Brave Company (6 page)

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!'

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.

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.

Noel nudged him. The artillery sergeant was speaking again, looking hard at Russell. ‘I know you, don't I, son? Where have you and I met before?'

Russell blinked. ‘Don't know, sir – Sergeant.' He gazed at the artillery NCO, felt sure he'd never seen the man before today.

‘They turn them out by the dozen at HMNZS
Tamaki
,' said O'Brien. ‘It's like a factory: boy seamen all come out looking the same.'

The sergeant was still staring at Russell. ‘Well, you certainly remind me of someone I know, son. Maybe you've got a double.'

‘God forbid! One Boy Seaman Purchas is all we want.' Russell, who'd begun to realise that O'Brien wasn't always – couldn't be, surely? – as sour as his words, just grinned.

They drew themselves up straight as Major Davies
and PO Ralston returned. ‘Those supplies are going to find a good home,' the artillery officer told them. ‘I'll get a few of our fellows to help you move them. Many thanks, Petty Officer.'

‘Sir.' PO Ralston saluted. ‘All right, lads. Let's get this unloaded.' Soon, the supply party was carrying the boxes of small-arms ammunition and crates of food to bunkers and the cookhouse tent where Koreans and New Zealanders were peeling potatoes, chopping firewood, cutting up what Russell realised was a goat.

‘What's it been like up here?' Noel asked one of the gunners, as they heaved a metal box of .303 ammunition into a timber-lined pit. Just ahead of them, the gun barrels rose, thick, gleaming, sinister.

Russell, still wondering who the sergeant had mistaken him for, took a moment to hear what the soldier was saying. ‘… nothing much for the last week here. We were busy before then, though. They had us further up, near the front lines, and the Chinese put in an attack on a Turkish brigade, just half a mile ahead of us. We were laying down fire on them right up to the Turkish trenches. It was touch and go for a while.'

‘They fight like crazy men,' said Noel. ‘That's what people say.'

The gunner nodded. ‘The Yanks had a battery of howitzers even closer than we were. They had the
barrels right down and were blasting at them as fast as they could load the shells. The commies still kept coming. We're lucky they don't have the guns and tanks our side has. We'd be in real strife if they did.'

‘We saw some tanks while we were coming up here,' Russell said. ‘American ones.'

‘They tried using them against a couple of those infantry attacks,' the soldier told him. ‘The Chinese and North Koreans climbed onto them and hung on the gun barrel till the tank couldn't move it. Yanks had to drive through walls or thick bushes to knock them off. They ended up calling in air strikes. Needed napalm to make the commies retreat.'

‘Napalm?' asked Noel.

‘Petroleum jelly,' the gunner said. ‘They drop it like bombs. It explodes and flies everywhere; sets fire to everything it touches.' He shook his head. ‘Hell of a way to die.'

It took them half an hour to carry and stack everything they'd brought from
Taupo
. Russell's arms and shoulders ached from helping lift the heavy ammunition boxes. A meal was waiting in the cookhouse when they finished. Smiling Korean civilians handed them mess tins as they filed past. It may have been goat, but it smelt
and tasted good. So did the cabbagey stuff and white noodles that came with it.

‘You blokes are pretty well set up here,' PO Ralston said, when
Taupo
's supply party and the gunners were seated at a scrubbed trestle table.

The sergeant with the London accent – Sergeant Barnett, Russell remembered – nodded. ‘We're lucky. No problems so far.' He paused, glanced at Russell. ‘The Canadians back down the road a bit, they found a mass grave when they were moving in.'

The supply party stopped eating and stared at him. ‘Thirty or forty bodies,' he said. ‘All in civilian clothes. No way of telling who did it: North and South Koreans both kill people they think might be helping the other side. The Canadian blokes said there were a couple of women who started screaming and crying: reckoned their mother was one of the dead. They could tell by a jacket she had on.' The sergeant shrugged. ‘Poor devils. They just want to be left alone. It's like the last war. The civilians get knocked around by everybody.'

Russell sat watching the Koreans working around the fire where big pots steamed. One woman's left hand was red and twisted, mottled with burn scars. He thought of the girl he'd seen in Japan.

They ate till they were full. They ate till they were over-full. The Korean workers smiled and kept ladling more food into their mess tins. ‘Boy, oh boy,' Noel
sighed. ‘I've eaten so much, I'll sink the ship when I get back on.'

As they came out of the cookhouse, a thwacking, shuddering sound made them peer up. Two helicopters, big olive-painted dragonflies with machine-guns poking from their open side doors, slid past. Excitement rose in Russell once again.

A couple of Koreans trudged by, carrying one of the big pots of food between them. From a jumble of planks and nailed-on sacks that Russell now realised were huts, half a dozen kids came running to meet them, calling and chattering.

‘Hey!' Noel reached into his pocket and held out a half-eaten bar of chocolate, ‘Here. Take it.'

The nearest child, a girl of about six, stood still, staring longingly. One of the men carrying the pot spoke to her; she dashed forwards, seized the chocolate and rushed away. ‘Thank,' said the Korean man. ‘We thank.'

