The Russian Resistance

by Simon Brading

  Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw him shifting in his seat, preparing to offer himself, but she was saved by Freddy Featherstonehaugh.

  The journalist held up his hand, to all appearances an angelic schoolboy in his black tail coat, winged shirt collar and bow tie, which made him seem more like a prefect at Eton than a worldly-wise journalist. ‘It seems you need a fourth, Captain. Will I suffice?’

  ‘Indeed, sir, indeed!’ The Captain stood and offered his hand to Abby, sitting in the place of honour at his right hand. ‘Come, Dame Lennox, let us repair to somewhere more quiet, and let my men attempt to deprive your squadron of their rum rations.’

  Abby accepted his hand and allowed him to help her to her feet. ‘I have a feeling your men will be ruing the day they met my pilots and will most likely be sober for the rest of the journey.’ She winked at Kitty, who was literally rubbing her hands with glee at the prospect of playing a game that she had been weaned on and had taught to the men and women at Badger Base during the long days after the Battle for France, before the Battle over Britain had fully gotten under way.

  Gwen smiled up at Featherstonehaugh when the journalist offered her his hand, following the lead of the captain, and the four of them filed from the room while behind them the dining room erupted into shouts and scrapes as chairs were rearranged and variants discussed.

  The four whist players sat in cushioned wooden, high-backed chairs around a small table in the Captain’s lounge. It was a cosy place, hung with velvet curtains and wallpapered to resemble a similar room in a modest country manor. Two leather armchairs flanked a hearth, which was laid, but not lit. There were a couple of matching sofas behind them under a row of brass portholes and bookcases filled with thick leather-bound tomes were along one wall. A thick rug was spread on the floor underneath the baize-covered card table.

  The noise coming from the adjacent dining room was muffled by the thick wooden door, but occasionally the volume would rise so much that it was clearly audible. It didn’t disturb them, though, such was their concentration on the game.

  Gwen found herself partnered with Abby for the first rubber and she proved to be a competent, but somewhat mediocre player. They won, thanks to a good run of cards, but only barely and, to her shame, Gwen was glad when they drew for new partners for the second rubber and she got Featherstonehaugh.

  The journalist proved to be a brilliant player, understanding her every lead and responding in kind. The two of them thoroughly trounced the Captain and Abby and the latter conceded defeat with a wry smile, pushing her chair back from the table with a sigh and picking up her freshly refilled brandy.

  ‘I think I’m rather spoiling this for all of you. Perhaps you should just play with a dummy.’

  The captain shook his head. ‘Of course you are not, Dame Lennox! Please don’t sell yourself short! You at least know to lead the king from a sequence of king, queen, knave, and not to lead an ace when you have one - lessons which have escaped my officers, many of whom continue to ask what trumps are half-way through a hand. And besides, even though the two of us were completely outclassed by our opponents, there is as much to be learnt in defeat as in victory and it has been an honour to fall victim to two players such as they. I’m just glad we weren’t playing for money! Although, I feel that I owe you something at least.’ He looked from Gwen to Featherstonehaugh and back again.

  ‘The game and the company have been reward enough for me, sir.’ Gwen shook her head and smiled warmly, receiving a grateful nod from the Captain, but the journalist brought his notebook out from where it had been concealed in an inner pocket of his jacket and laid it on the table. ‘Perhaps I might ask you to share a little background on yourself, sir, for my article?’

  The Captain laughed. ‘You may ask, but I doubt you will find much in my story to interest your readers.’

  ‘I am sure there is, sir. Please. Indulge me.’

  ‘Very well.’ Despite his protests, Gwen could see the Captain was pleased that the journalist wanted to know more about him. ‘My family has been fishing the North Sea out of Hull for generations. Cod mostly, but some sole and plaice. I was the youngest of four brothers so there was no chance of me ever getting my hands on the company, but I’d always loved the sea and had worked on the boats since I was eight, so when I was seventeen and the Prussians started playing silly buggers the first time around, I spoke to my father and he agreed to pay my way into the Navy’s school at Dartmouth - HMS Britannia. War broke out just before I graduated and I was assigned to a battleship in the North Sea fleet. I...’

