He shrugged and dismissed the matter. Perhaps it would be for the best. His new Bolshevik masters were overreaching themselves. The Red Army had driven the Poles out of Russia. That was enough. They had enough internal problems to face, just like the one in Kronstadt at the present. Let them solve those before embarking on imperialist adventures outside Mother Russia’s frontiers. He took up his wooden pen and began to write, his mind clear. For him the matter of the Poles had become history…
* * *
Since the attacking seaplanes had disappeared so strangely, leaving them puzzled and slightly unsure, the members of the convoy, including the men of the Swordfish, had worked all out to get the fishing smacks anchored and unloaded. First a tug had come out and towed the sinking boat clear so that the rest could enter the port. Thereafter swarms of eager Polish dockworkers had sprung onto the smacks and had begun unloading the vital weapons as if their very lives had depended upon it.
‘Did ye ever see anything like it in all yer life?’ CPO Sandy Ferguson had cried out in amazement to no one in particular. ‘Dockies working like that! Ye ken, I dinna think they’ve ever heard o’ unions in this place.’
A doctor had been found for Ginger and he had been taken away in a horse-drawn ambulance to have the shrapnel removed from his wounded shoulder in the local lazarett. Then the Swordfish had been refuelled by a series of sweating brawny dockers who had hand-pumped the precious fuel into the motor torpedo boat’s almost empty tanks. All had been hustle and bustle, as the sun went slowly down on the horizon and a chill wind started to blow off the sea, indicating a sharp frost to come.
Ginger returned, well bandaged up and clutching a large bottle of vodka, slurring his words and declaring, ‘Better than Nelson’s blood. By crikey, they took that bit o’ scrap metal outa me, and I didn’t feel a thing. Rags and boms… bring out yer rag and bones!’ Dickie had shook his head and had ordered, ‘All right, Billy, put him in his bunk with a vinegar bandage around his noddle. He’s gonna feel awful in the morning.’ The return of Ginger – and his state – had decided Smith. The Swordfish wouldn’t leave tonight. They would sail on the morning tide.
Chris, with a smudge of gun oil on the tip of her nose, was delighted. ‘Splendid!’ she declared when he told her, clapping her hands together like an excited child. ‘I have already spoken to the Hotel Metropol. The owner told me he would give you all free food and rooms if you would honour him – that’s the word he used – with your presence.’
Dickie looked at Smith and wrinkled his nose as if he had just detected a bad smell. ‘Damned decent of the chappie, I must say, but I wonder if he’ll feel so honoured when he’s had a pong at us?’
‘There is a bath,’ she said hurriedly, ‘with real hot water.’
Smith smiled a little wearily. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘you’ve sold me on the idea. Lead us to the bath – with the real hot water…’
The owner of the Hotel Metropol, a somewhat rundown place, all fading red plush and unpolished brass, opposite the great cathedral, was a big fat Pole with a face like a slab of hewn granite, with hands to match. ‘I worked for Bethlehem Steel in Pittsburg for twenty years,’ he introduced himself in a heavily accented American twang. ‘Worked hard, didn’t spend my dough on booze and broads like the rest of those dumboluck Polacks over there. So as soon as I heard that Marshal Pilsudski’ – he meant the Polish dictator – ‘had taken over, I came back to the old country and opened me this place. Always fancied running a real class hotel.’ He beamed down at them from his great height, clapped those massive steelworker’s hands of his and a little waiter, balancing water glasses of the inevitable, appeared as if by magic.
That night after they had taken the bath – ‘with real hot water’, the hotel owner – ‘call me Polack Joe, everybody did over there’ – appeared with a long hand-written menu in Polish. ‘To start with,’ he announced in a mixture of Polish and English, ‘there’ll be Paszteciki z mozgiem. That’s flapjacks with brains to you guys.’
Sandy Ferguson, who had been sipping his waterglass of vodka quite happily, sat up suddenly, as if shocked. ‘What did yon foreigner say?’
No one answered his startled question. They were all too busy trying to work out what ‘flapjacks and brains’ could be.
‘Then there’ll be something you navy guys’ll really like,’ Polack Joe went on proudly. ‘Zrazy nelsonskie. That’s braised steak á la Nelson.’
