Dust on the Sea (1999)

by Reeman, Douglas

  ‘Don’t leave me, lads! It’s me, for Christ’s sake!’

  Blackwood heard someone mutter, ‘Stow it!’ Then, as the man began to scream, he added almost savagely, ‘Die, you bastard! For God’s sake, die!’

  It was Archer, of all people.

  He heard Paget whistle between his teeth, his private signal. His section was in position, above and to the left. In daylight there would be no cover at all. They had to move.

  He gripped his Sten, his mind cringing as the wounded man began to sob like a child. It was far worse than the screaming.

  ‘Now or never, sir.’ He was prompting him, could not help it. Gaillard lurched to his feet. He did not even flinch as another shot kicked grit from the ground.

  He said, ‘Different angle. The bugger’s moving back.’ He seemed to make up his mind. ‘Advance.’ He reached out to steady himself, and might have fallen but for another anonymous figure. ‘Now or never, eh? I like that! We’ll show ’em!’

  Blackwood waved his arm and felt the marines respond, as if they were all taped together. Show who, he wondered. Naismith, Vaughan . . .? He waved the arm again. ‘Move, lads! Move! Move!’

  The wounded man must have sensed what was happening and shouted, ‘Don’t leave me! You rotten bastards!’

  The marines scrambled up the slope, shutting their ears, hating the unknown voice, and one another because of it.

  ‘Down!’ Blackwood gasped as he felt the rock grind into his knee. More shots, tracer this time. He watched it, like blood against the sky. The other landing craft had made it, had pressed on despite the noise and the explosions, and the fate of the third craft. It was little enough. He pressed his face to his forearm and contained his emotion. They were no longer alone.

  He thought suddenly of Despard and the supporting party with the sappers and explosives. The whole place would be like a madhouse soon; Despard might stand away. It would be pointless to sacrifice men for nothing. He forced himself to his knees. Despard would never stand away at any time, orders or not. He recalled his own anger when Gaillard had made his little speech to the officers. It had been like an insult.

  ‘Move! Move!’ They were running forward again; it felt more like staggering. One man stopped in his tracks, his knees buckling. He dropped his rifle and fell beside it, as if he was praying. Another marine skidded to a halt, and reached out his hand towards him.

  ‘Tim!’

  That was all. Then he ran on, his friend already dead. Nothing. There were frantic shouts, muffled, shielded by a shoulder of rock, and then a wild cheer, drowned out by the concentrated rattle of machine guns.

  Blackwood glanced at the sky. Was it lighter already? So soon . . .

  The other landing party had jumped an enemy patrol, or perhaps one of the regular guard detail. He shook himself. We would have blundered right into it.

  A figure darted around the rock and fell sprawling to a single shot, and he heard Bull Craven’s hard voice.

  ‘Not fast enough, my son!’

  Almost matter of fact. And yet Craven had just killed a man, without even raising his voice.

  ‘Spread out and find what cover you can!’ Blackwood peered down a crumbling slope. He could see nothing, but sensed the water somewhere below him. The lagoon, the anchorage. What was probably an old volcano crater. The target.

  They fell flat, faces and fingers pressing into the dirt, bodies tense and vulnerable as more tracer angled across the uneven ground. He saw it reflected in the unmoving water. To move forward would be suicide. To wait for daylight would only postpone the inevitable.

  He had seen the close-fitting helmet which Craven’s victim had been wearing. A paratrooper’s helmet, just like the one in the recognition manual. Know Your Enemy. Hard men, who had proved themselves in Poland and Russia, in France and in Crete. They gave no quarter, any more than they would plead for it.

  Gaillard raised his head and watched the probing bursts of tracer.

  ‘The other two craft should be here by now! What the hell is Despard doing? If I thought for a moment . . .’ He jerked upright again, oblivious or unaware of the spiteful burst of gunfire.

  ‘Watch it, sir!’ Gaillard had not even heard him. And then he knew what had taken and seized his attention like a claw.

  The sound was magnified by the natural rock wall of the lagoon. No wonder the intelligence people had claimed it was impossible to destroy, even with fighter-bombers. Heavier aircraft would have been equally useless.

