The White Guns (1989) (4 page)

Marriott tried to change the subject. 'What will you do?'

'God knows. Probably end up in the Pacific. The bloody war might last for years out there. I'll likely get my half-stripe before much longer.'

'I knew you were up for it.'

''Bout time.' He glared at the soldiers on the dockside. 'I'll be glad to get shot of this dump. Go somewhere where there's a bit of
life!'
He walked to the guardrails and half-turned. 'Don't forget what I said about this morning, eh, old son? Do it again and I'll come down on you like a ton of shit!' Then he laughed, but it did not reach his eyes.

Marriott dropped down to the wardroom and made his way to his cabin.
Cabin,
it was more like a large cupboard, with the hateful red telephone just above the cot-like bunk.

He heard the messman, Ginger Jackson, announce cheerfully, 'Well, gents, 'ow about tinned bangers an' mash?' The two sub-lieutenants groaned and the irrepressible Ginger said severely, 'Now, gents, just because you've won a war don't mean you can get choosy! An' anyway it's all we got 'til the ol' grub ship gets 'ere!'

Marriott leaned back in the only chair and massaged his eyes with his fingers. Then he opened a drawer and studied a half-empty bottle of brandy. He shut it again. Perhaps not, with the new boss coming aboard. He thought of Spruce Macnair, of the German petty officer, the men he could hear chattering on their messdeck, the vague strains of music interrupted at irregular intervals by loud static from the W/T office. He opened another drawer and took out his folder in its waterproof bag. A few photographs, a last letter from his brother Stephen who had gone down in the
Repulse.
Was that all there was left of a man?

He made himself open his metal trunk and after a moment's hesitation he shook out his best reefer with its wavy gold lace, the blue and white ribbon on the left breast. Then he stripped and stood shivering at the tiny basin and washed in cool water. He shaved with deliberate care, watching his eyes in the mirror, half-listening to the sounds around him. Hard to accept that there was no chance of a sudden alarm, the screaming clamour of bells or the nerve-jangling telephone in the night. Just the lap and gurgle of that filthy water alongside. They could have been on the Thames. Anywhere but Kiel.

The uniform seemed loose and he wondered if he should have the buttons moved. He shrugged his shoulders. And it felt damp. He recalled seeing Stephen on that one leave they had shared together, a rare thing in wartime.

He touched the gold lace on his sleeve. There had only been one stripe then, and he had been serving aboard an elderly destroyer working out of the Western Approaches.

His brother had brought a girl home to the house in Surrey where they had been born and had grown up together along with their sister Penny. It was as if they had all grown up too soon. He could remember his mother's disapproval because of the girl. She had said nothing directly, other than touching on the subject of her limited rations in the house, but it had been plain enough.

The girl's name was Mimi, or rather that was the one she had given herself. She had been set on becoming a professional opera singer and, although she had only played a few roles in theatres well outside London, she certainly acted like a star performer.

Marriott smiled to himself.
Exotic,
that was the only word for her. She wore striking make-up, and had her dark hair curled about her cheeks like a Spanish dancer. Her clothes, too, in fact everything about her, had been striking.

Stephen had confided to him that he was going to ask her to marry him. From other things he had said, it was pretty obvious that they were already very close and had probably spent a few days of his leave together.

Marriott could recall his own feelings of envy, the sense of being on the outside. He had had little experience of girls. Before the war he had been working like a slave studying to be a surveyor and draughtsman for a friend of his father's. A proper old tyrant he was too, making a fortune now out of repairing bomb-damaged buildings. A lifetime's work. There had been one girl, but they had grown up in the same road, even went to the same school for part of the time. The result was that they had behaved like brother and sister.

Then Stephen had gone back to his ship, the elderly battle-cruiser
Repulse
which was soon to be sunk by Japanese aircraft off the coast of Malaya with her powerful consort
Prince of Wales.
Both had been lost within half an hour, and the balance of naval power had shifted to the enemy. Singapore might not have fallen had those two great ships endured. But the admiral had not waited for air-cover. Marriott thought of Spruce Macnair's summing-up of the peacetime minds which had almost lost the war. Would they never learn?

On his next leave Marriott had expected to find his mother still in a state of shock.

But all she said was, 'I
knew
that girl was no good for him!' As if in some way she had been at the root of it.

Marriott had found the London street where Mimi had lived. A rather scruffy area of houses turned into flats. There had been a lot of bombing for it was close to Clapham Junction with its big railway sidings and yards. An old watery-eyed man, who had called himself the caretaker, had explained apologetically that the girl had died.

Marriott had stared at the shabby building but it was unmarked. The old man had shaken his head wearily. 'No, she cut 'er wrists arter she 'eard about yer brother.'

Poor Mimi. He could still remember everything about her, even the strong perfume she used. It might not have worked out, but he hoped they had found happiness together, even for so short a while.

He glanced at his watch. The new boss was soon to descend on them. Marriott stood up, then pushed the package back into the drawer. What was left to go home for now? Perhaps Cuff was right to hope for the Pacific. He sighed and switched off the light.

What was the matter with him?
Nobody lives forever!

Marriott waited below the bridge and watched the little procession clambering from one boat to the next.

Sub-Lieutenant Fairfax whispered, 'All ready, sir.'

