The White Guns (1989) (33 page)

'I've got a tot in the truck, sir. Drop o' Nelson's blood!'

Fairfax retched. 'Thanks.'

The two Military Government officers walked past, and one, a lieutenant colonel, asked irritably, 'Don't they teach you to salute superior officers in the navy, Lieutenant?'

Fairfax stared blindly after them, unable to speak, knowing at the same time that had he been able, he would be under arrest himself.

When he looked again, the post was empty, and some Germans were raking sand around it like gardeners.

Inside the little hut Fairfax waited as the chief gunner's mate produced a flat bottle and two chipped cups.

Did it really happen? Or might he awake suddenly from a nightmare, the sort which kept Marriott company on so many nights?

Have we changed that much, or are we really the same?

''Ere, sir.' He watched him over the cup. 'Down the 'atch!'

Fairfax left the hut a few minutes later and was confronted by some men pushing a plain coffin on a hand-cart.

He watched until it had vanished around the corner, and then he leaned against the hut and threw up.

Leading Writer Lavender pattered towards the big desk and announced, 'Lieutenant Marriott has just driven through the gates, sir.'

Meikle was standing by a half-open window looking out across the freshly cut grass. Such a timeless, satisfying smell, he thought. Cut grass. The sound of a cricket bat on a lazy summer's afternoon.

He sighed. 'I know. Bring him in as soon as he arrives.' He had seen the stubby little scout-car in its new blue paint almost as quickly as they had telephoned from the main gates.

He turned and looked at his desk and all the neat piles of papers which awaited his attention.
Urgent. Immediate. Never.

He glanced up at the wall clock and checked it against his watch. Over. A few minutes ago. How had Fairfax taken it? Lavender would probably tell him that too. He would have made an efficient spy, he thought. The door opened and Marriott stood there watching him. He looked very good, Meikle thought. Better than he had for some time. A lot better than he had expected.

'Sit down.'

Marriott lowered himself into a chair. His legs were stiff. Partly from Knecht's fast drive down from Flensburg, which had mostly been in silence. Marriott felt it had been a kind of protest, a rebuke, after what had happened.

'How is Lieutenant Kidd?'

Marriott wanted to yawn. Instead he smiled.
Too much like Beri-Beri.
'They kept him in the army hospital in Flensburg, sir. A fracture, but not too bad, according to the "experts".'

'You took your time.'

Marriott met his gaze. How typical of Meikle, he thought. No wastage. Straight to the point without any trimmings.

'I stayed over for two days until he was settled in, sir.' He waited for some sharp retort, felt himself rising to meet it.

'Yes. Probably the right thing to do.' He turned away. 'You had a close shave by all accounts.'

'But for the German tug crew I'm not certain –'

'Spare me. They probably hope to gain a few favours from you after this.' He faced him again and gave a dry smile. 'Anyway, you completed the job.'

Marriott thought of Beri-Beri's face when he had last seen him in the army hospital. The nurses were all British, probably the first over here. He might make a good impression on one of them. It had been a sad parting all the same. Too much to say, too much unsaid. As soon as he was well enough they would shift him down here again. What a party they would have that day.

'Any feelings about VJ-Day?'

Marriott shrugged. 'Too soon. Out here, we don't seem to belong. It'll take time.'

Meikle nodded. Apparently satisfied. 'Any comments about the ship you disposed of?'

Marriott leaned forward. 'Well, yes, sir. I've thought about it on the passage back.' Again the secret smile. He had nearly said
home.
'I think the charges should be separated, halved.' He pulled a pad across the desk and scribbled a rough plan on it in pencil. 'It would lessen the chance of breaking a ship's keel before she can settle on the bottom.'

Meikle watched the experienced hand on the pad. 'I forgot. You used to prepare plans for building, not "destroying"?'

Marriott grinned. 'That's right.'

Meikle folded his arms. Marriott was thinking about this new job. The first promising sign.

He said, 'I'll be getting you some home leave quite soon. But the commodore hopes to cram in a few more sinkings in the Baltic before the weather closes in.'

'Thanks, sir.'

Meikle returned to his desk. His bastion. 'You might look up your old first lieutenant when you get a moment. He was in charge of a firing-squad today.' Another glance at the clock, his driving force. 'About fifteen minutes ago to be precise.'

Marriott stared. 'Firing-squad? Who the hell thought up that idea? He's not a –'

'Not a
what,
Marriott? A
soldier,
were you going to say? We share all of it, or we lose the peace just as efficiently as we won the war!'

He did not look up until Marriott had left his office.

Marriott strode along the corridor, angry with himself and Meikle. It was not his problem, and yet – he looked round and saw the girl staring at him as if she had seen a ghost.

He asked, 'What is it? Tell me. Has something happened?'

But she stood quite still, searching his face as if she was mistaken.
'No!
It is not that! I thought, we heard –' She lowered her head very suddenly and he saw droplets of tears fall on her jacket.

