Dust on the Sea (1999)

by Reeman, Douglas

  She was not old, but definitely not young, with short grey hair. A bit of a battle-axe. Now, dressed in a starched white coat, she looked all of that. He could not imagine anyone daring to call her by such a frivolous nickname.

  ‘Captain Blackwood? I heard you were in the hospital.’ She thrust out her hand. It was a very strong grip, especially when compared with the wounded marine’s. ‘I missed you at the house in Rosetta. Joanna told me about you.’ She studied him calmly. ‘Not married?’ He said nothing. ‘Thought not. Good.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to make contact since we got back.’

  ‘Yes.’ She glanced at the ward. ‘I heard something about your recent escapade. It was good of you to come.’

  ‘He’s one of my men.’

  She shrugged. ‘A lot wouldn’t give a toss, believe me!’ She walked to a window and stared at a passing ambulance. ‘Never stops.’ Then, without turning, ‘You care, don’t you?’

  He knew she was watching his reflection in the dusty glass.

  ‘About her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Yes.’ He was surprised that it was so easy; he felt no resentment, not even a sense of intrusion. ‘Very much. I know what they say about the risks in wartime . . .’

  She faced him, and sniffed. ‘A lot of people say stupid things about “wartime”, my own husband for one!’

  Sergeant Welland drew his heels together very quietly.

  ‘Beg pardon, sir . . .’ He did not look at Lady Duncan. ‘I’ll be outside with the transport.’ Then he saluted, with great formality; he could have been mounting guard at the palace.

  She said, ‘Another one of your men, I assume, Captain?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes. A forceful character.’

  She took his arm and guided him to the opposite side of the lobby. The nurse had pulled up her apron to smooth out a wrinkle in her stocking, and he thought it was a pity that Welland had gone. He would have enjoyed that.

  ‘She left under orders. There was no easy way she could have told you, even if she had wanted to.’

  Don’t hope for too much. The touch of her skin beneath the robe when the car had come for him, an hour early. And now she was gone.

  Lady Duncan watched his face, his emotions. It was hard, sometimes impossible, to see such men as Blackwood in those other circumstances. Like the young marine who had lost his leg, like another, only an hour ago, who had wept in her arms when he had heard that he had been recommended for a medal. Then, like so many others here, he had died, without making a fuss.

  She said, ‘She told me you had given her courage.’

  He turned it over in his mind. ‘I don’t understand.’

  She put her hand on his sleeve. ‘I think it was something dangerous. Say or do nothing which might harm her, or yourself. But I imagine you know all about risks, Captain Blackwood?’

  Doors swung open and more white-coated figures strode into the lobby: the P.M.O. doing his rounds, the gleam of a stethoscope, the faint smell of gin. Someone said sharply, ‘What is that officer doing here?’

  Blackwood walked to the window and watched the ambulances, the orderlies hurrying to them with stretchers, their faces like masks. Something dangerous. Why had he not seen it? Was he so blind,so full of his own uncertainties?

  She had been warning him, preparing him. Don’t hope for too much.

  Lady Duncan, Tinker to her close friends, watched him walk out into the sunlight, past the ambulances with their glaring red crosses. A man who might turn any woman’s head.

  But a casualty, as much as all these others.

  Commander Walter St John looked up from his desk only to wave Blackwood to a canvas-backed chair. A petty officer writer waited beside the desk, his features expressionless while he passed letters to be signed, signals to be initialled, or untidy clips of notes in a steady stream. Blackwood thought he would have made a good butler.

  Nobody had spared him so much as a glance when he had entered this building, and yet he had the feeling that everyone knew exactly why he was here.

  He gazed at the calendar on St John’s desk. 1943. Was it possible? Another new year of war.

  There had been no word from Joanna Gordon and he had given up trying to tell himself that it was because she wanted their relationship to go no further. Perhaps she had made that plain from the beginning, but he did not believe it.

  He looked up from the calendar as the petty officer writer moved away with two armfuls of files and signal pads. Glided, would be a better description.

  St John stretched and peered at his watch. ‘Never stops, does it?’

  Blackwood was reminded of the formidable Lady Duncan.