Sandy Ferguson nearly choked on his vodka and Dickie Bird gulped and said, ‘Alas poor Nelson. I knew him well.’
‘After that, for dessert, there’s gonna be Babka drozdzowa. That’s a kind o’ coffee cake with plenty of plum brandy in it. Natch, there’s going to be as much good Czech beer and vodka as you guys can drink.’ His granite face looked sad for a minute. ‘Of course, I ain’t got any Bourbon, which a class joint like the Metropol should have.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Smith agreed with him, as Sandy Ferguson rose somewhat unsteadily from the table and said, ‘I’ll be hoping ye’ll excuse, sir, but ye ken I don’t think I can stomach that foreign mu – er – food. I’ll go back and see how Kerrigan is getting on. We’ve got some bully beef still in the mess.’ With that he was gone, leaving them grinning.
In fact it was a splendid meal, although a little heavy for English stomachs used to the short commons of four years of war; but the vodka and the beer helped to wash it down, with the owner of the Metropol urging them on with ‘czem chata bogata tem rada’ – ‘what’s in the hut will be shared’ – every time their appetite seemed to flag.
Replete with food and awash with beer and vodka, they staggered upstairs to their rooms in the Metropol, vast freezingly cold chambers, with huge double beds, pumped high with goosefeather coverlets and with bricks wrapped in towels as a kind of primitive warming pan. ‘Gosh,’ Dickie exclaimed when he saw the size of his room. ‘I don’t know whether to sleep in it or dance in it.’ He giggled stupidly and swayed. ‘On second thoughts after all that firewater I think I’ll waltz straight off to bed.’
Wearily Smith undressed, shivering a little with cold. Outside the street lights were still on and the workers in their black leather jackets and fur hats were hustling back and forth loading the arms and weapons onto the line of waiting trucks that looked as if they had been winkled out of every second-hand garage in Poland. At dawn the convoy would set off for the Holy Mountain. With luck, so Chris thought, they would reach it by nightfall and begin distributing the vital weapons to meet the German attack, which she thought was only hours away.
Smith yawned and then slipped beneath the monstrous goosefeather quilt, which despite its size was remarkably light. Reaching out for the candle flickering on the night table – complete with decorative chamber pot with a portrait of the hated Lenin at its base – Smith was just about to blow it out when the door opened softly.
‘You – Chris,’ he stuttered with surprise.
She held her finger to her lips for silence. ‘Not so loud, de Vere.’ It was the first time she had ever used his first name. She was bare-legged, but wore the borrowed British naval warmth which he had given her on board the Swordfish. She shivered and for a moment he wondered what he was supposed to do. Underneath the quilt he was clad only in his shirt.
But she made the decision for him. She closed the door behind her gently and tiptoed across the bare floor to the bed. There she flung off the coat with a dramatic gesture. She was naked beneath it. ‘Quick,’ she hissed. ‘Let me get in… it’s freezing…’
Once in the night, with all sound gone outside now, he lit the candle, drew the quilt back carefully so as not to disturb her sleep and looked at her. The long slender polished legs, the lovely glowing skin, the full high breasts and the rich black pubic hair. Cautiously he put his hand on her left breast and pressed it gently, as if testing its strength. The nipple went erect immediately and she opened one eye. ‘Again?’ she asked softly and chuckled.
‘Again.’
Once towards morni
ng, he thought he heard her crying softly. His eyes firmly closed, half asleep, he drew her closer to him. She nestled against his chest like a baby and her tears wet the skin.
And once, just before dawn, they took each other in a sweating, noisy frenzy that bordered on madness, like animals on heat, which they were, tearing and thrusting at each other until finally they lay exhausted, their bodies steaming with perspiration. Then they slept…
Five
‘Alarm… alarm!’ The shrill cries in Polish outside aroused Smith from a heavy sleep. Instinctively his hand went out to Chris. But she had gone. He blinked several times and everything came into focus. He could see the imprint of her body on the sheet and a few hairs on the rumpled pillow. He felt the spot where she had lain as if to reassure himself that she had been there at all. The sheet was still warm. She had been there!
