The White Guns (1989) (24 page)

'Where is Commander Meikle?' He had not meant to sound curt, but the question came out that way.

She looked at him. 'I – I am sorry, Herr Leutnant. You should have been told. He has gone to inspect the new offices at Plön.'

Marriott nodded, remembering what Beri-Beri had said about it.

She had recovered her composure. 'May I say, Herr Leutnant, it was a fine thing you did for Kapitän von Tripz's son.' She flushed and added, 'I am leaving now.'

Marriott walked to an open scuttle and tried to see 801's moorings.
Home, escape.
It hit him like a punch in the stomach. The chocolate and the toy. It explained everything. She had a child. Who had given it to her did not matter. No wonder she was afraid of him, what he might... He stared at his reflection in the scuttle's polished glass.

'Why, you bloody idiot!'
He had a sudden picture of the girl with her shirt open for anyone to see, her despair as they had searched her.

That's her for the high jump,
the Royal Marine had said.

Marriott wrenched open the door and ran down the brow past a gaping sentry.

It was too late already. He ran through the slow-moving throng of dockyard workers as if they were not there.

Too much time at sea or in hospital.
The vague thought penetrated his mind. He was out of condition and the main gates were still fifty yards away. If Beri-Beri had been here with his car...

Then he saw her, walking in the centre of the road, her shoulder bag hanging against her hip, her little blue forage cap tilted forward from the coil of hair on her neck.

She was the only girl there now and he saw the same two women in battledress look straight at her, one give the other a quick nudge.

Marriott fell in beside her and said, 'Stay with me. Don't look surprised and
don't argue!'

He saw a portly Master-at-Arms standing by the side-gate used by officers and touched her elbow. She felt stiff, probably with fear, as she realised for the first time what was happening.

'Fräulein Geghin is with me, Master!' Thank God he had heard that idiot Verner call her by name.

He thought he saw someone moving out towards them but the portly Master-at-Arms shook his head and grunted, 'Very good, sir.' Their eyes met, just for a few seconds. Then he added, 'I'll drop her card in the box for you.'

Outside the gates they stood together, and yet far apart.

Then she said in a whisper, 'You did this for
me?'
She would not look at him but clutched the bag against her body as the true implication hit her. 'I would have lost my work here! I – I did not intend –'

He said, 'Don't think about it. It was just something I saw earlier. I did not want –' But she had not heard a word.

'I had offered payment for them but –'

'I know.
But.
Such a powerful word in regulations.'

A grey-painted bus, one of the many used by personnel employed by the Royal Navy, rolled on to the concourse and stood vibrating noisily, waiting for the passengers to hurry along.

'Just be careful in future, eh?' He tried to make light of it, when all he wanted was to take her arm and walk with her somewhere.
Anywhere.
He tried to shut out the picture of her arriving home. Sharing out the spoils for the child. Laughing perhaps at her escape, at the lieutenant's weakness or stupidity.

'This is my bus, Herr Leutnant.'

She turned and faced him, her chin lifting with a kind of defiance. For just those few moments they were quite alone, oblivious to the curious glances from the passing workers and the patrolmen at the gates.

Then she said again, 'You came just to save me from trouble?'

He nodded. 'Yes. No strings.'

'No strings?'
She bit her lip. 'I do not know this phrase.'

She walked to the bus and looked at the sign above its cab. It read
Eutin.

She said, 'It is where we live.'

The bus shook itself into motion and then rumbled out on to the road again.

Eutin. Where
we
live.

Marriott turned and walked thoughtfully back into the dockyard. He touched his cap to the gangway staff and quickened his pace. It was little enough. And it was sheer madness, which could offer nothing but harm. In the same breath he knew there was no turning back.

In the shade of the gateway the Master-at-Arms watched him and gave a great sigh.

He had seen more courts martial than most people had had hot dinners. He hoped he had not just been a party to yet one more.

The sergeant with the Military Police armband opened a door and indicated a bare table with two facing chairs.

'Not much of a place yet, chum, but if you wait here I'll see if I can rustle up some char.'

Petty Officer Robert Evans removed his cap with his usual care and walked restlessly around the spartan office.

So different from the life he had become accustomed to, which he had
made
himself become used to. Outside on a dusty square which had once been a school playground he could hear the regular stamp of boots, the slap of weapons and the hoarse cries of NCOs. The British army. Drilling to maintain their standard or to impress the inhabitants, it did not seem to matter which.

He stopped by a long noticeboard. No children's paintings here but portraits, ranks and numbers. War criminals, Nazi supporters, others merely wanted for interrogation, for a thousand different reasons.

A plain, dreary room, one of the many set up by the Military Government all over occupied Germany. Several of the photographs Evans had already seen in the files and ledgers at Meikle's HQ. Some had been caught in the net, others had been found dead, or been reported missing. It might take years and years.

