Dust on the Sea (1999)

by Reeman, Douglas

  He stood, and pulled on the battledress blouse and fastened it, his hands moving without thought. Any spare kit would be collected and sent back. Back to where? Like the horizon he had heard his father and Vaughan discussing when he had been only a boy. The horizon, the lip of the trench. The first thing they saw each morning in Flanders, and, too often, the last.

  He knew Archer was waiting outside, to make sure he had forgotten nothing. He tightened a webbing strap, and felt the unwritten letter inside the pocket.

  My darling Joanna. He might even have spoken aloud.

  It was time to go.

  He saw Archer as he left the hut, and remembered his father’s words. Looking to you.

  He put on what he hoped was an American drawl.

  ‘Say, Limey, you got any of that candy left?’

  Archer laughed, as did some other marines who were carrying a Bren gun between them.

  He could imagine it. Just heard old Blackie cracking a joke! Not a bloody care in the world, that one!

  Blackwood walked out into the street, one fist so tightly clenched that it ached.

  If only they knew.

  He turned his face to the sea. My darling Joanna. It was too late now.

  Major Claud Porter paused outside the door of the main lobby to regain his breath. He was surprised and rather annoyed that he should be so out of condition. It made him feel old, which was no help at all.

  He considered the stupidity of the decision to shut the old lift shaft which led directly down to the Pit. For cleaning and maintenance, the notice said. Of all the idiotic times to do it. He had practically run down flight after flight of stairs, each apparently steeper than the previous one; he had never realised that the one-time wine cellars were so far beneath the surface.

  It had all started earlier, on his way back from the Admiralty, where he had gone to speak with Major-General Vaughan. There had been an important meeting of the Chiefs of Staff; everything was important in that place, he thought. Gieves must be making a fortune from all the gold lace he had seen.

  Vaughan had listened without interruption. The signal had been delayed, had gone through channels, doubtless because of its contents. Marine Gerald Finch, last appointed to the light cruiser H.M.S. Genoa, who had been badly wounded and partially blinded during the retreat in Burma, was dead. It seemed doubly cruel when you considered it. So many of his comrades had died in the closing stages of the campaign; some had come through unscathed, physically at least.

  Perhaps it had all been too much for him. In his mind, he had probably seen no reason for continuing when he had already lost everything. A nurse at the hospital had found him hanging from a tree. There had been no note or letter, no last recrimination. The police were satisfied that it was suicide. Porter thought it was a pity it had taken somebody so long to let them know.

  Vaughan had shown neither surprise nor satisfaction. ‘Poor bugger. He’s well out of it,’ was all he had said. And, as an afterthought, ‘You’d better tell Gaillard. He’s off the hook. This time.’

  And then, on the way back here, they had run into a road-block. A policeman in a steel helmet had eventually reached their place in the line-up and explained that it was an unexploded bomb. Probably safe, but the sappers were making sure. Until then, etcetera, etcetera . . .

  Porter knew then that he had been overworking; they all had. The delay had been the last straw.

  He had said sharply, ‘So the war has to wait, does it?’

  The policeman had stared past the driver, taking in the rank, and some medal ribbons he would not have recognised.

  ‘It looks that way.’ He had smiled. ‘Sir.’

  It had been too much.

  Porter had told the driver to find his own way back; he would walk. It was a lovely summer evening, and the air seemed fresh after what he had become accustomed to. But it had been farther than he had realised, and, on top of that, the bloody lift was out of order.

  He straightened his back. I’m getting past it. Must be that, after all.

  The familiar sounds greeted him: a radio somewhere, teleprinters, and a solitary typewriter. It was late; most of the day staff would have long gone.

  A second officer in the W.R.N.S. was at the duty desk, and smiled as he strode towards her.

  She was very attractive and very intelligent. A rare combination, he sometimes thought. And very nice legs; she was crossing them now beneath the desk. She always managed to obtain silk stockings, hard to get anywhere in wartime. Most Wrens would kill for them. Perhaps she had a boyfriend on the convoy runs to America. Or perhaps even a Yank.

