‘Sorry, miss,’ he said, ‘but the General wants you. Don’t want to keep ’im waitin’ now, do we?’
‘Have you known the General long?’
Archer eyed her, liking what he saw. ‘What, miss, old Boxer Vaughan? I knew ’im when he ran a jellied eel pitch in Dalston market!’
He watched her laugh; he had heard that she hadn’t had too much to laugh about recently. Very dishy, he thought, even the uniform couldn’t completely conceal the girl underneath. Old Blackie was a lucky bloke.
He stepped aside while she looked across at the figures by the old yacht station, and saw her put her fingers to her lips and then turn them towards one man.
Archer had served a lot of officers in the Corps. Good, all right, or plain bloody awful. But he had never envied one of them, until today.
9
Under Cover of Darkness
The Chief of Staff stood up and walked directly to the wall map in the operations room and waited for the usual scraping chairs and shuffling feet to fall silent. He was a tall man, a full four-ringer captain who was directly responsible to the Commander-in-Chief, Mediterranean. His face was severe and his hair almost grey, but one lock of it hung loosely above his eyebrow, and Blackwood found it possible, even easy, to see the ambitious young lieutenant who had once served in destroyers, and at some time married a lady called ‘Tinker’.
As his eyes travelled across the assembled officers they paused only momentarily on Blackwood. Had Tinker told him about his visit to the deserted house? Somehow, he knew that she had not.
He concentrated on the map and its coloured markers. The Eighth Army was still advancing, while in the west the Americans and the British First Army were holding their own. Due to faulty intelligence and the foul weather, there had been several setbacks on the Tunisian front and the Americans had suffered heavy casualties, and had been forced to give ground to the enemy. A certain amount of bad feeling between the allies had resulted; some said that the Americans had talked big, but when it had come to a real fight they had been too green to recover their positions.
As Vaughan had said at their one brief meeting, ‘We were all green when this lot started! Let’s not forget it!’
Now there it was, the last stretch of coastline under German control, with Cape Bon pointing towards Sicily, the last line of defence. At any other time it would have been unthinkable. The armed forces had become too used to foul-ups, ‘strategic withdrawals’, as retreats were euphemistically described. To the west, the port of Bone was fully operational, and the main point for landing thousands of tons of supplies, despite the relentless air raids which had put many ships on the bottom. And on the eastern side of the peninsula, Sousse had been taken. Although the enemy had attempted to destroy the port’s facilities before abandoning it, it was already being used by the light coastal forces and minesweeping flotillas.
The Chief of Staff was saying, ‘It has to be soon, and it has to be effective. The Germans will have to pull out of North Africa.’ His sunburned hand touched the cluster of markers. ‘Cape Bon is the gateway, and the enemy is well aware of our determination that no attempt at evacuation will go unopposed.’ He waited, as murmurs of approval broke the silence. ‘Recent progress by our inshore patrols have been severely hampered, even at night. One M.T.B. was lost, and two destroyers badly damaged by shellfire, almost always under cover of darkness.’ He let the words sink in and added, ‘A new detection device at this crucial stage would make things serious for us. Plans are already being completed for an attack on Sicily, but if it were to be further delayed, even for another year, almost anything could be thrown at us. Intelligence has already reported German progress on rockets which can be fired from aircraft, and homed on to surface vessels which might be carrying troops for such an invasion. I don’t have to spell it out for you. And if a new radio direction finder is available to match our own advanced radar, we could be facing even more losses and delays.’ He looked suddenly at Major Gaillard, who was sitting with Commander St John. ‘We already knew they had something in the testing stage. Operation Lucifer and the information brought back from that raid was a godsend to the boffins at H.Q.’ His hand rested on the map again. ‘And now we’ve found it, right here on Cape Bon. Aerial reconnaissance has been almost impossible, and we’ve lost some fine pilots in the process. But we’re as certain as we can ever be.’ He glanced around at their faces, and finally his eyes rested on Blackwood. ‘We simply cannot afford any delays or setbacks. That site is the target. It is vital. I only wish I were free to tell you how vital!’
Blackwood took a moment to look at his companions. Six lieutenants including Despard and the languid Robyns. Two second lieutenants, and Gaillard. He thought of all the others, like Sergeant Paget who had greeted him like a long-lost brother when the Royals had broken ranks after Vaughan’s inspection. And the brief moment alone with Vaughan, when he had mentioned Joanna for the first time.
‘She’s back on duty now, that’s all I can say.’
It was the only time he had ever seen him waver. He had always hated favouritism, but there was no other word for it.
Then Vaughan had said, almost roughly, ‘She was used by the intelligence people. The fact that she agreed to it cuts no ice with me. I would have stopped it right there. She was a courier. Sounds simple when you say it quickly. But if she had been captured she would have suffered for it, even though she knew nothing they wouldn’t already have known or guessed.’
Blackwood had heard himself persist, ‘But she’s all right?’ How ineffectual it seemed now. He had wanted to shout it, even though he knew it would have helped neither of them.
Vaughan had said only, ‘She’ll tell you when she feels like it. If not –’
There had been some interruption then, and he had sensed Vaughan’s relief.
