Free A New Kind of War by Anthony Price Page B

Armstrong, Fattorini Brothers — by God!
    The thought warmed him even as the soldiers slowed and concertinaed from a more-or-less ordered column into a jostling crowd, and the major continued to blaspheme impotently— one day, in God’s good time, this will be me … but, in the meantime, even if this was dark, ruined Germany, and not his own dear sunny Greece, at least it wasn’t an embarkation depot en route to a crowded troopship and the dreaded Far Eastern posting of everyone’s nightmares. At least he was safe from that now!
    ‘It’s all right, major.’ He felt that he had to say something, if only by way of common civility, to his rescuer. ‘I’m in no hurry.’
    ‘No?’ The major looked at his watch. ‘Well, I sure as hell am! God-damn army!’
    ‘Well, if you have other duties, I beg you not to wait for me.’ What Fred would dearly have loved to have asked was how the major had come to be waiting for one God-damn Limey officer—and a junior one at that—off one particular transport plane, the very arrival of which must have been problematical, what with the bad weather and the re-routing. But, against the possibility that Colonel Colbourne (whoever the hell Colonel Colbourne might be) wielded such huge influence (enough to transmute base junior officer metal into VIP gold), there still lurked the suspicion that he might be the beneficiary of some case of Anglo-American mistaken identity. ‘I saw where my transport was. It’s not going to leave without me.’
    The major looked at him, and then studied the press of GIs, as though estimating their chances of ever getting through it unscathed and without a fight. ‘You reckon—? But … hell! I promised Gus I’d see you safely on your way—’
    ‘It’s quite all right, major.’ Who ‘Gus’ might be was beside the point, but ’on your way‘ wasn’t, Fred decided. All that mattered was that there was a staff car and a driver out there, beyond this near-mutinous half of the United States Army. And whether or not it was intended for Captain Fattorini, Captain Fattorini intended to have that car. But he stood a better chance of keeping it if the major wasn’t in attendance when he commandeered it. ’I’ll tell Gus you put me on my way—I’ll make a point of it.‘
    ‘You will? Great!’ The major beamed at him. ‘Okay, then … And, say … while you’re about it, tell him “thanks”—for the pig … Okay?’
    ‘“Thanks”—’ Fred steadied his voice ‘—for … the Pig?’
    ‘ Dee-licious !’ The major made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Tell Gus any time — okay?’ A faint thunder of aircraft engines penetrated the hubbub. ‘Tell him, if he’s got the pigs, then I’ve got the planes—tell him that, huh?’
    Fred returned the nod, and watched the major stride away towards whatever pressing matter had recalled him to his duties. Then, a loud cheer distracted him, turning him back to the United States Army: the concertina was expanding at last, as whatever obstacle ahead that compressed it gave way, and all the incurious eyes which had been taking him in (as though they’d never seen a British uniform, but if he’d been stark naked it wouldn’t have mattered, because he wasn’t in their way)—all the eyes dismissed him as the cheering crowd surged forward again.
    It must be mistaken identity, but if it wasn’t then he had been traded in return for a pig, it seemed.
    The column expanded, and accelerated, affording him an adequate glimpse of what lay beyond it, as he thought of pigs.
    Pigs —
    The car was still there. And so was the driver—
    Pork , rather—pork had been conspicuous by its absence in both Italy and Greece. There had been some ration bacon, of a sort … and there had latterly been endless Spam, which had allegedly been pig-related. But he hadn’t seen a good piece of smoked ham, let alone a real slice of pork with the crackling still attached to it, since 1942.
    The American Army