The White Guns (1989) (7 page)

Marriott clambered through the guardrails and jumped down on to the pier. By the time he had climbed up the crumbling slope Meikle had left the jeep and was studying the day's progress. The narrow track had widened, and even part of the buried gateway had revealed itself.

But he said, 'They'll have to work faster than this!' He returned Marriott's salute. 'You've read your orders?'

'Yes, sir.' It must have sounded like
of course.

Meikle snapped, 'There may be problems. You are to find and rendezvous with the ship in question, board her, and if necessary take control. She is said to be carrying German servicemen who have already been listed as
war criminals.'
He saw Marriott's expression and added, 'What – didn't you know there were such creatures?'

'I don't see what difference that will make, sir!' Why did this man always manage to rile him so easily, to make him feel clumsy and foolish?

Meikle said abruptly, 'Intelligence have reported that the Russians already know about this ship. I want no incidents, no confrontations. Whatever we may think about their methods, and not without some justification I can assure you, the Russians are our allies,
right?
The ship is their headache.' They both turned as a squad of tired-looking soldiers crunched along another winding track of cleared rubble with a mixed assortment of Germans following in single file. The latter had their hands on their heads and had been stripped of their weapons and equipment.

A tough-looking sergeant held up his hand and halted the weary procession, then stamped his heels together and saluted.

'Prisoners, sir.' He spoke like a man who was beyond surprise or disappointment. ''Idin' in a pump 'ouse. I'm takin' 'em for interrogation.'

Meikle looked thoughtfully at the 'prisoners'. Most of them were old enough to have served in the Kaiser's war, and their uniforms were ill-fitting and threadbare. The remainder were just boys of around fourteen. One of them was sobbing and holding his cheek.

The sergeant glared at him.' 'Itler Youth, that one, sir. Spat at Roberts, my lance-jack over there, 'e did. Little bastard!'

Meikle said coolly,
'Volksturm,
Sergeant. Their equivalent of the Home Guard. Any weapons?'

'Nah, sir, ditched 'em probably while they waited a chance to sabotage somethin', I shouldn't wonder.'

Marriott watched the soldiers, especially the one called Roberts. He had the feeling that but for the sergeant the lance-corporal might have shot the lot of them.

As if reading his thoughts the sergeant lowered his voice and said, 'Roberts lost all 'is family in the blitz. Not the chap to spit on under the circumstances!'

Surprisingly the soldiers nearby broke into broad grins. But, for men who had been killing the enemy because they were ordered to, and had seen their friends die or be sent home to Blighty as broken things, it was a taut margin. Like the MGBs' guncrews, here, where the Germans had surrendered under a soiled white handkerchief.

Meikle nodded. 'You did right, Sergeant. I shall say as much to your CO. Now take them off to the MPs.' He met the sergeant's gaze.
'All
of them.'

As they shambled away Meikle said, 'Something troubling you again?'

Marriott said, 'I don't think so, sir.' But it was a lie. His own father, desperate to do something for the war effort, had joined the Home Guard. He was probably the same age as the veterans he had just seen. He thought of Evans's comment. Suppose they had lost the war? What chance would men like his father have stood against Tiger tanks and dive-bombers?

Meikle saw Lavender peering at his watch and said dryly, 'With him around I don't need an alarm clock.' The mood changed just as quickly. 'Be off with you. The pilot boat will see you clear.' He sniffed the breeze.
'Sea Harvester
will begin work tomorrow.'

They both looked at the listing wrecks, their sides already in shadow. It required no imagination to picture what the divers would find in the bombed and shattered hulks. But nothing could move until they were cleared.

Meikle stood back and added softly, 'Remember what I said. No confrontations. Things are touchy enough already and the dust hasn't settled yet!' He turned and climbed into his jeep, then without looking back at the gunboat he drove swiftly into the dockyard.

Marriott clambered on board again and strode to the bridge. He was suddenly eager to leave, to find the freedom of open water again, away from all the planning and the endless devastation.

'Start up, Number One!' He felt the bridge shake wildly as Adair brought his beloved engines to life.

Marriott climbed on to the gratings and peered astern. 'Let go aft!' He saw Evans's hands moving the wheel very slightly. Ready for anything. 'Slow astern, starboard! Let go forrard!'

He watched the stern swinging very slightly away from the sagging pier as the breeze thrust the boxlike hull clear. 'Slow astern, port outer!' He saw the backwash from the screws churning the scum and scatterings of charred woodwork against the piles.
A dead place.

He saw the red and green eyes of the pilot boat rocking on the slight swell, then raised his glasses to look for the nearest wrecks. 'Slow ahead together! Take her round, Swain!' He had seen the new ribbon on Evans's jacket and wondered why it had been omitted from the coxswain's personal documents. He would ask him. Maybe.