He realised that Gaillard had taken the floor. One hand on his hip, the other on the map.
‘The first company of Royal Marines is now ready, and fully prepared.’ He did not pause as a door opened and closed softly, but he must have seen that the latecomer was Brigadier Jocelyn Naismith. ‘Eventually we will be at full battalion strength in this Commando, but until that time we shall act with determination and tenacity. I will accept nothing less.’ Then he smiled, but in the hard lighting it made him look angry, wild. ‘There have been those in the past who have thought fit to criticise the standards we take for granted in the Corps. But, gentlemen, there is a vast difference between rivalry and envy!’
He turned away from the map as the door opened and closed again, just as quietly. Naismith had taken the hint.
‘Top security from now on, no leave, not even locally. I shall expect you to impress on your N.C.O.s and marines the utmost need for secrecy. Anybody who fails to observe this order, and I mean of any rank, will be placed under close arrest immediately. When you dismiss, go to your sections and tell them as little as they need to know.’
The Chief of Staff was on his feet again.
‘That sums it up very well, Major Gaillard. It will be within the next two or three days.’ He looked at Gaillard impassively. ‘Or not at all.’
Gaillard brought his heels together.
‘I shall be ready, sir.’
Blackwood felt the pain of his wound lance up his thigh like a warning. But why? If Gaillard was untroubled, why should he still cling to what was now and must remain a blurred memory, left behind in the blood and stench of Burma?
Gaillard had spoken of the battalion. If it came about, a lieutenant-colonel would be required in command. It did not require a crystal ball to know who would be chosen.
I shall be ready, sir. He had spoken for all of them. They were committed.
He thought of the island where they had blown up what must have been an experimental detection station. So it had not been a waste of time, ‘a crack-brained scheme’, as he had heard Gaillard describe it. And he had not even been there.
A quiet setting for such instant violence. The Italian
officer shot dead in the act of drawing a pistol. It could all have ended right there. . . . He remembered asking Carson, just before they had carried him to the waiting ambulance.
‘What ever happened to those people, Terry?’
Carson had walked beside the stretcher, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
‘The Germans rounded up most of the men and shot them. My informant disappeared, probably to another island. A brave chap, for such a mild character.’
‘And that woman?’
Carson had stepped away while they had raised the stretcher.
‘Oh, she was his wife. Didn’t I mention that?’
Gaillard had joined him. ‘Went well, I thought. Think you’re up to it?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it, sir.’
Gaillard shook his head. ‘You’re an odd bird, Mike. Let’s have a drink while we can, eh?’
Blackwood watched him wave to one of the staff officers. Which was the real Gaillard?
He saw Despard observing them, keeping his distance. His way was the best. Just do it.
Even up to the last hours before they had disembarked from the destroyer which had carried Gaillard’s raiding force at full speed westward from Alexandria, it seemed likely that the operation would be aborted. Sleep had been out of the question, and Blackwood had spent much of the time in the destroyer’s W/T office, or wedged into the chartroom with the ship’s captain and navigator.
Gaillard had been like a man possessed, and had scoured every item in the intelligence pack for more information. Aerial reconnaissance, at the cost of several lives, had confirmed that there was an abandoned observatory which had been built by a French millionaire several years before the war. It was a good position, and well able to monitor ship movements in the vital Strait of Sicily.
Gaillard had been satisfied that it was the only possible location. There were several sprawling refugee camps in the vicinity, people driven from their homes in Tunis and Bizerta to exist as best they could, hiding from a war they might never understand.
At dusk they had anchored off Sousse and transferred to a business-like F-lighter, which had been captured from the Germans during one of the recent inshore operations. The F-lighters were strange vessels, not unlike landing craft in size and appearance. But they were heavily armed, and well able to defend themselves against the lightly built M.T.B.s and motor gunboats, with a draught so shallow that even a torpedo running at minimum depth could pass harmlessly beneath the hull. They were the main means of supply for Rommel’s army, a convoy and escort rolled into one.
The marines had transferred with a swiftness and efficiency born of rigorous training. At the last moment Gaillard had decided to take only one troop, and leave the other in reserve in case things went wrong. When Blackwood had suggested that Despard should be left in charge of ‘B’ Troop, Gaillard had dismissed it without hesitation.
‘No, we need every experienced body on this one.’
Blackwood had understood then what Gaillard had really meant. If this operation failed, there would be no second attempt.
The other thing which had struck him was the instant reaction of those marines being left behind. No sign of thankfulness or relief; even in that wreck-littered harbour he had sensed the disappointment and disbelief, like something physical.
He had listened to the parting shots from the reserve troop, to show they did not care. Only a fool volunteered anyway, they said. Idiots, who’d misunderstood the question in the first place.
Blackwood had shared it with them, and had known what it really meant.
‘Don’t get yer feet wet, Jack!’
‘Hope you’ve got your brown underpants on!’
‘Old Jerry will laugh fit to bust when he sees you lot!’
The shouted replies were no less colourful.
Despard joined him by the armoured wheelhouse, and remarked, ‘I wonder what their folks at home would say if they could see them right now.’
He could have been speaking for all of them, Blackwood thought.
