Brave Company (14 page)

Russell fought to keep his breathing silent. He willed his legs to loll lifelessly. The new voice snarled more words. Sa-In replied, began wailing once more.

The sound of a blow. Russell heard it above the cheering and yelling from all around. Sa-In made a choking noise; his wailing dropped to a whimper, but kept on. The enemy soldier had struck the boy with his gun or something.

Another thud. Another gasp and choking from Sa-In. Then Russell felt someone land in the trench, right beside them. The voice spoke once more, even closer. The communist soldier was about to lift the tarpaulin and discover who really lay there.

Russell's eyes bulged with fear. What could he do?
He'd yell and jump up, as loud and fast as he could; hope it startled the soldier just enough for Sa-In to grab him or something. No, that was hopeless. They were all going to be captured or killed.

Instead, a boot kicked his left leg, just above the ankle. The pain was so sharp, the shock so great, that his whole body went limp and his leg lolled sideways.

Next to him, Sergeant Barnett whimpered faintly. If the man began to move, they were lost.

A different voice called from a few yards away. A voice shouting an order: Russell knew it was, in spite of the unfamiliar words. He heard a third blow and the grunt from Sa-In. Then the sound of feet scrabbling out of the trench. The enemy soldier was gone.

The bugles were blaring again. More yelling rose all around. Shells had begun crashing down once more: the UN ships and artillery, beginning a fresh bombardment now that their troops had withdrawn.

He couldn't see. The tarpaulin was dark and stifling. He twitched as he heard an English word; realised it was Sa-In. The boy was wailing again, loud and unstopping. Every few seconds, in the middle of the moaning, he went, ‘Hide … Hide'. Once again, Russell made his legs flop. His bare feet were so cold, he could scarcely feel them, but the one the soldier had kicked pulsed with pain. Was he going to get frostbite? He clenched his teeth. His uncle had
endured terrible things; now he had to try and do the same.

The artillery sergeant made another noise, louder this time. His head moved, then he lay still as before. If … If he wakes up and won't stay quiet, I'll punch him and knock him out again, Russell decided. In the thick of the din of battle, and in spite of the fear that kept surging through him, he suddenly wanted to giggle. Here he was at war, and the only person he might end up attacking was someone from his own side.

More shouting began around them. Korean or Chinese? He couldn't tell. He knew so little about the people he'd come to fight. Orders were still being yelled; he recognised the tone of voice he'd so often heard on
Taupo
.

What were the communists doing? Russell tried to think, to remember some of the things he'd learned in his basic training. If enemy positions were captured, troops had to prepare straight away for a counter-attack. They'd have to set up their weapons, aiming over the rear wall of the trench, ready to fire if the enemy came charging back at them. The North Koreans, the Chinese, whoever they were, would be rushing to do that.

He cringed as more explosions shook the ground
nearby. The UN fire was building up again. He wanted to hiss to Sa-In to take shelter, to huddle down beside them, but he had no way of knowing if the enemy would hear. Half-blind under the tarpaulin, he was totally helpless. Above them, the Korean boy still whimpered and moaned.

Another noise from Sergeant Barnett. Another movement. Then the wounded man drew in a shuddering breath and began to fumble at the tarpaulin with one arm. Sa-In's voice rose through his wailing, ‘Hide, sir … Hide.'

Russell slid a hand over the man's mouth. ‘Listen. Sergeant Barnett. Listen.' He spoke right into the NCO's ear, low and urgent. ‘It's Russell … Russell from
Taupo
. Keep still. Don't move. You hear?'

The sergeant grunted, struggled feebly against the hand covering his face. The tarpaulin twitched. Sa-In's crying rose louder. Russell heard voices and hurrying feet – they seemed to be only a couple of yards away. ‘Sergeant, listen! The communists are here. Lie still. Listen!'

Relief swelled through him as Sergeant Barnett stopped moving. ‘We're hiding,' he whispered. ‘There's been an attack.' No sound from the sergeant. ‘Open your mouth if you can hear me.' A second passed, then he felt the jaw move. ‘We're hiding under the tarpaulin. Sa-In is pretending we're dead. Keep still.'

The faintest nod from the sergeant, then a gasp of pain, quickly held back. Russell whispered once more. ‘Your leg's hurt. Just hold on.'

Another tiny nod. A low sigh. The sergeant's body relaxed. Russell heard Sa-In keening, ‘Hide … good … hide.'

On either side, voices bawled. The ground shook as more explosions came. Russell closed his eyes, fought to make his own body lie limp. There was nothing he could do. It was all up to Sa-In.

