Dust On the Sea (23 page)

Despard saw it first. ‘Fuel, sir. For the tank.' It was so obvious that Blackwood wanted to reach out to him. ‘Petrol, too. Two or three cans of it.'

Blackwood levelled his glasses, almost beyond his usual caution. A lot of fuel, so it must mean there might not be another visit for days. By that time . . .

He rolled over until his face was only inches from Gaillard's.

‘It's got to be now, sir. If we blow the petrol, the explosion will do the rest.' Without turning his head, he knew that the fuel pipe was already connected. He dared not move. He had to make Gaillard understand, share it with him. But the major did not lower his glasses or look at him.

He heard Despard ask, ‘Could you mark it down?' and somehow knew he was speaking to Archer, the crack shot of the company.

And then the brief, tense reply.

‘Easy!'

Blackwood said, ‘
Now
, sir!'

Then Gaillard did turn his head, the dark eyes flat, unmoving.

‘Before dusk?' He sounded neither troubled nor resentful; the word that came to Blackwood's mind was ‘disinterested'.

Then he said, ‘Pass the word. We're going in!'

Blackwood saw Welland lope away amongst the thorns, men coming to life all around him like a machine set in motion.

Archer eased his rifle comfortably against his cheek, but not before he had licked one thumb and then touched it against the foresight.

He murmured, ‘Saw Gary Cooper do that once. An' it works, sharpens the image!'

He had small, square hands, like spades. Now they seemed almost gentle as he eased off the safety catch and took the first pressure around the trigger.

The sound of the shot was deafening after the silence. The sea-birds rose flapping and screaming near the folly, and one of the Germans started to run even as Archer rammed another bullet up the breech.

A few seconds. Probably not even that long, just time enough for Blackwood to think the shot had gone astray.

Then came the explosion, like a grenade, but nothing worse.

He saw some of the soldiers running towards the ridge, another climbing up the side of the tank. The truck was sounding its horn, and Blackwood realised it must have been jammed by the exploding petrol. And then came the second detonation, muffled perhaps by the great column of black smoke, through which another fire was spurting like a welder's torch. The tank was ablaze, the weapon slits shining through the choking clouds, the air suddenly lethal with exploding ammunition.

They were all running, charging down the crumbling slope, heedless of everything but the need to hit the enemy first.

A Sten rattled off a few shots, and Blackwood thought he could hear one of Despard's Brens firing on another bearing.

Archer was pounding beside him, but managed to say, ‘
Told
'im, didn't I?'

Some of the Germans had been cut down by the explosions, and one was crawling on his hands and knees, unable to see. What Blackwood had taken for the unending shriek of the truck's horn was probably his scream.

On, on, through the wall of smoke, their faces set in masks of concentration, some with fixed bayonets, others with light machine guns.

Was this how it had been month after month for his father? For Vaughan, and all who had somehow survived those terrible days, but died a little each time they had gone over the top?

The smoke was everywhere, but from the corner of his eye Blackwood could still see the blazing tank, a soldier sprawled beside it in a pool of flames.

Shots came from ahead and above, and he knew two of the marines had gone down. He ran on, his throat raw, tensed as if for the next bullet. Nobody could stop. Not now. Not yet. Even if it was a friend, someone calling your name.

He swerved and almost lost his balance as a soldier appeared directly in his path. He vaguely realised that the man was fully equipped and wearing his helmet, and that he had a bayoneted rifle aimed and steady. A sentry perhaps, grateful only a few seconds earlier that he had been excused from the working party.

Something seemed to scream at him.
What does it matter! He's the bloody enemy!

He saw the rifle buck, and imagined he heard the bullet ripping past him. He levelled his Sten but someone else was there, Sergeant Welland, perfectly balanced on both feet as he parried the German's blade, like an instructor with a raw recruit. The blades clashed, and the soldier lost his footing. Mere seconds, but they were all Welland needed. He drove his bayonet into the man's armpit, and as the soldier fell, gasping, he wrenched out the blade and kicked him aside and ran on after his section.

