“Will he be carrying a knife at all? Not wanting to be curious,” he asked respectfully. He had a Welsh accent.
Haldane shrugged. “It depends what he likes. We don’t want to clutter him up.”
“There’s a lot to be said for a knife, sir.” Leiser was still in the changing room. “If he knows how to use it. And the Jerries don’t like them, not one bit.” He had brought some knives in a handcase, and he unpacked them in a private way, like a salesman unpacking his samples. “They never could take cold steel,” he explained. “Nothing too long, that’s the trick of it, sir. Something flat with the two cutting edges.” He selected one and held it up. “You can’t do much better than this as a matter of fact.” It was wide and flat like a laurel leaf, the blade unpolished, the handle waisted like an hourglass, crosshatched to prevent slip. Leiser was walking toward them, smoothing a comb through his hair.
“Used one of these, have you?”
Leiser examined the knife and nodded. The sergeant looked at him carefully. “I know you, don’t I? My name’s Sandy Lowe. I’m a bloody Welshman.”
“You taught me in the war.”
“Christ,” said Lowe softly, “so I did. You haven’t changed much, have you?” They grinned shyly at one another, not knowing whether to shake hands. “Come on then, see what you remember.” They walked to the coconut matting in the center of the floor. Lowe threw the knife at Leiser’s feet and he snatched it up, grunting as he bent.
Lowe wore a jacket of torn tweed, very old. He stepped quickly back, took it off and with a single movement wrapped it around his left forearm, like a man preparing to fight a dog.
Drawing his own knife as he moved slowly around Leiser, keeping his weight steady but riding a little from one foot to the other. He was stooping, his bound arm held loosely in front of his stomach, fingers outstretched, palm facing the ground. He had gathered his body behind the guard, letting the blade play restlessly in front of it while Leiser kept steady, his eyes fixed upon the sergeant. For a time they feinted back and forth; once Leiser lunged and Lowe sprang back, allowing the knife to cut the cloth of the jacket on his arm. Once Lowe dropped to his knees, as if to drive the knife upward beneath Leiser’s guard, and it was Leiser’s turn to spring back, but too slowly it seemed, for Lowe shook his head, shouted “Halt!” and stood upright.
“Remember that?” He indicated his own belly and groin, pressing his arms and elbows in as if to reduce the width of his body. “Keep the target small.” He made Leiser put his knife away and showed him holds, crooking his left arm around Leiser’s neck and pretending to stab him in the kidneys or the stomach. Then he asked Avery to stand as a dummy, and the two of them moved around him with detachment, Lowe indicating the places with his knife and Leiser nodding, smiling occasionally when a particular trick came back to him.
“You didn’t weave with the blade enough. Remember, thumb on top, blade parallel to the ground, forearm stiff, wrist loose. Don’t let his eye settle on it, not for a moment. And left hand in over your own target, whether you’ve got the knife or not. Never be generous about offering the body, that’s what I say to my daughter.” They laughed dutifully, all but Haldane.
After that, Avery had a turn. Leiser seemed to want it. Removing his glasses, he held the knife as Lowe showed him, hesitant, alert, while Leiser trod crabwise, feinted and darted lightly back, the sweat running off his face, his small eyes alight with concentration. All the time Avery was conscious of the sharp grooves of the shaft against the flesh of his palm, the aching in his calves and buttocks as he kept his weight forward on his toes, and Leiser’s angry eyes searching his own. Then Leiser’s foot had hooked around his ankle; as he lost balance he felt the knife being wrenched from his hand; he fell back, Leiser’s full weight upon him, Leiser’s hand clawing at the collar of his shirt.