Dust on the Sea (1999)

by Reeman, Douglas

  He looked from one to the other, more disconcerted by Gaillard’s transformation than by his visitor’s wild appearance.

  Gaillard said, ‘Tell him what you told me.’ He tapped some papers. ‘It’s all here, but I want you to hear it first, Mike.’ He even smiled. ‘We’ll have some coffee shortly. Muck, but drinkable!’

  Ellis said, ‘The enemy are pulling out faster than we thought. Right now, some will be crossing the Strait. When the last Germans leave, their Axis allies will fold up like a pack of cards.’ He looked directly at Blackwood. ‘You’ve had some experience with battlefield clearance stores, I understand.’ His eyes were very grey, the colour of the Channel across from Eastney Barracks, and cold. ‘Well, we’ll not get much joy here! Apart from weapons taken from surrendering Eye-Ties, most of the arms vanish as soon as their owners have no further use for them.’ He shook his head. ‘Not partisans this time, Captain Blackwood. This is for more personal use. The Sicilians hate the Germans because of their ruthlessness and their reprisals. The Italians they’ll be glad to get rid of, simply because they represent the authority of Rome and II Duce.’ He made a slicing gesture. ‘Here, the Mafia ruled. They intend to do so again!’

  Gaillard cleared his throat and said, ‘There is an operation for Trident.’

  Blackwood sensed the S.A.S. major’s irritation, but it was swiftly concealed.

  He said, ‘We’ve been gathering information for weeks. What the enemy would do when we invaded, how he might react when Sicily was in our hands. Invasion of the mainland must follow, and closely, if we’re to avoid the consequences of winter. A whole army could be bogged down if it’s left too late. The German High Command is well aware of our choices – I’m sure they’ve discussed them as much as our own staff. Landings, support, supply, the usual order of things. A severe setback at the beginning could give the enemy a breathing space, and make any hope of the Allies invading France and Germany next year out of the question.’

  Blackwood watched Gaillard’s fingers on the papers. Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . .

  Ellis frowned, possibly at the sound. ‘Just last month, the German vice-admiral commanding small battle units was in Naples. He’s usually more concerned with the Channel ports and the Baltic area of operations. Also, he’s known to dislike working openly with the Italian navy.’

  Blackwood forced himself to concentrate, imagining he could still taste the coarse wine on his tongue. Not radar this time, but something else so secret that this man, major or not, had come in person.

  Ellis glanced at the sacking-shrouded window. It would be light soon, and Blackwood found himself wondering whether he would take off the smelly jerkin in the heat of the day, or was it a permanent fixture.

  Ellis said, almost casually, ‘Do you recall H.M.S. York, Captain Blackwood?’

  Blackwood saw Gaillard’s fingers, still at last, press down on the papers.

  ‘I was at sea. It was about two years ago. We heard about it.’ He sensed that Gaillard was listening intently. ‘H.M.S. York was an eight thousand ton cruiser. I visited her a couple of times, here in the Med.’ His mind sharpened, like a prismatic gunsight. ‘It was during the last days in Crete, before we had to evacuate. She was one of the most useful cruisers in the fleet at the time. It was all kept pretty hush-hush, but the story got out.’ He saw Ellis nod, in agreement, or merely because he had given the right answer he did not know. ‘It happened in the early morning. She was in Suda Bay.’ He looked at each of them in turn. ‘She was attacked by some Italian explosive motor boats. She was a total loss and had to be beached. She’s probably still lying there.’

  They had heard the news with some disbelief when it had filtered down the chain of command. The Italians had always been regarded as a bit of a joke, indifferent as fighting men and quick to surrender, as they had shown in North Africa and here in Sicily. But as saboteurs they were suddenly less funny. They had been the first to perfect the use of frogmen and two-man torpedoes, and in Crete they had demonstrated that an explosive motor boat could be just as devastating, if suicidal for its solitary crewman.

  The cruiser had been a sister ship of Exeter, of River Plate fame. She, too, had been sunk the following year by the Japanese in the Java Sea. If the navy was a family, the Corps was an even closer one, and there was usually some individual you could remember whenever a ship was lost.

