The White Guns (1989) (8 page)

Fairfax said hesitatingly, 'The
Ronsis,
sir. I suppose we can't just let her through?'

Here we go.
He replied curtly, 'No chance.'

Fairfax thought about it. 'I – I mean,
refugees,
sir. What do they matter?'

Marriott dropped his voice. 'Just forget it. Wait until we've had a look, right?' He felt a barrier drop between them. He was angry and knew it was because Fairfax had voiced his own thoughts for him.

Surely it didn't matter who finally vetted the refugees and weeded out Meikle's 'war criminals' and the Nazi leaders trying to escape Russian justice? More like revenge after the devastation of the German armies' thrust eastwards to the gates of Stalingrad itself. Millions, not thousands, had died in the savage battles, many of which had been fought in waist-deep mud or worse, in temperatures so low that guns jammed and men froze to death in their fox-holes and trenches. No mercy, no quarter given by either side. No wonder they wanted to get home even if their town or village was occupied by the Allies. Anything might seem safer than under the Russian heel.

Silver muttered, "Ere it comes!' He thumped his palms together so that Lowes jumped with alarm.

Marriott raised his glasses and watched the first hint of daylight touch the sea, to create a margin between sky and water.

Suppose there was no ship? Marriott moved the glasses very slowly, his legs straddled against the slow roll. He knew he was hoping the sea would be empty.

Refugees.
His mind lingered on the word. Right from the start of the war he had seen them, mostly on the cinema newsreels, all sorts of nationalities, and yet sharing the same despair and fear. Pinched faces peering at the sky, dreading the banshee scream of Stuka dive-bombers or the rattle of machine-gun fire as crowded roads were torn into bloody havoc. To create fear and to demoralise as well as to delay a defending army. French, Norwegian, Greek, Polish – the list seemed endless. Even the road always looked the same. Pathetic farm wagons loaded with small possessions, the old and the sick, and of course the children.

Now the Germans were learning the same brutal lesson. So why should he care?

More sunlight now, pale and watery, spilling over the sea's edge to make it shimmer, to discover some colour for the first time.
A fine day.

He heard Lowes remark, 'We
should
have radar. We'd soon find it then.'

Nobody answered. All the hands on the crowded bridge had said or thought the same thing many times. When it had really mattered.

Marriott bit his lip. They had always been at the wrong end of the queue. Like the minesweepers, they had been expected to
feel
their way.

He stiffened as his glasses settled on something black and solid. Silver had seen it too. It was the island of Bornholm where the Germans had threatened to hold out to the last man. But they had not. How close it looked.

Marriott said, 'Go round the boat, Pilot. Check each action station.' He added as if speaking to all of them, 'This is not a drill.'

Lowes bustled away, pleased to be doing something so important.

Marriott said, 'He's right, of course.' His words reformed the link between them and Fairfax moved closer. 'If there is anyone else hanging around it would be nice to know.'

'Ship, sir!
Bearing Green four-five!'

They all craned forward, every pair of binoculars training on the bearing.

Marriott said between his teeth, 'Good work, Rae.' The starboard machine-gunner had eyes like a cat. He was a veteran, one of 801's original company, and had used his eyesight to full advantage many times. Even now he was swinging his twin three-oh-three machine-guns towards the far-off blur which had suddenly become framed against the strengthening sunlight.

Marriott held his breath and tried again. It must be the
Ronsis.
He could just distinguish the old-fashioned straight stem and solitary funnel. He could even see the thick trail of smoke which seemed to be resting on the water. There was only the tiniest hint of white at her bows. She might even be stopped.

'Switch on navigation lights.' Marriott had ordered them to be kept shut off when they had first stopped at Adair's request. After hearing the high-speed engines he had decided to leave the boat in darkness. Now, even in the growing daylight, the navigation lamps seemed unnaturally bright.

Fairfax said, 'She's not showing any lights, sir.'

Would you?
Aloud he said, 'Prepare the dinghy for lowering.' He added sharply, 'Not you, Number One. Let Leading Seaman Craven handle it.'

Fairfax hurried to the rear of the bridge, his voice hushed as if he thought the distant ship might hear him. She was a good three miles away. There was no chance she could slip past them, or escape in darkness.

'Increase to half-speed.' Marriott studied the solid silhouette. No response, or sign of life. Maybe... He dismissed the idea and rapped, 'Signal her to heave-to. Tell her who we are.'

The lamp clattered busily and as Fairfax came back Silver called, 'There, now! Like a bleedin' Christmas tree!'

The other vessel had switched on her masthead and navigation lights, while from somewhere beneath her bridge a whole line of scuttles lit up like lanterns.

Then, very slowly, a lamp stammered across the gap between them.

Silver did not bother to use his glasses. 'She's the
Ronsis,
right enough, sir.' He watched the light again. 'I
await your company.'

The seaman named Rae played with the cocking levers on his guns. 'What a pity!'

Marriott glanced at him. A young, homely face you might not even notice in a barracks or a big warship. But Marriott had come to know him well, especially as his action station was here on the bridge. It was an unexpected side to his nature. He had been hoping for a chance to use his guns. Just once more. The wildness was lingering there.
It's still in all of us.

