Brave Company Page 2

  Bells were already sounding throughout the frigate. Russell heard the gun crews hurrying into position. Once more he peered through the binoculars. Who were they? Enemy raiders? Fishermen? Pirates?

  No. He could count them now. Ten … fourteen … nearly twenty people, waving their arms wildly, or clutching the sides of their boat and staring at Taupo as she swept towards them. Most of them were dressed in white. A number of the men were small, Russell saw. No, not men: women. And children.

  ‘About twenty people!’ he shouted down. ‘Men and women and kids. I can’t see—’ He stared again. ‘I can’t see any weapons.’

  An answering call from the bridge. The boat was only a hundred yards away. Taupo had slowed, just crawling through the waves, guns trained on the vessel. It was an old boat, crammed full, everybody including the children waving and calling out now. Russell could hear their pleading voices.

  On deck, the motorised cutter was being swung out, ready for lowering. Six men climbed in, all of them carrying rifles or revolvers. The ship’s doctor, Lieutenant Commander Merrill, was there too. Taupo had drifted to within eighty yards of the other craft where the huddle of people still waved and shouted.

  Captain Moore’s voice boomed through a loud hailer. ‘Does anyone on board speak English? I say again – anyone speak English?’

  The hubbub of voices grew louder. Russell could see people arguing, turning to others. Two of the women held babies. Some little kids gripped adults’ legs.

  Then a man’s voice came. ‘Help! Drink! Help, please!’ The cutter had moved to just twenty yards from the crowded boat. Russell felt Taupo stir slightly, and knew that the frigate’s engines were keeping the refugees’ vessel at a distance.

  On the cutter, rifles were held ready. Lieutenant Commander Merrill lifted up a float with a package in waterproof cloth attached. He pointed at it, called something to the boat. Voices yelled back; arms waved desperately. Some of the children and women were crying. Other people stretched their hands out as if they were begging. Russell tried to imagine people at home carrying on like that. They wouldn’t! The rest of Taupo’s crew stood, watching silently.

  Cutter and refugees had drifted closer together. The frigate’s doctor was still talking. Two of the seamen were lowering other objects into the water, also with floats tied to them. Jerrycans of water, boxes of tinned food. Voices babbled and cried from the other craft.

  Splash! A man was thrashing through the waves towards the cutter. Straight away, the men on the cutter aimed their rifles at him. A woman screamed.

  The man grabbed the side of the cutter and began struggling to haul himself on board. The small launch dipped, and Lieutenant Commander Merrill was shouting at the Korean. Hands seized the flailing man’s wrists, wrenched him away and shoved him back into the water. Another float and waterproof package landed almost on top of him. On the other boat, the same woman was wailing, holding up a tiny child.

  The cutter turned, motor pushing it back towards the frigate. Behind it, the man clung to the float and its package. People on the boat were pulling the other packages and boxes from the sea. A few voices still called out to Taupo. One man yelled and shook his fist. But most of the refugees now stared silently as the cutter was hoisted up and the frigate began to turn away.

  For the next five minutes, Russell watched the white-clad figures dwindle into the distance. For a moment he wondered how long they could survive on the ocean in that boat, then he shrugged. They were probably communists – or cowards running away from things. Just like his uncle.

  It had been the letter from the War Graves Commission that brought Russell the truth about Uncle Trevor. Russell’s Mum didn’t talk about her brother now, and Russell still didn’t know if she realised that he’d found out.

  His mother kept everything about her brother – medals, letters, documents – in one of the drawers of her bedside cabinet. Russell used to love looking at the medals: the Distinguished Service Order with its red and dark-blue ribbon; the Military Cross in purple and white.

  Russell kept a little black-and-white photo of his uncle beside his bed. In it, Uncle Trevor wasn’t in uniform. Instead, he wore his builder’s work clothes and stood grinning at the camera. Russell had been only six when his uncle left for overseas, but he remembered him clearly, painting the kitchen for his mother, doing their vegetable garden, things like that. He and Trevor had played footie on the little back lawn, his uncle pretending to miss tackles so Russell could score a try. He’d wanted to grow up just like Trevor – till he found out what he was really like.

