‘Yes, sir.’ The man knew damn well. But somehow the mention of Uncle Luke strengthened his confidence. In times of adversity, ever since Father’s death, Uncle Luke had always been a powerful and wise ally.
‘Clever man.’ Colbourne sniffed as be began to put on his glittering brown boots. ‘Influential, too . . . Dealt with that wastrel Ferguson – Captain the Honourable whatever-he-was – your aunt’s husband – he thought he had influence in high places . . . and so he did. But your Uncle Luke had more influence in higher places.
And he knew how to use it too. So we took Captain the Honourable for a settlement that made his eyeballs pop, between us . . .’ The Colonel straightened up, and reached for his battledress blouse. ‘Clever man – yes!’
There was a DSO among the Colonel’s ribbons. But that didn’t equal de Souza’s double-MC: it could have come up with the rations in the Judge Advocate’s department, even when teamed with the desert medal of the 8th Army – there had been more than a few undeserved DSOs wandering around Cairo and Alexandria in the bad old days before Monty, so it was said.
‘Yes.’ The Colonel tightened the belt of his blouse. ‘And you were dummy4
in Italy, before Greece?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Now he was on safe ground. ‘4th Division.’
‘A very good division, too.’ Colbourne looked down suddenly.
‘How’s that hand of yours? Crushed under one of those bridges of yours, was it – ?’
‘It’s much better, sir.’ Praise of the 4th Div had momentarily weakened Fred’s critical faculty. But now caution reasserted itself.
‘I was lucky.’
‘You were?’ The Colonel’s lack of further interest showed that he didn’t know much about the hazards of Bailey bridging. ‘Did you see many Roman bridges in Italy?’
Fred felt his mouth open. ‘Roman – ?’
‘Bridges. They built damn good bridges.’ Colbourne’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. ‘Good military bridges, too – don’t you recall Caesar’s bridge across the Rhine? Don’t you sappers know your history?’ The man’s face creased into what the lamplight made into a diabolical frown. ‘And you were up at Oxford before the war, so you must know your Gallic War, for heaven’s sake!’
‘But I read – mathematics, sir.’ Fred began by snapping back, tired of saying, ‘Yes, sir’. But then that fanatical glint warned him, like the glint of metal on a roadside verge which betrayed the mine beneath it. ‘I did know a chap in Italy, though ... he was an expert on ... Roman remains.’
‘Yes?’ Suddenly, and for the first time, he had all Colonel Colbourne’s attention. ‘Who was that, then?’
Fred had to search for the name. ‘Bradford, sir.’
dummy4
‘Bradford – ?’ Frown. ‘What regiment?’
‘No regiment.’ Now he knew he was on a winner. ‘He was RAF
photographic reconnaissance and interpretation.’
“Ahhh!‘ Colbourne beamed at him. ’ That Bradford – of course!
How stupid of me! John Bradford – Flight Lieutenant . . . Roman centuration and Etruscan tombs – met him last year. Disciple of O.
G.S. Crawford’s – next generation of aerial archaeology. Another clever fellow – yes?
‘Yes, sir.’ All Fred could recall (and then only vaguely) was the young RAF man’s 50-50 enthusiasm for German defensive activity at the mouth of the Tiber and incidental photographs he had acquired which also betrayed the town plan of the abandoned old Roman city of Ostia. ‘He had some very interesting pictures, I believe.’
‘Yes. Quite remarkable, his pictures – very fine. Never seen such eloquent testimony of the way the Roman field-systems continued.’ The Colonel’s voice was animated by something of the RAF intelligence officer’s enthusiasm. ‘Bit too taken up with the Etruscans, for my taste – a rum lot, the Etruscans. Like the damned Greeks.’ He frowned at Fred suddenly. ‘I wonder what he’s doing now.’
‘Sir?’ For a moment Fred thought that the latest frown was directed at him, and closed his open mouth smartly. But then he saw that the question was self-directed, and the Colonel wasn’t really looking at him at all. ‘You mean Flight-Lieutenant Bradford – ?’
‘Ye-ess ... I wonder whether we could get him up here, come dummy4
autumn, when the leaves are off the trees.’
The frown went clear through Fred. ‘No problem with the equipment – the Yanks can take care of that, even if the RAF can’t.
It might not produce anything . . . probably wouldn’t.’ The intensity of the pale eyes was most disconcerting. ‘But if Varus did build a marching camp – just one marching camp, mind you – just one . . . somewhere on the middle Weser or the upper Lippe.’ Nod.
‘In fact, we could draw an arc from Moguntiacum to Castra Vetera, coming back through Detmold, and try that for a start . . . And Bradford would be the very man to spot the slightest sign of one –
he’d know a Roman marching camp from an iron age enclosure at a glance – at a glance!’ The eyes focused on Fred, with a fierce yellow lamp-light glint in them. ‘Good man, Major Fattorini –
Freddie! I hadn’t thought of that – stupid of me, but I hadn’t! Air photography, by God! Should have thought of that, by God!’ He smacked his fist decisively into his other palm. ‘Yes. I suppose I could ask the RAF – in fact, they’ve probably got a million pictures of the whole area, full of bomb craters miles from the target . . . Detmold was quite well-bombed, as I recall – Luftwaffe station not too far away, I think . . . But it would be easier to borrow a pilot and a plane from the Yanks. They’ve got the planes and the pilots–yes.’
And you’ve got the pigs, thought Fred, utterly disorientated by this new and irrational turn of an interview which had never made much sense. But then, if the Colonel wanted to give him credit for a chance remark he might as well claim it while he could. ‘Flight-Lieutenant Bradford was an extremely competent interpreter, as I dummy4
recall, sir.’
‘Yes, you’re absolutely right, Freddie.’ The Colonel seemed to have forgotten that he’d said as much himself, in his enthusiasm.
‘Good man!’ He nodded. ‘You’ll do –you’ll do, by God!’
Fred saw his chance at last, in a flash. ‘Do what, sir?’
‘What?’ Colbourne was still staring down from a great height inside his brain, at – what was it? Marching camps – ? Somewhere on the middle of the Weser or the upper Lippe – ‘What?’
‘Do what, sir?’ The Weser was a German river. In fact, it was the German river into which the Pied Piper of Hamelin had piped all the rats, before he’d piped away all the children. So the Lippe was probably another German river – another Rhine tributary. But what the bloody hell was a marching camp! ‘You said ... I’d do.’ He mustn’t lose his temper. Not with his new commanding officer. ‘I was merely wondering why you wanted an officer of engineers, Colonel Colbourne. My posting orders were not precise on the point.’
Colbourne blinked at him, as though at a fool. ‘They weren’t – ?
No . . . well, of course, they wouldn’t have been – would they.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘But we’re late, so let’s go ... You ask Amos – Major de Souza, whom you’ve met. . . Come on, come on
– ’
Fred started to move, but then stopped automatically, to give his Commanding Officer precedence. Colbourne also started to move, but then stopped, and faced him. ‘Or you could ask young Audley
– he’ll tell you if you ask him, later tonight. Can’t talk shop in the dummy4