He touched Fairfax's arm. 'When we're close enough I want you to board her.' He tried to make light of it. 'At least we know from the quaint wording of his signal, someone speaks good English, eh?' But relief would not come.

Fairfax nodded, his face no longer in shadow as the weak sunlight explored the bridge fittings and gave personality to the watching figures in their duffel coats and sweaters.

'Right, sir.'

Marriott continued, 'Just find out what you can, but tell the master he must turn back.' He watched the uncertainty and the doubt on Fairfax's face and added, 'There's
nothing
we can do about it.' He turned away, impatient, weary of it. 'I'll go across myself if you can't manage it!' It was unfair, but Fairfax had to understand.

Fairfax retorted, 'I won't let you down, sir.' But he sounded surprised. Hurt.

'Dinghy's ready for lowering, sir!' Any interruption was welcome.

Marriott said, 'Take Craven as your leading-hand, and make sure your party carry Lanchesters.' He added meaningly, 'Get a sidearm for yourself.' He called after him, 'And send Lowes up here, he's not a bloody passenger!'

Evans glanced up from the compass and looked at him but said nothing.

Marriott dropped his voice to exclude all the others. 'I know, Swain, but it's getting to me.'

Evans showed his teeth in a rare smile. 'I expect your first captain shouted at you often enough, sir?' He eased the wheel over again, taking in the slow drift of the other vessel with a practised eye. 'It does no harm.' He gave a shrug. 'It can also save lives.'

Marriott thought of his first captain in the old V & W destroyer. He had barely had the time to get to know him. But his first words when he had joined ship had often returned to his thoughts.

The captain, a two-and-a-half ringer, had observed, 'I've just the two pieces of advice for your stay in my command. Do what you're told, and keep out of my way.'

He had been a small, rugged Scot. Looking back he must have felt that his world was coming to an end as his regular officers were rapidly pared away to be replaced by the
bluidy amateurs,
as he sometimes called the RNVR.

How that had changed, Marriott thought. Now they were all professionals. Or dead.

'Slow ahead.'

The sea noises intruded again as spray dappled the bridge screen and made the six-pounder on the foredeck shine like silver.

Small in shipping terms perhaps, but the old
Ronsis
loomed over them like a rusty cliff. Most of her camouflage paint had been worn or scraped away and her tall side was a mass of dents.

Faces made pale blurs along the bulwark, and a man in a uniform cap had appeared on the bridge wing to peer down at the lithe Fairmile gunboat which dipped and rolled some twenty yards under the coaster's lee.

Fairfax stood by the bridge gate and faltered, one foot in the air. Marriott said, 'Take care, Number One.' Their eyes met. 'I need you around.'

Fairfax nodded and hurried aft, the big webbing holster flapping against his side.

Marriott waited, his eyes on the coaster until the little dinghy appeared around the stern. Thank goodness the sea was light. These little dinghies were not much use in foul weather.

Evans waited for the starboard outer engine to go astern for just enough revolutions to hold the hull parallel with the
Ronsis.

'They're lowering a ladder.' He grunted. 'They dare not make trouble, sir.'

Marriott watched the dinghy grapple to the foot of the narrow – ladder, then Fairfax's slim figure swarming up it with Craven close behind him. Leading Seaman Craven was another hard case. From Birmingham, and yet he had taken well to the navy. Once he had been heard to state that anything was
a sight better than Brum!

A voice came from aft.
''Ship, sir!
Starboard quarter!'

The sea was shining more brightly now and in the reflected glare of the first sunlight it was hardly surprising that the newcomer had arrived unnoticed. Marriott found her in his glasses, conscious that he had his back to the old coaster, cutting himself off from Fairfax and what he was doing.

Lowes exclaimed, 'It's a
small
ship, sir.'

Marriott said sharply, 'Watch the
Ronsis,
Pilot!' He steadied his glasses again. It was just not Lowes's day. 'What d'you make of her, Bunts?'

Silver did not hesitate. 'Torpedo boat, I'd say, sir. I seen one like 'er at Murmansk when I was on the Arctic convoys.' He grimaced. 'Buntin'-tosser in a bloody corvette I was then.' He leaned against the side. 'This one 'as stopped, sir.'

'Call him up. Make our number. My guess is he's the one we heard in the night.'

The Aldis stabbed across the water but there was no reply. The other vessel, so low in the water it was impossible to identify either her shape or markings, stayed where she was. Like a crouching animal.

'Call him up again.'

Lowes shouted, 'It's Number One, sir!'

Marriott turned round and stared up at the rust-streaked bridge. Fairfax had got a megaphone from somewhere and although it distorted his voice his anxiety was obvious.

'They were turned away by the Swedish navy, sir! They've been hiding from Russian patrols.' He gestured violently towards the far-off, black silhouette. 'There's one here already, sir!'

Marriott switched on the loud-hailer. 'Tell the master
he must turn back
and place himself under the control of the Russian commander.'