Despard was chewing on a piece of cold lamb, wedged with a sliced onion in a chunk of unleavened bread. Even he was finding it hard going.
He said between bites, ‘A few crates of bully-beef would do them more good than this! No wonder they all look so mangy!’
But he persisted, perhaps because he knew what it had cost these islanders to share their food with strangers.
There had been wine, too, plenty of it, in great earthenware jugs. It had taken all of Carson’s threats to prevent his men from overdoing it. It was rough and raw, and, Blackwood guessed, heavy on after-effects. But it was doing the trick, and he saw several of the seamen grinning and waving to a group of grave-faced children on the jetty.
Despard said softly, ‘Here they come.’ He straightened automatically. Major Savill and his companion from the Long Range Desert Group walked into the feeble sunlight, and waited for Blackwood to join them.
The man codenamed ‘Achileas’ ran searching eyes over the two marines. Not what Blackwood had been expecting, for a partisan, a leader of the Resistance, or even a terrorist, he was a slightly built man in a scuffed leather coat, very composed and self-contained. Between thirty and forty, it was difficult to say. His eyes were memorable, very steady, and utterly devoid of emotion.
Beside him, Savill seemed large and ungainly. He was wearing an outsized jerkin over his other clothing, and Despard had already remarked on the deadly-looking German machine-pistol it concealed. He had a soldier’s face, like Brigadier Naismith, with clear blue eyes like chips of glass.
Achileas handed a cup to Blackwood and watched while one of his men passed more wine to the others.
‘This is a great day.’ He spoke to all of them, but his eyes were on Blackwood. He even smiled briefly as he lifted his cup. ‘Gia sou!’
Savill grinned, but Blackwood thought he was on edge, eager to get on with it. Beyond the hut he could see some of the villagers, fishermen for the most part, by their clothing. What were they thinking? There would be some pride in what they had become a part of; there would be fear, too, for their families, for one another, if the worst should happen.
Achileas was extending his hand. ‘For the record, Captain Blackwood!’
Despard muttered, ‘God Almighty!’ But nobody heard him.
It was a man with a camera, self-conscious in his ragged clothing, but very aware of the importance of this moment.
Who would ever see the end result? Would anyone care?
They shook hands, while one of Achileas’s men held up two rifles as a background.
Then they faced one another and saluted, Blackwood in the only manner he had ever known, Achileas with a clenched fist.
Then someone shouted from the jetty, and Savill snapped, ‘Tell those men to take cover!’ He was fumbling for his binoculars, also concealed beneath the flapping jerkin.
Carson had joined them again, eyes narrowed against the strengthening sun as he found and tracked the small, solitary aircraft.
He said, ‘Fiesler 156, a Storch. First I’ve seen in this neck of the woods.’ He could have been remarking on the weather.
The monoplane dipped slightly towards the inlet before turning in a leisurely arc.
A communications and reconnaissance aircraft which the Germans made use of in almost every theatre of war, and vulnerable to flak and ground fire, it was nevertheless invaluable for spotting. Blackwood licked his dry lips. Like now.
Savill commented, ‘Short-range job, less than three hundred miles.’ No one answered. ‘But when that “stork” comes back, it won’t be carrying a newborn baby!’ He looked at his companion. ‘Changes things, that’s all. We’ll leave at dusk.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Hurry them up a bit!’
Carson said quietly, ‘They should be safe enough. They’ll lose themselves among the islands.’ He gazed at his small schooner. ‘We won’t have that privilege, I’m afraid.’
Blackwood listened to the gentle drone of the solitary engine, and tried to imagine the scene from their cockpit. A village and a few boats. Nothing unusual. Could it be that simple?
Savill was saying, ‘This is where we part, Captain Blackwood. You did well. We shall take it from here. Trust is a great incentive to these people, you know.’
Blackwood watched him walk down to the jetty, where the last of the rifles were being stowed.
‘How far can we get, Terry?’
