Dust on the Sea (1999)

by Reeman, Douglas

  He shifted his body again, the rough ground dragging at his webbing and holster. The other headland was where Despard’s party should be, if they had made it. Despard’s resolute features came clearly to his mind. It would not be for want of trying.

  There was a big overhang of rock there, and the cliff below was almost cave-like. Perhaps the water had been higher in earlier times. He heard the insistent stammer of a boat’s engine. Just the one. Probably the same boat as before, which had made Gaillard so impatient.

  If Despard’s party could get into position and lay their charges, that overhanging cliff would block the channel completely. If not, the boats would try to slip out and head for open water.

  Either way, Force Trident, or what was left of it, would be trapped. He glanced at his hand. He could feel where the insect had bitten him; he could see it too. Just a few more minutes . . .

  He struggled to pull out his binoculars, and, holding his breath, he trained them along the full length of the lagoon. Dark, placid water. No movement. Dead like the rest of the place. He tensed as he steadied the glasses on a flaw in the pattern, a long blue-green stain on the surface. Fuel. The boats must be right there. Deep water, close to the protective cliffs, and invisible from the air, according to the R.A.F.

  Even if they blocked the channel, they could never dislodge the troops who were guarding the anchorage. He tried to shut it from his mind. The target would be impotent, for a while. Was it really worth so many lives?

  It was pointless even to consider it, to compare costs. They had gone through all that and far more in that other war. To survive. Not an objective or a chance of glory, but only to live, even after you had gone over the top with friends falling and dying all around you. To live.

  He pushed himself away from the edge, his mind clinging to the quiet water, the silence broken only by the stammering engine.

  If these explosive motor boats got amongst the next landing fleet, it would be murder. They would not go for the escorts and the faster warships; they would point their deadly cargoes at the troopers and the supply vessels. He thought of the other raids, and of Husky itself, and of all those other blurred faces, the Irrawaddy and Rangoon. It would all have been for nothing if the new impetus came to a halt.

  Sergeant Paget helped to drag him through the rocks, obviously glad to see him. Fifteen minutes. But it could be a long time when you think you may have been suddenly left in charge.

  ‘I think the boats will try to leave quite soon.’ They were all crowded round to listen, faces becoming individuals as the first rays of light touched the razor-sharp rocks.

  ‘What about the Krauts, sir?’

  ‘No sign. But they’ll try something once they realise we’re here.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘There’s a piece of high ground. A good marksman could pin us down from there.’

  Paget nodded, already selecting his men.

  ‘What about Mr Despard, sir?’

  That was Marine Pratt, the one they made jokes about. He had done seven years in the Corps before he had volunteered for the Commando. An obvious candidate for promotion on the face of it, but it had so far eluded him. Slow-speaking and lugubrious, he could still come straight to the point. Like now.

  Blackwood replied, ‘I don’t know. If his party can block the entrance, we’ll have done what we came for. If not, we’ll have to try and stop the buggers ourselves.’

  Pratt nodded, his features as mournful as ever. Blackwood remembered someone telling him that he could read a full page of an instruction manual and repeat it word for word, weapons, blockages, the intimate details of everything from a Browning automatic rifle to assembling an entrenching tool. But if he was asked a question or interrupted in any way he was lost, and had to go right back to the beginning again.

  He had also heard Archer telling another marine that if awards were made for gossip, Pratt would be given the star prize.

  Paget said, ‘One boat at a time then, sir?’ He sounded doubtful. But he was also aware that there was no alternative.

  Blackwood gazed at the sky. Despard’s party. Why had he avoided mentioning Steve Blackwood, the man who hoped to many his sister? Afraid for him? Or afraid of what might already have happened?

  ‘Send a message to the Colonel. Tell him we’re going down as far as we can.’

  Paget snapped, ‘One volunteer!’

  Nobody moved.

  Blackwood looked at the doleful marine again. ‘What about you, Pratt?’

  He regarded him uncertainly. ‘I’d rather stay, sir.’

  Archer smiled. ‘Well said, you old sod!’