  He said, ‘You remember that special signal I sent last week. To Lieutenant-Colonel Gaillard?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  She never forgot anything. ‘I have a follow-up, same procedure. Check the code of the other signal . . .’

  ‘I know the one, sir.’

  He smiled. ‘Sorry. I’ve been a bit pushed lately, Sue. We all have.’

  Her pencil was poised over her pad. She probably guessed what it would be.

  Porter said, ‘Cancel my previous signal. Explanation to follow. You will remain in command. Ends.’ He watched her, glad it was done. They might never know what had really happened. It was all part of the equation, as Vaughan had called it.

  He added, ‘Soon as you can, eh?’

  She smiled. She was very attractive. ‘Flight Officer Gordon is waiting, sir.’

  ‘My God!’ He stared at the clock. ‘She had an appointment. I’d forgotten all about it!’

  ‘That’s not like you, sir.’

  He said, ‘No. I’m beginning to wonder about myself.’ As he reached for the door he turned. ‘Don’t forget the signal, will you?’

  She smiled again, privately. He was a fine one to talk.

  The girl got to her feet as Porter entered the office. She had been thinking that he had deliberately stayed away to avoid seeing her, although she knew he was a man who would never behave in such a manner.

  It was hard to believe that she was leaving this place. It was another part of her. A sheet-anchor, as Commander Diamond would have termed it. Especially after her kid brother and then her lover had been shot down. Until Mike . . . To leave here now would make him seem even farther away. Cut off. In her heart, she had known it would happen; she had only been on loan, but her work with the intelligence and operational staffs had not gone unnoticed, and there had been a signal from the A.O.C.’s office. She was to be transferred to a new R.A.F. unit outside Southampton. Porter had tried to make light of it. ‘They’ve taken over one of the good hotels, I’m told. Not a bit like this dump!’

  He had told her he would do everything he could, and she thought he had seemed quite pleased at her request to stay. He probably knew why.

  Porter said, ‘I’ll lay on some tea. I’m terribly sorry you’ve had to wait. You were off duty ages ago.’ He smiled sadly, remembering his coded message on the telephone. Could use a bit of help . . .

  She gripped her hands together, unable to hide her anxiety.

  ‘Can I stay, sir?’

  He looked at her and wondered how Diamond could ever have consented to send her into occupied territory, simply because she had once lived there and was known to the so-called informant. He had seen the way she moved her arm if someone brushed against her, even though he had been told that it no longer caused her pain. Not bodily, in any case. He had seen the scars when she had forgotten to roll down her shirt sleeves; it had been the ventilation which had gone wrong on that occasion.

  He said, ‘They’re lucky to get you.’ He saw her shoulders droop and added, ‘I shall try to pull some strings. You never know.’

  She looked down at her clasped hands and said, ‘Thank you for trying. And for helping me when things were so dicey.’

  It seemed wrong in some way to hear an R.A.F. expression from her, although the Wrens used naval terms for almost everything.

  He said, ‘Next year, who knows, we might even be bashing our
way through Germany. They’ll need every experienced officer when it does happen.’

  He tried to think of the attractive Wren called Sue, but it did not distract him. Perhaps he knew this one too well. It was personal, not a bloody job.

  She must have read his thoughts.

  ‘Can you tell me about Captain Blackwood?’ The smile would not come. ‘Without breaching any code of secrecy? I so want . . . to know.’

  Porter was suddenly glad that he had forced his way into the Chiefs of Staff compound. Vaughan had often said that the progress of the war after Sicily was a matter of timing. Weather, supplies, men and losses. The equation again.

  All the signals had made it clear that, despite the tremendous pressure mounted by the Allied forces, the enemy were resisting, fighting every mile of the way, aware of the inevitability of defeat, even more aware of the damage any delay would cause. Porter had seen the first, secret details of the next step, Operation Avalanche, to take place further north along the Italian coast, and a much tougher prospect than Husky had yet presented.

