Welland nodded, a frown forming between his eyes as he saw Sergeant-Major Craven striding amongst the dismissed marines, one hand jabbing here or there as if to reveal some fault. Welland had known Craven as a colour-sergeant. Even then he had been bad enough, full of bullshit, and always shooting off about himself. Of how Dickie Mountbatten himself turned to me and praised the turnout of my section. Or the admiral who had died in harness at Whitehall, and Craven had been part of the burial detail. The admiral’s wife was all over me, I can tell you! Soon forgot about her old man! A right bastard.
‘I’ll carry on, sir.’
Despard watched him march away, and knew why.
Craven came up to him and saluted, his heels making little horseshoes in the hard-packed earth. If it moves, salute it. If it doesn’t, paint it white.
‘A good turnout, Sar’-Major.’
Craven eyed him as if considering it.
‘They’re learning, sir. Most of ’em. Still need some more time.’
Despard said, ‘We don’t have any. They look ready enough to me.’
The eyes flickered only slightly. ‘If you say so, sir.’ He waited a few seconds. ‘You must have seen the changes yerself, sir? I mean, when you . . .’
‘I know what you mean, Mr Craven. Yes, I still do. I can live with it.’
He relented, slightly. The next weeks, less for some, might decide everything. And the Royals would be on the knife-edge of it, that was bloody obvious with all the top brass scurrying around.
He said, ‘They’re the best we’ve got. I hope they think the same about us!’
He turned as the orderly sergeant approached from the wooden building. He did not see the triumph in Craven’s eyes, as if he had discovered a flaw, a weakness. Nor would he have cared.
The orderly sergeant said, ‘Just posting this notice, sir.’ He held it up for Despard to read.
All leave was cancelled, indefinitely.
It was on.
Lieutenant Steve Blackwood of the Royal Engineers leaned on the guardrail of the troopship and feasted his eyes on the grand array of vessels which seemed to fill the bay. Tiny launches darted amongst them, frothing moustaches churning the water, midgets among giants. He had never seen so many ships anywhere, and he guessed that it was probably the greatest armada ever yet gathered in one place for a single purpose.
Danger and uncertainty did not intrude into his thoughts. This was an adventure, and he was a part of it.
Most of the larger troopships had once been luxury liners, and he could well imagine this same deck thronged with excited and light-hearted passengers, making the most of it. He ran his hand along the fine teak rail, now carved and disfigured by hundreds of initials and even the full names of many of the servicemen this liner had already carried to war.
The stays and rigging of most of the ships were filled with khaki clothing hung out to dry in the brilliant sunlight, giving a certain jauntiness to the grey and dazzle-painted hulls, as if, in their own way, they were dressed overall for the occasion.
And yet, in spite of the great assembly of ships, the Rock of Gibraltar managed to dwarf them all, huge, imposing, eternal and strangely reassuring.
He turned and shaded his eyes to stare at the Spanish shoreline, almost hidden in haze. Algeciras, like the other historic names he had seen on the bridge charts when the soldiers, lesser beings, had been allowed to visit that hallowed place in small, manageable parties.
Yesterday they had passed Cape Trafalgar, and right there was Algeciras, of which the little admiral had written before his last battle, ‘Yonder lies the enemy.’
Many a glass would be trained now, as in those days, on this formidable show of strength. Spain was neutral, in name at least, but Franco was known to favour Hitler. No horsemen; a few telephones would carry the news more swiftly. Security was tight. For us. But the whole world must know by now what was happening.
He rested his elbows and peered down at the deck below. Men like himself were drinking in the sights, others were cleaning their kit, playing cards, yarning. A mob of soldiers. It was hard to see them separated into units again, platoons, companies, battalions. Riflemen and despatch riders, tank drivers and cooks. He caught sight of some of his own men. And sappers.
They were no longer just faces, or name, rank and last three as any N.C.O. might label them. They were individuals. He could see his sergeant, Larry Godden, sharing a map with somebody, his bright red hair marking him out. But Godden stood out anywhere, once he allowed you to know him. A slight, watchful man; unsoldierly would be a fair description. But on the last course they had done together in Portsmouth he had seen even the experienced instructors, blasé in matters of explosives, observe with approval Godden’s nimble skill with wiring and fuses.
Godden wore a single medal ribbon on his battledress, one so rare that Steve Blackwood had not recognised it. It was the George Medal. They had had a drink together one night after a full day of instruction, and he had asked him about it.
Godden had given him that searching look. ‘Bomb disposal. In the London docks area.’ He had not wanted to continue. ‘Anywhere they needed us.’
Blackwood had asked him why he had transferred to an active service unit.
He had said quietly, ‘I wanted to get back at those bastards. Let them feel what it’s like for a change!’
They had had another drink together when leave was cancelled, and he had lost his chance to see Diane again. Too many drinks, probably, but he remembered asking where Godden had first learned how to use explosives so skilfully. Another sapper had started as a quarryman in Yorkshire.
Godden had laughed until his eyes had run with tears.
‘You must have had a really nice upbringing, sir! You an’ me are going to get along just fine!’
It turned out that Godden had been a peterman, a safe-blower, as he had patiently explained; one of the best.