More shots, and then he saw Archer pause to scoop up a German grenade, the familiar ‘potato masher', and fling it beyond some rocks where it exploded instantly. Another second . . . He waved the Sten and yelled, ‘
Good lad! Keep at it!
'

There were only a few shots now, and as he followed two of his men up a makeshift ramp and through the torn canvas screen, he knew they had done it. The equipment
was right here, two men standing on either side, hands in the air, knowing that just one stupid move would be their last.

There was another hide right behind this place, with more equipment and some camp beds. His hand steadied the Sten as he saw a further opening to the rear. Someone had escaped, might even now be running for a field telephone or wireless; the torn canvas flapped slightly as if to drive the point home.

He should have known. It had happened often enough.
Nobody had escaped.
He swung round, but fell to his knees as he took the full weight of the attacker on his shoulders. The oldest trick in the world . . . He struck out, but the Sten had been knocked or torn from his hands.

Like living a nightmare, but this was real. The man was strong, and was grappling at his throat, choking him.

Instinct, training, fear, it was all and none of them. He allowed himself to fall, fingers dragging at his commando dagger. In a moment he would black out completely. The blood was roaring in his head, and he could feel the man's saliva on his upturned face.

It was like hearing the instructor all over again.

Thumb on the blade, sir, and stab upwards!

He felt the blade jar against leather and metal, then the great shudder as the soldier arched his back, the agony too great, too instant even for a final cry.

Hands were lifting him, pulling the dead weight from his body. Despard was here, hard-eyed, ready for another trick. But there was nothing.

Archer helped him to his feet. ‘Nice one!' He studied him searchingly. ‘All right, sir?'

Blackwood picked up his helmet and looked at his
attacker. A contorted face, eyes bulging, but only a man after all.

He replaced his dagger, and said, ‘Let's get on with it.'

He did not glance at the men who had surrendered. ‘We'll take them back with us.' He saw Welland's bayonet move slightly, and said with greater emphasis, ‘
I mean it.
'

Despite the drifting smoke the air seemed clean outside. It was over.

He saw Gaillard reloading his revolver, three marines being dragged away from the collapsed hide. Two were dead; the third would not live much longer.

Gaillard shaded his eyes as if it were still bright sunshine, although dusk came quickly here, and parts of the ridge were already in shadow.

Blackwood said, ‘Set the charges, and round up any prisoners.' He knew Gaillard was watching him, but he said nothing.

Despard called, ‘Mr Robyns has caught one, sir!'

It was not over.

Two marines were holding the lieutenant on the ground, another was trying to bind a dressing around his leg. There did not appear to be much of it left.

Despard said, ‘Booby-trap, sir.' He gestured angrily to the wire. ‘He should have known.' He sounded bitter, as if he were blaming himself.

One of the marines held up something in his filthy hand. It was an Iron Cross, probably from a body close to the barbed wire. Just one touch. It was all it needed.

Gaillard said tersely, ‘Fetch a stretcher for this officer. The prisoners can carry him. Keep them out of mischief!'

Blackwood knelt and waited for Robyns to open his eyes. He looked very young, and suddenly helpless.

Blackwood stared over him and saw the sea. The Strait was marked in shadows, each slow movement like breathing. Their ships would be able to move in safety from now on, until the final retreat. It had been worth it. It had to be.

Robyns clenched his teeth until blood ran from his lip as the first agonising pain lanced through him.

Blackwood stood and walked away, unable to watch. It had to be worth it . . .

‘Ready with the fuses, sir!' He almost expected the man to salute. He sounded alert and confident; discipline was already replacing the wild urge to kill.

Robyns screamed as the Germans lifted the stretcher, and Gaillard snapped, ‘Keep him quiet! We've got fifteen miles to cover, remember!'

But Despard was shaking his head. Blackwood said quietly, ‘Put the officer down,' and accompanied it with gestures. They lowered the stretcher, almost fearfully, he thought. Then he thrust his hand into Robyns's shirt, and remembered him grinning from the deck of the M.G.B. after the raid.