  It was the sound of a boat’s engine, spluttering at first, as if rudely awakened like the paratroopers who were guarding the place, then steadying into an even murmur.

  Blackwood watched Gaillard’s silhouette. Unmoving. Stricken. What did these boats do? Thirty knots, more? It could make no difference now. The Germans had probably exercised them over and over again. They would not hang about and wait to be destroyed or captured.

  More tracer, feeling its way. As ordered, the marines remained in position, and left the field open to the snipers. It could not change things, but it might confuse the enemy as to their strength and deployment. A waiting game. He moved his Sten until he could see it against the pale rock. Two hours at the most. The stars seemed fainter, even though he knew he was imagining it.

  They should have had a bigger force, more landing craft. The Germans would have gone anyway. He glanced at Gaillard again. He knew, must have known from the start. He thought of the S.A.S. officer in the filthy lambswool jerkin. Warning me. That Gaillard needed to carry it through, if only to save himself.

  He thought of the screaming marine, and the one who had died with such quiet dignity. Tim. A cry of anguish, for all of them.

  He knew that if he touched his pocket he would feel the crumpled, unfinished letter. Not even started. Like us. He did not; he knew it would finish him.

  He said, ‘I can take one section and go down there, sir. Now.’ How could his voice sound so level, so devoid of doubt? His entire body was coiled like a spring; lose that, and he would crack wide open. It was what he had tried to explain to her. And she had understood. Had shared it.

  ‘Death or glory, eh?’ Gaillard seemed to be smiling. ‘Let me see, how many V.C.s in your family? Two, isn’t it? Out for the next one, are you?’

  Blackwood clenched his fists, saying nothing, remembering his first thought when Vaughan had told him about the new posting. I wanted him dead.

  Gaillard said, ‘Might work. Diversion – anything to prevent those bastards from getting away. That must not happen!’ Then he removed his helmet and wiped his face with his handkerchief. Blackwood heard Archer draw a sharp breath. A handkerchief, even a khaki one, like the movement of a rifle bolt, was a gift to any sniper worth his salt.

  He began to back away. ‘When the sappers arrive, sir . . .’

  ‘Just do it! I’ll decide on the final –’ Gaillard turned abruptly as a stray shot sang overhead like a hornet.

  Sergeant Paget was waiting for him, as if he had been expecting him.

  ‘Ready, sir.’

  ‘Never volunteer.’ He gripped his arm. ‘Thanks, Tom.’

  Paget hesitated, caught out by the use of his name. ‘I’ve detailed some likely villains, sir.’ He nodded towards another shadow. ‘Marine Archer insisted, of course.’

  Blackwood tensed as more stars of tracer floated over the wall of lava rock. Not now. Not now . . . And another voice. It’s what we do. What I am.

  ‘We go down now.’ Paget had not named any of the others, and he thought it was better not to know. He gritted his teeth. Tim. ‘We’ll hold them inside the anchorage until the second party arrives. Sergeant-Major Craven will give covering fire if we have to withdraw.’ Someone managed a faint but ironic cheer.

  He added simply, ‘I won’t ask for questions. I might not have the answers.’

  They started down the slope, weapons slung for balance as well as safety. If it went wrong from the beginning there would be no time to pull a trigger.

  Paget remained
in the rear. It did not need to be shouted out loud. In case I fall.

  He touched his pocket and felt the letter, something he had tried not to do.

  It was only her name, after all. He quickened his pace, his mind suddenly clear.

  It was enough.

  18

  Without Question

  Lieutenant Steve Blackwood held tightly to the side of the small wheelhouse and stared at the intermittent flashes, the occasional drifting balls of tracer. So deceptively slow, distance giving it a sort of cruel beauty.

  His muscles were still bunched, unable to relax, to accept that the sudden stammer of machine gun fire and then the louder explosions were quite detached. Nothing to do with us. Was he the only one, he wondered, or had the others, the more experienced marines, known from the beginning that they were not the target?