  St John said, ‘I have a job for you. Major Gaillard has no objection, and Brigadier Naismith put your name forward himself. I’ll bet that surprises you.’

  Blackwood attempted to relax, and waited.

  ‘I must say that 1943 has begun a lot more promisingly than last year.’ He glanced towards the wall map. ‘The Eighth Army is still driving the Germans to the west – they’ll be in Tripoli in no time at this rate. The German army was held at Stalingrad, and they’re in full retreat there, too.’ His eyes hardened slightly. ‘We’re established in North Africa, and when the weather gives us a break things should improve for the Americans, and the enemy will face defeat in Tunisia as well. Not bad. Not bad at all.’ He displayed a second’s irritation as one of the long-bladed fans overhead faltered and squeaked to a halt. ‘We can hope for big things this year. I’m informed that the Prime Minister is adamant that Italy must be knocked out of the war as soon as possible. When that happens Germany will have her forces stretched to and, one hopes, beyond the limit. But to accelerate all this, we must help all those who are willing to stand up and fight against the enemy. Partisans, Resistance, opportunists, call them what you like. The policy will be to back those people in every way we can, irrespective of the colour of their politics.’ He was referring to the extreme divisions in occupied Yugoslavia. At the beginning it had been decided to drop military supplies to General Mihailovich’s Chetniks, mainly because he was a royalist. It was soon discovered, however, that Marshal Tito’s Communist partisans were fighting most effectively against the Germans, despite savage reprisals and executions, and the Chetniks had been co-operating with the occupying forces. So Tito was the one who would receive assistance.

  St John frowned as the fan began to move again. ‘Even amongst the islands, we can help. For the first time there is hope for these people.’ He opened a clean file, and said, ‘A cargo of battlefield clearance stores. B.C.S. as the boffins call them, is ready and waiting to be delivered to such a group. Italian weapons mostly, dropped by their army when they were surrendering in droves before Mister Rommel made an appearance, and changed the face of the desert war. Agents have carried out careful assessments, of course, but now it’s a matter of putting our hardware where our mouths are!’ He became more serious. ‘The final part of it must be official, and seen to be so by the people in question. Not some half-baked promise which can conveniently be forgotten when the fighting is over. In short, they want an officer to complete the handover. It will be the first of its kind in this particular theatre. Not enough to start a war, but perhaps sufficient to help end one, right?’

  Blackwood nodded, wondering why Gaillard had not told him first, or demanded to go himself.

  ‘And if you’re worrying about your duties with the new commando company, let me put your mind at rest. Your company will be in Suez in two weeks. They were delayed at Cape Town while they waited for additional escorts, but it gave them time to get their knees brown, and now they’re on the last run in.’

  Hard to believe that it had been such a short while ago, on that rain-sodden hillside when Major-General Vaughan had come to tell him about his father, and to ask him to take this appointment. That special, hard-trained company would be here very soon, and he would be with them when their true role was determined.

  Of course, h
e might have been shot on the pier beside the marine called Martin, or been killed on the previous raid on the island of Vasili. But that was not to be considered, let alone voiced in words. It only happened to others. It was well to remember that.

  St John had dragged open a drawer. ‘Drink?’ He did not wait for an answer, but took out a bottle and two glasses. It was Scotch, and marked Duty-Free, H.M. Ships Only.

  St John was grinning. ‘R.H.I.P.!’

  Blackwood took a glass. Rank Hath Its Privileges.

  ‘When will I be required to leave, sir?’ He felt the neat Scotch burning his tongue.

  ‘You’ll go, then?’ He sounded neither surprised nor relieved. Just another job.

  A telephone buzzed in a case like a trapped hornet. St John ignored it.

  He said, ‘Tomorrow. Everything’s taken care of. M.G.B. as before, rendezvous with one of our schooners.’

  ‘As before.’

  St John swirled the drink around his glass. There was not much of it left.

  ‘You will be advised how to proceed. You’ll be in good hands. My own choice, as a matter of fact. You’ve met him, by the way.’

