Brave Company

by Hill, David

  Taupo’s crew listened silently. ‘Our next task is landing supplies and ammunition for troops ashore – for our own artillery lads and others. I can’t tell you when or where. But we’ll select a landing party to take equipment ashore and up towards the front line. In the meantime, keep a sharp lookout as usual. Thank you, Petty Officer Lucas, dismiss the men.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir. Crew – attenshun!’ As the captain saluted and moved off, one thought pulsed in Russell’s mind. Choose me. Please choose me!

  ‘Captain’s right about the peace talks being slow,’ grunted O’Brien in the mess at lunchtime, as he lifted a forkful of stew and gazed suspiciously at the meat. ‘They reckon the commies brought a whole lot of wooden platforms into the building where they’re meeting, and sat their tables and chairs on them so they were higher than our side. That stopped things for a week, till they sorted it out.’

  ‘I heard the South Koreans walked out one time because the North put up a flagpole outside that was bigger than theirs,’ another seaman said.

  Kingi’s face was serious. ‘I’ve got a mate in the artillery. He says the Chinese get up out of their trenches and just charge straight at our guns. Doesn’t matter how many our boys shoot down; they keep coming.’

  Silence, except for the scrape of knives on metal dishes. It was broken by a cook’s voice. ‘There’s more stew in the pot. Come on: fill your boots.’

  ‘Go ahead, Russ.’ Noel smiled as they climbed to their feet. ‘If they pick you for the supply party, could be the last decent meal you see for a while. It’s just tinned beef and stale bread on land.’

  O’Brien snorted. ‘There’s less than that for some of the poor sods who live there.’

  Russell didn’t care what he might or might not be eating. Choose me, he begged again, silently. Choose me!

  He wasn’t chosen. That afternoon, as Blue Watch was getting ready to report on deck, O’Brien and Noel and two other seamen were ordered to report to the bridge.

  ‘Been bad boys?’ someone asked when they returned. O’Brien shrugged, and the mermaids on his arms twitched. ‘Never been a bad boy in my life. Nah, they’ve put us in that supply party.’

  Disappointment dragged at Russell. Why hadn’t they picked him? The others were joking with O’Brien. ‘Must be your tattoos, eh? If you get captured, the enemy will get fooled into thinking they’re a secret code.’

  Kingi punched him gently – fairly gently – on the arm. ‘Don’t worry, Russ. You’ll get your turn.’

  It didn’t make Russell feel any better. In fact, the next morning after another night sailing in circles out at sea, he felt even more disappointed. Taupo began making her way slowly towards shore, where a wide river mouth showed. Other warships were steaming up on either side, or lay moored nearby. Flags flapped in the chill wind: a US destroyer; a British cruiser; South Korean gunboats, with the blue-and-red circle in the middle of their white flag. Merchant ships, too.

  Cutters and launches bustled between ships and land, carrying men and supplies. There were wharves, but hardly any vessels tied up at them. When Russell looked harder, he realised the wharves were smashed and buckled, with great gaps where bombs or shells must have hit. As Taupo nosed in, a bridge came into sight further up the river. It was shattered, too, the central section slanting at a crazy angle into the water.

  More gunboats patrolled around the merchant ships. One swept close by Taupo as she slowed to a stop, the South Korean crew in steel helmets standing by their weapons. They stared at the Kiwi frigate, but there were no smiles or waves.

  A rattling roar, and the bow anchor was dropped. The frigate swung slowly around till her stern pointed towards the shore. ‘Tide’s coming in,’ someone said.

  The supply party had already formed up, nine of them altogether, under the command of Red Watch’s petty officer. The party included a young seaman – AB Buchanan – only a couple of years older than Russell. Disappointment filled him again.

  Boxes of small-arms ammunition were being stacked in the cutter. Medical supplies, rations, other equipment. The petty officer and two others climbed in, and the boat was lowered to the water. Russell saw that all three men carried rifles. ‘Koreans steal anything,’ muttered someone, who must have noticed the same thing. Kingi chuckled. ‘Be a brave thief who tries to steal O’Brien.’ The tattooed AB snorted and said nothing.

