Brave Company Page 5

  Noel nudged him. The artillery sergeant was speaking again, looking hard at Russell. ‘I know you, don’t I, son? Where have you and I met before?’

  Seven

  Russell blinked. ‘Don’t know, sir – Sergeant.’ He gazed at the artillery NCO, felt sure he’d never seen the man before today.

  ‘They turn them out by the dozen at HMNZS Tamaki,’ said O’Brien. ‘It’s like a factory: boy seamen all come out looking the same.’

  The sergeant was still staring at Russell. ‘Well, you certainly remind me of someone I know, son. Maybe you’ve got a double.’

  ‘God forbid! One Boy Seaman Purchas is all we want.’ Russell, who’d begun to realise that O’Brien wasn’t always – couldn’t be, surely? – as sour as his words, just grinned.

  They drew themselves up straight as Major Davies and PO Ralston returned. ‘Those supplies are going to find a good home,’ the artillery officer told them. ‘I’ll get a few of our fellows to help you move them. Many thanks, Petty Officer.’

  ‘Sir.’ PO Ralston saluted. ‘All right, lads. Let’s get this unloaded.’ Soon, the supply party was carrying the boxes of small-arms ammunition and crates of food to bunkers and the cookhouse tent where Koreans and New Zealanders were peeling potatoes, chopping firewood, cutting up what Russell realised was a goat.

  ‘What’s it been like up here?’ Noel asked one of the gunners, as they heaved a metal box of .303 ammunition into a timber-lined pit. Just ahead of them, the gun barrels rose, thick, gleaming, sinister.

  Russell, still wondering who the sergeant had mistaken him for, took a moment to hear what the soldier was saying. ‘… nothing much for the last week here. We were busy before then, though. They had us further up, near the front lines, and the Chinese put in an attack on a Turkish brigade, just half a mile ahead of us. We were laying down fire on them right up to the Turkish trenches. It was touch and go for a while.’

  ‘They fight like crazy men,’ said Noel. ‘That’s what people say.’

  The gunner nodded. ‘The Yanks had a battery of howitzers even closer than we were. They had the barrels right down and were blasting at them as fast as they could load the shells. The commies still kept coming. We’re lucky they don’t have the guns and tanks our side has. We’d be in real strife if they did.’

  ‘We saw some tanks while we were coming up here,’ Russell said. ‘American ones.’

  ‘They tried using them against a couple of those infantry attacks,’ the soldier told him. ‘The Chinese and North Koreans climbed onto them and hung on the gun barrel till the tank couldn’t move it. Yanks had to drive through walls or thick bushes to knock them off. They ended up calling in air strikes. Needed napalm to make the commies retreat.’

  ‘Napalm?’ asked Noel.

  ‘Petroleum jelly,’ the gunner said. ‘They drop it like bombs. It explodes and flies everywhere; sets fire to everything it touches.’ He shook his head. ‘Hell of a way to die.’

  It took them half an hour to carry and stack everything they’d brought from Taupo. Russell’s arms and shoulders ached from helping lift the heavy ammunition boxes. A meal was waiting in the cookhouse when they finished. Smiling Korean civilians handed them mess tins as they filed past. It may have been goat, but it smelt and tasted good. So did the cabbagey stuff and white noodles that came with it.

  ‘You blokes are pretty well set up here,’ PO Ralston said, when Taupo’s supply party and the gunners were seated at a scrubbed trestle table.

  The sergeant with the London accent – Sergeant Barnett, Russell remembered – nodded. ‘We’re lucky. No problems so far.’ He paused, glanced at Russell. ‘The Canadians back down the road a bit, they found a mass grave when they were moving in.’

  The supply party stopped eating and stared at him. ‘Thirty or forty bodies,’ he said. ‘All in civilian clothes. No way of telling who did it: North and South Koreans both kill people they think might be helping the other side. The Canadian blokes said there were a couple of women who started screaming and crying: reckoned their mother was one of the dead. They could tell by a jacket she had on.’ The sergeant shrugged. ‘Poor devils. They just want to be left alone. It’s like the last war. The civilians get knocked around by everybody.’

  Russell sat watching the Koreans working around the fire where big pots steamed. One woman’s left hand was red and twisted, mottled with burn scars. He thought of the girl he’d seen in Japan.

