The Caves of Perigord_ A Novel - Martin Walker [111]
“Some of the boys tell me Malrand’s a good teacher and a good leader. Almost as good as you, they say.”
“He’s better than me,” said Manners. “He gets that automatic respect that’s the mark of a natural officer.”
“That’s a question of his class, and there’ll be no more of that kind of respect when this war’s over. We’ll respect men like you and McPhee, professionals who know what they’re doing, and know it is their duty to pass it on to others.”
“There won’t be much room for people like me after the war. Anyway, I don’t think I’ll survive it. I’m a professional soldier, Even if I survive this mission, and whatever I have to do in Germany, after Hitler’s finished they’ll send me to Burma to fight the Japanese.”
“They’ll probably ask you take Indochina back for France.”
“I do what I’m told, Marat.”
“So do I, Englishman, but in a different army, for a different cause.” He put down his pipe, sipped his wine, and devoured his fish in four great bites. He washed the last mouthful down with wine, and lit his pipe again.
“By the way, I’m enjoying the book you lent me,” said Manners. “Thank you.”
“I have another history you might want to read after the Michelet, as soon as McPhee has finished it. He’s reading it closely, on those few occasions when Mercedes has finished with him. Or him with her. My boys all like our Red Indian, but she likes him most of all.” Marat laughed dismissively. “And don’t let the name of the author put you off the book. It was written by Karl Marx, but it’s about French history, how our Revolutions turn into dictatorships.”
“Sometimes I wonder whether Stalin didn’t do the same thing to the Soviet revolution,” said Manners, grinning at the thought of McPhee and the fierce little Spanish girl. But he was struck by Marat’s criticism of the Nazi-Soviet pact, wondering just how unorthodox a Communist he might be.
“Three or four years ago, I might have agreed with you. The war has changed that. The entire Soviet people are involved now. This is their war, and the place will never be the same. Stalin has understood that. He’s a realist.”
“Stalin?” shouted Soleil in his ear. “The Englishman wants to make a toast to Stalin.” He rapped on the table with his gun again. Manners raised his glass with a grin. “Stalin, and the great Russian war effort,” he said.
“That’s enough drink for you,” Soleil said, shoving the priceless crystal-glass roughly down on the table. “When we finish this meal, you’re giving your lesson. On the Sten gun.”
“What, here at the table? It’s already gone midnight.”
“So what. Don’t you know there’s a war on?” laughed Soleil. “We might as well enjoy it. Here. I was only teasing you. Have some more wine. But you are going to give the lesson. I promised the boys.”
So it proved. His tongue thick with wine, and swaying just a little on his feet, Manners found himself pushed to his feet at the end of the meal. Soleil’s own Sten was thrust into his hand, and the pistol butt hammered for silence. He might as well do this right.
“The Sten gun,” he began. “Named after its inventors. Shepherd and Turpin, of the Royal Small Arms Factory at Enfield. It may not be the best submachine gun ever made, but it’s the cheapest and the easiest to make and maintain and so it is the most useful for the kind of fighting you have to do. We have made over four million of them so far in this war. It’s the most popular submachine gun in the world. Just over seven hundred fifty millimeters long, weighs under three kilograms, made of cheap and easy metal stampings. So easy that the Danish Resistance have been making their own copies in underground workshops.
“It holds thirty two nine-millimeter rounds, and fires them at a rate of five hundred fifty rounds a minute. Work it out. You have about four seconds of constant firing. Never fire that long. Short bursts. Rat-a-tat-tat is the sound you want to hear. Any more than that and the muzzle starts to