The White Guns (1989) (46 page)
What had persuaded Fairfax that he wanted to be a policeman, Marriott wondered? One thing was certain, he would do the work well. It would keep him busy and give him time to find his feet, perhaps look for a different solution to his problems. He was not alone. Acting-Petty Officer Arthur Townsend was going with him. After the shooting incident at Hamburg it might be a help to both of them.
Marriott smiled inwardly. Fairfax's wealthy surgeon father would just love it!
He pulled out the little packet from his greatcoat, Heinz's present. It was a beautiful carved model of a fishing-boat, styled on those which had once worked out of the village at Laboe. Heinz had modestly admitted that he had carved it himself.
He handed it to Ursula. 'For our new home. Whenever it is. Wherever we end up.'
He gazed at the destroyer as she edged towards her moorings. He was leaving this life for good. He thought of Meikle's words:
There will be days when you wonder at and question some of the risks you had to take.
But for today it was still inside him. A part of himself and all the others he had known and lost.
Aloud he said softly, 'The white guns ...'
She had summed it up perfectly.
It was the last day of February, when the time of departure was minutes and not days away.
Unlike the last time they had watched the battered-looking trooper cast off, when the event had been softened by distance, close to, with the din of voices and bustle magnified by the ship's tall side, it was hard to think clearly, to find a space. To be alone was impossible.
The departing sailors, some of them staggering with farewell 'neaters' or 'gulpers' of pusser's rum, clattered up the several gangways, waving to their friends, too caught up with the exhilaration to recognise the sadness that might follow.
Those already aboard lined the rails, waving their caps and cheering, while the send-off parties returned the yells with equal vigour.
Marriott put his arm around her shoulders as more figures surged past. The excitement did not reach him. His heart felt like lead.
Beri-Beri hesitated, and then saluted the girl. He was still using the stick, and admitted that his many tropical illnesses would leave him with a limp.
'Rather romantic, don't you think?' he had remarked with his usual gentle, droll irony.
But now he could recognise the passing gift of time. He said, 'See you aboard, Vere, old son. We'll meet in England too.' He leaned forward impulsively and kissed Ursula on the cheek. 'I'll look after him for you!' Then he limped away, his eyes on the ship with the plume of smoke rising from her single funnel.
A voice seemed to probe Marriott's mind.
It is now, it is now!
He said, 'The time may pass quickly.' He saw her lips quiver and added, 'You are my whole life too, Ursula.
When
I come back we shall be married.'
Across her shoulder he saw the others who had come down to see him off. Kapitän von Tripz, contained and grave until he had put his arm around his son's shoulders.
'You gave my son back to us. We will never forget.' He had given a stiff bow. 'Until better times then, Herr Leutnant!'
Willi had been unable to say anything, but had wrung Marriott's hand, tears on his freckled face.
Heinz too had been there, and had carried Marriott's cases on board the ship himself.
He had been unusually quiet until they had shaken hands.
Then he had said, 'When you come back, you will need a good driver,
ja?'
He was smiling as, with the girl, Marriott had shown his pass to the police at the barrier.
The ship's siren gave a tremendous roar, sending up gulls from the outer harbour and bringing more wild cries from the men along her rails. Marriott took her in his arms and they kissed for a long moment, oblivious of cheers and whistles from the watching sailors. It was too precious a moment to share.
As he stepped away she bared her hand and held up the ring, her eyes shining brightly, too brightly.
'Until the next time,
my darling!'
Marriott turned towards the gangway, the only one still rigged. At the entry port he turned and saw her, tiny in the crowd, waving up to him. Heinz was near her. Ready to perform his last duty and take her home.
'This way, sir.' The steward was watching him with interest. 'You'll be sharin' with a Mister Kidd, sir.'
'Thank you.' He pressed to the rail as the ship began to move slowly astern, a tug belching smoke as she pushed fussily with her bow fenders.
When he tried to see her again, the pier had blocked her from his view.
The deck began to shake as the ship gathered way, her bow-wave surging untidily over one of the wrecks still awaiting removal.
Marriott followed the steward down to the cabin where Beri-Beri was sitting on one of the bunks.
'Still awake?' he said.
Beri-Beri watched him with affection and said, 'Don't feel so down, old son. I reckon you're just about the luckiest bloke I know!'
Marriott nodded and took out her picture.
For my Englishman, who is my whole life.
He touched his friend on the shoulder.
'I know.'
Through a scuttle he saw the tall, grim pinnacle of the naval memorial gliding abeam, remembering that first time when life had seemed so empty.
