Dust on the Sea (1999)

by Reeman, Douglas

  It was exactly eight o’clock in the morning when Blackwood found himself at the appointed building. The air was still damp and cold, and the sky so dull it was barely possible to distinguish the buildings in and around Trafalgar Square; even the little admiral was lost from view on the top of his column.

  He still could not believe he had done so much in so short a time since stumbling from the overloaded train at Waterloo Station. A petty officer with a Naval Patrol armlet had met him at the barrier and had guided him to a waiting car without hesitation, no easy thing amid the stampede of uniforms pushing through the gates, either to avoid losing their tickets, which might be used again if the collectors were too busy to notice, or to dodge the hard-faced line of redcaps and R.A.F. police, the enemies of all servicemen anywhere.

  Then a quick drive to a private room, where he had been given just a few moments to shave and change into a clean shirt and down a cup of awful tea before being whisked away by the same petty officer.

  It had been too much after the lengthy, uncomfortable journey, and he felt like death. He also knew the services well enough to accept that it was probably a complete waste of time. As Major-General Vaughan had said in Scotland, others could do it. They probably had.

  The building was not what he had expected; it was more like an old shop, with sandbagged barriers and wire grills to protect the windows.

  The petty officer watched him without curiosity. It was obviously better not to ponder on the fate of the officers he collected and ferried to this rendezvous.

  He did say, almost apologetically, ‘Used to be a big wine merchant’s place, sir. So they tells me.’ It was enough. He guided him through the doors and past two steel-helmeted policemen, either guarding the entrance or merely sheltering from the drizzle outside. Then there was a counter, and another petty officer standing behind it.

  He glanced at Blackwood’s identity card, and said, ‘I’ll take you down, sir.’ He almost smiled, but not quite. ‘They doesn’t like to be kept waitin’!’

  Blackwood turned to thank his driver, but he had gone without further word.

  He was led to an ornate lift that looked like something from his schooldays; the gates were closed, the button pressed. The big lift gave a jerk and started to descend. For some reason, he had expected it to be going upwards.

  It was unreal, going down, past another floor where he caught a glimpse of two civilians having a quick smoke, before the lift came to a shuddering halt and the gates opened automatically.

  After the dull sky over London, and the dank air, it was another surprise: white walls and hard lighting, the clatter of teleprinters, and several telephones ringing. Wrens in shirts hurried past with their arms filled with signal folders and files; even the air was different, warm, but moving like some secret breeze.

  A tall Wren greeted him. ‘Good morning, Captain Blackwood.’ She smiled. ‘Traffic bad up top?’

  He saw a clock on the wall. It was three minutes past the hour.

  She seemed to sense his resentment, and added, ‘I’ve been here in the Pit for so long I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like up there!’

  He forced a smile. Her casual question had jarred him, like a criticism. Greeting the new boy . . .

  She said, ‘I’ll take you straight in. Commander Diamond is expecting you.’

  They walked past several other rooms, she setting a brisk pace, and he noticed how solid the dividing walls were; they must have stored a few million bottles here in happier times. It was a good choice; London could fall on top of it, and you wouldn’t feel a thing.

  A new door, cheap plywood and painted grey. There was a small board which read, Commander Roger Diamond, S.O.(O). The name rang a vague bell, but nothing more.

  ‘Captain Blackwood, sir.’

  It was like hearing a stranger being announced.

  There were two men seated at a table. Neither of them moved as the door closed behind him. One he recognised as the harassed-looking major who had been with Vaughan at Achnacarry; it seemed like months ago, instead of weeks. The other man was big, heavy-jowled and formidable. His fingers were resting, clasped, on a pile of papers, and the interwoven gold lace on his sleeves showed that he was a commander in the Royal Naval Reserve. The R.N.R. were mostly professional sailors who served in the merchant navy in peacetime, on the condition that they trained at intervals with the Royal Navy, and they had been a godsend to the overworked and expanding wartime fleet. Because of their experience they were usually navigating officers, or commanders of smaller vessels; Blackwood had never before encountered one on any naval staff.

