Brave Company

by Hill, David

  He went still. A noise from somewhere ahead: faint but quickly getting louder. A motor. One of the South Korean boats returning?

  The bow lookout shouted. O’Brien’s voice. ‘Unknown vessel! Bearing 330 degrees. 80 yards!’ Almost instantly, Taupo’s searchlight blazed, its beam sweeping the black sea in front. Russell saw the boat straight away. Not one of the landing craft: longer and differently shaped. More fishermen or refugees?

  A signal lamp began flashing from the other craft. At the same moment, someone started hammering on the frigate’s funnel. Whang-whang-whang! Fast, sharp blows echoed off the metal sides. Who was there?

  Then he realised. The lights below weren’t from a signal lamp. They were the muzzle flashes of a gun – a machine-gun from the speed of it. Bullets were spraying into Taupo’s funnel. Now he heard a deeper whang-whang! as they hit something else, and the eeee! of ricochets hurtling off. He ducked his head.

  Taupo’s searchlight flooded the other boat with its glare. Russell could see two groups of figures crouched along its side. A second machine-gun fired; the sound was like a stick swiped across a corrugated iron roof. Voices shouted from the bridge and the frigate heeled sharply, sending Russell staggering against the stern rails. He glimpsed the Bofors crew swinging their gun towards the enemy vessel.

  Blam-blam! Blam-blam-blam! Taupo’s shells sped across the dark sea between the two ships. Russell saw fountains of water erupt in front of the other boat, then a blur as the Bofors’ rounds tore into its bow. BLAM! The four-inch gun joined in. Part of the enemy vessel seemed to fly in the air suddenly, then shred away in the wind. Russell caught his breath. A direct hit.

  The machine-guns from the other boat had stopped firing, but the Bofors kept ripping fragments from the small craft’s hull. Things were falling into the sea. No, jumping, not falling. Men, leaping from the doomed ship. BLAM! Another round from the four-inch. The enemy vessel lurched sideways in the water.

  Taupo swung to starboard, and Russell saw that the other ship was already settling deeper in the waves. He swallowed as another two figures threw themselves from its side. I’m not scared, he realised. I’m not. We’ve been fired at again. We’ve been hit. But I’m not scared.

  The frigate’s searchlight still gripped the sinking craft. Another shout from the bridge. The Bofors stopped. Into the sudden silence, more orders came. ‘Scrambling nets, port side! Rifle detail, port side!’ Feet pounded. Against the beam of the searchlight, Russell glimpsed silhouettes struggling with two heavy nets at the rails, looping them on and dropping them down the side. Others formed up nearby, rifles at their shoulders, aimed towards the shattered enemy ship and the water near it.

  Taupo had come to a standstill. Russell had been so busy gaping, he hadn’t even noticed they’d stopped. The other ship was foundering, steadily, quietly, going down as if drawn from beneath.

  There was movement in the sea between it and Taupo. Shapes splashed and struggled. The searchlight moved to sweep across the water. Russell glimpsed white faces, arms flailing towards the frigate. Four … five … eight of them, all thrashing towards the ship’s side. He remembered what PO Lucas had said about people dying in the freezing water, and he shuddered. ‘Come on!’ he heard himself muttering – just as he had when they were the ones in trouble and stuck on the sandbank.

  The rifle detail still stood at the rails. Some of them kept aiming at the ruined boat. Others, with weapons half-lowered, watched the desperately struggling figures. Those in charge of the scrambling nets – Kingi was one of them – also stood, gazing down at the icy water.

  A seaman near Kingi called out and pointed. The enemy boat was going. Its smashed bows had already vanished beneath the surface. Now the midships section dipped; the stern rose slightly, stayed poised for three … four seconds, then slid into the blackness. Taupo’s searchlight moved to show a hatch cover and a few other objects bobbing on the surface. Nothing else.

  What had it been doing in the area? Russell wondered. Laying mines? Spying? Waiting to intercept any landing parties? If so, it had got more than it expected.

  The splashing figures had almost reached the frigate. But there weren’t as many as there’d been two minutes before. Again, Russell imagined the freezing water.

