Dive in the Sun (20 page)

Duncan laughed shortly. ‘They’re up in the fo’c’sle, playin’ dice, by the sound of it.’

‘Where are the wounded?’

Duncan shrugged. ‘Not a sign of ’em yet.’

The bell jangled loudly, and Duncan loped across the deck to halt beside the narrow door leading into the fo’c’sle.

Light spewed across the ship as the door swung open, and a blue cloud of tobacco smoke billowed up between the legs of the six men who stamped irritably into the cold air.

Three of them were uniformed Carabinieri and the others seamen, their ragged jerseys and dirty duck trousers clashing with the smart boots and belts of their companions.

There was an exclamation of surprise, and one of the policemen dived backwards to the door, which, just as suddenly, slammed hard into his face. He reeled back, his hand clamped across his bleeding mouth, as Duncan stepped from behind the door, the gun balanced in his hand like a toy.

‘Stand still, you jokers! Unless you want to step off!’ He grinned savagely at each of them and gestured towards the trussed figure on the deck. ‘One of yer mates! See?’

They stared round the deck, drawing together as if for support, while Curtis spoke rapidly to the captain.

‘Where are the rest? You should have a bigger crew than this!’

Counting the two oarsmen still in the dinghy, there were only five seamen.

‘I am trying to tell you,’ began the captain, his voice resigned and tired. ‘These are all I have! My other boys desert, two … three days ago, I forget! They get worried ’bout the invasion, they wanna get home to their families! Me? I got no family, justa this boat!’ He clenched his thick fists in sudden despair. ‘Now you gonna take her away from me!’

‘Where are the soldiers who were brought aboard?’ Curtis made an effort to control his rising temper. ‘Come on, man! Where have you put them?’

‘They below, in the hold,’ he answered sulkily. ‘I was told to put ’em there!’

Curtis stared at him in disbelief. ‘Wounded men? In the hold?’ He seized the man savagely by the front of his shirt, and thrust his face forward. ‘By God, you bloody Wops sicken me! If any more of them die, I swear you’ll regret you were born!’ He felt the fat body quiver. ‘Now, prepare to get under way, just as you were ordered!’

‘I do my best.’ He moved his hands vacantly, his face twisting worriedly. ‘Is a ver’ difficult channel!’

Duncan’s voice grated across the deck. ‘You’ll get us clear though, won’t you, Captain? Just for us?’

The captain glanced at the hard, mocking eyes and swallowed unhappily. Then he jerked his hands at the stunned sailors and pointed to the capstan. One of the men started towards the hatch over the small engine-room, but Curtis shook his head.

‘Come up, George, and get the engine started.’

Signor Zecchi coughed. ‘You leave little to chance, I see.’

Curtis ignored him, his aching brain groped for possible flaws in his plan, and he tried to keep his mind away from the silent wounded below his feet, at least until they were clear of the anchorage. He watched dully, as the girl appeared on the deck and stood shivering beside her suitcase. The two sailors heaved the wriggling German after her, and then towed the dinghy round to the davits aft.

Curtis turned to the police officer. ‘Get your men in a line, quick!’ To Duncan: ‘Search them, and make sure they’re well locked up!’

Surprisingly, the captain said over his shoulder, ‘There is a good storeroom down there.’ He pointed to another hatch. ‘They will be safe in there.’

When Duncan had herded the Carabinieri away, and the German had been dragged after them, Curtis eyed the captain thoughtfully. ‘Aren’t they friends of yours then?’

The captain shrugged and spat over the gunwale. ‘
Facisti!
They stink!’

The deck quivered, and there was a dull roar from the engine-room, but after a few coughing protests, the motor settled down to a confident rumble.

The captain spat on his hands and took the wheel, whilst from forward came the clink of cable as the capstan heaved in the anchor.

He leaned comfortably on the wheel and pouted his thick lips expressively. ‘We won’t get far,
signore
! Patrol boats! Bombers! No, we won’t get far!’

He spun the wheel and peered at the compass, which danced loosely in its ancient brass binnacle. A thin spindley lever at his side protested as he pushed his bulk against it, until it squeaked level with a worn plate stating “
Velocita massima!
”, and as the propeller churned a cheerful white froth beneath her counter, the
Ametisa
swung drunkenly into the wind and thrust her sharp stem over the first long roller.

