Neither of them saw the girl by the scuttle until the pencil she had been holding snapped apart in her hands.
The fuel dump looked innocent enough in the fading light as Lieutenant Cuff Glazebrook steered his borrowed jeep noisily through the gates in the barbed-wire barrier. Apart from a sentry there seemed to be nobody about, so without more ado Cuff walked heavily into the office. Like the pumps and tanks in the yard the office was brightly lit.
A Leading Supply Assistant, always known as
Jack Dusty
in the navy, got hurriedly to his feet, a tattered magazine with a nude on its cover falling behind him.
Cuff grunted. 'On your own?'
The youth nodded. 'I'm afraid I can't issue petrol or diesel, sir. It's the rule. After sunset we –'
Cuff interrupted, 'It's Chief Petty Officer Hemmings I want.'
The leading hand relaxed. 'He's not here, sir. Gone to Hamburg for something.'
Cuff nodded. He already knew about Hamburg, but it seemed prudent to check.
He gestured through the door towards the other buildings. 'When I was here a few days back I met the woman –'
'Yessir. That's Frau Ritter. She still lives in part of the building. The rest was commandeered for the staff.'
Cuff waited, frowning, knowing he would get more out of this dimwit.
'She and her husband used to have a garage and farm supply business here, sir. That's why the German army built their dump on the same site.'
'What happened to
Mister
Ritter, eh?'
The Jack Dusty shrugged. 'Not sure, sir.'
Cuff wandered from the office and adjusted his eyes to the enclosing shadows.
A nice little set-up.
He saw the sudden gleam of light from an upstairs room, then her silhouette as she peered down at him.
'What do you want?' Somewhere a dozing sentry coughed in the shadows and she added quickly, 'You had better come in.'
She spoke good English.
Just as well.
He closed the door behind him and waited for her to come downstairs. For a long while they faced each other across the room. It was an untidy place, Cuff thought, with most of the personal furniture and ornaments all crammed into this one room.
She said, 'He's not here.'
He watched her, made himself stay calm, outwardly at least as he took her in. Her full breasts were barely restrained by her shirt, but she met his stare without flinching.
Cuff said, 'I know. Hamburg. That's why I came. But you already know that, Frau Ritter.' He saw her hand move to the front of her shirt and asked, 'Where's the nice blouse?'
She looked surprised, suddenly off-balance because he had remembered.
'It is the only one I have.'
Cuff could feel the blood pounding through his skull, his collar half-choking him.
Then he strode across the carpet and gripped her wrist. 'I've thought a lot about you.' He seized the shirt and dragged at it.
With surprising strength she pulled herself away. 'Not here. Someone might come –'
Cuff said thickly, 'I will in a minute!'
He followed her up some stairs and found himself in her room. A sloping ceiling, chintz curtains, pine furniture, and a large bed. Cuff took off his jacket and tossed it on a chair. He pulled her against him, expecting her to threaten, even to call out. Then he began to unbutton her shirt and when one button caught he tore it open, and all the time he pinioned her with his other arm, pressing her into his body so that she should feel him and his need of her.
She did not move as he struggled with her belt, then laid her shoulders bare in the lamplight, murmuring into her neck while he continued to strip her.
He pushed her on to the bed and stood away while he feasted his eyes on her naked body, her firm thighs, exactly as he had known they would be.
He managed to gasp, 'Don't fight me –' He hesitated. 'What's your name?'
She lay back and watched him tearing at his clothes. 'Hertha.'
Just the one word and then he was on her.
There was no resistance, quite the opposite; and Cuff was dazed, stunned by the animal frenzy they seemed to release in one another.
She felt his big hands thrusting beneath her, lifting her still further until he gave a groan and fell astride her like a cut-down tree.
Cuff had never experienced anyone like her. No matter what he did, she could find something else to inflame him to a kind of madness. If he lay helpless on his back she could still find the skill to rouse him yet again and he pleaded,
'For Christ's sake! I'm shagged out! Just give me time
–' But she did not.
When at last he lay in an exhausted sleep she leaned over him and ran her fingers over his great belly.
She had seen the look on his face when he had come to take her. He had wanted her so badly; and afterwards he would have left.
All that had changed. She continued to stroke him so that he groaned in his sleep. Now he
needed
her, and she knew he would not be able to stay away.
She raised herself on one elbow and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She could see the reddened marks, probably bruises on her fine breasts where he had held her and fought with her.
Perhaps tomorrow might be different. But in Germany now, you lived one day at a time.
10
Vodka Diplomacy
Marriott slid from his chair as Lowes's shadowy figure appeared on the bridge, and other shapes groped their way to their stations for the Middle Watch.
