Dust on the Sea (1999)

by Reeman, Douglas

  She had heard the startled cries, someone blowing a whistle, and the sudden crack of a pistol shot. The two gendarmes had seized her arm and dragged her to her feet. Hazy, broken pictures. She had never believed she would ever be able to relive it.

  She had seen his body sprawled in the road, eyes wide and staring in the glare of flashlights, caught at the moment of impact. The moment of sudden death.

  She remembered the faces of the other passengers as she had been taken through the bus. Not even pity. It had been more like hatred.

  At the police station, she was seen by an inspector who had ordered her into a bare-looking office, where she was told to sit and await further questioning. She even remembered the police station, from those early days; she had gone there once to report a missing tennis racquet.

  Looking back, it seemed an eternity, although she now knew it was only a matter of hours. The other officer had arrived even as a further explosion had rattled the windows. She had heard powerful vehicles roaring along the street, and German voices shouting commands.

  The police officer was a woman. She wore no uniform, but her heavy jacket and skirt could have been just that.

  The rest was still very distorted. It was at that point that the nightmare began.

  She could recall the room, the glaring lights, the padded walls, soundproofing. There was a solitary stool, and a long, bare table, and an electric fire. The woman ordered her to sit on the stool and then to open her mouth while she shone a torch into it, pushing her tongue aside until she seemed satisfied. She had heard since that she might have been looking for a cyanide capsule.

  She could remember her smell, stale sweat, just as she still recalled her sense of excitement. In a man it would have been lust.

  But now she was on her feet again, fighting it, facing it as she knew she must. She looked desperately at the neatly folded uniform. She must wear it again if she was to escape from here, from the nightmare.

  When the doctor here had first examined her, she had felt not her hands but those of the woman in the soundproofed room.

  She had stripped her, and those same hands had probed into her; there were threats that she would fetch male officers if Joanna resisted. She had been forced to stand, naked beneath the glaring lights, while she had watched her clothes being examined, each label and cleaner’s mark checked for flaws. The woman had found nothing. Even when she had slashed open the lining of the small bag she had been carrying, she had not discovered some last-minute mistake. The people who had sent Joanna Gordon on the mission never made such obvious errors.

  But it did not seem to surprise or disappoint her tormentor. She had never stopped speaking, although, looking back, it was hard to be certain if it was in French or English.

  A gendarme had entered the room to collect the clothing, and when Joanna had attempted to cover herself the woman had shouted at her not to be shy, or to plead innocence.

  She paced across the room, her feet soundless on the hardwood floor. After that. She clenched her fists and forced herself to try again. She had felt her arm in the woman’s iron grip, heard her own screams, like the screams in the nightmare, and there had been the smell of burned flesh as her bare arm had been forced against the electric fire.

  Her interrogator had actually been grinning, shaking her gently back and forth like a doll. Telling her to get dressed again, but that she would not need her stockings or underwear. She had telephoned the German commandant, and his men were coming to interrogate her. Underclothes would only hamper things.

  And then another explosion, as if it had been right there in the room, although she knew that was impossible. Other hands holding her, smothering her protests with meaningless words. She could vaguely remember the pad over her mouth and nose. Then oblivion.

  She went to the bed, and after the smallest hesitation picked up the stockings.

  Aloud, she said, ‘I need them now!’

  The doctor, who had been standing in the open doorway, gave a faint sigh. In this place you could never proclaim a victory, but she went to the girl and put her arms around her. She felt her stiffen, but only for a moment.

  There was always that terrible hurdle. And she had confronted it.

  Michael Blackwood lowered himself into the schooner’s tiny cabin and found Despard sitting at the rough table, a Bren gun propped on its bipod, gleaming in the feeble light.

  Despard glanced at him. ‘I must say that for a bunch of roughnecks Lieutenant Carson’s people certainly know how to look after their weapons!’ He ran his fingers along the barrel, and down to the curved magazine. ‘One of the best pieces they ever made, in my book. Some say the Bren’s too accurate, but it’ll do me.’

