Dust on the Sea (1999) Page 15

  She could feel the New Zealander watching, listening, sharing this small but significant detail, like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

  Payne shook his head.

  ‘You can give it back when I’ve worked some spit an’ polish into yours, right?’

  ‘Right,’ she said, knowing he would never take it from her, and moved by the knowledge.

  The sapper lieutenant shook hands with both of them, strangely formal after so many shared thoughts.

  Then he said, ‘I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. You have no idea what it means just to stand here.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘With you. You’ve made it perfect.’ He released her hand and, surprisingly, saluted.

  Together, they watched the car until it had turned into the road.

  Then she said quietly, ‘Well, Harry, what did you think?’

  He did not look at her. ‘Well, Miss Diane, he’s not in the regiment, but he’s a Blackwood right enough. That’ll have to do, for the moment.’

  From Harry Payne that was praise indeed.

  She felt droplets of rain on her face; the sun had gone without her noticing. But it had been a perfect day, after all.

  Michael Blackwood opened his eyes, and waited for his new surroundings to discover him. He had slept well, without the need for drugs, and even the pain was at bay. When he had come out of the anaesthetic at the main hospital he had been almost too weak, and too fearful, to reach down to his thigh. A nurse had seen his feeble efforts, and had brought him an old-fashioned mirror.

  ‘See? Good as new. We’ll be able to move you soon.’ Somewhere a man had cried out in agony or terror, it could have been either, and she glanced round, her ration of sympathy dispensed. ‘We need the bed.’

  And now he was in Alexandria again, still in pain, but without despair. Familiar faces had hovered above him; even St John, immaculate as ever, had come to wish him well. And ‘Sticks’ Welland, and several other Royals he hardly knew, and, of course, Despard.

  He half-listened to the bark of an N.C.O.’s voice, and the responding stamp of boots.

  ‘At th’ halt, on the nght, foooorm – squad!’ And then, ‘For God’s sake ’old yer ’ead up, that man! You’re like a nun in the family way!’

  Familiar and somehow comforting, after the passage in the armed yacht. Despard had told him most, but not all, he guessed, about the scuttled schooner and Carson’s obvious distress, and the few Italians taken alive. They had appeared grateful to have survived, to be out of the war. The force of the grenade had jammed the cabin door, where one Italian seaman had miraculously survived the blast. The rest, Carson’s petty officer had told him cheerfully, ‘looked like an upended butcher’s cart!’

  Major Gaillard had visited him only once. A strangely reserved Gaillard, who had told him about the arrival of the new company in Alexandria. ‘I want you up and about as soon as you can hop! This is what we’ve been waiting for!’

  Blackwood had answered, ‘I’m supposed to have a final check-up tomorrow.’ That was today. And all he could think of was Gaillard’s stiff, detached demeanour.

  As he had been about to leave, Gaillard had said, ‘You did a good piece of work. I’ll see that it doesn’t go unnoticed this time. If you or any of your party had been taken alive, it would have ended very differently.’ And then he had smiled. ‘Like Burma, remember? No prisoners.’

  Blackwood was still thinking of it as the door opened a few inches and a sickberth attendant peered in at him.

  ‘Time for walkies, Mr Blackwood!’

  The others called the S.B.A. Nancy. He could understand why.

  He lay quite still while the dressing was removed, revealing a deep, livid gash in his right thigh. How it had missed a bone or an artery was beyond him. Or, as Nancy had murmured confidentially, ‘And your wedding-tackle is all safe and sound, sir!’

  A white-jacketed doctor paused outside the door and nodded with approval as Blackwood took the weight on his feet. Playing it down, he thought, which was probably the best therapy. And they did need the beds. He had heard about a new offensive, and more advances. Neither would come cheaply.

  ‘Easy does it!’ Nancy hovered around him, but was careful not to assist. Blackwood took a few paces and saw himself in another mirror. The scar was a bad one. Despard had remarked, ‘When you need to find the seam of your trousers with your thumbs out there on the square, you’ll have that to make it easier for you!’ And they had laughed about it.

