A New Kind of War (29 page)

The Brigadier looked at him expressionlessly for a long moment. Then quite unexpectedly the eyes disengaged, staring past him. ‘
YOU THERE-
!’

The sound of the People’s Car-door opening was quickly succeeded by a boot-stamping sound: Driver Hewitt must be actually standing to attention, that sound suggested, unlikely as it seemed.

‘
SIR
?’ The little man’s reply came as a falsetto pig-squeal. ‘
ME, SIR?
—’

The Brigadier drew a breath. ‘
CAN YOU SEE ANYONE ELSE HERE, DRIVER HEWITT
?’

‘
SIR
!’ The boots stamped again.

‘Now … ’ The Brigadier smiled his smile at Fred again, stepping forward as he did so until he was alongside him, and then draping a friendly arm across his shoulders ‘ … we shall walk a little way, and—and
kindly
don’t pull away from me, major … I have no contagious or infectious disease, I do assure you—
relax
, if you please —’

‘No, sir—’ If the Brigadier had struck him Fred would have been less astonished, so that it took a considerable effort of will to simulate even partial relaxation ‘—yes, sir —’

‘“Freddie” is how my intimates address me—’ The Brigadier steered Fred with an iron hand ‘—and that is what you will call me in the mess tonight, when we meet again—do you understand, major?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Fred had the impression that he wasn’t being steered back towards the car, but obliquely to it. ‘But … that will maybe be a bit confusing.’

‘Confusing?’ The Brigadier’s head came closer. ‘How so?’

Fred swallowed. ‘There’s a move … to call me “Freddie”, sir.’

There is?‘ The pale eyes were terrifying at close quarters. ’But your diminutive is “Fred”. So whose idea was that, eh? One of Colbourne’s little jokes, I suppose—eh?‘

‘I … ’ Words failed him.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll correct that.’ The iron hand actually patted him. ‘In fact … we’ll make a joke of it ourselves. And you can practise laughing right now—so
laugh!’

It was so unarguably an order that Fred instinctively tried to obey—the more so as Brigadier Clinton was himself obeying the order.

Another pat. ‘That is, without doubt, the poorest parody of laughter I have ever seen, Major Fattorini. Do you always obey orders so inadequately?’

Fred tried again, but stopped as he saw not laughter, but hysteria grinning at him from out of the trees ahead. ‘I was laughing inside actually, sir—Freddie—?’

That’s better!‘ The Brigadier dropped his arm suddenly, and swung round. ’
WHAT ARE YOU DOING, STANDING THERE LIKE AN IDIOT, HEWITT
?‘

‘
Sir
—
?’ Pause. ‘
SIR
!’

The Brigadier took several steps towards the rigid little man. ‘You were told to bring Major Fattorini here, and then proceed to Schwartzenburg Castle. Can’t you obey a simple order, man?’

Silence.

‘Well?’

‘Sir … I—’ Another pause. ‘Yes, sir!’

‘Well then—what are you waiting for?
GET MOVING
!’

‘
SIR.’‘
Pause (salute!)—stamp (about turn!): Driver Hewitt was now actually attempting to get into the People’s Car while at attention, which was not physically possible. But he was doing his best, certainly.

The engine whirred instantly, and the little car jerked nervously several times, before turning in a wide circle round the monument and disappearing behind it in a cloud of blue exhaust fumes.

The Brigadier’s eyes returned to Fred. ‘I think we’ll share another joke now, major—just to see Driver Hewitt on his way properly, eh?’

A joke at attention
—
or at ease
? wondered Fred as he laughed obediently. But somehow that made it easier anyway, as the People’s Car appeared again, at a speed which only just enabled it to straighten out in time to retreat down the avenue.

‘So!’ Brigadier Clinton waited until the avenue was clear. ‘Driver Hewitt is insatiably inquisitive, and garrulous with it … So that is one job well done, at least.’ He looked up at the monument. ‘Do I need to explain?’

There was a long Latin inscription carved into the stonework between two of the square pillars, Fred saw. ‘No, not really.’

Clinton himself seemed to be more interested in the carved inscription than in his reply, which goaded Fred towards a smart and undiplomatic answer. ‘I assume he’ll tell everyone from Otto Schild upwards that you’ve recruited another spy inside TRR-2.’

‘Another spy?’ The Brigadier still appeared to be fascinated by the inscription.