  Blackwood thought of the pitch-dark sea and the crouching watchkeepers he had left on deck. There was the merest hint of grey light over the port quarter. It would soon be dawn.

  Carson had seemed pleased with their progress so far. The island of Rhodes was to the north-east, other islands too, but it could have been a vast, empty ocean in this small schooner. Carson had set the sails, and with a favourable breeze and the faithful engine they were making ‘seven or eight knots’. He made it sound like an M.T.B.

  Three hundred miles to go; but they would sight friendly forces long before that.

  Blackwood tried to relax, and wondered if Despard was always so confident.

  ‘Did you find it hard to change from sergeant to lieutenant, George?’

  Despard looked at him, perhaps surprised that he found it easy or necessary to discuss things; to confide.

  He shrugged. ‘As I told another would-be general, there’s more to it than a change of uniform. Getting used to stewards in the mess watching you trying to steer the right knife and fork in the right direction, and raising their eyebrows when you drop an aitch in the wrong place!’ It seemed to amuse him, now. ‘But when you’ve got men relying on you, doing what they can for you, it makes up for a lot.’ He paused, and his voice was very level. ‘It was the proudest day of my life, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘When we rejoin the company . . .’ He got no further.

  There was an almighty crash, followed by an insane clatter of metal, while the whole hull shook as if it had collided with another vessel. Then there was silence, broken only by Carson’s voice, distorted in the wind.

  Despard said, ‘The engine’s stopped, sir.’

  Blackwood tried not to think of the pathetic old launches they had commandeered on the Irrawaddy to help the retreating soldiers. Too hard-worked, not designed as machines of war. Like this schooner.

  They stood up, heads bowed beneath the low deck bearns, Despard with one hand still on the Bren’s magazine.

  He remarked, ‘That’s torn it.’

  Blackwood glanced at him and smiled. ‘We’ll see.’

  Impossible, but it seemed lighter on deck since he had gone below only minutes ago. There was steam fanning over the bulwark, and a strong stench of burning, but no sign of fire. Blackwood heard Despard behind him. That would have torn it. It was a long swim to Alex from here.

  Carson strode past. In the half-light he appeared to be wearing gloves, but Blackwood knew that his hands were black with oil and grease.

  He saw them and paused, but he was still watching his two mechanics.

  ‘Crankshaft’s fractured. A bloody write-off! Of all the bloody luck!’

  Despard said mildly, ‘Can’t it be repaired?’

  Carson laughed, a bitter, rather wild sound on the cool air. ‘They stopped making engines like this one before you joined. Before most of us were born, probably!’ Then he was calm again, in control. ‘There’ll be local craft about soon. We could keep with them, then head for Turkish waters.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I had hoped we might log a few more miles. Our chaps will know what’s happening. They’ll come looking.’ He turned away as one of his men called to him. ‘Fingers crossed all round, I’d say.’

  Blackwood took out his binoculars and trained them across the port bow. He
could see what the seaman had just reported. Bat-like sails, resembling feathers scattered on the hardening rim of the horizon. Who were they? How did they manage to survive?

  Carson called, ‘We’ll close with them. Should be safe. Nobody sees anything in these waters!’

  The tiller creaked over, and the big mainsail came noisily to life. Despard looked towards the other vessels.

  ‘I wouldn’t trust any of ’em!’

  Blackwood dropped one hand to his webbing holster. They were hardly equipped for a fight.

  Despard must have seen the movement.

  ‘I brought some 36 grenades, sir. Just in case.’

  Blackwood watched the brightening sky, and imagined he could feel warmth where there was none. He remembered his father speaking about the ill-fated Gallipoli campaign; ‘an heroic failure’, he had called it. Towards the end of the campaign, the rules of war had long since been discarded. In savage hand-to-hand battles, on wiring parties, and during raids on enemy positions, there had been no quarter asked or given.

  He gripped a stay and felt the schooner rise and dip beneath his feet. Carson and his men, like all of this special group, knew that the same odds existed for them. If captured, the enemy would be merciless.

