He lifted his wrist and peered at his watch in the darkness, the luminous dial bringing him back to reality.
Three days ago they had transferred from the M.G.B. to one of the secret schooners, a small, dirty, two-masted vessel with a diesel engine so ancient that it had to be started with a blow-lamp.
He listened to it now, the steady bonk bonk bonk which said a lot for the mechanic who was in charge of it, a cheerful Cockney from the Mile End Road who had been working in a garage until he had decided to join up.
This was another kind of war, a war of stealth and cunning, venturing so close inshore sometimes that it had been possible to see people going about their ordinary lives. Islands too, blue and beautiful at a distance, but, close to, some were little better than rocks, and still men and women managed to scrape a living from them. Another world, a world of islands, and an endless procession of local shipping. Vessels like this one, shabby and hard-worked, caiques and rickety old steam boats.
He rested his head against somebody’s pack and thought of the rendezvous they had made with two other schooners the previous day. One had been from the Levant Schooner Force, manned by the same mixture of men as this. The other had been Greek, the skipper of which had appeared very friendly, especially after the wine had been produced. And ouzo, that villainous drink beloved by Greeks. Blackwood wanted to groan aloud. He could still taste it, and feel it.
What made men volunteer for this kind of work, this isolation? The desert war seemed so far away, if not in miles then in spirit. The familiar names like Tobruk and Benghazi, and now El Alamein, were household words in England. Here, in this scruffy, overcrowded schooner, they meant very little. And to the north . . . he was forcing his mind to calculate, to react, because he knew the dangers of lethargy . . . how far? A thousand miles, maybe less, two vast armies, German and Russian, were locked in bloody combat. From the great frozen wastes to the murderous work of street-to-street, house-to-house, room-to-room fighting, men were dying every day in their thousands. With luck, it was quick. Otherwise you died slowly, freezing and forgotten.
He thought of this schooner’s skipper, a young R.N.V.R. lieutenant, who, out of uniform, could have been only another wanderer or pirate.
One evening at sunset, he had joined him by the schooner’s compass and they had talked. Each hanging on to something, for only a moment, before slipping away again to go their separate ways. His name was Terry Carson, and before the war he had been a student of archaeology, moving on to Athens to continue with his studies. ‘It was one dig after another,’ he had said. ‘But I couldn’t leave it alone. The past became real.’ He had gestured towards the gunwale. ‘Not like this.’
For him, this was a homecoming in some ways. The Greek islands; the dust on the sea, he had called them.
Blackwood sat up carefully, every bone and muscle protesting. The other marines were sprawled throughout the boat, making the best of it as only they could.
The skipper was kneeling beside him, a pale blur where there had been total darkness before.
He said, ‘We’ll be able to see the place soon. We’ll go in first.’ He waited for Blackwood to acknowledge it. ‘The other two boats can stand off. There’ll be lots of local craft about, Turkish ones too. We’ll have to be careful.’
Blackwood recalled the words of an intelligence officer at Alex.
The Turks are neutral, with a very small ’n’. Think of them as Germany’s friends. It’ll be safer all round.
He thought of the two other schooners. The tough Channel Islander, Despard, was with one, and Major Gaillard was in the third: twenty-five Royal Marines altogether. Not exactly a large force, but anything bigger would have invited disaster; he knew that from hard experience. Except that this was the sea, not a jungle and that bloody river.
The skipper held out a mug. ‘Best I can do.’ His teeth gleamed in the darkness. ‘It’stea. Not ouzo this time!’
Blackwood sipped it. Sergeant-major’s brew; you could have stood a spoon upright in it, if there had been a spoon. But at this moment it was perfect.
‘I’ll get back to my lads.’ The skipper touched his arm. ‘These islands are guarded by Eye-Ties. They’re pretty slack most of the time. But the locals don’t want to spoil things. It would only bring the Krauts down on them – they’re not quite so understanding. You get the occasional E-Boat, and the Stukas from Rhodes and Crete. Otherwise, they’re kept too busy elsewhere.’