  Fighter cover so far north was already perceived as a problem, but with command of the sea and with round-the-clock bombing to soften up the defences, they could shorten the war, perhaps by months.

  The Germans’ stubborn resistance on their retreat towards Messina would help Gaillard if no one else. There would be time to send more reinforcements. He sighed. Time.

  He said, ‘Captain Blackwood’s unit is in reserve at the moment. We should hear some more sensitive news before long.’ He smiled. ‘While you’re still with us. The A.O.C. has agreed that you may stay for another three weeks. By then they may have chosen someone else, if that’s really what you want.’

  She nodded, unable to speak. One step at a time.

  Porter smiled broadly. ‘Might cost you promotion, y’know. Or maybe a drink, what d’you say?’ He swung round as somebody rapped on the door.

  The Wren named Sue stood in the doorway, her pad folded in one hand.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir. I thought you’d want to know.’ She looked then at the girl in R.A.F. blue, as if she were speaking to her. ‘Your signal, sir. It was disregarded. The unit is embarked.’

  They sat in complete silence for a long time after the second officer had left them, or so it seemed.

  Then Porter said, ‘That drink, is it on?’ He saw her nod. Fighting it. ‘I may have to come back later.’

  She turned her cap over in her hands. Remembering. ‘A bit of help, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Vaughan was right. It was all a matter of timing.

  17

  Know Your Enemy

  Blackwood gripped the protective shield of a machine gun mounting and felt the metal raw and sharp beneath his fingers: like everything else in these sturdy landing craft, no frills, built for the job.

  After the final preparations, the uncertainty and then the urgency of getting each section of marines embarked, in the right order and with the allotted officers and N.C.O.s, this was almost an anticlimax. The steady, unhurried beat of the engines, the gentle rise and fall of the blunt bows, and an endless ceiling of pale stars from horizon to horizon above an empty sea. And yet, ever since they had slipped unceremoniously out of harbour and formed into line, they had never been far from land.

  Blackwood had just been right through the hull, and was aware of the absence of tension. They were committed, but in most of them he sensed relief that they would be spared any further doubt and speculation. They were doing something. If anything changed, it was somebody else’s problem.

  They had even managed a meal, despite the cramped conditions. Hot soup, coarse bread and gallons of sweet tea.

  There were five landing craft, two of which were now further astern after the last alteration of course. With limited navigational equipment, and not even a stern light to guide the helmsmen, it was surprising that they ever reached their objectives. Until you met the crews of such craft as these. A mixture of seamen and marines, they seemed to work without giving or confusing an order, anonymous shapes moving in the crowded hull, dodging weapons and crouching figures as if they had known no other life.

  The commanding officer was a tough, leathery lieutenant of the Royal Naval Reserve, who, like most of his kind, had been a merchant seaman in peacetime. A true professional, and one who would be quick to resent outside interference.

  Ashore, in a crowd, you might not notice him, or if you did you might only see yet another older than usual lieutenant with interlaced stripes on his sleeves. But Lieutenant Dick Stuart, once of the Anchor Line out of Liverpool and Glasgow, was now in command of five unreliable shoe boxes, and entrusted with the destiny of one hundred and fifty Royal Marines and the task of making an exact landfall on a small, desolate island in pitch darkness. Blackwood smiled to himself. There was also the enemy.

  He climbed on to a locker and stared into the darkness. The sea was calm, with hardly a feather of spray or a glint of phosphorescence to break the pattern. The two landing craft astern were invisible. He wondered how Steve Blackwood was faring on what must be his first real mission. He was carrying enough explosives to sink a cruiser. If he was troubled about it, he seemed well able to hide it. Blackwood had thought about him with Diane, and in his mind could see them together. Any jealousy or resentment he might have expected to feel was nonexistent. Maybe he was the man she needed? He stopped it right there. It was dangerous to plan anything.

  He climbed up into the wheelhouse; it was little more than a steel cupboard. A Royal Marine corporal was at the wheel, another lounged by the speed and revolutions gauges. They were both smoking.