Curtis watched for a few minutes, then beckoned to Jervis. ‘You stay here on the poop, and watch the deck. Nobody is to go below until Steve has searched all the crew’s quarters.’ He glanced at the captain’s squat shape, his fat straddled legs braced behind the wheel, and raising his voice, he added, ‘And if we go aground, shoot him!’

He turned away from Jervis before he could answer, and stood for a moment against the rail, his hands resting heavily on its worn and grooved surface. The sudden realization that the ship was his—brought home to him by the steady beat of the engines and the swish of foam against the pitching hull—seemed to bring all conscious thought to an end. The weight of his body grew heavier on his arms, and his head sagged forward over the rail. He was shivering, and had to clench his teeth to withstand his weakness, which felt like real pain.

‘
Signore?
’ The mayor moved quietly at his elbow. ‘May we go below now?’

Curtis levered himself away from the rail, his fingers slipping reluctantly from its support. He peered at the mayor through half-closed eyes, and nodded wearily.

The girl’s voice was cold and unforgiving. ‘Perhaps he wishes us to be locked in the store with the others!’

He stumbled past her and led the way down the steep ladder to the cabin flat. The lamp swung more jerkily than before, and the narrow passage leaped and staggered with the ship’s lively movements. The hissing roar of the sea was muffled, and the air was thick and stale. He pushed open the first door and glared at the bare cabin, with its neat bunk and newly-painted sides. Another lantern swung crazily from a deck beam, casting strange shadows across the cabin’s clinical bareness and the framed portrait of Adolf Hitler. A small safe was bolted to the bulkhead, but apart from a narrow wardrobe containing some more items of German uniform, there was nothing dangerous in sight.

‘You can have this one,
signorina
. It was evidently your friend’s cabin, so it’s bound to be fairly clean!’

She looked at him without speaking, her slim body swaying to the motion of the ship. She placed the suitcase on the bunk, and with her eyes still on his face, she slowly ran her fingers along the black plait across her shoulder.

Curtis took the mayor’s arm impatiently, and led him to the other cabin.

It was completely the opposite to the other. The captain’s possessions were scattered across the bunk and on the deck, while on the rickety table stood two empty
vino
bottles and a half eaten sandwich. Over the bunk a series of voluptuous pin-ups smiled and reclined in crude abandon.

There was a pistol in one of the desk drawers, and a mountain of old letters and papers.

‘Stay here!’ he ordered curtly. ‘I think you now understand our position well enough?’

The mayor inclined his head gravely, but Curtis had the impression that he was secretly amused.

‘Don’t touch anything. Go to bed, if you like.’

He lurched for the door, the air suddenly beginning to stifle him. More than anything else he wanted to lie down, and the sight of that filthy bunk tempted him more than anything
he
could remember. He paused for a second in the doorway and looked back at the plump, dignified Italian.

‘I am sorry you have been caused all this inconvenience, and I appreciate your daughter’s courage, whatever her reasons,’ he faltered, and the mayor stared at him, his black eyes expressionless. ‘Perhaps it will all turn out for the best for you, too.’ He stopped, angry with himself, and ran up the ladder.

Duncan greeted him with an easy smile. ‘All quiet, Ralph. I think the captain here has cottoned on to the general idea. I don’t, reckon his boys’ll give any trouble now.’

‘Good,’ Curtis answered vaguely. ‘Now for God’s sake let’s have a look at those poor devils below!’

Two seamen rolled back the hatch, their eyes on Duncan, and Curtis bent carefully over the high coaming, a feeling of nausea rising within him as the stench of closely packed bodies, sweat, and something worse hit him across the face.

The light in the hold was poor, but good enough to see in an instant the twin lines of crumpled figures which ran along both sides of the hold. Some of the soldiers lay on pieces of sacking in positions of sleep or even death, while others dragged themselves aimlessly between the lines muttering encouragement, or cursing each other as either a wounded limb or a careless boot started off another frenzied convulsion of pain.

Duncan followed close behind him, two lanterns adding to the picture of misery. His face was a mask, but the cold light in his eyes dimmed as he stared over Curtis’s shoulder.

One of the soldiers rolled wildly on to his back, his fingers hooked into his sacking. ‘Water! Fer God’s sake give me a drink!’ A chorus of cracked voices joined his plea in a terrible cry, whilst from the far end of the hold Curtis saw the red-faced sergeant stagger to his feet, his good eye darting around his men. ‘Easy there, lads. Be all right soon.’ He sounded tired, and his voice was no longer jaunty.

