“Surely not intelligence gathering? You wouldn’t need that level of force.” Kelly sounded unsure.
“No,” confirmed the Commodore. “Not just intelligence gathering, though that would be the ‘front’ of the organisation. They would become enforcers of Soviet doctrine. Intelligence gathering by whatever means necessary, however violent. Enforcement of Soviet doctrine within the Soviet sphere of influence, including the permanent elimination of subversive elements when necessary and most importantly, the elimination of the players from the opposite side. We would need a new breed of agent, Dan, quite different to anything we have used before.”
Kelly was silent. Archie Jenkins had made his point, and the point was well taken.
“So, what’s next?” breezed the Commodore, changing the subject completely. “Your own ship?”
“Probably not,” said Kelly, modestly but truthfully. “Perhaps another tour to gain a bit more experience … then hopefully a command.” He paused for a moment, hesitated and then said, “I had wondered about a specialist qualification first?”
“Umm?” Jenkins scratched his chin. “Always useful. Anything specific in mind?”
“Well, I’m a good swimmer,” began Kelly.
“Can’t argue with that,” interrupted the Commodore. “I think your story has shown that to be the case.”
“I wondered about training as a Shallow Water Diver?”
“Frogman, you mean?” The Commodore shook his head. “Could be done, Old Man. It’s mainly a ratings qualification, although there are a few openings for officers, but a bit of a dead end. Not generally considered a good career move.”
He paused, thinking. “There is another rather more exciting option.”
Kelly perked up.
“Ever heard of the Special Boat Section?”
“No,” said Kelly, “Special Air Service rings a bell, but not Boat Section.”
“Ah yes the SAS,” said Jenkins. “That’s the army lot. Used to be the Long Range Desert Group. Good chaps. The SBS, on the other hand, are a Royal Marine organisation. In other words, our people.” He said this with a twinkle in his eye. “Very specialised, and you do train for underwater surveillance and demolition.”
“Sounds interesting,” said Kelly. “Would they take a matelot?”
“They probably would if I asked them,” said Jenkins without sounding in the least pompous. “But you would need to prove your mettle by completing the commando course first.”
“I’d be very interested in trying for it, Commodore.” Kelly was clearly genuinely enthusiastic about the prospect.
“Look Kelly,” said the Commodore, “all I can promise is that if you complete the commando training course successfully”—Jenkins emphasised the ‘if’ too much for Kelly’s liking— “then I will get you an initial assessment with the SBS. After that it will be up to you. The SBS do not carry passengers.”
Archie Jenkins paused for reflection before standing to indicate that the interview was over. Kelly sprang to his feet and took the outstretched hand. “Don’t make your mind up now, Old Chap. Sleep on it. Wire me tomorrow with your decision one way or the other and I will set in motion whatever wheels that are needed, oiling them if necessary.”
Kelly replaced his peaked cap and saluted. Though bareheaded, the Commodore, beaming broadly, returned the salute. As Kelly turned to leave the office, the Commodore called after him. “Kelly, I said that all I can promise is an initial assessment if you pass the Commando training. Well, I can offer more than that.” He continued to smile. “I can promise you discomfort, pain and fatigue. I can promise you long days and even longer nights and I can promise you that you will curse the day you listened to Archie Jenkins!”
Commodore Jenkins was, as usual, quite correct.
Megan was nestled on Dan Kelly’s shoulder, sleeping lightly. The black hair mildly irritated Kelly’s arm but, at that moment, he wouldn’t have moved for all the world. He felt blissfully happy.
He had been overjoyed when she had accepted his invitation to dine with him that evening, but initially the night had not gone well. After cocktails in the Savoy lounge, they had scoured the West End for somewhere to eat. Severe food shortages meant that most restaurants were taking bookings only from their regulars, and even then they had to restrict the numbers.