He felt the keel lift slowly to the first inshore swell.
'I shall be back.'
Only Beri-Beri knew he had spoken the words aloud.
Epilogue
Once the troopship had tied up at Southampton, disembarkation was carried out with remarkable speed.
Most of the servicemen would be going straight home on leave. The next time they reported to their base or barracks would be their final kitting-out for Civvy Street.
Some had a long way to go; others, perhaps a mere handful, were home already. For them it would be distressing to see the devastation left by the bombing of this busy port, a city, like Portsmouth, which would have to be almost entirely rebuilt.
But for the many it was a time of hazy rejoicing.
Most of them would never meet again. The war had been their one shared experience. Perhaps, years ahead, when time had blurred the bitter memories and the horrors of battle, they would, like countless old campaigners before them from Waterloo to the Somme, gather together for their brief twilight.
From the boat-deck Ginger Jackson watched the dockside and the barriers through which they would all have to pass. By arrangement they had agreed to separate for the final departure.
With a fine pair of Zeiss binoculars Ginger watched Leading Seaman Bill Craven as he pushed his way towards the line of tables, naval police and customs officers.
He did not need to be there to know what happened next. The sudden movement of two customs men, and then Craven's suitcase open on a table. Ginger sighed. He had warned him; so had Jack Rae who was some twenty places behind him in the same queue.
He knew that Craven's case was packed with loot, jewellery and watches for the most part. Even the most hard-hearted customs man would turn a blind eye to a few bits and pieces,
but this lot
–
Ginger looked away when he saw Craven being escorted back into the dockyard. Officially he was still in the navy, so it would be the glasshouse, the hateful detention quarters, for him.
Ginger picked up his own little canvas bag and, after a slight hesitation, dropped it over the side into the oily water. It was simply not worth the risk. After all, he had entered the navy flat broke, but would be leaving with a nice fat post office account. The loot would have to go.
Down at the table Leading Seaman Rae, very smart in his Number Ones, paused as a customs man called, 'Over here, son!'
Then he seemed to notice the ribbon of the DSM on Rae's jumper and relented.
'Got anything to declare?'
Rae looked round for Craven but he had already been swallowed up, lost to the machinery of naval justice.
'Not really,' he replied.
'Off you go then.'
Rae picked up his bag and whistled softly to himself as he walked with the crowd towards the docks railway terminus.
Stitched into the bottom of his bag was a brand-new Luger pistol. There was not a country on earth which could make guns like the Krauts.
After this lot nobody would have any work for an ex-machine gunner, he thought. But a beautiful pistol like that would make sure he never went without again.
Another customs officer stopped Marriott, who opened his case on the table.
The customs officer saw Ursula's picture looking up at him and smiled. 'I can see you've got the best reason in the world for coming home, sir!' He marked the case with his chalk. 'All the best!'
Marriott waited for Beri-Beri to join him.
If only he really knew.
Beri-Beri reached him, and said, 'Call me, um, when –'
They shook hands. Each felt keenly the significance of the moment. Neither knew how to express it.
'Yes.' Then Marriott asked, 'Will you come and see me through it?'
Beri-Beri gave his lazy grin. 'Best man? You bet, old son!'
The rest was lost in the bustle of more returning servicemen.
Ginger Jackson strolled by and threw up a casual salute.
'So long, gents! See you in Moscow!'
It was over.
The weeks which followed were the longest Marriott could remember. Without Stephen or Penny, the house was less than a home; it was like being in lodgings.
He had tried to explain, and had hated himself for sounding so defensive. His mother had exclaimed, 'Oh, how could you, Vere! A
German
girl! I suppose you'll expect to bring her here if the authorities are foolish enough to let it go through?'
Marriott had seen the anxiety on his father's face as he had said, 'Easy now – don't harrass the boy after all he's been through .. .'
He may as well have remained silent. She had continued, 'What about our friends? The neighbours? She's probably doing it to get away from there! Using you!'
Marriott had answered flatly, 'No, Mother – nor is she pregnant, as you once suggested Penny was.'
He had decided to walk down to the Harrow. But something had made him stay, and see it through. For his father? Or for Stephen, who would never come back?
'We love each other.' The defiance had gone, the pleading too. 'There was a war, and, because of it, we met. If anything, I'm grateful.' He recalled Beri-Beri's words about being a survivor for a purpose. 'If they do reject my request I shall find another way.'
He had heard Chris the lodger moving about upstairs. He had two rooms now.
Young men today can't find homes for love nor money,
his mother had said.
