Blackwood looked at him, still faceless against the paler patch of sky.
‘Would you have left him, George? Tell me that.’
Despard saw his hand on the knife, and recalled his own surge of relief when he had seen him pulled clear of the body.
‘I could say no, sir, but I’m not that certain. Not any more.’ He turned away as the air quivered to far-off gunfire. He was almost glad of the interruption.
Gaillard shouted down, ‘E-Boats, engaging two of ours!’
The marines forgot their wounds and apprehensions, and pressed against the side to watch the vivid flash of short-range weapons, tracer, green and scarlet, crisscrossing and knitting together against the first horizon.
Blackwood heard the skipper say sharply, ‘We could give assistance, sir. What they’re doing for us.’
Gaillard was watching the flashes; there was smoke visible now. It was going to be another fine day. For some.
He said, ‘We could lose everything we’ve won. Think of that, eh? We have prisoners who will be interrogated by our intelligence people, wounded to be treated.’
There was a more intense flash, and seconds later the explosion rolled across the water like something solid.
Blackwood watched until his eyes watered. The destroyer escort had made its appearance, and shells were already falling amongst and astern of the E-Boats as they speeded away from another unexpected attack.
The feeble sunshine explored the sea. It was a common enough scene in this hard-disputed Strait. One of the motor gunboats had vanished, the second was badly down by the bows.
The destroyers were wheeling like thoroughbreds, and a diamond-bright signal was flashing in recognition and welcome.
A seaman at one of the gun mountings exclaimed, ‘Jesus, just in time!’
Blackwood watched the smoke, and remembered.
He said quietly, ‘For us, anyway.’
11
On Active Service
Wren Diane Blackwood ran a soft cloth over the car windscreen and lowered the wipers. It was a powerful-looking vehicle, a Wolseley 14, barely four years old, and despite the drab camouflage paint it still turned a few heads when she drove it past the sentries at Eastney Barracks. It was used mostly by the Colonel, a courteous and correct man in every sense. She smiled at her reflection. So far.
She barely heard the tramp of booted feet across the parade ground now, or the snap of rifle-bolts at yet another inspection for new recruits. All in all, she had settled in well, although she still found it odd when some of them tried to explain the Corps and the mystique to her. They usually gave up in embarrassment when someone mentioned her family, as if Colonel ‘Jono’ Blackwood was still keeping an eye on her. She hoped so.
She looked up at the flag whipping out above the old red tower, and imagined she could feel warmth in the air, although the Solent was as grey as ever, with a hint of mist towards the Isle of Wight. Spring seemed possible, and there was new hope and excitement on the wireless, and in the scanty daifsly papers.
GERMANS OUT OF NORTH AFRICA. THOUSANDS SURRENDER TO VICTORIOUS ALLIES. ROMMEL ON THE RUN. It was heartening and infectious, like her thoughts of spring. People you didn’t know grinned and spoke; marines gave a thumbs-up to one another. Each a part of it in his own way.
She smiled again. As I am.
There had been letters from Mike, but as usual he seemed more interested in how she was getting on than with his own problems. No mention of his wound at all, not that that would have slipped past the censor.
A trio of Spitfires roared overhead, their familiar whistle making a few glance up. Brylcreem Boys. Showing off as usual. But she had learned to differentiate between resentment and pride. You soon did. On mornings like this it was almost impossible to grasp that the enemy was so close, and so vast. Just across the Channel, only a short flight to those three young men.
The whole of the promenade, the Front as the locals called it, was one great mass of tangled barbed wire, a constant reminder of the enemy’s nearness. But the wire was rustier now, and the grim notices like IF THE INVADER COMES – TAKE ONE WITH YOU! or Churchill’s now famous WE SHALL FIGHT THEM ON THE BEACHES! seemed less final.
Security was good, but not beyond personal involvement. There had been a party of Royal Marines here in Southsea, training night after night in nothing more warlike than cockleshell canoes, preparing for some secret operation ‘over there’. It was all so secret that information only leaked out long afterwards that those same marines had carried out a daring attack up the Gironde to Bordeaux against enemy shipping. It was now known that only two men had survived; the others had died on active service.