'She's all yours, Sub. Cape Arcona is about three miles to starboard, course due East and revs for ten knots.' He tried to keep his voice matter-of-fact, informal, but even in the darkness he could sense Lowes's pouting resentment.
The reports came in as usual.
'Lookouts closed up, sir!'
'Leading Seaman Rae relieving the wheel, sir!'
But no guns, not this time.
He added, 'Call me in an hour when it's time to alter course. I'm going to have some coffee and a smoke.'
He glanced at the green glow of their starboard light and following astern he saw the patterns of navigation and masthead lights which revealed the two oil-tankers, while in the far distance he could just make out those of their attendant ML.
It had been a better day than he had expected, after the first delays while the two tankers had been marshalled into formation for their passage to Swinemünde in the Russian sector. After being 'tidied-up' in Flensburg for their transfer to Russian control they had finally made the rendezvous off Kiel Bay. More delays while an armed escort had been taken off by tug, and naval boarding-parties put aboard to replace them. Fairfax was back there now in the leading tanker with a handful of armed ratings. Any form of trouble was unlikely, but no German wanted to go inside the Russian sector even under the White Ensign.
The ML's first lieutenant had a similar task on the sternmost ship. In the unlikely event of an attempt to sabotage the ships, the bridge and engineroom of each had to be watched at all times. Fairfax would be remembering the ill-fated
Ronsis,
and would need little prompting.
The incident with Lowes had happened on the bridge in the final moments of the last dog-watch. Up until then the visibility had been fairly clear, but as dusk had closed in there had been typical Baltic mist. Marriott had been down in the chart-room making additional calculations with the aid of some pilotage information the Russians had sent to Kiel to further the interests of safe navigation and the movement of coastal shipping, escorted or otherwise.
He had been thinking of the girl in the operations room. If she had struck him he could not have felt worse. He should have known. Vaguely above the thuds and groans of shipboard sounds he had heard muffled voices on the bridge, hushed and yet urgent.
Marriott had climbed up the ladder to see a powerful-looking freighter crossing the bows from starboard to port, her bridge well lit-up with cargo lamps, and her side clearly revealing a bright Swedish flag painted on the hull.
There had been no immediate danger, but a few more minutes might have made all the difference. Marriott had taken over the con and had altered course even as Silver had clattered off a signal to the ships astern to follow their example.
All the while Lowes had stood staring at him, his fists clenched, his face screwed up as if he was about to burst into tears.
Once on course again with the Swedish ship well clear after giving an admonishing screech on her siren, Marriott had taken Lowes down to the chart-room. Craven had been on the wheel and he suspected he had been the one to urge Lowes to take some sort of action.
He could hear his own anger now as he had exclaimed, 'What the
hell
is the matter with you? Didn't they teach you even the basic rules at
King Alfred,
or were you too busy worrying about getting into the
fun
before it all ended?' He had seen Lowes wilt and had known it had not been all his fault. He had been thinking of the girl with the brown eyes, her rebuff – or was it disgust?
'There
is
the old simple rule, y'know! If to starboard red appear, it is your duty to keep clear – remember that?'
Lowes had nodded, too wretched even to reply.
'If you still want to be a good officer it means more than a pretty uniform and being addressed as
sir, right?'
Marriott looked at the sky. Very small stars beyond some mist and low cloud.
He said quietly, 'If you are in some kind of trouble, John, tell me about it, eh? I may be able to help. It goes with the job, you know.'
He saw Lowes staring at him through the darkness, either surprised at the use of his first name after he had given him such a bottling, or perhaps imagining he knew already what the real trouble was.
Lowes mumbled, 'It's nothing, sir. I – I can manage.'
'I'm glad to know that.'
Marriott lowered himself to the wardroom and saw his passenger sitting comfortably in one corner, a glass at his elbow while he read another copy of
The Times
which he had found at Flensburg.
So that was why his cabin companion in the HQ ship had been absent since that morning when Marriott had awakened in a rash of terror. Lieutenant Commander Arthur Durham, who did 'something-or-other' on the N.O.I.C.'s staff, was in fact attached to the ships disposal section, and had chosen to travel in the MGB rather than the arguably more comfortable quarters in one of the tankers.
Or was it really that Meikle had warned him that he might create another
incident
with the Russians, which his presence aboard would prevent? They had not had much chance to speak. Durham had been studying his documents, which he would have to give to the Russians, and Marriott had been too busy working watch-and-watch with Lowes.
'All quiet up there?'
'For the moment, sir.' He tossed his cap and duffel coat into a chair. Durham had probably heard about the trouble with Lowes. There were few secrets and no privacy in an MGB.
Ginger Jackson peered in. 'Coffee, sir?'
'Please.' He asked, 'Why haven't you turned in, Ginger?'
The messman grinned. 'Doin' me accounts, sir. 'Sides, 'oo else would look arter you?'
