Dust on the Sea (1999) Page 7

  ‘Get dressed! Cover yourself!’

  He swung round, his mind cringing to the shot, and saw the Italian officer falling slowly from the bed. In one hand was a heavy pistol, which he must have been pulling from beneath the pillow when Welland had seen it. The woman did not scream; she was beyond it. She did not even attempt to hide her nakedness as someone dragged her from the bed and threw her a blanket.

  Despard had appeared in the doorway, his eyes everywhere, his gun quite steady as he glanced from Blackwood to the dead officer, and then to the woman by the bed.

  Then he stooped and tore the pistol from the dead man’s hand.

  He said, ‘Useful.’ He looked at Blackwood again. ‘She’ll have to find another companion, eh?’

  It was there again. Blackwood tried to clear his racing thoughts. Despard remembering, perhaps. Or comparing . . .

  A marine burst into the room, and skidded to a halt as he saw the small drama, Welland’s gunsmoke still hanging in the unmoving air, the dead Italian’s blood shimmering on the floor.

  ‘A boat’s bin sighted!’

  Welland glared at him. ‘A boat’s bin sighted, sir! Where the hell do you think you are?’

  He was so angry that Blackwood wanted to laugh, and knew if he did he would be unable to stop.

  The man stammered, ‘Large launch. Standing into the anchorage. Corporal Gilmour says it’s a Kraut.’ He winced at Welland’s expression, and added, ‘Sir!’

  Blackwood said, ‘We’ll have to blow the place. Get what you can from the office, or safe if there is one. Put the Italians under guard.’

  Despard laughed. ‘They’re too shit scared to breathe, let alone run away!’

  Marines were hurrying around, as if it was only another training exercise, each man intent on his part of it. Explosives, detonators, fuses. No foul-ups.

  Blackwood paused to look at the secret equipment, silent now, with all the power switched off. There must be a generator somewhere; that had to be destroyed, too.

  The Germans had arrived early. Maybe it was just as well. They would know this was a bona fide raid by the enemy, and there would be no excuse for reprisals among the civilians. Or would there?

  ‘Eye-Ties are locked up, sir!’ Blackwood smiled at the man, but could not recall his name.

  Despard murmured, ‘I could deal with them, if you like.’

  Blackwood said, ‘No. We’ve done enough. Let’s get the hell out of here, while we still can.’ He could have ordered it, or simply remained silent, and he knew that Despard would have acted upon his offer. And if he had been in command . . .

  All at once it was over, and as they ran along the rough track he saw the guide waiting for them. Others would know the man’s role in this lightning raid. Would he carry the blame, and pay the price for it? And the terrified woman, how would she explain her part in it when the Germans took charge here?

  The air quivered to one and then to a second explosion, and when he stopped to look back he saw the smoke spreading across the sky like dirty stains.

  He wanted to speak to the guide, but he had vanished.

  And all they had were a few documents, not much to show for the risk and the danger.

  It hit him then, not merely pride in this handful of men who had performed so well, but elation. They had not lost a single man.

  He watched the marines wading waist-deep in the water towards the waiting schooners, aware of the urgency, and yet somehow unable to move. Eventually it would reach the Pit, that strange underground headquarters off Trafalgar Square where they had once stored a million bottles of wine.

  He checked that the Sten was at ‘safe’ and strode after the others.

  It was the same dirty schooner. He knew it was the receding madness of action, but for some reason it mattered to him.

  Like the girl, Joanna, who had known about this place. And had cared.

  4

  No Turning Back

  The air temperature was high, in the seventies, unusual even for Alex at this time of the year. And in the long operations room which had once been a king’s boatshed, it was like an oven.

  Blackwood had positioned himself at a slight angle from one of the overhead revolving fans, but was barely aware of it. His shirt was like a wet rag, and he could feel his back sticking to the chair. It was all he could do to concentrate on the intelligence officer’s leisurely summary of Operation Lucifer.

  He was tired and he knew it was the aftermath of the raid, and the seemingly endless passage in the schooner, some of which had been well within Turkish waters, until they had eventually sighted the moustache-like bow waves of three motor gunboats.