  A voice called out from somewhere beneath Taupo’s side. A frightened, pleading voice, gasping and spluttering. Russell couldn’t understand any of the words. Another called as well, further away and weaker. It faded into a choking sound, then stopped. Come on! Russell begged again.

  Kingi and the others on the scrambling nets leaned over the rails, urging, ‘Keep coming!’ Hands stretched down, clutched and heaved. A dark shape was hauled over and flopped onto the deck. One of the rifle detail aimed his weapon at the figure, then lowered it as the man lay moaning.

  A second shape was dragged on board, collapsing beside the first. A third. A pause, and then a fourth. No more. The searchlight swung backwards and forwards across the empty sea. The sailors at the rails shaded their eyes and peered into the darkness. Nothing.

  Two of the figures on deck lay unmoving. One moaned and stirred. The fourth was crying, wailing and weeping helplessly. A young voice, Russell realised. Someone no older than him, by the sound. Kingi was bent over whoever it was, saying, ‘You’re all right. You’re all right.’

  One by one, the survivors were pulled to their feet, and led or carried away. Two were able to walk, more or less. The other two were dragged, arms and legs lolling limply. The crying had died away to a frightened whimpering. They’ll be locked up somewhere, Russell knew. Probably in the brig, the frigate’s own little jail. The only time he’d ever known it used before was for two stokers who’d drunk too much Japanese beer in Kure.

  Taupo’s engines were louder again. The warship was underway, moving further out to sea. Somewhere on the dark coastline behind them, the South Korean landing party was at its deadly work.

  Twenty minutes passed. Behind Taupo, the land had vanished into the night. A figure came along the deck towards Russell. ‘Anything to report, Boy Seaman?’ asked PO Lucas.

  ‘No, sir.’ Russell hesitated. ‘Who were they, sir? What were they doing?’

  The PO stood watching the frigate’s wake. ‘North Koreans. A patrol boat, by the looks of it. Their bad luck to meet us. Still, at least they didn’t meet the blokes going ashore. That would have caused a few problems.’

  They were both silent for a few seconds. ‘What’s going to happen to them, sir?’ Russell asked.

  To his surprise, the petty officer chuckled. ‘Well, at the moment, they’re having mugs of tea. They wouldn’t touch it at first – maybe they’ve drunk navy tea before. No, I imagine they’ve been told all sorts of stories about how we’ll poison them.’ He chuckled again. ‘So finally PO Ralston drank a mug in front of them, and that made it all right. Now they’re turning into tea addicts.’

  He nodded at Russell. ‘Don’t worry, lad. There’ll be some left for you. You’ll be off watch in another ten minutes.’

  Another nod, another salute from Russell, and he was gone, back along the deck.

  As he stamped his feet and swung his arms once again, Russell thought of that scared young voice crying. He felt glad the boy was all right. But most of all, he felt grateful. This time, he hadn’t been afraid. Commander Yates was right: everyone was frightened sometimes. But that was still no excuse for them to run away, was it?

  Thirteen

  Three days later, they were on their way back to Japan to refuel and re-provision. ‘Probably more equipment for our artillery boys,’ O’Brien grunted when they heard. ‘Wonder if it’s any warmer on land than out here?’

  The temperature had dropped even further overnight. When Russell came up on deck next morning, icicles hung from the barrel of the four-inch gun. Kingi and Noel started punching each other. ‘Helps get – the blood moving,’ puffed Kingi. ‘Come over here, Russ, and I’ll give you an uppercut.’

  Russell didn’t move. He was too busy staring at
the funnel. A row of holes slanted across its grey surface. That machine-gun last night, he realised. Then Noel pointed to a nearby winch, and Russell saw the gouges on its steel sides. That must have been where the bullet ricocheted.

  A work crew spent the day welding metal patches onto the funnel and repainting it. Russell would have liked to be with them, but he was on rubbish detail, carrying buckets of kitchen scraps to the stern and tossing them into the water, where gulls shrieked and fought.

