"Innes, Hammond - Maddons Rock" - читать интересную книгу автора (Innes Hammond)

'The same place as he was last night,' I told Bert in answer to his question, 'and the night before and every night since we've been here.'

He gave an evil cackle, displaying his toothless gums. 'Calls it learnin' Roosian. That's a joke, that is. When 'e's in China, 'e learns Chinese, an' when 'e's in Sigypore, he learns whatever the native lingo is there. I bet it's the same words 'e learns everywhere 'e goes.' The faces round the brazier cracked with laughter. They all hated Rankin's guts. 'Where's 'e get the dough from, anyway?' Bert demanded.

'Oh,' I said, 'he's in some racket or other. Started with watches -- you know how crazy the Russians are for anything that ticks. He managed to smuggle some out with him. Told me so the other night. And then he's in charge of stores. That's always a help to a man like Rankin. And he's chummed up with that little political commissar who speaks English.'

'D'yer mean the fresh-faced boy wot's s'pposed ter keep tabs on the local commandant?' Bert scowled into the fire. 'I seen 'im yesterday, struttin' alongside of 'is boss fit ter burst a ligyment. Smart as a new pin, 'e looked. A sly little chit, if you ask me. Ever bin in that place da'n on Molotov Street, Corp?'

'No,'I told him.

'Wish I 'ad as much dough as Rankin's got,' he went on. I was only half-listening. 'I s'ppose 'e'll be drunk again ter-night when 'e comes back -- chuckin'

'is weight aba't as usual, gettin' poor little Sills ter make 'is bed fer 'im. 'E's a fair swine.'

And at that moment we heard Rankin's voice in the corridor outside. It was angry and slurred. 'Why the hell can't we go aboard in the morning?' we heard him ask. And another voice replied, 'Special duty. Lt-Commander Selby insisted that you'd got to be there by 2200 hours. That's why I had to rout you out.'

Then the door opened and Rankin stood there with a piece of paper in his hand. He wasn't drunk. But there were two hectic spots in the smooth white of his cheeks and his eyes were bright. With him was a Naval writer from NOIC's office -- that was the office of the Naval Officer in Charge, Murmansk. Rankin leaned his bulk against the doorpost, pushed his cap on to the back of his head and said, 'Who wants to go home?' He had a sadistic little smile on his lips as he watched our faces. He knew that we were all fed to the teeth with Murmansk. He watched the rustle of expectation that ran through the faces round the brazier.

'Thinks 'e's rafflin' tickets for a passage 'ome in the Queen Mary,' muttered Bert, and the others grinned.

Rankin heard the remark, but the smile didn't leave his face. 'I see you and I are going to get on well together, Cook.' Then he turned to the clerk. 'What's the time?' he asked.

'Seven-thirty,' was the reply.

'If I have 'em paraded at eight-thirty and get down to the quay about nine -- that all right?'

'As long as you're on board before ten, Mr. Rankin,' was the reply.

'Good.' Then he turned to me. 'Corporal Vardy!'

' Yes?' I said.

'You'll parade with the others detailed on this list at eight-thirty sharp, outside. And see that it's a smart turnout. Sills, get my kit packed and ready.' With that he handed me the paper and went out.

An eager crowd of faces peered at it over my shoulder. We read it by the light of the brazier:

The following personnel awaiting repatriation will embark on the S.S. Trikkala, No. 4 berth, Lenin Quay, not later than 2200 hours, 2nd March, 1945:

Warrant Officer L. R. Rankin, Corporal J. L.

Vardy, Private P. Sills, Gunner H. B. Cook. Dress for Army personnel: F. S. M. O. Kitbags will be carried. Warrant Officer Rankin will be in charge of the party throughout the voyage. He will report to Captain Halsey, master of the Trikkala,' on arrival on board. He will hold himself and his party at Captain Halsey's disposal for special duties during the voyage.

We drank Bert's vodka then and there, and two hours later were trudging through the snow-carpeted streets towards the river and the lights of the dock. The Trikkala was not a beautiful ship. She hadn't even the utility lines of the American liberty boat berthed astern of her. She was like an angular old spinster with her single tall funnel, high bridge and clutter of deckhousings. She had a three-inch gun perched on her high bows and another aft. Boats hung in their davits either side of the bridge and there was a third at the stern. Rafts clung precariously to their fittings above the after deckhousing. But we weren't worrying about her looks as we climbed the gangway. We'd have cheerfully embarked in a North Sea trawler if it had been going to England.

The Trikkala was loading as we went aboard. Her holds were open and into them was being poured load after load of iron-ore. She had her derricks working and the clatter of the donkey engines and the roar of the ore pouring into the ship was deafening. Fore and aft the holds smoked like volcanoes as the ore dust billowed up into the dazzle of the loading lights. The thick mantle of snow that covered her decks was no longer white, but a dirty, reddish brown.

'Halt your men there, Corporal,' Rankin ordered. 'I'll go and see the Captain.'

We halted at the top of the gangway and stood waiting whilst the bitter wind blew choking clouds of ore dust in our faces.