  It took nearly an hour and four trips to ferry the supply party and more equipment to shore. A radio set went with the last load. Each man carried a pack and a blanket, though they were supposed to be back by nightfall. ‘Wouldn’t want to be them if they have to sleep on land,’ said Kingi. ‘I like my nice warm bunk.’ But once again, Russell wished he was going.

  He turned to the bridge window from which he was wiping salt spray. Inside, Commander Yates was bent over a chart, while PO Lucas watched the shore. Even though Taupo was moored, a seaman stood by the wheel. They and the shore party were doing proper naval things, while he was just a … just a window cleaner. He felt glad that Graham and his other friends back home couldn’t see him now.

  He finished the port side of the bridge, and moved around to the rear windows. He could see the shore from here. Behind the shattered wharves lay blackened remains of buildings. Something – someone – had blasted the town almost out of existence. Then the sun rode out from behind a cloud, and a tall white shape gleamed on a slope above the river: a church or a temple or something, high trees surrounding it. It looked peaceful. It reminded him of hills near home. He—

  Russell jumped and almost dropped the bucket of soapy water. Screaming in from the sea, four planes hurtled over Taupo, banking to sweep above the broken bridge. Russell glimpsed the white American star on their wings. Jet fighters! They flashed inland, skimming over the tree-covered hills and the temple, then disappearing from sight. He waited, listening for the thud of bombs or the crackle of gunfire, but there was nothing. He let out his breath.

  The cutter was taking a long time to return. Through the window he was rubbing, Russell saw Captain Moore talking quickly on the ship’s radio. PO Lucas still watched the shore. Now he said something to Taupo’s captain.

  Russell glanced towards the wharves again, and saw the cutter finally on its way back. A rating stood in the bows, boathook ready as the little craft closed on the frigate. Another was in the stern, steering. Russell glimpsed a third figure. An official or somebody? No, the person was in a seaman’s uniform.

  The cutter passed under Taupo’s stern and round to its starboard side. Now Russell could see that the third person was Buchanan, who he’d watched jealously earlier. The young seaman sat stiffly, one leg out in front.

  The cables were secured and the cutter winched up on deck. Russell blinked as Lieutenant Commander Merrill appeared, and stood waiting as the cutter was secured. ‘Help him out,’ he told two sick-berth attendants who were with him. ‘Careful.’

  Buchanan’s face was pale. He bit his lip as hands assisted him from the cutter. The sick-berth attendants began helping him away. ‘Got his leg caught between the wharf and the boat,’ one of the men from the cutter was telling others. ‘Could be broken. Bad bruising at any rate.’

  As he was being helped down the steps, the injured young man caught Russell’s eye, and glared. Hey, it’s not my fault! Russell thought.

  At the same moment, PO Lucas appeared around the door of the bridge. ‘Boy Seaman Purchas! Look lively! Get your blanket and pack; they want you on shore in five minutes. And don’t go getting your leg caught against any wharves!’

  Six

  It took Russell just four minutes to shove his duffle-coat and other gear into his pack, and cram a folded blanket under its straps. His heart thumped with excitement. Tough luck for that young sailor, but now he had his chance.

  ‘Look lively, Boy Seaman,’ grunted PO Lucas as Russell arrived panting on deck. The cutter was ready for lowering again and he scrambled into it, pack slung over one shoulder. ‘Lower away,’ called the petty officer. As the
cables hummed, and the boat sank down, he glared at Russell. ‘Be sensible, lad. Just do what you’re told.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The cutter smacked into the water, and they headed for the wharves where the rest of the supply party stood waiting. ‘Toss your pack up,’ called the bearded Red Watch PO. One of the cutter’s seamen swung it onto the wharf, while Russell shinnied up a rope ladder.

  ‘Purchas, isn’t it?’ the petty officer asked. ‘I’m PO Ralston. Let’s be having you; truck’s over there.’

  Noel winked at Russell as the supply party headed towards an old lorry with Korean letters on the door about twenty yards away. Four or five of them carried rifles. Koreans in baggy white shirts and trousers were loading boxes into the back.

  A hand seized Russell’s pack. He snatched it back, staring at the white-clothed figure.

  ‘Let him have it!’ O’Brien said. ‘He’s just earning a bit for his family. You’re not scared of a kid, are you?’

