The RMP NCOs arrived and one stood by Ray without speaking whilst the other spoke to the Movements Staff Sergeant, discussing Ray as if he wasn’t present. He consulted a list of his own, and upon it were two columns, naming those who had been at Leipzig and those who had joined after that particular battle. Finally he took the I.D card from the Staff Sergeants clipboard.
The figure in the ragged combat jacket and trousers, stained with blood and ingrained with dirt did not look a lot like the picture on the I.D card.
The left side of Ray’s face was swollen and bruised black and blue, with shades of yellow thrown in. Somewhere between the makeshift mine going off under the Warrior and here, Ray’s solitary badge of rank, a smaller version of an RSMs coat of arms, had been torn from the front of his smock, but his rank was clearly displayed on the lists both the Staff Sergeant and the RMP carried.
“Is your regimental number, 27130087?”
Ray looked at the military policeman and felt his temper start to rise, but he didn’t reply.
“I said, is your number 27130087?”
The line of servicemen from the flight had come to a halt, and whilst some were impatient to get on there were others obviously curious about what was unfolding.
CSM Tessler felt embarrassed about being questioned in such a fashion by an arrogant junior NCO who’s own uniform was pressed and pristine, having been nowhere near a battlefield.
Ray’s companion on the flight, the young Guardsman, had now been stopped by the same staff sergeant, who again signalled to more of the waiting military policemen. However, having double-checked his identity another RMP lance corporal withdrew a pair of handcuffs from a pocket, and made to put them on the Guardsman’s wrists.
Confused at the turn of events the Guardsman resisted and a small scuffle broke out, during which the wounded soldier let out a cry of pain as his injured arm was grabbed.
This was too much for Ray who pushed past his own pair of RMPs, who were still waiting for an answer to their question, and placed himself between the Guardsmen and the RMP trying to cuff him.
“This man, unlike yourselves, has fought in every one of our brigades actions since day one of the war…so you will treat him with some fucking respect or I’m going to start back-squading teeth!”
This young NCO wasn’t used to having his authority questioned. He hadn’t managed to cuff the Guardsman either, who had managed to get free and now stood a half dozen paces away looking angry and not a little frightened. Another ragged form had placed itself in the way, obstructing him and he was now in no mood to mess about. Setting his feet, his hands started to close into fists.
Ray wasn’t exactly in his best fighting form, although as he saw the RMP prepare to take a swing he resolved to go down throwing punches and to hell with Queens Regulations, but he was reprieved when their audience began making angry noises at the treatment of wounded soldiers by the forces of military law and order. Surging forward they placed themselves in front of the wounded Guardsman, and Ray found himself flanked by men who like himself carried injuries from recent combat, but who were fully prepared to give the Red Caps a good kicking if they forced the issue.
Angry jeers brought a young lieutenant from a side office where he took in the tableau of impending mayhem, and cursed himself for not being present when the flight had arrived. His RMP detachment was made up of young men and women rushed through training at Chichester and then given their single stripe at its conclusion. The Corps more experienced soldiers were across the channel, keeping the MSRs in operation and even manning traffic points in the middle of air raids. His detachment lacked seasoning and experience; otherwise this confrontation would never have come to pass. As he viewed the servicemen facing off against his young military policemen he noticed the figure stood front and centre. Despite his appearance he had the air of command about him.
The RMP lieutenant pulled on his beret and he strode over to the exit.
“What’s going on here, and who are you?” He addressed the question to Ray, who gritted his teeth as he pulled his feet in as best he could, coming to attention and identifying himself, before explaining what had occurred.
The RMP officer let him finish before swivelling around to take in the junior NCO with the handcuffs, and then turning back.
“It seems that someone got a little ahead of themselves…however, we have orders to detain you for questioning about matters of which I have not been given the details.”
“Thank you sir.” Ray answered, impressed with the RMP officers calm disposition when a small riot had been in the offing just moments previously.
“Are we under arrest, sir?”
“Not to my knowledge, sarn’t major…but that may well change later once we’ve handed you over to SIB.” Looking levelly at Ray he went on.
“I really don’t know what this is about, but if I were you I would get legal representation before I spoke a word to anyone, if you get my drift?”
Ray looked into his eyes and could see written upon them that contrary to what had just been said, this lieutenant had a pretty damn good idea about what was going on.
Nodding his thanks Ray first turned to the lance corporal with the handcuffs.
“Put those things away before I stick ‘em where they’ll smell!” He then turned to the first pair of RMPs, snatching back his I.D card and pointing a stiff digit at his interrogator.
“And in future, Lance Corporal, whenever you address a Warrant Officer you’ll stick a ‘Sir’ somewhere in the sentence, or I’ll drop kick you into the nearest empty cell…understood?”
There were few civilians out and about at the airport, but those who were present were all maintenance workers, only Heathrow catered to those few who still needed to travel by air. They had seen returning soldiers being escorted by the military police on a number of occasions and it had lost its novelty value by now, so the sight of Ray and the Guardsman being driven away to Her Majesty’s Military Corrective Training Centre at Colchester attracted little interest.
Twenty two gallons of water is shipped daily aboard the Juliett class submarine Dai when in the tropics and all of it as a result of condensation even when she is submerged, mainly in the bow where the hull was coolest. Captain Li knew this as it was one of the myriad of statistics associated with being captain. It was flushed out of the bilge each day after being measured.
No doubt one day a discrepancy in that amount would be the first clue to some mechanical fault.
He made a mental note to check on how much was in the bilge tomorrow because the whole crew were hushed as they listened to the sound of propellers approaching from the starboard side.
With the memory of the depth charging by the Brazilian frigate still fresh, even the coolest calmest crew members were already breaking into a sweat.
Dai was at 200 feet and moving forward at a bare three knots with all ancillary equipment shut down to minimise their audible profile, or Silent Running to the picture house audiences.
The quiet within the vessel served to magnify the sound of the approaching enemy corvette. The water being thrashed by the blades driving it towards them, louder and louder with each revolution of its propellers, the audible thump of the bow smashing through the waves along with the higher pitched whine from the ships twin screws was causing a nervous gesture here and there.
Eyes fixed on the starboard bulkheads and traced the sound, heads raising as it drew closer and louder, and then they were staring straight upwards as the corvette was overhead, the whine of the screws now almost as shrill as a dentist drill, their whole bodies braced and ready to flinch, but no warning call of depth charges hitting the water came from the sonar shack. The heads continue to follow the sound to port as it forged away, diminishing in volume as well as in threat, leaving a hundred sets of gratefully relaxing shoulders clad in sweat darkened shirts.