Carson seemed unwilling to look away, as if he were discovering something.
‘There’s a fair breeze at the moment. With that and the old banger, we should log a hundred miles before the balloon goes up.’ He paused. ‘But we’re not waiting until dusk, right?’
Blackwood heard a child laugh, and turned to see one of Carson’s seamen handing some chocolate, nutty, to one of the onlookers. Good old Jack; underneath it all, he at least never changed.
One hundred miles, Carson had estimated. He recalled Savill’s casual parting.
When they left this place, trust was about all they would have.
Despard said, ‘Shan’t be sorry to get back to some proper soldiering, sir.’
Trust . . .
7
Shadows
Major-General Ralph Vaughan could barely contain his anger until the door to his outer office was closed, and then he exploded.
‘How long have we been in Scotland? Two, three days? Then I get back here to London and find this bloody cock-up waiting for me!’
His quietly spoken aide, Major Claud Porter, watched him striding around the office, his shadow leaning from wall to wall in the hard light like some wild animal trapped in a cage. He had seen Vaughan in all kinds of moods and felt the edge of his tongue in moments of anger from time to time, but rarely like this. On the face of it, it seemed a minor matter when viewed against the quickening pace of the war, although he knew well enough that it was not. Not to the Deputy Chief of Special Operations.
‘I want an immediate signal made to Commander St John at Alex, requiring a full explanation. . . .’ He broke off and glared. ‘Well, Claud, don’t you agree?’
Porter thought about the dossier marked Top Secret which was lying on Vaughan’s desk. The Prime Minister and Chiefs of Staff had gone to Casablanca, where, in due course, they would be meeting President Roosevelt and his senior advisers. It should prove an eventful conference, and would demonstrate to friends and enemies alike that the Allies were ready to plan the next vital moves both in the Mediterranean and, perhaps, into Europe. It would be a security nightmare, and he was thankful they had been in Scotland to inspect two new companies of Royal Marine Commandos, which would be joining the first company in Alexandria. It was a fine achievement, a fully trained battalion, ready for anything.
One small moment stood out. Vaughan had been inspecting a platoon of young marines who had just completed a gruelling assault course, knee-deep in snow and slush.
The fierce-looking major-general with the battered face had picked out one marine, only a few months in the Corps and pleased with himself for making the grade. A little too pleased, Vaughan had decided.
‘Ready to go, are you, lad?’
‘Not half, sir! We’ll show the bastards!’
Vaughan had tapped his arm quite gently and had said, ‘See that you do!’ He had looked over at the others, their filthy denims and cradled weapons. ‘But you’ve never killed a man, have you? Well, I have. It’s not that easy, not the first time. And if you screw it up, there is no second time, of course.’ Some of them had laughed, but the cheeky marine had not.
Porter said cautiously, ‘It probably seemed a good idea at the time, sir. Captain Blackwood is an experienced officer. Perhaps it was some inter-service exercise.’
Vaughan stared unseeingly at a map.
‘I’ll lay odds that Brigadier Naismith was behind it.’ His mood was quite calm again, like a departing gale. ‘I’m surprised that Gaillard agreed to it, though.’ He sat in silence for a moment. ‘But to send Blackwood off on some crack-brained scheme, dishi
ng out B.C.S. to a bunch of trigger-happy bandits – anything might happen!’
Porter tried again. He knew this was personal, because of the past, a part of Vaughan somewhere back there in Flanders, when the badly wounded Jonathan Blackwood had given the battalion to him.
Vaughan sat on one corner of his desk and stared at the dried mud on his boots. It was probably still raining over London. Here, in this bomb-proof, air-conditioned bunker, it could be doing anything.