  The telephone buzzed again, and this time St John unfastened the case. ‘I’ll brief you before you leave.’ He gave him a level stare. ‘There was one other thing.’ He spoke into the handset. ‘Wait.’

  ‘Sir?’ Blackwood was on his feet.

  St John covered the instrument with his hand. ‘I heard you were making enquiries about a Flight Officer Gordon?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Somehow he had known it would be mentioned.

  ‘It’s out of my hands, of course. Commander Diamond in London is more in the picture . . .’

  ‘Is she all right, sir?’

  St John observed him with surprise, or the closest he would ever come to it. ‘You know you’re not permitted to ask about such matters. In everyone’s interests.’ He stopped abruptly, and then said, ‘She’s safe. It’s all I can tell you. Nothing must jeopardise this mission. A lot of people will be depending on you, remember that! If I thought for one second –’

  ‘Nothing will jeopardise it, sir.’

  She was safe. From what, was still unknown. But she was safe.

  ‘Good.’ He stared at the telephone as if he hated it. ‘You’ll need one other officer. Simply as a precaution.’

  ‘Lieutenant Despard, sir.’

  ‘Thought it might be.’ He watched the door close, and spoke into the telephone.

  ‘On his way now, sir. No, I didn’t tell him.’ He scowled. ‘Well, she is safe, as far as we know!’

  He replaced the bottle in the drawer and closed it, thinking of all the faces he had seen across this desk since he had taken command. And of all those who had gone.

  He had been in command of a submarine at the outbreak of war, and had seen plenty of action. He glanced around his office. The filing cabinets, the signals In and Out, the chair where young men sat and listened, in too many cases for the last time.

  There was no comparison. Commanding the submarine seemed like child’s play.

  Blackwood climbed the ladder to the schooner’s deck, shivering. After the confined and crowded hull, the breeze from the sea seemed almost icy.

  He saw the skipper, Lieutenant Terry Carson, squatting by the tiller peering at his compass. It was nearly dark, the division between the horizon and the sky revealed only by the remains of a fiery sunset, streaks of orange-red, with the vague outline of yet another small island fading abeam.

  Carson tossed him a duffle coat. ‘Come up for some air?’

  Blackwood was glad it was the same schooner, with the one-time archaeologist still in command. Everything else seemed unfamiliar. Some of the crew had been replaced; even the motor mechanic from the Mile End Road had gone. Perhaps Special Operations insisted on change to keep the men on their toes, or to prevent them from becoming too close to one another.

  He joined Carson by the bulwark, feeling the hull shake to the beat of the ancient diesel. His mouth felt stale with oil, dirt, sweat.

  The schooner seemed heavier in the water, but he thought that was probably imagination. They were carrying two hundred Mannlicher-Carcano rifles, clean and ready to use, as well as ammunition and explosives. Not enough to start a war, St John had said, but in the right hands they would prove deadly. And in the wrong ones? Intimidation and crime, settling old scores for personal gain: it had happened elsewhere.

  He knew Carson was uneasy about it. Bitter. ‘Of course it will tie down more German troops who could be fighting where they’re most needed. It sounds so simple on paper. Does nobody ever consider the aftermath of some ambush or botched raid? People shot, innocent or otherwise, interrogated and tortured when they know nothing. Not that it makes any difference. It’s the “example” that always counts!’

  He reminded Blackwood of Falconer, after the raid and the destruction of the lighters.

  ‘If Intelligence was so certain, why didn’t we hit the bastards before they reached the anchorage? We could have nailed them easily. As it is, we’ve lost a boat and some good men, just to prove that some bloody French admiral isn’t playing by the rules!’

  Blackwood said, ‘This man we’re meeting, do you know him?’

  Carson answered sharply, ‘No. Just a name. Achileas. I wonder what joker thought that one up!’

  He reached out and touched Blackwood’s arm. ‘Sorry. It’s not your fault. I have to let off steam sometimes. This business gets you on edge.’ He grinned. ‘Past it, probably!’

  Blackwood considered it. In the Corps you were trained to deal with a situation in a recognised fashion. If things went wrong, you used that same training to hit back, and fight your way out of it. No wonder men like Carson and Falconer were pushed to the limit. In hours this schooner would enter a tiny harbour on the appointed island. They would actually tie up alongside a jetty or some other clapped-out schooner or fishing vessel, and get on with the unloading.