  Ellis said, ‘They had a few more successes, but it took the German navy to see the true potential of such a weapon. Cheap to produce, and needing only a single volunteer to point it at the enemy.’ He took out a packet of cigarettes and said, ‘And they’re here, if the latest intelligence is correct. About a hundred miles or so from where you’re sitting, as a matter of fact.’

  He looked at Gaillard. ‘I can’t tell you how to do it. I can only explain why it has to be done, and at once.’ He ticked off the points on his fingers. ‘At the first hint that we’re on to them, their admiral will scatter the boats. We’d have no time to discover their new lair. Think of it. They’re fast, but smaller than a ship’s boat, and the forepart is packed with explosives. They can run beneath radar and be into their targets before a shot could be fired. Big landing ships, troopers, supply ships – I don’t have to draw a picture, do I?’

  Gaillard said slowly, ‘And Brigadier Naismith believes we should wait for reinforcements?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, Colonel. If we had the time, I might support such a delay. But we do not have the time, nor do we have men like Force Trident, who are trained for this type of mission.’

  ‘Right. Then give me all you can, photographs, defences, obstacles, anything of use.’

  Ellis glanced at Blackwood. ‘Any questions? I’m sure your colonel would not object.’

  Blackwood said, ‘If the target is so close, we will have no escort, am I right?’ He saw the man nod, just as Gaillard’s fingers began to tap again.

  They were used to taking risks, and seeing men die because of them. Why should he feel any doubts this time? Because of Gaillard? Or because of me?

  Ellis was saying, ‘Trident will be transported overland to Palermo. Security will be better this way. When you leave Palermo, it will be to attack.’ He looked at the lamp, his face grim. ‘An invasion of the mainland will make Husky look like child’s play. If they get a chance to use those explosive motor boats, lentils, the Germans call them, we shall have to postpone the whole thing.’ He regarded Gaillard for what seemed like minutes. ‘It’s that vital, Colonel.’

  Gaillard bit his lip. ‘It will be done. I shall tell Brigade myself.’ He turned on his chair and said, ‘Officers’ conference, Mike. Put them in the picture. No dramatics, just the bones of it. We’ll move today.’ He laughed abruptly. ‘In a different direction, but that’s the war for you, eh?’

  He was still laughing when Blackwood stepped outside, and found Despard waiting patiently for him.

  They fell into step together. Despard spoke first.

  ‘Rough, was it, sir?’

  Blackwood thought of her, her infectious smile, the precious moments they had shared. So little time.

  To some of the others he might have replied, a piece of cake, or nothing we can’t handle. And they might have been satisfied.

  He said, ‘Yes. Rough.’

  Blackwood looked around the hastily erected tent. The sun was so fierce that it was almost painful to touch the camouflaged canvas, and it was airless enough inside to dull anyone’s mind.

  They were all present, officers and N.C.O.s. The latter had been his own suggestion, and he had been surprised that Gaillard had agreed without question. ‘Bull’ Craven was as straight-backed as ever; rigid was a better description, even though his sweat-stained shirt made a lie of his stance. The younger lieutenants allowed themselves to sag in the heat, but each one was very aware of the urgency which had greeted their first call. They could hear some of the huge American trucks manoeuvring noisily near the winding, unpaved road, making a big show of it as if to demonstrate their contemp
t for British discipline and the King’s Regulations. American soldiers were driving them, and at any other time it would have been good to see people who had been fighting their way inland, day after day since the first windswept landings.

  Gaillard was standing by his map, which was propped on what appeared to be a schoolroom easel, and probably was.

  ‘All present, sir.’

  Most of the marines, especially the officers, were looking at Major Ellis, the stranger in their midst. As untidy as ever, and badly in need of a shave, he had caused a lot of speculation, and a certain amusement despite the formidable reputation of his regiment.

  He saw Steve Blackwood at the other end of the tent, and they exchanged quick smiles; the New Zealander seemed to realise the significance of this meeting. Occasionally aircraft thundered overhead. It was sometimes difficult to remember that Malta was only eighty miles away, and that that small island, which had once been bombed and blockaded almost into submission, was playing its part again and providing full air cover whenever it was needed.

