Brave Company (10 page)

Three days later, they were on their way back to Japan to refuel and re-provision. ‘Probably more equipment for our artillery boys,' O'Brien grunted when they heard. ‘Wonder if it's any warmer on land than out here?'

The temperature had dropped even further overnight. When Russell came up on deck next morning, icicles hung from the barrel of the four-inch gun. Kingi and Noel started punching each other. ‘Helps get – the blood moving,' puffed Kingi. ‘Come over here, Russ, and I'll give you an uppercut.'

Russell didn't move. He was too busy staring at the funnel. A row of holes slanted across its grey surface. That machine-gun last night, he realised. Then Noel pointed to a nearby winch, and Russell saw the gouges
on its steel sides. That must have been where the bullet ricocheted.

A work crew spent the day welding metal patches onto the funnel and repainting it. Russell would have liked to be with them, but he was on rubbish detail, carrying buckets of kitchen scraps to the stern and tossing them into the water, where gulls shrieked and fought.

Kure was even more crammed with ships than it had been nearly three weeks before. As
Taupo
steamed slowly in, tankers, cargo ships, dredges lay two or even three abreast at almost every wharf on both sides of the harbour. The warships were moored further along: destroyers, frigates, cruisers, gunboats. Cranes swung, welding torches flashed, pneumatic drills snarled. Men toiled up gangways or scurried like busy beetles on the wharves, loading and unloading lines of trucks.
Taupo
's off-duty watches lined the deck, standing at ease as the klaxons of other ships saluted the frigate with deep brays. Again, Russell saw flags from nation after nation: the US, the UK, South Korea, the five white stars of Australia. A red and dark-blue one with a white sideways triangle – the Philippines, he remembered. He wished the holes in
Taupo
's funnel were still there, so people would know they'd seen action.

Tug boats eased them into a berth between a US frigate and a South Korean corvette, its rear deck
packed with squat batteries of rocket tubes. On the wharf beside them, a squad of South Korean soldiers waited, ugly sub-machine guns slung from their shoulders. Russell watched them, puzzled, for a couple of seconds, then realised.

The four North Korean prisoners were brought up on deck. They wore a mixture of their own rumpled, oil-stained clothes and New Zealand Navy gear: jerseys, woollen hats, a pair of trousers much too long and wide. Three seamen were with them, holding rifles, but the enemy didn't look as if they planned any trouble. They huddled together, shivering in the freezing wind.

One of
Taupo
's crew passed them something: cigarettes or chocolate. The North Koreans stared, then bowed and took them. One of them looked no more than sixteen or seventeen; he must have been the boy weeping when he was dragged aboard. As he gazed around, he saw the soldiers waiting on the wharf below and looked frightened.

The frigate's guards escorted the captured enemy down the gangway to where the helmeted soldiers hustled them into the back of a lorry, pushing at the last of them, shouting when he stumbled. Russell remembered stories of how both sides beat, starved, ill-treated their prisoners. He wondered what would happen to the young soldier now.

They had less than two days in Kure this time. O'Brien was right: as well as supplies for themselves, they loaded more equipment for the New Zealand artillery regiment. Wonder if I'll be picked for the supply party this time? Russell thought. No, can't expect it twice in a row.

For most of their time in port, they did the sorts of things that made Russell wonder why he'd ever joined the navy. They scrubbed decks and scraped paint. They tidied bunkrooms and scraped paint. They polished brass and scraped paint.

On the first night, Russell wrote to his mum again. He told her how cold it was, and how he was all right, and how he hoped the garden was okay. (The garden Uncle Trevor had planted for them, though he didn't say that.) He didn't tell her about sinking the patrol boat, though, or any of the fighting bits. That could wait. So could writing to Graham. He'd expected to enjoy telling his friend how he was doing his bit against the commies, but now he wasn't so sure.

On the second morning, Russell, Noel and Kingi were given four hours' shore leave. Noel and Kingi set off on a rickshaw ride to see the sights (‘and to spend all our money. Coming, Russ?').

No, he wasn't. He was going to buy some more
presents to send to his mother. He found his way past the rows of stalls and the voices calling to him. ‘Very cheap! Look here, Captain! Lovely good things!'

He found the skinny alley, and then the shop where he'd got the wooden water buffalo that was now probably halfway to New Zealand. The same woman was there. She bowed to Russell as he entered.

