’t look much. But it’s what they call in the motor trade “a nice little runner”.‘

What struck Fred first was the question of how Captain Audley ever fitted himself into such a small car; although, to be fair, the fact that it was parked in long summer grass which almost came up to its windows, and between two monstrous ten-tonners which diminished it further, belittled it cruelly.

‘It’s what Jerry called “The People’s Car”.’ Driver Hewitt patted the little car’s sloping bonnet through the grass. ‘Before the war Hitler promised ’em they’d all ‘ave one like this—an’ took their money. But uv course ‘e didn’t divvy up—’e just took their money an‘ scarpered wiv it. An’ what you’ve probably seen is the army version, what they called a “kooblewaggon”, wiv no top to it—‘ He looked up at Fred ’—like, it was their Jeep, wot the Yanks give us—‘ He returned to the car, patting its sloping roof affectionately ’—but this is the real thing, like a proper car. An‘ Major M’Crocodile sez this is one uv the very first wot they built, the Jerries did—’ Pat-pat ‘—wiv a lovely little air-cooled engine in the back, ’orizontally-opposed, what starts up a treat, no matter ‘ow ’ot or ‘ow cold it is … A little bloody marvel, is what this is … If you can get inside it, that is: we ’ave to take a shoe-‘orn to get Mister David in it, if there’s anyone in the back there—wiv ’is knees up under ‘is chin. But ’e likes it, all the same, ‘e does.’

Fred bent down to look inside. ‘He does—?’

‘But we ain’t takin’ anyone in the back,‘ Driver Hewitt reassured him quickly. That’s Mister David’s—Captain Audley’s—kit in there. An’ yours too—all cleaned an‘ pressed by Trooper Lucy last night, while you were busy—don’t you worry, sir!’ Now he looked Fred up and down critically. ‘An’ if we get time, along the road, we can maybe change you up before—‘ He blinked, the wizened features contorting suddenly ’—
before
we gets to the Schwartzenburg for dinner, like, tonight … ‘ He looked away, up and down the lines, along which the men who had greeted them earlier were now mounting up, high above them ’—‘cause we’ve got a long drive ahead uv us, round about … if they ’aven’t repaired that bridge what’s fallen down, by the viaduct at Munchen-what’s-it, on the river there—?‘ He came back to Fred. ’If you’d get in then—right?‘ He opened the car door, pulling it against the tall grass.

There was a curious odour inside the tiny vehicle, like nothing he could put an origin to, which made him sniff interrogatively as he searched for its source.

‘You don’t want to worry about that smell.’ Driver Hewitt got in much more easily behind the wheel. ‘That was from last night, when Otto was making ’is deliveries in it … I think ‘e may ’ave ‘ad something that was startin’ to go
orf a
bit, maybe.‘ Hewitt sniffed himself. ’But, then a lot of ‘is meat, it ain’t right until it’s been ’ung a few days—like pheasants an‘ rabbits, an’ such: they ‘ave to be goin’
orf
before they’re just right—
here we
go!‘

The engine whirred somewhere behind them, and fired immediately against the roar of the lorries’ engines, and the blue clouds ahead of them.

‘There! What did I say—?’ Hewitt squirmed in his seat. ‘You little beauty, you!’ He turned to Fred. ‘Got enough room, then—?’

It was all too much: too much after yesterday, too much after yesterday evening … and far, far too much after last night—and even too much after what had been left of last night, running into this morning … which was also too much. ‘Yes.’ Somebody banged on the roof, half an inch from his head. Driver Hewitt shouted unintelligibly in answer, and Fred glimpsed a figure passing on up the line beyond them.

‘Aarrgh!’ Driver Hewitt turned to him again. ‘Good to be movin’ again—that’s what I like! An ‘specially now!’

‘Why especially now!’ The little man’s relief invited the question.

‘We bin up to somethink dodgey—dontcha know?’ Hewitt’s hand rotated the gear-lever in anticipation. ‘Dontcha know—?’

What Fred knew was that Driver Hewitt knew a lot more than he did, even now. And what he didn’t know he was well-placed to guess at. But he needed leading on, all the same. ‘We’re still in the American Zone, are we?’

‘Too bloody right!’ The lorry ahead shuddered for a moment, and then lurched forward. ‘Come on, you bugger—come on!’