‘He'll not make any more noise,
sir.
' He walked towards his men with their fuses and detonators, unable to conceal his contempt. ‘
Ever!
'

They made the German wounded as comfortable as they could, simple acts carried out in a wary silence. Help would come for them tomorrow.

They moved from the ridge even as the charges began to explode, all perfectly timed.

Blackwood watched the marines forming into sections for the return march. They had lost five killed, but as they headed away from the sea once again, he could not shake the feeling that they were still all together. Once he felt
himself touching his commando knife, and knew it was not the time to reason, to question. This was today.

It was enough.

Lieutenant David Falconer stood wedged in one corner of his tiny bridge and swung his night-glasses in a slow arc. A veteran of Light Coastal Forces, if there could be such a creature in this fast-moving war, he was more used to darkness than the daylight which could leave them so vulnerable, easy prey for anything more powerful. M.G.B. 49 had been at action stations for most of the night, with only quick, stealthy gulps of glutinous cocoa, ki, and sandwiches so thick you could hardly get your teeth around them. Falconer's small company were used to it, as they were to one another; and he had come to know every one of them as so much more than mere names and ratings.

Crouched over the wheel was his petty officer coxswain, the core of any small warship. On parade or being visited by the brass, everything was always pusser and formal, but here, in the cramped, box-like bridge, he was a reliable friend. Most of the others were like that now. Only the first lieutenant seemed unable to cross the plank, not completely.

He said, ‘They're bloody late! I thought it was too good to last!'

The coxswain glanced over at him. ‘Quiet enough, though. No signs of an alarm.'

Falconer grunted. He had not even realised he had spoken his thoughts aloud.
Getting past it.

He moved the glasses again. Imagination, or was the undulating water already lighter? The dawn would be sudden, and they would have the sun dead astern. A
perfect target. He could not see their consort, the other M.G.B. That was some comfort, but not much.

Maybe the F-lighter had broken down. He pictured the base engineering officer and decided against it; nothing got past his eagle eye.

And when the Germans eventually did pull out of North Africa, what then? Another flotilla, or some other special group. At least they were more co-ordinated now. At the beginning it had been almost impossible to know who was doing what. He heard someone curse as the boat dipped and rolled uncomfortably in the offshore swell. It would be nothing in a destroyer, or the ‘big ships' which they always viewed with a sort of proud contempt. But in the motor gunboat, with her engines stopped, it was enough to turn the strongest stomach.

He felt Sub-Lieutenant Balfour hovering near one of the machine gunners.

Falconer said, ‘Check our position, Number One.'

‘I did, sir.'

Falconer restrained the sudden anger. It was not Balfour's fault. It was just . . . He said quietly, ‘Do it again.'

He heard Balfour lurching down the ladder to the privacy of the chart space.
Thinks I'm a real shit.

Aloud he said, ‘I could move further inshore. If the Royals have knocked out the radar we'll be safe enough. If not, we can still offer a good turn of speed to get us out of it!'

The coxswain felt the wheel bucking slightly in his hands. The skipper was right. She could go like bloody hell when the throttles were opened. He listened to the boat's distinctive noises, and the sluice of water beneath her flared hull, the persistent rattle of signal halliards, the
restless sounds of her company. Good men and skivers, and those who would have spent most of their time at the defaulters' table in any other kind of vessel. He glanced at the lieutenant's broad shadow in the dimness. Or maybe with any other sort of C.O.

Falconer was thinking of the commandos, and in particular of Mike Blackwood. Not the sort of marine he had been used to, more like someone who was doing the job only because it was expected of him, and there had never been either doubt or choice. A regular, too. He considered his own previous life as a schoolmaster. He had never wanted anything but to get to sea. What war offered to one, it had seemed to take away from another.

A seaman called, ‘Boat at Green four-five, sir!'

He grunted an acknowledgment. You must never show relief, not to those who were relying on your every action, your every gesture. But it was good to know that the other M.G.B. was still on station. If this were the North Sea or the English Channel, with their swift and perverse currents and tides, you might have been anywhere. In the Med you had some consolation in . . .