The White Guns (1989) (17 page)

He gripped his glasses more tightly to prevent them slipping from his grasp. He could not drag his eyes from the dancing, evil-looking flames. Men were hurt, perhaps dying, praying for rescue. And all Marriott could see was his own boat. Burning and burning, so that those same pitiful screams seemed to be right here beside him.

'Stand by forrard!'

Marriott felt his eyes stinging but still could not look away. Below the bridge he heard someone shouting above the engines' roar, to encourage those who would not hear. He wanted to find the man and shake him, tell him there was no hope. He recalled Beri-Beri's own words.

She ran out of luck.

'Dead slow!'
Marriott tried to clear his throat and tasted the stench of burning for the first time.

Beri-Beri said, 'I'd not get too close.'

Marriott nodded. So he knew too.
The old instinct.
He heard Lowes sobbing quietly at the rear of the bridge and thought he was too frightened to care what the others thought.

But for once Lowes was not thinking of himself. He had heard the name of the stricken ML's commanding officer called from the W/T office, Lieutenant Duncan. It had been his birthday Lowes had been invited to share when the German boy had been dragged from the harbour.

Marriott said, 'Port fifteen.' He watched the flickering flame reflecting from the gently moving water, as if it came from the sea-bed itself.

Beri-Beri said, 'Why doesn't he abandon? He must have seen us!'

Marriott felt his hand shake as he pressed down the switch of the loud-hailer.

'D'you hear there? Abandon ship, I shall pick you up –'

He got no further. The flame seemed to flare straight up and then expand until the whole hull was engulfed. Then came the explosion, strangely muffled and yet so powerful that the complete deck and most of the bridge was hurled into the air in flaming pieces, some of which hissed down right alongside.

Fairfax gripped a rail for support and stared aghast as the fragments continued to fall. He heard something solid drop on the foredeck, the instant response from someone's extinguisher.

He cringed in the fierce glare which made the men around him look like lifeless studies in bronze. For a few moments he saw Lieutenant Kidd with his arm around the Skipper's shoulders, and for a second more imagined that Marriott had been hit by a falling piece of timber or worse.

As he made to run towards him the light suddenly doused, leaving him almost blind in the impenetrable darkness. Only the lighthouse beam remained, licking out and over the swell, painting the bobbing pieces like silver.

Fairfax gasped, 'Are you all right, sir?'

Marriott turned very slowly, knowing that but for Beri-Beri's arm he would have fallen.

He said, 'Get up forrard, Number One. You know what to do.' He tried again. 'I'm relying on you.'

Beri-Beri snapped, 'And take that officer with you! Keep him bloody quiet!'

But when Fairfax reached Lowes he found Leading Seaman Craven speaking with him, his voice unusually quiet.

He was saying, 'In war, any bloke can get the chop. I've seen a-bloody 'nough of 'em go like that!' He bobbed his head towards the figures in the forepart of the bridge. 'Our Skipper 'as died just once too often, see?'

Lowes wiped his face with the back of his hand. 'Yes. Yes, I see–'

Behind his back Craven sighed.
Never in a thousand bloody years!

The hull moved slowly across the water, torches and the bridge searchlight reaching out on either beam, finding and rejecting.

Beri-Beri murmured, 'I should have been aboard her by rights.'

Marriott came out of his thoughts as Fairfax called aft, 'No survivors, sir!'

Marriott shouted,
'Keep looking!'
To the bridge at large he added, 'There must be someone. There
has
to be.'

Beri-Beri watched his anguish and wished there was something he could do. He had been there when Marriott's boat had blown up. As close as they had been to the ML. He knew how Marriott had tried to overcome it, had given himself to his new command more than ever before. But after this . ..

Evans asked doubtfully, 'Shall I take her round again, sir?'

'Yes.' He swallowed hard, feeling the fear like something wild and alive. 'You never know. Think how it would feel to find hope and then see it sail away, leaving you to rot?'