  Not once had they seen an enemy aircraft, or any kind of pursuit; that was almost as unnerving as the actual raid. He had watched the schooners falling further and further astern, and wondered at their chances of survival. The M.G.B.s had tied up at H.M.S. Mosquito this morning, but there had been no time to rest, let alone write a letter or sleep.

  He looked around at the others, only a small gathering this time. A few staff officers in white or khaki drill, their shirts and tunics blotched with sweat stains. At the head of the table Commander Walter St John was as neat and unruffled as before; even in his Number Fives he looked cool, untroubled by the oppressive heat. It was hard to believe that Christmas was only days away, that in Hampshire there would be frost on the hedges, and that old Harry Payne would be breaking the ice in the moat so that the ducks could use it. If someone had not stolen them for the pot.

  Blackwood had had almost no chance to speak with Gaillard. As suspected, his schooner had broken down, and Gaillard had commented briefly, ‘I knew you could handle it.’ Then he had added, ‘Any good officer should!’

  He was sitting here now, arms folded, biting his lower lip as he listened to the end of the report. Strange that it did not sound like the raid Blackwood remembered at all; it might have been about some other group.

  He tried again to stay alert. The report was not the reason they were here in any case; the full account would have reached London ages ago, and had probably been filed away. A thing of the past.

  He studied the army officer seated beside St John. His name was Jocelyn Naismith, a newly appointed brigadier who had apparently made quite a reputation for himself in all aspects of Combined Operations. He had served in the Norwegian campaign and in Crete, in various capacities with the First and Eighth Armies. And now he was here.

  Of him, Gaillard had remarked curtly, ‘Naismith? Hopes to become the youngest generalin the British army since Wolfe, God help us!’

  He had a square, military face, with the neatly trimmed moustache affected by so manysoldiers. Keen, grey-blue eyes, steely, a newspaper had described them, and a mouth so firmly held that it never seemed to relax.

  There was a sudden silence.

  St John did not get to his feet for so small an assembly. He merely said, ‘Lucifer was a complete success. Eventually the enemy will be forced to deploy more ships and men to oversee their occupied territory, even the smallest islands.’ He gave Gaillard a thin smile. ‘Well done.’

  Then he turned towards the square-faced brigadier.

  ‘Any comments, sir?’

  Naismith gave what might have been a shrug. ‘I think it was performed well enough. You will know my views on such isolated actions, the ever-present possibility that the cost will outweigh the result. It proved that combined operations work. Now it will be worth seeing if the results here are equally gratifying.’

  He looked suddenly at Blackwood.

  ‘You were in charge, for reasons already stated. You took the Italian garrison by surprise and would doubtless have removed all or some of the secret equipment, had the German relief forces not arrived?’

  St John said, ‘I called for these officers to attend. It is their right, after what they have achieved. This is not an interrogation, sir.’ He did not raise his voice, but his displeasure was clear enough.

  Naismith lifted one hand and answe
red almost gently, ‘It is also my right, Commander St John.’ His eyes returned to Blackwood. ‘Is that so?’

  Blackwood was on his feet, although he did not remember standing up. He felt dirty and unkempt in front of the others, and angered by the implication.

  ‘I would, sir. But it would have taken time, and that we did not have.’

  ‘Quite. But there were some German technicians present. Could they not have been persuaded to speed up the process? You are a Royal Marine Commando. You will have to become accustomed to the realities of war.’

  Blackwood thought of Despard, and of Welland’s swift action, which had saved his life when he had turned his back on the Italian to search the wardrobe.

  He said quietly, ‘They were civilians, sir. It was not within my authority, nor was it my intention.’

  ‘Because of the unexpectedly early arrival of the Germans?’

  Blackwood found that he was quite calm, like that moment when he had paused to look back at the island.

  ‘No, sir. Because I am accustomed to the realities of war, and I see no point in inhumanity, for inhumanity’s sake alone.’