  They ate till they were full. They ate till they were over-full. The Korean workers smiled and kept ladling more food into their mess tins. ‘Boy, oh boy,’ Noel sighed. ‘I’ve eaten so much, I’ll sink the ship when I get back on.’

  As they came out of the cookhouse, a thwacking, shuddering sound made them peer up. Two helicopters, big olive-painted dragonflies with machine-guns poking from their open side doors, slid past. Excitement rose in Russell once again.

  A couple of Koreans trudged by, carrying one of the big pots of food between them. From a jumble of planks and nailed-on sacks that Russell now realised were huts, half a dozen kids came running to meet them, calling and chattering.

  ‘Hey!’ Noel reached into his pocket and held out a half-eaten bar of chocolate, ‘Here. Take it.’

  The nearest child, a girl of about six, stood still, staring longingly. One of the men carrying the pot spoke to her; she dashed forwards, seized the chocolate and rushed away. ‘Thank,’ said the Korean man. ‘We thank.’

  The others from Taupo began digging into pockets and packs, pulling out sweets, pencils, matches, passing them to eager hands. Russell only had a handkerchief. He hesitated, made sure it was clean, then held it out to another, even smaller girl. She didn’t grab. She came shyly forwards and took the handkerchief, then held Russell’s hand for a moment, dark eyes gazing up at him. Her nose was small and neat; her cheeks round. Just like … just any other kid, really.

  ‘Let’s be having you!’ PO Ralston called from the lorry. ‘Captain wants us back on board before dark.’

  The artillery major came hurrying up. There were salutes and handshakes all round. ‘Be another load coming up sometime,’ the petty officer said, as they clambered into the back of the lorry. ‘Probably not for a while, though.’

  Sergeant Barnett nodded. ‘Next time we’ll give you a guided tour of the front lines.’ He gazed at Russell again. ‘Why am I sure I’ve met you before?’

  The trip back was quicker. And bumpier. And colder.

  It was quicker because they were headed downhill much of the time, and no longer had their cargo. It was bumpier because without the weight of supplies to hold the lorry down, it bounced from rut to bump to pothole. They gripped seats, struts, one another to avoid being slung around. ‘Must be an Australian truck,’ someone complained. ‘It goes like a kangaroo!’ And it was colder because the late-autumn sun had already slid down behind the ridges. Soon they were rubbing hands together and stamping feet on the metal bed of the lorry. Blankets were hauled from packs and pulled around shoulders.

  Russell found himself watching the countryside again. More white-walled farmhouses, with tiled or thatched roofs. Near one, a cow stood peacefully in a pond. Not a cow; it was too big, with wide shoulders and long horns. ‘Water buffalo,’ a voice said.

  So I’ve seen a real one after all, Russell thought. He hoped his mother would get the little wooden one before long. He suddenly wished he’d told her and Graham about the girl with the burned face after all; given them an idea of what it was like to be a war victim. He blinked: what was he thinking? They didn’t want to know stuff like that.

  Rows of tiny green vegetables stood in fields of brown earth. The truck slowed to crawl around a big crater. ‘See that?’ O’Brien pointed at a flat stretch of ground where kids were kicking a soccer ball, shouting and cheering. For a few moments, Russell almost forgot he was in a country at war.

  Then came another thwacking and grumbling, and three more helicopters passed overhead. When Russell glanced back at the soccer game, the kids
had all scattered. They stood pressed up against trees or the sides of barns, staring upwards at the disappearing aircraft.

  The broken, burned buildings of the town reappeared. Another few kangaroo hops over another few potholes, and the lorry ground to a halt near the wrecked wharf. The Korean driver gave them a thumbs up through his grimy rear window.

  ‘Enjoy the ride, lads?’ PO Ralston smirked as they climbed down, cold and stiff, folding up blankets to lay on their packs. ‘You’ll be back on Taupo soon. Nice hot cup of navy tea.’

  Figures were already around them, reaching for their gear but without the supplies there was little need for help. Russell glimpsed the boy who’d carried his pack that morning being shoved aside by a man. He watched, not sure what to do.