When first light found them they were still circling the place where the ML had been blasted apart. The light revealed what the darkness had mercifully hidden. Bodies and pieces of men, familiar uniforms and badges, burned and bloodied in that last explosion.

Silver watched Marriott staring down into the water as they passed a floating corpse, afraid to interrupt his suffering.

'Minesweepers astern, sir!' He looked at Beri-Beri question-ingly. Marriott had not heard a word.

Beri-Beri said, 'Signal the senior officer.
There are no survivors.'
He had seen the long metal tanks which the minesweepers and salvage vessels had been issued with, for macabre relics like these. 'He can carry on from here.'

He looked at his friend. 'They had no chance. Neither did we.'

Marriott turned as Silver's Aldis clattered the signal towards the leading trawler.

'Would you tell Number One to secure his fire-party.' He moved to the bridge chair and rested his arms on its high back.

He knew that Beri-Beri was examining the chart and in minutes would put the gunboat back on course for Neustadt.

At any other time he would have objected, resisted anyone's attempt to help.

But he could barely move, any more than he could free his mind from that last searing explosion.

He felt the deck begin to shake, the sudden increase of power and the thrash of foam from the outer screws making the silent figures come to life again.

Evans was stepping down from the wheel, his place taken by Townsend, in more ways than one.

Beri-Beri joined him by the chair but did not look at him.

'You know what I think, Vere? I believe that
we
are the survivors.'

Marriott pulled out his pipe and jammed it between his teeth to prevent them from chattering.

He felt more like tears than he had believed possible. But it could not be like that. Meikle had proclaimed that it was not a game. He was wrong. How else could they have endured it, with survival just a joke?

He said, 'Quite right, Beri-Beri. If you can't take a joke, then you shouldn't have joined!'

Neither of them dared to laugh. Each in his own way knew he would be unable to stop.

Marriott walked along the stone slipway and stared up at his command. It was so strange to see her out of the water after so long, her spartan hull scraped and dented and still dripping with weed.

Just a few days, Meikle had said. Somehow or other the naval party with the squads of Royal Engineers had managed to clear several of the slipways, a godsend to the many smaller vessels which were working all hours to open up the harbour.

In the meantime 801's company had been put aboard one of the newly arrived accommodation ships, a huge former steam-yacht which even dull pusser's paint could not disfigure. There had been more than a few moans from the messdeck. Most of the hands had hoped that the boat would be sent back to Felixstowe for a well-deserved overhaul. At least aboard the accommodation vessel they would be able to enjoy baths and showers, catch up with their dhobying and
jewing,
as the sailors called repair work on their uniforms.

Marriott saw the Chief talking with a plump official in a boiler suit, his instructions being translated by another former German petty officer. It was odd when you thought about it. None of the naval personnel who was working under the British was allowed to wear either his former rank markings or rates, and yet the divisions between them were as rigid as ever. Even the few German officers who were employed here seemed little different, despite the bare patches where their stripes and Nazi eagles had once been worn.

It was easy to feel more like an intruder than the occupying power, he thought.

Adair saw him and saluted. 'Take a look at this, sir.' He pointed up with an oily finger at the port outer screw. It was badly scarred and buckled.

He added, 'I think it was when we were at Neustadt, sir. Must have hit some underwater wreckage.' He gestured to the plump man in the boiler suit. 'Klaus here thinks he can get it fixed. He's got a good machine-shop in the yard despite all the bomb damage.'

'I'll be guided by you, Chief.' Marriott glanced along the gunboat's boxlike hull. So it was
Klaus
already. So much for non-fraternisation. It was to be allowed only within the needs of duty, Meikle's little book had instructed. So in this case ... He saw Adair hand a cigarette to the German, who bobbed his head and grinned before placing it carefully in a little tin and stowing it in his boiler suit.

The new currency, Marriott thought.

He heard Fairfax coming down the slipway and wondered how he saw his skipper now.