  Russell kept staring at the person reaching again for his pack. It was a boy, about the same age as him, short and wiry. Dark eyes gazed back at him from beneath floppy black hair. Tired, determined eyes. Russell let go of the strap; the boy gave him a slight bow, picked up another bag as well, and trotted towards the lorry. On his feet, he wore thick, clumsy sandals of rubber tied with string. Chunks of old tyre, Russell realised. The grubby white clothes didn’t seem warm enough for the cold wind.

  Russell clambered into the back of the lorry, squeezing in beside the others on narrow wooden benches along the sides. Crates and bags of supplies were stacked three-high down the middle. The motor started, missed, roared, and they moved off, bumping across the potholed surface. He glimpsed a sailor – British, was he? – putting coins into the hands of the boy and others who’d loaded their gear.

  They eased around a corner and past a shattered building. Men and women were picking through wreckage, hauling out chunks of timber. Two small kids struggled across in front, dragging a broken plank between them. The truck’s Korean driver blasted the horn and yelled at them.

  A movement to one side, and two more figures were sprinting towards the truck. Rifles jerked up, then dropped; this pair were kids, too. They trotted along behind the lurching vehicle, one hand held out, the other pointing to their mouths.

  O’Brien rummaged in his pack. A tattooed arm tossed a packet of biscuits. The boys grabbed it as it landed, then stood bowing and smiling as the truck ground on.

  ‘You’ll be hungry, pal,’ someone said.

  O’Brien shrugged. ‘So are they. My sister’s got kids that age.’ He saw Russell watching and demanded, ‘Okay with you, is it?’ Russell looked away.

  They lurched out of town. More smashed or burned buildings sprawled on either side. In places, the road was holed with craters as wide and deep as cars, with chunks of dirt and rock scattered around. Twice they had to climb out while the lorry eased over piles of bricks and timber where houses had collapsed into the street.

  Then, suddenly, they were in the countryside. The truck began to pick up speed. Russell, gripping the board behind his seat as they bounced and swung, saw barns with thatched roofs and whitewashed walls. An orchard, autumn branches mostly bare, three trees splintered and toppled where another bomb or shell had landed. A pond and a stream with a stone bridge curving over it. It’s pretty, he thought. Or it was, before the war happened. Up ahead, the forest-covered hills began to rise.

  So did the road, less cratered now, but narrower and starting to wind. Other lorries bumped past, heading back towards the port. The driver braked, and they all grabbed at seats or one another. They eased past a line of soldiers marching in their direction, helmets strapped to their packs, rifles or sub-machine guns over their shoulders. South Koreans. These men watched the lorry as it moved by, faces expressionless like the gunboat crew’s earlier.

  ‘Wouldn’t want to be captured by those blokes,’ someone said. ‘Tough-looking sods.’

  ‘They rough up any commies they get,’ said an AB from White Watch. ‘A Yank was telling me. Strip half their uniforms off; make them march barefoot till they’re bleeding or get frostbite. Hit them with rifle butts. Shoot them if they try to argue.’

  ‘Makes you wonder who the good guys are.’ Noel’s voice.

  ‘We’re not here to wonder,’ PO Ralston barked from beside the driver. ‘We’re here to carry out orders. We get to where we’re heading, then—’

  The petty officer’s words were drowned out in a roaring, clanking noise that swelled ahead of them. The lorry braked again, pulling off to the side of the road. Russell gaped as he saw why.

  A line of four tanks lumbered towards them, big gun barrels pointing straight ahead and slightly raised, pennants fluttering from radio aerials. Eyes peered through slits below the guns. The hatches were open, and a man in a leather helmet, head and chest clear of the turret, stood in the top of each grumbling monster.

  ‘Howdy, boys!’ an American voice called as the first tank clattered past, tracks gouging the road surface.

  ‘Where y’all from?’

  ‘New Zealand!’ the same White Watch AB called. ‘Most beautiful country in the world!’ The tank driver grinned and waved. Noel called to the second driver. ‘Home of the world’s best rugby team, too.’