At the same moment, the girl with the scarred face came through from the back. She glanced at Russell, and said something to her mother. ‘Ah,' the woman said. ‘You return back?' She bowed again, and so did the girl.

Before he knew it, Russell bowed also. As he did, his white cap with its flat top and
HMNZS TAUPO
headband fell off and went rolling under a table. The girl burst out laughing, clapping a hand to her mouth. Russell realised she was pretty under the scar tissue.

He bought a little bamboo fan with blossoms painted on it and a handkerchief stitched with bright birds and flowers. The girl had vanished into the back of the shop. Russell kept looking in that direction, but she didn't return. The woman wrapped his presents and bowed again as she handed them over. This time, he kept one hand on his cap as he bowed in response.

Then the girl's mother took his hand between both of hers, and held it for a moment. ‘Brave boy,' she said.
‘Brave boy.' Russell saw there were tears in her eyes. He didn't know where to look.

When he came up on deck that afternoon as
Taupo
sailed out of Kure Harbour, the cold was so fierce that the first breath he took seemed to leave ice in his lungs. The sky was a low, dull grey, and a bitter wind sneaked around every corner.

A tug boat eased them away from the wharf. They steamed slowly out, past the cram of machinery, ships, launches fizzing back and forth across the water. Once again klaxons blared and
Taupo
replied. I've seen so much since we were here last time, Russell thought.

Just outside the harbour, a British corvette lay at anchor. The New Zealand frigate moved towards it, signal lamps blinking, and dropped its own anchors eighty yards or so away. Over the next twenty minutes, a French destroyer came sliding out to join them, then a US frigate. ‘Maybe we're all going for a holiday cruise,' Kingi suggested.

Then the cargo ships began to appear. Two … three … five … ten of them, steaming out one after another, till the water was thick with funnels and masts. ‘A convoy,' grunted O'Brien. ‘We'll be making sure they get to Korea safe and sound.'

For an hour, there was signalling and klaxon-sounding and confusion, as ships took up positions, found they were wrong, and sailed in front of other vessels which had to change course suddenly while loudly blaring their annoyance. But, finally, the ships in the convoy were all pointing in the same direction. More klaxon-blaring, more signal-lamp-flashing, and slowly they were underway.

Compared to
Taupo
's usual speed, they seemed to crawl across the chill sea. It didn't matter. Neither the Chinese nor the North Koreans seemed to have sent any submarines into the war, though mines had been dropped outside some of the harbours used by the UN forces.

Before going below for dinner, Russell leaned on the rail and watched the ships ploughing along, bows punching into the waves, smoke billowing astern. Ahead and behind, the destroyer and the corvette swept back and forth across the sea, listening and looking for anything that shouldn't be there.

When Blue Watch came on duty again in the morning, the convoy was sailing in a different direction. Russell had felt
Taupo
alter course several times in the night, zigzagging along with the others to confuse any enemy
ships or planes that might be looking for them.

The sky was still grey; the wind was still bitter. He took up his position as stern lookout – it seemed a long time since he'd been in the crow's-nest, and in this weather he wasn't in any hurry to be up there – trying to stay in the warm shelter of the ventilator shaft and scan the empty sea out to his left through binoculars, occasionally sneaking a look at the solid cargo ships waddling along on the other side. They must be well out to sea now. No sign of birds. No sign of anything.

After an hour, he was cold and bored. No amount of foot-stamping and arm-thumping seemed to get him warm.
Taupo
's signal lamp flashed and clattered a couple of times when one of the cargo ships seemed to be wandering out of position, but otherwise there was nothing; no change to starboard where the convoy steamed on and no change to port where the sea swelled heavy and unbroken. He stamped his feet, hunched his shoulders, thought of his warm bunk.

For'ard, on the bridge, he heard the frigate's signal lamp start clacking again, glimpsed its glare in the dull light as it pointed behind them. The corvette astern of the convoy was signalling also. Then, in the space of a few seconds, he forgot all about the cold.

Bells clamoured. ‘Action Stations!' blared the intercom. ‘Action Stations!' Russell glimpsed White Watch rushing up onto the deck, scattering to the four-inch, Bofors and anti-aircraft guns. He stared upwards; at the sea around. Nothing there except for the convoy. What was—

The corvette behind them had swung around and was speeding towards the left rear flank of the convoy. Her bow sliced through the water, foam sweeping back on either side. Ahead of her, a Spanish tanker and a Colombian cargo ship trudged on.