  He hadn’t paid much attention to the letters his uncle had written home. They didn’t really mention the war; just talked about the places he’d been to, and the people he’d met. His mother read Russell bits about Italian kids who were hungry and to whom Uncle Trevor gave as much food and money as he could. Russell wasn’t interested in that sort of stuff; he preferred to imagine Trevor capturing a whole platoon of Germans single-handed, fighting off enemy tanks with his rifle, things like that.

  Anyway, he didn’t need the letters to know the story of his brave uncle. His Mum had told him lots of times. So had other people. And there was the notice in the paper: the faded, creased page that his mother kept in her bedside drawer. Lieutenant Trevor MacKenzie – awarded the Distinguished Service Order for knocking out two German tanks during battles in the North African desert, and the Military Cross for his courage in fierce fighting on the mountain top of Monte Cassino in Italy – was tragically killed when an Allied aircraft mistakenly began bombing its own lines. According to the article, Uncle Trevor had climbed out into the open, waving a Union Jack. The aircraft had quickly wheeled away, but the shrapnel from one last bomb hit the young officer as he stood, still holding the flag.

  That was what Russell believed, till one Saturday afternoon when he was thirteen. It was raining and he was bored; his mother had just popped over next door, and he went to take out the two medals to look at again.

  This time, the clasp of the Military Cross caught on something, and when Russell looked, there at the very back of the drawer was an envelope, folded over and wedged between the drawer’s bottom and side. A brown envelope with a government crown on it.

  The envelope wasn’t sealed, so he took out the sheet of paper inside, expecting it to be another letter about Italian kids. But it was typewritten, and headed WAR GRAVES COMMISSION, and it told Mrs Ena Purchas that the commission regretted it was unable to supply any information about the burial place of Lieutenant T D MacKenzie. As Mrs Purchas was aware, Lieutenant MacKenzie had been listed as a deserter on 14 March 1944, and a court martial in his absence had been about to begin when he was reported to be hiding among Italian refugees in the countryside, near some place Russell had never heard of. Plans to arrest him were underway when he was killed, apparently during a bombardment by retreating enemy forces. The commission was also unable to …

  For two – three minutes maybe, Russell stood, holding the letter. The afternoon was wet and dark, but the words seemed to blaze from the paper: ‘deserter … court martial … hiding’. His uncle wasn’t a hero after all. He was a coward who’d run away, a traitor who’d hid. Russell felt himself shuddering as he understood.

  The front gate clicked, and he knew his mother was coming back. He slipped the letter back into its envelope and pushed it, with the medals, back into the drawer. He never went near the bedside cabinet again, except for two days later when he grabbed the photo from by his bed and shoved that in the drawer as well.

  He never said anything to his mother about what he’d found. But that afternoon, he made up his mind what he was going to do. And on the day of his fifteenth birthday, he told her he was enlisting in the navy.

  Three

  Russell slept hard that night, as Taupo sailed northwards. On his first times at sea, training in the cruiser Bellona, every footstep on deck or wire rattling against the funnel, every little lift or drop as the ship chopped through high waves, had him
sitting up in his bunk. Now he could sleep through a storm; had done exactly that when a typhoon threatened as they approached Hong Kong.

  It was early morning when he woke. He knew it from the grey light coming through the high porthole. Voices were calling outside, in a language he didn’t recognise. Three deep blasts from a ship’s klaxon sounded somewhere astern; another blared from the starboard side.

  He was dressed and up on deck as fast as he could move. He gasped as he came out into the open. Taupo was creeping along between two walls of ships. Dozens of them: lean grey destroyers; big dirty tankers; cargo ships of every shape and size. Motorboats and launches hurried across the narrow strip of water.

  Russell gasped again as he saw two submarines, low and sinister, tied up to the wharves that held the other vessels. The stars and stripes of the US fluttered from their conning towers. One destroyer flew the Union Jack. Another – no, a cruiser, with long, lethal-looking guns – had the red, white and blue stripes of France. Flags had been part of his basic training, and now he began to recognise others: the Canadian maple leaf; the green, yellow and red of Ethiopia.

