' The Longest Night ' & ' Crossing the Rubicon ': The Original Map Illustrated and Uncut Final Volume (Armageddon's Song) (47 page)

She faced the other way and turned her head awkwardly, noting that the tread of the soldiers boot was still discernable between her shoulder blades. The sight brought back the awful memories of the gang rape that had almost taken place and she
shuddered, taking a towelling robe from a hook behind the door and slipping it on before heading to the small kitchenette.

Only the smell of toast and the last vestiges of warmth in the kettle remained of her lover’s breakfast. Svetlana had washed and dried after herself before leaving for the temporary job the Commissioner had offered her the day before as a translator in New Scotland Yard, an event celebrated by some amazing sex the day before, even if she had been more recipient than participant.

The tears for the loss of Patricia, Constantine, Scott and the two policemen Ben Stokes and Malcolm Pell had come after returning to the UK and learning what had happened shortly after their departure for Russia, months before. The debriefing that followed did not engender any satisfaction in a job well done after that news.

Sir Richard had packed them off to the countryside to a kind of health farm for policemen but the scheduled two week rest cure and physiotherapy had been curtailed suddenly. Now they were the bored caretakers of someone else’s home, or at least she was, as of today.

She heard the letter box and frowned at the time, it was altogether too early for the postman and the owners had cancelled the papers. The threat against Svetlana meant they could not put their names to anything, even as trivial as a newspaper delivery. They were not to travel to previously frequented areas or contact friends and relatives, but Caroline was a stranger to London and no one knew she and the Russian girl were an item so the pilot felt quite secure.

A
plain brown envelope sat on the mat with just a small HMSO, Her Majesty’s Stationary Office, the printers for the British Government, and a stock number were printed on one corner. It bore just a handwritten letter ‘S’. She opened it anyway and there was a clear plastic bag, a police exhibits bag with serial number and heat sealed ends, a biro signature was scrawled across the seals to prevent tampering. A single door key sat within, another tag tied to it, a classic court exhibit label as seen in countless movies. Svetlana’s old cover name, Christina Carlisle, and the address of her flat in Kensington were printed upon it. Only Sir Richard Tennant knew they were here and Caroline was about sick of bumming around this house, so she decided there and then to learn something more about Svetlana. She would see for herself what music she liked, what art she had on the wall and to run her fingers over the Russian’s pretty things.

The taxi dropped her at the other side of a small park from the address and after paying off the cabbie she walked painfully through, smiling and mouthing an apology at an elderly old ladies frown for disturbing the pigeons she was feeding.  

The apartment block was something built with style in the 1920s and the Art Nuevo décor remained. Stained glass and burnished brass, plus the scent of wood polish greeted you at the street entrance. The small lift, or elevator as the English called it, bore a note of apology from the management as well as a health and safety compliant ‘Out of Order’ sign so she took the wide staircase instead.

She liked this building and its warm homeliness, its atmosphere of friendly welcome was quite palpable and she paused on the landing to savour it, her aching ribs were forgotten for now. It was as if the building
liked
you, she thought with a smile. She could quite understand how being unable to resume her residence here had upset Svetlana.

Not being ambidextrous she fumbled with the key before getting it lined up and into the lock, and then the door swung open to reveal the home Svetlana missed so much.

It smelled musty from the long absence of its owner and from where Caroline was stood just beyond the threshold she could see the resulting mess from where it had been searched for clues as to where the Russian girl had vanished. It was a rude change to the mood that the apartment block had engendered until moments before.

The coat rack lay on the hallway carpet were it had fallen during the struggle months ago, and a sprinkling of plaster dust lay like dandruff upon a dark jacket that had been hanging from it at the time. Caroline was glad that Svetlana was not here to witness this, and she hoped she could find some
undamaged items to bring back, to cheer her friend and underline that she cared a whole lot for her, and with that thought Caroline stepped over the threshold.

As one, the pigeons took to the air in startled flight and the old lady in the park feeding them cringed involuntarily. The thunderclap of sound reverberated off the walls of the surrounding buildings and the anti-theft alarms of two dozen cars parked in the street outside the apartment block wailed and warbled. The buildings old but functional fire alarm bell sounded its strident tattoo, almost drowning the sound of glass that had once been window panes now shattering into smaller shards upon striking the ground below Svetlana’s apartment.

Like an evil halo, a smoke ring that held the black signature of high explosive residue hung above the Kensington street before the breeze dispersed it.  

New South Wales: 2 miles east of the Macquarie Pass.

Heat, tropical humidity, ants and the eye stinging sweat that trickled down his forehead were forgotten as the sound of a high velocity round signalled a veritable fusillade in reply, tearing into the tree canopies and undergrowth with indiscriminate fury.

Their victim tumbled from the mid reaches of an ivy smothered Eucalyptus tree, hanging by a safety line that vibrated as each round struck the body of the sniper. He was one of their own, sent to counter the British snipers who were having such a detrimental effect upon the morale of the Chinese troops facing them. The body in a ghillie suit was indiscernible in appearance to that of the enemy’s snipers but he was ‘in play’ as far as the Chinese marines were concerned, and they vented their anger upon it.

Big Stef fired again, and a second Chinese sniper, the mate of the first one, tumbled into view down a slope where it received the same treatment from the trenches. They would not use this position again and edged away with painfully slow movements.

Two hours later they were hauled up the escarpment by rope and underwent a debriefing before finding food and a place to sleep.

“Two shots, two snipers, both from the Chinese 1
st
Marines?” the intelligence officer asked.

“Well you know how it is sir; you shoot one and five minutes later you have to shoot another.” Bill said with gallows humour. “I’ve no idea what unit they were, their gear was pretty standard.”

