Dust on the Sea (1999)

by Reeman, Douglas

  If it was something outside the mob, it was best to leave it there. Even in the Corps, and the navy too for that matter, there were always those ready to drop you in it, just for the chance of getting a couple of tapes for their sleeve. Or working a fast one to grab a nice cushy billet ashore every night, feet under somebody’s table if you were lucky. Crawlers, too. He grimaced. Like Bull Craven.

  Being a copper’s son in the East End of London was sometimes hard to live down. Especially if, like his father, he was taking the drop from the local bookmakers.

  But in this lot, the Commando, it was something else. They didn’t care what you were or what you’d done. It was what you were now that counted. Who you could look to when the going got rough. Like Blackwood.

  He said, quite suddenly, ‘Somebody says the Colonel was askin’ about some marine called Finch, sir.’

  Blackwood turned with the empty mug.

  ‘I’d forgotten. What about it?’ He had not forgotten, but there had been no time for idle speculation.

  Archer busied himself with his jug of tea.

  ‘Burma, it was, sir. Where you was before you come to our lot.’

  Blackwood rested his head against the wall, feeling the sun’s warmth against his cheek. Burma. Just the word brought it back. Those ancient launches full of wounded troops and terrified civilians. Snipers and fanatical bayonet charges, the horrific sight of a soldier’s head on a spike beside the river, hacked off by one of those Japanese swords so prized as souvenirs.

  He thought of the girl in the souk, their pleasure at being together.

  He said, ‘Finch? No, I can’t say I recall anyone of that name.’

  ‘It’s just that they say ’e went missin’, or ’e might ’ave done a runner, o’ course. But now ’e’s puttin’ it about that ’e was left to die, by an officer.’

  Blackwood stared at his hands. Clean for once. But still one scar from the broken glass when he had pitched the grenade.

  He should not even be listening to this. It was probably just another bit of gossip. Nothing had been posted about it. He looked away. Don’t be such a bloody fool. Archer was all kinds of things, but he was no muck-stirrer, except possibly where Bull Craven was concerned. It was no use.

  He said, ‘There was so much going on at that time. Marines joined us from various ships, from everywhere. All we had to hold us together was the Globe and Laurel, and that would never appear in any infantry training manual.’

  Archer was satisfied. He had done the right thing. No matter what divided them, rank, class, breeding, Blackwood was all right. He had guts too, standing up for Corporal Sharp when the Colonel said he should be left behind. And poor Mr Hannah, thick as two planks, but he hadn’t deserved to die. Not like that, anyway.

  The past days had been hairy at times, but they had managed. Muddled through, as Tommy Handley would say. He felt the ground quiver. Miles away, but not for long. They’d be going back. Up the line, his father used to call it. He had been with the 60th Rifles in that lot, and had donned a police uniform when he had been released. He had said it was because he missed the army comradeship, not because he couldn’t get any other work, like so many idle buggers claimed.

  Archer understood what he meant now, in this shelled and fought-over village nobody would ever have heard of in Bethnal Green. He thought of the W.A.A.F. officer who was sweet on Captain Blackwood. In her perky little cap she looked about fifteen. A woman for all that . . .

  A head poked through the shattered doorway.

  Archer snapped, ‘Can’t you knock, Nobby?’

  The marine grinned. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. Mr Fellowes isn’t sure what to do about some new arrivals.’

  ‘I’ll come.’ Blackwood dragged the shirt over his head. It was bone dry. ‘Have you told the sergeant-major?’

  He knew that the two marines were exchanging glances. Archer said, ‘Oh, ’e’ll know, sir!’

  He knew just how far he could go. Blackwood clipped his revolver around his waist. Like the buzz about the unknown marine. But not unknown to Gaillard . . .

  He must forget it. Gaillard had been on edge that day. He was in command. How would I feel if . . .

  He said, ‘Lead the way.’

  Archer picked up his gleaming rifle and jerked the bolt before applying the safety catch. He said casually, ‘I’ll stroll wiv you, sir.’

  Their eyes met. The danger was always present. So was loyalty.

  There were about a dozen tired figures, standing with their kit and looking slightly lost. Soldiers this time, not Royals.

