Len Deighton 3-Book War Collection Volume 1: Bomber, XPD, Goodbye Mickey Mouse

‘An air raid?’ asked Max.

‘Altgarten’s one and only. Last March. An RAF plane jettisoned incendiary bombs across the potato fields and two high explosive bombs. One on the road, one on Frau Kersten’s outhouse. She has French prisoners of war working on the farm now. She made them fix up the barn and mend the road.’

‘They did a better job on the barn than on the road.’

‘She didn’t give them the road to live in.’

‘Smart woman, Frau Kersten,’ said Max with a laugh. The car turned north-west on to the road that they would follow to Nieukerk and all the way to Arnhem. On the left, Frau Kersten’s potato fields stretched away to the flat horizon. Long lines of bent figures were lifting the waxy yellow potatoes that August liked so much. There were children among them, for the schools had given older boys the traditional holiday to help with the crop. As lines moved forward their forks raised the dry soil so that the breeze carried it in dust clouds across the fields behind them.

‘They are fine potatoes,’ said August.

‘Ah, potatoes! How could the Wehrmacht fight without them. Frau Kersten must be doing very nicely out of the war, August. A smart woman. Now that’s a direction you might be looking.’

‘What do you mean, Max?’ August couldn’t help laughing at the face Max pulled in answer to him.

‘What do you think I mean, you old rogue,’ said Max. ‘You think I believe you spend all your time embracing your binoculars and flirting with those seagulls around that radar station of yours.’

‘Just lately the RAF have been keeping me busy.’

‘Not too busy for that, August.’

‘I’m in love, Max, I’m going to get married.’

‘To the RAD girl?’

‘Yes.’

‘We have a lot of RAD girls working in the Military Government. It never works out.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’ said August.

‘Marriages with the RAD girls clerks. We have a couple of requests every month. I usually post the girl away. Unless she’s pregnant. In that case I post the man.’

‘You’re a cold-hearted swine, Max.’

‘Your girl … is she? …’

‘Damn you, Max, no. At least …’

‘There you are, August. Face the truth, old friend. A moment’s fun, a convenient relationship.’ He paused. ‘For a time. Not for a marriage, August.’

‘I love her, Max.’

‘See how it goes for a month or two.’

‘There’s a war on, Max. And God knows how old I’ll be when it ends! No, this is right for me. And right for her too.’

‘Cigar?’

‘Thank you.’ August sniffed at it appreciatively.

‘The Controller of Civilian Fuel Supplies, Netherlands, is a post that brings a privilege or two.’

‘All right, she’s just a naïve young girl, but I’ve had enough of complex sophisticated people. If she’ll put up with my devious complications, I’ll be happy to have her simple soul.’

Max smiled and lit the cigar for him. For quite a long time they both looked out of the car windows without speaking. It was odd, thought August, one can know a man for many years, and then suddenly half a dozen sentences reveal how little communication there truly is between the two of you. Perhaps all human relationships are like that. Perhaps the best that he could hope for in a marriage to Anna-Luisa was that disenchantment would come slowly, and the bitter aftermath of disenchantment – the black despairing hatred – never even begin. He looked at Max; how indolent and comfortable he was. He leaned back, his eyes closed as they sped along the clear main road.

‘Our roads,’ remarked Max. ‘Could we have imagined such wonderful roads when we were children?’

‘Could we have imagined war on two fronts and the need to move armoured divisions on interior lines?’

‘You’re a miserable fellow today. Admit the Führer’s roads are wonderful.’

‘The roads are wonderful, but are roads the thing we most urgently need? I can’t help thinking that the great Autobahnen were built across the land in order to convince us that Germany is not a conglomeration of disparate and unfriendly principalities.’

‘Well, today I bless the fine roads, for we have a detour: Deelen.’

‘Will it make us late?’

‘You won’t miss your appointment with the Tommis.’

‘How late?’

‘Sixty kilometres to Deelen, Deelen to your radar site can’t be more than one hundred and fifty kilometres, even after dropping me off in The Hague.’

‘How long at Deelen?’

‘Stop being so nervous, August. We’ll have no local traffic in the border zone, a few convoys between Utrecht and The Hague and then nothing at all in the prohibited coastal zone. When we get to Deelen you’ll be fascinated. I’ll have to drag you away, you’ll see.’

The first traffic holdup was on the far side of Geldern. Teenage officer cadets, stripped to the waist and gleaming with sweat, were working like a chain-gang to replace a damaged bridge section in record time.

They were only a couple of kilometres past that when an oncoming convoy halted them again. August watched the twelve-ton half-tracks, and the 8.8 cm flak guns they trailed, creep past. It was a large battery complete with fire-control equipment and personnel in full battle order. Three of the guns were crewed by Flakhelfer. These Hitler Jugend, some only fifteen years old, were dwarfed by the seats of the giant tractor. Their steel helmets came low over their unsmiling faces. They wore brightly coloured badges and shoulder-patches and red and white swastika armbands. At their waists each one had a dagger.

‘Hitler Jugend volunteers,’ said Max.

‘Conscripts,’ said August.

‘Kids?’

‘That’s it.’ How soon would Hansl be accoutred thus and fed into the endless war? Max counted the guns as they rolled past. ‘Twenty-eight guns,’ exclaimed Max. ‘Fantastic.’

‘Grossbatterie; under centralized fire control. At first it was two or three sites combining, now they have up to forty guns under one control.’

‘Is that good?’

‘At least the flak keeps the RAF up high. Without flak the Tommis would come down on the deck and put their bombs into our factory chimneys.’

‘You know, August, my friend, there are quite a few homeless civilians living in the Ruhr who would prefer that.’ He laughed.