The two launches were dwarfed, side by side on the main deck. Above and around them derricks hovered like storks, ready to hoist and then lower them alongside under almost any conditions. One of Manxman’s officers had said, “We’ll put ’em where you want ’em. After that it’ll be your problem!” Like the ship’s stocky, bearded captain, he had seen and moved just about everything.
To them, the commandos and their kit were just another cargo.
It was almost done. N.C.O.s had reported their sections allotted to messing areas, muster points for any emergency, and places where they could exercise or drill as events dictated. Devonport was next to and a part of Plymouth itself, although local people insisted there was a distinct, if invisible, barrier between them.
To the marines, Plymouth was a part of their own particular world, and Forester had seen several of them looking wistfully at the land, maybe thinking of risking a run ashore, despite rigid orders to the contrary.
A long day: Forester could hardly remember a busier one since the so-called emergency. Ever since Parsons had burst into their lives.
He was up on the massive bridge right now. Studying the ship’s navigational aids, “getting the feel of things”, as he put it. Maybe if the emergency proved to be a false one Parsons would be sent elsewhere, to make some one else’s life a misery.
Forester moved along the rail, if only to avoid some seamen who were hoisting yet another crate of stores from one of the carefully marked hatchways.
It was getting dark. He shivered. Darker than usual. He could see a procession of headlights passing between two blocks of buildings. People going home for the long weekend. Or maybe, like most of the armed services, heading away on holiday. No wonder he had heard some of the marines complaining about it. ‘If you can’t take a joke’ did not carry much weight at the moment aboard the Manxman.
He thought suddenly of Blackwood, and his address to the N.C.O.s. He had not bragged or boasted; he had simply talked. Shared it. Forester always felt that he had the measure of his men when he was called upon to speak about company matters and daily routine. If you went beyond that, you could so easily make a fool of yourself if you stepped over the line. Keep your distance, and your self-respect remained intact.
He heard voices below him and saw Hamlyn with a corporal, studying a sheet of paper and ticking off one of the items. The corporal laughed, and Forester saw him touch the lieutenant’s arm. “You owe me a tot for finding that one, sir!”
That sort of familiarity disturbed him. When he had been a young subaltern he had found himself in hot water with his commanding officer because one of his marines had let him down. He had trusted him, and had got the rocket because of it.
Hamlyn seemed to cope with it. Outwardly easygoing, but never casual. He knew where to draw the line.
He turned toward the dockyard again. It was darker still, and some lighted windows were coming to life by the road. Probably a pub. There would not be much business this evening. Everybody was on leave.
He thought about Lois, considered what she might be doing. Maybe visiting the people she knew at the tennis club. They had been married less than three years, and he still noticed the looks they got when they were together. She could turn anybody’s head . . . He could guess what some of the glances implied. In a strange way, it excited him. Something he always remembered when they were alone together.
She had seemed keen on Peter Hamlyn from the beginning, teasing him, even scolding him when they played tennis; and he seemed to enjoy it. Who wouldn’t?
He still did not know what had made him do it. She had been writing a letter a few days ago when he had arrived at their rented flat near the Poole H.Q. He had seen her cover it, so it was something private. It was only later that he began to question it. And then later, when he had seen an envelope in the porter’s lobby, for Hamlyn. The address had been typed, and yet . . . He still could not understand what had made him suspicious, but he had pulled the letter from the rack to examine it. If any one had seen him, it would have been hard to explain, and now he almost wished he had left it alone. He had not recognized the envelope but her perfume had left no room for doubt; it was the same musky, sensual smell she had sometimes sprayed on letters to him. He saw her vividly now in his mind. The way she laughed and moved, and touched her lower lip with her tongue.
I must have been blind. Stupid.
He swung round; there was some one right beside him.
“Yes? What is it?”
He hardly recognized his own voice.
“From Major Blackwood, sir. Would you join him on the upper bridge.” He was pointing into the shadows.
“I know where it is, man!” He wanted to reach out, apologize. It was not like him; he never lost control. But the messenger had gone, and was probably even now letting off steam about it. Forester’s got the jitters. Or worse.
He forced himself to walk unhurriedly toward the bridge superstructure, taking his time, allowing his mind to settle. Some one was testing the starboard navigation light, on – off – on – off, like a huge green eye. As if the ship was preparing to get under way.
But all he could think about was Lois. What might have caused this . . . this thing to happen. Beyond imagination and belief.
Something close by gave a metallic shudder, a small generator or a piece of hoisting tackle. In his blurred mind, it seemed as if the entire ship was coming alive. Leaving.
There had never been any rift or misunderstanding in their marriage. People had remarked on it. Friends envied them.
Only once, that he could remember, there had been something trivial, when Lois had had a bit too much to drink, and he had warned her about it. There had been no anger that he could recall, but her words were suddenly as fresh as if she had just spoken them aloud.
Say and do what you like, Toby. But don’t you ever take me for granted.
And now, it was too late.
