Brave Company (2 page)

There were scrambled eggs, sausages and tinned tomatoes for dinner in the mess. ‘Better make the most of it,' a voice said as Russell started eating. ‘It'll be all rice when we get to Japan and Korea. Rice and raw squid.'

Along the table from him, two seamen were talking. Russell hadn't learned their names, but he knew they'd already fought in Korea. They'd been on HMNZS
Tutira
when she helped protect UN troops as they stormed ashore in seaborne landings.

‘… different war once China came in,' one man was saying. ‘An Aussie I talked to said their infantry had never seen anything like it. Thousands of Chinese charging at them, yelling and screaming. Bugles
blowing all the time. The more of them got shot, the more seemed to jump out of the trenches and keep attacking.'

The other seaman nodded. He was chunky and fair-haired, with tattoos of mermaids and dancing girls all over his arms. ‘Human waves, our blokes call them. The commies are brave enough, no doubt of that.'

The first man shrugged. ‘Let's hope the only waves we see are wet and salty ones.' He saw Russell listening. ‘What d'you say, laddie?' The other seaman – the tattooed one – grunted. ‘He's a boy seaman. Best if he doesn't say anything. Not till we see if he can do anything worth talking about.'

Russell managed a grin, though his neck had gone hot at the tattooed sailor's words. He tried to imagine what a human wave attack would look like. Would he be able to face things when the shooting wasn't just practice? I've got to, he told himself. I've got to.

He was heading for his bunkroom when a cap with gold braid appeared around one of the lifeboats. Commander Yates. Russell snapped to attention and saluted.

Taupo
's 2-i-c returned the salute. ‘Evening. Boy Seaman Purchas, isn't it?'

‘Yessir.' Russell felt pleased to be known.

‘And did you enjoy this afternoon's shoot? You lads were right on target. Valuable practice.'

‘Yessir,' said Russell again. He hesitated, then: ‘Sir, do you think we'll be in any real naval battles?'

Commander Yates laughed. He nodded at the ship's small twin-barrelled Bofors. ‘Well, we've got that, and the four-inch, and the two anti-aircraft machine-guns. If the enemy has any ships that are really small, and don't fly too high, we might do some damage.'

He smiled at Russell's uncertain expression. ‘Just like your uncle, eh? Can't wait to get into action. Well, don't worry, lad. You'll see the real war soon enough. The seas off Korea and Japan are full of boatloads of refugees. All trying to escape, poor devils. We might come across a few of them before we make port.'

‘Sir.' Russell saluted again as the 2-i-c moved away. He felt heavy inside. He already knew that some of the officers on board were aware whose nephew he was. They'd probably been told by staff at HMNZS
Tamaki
, the Auckland shore station where he'd done his basic training. Just as long as the rest of
Taupo
's crew didn't learn about it, too.

Refugees – he gazed at the grey horizon as he thought of Commander Yates's words. Half of them were probably communists. Uncle Trevor had been mixed up with refugees in Italy before he died. Now, seven years
later, Russell wasn't going to get involved with refugees, with ANYONE who ran away. He was here to obey orders, to stay at his post – not like his uncle.

Nobody knew exactly where they were headed in Japan, or exactly when they would get there. ‘Security,' AB Johnson told Russell. (Johnson, not Johansen. ‘You can call me Noel, if you bow when you do it,' he'd joked – Russell
thought
it was a joke.) ‘The navy loves security.'

Kingi nodded. ‘Half the ship don't know anything, and the other half can't tell them anything.' He chuckled. ‘So don't be surprised if we end up in two different ports at once.'

Russell liked the way these two talked to him. They teased him – all boy seamen got teased: were sent to find a tin of striped paint, or told to fetch seagull eggs for the captain's breakfast. When he joined
Taupo
, some sailors told him that he had to salute the cooks each time he came into the mess. So he did, till he realised people were laughing at him; then he felt himself turn scarlet with embarrassment. But while a few on board treated him as though he had no brains, Kingi and Noel spoke to him like he was their equal … almost.

‘What do you think we'll be doing when we get to Korea?' he asked them.

‘Apart from parachuting you into the middle of the Chinese Army to scare them, you mean?' said Kingi. ‘Probably patrolling the coast and big rivers to look for any sneaky people. Or maybe firing at a few railway lines. Only if the railway lines fire at us first, of course.'

‘
Tutira
and
Rotoiti
did a lot of work with the infantry and artillery when they were here,' Noel added. ‘Getting supplies ashore, landing raiding parties, evacuating wounded. We'll be kept busy.'

They were already busy. Extra lookouts had been posted. Men stood at the bows and stern, and in the little crow's-nest observation post up the mast, scanning the sea day and night through binoculars, searching for anything strange or suspicious. And, next morning, it was Russell who saw something.

He'd been in the crow's-nest for an hour since breakfast. ‘You've got good eyes, young Purchas,' Commander Yates had said as Russell was given his orders. Another hour, and someone else from his watch, Blue Watch would relieve him. Each of the three watches on
Taupo
, Red, White and Blue, was like a team, on-duty and off-duty together.

