iron pirate (6 page)

Theil had asked desperately, 'What should I do? There must be some mistake, surely? The authorities would never permit -'

The doctor had fastened his bag and had said crisply, 'Keep it to yourself, Viktor. These are difficult times. Perhaps it is best not to know all the truth.' He had fixed him with a grim stare. 'You are a sailor. Be glad. At sea you
know
your enemies.' He had gone, leaving Theil with his despair.

As time wore on Britta withdrew more and more into herself. The local people tried to be friendly but she avoided them for the most part. She had been a pretty girl when he had married her; now she seemed to let herself go. Theil always regretted that they had no children, preferably boys to grow up in his footsteps and serve Germany. Once it had distressed her that she could not give him a child. The last time it had been mentioned Theil had found himself almost wanting to strike her.

'A
babyl
What would you give it? A black uniform and a rubber truncheon to play with!'

Theil walked the last part of the journey from the railway station. It had always been a pleasant little town but he noticed that the queues of people outside the provision shops seemed longer, and the patient women looked tired and shabby.

And yet the town had escaped the war apart from a few stray bombs from homebound aircraft. The sky was empty of cloud as it was of the tell-tale vapour trails of marauding aircraft. It was almost like peacetime.

Theil was too deep in thought to glance at the bulletin boards outside the little church, and the people who were studying the latest casualty lists which like the queues were longer than before.

He thought of the case which he shifted from one hand to the other to return the salutes of some soldiers from a local flak battery. It was heavy and contained among other things, cheese and butter, Danish bacon and eggs which might bring a smile to her lips. She had enough to worry about without the damned shortages.

He had written to her several times since that last, unnerving leave. She had only replied once, a loose, rambling letter which had told him very little. Britta was never a great writer of letters. Their leaves spent together had always made up for that. He quickened his pace. This time it would be all right again. Just like all those other times. It
must
be.

Whatever his personal worries might be, Theil was a professional to his fingertips. He had noted all the recent happenings, not least the arrival of the rear-admiral, an officer whose face and reputation were rarely absent from the newspapers.

It might be his chance. The
Prinz Luitpold
was obviously earmarked for something important. That meant dangerous, but you took that for granted.

Perhaps he had been hard on Britta, or had written something in a letter which had upset her without intending it.

She had to understand, and be seen to be with him, no matter what. It was bad about her parents, but then he had never really got to know them. They should have considered her before they became involved with some political or subversive activity.

It was so unfair that because of it, his future might be endangered and her health also.

He thought of the ship lying up there in Danish waters. He knew the
Prinz
better than any of them. They would all need him when they were really up against it.

He turned on to the quiet road which led to his house; it was the last one in a line of five. Nothing was changed, and the flowers and shrubs in every garden made a beautiful picture after grey steel and the Gulf of Riga.

They would have three, maybe four days together. Then he would go back to the ship. As second-in-command he must be on time even at the expense of losing a day or so. But the leave would be just right. Like a reminder and a memory. A hope too for the future.

He thought he saw a woman in the neighbour's house, bending perhaps to pick up some flowers. When he looked again she had gone. He was glad. He did not want to loiter and discuss the war, rationing, and all the other complaints.

Theil reached the gates to his own garden and shifted his grasp on the heavy case. He squared his shoulders and wondered if anyone was watching. 'He's back.' He could almost see himself in his best uniform with the decorations and the eagle across his right breast.

He looked at the garden and hesitated. It was not like Britta to allow it to become so neglected. It was dry, and dead flowers drooped over the neat driveway, running to seed. It was unheard of. He held back a sudden irritation and strode to the main door. He fumbled with his key, expecting at any moment for the door to open and for her to stand there staring up at him. Her flaxen hair might be untidy but he would see it as before. Her dress would be for doing jobs about the house, but to him it would be like the silk one he had once brought her from France.

The house was so quiet that he stood stock-still within feet of the open door. Without looking further he knew it was empty. The sunlight which streamed through the back windows was dusty, and there were dead flowers in a vase near the framed picutre taken on their wedding day. He paused by it, off-balance, uncertain what to do. He stared at the photo, her arm through his, the faces in the background. That one was Willi, who was lost in the Atlantic two years back.

Theil put down his case and flexed his fingers. What did he feel? Angry, cheated, worried? All and none of them.

Perhaps she had gone away? He stared at the dead flowers. Where? He turned away, a sick feeling running through him. She had left him.

He walked about the house, opening doors, shutting them again, then went upstairs and looked out at the neighbours' house. So quiet and deathly still.

He opened a wardrobe and touched her clothes, remembering her looking up at him as he had undressed her.

What was she thinking of? He tried to contain it, as he would aboard ship when some stupid seaman had made a mistake. Did she think it could do anything but harm to behave like this? He touched a curtain which was pulled aside. Untidy. Again, out of character, or was it deliberate?

Theil went slowly downstairs and then saw some letters neatly piled on a hall-table where she kept her gloves.

He recognised the official stamps, his own writing. Unopened. She had not even read them.

He looked fixedly at his case by the front door. Abandoned, as if someone else had just arrived, or was about to leave.

What the hell had she done? There was no point in calling the police or the hospital. He would have been told long ago. An army truck rolled past, some soldiers singing and swaying about on the rutted road. How sad their song sounded.

He thrust the letters into his pocket and after a momentary hesitation picked up the heavy case once more.

He would ask the neighbours; they were decent people and had always liked Britta.

But he hesitated in the doorway and looked back at the silence. He thought of the future, the ship lying there waiting for him, for all of them, and was both apprehensive and bitter.

He
needed
her, just as she had once needed him, and she was gone.

Theil slammed the door and locked it and walked down the drive and then round to the next house.