Ross Blackwood paused on the bridge wing and stared into the surrounding darkness. After the contained world of the chart room it seemed noisy and almost hostile, with pellets of spray hitting his borrowed oilskin, thrown up from Manxman’s invisible bows. He could feel the ship trembling to the regular thrust of the screws, as if Manxman were glad to be moving, free of the land, now that the uncertainty and frustration were over.
Things had happened quickly. During the forenoon watch today, Friday, the signal had been received, and everything had changed. It infuriated him to think that those in authority had delayed until the very last moment, ignoring the inevitable, until it was too late to prevent it.
In the early hours of the morning Special Forces of the Argentine army and navy had landed in the Falklands, over a thousand troops sweeping into the capital, Stanley, with armoured vehicles in support.
He looked abeam and saw some tiny lights blinking through the darkness. Navigation buoys, the last links with the land. The ship was moving fast, despite her size and bulk; the captain had mentioned eighteen knots, and you could feel it. Down Channel, and leaving the Lizard astern, into the deep and heavy water of the Atlantic itself. You could feel that, too.
The captain seemed quite unruffled by the sudden demand for action; his ship had been made ready for sea in no time. Ross had been on the bridge when Manxman had moved into open water. A few people waving from the dockyard; and he had seen the last mail go ashore. There had been less than he expected. Perhaps the marines, irrespective of age or service, were like the ship, tired of waiting and eager to get on with it. And some had probably thought they would hear it was another false alarm when eventually they reached their first stop. It only added to the sense of unreality. Time and distance: a challenge even to the most experienced sailor. Ascension Island was their first landfall, over three and a half thousand miles away, where they would rendezvous with other ships. Ross could imagine the nightmare this was for operational and signals staff: thousands of men and women to be recalled from leave, many of whom would be out of the country, bliss
fully unaware of the crisis until the truth burst in upon them. Ships with depleted crews, aircraft standing down for Easter, utter confusion until some one took overall command. A war footing. In the midst of peace, it was almost incredible.
It would take a week, maybe more, to reach Ascension. What then? So much for the ‘anti-submarine manoeuvres’. The Argentine chiefs of staff must be laughing their heads off.
He had been around the ship and spoken to as many of the marines as he could at such short notice. There was a certain grim determination, and a measure of bitterness as well. Some one should have known! Done something!
Ross felt much the same; but the sentiment had to stop right there.
Parsons had been outwardly unmoved by the sudden call for action. He had stayed most of the time on the bridge, ready to deal with any relevant signal the moment it was decoded.
“Keep them all on their toes. Don’t let ’em get stale before we even reach the first hurdle, eh? It’s not going to be a walk-over, no matter what the ‘experts’ have to say about it!”
Ross went down to his cabin and decided to go through his notes yet again. Parsons was right about keeping occupied. Empty days meant boredom, and even the most reliable marine could come apart waiting . . . always waiting.
He opened his old pocket book; he could not remember how long it had been with him. Bits of dried leaf used as markers, from the jungle in Malaysia. Grains of sand caught in the binding. Scribbled telephone numbers, Londonderry and Belfast. Her name beside them. He could remember so well, waiting at the hotel. He smiled a little. Fort Amazon . . .
The small photo she had found for him that last day. One Larry had taken of her in a swimsuit on location somewhere. He felt only sadness, not envy. But how could he expect her to put up with this sort of life?
He watched an empty cup vibrating beside the notebook, and could imagine the great shafts driving the screws, thrusting into the Atlantic, the land sliding away, lingering in the radar for a little longer.
There was a gentle tap at the door. It was Forester. Like Parsons, he had seemed unruffled by the call to arms, but he had always managed to contain his emotions. He seemed a trifle strained, but nothing unusual.
He was glancing around the cabin, probably without seeing it.
“Thought you might care to come along for a drink, sir.”
Ross stood up. He liked Forester, but he was not an easy man to know, ‘beyond the wrapping’, as he had heard Harwood say of some one.
“Sure, why not? Been on your rounds?”
“Yes, sir.” But he was staring at the photograph, Sharon in her swimsuit, legs lean and tanned against the sand. “They’re all settled down, as far as I can judge.”
Ross put the photo back into his notebook. Relax. Have that drink, and take it off your back.
Very soon, everything would change. He thought of the major with the battered face and broken nose. All that time ago. It felt like last week. You think you know it all. Can handle any damn thing that crops up. Part of the job. Then one day, everybody’s looking to you. You’re the only one who can deal with it. Know your people, Ross. Don’t rely on your rank or popularity when the cards are stacked against you.
He remembered Forester’s eyes on the photo. He was married; Ross had met his wife a couple of times. He heard Harwood’s voice again. Nice bit of stuff. But likes to put it around a bit. Some one else, then, but was that the problem?
If they had to fight, they were expected to win. It was what they had all been taught to believe. The green beret: something special, something to be proud of.
“A drink it is, Toby. We’ll get the others to join us.”
He turned toward the door, but not before he had seen the shutters come down. Like Houston’s warning, all those years ago.
Know your people.
But that was then. This was now.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Royal Fleet Auxiliary Manxman arrived at Ascension Island in the South Atlantic half a day ahead of schedule, despite heavy weather and strong winds for much of the passage. There was no time to get used to the island; within three days of frantic activity the order was received to weigh and proceed. Any belief, or hope, that the operation had gone off at half-cock came to an end.
