Craven fell into step with the others and said fiercely, 'Just my luck to get nabbed by the redcaps on my first run ashore!'

  Ginger strode forward. 'Stop drippin'. 'Ere's our geezer!'

  A tall, hollow-cheeked man in a shabby but well-pressed suit stepped from a doorway.

  Rae and Craven hung back while Ginger conversed with him in low tones.

  'This 'ere is Oskar. Used ter be with the 'amburg-Amerika Line, chief steward, so 'e speaks our lingo a treat. My tailor bloke arranged it.'

  The man named Oskar gave a furtive bow. 'You bring the goods?'

  Ginger held up one hand. 'Teh, teh, that don't sound like you trust us!'

  Oskar tried to smile. His teeth were quite yellow. 'I am sorry, Herr Ginger. It is difficult.' He looked round as if expecting to see the police. 'But I trust you of course.'

  'Good.' Ginger winked at his companions. 'Take us where we can talk, right? Maybe get a drink or two?'

  The man considered it. He must have seen from the tight 'tiddley-suits' that they were certainly not carrying anything for bargaining.

  'Come.' He stepped into an alley and pushed open a sagging gate. They followed him across some back-gardens, now covered with roof-slates and charred timber. Practically all the houses were completely gutted and open to the sky.

  The three sailors trod carefully, almost daintily, to keep their best uniforms from scraping against the filth.

  Rae muttered, 'I'd have dressed up if I'd known it was going to be this formal!'

  Past another doorway where the inner rooms had been shored up with heavy timbers and corrugated iron, a few odds and ends of furniture pulled together to make a pretence of home.

  A woman sidled into the doorway. She had bleached blonde hair, and wore so much make-up it looked as if it had been put on with a brush. She smiled at them and said,' 'Ello! You want good fuck, Tommy?'

  Oskar snarled something at her and she retreated into the building.

  Craven exclaimed, 'Christ, I wouldn't screw her with your wedding-tackle, Ginger! She must be knocking sixty!'

  Ginger glared. 'What'd you expect, a bleedin' nun?'

  Rae pointed. 'Civilisation!'

  It was the last dwelling in the row and Oskar gave a half-bow by the door.

  'My home. Please to enter.'

  Craven slipped his hand inside his jumper to touch his seaman's double-bladed knife. Just in case.

  But there was no need. A pleasant-faced woman in her thirties was sitting at a table, smiling gently and playing with a battered teddy-bear.

  Oskar sat down and said bluntly, 'I will send word where we meet next. I take many risks. You must bring the goods next time!' He spoke openly at some length, eager to get it settled.

  Ginger looked at the woman. 'Your wife?'

  Oskar nodded, his eyes vacant. 'It is all correct to speak in front of her.'

  Craven shifted uneasily. 'I'm not too sure about that, Ginger. If he's taking so many risks why does he let her stay?'

  Oskar took his wife's hand and held it for a full minute.

  Then he said, 'The bear belonged to our kleine Kinder.'' He watched her empty face as if he still expected to see the return of something. But nothing happened and Oskar held up a framed photograph of a small girl. The bear was in the picture too. He shrugged wearily. 'She waits for her to come home. But she died here when the bombs came down.'

  Ginger stood up awkwardly and touched his shoulder. 'Never mind, Oskar old son, we'll take care of you. Just you give the word when you want the stuff.'

  Oskar walked to the door and called, 'Ich komme später zurück!' But only the bear moved.

  He led the sailors back to the main road and then left them.

  Craven groaned, 'Well, I guess it's the bloody NAAFI for us after all!'

  Ginger said, 'Poor little bastard. Not fair when it's kids some'ow.'

  Rae lit a cigarette. 'You'll have me in bloody tears, you will!'

  Ginger brightened up. 'Still, when we get goin' proper we won't 'ave to see no one else but Oskar!'

  But behind the good humour Ginger was feeling uneasy. Somehow dirty.

  Directed by Beri-Beri's appalling German and the liberal use of a map from the Royal Marines, the great car finally nosed along a cobbled road, flanked by trees and open fields, with here and there the glitter of a peaceful lake.

  It was beautiful countryside after the ravages of Kiel, and the sights they had passed along the way. Ditches filled with upended vehicles of every kind. Half-tracks, their black crosses punctured by cannon fire or buckled like cardboard from attacking fighter bombers during the final rout. Cars and lorries, some equipped with their strange inflated gas-bags which had replaced petrol and diesel for all but the Wehrmacht.

  Marriott could smell the endless litter of wrecks, left where they had been pushed by the tanks to keep the road clear. There were still probably corpses buried amongst the debris, as there were beneath the ruined houses, in the smashed submarines and the mud of the harbour.