  ‘That’s enough, sir. I’ll just put on a fresh dressing and make it comfy.’

  He was quick at his job, but not so fast that Blackwood did not see the fresh blood on the dressing. It had been that close; and yet he felt neither elation nor surprise.

  Nancy was saying, ‘I’ll fetch some tea, and you should have a nice rest.’

  ‘I feel fine,’ he said.

  Nancy pursed his lips. ‘That young lady will be here tomorrow. Must look our best, mustn’t we?’

  Blackwood stared at him.

  ‘What did you say?’

  The S.B.A. said, rather severely, ‘Well, you weren’t supposed to know. Even now . . .’ Then he relented, but only slightly. ‘An R.A.F. lady. Came every day when she was in Alex. Most concerned, she was.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Gone off with one of your big-pots, a major-general no less.’ He sniffed. ‘I don’t know what the service is coming to!’.

  Blackwood lay back and gazed at the slowly revolving fan. She had been here. Right here in Alex. Perhaps he would wake up a second time . . . But he could still hear the raucous commands of the drill-sergeant, and was glad that Nancy had gone for the tea.

  The fan blurred and his eyes stung with sudden emotion.

  She was safe. And she had cared enough.

  Major Claud Porter leaned back stiffly in his chair, then glanced first at an almost empty cigarette packet and then at the wall clock. One-thirty. He wanted to yawn but his mouth tasted stale, and the air, even down in the privacy of the Pit, was like battery acid at this hour of the morning.

  His desk had been cleared, the signals and folders already taken away to their various destinations. At times like this he often felt a certain loneliness, and knew it was not merely because of Vaughan’s absence, although it would be a relief to see him back again. The driving force.

  Porter had never married, had never felt the need to. Between the wars he had served on several undemanding stations, mostly in cruisers. Mess life and ceremonial had been his mainstays. The war had changed that immediately. He had been in the right place at the right time, but at one-thirty it did not feel like it.

  He stifled a yawn as someone tapped at the door. He was not the only one about, apparently.

  It was a fellow major who worked in Intelligence, another of Vaughan’s private army.

  Porter rubbed his eyes. ‘Still here, Jack? Haven’t you got a home to go to?’

  He slammed his fist on the desk, furious with himself. Fatigue was no excuse.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack. That was unforgivable.’

  The other officer’s young wife and daughter had been killed in a hit-and-run raid two weeks before. They had gone together to the scene. A neat suburban road, with a line of trees; there were a thousand such streets within twenty miles of London. There was one gap, like a missing tooth. The remainder of the houses were untouched.

  The man he had called Jack said without expression, ‘It’s all right. I’m coming to terms.’ He put down a thin folder. ‘Thought you should see this at once, in view of the general’s absence.’

  They both studied the folder, the diversion like a lifeline for both.

  ‘Our people have been informed as a matter of policy.

  But if it goes higher, the Judge Advocate’s department could become involved.’

  Porter pulled some papers from the file. A rough map, a cracked photograph of a young Royal Marine grinning at the camera. Porter noted the helmet and uniform. Pre-war. Another world.

 
His friend was saying, ‘It mainly concerns a marine named Gerald Finch. He was serving in the Genoa at the time of the Jap invasion of Burma, and was transferred to the land force covering the withdrawal.’

  Porter was suddenly wide awake.

  ‘As you see by the notes, Marine Finch was wounded in the arm and in the neck during the final stages on the Irrawaddy, and has been in a pretty bad way. But he’s out of hospital now, and due for a medical discharge. There was also damage to his vision. He can only use one eye.’

  Porter read rapidly through the typed notes and various scribbled initials and signatures. The marine must have been about twenty at the time. The other man moved away from the desk, and looked up at the wall map with its little paper flags.

  ‘He played dead until some natives found him and took care of him. Otherwise he would not have survived.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘And we wouldn’t be stuck with a headache.’ He paused. ‘Marine Finch has stated that during the retreat he saw an officer shoot dead four soldiers and a wounded marine, who were unable to stand or move.’