He thought of Neustadt. It had all been a waste of time anyway. The sappers there had blown up the offending wreck without waiting for the navy's explosives. Somehow the wires had got crossed. Another cockup, as Cuff had put it.

Marriott had stayed there for two days awaiting orders, before returning to Kiel and this unexpected slipway. Neustadt had been unsettling. Groups of soldiers standing on the shoreline watching the sea, trying to identify the drifting wreckage and lolling corpses that were still coming ashore from the final days of the Russian offensive. As if it was some kind of gruesome contest. The town was ravaged, and he had noticed that, unlike Kiel, the British heavy artillery had not been stood down or reduced. Quite the reverse. He had seen the gunners busily throwing up new emplacements while German labourers carried out other defence work with concrete and steel supports.

The thing was that all the guns were pointing not inland but towards the Russian sector and the Baltic. A measure of trust – or the lack of it?

Passing a bombed church where only the tall pillared windows had remained, he had heard first classical overtures then strident jazz from the organ, and had discovered a rather scruffy gunner sitting admist the fallen roof, oblivious to all but his music. They had shaken hands. The gunner had gone to school with Marriott. What a winding mixtureof trails had brought them both together to these bizarre surroundings.

Fairfax said, 'I've got the lads all settled in, sir.' He stared at Adair, who was gesticulating, then laughing with his two Germans.

Marriott said quietly, 'I know. It takes some getting used to.'

He thought of the ML's final seconds and then pictured some postman, probably like Ted at home, delivering the telegram to Duncan's family. A letter would follow from some senior officer who had probably never known the Devonian lieutenant, nor understood what had happened. Beri-Beri had been blaming himself, but evidence netted by the minesweepers had proved that the disaster had started as a fire in the engineroom, and not because of the explosives' instability.

He looked hard at the boat's four screws. So many miles, fast and slow, or momentarily stilled while they had drifted and listened for the approach of the enemy. The ML had been like this boat. Clapped-out.

On their return to Kiel Marriott had reported to Meikle, only to find him in the turmoil of changing his headquarters again, this time to the ex-luxury yacht.

He had spared him enough time to say, 'Nobody's fault, Marriott. You were lucky you didn't get alongside. I'd have had to replace
you
then!'

Leading Writer Lavender, more rabbit-like than ever, had looked up from the one remaining desk and had said, 'According to A.F.O.s, provided that any personnel killed on operations are lost
before
the end of hostilities with Japan, they will still be entitled to have their names listed on the relevant memorials.'

Meikle had snapped, 'I'm sure that will be a great relief to all concerned!' But his sarcasm had been totally lost on Lavender.

Fairfax was watching him. 'Ginger Jackson has shifted your gear to the accommodation vessel too, sir. It'll make a change to stretch our legs.' He stared past him and up at the slipway wall. 'What in heaven's name is
that?'

That
turned out to be a long-bonneted Mercedes-Benz open car. As Marriott's head rose above the slipway he wondered if there could be a larger car anywhere in the world. It had huge silver headlamps and sported a metal flag on either wing, on which the new paint only partly covered the SS emblem and swastika of its former owner.

A sad little man in field-grey sat behind the wheel and Beri-Beri lounged in the passenger seat beside him, making no effort to conceal his pleasure at their surprise.

They walked right round the car as Beri-Beri explained, 'The maintenance commander insisted I select a car from the pool. So . ..'

'Maintenance commander? Pool?'
Marriott shook his head. 'One hell of a lot seems to have happened round here since we went away!'

Beri-Beri opened a door. 'Come for a drive, eh? First time you've been out of this place, apart from –' He dropped his eyes. 'But we don't talk about that, do we?'

'We don't.' Marriott looked at his watch. 'You can take me down to the new HQ if you like. After that –'

Beri-Beri tapped his nose and yawned.
'Temporary
HQ. Our boss has something rather grander in view, I'm told.'

Marriott looked at Fairfax and the handful of Germans who had arrived to begin work on the hull.

'Take over, Number One.'

