Dust on the Sea (1999)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Welland peered round, every fibre alert. ‘Good work, Tiny. Now reload, and watch your front!’ He turned and looked for his lieutenant and called, ‘Pillbox, sir! Better make sure!’

  The lieutenant seemed unable to move as two of the marines lobbed grenades through the weapon slits, and watched as each lit up with a savage flash. There was one frantic scream, before or after the twin explosions his mind would not register.

  Welland checked his rifle and grinned. Mummy never told you about nasty things like this, I’ll bet.

  He snapped, ‘Advance!’ Next objective. Just like they had planned it. He was the sergeant again.

  Lieutenant Hannah followed him, the revolver still gripped in his hand. Some of them turned and stared up as a bright green flare exploded almost overhead, but most of them watched the uneven ground. Ready for anything.

  Then there was another flare. Second objective taken. Welland could not restrain himself. He gripped the lieutenant’s arm and repeated, ‘We were bloody first!’

  Even when the flares were extinguished it still seemed a little brighter than when they had splashed and stumbled ashore. Resistance mounted accordingly, tracer drifting and intermingling, with the occasional thud of mortars. A runner brought news that prisoners had been taken and most of the fortified positions had fallen. When a marine shouted after him to ask about ‘our lads’, the runner had been vague. ‘Some of “B” Troop bought it! They’re still out there somewhere!’ He had hurried away. Glad to be moving.

  Welland waved his men down; they were right in position, or as far as he could tell. Others would be moving past or through at any moment. He turned and looked for his lieutenant again. Daylight would be something else . . . Hannah was having a drink. Welland frowned. It was too early to waste precious water, but officers like Hannah would not be told. Then he recalled what Captain Blackwood had said about sharing experience. Giving a lead. He relented. Maybe he was right.

  He reached out to touch Hannah’s arm and then stopped, motionless. It was Scotch, or something very like it, that Hannah was drinking. Welland was both angry and envious, and, more than that, he felt something like contempt. As if he had been let down.

  Hannah seemed to sense it, and asked awkwardly, ‘Care for a tot, Sergeant?’

  Welland cocked his head, hearing more gunfire, single shots: men meeting in the darkness, acting out of instinct, out of desperation.

  ‘No, thanks. It’d go to my head.’ His inner voice said, go to bloody hell!

  A marine murmured, ‘Here comes the skipper, Sarge!’

  Blackwood dropped on his knees beside them and tugged out his binoculars.

  ‘Nice work, Sergeant.’ He looked past him. ‘You all right, Bruce?’

  Welland tensed; he had never heard Blackwood quite like this. A proper marine, from a marine’s family. Nice enough, and a lot better than some he had known, but like a ton of bricks if you broke the rules.

  Hannah said, ‘They were heavy machine guns, sir. Long-range jobs. Ready for the landings.’ Like someone repeating a lesson, Welland thought.

  Blackwood said, ‘Tip that stuff away. I didn’t see or smell it.’ His voice hardened. ‘If I catch you again, I’ll have you broken!’

  He stood up as more men padded along the ridge. It was clear. Time to move on. Ready for the next flare.

  Welland signalled to his two corporals. Near thing. Hannah had been lucky, this time.

  Welland’s father had been in the Great War, with the naval brigade, like Captain Blackwood’s father and old Boxer Vaughan. He had heard all about it. Men stiff with rum, and officers so pissed they hardly knew which way to look, going over the top together. Together, that was the point. Hannah . . . he smiled grimly . . . Bruce would soon forget. His sort always did.

  He shook himself. No room for bloody moaning now. Too dangerous.

  He called sharply, ‘Ready to move, you idle sods!’

  Then he grinned into the darkness. Oh, Pam, if only you could see me now!

  Sergeant-Major ‘Bull’ Craven said quietly, ‘All in position, sir.’

  Blackwood looked over at Gaillard, who was leaning on his elbows while he trained his binoculars on the narrow road, and the pale shapes of houses beyond. The village, exactly as described. The last obstacle. Quiet, nothing moving, and yet somehow menacing.

