The '44 Vintage by Anthony Price Page B

moving so slowly that there was no danger of a twenty-second collision in the back. Ahead of them Butler saw a track leading across open fields towards a low huddle of farm buildings from which several slender columns of smoke rose vertically in the still air, pale blue in the evening light.
    Cooking fires, decided Butler hopefully.
    “Very good, David! All you need now is the right word,” said Major O’Conor.
    The right word? There were vehicles under camouflaged netting among the trees ahead—the right word?
    “ Chevauchée ,” said the major. “We’re going on a chevauchée , my boy.”
    “A chevauchée?” The incredulity in Audley’s voice helped Butler to concentrate on his ears rather than his eyes. They would reach the buildings soon enough.
    “One of Chandos’s specialities. You know what it means?”
    “Well … in modern French it’s … ‘a ride,’ I suppose,” said Audley pedantically. “But in medieval French … it was a raid—and more than a raid.”
    Audley had known more about the Hundred Years’ War than he had admitted, but the major let that pass.
    “Yes, David?”
    Audley drew a deep breath. “It was the classic English tactic for taking what they wanted—take and capture, or rape, burn, pillage, and plunder on the march. That is, unless the people agreed to s-s-submit to their rightful lord, King Edward. But our chaps usually forgot to ask first.”
    There was a bearded man in a check shirt just ahead. He had a machine-pistol slung round his neck and a cigarette in his mouth.
    “Yes … well I can’t promise you all of that, though we’ll do our best of course,” said the major. “But we are going to take something, certainly.”
    The check-shirted man gave them a cheery wave without removing the cigarette. He wore khaki battle-dress trousers and army gaiters, Butler noticed with sudden surprise.
    The farm buildings looked up ahead.
    “What are we going to take?” asked Audley.
    Major O’Conor chuckled. ‘Why—a castle of course, just as Chandos would have done. Except we’re going to take it from the Germans, naturally.”

CHAPTER 5
    How Second Lieutenant Audley chanced his arm
    THE MEN of Chandos Force shuffled into the barn in ones and twos for their final briefing.
    From his chosen spot in the darkness just beyond the dim circle of light cast by the hurricane lamp Butler watched them with a sour mixture of contempt and disapproval.
    The mixture embarrassed him, and also confused him because he couldn’t square it with his impression of either Major O’Conor or Sergeant-major Swayne, who belonged to the world of soldiering which he understood. But these men—the major’s men, the sergeant-major’s men, and also (Jesus Christ!) his new comrades—came from another world altogether, and one which he did not understand at all.
    He knew he was green and raw and wet behind the ears, and that the memory of the only shots he’d ever fired in anger—at the major himself—made his cheeks burn at the very thought of it.
    And he knew that first impressions could be false impressions—
    Must be false impressions.
    It had looked more like a bandit encampment than a unit of the British Army about to go into action.
    Not so much the weird assortment of non-uniforms—of knitted cap-comforters instead of berets or steel helmets, of flak jackets and camouflage smocks instead of battle dress, of bandoleers and belts of ammunition instead of standard webbing pouches… .
    Not so much even the weirder assortment of weapons—machine pistols and automatic rifles, and LMGs which looked suspiciously German but just might be American; the anti-tank rocket launchers stacked by the farm gateway were certainly American; but there was not a Bren or a Sten to be seen, never mind an honest-to-God Lee Enfield rifle… .
    No, not the dress and not the weapons … but the savoury cooking smells and the card games and the dice; and the casual greetings—no salutes—and the laughter in the