  Carson was drinking from a large and none too clean mug, and speaking with his petty officer. He was the first to hear the unhurried drone of a solitary aircraft.

  As it altered course towards the scattered vessels, the wing tilted and the cockpit perspex flashed in the sun which, on the sea, was not yet visible.

  Despard said, ‘It’s that bloody Storch again.’ He revealed neither surprise nor anxiety, as if he had known.

  The petty officer looked at his skipper. ‘Thought you said they couldn’t fly this far, sir!’ He could actually grin about it.

  Carson clapped his shoulder. ‘Just this once, I was wrong!’

  The little spotter plane was already turning in a final arc. They had found what they had come looking for, and it was back to base now, with, maybe, a run ashore to some Greek hostelry.

  Carson stooped to look at his compass.

  ‘South-east by south. Steady as you go, Miller!’ And to Blackwood, ‘Nelson would have been proud of us!’

  Then he swung away and stared at the morning sky. The enemy.

  ‘Break out the weapons.’

  He was still standing alone by the tiller, watching the array of patched but colourful sails take on shape and identity in the misty yellow light, and Blackwood wondered if he saw instead the high-prowed galleys and triremes of these waters which had been his life. Bright helmets and breastplates, great sweeps rising and falling to the beat of a drum.

  Joanna would have laughed if he had told her his thoughts.

  The lookout, who had shinned up the mainmast, yelled, ‘Fast-moving vessel on the port quarter, sir!’

  But now there was no time.

  Carson shouted, ‘Get to your stations! The rest of you keep out of sight!’ He saw Despard kneeling in the small companion hatch, the Bren cradled in his arms. ‘Glad to have you aboard!’

  Blackwood felt it, too. A creeping madness when there is no hope left, and no tomorrow. Like Burma, and the chilling screams of the Japanese soldiers as they had attacked, again and again, around the clock, heedless of casualties.

  Despard checked the spare magazines. ‘Leave it to the professionals!’

  A sailor was sitting against the bulwark, apparently stitching a piece of canvas. Beneath some spare material, Blackwood could see the butt plate of a Thompson submachine gun. Not very accurate, but deadly while the ammunition lasted.

  Blackwood removed his beret and jammed it inside his battledress. With great care he levelled his binoculars, very aware that the enemy might be watching them.

  Then he saw the other vessel, low and sleek with a finely raked bow, painted pale grey, with the Italian ensign streaming from her tripod mast. He felt his heart beating faster, louder. Not a warship; even the paint and the gun-mounting on her foredeck could not disguise her elegant, expensive lines. Probably some millionaire’s motor yacht until taken over or captured by the Italian navy. But not German. Why should that make any difference?

  Somebody said, ‘One of them schooners is puttin’ a spurt on!’ It sounded as if he were speaking through gritted teeth.

  Blackwood tore his eyes from the oncoming vessel and turned as one of the other craft, a schooner like this, filled her sails to the wind, while beneath her counter came a sudden froth from her screw.

  Carson said sharply, ‘Smuggler, gun-runner, could be anything.’

  The grey hull had reduced speed and was weaving busily to avoid the other small boats which were attempting to move out of her way.

  Blackwood said, ‘But for the crankshaft, Terry . . .’

  Carson stared at him, his eyes suddenly alight with understanding, and possibly hope.

  ‘We would have been over there by now! They think it’s us!’

  They all froze as the Italian vessel opened fire. Just two cannon, like Oerlikons, probably, but even at extreme range their effect was devastating. Blackwood gripped the binoculars and pressed them into his eyes. The bright red tracer seemed to drift so slowly towards the schooner before ripping down, raking it from stern to bow, tearing the surrounding water into spurting fountains of spray and smoke.

  Even through the haze and the careering shapes of scattering boats Blackwood could see tiny figures running about the deck, before being tossed like bloody bundles amongst the wreckage. The sails were all ablaze now, and the schooner was turning very slowly towards her executioner, the engine still going but the rudder jammed, the helmsman doubtless dead with his companions.