  Porter said slowly, ‘Do we have a name?’ It was like stepping on a trap. He already knew.

  ‘Major Gaillard. He might be mistaken, of course, or it could be his way of working off an old grudge. He has nothing to lose now.’

  Porter reached for a cigarette. ‘The Judge Advocate of the Fleet would see it differently. There would be an inquiry, perhaps a court martial. And if the allegations were true, it would certainly wreck the plans already in motion for our people in North Africa. Gaillard would be recalled, he’d have to be, and Captain Blackwood would also become involved. He was there, and he was the last one to see Gaillard before he was wounded, and thought to be missing.’

  The warning voice seemed to murmur, except a twenty-year-old marine called Gerald Finch. Porter recalled Blackwood’s genuine surprise when he had been told of Gaillard’s survival, and the ‘invaluable information’ he had gleaned during his escape from the enemy. He could not even discuss it with the forthright Commander Diamond. Another mystery: Diamond had been temporarily replaced by another, without explanation. Porter was getting angry again. This was the part of the work he loathed. Courage and honour standing shoulder to shoulder with deceit and treachery.

  But this was different. It concerned the Corps, and had nothing to do with the hotch-potch of staff officers who controlled Special Operations. Later, it might come to that, but now something far more important was at stake. He looked around the spartan office. A decision was necessary. And it has to be mine.

  He crushed the cigarette, still unlit. ‘I’ll make a signal to the general right away, Jack. It will be scrambled. You’ll be in the clear.’

  The other man regarded him curiously. ‘It’s that important?’

  ‘Yes.’ It would be, to Vaughan. It felt like disloyalty even to think it, but Porter had never liked Gaillard, although he was an officer with a flawless reputation, a man of action and initiative. He had proved it several times, and had been awarded the D.S.O. And there was Blackwood. Could only two officers make such a difference to the next operation? Thank God Vaughan was out there, he thought; he might be able to judge for himself.

  The other major, Jack, smiled for the first time, and seemed a young man again.

  ‘Rather you than me, Claud.’ He picked up the folder and said bluntly, ‘Could you shoot one of your own men to prevent his being captured, by the Japs for instance?’ Then he shook his head. ‘Unfair question. Sorry.’

  Porter reached for his pen, thinking of the signal. Passing the buck.

  ‘It’s not unfair. I think I’d want somebody to do it for me, but I’m not sure.’

  ‘I’ll come back in half an hour, Claud. I know a little dive where we might have a couple of drinks.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘Like the Windmill, it never closes!’

  Major Claud Porter was alone again, the Most Secret lettering glaring up at him.

  When his friend returned it was two-fifteen in the morning, and there was an air raid warning south of the Thames.

  A quick drink at the ‘little dive’ was out of the question. But the signal had been despatched.

  Joanna Gordon stood quite still, half in the shadow of navigation buoys which had been hoisted on to the jetty, her cap shading her eyes from the forenoon sun. She had noticed that one of the brightly painted buoys had been punched full of bullet holes. It was something you had to take for granted, like the patrol vessel which had entered Alexandria yesterday morning when she had been on her way to the sick quarters to speak with Mike for the first time. The patrol vessel had been expected, and there had been ambulances on the jetty to meet her. There were three corpses laid on her deck, covered with canvas, sharing a solitary flag. People had turned to look, but nobody had commented. Like the youth who had tried to be friendly on the bus, lying dead in the road, his eyes staring into the lights.

  She watched while Major-General Vaughan completed his inspection of the newly arrived company of marines. He took his time, and had a few words for almost everyone. Unlike most senior officers or visiting celebrities, she thought, who usually spoke to every third man or woman, so that the previous ones would not overhear what was always the same question.

  Vaughan appeared to be really enjoying it, and there were several laughs despite the rigid shoulders and blancoed webbing. She had seen people looking at her, also, but had become used to it, especially amidst the khaki and navy blue. She had intended to wear the light drill uniform Mike had ordered for her in the souk. Had that really been so short a time ago? But her arm was still painful, slow to heal, and short sleeves were forbidden. She had already had a quiet telling-off from one of the doctors.

