Brave Company

by Hill, David

  David Hill

  BRAVE COMPANY

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Contents

  Map

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Glossary

  My Brother’s War

  See Ya, Simon

  Coming Back

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  BRAVE COMPANY

  David Hill is an award-winning writer who lives in New Plymouth. His novels, stories and plays for young adults have been published in eight different countries.

  For Cam Murray:

  a friend for fifty years

  KOREA, 1951

  One

  ‘Enemy – range 900 yards and closing! Bearing 125 degrees. Prepare to fire!’

  Captain Moore’s voice crackled from the gun-turret speaker. Boy Seaman Russell Purchas clutched one of the big bolts on the turret’s steel wall, and waited. His shoulders felt tight; his heart beat harder.

  ‘900 yards! Bearing 125!’ As Petty Officer Lucas repeated the words, Russell sensed HMNZS Taupo surge forwards in the water. He held harder to the bolt. Just five feet in front of him, Leading Hand Kingi Patu spun a wheel, and the frigate’s four-inch gun swivelled to the right. Beside Kingi, another seaman stood, feet wide apart as the warship dipped and rose, a new shell cradled in his arms.

  ‘Ready!’ PO Lucas’s call rang through the turret’s metal chamber. Russell felt the others brace, as they’d done so often at training. He tried to imagine an enemy, just half a mile away across the Pacific Ocean, getting closer with every second.

  ‘800 yards!’ The captain’s voice again. PO Lucas turned a handle, and the gun barrel lowered slightly. ‘800 yards,’ he repeated. ‘Ready!’

  ‘Fire!’

  The moment Captain Moore spoke, Russell let go of the bolt, and clamped both hands to his ears.

  BLAM!

  The sound was like twenty sledgehammers hitting iron. The whole turret rang with the din. Russell glimpsed flakes of grey paint falling from the steel walls. The gun recoiled, Kingi wrenched open the breech and the sour smell of burned gunpowder filled the air. A second wrench from Kingi and the empty brass casing went clanging and smoking across the floor. Russell sprang forwards and seized it in his gloved hands, feeling the metal’s heat even through the thick material. He dropped it in the steel bin at one side of the turret. The other seaman, unrecognisable under his canvas anti-flash hood, was already sliding the next round into the breech.

  ‘Over by 20 yards!’ The captain sounded calm but tight with concentration. Taupo was already wheeling to starboard, changing course to confuse any guns preparing to shoot back at them. ‘Range 700. Bearing 90 degrees. Prepare to fire!’

  The barrel swung back to the left, and lowered a fraction more. PO Lucas hunched over dials and buttons. ‘700 yards. Bearing 90.’ Then, ‘Ready!’

  ‘Fire!’

  Again Russell rammed hands against ears. Again the gun bellowed and recoiled. Arms bent, clutched, levered. Inside three seconds, the empty shell-case was in its bin, and a third shell in the breech. Captain Moore began to call: ‘Short by 30 yar—’

  The voice of the 2-i-c, Commander Yates, burst from the speaker, quick and urgent. ‘Mine! Mine 100 yards ahead. Port side.’

  Captain Moore’s command came instantly. ‘Starboard 30!’ Again Taupo heeled over, more sharply than before. The gun crew stood still, gripping the nearest handholds. Russell felt his breath catch. A mine, packed with high explosives – the slightest touch and it could blast a hole in the warship’s side. His ears strained, listening for the scrape against the hull that could mean his last moments.

  Then Commander Yates called again. ‘Clear! Mine astern!’

  The frigate’s captain cut in almost before the last word was finished. ‘700 yards. Bearing 60 degrees. Prepare to fire!’

  ‘700 yards. Bearing 60.’ The gun crew crouched. The barrel swung. ‘Ready!’

  ‘Fire!’

  A third explosion boomed through the turret. This time, Russell felt sure he heard the whistle of the shell as it flashed through the air. They stood poised, waiting.

  ‘Hit!’ Two voices at once. ‘Confirmed. Hit confirmed!’