  Maybe the enemy already knew of this rendezvous. There were always collaborators and traitors only too eager to win favour from the occupying forces.

  Carson was only a vague shadow in the darkness. What made men like him take such risks?

  He thought of the other passengers, both soldiers, introduced as members of the Long Range Desert Group, but looking more like brigands than officers. The L.R.D.G. had become legendary in the cloak and dagger war; they often worked many miles behind enemy lines, blowing up supply dumps and transport before vanishing like nomads into the desert. One was a major named Savill, the other a captain whose name had not been mentioned. They kept to themselves, but, as Carson had remarked, ‘It’s their show. We’re just the dressing!’

  He wondered what Despard thought of the situation. He had seemed pleased that his name had been put forward for this mission, and, possibly, surprised that another such had been considered. Blackwood had seen him examining one of the Italian rifles. It had looked almost small in his hands.

  ‘Good enough, when properly used,’ was his only comment.

  Out of the darkness, Carson said abruptly, ‘You’re not married, are you?’

  Blackwood watched the last streak of colour sink out of sight.

  ‘No.’ An ordinary enough question, for men unwilling to speak of the hours which lay ahead. But it had touched him, perhaps unreasonably.

  Love me. It’s what you want, isn’t it?

  Carson twisted round to study the helmsman and said, ‘I was, once. But she got bored.’ He laughed softly. ‘Can’t say I blame her!’

  Blackwood stared up at the faint stars. ‘I’m glad you know where you’re going, Terry!’

  Carson pointed over the side. ‘There’s an island out there. I went there once. I found a lighthouse, six, maybe seven hundred years old. Can you imagine? When Henry III was king of England, maybe before that.’

  Blackwood looked away. Angry, bitter and aware of all the risks, and yet Carson loved this sea, its secrets and its past.

  Carson
said with the same uncompromising directness, ‘Do you like what you do?’ Then he stood up sharply and walked to the engine hatch, neither waiting for nor expecting an answer.

  It was better to be like St John. Just another job. It was stupid and dangerous to see beyond that.

  He allowed his mind to explore the memories again. She was the only one in his life who had shared and understood his doubts.

  He heard Despard climbing on deck, and was suddenly glad he was here.

  Achileas. It was simply something that had to be done.

  And it was today.

  After the final, nerve-wrenching approach to the island, and the seemingly endless delays before their masked signals were acknowledged, the coming of daylight was almost an anticlimax, revealing only a tiny village huddled around an inlet, dwelling leaning upon dwelling, with schooners and caiques as scruffy and scarred as their own.

  Although they were in a sea patrolled and guarded by the enemy there was no sense of menace or danger, and the local people, if not overtly enthusiastic, were not unfriendly. Theirs was a hard life, and their only means of survival lay in their own resources and in their boats. The enemy would be well aware of this. Unable to spare enough patrol vessels or men to cover this sector of the Aegean and the approaches to occupied Greece, they relied on an occasional show of strength, and the ruthless destruction of any vessel found out of its permitted area. Carson had spoken of the deadly Stuka dive-bombers which were often in evidence amongst the islands. Boats had been bombed and sunk regardless of what or whom they were carrying. As an example, as he had put it.

  Blackwood stood now in the broad entrance of a long, much-repaired hut and observed the harbour and the unhurried movements in and around the village, goats roaming the narrow streets, the smoke of charcoal braziers teasing his nostrils. It was like being invisible. People passed and glanced at him, only to avert their eyes without apparent surprise or curiosity.

  Despard crossed the worn floor, where the piles of Italian rifles and ammunition were being arranged by Carson’s sailors. Two Royal Marines in the middle of nowhere, here to lend the occasion an air of authority. Unshaven and crumpled, but in their battledress and webbing belts, with the familiar Globe and Laurel badge on their berets, they stood out like a military band. Even Carson had unearthed his uniform cap in the same spirit, the badge so tarnished that the gold wire was almost green.