  The Captain stopped and looked up as his First Officer, Commander Twining stepped into the room.

  ‘Excuse me ladies, Mr Featherstonehaugh.’ The officer nodded at the group before looking at his Captain. ‘Sir, you’re wanted on the bridge.’

  ‘Can’t it wait for...?’ The Captain broke off at a look from Twining. ‘Oh, very well.’ He downed the rest of his brandy and stood up. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we shall have to take this up some other time; it seems that duty calls.’ He smiled apologetically at Featherstonehaugh then bowed to Abby and Gwen in turn. ‘Dame Lennox, Officer Stone, it has been an absolute pleasure. Please feel free to enjoy my lounge for as long as you like.’

  After the door had clicked softly closed behind the captain, Featherstonehaugh closed his notebook and put it away, then smiled at the Misfits. ‘Well, it is quite pleasant in here, but I rather think I’d like to see what all the ruckus is about in the other room; if Navy officers are to be made paupers at the hands of a Misfit pilot, then I want to witness it first-hand.’

  Abby and Gwen laughed and accompanied him into the din of the dining room.

  Fortunately, the stakes in the poker game had only been matchsticks, because otherwise there might well have been some very upset naval officers and Misfits, as Kitty did indeed manage to take everyone to the cleaners. The only people who did even passably well were Bruce, her best student, who managed to bag about a fifth of the pot and Simkin, who held even, proving himself to be a very good bluffer, if not so astute at playing the cards themselves.

  The party ended just before midnight, mostly because many of the officers had to go on watch at eight bells and the pilots were escorted back to their rooms by the midshipman, who reminded them not to wander around the ship on their own, then bid them goodnight.

  Most of the Misfits collapsed directly on their beds, only pausing to strip the outer layers of their dress uniforms off so as not to wrinkle them, but a few went to use the bathrooms, Gwen among them. After she’d gotten rid of the huge amount of alcohol she’d imbibed and cleaned the prodigious amount of fur off her teeth she wandered back to the women’s bunk room, bouncing off the corridor rooms as the ship pitched and reeled beneath her. She had her hand on the handle of the door when she heard her name being called and she turned to find Drake coming towards her down the corridor.

  She leaned against the wall while she waited for him, using it to prop herself up; with no flying to be done she’d let herself drink far more than she usually did and was decidedly unsteady on her feet. He, on the other hand, looked far too sober and for some reason that annoyed her, so she frowned at him.

  He hesitated, suddenly uncertain at her angry look, his long stride faltering slightly, but didn’t stop until he was standing right in front of her, looming over her.

  She squinted up at him, trying to focus on him, but wasn’t quite able to; the corridor was spinning slightly, and her eyes kept slipping sideways as if the Arturo were changing course.

  ‘Gwen.’

  Her frown faded into a smile; she liked it when he used her proper name and not the silly one. ‘Yes, Rudy?’

  ‘What was that about on the flight deck? For a minute I thought there was something happening between us, but then... Did I say something wrong?’

  ‘No, Rudy, you didn’t.’ She reached up to stroke his face and smiled; she liked tall men. And women. Kitty was tall. Richard had been
tall as well.

  She shook her head, trying to get the image of her dead husband out of her mind, not wanting to return to the bad times she was trying to move on from, and reeled when a wave of dizziness hit her at the sudden movement. She squeezed her eyes shut and reached out for something to steady herself and found the handle of the open door as well as something much softer and clung to them both, waiting for the ship to steady under her feet. ‘Bloody hell, I think I’m a bit drunk.’

  ‘Gwen, please. Just tell me what’s going on with you. With us. Can there be an “us?”’

  She opened her eyes again and peered up at him. ‘I’m just a bit confused right now, with Richard and... and... just give me time, alright?’

  She stood on tiptoes, using the hand that was already conveniently twined in his jacket to pull herself up, and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘G’night, Rudy.’