  Whoops and grins from everyone. Kingi smacked PO Lucas on the shoulder, then remembered suddenly and went ‘Sorry, sir’. But the petty officer just said, ‘Good work, lads. Top effort.’ The other seaman was carefully sliding the shell he held back into its rack.

  ‘Hoods off,’ PO Lucas ordered. Gratefully, they all pulled the stifling canvas from their shoulders and heads. Russell saw that the man handling the shells was Able Seaman Johnson – or was it Johansen? In the four weeks he’d been on board, he’d managed to learn half the names of Taupo’s hundred crew.

  Captain Moore’s voice came from the turret speaker again. ‘That’s one enemy rubbish-tin confirmed sunk. Well done, gun crew. A good practice. Let’s make sure we do it just as well when we get to Korea and it’s the real thing. Stand down.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ PO Lucas turned to the others. ‘All right, lads. Secure the gun.’

  The breech was swabbed with hot water. The barrel was lowered and locked. ‘How about that mine, sir?’ Kingi asked. The petty officer grinned. ‘They’ll send a boat to pick it up. We don’t want any pink-painted fishing floats littering the ocean. Might frighten the whales.’ He turned to Russell. ‘So, Boy Seaman Purchas, what did you think of that?’

  Russell brought his feet together so he was standing to attention. His ears were still ringing, and the smell of gunpowder still filled his nose. ‘It … it was amazing, sir.’

  The PO nodded. ‘Just remember: next time it could be a North Korean gunboat, or even a Chinese invasion fleet. We need to stay on our toes. All right, you can sweep out.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ As the petty officer left the turret, Russell sighed. This was one thing about the navy that wasn’t amazing: all the sweeping and scrubbing and cleaning. As a boy seaman, the youngest person on board, he had to do a lot of it. He reached for the heavy broom.

  Kingi stuck his head back through the door. ‘Special treat for you. When you’ve finished doing that, you can polish my boots.’

  ‘You—’ Russell lifted the broom to throw it at Kingi. The leading hand’s chuckle faded along the deck outside. Russell started sweeping. In spite of the boring job, he was still fizzing with excitement. How many other sixteen-year-olds had seen and heard what he just had?

  He thought of his friend Graham back home, halfway through his electrician’s apprenticeship. Fancy wanting to do that for a living, when you could be in the navy! Yeah, this was amazing, all right. In fact, it couldn’t be better. Had his Uncle Trevor felt this way during the battles he’d fought in? No … no, he didn’t want to think about him.

  Thirty minutes later he stood by the rail watching the deep blue-green of the Pacific as Taupo sliced steadily northward. Everything was quiet now; just the hiss of water along the sides, and the throb – a feeling in his body rather than a sound – of the engines deep below. The frigate’s cutter had been hoisted back on board, and the big pink-painted fishing float stored in a locker. Someone had painted MINE on one of its pink sides, above a skull-and-crossbones. Someone else had painted All right, yours in smaller letters underneath. Russell wondered if it was Kingi.

  The weather was
warmer now. It still seemed weird, leaving New Zealand in spring and sailing up into the northern hemisphere’s autumn. Russell didn’t mind. They’d spent three weeks off the coast of New South Wales, training with Australian warships, and the late September winds had been freezing. So had the September Tasman Sea, as Taupo butted through heavy waves that broke and surged across the deck, sending icy spray flying in front of them. He’d felt glad when they’d started heading north.

  And now, finally, they were just a few days away from Japan. They’d take on oil, supplies and ammunition there. Then it was Korea and the – he still swallowed when he thought of it – the war.

  Fighting in the small Asian country had been raging for nearly a year now. During his first months of training, Russell learned how in June 1950, communist North Korea invaded the South with tanks and infantry, the South’s army retreating before the advance, along with thousands of exhausted, frightened refugees.

  The South Korean forces, along with some US troops, had been pushed back into a tiny area at the very bottom of the country. Then the United Nations began sending reinforcements to help – soldiers, sailors, airmen from countries all across the world, including a New Zealand artillery battery and naval frigates. Suddenly it was the North Koreans who were being hurled back, attacked from land, sea and air. Only four months after they’d invaded, the forces of the North were in retreat, deep inside their own country.