He realised he was counting his breaths, trying to keep them low and calm. Ten … twenty … fifty. He was so cold: his legs where they stuck out from under the tarpaulin had lost almost all feeling, except for the ankle where he'd been kicked. That throbbed with pain. So did his shoulder. Sa-In kept moaning and whimpering. What was he seeing? What peril was he in?

Feet rushed past, a few yards away. More commands were yelled. The shelling seemed to be growing, the thunder of explosions building ahead and behind.

A new sound. Engines coming fast. Aircraft. At the same moment, Sa-In's voice rose again. ‘Hide! Hide!' Russell understood. He tried to press himself into the earth. Beside him, Sergeant Barnett was doing the same.

The engine sound climbed to a scream. Something flashed overhead. Even through the tarpaulin, he could see it. He heard a whooshing sound.

BRROOMM!

The ground bucked. Noise hammered at him; his body jolted into the air, then thudded back into the clay. He screwed up his face to stop himself from crying out. Next to him Sergeant Barnett made a strangled sound as his injured leg bucked up and down.

BRROOMM!

Another explosion; another jolt through the earth. An avalanche of dirt poured down onto the tarpaulin. They were going to be buried alive.

More planes howled in. More explosions. A flatter, more hollow sound.
FLOOMPF!

A fierce orange glow flared on one side – again he could see it through the tarpaulin. Napalm. Flaming petroleum jelly. Russell's skin crawled as he realised. If it landed near them, they'd be burned to death.

The enemy were shooting. Rifles barked. A few automatic weapons hammered. But that seemed to be all. They had so little against the UN forces. Just their numbers and their courage. It was true: the enemy had courage.

BRROOMM!

More bombs. Another glaring burst of napalm: he felt its heat through the canvas. Hold on, he urged
himself. Hold on. His uncle had rushed out in the midst of a bombing attack like this, stood in front of the fire and death to try and save lives. Could he ever do a thing like that? He didn't know.

Sergeant Barnett lay unmoving beside him, groaning occasionally. His leg must be agony. Again the ground shook. Again the sky turned to flame.

A different noise. A grinding, rumbling roar, distant but approaching, coming from behind the UN lines. The growl of engines steadily advancing. Gunfire as well. Tanks. Russell held his breath. The communists fired harder than ever. Voices yelled from either side.

Sergeant Barnett was saying something. Russell turned his head to hear. ‘You all right?' the sergeant murmured. ‘You both okay?'

‘Yeah.' In spite of the rising din, Russell kept his own voice low. ‘Sa-In is hiding us. Stay still.' Another murmur came from the sergeant. Russell had to strain to hear it: ‘… brave lad.' He didn't know if the man meant him or Sa-In, but he knew which one of them deserved the words.

The tanks were grinding closer. The communist small-arms fire was a wall of sound; the yelling grew louder and more desperate. Russell jerked as bugles pierced the air again. They weren't going to charge at the tanks, were they? They'd be slaughtered, all of them. They mustn't—

No. Feet began pounding past the trench where they huddled. Feet heading away from the advancing armoured vehicles, back down the slope of the valley. The rifles and machine-guns still cracked, but there were fewer of them. Voices bawled more orders. Russell let out a breath as he realised. Now it was the enemy who was retreating.

More boots rushed or staggered past. Men panted, shouted to one another. The tank engines had grown to a steady roar. Their guns fired, but mostly they just kept coming.

Someone stopped. Someone right next to them. Russell felt it rather than heard it. A man spoke, harsh and challenging. Sa-In sobbed a reply. The other voice came again, low and tense. Beside him, Russell knew Sergeant Barnett was listening, too.

The sound of metal on metal. A rifle being cocked. He's going to fire, Russell knew. He'll shoot through the tarpaulin, and we'll be killed like trapped animals. Who would the bullets hit first? Him? The sergeant? Sa-In?

The canvas above him suddenly felt suffocating. He couldn't die like this. He tensed his body for a hopeless leap.

Above them, Sa-In spoke once more. He sounded different, very calm, very quiet. Silence for a couple of seconds, then the enemy soldier replied. His was a
young voice, too. Like Sa-In, he spoke quietly, flatly. Another second of silence, then feet moved away. Russell lay, hardly daring to believe.

The communists were retreating fast, he could tell. They kept shooting; orders were still being yelled, but the sounds were moving back down the slope. They were heading for the trenches from which they'd poured. The tanks must have almost reached the place where he lay.

He was counting his breaths again. He hadn't even noticed. He ached all over; felt utterly exhausted and drained. The tarpaulin pressed down on him, stifling yet cold. He couldn't last much longer like this.