Fairfax seemed to relax slightly. 'I've got the weight, sir.'

He watched the huge car glide on to the dock road, the one which had been under thirty feet of fallen masonry and twisted girders when 801 had first tied up.

Beri-Beri said, 'Always wanted a bus like this. God, they certainly knew how to live!' He gestured to the driver. 'I'm not allowed to handle the thing. Some regulation they've dreamed up. So that if we run over some poor bastard the German driver will get the blame!' He nudged the man. 'That's right, eh, Fritz?'

The German with the melancholy face grinned and nodded.
'Ja,
Herr Leutnant! Pretty damn good!'

Beri-Beri smiled contentedly. 'It's about all he says.'

They halted at the foot of the accommodation ship's brow.

Marriott gazed at it as Beri-Beri murmured softly, 'There is some part of a foreign field etc., etc.'

The canvas sides of the brow had been painted white, as had a lifebuoy surmounted by a naval crown and the number of the Naval Party here. A proper sentry stood on the jetty, his chinstay down, his belt and gaiters as white as the lifebuoy, a bayonetted rifle in the at-ease position.

Marriott said, 'God, it's like Whale Island!'

As they approached, the sentry's eyes measured the distance, then he brought his heels together and raised his rifle to the slope. He slapped it in salute as they climbed the brow, the fresh blanco floating around him like smoke.

A writer, not Lavender, guided them to a newly painted space between decks where telephones and clattering typewriters were already in full swing.

Beri-Beri said quickly, 'I'll wait on deck. Old Cuff's coming across shortly. Thought we'd take a spin, eh?' He winced when a tall figure in naval uniform, except that like the others it was bereft of rank markings, jumped to his feet and brought all the other occupants to instant attention.

As Beri-Beri closed the door thankfully behind him, Marriott faced the room's occupants with something like embarrassment.

'My name is Verner, Herr Leutnant. Herr Meikle will be here present shortly.' He waved one hand around his small domain. 'These are my staff.'

It was like hearing a British actor trying to play a Nazi officer in the ever-popular wartime films. Mr Verner was obviously very pleased with his job and himself. New masters maybe, but the same service security.

He realised with a start that there were several young women sitting at the rear of the room with files and piles of yellow cards. He tried not to let his gaze linger on one in particular. She was small and had hair like black silk piled at the nape of her neck, so that her ears were visible. Her uniform jacket, now with plain, civilian buttons, was like that of a British Wren.

She looked up and they stared at one another.

Verner caught the exchange and snapped, 'My clerks, Herr Leutnant, they are sorting out the, er,
Soldbuch.
Er –' He snapped his fingers, suddenly embarrassed because the translation had escaped him.

The girl said quietly, 'Paybook distribution, sir. For the workers here.'

She seemed to exclude the pompous Verner, and her voice, like her gaze, was directed only at Marriott. She continued in the same low tones, 'They receive pay according to their work, and the higher their level of employment so is the higher ration allowance.'

Marriott smiled. Her eyes were dark brown.

Verner nodded, both angry and relieved at the interruption.

'Thank you, Geghin –'

Marriott said, 'Yes, it's a help to know –' He felt clumsy and very stupid. Her English was excellent, with a slight accent he did not recognise. Perhaps it was local? The others were staring at him, and he thought he saw one of the girls nudge her companion.

The door opened and Meikle strode in. He nodded curtly, then rapped, 'I want a full report on that theft from Naval Stores, Verner. I don't have time to waste, unlike some!'

He glared around the room and Marriott expected to see resentment, even fear; he could guess what a loss of employment would mean in this crushed port.

But they continued with their work as before. It must be what they were used to, he thought.

Meikle seemed to see him for the first time. 'Boat slipped? Good. Make it as fast as you can. I may want you to visit the Russian sector. If somebody senior goes it will become
an event.
That I do not need!'

Verner bustled towards him with an open file. 'Tinned food, Herr Meikle. In the night. It is perhaps easy to enter and leave the docks in their present condition?'