The skipper, a young R.N.V.R. lieutenant, explained his part of the operation. To avoid the headland where the detection site was positioned, they would make for a small cove which he had used several times for landing agents. He did not mention whether he had ever picked up any for a return passage.
Together, Blackwood and Gaillard studied the chart. The skipper, apparently taking their silence for doubt, said cheerfully, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep well clear of the minefields – theirs and ours. I’ll get you there in one piece!’
Gaillard shrugged. ‘After that . . .’ He closed his little notebook with a snap. He did not have to add that the landing party would have to march fifteen miles to reach their objective under cover of darkness, over country which was unknown to them but for the scantiest information, and to all intents hostile every yard of the way.
In itself, it was not a challenge. Some of them had done it before; all had been trained for it.
Gaillard said, ‘Weapons check, Mike. Make sure they take enough water. Might be a long walk.’ He was thinking aloud. ‘Groundsheet and entrenching tools, no unnecessary extra gear.’ He glanced at the skipper. ‘Three hours?’
‘About that. Have your people ready an hour beforehand. Just in case.’
‘We’re always ready, thank you!’
Gaillard strode from the wheelhouse, and the skipper murmured, ‘Rather you than me, chum!’ Then he leaned over the voicepipes. ‘Full ahead together, Bob! Chop-bloody-chop!’
Blackwood found Archer waiting for him, an anonymous shape against the mounting wash from the blunt bows.
‘Got yer sandwiches, sir. Coffee, too. Not that canteen muck, neither.’
His accent reminded Blackwood of Carson’s motor mechanic from the Mile End Road. Another world. When he had mentioned Mile End to Archer, he had scoffed, ‘Don’t go there, sir. You need a bleedin’ passport to get past the synagogue!’
He wondered if Archer was ever serious about anything for long. He had seen him making Joanna laugh after the parade. What she needed. He half-smiled. Me too.
Archer must have sensed his mood, and said, ‘I’ll check the old dressin’ before we hit the beach, sir. Don’t want to ‘old up the show, does we?’
Later, Blackwood moved among the marines. They had finished checking their weapons and magazines, their bayonets and the explosives. There was no outward fuss or uncertainty; friends kept together, others had done all they could, and wanted only to get on with it.
Gaillard had ordered that each man should wear his helmet, although most marines preferred to rely on their berets. A touch of the old pride and swagger, as the drill-pigs would call it on the barracks square.
Sergeant Paget had put it more simply. ‘If you’re due to have your head blown off, a bit of tin won’t help much!’ He knew better than most of them.
Occasionally he felt someone touch his arm as he moved past, and there was a quick word or a grin, about all that was visible with their blackened faces.
He found Gaillard sitting on a life raft, a cigarette cupped in his hand; a man who seemed to need no contact, no link with the men he would lead. He said without looking up, ‘Compass working all right?’
‘Sir.’
Gaillard ground out the glowing cigarette and said, ‘Might have to use the stars. You could wander about like a blind beggar once you leave the sea. God, how I hate this place!’
He stood up very lightly, and Blackwood saw his M.O.A. reach out to check his holster and ammunition. But Gaillard brushed him aside and snapped, ‘Muster “A” Troop, or we’ll be on the beach before anybody thinks fit to tell us!’
Blackwood stepped down and waited for the marines to file past him, soundlessly, like ghosts, men without faces, only the helmets offering an identity. Not so very different from the men his father had described, at Gallipoli and in Flanders. Where no birds sing . . .
He allowed his mind to explore it. Suppose it ended on this day. Something th
at should never be considered, never asked . . .
He thought of the old paintings at Hawks Hill, the brave faces and streaming flags. What would they show for him? An ex-German F-lighter in some godforsaken North African cove of which nobody had ever heard? One thing was certain: they would never portray the Despards and the Percy Archers, the Pagets, or men like ‘Sticks’ Welland, who could reprimand a marine for failing to show respect to his officer while the Italian he had just killed lay on the floor between them.
The big engines were slowing down, and against the first stars he could see the heavy machine guns training round as if to sniff out the enemy.
He felt men move aside to allow him to pass, and sensed that the other lieutenant, Robyns, was afready waiting by the ramp, quiet now, nothing to say, no bravado. He touched his elbow and felt him start with alarm.
Blackwood could feel the sweat running down his back, when seconds earlier he could have sworn his skin was cool and dry. Like the moment when she had held him, taken him, loved him . . .
The screws were thrashing astern now, and he felt the deck shiver as the lighter thrust ashore. The noise was deafening, enough to rouse the whole coast.
But it was all in the mind. He raised his Sten carefully; Archer had even seen to that. Sling taped securely so as not to rattle or impede the cocking handle. He licked his lips and thought he could still taste the coffee. Not that canteen muck.
He felt spray on his face, and knew it was now.
Water surging around his legs and filling his webbing gaiters and boots, a young marine striding beside him, his breathing so loud that he sounded like a pensioner. Sergeant Paget hurrying to the point, his section fanning out behind him, as if they visited here every day . . .
Solid beach now, loose and treacherous for the unwary, but no one fell or even stumbled.
Dust on the Sea (1999) Page 16