He hurried out, whistling softly to himself, and Durham said, 'Bloody priceless, that one. I reckon he
could
look after you too!'
Marriott glanced away as a cloud crossed the man's face. He had heard about Durham losing his wife. There did not seem to be anyone who had not lost somebody like a relative or close friend.
'What is expected of us in Swinemünde, sir?'
Durham removed his horn-rimmed reading glasses and snapped them shut. 'This whole business is like a giant jumble-sale. The Russians agree on which vessels they want through the dispersal agreement, then after they get them they start to complain that we're trying to cheat them. It's been like that all the way from Cuxhaven. They may be brave chaps and strong allies but they give me a pain somewhere!' He grinned. 'Their diplomacy is vodka, so watch yourself.'
'Well, we're just passing Cape Arcona, sir. In a while I shall alter course to the south, a straight passage all the way to Swinemünde. Should anchor around 0900 with any luck. You ought to turn in while you can.' He had made Durham as comfortable as he could in his own tiny cabin. But, like himself, he seemed unable to sleep.
Durham watched as Ginger reappeared with some fresh coffee and two mugs.
'It will be strange to get back to my old job.' His eyes were distant. 'Up on the eight-ten every morning, back on the six-twenty-five. The City with a capital C, the old chop-house or the
Wig and Pen
for a deep discussion and too many gins while we rebuild the stock markets!' He looked at Marriott. 'What about you? You're too young to have done much before the balloon went up.'
And probably too old to settle to anything afterwards.
Marriott said, 'Be like my pal Beri-Beri. Take off to some quiet place away from the sea and go fishing!'
Durham smiled, but he did not press further. 'He sounds an interesting chap.'
'My Number One wants to stay in.'
Durham nodded. 'Could do worse. There'll be too many chaps looking for too few jobs when they finally get demobbed, I'm afraid.' He tapped the newspaper. 'The election, for instance. My guess is that the service vote will change things completely. If I was a betting man, and I know people insist that you must be one to play the stock market, then I'd say Labour will oust this government. A Socialist Shangri-La with equal shares for everyone!'
Marriott had not thought very deeply about it. But now the idea that anyone would vote Churchill out of office seemed incredible.
Durham had read his thoughts. 'Churchill won this war, even the Americans realise that. But run the country, now that it's all but over? I'm not so sure. Remember, it's a government they will be voting for, not a single personality. I've been looking at your young sailors. I can't see them lining up for the dole and selling their medals like their fathers had to do after the Great War. It's not in their nature. And why should it be, after what they've had to do?'
Marriott smiled. 'Anyway, I think they might have waited until we've seen off the Japs!'
Durham sipped his drink and said, 'That's what troubles me. It doesn't fit the pattern. It's as if somebody
knows
something. Like one company buying shares in another without letting it out to the public.'
Marriott glanced at the bulkhead clock. Almost time to go up and change course. It had gone quickly and he had not noticed it. That was rare these days.
Durham asked, 'Have you got anyone special waiting for you?'
Marriott stood up and thrust his hands into his pockets. Unlike Durham, he did not even have anyone to miss.
'Not really, sir.'
'I knew about your brother. Bad show all round.'
'Yes. I always looked up to him.'
Durham watched his changing emotions and wished they had had a son like him.
'You'll find somebody. Then she'll be able to look up to you.'
Marriott pulled on his stained duffel coat and wondered what Durham, nice as he was, would say if he told him about the German girl at HQ.
It is not good for me.
Her words would not fade. What did she mean? That she would lose her job if they found out about her breaking the non-frat regulations? Or was it simply that beneath it all she nursed a deep hatred for the victors? Another thought probed through his mind. Maybe she had somebody else, right there at HQ, another British sailor?
'I'm off then, sir. Breakfast will be early. I want the hands in the rig of the day when we meet the Russians.' He forced a grin. 'Especially now that I know England's about to go over to Karl Marx!'
Durham lay back against the battered cushions and refilled his glass from his own private bottle. It had started off as a Horse's Neck but was now almost neat brandy.
He wondered about the girl Marriott had carefully not mentioned. Just what he needed. To look forward to. To share. He glanced at his watch and swore quietly. It had stopped.
Ginger Jackson cleared away the coffee mugs and asked casually, 'Broken, 'as it, sir?'
'No, it's getting a bit rusty. Like its owner.'
Ginger thought of the little pile of loot which was gathering through their contact with the sad-faced Oskar. Ten fine watches and two Leica cameras, and some jewellery which might be welcome in any pawnbroker's or, equally, bloody useless.
He said, 'I think I knows where I could lay 'ands on a good 'un, sir.'
'Really?' Their eyes met and understood one another. 'I'll think about it.'
'I'd make sure you wasn't done, sir.'