Free The '44 Vintage by Anthony Price Page B

at liberty to reveal what the property is.”
    Not a castle, but property , thought Butler quickly.
    Or … property in a castle.
    Repossess . That was a black word in his vocabulary: it was what the bailiffs did at home when someone fell too far behind with the rent.
    The thought of home reminded Butler again that he was in the midst of strangers. And yet when he thought about his homesickness he realised that he wasn’t homesick for home, but for the comradeship and comfortable certainties of the battalion, where briefings were clear and concise, and objectives unclouded by mysterious secrets.
    He was aware at the same time that he was desperately thirsty and lightheaded with hunger, and that the infection between the toes of his foot was itching abominably again. In the scale of his present unhappiness the first two weren’t at all serious: he had water in his water bottle and plenty of his favourite oatmeal blocks, which were the unexpected delicacy of the twenty-four-hour ration packs. But that treacherous foot presented a real problem now, after he had missed out on the last treatment and might not have any privacy for some time to come. Opportunities for foot and sock washing, not to mention the application of the gentian violet, would probably be few and far between once Major O’Conor’s chevauche’e had begun.
    “From whom, sir?” said Audley.
    Butler couldn’t make sense of the question, and from the look on his face neither could Colonel Clinton.
    “From whom, Mr. Audley?” He repeated patiently. “What d’you mean—from whom?”
    Butler felt sorry for the young officer. Whatever he was after, that patient tone made him look a fool. The odds were that even if he did get an answer now it would be a humiliating one.
    “Y-yes, sir.” Audley swallowed, swayed nervously—but stuck to his guns. “You said … r-repossess His Majesty’s … property,” he said, fighting the words with obstinate deliberation.
    “So I did—yes, Mr. Audley,” the colonel admitted.
    “Will the … French Resistance … forces be co-operating with us in the … operation, sir?”
    That was an unexpected question, but only because it didn’t seem to follow from the previous one. It was also a disappointingly unimportant line of inquiry; maybe Audley wasn’t so full of brains after all, but merely liked the sound of his own voice in spite of his stutter.
    “No, Mr. Audley, they will not be.” The colonel’s tone was sharper now. ‘This is a strictly British military operation. We shall be travelling across the American Third Army zone—the Americans will assist us as necessary and will pass us through their southern flank info enemy territory. After that we will be on our own. We will thereafter use any local intelligence the French may be able to give us, but nothing more than that. Our only allies are speed and surprise. We’re going in quickly and we’re coming out quickly.”
    He raised his eyes from Audley to include everyone in the barn. “I was coming to this part of the operation later, but I may as well deal with it now. I don’t need to spell out what will happen if you get caught—the rules are the same here as they were where you’ve come from. It’s up to you whether you want to be brave or not, but if you decide to talk … when you talk your cover story is that you are reinforcing an SAS party in the Morvan Mountains between Nevers and Dijon, but you’ve been airdropped prematurely because of engine failure. Your code name is Bullsblood, which they will have reason to believe because we’ve already planted it, and your rendezvous is at the old viaduct five kilometres south of Sauleuf. Your mission is to interdict the main road to the west—they’ll believe that too, for the sufficient reason that the SAS is already at work there.”
    Buther wondered what the rules were that the colonel didn’t need to spell out. But he could ask about them later, even though he had the feeling that he