  Diamond nodded. ‘Sit down. Glad you got here in one piece. Sorry about your father.’ All in one breath, or so it seemed, like one of Vaughan’s verbal telegrams. He had dark, deepset eyes and thick, greying eyebrows; the eyes were inscrutable. He glanced over Blackwood’s uniform, perhaps noting the newly attached rank, or that he had shaved despite all the haste. If so, he gave nothing away.

  Somewhere a telephone jangled, and then a small hatch slid back behind the table and a voice murmured, ‘Chief of Staff, sir.’

  Diamond did not turn. ‘Wait.’

  More murmurs. Blackwood took the opportunity to glance around. He heard the voice say, ‘Ten minutes, sir.’

  Diamond relaxed and waited for the hatch to close. ‘Like a bloody confessional, isn’t it?’

  Then he looked at his companion. ‘Major Porter can carry on.’ He grinned; bared his teeth might be a better description. ‘Tell him, Claud.’

  Porter said, ‘You were selected at Major-General Vaughan’s suggestion, and your recent experiences seem to have given foundation to his arguments.’ He was neither cold nor severe, but matter-of-fact, professional. ‘Since your return from Burma and your employment with the retraining programme in Scotland, a lot of thought and a great deal of work has gone into the preparation of another new force in Special Operations. Out of necessity, we have to work with the other services, and from time to time our army opposite numbers have thought fit to criticise the Corps for not being volunteers for this particular sort of work. For my part, I have read reports by our own people who have described the military participation, particularly in Malaya and in Burma, which you will know very well, as amateurish.’ He gave a slight smile. ‘I have pointed out to my superiors that this is not a contest between ourselves. Competition is always healthy, but not at the expense of results.’

  He turned over some papers, but Blackwood thought it was to give him time, or to allow the formidable Diamond to form his own opinion.

  ‘The retreat from Burma was deplorable. Good men lost, valuable ground thrown away. The stable-door mentality, like Hong Kong and Singapore. A close thing. Too close. Some say that the link between East and West will never recover.’ He patted the papers with his neat fingers. ‘We will cross that bridge when we come to it.’

  Diamond was tapping out a massive pipe into the lid of a tobacco tin.

  He said, ‘You handled yourself well. You took charge of some old, clapped-out launches and local craft and helped get our troops across the Irrawaddy. It wasn’t Dunkirk, and this time we could not have afforded to lose another army! Your commanding officer recommended you for a decoration.’ He glared at his pipe and the ashes on the lid. ‘Probably got bogged down somewhere.’

  The major coughed politely. ‘Things are moving in the Mediterranean, faster than we dared to hope. The Eighth Army stopped Rommel at El Alamein. It was not a fluke this time – the Germans are in retreat. We’re getting results!’

  It was the closest Blackwood had seen him to excitement.

  Major Porter continued, ‘The plan is to send a small force of commandos to North Africa. One hundred men, no more at this stage. You will have full co-operation from the navy, and the army can think what it likes. Anyway . . .’ Again the small, private smile. ‘The Prime Minister is behind us, so that can’t be a bad thing. You would be second-in-command.’ He frowned as the phone jangled again. ‘Your las
t C.O. suggested that.’

  Blackwood imagined he had missed something. Strain, fatigue; or was he just bomb-happy like all the others?

  ‘Major Gaillard.’

  The silence was complete, like going suddenly deaf.

  The telephone rang again, and he heard himself say, ‘I – I’m sorry, sir.’ He saw them looking at him, and tried again. ‘You see, I thought he was dead.’ A voice insisted, you know he is dead. You saw him fall. ‘On the Irrawaddy.’

  Major Porter studied him calmly. ‘He was wounded, but he is very much alive. His information was invaluable, and it seemed better to keep his recovery off the record.’

  The hatch was open from the confessional, and Commander Diamond swivelled round in his chair with some difficulty.

  ‘Yes? Speaking, sir. I have the documents ready for you.’

  But his deepset eyes were on Blackwood, as Porter pressed, ‘You agree, then? This is a Top Secret operation, but I don’t have to spell it out for you.’