  PO Lucas smiled as Russell passed by. ‘Morning, young Purchas. Welcome to Kure, one of the busiest ports in Japan. That’s your morning geography lesson.’

  ‘Look, sir!’ Russell pointed as a towering grey steel wall crept into view. ‘An aircraft carrier! An American one!’

  The petty officer smiled again. ‘The Valley Forge. She carries Sabre jet fighters. There’s been some amazing dogfights between them and the Chinese MiGs, I hear.’

  Russell watched as Taupo crawled up to its mooring, next to an Australian minesweeper. I hope I see a dogfight sometime, he told himself. I can’t wait.

  But there were no fights of any sort during the two days the New Zealand warship was in Kure – except over who had second helpings of the fresh fruit. They took on oil, provisions and ammunition. Gear was cleaned (Russell had to do a lot of polishing). Decks and mess rooms were tidied (Russell had to do a lot of scrubbing). On either side, cranes swung heavy crates aboard other vessels, and Japanese wharf workers toiled up and down gangways, loading or unloading cargos. ‘Those Japs aren’t afraid of work,’ Noel said.

  The city of Hiroshima was only twenty miles away, but was off limits to anyone on shore leave. After six years there were still warnings about radioactivity in the ground from the atomic bomb dropped by the Americans.

  ‘They’re talking about using another bomb like that if more Chinese invade Korea,’ said a voice in the mess one night – the tattooed seaman: O’Brien, Russell had heard people calling him. ‘God Almighty, that Hiroshima one killed seventy thousand!’ Someone started arguing, saying that the atomic bombs had saved the lives of thousands of Allied soldiers in World War II. Russell couldn’t decide who was right.

  On the second afternoon, Blue Watch was given four hours’ shore leave. Russell dressed in his white bell-bottomed trousers, tunic with blue neck tabs, and white flat-topped cap with HMNZS TAUPO in gold letters on the hatband. ‘We’ll keep an eye on you,’ said Kingi as he, Russell and Noel started along the wharf. ‘Don’t want any Japanese girls taking you home for a souvenir.’ Russell felt his face go hot.

  They ate rice and vegetables of some sort in a stall by the roadside. The food tasted weird, but good. Men, women, even little kids kept coming up to their table, trying to sell them postcards, bottles of rice wine, straw hats, wooden carvings. ‘Cheap! Most cheap! You England? Australia? New Zealand! Ah – Kee-wee!’

  Russell had never seen so many Asian people in his life. There were only a couple of Chinese families in his town back home. The Japanese looked … strange, he decided.

  Kingi and Noel bought a few things from the eager, shabbily dressed sellers. ‘They need the money,’ Kingi grunted. Russell felt too shy to ask for anything, but later, when they were wandering down a skinny street of shops packed with bright clothes and paintings on bamboo and voices calling, ‘Hey, Yan-kee! Pom-my! Aus-sie! Kee-wee!’ he bought a small wooden carving of a water buffalo for his mother. Then he chose one of a dragon that he might send to Graham to show him the amazing places that life in the navy took you to.

  The woman who served him was wrapping the little carvings in old newspaper when someone came through from the dark back of the shop. A girl, with short black hair. About the same age as him, Russell guessed, in baggy blue trousers and top. As she reached the front of the shop, where a bare light bulb burned, he stared. One side of her face was covered with puckered, pink ridges of scars.

  The woman saw Russell’s expression and shook her head. ‘My daughter. She burn from bomb.’ The girl watched the young New Zealand sailor and said nothing.

  Taupo sailed the following morning. Her crew lined the deck, standing at ease along the rails on both sides.

  As the frigate slid down Kure Harbour, ships on either side sounded their klaxons. From a British cruiser, voices calling three cheers – ‘Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!’ – floated across the water. Russell felt as though he’d suddenly grown six inches taller.

  That afternoon, as they nosed into the Korea Strait, Captain Moore opened his orders, and told the crew their first mission of the war.

  The crew members not on-duty were assembled on the deck. From the moment they’d reached the open sea, Taupo had been sailing a zigzag course. ‘So any enemy submarines trying to follow us get giddy and give up,’ Kingi told Russell.

