The '44 Vintage (12 page)

Maybe it was because he didn’t feel as awful as he deserved that he was feeling better. But it was more likely, he decided dispassionately, that he had been lucky enough to be very sick before all the alcohol in that deceptively innocent wine could infiltrate his bloodstream. In fact he could recall now (and too late) that according to the hardest drinker in the platoon at the Depot the secret of heavy drinking lay in the proper defensive preparation of the lining of the stomach. Once the alcohol had advanced through that lining into the bloodstream then resistance was in vain, according to Rifleman Callaghan, who was accustomed to fortify himself in advance with a huge, greasy fry-up of sausages and chips before drinking all comers under the table—a sovereign recipe he claimed to have had from a quartermaster who had devoted a lifetime to the study of the subject.

That problem resolved to his satisfaction, Butler felt ready to tackle two more pressing ones.

Viewed from the vantage point of a clear head after several hours’ sleep, the previous evening had the unreal shape of a nightmare. What was certain was that he owed an abject apology to Corporal Jones, who had encouraged him to be sick and whom he had rewarded with weird suspicions and physical assault, the very memory of which now made his flesh creep with embarrassment.

He swallowed the last of the oatcake and decided not to eat another. Instead he took an extra swig of water.

So the first thing to do was to apologise to the Welshman.

The second thing was to find a private place and treat his left foot with gentian violet. He could already feel the sharp irritation between the toes—after missing the treatment for a full twenty-four hours it was noticeably worse, not very far from being actually painful; which was hardly surprising since regular application was the key to the treatment.

He leaned forward and parted the canvas flap. The pitch blackness of the hour before dawn had passed, and he could feel the coming of daylight even though he couldn’t yet see the division between land and sky. He sniffed at the air, but there was no strange smell other than exhaust fumes and warm rubber, which were familiar now. Yet there was still something disquieting to his senses.

Suddenly he knew what it was. Beyond the sound of the engines of the truck and the jeeps there was
no
sound. No distant gunfire, no drone of aircraft—nothing.

No flashes either—he stood up and twisted his neck to get a look ahead—and no flashes in that direction. He had had the distinct impression during the moments of half-consciousness on the journey that they had been travelling at breakneck speed, far too fast for safety, as though the Americans were determined to deliver them on time for some impossible pre-arranged zero hour. But it looked as though they hadn’t come nearly as far south towards the river as he had estimated —that they were still in the middle of nowhere in the newly conquered territory of the Third Army.

Which was disappointing. They’d never manage a dawn crossing of the Loire now, which was the obvious moment to slip across the river and through the German lines.

Someone was coming, he could hear the sharp tap of metal heelplates on the tarmac.

“Five minutes … five minutes …” The voice that went with the metallic taps was Sergeant Purvis’s. “Five minutes …”

Butler ducked down inside the back of the truck. Sergeant Purvis was one man he was ashamed to meet after his performance of the previous night.

“Five minutes”—the flap was jerked aside—“are you awake in there, Corporal Butler?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” said Butler quickly.

A torch shone into his face. “How d’you feel, lad?” asked the sergeant, not unkindly.

“Okay, Sergeant.”

“Then you must have a head like a bloody rhinoceros,” said the sergeant. “We’ll be stopping here for five minutes, anyway. So if you want a quick shit, now’s your chance.”

Butler thought of the water he’d just drunk. “Right, Sergeant.”

Purvis watched him as he climbed out of the truck, which reminded him of the trouble he’d had getting into it. If Jones had told the sergeant about it, then this might be the occasion when the sergeant would choose to dress him down for his behaviour. Or he might be just checking to see that he was in a fit state for duty.

He stamped his feet and pulled his equipment straight. His knees ached a bit, but the ground had a good firm feeling to it. He reached back inside the truck and lifted out his Sten.

The sergeant was still watching him.

“Anything the matter, Sergeant?”

“Here, lad—“ Sergeant Purvis handed something to him—it was smooth and cold. It was a bottle. “The hair of the dog … if you’re feeling as rough as I think you are that’ll set you up again.”

Before Butler could reply the sergeant had turned on his heel and continued down the road.