  PO Ralston was calling to him. ‘Boy Seaman Purchas? Nip across and see if the cutter’s there. And don’t you fall off the wharf before we get back. One idiot seaman in a day is enough.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Russell felt glad to be free of the scrum. He jogged over to the wharf, skirting a section where smashed timber and twisted steel hung into the sea. Nothing tied up below. No sign of … then a voice shouted ‘Ahoy! Taupo party!’ and he saw the cutter heading towards him. Two hundred yards beyond it, the frigate lay at anchor, other ships scattered around it on the cold grey water.

  Russell raised a hand to the cutter, then turned to head back to the others. The Koreans were already hurrying towards him, carrying the gear. Russell saw his pack. But where was—

  Then he glimpsed the boy, slipping away towards the nearest group of smashed buildings. His head was down. Russell’s blanket was tucked under one arm, half-concealed under his thin white shirt.

  ‘Hey!’ The boy jerked around at the shout. He saw Russell staring. Instantly he was running, sprinting for a skinny alley twenty yards in front.

  Before he knew it, Russell took off after him, stumbling for a moment on the broken ground, then rushing towards the escaping thief. Heads turned to follow him as he shot past. Over to one side, PO Ralston called out. A couple of patrolling Korean soldiers had appeared around the corner of a building.

  Russell was gaining on the young Korean. The fleeing figure snatched a look behind him, then disappeared into the alley. ‘Stop!’ yelled a voice that Russell didn’t recognise. He sprinted harder. No way was that thief going to—

  ‘Stop!’ He took no notice. Then Blam! A shot echoed off the walls in front of him. Russell skidded to a stop. The two Korean soldiers charged towards him, guns pointing. ‘Stop!’ one shouted again. Behind them, also yelling, PO Ralston pelted across the ground.

  ‘Who?’ One of the Koreans jabbed a finger at Russell. ‘Who?’ Both still had their guns trained on him. Russell felt his skin crawl.

  Then the Red Watch PO arrived. ‘It’s all right,’ he panted to the guards. ‘United Nations. New Zealand. Kiwi.’

  The soldiers glared, but lowered their guns. PO Ralston, still going ‘Kiwi. United Nations. New Zealand’, led Russell away. Taupo’s boy seaman realised he was shaking.

  ‘Where’s your brains, lad!’ the petty officer hissed. ‘There could have been anyone waiting down that alley. Those blokes were just stopping you for your own good.’

  ‘He stole my blanket, sir,’ Russell heard himself babbling as they reached the rest of the supply party. ‘I saw him. He stole it.’

  ‘I know.’ The PO nodded. ‘No need to make a song and dance about it. It’s not your fault.’

  O’Brien, thick tattooed arms folded, was gazing at the alley where the boy had disappeared. ‘Not his fault, either,’ he muttered.

  They’re thieves, Russell told himself as he waited to climb down into the cutter. Thieves who steal and run away. Cowards who won’t stand and fight. No wonder my uncle ended up hiding among people like them.

  Eight

  Russell had to fill in three forms next morning about his stolen blanket. ‘The navy likes to have blanket coverage,’ joked Quartermaster Katene.

  Taupo was already well out to sea. They’d weighed anchor as soon as the supply party returned. Once again, they seemed to be steaming in circles. Once again, they’d had first aid training: how to take a person’s pulse; how to make someone start breathing again by laying them on their front, then pressing over and over again on their back. And once again, Russell was scraping off old paint, this time from the davits where lifeboats hung.

  It was cold. Even inside the work gloves the quartermaster had issued him, his hands felt chilled. Blue Watch had all worn jerseys when they did PT on deck earlier, and now Russell was wearing heavy trousers, woollen singlet, woollen shirt, woollen jersey, woollen hat. He scraped at the flaking white paint as hard as he could, to try and stay warm.

  A pale mist lay on the sea, where slow swells kept the frigate lifting and dropping. It looked like smoke, almost as if the ocean was on fire.

  ‘Water’s warmer than the air, lad,’ PO Lucas said as he passed. ‘So it gives off steam, just like when you breathe.’ Russell brushed away a speck of paint that landed on his cheek, went to flick another from his nose, then stopped. It wasn’t paint. Thin flecks of snow were drifting down, melting as soon as they settled on the deck.

  He gazed at the tiny shapes as they spiralled towards the grey sea. This was amazing! But by the time his watch ended two hours later, the thin snow had changed to thin rain, and he was glad to get below.

  Snow and rain were both gone by the next morning. The mist wasn’t. Nor was the cold. All over the ship, men stamped feet and thumped hands together as they moved around. The ocean swells were deeper and slower. ‘Bad weather coming,’ muttered O’Brien.

