Harry smiled as laughter broke out. He damped it down with a wave of his hand. When he spoke again, it was in an exaggerated Prussian accent. Sadly, none of the 'temps recognized it as his best Schwarzenegger. "For some time, our enemies have been using, in their warfare, methods which are outside the International Geneva Conventions. Especially brutal and treacherous is the behavior of the so-called Commandos…"
A great cheer went up at that point, and Harry let it subside before he continued, switching to his own voice.
"… who, as is established, are partially recruited from freed criminals in enemy countries."
An even louder roar of approval greeted that.
"I believe they may be talking about the Australian SAS, Sergeant Major," he said in a voluble aside to St. Clair. "Convict stock and all that, I suppose."
Peals of laughter rolled over him, almost, but not quite, drowning out the protests of the three or four Australians in the ranks.
"From captured orders," Harry continued, "it is divulged that they are directed not only to shackle prisoners-"
A cheer.
"-but also to kill defenseless prisoners."
A bigger cheer.
"Naughty fucking commandos!" somebody called out.
He let the commotion die down completely before he read on.
"I therefore order that from now on, all enemies on so-called Commando missions in Europe or Africa, challenged by German troops, even if they are to all appearances soldiers in uniform or demolition troops, whether armed or unarmed, in battle or in flight, are to be slaughtered to the last man. It does not make any difference whether they are dropped by parachute. Even if these individuals, when found, should apparently be prepared to give themselves up, no pardon is to be granted them on principle."
A few of the bolder types tried to raise a few hoorays at that, but the effort fell somewhat flat. Harry let his gaze slowly traverse over every man watching him. He grinned wickedly.
"Well, you lads are new to the regiment, and we don't expect you to be familiar with all of our traditions just yet. But let me assure you, where we come from, this is very old news. Where we come from, our enemies don't just pop a bullet into the back of your head if you're foolish enough to let yourself be captured. Where we have come from, they cut off your fucking head and make a movie of it for the whole world to watch!" he yelled.
Silence was the only reply. The faces of the new men, he saw, were decidedly uneasy. His own troopers, however, were grinning wickedly.
"And what, Sergeant Major, is regimental policy in the face of such piss-poor hospitality?" he asked St. Clair.
"A bloody good drink, sir," the gigantic black noncom roared back.
"Right then," yelled Harry, "to the pub!"
"Smashing spread, Major Windsor!" said a young trooper juggling a southern-fried chicken leg and a pint of ale. "Me old mum doesn't cook half as good as this nosh."
Harry clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, eat up, son. We'll be busing it back to barracks tonight."
"Yes, sir!"
The tables of the Glenuig Inn were groaning under the weight of the feast Harry had organized. Kitchen staff from Balmoral castle had been driven in two days earlier to prepare the food in secret. A banner hung across the bar congratulating the troops for passing the selection course, the first official acknowledgment that they had achieved something even remotely noteworthy. The day they'd actually graduated, the training cadre simply tapped those who had made it, and sent them on a twenty-mile forced march in full kit, followed by two hours of jujitsu training, and a night-maneuver exercise.
"Nice one, gov," St. Clair said as he leaned against the bar with a glass of Highland Park almost hidden in one enormous paw. "The lads was beginning to suspect you were a bit of a tyrant."
Harry took a long draw on a pint of Wee Heavy. "I am," he said, licking away some froth. "Sibling issues."
The small whitewashed alehouse couldn't contain all the soldiers and invited locals who'd crowded in for the celebration. Despite the chill of approaching dark at high latitude, they spilled out of the building and onto the grounds, where they tended to cluster around large braziers of burning peat. Quite a few wandered across the road to take their drinks onto the white-sand beach that fronted a small bay letting onto the Sound of Arisaig.
"You think these lads will be ready?" asked St. Clair.
"Not a chance," Harry replied quietly. "Not what we'd call ready, in any case. But I can't see Hitler waiting until next spring to have a go. He knows he's got to get in and finish us before the U.S. can build up enough combat-ready divisions and materiel. He'll try it on well before Christmas, Viv. I've got an old-fashioned fiver says we won't even see out the month."
"Sorry, guv, can't take that bet. Reckon I'd do me dough cold."
Harry watched as the crowd swarmed around tables laden with venison and boar from his newly acquired estates. Piles of fresh vegetables, roasted taters, and Yorkshire pudding nearly buried dozens of smokehouse hams and chickens. It was a bacchanalian feast, given the wartime restrictions. Mutton pie and carrot pudding were the staples of the local diet. The sweets jars in the village shops were all empty, and the chocolate bars in the windows were made of wood. Only the wrapping was real. For Harry, the highlight of this evening promised to be the Hitler-shaped pinata stuffed full of real chocolates and toffees and boiled sweets that he had organized for the village children. When he lay in his bunk at night, he prayed that they, and his own men, would survive what was coming.
"You really put the wind up 'em, with that Kommandobefehl stuff," St. Clair mumbled around a Thai chicken stick he had lifted from a table of "modern" foods. The curries and rice dishes were popular with the small twenty-first crew, but mostly provoked curiosity and a little fear among the locals. Harry had restricted himself to a small bowl of lamb korma. He scooped up a last mouthful with a piece of garlic naan, washed it all down with a slug of ale, and shrugged off St. Clair's concern.
"Best they know, Viv. Should fire them up. Like that time we nearly got caught in Surabaya by old Ibn Abbas and his mob. A damn close run thing, what!" he mugged, dropping into a parody of an upper-class twit.
As the night wore on, Harry let himself bathe in the atmosphere of the room, both its actual warmth as the mercury dropped outside, and the balm of close companionship with decent people. He'd known very few moments like this since his college days. None since he'd returned to the regiment at the reduced rank of captain after a four-year spell in civvies. When the government had reintroduced conscription after the intifada, his brother, King William, had called all the royals together and made it clear that he would not have his subjects forced to endure dangers and hardships that the principals of the firm were unwilling to face alongside them.
Harry had actually been intending to return to uniform anyway, but as so often happened when Wills made one of his pronouncements, Harry ended up feeling as if his own decisions were being presented to him as a fait accompli. It was incredibly galling, but such was the fate of the second heir to the throne. Still, he missed his brother.
"You all right, guv?"
Harry let go a long breath he'd been holding. "Sorry, Viv. Miles away."
"Years, you mean."
"Yeah."
"Your Highness, Your Highness!"
Harry's spirits dropped at the sound of the voice, but his face somehow managed to light up with a credible imitation of surprise and pleasure, another benefit of royal training. Miss Deborah Jones, the schoolmistress, was bearing down on him with a couple of heifers in tow.
He'd paid a visit to the school one afternoon, to give a talk to the kiddies. Besides the village and estate children, a hundred evacuees from London had been relocated locally and were in attendance. He'd thrilled them with tales of the future, most of which were true, and it had been an altogether pleasant diversion for a couple of hours. But Miss Jones had been pestering him ever since, trying to set him up with one of the many dumpy red-haired lasses who were so common hereabouts.