  There was a dull explosion and she began to settle down by the stern. The Italian commander was still not satisfied; a machine gunner was spraying the burning hull and scattered flotsam. Nothing could survive that.

  He lowered the glasses to look at Carson. His face was like a mask. Another example . . .

  The petty officer reached down for his gun. ‘They’ll start sniffing around here next!’ He rubbed his face with the back of his hand. ‘Bloody cowardly bastards!’

  Blackwood said, ‘Then why not let them find us?’ They were all looking at him. Another death-or-glory maniac.

  Carson took a couple of paces, but hesitated as they all heard a solitary shot. Some poor soul found alive amidst all that destruction.

  Then he said, ‘It might just work.’

  Blackwood watched their strained, unshaven faces, and saw the faint gleam of hope there. Anger, too. Anger enough. It was all they had.

  He turned towards Despard and saw him jerk his head.

  The lookout called, ‘She’s turnin’ this way, sir!’ He sounded hushed, as if he were more afraid of interrupting than of fear itself.

  Carson watched the enemy. ‘Break out some of that wine. Not too much, Miller. We’ll need the rest for later!’

  Somebody laughed. The madness was complete.

  Blackwood clung to a wire backstay and used the flapping mainsail for cover while he watched the approaching vessel. About a hundred feet long, with a roomy wheelhouse and a small flying bridge, which had probably been added after she had been taken into naval service. She was close enough for him to see the dents and scars along her once elegant side, bearing down on the schooner with little regard for speed or the wind across her quarter. Carson had seen the danger, and two of his men were already lowering rope fenders over the bulwark to lessen the impact when the Italian vessel lurched alongside.

  They must suspect nothing until they were lashed together for boarding. Otherwise, the Italian commander would open his throttles and stand away to use his twin cannon as he had done on the other schooner.

  He could see the man quite easily, probably a lieutenant, a reservist like Carson who had found himself in command of a craft designed only for comfort and luxury.

  There was no sign of suspicion as the two craft angled together, the Italian’s r
aked bow rising above the schooner’s side like a ram. Her commander had even taken time to light a cheroot and was fanning the smoke away from his eyes for the final approach, unmoved by the slaughter he had just carried out without hesitation or question.

  He sensed Despard crouched on the companion ladder, the Bren already cocked and trained. He also realised that he himself was armed only with the heavy revolver at his hip. One bullet would stop a charging man dead in his tracks, it was claimed. If you could hit him. In his pocket he felt the grenade Despard had given him. It seemed unlikely that he would have a chance to use either.

  He heard the other vessel’s engines cough and go astern, the wash lifting the schooner’s hull like a dinghy.

  One of Carson’s men was waving a bottle of wine towards the Italian sailors, and one of them was grinning.

  Two grapnels thudded into the bulwark, and the slack was taken in sharply until both hulls rose and fell in an ungainly embrace.

  Blackwood felt his mouth go dry as he saw the Italian officer lean over the small bridge and point, jabbing the air with his hand to attract attention above the growl of engines.

  One of the fenders had been dragged over the unused canvas where a seaman had been pretending to work. His Tommy gun lay exposed in the weak sunlight, and even as the man snatched it up the Italian machine gunner threw himself on his mounting.

  Shots cracked out, and Blackwood felt a bullet slam into the deck by his feet.

  It was too late. It was too late.

  And then, as if responding to a shouted command, he was out on to the deck and sprinting for the grey hull which seemed to tower over him. He felt his fingers tearing on rusting wire, and heard shouts, and the sudden stammer of a machine gun. But he could not stop himself; he was clinging to the Italian’s guardrail, and felt the sea dragging at his legs as the trapped water burst upwards between the two hulls.

  Somehow his mind recorded the sound of Despard’s Bren, unhurried, single shots, and as he ran across the slippery planking he realised that the boat’s commander was hanging head down from his flying bridge, his blood running down the side like paint.