‘Alarm!’ The cries were more insistent now and he could hear the cough and choke as drivers attempted to start cold motors. He pulled on his shirt, winced as his bare feet touched the icy floor and rushed to the window. It was patterned with icy flowers and outside everything was brilliant white with hoarfrost.
But it wasn’t the beauty of the morning that caught his attention. It was the hectic hustle and bustle as warmly dressed Poles ran back and forth, putting the last goods on the lorries, while others, their breath fogging grey on the icy air, red-faced with the effort, cranked the reluctant engines. Then he saw her. She was dressed in the same male outfit in which he had seen her on that first day inTexel. Now a big revolver was strapped round her waist, as she ordered the drivers about and shouted instructions to the other Poles running back and forth to the trucks.
Obviously there was some kind of trouble or other. The looks on the Poles’ faces made that quite clear. They looked apprehensive if not frightened; and that was unusual for the Poles, he knew. They were a brave people.
Smith flew into his clothes. Outside Dickie and the others were already gathering in the great echoing corridor, tugging on their coats and trying to brush the drunken sleep from their eyes. ‘What’s up, old bean?’ Dickie asked.
Smith shrugged. ‘Search me, Dickie. Some sort of flap. The Poles are kicking up a racket out there in the street. Chris is already dressed, barking out orders like a chief petty officer on Whale Island.’
Dickie laughed shortly and said, ‘Come on, let’s see what kind of show this is.’
They didn’t get far. Polack Joe was waiting for them at the base of the great bare stairs. The shabby black jacket and striped pants of the previous evening had gone. This morning the big Pole was dressed in a leather jacket, grey moleskin trousers and heavy knee-boots. Around his waist he had girded a broad leather belt from which hung grenades, a bayonet and a large Mauser automatic tucked through the belt itself. ‘It’s the Heinies,’ he said excitedly, eyes flashing.
‘Heinies?’ Smith queried, puzzled.
‘Yeah, Germans. We’ve just been warned. They’re pushing a party in trucks and on horseback from the west down the coastal road. Our guess is that they’re gonna try to stop the convoy. A couple of us is gonna try to stop ’em. But the rest of us’ll be needed to guard the convoy on the road to the Holy Mountain.’ He crossed himself in the Polish fashion at the mention of the place. ‘You guys better clear out while you’ve still got time. Good luck, fellahs.’ He extended one of those huge paws of his, blackened and scarred from the years he had worked in the steel rolling mills, and crushed Smith’s hand in it.
‘Thanks, Joe,’ Smith said genuinely. ‘And thanks for last night. Good luck to you.’
‘Nothing’ll happen to me, Lootenant. Back in Pittsburg I’ve eaten Heinies for breakfast.’ He gave a huge grin and then he was gone, leaving them standing there in the empty hotel foyer, with the swing door still whirling round from his hasty exit.
‘Come on,’ Smith commanded finally. ‘Let’s go and find Chris. She’ll fill us in. I think we can rely on old Sandy to have things under control on board the Swordfish.’
Hastily they went out into the biting cold, pushing their way through the throngs of busy, excited Poles. Now in the distance, Smith could hear the chatter of machine guns and looking along the dead straight coastal road that ran parallel to the Baltic, he could see, to the west, little scarlet stabs of flame. Some sort of firefight was going on out there, five or six miles away.
They found Chris snapping angrily at a red-faced driver whose heavily laden lorry was refusing to start. Smith guessed she was impatient to have him on his way. Already a couple of the trucks, towing light cannon, were chugging past the cathedral, smoke pouring from their exhausts, as the bells of the church tolled their doleful, urgent warning. She saw Smith, flashed a momentary tender smile, then she was businesslike again: the true aristocrat used to giving orders – and having them obeyed without question.
‘The Germans have caught us by surprise. I doubt if we can hold them with what we’ve got for very long. One of our people reported they have light howitzers pulled by horses. That’s what I’m afraid of. They could knock out the whole convoy if they can get in range soon enough.’ She shouted at the driver in Polish and the red-faced Pole made one last effort with the cranking handle. As Smith absorbed the information, the engine started with a thunderous noise. ‘Dobje!’ the driver yelled in triumph, gave Chris’s hand a quick kiss and threw himself into his cab, as if his very life depended upon it.