Eventually they found a fairly seedy little Taverna run by an aging Greek man. The only thing on offer was a moussaka which, when they sampled it, was bland and unexciting. Kelly didn’t dare guess what the main ingredients were. He felt despondent as they left the restaurant and started to walk towards a nearby taxi rank. Kelly was about to apologise, but as if sensing this, Megan had spoken. Squeezing his arm, she said, “Thank you so much Dan. I’ve really enjoyed myself tonight. You are such good company.”
“I was about to thank you for not complai—” She placed a finger over his lips, not letting him finish.
“It was lovely. Even the moussaka!” she laughed, her green eyes shining like emeralds in the twilight.
Kelly felt for her hand and squeezed it gently. “Thank you,” he said simply, smiling at her. Megan seemed in no hurry to retrieve her hand, so Kelly held onto it.
As they approached the taxi rank, with not a taxi in sight, Megan asked, “Would you mind walking me home? It’s not far. About a half-mile.”
“I’d be delighted,” said Kelly. They strolled arm in arm the short distance to her apartment, oblivious of London’s evening bustle. The city, so bright before the war, now seemed dreary and dark. Even the double-deckers, with their dimmed and hooded lights, seemed to growl their protest as they pushed their way through the light drizzle. Passers-by, many in uniform, some limping or carrying their arms in triangular bandages, casualties of the war that seemed so far away at that moment, appeared sombre and joyless. Despite all of this, Dan Kelly was happy. He felt a spring in his step and his heart was light.
As they reached the apartment block, Kelly turned to Megan and took both of her hands in his, leant forward and kissed her gently on the forehead. Her response was to release her hands and encircle her arms around Kelly. Holding him firmly, she pulled her body into close contact with his, kissing him firmly on the lips. Kelly felt her trembling a little as she eased herself away slightly.
“Stay with me tonight Dan,” she whispered.
The first time they made love was a frenzy of erotic passion, an outpouring of frustrations, loneliness, and carnal desire.
It lasted but a short time, after which they lay in an embrace and talked, kissed, touched and explored. At length, the embraces and caresses became more intimate and they made love again; slowly, languidly, draining every ounce of pleasure from the experience. Her body was at once taut and firm and then soft and subtle and they moved as one, shifting easily from one position to another. Finally, exhausted, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Light was filtering through the partly drawn drape and Kelly was able to discern the details of the room in which he now lay. It was a clean but spartan room with unattractive floral wallpaper and a whitewashed ceiling. The light bulb hung from a frayed electrical cord and was partly covered by a somewhat misshapen lampshade. Handmade, thought Kelly.
An unlit black coal fire was set into one wall, and although small, it was intricately decorated in the Victorian style. There was a small dressing table and a large heavy wardrobe. Very utilitarian thought Kelly, probably a naval hiring, or perhaps an army hiring? He looked again at the framed photograph on the dressing table, which showed an army sergeant in battledress. Father? Brother? Most probably husband. Kelly suddenly felt guilty, he wanted to turn the photo to the wall, but he didn’t move.
Megan stirred and slowly returned to consciousness. She smiled and kissed him before sliding out of the bed. As she walked towards the door, she glanced into the full-length wardrobe mirror at her nakedness. She must be pleased with what she sees, thought Kelly.
Kelly could hear the sound of a bath running in the small bathroom t
hat he passed on his way to the tiny kitchen where he busied himself preparing tea and toast. By the time Megan emerged, wrapped in a bath towel, the light breakfast was ready. They chatted as they ate; cheerful unimportant banter.
Megan dressed as Kelly bathed, then together they walked to the admiralty building. About a block away from it, Megan stopped, kissed Kelly affectionately on the cheek and said, “Leave me here, Dan.”
Kelly understood and returned the kiss, but, as he turned to go, she caught hold of his arm. “You still have some leave. Stay with me a while.”
Kelly stayed with Megan for two more nights, sightseeing by day and enjoying her company and lovemaking at night. Then on the fourth evening when Kelly met Megan near the admiralty building, she looked fraught and unhappy.
“What’s wrong?” asked Kelly.