  Craven had been almost whispering, as if the enemy was only a few feet away.

  But there was nothing wrong with Gaillard’s hearing or alertness.

  He said, ‘The stone emplacements are on the left. As I expected.’

  Blackwood raised his own glasses carefully and saw one of the prone marines turn his face to observe them. It was much lighter now, enough to see the rough stone walls which had been thatched to make them look like farm buildings. Good cover for machine guns. Hard to shift, impossible with a frontal attack.

  All the prisoners so far had been Italian, ready enough to fight, readier still to surrender if they got the chance. Blackwood knew that the Germans were strongest to the north-east, towards Syracuse and Augusta; some of them had been reported as being part of a crack airborne division. The best. Their high command probably considered that the narrow Strait of Messina was the obvious main objective for the invaders, a two-mile ditch before the Italian mainland.

  He could smell the sea, and imagined the invasion fleet steaming towards the beaches, the Canadians poised for their first attack.

  Gaillard was speaking to a runner, his tone clipped, positive.

  ‘Tell Mr Despard. Rapid fire in five minutes, no longer. And I want Hannah’s troop to move in from the left. We’ll bypass that strong point if we have to, but I’d prefer to knock out those guns first.’ He peered at his watch. ‘Off you go, man! Fast as you can!’

  Despard had put his machine guns on the slope to the right. Good for covering fire, and the only way to keep the enemy occupied.

  Blackwood watched some chickens pecking at the ground by one of the stone walls, and wondered if Hannah would be up to it. But he was there; there was no other choice. It was to be hoped that Welland would be able to support him. There was no more time.

  Gaillard said suddenly, ‘You go with the main section, Mike. I don’t want to have half of the men cut down by our own crossfire.’

  Blackwood crawled into a gully and knew without looking that Archer was close behind him.

  More faces turned towards him as he reached the main section of the troop. There were a few quick grins, and a nervous wave from Lieutenant Fellowes.

  The air quivered and they heard the rumble of gunfire, far away like thunder. Covering fire from warships, probably for the Eighth Army, meeting their first serious opposition.

  The magnitude of this operation made him realise how vulnerable they were here, with the Canadians not yet in position and the nearest Allied troops fifty miles to the west at Gela, where the U.S. Seventh Army and their fearsome General Patton would be storming ashore, provided the gale had not scattered them beyond recall.

  ‘Christ, what’s that madman think he’s doing?’ Sergeant Paget watched with disbelief as a solitary figure broke from the remaining shadows and ran on to open ground.

  It could happen to even the most experienced fighting man. The sudden change from half-darkness to the first watery sunlight had caught him unprepared, and he had simply lost his sense of direction.

  Blackwood said, ‘It’s the Colonel’s runner. I hope Mr Despard can see who it is.’

  The marine must have realised his mistake, and with a swift glance over his shoulder ran on again.

  The solitary sound was more like something metallic, or a sharp echo, than a rifle shot. They watched helplessly as the runner fell forward near the rough road, and, clutching his arm, staggered to his feet again. The second shot flung him on to his back, his helmet rolling away like a dish. A heavy bullet. Even in the weak light Blackwood could see the blood, black against the dusty road.

  As if to a signal the concealed Bren guns opened fire as
one, the red tracer ripping away the fake straw roofs, striking chips and sparks from the stone walls.

  Blackwood took Archer’s arm. ‘Go to Mr Hannah’s section. Tell him to move in on the left.’ He did not release his grip. ‘Be careful.’

  Archer looked at him and almost winked. ‘I know, sir. That’s a fucking sniper out there, or I’m a Dutchman!’ Then he was gone, loping and weaving down the gully, his rifle gripped in both hands.

  As the Brens ceased firing to change magazines Blackwood heard a new sound. Screams, women and probably children, from beyond the strong point, in the village itself.

  He could recall Gaillard’s words when they had had a final discussion before landing. The village is the key. I want it taken and held, I don’t care how. Street by street, house by house, room by bloody room if need be, but I want it done!

  It was certainly no place for women and children. Sergeant Paget was saying, ‘Ready to move in, lads! Never mind what else is happening!’ But even he, the true professional, seemed shaken by the turn of events.