  And then the Chinese had come storming in to help their fellow communists. Hundreds of thousands of Chinese soldiers had streamed across the border into North Korea and thrown themselves into fierce battles against UN forces. Once again the communists advanced, pushing further and further south, while UN airstrikes and bombardments from warships tried to stop them.

  By June 1951, almost exactly a year after it began, the war had become a series of grim struggles along an area close to the original border between Korea’s two halves. Peace talks had started, but didn’t seem to be making much progress.

  Secretly, Russell hoped the war wouldn’t end before he arrived. He wanted to show what he could do. ‘We’ve got to stop those commies,’ he’d heard people saying. ‘Russia and China and North Korea – they’ll take over the whole world if they can.’

  That was one of the reasons he’d enlisted in the navy almost as soon as he’d turned fifteen. His mother hadn’t tried to stop him. ‘Just promise me you’ll be careful,’ she’d asked. ‘You’re the only one left now. If anything hap—’ She stood up suddenly and left the room. Russell sat, gazing at the papers she’d just signed, the ROYAL NEW ZEALAND NAVY crest at the top. He knew what his mother meant. His dad had died of TB when Russell was just a baby, and then Uncle Trevor, his mum’s brother, had supported them. But Trevor had joined the army to fight in World War II, and was killed a year before it ended.

  Everyone knew about Russell’s uncle, Lieutenant Trevor MacKenzie, DSO, MC. ‘A special bloke,’ the recruiting officer said when he was taking down Russell’s details. ‘You must be very proud of him, son. You look a lot like him, too.’

  He’d heard words like that so many times. ‘A hero … proud of him … look like him.’ He could hear them now inside his head as he stood watching the sea foam and murmur along Taupo’s sides. People thought his uncle had died bravely, just the way he’d fought through North Africa and Italy earlier in the war.

  But Russell knew the truth. So did his mother, though she’d never admitted it to him. His uncle wasn’t brave, wasn’t a hero. He was a coward. And a traitor.

  Two

  There were scrambled eggs, sausages and tinned tomatoes for dinner in the mess. ‘Better make the most of it,’ a voice said as Russell started eating. ‘It’ll be all rice when we get to Japan and Korea. Rice and raw squid.’

  Along the table from him, two seamen were talking. Russell hadn’t learned their names, but he knew they’d already fought in Korea. They’d been on HMNZS Tutira when she helped protect UN troops as they stormed ashore in seaborne landings.

  ‘… different war once China came in,’ one man was saying. ‘An Aussie I talked to said their infantry had never seen anything like it. Thousands of Chinese charging at them, yelling and screaming. Bugles blowing all the time. The more of them got shot, the more seemed to jump out of the trenches and keep attacking.’

  The other seaman nodded. He was chunky and fair-haired, with tattoos of mermaids and dancing girls all over his arms. ‘Human waves, our blokes call them. The commies are brave enough, no doubt of that.’

  The first man shrugged. ‘Let’s hope the only waves we see are wet and salty ones.’ He saw Russell listening. ‘What d’you say, laddie?’ The other seaman – the tattooed one – grunted. ‘He’s a boy seaman. Best if he doesn’t say anything. Not till we see if he can do anything worth talking about.’

  Russell managed a grin, though his neck had gone hot at the tattooed sailor’s words. He tried to imagine what a human wave attack would look like. Would he be able to face things when the shooting wasn’t just practice? I’ve got to, he told himself. I’ve got to.

  He was heading for his bunkroom when a cap with gold braid appeared around one of the lifeboats. Commander Yates. Russell snapped to attention and saluted.

  Taupo’s 2-i-c returned the salute. ‘Evening. Boy Seaman Purchas, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yessir.’ Russell felt pleased to be known.

  ‘And did you enjoy this afternoon’s shoot? You lads were right on target. Valuable practice.’

  ‘Yessir,’ said Russell again. He hesitated, then: ‘Sir, do you think we’ll be in any real naval battles?’