  She patted his cheek once more, smiling at his shocked face, then staggered into the bunk room and closed the door on him. She tottered over to her small metal wardrobe and began stripping off her dress uniform, not noticing the hurt look Kitty gave her.

  Chapter 11

  The Arturo passed Iceland after dark the next day but didn’t stop. Instead it just steamed straight past, collecting the rest of its convoy as it went, not losing any more time than was necessary as it headed steadily north into colder climes and passed into the Arctic Circle.

  At dawn the day after, the Misfits were rudely awakened by klaxons sounding battle stations and the thump of pounding feet on the decks above and around them. They’d been briefed as to what the noise meant and what they had to do if they ever heard it, but they hadn’t been expecting it so early in the morning and it caught them all in a deep sleep brought on by another late night filled with poker, this time in their own rooms.

  Gwen had never been a graceful waker and the continuing noise didn’t help improve either her mood or her cognitive abilities and she had stumbled out of the bunk room and half-way down the corridor before realising that she was still barefoot and in her nightshirt. She swore and ran back to her bunk, pointedly ignoring the smirk of a detestably wide-awake Kitty, who was almost dressed, and struggled to put on underwear and her flightsuit before grabbing her flotation jacket. The other pilots had already gone by the time she left the ready room and the stairwell was deserted as she pelted full speed up to the hangar deck. She tripped over the door sill in her haste to make it to her station by Wasp and would have fallen if it weren’t for the fact that Derek and Owen were standing just inside. She careened into them sending them reeling, but they managed to grab her before she could fall.

  Owen raised an eyebrow and chuckled. ‘Drunk again, Gwen?’

  ‘What is it? What’s happening? Why have we stopped?’ Gwen peered around with bleary eyes, only now realising that the ship was silent around her except for the constant thrum of the powerful engines and the rush of the sea past the open bulkheads. She stood on tiptoes to look over the group of pilots and saw that there were dozens of big sailors forming a solid ring around them, hemming them in, preventing them from getting to their aircraft.

  She flinched and cried out in surprise as the big metal door slammed shut behind her with an almighty clang. She span around to find a huge man dressed in work trousers standing in front of it, grinning down at her, his tattooed arms crossed over his bare chest.

  ‘Um, what’s going...?’

  Before she could complete her question, a booming voice filled the cavernous hangar. ‘WHO DARES COME INTO MY FROZEN DOMAIN?’

  The sailors, the men bare-chested and the women in loose white tunic shirts, seized the pilots and dragged them to the side of the hangar, then up the stairwells and into the dawn light on the flight deck. They were pushed and shoved into a rough line facing the bow, along with their fitters, who had obviously been similarly accosted, and a few men and women in navy uniforms who looked as unsure of what was going on as they were.

  Several hundred sailors, almost the entire crew, were also waiting for them there. They stood silently, all dressed like the brutes from the hangar and all seemingly unaffected by the chill that was in the early morning air, encircling the Misfits, hemming them in with the curious item that had been set up on the deck and the even curiouser figure that occupied it.

  Sitting on the hydraulic lift that was supposed to be for the aircraft was a huge throne on an iron dais. It was at least fifteen feet tall all told, its frame formed by curving brass piping and two large crossed anchors. The whole thing was crowned with a golden trident and hung with fishing nets, rope and strips of sail canvas.

  Occupying the thrown was a glowering figure who was barely recognisable as the Captain. He was dressed in long, dark-blue and white robes, like foam on the ocean, and his face and beard were painted white. A long white wig, threaded with seaweed, covered his shoulders and fell to his waist from underneath a tall crown of brass which was formed by telescopes held together by sextants. He was holding a heavy-looking silver trident, as tall as his throne, and he brandished it above his head imperiously. The crew roared as he pumped it in the air three times, but then immediately fell silent when he thrust it viciously at the gathered pilots and fitters.