‘Chris,’ Smith said thoughtfully, ‘you said horse-drawn howitzers, coming down the coastal road. How far would you say that road is from the coast?’
‘At the most – it varies you see – a kilometre. That’s five-eighths of a mile to you.’
Smith’s face lit up at the information and Dickie, who was reading Smith’s mind said, ‘Old Billy Bennett here could reach it with his quick-firer, couldn’t you, Billy?’
The portly cockney, out of whose pocket bulged a bottle of vodka he had ‘borrowed’ from the Metropol’s empty bar, said proudly, ‘Reach it with me eyes closed, sir.’
Smith looked at Chris, trying to read something into her eyes, but her gaze remained stubbornly businesslike. It was as if the night before had never happened. ‘So,’ he said, when she didn’t react, ‘we can tackle those howitzers for you. Can’t definitely say we’ll knock ’em out, but we’ll stop ’em firing.’
Abruptly her whole face lit up. She flung her arms round Smith crying, ‘De Vere, I knew I could rely on you. I always have.’ She kissed him passionately on both cheeks, saying, ‘You’ll save Poland if you succeed!’
Dickie, who was somewhat embarrassed by the scene, said, ‘I thought we’d saved Poland already, chaps.’
A little flushed, Smith stepped back and said, ‘Chris, we’ve got to leave you now.’
‘I know,’ she said and he thought he caught the glint of tears in her eyes. ‘I shall never forget you – all of you. Even though I hated Cheltenham Ladies College, I always knew you could trust an Englishman. I have trusted you and you haven’t let me down – any of you.’ This time she held out her hand and Smith shook it, followed by the others, even Bennett who was suddenly very tongue-tied and embarrassed. Smith told himself it was because it wasn’t every day that the plump cockney sailor shook hands with a countess.
‘Farewell. Good luck and—’ she couldn’t finish her sentence. Her voice broke and she turned, shoulders heaving a little, and walked away down the line of smoking trucks and the hustle and bustle of men running and shouting, with the sound of the guns in the distance and the bells of the cathedral pealing out their urgent warning.
That was the last Smith saw of her. He turned, face stony, and Dickey said with false cheerfulness, ‘Don’t worry, old bean, it might never happen.’ In silence they walked back to the docks.
CPO Sandy Ferguson was waiting for them on the deck, together with a pale-looking Ginger. He saluted. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I’ve started the engines. There’s trouble, sir, isn’t there?’
‘Yes, there is.’ Quickly Smith briefed hi
m while the others hurried to their positions. Billy Bennett went and strapped himself to the quick-firer without being ordered to do so. There was no need. All of them knew from long experience what to do.
Smith nodded to Ginger. With his good hand he tossed the hawser which hooked them to the quay up to the cobbles. Dickie didn’t wait for Smith’s command. He thrust back the throttle. The powerful Thorneycrofts responded at once as Sandy Ferguson hurried down to his beloved engine room. Neatly the Swordfish began to draw away from the quay. On the decks of the fishing smacks, which were also preparing to sail in case the Germans broke through, the crews stopped their work and cheered, the skippers lifting their caps as they did so.
‘Crikey,’ Ginger said, ‘they’re saluting us. This is ginna be a rum one!’
Now the Swordfish was outside the harbour. Immediately Smith ordered ‘full ahead’ and the lithe streamlined craft surged ahead, her sharp bow tilting upwards. Behind the bells of the great cathedral still tolled their dire warning of impending doom.
Not that that seemed to worry the fat cockney tied to his quick-firer. Oblivious to the flying spray, he was singing the old wartime song merrily to himself,
‘Don’t cryee… sighee…
There’s a silver lining in the skyee
Cheerio, chin-chin, napoo… tootle-loo
Wipe the tear, baby dear, from your eyee.
Goodbyee…’
‘Put a sock in it, Billy,’ Ginger roared above the roar of the Thorneycrofts. ‘I’ll put something else in yer bleeding eyee!’
But Billy Bennett sang on, the angry shout ignored.
The Baltic Run Page 19