Thirty feet above the deck, he could feel every dip and sway of
Taupo
as she eased through growing swells. His binoculars were making yet another sweep of the horizon when something darker than the sea slipped past.

He jerked the binoculars back. Nothing. He'd imagined – no, there it was! A blackish shape, low and definite between the waves. A boat?

Russell gripped the rail of the crow's-nest, and shouted to the deck below. ‘Object ahead. 400 yards. Bearing … 320 degrees.'

The voice of PO Lucas came straight back. ‘You sure, Boy Seaman? We don't want any false alarms.'

Russell snatched another look. Yes, there it was again, already a little closer. A boat, definitely. And people.

‘Yessir. A boat. We're closing on her.'

This time, it was Captain Moore who called from the bridge. ‘We see it. Keep watching. Good work, Boy Seaman.' Russell felt his chest swell with pride. That'd show PO Lucas.

Bells were already sounding throughout the frigate. Russell heard the gun crews hurrying into position. Once more he peered through the binoculars. Who were they? Enemy raiders? Fishermen? Pirates?

No. He could count them now. Ten … fourteen … nearly twenty people, waving their arms wildly, or clutching the sides of their boat and staring at
Taupo
as she swept towards them. Most of them were dressed in white. A number of the men were small, Russell saw. No, not men: women. And children.

‘About twenty people!' he shouted down. ‘Men and
women and kids. I can't see—' He stared again. ‘I can't see any weapons.'

An answering call from the bridge. The boat was only a hundred yards away.
Taupo
had slowed, just crawling through the waves, guns trained on the vessel. It was an old boat, crammed full, everybody including the children waving and calling out now. Russell could hear their pleading voices.

On deck, the motorised cutter was being swung out, ready for lowering. Six men climbed in, all of them carrying rifles or revolvers. The ship's doctor, Lieutenant Commander Merrill, was there too.
Taupo
had drifted to within eighty yards of the other craft where the huddle of people still waved and shouted.

Captain Moore's voice boomed through a loud hailer. ‘Does anyone on board speak English? I say again – anyone speak English?'

The hubbub of voices grew louder. Russell could see people arguing, turning to others. Two of the women held babies. Some little kids gripped adults' legs.

Then a man's voice came. ‘Help! Drink! Help, please!' The cutter had moved to just twenty yards from the crowded boat. Russell felt
Taupo
stir slightly, and knew that the frigate's engines were keeping the refugees' vessel at a distance.

On the cutter, rifles were held ready. Lieutenant Commander Merrill lifted up a float with a package
in waterproof cloth attached. He pointed at it, called something to the boat. Voices yelled back; arms waved desperately. Some of the children and women were crying. Other people stretched their hands out as if they were begging. Russell tried to imagine people at home carrying on like that. They wouldn't! The rest of
Taupo
's crew stood, watching silently.

Cutter and refugees had drifted closer together. The frigate's doctor was still talking. Two of the seamen were lowering other objects into the water, also with floats tied to them. Jerrycans of water, boxes of tinned food. Voices babbled and cried from the other craft.

Splash!
A man was thrashing through the waves towards the cutter. Straight away, the men on the cutter aimed their rifles at him. A woman screamed.

The man grabbed the side of the cutter and began struggling to haul himself on board. The small launch dipped, and Lieutenant Commander Merrill was shouting at the Korean. Hands seized the flailing man's wrists, wrenched him away and shoved him back into the water. Another float and waterproof package landed almost on top of him. On the other boat, the same woman was wailing, holding up a tiny child.

The cutter turned, motor pushing it back towards the frigate. Behind it, the man clung to the float and its package. People on the boat were pulling the other packages and boxes from the sea. A few voices still
called out to
Taupo
. One man yelled and shook his fist. But most of the refugees now stared silently as the cutter was hoisted up and the frigate began to turn away.

For the next five minutes, Russell watched the white-clad figures dwindle into the distance. For a moment he wondered how long they could survive on the ocean in that boat, then he shrugged. They were probably communists – or cowards running away from things. Just like his uncle.

It had been the letter from the War Graves Commission that brought Russell the truth about Uncle Trevor. Russell's Mum didn't talk about her brother now, and Russell still didn't know if she realised that he'd found out.

His mother kept everything about her brother – medals, letters, documents – in one of the drawers of her bedside cabinet. Russell used to love looking at the medals: the Distinguished Service Order with its red and dark-blue ribbon; the Military Cross in purple and white.

Russell kept a little black-and-white photo of his uncle beside his bed. In it, Uncle Trevor wasn't in uniform. Instead, he wore his builder's work clothes and
stood grinning at the camera. Russell had been only six when his uncle left for overseas, but he remembered him clearly, painting the kitchen for his mother, doing their vegetable garden, things like that. He and Trevor had played footie on the little back lawn, his uncle pretending to miss tackles so Russell could score a try. He'd wanted to grow up just like Trevor – till he found out what he was really like.