  The telephone had gone and the hatch was shut again. Diamond beamed, and jammed his pipe in his pocket.

  ‘Good to meet you, Blackwood.’ He glanced at the door; the formalities were over. ‘I shall expect you here tomorrow. Same time.’ He heaved his heavy body from the chair. ‘You got along all right with Gaillard, I hope?’ The door opened, and the same Wren was waiting there with Diamond’s cap. He did not wait for an answer.

  Blackwood half-listened to the muted rumble of London’s traffic far above this secret, bomb-proof place, the question still in his ears like an echo.

  Porter said, ‘I’ll walk you to the lift.’

  Gaillard was alive, and in command.

  And I wanted him dead.

  2

  It Was Nice Meeting You

  Captain Mike Blackwood climbed down from the taxi and glanced at the overcast sky. Yet another air raid siren was wailing dolefully, as if in pain.

  ‘Is this it?’

  The cabby watched him thoughtfully. A tall officer in a khaki greatcoat, with the Royal Marines badge, the Globe and Laurel, on his beret. What the hell would he be doing in a place like Putney? But he was an old hand. You didn’t ask in wartime. You just had to wait.

  He said, ‘Small block of flats, guv. The river’s just beyond.’ He gestured with his mittened thumb. ‘Putney Bridge is down there. Least, it was still there this mornin’!’

  Blackwood shivered. Anything was better than staying in the poxy billet in London, he thought. A stopover for officers like himself, a place so dingy it was a wonder it wasn’t condemned. Even the taps didn’t work properly.

  It all seemed the continuation of a dream, like his visits to the underground headquarters, ‘the Pit’, as the Wren had called it. Nothing made sense, as if it was all happening to somebody else. From the old boy with the poppy and the heavy row of medals at the funeral, the grave faces and the staring passers-by, to this . . . this nightmare.

  He had telephoned Hawks Hill to try and discover what had happened to his sister, but had only managed to speak with Harry Payne for a few moments before they were cut off. Payne had sounded delighted, full of it. Diane was in the W.R.N.S., or almost. He had exclaimed, ‘And she’s been put forward for our lot!’ Our lot. He smiled. Once a Royal Marine, always a Royal Marine. Even after all these years and another war, Payne had never truly left the Corps in spirit.

  Then the line had gone dead. Perhaps an operator had heard what she considered to be careless talk.

  He was pleased for Diane. She had just about run the estate single-handed, for their father’s sake and for those who still depended on the place. Now she was free to do what she had always wanted. Like so many local girls: how would they ever settle down after the war?

  He thrust his hand into his pocket. If we ever win the bloody war . . .

  ‘How much is that?’

  The cabby replied, ‘I’m well over my limit, sir, an’ I’m towin’ this ruddy fire pump, so it’s hard on petrol . . .’ He looked down as Blackwood put two notes in his hand, and grinned. ‘You’re a real toff, sir!’ He drove away into the lengthening shadows, the little pump bumping along behind his taxi.

  Blackwood stared at the flats, very square against the low sky. Right on the Thames. Must have cost a packet in peacetime.

  He did not move, thinking of the London he had seen since his return from Scotland. People crowding the Underground platforms, not merely for a night, but every night, with their blankets and gas masks, thermos flasks, and maybe a sandwich to see them through. Trying to sleep until the first train ran in the morning; feeling the ground shiver to bombs, wondering if the house or the flat or a life would still be there when daylight came.

  And trying to sleep in that awful billet. The walls were so thin that he guessed the hotel’s enterprising owner had doubled the number of existing rooms with little more than sheets of plywood.

  Each small room had only a single bed, but almost every night Blackwood had heard the man in the next hutch entertaining a woman, not always the same one by the sound of it, a blow-by-blow encounter down to the last frantic gasp. So much for security . . .

  But after he had received the telephone call, he had broken the monotony by banging on the wall with his fist and shouting, ‘What have you got in there? A bloody tiger?’

  He had heard the woman giggle, and then her companion had thumped the wall himself and shouted back, ‘Don’t make so much noise!’

  But at least they had been quiet after that. For a while, anyway.

