Empty Nets and Promises by Denzil Meyrick

thought,’ concluded Hoynes fervently.
    Geordie looked at the Russian boat and stroked the stubble on his chin. ‘I’ve got two questions. Will they take my vessel under tow, and if they do, whoot on earth will the salvage amount tae? I’ll likely have tae get doon and ask the bank manager tae gie me roubles.’
    â€˜I widna worry aboot salvage or the like. These boys are a’ aboot sharing and equality. Commendable stuff it is, tae,’ said Hoynes.
    â€˜You’re no’ tellin’ me you’re a red under the bed, skipper,’ said Hamish, a look of horror on his face. ‘I never had you doon for anythin’ o’ the kind.’
    â€˜No, don’t be daft. But I mind in the war, the boys fae they Russian convoys wid come back wae tales o’ how the folk survived jeest by boiling the odd turnip and quaffing some snow. Hardy buggers – they’d have no time for Iain Watson or his like. And even less for this poor unfortunate doon here.’ He glanced across at Marshall whose face had taken on an even more pallid hue.
    The Russian vessel now towered above them.
    Hamish stared up, open-mouthed. ‘How are we going tae get up thonder? I hope I’ve no’ got to scale one o’ they rope ladders. I’m no’ keen on heights. That’s how I went tae sea in the first place – nice an’ near the groon’, if you know whoot I mean.’
    Without warning, a door opened about halfway down the side of the craft and a head popped out. The man was wearing a black peaked cap above dark eyes and a darker beard. ‘You will want rescue, no?’ he shouted across the swell.
    â€˜Aye, rescue wid be jeest fine,’ returned Hoynes.
    â€˜Ask him aboot salvage,’ insisted Geordie.
    â€˜Aye, and if he says it’s goin’ tae be a thousand pounds, dae we jeest tell them tae sail on? I’m telling you, salvage will no’ be a problem for these boys . . . Yes, we need rescue,’ shouted Hoynes. ‘Workers o’ the world unite!’ he added, for good measure.
    Hamish took in the Russian boat with a jaundiced eye. ‘She’s big, but she’s a trawler, right enough. Are you thinking the same as me, skipper?’
    â€˜That it might no’ be thon plane and its booming that’s frightened the fish, after all?’
    â€˜This beast could pull mair oot the water in a day than oor whole fleet, an’ she’s no ring-net vessel, neither. I’m betting she’s got a sister somewhere oot tae sea.’
    â€˜We’ll soon find oot, of that there is no doubt,’ said Hoynes. ‘For better, or for worse, Hamish. I hope they’ve got some Bolshevik baccy aboard. I left my new packet back at the bothy.’

14
    Aboard the USS Newark
    Captain Walter P Rumsfeld scanned the sea with an enormous pair of binoculars. A lookout on the old destroyer had spotted a flare near the Kintyre coast, and they were steaming in that general direction, ready to assist. Though his hair was iron grey now, being back in these waters off the coast of Scotland brought the dark-haired young lieutenant he’d been more than twenty years ago to mind.
    Being on friendly exercise with the Royal Navy over the last two weeks was somehow like a pilgrimage, a nod to those days that now seemed so far off. The ragged convoys of merchantmen – easy prey for German U-boats – were under their care. The long, long hours searching the waves for any sign of a periscope. The fear, the joy, the exhilaration of being young – of being a seaborne warrior, of living life on the edge – had miraculously returned, as though the feelings had never been away.
    He felt his fingertips tingle at the memory – almost forgot that he now operated in a very different world, one where the enemy came from further to the east.
    But how could he forget? He, his crew, in this very warship, had shadowed the ships from the