Dust On the Sea (39 page)

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.

He saw his sergeant, Larry Godden, with one of the webbing packs open by a vibrating light fitting. He was showing a commando sergeant some of his tricks, as he called them. The sergeant was named Welland, and called ‘Sticks' for some peculiar reason. He retched again. All part of the mystique which made these men different. But it was amazing how quickly you sensed an atmosphere, even a mood, when working in such close contact with people who had already risked their lives on this sort of operation. There was a Royal Marine lieutenant in this section too, a Lieutenant Capel, tall, good-looking, and apparently super-confident. He had joined Force
Trident
straight from England, and he had heard him described as a climbing expert, highly skilled at scaling cliffs, work which required not only strong nerves but a top level of physical fitness. Steve Blackwood had gathered, from his time among them, that Sergeant Welland also prided himself in that direction, and that he disliked the lieutenant intensely.

He had heard him say to another N.C.O., ‘That bloody Hannah was bad enough! But at least he had guts when it came down to it!'

The other officer's name meant nothing, but Welland's contempt stood out like a beacon.

Godden was saying patiently, ‘This is a Ready
-Safe
, okay? And this one is a Ready-
Sefe
. 'Ere, feel the difference. You can tell 'em apart when it's as black as a boot all round you!'

Welland felt the fuses doubtfully. ‘Suppose you get 'em mixed up?'

Godden smiled. ‘Bang!'

Welland sighed. ‘Rather you than me, chum. Where did you learn all this stuff?'

Godden's eyes shone in the light as he glanced across at his officer.

‘Oh, 'ere an' there. You know 'ow it is.'

Steve Blackwood felt the bond between them. Something they shared with no one else.

He pulled out his wallet and opened it with great care. It was the photograph she had given him that night when they had visited the pub across Portsmouth Harbour. She had wanted him to have it, had insisted, and, looking back, it was as if she had known they would not meet again. He swallowed, but not because of the motion.
Not for a while
. It must have cost her a lot to give it to him like that. She hardly knew him. She could have any man she wanted with her looks and her background.

He gazed at the photograph. Younger, the hair much longer, but it was her right enough. Like the portrait of her mother, which he had seen for himself at Hawks Hill. She was wearing jodhpurs, one hand holding her hair from her face, the other stroking the nose of a horse.

Sticks Welland heard the boots moving outside and said quietly, ‘What's your bloke like?'

Godden did not look up. It was a precaution, something you did without thinking if a copper was watching you. Or you were protecting someone.

‘Good as gold. Knows 'is stuff, too. Not bad for a Kiwi.'

Welland nodded. ‘And a Blackwood. That counts for a lot around this mob.'

He scowled as he heard the lieutenant's voice, having a go at some unfortunate marine. Throwing his weight about. Not like the first attack; he had been careful then, eager to show he was ready to learn. Afterwards they'd all been like men who had been on a binge, or had
smoked something like the Chinks did in Singapore. But not him. Mister-bloody-Perfect.
Well, we'll see about that!

He watched the New Zealander carefully replacing the photograph in his wallet. Poor bugger. As if there wasn't enough to worry about without that.

Like that first time he had asked Pam to go to the cinema with him. She had still been wearing her N.A.A.F.I. uniform, and she had not resisted or pretended surprise when he had put his arm around her in the back row of that notorious flea pit, which had since been bombed flat.

Just before the main film she had made an excuse, and had slipped away to the Ladies. He had half expected she would not return. She was probably used to something better.

But she had snuggled down beside him, her eyes fixed on the screen as the film had begun with a crash of thunder and lightning.

She had gone to the Ladies for one reason only. When his hand had reached the top of her stocking and touched cool, bare skin, he knew what it had been.

They all looked up as Despard lowered himself into the compartment, his face wet with spray. The craft had made another turn, and he had been up there, checking progress.

Steve Blackwood was surprised to see the big lieutenant squatting beside him.

‘All set to go?' He seemed to hesitate. ‘Steve?'

He guessed it had never been easy for this man, who looked as if nothing on earth would ever defeat him.

‘I think we've checked everything. A couple of hundred times!'

Despard regarded him searchingly, perhaps comparing. ‘We go in after the others. The plan suggests a good position for setting your charges. A fall of lava rock – it should be enough.' Again the hesitation. ‘Don't you agree?'

Steve Blackwood nodded. The sickness was leaving him, or maybe it had just been nerves.

‘I'll have to rely on your scaling team. I'm not much of a hand at rock-climbing, especially in the dark!'

Despard glanced over at Welland. Still brooding. That was bad. Unusual, too, for a real pro like Sticks. Despard knew some of it, and could guess the rest. If it wasn't for the danger, it would almost be funny. At long last the sergeant had met his match, albeit an officer, someone as big-headed about physique and women as he was. He had heard Lieutenant Capel going on about the girls, ‘gels', he had swept off their feet without even trying. That and his affected drawl had put up the backs of his fellow lieutenants, so Welland's silent fury was understandable. But dangerous. He would stamp on it.

He said, ‘Just remember it's the Germans we're up against this time, not a bunch of half-hard Eye-Ties. They say they're not expecting trouble, but you can never tell. If they cut loose with those explosive boats, it could be nasty.' Almost distantly he added, ‘I had a pal in the old
York
when they attacked her.'

Had. He did not need to elaborate.

Not for the first time, Steve was glad that Despard was with this section, although he sensed that he hated and perhaps resented being away from the vanguard. He almost smiled at the term. He was already fitting in.

Despard said suddenly, ‘I hear you're to be congratulated.'

He stared at him.

‘I haven't said anything –'

Despard smiled. ‘He told me. The Captain. He's quite chuffed about it. I'm glad for him.' And, quickly, ‘You too, of course!'