  Fellowes lifted his Sten and stared at it as if he had never seen one before.

  ‘You heard that!’ He nodded to Paget. ‘When you’re all set, Sergeant!’ It had cost him quite a lot, and Paget knew it.

  Someone said, ‘Christ, that poor bastard’s still alive.’

  Blackwood levelled his glasses and saw the wounded runner moving his arm, back and forth, as if he was gesturing to somebody. It did not seem possible that he could have survived.

  He heard the click of bayonets, the sudden rattle of weapons. Now or never.

  He said, ‘I’m coming too, Mr Fellowes.’ He heard the crack of the rifle again, and saw the dust spurt up beside the dying marine.

  Yelling like madmen, the marines on the left flank charged towards the end of the stone wall. Despard’s guns were firing again, ripping into the defences and through any apertures still hidden by the straw, some of which had burst into flames.

  Blackwood saw one figure sprinting towards the dying runner, shouting something, his voice lost in distance. He knew it was Hannah, without understanding how he could be so certain.

  Paget yelled, ‘Now!’

  The marines broke cover and charged, each man expecting to be cut down by the concealed machine guns. Nothing happened: Despard’s gunners had forced the enemy to take cover. Long enough, except for Lieutenant Hannah. The din of firing and the sudden bang of grenades masked the sound of a single shot.

  Hannah had reached the man on the ground, and Blackwood thought their hands had touched when the hidden sniper marked him down.

  Archer was here now, breathless, not with the exertion of running with Gaillard’s message but from the intolerable tension, the closeness of death.

  Blackwood said, ‘Cover me.’

  Archer stared at him, his eyes wild. ‘What? Where the ’ell are you goin’, sir?’

  Blackwood tossed his helmet to the ground and ran on to the open patch of ground. Bullets whined close, dangerously low over his head, and somehow through it all he knew it was one of Despard’s Brens, and that the big, withdrawn lieutenant was firing it.

  He heard the metallic whiplash of the rifle and saw Hannah fall on his side, where the runner had been hit before being hurled down by the force of the second bullet.

  His breath was raw in his throat and lungs, and his muscles were working as if he had lost control of them.

  He twisted his head and saw a pile of cement bags and unused stones, some builders’ tools. He heard the rifle, and saw grit spurt from the hard ground. The same line of bearing. The madness was almost overpowering, but he could remember Despard telling him that his father had been a builder in Jersey. How fussy he had been about money and not wasting materials. Of all the desperate, angry and frightened marines in this godforsaken place today, Despard was probably the only one who would see it. That the cement was stacked badly, where it would become as solid as rock, costly to poor people like these Sicilians.

  But the perfect hide for a sniper, even with a limited field of fire. He swerved away and ducked as another line of tracer cut into the pile of cement.

  Then he ran to Hannah and dragged him to his feet, up and across his shoulders in a fireman’s lift.

  ‘Hold on, Bruce, you mad bugger!’ He swung around, his eyes almost blinded with smoke and dust, his ears cringing against the next crack of the hidden rifle.

  Hannah was gasping, unable to stop talking. ‘He died – just as I got to him, poor chap! He smiled when he saw me coming.’ He gave what might have been a sob. ‘Then he died!’

  Blackwood slipped and almost lost his balance. He saw Archer, rifle aimed and ready, and other marines running to help him. His leg was throbbing, and he knew he was calling out, praying that the wound would not go sour on him. ‘Not now, please, for God’s sake!’

  By some rocks the others took Hannah from his shoulders. There was blood everywhere. But one of the marines, busy with a dressing, looked up at him, the wildness going from his eyes. ‘’E’ll be okay, sir. Thanks to you.’ The others muttered in agreement and Archer said hotly, ‘If I’d done it you’d ’ave chewed me balls off, sir, and you knows it!’

  Blackwood stared at Hannah’s face, so pale now beneath its first North African tan.

  Gaillard strode down the slope, Craven behind him.

  ‘Want to show you something, Mike.’ He saw Hannah and raised his eyebrows. ‘Live, will he? Good show.’