The old sweats in Eastney knew better: they usually did. Many of those marines, despite their uniforms, had been put against a wall and shot. Inevitably, she thought of Mike when such subjects were mentioned.
And he worries about me!
And there was her second officer, too. She had gone to see her about clothing issue, and had been so surprised, so shocked, that she had forgotten the purpose of her visit.
The fierce, grey-haired guardian had been alone in her office, and in tears. Diane was not sure which was worse, her distress, or her anger at being unmasked as a human being. Someone she knew, or had once known, had been reported missing, presumed killed. It happened every day, every hour, and you made light of it. But not when it touched people like their second officer.
‘Ah, here we are then! Wren Blackwood, I believe?’
She turned, still remembering a lonely woman’s hurt and loss.
The second officer even had a word for this one, she thought. Colour-Sergeant Harwood, the recruits’ nightmare, and tipped to be the next sergeant-major. Big, impeccable, the perfect Royal Marine.
She kept a straight face. ‘Colour-Sergeant?’ But all she could hear was the second officer’s blunt summary. Carries his brains between his legs, that one. I’m told even the sheep weren’t safe when he was in Scapa!
He ran his eyes over the car, and then her. ‘I don’t need to tell you about what’s proper and what isn’t, you bein’ no stranger to the Corps.’
He always began like this. What would he say if I told him to get stuffed? A serious breach of discipline, or worse. She would certainly lose her driving job, which was a sort of freedom as well as being useful.
He rocked back on his iron-shod heels. ‘There is an officer enquiring for you, Wren Blackwood, an officer no less! Rules are for everybody, and you should know it.’
She waited. He was enjoying it, and her initial fear was past. Even Colour-Sergeant Harwood would not keep her dangling if it had been bad news. It was said he was married. She wondered what it must be like for his wife.
He nodded severely. ‘Fun an’ games is one thing, but discipline is discipline!’
She said, ‘What officer?’
He seemed vaguely disappointed. He probably imagined he had stumbled on one of the affairs she had heard about. Against the dockyard wall, as one girl had crudely described it.
He said, ‘A lieutenant. A pongo, to all accounts.’
He glanced round, startled, as a door in the office wing opened a few inches and a voice said sharply, ‘The Colonel will need the car in one hour.’ It was the adjutant, who had told her about Mike. The voice added, ‘The pongo is with me, Colour-Sarn’t, so if you have other duties, I suggest . . .’
It was enough. A stamp of boots and a smart salute, and he was gone.
She climbed the steps to the offices; they were curved and worn by the passage of many thousands of feet which had come this way over the years.
The adjutant picked up the telephone and glanced over it at her. ‘In my office. A Lieutenant Blackwood, of the Royal Engineers.’ Then he said, ‘Just thought I’d check.’ And, as she hurried to the other door, ‘How’s the Wolseley running?’ He saw her remove her cap and push her hair into place, and smiled at the telephone. She had not heard a word.
He was standing by the tall window
, framed against the washed-out sky, like that day in the Long Room at Hawks Hill. She had often thought about their meeting, had even wondered if he might try to call her from Portsmouth, if he was still there. She had told herself to forget it; he obviously had. But she had dared to hope.
He took her hand, uncertain, unprepared.
‘You look marvellous!’ He grinned. ‘Both feet, as usual!’
She released her hand and realised how cold hers had been. ‘Is something wrong?’ She wanted to use his name, and was angry with herself.
‘No.’ He tried again. ‘That is, I wanted to see you. I’m moving out shortly.’ He glanced at the wall and winked. ‘Safe in here, is it?’
‘When?’ A warning seemed to say, drop it. He’s going. Don’t make a fool of yourself.
‘Soon.’ He walked away from her, perhaps deliberately. ‘I needed to see you. To talk. To get to know you.’ He looked at her, suddenly very unsure. ‘If we could meet, I thought . . .’