  Naismith had thin, ginger eyebrows. They rose sharply as he said, ‘But you are of a famous family, I believe? Your father was not unknown, even in the army. What would he say, I wonder? Gallipoli, and Flanders – no place for the soft-hearted, I’d have thought.’

  Gaillard cleared his throat and said sharply, ‘The Royal Marines were at Gallipoli, and at the Somme, sir. I’m not much of a historian, but I seem to recall that it was because the army had made a hash of it!’

  Surprisingly, the interruption seemed to please the brigadier. He smiled and nodded. ‘Well spoken, Major Gaillard! A man of action. What I need. What we all need in the coming months!’ Then he said abruptly, ‘I think that will be all.’ And to St John, ‘No need for junior officers at this time, eh?’

  Blackwood turned. There had been a movement behind him, and it was Despard, as he had known it would be. Big, straight-backed, expressionless.

  He said, ‘I was there, sir. Had Captain Blackwood fallen, I would have been in command.’

  The brigadier pressed his fingertips together. ‘Continue. I am interested in that. What might you have done?’

  Despard looked at some point above Naismith’s left shoulder. ‘I am a Channel Islander, sir. I’ve been in the Corps since I was a boy – Stonehouse Barracks was more of a home to me than Jersey.’

  Naismith said, ‘I’m afraid I don’t see the point of this. Perhaps we might adjourn, Commander St John?’

  Despard continued in the same unemotional tone, as if Naismith had said nothing; as if he was talking to someone else entirely.

  ‘My mother and sister did not leave before the Germans invaded. Maybe they never intended to. It was their home, you see. One day, some German made a play for my sister. She laughed at him. Made him look a fool in front of his mates, I expect. She was a fine girl. Very pretty, too.’ Then he looked directly into Naismith’s eyes. ‘For that, they arrested her. Later she was taken to mainland France. I heard she died in a concentration camp. An’ for what?’ He seemed to restrain some impulse to step forward. ‘Yes, I’d probably have shot all of them dead that day, even if there had been no secret equipment, no nothing!’ He lifted his arm and pointed to Blackwood, although he did not take his eyes from Naismith’s. ‘But for Captain Blackwood, I would probably have done all that, an’ more.’ His arm fell to his side. ‘But then, I’d have been just like those bastards. I’ll never forget what he did for me on that bloody island!’

  St John rose to his feet. ‘I think that says rather a lot, sir.’

  The man who intended to be the youngest general since Wolfe picked up his cap and swagger stick and smiled. ‘Time for a cool drink, I think.’ A door was dragged open and, with St John beside him, he left the room.

  Gaillard snorted. ‘I can see we’re all going to get along splendidly!’

  Blackwood glanced at the intelligence officer, and did not understand the wink.

  Gaillard said sharply, ‘Something big is coming up. Brigadier Naismith will be in overall charge. Until our special company reaches here, we don’t have the numbers for any operation of size.’ He slapped his leg angrily. ‘Of all the infernal luck!’

  Blackwood looked back at Despard. There was no sign now of the intensity and the pain which had made him speak openly of something which must be a lingering nightmare.

  ‘Coming for a drink?’

  Despard shook his head. ‘They’ve invited me to have a jar or two in the sergeants’ mess. I sometimes think I never should have left it!’

  Gaillard watched him go, and remarked, ‘He’ll get over it. Coming?’

  Blackwood looked around at the folded maps and charts, the steel cabinets containing the aerial reconnaissance photographs. All tucked away, until the next time. Something big.

  He said evenly, ‘Why not, sir? We’re all on the same side.’

  Even as a very young subaltern in the cruiser Rutland, which had spent much ofher commission in the Mediterranean Fleet, Blackwood had learned the ways and pitfalls of street bazaars, the souks of Egypt. To hesitate was the first sign of weakness; to bargain could end in disaster. You always had to remember that they were the experts, and you the victim.

  But it was good to get away from the base, from the endless speculation, the occasional news of the war being fought everywhere else. He had pondered over Brigadier Naismith’s brief appearance, trying to fit a commando-style operation into any obvious pattern. The Eighth Army was still advancing, whereas on the other side of the map the newly established American and British forces were bogged down by appalling weather, torrential rain which had turned the desert into a quagmire.