In reply, Megan gave him a single sheet of paper. “This is a copy of a letter I had to send to your digs in Devonport today,” she said. “It’s a movement order.”
The letter effectively cancelled the remainder of Kelly’s leave and ordered him to report to Eastney Barracks in Southsea for Pre-Commando training three days hence. Posted that morning, the letter would arrive at his digs with the first delivery the next day. Kelly had no option but to leave immediately in order to be in Devonport when the letter arrived.
“I had no idea you had accepted Archie’s offer,” Megan said quietly.
“I wired him the very next morning. It seemed like a good idea at the time!” They laughed together and linked arms, strolling to Megan’s apartment. Kelly threw what few bits he had into his holdall and they hailed a cab to take them to Paddington to catch the evening train to Plymouth.
There were no tears or protestations of love. Both of them knew it wasn’t that sort of relationship, but they equally felt that a strong bond had formed between them. They promised to keep in touch. No letters! Megan had insisted. Instead, she told him, “If you are in London, just call me at the admiralty building. I would really love to hear from you Dan.”
And with that they parted.
Commando!
“Right, everybody off! Come on, move yourselves!” The voice was Scots and loud.
The train had pulled into the tiny station at Spean Bridge with much hissing, screeching and amid clouds of acrid smoke. The journey had been long and tiring but otherwise uneventful.
Kelly moved towards the door on the platform side of the station, unbuttoned the window strap, lowered the window, and leaned out to turn the door handle. The same Scots voice bellowed, “Not this side, idiot! The other side!”
There was a slight pause while the source of the Scots voice internalised the fact that this particular idiot was wearing a Royal Navy officer’s epaulets on his battledress, after which the voice added a belated “Sir!” but in no less a threatening tone.
Kelly looked up in surprise. The owner of the voice was a short but stocky sergeant major clad in an immaculately pressed khaki battledress, black polished gaiters and web belt. His spit and polished boots shone like mirrors even on this murky day. On his head he sported the much-coveted green beret of the commando. A brass ‘globe and laurel’ cap badge was set in the beret and worn the regulation two fingers above the left eye.
The face was tanned and worn, with steely blue eyes peering out from deep sockets set beneath bushy ginger eyebrows. An equally bushy moustache completed the almost character-typical picture of a Royal Marine sergeant major.
The Sergeant Major was twiddling one end of his moustache as he stared in disbelief at Kelly.
“Are yee deef, sir?” he inquired menacingly, “Get oof the train now!” He screamed the final word.
Kelly was about to enquire why he couldn’t simply alight from the platform side of the train when a glance at the Sergeant Major’s reddening face persuaded him against that course of action. Instead, he opened the opposite door, hoisted on his webbing, grabbed his kit bag and Lee Enfield rifle, dropped onto the track below and scrambled across the down line towards the opposite platform.
Only he and a few stragglers were still crossing the track. Others, perhaps like himself, who had needed convincing of the logic of this course of action. Kelly heard the gravel crunch behind him and cast an eye over his shoulder. It was the Sergeant Major. Kelly was astonished to see him crunching his way across the gravel in his highly polished boots. Kelly reached the platform and scrambled up, hauling his kitbag and rifle with him. As he did so, he saw the Sergeant Major throw himself at the platform edge and deftly spring into the upright position. His boots were now scratched and dirty and his uniform trousers creased and grimy with the dirt from the platform.
At once Kelly knew what this was about.
An enterprising NCO was mustering the men into some semblance of order. Kelly noticed that every man wore the globe and laurel badge set into a red patch on a blue beret. They were all Royal Marines, a tough looking bunch, most sporting one or more medal ribbons—in a few cases several rows—above the left breast pocket of their battledress jerkin.
The Sergeant Major interrupted the corporal’s efforts, “Well done, Corporal, but not yet. What’s your name?”
“Corporal Jackson, Sarnt Major!” bawled the NCO, springing to attention.
“Right Corporal Jackson! Let’s have these men formed up outside the station, in three ranks, sized and numbered. At the moment we have a rabble. In thirty seconds’ time, I want to see a squad of Royal Marines – MOVE!”