  Blackwood turned to another marine, one who had cut his wrist badly during the landing.

  ‘Get that dressed, Norris.’ He smiled. ‘And give my message to the Colonel for me, right?’ I’m even beginning to sound like Gaillard.

  The others touched his arm or his shoulder as he made his way back to the slope.

  Blackwood turned away, afraid that his emotion might show on his face. They were actually sorry for the youngster he had sent back. When I’ve just condemned them all to death.

  Paget was saying, ‘Ditch everything you don’t need. Check your ammo, and spare magazines.’

  An anonymous voice called, ‘What about a prayer, Sarge?’

  Blackwood saw Archer watching him, and remembered how he had made the girl laugh that day in Alex.

  There was a sudden rattle of machine gun fire. It was almost impossible to fix the bearing; every sound became an echo in this grim place.

  Pratt said in his toneless voice, ‘Over to the left flank, sir. MG 34. They used them in North Africa.’ He nodded approvingly. ‘Good piece.’

  There was an answering burst of firing, and Blackwood knew it was Craven’s Bren. They were watching over the flank. Things were moving.

  They crawled across the broken rocks and started to find their way down a deeply cut fissure, like a chimney made by human hands.

  Blackwood led the way, the others following in a deluge of loose stones and filth, like some of the exercises they had carried out in Cornwall.

  ‘One of the boats is comin’ out, sir!’

  They had reached the ground and flung themselves where they could, dwarfed by the rock face, and once again in deep shadow.

  The boat was moving slowly, a single occupant squatting on a seat which they now knew was an escape raft, to be used once the boat and its lethal cargo had been set and aimed at the target.

  Blackwood levelled his glasses and felt a muscle jump in his wrist from the sheer effort of clambering down the rock chimney.

  He caught a brief glimpse of an intent, sun-reddened face, the cap and buttons of a German petty officer. Then he, too, was doused in dark shadow.

  Archer said, ‘Give the word, sir.’ He was lying prone, his rifle already trained across the unmoving water.

  The firing device would be at safe on the boat, but a bullet might change all that. With the rock wall behind them, nobody would survive the blast. Why waste time? Archer knew. They all did.

  The whiplash crack of the rifle was deafening in the deep confines between the two headlands. The boat seemed to swerve aside, then came to rest, bumping gently along the edge of the channel, the helmsman leaning out of his cockpit as if to examine the coloured markers more closely.

  Blackwood lowered his glasses. The German petty officer would never see anything again.

  There were more engines starting up and revving loudly. But for the noise Blackwood might still have believed that there was only one boat still here. There was firing too, a different bearing. He stared up at the sky, so bright now, so remote.

  ‘Ready, lads!’ He groped for his Sten gun, probably useless at this range.

  He blinked, imagining for a second that sunlight had caught a levelled rifle somewhere.

  But it was moving. Bright green and drifting peacefully in the sunshine. Like the other flares they had seen or fired when they had stormed ashore in Sicily. His eyes smarted. On m
y birthday. But he wanted to cheer.

  ‘Fall back! First section, move!’ That was Paget. He had seen it too: Despard and the sapper from New Zealand had made it. They would be watching, waiting to fire the fuses. They would also know what this handful of marines had been about to attempt. Blackwood wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Suicide.

  The sound of the double explosion was muffled, but seemed to last for ever. It brought with it dust so dense that men fought for breath, gasping and choking, and an avalanche of rock fragments which rained down on their steel helmets and made even thought impossible.

  And then, very slowly, the fog moved away, blotting out the entrance as if they had imagined it. At first glance the channel appeared untouched, the placid surface caked with sand and dirt. The painted markers were still in position, and the motor boat with its dead helmsman was still nudging along the edge as if trying to escape on its own.

  Blackwood took Paget’s arm and said, ‘They did it!’

  There was a hump in mid-channel, as if it had always been there, like the great, gaping landslide above it. In years to come nobody would notice any difference, or guess what deeds had been performed here today.

  Slowly, limbs feeling like lead, the marines began their climb up the rock chimney, minds and bodies still drained by the explosion, and the sudden change in their own circumstances.