  Blue Watch went on duty just after lunch. ‘Boy Seaman Purchas?’ called PO Lucas. ‘Lookout. Crow’s-nest. Look lively, there.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  As he climbed the ladder that took him up the mast, Russell knew Taupo was moving differently – not just rising and dipping, but starting to pitch from side to side as the swells swung past. Just as well he never got seasick: there were sailors on the frigate who ended up spewing over the rails every time the sea got rough.

  He’d just reached the crow’s-nest when Commander Yates called. ‘Purchas? We’re expecting company soon. An aircraft carrier and a few others. Don’t worry: they’re friendly ones. Keep your eyes peeled.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Russell still felt ashamed when he thought of how he’d forgotten to call down his report while he watched that village burn nearly two weeks back. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again. He lifted his binoculars.

  Just ten minutes later, he saw it. A grey shape sliding out of the thinning mist on the port bow. A frigate, almost the same as Taupo. The number 98 on its funnel, in huge black letters.

  ‘Frigate! 320 degrees, 500 yards.’ To his pleasure, his voice rang out a full second ahead of the bow lookout. An answering hail came from the bridge.

  Another three minutes; another shape. Larger this time, lean and powerful. A destroyer. No sign of the aircraft carrier. Where—?

  The mist on the starboard side darkened. A great grey wall seemed to form. Even as Russell opened his mouth, the carrier emerged, its superstructure of masts and bridge appearing suddenly, then the enormous slab of hull. It was still a hundred yards away, yet it seemed to loom over Taupo and the others. How could anyone ever fight that? Russell wondered.

  The three US ships and Taupo slowed till they were almost stationary. The white curves of foam at their bows died away, and they stopped. Russell could feel the frigate’s engines still throbbing.

  ‘Cutter!’ a voice called.

  Russell gazed down at where the small launch was already being readied on its davits. A figure strode across the deck towards it, and the cutter’s crew snapped to attention. Captain Moore, in full uniform, shoulder epaulettes gleaming gold, medal ribbons, braided cap level on his head, climbed aboard. Thirty seconds later, the cutter was heading in a curve towards the huge wall of the airc
raft carrier. Launches from the other two warships were doing the same.

  At the end of Russell’s watch in the crow’s-nest the cutter still hadn’t returned. ‘What are they doing over there?’ Russell asked as he headed below.

  Kingi grinned. ‘Well, Russ, if we wait just a couple of years till they make you an admiral, you’ll be able to tell us.’

  By the time Blue Watch went for dinner, the cutter still hadn’t returned. The rain had.

  Russell heard the clanking of davits and the whirring of cables as he lay on his bunk writing to his mother. (He’d told her about taking supplies to the artillery; he’d begun telling her about the sergeant who seemed to know him, then for some reason he screwed that page up.) They must have had a lot to talk about on the carrier, he thought. I wonder what it’s like to be on something that huge. Be amazing to see the planes take off and land.

  He’d just finished the letter when bells rang distantly, down in the engine room, and Taupo began to move. He jumped as the intercom on the wall crackled.

  ‘This is your captain speaking.’ Russell realised he’d come to attention where he lay on his bunk. He glanced sideways, hoping nobody had seen him. They were all listening to the intercom. Phew.

  ‘It’s late and it’s raining, so I’m not calling a muster,’ Captain Moore went on. ‘I want you to know that we’re starting a different kind of mission.’ Kingi’s words about ‘just one weird thing after another’ flicked into Russell’s mind for a moment, then he concentrated. ‘We’ll be entering the estuary of the Han River soon after daybreak. There are enemy forces north of the river; we and other UN ships and aircraft will be engaging them. It’s another chance to show what we can do, and I know you’ll be on your toes. That’s all.’

  Russell slept. He hadn’t expected to; he’d felt sure the thought of the next day would keep him awake. But just a few minutes after Kingi had started to snore (‘I don’t snore! I just sing in my sleep!’), he’d heard himself breathing regularly as well. Some time after that, he woke briefly to feel himself pressed against the side of his bunk as Taupo came around onto a new course. Voices called on deck; feet moved. They must have full lookouts up there still, Russell decided. He tried to listen, see if he could work out where they were heading, but his blankets were too warm.