  Commander Yates laughed. He nodded at the ship’s small twin-barrelled Bofors. ‘Well, we’ve got that, and the four-inch, and the two anti-aircraft machine-guns. If the enemy has any ships that are really small, and don’t fly too high, we might do some damage.’

  He smiled at Russell’s uncertain expression. ‘Just like your uncle, eh? Can’t wait to get into action. Well, don’t worry, lad. You’ll see the real war soon enough. The seas off Korea and Japan are full of boatloads of refugees. All trying to escape, poor devils. We might come across a few of them before we make port.’

  ‘Sir.’ Russell saluted again as the 2-i-c moved away. He felt heavy inside. He already knew that some of the officers on board were aware whose nephew he was. They’d probably been told by staff at HMNZS Tamaki, the Auckland shore station where he’d done his basic training. Just as long as the rest of Taupo’s crew didn’t learn about it, too.

  Refugees – he gazed at the grey horizon as he thought of Commander Yates’s words. Half of them were probably communists. Uncle Trevor had been mixed up with refugees in Italy before he died. Now, seven years later, Russell wasn’t going to get involved with refugees, with ANYONE who ran away. He was here to obey orders, to stay at his post – not like his uncle.

  Nobody knew exactly where they were headed in Japan, or exactly when they would get there. ‘Security,’ AB Johnson told Russell. (Johnson, not Johansen. ‘You can call me Noel, if you bow when you do it,’ he’d joked – Russell thought it was a joke.) ‘The navy loves security.’

  Kingi nodded. ‘Half the ship don’t know anything, and the other half can’t tell them anything.’ He chuckled. ‘So don’t be surprised if we end up in two different ports at once.’

  Russell liked the way these two talked to him. They teased him – all boy seamen got teased: were sent to find a tin of striped paint, or told to fetch seagull eggs for the captain’s breakfast. When he joined Taupo, some sailors told him that he had to salute the cooks each time he came into the mess. So he did, till he realised people were laughing at him; then he felt himself turn scarlet with embarrassment. But while a few on board treated him as though he had no brains, Kingi and Noel spoke to him like he was their equal … almost.

  ‘What do you think we’ll be doing when we get to Korea?’ he asked them.

  ‘Apart from parachuting you into the middle of the Chinese Army to scare them, you mean?’ said K
ingi. ‘Probably patrolling the coast and big rivers to look for any sneaky people. Or maybe firing at a few railway lines. Only if the railway lines fire at us first, of course.’

  ‘Tutira and Rotoiti did a lot of work with the infantry and artillery when they were here,’ Noel added. ‘Getting supplies ashore, landing raiding parties, evacuating wounded. We’ll be kept busy.’

  They were already busy. Extra lookouts had been posted. Men stood at the bows and stern, and in the little crow’s-nest observation post up the mast, scanning the sea day and night through binoculars, searching for anything strange or suspicious. And, next morning, it was Russell who saw something.

  He’d been in the crow’s-nest for an hour since breakfast. ‘You’ve got good eyes, young Purchas,’ Commander Yates had said as Russell was given his orders. Another hour, and someone else from his watch, Blue Watch would relieve him. Each of the three watches on Taupo, Red, White and Blue, was like a team, on-duty and off-duty together.

  Thirty feet above the deck, he could feel every dip and sway of Taupo as she eased through growing swells. His binoculars were making yet another sweep of the horizon when something darker than the sea slipped past.

  He jerked the binoculars back. Nothing. He’d imagined – no, there it was! A blackish shape, low and definite between the waves. A boat?

  Russell gripped the rail of the crow’s-nest, and shouted to the deck below. ‘Object ahead. 400 yards. Bearing … 320 degrees.’

  The voice of PO Lucas came straight back. ‘You sure, Boy Seaman? We don’t want any false alarms.’

  Russell snatched another look. Yes, there it was again, already a little closer. A boat, definitely. And people.

  ‘Yessir. A boat. We’re closing on her.’

  This time, it was Captain Moore who called from the bridge. ‘We see it. Keep watching. Good work, Boy Seaman.’ Russell felt his chest swell with pride. That’d show PO Lucas.