“Aye Sarnt Major!” Then, turning his attention to the ‘rabble’, Jackson barked out a series of orders. “You heard the Sarnt Major, out onto the road! Get formed up!”
There was a confused bustle as everyone tried to be the first to comply. Kelly was caught up in the excitement and general rush. Once outside, on the road running alongside the station, the corporal again took charge.
“Three ranks! Tallest on the right, shortest on the left!”
This time there was a clear purpose to the actions of the marines; this was bread and butter to them. In seconds they had formed up into three ranks, sized as ordered, all that is with one exception. Kelly found himself on the left of the formation, despite being one of the tallest there. He wasn’t sure if he should stay apart from the ‘ranks’, his officer status suggested as much, but he didn’t want to appear stand-offish, not one of the team. He decided to join the ranks but had positioned himself in the wrong place. Having realised his mistake, he was about to move to the right-hand end of the squad but a look from the corporal, one of pity and despair, stopped him in his tracks.
“Don’t bother sizing, Sir. We’ll manage as we are.”
Turning his attention to the whole squad the Corporal drew himself up.
“Stand at ease, stand easy!” He followed that almost immediately by a barked, “Squad!”
To a man the marines braced up, forcing their hands with thumbs locked together, as far down their backs as possible.
There was a short pause, and then a long drawn out “Squaaad!” followed immediately by “TUN!” a staccato blast that resulted in two crashes. The first as twenty plus marines simultaneously crashed their left heels into their right heels, naval fashion without bending the knee.
The second crash was a single solitary echo of the first, as Kelly complied.
The Sergeant Major’s look was all that was needed to express his feelings.
He walked slowly up and down the front rank before setting himself in the middle facing the men.
“Listen in!” It was a redundant statement as no one would have dared to do anything else.
“Welcome to Spean Bridge. My name is Sergeant Major Abrams! Abrams!” He repeated the name looking up and down the ranks as he did so. “Not Abrahams,” he said emphasising the ham. “There is no HA! In my name. I never laugh!”
He waited for the few chuckles to subside before continuing.
“Welcome also to commando training. Your training began when you climbed off the train. He paused before pointing towards
two vehicles parked further down the road. “Despite those two bonny, perfectly serviceable three tonners, we will shortly be marching the five miles to Achnacarry, your new home. Why?”
He paused for a moment, then added, “Why did you get off the wrong side of the train? Why are we marching to Achnacarry?”
He smiled as a few brave souls volunteered; “It’s good for the soul Sarnt Major,” and, “It’s character building,” and simply, “Don’t know Sarnt Major.”
The Sergeant Major’s eyes alighted on Kelly, who had not ventured an opinion. He studied Kelly for a few seconds and then his arm shot out, the finger pointed directly at Kelly.
“He knows!” the Sergeant Major exclaimed. “Tell us Sir!”
“Because it’s difficult,” said Kelly with firmness and conviction.
“Absolutely correct!” cried the Sergeant Major enthusiastically. “Because it’s difficult.” He paused to allow this concept to take root before adding, “From here on, if there is an easy way and a difficult way, we will always do it the difficult way. For all the reasons you other marines gave just now, but also for one particularly important reason.
“When you leave Achnacarry, if you pass,” he paused for effect, “you will go straight into active service, the like of which most of you will have never seen. You will have to make decisions about easy and difficult. Whether to jump out of a landing craft into six feet of ice-cold water or stay on board. Whether to retreat under fire or continue the attack and, God help you,” he lowered his voice, “whether to surrender, or stand and fight and perhaps die.”
He waited, his head swivelling to take in the men’s reactions before continuing. “I want to train you to make the right decision, even if it’s the difficult decision. Any questions?”
There was a general murmur of, “No Sarnt Major.”
“Okay men! Let’s go. Kit bags on the three tonners. Keep your large packs and rifles then fall in again on the road. GO!”
Cast No Shadow Page 10