  Kure was even more crammed with ships than it had been nearly three weeks before. As Taupo steamed slowly in, tankers, cargo ships, dredges lay two or even three abreast at almost every wharf on both sides of the harbour. The warships were moored further along: destroyers, frigates, cruisers, gunboats. Cranes swung, welding torches flashed, pneumatic drills snarled. Men toiled up gangways or scurried like busy beetles on the wharves, loading and unloading lines of trucks. Taupo’s off-duty watches lined the deck, standing at ease as the klaxons of other ships saluted the frigate with deep brays. Again, Russell saw flags from nation after nation: the US, the UK, South Korea, the five white stars of Australia. A red and dark-blue one with a white sideways triangle – the Philippines, he remembered. He wished the holes in Taupo’s funnel were still there, so people would know they’d seen action.

  Tug boats eased them into a berth between a US frigate and a South Korean corvette, its rear deck packed with squat batteries of rocket tubes. On the wharf beside them, a squad of South Korean soldiers waited, ugly sub-machine guns slung from their shoulders. Russell watched them, puzzled, for a couple of seconds, then realised.

  The four North Korean prisoners were brought up on deck. They wore a mixture of their own rumpled, oil-stained clothes and New Zealand Navy gear: jerseys, woollen hats, a pair of trousers much too long and wide. Three seamen were with them, holding rifles, but the enemy didn’t look as if they planned any trouble. They huddled together, shivering in the freezing wind.

  One of Taupo’s crew passed them something: cigarettes or chocolate. The North Koreans stared, then bowed and took them. One of them looked no more than sixteen or seventeen; he must have been the boy weeping when he was dragged aboard. As he gazed around, he saw the soldiers waiting on the wharf below and looked frightened.

  The frigate’s guards escorted the captured enemy down the gangway to where the helmeted soldiers hustled them into the back of a lorry, pushing at the last of them, shouting when he stumbled. Russell remembered stories of how both sides beat, starved, ill-treated their prisoners. He wondered what would happen to the young soldier now.

  They had less than two days in Kure this time. O’Brien was right: as well as supplies for themselves, they loaded more equipment for the New Zealand artillery regiment. Wonder if I’ll be picked for the supply party this time? Russell thought. No, can’t expect it twice in a row.

  For most of their time in port, they did the sorts of things that made Russell wonder why he’d ever joined the navy. They scrubbed decks and scraped paint. They tidied bunkrooms and scraped paint. They polished brass and scraped paint.

  On the first night, Russell wrote to his mum again. He told her how cold it was, and how he was all right, and how he hoped the garden was okay. (The garden Uncle Trevor had planted for them, though he didn’t say that.) He didn’t tell her about sinking the patrol boat, though, or any of the fighting bits. That could wait. So could writing to Graham. He’d expected to enjoy telling his friend how he was doing his bit against the commies, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  On the second morning, Russell, Noel and Kingi were given four hours’ shore leave. Noel and Kingi set off on a rickshaw ride to see the sights (‘and to spend all our money. Coming, Russ?’).

  No, he wasn’t. He was going to buy some more presents to send to his mother. He found his way past the rows of stalls and the voices calling to him. ‘Very cheap! Look here, Captain! Lovely good things!’

  He found the skinny alley, and then the shop where he’d got the wooden water buffalo that was now probably halfway to New Zealand. The same woman was there. She bowed to Russell as he entered.

  At the same moment, the girl with the scarred face came through from the back. She glanced at Russell, and said something to her mother. ‘Ah,’ the woman said. ‘You return back?’ She bowed again, and so did the girl.

  Before he knew it, Russell bowed also. As he did, his white cap with its flat top and HMNZS TAUPO headband fell off and went rolling under a table. The girl burst out laughing, clapping a hand to her mouth. Russell realised she was pretty under the scar tissue.

  He bought a little bamboo fan with blossoms painted on it and a handkerchief stitched with bright birds and flowers. The girl had vanished into the back of the shop. Russell kept looking in that direction, but she didn’t return. The woman wrapped his presents and bowed again as she handed them over. This time, he kept one hand on his cap as he bowed in response.

  Then the girl’s mother took his hand between both of hers, and held it for a moment. ‘Brave boy,’ she said. ‘Brave boy.’ Russell saw there were tears in her eyes. He didn’t know where to look.

  When he came up on deck that afternoon as Taupo sailed out of Kure Harbour, the cold was so fierce that the first breath he took seemed to leave ice in his lungs. The sky was a low, dull grey, and a bitter wind sneaked around every corner.