  ‘Come for a look-see?’ Lieutenant Stuart, bulky in his stained duffle coat, eased himself from one corner.

  He switched on the light above the sealed chart table. A tiny bulb, but after the sea and the empty sky it was almost blinding.

  Stuart traced the pencilled course with a pair of dividers, and Blackwood noticed that the metal was stamped with the Nazi eagle and swastika. Another story.

  ‘Course is east-by-north at the moment. Making a good twelve-knots. I can crack on a bit more speed shortly.’ He shrugged as one of the marines coughed politely. ‘Another couple of knots, anyway.’

  Blackwood was thankful when the light was extinguished.

  ‘You know these waters pretty well?’

  Stuart considered it.

  ‘I served my apprenticeship out here. Gib, Suez, Port Said, mostly mail and passengers. It was a living.’

  ‘Light, sir! Red four-five!’

  Stuart turned his head and responded, ‘Disregard. Shooting star.’ Calmly said, Blackwood thought. The lookout would not be afraid to report something in the future which might not be a friendly shooting star.

  Stuart faced him again. ‘We’ll not get much trouble for a while. The Krauts stay well inshore if they move stores or evacuate troops at night. Our M.T.B.s and M.G.B.s have been playing hell with them this last week or so. But once we reach Angelo – well, we’ll have to see.’ He hesitated, assessing the man he had seen only briefly before getting under way. ‘You’re no stranger to this game yourself, I take it.’

  ‘I’m still learning.’

  Stuart seemed satisfied. ‘Best way to stay in one piece!’

  Blackwood said, ‘We may have to face it. The enemy may have cleared out already.’

  Surprisingly, Stuart laughed. ‘Never. He always leaves it to the last minute if he can.’ He made the enemy sound like one giant personality. ‘If he’s got all those explosive motor boats he’ll want to see which way we intend to move after Sicily. Just look at the chart. Whatever the top brass decides, Angelo is well placed. No, he’ll be there, by my reckoning.’

  Blackwood wanted to yawn, but was ready to stifle it. Stuart’s quiet, sailor’s assessment seemed suddenly at odds with Gaillard’s briefing before they had embarked. There had been no N.C.O.s present that time, not even Craven.

  ‘You know what you’re up agains
t, you’ve studied the layout. The target must be destroyed.’ He had seemed suddenly impatient, as if in some way he was not getting through to them. ‘There will be no retreats, no surrenders and no bloody excuses, right?’

  Stuart had been there, and must have wondered. But he had probably been on so many missions like this that he was unmoved by it.

  A face appeared in a round hatchway by his feet, like a pale egg.

  ‘Yer colonel’s on ’is way, sir!’

  The face vanished and Stuart said, ‘Good lad. Well trained.’ He sounded as if he was smiling.

  Blackwood touched his grubby sleeve and went out into the cool breeze. Tomorrow would be another oven. Tomorrow. It would soon be today.

  He felt the deck tilt slightly and heard an enamel mug clattering across the gun mounting. They were altering course again.

  He could see it as if the chart were still lying, brightly lit, before him. North-north-east, with the tiny islands clustering in around them. Terry Carson would likely know all about them, and their history. The depths shelved to seven hundred and a thousand fathoms hereabouts, a world of darkness, a long way down if the worst happened.

  He watched another shooting star and confronted the truth calmly.

  If it went wrong, he knew that Gaillard would never submit. It would be suicide.

  Lieutenant Steve Blackwood crouched in what must have been a storage space for mooring wires and fenders. It had been cleared to make room for their packs of explosives and fuses.

  He had always loved and been around boats ever since he could remember, and one of his most cherished memories was that of his father teaching him how to sail. That must have been in Wellington.

  He swallowed hard, and retched. After this trip in the landing craft, he doubted if the sea would ever seem the same. The combination of smells, petrol, diesel, grease and crowded humanity, added to the motion, gentle though it was, were having their effect.