Soldier No More Read Online Free PDF Page A

had turned him against teaching. The conviction that the later French kings had been not so much effete as unfortunate had somehow not seemed to him of great importance in the creation of a more egalitarian Britain, not to mention a better world.
    “Why, then?” persisted Sir Eustace.
    He met Sir Eustace’s gaze and, to his surprise, truth beckoned him once more. And not just truth, but also a sudden deeper instinct: these were the top brass, not the middlemen he was accustomed to report to—their rank and demeanour said as much, Thain’s obsequious departure said as much, and Admiral Hall’s portrait confirmed the message. They hadn’t summoned him here simply to give him his orders, they had other people to do that. He was here because they wanted to look at him for themselves, to see the whites of his eyes and—more likely—the yellow of his soul.
    It was his chance, and he had to take it. And he wouldn’t get it by answering ‘Yes, Sir Eustace’ and ‘No, Sir Eustace’ like the scared, timeserving nonentity he was.
    “I thought, if I fluffed the selection board, or I didn’t stay the course as an officer-cadet at Eaton Hall, then at least I’d end up as an Education Corps sergeant in a cushy billet somewhere,” he said coolly.
    “You like cushy billets?” Sir Eustace pounced on the admission. “Isn’t Paris a cushy billet?”
    “Yes, it is—“
    “I don’t know a cushier billet than Paris!” Sir Eustace looked around him for agreement.
    “Or a duller one, either,” snapped Roche, seizing his opportunity before anyone could answer. “And I’m not a poor bloody National Serviceman any more either—and that’s also the difference. And I wasn’t conscripted from the Signals to Intelligence—I volunteered.”
    Sir Eustace met his gaze steadily for a moment, and then nodded slowly, not smiling, but at least acknowledging the point.
    “Yes … .” To Roche’s disappointment it was Clinton who spoke now. “And just why, in your considered opinion, is Paris so dull these days?”
    Roche transferred his attention to Clinton, and wished he knew something—anything—about the man beyond what the faint warning bells had whispered to him.
    He licked his lips and decided to play for time. “I handle the liaison traffic,” he began cautiously.
    “I know that,” said Clinton.
    Roche’s courage sank. Sir Eustace had digested the assessments in the file, yet was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. But Colonel Clinton had reached a different and hostile conclusion, and there wasn’t any time to play for.
    “They don’t love us, the French,” He had to find something to give Clinton, something which might impress him.
    “Go on.”
    “They don’t even like us… . Last year, for maybe six months—from the time Nasser seized the canal through to the landings—they tried to like us, but even then it was a bloody effort. But they tried.” He paused.
    “Go on.”
    “Now they don’t even try.” When he thought about it, the one thing he did know about Clinton was that he didn’t know anything about him. Which meant that he hadn’t been active in the Paris station. “They used to say that the Entente Cordiale was buried somewhere between Dunkirk and Mers-el-Kebir.” The words were Bill Ballance’s.
    “Where?” St. John Latimer cupped his ear.
    “Where we blew half their fleet out of the water in 1940, Oliver,” said Sir Eustace.
    “Oh— there … ” St.John Latimer looked down his nose at Roche. “Oran, you mean.”
    Roche concentrated on Clinton. “Now they say the corpse has been re-interred beside the Suez Canal, somewhere between Port Said and Ismailia. And their next entente will be with the Germans, who are likely to be more reliable.”
    “So?” Clinton again packed tell me something I don ’ t know into the question.
    “So they don’t give us anything. Or practically nothing—in effect, nothing…But that’s fair enough really, because we give them the