Then, so suddenly that he cried aloud with fear, the canvas was pulled back, and Sa-In was gazing down at them.

Shells were exploding down the wide valley. Machine-guns and rifles hammered. The noise of approaching tanks swelled into a ground-trembling roar. Russell lay sprawled on the trench floor, eyes fixed on Sa-In above him.

Blood dribbled from the Korean boy's mouth. The wound on his forehead oozed fresh blood as well. Russell remembered those blows he'd heard while he huddled under the tarpaulin. Sa-In's baggy white clothes were torn and filthy with mud. He shivered in the raw wind. But he was smiling. ‘Hello, sir,' he said to Sergeant Barnett. Then he bowed to both of them, holding one hand to his ribs as he did so.

The artillery sergeant started to lift himself up,
then bared his teeth and fell back. Straight away, Sa-In was down beside him. ‘Sir! Your leg busted. You not moving – please!'

The wounded man breathed out slowly. ‘Where's – the jeep?'

‘It's wrecked,' Russell told him. ‘A shell landed near it. You got thrown out onto the ground.'

Sa-In nodded. ‘We bring you here,' he said.

Sergeant Barnett's teeth were still clenched against the pain. He gazed at Russell. ‘Sounds like your – your uncle would have been proud.'

Russell said nothing. His entire body had begun shuddering. He didn't know if it was the cold, or the relief of still being alive, but he couldn't stop himself shaking. If he opened his mouth, his voice would shake, too.

They all hunched as a tank roared past, just ten yards away from them, bucking across a collapsed section of trench, smashing down more walls as it ploughed on. I'm glad I'm not in the army, Russell thought suddenly. They have to do too much digging.

Other vehicles were streaming up behind the tanks. Armoured personnel carriers. One stopped further along the trench, and troops poured from it, fanning
out to the right of where Russell and the other two crouched or lay. Americans in their green-brown winter uniforms. Two of them hurried towards the little group by the tarpaulin.

‘Who are you guys?' The soldier who spoke was tall, black and watchful. His gun pointed at the ground, but his finger stayed near the trigger.

‘Artillery,' grunted the sergeant. ‘16 New Zealand Field Regiment.' He stopped, his face twisted with pain.

‘Sergeant Barnett's hurt,' Russell said. ‘He's got a broken leg.'

The black soldier jerked his head. ‘Who's he?'

Russell saw that the second soldier had his gun trained on Sa-In. The man's face twitched. They're scared, Russell realised. They're scared, just like I've been. He swallowed, nodded towards the Korean boy, and tried to speak.

‘He helped us. He hid us under the tarpaulin, and pretended we were his family.' Russell paused. ‘He – he saved our lives.'

‘That right?' The two men relaxed. So did Sa-In, who had been sitting very still, watching the gun. ‘Thank you, sir,' he said.

I'm not sir – began Russell's mind. But the black American was speaking. ‘We'll get a medic for you real soon. Here, buddy.' He pushed a bar of chocolate at Russell, and another at Sa-In.

The Korean boy bowed, looked longingly at the bar, then thrust it into the pocket of his ripped, stained trousers. Russell knew who he was saving it for. He handed his own bar to Sa-In as well. The other boy began to shake his head, and Russell somehow managed to smile.

‘Take it. Remember – I'm sir!'

The enemy was completely gone. He realised it as he gazed around. The attackers had retreated down the valley and back into their own positions. The firing had almost stopped, too, except for the occasional shell-burst on the far slopes.

But the ground in front of their trench was torn with craters, smoke still drifting from some. Bodies in light-brown uniforms sprawled all across the churned-up earth. One communist soldier knelt, hands on his head while American troops advanced on him with rifles ready. He was moaning and mumbling: a young, frightened voice. Was he the one who—?

‘What did you say to that soldier?' Russell asked Sa-In. The other boy blinked. ‘Sir?'

‘The soldier who was going to shoot us – a few minutes ago. You talked to him and then he went away.'

Sa-In gazed across the valley. ‘He ask, am I spy? I
say no. I say my mother and father is – are gone. Then he say his mother die when bomb hit. Peace soon, he say. I tell him that is good, then he go. Family is much – most special in Korea.'

Russell was silent. After a few seconds, he said, ‘Special for us, too.' I'll tell Mum, he decided. As soon as I can, I'll tell her the truth about Uncle Trevor.

Forty … fifty minutes later, the two boys were heading back towards the rough road. ‘Go on,' the corporal of the American medic unit said, as they finished fixing a splint to Sergeant Barnett's leg. The man was asleep; a needle in his arm had sent his eyes flickering shut. ‘You'll get a lift soon enough. We'll look after your buddy. Could be a while before we can get him to an ambulance, and the commies might start dropping a few shells any time.'