  ‘Crew, atten-shun!’ PO Lucas saluted as the captain appeared. The warship’s commanding officer returned the salute, and stood the ranks of sailors at ease.

  ‘Right, men.’ His eyes scanned the faces in front of him. ‘We’re finally here, and we’re ready to do what we’ve all trained for. You know that Tutira, Rotoiti and Pukaki have been here before us. You know we’ve got the artillery boys of 16 Field Regiment ashore. They’ve all done our country proud, and I’m sure you’ll do the same.’

  Russell stood, drinking in his commanding officer’s every word. This was what he’d enlisted for. This was where he began showing the rest of Taupo and people back home what he could do.

  The captain paused. He looked again at the ranks of men. ‘Our first job is to be a spotter for one of the UN forces’ battleships. They’re going to cut enemy supply lines, and we’ll be close to shore, reporting on the fall of shell. It’s a chance for every one of you to prove your skills.’

  Another pause. ‘I want you to remember something else, too. We’re here to help bring peace. Yes, we intend to show the communist invaders, the North Koreans and Chinese and anyone else, that they can’t get away with what they’ve done. But it’s the people who’ve lost their homes, the million refugees, who matter most. We’re here to help bring their lives back. You should feel proud of that. Thank you, Petty Officer. Dismiss the men.’

  In the mess later, some of the older seamen began talking about the other New Zealand ships. ‘Rotoiti put a couple of observation parties ashore, and they captured a few North Koreans. Then a whole lot of commies came after them, and the Rotoiti boys had to get away down a cliff. One of them had his rifle slung across his back; a bullet hit it and ricocheted off. Talk about lucky!’

  That’s what I want to do, Russell knew as he listened. I want to do something brave like that.

  Then he heard the tattooed O’Brien saying, ‘Hope that battleship doesn’t fire any drop-shorts.’ The AB saw Russell’s puzzled expression and chuckled. ‘Shells that don’t land where they’re meant to, lad. Especially ones that fall short of the target, and hit some poor civilian sod – or us.’

  That night, Russell wrote to his mother and Graham. He’d promised his mum a letter every week, though there was no telling when mail would reach New Zealand. He knew he mustn’t say where they were or what they were doing, but he told them both about the weather, the others on board and being in port. For Graham, he described the warships in Kure Harbour, but he didn’t mention the burned girl to either of them. Before he turned
into his bunk, he looked at the tiny, careful carvings of the water buffalo and dragon. Maybe he’d see a real buffalo while he was in Korea. Then he was asleep.

  Bells woke him. Bells in the dark, clamouring through the ship, and the speakers calling, ‘Action Stations! Action Stations!’ Beside him in the bunkroom, men were jerking to their feet, blinking as the lights came on, grabbing clothes and sea boots, jostling for the ladder.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Russell demanded, as he hauled himself up, close behind Noel. ‘Don’t know!’ gasped the young seaman. ‘Hope it’s not the Chinese Navy!’

  As they tumbled out on deck, rushing for their posts, Taupo’s searchlight suddenly glared on, blinding them for a second as it swept across the black water. Just as the beam stopped, Russell saw it: a boat, a bit bigger than the refugees’ vessel, only fifty yards away. Men on it were scrambling and staring. One of them grabbed something, holding it up to point at the frigate. A rifle! They’d run into an enemy raiding party.

  Then someone’s voice shouted. ‘It’s a fish! A bloody fish!’ So it was, Russell realised. A long silver shape that the Korean man frantically kept waving so the warship could see. Others beside him lifted up more fish, yelling what must be the Korean for ‘Don’t shoot!’

  Laughter spread along Taupo’s deck. ‘Wonder if the captain will put it in the log?’ someone said. ‘Attacked by enemy with fins and tails.’ The frigate sailed on. Its searchlight stayed trained on the fishing boat till it had dwindled to a darker patch on the dark waves. ‘That’s war for you, Russ.’ Kingi was still laughing as they returned below deck. ‘Just one weird thing after another.’

  Mid-morning. Cloudy skies of light grey, with a darker band along the horizon. Russell kept yawning as he scraped paint from the rail he was working on. He pulled himself upright and saluted as Lieutenant Commander Merrill appeared beside him.