  A tug boat eased them away from the wharf. They steamed slowly out, past the cram of machinery, ships, launches fizzing back and forth across the water. Once again klaxons blared and Taupo replied. I’ve seen so much since we were here last time, Russell thought.

  Just outside the harbour, a British corvette lay at anchor. The New Zealand frigate moved towards it, signal lamps blinking, and dropped its own anchors eighty yards or so away. Over the next twenty minutes, a French destroyer came sliding out to join them, then a US frigate. ‘Maybe we’re all going for a holiday cruise,’ Kingi suggested.

  Then the cargo ships began to appear. Two … three … five … ten of them, steaming out one after another, till the water was thick with funnels and masts. ‘A convoy,’ grunted O’Brien. ‘We’ll be making sure they get to Korea safe and sound.’

  For an hour, there was signalling and klaxon-sounding and confusion, as ships took up positions, found they were wrong, and sailed in front of other vessels which had to change course suddenly while loudly blaring their annoyance. But, finally, the ships in the convoy were all pointing in the same direction. More klaxon-blaring, more signal-lamp-flashing, and slowly they were underway.

  Compared to Taupo’s usual speed, they seemed to crawl across the chill sea. It didn’t matter. Neither the Chinese nor the North Koreans seemed to have sent any submarines into the war, though mines had been dropped outside some of the harbours used by the UN forces.

  Before going below for dinner, Russell leaned on the rail and watched the ships ploughing along, bows punching into the waves, smoke billowing astern. Ahead and behind, the destroyer and the corvette swept back and forth across the sea, listening and looking for anything that shouldn’t be there.

  When Blue Watch came on duty again in the morning, the convoy was sailing in a different direction. Russell had felt Taupo alter course several times in the night, zigzagging along with the others to confuse any enemy ships or planes that might be looking for them.

  The sky was still grey; the wind was still bitter. He took up his position as stern lookout – it seemed a long time since he’d been in the crow’s-nest, and in this weather he wasn’t in any hurry to be up there – trying to stay in the warm shelter of the ventilator shaft and scan the empty sea out to his left through binoculars, occasionally sneaking a look at the solid cargo ships waddling along on the other side. They must be well out to sea now. No sign of birds. No sign of anything.

  After an hour, he was cold and bored. No amount of foot-stamping and arm-thumping seemed to get him warm. Taupo’s signal lamp flashed and clattered a couple of times when one of the cargo ships seemed to be wandering out of posit
ion, but otherwise there was nothing; no change to starboard where the convoy steamed on and no change to port where the sea swelled heavy and unbroken. He stamped his feet, hunched his shoulders, thought of his warm bunk.

  For’ard, on the bridge, he heard the frigate’s signal lamp start clacking again, glimpsed its glare in the dull light as it pointed behind them. The corvette astern of the convoy was signalling also. Then, in the space of a few seconds, he forgot all about the cold.

  Fourteen

  Bells clamoured. ‘Action Stations!’ blared the intercom. ‘Action Stations!’ Russell glimpsed White Watch rushing up onto the deck, scattering to the four-inch, Bofors and anti-aircraft guns. He stared upwards; at the sea around. Nothing there except for the convoy. What was—

  The corvette behind them had swung around and was speeding towards the left rear flank of the convoy. Her bow sliced through the water, foam sweeping back on either side. Ahead of her, a Spanish tanker and a Colombian cargo ship trudged on.

  Through his binoculars, Russell saw men on the corvette, bending over squat metal shapes. He drew in a breath as black, drum-like objects splashed into the sea behind the little warship. Depth charges.

  More drums arced through the air, dropping into the water on either side. The warship wheeled, charging around onto a new course, away from where the shapes had landed and sunk.

  Russell realised he was counting under his breath. Five … six … seven … eight.

  The surface of the sea flattened. An area of green water half the size of a rugby field lifted up for a second, then dropped back. Columns of green-white foam hurtled upwards as the explosions reached the surface. Six of them, shooting skywards, then collapsing back on themselves. From three hundred yards away, he heard the whooompf of bursting water and felt Taupo shudder.