Let him talk. Don’t commit yourself. But she said, ‘Something is wrong, isn’t it?’
He turned towards the window again and she could see a squad of marching marines beyond it, as though it were a painting in stained glass. Like that day in church . . . was it really only six months ago?
‘I had news from Auckland, from the lawyers. Your father the Colonel made a will, but of course you know that. He provided for me in it, me of all people. He didn’t even know me!’
‘I’ve not heard yet. It all takes time, and I’ve been here.’
He nodded, but his thoughts were somewhere else. ‘Shares in the estate, that kind of thing. Took me all aback, I can tell you.’ He gazed at the adjutant’s desk, neat and tidy, like the officer. ‘Shares. I thank God some people think our little country will still be here after the war!’
She stood beside him and slipped her hand through his arm. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed it. Our little country, not his home in New Zealand, where the sheep outnumbered the people. Here.
She said, ‘I could get away and meet you, if you’re sure . . .’
His hand closed over hers, although he would not look at her. ‘I want it more than anything. Just to talk, nothing which might offend.’
She did not smile. It sounded so old-fashioned for one so young. And it suited him.
‘I know that, Steve. I know that.’
How long they stood there, not speaking, not even aware of the life and movement beyond the window, she could not tell. Was it always like this when it happened, as it was supposed to happen? Not brash or cheap, but something so private that it was too strong to contain. Like the girl Mike had met somewhere. No name, no description, but all the more real because of it. He would tell her when he was ready. But he was vulnerable, especially now.
He said, ‘It might be a while before we meet again.’ He tried to lighten it. ‘Like the song. You’ve only met me once, when you needed me to carry your bike.’
She was gripping his arm tightly but could not help it. Did not want him to stop.
‘I want you to be my girl. Have something to live for. If I had more time . . .’
She said, ‘I can meet you tomorrow.’ It was the Colonel’s day in London, and he always stayed overnight at the Club.
He stared at her. Disbelief, surprise, and then a smile, which was the first she had seen in this spartan office.
An orderly was in the passage, stamping his feet, coughing unnecessarily. She did not even know his name, but he always did it to warn her that the Colonel was on the move. An hour? Had it been that long?
She put on her cap and saw his eyes linger on the brightly polished badge, another memory of that day at Hawks Hill.
She said, ‘Tomorrow.’
He gave her a scrap of paper. ‘My unit. I can be reached there.’
He opened the door for her. She hesitated, and then kissed him lightly on the cheek, like friend meeting friend in a street somewhere.
He watched her go down to the car. She did not look back.
The adjutant saw her pass, and thought about the soldier with the same surname as hers.
He hoped it would be all right for her. He smiled. Anybody who could face the adjutant and Colour-Sergeant Harwood simultaneously must be pretty special.
He pressed the bell on his desk. The spell was broken.
Major-General Ralph Vaughan sat as comfortably as he could on a hard-cushioned chair, and wondered if it was all part of the mystique. He could hear the murmur of traffic in Whitehall, and found himself comparing this suite of offices with his own H.Q. in the Pit. Perhaps because it lacked personality, and gave no indication of the kind of man who sat directly opposite him, his face partly hidden from the filtered sunlight.
Was that, too, part of the mystique? Merely setting the stage? Or was it because he disliked this man, and felt awkward in his presence?
Sir Clive Burgoyne, who always looked as if he had just enjoyed a hot shower, whose hair was never long or short, as if it was something vitally important to the man himself. Like his suit, Vaughan thought; grey and unassuming, but he guessed it had cost far more than anything worn by a mere civil servant, no matter how senior. Clothing coupons would not even come into it.
He was a departmental head of Intelligence, an expert on both Special and Combined Operations, and, perhaps more to the point, he was known to be close to the Prime Minister. Neat, clean and alert. Only his bitten fingernails, which he was careful to conceal, showed it was not all quite so perfect. Despite the power and easy confidence, Burgoyne was a worrier.