Fragments of something bumped against the hull and the seamen on the bridge glanced at one another and grimaced.

Soon the tall sentinel-like memorial of Laboe loomed abeam and Marriott felt the deck lift under his feet as if eager to be free, like himself.

'Half ahead. Course to steer, Number One?'

A lamp stabbed across the unbroken water from the pilot boat and Long John Silver triggered his Aldis in reply.

Aloud he said, 'An' good luck to you, mate!'

Fairfax called, 'Steer North-fifty-East, sir!'

Marriott glanced at the sky and smiled.
Sharp as a tack.
He had learned a lot, and quickly. He touched the screen bathed in bright green by the starboard light. The first time he had seen it switched on since he had taken command. It was a wonder it worked.

Marriott said, 'Take the con, Number One, and call me if–'

Fairfax's teeth gleamed in the fading light. 'I know, sir.
If...
'

Marriott went below to his cabin and heard Ginger Jackson humming contentedly as he unpacked some of the new supplies.

It was funny that in war the simple things were all that counted.

In his tiny cabin Marriott changed into his seagoing clothing and scarred old boots. He could feel Meikle's disapproval even from here. He switched on the little reading lamp and opened his curtly worded orders.

A rendezvous with a strange vessel. Just the thing for Lowes's next letter to his mother.

Then he frowned and opened his personal chart, his eyes lingering on the lines and bearings of the Russian sectors. The carve-up, as Cuff had called it. It was odd that Meikle had not mentioned the meeting with the N.O.I.C. Perhaps Cuff would be transferred to another command? He heard Fairfax moving on the bridge overhead, the clatter of tin mugs as tea was passed around to the watchkeepers.

It was all they knew. The amateurs who had become the professionals. The veterans. The survivors.

He thought of how 801 would appear from the land as she slipped across the bay, a low shadow apart from her navigation lights. What did they really think – the
enemy)

He lay down on his bunk and closed his eyes. The engine's regular beat, the sluice of the sea against the long mahogany hull, were like parts of his own being.

He stared up at the deckhead and then closed his eyes.

The very next instant, or so it seemed, he was sitting bolt upright, his whole body screaming in protest.

He snatched the handset and said,
'Yes?'
He could feel his chest heaving, wet with sweat, the handset slipping in his fingers.

Fairfax's voice sounded miles away. 'Sorry, sir.' The usual hesitation. 'Are you all right, sir?'

Marriott made himself unwind, piece by piece. So it had not gone away. The shrill of the telephone still brought the memories. The fear.

'Yes.' He peered at his watch. It was unbelievable. He had slept for four hours.

He heard himself ask, 'It's not time to alter course, is it?' He shook himself. What was the matter with him?

'No, sir. The Chief is worried about one of his pumps. Wants to slow down. Better still, to stop altogether. He says he can clear it in no time.'

Marriott nodded although Fairfax could not see him. He felt his breathing, like his heartbeat, returning to normal. The intakes had probably sucked up some extra filth from the harbour. Better now than later. He made up his mind.

'Is it all clear?'

'Yes. No shipping. Sea's pretty calm.'

'Right. I'll come up.' He replaced the handset. 'Getting past it.' He spoke aloud without realising it. Then he swung his legs to the deck and rubbed his eyes.

He was the captain again.

With her engines stopped, MGB 801 drifted broadside-on to the sea. The motion was sickening so that even Marriott felt his stomach heave in the familiar, musty confines of the chartroom. He jammed his elbows on the chart table and studied the pencilled lines and bearings, the neatly worded notes beside the small light. Lowes as the third-hand looked after the charts and attended to the log. It earned him the honoured nickname of Pilot, but in fact his work was little more than a navigator's yeoman in any larger vessel. He heard Fairfax breathing at his elbow, his eyes doubtless watching every move as he checked their approximate position, the brass dividers glinting in the small glow.

Marriott said eventually, 'I estimate that we're about here. Some ten miles north of Rostock. We could get a good fix if it was daylight, good
enough
anyway.' He swore silently as something metallic crashed down in the engineroom. 'God, he's taking his bloody time!' He peered at his watch, knowing he was getting rattled, worse, that Fairfax would know it.

Fairfax asked, 'Will it make much difference, sir?'

It sounded as if he was blaming himself.
Just as Meikle accused me of doing.

He replied, 'As soon as we can get under way again I shall call for revs for twenty knots. I know all the warnings about fuel consumption, but I want to sight Bornholm by dawn. The ship should be easy enough to find. According to Operations she can only make seven knots.'