He peered down the dim hold, watching the two figures on the ladder. ‘Come on, lads,’ he pleaded. ‘Don’t let the bloody Eye-ties see you’re done in!’

A lump filled Curtis’s throat, and he gripped the ladder fiercely. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he groaned, ‘they’d have died down here! Look at them!’ He swayed, and Duncan gripped his arm savagely.

His voice, close against Curtis’s ear, was steady and very quiet. ‘Come on, Ralph! Give ’em the shock of their lives!’ He squeezed more insistently. ‘You can do it! You know you can!’

Curtis tore his eyes from the hold and met Duncan’s stare. The awful strength from the man’s eyes seemed to run through his blood like brandy, and he bit his lip with sudden determination.

He stepped slowly down into the hold, his hands at his sides, and the light glittering and swaying across his fair hair and the tarnished gold lace on his shoulders.

He halted, praying that his voice would not let him down. He need not have worried, his words, amplified by the sides of the hold, and cutting through the sudden silence, were clear, and full of confidence.

‘All right, you lazy lot! The convalescence is over!’ He paused, his hands on his hips, his unshaven chin jutting forward. ‘The Navy’s here!’ He stopped, unable to continue, and stared blindly back at Duncan, who nodded his huge head and grinned.

The effect of his words was instantaneous and electric.

The sergeant ran towards him, his arm-sling jerking and bobbing, as with his other groping hand he prodded the startled men and shouted with wild excitement.

‘Hear that, Ginger? It’s the bloody Navy! What did I tell you, Bert? It’s them! It’s all right!’

Curtis was stunned by the shouts and the pathetic capers of the sergeant, and could only stand in the middle of the whooping, hopping soldiers.

The blinded soldier sat bolt upright on the pile of rags in one corner, shaking urgently at the arm of the man next to him. His mouth moved in a white crescent beneath his bandages. ‘Wake up, Ralph! We’ve been rescued!’ He stopped tugging, and sat back, suddenly lost and silent, his fingers still holding on to his friend’s tunic.

The soldier, Ralph, lay where he was, unmoved and indifferent, his glazed, unblinking eyes staring at the deckhead.

Curtis watched, suddenly cold. It was not only the feeling of loss which he seemed to share with the blind soldier; it was also that the dead man had been called Ralph.

He pointed desperately, and calmed the sergeant’s excited shouts. ‘Help him, Steve,’ he called, ‘and get some of the sailors down here quickly!’

The sergeant was speaking again, his boots together with something like his old smartness. ‘Sarnt Dunwoody, sir! First Battalion, Middlesex Light Infantry!’

He stared at Curtis as if still unable to believe what he saw. ‘By God, sir, I don’t know ’ow you got ’ere, but by heaven it’s a bleedin’ miracle!’ His red face seemed to crumple, and he fidgeted with his sling. ‘I don’t think we coulda managed much longer!’

Curtis nodded dumbly, aware that Duncan and three of the more able soldiers were passing round great mugs of fresh water.

‘The buggers wouldn’t give us anything to drink. Kep’ sayin’ we’d ’ave to wait!’ continued the sergeant with abrupt fierceness, as he relived the whole nightmare over again. ‘Wait! After bein’ blown to ’ell an’ then bein’ cut about in a Jerry dressin’ station, to say nothin’ of twenty-four hours in a bleedin’ lorry!’ He stared round at his men with something like paternal pride. ‘But they didn’t give in!’

‘You’ve been in charge all the time?’ The question was a mere whisper, but the sergeant smiled sadly.

‘Yessir. Y’see, our last officer died before we was patched up. ’E was a good kid, too!’

Curtis saw the campaign medals on the old soldier’s chest. A generation and another war apart.

‘I’ll see that you’re not forgotten either, Sergeant.’ He swung round to follow Duncan, afraid that the sergeant might see his face.

Duncan’s voice seemed to come from every direction at once. ‘Come on, sport! Get this down you! It’s only water I’m afraid, but I’ve got those goddamned Eye-ties cookin’ a
month
’s rations up for you as fast as they can move their little selves!’

He bent over the blind soldier. ‘Come on, young un, give me a hand with this water.’ The soldier shrank away, but Duncan pulled him to his feet and thrust the big water jug into his hands. Then leading him slowly between the men, he manoeuvred him away from the other silent figure.