Vaughan could recall exactly their first meeting in this same office, shortly after the fall of Rangoon.
He had said, ‘I’m still not used to generals. May I call you Ralph?’
Vaughan remembered his own slight, short-lived sense of relief, and had asked, ‘What may I call you in return?’
The little, deceptive smile; he had got used to that, too. ‘Sir Clive will suffice, I think.’
Burgoyne said, ‘Hitler was wrong to replace Rommel with General von Arnim. It took the spirit out of the Afrika Korps. They probably felt betrayed. And now North Africa is clear of the enemy.’ Again the gentle smile. ‘The current enemy, at least. Your marines did a good job on the radar site. We could have suffered heavy losses during the final German exodus. As it was . . .’
Vaughan tried to relax, but it did not work. One battle was over; another was about to begin. A vital one, the first step back into Europe. The soft underbelly, as the Prime Minister had termed it in his inimitable way.
Burgoyne glanced at his hand, and then thrust it out of sight beneath the desk.
‘If there are obstacles, this is the moment to remove them. Strategy, implementation,’ he hesitated, ‘and leadership at all levels, are of paramount importance.’ He looked at the solitary, thin folder on his blotter. ‘I know of your concern about certain allegations made by a marine named, ah –’
Vaughan tensed. Here we go.
‘Marine Finch, Sir Clive.’
‘We have to weigh the consequences as well as the bare facts.’ He gazed at the wall, and Vaughan noticed his eyes. Pale blue, almost colourless.
Burgoyne waited, but when Vaughan remained silent added, ‘There was an unfortunate episode in occupied France this year. A junior member of your combined staff was inadvertently arrested by the civil police in Marseilles – do I need to enlarge on it?’ He nodded. ‘Good. I thought not. It was a whole chain of unforeseen incidents, an act of sabotage carried out by some local, unofficial group, leading to the immediate involvement of the German authorities, and the consequences, the Gestapo. The woman in question was lucky – she was freed by members of the Resistance, the Maquis, who have been working closely with us. The woman was a courier, and as such would have revealed little of importance . . .’
‘Even under torture?’ Vaughan did not attempt to hide his bitterness.
The pale eyes studied him thoughtfully. ‘Even so. But in that same police station there was alr
eady a prisoner who had been interrogated by the Gestapo, and was due for another interview, shall we call it, that day. I can tell you now, that man was a fully trained and trusted member of the organisation. He was, in fact, a police officer himself. It was of the utmost importance that he should be freed, or prevented from suffering further. I can tell you, Ralph, nobody can withstand that kind of inhumanity for long. He knew too many names, codes, contacts, even points of drops for arms and explosives.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘When they got into the station they found him too incapacitated to be moved. His body was broken, but his mind was still clear, fighting back.’
‘So they killed him.’
Burgoyne looked at the closed folder. ‘It was the only solution. The woman courier was rescued as a result.’
‘Otherwise . . .’
‘Otherwise. What a span that word covers.’ He became restive, perhaps impatient. ‘It is often claimed by senior officers, men of your calibre and experience, that one quality of leadership is to not risk the lives of many for the sacrifice of a few. I have heard others describe it in similar ways – my father wrote some poetry on the subject.’ He did not blink. ‘Before he was killed on the Somme.’
Vaughan thought of Major Porter’s secret report, and its potential danger to future operations at this crucial stage of the Mediterranean campaign.
He said, ‘Marine Finch was badly wounded. He could have been mistaken. Gaillard is an officer of high repute and experience in the Corps.’
Burgoyne smiled. ‘And that means everything to you?’ He held up one hand. ‘I mean no disrespect. Quite the reverse. Values, they are what matter here. The next move will be against Sicily, and soon after that, if the weather holds, the Italian mainland, and your Commando will be in the spearhead!’ He had raised his voice, which was unusual.
Vaughan said, ‘I’ve thought of little else. In war, everybody is expendable. But when we put our people ashore they expect to be led, not driven like lambs to the slaughter!’
Dust on the Sea (1999) Page 19