Blackwood could feel the other man’s need to return to the deck. Dirty, clapped-out it might be, but the schooner was his command, until Special Operations dictated otherwise.
‘The informant, you trust him?’
Carson shrugged. ‘Up to a point.’ Then he nodded. ‘Yes, I do. He’s never let me down in the past.’
He could almost hear Gaillard’s last words, before they had separated. ‘No bloody heroics. Just get the gear or blow the thing up and pull out, right?’
He thought of his men. Some he knew, most of them were strangers, but between them they had enough expertise and impatience to start a small war of their own.
He said, ‘I’ll check my people now.’
A quick grunt, and the other man was gone.
The marines were already on their feet, heads bowed beneath the low deck beams. They were hating it, the squalor and the crude conditions, the smell of sweat and engine oil. If the sea had got up, they might have been too sick to clamber ashore.
The sergeant he did know, from a long way back, but like Despard he was not easily forgotten. His name was Welland, and he had joined the Royals as a boy at the School of Music. He had been a drummer and his nickname, ‘Sticks’, still followed him. Behind the smart facade of a Royal Marine musician, there was another Welland. In his spare time he played in a small jazz band, not beating the Retreat but having an audience watching in awe as he performed with rhythm brushes and snare-drum. One of his interests was physical fitness, and when he had played in the clubs he had received many admiring glances from women. It suited Welland. They were his other consuming interest.
He was watching Blackwood now. ‘All checked, sir. Two marksmen with rifles. All loose gear, piling swivels an’ the like taped down – you’ll not get a squeak out of ’em.’ He sounded alert and confident.
Blackwood touched his lips with his tongue; they were bone-dry again. He concentrated on the two marksmen. On a small raid, they could make all the difference. It was strange to think that one had joined straight from school, and the other had been a postman in Brighton. They were equipped with Canadian Ross rifles, a stiffer bolt action than the usual Lee-Enfield, but far more accurate.
He felt the engine reducing speed, the sudden roll of the deck, and said to Welland, ‘I’ll take a look.’
It was still very dark, but he could discern the strengthening profile of the land and hear the gentle backwash from the nearby rocks. He felt the sling of the Sten gun biting into his shoulder, checking it in his mind, even though he knew Welland would already have done so. A small, useful weapon, like a piece of old gas pipe, some wag had described it. But it was comforting to know that there were thirty-two rounds in the magazine. There was always the risk of stoppages, but if the enemy was that near, it would not make much difference.
Carson said, ‘Make the signal.’ Clipped and tense. It was probably always like this, from deathly quiet to the whole world exploding.
The seaman used a torch, not even an Aldis.
Blackwood heard Carson murmur, ‘Come on. Come on, for Christ’s sake!’
He gripped the gun more tightly. It felt damp, wet even, but he knew it was not spray.
Carson snapped, ‘Once more.’ He half-turned towards Blackwood. ‘After that, I’ll haveto pull out. We’re sitting ducks out here!’
Another voice hissed, ‘Boat, sir! Port bow!’
Blackwood heard the gentle rasp of metal as one of the crew drew back a cocking handle.
And then the boat was right alongside, as if it had jumped the
last few yards. It was very small, probably a fishing dory. There were only two men in it, apparently unarmed. One was climbing aboard, and Carson hurried to meet him.
Blackwood looked at the land. It seemed to tower over them, even though he knew it was only a tiny island. A speck of dust, dust on the sea.
Carson came back. ‘It’s off. He says that the Italians are being replaced tomorrow.’ He sounded angry. ‘The Krauts are taking over.’ He glanced at the dark shape by the gunwale. ‘Poor bastard’s shit scared. Says we should have come sooner. I thought that, too. But they don’t listen, do they?’
Blackwood’s mind was working rapidly, when before all he had wanted to do was sleep.
‘It has to be done, Terry. You know that.’ He could see it like a film, as if it had already happened. Like the paintings at Hawks Hill, the sergeant of marines cradling the mortally wounded Nelson in his arms, the marines at Peking, the Crimea. They had probably said it even then, like the young lieutenant who had been so happy with his relics and his digs. They don’t listen, do they?