  He had tried to soften it by saying, ‘Your R.A.F. people are doing fine work with burns. You might consider an operation when things heal a bit more.’

  She could feel it now, a constant reminder, if she needed one. She had tried to confront each lurking memory as it prepared to take her off guard. The iron grip forcing her over the table under the glaring lights, so she could be shown the drawer underneath, the neat lines of shining instruments, as if in a doctor’s surgery. But those had been for causing unspeakable pain, on and on until death brought an end to it. If you were lucky. The woman had enjoyed every moment. Telling her that the interrogators who were arriving shortly were experts; forcing her to look at the straps where they would hold her down.

  And somehow, inside that madness, she had thought of the people who made those instruments somewhere. Had designed them, knowing for what purpose they would be used.

  Most of all, the nightmares brought back the hate. The woman searching her body, probing into her. Like being raped. Something obscene . . .

  The operation could wait. She had seen many of the young men who had been shot down. They all seemed to have the same face; and saw the same world, and felt invisible.

  She moved slightly, and saw Mike standing a pace away from Major Gaillard. She did not want him to see her, and yet she needed him to know she was here. She thought he looked tense, but less strained than at the hospital; he must be feeling his wound. She shivered. As I feel mine.

  It was almost over; the ranks were breaking up, the rigid lines becoming individuals again.

  It was something quite new to her. She had been used to the brave, casual informality commonplace on most combat air stations. Young faces coming and going, no time to put a name, or remember a voice. Like her young brother, who had gone so quickly. A few weeks, a few months. It was painful to remember. Better to forget.

  And the ones who lived day by day, while others disappeared. Like the pilot who had awakened her to passion, always demanding, but now, in retrospect, as vulnerable as the rest. He had known, recognised it, perhaps remembered her so briefly when his plane had spiralled down like a fiery star in the last moments of his life.

  Vaughan was walking away now, Gaillard and some other officers with him. They would never know t
he man she had come to like and to trust so much. He never asked questions; he gave her work not merely to keep her busy but because she was efficient. He would have packed her off back to England if he had thought her incapable.

  She watched the groups of marines breaking up, talking with their N.C.O.s and some of the officers. She had seen Despard, probably the oldest man here apart from the general, but like a rock. It warmed her to know that he would be with Mike.

  She thought of the too short moments together at the hospital. The embraces, the hint of a kiss, while nurses and staff bustled around them as if they were not there.

  He had been deeply concerned for her, with only an impatient shrug when she had mentioned his wound, and the secret mission which had almost cost his life. She was a part of it now, and it meant everything to her.

  She saw one of the sergeants, a tall man with a tanned face, putting his hand on Mike’s shoulder, with a genuine pleasure she had never witnessed before. As he turned he saw her across the sergeant’s shoulder, and smiled at her. Others were pausing to speak to him, and the realisation came to her like something physical. This was not ordinary discipline, or doing your duty because you were so ordered. It was like the sergeant’s grin; it was genuine, and touched her heart. They needed him. Injured or not, they needed him. Because of his name, because of those qualities of leadership at which she could only guess. All the things which troubled him and had been shared with her alone, on that one night at the house in Rosetta.

  Someone coughed discreetly, and she turned to see a slightly built marine watching her; Mike had introduced them on the day he had returned to duty. He was Marine Percy Archer, his M.O.A., something else new to her. A marine officer’s attendant was servant, orderly, guardian, all of these, and many more.

  Archer was not old, but he had an old-fashioned face, pointed and quizzical, like a knowing fox. A Londoner, from the East End’s Bethnal Green, which he pronounced Befnal Green, he had joined the Corps after several narrow shaves with the law, which was odd, as his father had been a policeman in ‘Befnal Green’.

  Archer seemed to run his eyes right over her without moving them. She thought she could guess. My officer’s popsie, or something less flattering. But she knew he was right for the job. Archer himself had qualified it by saying, ‘I’m also the best shot in this bunch of cowboys!’