“Five minutes … you’ve got five minutes—“

He hefted the bottle in his hand. It was about half full, he judged, and there was nothing in the world he felt less like than drinking. But in this darkness that at least was no problem. He made his way cautiously off the road onto a grass verge beside which a big motorcycle was parked. He had the vague impression that there was a field of low bushes, maybe waist-high, beyond it, but as he was about to cast the bottle into the bushes there was a movement among them. A moment later a string of curses in an exasperated American voice issued out of the darkness and a match flared among the bushes.

For a bet, that must be the owner of the motorbike, decided Butler. And for another bet, the owner of the motorbike would know where the convoy was heading.

The flame kindled again—it was a cigarette lighter, not a match—and there came a satisfied grunt with it: the Yank had found whatever it was he was looking for. Butler waited patiently beside the motorbike, listening to his precious minutes tick away, until a darker nucleus loomed up out of the field.

“Who’s that?” said the Yank.

“A friend—British,” said Butler. “Would you like a drink, Yank?”

The figure approached him. ‘What you got?”

Butler remembered that Americans were devoted to whisky. “Only wine, I’m afraid,” he answered apologetically.

“Hell, mac, that’s better than nothing. I’ve swallowed enough dust, my mouth’s like the bottom of a birdcage.”

“Help yourself then.” Butler thrust the bottle into the American’s hands. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Okay. But watch yourself down there … and don’t eat any of those goddamn grapes—they’ll give you the runs.”

Grapes! So the low bushes were vines, Butler realised—and so they had indeed come far south of Normandy. He strained his eyes into the darkness as he unbuttoned his fly. He could just see—or now imagined he could see—a faint difference between the blackness of the sky and that of the land. But it was impossible to estimate how big the vineyard was—if it was a big one then the Loire couldn’t be too far away.

He made his way back to the road.

“Thanks, mac,” said the Yank.

“Keep the bottle, Yank,” said Butler. ‘Where I’m going I’m told there’s more of it.”

“Uh-huh?” The American chuckled. “Smoke?”

It was on the tip of Butler’s tongue to admit he didn’t smoke, but then he remembered what he was about. “Thanks.”

“Keep the pack. One thing we’ve got plenty of—and you won’t find more of them where you’re going, that’s for sure.”

“Thanks.” Butler extracted a cigarette from the packet and leant forward towards the flame extended to him. He must remember not to inhale the smoke, which would make him cough if he did—

Christ! The broad white stripe and the white letters “MP” on the American’s helmet were momentarily illuminated in the light of the flame: he had cheerfully offered illicit alcohol to a Military Policeman in a forward combat area!

The smoke found its way into his lungs and set him coughing. If anything, American cigarettes tasted even fouler than British ones.

But the American MP seemed as friendly as ever, the red tip of his cigarette glowing bright as he drew on it. “Ranger outfit, are you, mac?” he said amiably.

Butler managed to find his breath. Maybe American MPs were less bloody-minded than British ones; or maybe they took a more lenient view of foreign allies. “Ranger?” he repeated stupidly.

“Aw, hell—what d’you British call ‘em—Commandos, that’s it.”

Butler thought of the brigands he had seen the previous night, and wasn’t sure whether he was flattered or not. “Well—sort of, yes,” he admitted.

“Uh-huh.” The red tip flared. “Well, you should be okay getting across down there. There’s a bunch of kraut infantry about five miles up river, where the bridge was—there was a couple of days back, anyway. But we haven’t seen anything on this stretch so far. Real nice and quiet, it is.”

Butler stiffened. The way the American talked, the Loire was not far away, but right there in front of them in the fast dissolving darkness.

“We’re near the river, then?” he asked, casually.

The cigarette glowed. “Uh-huh.”

“How far?”

In the distance Sergeant Purvis’s voice started up again: “
Mount up
…
mount up
.”

“How far, Yank?” Butler repeated the question.

“
Mount up.
”

“Four-five miles, maybe.” The cigarette glowed and then out’ into the vineyard. “Couple of miles from here, we drop down into the flood plain. Another two, there’s a levee—that’s where the 921st is, the bottom land there this side of it.”