  He heard the other two officers talking to the landing craft skipper, a young R.N.V.R. subbie who looked as if he should still be in school uniform. Despard’s voice was unhurried, measured. Making a point which he needed to know was understood. And Lieutenant Capel, a sharper tone, impatient, or perhaps less confident now.

  One thing stood out above all else. One landing craft had been destroyed. That final explosion had demolished hope and doubt alike. He had even seen the outline of this small, desolate island named Angelo for the first time, albeit briefly, until the fiery glow had died, and men with it.

  Suppose it had been the leading craft? Gaillard and Mike Blackwood together? He guessed that was what the young subbie was thinking. That his own superior, the tough Lieutenant Dick Stuart, had bought it.

  Despard pulled himself hand over hand along a rail to join him.

  ‘The rest of our main party must be ashore. It’ll be light in an hour or so. They’ll need all the help we can give them.’ He gripped his arm. ‘We can’t beach the thing here, it’s too rocky. Our skipper seems to think so, anyway.’

  There was no anger or sarcasm. If anything, Despard was only voicing his thoughts, facing what seemed inevitable to him. It was his decision.

  Steve Blackwood said, ‘We’ve got the rubber dinghies.’ He felt Despard’s grip relax and then withdraw. Relief? Had he expected him to back down? To insist that they pull away while there was still a glimmer of hope?

  He said quietly, ‘I can do it.’ Just like that.

  Despard cursed as the hull rocked dangerously in the swell. ‘We’ll do it! Just tell me what you need.’ He saw that Capel had joined them. ‘Get your climbers ready. We’re going in now! Dinghies!’

  Capel was staring at him. ‘We don’t know for sure that they’re able to hold out! We could be walking straight into it!’

  Despard groped past him and called into the wheelhouse, ‘Close as you can!’ The young subbie said something and Despard retorted harshly, ‘And I say, damn your bloody orders!’

  The engines increased speed. Where was the tail-end landing craft? Keeping well out of it, probably.

  He saw Despard’s powerful figure striding amongst the landing party, his voice rallying them, dispelling uncertainty. And hope. Despard had known that this might happen, but had not known how to share it.

  Winches squeaked, and he knew the two big dinghies were being swung outboard. He saw Sergeant Godden dragging one of his packs of explosives and said, ‘I’m taking this one. You stay on board.’

  Godden showed his teeth. ‘What, miss all the fun? With respect, sir . . .’

  They both stared at the sky as a flare exploded on the other side of a ridge of land. Like a moonscape, stark and vivid.

  Godden exclaimed, ‘There’s our other boat! I thought they’d done a bunk!’

  Despard was here again. ‘I’ll lead. Mr Capel will keep with you.’ It sounded so formal that the closeness of danger seemed secondary.

  Steve watched Despard leap into the long rubber dinghy and found time to wonder at the speed and confidence with which the marines used paddles to manoeuvre the cumbersome craft clear of the side.

  He said, ‘Over you go, lads!’ He dragged his eyes from the fresh outburst of tracer which clawed towards the other landing craft. He saw sparks, and could imagine the havoc caused in such a small, overcrowded hull. But it was still moving, turning now, perhaps to follow them, an ancient Lewis gun firing blindly at the land.

  Despard’s dinghy slewed round and almost overturned as it drove over a low ledge of rock. Men were already scrambling out, some with packs of explosives, others dropping down to offer covering fire if the enemy was waiting for them. There seemed to be plenty happening on the far side of the ridge, small arms fire and some grenades, but nothing nearer. Steve Blackwood was flung on his back by the rearing dinghy, and felt hands grabbing him. ‘Sticks’ Welland was spitting out sea water and saying, ‘Bloody pongos – I don’t know, I’m sure!’ He was actually laughing.

  And here was the ridge. A cliff, a wall of rock. No wonder the enemy thought it was a good hiding-place for their boats.

  The marines were already swarming up from the ledge where they had smashed unceremoniously ashore. When one of them reached the top he realised that he could see his head and shoulders silhouetted against the sky, when minutes earlier, or so it felt, there had been only darkness.