  Steve had brought his sergeant with him, and in the hard light Blackwood understood the New Zealander’s comment about ‘unsoldierly appearance’. From his frayed and wrinkled webbing gaiters to the khaki forage cap stained with sweat or hair cream, he looked anything but an example to his men. But in the short time they had been able to speak together, Blackwood had sensed the very real bond between them.

  Major Ellis stepped forward, squinting in the glare. He was still wearing the lambswool jerkin, which was even scruffier in daylight, his only concession to the heat being two unfastened tapes.

  He pointed at the map, but kept his narrowed eyes on his audience, seeming to assess them face by face.

  ‘The Lipari Islands, here. About midway between the Italian mainland and Sicily, and forty miles north-west of Messina itself. Most of them are too small to be of any use, volcanic, waterless, bypassed by the war until now. Our island, Angelo, is here.’ Blackwood wondered how his finger found the location so unerringly when he never turned his head. ‘Probably once a volcano itself. Due south of Stromboli, and east of Salina, and avoided even by fishermen, because of rock ledges which can rip out the bottom of any boat trying to use a net.’ He paused. ‘A very dangerous place. The raid will have to be carried out at night, and because of the area no escorts will be available. The Germans would up sticks and be away before you got within miles of them. Angelo is little more than a lagoon surrounded by rocks and lava. In it, there will probably be some fifty or more explosive motor boats, of the type already mentioned, enough to cripple a fleet of supply and landing ships. Even if every man-jack of them were killed, the damage to our invasion plans would be disastrous.’ He smiled, for the first time. ‘Unlike the Italians who sank H.M.S. York at Crete. All six men were picked up on their little rafts, complete with shaving kit and a change of underwear, the latter probably very necessary!’

  That brought some laughter. The safety valve, as always.

  ‘It is a vital target, make no mistake. The Germans will withdraw the boats only when Sicily is completely in our hands. After that, it might be months before our agents can discover their new hiding-place.’

  Blackwood watched his words going home. The Germans had produced several new weapons, even an improved radar, not yet a match for British equipment. But given time . . .

  When he looked again Ellis was sitting down, his eyes like glass in the reflected sunlight.

  Gaillard took over. ‘We will move to Palermo. After that, and provided I hear nothing to the contrary, we will embark.’ He looked at the map. ‘For Angelo. All kit and weapons will be inspected beforehand. Mr Craven?’

  Craven seemed to bounce to his feet. ‘Sir!’

  Blackwood saw ‘Sticks’ Welland lean over to whisper something in Sergeant Paget’s ear. They both grinned hugely.

  Gaillard regarded them distantly, as if he were already planning ahead.

  ‘You will point out to your Troops and sections that they are not only making a vital contribution to this campaign, they are carrying on a tradition unmatched by any other fighting man!’

  He nodded curtly and walked through the assembled marines without a further glance at any individual.

  Could any man, even with Gaillard’s record, be so confident? Or was it an act? If it was, it certainly seemed to have worked. They were all chattering again, calling out to one another as if it were all cut and dried.

  Blackwood left the tent, grateful for the fresh air. Men were already waiting to dismantle it, until another meeting; different faces, another target.

  Major Ellis was slumped in a battered scout car, frowning as the driver revved the engine in competition with the Yanks.

  He beckoned to Blackwood and said, ‘There might be nothing left when you reach the place. If so, it’s someone else’s problem.’ He seemed uncertain whether to continue. ‘You may be pulled back after this little lot’s over and done with. You could do with it, I imagine. Make a change after this. Regrouping, new faces.’ He prodded his driver’s arm and the car lurched forward, spurting stones and sand in protest.

  Blackwood stared after the cloud of dust. Merely being friendly? Or telling him because he was personally privy to some strategy of which the S.A.S., conducting their secret war, had been forewarned? His comments had been drowned by the scout car’s engine, as he had probably intended.

  But, in his mind, Blackwood had clearly heard the unspoken words.

  A new colonel too.

  Despard had joined him. ‘Shall I carry on with the inspections, sir?’