“
Mount up.
”

“What’s the river like?”

The American glugged the last of the wine and then heaved the bottle carelessly among the vines. “Nothing special. Wide, sandy bottom, lots of little islands covered in brush—not much water coming down now, so most of the channels are dry … pretty much like rivers back home, I guess: mean in the spring, but kind of lazy in the summer, ‘cept where the current is.” He grunted reassuringly. “No sweat crossing, that’s for sure. I heard tell the 921st got a patrol on the other side a couple of days ago—no trouble. So you should get over real easy.”

The Americans hadn’t let the grass grow under their feet, thought Butler approvingly. But that had been what the general back home had said about them out of his experience in the great battles of 1918, when he had had a regiment of them attached to his division: what they lacked in experience they made up for in enterprise.

“How far did your patrol go?”

“Aw, not more than maybe five-six miles.” The American paused. “Where you heading for, mac? You going far?”

It was annoying not to be able to answer that question. If this was the Loire just ahead and Touraine started on the riverbanks, then they could be quite close to their objective. But if Touraine was the size of Lancashire or Yorkshire … ? “I wish I knew,” he began apologetically. “But I think—“

“
Corporal Butler!
”
Sergeant Purvis’s voice came sharply from just behind him.

Butler snapped to attention. “Sergeant!”

“Are you all right, Corporal?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Right. Fourth jeep in the rear, you’ll find Mr. Audley. You’ll be his driver from here on—understood?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” answered Butler automatically. Then a hideous thought struck him. “But, Sergeant—“

“Don’t bloody argue, man—
move
!” Sergeant Purvis banged the side of the truck with his fist. “Mount up!”

“But, Sergeant—“ Butler trailed off as he realised he was no longer talking to anyone. Even the American had turned away towards his motorbike. He was alone with his problem.

Leaden-footed—and the treacherous left one was reminding him again of its troubles, he realised bitterly—he made his way down the line of vehicles. As he passed each one he could feel the eyes of the occupants on him in the fast-dissolving darkness.

That
’
s Corporal Butler—the one that was pissed out of his wits last night, the silly bugger
…

He came to the fourth jeep, which had only one occupant.

“Corporal B-Butler?”

“Sir.” Butler gripped his Sten with one hand and saluted with the other. “Sergeant Purvis sent me down … to be your driver, sir.”

“Righty-ho. Climb aboard, then, Corporal.”

Butler stood his ground, at a loss to know how to say what had to be said.

“What’s the m-matter, Corporal?” Audley sounded worried.

“Sir”—Butler despised himself—“I can’t drive, sir.”

Audley sat back. “Oh, is that all? Well, that’s no problem—I’ll drive. You come round this side and I’ll move over.”

When they had rearranged themselves they sat in silence, Audley lounging comfortably, Butler sitting stiffly. He felt he ought somehow to apologise for his incapacity, except that apologies usually made things worse. Also it was possible that Audley already knew about his disgraceful performance of the previous night—from the tone of that first worried question and the relief implicit in his reaction to the answer that seemed more than likely.

The thought made him squirm inside with shame. Then his resolve hardened: if Audley didn’t know it would be better to tell him—and if he did know there was nothing to be lost in the telling. “Sir—“

“Yes, Corporal?”

“I got drunk last night, sir. On wine, sir.”

Audley was silent for a moment. “Tricky stuff, wine.”

“Yes, sir.” Relief suffused Butler.

Audley was silent again. Then—“But you haven’t drunk anything since last night?” he inquired casually.

“Sir?” Butler was puzzled by the question.

The young officer turned towards him. “Have you had anything to drink this morning, Corporal?” he asked.

“No, sir.” Butler heard his own voice rise. “Except water from my water bottle.”

“No wine?”

“Sir?” Butler frowned in the half-light. “No, sir—of course not. I—I couldn’t stand the sight of it.” Puzzlement gave way to a quick, cold suspicion. “Has someone—“ he broke off, appalled and confused at the same time by the suspicion.

Audley looked away. “No, I didn’t somehow think you had been.” Then he turned again towards Butler. “And … yes, Corporal Butler, someone has.”