The White Guns (1989) (42 page)

'Thank you.' Meikle's eyes gleamed. 'I was sorry about your sergeant.'

He put down the phone and rested his chin on his interlaced fingers. But Glazebrook had not seen the officer. Neither had the O.O.D. He glanced at Lavender on the other telephone and smiled to himself.
Curiouser and curiouser.

'The commodore, sir!'

Meikle lifted the other telephone connection. 'I wonder if we could meet, sir – about the transfer of a German prisoner?' He frowned until Lavender had the wall-map exactly right. 'Well, I am busy too, sir. I also wanted to discuss the standing regulations and A.I.s on the Customs and Excise requirements at Dover.'

He put down the telephone and said aloud, 'Yes,
sir,
I thought that might make a difference!'

When winter struck it was swift, and with such intensity that few of the civilian population in Kiel and its immediate surroundings could recall anything like it. Snow, freezing rain and strong winds off the Baltic rendered their existence another battle, a fight for survival itself.

Broken sewers were soon blocked with ice, and the problem of trying to heat an individual house or even a room presented enormous difficulties. The British armed forces worked around the clock, for although they were provided with ample rations and heated quarters, they were very aware of the desperate civilians who had come to rely on them. The battered streets were always filled with the mouth-watering smell of baking bread – both the army and the navy provided bread as fast as they could, but it was still far from enough.

With the food shortages came crime. Many of these were committed by displaced persons, the Military Government's polite term for refugees. Like the one who had faced Fairfax's forgotten firing-squad, a lot of them were Poles. Invaded first by the Germans and then by the Russians, they had been made to fall on the mercies of their old enemy.

The first to suffer were children. Two small boys sent by their mother with ration cards to collect their bread from the army. It was common enough with so many of the men killed or missing, and the women often doing manual work to provide for their families. Both children were stabbed to death, their bread stolen.

A witness saw the incident, however, and justice was short and sharp. But the executions did not stop it. Surprisingly, it seemed to draw the British and the Germans closer to one another. Or as Lieutenant Commander Arthur Durham had described it, 'The cowboys and the Indians working together until the cavalry arrive!'

Marriott had seen very little of Ursula, although he had called on her at the inn as often as he could. Her brother's whereabouts were carefully avoided in the conversation, and they always seemed genuinely glad to see him.

Even Ursula's fierce, white-haired
oma
had softened slightly when he had presented her with some cocoa, freshly ground coffee, and more chocolate for the little girl.

As Christmas drew near Marriott was deeply aware of the passing of time. Like his companions he worked day and night and in all weathers. Clearing roads and unloading ships and barges, the cargoes usually food, flour and medicine.

Every shipment of cargo had to be guarded until it was safely delivered to the various distribution points in the Schleswig-Holstein command, while hoarding at the expense of others was regarded almost in the same vein as armed robbery.

But despite the hardship and the cold, some attempt was made to revive the Christmas spirit. Paper flowers, hand-made greeting cards and even carols near the bombed-out churches gave an extra meaning to this, the first Christmas after the war.

The sailors were busy speculating on their demob dates. Some were already consulting their divisional officers, who had been supplied with lists of training schemes, further education, new jobs. Perhaps Christmas was more like a final truce than a religious celebration, a reminder of personal suffering and loss irrespective of flag or language.

There were all the usual mistakes, of course. Like the new naval chaplain who had been asked to choose the hymns for one Sunday divisions at Plön. He was young and he was earnest and he loved the majesty of the words when he chose his selection. Unfortunately he did not think of the music. So that when the grinning sailors roared out the old and familiar hymn while they hid their glee behind their prayer-cards, the young chaplain was scarlet with embarrassment. It was exactly the same tune as the German national anthem,
'Deutschland über Alles'!
Outside the building, German workers stared at each other with surprise and wonder that their old enemy should make such a gesture.

Marriott had also hidden a smile when he had stood with Ursula outside a church while a choir had rendered a Christmas hymn, 'Tannenbaum, the festive fir tree'; it had the same tune as The Red Flag'.

But there was disappointment and tragedy too.

Two weeks before Christmas Fairfax was requested to go to Meikle's HQ. He arrived there with mixed feelings. Was it about the dead S.I.B. officer? Had something worse happened?

Meikle was dictating letters, to another leading writer; Lavender appeared to have his own office now.

He said, 'The day after tomorrow, Fairfax. It'll give you time to collect yourself –' He glanced at the writer. 'Where was I?'

The leading writer repeated,
'With reference to your signal
..."

Fairfax stammered, 'Collect myself, sir?'

Meikle regarded him with a wry smile. 'The Board meets here then. The other interviewees have no active-service experience so –' His black eyebrows rose together. 'Think about it!'

As he walked past the operations desk the duty officer called him over.

'Job for you, Mike. Ride shotgun on a ration train to Hamburg this evening.' He grinned. 'Congratulations, by the way. I'll lay odds that the Board will select you, with your record.'

Fairfax was walking on air. He did not relish the idea of a trip to Hamburg with a line of ration-trucks and no shelter or heating. He had already done one such trip and had been glad to get rid of the precious rations into the army's care.

It had to be right this time. He pictured his father's face, and those of his friends when he appeared for the first time with straight stripes on his sleeves. Meikle must have made out a first-rate report. That, with the commodore's endorsement, might just make all the difference.