‘He said Audley was a special friend of yours. Not that it’s done the boy any good with the Colonel and the RSM. But I suppose I can live with that.’

‘You can? No … it wouldn’t, I suppose … ’ Then the Brigadier’s lips moved soundlessly. So perhaps he was attempting to translate the Latin, but was finding it rather too difficult, Fred thought nastily.

‘Is he your spy? Unlike me.’ Nastiness encouraged cheekiness.

‘No … at least, not yet, anyway.’ The Brigadier paused. ‘Now … “
florentissimum imperium”
—
that’s rather good, that superlative … ’

It was time to join the Latin lesson, Fred decided. ‘
“Arminius
—”’ he began to read the inscription aloud. ‘“—
liberator haud dubie Germaniae
—
”’ The meaning registered suddenly. ‘Of course! How stupid of me! This is Hermann’s monument, isn’t it—’ He stepped back to look up at the colossus ‘—the German who defeated the Romans—Varus in the Teutoburg Forest, and all that!’

‘Yes. That’s right.’ The Brigadier looked up too, nodding as he did so. ‘The Germans themselves killed him in the end, of course—a successful 20th July Plot, you might say … But you’re right: this is “
Arminius liberator”
—
Hermann, without doubt the liberator of Germany … who … “—
lacessierit”
is a bit difficult … “provoked” isn’t right. Although he certainly was provoking. What it ought to mean is “resisted”, even more than “hurt”. So let’s say “resisted”—“resisted the Roman people, not in their early days, like other kings and leaders, but at the very height of their power”—“
florentissimum imperium”
: I like that!—“at the very height of their power, with mixed fortune in battle, but in war undefeated”!’ The Brigadier nodded again. ‘Hmmm … not bad. Tacitus, of course—from his
Annals
. In fact, quite graceful, really.’ He looked at Fred. ‘The German translation’s underneath—“Armin, ohne Zweifel Deutschlands Befreier”—or am I insulting a properly educated mathematician twice over now? I suppose I am, at that!’

Thank you, Hermann
! thought Fred gratefully. ‘No. My Latin’s damned rusty.’ Somehow the Brigadier had reduced himself to a human dimension. ‘And … so this is the Teutoburg Forest, of course—where the battle took place, by God!’

‘Yes. And no.’ The Brigadier agreed and disagreed. ‘This is the “Hermannsdenkmal”—and this is the Teuto-burgerwald,
haud dubie
as Tacitus would say. But whether this is the site of the
Hermannsschlacht
—
or the Varusschlacht … nobody knows. There are dozens of other possible sites, and the German scholars have been arguing over them for years. Not that it’s of the slightest historical importance—the site. As opposed to the fact.’

Fred saw his opening. ‘It is to Colonel Colbourne, I rather got the idea.’ Even, he was tempted irresistibly to presume on his “friendship”. ‘In fact, I think he’s going to organize the RAF—or the USAF—to conduct a photographic reconnaissance for him in the near future.’ He grinned hopefully. ‘And isn’t this why—’ He felt the grin freeze on his lips as he saw the Brigadier’s face and instantly amended what he had been about to say ‘—actually, it isn’t a half bad idea. Because air photography’s going to revolutionize archaeology, these next few years, so I’m told … ’ The spreading cold reached his heart, and he trailed off, bitterly aware that he’d made the same mistake as the Liberator of Germany above him in pushing his luck—
proeliis-bloody-ambiguus
—
like a fool, only in his case, by talking too much, like David Audley.

‘You take Colonel Colbourne for a clown, do you, major?’

‘No, sir.’ Ordinarily he would have stopped there. But with this man, it was no good trying to say nothing: now, because he had already talked too much, he
had
to talk more. ‘Or, at least … so far as the battle of the Teutoburg Forest is concerned … yes, I do.’ Instinct reinforced reason. ‘But successful barristers aren’t clowns … unless they want people to think they are—’ that was an insight which hadn’t even occurred to him until this instant ‘—and—’ another insight hit him between the eyes, even more belatedly: a man like this wasn’t going to employ clowns to do his work. But he couldn’t say
that
—
least of all when he still didn’t know what the work really was.

‘And?’

Fred rejected ‘
and he has a DSO’
, because a DSO could mean everything or nothing very much. And the Brigadier himself had a DSO among his ribbons, anyway. But the Brigadier would never let him get away now. ‘Not after what I saw last night.’