‘What shall I tell him?’
Blackwood watched a solitary firefly above the water, like a tiny star.
‘To lead us to the place of safety. He must know that, otherwise he wouldn’t have been here.’ He turned away, sensing that ‘Sticks’ Welland was nearby. ‘If he refuses . . .’
Carson was staring at him in the darkness. ‘He won’t.’ They were suddenly strangers.
To Welland he said, ‘Get them moving. First section into the boat, now.’
Carson said, ‘I’ll be back as arranged. I’ll warn the other boats.’ He waited until the second section had slithered down into the boat. ‘He’s frightened for his family, that’s all.’
Blackwood nodded, moved and disturbed by Carson’s sincerity, when within a few hours they might all be dead.
He reached out and gripped his arm.
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
Minutes later the boat was lurching over smooth rocks, and then as quickly they were paddling back to the schooner. Blackwood heard the sudden drumbeat of the old engine as she went astern to gain sea-room.
He found the man waiting for him; his companion had already disappeared. Then he turned and saw the marines moving away in separate sections, as they were trained to do. The schooner was gone; he could not even hear the engine any more, only the sea sighing amongst the rocks and inlets. Like breathing.
The man said quietly, ‘Follow. Daylight very soon. A bad time, Capitano. Bad!’
He swung away and headed towards the cliff.
Blackwood unslung his Sten gun, and adjusted the commando dagger at his belt. Carson’s words seemed to hang in the cold air.
They don’t listen, do they?
Sergeant Welland called, ‘Here comes the next section, sir!’
Blackwood twisted on one elbow and lowered his binoculars. The sky was completely clear, and from their rocky vantage point he could see the village. Small, white-painted houses; there could not be more than a dozen or so. How did they manage to survive on this and the other islands?
He saw Lieutenant Despard crouching down to examine the ‘place of safety’, as it had been described by some comedian at H.Q. A low cave with two ways in and out. You’d still have to move quickly if somebody lobbed a grenade into it.
He tried to empty his mind of useless doubts. There was one large house above the village, where the new detection device had been stored and tested. The report stated that there were three men, civilians, probably Germans, working on it. The only military presence was a dozen or so Italian soldiers. A home from home to them, he thought. Far better than the desert, or fighting partisans somewhere.
He said, ‘Everything okay?’
Despard slithered down beside him. He moved easily for such a powerful man.
‘No trouble, sir.’ He was tugging out his own binoculars, eyes moving from the village to the dark blue of the sea. There were several local craft about, just as Carson had described them, sailing vessels, some with colourful rigs which made them look like butterflies against the dark, heaving water. ‘Our guide seems to think the Germans will arrive at noon or thereabouts. He’ll be off like a bloody rabbit when that happens, I’ll lay odds on it!’
Blackwood glanced at the strong profile. If anybody dared to help the enemy, the Germans would show no mercy. There would be bloody reprisals, like some of the horrific cases he had heard about in Yugoslavia and in France. Despard had spoken without pity for the unknown guide. Was he thinking of his own home in the Channel Islands? Were there traitors and collaborators there also, ready to betray friends and neighbours merely to gain some advantage from the occupying power?
Despard had made no comment about the absence of the third section under Gaillard. Perhaps he was too well trained, hardened against the unexpected. The third schooner might have been too late for a stealthy approach; it could have broken down. Blackwood said, ‘It’s up to us.’ He was ticking off the objectives as he spoke. ‘Guard hut first – the wireless transmitter is supposed to be in there. Then the road from the village. Look, where those goats are.’
Despard steadied his glasses, his beret tugged forward to keep the light from his eyes.
‘That’s not too difficult.’ He grinned. ‘They’ll have a fit when they see us!’
Blackwood smiled. Then he beckoned to their guide, wondering briefly how Carson had come to know him, and to trust him.
He was aware of the man’s anxiety, as if he were only used to this kind of work by night. He was older than expected, with dark, liquid eyes: the face of a scholar, not of a fisherman or a labourer. Blackwood could smell his fear, and felt a sudden pity for him.