But within a few minutes of reaching their destination Fairfax realised that something was wrong. His party of twelve armed seamen, the number constantly reminded him of the firing-squad, was crouching behind the tarpaulin-covered crates trying to find shelter from the icy snow. It tore down across the train like white flak; stung their eyes and faces until they felt raw.

The petty officer was Arthur Townsend, still not made up to full petty officer, still wearing his square-rig as he had in 801. He had been bemoaning the fact to Fairfax, saying he would be glad to quit the Andrew now and find a job that was useful rather than profitable.

It was good to see him again. All the others were young ordinary seamen, just out from England, excited like a bunch of kids as the train rolled slowly along the bumpy and much-repaired track.

Townsend stood up and said, 'God, look at the
crowd!'

Fairfax could see the great mass of figures on both sides of the track, watching in silence, their individuality completely lost in the sleeting snow.

Fairfax said, 'Don't worry, the army will be waiting. There's always a crowd watching these trains, especially the ones with rations!'

Anyway, it would soon be over. Back to Plön. A drink or two, maybe tell Jill Wheatley about the Board.

Townsend shattered his thoughts. 'The track's been taken up, sir!
We're stopping!'

Fairfax climbed up beside him on top of he wagon. He almost fell as the train halted sharply, while the driver and his mate stuck their heads out to see what was happening.

At first Fairfax thought it was an accident. Then he saw the great black mass of people begin to move towards the train, along either side of the track, soundless, as if it was one great force under a single control.

Townsend swore. 'Where's the bloody army?'

Fairfax tried to clear his mind. There was an explanation. Must be. But he was in charge. He looked at his squad of sailors. Not laughing and joking any more, but gripping their rifles, watching the approaching crowd. In a moment they might panic.

Townsend said harshly, 'Look, sir! They're cutting the lashin's of that truck! God damn them, they're goin' to pinch the lot!'

'Like
hell
they are!' Fairfax dragged out his revolver and fired it above his head. He felt the kick of it jar his wrist and forearm, the sensation helping to steady him, and control his sudden fury.

Everything stopped, and only the muted beat of the engine gave any hint of life.

If
worked.
Fairfax shouted, 'Get back!
Stopp! Zurück!'

Somebody may have shouted, or it might have been several voices. Then with something like a roar the whole mob, men and women alike, was surging up to the train, tearing at the lashings, yelling at the young sailors, who without warning were suddenly cut off from one another. A man leaped on to the leading truck and Fairfax saw Townsend jab at him with his boot. But he slipped on the snow-encrusted tarpaulin and slithered down the side, only preventing himself from falling to the track by seizing one of the lashings. The mob was clawing at him or trying to lever the lower crates over the side.

Fairfax suddenly noticed a man wielding a long crowbar, his eyes crazed as he lashed out at the helpless Townsend.

Townsend had lost his cap, and was staring up at him, his voice cracked and pleading.

'Help me! For Christ's sake,
help me!'

The man with the crowbar stood slightly away, preparing to strike, then he looked up and saw the revolver.

The crowbar started to swing down and Fairfax fired.

Before the crash of the revolver shot had died the air was split apart by sirens, and the sudden clatter of boots.

A voice, clipped and tense, yelled, 'Second Platoon!
Fix
–
Bayonets!'

Headlights swept through the snow and Fairfax saw a gleaming line of levelled bayonets advancing on the train, the mob falling back, and then all at once stampeding away from the helmeted soldiers.

Then he could only see the woman who lay on her back in the snow. He vaguely recalled her in the crowd, near or beside the man with the crowbar. He must have ducked, while she –

He dropped to the ground and tried to raise her shoulders, but took his hand away as blood reddened the snow beneath her. The heavy bullet had hit her in the temple. Fairfax pulled her skirt down to cover her legs and stood up.

An army captain walked over and looked at the body. 'We were just in time, it seems. This must have been organised by the size of it – your chaps okay?'

Fairfax clenched his fists, the revolver hanging at his side.

'Where the
hell
were you?'

The captain eyed him curiously. 'Two trucks in collision. We had to take a different route. Still, nothing broken or lost. My colonel would have been most displeased about
that
!'

Two soldiers, their slung rifles bouncing at their hips, hurried across, and in the glare of headlamps dragged the woman's body across the snow. She lost a shoe, but they did not retrieve it. Fairfax heard a tail-board slam shut, the sudden revving of engines.

The captain said, 'We'll back the train to the last intersection. Then you can carry on and unload as planned, right?'

Fairfax was still staring at the wet patch of blood. It was pinker now as the snow got heavier and more persistent.

Townsend watched the captain marching back along the line where some railwaymen had suddenly appeared.

'Well,
I'm
not bloody sorry, sir! But for you I'd be dead, not her!'

But Fairfax knew that his luck, like 801's, had run out.

One of the three commanders put it rather differently when Fairfax re-entered the room where the Admiralty Board was meeting.

'We know that these things happen in such difficult circumstances. I am sure that we all agree that there will be nothing recorded against you, and for myself I see no reason why you should not continue with peacetime training in the voluntary reserve. And with your fine wartime record, should there be another national emergency I feel certain –'