  The First Officer, Twining, stepped out of the crowd. He was dressed the same as the other naval men and women, but his shoulders were draped with fishing nets as if they were some sign of high office. He stalked up and down the line of men and women who were still being held in place by the large sailors, meeting their eyes one by one, making a show of sniffing at them and showing his disdain. ‘The Lord of the Winter Sea demands to know if any of you scurvy bilge rats have passed within his domain, the great circle of ice, before.’

  One of the sailors who had been corralled with the pilots, a young man still in his teens, piped up, his voice squeaking in his nervousness. ‘What’s that, sir?’

  Twining instantly scuttled forward, all but pouncing on the boy. ‘The great circle of ice that you mortals call the Arctic Circle, boy!’ He rolled his eyes theatrically and turned to look at the Lord in his throne, raising his voice. ‘This one is obviously not a seaman! Please, my Lord, let me save time and just throw him to the sharks already.’

  The Captain laughed cruelly. ‘Maybe later.’

  Twining bowed low to show his consent, but then immediately spun back to the boy and hissed directly in his face. ‘Well, have you, you dockyard oyster?’

  ‘Have I what, sir?’

  ‘Been through the Arctic Circle before, you leg iron!’ he roared.

  The young man cringed back. ‘N-n-no, sir!’

  Twining maintained eye contact for a long second, then turned to scowl at the rest of the men and women in the line. ‘What about the rest of yers?’

  Gwen took a deep breath, then put up her hand, knowing that it would call Twining’s immediate ire and hoping that she would be able to keep a straight face when he came for her.

  There were gasps from the audience, overly theatrical on the most part - they had obviously been through the pantomime before and were enjoying themselves immensely.

  Gwen bit her lower lip to stop herself from laughing as Twining capered grotesquely towards her and thrust his face in front of hers, their noses only an inch apart.

  ‘Have we imprisoned some worthy incorrectly?’ He asked her in a stage whisper before stepping back and gesturing imperiously and raising his voice. ‘Speak, woman! When you passed this way before, did you make proper obeisance, petition for safe passage, pass the test and receive my Lord’s token?’

  He turned sideways to show her his left arm and pointed to one of his many tattoos, one that showed a circle, pierced by a trident. Every single man and woman on the flight deck followed suit, all showing that they were likewise marked.

  Gwen stared at the symbol in shock, no longer worried about laughing, but instead wondering whether the captain and his first officer intended to tattoo the pilots. She shook her head nervously. ‘I flew over the circl
e to go to Japan with my parents as a child, but I didn’t...’

  He cut her off with a roar, throwing his arms wide and turning to face the audience. ‘Then you stay where you are and face the test!’

  There were cheers, jeers and laughter from the watching men and women, happy that they weren’t going to be deprived of a victim.

  ‘What test?’ Abby called out, taking the lead for her squadron.

  Absolute silence fell as Captain Hewer stepped down from his throne, the heavy deep-sea diving boots he was wearing under his robes making an impressive noise on the deck as he stomped forwards. ‘A test of stamina and endurance. A test to see whether you can survive here in the north.’

  Silence reigned once more, except for the passage of the sea against the hull and the thrum of the engines as he walked along the line, taking the measure of each of them one by one before going back to his throne. He mounted the dais then turned to face them. ‘Will you take my test and prove yourselves worthy?’

  ‘Um, my Lord?’ Twining put his hand up meekly. ‘They don’t have any choice; they’re already here.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Hewer grinned evilly, then raised his voice in the commanding bellow that had deafened them in the hangar. ‘PREPARE THEM!’

  The large sailors tightened their grips and frogmarched them back down to the hangar where they were given a pair of white trousers and a white shirt. They were also provided with a pair of the same soft-soled plimsolls that the navy personnel wore about the ship that gave grip on the often-wet floors.

  It was easy enough for most of the pilots, fitters and sailors to change, but A flight and Scarlet had to struggle out of their flightsuits, having only just struggled into them. Finally, they were done, though, and they were taken back up to the flight deck. However, this time, instead of dragged out into the middle, they were kept at the side, near the rail.