Marriott nodded without taking his eyes off the small group as it vanished into the boat alongside. He had not yet got a glimpse of the commander, but he had seen his cap. It was obviously new, bought for the occasion, the oak leaves around the peak shining in the May sunlight whenever it managed to probe through the drifting smoke. Most likely a regular officer. Getting off to the right start, as Cuff would have put it.

He saw Macnair emerge from a hatch and rest one hand on a stanchion. Short of breath, or was it just a casual gesture? Marriott felt his jaw tighten until it hurt. It was like sharing a terrible secret. Spruce, of all people, leaving his flotilla, being recalled. If he was that ill Marriott felt certain that Macnair would have preferred to remain with
his brood,
especially after all he had given to make this moment possible. He saw Cuff too, huge and towering above all of them; as acting S.O. he was part of the procession. Marriott wondered how he felt about being part of the Establishment, as he always called anyone who was a link in the chain of command.

Marriott said, 'Our turn now, Number One.'

Fairfax called, 'Ship's company,
'shun!'

How different they all looked in their uniforms and gilt buttons. Even the hands were in fresh white jerseys. As fresh as they could be without proper facilities.

They saluted and Marriott stepped forward. He could feel the same resentment as he had sensed in the others. Because of Macnair, or because a stranger was taking over.

As Macnair made a brief introduction he took a few seconds to study the man beneath the gleaming cap.

Not very tall, with a dark, impassive stare and tight, unsmiling mouth. He wore a raincoat which, of course, showed no rank. It seemed to make the oakleafed cap all the more prominent.

Marriott realised that the man's eyes were passing over him. A cursory glance, but missing very little. They were deep-set and in shadow in the afternoon sunlight. They flickered from Marriott's features to the ribbon on his chest and back again.

He did not offer his hand but said, 'Commander Meikle.' His voice was higher than Marriott had expected, crisp and with all expression honed from it. 'I shall, of course, get to know all of you in time.' He looked across the deck to the leaning wreck of the great liner
New York.
'There will be a full meeting of all my officers tomorrow, eight o'clock. There is a lot to achieve here, and although several naval parties have already arrived, and others are expected in the transit camp in Cuxhaven, ours is the first real challenge.'

He looked at the sky. 'Clearer now.' He slipped out of his raincoat and tossed it casually to a leading writer who was at the tail-end of the procession, a large notebook grasped in one hand.

Marriott stared at the commander's reefer jacket. It bore three wavy stripes. The rank of commander RNVR was still a rarity, and, to top it, Meikle did not have a single decoration as some sort of reason for his advancement.

Behind Meikle's back Cuff stood like a fuming bear, his face the colour of raw meat. Obviously he had already suffered during the inspection or whatever it was supposed to be, and could barely keep his fists under control.

Meikle said sharply, 'I understand that you are the officer who spoke with the prisoners this morning?'

Marriott saw a warning in Macnair's eyes and replied, 'I didn't know they were prisoners, sir.'

'They are
all
prisoners until they have been checked and vetted. I will not have my officers playing God. The Germans respect discipline, or they will under my command, I can assure you. It is forbidden to fraternise with the Germans at any level except in the line of duty. So don't be sentimental or careless, and keep them at a distance at all times.' He sounded as if he was quoting from a rulebook.

Marriott retorted, 'I think I know how to behave, sir. I've been in this war from the beginning.'

Meikle said offhandedly to Macnair, 'Another one, eh?'

Then he added, 'All vessels here must be kept up to scratch.' He turned to Cuff and added, 'And get those swastikas painted out. This is the Royal Navy as far as the Germans are concerned, and everyone here is a representative of that service.' He nodded to Marriott. 'Tomorrow then.' He sought out his leading writer. 'Rust. The first sign of slackness is rust, so make certain it does not occur.'

Cuff said thickly, 'No fear of that, sir.'

He could barely contain his triumph. 'These boats are built of bloody wood!'

Meikle walked past him. 'I will see that officer before the meeting tomorrow, Macnair.' He seemed to remember. 'But, of course, you will be gone by then. Pity.' Again the searching glance. 'Regulation working-dress will suffice henceforth –'

More salutes, and Marriott watched the boats swaying as the small procession melted away towards the pier.

Cuff exploded, 'Bloody little bastard! I'll give him sodding swastikas and I know where I'll shove 'em!'

Marriott said, 'You really got off on the right foot.'

Cuff clapped him on the shoulder. 'You didn't do so bad either, chum.
I've been in this war from the beginning
indeed. I'll lay odds our desk-bound hero just loved that!'

Macnair came back and looked at them sadly. 'Things will settle down. There's too much to be done here for petty disagreements.'

Marriott asked, 'Where is he now, sir?'

'Inspecting the MLs. His temporary HQ is in one of the U-Boat pens. God, the place is in a terrible mess. I never dreamed it was like this.'

Cuff cut in angrily. 'Where does he fit in, sir? I mean, well, he's not one of us!'

Macnair eyed him thoughtfully. 'He was a lawyer, still is. I knew of him before the war. Lately he's been working with the Judge Advocate's Department. But don't push your luck, and instil that in your people. I recognise all the signs.' Again the tired smile. 'You forget, I was one myself!'