‘But the war started, so I thought to meself, why not?’
He realised that Godden was looking up at him, and wondered what he would say if he knew he had tried to propose to a ‘sort of cousin’ after meeting her only twice. He walked to the rail again and stared up at the Rock. If only you were here. If only he could tell her things. Explain. He had heard some of the others talking about their exploits, their sexual conquests, and had been unsettled by his own anger. Old-fashioned, that’s me.
And yet when he had met her and she had shown him around Hawks Hill, which had seemed a palace after the house in New Zealand, he had not felt like a stranger or an outsider. Maybe his father, ‘the galloping major’, with all his faults, had been responsible for that. Despite the New Zealand shoulder flash on his uniform, he knew he belonged. He smiled. Even if his men did call him ‘Kiwi’ behind his back.
There was the severe-sounding Wren officer he had been put on to when he had tried to call Diane at the barracks. It had been like trying to open an oyster with a bus ticket to get past her, until she had said coolly, ‘Oh, you must be her friend from New Zealand.’ It seemed to change things, and she had asked him if he had a message she could pass on.
Standing in the lobby of a naval wardroom at H.M.S. Vernon, where they knew more about mines, torpedoes and sudden death than almost anybody else, with the telephone pressed to his ear to shut out the din of laughter and some idiot playing a piano, he had said to his unknown ally, ‘Tell her I love her. Very much.’
Surprisingly, she had responded, ‘I’m so glad.’ Just like that.
He saw one of the other liners preparing to leave, smoke trickling from three funnels which had once proudly borne the White Star. They were all Canadians in that one, and he had heard that the entire contingent had been convoyed all the way directly from that country. The next place those troops would walk on solid earth would be Sicily.
A flight of Spitfires thundered overhead, which they did several times an hour, their sleek shadows flashing across the ships like darts.
It had to be different this time. England
was full of memorials from the Great War, and even in the little village near Hawks Hill he had seen one that bore more than a hundred names. In a sleepy retreat like that.
She was moving now, very slowly, her bow wave barely breaking the surface. Deck upon deck they were waving and cheering, and every ship in the bay seemed to be answering. Destroyers were waiting to take over the escort, for even with the enemy out of North Africa there was still danger all the way.
An officer he had met a few times in the mess came over to join him.
‘Quite a moment, isn’t it? I just hope we go through with it.’
‘How d’you mean?’ He turned and looked at him. An ordinary face. An English face, as his mother would have called it.
‘I heard the ships’ officers discussing the weather. Bad signs apparently, for this time of the year. That would really put the ruddy lid on it!’ Like a man who has been told that a cricket match has been cancelled because of rain.
Blackwood smiled. ‘Not our worry, fortunately.’ He looked out at the ships, and the others which were already mustered and waiting, and was aware of an intense excitement, something he thought he had outgrown, or which had no place in war.
He had met a girl, one he had felt instantly that he had always known or been expecting. That, above all else, brought it home to him. He might never see her again.
He said, ‘We’ll make it this time!’ But the other soldier had gone.
Joanna Gordon awakened suddenly, violently, every muscle straining as she stared into the darkness. For a moment longer she imagined it had been the same nightmare, the return of something she had learned to fight, if not to completely dispel. Something she had believed gone from her life.
She held her breast, her heartbeat already slowing. Her skin was damp, as if she had been dreaming of him, and of that unbelievable night above the noisy street in Alexandria.
It was completely silent, and the air in the room was oppressive. She switched on the bedside light, her mind alive again.
On one chair lay her uniform, its buttons gleaming softly in the lamplight, a clean shirt and collar on top of it in readiness for tomorrow, if she had all the time she needed. On the other chair her dark battledress, her ‘anonymous rig’, was also laid out, in case she had no time at all. But there was no siren wailing along the river, no muffled crump-crump of anti-aircraft guns. A quiet night over London, for a change.
She switched off the light, and after a slight hesitation threw her legs over the side of the bed and walked to one of the windows, her bare feet careful to avoid something which she might have forgotten.
She opened the blackout curtains and took down the screen, and looked out across the darkened rooftops. There was a lot of cloud about, fast-moving and angry, so that the moon showed itself like a spotlight, reflecting in windows, giving even one of the bombed houses a kind of stark beauty. She could see the river, too, like black metal where it curved round from Chiswick Bridge. She felt her lips move in a smile. Where the Boat Race had always ended, in those times before the war. It must have been a pleasant place to live, neat houses like this one, trees and gardens, Richmond Park not far away. She allowed her mind to reach out. Not so far from that other sweeping bend in the Thames, where the commandeered block of flats was situated. Where they had met.
If only it could have been then. A place without personality, where ordinary people had once lived and planned their days. But they would have been alone, safe, while they found and discovered one another.
She shivered and pulled her thin nightdress around her body, remembering.
She saw a car moving along the road, its shaded lights like tiny eyes. The police, or a doctor maybe. Few others would have the petrol.
She thought of the other women who lived in this house, officers of all three services, most of them working, like herself, in operational planning departments, or attached to some ministry or other. They hardly met except to hand each other letters, or when they were waiting to use a bathroom. Self-contained, separate lives, holding on to something, or trying to hide it. As she had done at the hospital.