Russell had found his boots where Sa-In had hurled them. Only one sock, though: he trudged along with the chilled toes of his left foot rubbing inside the leather. Beside him, Sa-In walked slowly in his rough sandals. One hand held his ribs. He looked exhausted. Russell's shoulder throbbed and his leg ached where the enemy soldier had kicked it. His body felt as though he had been run over by an entire army of tanks. It didn't
matter. He was alive.

Groups of UN soldiers were moving across the battlefield, checking the fallen communists, leaving some where they lay, bending over others. Russell saw one of them hand a cigarette to a wounded man, lighting it for him while the soldier lay helpless. He remembered the wild courage of the attack, the retreat which followed. What had that enemy said to Sa-In? ‘Peace soon.' Yeah, thought Russell. I hope so, too.

The grey-black clouds had lifted, but the icy wind moaned on. Russell wondered if he would ever be warm again.

He paused, gazed around. Beside him, Sa-In stopped as well. The Korean boy made a noise in his throat, and Russell realised Sa-In was sobbing, shuddering and weeping while he stood with head bowed and shoulders slumped, staring at the frozen ground. Suddenly, Russell began trembling and crying too. He reached out his unhurt arm, rested a hand on Sa-In's shoulder. The other boy gripped it hard. They stood there, side by side, heads bent, till their gasping had mostly died away. Then, without a word, they trudged on.

Something – a tank, an armoured personnel carrier – had shoved the smashed jeep to one side of the road. Traffic was already jostling past: jeeps, lorries with men and supplies. Troops were jumping down from vehicles, moving off in all directions. Aircraft snarled
overhead. The UN was reclaiming its front line.

The two boys reached the roadside and stood staring, uncertain what to do. Right then, a jeep skidded to a stop almost beside them. ‘Sa-In?' went a New Zealand accent. ‘Sa-In, is that you?'

Russell gaped as he recognised the artillery officer. Major … Major Davies. The man saw him at the same moment, and looked just as amazed. ‘You're a long way from the water, Boy Seaman.'

‘Sir, Major!' Sa-In's grimy, blood-smeared face opened in an enormous grin. ‘Oh, sir, the sergeant sir is hurt.'

There were other men in the jeep also, but Russell was too shaky and exhausted to take in any details. ‘Sergeant Barnett. His leg is broken,' he managed to say. ‘The Americans are looking after him.' He told the major what had happened, hearing his voice catch and tremble as he did so.

The officer turned, spoke to the man beside him, then looked back at the two boys and shook his head. ‘You were in that attack? You guys just can't stay still, can you?'

The soldier sitting next to the driver was talking on a radio set. ‘Confirmed that your sergeant will be evacuated as soon as possible, sir,' he told the major. ‘The Yanks have already contacted Battery HQ.'

The artillery officer shook his head again. ‘What
am I going to do for a sergeant in the meantime?' He looked at the two boys. ‘Maybe I'll give you the job, Sa-In. You can do just about anything, I reckon.'

Russell and Sa-In squeezed into the back of the jeep. ‘Shoulder hurt?' asked Major Davies. Russell nodded. ‘And Sa-In's side,' he said.

There were two other officers, spotters from different artillery units. They'd all been in a bunker when the attack came, and they'd got back safely to a fortified position. ‘I cannot believe how their soldiers charge,' said a foreign voice – French? Spanish? The others nodded.

‘Your lads are with 16 Field Regiment, aren't they?' It took a second for Russell to understand that Major Davies was talking about the supply party. In the chaos and terror of the last hours, he'd almost forgotten them. ‘You know
Taupo
was there, helping with the bombardment? They were full steam out of harbour as soon as the attack seemed likely. As I say, you navy lads just can't sit still.' He grinned at Russell. ‘Sorry you missed the fun.'

Actually, I didn't, Russell told himself. And it wasn't fun. He didn't know what it was.

Even though he sat wedged between the major and Sa-In, and the jeep's canopy was up, he still shook with
cold. Every part of his body throbbed. He could almost hear it shaking as the noises of the front lines faded behind them. The only thing he wanted was to crawl into his bunk on board ship, and sleep forever.

The jeep jolted along, bouncing on the rough side of the road as more lorries and other traffic poured towards the front. Groups of civilians were beside them again, heads down, trudging along. Sa-In would be watching them, yearning for a sight of his parents. But when he glanced sideways, Russell saw that the other boy's eyes were closed, and he was asleep. A minute later, so was Russell.