The White Guns (1989) (6 page)

Meikle did not rise to the bitterness. 'I am not completely blind, Marriott, nor am I a fool. I saw the display of medals when I arrived when you were ordered to change into your Number Fives, knowing it would further illuminate that I have none.'

His tone was completely calm and Marriott could imagine him using it when summing up the evidence of guilt at a court martial, or in his pre-war legal days when Spruce had known him.

Meikle continued in the same unemotional way, 'Of course I am aware of your courage, just as I admire it in others. The policeman on his beat in the blitz, the nurse staying with her patients beside a landmine or unexploded bomb.' His lips moved in the hint of a smile. 'There has been all manner of gallantry in the past six years. Even the conscientious objector driving his ambulance under fire is not without it.' His tone hardened. 'Although I dare say there are no medals for
him.'

Marriott felt beaten and drained. 'Is that all, sir?'

Meikle ignored the question. 'How long have you known Lieutenant Glazebrook?'

Marriott regarded him coldly. 'I know him well enough. He is my senior officer and . . .'

'Lucky for you too.' He leaned forward to emphasise each point. 'When you were on passage here, Glazebrook detached his boat to investigate a shipping-movement report, yes?'

Marriott nodded, caught out by the change of tack. It was odd that it had happened just two days ago and he had all but forgotten it.

Meikle turned another page. 'They were fishing-boats under enemy control.'

'That was common enough, sir.'

'Why are you always springing to someone's defence or taking a general criticism as something personal? I was about to say that Glazebrook signalled them to stop and to obey his signals.' He closed the folder and kept his eyes on the grave-faced lieutenant opposite him as he added, 'He says in his report that they tried to avoid him, in fact to escape. So he closed with them and dropped two depth charges between them. I don't have to spell it out to you what must have happened to the fishing-boats with
wooden hulls
at close quarters – not someone of your
obvious
experience.'

Marriott saw Cuff's face as the mass of German sailors had advanced towards the gunboats, and recalled those other times when because of the war, and the daily presence of death, those you knew and cared about, Cuff's hardness had gone overlooked.

Meikle's voice was surprisingly gentle. 'I do not like the Germans, but we are here to administer and to govern until order is restored. We will never achieve anything but hate and disgust if we merely use our power to emulate their Nazi doctrines.'

'I didn't know, sir.'

Meikle looked at the outer door as the leading writer peered in at them.

'Very well, Lavender. I shall be free in two minutes.'

Marriott looked at his hands, almost expecting to see them shaking.
Lavender.
It would be. Just the right touch of unreality along with all the rest.

He heard Meikle say, 'We need to set an example here, and to get things done. Harbour clearance, the removal of corpses from the sea and the town, and we must have the ability to provide food and shelter for those who cannot hope to fend for themselves. No fraternisation, no sliding standards. I can imagine your experiences merely by reading about them. Let them be an asset, not a conceit.'

He pressed his fingertips together.

'I don't care what you or anyone else thinks of me. All I want is to get the job done. But if somebody should stand against me, he will go, that 1 can promise.'

It was almost over and Marriott stood up, groping for his cap.

'And
my
orders, sir?'

Meikle was reaching for a telephone in its leather case. 'I want you to be ready to put to sea at one hour's notice. There is something which I must decide.'

Marriott hesitated, angry that he had lost so completely to this self-contained man, and yet somehow grateful that he was still 801's captain.

Meikle looked at him and gave a dry smile. 'We
are
both on the same side, you know.'

Marriott walked out into the drifting ashes and smoky sunlight and found the patrolman waiting for him.

'I can find my way back, thank you.'

The patrolman slung his sub-machine gun over one shoulder and grinned. 'Sorry, sir, orders say otherwise.
Nobody
moves alone in this place.'

They walked past the smashed vehicles and Marriott saw the outflung arm almost hidden now in rubble thrown up by passing tractors. How long had the dead soldier been there, he wondered? How much longer before his journey would finally end?

He found Fairfax and Lowes waiting at the guardrails with mixed expressions of anxiety and hope.

Marriott glanced along the deck, the activity which was part of his life. In his absence the ensign had been hoisted like the others on nearby warships and supply craft.

Did this old clapped-out gunboat mean that much to him, after all? How many hundreds of miles she must have thrashed with her four big screws; how many thousands of rounds of cannon shells and bullets. Three commanding officers.
And I shall be the last.

He said, 'We are in business again, gentlemen.' He saw their grins. Was that all he had to do or say? 'One hour's notice.'

He saw to his surprise that Cuff's boat had been warped further along the pier.

Fairfax explained, 'Tommy Updike is preparing to take on stores, sir.' He faltered under Marriott's gaze. 'Cuff – that is Lieutenant Glazebrook – has gone to see the N.O.I.C. wherever he is, sir, to make a report in person.'