She gasped, startled, as lightning flashed across the houses, and a clap of thunder shattered the silence.
She closed the screen and the heavy curtains, shutting it out. So that was what had awakened her.
She sat on the bed again and switched on the light. In the yellow glow the scars on the branded arm were distinct and, to her, repulsive. But all she could remember was his tenderness when he had caressed it and kissed it, his anger and concern controlled for her sake.
He would be waiting right now, with all those others, the ones she had seen crowding around him. When he had looked beyond them, at her. I felt you watching me.
At the underground H.Q., the Pit, she had sensed the changing mood, the initial exultation giving way to anxiety as the date for Husky drew closer.
Supplies, machines and men; it was endless, like hearing about a film second-hand, and not being able to follow it in its entirety.
She was seconded to the R.A.F. Operations section. It was largely a question of keeping records. There were now bombing attacks by the R.A.F. and the Americans around the clock, a far cry from that time not so long ago when enemy planes controlled the North African skies, and had made the approaches to Malta a killing ground.
She had heard the senior officers discussing the change in the weather, and what it would mean to Husky if conditions worsened. At a meeting of the Chiefs of Staff an expert had suggested that the whole invasion could be reversed, even aborted, up to twenty-four hours before H-Hour, as it was known. That would be a formidable feat in itself. After that time had elapsed, there could be no turning back, weather or no weather.
She walked to the basin and rinsed her face with cold water, remembering the room above the street, the ‘somewhat crude’ arrangements. They had even laughed about that. And the stares she had received when she had returned to the yacht club to prepare for her flight. If only they knew . . .
Another roll of thunder, but further away now.
And he was there. The man she loved beyond hope or reason. He would be waiting.
She could recall when he had opened his heart to her, on that other night. Their only other night.
All the things which had contrived to make him what he was. Name, tradition, duty. He had said, ‘But when the time comes, I feel nothing. My mind is empty. Like somebody else.’
It pounded through her mind like a voice. And he was there.
She could not even share it with anyone. She thought of her last visit to her father. How old he had become, still grappling with the death of his son. She could not recall his asking how she was, or what she was doing. She had been hurt rather than angry, and most of all saddened by what had happened to him.
Perhaps it had been wrong of her not to tell him what had happened to his daughter.
She flinched as the telephone jangled noisily. Then she faced the door, testing her breathing. There was one telephone in the house, and six women lived here.
She saw the light under her door. How could she have known that it was for her?
Her neighbour from the next room rapped on the door and said huskily, ‘For you, Jo.’ She always called her that, although they hardly knew one another. Except one night when she had returned to the house after a few days’ absence. She had been very much the worse for wear that night, and she was a reserved sort of girl; it had seemed somehow unfair that she should be so drunk.
Joanna had taken her into her room, had undressed and bathed her, and had eventually got her into her own bed. But not before she had seen the weals on her shoulders and thighs, the marks of a parachute harness, when a body is dropped without protective clothing or flying gear. Simply because the parachutist would have no time to hide them.
She had never mentioned it, but, in her silence, she had shared it.
It was Major Porter, alert as usual. Did he never sleep?
‘Glad I caught you up.�
�
She peered at her new watch. It was past midnight. What did they think she got up to at this hour?
Porter said, ‘Could use a bit of help, if you can spare the time.’
She stared at a crack in the wall until it seemed to move.
A bit of help. The code. The invasion was on.
‘Still there?’
She shook herself. ‘Sorry, sir.’
He laughed. ‘There’ll be a car. Twenty minutes suit you? Good show.’ He hung up.
She dressed unhurriedly and with care, and was ready when the car drew up outside the house. Before she left she opened her cupboard and held the khaki drill uniform for several minutes, until the doorbell rang.
Then she closed the cupboard and picked up her small bag.
A quick glance around. This was different. It was not only a dream.
She put on her cap and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She was ready.
14
Smile Before Dying
Under cover of darkness the invasion fleet, with the landing and support craft which carried the Royal Marine Commando, finally reached the lee of the Sicilian coast. Maintaining formation had been a nightmare for every watchkeeping officer and lookout, and in a gale which had raged all day many had given up hope of proceeding with the landings.
Hampered by their weapons and equipment, the marines suffered in silence, while around them seamen ran cursing through the darkness, replacing lashings, hosing away vomit, and generally making it known that they would be glad to see them leave.
Lieutenant-Colonel Gaillard had held a conference to which even the senior N.C.O.s were invited, which had put paid to any more doubts. Husky was on. Another lengthy examination of maps and photographs followed; every man must know exactly what to do once he got ashore, and others must be prepared to take over if the first attack was too costly.
Blackwood had watched his companions, eager, serious, troubled, and some with blanched, perspiring faces on the verge of seasickness, who were too wretched to care very much what happened. The contrasts were stark, from Despard, who had seen and done it all, to young Fellowes, preparing for his greatest role yet. And Sergeant-Major Craven, as smart as paint in spite of his weapons and combat uniform, and remaining quite apart from everyone else.
Dust on the Sea (1999) Page 23