  ‘I’ll come with you. May be the last chance I get before we embark.’

  Despard watched him gravely. ‘Better than hanging about, waiting for something to happen, sir.’ He seemed to sense Blackwood’s mood. ‘Don’t worry. They’ll not let you down, you have my word on it!’

  Blackwood looked at him, eyes keen in the hard light.

  ‘I never doubted it, George. They deserve better, that’s all.’

  He did not explain, and Craven was already bawling at the marines to fall in for weapons inspection.

  Despard turned to follow him, to allow routine and discipline to take over, as it had so many thousands of times during his service in the Corps.

  They always said, if it’s got your name on it, there’s not a thing you can do to stop it. He sighed. Like the steel shaving mirror.

  But somehow he knew that what he had just heard was very important. And it troubled him that he could be so moved by it.

  It was to take another three days before Force Trident, frustrated and bewildered after being thrown about in the American trucks on appalling roads, was finally delivered to Palermo. General Patton’s army had captured the town early the previous week, but so thorough had been the destruction and the sabotage of streets and bridges that progress had slowed considerably. It was said that the winding clifftop road eastward to Messina and the Germans’ final line of retreat was almost impassable.

  They had been the longest three days Blackwood could remember, with Gaillard’s anger and impatience at each delay stretching everyone’s patience to the limit.

  As one American major had remarked, ‘Your colonel sure as hell is eager to get his head blown off!’

  But there were some compensations. After the usual verbal sniping and mutual distrust, the marines had been surprised by the warmth of the Americans’ welcome. Even Craven’s eagle eye could not stem the tide of hospitality, chocolate, ‘candy bars’, and gum that found its way into respirator haversacks and ammunition pouches. Even ‘Sticks’ Welland had conceded that the Yanks weren’t a bad lot, considering . . .

  Eventually five landing craft had arrived, not from Malta or Alex, but direct from Tunis.

  Gaillard had leafed through his orders and said, ‘Advance planning. That’s a bit more like it!’ He seemed satisfied, as if he had expected some last minute cancellation or change of plans.

  The shipping was so congested and the air co
ver so complete that the little landing craft were virtually unnoticed.

  Blackwood sat in a small American hut and went over the final plan for ‘the Angelo raid’, as it was now called. Everything would depend on surprise. Without it they would never set foot on the place. Provided the map and the photographs were accurate, it was not impossible. The Germans had chosen their haven well. Despite the lack of facilities, the explosive motor boats, the lentils, would be simple to maintain, and could be exercised without attracting too much attention from inquisitive aircraft, requiring only the one-man crews, some mechanics, and whatever troops were thought necessary to protect the approaches from any determined agents.

  And suppose the birds had flown, as Major Ellis had warned might be the case? Blackwood looked at his folded battledress, the minimum of gear he would be carrying. In one pocket was the letter he had wanted, and had tried, to write. All it said was My darling Joanna. It was not much to be remembered by, if she ever saw it. But she had endured enough. A letter would not help if the worst happened.

  He allowed his mind to dwell on the operation itself. Not next week; not even maybe. It would be within the next twenty-four hours. He realised that he was gripping his hands together tightly, as if holding on to something. It had taken three days to cover the hundred miles from the wrecked village to Palermo. No wonder Gaillard had been so savage. One wag had commented, ‘Three days? We could ’ave crossed the bloody Atlantic in that time!’

  Steve Blackwood would be in the support section; a chance, maybe, to get away if it went sour. There had been a lot of talk about Major Ralf Blackwood in the family, although he had never met him. One thing was certain; had he been alive he would have been proud of his son, soldier or not.

  He thought of the final weapons inspection, which they had carried out before climbing into the American trucks. It had been like so much of his time in the Corps; his father always seemed to be nearby in spirit, ready to lend his own experience, the very qualities people said had made him what he was. Colonel Jono. He had felt it then, pausing at each man, a smile here, a brief word to somebody else. It was always too late when the firing started. Never come down so hard on a man who is doing wrong that that same marine might, in the future, hold his tongue, and refuse to speak when he has seen something you yourself may have missed.