  One, a lieutenant, strode to meet him and was about to throw up a salute when Blackwood said sharply, ‘No saluting here. Dead giveaway to any sniper. And I mean dead!’

  He relaxed slightly and knew that Archer had turned away, apparently disinterested, but his eyes would be on the empty and shattered houses, a bullet already in the breech of his Lee-Enfield.

  He said, ‘Royal Engineers? I’m Captain Blackwood, Royal Marine Commando. Force Trident.’

  The lieutenant smiled. ‘I know, sir. Same name as mine.’

  They shook hands, strangers, and yet with an odd sense of recognition.

  ‘You’re the chap my sister wrote to me about?’ He saw some marines emerging from the rubble to watch, to share this small link with home. ‘Getting engaged, right?’

  They fell into step, and Blackwood saw a red-haired sergeant who, like Archer, was staring around the broken village, as if very aware of the nearness of danger.

  ‘I’ve written to her, sir.’ And then, with sudden confidence, ‘I love her very much.’

  Blackwood smiled. ‘Come into the mess.’ He gestured to the cottage with half a roof and no windows. ‘I’ll open the bar!’

  The meal, eaten from their mess tins with spoons, seemed to consist of hot mashed corned beef and some kind of powdered potato. But, washed down with the rough local wine, it hit the right spot, although at a guess the temperature outside the ruined house was up in the nineties.

  Lieutenant Steve Blackwood found it surprisingly easy to relax with the marine officers who, on one pretext or another, had come along to make him welcome. Young for the most part, and showing signs of strain in spite of the jokes and the black humour common enough among servicemen.

  One lieutenant, Despard, easily the oldest here, outlined to him the general layout of the marine force, and the various army units nearby. Without fuss or exaggeration, like the man himself, he suspected.

  When he and his sappers had come ashore from the landing ship he had been astonished by the span of the operations on that and the adjoining beaches. Ships and landing craft of all sizes and for every possible role, soldiers working to layout fresh tracks on the beach to withstand the weight of more armoured vehicles and tanks yet to come. Everyone appeared to know exactly what to do, so that the war had seemed almost an intrusion on their industry.

  Until he had seen the wrecked landing craft, some upended by shellfire, others because of collision. There were graves too, many of them, with a bearded naval padre, hatless, smoking his pipe while he checked each identity disc and noted it in his book. Like a picture she had shown him at Hawks Hill. Where no birds sing . . . A different war. The same finality.

  He looked at Diane’s brother, catching his interest in what one officer was saying to him. Alert, intelligent. And the eyes, green like the eyes of the girl to whom he had opened his heart. And she had listened.

  He realised with a start that the eyes had turned to him.

  ‘How was she when you last saw her?’

  The others might be listening, but they were excluded.

  ‘She looked marvellous in her uniform. Suits her.’

  He saw the slight frown. ‘I’ve not seen her in it yet.’ The other side of him. Wistful almost, suddenly somewhere else.

  A marine peered in at them; it was Archer.

  ‘Colonel’s back, sir.’ Just that, and yet Steve Blackwood could sense the change in this impromptu gatherin
g.

  The others emptied their mugs and said their farewells. Blackwood watched them leave and remarked, ‘A good bunch. I’m quite proud of them.’ He smiled, and his face seemed young and vulnerable. ‘They’re all well trained, but nothing prepares you for the real thing.’

  Steve Blackwood said, with feeling, ‘I’m just finding that out!’ There were voices. ‘I’d better shove off, sir.’

  Blackwood was looking at the broken door. ‘Call me Mike, for God’s sake. We’re related, and likely to be even closer soon.’

  Steve Blackwood watched him, perhaps looking for doubt or even envy, but there was none.

  Then he said, ‘No. Wait and meet him. I’d be interested . . .’

  Gaillard strode in, his eyes darting around, missing nothing.

  ‘This is Lieutenant Blackwood, sir. Royal Engineers. I’m not certain about orders . . .’

  Gaillard thrust out his hand and said, ‘I’ve only just heard myself. Got a whole clip sent across from the flagship. It seems they’ve nothing better to do!’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Two of the family, eh? I suppose I’m stuck with it!’ He glanced at the wine jars and cigarette ends. ‘Having a party, eh? Fair enough. Maybe the last for a bit.’

