Free The '44 Vintage by Anthony Price

Rifles were advancing to victory, he would be pissing around interrogating prisoners for Major O’Conor, far in the rear. He would wear a Victory Medal, and all it would mean was that he had passed School Certificate in German. Peace loomed ahead of him like a desert.
    “Very well, then!” The major’s tone became brisker. “The first answer leads to the second. To the north of us our armies and the Americans are tidying up. To the west they are taking the ports of Brittany. To the east they are in open country. To the south they have stopped along the line of the river Loire from the sea to Orleans.” He was playing with them, thought Butler bitterly. “We are going south, across the river.”
    Butler’s heart sank. If there was any real fighting left it would be to the north and the east. The south could only be a backwater.
    There was a slight stir in the darkness to his right, and the sound of a throat being cleared.
    Major O’Conor picked up the signal. “Yes?” he challenged.
    The throat was cleared again. “I was just wondering, sir …” The sing-song Welsh voice trailed off hesitantly, but Butler guessed instantly the question which must be uppermost in the Welshman’s mind: there must still be a lot of unbeaten Germans south of the Loire who might not yet have heard that the war was over.
    “Yes, Corporal Jones—you were just wondering?”
    “Yes, sir—I was just wondering, see … would that be where the wine comes from, in the south like?”
    “The wine?” The major was as unprepared for the question as Butler was.
    “Yes, sir. Lovely stuff it is, the French make—much better than the Eyeties even. But they don’t make it round here—no grapes, see—and I was thinking … not warm enough here. But down south, that would be where they would be making it.” Corporal Jones sounded well pleased with his reasoning. “And a lot of it, they make, too,” he added. “So I believe.”
    “Then we must hope the Germans haven’t drunk it all,” said the major dryly.
    “Oh … now I hadn’t thought of that, sir.” The corporal took the hint obediently. “Would there be enough of them to do that then, sir?”
    Butler watched the major intently. Every good unit had its self-appointed funny man, and although he himself was frequently unable to see the humour in the jokes they revelled in he had learnt from his platoon sergeant that they performed a useful function in relieving tension. The Welshman was a cut above most of them too: he had let the major call him back to the serious matter in hand without conceding that large numbers of Germans were more important than large quantities of alcohol. Now it would be interesting to see how the major handled his question, because clever officers never attempted to beat such men at their own game.
    “Yes …” The major pretended to give the question serious consideration. “Well now, perhaps Colonel Clinton could answer that one for us?” He turned slowly towards the little group of officers.
    Good , thought Butler. The best way of all was to play humour straight, as though it was perfectly serious.
    The full colonel stepped into the light and swung on his heel towards the audience. In catching his badges of rank Butler had missed his face; now he saw that he was youngish for that extra pip and that he didn’t have the look of a regimental officer. The first of his three ribbons was a DSO certainly, but that could be won from a chair by brains or cunning. Only he also didn’t have the sleek authority of the staff officer … more a hungry, almost suspicious look which Butler hadn’t encountered before.
    “Yes … well, it isn’t easy to say with any certainty what the present strength of the German First and Nineteenth armies is.” Colonel Clinton’s voice wasn’t regimental either; it was educated, but classless and quite different from both the drawl of Audley’s colonel and Audley’s own public-school stutter.
    “Ten weeks ago they