The boat was slowing down. As if they were feeling their way.

Steve Blackwood said quietly, ‘You're fond of him, aren't you?' and was aware of the instant guard, the last barrier.

Despard turned his head as a voice came through the opening.

‘
Stand to
, sir!'

He wrenched his mind back from the moment, like the marksman easing the pressure on his trigger when every second is precious.

‘You could say that. Yes. I'm no guvnor's man, saying it in the hope of another pip on my shoulder. I've got as far as I ever will in the Corps, as far as I want.' He looked down, surprised, as the New Zealander touched his arm.

‘I know that.'

Despard moved his holster slightly and got up. The moment was almost past.

He said abruptly, ‘He's in danger. I should be up front with him.' He looked into the shadows and snapped, ‘
Stand to!
What the hell do you think this is!'

The two Royal Engineers were suddenly alone, the hull around them alive with metallic scrapes and hurrying feet.

Godden grinned at him.

‘Like a bloody confessional, ain't it, sir?'

Steve Blackwood nodded and groped for his steel helmet.

If he lived after today, he would never forget it.
Despard's intense loyalty made his own anxiety and uncertainty seem like nothing. Something he had seen in her brother's eyes when he had been with his men, and before they had slipped out of Palermo.
Pride.

He shivered. And he was not even sick any more.

He said, ‘Just don't get your bloody fuses mixed up,' and tugged the chinstay into position. ‘Bloody bang, indeed!'

He was ready.

Marine Percy Archer cocked his head and listened to the changing beat of the engines. Slowing down again. He could imagine the tough-looking two-ringer in the wheelhouse peering at his chart, probably saying a prayer or two in case he had made a mistake. He doubted it. These R.N.R. officers might lack the polish and easy authority of their regular opposite numbers, but they were real sailors, not like some. Plus the fact that they knew their straight-laced companions would be quick enough to point out any failure on their part. At the start of the war, the regulars had smiled politely at the reservists. The R.N.R. had been labelled
Really Not Required
, and the part-timers, the R.N.V.R., had been made to suffer
Really Not Very Reliable
. Within a few months, that had changed. Oh, how it had changed. If anything, the amateurs were now the professionals.

He climbed carefully on to a bollard and peered towards the nearest island, or where it was supposed to be. Not even a bloody seagull. It was as if the landing craft was completely alone, ploughing on into nothing.

He went through his own practised routine again. Ammunition pouches, filled and fastened, and the stupid respirator also correctly fastened so that it was less likely
to catch on something. The gas mask had got more blokes into trouble than any other single item. He grimaced. Except women. Railway station lost property offices were always full of them. Cinemas, buses, canteens: they got their owners put on charges every day of the week. They would never use gas, not after what they had said about the Great War: men coughing their lungs out, men blinded, the foulest death of all. As a kid he had known a bloke at the Green, heard him every morning,
cough, cough, cough
. The war, they said. Gas. Then one day the coughing had stopped. He'd lost, after all that time. It was strange to realise he had never once laid eyes on the man.

Everything clipped or taped down. He turned his rifle over in his hands. There were men all around him, some doing what he was doing, others chatting to their special mates. And a few staring into space. Archer was able to shut them out. Here, or on some beach, or in a crowded ship's messdeck, it was a ritual, a must.

He was satisfied. Fairly. His fighting-knife would not slither out if he had to jump from the ramp, his rifle was loaded and ready, with one up the spout. Piling swivel and sling, taped, noiseless. The steel helmet was a bloody nuisance. It distorted the sounds, clattered like a tin can if it touched anything. Once he had seen two marines duck when a shell came too close. The rim of one helmet had smashed the bridge of the other man's nose. Useless.

He heard Captain Blackwood speaking, probably to the colonel, who had been with the two-ringer for most of the journey.

It reminded him of the time when the colonel had gulped down his Scotch as if it was the last drop on earth. An officer who was always on top line, ready to crack
down on any defaulter without mercy. Like poor Lieutenant Hannah. But Captain Blackwood had said nothing about it, and he had been the first one to risk his own neck and a sniper's bullet to rescue the silly sod.

He felt the sea surge against the flat side, and the tinkle of sand or gravel. God, it must be shallow here. Or else it was a sandbar.

They were all quiet now; he could see all of them, even though it was pitch dark. Faces he had come to know so well. To respect, to doubt, even to admire, and some he would never know in a thousand bloody years. But in this lot you had to trust somebody. So today it was Blackwood, tomorrow somebody else. He grinned, embarrassed. No, it wasn't like that with him. Whatever you were doing, he always made you feel as if you mattered.

But the colonel, he was something else. One of the corporals had overheard him giving the officers a pep talk just before casting off. Bloody eavesdropping would be nearer to the truth. But he had told him about Gaillard's final rockets about surrender and retreat. Nobody needed to say that sort of thing in the Corps, especially not another marine.

He sorted it over in his mind. Suppose it was true about Gaillard, and the buzz he had heard about people being shot. It made sense. Surrender, retreat, or being too badly wounded to escape from the enemy, they all amounted to the same thing in the end.

He felt somebody push past him. Sergeant Paget. Strict but fair, and would always forget a bottle after he had given it. A good bloke. For a sergeant, that was.

Paget peered at him. ‘Must be close. I can smell the bloody place!'

‘Reckon they'll be on to us, Sarge?'

Paget wiped the spray from his mouth. ‘Would you be, in their boots? Stuck out here on guard duty, surrounded by rocks and bits of volcano poking out of the sea, while your mates are getting their arses shot off in Sicily? They should be so lucky!' He turned as if by instinct and said, ‘Here, sir!'

Archer tried to relax, muscle by muscle. He had pins and needles in his left foot, and wanted to stamp it. That would make him really popular.