"I am known here," Paul came dangerously close to pomposity. "Both in the line of duty, as you put it, and in the dummy3
line of military history. And that's why we're going to Vendresse—because if they do by any chance pick me up on their radar I want to be well dug-into that second line."
"Ah . . . well now I'm with you!" Aske nodded. "So what are you doing in Champagne? I rather thought Picardy was your stamping ground—the Somme and the Hindenburg Line, and all those awful places?"
"This is where trench warfare started for the British—in September 1914, at the end of the battle of the Marne."
"Indeed? And so what are we doing, then? We're strictly 1812
experts . . . we don't know anything that happened after the battle of Waterloo."
"In my case I've got a typescript of unpublished material on the origins of trench warfare—it was the basis of the opening chapters in the Hindenburg Line book. If you both read that you'll know enough."
"How very jolly! All about lice and phosgene?" murmured Aske. "Well, that's awfully clever of you—and we shall become experts on lice and phosgene, and gas gangrene and mud, Miss Loftus . . . did you hear that?"
It was six of one and half-a-dozen of the other, thought Elizabeth. The truth was that when men weren't comrades they were children— and not-very-nice, potentially savage children too.
"Very clever . . . that ridge ahead must be your 'Ladies'
highway', Mitchell," continued Aske, still mock-admiringly.
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"Except that we're not actually here to study all those charming 1914 facts, we're here to sort out something which occurred in 1812, or thereabouts. So ... even allowing that you're scared of the French ... on account of heaven only knows what past misdeeds ... we are rather going out of our way now, aren't we? Or are we?"
"Just drive, Aske," said Paul.
" 'Just drive'?" This time the mildness in Aske's voice was paper-thin. "No ... I know I said 1812 was fascinating . . . but don't you think it's about time you explained to me why it's so important?"
At the best of times that would have been a bad question to put to Paul Mitchell, reflected Elizabeth. But just now, and coming from Aske, it was like a spark in the powder-magazine.
"Paul—"
"I know I'm only one of the lesser breeds, Mitchell—I know that I don't have the confidence of the legendary Dr Audley . . . I'm only here to do for you ... or die for you, as required, like a one-man Light Brigade, and you just point me towards the Russian guns." Aske peered ahead. "And if this is your famous Chemin des Dames I must say that it's rather a non-event. . . But I would prefer to be pointed at the right guns in the right century—even if it is the nineteenth century—"
"For Christ's sake—shut up and drive!" spat Paul.
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"There's no call to be offensive—"
"Oh yes there is." Cold rage almost choked Paul. "You are now driving, Aske—" he spoke slowly and clearly "—across ground over which real men charged real guns . . . Germans and Frenchmen and British . . . and . . . if you make one more silly crack then that will be the end of this fascinating trip for you. Understood?"
This time Humphrey Aske said nothing, and Elizabeth cringed in her seat, all her own questions equally stifled not only by the order and the threat, but also by the suppressed passion with which both had been delivered, for all that they were camouflaged under clarity.
"Straight over the cross-roads," said Paul tightly.
The road continued for a little way, then dropped and twisted down the southern slope of the ridge, affording her glimpses of a river valley, of fields and trees and distant roofs below.
"On the right there—you can pull in under the bank." His voice was conversational again. "You come with me, Elizabeth
—you stay with the car, Aske."
It was, as he had said, quite a small cemetery, cut into the hillside out of the sloping fields: in size it was more like the little village churchyard in which Father lay, than the hecatombs of the war dead which she had seen in photographs; but there was no church, and the lines of identical tombstones were ordered with military precision, rank on rank up the slope, as in a well-kept garden.
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Elizabeth followed Paul up the centre aisle, towards a small kiosk-like building which was open on the side facing them, having to trot to keep at his heels. When they reached it Paul opened a tiny metal door and drew out a book wrapped in a plastic envelope from the niche behind it. She watched him in silence as he pulled a biro from his inside pocket and signed the book, then offered both to her. "Name and date please, Elizabeth."
Elizabeth studied the list, and was surprised to see how many names from this summer there were on the open pages—
even from this same month, and several from this very day—
who had found this place in the middle of nowhere, and this book.
And there was space for comment, too—
" My grandpa brought me here, and told me about it" —
" I was here in 1918, and I remember" —
But Paul had written nothing except the date and his name—
plain Paul Mitchell—so Elizabeth had no stomach to do more than the same—plain Elizabeth Loftus.
"What about me, then?" said Humphrey Aske, from behind her.
Elizabeth looked towards Paul, quickly and fearfully. "Paul
—"
"Yes, of course—" he blinked just once, as though the late afternoon light was too strong for his eyes "—you are here, I suppose, so you must sign. You're right."
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Humphrey Aske signed the book—just name and date—and meekly gave it back to Paul, who wrapped it up carefully and replaced it in its niche.
"Sometimes I get to be rather a pain," said Aske simply.
"Yes." Paul addressed the ranks below them. "And sometimes I fly off the handle, and particularly in places like this . . . Because everyone's obsessive about something—" he caught Elizabeth's eye "—with your father it was the Vengeful. . . but with me . . . someone once said to me, she said . . . 'one minute it's a field of cabbages, but with a machine-gun you can turn it into a field of honour with a single burst'."
They walked down the aisle together, and it was only at the end of it that Paul spoke again.
"The stories are all here, but we haven't time for them—the regiments and the names . . . they were older in 1914 than 1918— there's even a general here, from 1918, who was younger then than I am now . . . two great British armies, so alike and yet so different—one so small, and the other huge—
separated by four years of war, that's all." He shook his head.
"But we've got to get on—"
He led them back to the car in silence, and she couldn't take her eyes off him.
"Turn round and get back to the cross-roads, and then turn left, along the crest." It was hardly an order, more an instruction, and almost a courteous one.
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"And then where to?" Vendresse had also taken the sting out of Humphrey Aske.
"To a place called Coucy-le-Château. About twenty miles, mostly on side-roads. I'll direct you."
"What is there to see at Coucy-le-Château?" asked Elizabeth.
"There's a village . . . and a ruined castle."
"A medieval castle, you mean?"
"Yes. But the ruins are more modern—ancient and modern, like the hymns in the hymn-book."
"What d'you mean, Paul?"
"I mean, there was once the greatest medieval tower in Europe there—there still was in 1812, anyway . . . the great tower of Enguerrand III of Coucy, who was a contemporary of our King John—he was also excommunicated by the Pope, like King John, I believe . . . But General Ludendorff blew up Enguerrand's tower in 1918, before he retreated, to remind the French he'd been there."