  Blackwood watched him, surprised by his mood.

  ‘Care for a drink, sir?’

  Gaillard regarded him absently.

  ‘D’you know, Mike, I think I will.’ He waved Archer aside. ‘No. In my kit. There’s a bottle of Scotch. Thought I’d never get a chance to open the bloody thing!’

  Blackwood waited for him to sit down. It gave him time to think, to fathom out what had happened to change Gaillard. On edge, terse one moment, and almost flippant the next.

  Archer filled a glass and was peering around for something to dilute it.

  Gaillard snapped, ‘No. As it comes. Christ, I think we’ve all earned this!’

  He swallowed the neat whisky and gestured for Archer to refill the glass.

  He said, ‘We’re going up tomorrow. It’s all here in the intelligence pack.’ He dragged open his tunic and pulled out the familiar envelope. ‘Intelligence, they call this. Sometimes I think they couldn’t find an elephant in an ashtray!’

  Then he looked directly at Lieutenant Blackwood. ‘It’s why you’re here. We’re up against the German army this time. They’ve laid mines, booby-traps – you know the score, right?’

  Blackwood said, ‘We’re under strength, sir. Brigade said we were to await reinforcements.’ He watched for some sign, some hint of what had happened. ‘Why we were pulled back.’

  ‘Yes.’ He gazed at the reflected glare, dust floating in it like smoke. ‘Well, that’s all changed. We move tomorrow.’

  Feet grated on rubble, and Craven’s shadow leaned into the room.

  ‘Permission to take charge of them sappers, sir?’ But his eyes were on the soldier.

  ‘Carry on.’ Gaillard waved his hand and some whisky slopped down his shirt. He did not appear to notice it. ‘Show this officer where they’re being quartered, and what to do in an air attack – not that there’s much chance of one now, eh?’

  Blackwood walked with him to the broken doorway and saw the red-haired sergeant hurrying to meet them.

  Steve Blackwood said quietly, ‘He doesn’t seem too fierce, Mike, after what I heard about him coming over.’

  He looked down, surprised as Blackwood took his arm and held it very tightly. He was to remember it for a long time afterwards.

  Blackwood said, ‘Something’s happened. I’ve never seen him like this, not even in Burma.’ It was not what he had meant to say. It was nobody else’s problem. Not any more.

  He said, ‘Just be careful. We’ve lost some good hands in this place. I want you to promise me you’ll look after Diane if . . .’ He forced a grin. ‘What the hell! A fine welcome for my sister’s future husband!’ The mood eluded him. ‘Sorry about that. Really. It’s just me.’ He did not even blink as a rifle shot cracked out like a whip. Not near, but close enough.

  The New Zealander said, ‘The same goes for you. I’d sort of like the chance to know you better.’ He smiled. ‘A whole lot better, as it happens, Mike.’

  Blackwood returned to the room, and saw Archer leaving with the dirty mess tins.

  Gaillard said, ‘Seems a decent enough type, for a brown job!’ He laughed, and then became quite serious. ‘They’re going to regroup the two main Commandos, Mike. Trident will be integrated.’ He repeated it as if he had been mistaken. ‘Integrated. It means the Royal Marine Commando is here to stay, no matter what bombastic blowhards like Naismith might have believed!’ He moved as if to rise from the old cane chair, but the effort seemed too much for him. ‘’Nother drink, Mike. Have one yourself if you feel like it. That Sicilian muck will rot your guts!’

  Blackwood refilled the glass, and thought of Archer’s expression as he had hurried out. The bottle was already half empty.

  He said, ‘We could see it coming, sir. We did what we came to do, and we were the first seaborne troops ashore. More than some people expected, I imagine.’

  Gaillard had not heard him. ‘All I’ve done, fighting one brass-hat after another, dragging out weapons and the right facilities to use them. Like pulling bloody teeth! And now we’re here, right on the threshold of the real events, when the whole world will see the part we’ve played, and what does some lame-brain decide? Integrate . . .’ The word would not form properly and he took another swallow instead.