He took her shoulders in his hands, expecting her to pull away, and asked, 'What did you hear?'

'That a lieutenant had been hurt aboard that ship! I did not know another officer was to be there! I thought – I thought –' More tears ran down her chin.

'You thought it was me. I didn't think it would matter to you.'

Then she did tear herself away.
'Matter? Care? But of course I do!
What sort of woman do you think I am?' Then she turned and went into her office and slammed the door.

Meikle heard the slam and looked up from his work.

Perhaps the sooner he sent Marriott on leave the better it would be for him. He closed the folder and ran his fingers through his hair.

For them.

The little scout-car completed its turn around the wide, shrub-lined driveway and halted outside a magnificent entrance. While his driver, Heinz Knecht, had woven along the quiet roads with regular bars of shadows made by the tall trees, Marriott had watched the proud-looking castle rise higher and higher, like something from a fairy-tale.

It was by no means the largest
Schloss
in the area, but the commodore had certainly picked himself a splendid one. Two turrets and a high, sloping roof, again with a Hans Andersen flavour, with the ever-present Plöner See making a perfect backdrop.

'I won't be long, Heinz.' It was surprising how easy it was to call him by his first name. Perhaps because of their run to Flensburg and back, a trip they had now done twice together. This last time had been to supervise the tow of another hulk, a ship crammed with weapons, machine-parts which were of no further use, and several tons of defused bombs. The timed explosion had worked perfectly, and when he had visited the hospital before returning to Plön, Beri-Beri had said, 'Told you, old lad. You were taught by the master!'

He had told Beri-Beri about Fairfax and the firing-squad.

Beri-Beri had shaken his head and suppressed a yawn. 'It will likely get worse. If there's a bad winter – well, you know how it is.' He had suddenly brightened up. 'There was a bloke here today explaining about demob. It's to be a system of numbers. The longer you've been in, the faster you're getting out!'

It had sounded like being released from jail.

Marriott had seen very little of the girl, and when they had come face-to-face she had been polite, but nothing more; and he had respected the invisible barrier which seemed to rear between them.

Knecht watched him from beneath his cap. 'Fine place, Herr Leutnant. Very senior officer of
Luftwaffe
was here before –'

Marriott looked up at the impressive frontage. Almost baroque from this angle.

A Royal Marine sentry saluted and opened one of the tall doors for him and he entered, feeling the coolness of marble enfold him. A wide spiral staircase, the entrance hall dominated by the largest chandelier he had ever seen.

He smiled. Just the place for Errol Flynn and Basil Rathbone to fight that last duel in
Robin Hood.

'This way, sir.' The steward's Scottish voice seemed totally out of place here.

They entered a long room, well furnished and hung with deer-heads and other trophies.

Sitting near some glass doors which overlooked the gardens was the commodore.

'Take a pew, Marriott.' He was smoking a big cigar, his pink, crab-like hands resting for the while in his lap.

Marriott sat.

Commodore Lionel Paget-Orme watched him with amusement. 'What d'you think of my new HQ, eh?'

Marriott shrugged. 'It's magnificent, sir.' He did not know what else to say.

The commodore eyed him bleakly, disappointed perhaps.

He stood up and walked to the glass doors. 'I find luxury adequate.'

Marriott wondered if he had tossed off that comment before. He followed the plump commodore down some steps and on to a lawn. Here the unreality continued.

Seated around a painted, wrought-iron table were Kapitän von Tripz and Meikle, and two other officers Marriott did not know, obviously from Paget-Orme's staff.

A German servant in a white jacket was pouring wine into crystal hock glasses and approached instantly as the commodore snapped his fingers.

Paget-Orme said, 'We are having a meeting. Routine amidst fine surroundings.'

Marriott glanced at the ex-Kapitän-zur-See. How did he feel? He must have visited this great house many times before the White Ensign replaced the swastika.

But the bearded German met his glance with only a faint smile. As if he was reading his mind, and was able to find amusement there.

Two more men strode on to the lawn, both Germans, each an ex-naval officer. Marriott could even see the darker patch on one of the jackets where he had once worn the infamous eagle.

Paget-Orme remained standing, his eyes watching the smoke drifting from his cigar while he sipped a fresh glass of hock.

It was a beautiful wine, Marriott thought. Like nothing he had ever tasted. As in England, not everyone had had to tighten their belts here.

Meikle said, 'You're to go on one more job, Marriott. My writer can let you have the details. You'll be alone again, but I think that suits you well enough?' As usual he did not expect an answer. 'The bigger gas convoys will be on the move soon. They are to be code-named
Scran.'
He did not explain why.

Paget-Orme signalled the servant and said,
'Very
pleased with your work, Marriott. I've told the admiral as much. Pity you're not a regular, all this would be invaluable; could still be if you want to stay on after your release date.' He gave a baby-like smile. 'Civilian life under a bunch of Reds won't be too exciting, I'd have thought?'