  Heaving lines dropped like snakes, and the heavy packs were soon bobbing up the sheer rock face as if completely unaided.

  Despard said, ‘Now you, Steve. After this it’s your show. I’ll give you all the cover I can.’ He did not turn as more machine gun fire clattered and echoed amongst the rocks. His eyes suddenly gleamed as an explosion boomed against the land like heavy surf. The other landing craft had been hit. Drifting now; he imagined he could smell the stench of burning, or high explosives. He added shortly, ‘Either way, we’re on our own, so let’s make a good job of it!’ He clapped him on his soaking shoulder and hurried after his men.

  Lieutenant Capel said, ‘Here. Keep with me. We’ll go up together.’

  Welland was coiling up a heaving line, but paused to watch them begin their ascent.

  Even Capel’s confidence did not touch him now. He had to admit that, for an officer, he was good at it. But he would die rather than say as much. He stared at the other marines, moving away like shadows, hearing the occasional click of steel. Trained fighting men. Special. He tried to push the rest from his mind; it had always worked in the past. Bash on regardless, was his motto. But this was different.

  He realised that the untidy, red-haired sapper was watching him and said sharply, ‘Well, let’s be about it, eh, matey?’

  Godden scurried after him. He believed he knew what was troubling the commando sergeant. He thought they were all going to be killed. Killed for nothing which he could recognise. Like risking life and limb to blow open a difficult safe, only to discover that it was empty. A waste of time. But petermen, even good ones, had no traditions or discipline to sustain them if things went wrong. It was all part of the game.

  Welland, maybe for the first time in his life, felt cheated, without the prop he had come to take for granted.

  A marine corporal who was following him up the rock drove his boot into a niche and called, ‘’Old on, Sarge! Can’t afford to lose you!’

  Godden blinked as grit fell across his face and mouth, and took a firmer grip of the line which had been dropped for him. Not what he had joined up for. Perhaps Welland was right after all. A grubby hand reached down and seized his, the dirt and blood of the climb sealing it like a bond.

  The marine said, ‘Cheers, Sarge! Bloody well done!’

  It was crazy, but suddenly Godden was glad he was here.

  Leaving cover, even the most precarious kind, was always a bad moment. Something you had to force yourself to get used to. Captain Mike Blackwood rested for a few seconds and looked back at the barrier of fallen rock. He could have been quite alone; Tom Paget and his collection of ‘likely villains’ had vanished. But he knew they would be watching him right now, and scanning the surrounding terrain for any sign of movement or danger
.

  He tried again. A few inches at a time, moving his head from side to side to try and assess the lie of the land. The sky was much lighter, but there was no hint of the heat soon to come. Individual rocks and clumps of rough gorse stood out more clearly with each painful movement. He felt an insect cross the back of his hand, and found himself hating this desolate place. There were a few bird droppings, but not many. Even the gulls had deserted the soulless remains of a long extinct volcano.

  Here was the edge of the ridge, the headland which had appeared so simple on the chart and action-maps. And water. He thought of the wounded marine. Just get me to the bloody sea. Except that this time it was not an ally, but a trap if things went wrong.

  He raised himself very slowly, waiting for his body to loosen up, to rid itself of the instant tension of breaking cover, waiting for the sound of a shot, and the sickening impact of a bullet. Merciful oblivion, and not a lingering death up here on this pitiless shoulder of rock.

  Then he saw it. An oval-shaped lagoon, no more than half a mile long at a guess. He leaned further forward. The water was still partly in shadow, but he could see the other headland, higher and already catching the first light of morning, like a protective arm. And below it was the entrance, so narrow that only small craft would be able to use it. He could even see some coloured markers, stark and alien, hammered into the rocky walls, guides for boats entering and leaving, the first sign of human occupation. He smiled, tasting salt on his lower lip. The tracer had been real enough. And the exploding landing craft. A matter of a few hours, and yet it was already in the past. Unimportant.

  He remembered what the R.N.R. lieutenant had said about this place and other islets like it. Narrow approaches, but depths out of all proportion to them, making useful buoyage almost impossible. Hence the markers; the German commander had done his homework too.