Marriott looked across the swirling waste of oil and filthy flotsam. He could picture the exploding charges as if he had been there. And to think he had been worried for Cuff's safety. They had dropped plenty of charges in their time. Not to sink submarines but to blow the bottoms out of coasters and the like, or armed schooners which they had encountered in the Med. To use them against unarmed fishing-boats, knowing that hostilities had ceased, was little better than murder. He could almost hear Cuff saying the words he had used right here.

They started it.

He had met his match in Meikle, but as always would come out of it whiter than white. It was his way.

Lowes asked timidly, 'Is there a flap on, sir?'

Marriott smiled and felt some of the tension draining away. Lowes made a habit of using the slang and jargon of the war he had been too late to fight.
Is there a flap on?

'It could be anything. Just be ready for it, Pilot.'

As the youth bustled away, Fairfax said, 'I'm glad we're still together, sir.'

Marriott eyed him thoughtfully. 'Thanks, Number One. I hope you can still say that in a week's time in this place!'

The coxswain turned as Fairfax laughed, then tried to concentrate on what Sub-Lieutenant Lowes was telling him about readiness for sea.

So they were leaving harbour again already. Evans stared at the shore where some German sailors were pausing to take soup and bread from an army jeep.

There would be plenty of time, he thought. He had nothing else to think about now.

He straightened his cap and nodded. 'Right away, sir.'

He had not heard much of what Lowes had been saying. But that rarely seemed to matter.

Alone by the bridge Lowes, unaware of Marriott's amusement or the coxswain's contempt, settled down to watch the slow-moving
Sea Harvester
as she steamed ponderously between two wrecks, puffing out smoke while she prepared to lay marker buoys for her divers.

It was all so exciting. He had seen no fighting.
Yet.
His eyes were far away.
But one day . ..

Fairfax glanced along the sidedeck and chuckled. 'Dreaming again.'

Marriott thought suddenly of Stephen, how it might have been if they had shared this victory together.

'Dreams, Number One.' He touched his arm, then turned away as another face seemed to overshadow Fairfax's. 'Leave him those at least.'

Marriott leaned on the rail beneath the bridge screen and watched the familiar activity on the forecastle, where Leading Seaman Townsend was supervising the mooring lines while Lowes, very dashing with a white silk scarf around his throat, tried to keep out of everyone's way. The gentle purr of generators and the rising vapour alongside told Marriott all he needed to know about the engineroom department. The Chief would make the hull move with his bare hands if need be.

Fairfax climbed to the bridge. 'All our people are aboard, sir. Ready to proceed.'

Marriott nodded. There was not much fear of leaving without a full complement, he thought, not with all the sentries and armed shore patrols.

It was evening and the sky still bright. What was strange was that you hardly noticed the smoke any more. It was part of it, like the oil slicks and the smell of decay. It was warmer too. Not much, but Marriott could feel his shirt clinging to his skin. Or was it just nerves? Leaving harbour like all those other times, but with the knowledge that barring accidents they would be back alongside, perhaps this time tomorrow.

He saw a seaman walking along the dockyard wall with a large satchel slung over his shoulder, chatting to a patrolman.

Fairfax followed his glance. 'Postman, sir?'

Marriott shook his head. 'Too soon. Maybe in a day or so.'

Letters from home, newspapers to tell them about that other world where the end of the war in Europe would mean so much in so many different ways.

There might be leave soon. Marriott tried not to think about it. Everything would be so different now. With Stephen gone, and Penny probably still away, it would be an awkward affair.

He thought of Penny and smiled sadly. The baby of the family, so lively and vivacious and as changeable as the wind. Even at school she had been convinced she would be a writer or an actress, something artistic. She had got on well with poor Mimi, much to their mother's disapproval. It was probably no coincidence that Penny had joined up immediately after Stephen's death and Mimi's wretched end. She was now serving in the plotting room of a fighter station in Kent and was a corporal in the WAAF. The small airstrip had been constantly involved in the daily defence of London and later the support of the army across the Channel. Reading between the lines, Penny had had several wild crushes on some of the young fighter pilots she knew. Some had moved on, others had never returned from dog-fights and sorties over the Channel.

Something had happened to change her. She had written to him more than once of a man she claimed she would marry if he asked her. He was the Met Officer at the station, an older man, or a
wingless wonder
as she affectionately called him. There was a snag; he was a Canadian and would want her to go with him when the war was finally ended. What would their mother have to say about that?

Leading Signalman Silver called, 'Five minutes, sir!'

'Single up all lines!' Marriott caught Fairfax's sleeve. 'Hold it!' A jeep with RN painted on the side was pitching and bucking over the rubble like a boat in surf.

Marriott saw the flashing gold leaves around Meikle's cap, the rabbit-like Lavender sitting beside him with a briefcase clutched across his lap, while two armed seamen occupied the rear seats. So Meikle liked to drive himself. Another surprise.

'I'd better go to him.' Marriott felt both uneasy and vaguely annoyed. Did Meikle not trust him to take his boat out of harbour without his supervision?