Brave Company (12 page)

A howl from above and behind them. Four planes flashed past, heading towards the front lines. They were no more than fifty feet from the ground. Another group of refugees, hurrying towards the jeep, scattered in all directions, throwing themselves on the snow-streaked earth. The aircraft vanished over the low ridgeline in front, but the din of their passing hung in the air. It was ten seconds or so before the guns could be heard again.

‘Why?' The sergeant spoke again. He still didn't look at Russell; he was concentrating on steering a way through the refugees as they stumbled back onto the rough road. Women and children wept; everyone looked exhausted. Sa-In called something to them,
and they gazed at him blankly. ‘Why do you think he deserted?' Sergeant Barnett asked.

The words ‘because he was a coward' formed in Russell's throat. But he didn't speak them. He didn't know what to say or what to think.

The sergeant said nothing for a few seconds, then ‘I don't know why, either. Nobody does. But it wasn't because he was frightened, son. He wasn't running away.'

They moved on. The road had narrowed to a rutted, twisting track. More burned or broken-down vehicles lay next to it. More empty gun pits. It looked as if something had charged through, smashed everything in sight, then swept on. Sa-In huddled silently in the back seat. Russell knew he was listening to them.

‘I'll tell you what I think happened.' As Sergeant Barnett spoke, Russell looked straight ahead, not wanting to meet the man's eye. ‘I think he wanted to save those people. The Italian ones who'd put themselves in danger helping him. Saving them was more important to him than his side advancing a few miles. From what I saw and heard of him, that's the sort of bloke he was.' The sergeant gestured at yet another straggle of stooped figures trudging past them, glancing up and shaking their heads as Sa-In called to them. ‘If he was in this war, he'd be helping these people, as much as he possibly could.'

It was true, Russell knew. But he heard himself begin, ‘The army said—'

‘The army said what they had to.' Sergeant Barnett didn't raise his voice. ‘They said what the facts seemed to show. He did refuse to carry out an order. He did desert.' The sergeant paused for a moment. Off to one side, Russell glimpsed more aircraft speeding towards the front line. ‘After it was over, my unit moved through the area where your uncle had been killed. It was still full of refugees, who'd been trying to get away. The Germans had put some of their artillery there before our advance. They knew we were less likely to shell or bomb places with a lot of civilians in them.'

Another pause. ‘From what I heard from our blokes and the people there, our air force had identified an enemy artillery position. There didn't seem to be any civilians close by, so they attacked. Then, right when the second wave of our planes started diving in, this guy comes charging out of a half-ruined school just twenty or thirty yards to one side of the German guns, waving a Union Jack above his head. It was a few seconds before they saw him – there was anti-aircraft fire, and bombs, and machine-guns blazing away in all directions. The moment they noticed the flag, they pulled out, radioed for instructions. No-one seems to know what happened to him.'

Russell made himself speak. ‘He was – he was killed.'

Sergeant Barnett nodded. ‘Yeah. But nobody can tell if it was bombs or shells or bullets that did it. The only thing they do know is that he was trying to save lives when it happened. Turned out there were twenty or thirty refugees sheltering in that school. Mostly families with kids.' He glanced sideways at Russell. ‘Like I asked before, does that sound like a coward?'

Once again, Russell tried to speak. He tried to shake his head. He couldn't say anything, and he seemed unable to move. Instead, with the jeep now edging forwards through another press of fleeing people, and with the rumbling and crashing of war rising all around them, he knew he was crying.

They'd stopped after a while – he didn't know how much time had passed. The road around them was empty of people once more, but Sergeant Barnett sat still. He seemed to be listening. Then Russell heard it as well: the new sounds off to both sides. Artillery, firing fast now, the different explosions merging into a rolling roar. Heavier crashes and booms that sounded like bombs. The yammer of machine-guns. Whatever was happening in the front lines, it was heating up. He rubbed his sleeve across his eyes.

The artillery NCO put the jeep in gear, and moved
slowly on. ‘I'm going to find out what's happening,' he said, as they rounded a bend. ‘I'm not taking you two up there if there's some sort of problem. I'll ask these blokes.'

Russell gazed ahead, and saw that two other jeeps were stopped by the side of the rutted track. Half a dozen soldiers in steel helmets stood by them, talking.

‘How about—' Russell's voice wasn't steady. He swallowed, and tried again. ‘How about the major?'

‘Major Davies knows what he's doing. He can look after himself. Anyway, he'll bite my head off if I get you two into strife.'

One of the soldiers in front had stepped into the road, and was holding up a hand for them to stop. His shoulder flashes were black, yellow and red vertical stripes. Spain? No, Belgium.
Everyone's
in the UN, thought Russell.

Sergeant Barnett stopped, got out, and began talking. Shoulders shrugged and fingers pointed. Russell dragged in one … two deep breaths. He wiped his sleeve over his eyes again – and around his nose. He didn't feel ashamed that he'd wept, but he had to stop now. If anything was going to happen, he wanted the
Taupo
blokes to be proud of him.