  Considering he had arrived in Germany only a matter of days ago, Beri-Beri was a mine of information. He had been driven to Kiel from Denmark right down the full length of Schleswig-Holstein. It sounded a far cry from the harbour. Hans Andersen-style farmhouses and sleepy villages, darkly beamed inns and cobbled squares.

  Marriott asked, 'Where are we now?'

  Beri-Beri said, 'There's apparently a big fuel dump just a mile up this road. It missed the bombing – too far out in the country, I expect. The RN's taken it over for all of our vehicles.' He patted the seat. 'Including this one!'

  Eventually they came to a heavily sandbagged and barbed-wired enclosure. There were armed sailors on the gates, and a guardhouse with slitted windows just inside.

  One sentry saluted and checked their identity cards as well as examining the blue disc on the windscreen. It all seemed casually thorough.

  The car advanced through the gates where several other khaki or camouflaged vehicles were waiting to be fuelled. German workers were employed for that, Marriott noticed, and because the petrol and diesel had to be pumped by hand it was taking a long time.

  Beri-Beri said, 'Let's stretch our legs.'

  'Can I help, gentlemen?'

  They saw a stocky chief petty officer with the collar badges of the Supply Branch on his immaculate jacket, standing in the doorway of an office.

  'Any tea going, Chief?'

  'This way, sir.' The CPO added as an afterthought, 'My name's Hemmings, by the way, sir. I'm in charge here, at present anyway.'

  The mention of tea made Cuff mutter, 'I'll wait by the car. I need something a bit stronger.' As he walked out he noticed a woman standing in another room across a corridor, her back towards him. She had strong hips, and her arms, which hung by her sides as if she knew he was watching her, were very tanned. Cuff liked what he saw and he stifled a chuckle as he strolled into the sunlight. Old Chief Hemmings must have his feet well under the table, unless she was one of the authorised staff here . . .

  He saw their mournful little driver walking towards a large shed which had a protective canvas awning dangling over its entrance.

  A man in overalls also saw the driver and waved his hands sharply.

  'Bitte gehen Sie weg! Eingang verboten!'

  The driver shrugged untidily and changed direction. Cuff smiled. Maybe the little sod was looking for a place to piss. Then he hoisted his belt over his belly and strode towards the canvas awning.

  The same man tried to block his way but Cuff grinned and said dangerously, 'Fuck off, or I'll put you through that wall!'

  In the office Marriott and Beri-Beri finished their tea.

  'Thanks, Chief,' said Beri-Beri. 'See you around.'

  ''Any time, sir!'

  Marriott glanced at him. It was quite cool in the roomy office but Hemmings was sweating badly. It was pretty obvious he was glad to see them leave.

  Cuff was leaning against the car. 'All topped-up. Ready when you are!'

  They drove to the gates and then Cuff slapped his pockets and barked, 'Stop the car! I've left my cigarette case in the guard-hut!' They watched him stride back into the compound, his neck bulging over his collar as usual.

  Cuff slammed heavily into the office and realised that the woman he had seen across the passage was here too. She faced him, her buttocks against a table, her hands resting on its edge as if waiting to spring at someone. She wore a white blouse tucked into a skirt tightly tied with a leather belt. She faced him with a mixture of curiosity and defiance.

  'You're back, sir?' Hemmings was on his feet, several printed forms slipping from his fingers and on to the wooden floor.

  Cuff said sharply, 'Yes, I'm back right enough. What did you expect?'

  Hemmings blurted, 'I must protest, sir!'

  'Do so, and it'll be your lot!' Cuff reached into the passageway and dragged a long sounding-rod into full view. He saw Hemmings go pale and knew he had hit the mark.

  'There's over an inch sawn off this rod, Hemmings.' He did not wait for further protests. 'So, with all this fuel in your charge, every time a loaded tanker pulls in you sound each well with this, right? That'll give you one-and-a-half-inches of diesel or petrol, all to yourself! And since every tank is about the size of a small bungalow I reckon you've got a nice little black-market business going here.'

  'I have every right to a proper chance –'

  'Balls! This is it! Your only bloody chance! If I choose, I can take you in right now.' Then he looked at the woman, at the way her full breasts were rising and falling under the blouse. 'As for you, madam, I'm afraid it will be even less pleasant, but a lot quicker, I'm told.'

  He heard the Mercedes-Benz horn blare like a trumpet and scowled.

  'I found some engines in that shed too. Look like army spares to me.' It was so easy he almost laughed. 'I'm not some half-hard little ponce from university – I'm one of the blokes who won this bloody war!' The horn sounded again and he said, 'I'll come back shortly. We can do business, if you behave yourself.'