‘I shall move forward in half an hour.’
The man nodded, barely able to swallow. ‘The Italian guards hoist their flag soon. They will all be there. Except the officer. He is in the house with the Germans.’ He almost spat out the word. ‘There are two other men down by the jetty. They watch the boats.’ He stared at the sky until his eyes watered. ‘Tonight is better.’
Blackwood saw Despard grimace.
‘That is too late. For us.’ He looked across the man’s bent shoulders. ‘Warn the others, George. We don’t want to be caught with our pants down.’ He turned back to the Greek, and did not see Despard’s rare revelation of surprise, that he had called him by name. ‘When we fall back . . .’
The guide patted his arm, nervously, fearfully. ‘I will be ready to take you to the boats, Capitano.’
Blackwood raised himself on his haunches and watched a file of marines moving into a shallow gully. Not the sick, complaining men with whom he had shared the last few days. Loping along the uneven ground as if they knew it well, each man with his weapon held across his body, eyes moving from sector to sector. Ready for anything.
He said, ‘You are a brave man. Try not to forget that!’
He stood up slowly and looked down the slope. Not a place, only another objective, but it seemed to challenge him. People lived here, as best they could, no matter what flag flew or which cult dictated the orders. They had so little to sustain them; why risk it because of someone else’s war?
He sensed that the Greek was shivering. No one would care if men like him lived or died. No one would even hear of it. Perhaps, after all, theirs was the highest kind of courage.
Sergeant Welland was beside him again. ‘Ready, sir.’
Blackwood looked from right to left, but could see only two men, one already prone with his Ross rifle trained on the houses. He measured the distance to the low wall. There were no gates, only a barbed-wire barrier which had been pulled to one side. A goat was munching something by the entrance, but paused to stare with yellow eyes as if it had sensed the nearness of danger.
It was unreal, like a badly made film running in slow motion. Blackwood was not sure what he had been expecting, possibly a bugle, like the sounding of Colours on board a cruiser or a battleship in those other, impossible days of
peace. . . . Instead, it was a shrill whistle, like that of a railway guard.
He heard the stamp of boots, and then saw the Italian green, white and red flag jerking to a spindly masthead outside the largest building. He leaped forward, the Sten gun level with his hip as he shouted, ‘Now!’
An Italian N.C.O. was saluting, and a sentry was presenting arms to the flag as the marines burst in on them. If it had not been so vital it might have been comical, the expressions of utter incredulity and shock, Sergeant Welland pausing only to snatch the rifle from the guard as he yelled, ‘Stand still! Anybody who moves is a dead ’un!’ It would have sounded the same in any language.
Weapons clattered down, and Blackwood ran past the confusion and kicked open the door, his finger tight on the trigger, his body stiffened, as if anticipating the crushing agony of a bullet.
One shot echoed across the yard, and he swung round in time to see a shadow drop past the window; the marksmen must have seen somebody on the roof. On and on, feet pounding behind him, doors kicked open, grenades with pins drawn ready to silence any-one reckless or stupid enough to show resistance.
And all at once it was quiet. Just the faint hum of electricity, and someone groaningunhappily from the wireless room. Exactly as the plan of action had described.
Welland snapped, ‘Somebody’s in there, sir!’
Blackwood nodded, and levelled the Sten. Welland poised like a rugby forward converting a try and kicked the door with all his strength. It burst open and Blackwood raised the Sten, his mind excluding everything but the man who was sitting bolt upright in the bed. The officer, who never presented himself for the daily flag-raising. His uniform tunic hung on a chairback, and he seemed unable to speak as the marines dashed into the room and positioned themselves by another door and the shuttered window.
Welland rasped, ‘Up!’ and stared as another face appeared over the crumpled blanket. A woman, and naked by the look of it. Not young, but ‘Sticks’ Welland licked his lips approvingly. Not to be sneezed at!
There was a battered wardrobe on one side of the room. Blackwood opened the door and poked at the hanging clothing with the Sten’s short snout.
Dust on the Sea (1999) Page 6