And he had to work out how he felt about his uncle, after what he'd heard. Should he tell his mother? What proof did the sergeant have, anyway? And there was
that letter from the War Graves Commission: the army had said …

But he knew that what he'd just learned was true. It fitted. It made sense. His uncle had deserted, all right. He was guilty of that. But he wasn't a coward. He never had been.

As Russell gazed across the wintry land, a glow of warmth began to build somewhere inside him.

This was the Uncle Trevor everyone had talked about. The one he'd wanted so much to be like, till that far-off afternoon and that letter. With no warning, a weight seemed to lift from his heart. Everything was different now. Everything was changed, and that included him.

Russel jumped and nearly yelled as a hand touched his shoulder. Sa-In: he'd almost forgotten the figure in the back, huddled under the tarpaulin.

He turned, and the Korean boy was watching him. ‘I hear – sorry. Your father die?'

Russell shook his head. ‘My uncle.'

Sa-In looked puzzled. ‘Un-cull?' Russell almost smiled. ‘My mother's brother.'

The other boy murmured to himself. ‘Un-cull. Uncull. Is marry to Aun-tee?'

‘Yeah. Sometimes. But my Uncle Trevor wasn't married.' He'd heard his mother talking to a neighbour about that one time – how she didn't know if it was better or worse that there was nobody who could help her remember her brother.

The dark eyes watched him. ‘Is sad if fum-family die.'

‘Yeah.' Russell felt tears prickle in his own eyes again. ‘Yeah, it is.'

He gazed ahead, at where Sergeant Barnett and the Belgian soldiers were bent over a map spread out on the bonnet of a jeep. The rumble of guns went on. He turned again to the Korean boy. Only Sa-In's head and shoulders showed above the tarpaulin. ‘How about your own parents? Your father and mother?' Sa-In gazed ahead. He spoke quietly, slowly, searching sometimes for words. ‘We live small town. My father is teacher.
English
teacher, so I already knowing – know some.' He smiled. ‘Father say I sound like bottom in class. Then North armies attack. And South armies attack them back. There is – is battle near our town. People escape. At – in night-time, bombs land in our street. Houses fire – burn. Father go to help. Mother and Yong Mee and me – I – start to leave. Mother go to find Father. We have not seen again.' He sighed, turned his head away, then said, so softly that he could hardly be heard, ‘I look. I look.'

Russell was silent. He remembered watching the first refugees, on that boat and on the roads, and thinking that they were cowards who had run away, that he didn't want to know. Another thing he felt differently about now.

‘You paying attention?' Sergeant Barnett was back in the jeep, a frown of concentration on his face. He started the engine and raised his voice while the gunfire swelled as the icy wind blew towards them. For a second, Russell thought he heard the sound of a bugle, like the ones at his basic training graduation parade. No, couldn't be.

‘Blowed if I could make out everything those blokes were saying.' The sergeant lifted his hand as they crawled past the Belgian soldiers, who waved back, and looked curiously at Sa-In in the back. ‘But they think the artillery observers are about half a mile forwards of where we are now. That ridge over there.' He pointed to the right. ‘We should be able to see from there. If we can't, I'm taking you back.'

‘I'm all right,' Russell told him.

‘Doesn't matter how
you're
feeling, son. It's how
I
feel. I don't want to tell the navy we got one of its future admirals into strife. And anyway, we can't run
anything at 16 Field Regiment properly without Sa-In. Can we, lad?'

‘No, sir.' Sa-In thought for a second, then went, ‘No, yes, sir.'

They reached another crossroads. One slightly wider track angled towards the crest that the sergeant had pointed out. Something seemed to flicker or glow just beyond the long ridge, then was gone.

‘You okay, son?' Sergeant Barnett was speaking to him.

‘Yeah. Yes, sergeant.' And he was. He knew it suddenly. His body felt tense now, keyed up by whatever was happening ahead. But that awful weight, that sense of shame, had gone. ‘Thanks,' he added. ‘Thanks for telling me.'

The artillery sergeant nodded. ‘I wanted you to hear. There's things we'll probably never know about your uncle, but I do know he was a good man.' Without waiting for Russell to reply, Barnett called over his shoulder, ‘You okay there, too, Sa-In?' Back came a reply, ‘Most very okay, sir.'

They all ducked as more planes shrieked overhead. At the same time, there was a change from the guns over the ridge in front. Their thudding and cracking became different, sharper. Sergeant Barnett listened. ‘Sounds like mortars. That means the infantry are firing, too.'

The crest of the hill was only a hundred yards away now. The jeep slowed to walking pace as the sergeant steered it round a pothole, jolting over the rubble flung out on either side.

Just ahead of them, dirty snow lay in thicker, snaking lines along the earth. Not snow this time: dirt, with trenches zigzagging away. Now Russell saw troops bent over stubby metal barrels. As he watched, one man slid something into the nearest one, then turned away quickly, fingers in ears.