‘When the Germans are out of North Africa, and out they will be, our commandos will be on the prongs of any major attack.’ He almost smiled. ‘We should be damned used to that, eh, Claud? But much of the military engaged will be new, untried, vulnerable. They’ll need all the skilled leadership we can find. I went along with the Lucifer raid because it could have been vital. Even the second one might have been useful, but Darlan is dead and the French have accepted General Giraud in his place. Given time, we might get some support from the French warships at Alex, although I’d not dine out on it just yet.’ He was on the move again. ‘It’s all dropping into place. The Germans agreed not to invade Vichy France, but they did. They promised to stay out of Toulon where the other French ships were based, but they broke that promise, too. So the French admiral at Toulon . . .’ he snapped his fingers and Porter murmured, ‘De la Borde, sir,’ ‘. . . scuttled his fleet, so neither side gets the benefit. Yes, it’s all dropping into place.’
In the outer office a telephone rang, and was instantly silenced. Porter had noticed that there had been no sound from that usually busy place, and imagined every man and woman listening intently to Vaughan’s powerful voice.
Vaughan said suddenly, ‘I met de la Borde a couple of times. Fine man. But he hated Darlan almost as much as the Germans. He’ll be for the high jump now, poor fellow.’
Porter chose the moment with care. ‘The other dossier, sir, concerning your proposed visit to Alexandria. The admiral seems very keen on it, and especially the Chiefs of Staff.’ He hesitated. ‘And of course the Prime Minister is taking such an interest in the present situation.’
Vaughan recognised the bait and accepted it.
‘Arrange it, will you, Claud? Might be just what they need. A good boot up the backside!’
‘If you agree, sir, I shall remain here at S.O.H.Q. It might be wise.’
‘Don’t know what I’d do without you, Claud, damned if I do.’ His voice hardened. ‘But no matter where I am, I want to know when Blackwood’s back, with that company!’
He looked at the files on his desk.
‘I’ll go and see the admiral now.’ He raised one hand. ‘No, I’ll walk. Do me good.’
He picked up his cap with its bright scarlet band and halted by the door.
‘That girl – the W.A.A.F. officer.’
Their eyes met, and Porter was almost tempted to play him along. Almost.
‘Flight Officer Gordon, sir.’
‘Yes. That’s the one.’ He thought of his wife, at home in Hampshire. She had a lot to put up with. He was usually here, or inspecting some special unit, as in ‘that bloody awful place’. She had remarked only recently, ‘When you were at sea, Ralph, I saw more of you than I do now.’
He said, ‘She all right?’ He hurried on, not wanting to involve his patient and uncomplaining subordinate. ‘I was thinking, provided that the A.O.C, would agree . . .’
Porter was quite shocked to see him so uncertain, so out of his depth. It was like blundering into somebody’s secret.
He answered carefully, ‘She’s still in sick quarters, sir.’
Vaughan looked at him directly. ‘In that case . . .’ He did not even ask how Porter knew, or why.
‘I think you should take her with you, sir. It might be exactly what she needs.’ He flinched under Vaughan’s gaze; he could look straight through a man, and he thought with some sympathy of that cocky youngster in Scotland. He said, ‘The Chief of Staff would approve. Give it the right touch.’ He looked away. ‘I’ll deal with it, sir, if you like.’
‘She might refuse. I think I would.’ Vaughan gripped the door handle. ‘No, I’ll ask her myself.’
The door opened and a chorus of typewriters and telephones burst in like a flood, timed to the second.
Porter regarded the untouched files and sighed. Nothing could ever be quite the same again after today.
The girl walked across the room and stood by the window. Then she opened the heavy blackout curtains and looked down at the garden, the leafless trees, and some small outbuildings where she had seen workmen replacing a few of the tiles. They looked so bright against the older ones, she thought. The gardens must have been quite beautiful in their day. Now, out of necessity, there was only grass and empty beds.
She touched the glass, and knew it was raw cold outside. Everything was grey, the sky, the buildings, the puddles left by overnight rain. There was strong wire mesh across the windows here; to keep prowlers away, or to prevent the inmates from escaping?