  Blackwood followed him to the road. Fellowes, the actor, would approve, he thought wearily. A perfect change of set. Women and children, some waving, others handing out grapes and cheroots to the exhausted marines. And beyond them, guarded only by a handful of Despard’s troop, were lines and lines of Italian prisoners, some of them senior officers. Fellowes was here too, outwardly relaxed, some dried blood on his sleeve. He crossed quickly to Blackwood.

  ‘Why did you take such a risk, sir?’

  Blackwood stared beyond him and saw the sea, so dark in this brittle light. But no longer empty; it was crammed with ships, some of which were already beached and unloading men and vehicles. Unopposed. He looked at Fellowes, and Despard, who was speaking with Gaillard, but looking directly back at him.

  ‘I owed it to him. If he’d been killed I would have been as much to blame as that sniper.’

  Fellowes nodded jerkily, but did not understand. Blackwood smiled, his mouth stiff and dry. Any more than I do.

  More marines were coming down the slope, rifles slung, marching with a jaunty swagger despite their weapons and packs. They appeared strangely clean and fresh when compared with Force Trident.

  They would soon see the sprawled bodies near the village, marines like themselves, perhaps even men they had known. The Corps was a family.

  Despard came up to him and said, ‘Got the bastard. He tried to make a break for it.’ He hesitated. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Thanks for what you did. I knew it was you.’

  A moment of warmth despite the smell of death and suffering. Like the sick officer with the rose, as she had described to him.

  Men were already shaking themselves, mustering into squads and sections, grinning at friends, or staring around for faces which were missing.

  The wounded were being carried away; the dead would have to wait a while longer.

  It was time to move on.

  Archer had recovered his helmet from somewhere and watched him grimly as he replaced it on his dusty hair.

  It was the maddest, stupidest thing he had ever seen anyone do, let alone an officer.

  He heard Bull Craven bawling out names and duties as if he was on a parade ground.

  Now if it had been him . . . He grinned and fell into step beside Blackwood. I’d have given the bloody sniper a hand!

  Blackwood looked once at the open stretch of ground where the runner had lost his sense of direction, and thought of what Hannah had said about his last smile on earth.

  All the tradition and training in the wo
rld could not prepare you for that. He saw a girl with a baby waving at him, and somehow it was possible to wave back.

  And these same men had done it. Together.

  15

  Up the Line

  Flight Officer Joanna Gordon closed the door of the washroom and stared at her reflection in the ceiling-high mirror. She felt tired, strained to the limit, and dishevelled; her shirt, although fresh this morning, clung to her body like a damp rag. The Pit had never been properly adapted to conceal and contain so many people, and it was still hard to imagine London streets so far overhead.

  She deliberately unfastened her cuffs and rolled up her sleeves and waited for the hand basin to fill with tepid water. Like everything else down here, the water and the ventilation seemed incapable of dealing with any emergency.

  She studied herself in the glass, the shadows under her eyes from days and nights in this place since ‘the balloon had gone up’, as Major Claud Porter had put it. Then the reports had come filtering through, the setbacks and the early successes, one beach after another falling to the combined allied armies. She smiled at herself, but it made her look sad. And the Royal Marines. Major-General Vaughan, what little she had seen of him, had been almost as pleased about that as he would have been to be in Sicily himself.

  And down here in the Pit, they had all shared it in their various ways. The disasters, some born of inexperience, like the pilots who had released their troop-filled gliders too soon, so that they had ditched into the sea. With the men burdened by so much kit and ammunition, it was unlikely that many would have been saved. And the landing craft which, because of the gale and misjudgment, had ground ashore on the wrong beaches, under heavy enemy fire.

  Joanna had not found the time to return to the house near Chiswick Bridge. Instead, she had shared a rest room here, and slept when she could. She plucked her shirt away from her breast. The ventilating shafts merely stirred up the stale air. She glanced around the washroom, which the Wren officers in the Pit insisted on calling ‘the heads’. She liked to listen to them; they seemed to bring her closer to Mike, who had once amused her by referring to a ‘run ashore’ in London.