The others from
Taupo
began digging into pockets and packs, pulling out sweets, pencils, matches, passing them to eager hands. Russell only had a handkerchief. He hesitated, made sure it was clean, then held it out to another, even smaller girl. She didn't grab. She came shyly forwards and took the handkerchief, then held Russell's hand for a moment, dark eyes gazing up at him. Her nose was small and neat; her cheeks round.
Just like … just any other kid, really.

‘Let's be having you!' PO Ralston called from the lorry. ‘Captain wants us back on board before dark.'

The artillery major came hurrying up. There were salutes and handshakes all round. ‘Be another load coming up sometime,' the petty officer said, as they clambered into the back of the lorry. ‘Probably not for a while, though.'

Sergeant Barnett nodded. ‘Next time we'll give you a guided tour of the front lines.' He gazed at Russell again. ‘Why am I sure I've met you before?'

The trip back was quicker. And bumpier. And colder.

It was quicker because they were headed downhill much of the time, and no longer had their cargo. It was bumpier because without the weight of supplies to hold the lorry down, it bounced from rut to bump to pothole. They gripped seats, struts, one another to avoid being slung around. ‘Must be an Australian truck,' someone complained. ‘It goes like a kangaroo!' And it was colder because the late-autumn sun had already slid down behind the ridges. Soon they were rubbing hands together and stamping feet on the metal bed of the lorry. Blankets were hauled from packs and pulled around shoulders.

Russell found himself watching the countryside again. More white-walled farmhouses, with tiled or thatched roofs. Near one, a cow stood peacefully in a pond. Not a cow; it was too big, with wide shoulders and long horns. ‘Water buffalo,' a voice said.

So I've seen a real one after all, Russell thought. He hoped his mother would get the little wooden one before long. He suddenly wished he'd told her and Graham about the girl with the burned face after all; given them an idea of what it was like to be a war victim. He blinked: what was he thinking? They didn't want to know stuff like that.

Rows of tiny green vegetables stood in fields of brown earth. The truck slowed to crawl around a big crater. ‘See that?' O'Brien pointed at a flat stretch of ground where kids were kicking a soccer ball, shouting and cheering. For a few moments, Russell almost forgot he was in a country at war.

Then came another thwacking and grumbling, and three more helicopters passed overhead. When Russell glanced back at the soccer game, the kids had all scattered. They stood pressed up against trees or the sides of barns, staring upwards at the disappearing aircraft.

The broken, burned buildings of the town reappeared. Another few kangaroo hops over another few potholes, and the lorry ground to a halt near the wrecked wharf. The Korean driver gave them a thumbs up through his grimy rear window.

‘Enjoy the ride, lads?' PO Ralston smirked as they climbed down, cold and stiff, folding up blankets to lay on their packs. ‘You'll be back on
Taupo
soon. Nice hot cup of navy tea.'

Figures were already around them, reaching for their gear but without the supplies there was little need for help. Russell glimpsed the boy who'd carried his pack that morning being shoved aside by a man. He watched, not sure what to do.

PO Ralston was calling to him. ‘Boy Seaman Purchas? Nip across and see if the cutter's there. And don't
you
fall off the wharf before we get back. One idiot seaman in a day is enough.'

‘Aye, aye, sir.'

Russell felt glad to be free of the scrum. He jogged over to the wharf, skirting a section where smashed timber and twisted steel hung into the sea. Nothing tied up below. No sign of … then a voice shouted ‘Ahoy!
Taupo
party!' and he saw the cutter heading towards him. Two hundred yards beyond it, the frigate lay at anchor, other ships scattered around it on the cold grey water.

Russell raised a hand to the cutter, then turned to head back to the others. The Koreans were already hurrying towards him, carrying the gear. Russell saw his pack. But where was—

Then he glimpsed the boy, slipping away towards the nearest group of smashed buildings. His head was down. Russell's blanket was tucked under one arm, half-concealed under his thin white shirt.

‘Hey!' The boy jerked around at the shout. He saw Russell staring. Instantly he was running, sprinting for a skinny alley twenty yards in front.

Before he knew it, Russell took off after him, stumbling for a moment on the broken ground, then rushing towards the escaping thief. Heads turned to follow him as he shot past. Over to one side, PO Ralston called out. A couple of patrolling Korean soldiers had appeared around the corner of a building.

Russell was gaining on the young Korean. The fleeing figure snatched a look behind him, then disappeared into the alley. ‘Stop!' yelled a voice that Russell didn't recognise. He sprinted harder. No way was that thief going to—

‘Stop!' He took no notice. Then
Blam!
A shot echoed off the walls in front of him. Russell skidded to a stop. The two Korean soldiers charged towards him, guns pointing. ‘Stop!' one shouted again. Behind them, also yelling, PO Ralston pelted across the ground.

‘Who?' One of the Koreans jabbed a finger at Russell. ‘Who?' Both still had their guns trained on him. Russell felt his skin crawl.

Then the Red Watch PO arrived. ‘It's all right,' he panted to the guards. ‘United Nations. New Zealand. Kiwi.'