That confrmed his suspicions. ‘You’ve been down here before, have you?’

‘Too bloody right!’ Driver Hewitt advanced the little car in the wake of the lorry. ‘We’ve bin all over—up an’ down, in an‘ out—we’ve bin there! Arsk no questions—an’ I’ll tell you no lies …
that’s
where we bin—‘ A half-grown bush sprang up behind the lorry, and Hewitt swung the wheel to avoid it. ’But now we’re runnin‘—an’ it’ll be back roads, wiv no questions arsked at road blocks by soddin‘ great Yank MPs swingin’ their truncheons likes they own the place. I ‘
ates
them … almost as much as I ’ates the Redcaps, what never done an honest day’s work in their lives, let alone a day’s soldierin‘ … But the Major—Major Amos—’e knows ‘ow to deal wiv the Redcaps. They don’t bother ’
im
none.‘ The little man pronounced this accolade with relish. Only then he shook his head. ’But the Yanks is different, I tell you.‘ Another shake. ’Wouldn’t want
them
pokin‘ around.’

‘Poking around … where?’

Hewitt nodded towards the ten-tonner which bumped up and down over the ruined road surface ahead of them. ‘Inside there, for a start—inside that ’ippo.‘

‘Ippo?’ Hewitt might, or might not, know all about ‘Corporal Keys’. But Fred hadn’t seen the German get into the lorry.

‘Leyland ’ippo—one uv the new ones they was bringin‘ over last year, the Mark 2. For long-distance ’eavy work, like.‘ Driver Hewitt lapsed suddenly into uncharacteristic professionalism. ’The Mark I ‘ad an open cab. So you got boiled or froze in it—or drownded. But that’s a Mark 2 —’fact, it’s a 2A—see them dual tyres on the back? Six-inline soddin‘ diesel, what I never liked. But we’ve got some proper mechanics, thank Gawd! Not to mention Major Kenworthy, ’oo’s a bloody marvel wiv any sort of engine … An‘ it’s ’im as filled it up this time, I shouldn’t wonder—see ‘ow ’eavy it’s loaded … ‘Cause ’e was out the night before last wiv some ‘eavy liftin’ gear, too. So ‘e’s got somethink dodgey in there, too.’

Fred sorted Major Kenworthy out from the dozen or so officers to whom he had been finally and briefly introduced after dinner. The hunting and fishing major had been … Carver-Hart—Johnnie Carver-Hart? And there had been a thin-faced, dark-haired KRRC major … but he had been Liddell—? And then a roly-poly-faced one—but he had been Ingrams, with an oak-leaf mention on his European ribbon.

‘Major Kenworthy?’ Everything Audley had let slip suggested that Colonel Colbourne’s Band of Brothers were collectors of men, even before last night’s raid. But one didn’t need a Leyland Hippo Mark 2A to transport human cargo.

‘Wiv the spectacles,’ explained Hewitt simply. ‘Now … can I arsk you somethink—if I may?’

‘Ah!’ Small, bespectacled and donnish-looking—and with no regimental or corps identification: Major Kenworthy! ‘What—? Yes, of course.’ He looked at Hewitt expectantly. ‘Ask away, Hewitt.’

‘Ah … ’ The little engine in the back whirred as Hewitt changed down, as the lorry ahead of them laboured up a slight incline in the midst of another tract of birches. ‘What’s “reciprocal”? An’ ‘oo’s Sappho—Sappho was it? The one that loves an’ sings, anyway—?‘

A wave of tiredness engulfed Fred momentarily. But he mustn’t sleep yet. ‘“Reciprocal” means … “equal”—“equal in return”, you might say—’ He struggled for another moment to find a better definition, but then decided against it. ‘And Sappho is … or was … a Greek poet, Hewitt. A female one.’

‘A lady poet—a girl, is that?’ The little man persisted.

‘Yes.’ The problem of defining Sappho further sorely taxed him. ‘At least … she was a girl a long time ago—two or three thousand years ago. And she preferred women to men then, actually, Hewitt.’

‘Aarrgh! I
knew
it!’ The little man breathed out in relief.

‘Knew what?’ The lorry reared up dangerously ahead. ‘Steady, man!’