Fairfax watched him, seeing the emotions, the doubts crossing his face.

'What will we do, sir?'

Marriott sighed. 'We have to turn them back. Germans they may be, but they're from the Russian sector.'

Fairfax said, 'Trying to get away. Sweden perhaps?'

'Doubt that. After being so pally with the Nazis during the war I don't expect the Swedes will want to antagonise Uncle Joe more than they have already.' He touched his forehead. It was damp and cold. A sure sign. It was all he needed, to throw up in front of the others. They climbed up to the open bridge and Marriott stared at the mass of tiny stars which seemed to pitch from side to side in the motion.

He said, 'Ask the Chief –' He added, 'No, don't. He'll be doing all he can.' He took several deep breaths. How clean it tasted after Kiel. That was better. He groped for his pipe then stiffened as Silver called,
'Engines,
sir! Fast-movin'!'

Marriott grasped the rail and turned his head this way and that. He could feel the hair rising on his neck. Would it never go away? All those times in the North Sea and Channel when they had drifted, engines stopped like now, waiting and listening. Even when you expected it, there was always a sense of shock. The
thrum-thrum-thrum
of the E-Boat's powerful Daimler Benz engines. Usually returning after a successful attack on coastal shipping, or on their way to seek out fresh targets. To hear them first was to hold the winning hand. Your own engines cut out every sound.

Like the time this boat had been raked by a German fighter on their way back to base. Too many aboard thinking of getting home in one piece. Or getting back at all, and perhaps a lookout peering for a first sight of England instead of watching astern. It had cost the boat two lives.

'Got it!' He gestured over the swaying glass screen. 'South-East of us, I'd say.'

He swung away, his mind empty of everything but the facts. Like those other times.
Observation
–
Conclusion
–
Method
–
Attack!
Except that this time there would be no battle. He felt his mouth harden in a tight grin. Or no confrontation, as Meikle would have it.

He said sharply, 'Darken ship!' He hesitated, his thumb on the invisible red button. Too jumpy? Over-reacting?
To hell with what they think.
He jabbed it down hard and heard the alarm bells yammering through the hull.

Silver chuckled. 'That'll stir the idle buggers!'

Fairfax lifted his face from a voicepipe. 'Chief, sir! Ready to proceed!' He added in a surprised tone, 'Didn't mention the alarm, sir!'

Marriott moved to the front of the bridge and heard the thud of feet on ladders.

But for Adair's concern for his charges they might not have stopped, and the unknown vessel would have remained a mystery.

He snapped,
'Start up!'

Sub-Lieutenant John Lowes sat wedged into a wardroom bench seat, unable even to think of sleep in the awful, swooping motion. He had even heard some of the old hands spewing up in the heads. One smell of that and he was done for.

In the navy,
the Andrew,
another titbit of slang, there was no sympathy for the ones who suffered from seasickness. At best, the old sweats remarked that even Nelson had been seasick but it never stopped
him
from winning battles! The less charitable enjoyed describing possible 'cures'. Like swallowing a lump of pork fat tied to a piece of string and pulling it straight up again.

Lowes watched as Ginger Jackson wandered into the tiny wardroom, his eyes everywhere as he searched for nooks and crannies where he could store his fresh supplies. Cans of corned beef and those awful square-shaped sausages. Drums of powdered egg and soup. Tinned herrings in tomato sauce, the sailors' favourite.

Lowes groaned and swallowed violently. He must stop thinking about it. Ginger paused and regarded him cheerfully. He was never seasick. But he liked Lowes. He reminded him a bit of his kid brother. Apart from his posh accent, of course. Ginger came from Kentish Town and had had to fight his brother's battles many times. Trouble was, he looked a bit effeminate. Rather like the subbie. His brother was a sickberth attendant in the battleship
Rodney
now. He grinned. They'd be fighting
for
him!

'Soon be movin' again, sir.' Ginger leaned against the door and sighed. 'Then back to Kiel, the poor man's Brighton!'

Lowes grimaced. 'I want to get ashore and see things.' He flushed. 'You know, get some souvenirs before they all get picked over.'

Ginger regarded him thoughtfully. As messman he was the only man in the boat who had stepped into the dockyard, apart from the Skipper, that was. Funny when you thought about it. But Jimmy the One had sent him to find the supply truck which was delivering stores for the naval vessels in the harbour. He had met a jolly little corporal, one of the army cooks there. He had learned quite a lot from him. They would do some business together if he was not mistaken.

Ginger groped into his overalls and pulled out a folded handkerchief. He laid it on the table and opened it, but kept his eyes on the young officer. He was taking a chance. But Lowes was like his brother in another way. A bit thick.