  ‘Rugby?’ went another American accent. ‘Makes war look sissy, they tell me. Good luck, you Kee-wees!’ More waving from both sides as the four tanks lumbered on. Russell realised he was grinning with excitement. This is great, he told himself. These are real men, doing a real job. This is where I belong.

  They drove for another hour. More lorries, headed in both directions. More columns of marching men. More people in white. One group of adults pushed a cart where an old woman lay on a pile of clothes. Others with shovels were filling craters in the road. Girls and boys as well as adults were working, some of them barefoot. A few farmhouses stood around, crops growing right up to their doors. No animals. Russell wondered if they’d been eaten, or seized and taken away.

  ‘Look!’ Noel pointed. Artillery: two big gun pits, about ten yards from the road. Nets, hung from poles and strewn with leaves, were strung above them. Camouflage.

  This was where they were headed? Couldn’t be: the truck kept bouncing and revving past. Russell saw the gunners – black men in olive-green battledress with matching caps, holding tin mugs and standing beside their guns. More Americans. They lifted hands as the supply party passed.

  Tracks led off on all sides now. Most of them were just wheel-ruts in the earth, while a few were properly shaped roads, with gravel scattered on the surface. Stacks of boxes, metal drums, rubbish lay everywhere. Signs in different languages: ARTILLERY ALLEY … ICI LA FRANCE … THE FIGHTING 14TH … MUY SOLDADOS. Plus ones in Korean. Trenches as well, angling off on both sides. A Korean soldier with a white belt and armband stood at one crossroads, directing traffic.

  The lorry stopped again. The driver got out and began talking to a group of civilians. A lot of hand-waving and pointing and shrugging seemed to be going on.

  ‘Something smells good,’ a voice said. At the same time, Russell also smelled cooking meat. His stomach growled. Breakfast seemed a long while back.

  He saw a fire burning a few yards from the road where they’d paused. Two big pots stood on a metal grille. A woman stood stirring one of them, while another pushed broken bits of wood into the flames. The savoury smell drifted his way again. The woman stirring the pot saw Russell watching. She smiled, and called to him.

  Then the bearded PO Ralston and the driver were back. ‘Just along here,’ the petty officer told them. ‘They thought we were looking for the Australians, but I told them we wanted the civilised ones.’

  The Taupo party laughed. ‘Hang on,’ the PO warned. ‘This last bit could be bumpy.’ Even as he spoke, the lorry thumped over a pothole that sent Russell crashing into Noel and brought a box toppling onto his feet. ‘Don’t get wounded by our own tinned beef, son!’ O’Brien told him.

&nb
sp; The track dropped through a grove of splintered trees, and past the remains of a stone wall. More trenches, zigzagging in all directions. More lorries, jeeps, boxes, timber. More Koreans in white or in uniform. Then their truck slowed again, and Russell could see a sign with a painted kiwi and the words 16 FIELD REGIMENT, RNZA. WELCOME TO THE TOP SHOTS.

  An officer in a black beret stood in the rutted roadway. A crown badge on each shoulder: a colonel. No, a major. Another man with sergeant’s stripes waited beside him.

  ‘Glad to see you blokes.’ The officer returned PO Ralston’s salute. ‘Can always rely on the navy to deliver the goods, eh? I’m Major Davies. I’m going to take your petty officer so we can see where to put the things you’ve brought. I’ll leave the rest of you in the capable hands of Sergeant Barnett here. All right, Sergeant?’

  ‘Sir.’ The sergeant saluted. Major and petty officer moved off. Sergeant Barnett nodded to Taupo’s men. ‘You blokes like a cuppa and something to eat? They tell us the navy’s always ready for a brew of tea.’

  Nods and ‘Sounds good’ from the truck. ‘Where you from, Sarge?’ Noel asked. ‘That doesn’t sound like a Kiwi accent.’

  The sergeant grinned. ‘Deepest, darkest London. Fought alongside some of your lot in the last war. They all told me you had the best country in the world, so I thought I’d come and have a look. Been living there four years now. Joined your army, and look where I’ve ended up.’

  The supply party clambered down from the truck, stretching and rubbing sore backs. Russell stood, gazing in every direction at once. The rough road with its men and military vehicles. The track leading off to more gun pits, where squat barrels pointed north. The steep hills rising behind. He wanted to remember all of this.