The White Guns (1989) Read Online Free PDF Page B

had the height and the weight of a front-row forward. But he had gone to fat, so that his blue working-dress looked too tight for him, and his neck bulged over his collar. He sweated too, as he was now despite the cool breeze.
     
He said, 'Starting already, what did I tell you? The top brass and all the little desk-heroes can't wait to get out here and throw their weight about. God, it makes me puke!'
     
Marriott tried to change the subject. 'What will you do?'
     
'God knows. Probably end up in the Pacific. The bloody war might last for years out there. I'll likely get my half-stripe before much longer.'
     
'I knew you were up for it.'
     
''Bout time.' He glared at the soldiers on the dockside. 'I'll be glad to get shot of this dump. Go somewhere where there's a bit of life!' He walked to the guardrails and half-turned. 'Don't forget what I said about this morning, eh, old son? Do it again and I'll come down on you like a ton of shit!' Then he laughed, but it did not reach his eyes.
     
Marriott dropped down to the wardroom and made his way to his cabin. Cabin, it was more like a large cupboard, with the hateful red telephone just above the cot-like bunk.
     
He heard the messman, Ginger Jackson, announce cheerfully, 'Well, gents, 'ow about tinned bangers an' mash?' The two sub-lieutenants groaned and the irrepressible Ginger said severely, 'Now, gents, just because you've won a war don't mean you can get choosy! An' anyway it's all we got 'til the ol' grub ship gets 'ere!'
     
Marriott leaned back in the only chair and massaged his eyes with his fingers. Then he opened a drawer and studied a half-empty bottle of brandy. He shut it again. Perhaps not, with the new boss coming aboard. He thought of Spruce Macnair, of the German petty officer, the men he could hear chattering on their messdeck, the vague strains of music interrupted at irregular intervals by loud static from the W/T office. He opened another drawer and took out his folder in its waterproof bag. A few photographs, a last letter from his brother Stephen who had gone down in the Repulse. Was that all there was left of a man?
     
He made himself open his metal trunk and after a moment's hesitation he shook out his best reefer with its wavy gold lace, the blue and white ribbon on the left breast. Then he stripped and stood shivering at the tiny basin and washed in cool water. He shaved with deliberate care, watching his eyes in the mirror, half-listening to the sounds around him. Hard to accept that there was no chance of a sudden alarm, the screaming clamour of bells or the nerve-jangling telephone in the night. Just the lap and gurgle of that filthy water alongside. They could have been on the Thames. Anywhere but Kiel.
     
The uniform seemed loose and he wondered if he should have the buttons moved. He shrugged his shoulders. And it felt damp. He recalled seeing Stephen on that one leave they had shared together, a rare thing in wartime.
     
He touched the gold lace on his sleeve. There had only been one stripe then, and he had been serving aboard an elderly destroyer working out of the Western Approaches.
     
His brother had brought a girl home to the house in Surrey where they had been born and had grown up together along with their sister Penny. It was as if they had all grown up too soon. He could remember his mother's disapproval because of the girl. She had said nothing directly, other than touching on the subject of her limited rations in the house, but it had been plain enough.
     
The girl's name was Mimi, or rather that was the one she had given herself. She had been set on becoming a professional opera singer and, although she had only played a few roles in theatres well outside London, she certainly acted like a star performer.
     
Marriott smiled to himself. Exotic, that was the only word for her. She wore striking make-up, and had her dark hair curled about her cheeks like a Spanish dancer. Her clothes, too, in fact everything about her, had