  He walked towards the building now, his mind suddenly quite cold, contained. Almost as if he had known.

  ‘That you, Mike? Good show! You can’t get rid of me that easy.’ Even on the phone, it was the same hard laugh. ‘Just had the word. It’s a go.’ He had given the address, this address, and had added, ‘Don’t bother about getting back to that dump. You can pitch down here if you like.’

  Blackwood glanced at the clouds and saw a searchlight make a wide practice swing beyond the river. Preparing for the real thing.

  Suppose he had been wrong about Gaillard? Everything had been in a state of chaos, stampeding natives, upended vehicles and hurrying soldiers, wild-eyed in full retreat. There had been pockets of resistance and raw courage, too; there always were. But there hadbeen too many mixed units, and often no overall command to minimise confusion. And the Japs had known it. They had even infiltrated past the last defenders, and their sniper fire had inflicted a terrible toll.

  And, throughout, the marines with their ramshackle flotilla of local boats and launches had ferried exhausted soldiers and wounded civilians to the next place of safety, fighting a rearguard action all the way.

  Several marines had been cut off while they were endeavouring to blow up a fuel dump in a sudden tropical downpour. Gaillard had ordered them to fall back, had even gone himself to speed up their return. An army sapper had been with them, but had been wounded by a single shot from a clump of trees; he had fallen into the river even as one of the launches had been backing away.

  Paget had been there, too. Afterwards, he had said, ‘The poor bloody sapper was calling out, pleading for someone to help an’ not leave him alive for the Japs to get hold of.’ They all knew what that would have meant. ‘I heard a shot. The pongo either done for himself, or someone else did it for him.’

  Shortly afterwards Blackwood saw Gaillard fall, holding his side, a revolver gripped in his hand. That was the last time he had seen him.

  He found himself facing a door, and after the smallest hesitation he pressed the bell.

  Gaillard had been reported missing, believed killed, although things had been and still were vague as to whether men were prisoners of war, dead, or truly missing. To the Japanese, the dissemination of information was not a priority.

  But suppose I was wrong?

  With a start, he realised that the door had opened. But it was a woman, and in the poor light she appeared to be wearing dark blue battledress, of the kind worn by air raid war
dens or voluntary rescue workers. She was quite obviously neither.

  She said, ‘Well? Are you coming in, Captain Blackwood?’

  He stepped into a hallway and she switched on the light. She did not offer her hand. ‘I’ll take your coat.’

  She had a soft, educated voice, with an undernote of tension. As she turned to take his greatcoat he glanced at her quickly. Dark hair, quite short, shining in the light, hands small, well-shaped, and, he guessed, strong. About his own age, he thought, but with a maturity which defied him.

  Most of his experience with women had been youthful, silly affairs, usually as the result of some big naval event, a fleet review or regatta. In the Mediterranean, under the spread awnings, to the music of the ship’s bandsmen: light, simple and empty flirtations. Bare, tanned shoulders and roving eyes. But that was then.

  She said, ‘You will know me if we meet again, Captain.’

  ‘Sorry. I was staring.’

  ‘Yes. You were.’ She did not respond to his smile. ‘I’ll take you in.’

  Who was she, he wondered. Gaillard’s wife, or mistress perhaps; he had never been slow where women were concerned. He followed her to another door. But even that might no longer be true of the man.

  He stepped into the adjoining room and saw Gaillard standing by a fireplace, watching him, as if he had been poised for this moment. Tall, lean and hard, most people’s idea of the complete fighting man. He had worn a moustache when they had last been together, but he was now clean-shaven, his chin smooth but blue, as if it defied even the keenest blade.

  It was Gaillard’s eyes you always remembered. Very dark; what Diane would call ‘button-eyes’. A man who rarely seemed to raise his voice, but one who could reduce an incompetent subordinate to a jelly without effort.

  He was smiling now, holding out his hand.

  ‘So here you are, Mike. Getting bloody fed up with all the delays and foul-ups, I’ll be bound.’ The eyes did not flicker or move; they never did. ‘I’ve heard all about the training programme. Maybe now we can put it to good use.’