‘I knew ’e didn’t know no girls in Greece—Mister David didn’t.‘ Hewitt braked sharply. “E didn’t ’ave no time, see—I didn’t think.‘

‘No?’

‘
Naow
! An’ ‘e wouldn’t ’ave known what to do, anyway - ‘e don’t know nothink about girls, except in ’is books … so ‘e’s shy wiv ’em, see—‘ Hewitt screwed up his face sideways at Fred ’—we ‘ad some Queen Alexandra’s nurses come to the Schwartzenburg one night, what ’ad lost their way. So they was in for dinner, an‘ one uv ’em was sittin‘ next to ’im—a real cracker … see, I was waiterin‘ that night, ’cause Otto was short-‘anded … An’ ‘e ’adn’t a word to say for hisself—would you believe it—not a word!‘

‘No—?’ The idea of David Audley wordless in any circumstances was hard to accept. But there was more to this surprising confidence than that. ‘Indeed?’ He nodded encouragingly.

‘Aarrgh! But that don’t mean ’e don’t need watchin‘—no!’ Hewitt warmed to his subject without needing any stimulus. ‘More like, ’e needs
more
watching—‘specially now, see.’

‘Specially now—‘ Fred echoed him automatically ’—is that so?‘

‘Oh yes.’ Hewitt nodded back. ‘You bin in Greece. But there’s still
men
in Greece. Not like ’ere—‘ere all the men’s PoWs now. We got millions of ’em. An‘ the Yanks got millions. An’ the Russians ‘as got millions of ’em, Gawd ‘elp ’em!‘ He grinned unsympathetically. ’
An‘ we’ve got all the girls
?’

Fred felt a frown was required. ‘But … I thought there were strict regulations against fraternization, Hewitt? In fact, there are—’

‘Reg’lations!’ The little man chuckled. ‘Cor! I ain’t never ’eard of any reg’lation that ‘ud keep soldiers orf uv women—’specially when the women are ‘ungry … an’ ‘ungry for food, as well as for men—an’ for soap—an‘ for fags, wot they can buy food wiv.’ This time the repeated chuckle was mirthless. ‘You want to talk to Otto, Major Fattorini, sir: a bar of soap, an’ a packet of Players, or Luckies … an‘ a nice bar uv chocolate or an ’ershey bar … an‘ you can take yer pick. An’ this is only the beginnin‘, too: we ’aven’t bin ‘ere but a few months—they ain’t bin
really
’ungry an‘ cold yet. But that’ll come, you see—that’ll come!’

He had seen it already in Italy of course, thought Fred. But that had at least been under pressure of war, and battle and murder and sudden death, which was a pretty bloody-good excuse as well as an explanation. But … but now he was being naive and childish—and something more (or worse) than that after his own Athenian experience, courtesy of Colonel Kyriakos Michaelides.

‘Well! But —’

‘Aarrgh! I can ’ear what you’re thinkin‘!’ Driver Hewitt caught him cruelly. ‘ ’E’s an
orrficer
—
an‘ a captain, too! An’ a gentleman—an‘ a scholar, maybe?’

‘No.’ Hewitt had picked up that phrase from Audley himself most likely, if not from Amos de Souza. ‘I wasn’t thinking that at all, actually—’

‘No?’ Newly-promoted majors of engineers answering stiffly didn’t disconcert Driver Hewitt one bit. ‘Well, I bet a pound to a pinch uv—a pinch uv
snuff
…
that you wasn’t thinking uv old Greek lady poets, sir—right on?’

‘No … no, I wasn’t, Hughie.’ Fred decided simultaneously that he would lie to Driver Hewitt while ingratiating himself with that diminutive. ‘I was just thinking that everything David Audley has told me about you is true, actually. And he’s a gentleman and a scholar, as you say.’

‘Oh yes?’ Hewitt liked that, quite evidently. Because, of course, it signalled that he had another officer-and-gentleman in the bag. And yet also that didn’t perhaps do Driver Hewitt absolute justice, either. ‘ ’E’s a caution, is wot I knows.‘

‘Yes.’ The problem was, they were on delicate ground now. Or … not on ground at all … but very thin ice, over deep cold water. ‘You’ve been with Captain Audley long, have you?’