Once he glanced over at his own home and pictured her in a window, laughing and w'aving. It had all been a joke, and now she wanted him.

The doorbell echoed into the far distance and he waited, knowing somehow that nobody would answer. But as he walked down to the road again he felt someone was watching him.

What should he do? He thought of his friend the doctor and walked all the way to his house, ignoring the weight of his case, his mind snapping at explanations like an angry dog.

The doctor was pleased to see him, although he had to leave for an urgent visit almost immediately.

He listened to Theil's story impassively and then said, 'I think you must face up to it, Viktor. She has left you.' He raised one hand as Theil made to protest. 'She will be in touch, be certain of that, but she has to sort things out in her own way, d'you see? Women are like that. All these years, and they still surprise me!'

Theil made to leave. Britta had some other relatives somewhere. He would check through his address book. He looked at the heavy case. 'You take it, Doctor. For old time's sake, eh?'

The doctor opened it and gazed at the array of food.

Thank you, Viktor. Some of my patients -'

Theil nodded and tried to grin. 'Of course.'

Outside, the shadows of evening were already making purple patterns on the road. Theil did not look towards his house. If he went back now he knew' he would go crazy.

She had left him, had not given him a chance to make things right. He compensated by telling himself that she had no warning of his coming.

But all this time? Another man? He hastened towards the main road and did not even see two saluting soldiers as they went past. Never, not Britta. No matter what. Then back to Denmark? He looked at his watch. What should he do?

He felt his fingers touch the black cross on his jacket; like his other decorations it had always given him pride and confidence. For a few moments longer he stared unseeingly around him, hurt and then angry when he thought of what might have been,
could
have been. Because of Britta's anguish over her parents his own advancement and career had been scarred for all time. He had lost the
Prinz
because of it, because of her.

When she did come back, pleading for understanding, what would he do?

Theil turned towards the railway station. There was nowhere else he wanted to go now.

To some members of
Prinz Luitpold's
ship's company the seven days' leave were as varied as the men themselves. To many of the lucky ones it was a lifeline, something precious and yet unreal against the harsh background of war. For others it might have been better if they had stayed with the ship, men who eventually returned from leave with the feeling they had lost everything.

Amongst those who remained aboard there was one who, after a quick visit to a dockside telephone, made the most of each day and night in Vejle.

Korvettenkapitan Josef Gudegast, the cruiser's navigating officer, not only knew the ways of the sea and the landmarks which he had used in peace and wartime, he also hoarded a comfortable knowledge of harbours and what they could offer. When he had earned his living in timber ships he had often visited Danish ports, and Vejle was one of his favourite places for a run ashore.

On the last day but one of his leave he sat in a big chair, his reddened face tight with concentration as he completed a charcoal sketch of the woman who lounged opposite him, on a couch, her naked body pale in the lamplight.

The small house was quiet, more so because of the shutters and dark curtains across the windows. The place had always been his haven, stocked with food and drink, some of which he had carried with him from the ship to which he returned every morning, keeping an eye on his department and the work done by his assistants.

The room was very hot, and he sat in his shirtsleeves, his jacket with its three tarnished gold stripes hanging carelessly from the door, a reminder, if he needed it, that his time of freedom was almost over.

'There.' He sat back and eyed his work critically. 'Not bad.'

She got up and stood beside him, one arm around his massive shoulder. He could feel her body against his, her warmth and the affection which they had shared with passion and quiet desperation in turn. Soon they would lie together again and later they would sleep, wrapped around one another like young lovers.

Gudegast was forty, and felt every year of it. He tugged at his ragged beard and murmured, 'You're still a bloody fine woman, Cerda.' He gave her a squeeze. 'I've never forgotten you.'

She touched his hair. It was getting very thin, and without his uniform cap he looked his age, she thought. She could remember him as the bright-eyed mate of a visiting ship, the way that they had hit it off from the start.

She said, 'Get away with you. I'm sagging everywhere.' She peered at the picture. You've made me look nice.'

He covered it with some paper and said abruptly, 'It's yours.'

She stared at him. 'But you've never given -'

Gudegast stood up and glanced towards the bedroom door. 'I'll be off soon. Something to remind you of old Josef, eh?'

She gripped his arm, disturbed by his mood. 'It'll be all right, won't it?'

‘All right?'
He took his pipe from the mantelpiece and filled it with slow deliberation. It gave him time.

He was surprised that he cared that much. At the same time he did not want to alarm her.

He said slowly, 'No, I don't think it will, as a matter of fact.'

She sat on the couch and dragged a shawl over her naked shoulders.

Gudegast added, 'Did you see the way they buggered us about in the cafe this afternoon?'

She replied uneasily, 'They said they were full up.'

He frowned.
'Said.'
He lit his pipe and took several deep puffs. Little bastards. I had to put my foot down.'

She watched him and smiled. 'You got us a lovely table.'

'Not the point.' Puff, puff. They're more scared of the bloody Resistance now than they are of us, don't you see?' He studied her full mouth and barely covered breasts. She had been such a pretty girl. He should have married her, instead - he turned his mind away from his wife in Hamburg. It was all a mess. Like the bloody war.

He tried again. 'What will you do, Gerda, when it's all over?'

I - I shall be here

He moved to her side and ruffled her hair. 'We're losing. Can't you face it either?'

'You mustn't say things like that, Jo! If anyone heard you -'

He grinned, his whole face crinkling. Christ, you care, don't you?'

'You know I do.'

All these years.' He stroked her hair with one big hand while he gripped his pipe with the other. 'I know you're Danish, but there'll be plenty who'll remember you had German friends when it's all over.' He felt her stiffen and almost regretted saying it.