  He crossed the room and put his fingers under her chin.

  'There's no time right now, but –' He let his hand fall until his fingers were between two of the buttons of her blouse. He could feel her skin pressing against them.

  And the whole time she stared right back at him; she did not even flinch as he touched her.

  'After all, Chief Hemmings, you know what they say? Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Frat!' He tugged the blouse very lightly then swung away, his blood pounding so loudly he barely heard what Hemmings was babbling about.

  Beri-Beri greeted him indignantly. 'You took your bloody time, Cuff!'

  Cuff climbed aboard, careful to avoid Marriott's searching glance.

  'Doing my best to set an example. Just what Meikle told me to do.'

  In the doorway, the CPO watched the car roll on to the cobbled road. Over his shoulder he said brokenly, 'You bitch! I'll fix you!'

  She released her grip on the table very slowly, her palms wet with sweat. A close thing.

  She replied in careful English. 'I think not. Not any more, ja?'

  Then she walked into the other room and stared at herself in a mirror. the British officer was big, ugly and probably violent. She touched her lips with her tongue. But a man.

  9

  Old Scars

  This time the dream would not release him, nor would the stark pictures fade or lose their horror. Nearer... Nearer... Marriott fought free of the sheets and tried to struggle upright in the bunk, his mind cringing from the sights and the soundless screams.

  He stared for several seconds at the unknown face which was peering down at him. Round and youthful, with staring, frightened eyes.

  The face exclaimed anxiously, 'Herr Leutnant! Was ist los?'

  Marriott felt his heart losing its rapid beat as his reeling mind tried to return to normal.

  The unknown face was that of a German steward, one of the many carried aboard the accommodation ship. He saw his white jacket, splashed now with coffee which he must have dropped to the deck outside when he had heard Marriott's voice as he had relived the nightmare.

  Marriott reached out and tried to reassure him, and himself.

  'It's all right.' He saw no understanding. 'Ich brauche –' But nothing would come. He darted a quick glance at the other bunk and let out a gasp of relief. He was sharing the cabin with a lieutenant commander who was doing something or other on the N.O.I.C.'s staff. Marriott had gathered that the man, old for his temporary rank, had been a stockbroker before the war. Not that he had really needed to be told. In the cabin he spent most of his time studying the stock-market share reports in whatever newspaper he had managed to get from one of the RAF's flights from the UK.

  The steward seemed to have accepted that he was not dangerous or mad and offered politely, 'I bring Kaffee, Herr Leutnant!'

  Marriott groaned and rolled over on the bunk. His pyjamas and sheets were clinging to him like a shroud.

  He struggled out and crossed to a scuttle, then dragged it open. Sunshine without warmth. He peered at his watch. It was only five in the morning. He ran his fingers through his hair and after a momentary hesitation put his raincoat around his shoulders like a dressing-gown and stepped out on to the beautifully laid side-deck.

  He leaned on the rail and stared across the devastated harbour. The only movement was a far-off police-launch, while the partly submerged wrecks, and those already dragged to the 'Hinden-burg Graveyard' in the shallows, shimmered in the frail light as if they were no longer dead and useless.

  Marriott rubbed his forehead. It was chilled with sweat. How much longer? He tried to jerk his mind from it, to think of all those lost times when rich, leisure-seeking Germans had stood at this rail. Probably at this hour of the day after a night of dancing and drinking. The women with their fine gowns and tanned shoulders, the music, and lights on the harbour.

  A world which had gone for ever. And not just in Germany, he thought. He turned as the steward returned with the coffee-pot and cup, trying to conceal his surprise at Marriott's appearance. It seemed that German officers had been more conscious of their appearance before their subordinates.

  'Thank you.' He saw the man watching the cup in his hand. It was just the usual coffee, which he had consumed in a thousand different situations, before and after an engagement, or in the club-like atmosphere of a shore-based wardroom. But to the Germans he had already realised it was something of a miracle. For years they had been forced to exist on ersatz substitute coffee which was allegedly made out of acorns. No wonder there were all the stories going around about a flourishing black market. Marriott had heard that the stewards employed by the navy even saved the leavings in cups and pots to be hoarded and used again like some precious discovery.

  Even the sailors' clothing aroused surprised glances, and one lieutenant had told Marriott that the Germans had at first suspected that 'my lads had been decked out specially in real woollen gear just to impress them'!

  So how had the German war machine lasted this long? Fighting the Russians on one never-ending front, the Allies in France, or smashing through Italy, without proper oil supplies; no wonder everything was ersatz. Their old allies, the Italians, had soon changed sides once Sicily had been invaded, and the Japanese had never really been regarded as true comrades in arms.