Ross Blackwood was on the same bridge wing when Manxman got under way again. It was something he would never forget; an experience exciting, after all the uncertainty and rumour, and also very moving.
Ascension was a hump of volcanic rock jutting out of an empty sea; the island of St. Helena was its closest neighbour, seven hundred miles away. The mountain, which had appeared on radar before anything else, was surprisingly green and lush, and must have been an answer to many a seaman’s prayer in the days of sail.
There were so many ships assembled that it was hard to believe such a fleet had been gathered in so short a time: Fleet Auxiliaries, freighters, and tankers. Two frigates also made a welcome appearance. The queen of the fleet was the liner S.S. Canberra, a household name, and well known on the major cruising routes.
Canberra’s decks were lined with khaki figures, waving and cheering as Manxman passed slowly abeam.
Ross had gone over the details of transfers and cross-loading: Royal Marine commandos, the S.A.S., and men of the Parachute Regiment, the toughest fighting force he could imagine. Even the hardest critics had changed their tune.
If anything, the mood of this Special Operations company was anger, an unspoken desire to hit back. The day after leaving Plymouth they had received the signal which had changed everything. Argentine forces had extended their invasion to the big island of South Georgia, where their first unofficial landing parties had gone ashore, and, despite protests by the Governor, had remained. There had always been a small garrison of Royal Marines in Stanley, a token force of some thirty-seven men. They had put up a stiff resistance when the initial attack had been launched, but had been ordered by the Governor to surrender to the invaders to avoid civilian casualties. They had little choice, three dozen marines against an army of Argentine Special Forces. There was also a detachment of marines in South Georgia, which had been landed earlier from their own ship, H.M.S. Endurance. The one-sided battle was settled after two and a half hours’ fighting, during which the marines had managed to shoot down an enemy helicopter and damage a corvette with small arms fire.
From that moment the campaign had become personal, a matter of pride, and of revenge.
He watched the lines of troops and marines on Canberra’s upper decks; there were more tiny figures clinging to stays and lifeboats, cheering and shouting, their voices suddenly drowned by Manxman’s booming response.
From the first definite news of an Argentine invasion, it had taken only twenty-four hours to send warships heading south. A token force. He found that he had raised his arm and was waving at the ill-matched armada with all the rest. Lieutenant-Colonel Parsons had been in conference with the other senior officers. On his return to Manxman he had been sharp and in an ill humour.
He had been outnumbered and outranked, something quite new to Parsons. Unless he had already forgotten what it was like.
“I want all officers in the chart room. Fifteen minutes.”
He glanced at some marines who were waving at one of the anchored ships.
“What are those fools doing? Get some of that muddle cleared up, if they need work to do!”
Ross said, “Senior N.C.O.s too, sir?”
Parsons snapped, “Do I have to repeat myself?” and his mood changed instantly. “Forget that, Ross. Didn’t mean to take it out of you. Too many voices – I thought my brain would burst!”
Ross looked down involuntarily as Parsons gripped his wrist.
“The S.A.S. will do this! The Paras will do that! Don’t they realize that the real brain is at Northwood? It will decide!”
Ross thought of the underground War Room, the last time he had seen Souter. It was nothing compared with Northwood, or H.M.S. Warrior, its official title.
A massive underground complex outside London, in the suburbs, and unofficially known as The Hole. The First Sea Lord would be there with his huge operational staff. He had probably taken command when the first indication of Argentine intentions had been brought to his notice. He had not missed much; otherwise this strange fleet would not be here at Ascension, might never have left harbour.
Parsons knew that side of operations better than most. But this was the sharp end. Something very different.
He said curtly, “The first prime target is South Georgia itself, where the whole thing started. Except that nobody would believe it, not then, anyway.” He calmed himself with an almost physical effort. “It was a good choice. It’s eight hundred miles from the main Falklands group. Gives them more scope for manoeuvre, or compromise.”
Ross recalled the bundles of tough winter clothing which had been brought aboard almost as soon as Manxman had dropped anchor. Flown directly from England. The weather and conditions would be terrible, a real challenge even to the hard men. Perhaps ‘Lazarus’ made some sense after all.
The ‘muddle’ to which Parsons had referred was still scattered across the foredeck, scrambling nets, hoisting gear, and more canned stores. No going back. You are on your way. Most of the marines had probably never heard of South Georgia. Unlike the ones who had surrendered there.
Parsons faced him, his eyes very steady.
“Ours will be, largely, an individual role. Specialist work for true specialists. Paving the way for the brute force.” He did not smile. “I have to be with the overall command. I am next senior in the land forces, so I will be able to keep an eye on your involvement, you can be sure of that!”
They walked together to the outer wing. Manxman was heading into open water, the wind across their faces like ice, tightening the skin.
“Pity we couldn’t have waited a bit longer for the rest of our chaps. They’re on their way, but by the time they catch us up it may be all over. Part of history. Just leaving the tab for the taxpayer, as usual.”
Knife Edge (2004) Page 26