  He walked slowly beneath some overhanging blinds, ignoring the outthrust rolls of carpet and the offerings of large lampshades. Just what the average squaddie or sailor on a precious run ashore would need, he thought. There were bargains if you looked hard enough, but he had known some terrible brawls caused by sailors who had been sold ancient Egyptian relics, only to discover the Made in Birmingham stamp once they had returned on board.

  The streets were a milling throng of khaki, with a sprinkling of sailors and even fewer marines. Australians, South Africans, Gurkhas, and soldiers from the Free Polish army. Nobody seemed to salute. It was just as well.

  It would be Christmas in two days’ time; he had seen some wilting paper decorations in the base wardroom. A brave link with that other life. There had been no mail, nor would there be until things settled down. He often wondered how his sister was progressing in her new life with the Wrens, a far cry, he thought, from the countryside and her bookkeeping for the estate. She would miss her riding. . . .

  He saw some soldiers pause by a line of stalls to watch something, grinning, and enjoying the spectacle.

  A tall, robed figure in a fez was holding out a length of pale khaki material. It was common enough here for servicemen to have a lightweight rig run up in a few hours by street-side tailors. It was known unofficially as ‘bazaar khaki drill’, and was infinitely more comfortable than the regulation serge. Most of the officers and senior rates at the base wore it, and with the ever-growing diversity of uniforms in the Eighth Army, it hardly raised an eyebrow any more.

  He stopped in his tracks as he heard a woman’s voice exclaiming, ‘No. Please understand. It’s not what I want.’

  The grins on every side widened as the vendor solemnly continued with his patter while attempting to drape some of the cloth over the woman’s shoulder.

  No wonder the soldiers were enjoying themselves. It was rare to see a woman here, and a woman in uniform was like something from another planet.

  The uniform was the blue-grey of the Royal Air Force, and Blackwood was instantly reminded of the W.A.A.F. officer in the train. It was impossible to accept that it was little more than a month ago. He should be used to it now, but he was not.

  The soldiers had realised that he
was amongst them, and they parted but did not disperse, unwilling to leave something so interesting.

  The W.A.A.F. turned and saw him, her eyes moving to his face with something like disbelief. Shock.

  Blackwood reached out and took her hand. It was not cold now.

  ‘Joanna!’ He raised the hand and examined her cuff. Two stripes. But even that eluded him.

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’ He tried again; it was hopeless. She could not be here. ‘Flight Officer Gordon. I don’t believe it. I might never have known.’

  She said, ‘Captain Blackwood. I thought you’d gone. You see . . .’ The khaki material was covering her shoulder now, the vendor unimpressed by their meeting. It was business.

  She said, ‘I was passing through.’ Nothing was making sense. He had not released her hand.

  ‘Seeing you like this, in uniform, I thought I was halfway round the bend!’

  Then she laughed, her teeth very white against skin which was showing the first hint of a tan.

  Blackwood looked at the man in the fez. ‘How long?’ and then, to her, ‘Would you like it?’ He felt her hand move in his as she nodded. He tapped his breast pocket. The language . . . ‘Two hours. Then we come back, okay?’

  Doubt flashed through the man’s eyes. But this was an officer, and the woman was dressed like one. And anyway, he would make certain it would do for another if need be. He beamed. ‘Very good, Colonel! Fine fit, you see!’

  The watching soldiers had finally gone, and the throng in the street was moving again like an unblocked stream.

  And they were walking together, their arms occasionally brushing, neither knowing how to begin.

  She said, ‘I thought of you a lot after you left Gib. Wondered how you got on.’

  He said, ‘I won’t ask you how you knew, but I’m fine.’ He wanted to stop and hold her, like any ordinary man. ‘I had no idea you were in the services.’

  She glanced down at her tunic, and shrugged lightly. ‘My brother was in the R.A.F. His name was Mike as well.’