  Blackwood looked at his watch. There was a meeting in fifteen minutes. He would tell the others about tomorrow; they had been expecting it. The Eighth Army might be at the Messina Strait within days. In Sicily, it would be all over.

  He looked over at Gaillard but he was asleep, his head to one side, the glass still held in his hand. Empty.

  He heard Archer by the door and said, ‘Fetch the Colonel’s M.O.A., will you?’

  Archer answered, ‘I’ll deal wiv it, sir. Keep it in the family.’

  Blackwood picked up his beret and banged the dust from it against his thigh. He could feel the wound. Where she had touched it while they had lain together, and had talked into the night.

  He said, ‘Thanks.’ Some people might have seen it as a moment of petty triumph; he could almost hear it. Guess what? The Colonel’s pissed! It might even have made him seem reachable, more human, instead of a faultless machine.

  It was neither. It might even become a tragedy. The Corps meant everything to Gaillard. He could not recall hearing him speak of anything else.

  Suppose the rumour was true? Gaillard might be recalled on some pretext or other. It had happened to others. It would destroy him . . .

  He walked out into the sunlight, and felt it on his face like an open furnace.

  He saw small groups of marines moving into patches of shadow; a few nodded to him as they passed. No saluting here.

  Even that seemed to mock him. Only one thing stood out, stark and chilling.

  What Gaillard carried in his mind could destroy all of them.

  16

  A Matter of Timing

  The nightmare was at its climax. She was calling to him, but there was no sound; he tried to move, but he was helpless. Being held down. They were dragging her away, to the room she had once, and only once, described.

  He sat up, and would have struck out but for the grip on his wrist.

  ‘Easy, sir!’ Like another part of the nightmare. But as his breathing steadied he saw Despard’s face in the torchlight, and realised that nothing had changed.

  He said, ‘What is it? Trouble?’

  Despard sounded very calm. ‘The Colonel wants you, sir.’

  It was all coming back now. Gaillard’s strange behaviour, the Scotch, his anger. He felt his head and groaned. The local wine was stronger than he had thought.

  Despard said, ‘He was up half the night. Been on to Brigade.’

  Blackwood peered at his watch. It was three o’clock in the morning. So quiet; even the distant artil
lery had fallen silent.

  ‘I’ll bet that pleased them.’ He was already on his feet, fully dressed but for his boots and revolver.

  He said, ‘God, we’re supposed to be moving out of here as soon as the lads have been fed.’ He relented. It was not Despard’s fault.

  ‘It’s off, sir.’ Despard waited, as if to make certain the full impact of his words had reached him. ‘Something else has come up.’ He watched Blackwood grope for his belt and beret. ‘He’s got a visitor.’

  He recalled Gaillard’s sudden fury. Integrated. Was he being replaced? Surely not at this stage.

  He walked out into the coolness before dawn. It would be like a furnace before they knew it. It was misty, too, haze or trapped gunsmoke it was hard to tell.

  But so peaceful. In the gloom, even the shattered walls and rooftops lacked menace.

  Gaillard had set up his H.Q. in the only part of an old chapel which had remained standing. It was very cramped, but the walls were thick enough to withstand a mortar, if anybody was so determined. Maybe they were being pulled out, for good. To prepare for the next step, Italy? Or back to England to regroup?

  Gaillard looked up from a table, his face very tanned in the lamplight. He appeared as fresh and alert as Blackwood had ever seen him, shaved, hair neatly combed, and wearing a clean shirt.

  ‘Sorry to drag you here, Mike.’ He waved a hand towards his visitor. ‘This is Major Ellis, Intelligence.’ As he made the introductions, his dark eyes never once left Blackwood’s face.

  Ellis was dressed in various articles of khaki clothing and a lambswool jerkin. It was filthy, and looked as if it was regularly slept in, and when he leaned over to grasp Blackwood’s hand he could smell it, too. He wore no badges of rank or any divisional insignia, but his battered cap, which lay on the littered floor, bore the winged dagger of the S.A.S. Another of the cloak-and-dagger brigade. Blackwood could almost hear Terry Carson saying it.

  But his credentials must be of the highest rating; he would not have got this far otherwise, nor would Gaillard have received him.