Through his binoculars, Russell saw men on the corvette, bending over squat metal shapes. He drew in a breath as black, drum-like objects splashed into the
sea behind the little warship. Depth charges.

More drums arced through the air, dropping into the water on either side. The warship wheeled, charging around onto a new course, away from where the shapes had landed and sunk.

Russell realised he was counting under his breath. Five … six … seven … eight.

The surface of the sea flattened. An area of green water half the size of a rugby field lifted up for a second, then dropped back. Columns of green-white foam hurtled upwards as the explosions reached the surface. Six of them, shooting skywards, then collapsing back on themselves. From three hundred yards away, he heard the
whooompf
of bursting water and felt
Taupo
shudder.

He trained binoculars on where the sea still boiled and churned. Would he see wreckage? Would an enemy submarine appear, hull cracked open by the blast from the depth charges? He stared till he felt his eyes bulge. Nothing.

The corvette came rushing back towards the patch of churning sea. More deadly drums rolled from the stern or flew through the air.

Russell found himself counting, like before. ‘… seven … eight.'

The sea flattened, the columns of water flew upwards, then fell back. The New Zealand frigate's
hull quivered a second time. Still nothing. And now the corvette was slowing, turning back to its normal position, signal lamp flashing.

A false alarm. The underwater detection gear could pick up echoes from all sorts of things, Russell knew. Submerged wreckage, a school of fish, even underwater currents. And anyway, the commies didn't have submarines patrolling – as far as anyone knew. He felt his heart-beat slowing to normal. A thin dark line now lay far ahead, just visible. The coast of Korea.

He was cold again. In the excitement of the past few minutes, he'd forgotten all about his freezing limbs. He beat his duffle-coated arms against his body, stamped feet and blew onto gloved hands, pulled his woollen hat down over his ears. On
Taupo
the gun crews were standing down. The convoy sailed on.

Half an hour passed. The end of his time on lookout was getting closer. He hoped there'd be hot cocoa. He swept the sea with his binoculars. Just the waves and the convoy.

And something in the water, a hundred yards or so away. Russell jerked the binoculars back, trying to find it again. He had to be sure; mustn't make a fool of himself. Where was it? Then he saw it through the lenses once more. His voice rang along the deck. ‘Mine! Bearing 290 degrees. 100 yards. Mine!'

A shout came back immediately from the bridge.
Taupo
swung away, deck tilting. More orders rang out. ‘Bofors crew! Rifle detail – port side!' Once more, men came charging up ladders and across the deck.

Russell lifted his binoculars again. He gasped. Another mine. And another, the three of them bobbing in the choppy waves, dark spheres half as high as man. Now he could make out the spikes on them. Spikes that, if they hit anything, would recoil inwards, breaking a cylinder of acid into the chemicals packed inside, bringing an explosion that would rip through a ship's hull.

The Kiwi frigate was wheeling around again, signalling to the other convoy escorts now steering parallel to her previous course but further away from the deadly spheres. The Bofors gun swung around, too. Sailors with rifles lined the rails. Russell saw Petty Officer Ralston and Noel amongst them, rifles raised.

‘Lookouts! Report any more sightings immediately!' Captain Moore's voice. Then, ‘Fire!'

Straight away, rifles began to crack. A second later came the
blam-blam-blam!
of the Bofors.

The hair stood up on Russell's neck as he watched. Shells from the Bofors punched spouts of water into the air, a few yards to one side of the nearest mine. Smaller splashes showed where the rifles were firing.
Crack! Crack! Blam-blam-blam!

BOOOM!

The mine exploded, disappearing in a tumult of foam and white smoke. Cheers from the rest of the crew, who stood watching. Rifles and Bofors turned to the remaining mines. Both had drifted closer to the frigate.

Crack! Crack! Whannng!

The howl of a ricochet as a bullet glanced off the metal surface.

Blam-blam!

BOOOM!

The second mine went up as well. More cheering.

Where was—? Russell swallowed as he saw the last mine had drifted to within fifty yards of
Taupo
. Any closer, and they'd have to be careful. The Bridge must have seen the same. Captain Moore shouted, ‘Cease fi—'

Crack!