Lowes peered unblinking at the little glittering collection of medals. At least two Iron Crosses and some others with different coloured ribbons. A watch too, marked in precise seconds, the sort a German gunnery officer might use.

He gasped, 'H-How much did you have to pay for these?' His seasickness had gone completely.

Ginger did not reply directly. 'You don't smoke, do you, Mister Lowes? So what d'you do with yer ticklers, yer dutyfrees?'

Lowes stared at him, his eyes blank with surprise. 'I save them for my mother. They're hard to get at home.'

' 'Arder still
'ere,
sir, in fact bloody impossible. The Jerries 'ave no fags nor tobacco, coffee neither, it's their
currency
now. Money's useless.' He decided not to mention all the other things which could be obtained on the new black market. It was a lucky thing he had found the little army cook.

'But – but –' Lowes was further confused. 'I thought it was against the law? No fraternisation, that sort of thing?'

Ginger folded the handkerchief. 'Well, of course, sir, if you're not interested –'

Lowes licked his lips. When he went home he would go and see Monica. What would
she
think when he produced an Iron Cross ?
Back from the war.
The words seemed to shine like the title of a big film.

He said hesitatingly, 'Well, we
are
the ones who are taking all the risks.'

Ginger nodded gravely. ' 'Course we are, sir. Fair rations for all, I says.'

Lowes was hooked. Ginger had not made a mistake. As an officer, no matter how junior, he had access to other useful stores.

Ginger stared around the wardroom.
They don't give a toss for us now that we've won the bloody war for them. It'll be good old jack, then off to have a bash at the Nips next.

He added, 'Just between us, o' course, Mister Lowes.'

But Lowes was miles away. With his friends in the fashionable hotel which was for
officers only.
An Iron Cross. For a start anyway. When the alarm bells shrilled through the boat Lowes was unable to move. It was like seeing a mirror shiver to fragments even as you were looking at it.

Ginger grabbed his arm and shouted, 'Jump about, sir! They ain't bleedin' weddin' bells!'

The coxswain strode past, his face like stone as he brushed some crumbs from his jacket. So he had been unable to sleep too? But then he never seemed to.

Lowes snatched up his cap and ran for the ladder even as hatches slammed shut and lights vanished as if they had been switched off by a single hand.

The engines suddenly roared into full throttle and caught the breathless Lowes off balance. But for Silver's quick hand he would have pitched headlong into the bridge.

Marriott said from the darkness, 'Sorry to get you out of your pit, Sub, but it was the quickest way to do it.'

Lowes stared round at the dim, crouching figures. The wind was whipping at the halliards as the speed mounted, and he could see the bow-wave spreading back from the stem as it lifted from the sea and made a pale arrowhead on the black water.

As always he was the last at his action station even though he had been up and dressed. How did they do it, he wondered?

He heard one of the machine gunners wrestling with his gleaming belts of ammunition but whispering a filthy joke to his mate at the same time. Lowes did not know how to react. There was no fresh outbreak of war, after all. He looked at the others. The Skipper standing beside the coxswain, hatless, his hair blowing in the wind across the screen. Fairfax must be down at the chart table, while Long John Silver was calmly untangling some of his signal halliards.

No war. But they were still needed. His heart swelled. And he was part of it. One of them.
Accepted.

He began to dream while he clung to a rail as the hull slammed across the water, throwing up the spray like huge wings.

All he had to do was to explain to his mother why there would be fewer duty-free cigarettes from now on .. .

'Dawn'll be up any moment, sir.'

Marriott did not answer, his ear pitched to the steady beat of engines, slowed now as they approached their estimated position on the chart. They had stopped engines several times to listen, but had heard nothing but sea noises, as if they were alone in the Baltic. An intruder.

He wiped his powerful night-glasses with a twist of tissue and tested them on the horizon, where dawn would first show itself. The air was cold and he felt chilled to the bone. Or was it just his edginess?

'Select three extra lookouts, Number One, and issue them with binoculars. Take them from aft.' He thought briefly of Cuff's angry face. 'We'll not be needing depth charges, I think.'

He waited for Fairfax to pass his orders then said, 'She's an old ship we're looking for, a coaster, about two and a half thousand tons.' He pictured the sparsely worded orders which Meikle had given to him, with Operations' additional intelligence clipped to them. He added, 'She's named
Ronsis,
although she's not listed on my brief. Latvian, until the Germans marched in and took over. They've been using her for local supplies.' Why was he telling Fairfax all this? He took a quick glance at him as he trained his glasses abeam and adjusted the focus.
Is it that I don't want him to go, and if so, why not? Perhaps because I think he can't handle it.