‘Hmm—’ The Brigadier didn’t move a muscle. ‘And just what
did
you see last night, major?’

Those last half-dozen words had been a mistake. But, once a man felt impelled to talk, then he inevitably made mistakes, even when he told the simple truth. In fact, even more so when he told the truth. So the Brigadier had caught him with an old trick—
so to hell with the Brigadier
!

‘I saw a man killed—an innocent man.’
Sod
Brigadier Clinton—and all the rest of them! ‘I watched him die, actually.’

‘Innocent?’ The Brigadier’s head moved very slightly. ‘You knew him then?’

‘I never saw him before in my life.’ Steady! ‘But I believe he was chosen at random. Unlike “Corporal Keys”.’

‘Then he was killed at random. And you must have seen a good many men killed at random, major.’

‘In the war—yes. But—’

This is war—‘ The Brigadier caught his reply mid-air. ’But I’m not going to argue philosophy with you. What else did you see?‘

The man was right. And he was also making the rules, anyway. ‘I thought I was in the middle of an over-elaborate, unnecessary, bodged-up … nonsense. But now I’m not so sure.’ Actually, they were back to original point-of-contact, before the Brigadier had become ‘friendly’. But he knew better now. ‘Do you want first thoughts, or second thoughts?’

‘I want the truth.’

Fred almost laughed. But then stopped an inch—or was it a mile?—short of it. Because he had had his ration of mistakes. ‘We went to take a man, from the American zone—out from under their noses. And a man they probably wanted too … I don’t know … but probably.’ He stopped there, not quite sure of himself. ‘No—not probably. They helped us, and they were going to double-cross us. Only we double-crossed them. Right?’

‘That pleases you?’

‘Yes. Rather to my surprise, it does, actually.’

‘Because your Greek friends have been double-crossing you, in Greece?’ There was the very smallest nuance of surprise in the Brigadier’s expression. ‘Notably your friend, Colonel Michaelides?’

That was mean—no matter how accurate. But at least it cleared the way for what Brigadier Clinton really wanted in that ‘truth’ of his. ‘Partly that, I suppose … but also partly because it’s comforting to be part of a double-cross which is itself double-crossed, but which still has a fail-safe extra built into it.’ Suddenly he knew what he wanted to say. ‘It’s rather like what happened to us in Italy once, along one particular stretch of road where we kept losing men—from booby traps.’

Brigadier Clinton stared at him. ‘Go on, major.’

Good men
, Fred remembered. ‘But at least that had been the name of the game. There was this German—German sapper officer … And their sappers were
good
, you know —’

‘I know.’ Clinton stopped him sharply. ‘They were
all
good, damn it! Don’t teach me to suck eggs, Major Fattorini: I’ve been sucking German eggs for eight years now. So I know the taste of them better than you do.
Go on.’

‘Yes, sir —’
Eight
years? But that was …
1937
—
?

‘There was this German sapper … who was good with booby-traps—you were telling me—?’ Clinton spaced each word from the other carefully.

‘Yes, sir.’ He would think about 1937 later. ‘At least, I think it was just this one man. Because when he set his booby-trap he always booby-trapped the actual trap. But he knew we’d tumble to that, so he used to rig an extra time-fuse under the first trap, which was quite independent of the second one, which he set not-too-obviously, so that a good trained sapper would spot
that
one first. And then, of course, our chap would lift them in reverse order, and …
bang!’
He shrugged. ‘He was quite a character, I should think.’

The Brigadier’s pale blue eyes were intent. ‘You don’t hate him, though?’

‘Hate him?’ Silly question—strangely silly question! ‘Christ—yes! I hated his guts! If I’d caught him I’d have made him walk back along the other side of the road, along the verge we hadn’t cleared!’ Silly question—? ‘Then he stopped playing games with us—maybe he was trying something new, and his hand slipped … is what I’ve always
hoped
…
But we were fair game: it was him against us, with the extra traps—the riflemen who set off the first traps were your random victims, Brigadier. It was
us
he was after—’ He blinked suddenly, aware that he had almost lost the thread of his own anecdote ‘—what I mean is … it’s a nice change to be setting the trap, not having to defuse the bloody thing. We never got a chance to do that in Italy.’ Now he was aware that his mouth was twitching, too. ‘And fortunately …
very
fortunately … I moved to Bailey bridges before his successor arrived. Because I might have been caught by the next particular variation.’