Meikle waited for his superior to pause and said, 'After this one I shall send you on home leave. I understand that your sister is about to get married.'

'Yes, sir.' How did he know that? 'I didn't realise it was already fixed.'

He held his breath, his sister and the marriage thrust aside as he heard footsteps on the stone steps. He knew it was her without even turning.

When he did look she was walking to the table, her arms full of paper files. She wore her white shirt and blue uniform skirt. Even so plainly dressed she brought every eye from the table. Except Meikle's. He was watching Marriott.

'Well, if you're all ready, gentleman?' Paget-Orme turned to Marriott and said, 'Just wanted you to know I think highly of your work in this command.' He was smiling but it was a dismissal all the same.

The Scottish petty officer steward coughed politely.

'What
is
it, Dundas?' The commodore obviously hated interruptions.

But the steward was looking at the girl. 'There's a call for
her,
sir.'

Meikle snapped, 'A telephone call,
here?'
Then he said, 'Go and take it, Fräulein Geghin. We have all we need here, by the look of it.'

She hurried away and Meikle said, 'We're still waiting for the captain of the
Sea Harvester,
sir.'

They all looked at their watches and then began to shuffle their papers. Marriott walked into the cool room again, his eyes almost blind after the sunshine.

. Through a window he saw his driver gossiping with one of the gardeners. You could be forgiven for thinking there had been no war here at all.

He heard her voice and then saw her by an ornate, gilt table where she was speaking quickly into a telephone. Close by, as if he expected her to steal something, was Dundas, the commodore's personal steward.

'I didn't expect –' Marriott's voice hung in the still air as he saw her face. She looked quite pale, like the time she had broken down in Meikle's HQ.
Desperate.

'What is it? Tell me!'

She looked at him but seemed to stare through him into the distance. 'Bernadette has been hit by a car! I – I don't know what –'

Marriott did not have to be told. It was the child, the one he had thought was hers.

'Where is she?'

She seemed to have difficulty in answering, as if her ability to translate and to understand had been shocked out of her.

'Hospital. In Eutin.' She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. 'Oh, my God, she is only three!'

Marriott saw her make a move towards the glass doors. 'No. Come with me. I'll explain to them later. I'm taking you there, right now!'

She stared at him as he took her arm and guided her through the great doorway.

Knecht nodded approvingly but said nothing, as he realised something was wrong.

Marriott waited for her to slide into the back of the little car and snapped, 'Just drive, Heinz!' He had seen the steward hurrying to the gardens. At any second someone might try to stop him from taking her.

Heinz gunned the engine and roared around the curving driveway.

'Eutin, Heinz – the hospital.'

They were out on the road now. It was all as before except the angle of the shadows had changed.

Marriott could hear her quick breathing behind him.
No, nothing was the same.

She said huskily, 'The children's hospital, please.'

Heinz relaxed, his strong hands guiding the little car with ease around two gaping women with bundles on their heads.

This was a new drama. Someone was ill? Why should his officer be concerned? He had seen over twenty other cars in the driveway. He glanced quickly at Marriott's expression. It must be important to him. She was certainly a most attractive girl. Who would blame her? But perhaps he did not see her in that way?

Marriott said, 'Watch your driving, man! Or we'll
all
end up in hospital!'

Heinz concealed a smile. There was an unusual edge to the lieutenant's voice. Oh yes, he
did
see her that way!

The children's hospital turned out to be part of a small convent. Black-habited nuns glided down spotless corridors, or could be seen bending over beds, doing the work of nurses.

Although close to the main road it was quiet, isolated even, and sad.

Marriott said, 'Wait for us here, Heinz.' He saw his quick nod of understanding.
In case we have to leave immediately because the child is dead.

The girl said, 'I will ask ...'

A young British soldier left the hospital and threw Marriott a quick salute. Following behind him was a local policeman wearing the same uniform as before the occupation, with the old-world style shako. Only the Nazi eagle had been removed.

He saw them standing beside the scout-car and ambled across. He began to explain something in German and Heinz interrupted with a jerk of the head.

'He thinks you are here about the accident, Herr Leutnant.' He kept his voice steady but it was an effort. 'He says there is nothing to worry about. It was British army truck!'

Marriott thought of the young soldier who had just passed them.
No further explanations needed.
He was one of the occupation forces.

Marriott asked coldly, 'What about the child?'

The policeman smiled, relieved perhaps that this officer was not going to make his life difficult.

Marriott felt her fingers tighten suddenly on his arm as she whispered, 'She will live.'

A sister met them in the entrance and led them through the building. Marriott's first impressions changed immediately. Clean and peaceful it certainly was, but so overcrowded that each ward was crammed with beds or, in the smaller cases, cage-like cots. They were wedged end-to-end, with just space enough between them for the nuns and visitors to squeeze through. There were others in the corridors, and in one ward Marriott saw the more badly injured ones. Small, pale, and pathetic, some without limbs, others with bandages over their eyes.