  There was still some firing, but it was vague and intermittent. The Germans were probably as surprised as they were, and were having their work cut out to restore communications and order.

  But they had done it. Three hours or three thousand, nothing could alter it now.

  When they reached the top of the cliff, it was as if nothing had happened. The dust and smoke had gone, and all firing had stopped. The marines were saving ammunition; the Germans were probably regrouping, or awaiting support. Blackwood saw the youngster he had sent to the rear with an officer. He was pointing at him and grinning. Blackwood noticed that he had still not bandaged his hand.

  The officer was Lieutenant Fellowes. Something triggered a warning, driving away the strain like an icy shower.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ He could not even keep the edge out of his voice, as if a stranger had taken over.

  Fellowes looked at the weary marines. He was not experienced enough to recognise their jauntiness and their bottled-up emotion.

  He said, ‘Your message, sir. The Colonel was watching.’ He flinched under Blackwood’s eyes. ‘It’s not enough, sir.’ He was repeating it as if he could still not believe it. ‘He says the boats will be free to move as soon as the enemy get some engineers here.’

  It was possible. It was also madness to pretend they could do anything else.

  He snapped, ‘Tell the Colonel . . .’

  Gaillard walked into the sunlight, and barely glanced at the others.

  ‘Tell him yourself!’

  Then he smiled. ‘I’ve sent word to Mr Despard to rejoin the unit as soon as possible. He did quite well.’ The smile vanished. ‘Not well enough. The attack goes on! Remember, no excuses!’ He swung away. ‘From anybody!’

  Fellowes whispered, ‘It’s madness, sir.’

  Blackwood turned on him. ‘I didn’t hear that, Mr Fellowes!’ Then he touched his arm and forced a smile. ‘But you’re probably right.’

  He saw Archer nod, and as he walked to the edge of the cliff he heard Fellowes say raggedly, ‘And I didn’t hear that, sir!’

  Blackwood stared at the sea. But, like the future, it was quite empty.

  Blackwood tilted his helmet to shade his eyes from the glare. Through its camouflage netting the steel rim was already hot, although the sun had barely risen above the nearest island. It was hard to shut out the smaller, more personal vignettes. A marine giving a cigarette to his friend after bandaging his arm for him. And the moment when Despard and his party had come almost at the double from their original landing place beneath the headland, Despard quietly confident. Steve Blackwood had been less restrained and had hugged him, his tanned face creased with pleasure.

  Small parts of a pattern. He tried to empty them from his thoughts.

  It was like watching from above, a bird’s eye view. The separate groups of marines, counting their ammunition, loosening their bayonets. Most of them had emptied their water flasks, and food was unimportant. The enemy would know it was impossible to attempt to clear the channel; the marines would pick them off one by one. They would also know that they were unable to retreat, even though two of the landing craft had used the first daylight to move to safer moorings. Once clear of the island, they would be easy targets for the paratroopers and their array of weapons.

  The Germans would not let it rest as a temporary stalemate. They were professional troops, and revenge would play its part.

  Paget said flatly, ‘The Colonel’s coming, sir.’

  Gaillard strode to the fallen rocks and stared at the water.

  ‘Are you ready to move?’ He faced Blackwood, shoulders quite stiff, as if he were examining a defaulter. ‘We’ve got landing craft. We can keep the enemy hopping, for the whole bloody day if necessary. We’ll get air cover. Then we can leave.’ He stamped his foot. ‘Not retreat! But first, I want those boats destroyed!’

  Archer was lying nearby, his rifle butt cuddled against his cheek. He could not hear what the officers were saying, and he thought it was probably just as well. Blackie would think of something to get them off the hook. He listened to the boat’s engine. All the rest were silent. He thought of the sapper officer hugging the captain. The joy of it, as if they had been the only blokes there. They were supposed to be cousins, or something. The other one wasn’t a Royal, but he was okay.

  He lifted his chin and watched a tiny circle on the water below, like a single drop of rain on a pond. He sighed. It would be so easy to fall asleep. To shut it out. To give up.