The door opened but it was not the MP with his 'char'. It was another sergeant in a plain unmarked battledress. A lean, tired-looking man of about Evans's age.

He thrust out his hand and said, 'I'm Thornhill, S.I.B. – well, sort of.' He sat down opposite Evans and looked at him calmly over his pressed fingertips.

'I've read what your CO thinks about you.' He smiled. 'Commander Meikle doesn't strike me as a man who dishes out compliments very often.'

Evans relaxed slightly. He could not get used to thinking of Meikle as his commanding officer. Not after the boat, and Marriott.

The sergeant continued, 'But it's your record which interests me more, otherwise, Meikle or not, you wouldn't be sitting there. My boss thinks you could be extremely useful with our work of vetting prisoners and suspects who come through here. My men are very experienced, but they haven't been in the middle of it like you. You were in the Maquis before you joined up with the navy?' It was a statement.

Evans nodded. 'We had boats. So even when the Germans invaded France and overran the Channel Islands we were able to keep contact with our various
Maquisards.'

'I see.' He looked down at his hands. 'I know about your family, what was done to them at the hands of Major Helmut Maybach of the SS, and what became of your young sister afterwards. In our work it's a common story but no less pitiful because of that.' He looked up, his eyes hard. 'And for
you,
there can be no words.'

The MP came in with two mugs of tea. He smiled at Evans but avoided the S.I.B. man as if he was something dangerous.

Thornhill stirred his tea with a pencil. 'Your experiences speak for themselves. The Maquis, then the Special Boat Squadron and work with agents in enemy territory, always with the additional risk, the
knowledge
of what they would do to you if you were captured.' His glance moved to Evans's left breast. 'Croix de Guerre, the DSM, a bar too. Not a quiet war for
you,
it seems.'

'Major Maybach was reported to be in Lübeck just before the surrender.' It was strange to speak his name, more so to hear another mention it so casually.

Thornhill took out some papers from his battledress blouse and flattened them on the table, cursing softly as some spilled tea soaked through one corner.

'I will lay your hopes – would you describe them as such? To ashes, right away. Major Helmut Maybach is dead,
known
to be dead. So there will be no trial, no penalty to make him pay for the misery he caused.'

Evans swallowed hard. It could not be. All the years and the months. The face always in his mind and waking thoughts. A narrow, pointed face, with a long upper lip and receding chin. An animal who had tortured his victims even when he had believed them innocent of any unlawful act. Women especially; even children had not been spared. He could not just be dead like any ordinary man. It was impossible.

The S.I.B. sergeant continued quietly, 'It happened in Flens-burg or very near to it. His car hit a landmine and was blown to bits. Nobody is quite sure how it happened. Maybe Danish resistance from across the border, or perhaps our own agents who preferred to lie low until hostilities ceased.' He leaned on his elbows and read down the top page. 'Staff Mercedes car, with ordinary
Wehrtnacbt
markings.' He sped through the various items of damage to nearby houses caused by the explosion, then said, 'Major Maybach's corpse was badly burned and mutilated, of course – some of it was on a roof across the road.' He smiled grimly. 'I saw the pics. Not pretty.' He looked up sharply as if to confront Evans's shattered hopes and disappointment.

'So try to put it behind you. The bastard's dead. Maybe for a second or two he felt some of the torment he gave to so many – who knows?'

'But can you be
certain?'

'Quite. He wore a very special watch.'

Evans nodded, remembering. 'I know.'

'His name and serial number were on the back of it. The pieces of his uniform were correct, and some partly burned letters were found in one pocket.'

Somewhere a telephone began ringing insanely and the sergeant explained apologetically, 'I'm sorry I can't tell you more. But it's over as far as we're concerned. Come and see us again and I'll fix you up with a job where you can do some real good here. Right?'

Evans shrugged.
Right.
The way Marriott always said it.

He walked to the door. 'There were no witnesses at all?'

The sergeant shook his head. 'None.' He wanted to end it.

'What about the driver?'

The sergeant listened to the telephone. 'No driver.'

He accompanied him from the bare room. 'Don't take it too hard.'

Surprisingly Evans smiled. 'I will not. And thank you.' He replaced his cap and walked out into the dusty sunlight.

For several minutes he stared unseeingly at the bored-looking soldiers as they went through the intricacies of arms-drill and marching.

It had not been a waste of time after all.

For it was not only Major Maybach's watch he remembered. It was also the known fact that he could not and would not drive.

As the month of July drew to a close, Britain and her forces throughout Germany were informed of the news that Labour had won the general election. It was not just a victory for Clement Attlee's party but something of a landslide, as Lieutenant Commander Arthur Durham had predicted on 801's passage to Swinemünde. Many had been expecting it, but the enormity of the winning vote surprised everyone, not least the new government.