A rifle shot. Russell saw Noel's rifle jerk. Saw a puff of smoke from the weapon.

BOOOM!

The explosion rang in Russell's ears. Fragments of metal flashed and whined overhead. People ducked.

Captain Moore came stamping out and glared down at where a red-faced Noel was slowly lowering his rifle. ‘Good God, sailor! Are you on our side or the enemy's?' Then, as he turned away, he called back over his shoulder. ‘Good shot.'

Next morning, they steamed into the same ruined port they'd left ten days ago. There were the smashed wharves, the shelled town, the temple and wooded hills behind. Parties of Korean workers in their baggy white clothes were clearing away twisted metal, laying timbers to start a new wharf. Most of them wore jackets or jumpers against the bitter cold. Russell suddenly thought of the boy who'd stolen his blanket.

He knew he wouldn't be chosen to go with the supply party a second time. So of course he was. He heard his bottom jaw go
clunk!
when his name was read out. He blinked when he realised that O'Brien was also in the group again. So was Noel.

‘You notice how they keep sending the cream of the ship?' O'Brien told Kingi.

Kingi laughed. ‘You notice how cream often goes off?'

Petty Officer Ralston, also with them once more, glared as they climbed into the cutter. Russell was stuffing some chocolate into his pocket. ‘Nobody fall off anything this time, eh?' the bearded PO announced. He turned his gaze on Russell. ‘And nobody lose anything, eh, Boy Seaman?'

The Koreans who hurried to carry their gear and supplies to the waiting truck didn't include any faces
from last time, as far as Russell could tell. The driver was a different guy, too: younger and with a few words of English. ‘Hi hello! I am very smooth driver.' By the time they'd driven fifty yards, they'd already crashed over three potholes and almost hit a pile of bricks. ‘Good God!' someone muttered, as they all clung to the wooden seats. ‘Why can't we have a rough driver instead?'

Up they wound, past the farmland and cottages. A few figures were bent over in some fields, digging or hoeing. Other Korean civilians trudged along beside the road. Many carried loads on bamboo poles across their shoulders.

A couple of
Taupo
's party carried rifles, and kept them close by as they jolted along. ‘Wouldn't trust any of them,' one seaman said. ‘You hear about them coming into our blokes' positions claiming they're refugees, then whipping out guns and attacking. You can't tell whose side they're on.'

‘Their own side, most likely.' It was O'Brien speaking. ‘Reckon you'd love any country who came in and started fighting on our land?'

‘Ah, you don't know what you're talking about!' sneered the first man. The others were silent.

The truck spluttered, jerked, stopped. The driver got out, lifted the bonnet and did something to the engine. They bumped off again. It seemed to take less time
than before to reach the trenches, the shattered trees and broken stone walls that Russell remembered from their last trip. They hadn't passed any tanks today. A few lorries had gone bouncing by, heading back towards the harbour. A group of American soldiers leaned against a broken-down jeep, smoking and laughing, but fewer troops were on the move than before.

The
16 FIELD REGIMENT
sign appeared before he expected it. There were the gun pits with barrels pointing to the north. Camouflage nets on poles, strewn with branches, were now spread above them. Korean civilians bustled around, like they had before, carrying wood, lifting big pots onto big stoves. A little girl – the one he'd given his handkerchief to last time? He couldn't be sure, but it looked like her – stood watching them. She was wearing a rough coat made from some dark woollen material that reached almost down to her feet. Yes, it was the same kid, all right.

The artillery sergeant in his black beret was waiting for them. He shook hands with PO Ralston, and greeted the rest of the supply party as they clambered from the back of the lorry, stretching stiff legs and backs.

‘Morning, lads. Glad to see you again. Major Davies is up at the front lines on a recce. He said the navy can't exist without a cup of tea, and told us to have a brew ready for you.'

Grins and nods from
Taupo
's men. The sergeant – Sergeant Barnett, Russell remembered – looked at the boy seaman and shook his head. ‘You're the spitting image of somebody, all right, lad. I'll tell you when I get my memory back.'

Russell had stopped listening. He stood staring past the sergeant at where three Koreans were stacking firewood beside one of the stoves. They straightened, chattering among themselves as they began heading off for another load. Two men in their thirties or forties and a younger man.

Not a younger man. A boy. The boy who'd stolen Russell's blanket.