  The thought came like an electric shock. There was no bloody rain, not in this place.

  He rolled over, one arm automatically cradling his rifle against any damage. He wanted to shout, to take proper aim, but for those few seconds he felt unable to move.

  One silhouette: a man, standing or kneeling, it was too bright to see. The sun was blinding. But he could recognise the tell-tale blaze of metal. It was already too late.

  Seconds, in which his mind and body responded as one. Thumb off the safety catch, blink away the mist, first pressure, then . . . But he knew the sniper had fired first, even though the sound was drowned by his own shot. He was already pulling and thrusting home the bolt for another bullet when he saw the blurred silhouette crumple and disappear, followed what seemed like minutes later by the splash of his body hitting the water.

  Blackwood swung round, his hand on his holster as he realised what had happened. Men were kneeling or crouching as if frozen in attitudes of action or self-defence. Someone shouted, ‘The bastard’s gone under!’

  They all looked at Archer, eyes slitted in the sunlight, smoke drifting straight up from his Lee-Enfield.

  Archer said, ‘He got the jump on me, sir!’ He sounded angry. Ashamed.

  Despard called, ‘The Colonel, sir!’

  Gaillard was already struggling to get to his feet again, his eyes flashing wildly as a corporal tried to restrain him. There was blood on his right side, seeping over his belt and down his leg, shining in the strengthening light.

  Blackwood dropped on one knee, his mind sharpened by the knowledge that the sniper’s bullet had missed him by inches, if that. His back had been turned towards the higher ground, the old rule broken or overlooked in the heat of Gaillard’s anger.

  Gaillard was controlling himself with a physical effort, his fingers bloody as he unfastened his belt and waited for Despard and the corporal to wedge a dressing over the wound.

  Despard said between his teeth, ‘Nothing broken, sir. Nasty, though. Near thing.’

  Blackwood said to Archer, ‘Thanks.’

  Archer shrugged. ‘I was slow, sir.’ But he did not hid
e his relief that the sniper had been aiming at an officer with his back turned towards his sights, and had hit someone else.

  Gaillard allowed himself to be seated in a patch of shade, his jaw tight enough to reveal the pain he was enduring.

  But his voice was as strong as before.

  ‘Get on with it!’

  Blackwood said, ‘I think you should be taken down to the landing place, sir.’

  ‘Never!’ He was beside himself with rage, the wound acting like a spur. ‘Nobody retreats! I’ll shoot the first man who tries it!’

  Blackwood made another attempt. Gaillard was not even armed. The realisation shocked him enough to call, ‘Sergeant Paget, take your men down first! Send word to the sergeant-major to bring his Bren over to cover us.’ They were all staring at him, like men clinging to driftwood, trying to stay afloat. Fellowes and the athletic Capel, ‘Sticks’ Welland, and two wounded men who were still carrying their rifles and leaning on one another like dockyard drunks. Faces he had come to know and care about, discovering, when it was almost too late, that they also cared about him.

  He said to Marine Pratt, ‘Stay with the Colonel.’

  Gaillard tried to get up, but Pratt held him almost gently and murmured, ‘Easy, sir.’

  Gaillard yelled, ‘Don’t you dare to talk to me like that! Don’t you ever . . .’ He fell silent. Perhaps he had already lost more blood than they knew.

  But Blackwood had to make Pratt understand. He was a man who knew how to obey. To carry out orders without question.

  He repeated, ‘Stay with the Colonel. If we fall back . . .’

  Pratt said heavily, ‘I can manage, sir.’ He meant it.

  Blackwood turned away. Down to the water’s edge again. That would give the enemy a chance to infiltrate their feeble defences. He could find no satisfaction in Gaillard’s fate. He was out of it, whether he liked it or not. He was going to be replaced, perhaps dishonoured. It would be far harder to face than this inevitable defeat.

  Paget was saying, ‘If we can get up closer to the boats, sir?’

  He swung round as somebody cried out in pain. He added hoarsely, ‘They all want to come with you. You know how it is.’