She was wearing a loose hospital robe, and beneath it her whole body tingled from a hot shower. Nobody minded how many baths or showers you took. Maybe it was all part of the therapy. She allowed her mind to linger on the word. Something she had thought she would never be able to do.
She tied the curtains back, aware of the bandage on her left arm. At least she did not need a sling any more.
She looked at the outbuildings again. There was a gravel path which ran almost completely around the sick quarters. She could not recall how long she had been here before her first walk in the open air, using that same path, a nurse strolling behind her as if there by accident. The men had been working on the roof then, and she had heard the hammers stop when she passed and knew they were staring after her, with pity, curiosity, or simply relief that it was not one of them.
She turned to face the room. A bed, a cupboard without doors, a small table and one chair beside it, where the doctor usually sat when she visited. They probably thought it was better for a woman doctor to be in charge. They must have dealt with every kind of stress and breakdown in this place.
She stared at the neatly pressed uniform laid out on the bed. Skirt, tie, air force blue shirt. She bunched her hands into fists until the pain steadied her. Her stockings were there, too. Things were like that here. Beds were made, trays of food came and vanished, and the doctor would look in to check her progress.
Not like the first time. She had struggled with the doctor and one of the nurses, words pouring out of her, her mind reeling to the same torment, unable to accept or believe that it was over. Or was it?
At night it was worse, and she had awakened gasping time and time again, the nightmare refusing to release her.
She glanced at her wrist; she still did it despite the fact that her watch had gone when she had been arrested.
She sat down slowly in the chair and studied the uniform. The doctor had told her that the choice was hers. A few more weeks might make all the difference. She must be given time.
Suppose she was right? She might crack wide open at the first challenge. She thought of the brief visit from the major-general of marines. I want you to come with me. Do you more good than this place, I shouldn’t wonder.
And yet, despite his bluff, angry manner, she had felt that he had cared about her, that she mattered.
As she had sat here, in this chair, she had seen his cap badge, and had forced herself to fight back the tears as the memory had returned. That deserted house, the swimming pool, its surface covered with a film of blown sand. Sheer heaven, she had told him.
Make it a lifetime. Did I really say that?
She folded her arms and leaned forward in the chair, and immediately felt the bandage dragging at her skin.
It would heal soon, they said. She might always have a scar, they said. But she would never forget. She must be able to confront it, and not try to hide in shadows of her own making.
It had all gone so smoothly at first, but it was unnerving to see German uniforms
in the streets where she had lived with her parents, where she had spent part of her girlhood, at school, and later helping at the shipping agency. Marseilles, the Port of Seven Seas, they called it.
She had not been afraid; breathless would describe it better. She had met her guide as arranged, and they had waited separately for the bus with the usual collection of homeward-bound workers. She had watched the German soldiers from her window at the back of the bus. Some were very young, peering into shops, or standing on street corners. She had been aware of resentment among her fellow passengers. Defeat had been bad enough, but the Germans had broken their agreement and had occupied all of southern France, even Toulon. She had seen older troops also, the strained, tired faces of combat, probably enjoying this welcome change from Russia or Poland.
One passenger, a young man of about her own age, had attempted to initiate a conversation with her. She had known that this was dangerous, and she had seen her guide turn his head to observe them.
Then there had been an explosion, more like a dull thud than anything else, and the bus had been forced to a halt. She had heard someone speak of sabotage, and she had sensed the anger, and the fear. Her new companion swore quietly as two police officers had climbed into the bus, shining their torches and demanding to see papers of identity. They were not Germans but ordinary French police, doing their job, turning their backs on a world which was beyond their control, or maybe just filling in time until the traffic started to move again.
They were slow, but thorough. Torches flashed; nobody spoke. She had felt her heart pounding like a trip hammer.
One gendarme had been almost level with the slatted wooden seat when the young Frenchman had bounded against the emergency door, and had jumped into the street.
Dust on the Sea (1999) Page 12