Sgt Stephanski nodded in agreement.

“Okay guys, it seems that you got their attention down there and those two snipers won’t be the only team they sent in. I think a change of venue is in order, to keep them reacting to us and to minimise the risks to you so that area needs to be left alone for a while. Someone else can receive your gentle attentions.”

Port Kembla

Commander Hollis shuffled forwards with the remainder of the line, edging ever closer to the entrance to the kitchens with the ever hopeful few asking those emerging what the size of the helping was, and was there any meat today?

There never was, never had been and never would be any meat in their diet, just rancid rice with boiled vegetables, rancid rice and vegetable soup and rancid rice and vegetable stew. It wasn’t as if the guards were being unduly harsh, they were not exactly living high off the hog themselves, and had all lost some weight too, victims of the shipping attrition in the same way the POWs were.

The Australians companion nudged him, gesturing for him to make his move. The companion was the Russian Vice Admiral; they played chess almost constantly and had an old pocket size travelling set with three pieces missing from the original. The coloured stems of matchsticks now served as replacements for the lost, manufactured items, and they played for money, keeping tally as they went along. Reg owed the Russian a considerable amount of theoretical cash but his game was improving. If the war continued for another two years they should be quits. The prisoner in front of Reg hailed the next to emerge, asking him the same question and looked crestfallen at the reply until the next man emerged with a battered mess tin and the look of hope returned; and so it went on.

The prisoners had gravitated into small groups of friends, usually but not exclusively the same nationality. They tended to look out for each other and the small group of Taiwanese prisoners who had fled from Taiwan, to continue the resistance before being shot down and captured had already outed two spies the guards had tried to infiltrate into the camp. Having the Peoples Republic as an enemy gave all the nations present a common foe, so there was no need for internal rivalry. All that being said though it had taken just a week behind the wire for Reg to see the behaviour of some prisoner deteriorate as the lack of food took its toll. A group of twenty or so prisoners from the same container took on gang status until Vice Admiral Putchev had taken swift action. Several prisoners were beaten and robbed of their rations and one of the female prisoners was raped, but one evening the gang had received a visit from other prisoners who did not try to argue or reason with them, they did not call on them to do any honourable things, they simply took the three ring leaders, the biggest and the strongest, and the rapists, and they hung them. Next morning the Chinese had discovered the bodies, and ignoring the other injuries they bore, they had willing accepted the account of the Russian officer that the group had committed suicide. It was less mouths to feed and discipline was restored. It was the Russian way of dealing with a mafia, Putchev had explained.

The majority of the prisoners were Russian navy, but the numbers of allied prisoners began to swell slowly. Captured army personnel appeared from the skirmishes and patrol actions. US 10
th
Mountain men, Royal New Zealand Infantry, more Australians of course, with British infantrymen and a smattering of aircrew from all the nations. The survivors from the naval battle were few and far between given the weaponry used. Putting a lot of people in a metal vessel and then blowing it up does not make for a survival friendly situation.

In Reg Hollis’s group were Phil Daly, Sgt Rangi Hoana, a heavily muscled Maori, from the 1
st
Royal New Zealanders, Pte Mal Chaplin of the 5
th
/7
th
and C/Sgt Colley Brackling from the Royal Australian Regiment.

Stephanie Priestly had been part of the group but she had eventually been segregated despite the two Australian men’s best efforts to keep her where they could protect her.  As more captured servicewomen arrived a second, smaller camp was constructed. There were only twenty in that camp but Reg eventually accepted that the women were safer where they were and the guards did at least treat them with a level of respect. 

The group shuffled forwards another few steps and another prisoner was asked what the contents of his mess tin were. This proved an enquiry too far for Rangi Hoana who left his place in the queue to tap the constant enquirer on the shoulder.

“Listen, cannibalism was once an accepted part of my culture, and every time you whine I get hungrier, do you get it?”

It brought the group a little welcome silence.

Twice a day the prisoners were required to parade on a large area that was at times a dust bowl or a mud hole, depending on the weather. This was to check no one had escaped. In the morning, before breakfast, and at the hour before dusk the prisoners would be summoned to fall in for the head count. On occasion this assembly would be called at random times, normally for some announcement the Chinese believed to be of importance. The Chinese captors called these parades Accountings, or Kuàijì, (Hy-je) which the Australian prisoners quickly latched onto owing to how the pronunciation sounded to Western ears, and it was a dig at the poor diet the PRC served its captives. They also renamed the parade ground accordingly. When their guards summoned them to parade they shouted
“Kuàijì! Kuàijì!”
it was taken up by Australians calling “High Tea! High Tea! Darjeeling and fairy cakes are being served in the Tea Gardens!”

The other prisoners adopted the micky-take, to the bemusement of the guards.

Their group was now just a matter of a couple of steps from the entrance to the kitchens when the guards slammed the doors closed.

“Kuàijì! Kuàijì!”

It was greeted with catcall and whistles but it was obvious no one was going to eat who hadn’t already, until they assembled on the Tea Gardens.

Not without grumbling the prisoners shuffled into lines for the accounting. This however was not to be a boring rant by the camp commandant.

The prisoners stood waiting, bored and hungry, but when the commandant came through the gates he was accompanied by the political officer, a platoon of armed guards with bayonets fixed, and others who dragging a naked and bloody Caucasian male through the gates and onto the Tea Garden.

He wasn’t an escapee, it was early days yet and whereas an escape committee existed, their shopping list of necessary items would be a difficult one to fill. Tunnelling was the obvious route out but it was not practical without a source of wood to act as pit props.