Dust On the Sea (24 page)

He froze, his mind clicking into place like a breechblock.

‘Engines, sir!'

The coxswain had swivelled round. He did not need to say anything. The engines were fast-moving. And from astern. The wrong bearing.

Falconer said, ‘How many, Dick?'

‘Two. Maybe three.' His Tyneside accent seemed more pronounced; it always did when danger was near. ‘Not bothered about the bloody din!'

Falconer said nothing. Maybe the attack had been tumbled. Or maybe Blackwood was lying out there
somewhere with his men, like all the others he had seen. He tried to concentrate, to remember who the F-lighter's skipper was, but nothing formed.

He knew Balfour was on the bridge again, intent, afraid to intrude. He said, ‘Company, Number One.'

He felt him nod. He would do his best, he had proved that. But there was never enough time to learn in this bloody game.

He said, ‘We can stay put. Make off when those buggers have passed. They're not looking for us. They have other fish to fry.'

Why bother?
He felt the anger again.
Because it mattered.
Especially to someone who might be dead before he saw the sun again.

Balfour said, ‘The lighter might have been delayed. In that case . . .'

Falconer gripped his arm, and realised that he still had his unlit pipe jammed between his teeth. It was a wonder he had not bitten right through the stem.

‘In that case, John Balfour, they'll be needing us after all!' He found he could listen to the distant engines without anxiety.
Thrum-thrum-thrum.
E-Boats, bigger, and better armed than any of ours.

But he could see the swaying shape of the compass card, like something floating in darkness.

He said, ‘Pass the word and tell Sparks to be ready to make the signal!' He touched the coxswain's oilskinned shoulder. ‘At least the bastards will have the sun behind
them
!'

Balfour stared past him and saw the faint hint of dawn, where there had been only night. The guns were swinging round, belts of ammunition like snakes against the grey steel.

He almost ran the last few feet to his action station by the Oerlikon cannon.

He gripped the safety rail and held his breath. He could hear the enemy engines, and yet, above it, there was also the gentle sound of the seaman whistling to himself, strapped in his harness, waiting to begin.

Balfour wanted to remember the skipper's rough confidence, the way the small group which were this gunboat's crew looked up to him. But all he could think of was the girl he wrote to whenever he could. The smile, in the only photograph he had of her.

‘Oh God, help me!'

But the Rolls-Royce engines roared into life and the deck tilted over to the thrust of rudder and power, and his plea went unheard.

‘Over here, sir!'

Blackwood recognised Sergeant Paget's voice and quickened his pace to join him. The silence and utter desolation only added to the unreality, he thought. After the fury of the attack, the forced march back to the rendezvous had seemed an even greater strain.

The marines sat or squatted in small groups, clutching their weapons, snatching this brief rest while they could. Blackwood had already noticed that the pickets were in place, nothing left to chance.

Paget said quietly, ‘It's Corporal Sharp, sir. Taking it badly.'

The man in question had been wounded in the leg by a bullet, and his shin bone had been shattered. Unable to walk, he had been carried by the German prisoners and his own marines. He must have been in great pain, but had not complained.

When someone had asked him how he was managing, Blackwood had heard the corporal gasp, ‘Just get me to the bloody sea, chum! I can make it then!'

He stared at the stars, paler now, or so they appeared. But they were on course. The sea could not be more than a mile or two away. He thought of the corporal's words. Still more sailor than soldier, no matter what the Corps said about it.

He knelt beside the wounded man and his bearers. Even in the gloom, he could see the Nazi eagle on the tunic of one of them.

‘It's the Cap'n, Ernie.' Paget sounded on edge.

Blackwood unclipped his flask and handed it to the corporal. ‘Drink this.' He heard the German's stomach rumbling. Thirsty, or fearful, it did not seem to matter out here. There were no sounds or reflections of distant battle, only the sky and the land.

Sharp muttered, ‘Much further, sir?'

Blackwood laid his hand on the man's chest, feeling the anguished breathing, the despair. Like Robyns.

‘A mile or so. You'll make it.' With prompt treatment, the leg could be saved.

Sharp tried to raise himself. ‘Nothing to it, sir!' The effort made him fall back against the German.

Archer, who had been standing behind him, said, ‘Major's comin', sir.'

Blackwood tested the bandages, the wounded leg bound to the sound one. The dressing was damp. Perhaps the bleeding had stopped.

‘What the hell's going on?' Gaillard leaned over them. ‘I said a short break, not a bloody banyan party!'

Blackwood stood, and felt the throb in his own wound.

‘We're ready to move again now, sir. Corporal Sharp is doing his best.'

He felt Gaillard drag at his sleeve, drawing him away from the others.

‘We'll have to leave him. Slowing us down. Make him understand. Can't risk the whole mission at this stage!'

‘Is that an order, sir?'

Gaillard had begun to turn away, but stopped dead as if he had misheard.

‘It is. Do you question it?'

‘You know what will happen to him if we leave him, don't you?'

Gaillard smiled thinly.

‘You're a good hand, Mike, but don't rely on your luck. Not with me, right?'

Blackwood nodded. ‘Thank you, sir.'

Gaillard strode away. ‘Ready to move! Jump about!'

Blackwood let out a deep breath, and when his hand brushed against his commando dagger he felt suddenly nauseated. He thought of the blade catching on the soldier's belt and equipment, and then driving into his flesh.
Today I killed a man.
Not some hazy target, but a living human being.

Sergeant Paget said, ‘Pick him up, lads!' He touched the makeshift stretcher. ‘Easy, Ernie, this is going to cost you a tot when we get back!'

But he was looking at Blackwood, and Archer, waiting a little apart from him. The watchdog.

Captain Blackwood had been about to disobey an order. On active service, even from a Corps family like his, it would have meant disaster. And yet somehow Gaillard had realised it, and had changed his mind.

Paget was like Archer in one thing; he had served
many kinds of officer. But Gaillard was different from all of them. He was dangerous.

Training, discipline and loyalty seemed to join as one, and scream,
stay out of it.
As on board ship, wardroom and messdeck don't mix.

He fell into step beside the stretcher, his rifle slung on one shoulder. He couldn't stay out of it now, even if he wanted to. He knew what had happened in Burma. He touched Sharp's arm, and heard him murmur something.
And it could have happened to you, Ernie.

And Blackwood knew it also.

The lighter was turning, preparing to leave in the last, lingering shadows before dawn, when the weary marines with their wounded and ten German prisoners waded through the lapping water, and were hauled aboard without further delay.

Gaillard went straight to the bridge, and waited while the lieutenant in command laid his awkward vessel on course and increased speed.

Despard found Blackwood with the wounded, as the lighter's two sickberth attendants examined and changed dressings with the skill of any surgeon.

Men laughed again, and somebody was busy pouring tea from a pot the size of a watering can.

Despard chose his words with care. ‘Heard about Corporal Sharp, sir.'

Blackwood turned quickly, like a cat. ‘What did you hear?'

Not the proper way.
Despard tried again, with greater caution. ‘I thought he wasn't going to make it back there.'

Blackwood looked at him, still faceless against the paler patch of sky.

‘Would
you
have left him, George? Tell me that.'

Despard saw his hand on the knife, and recalled his own surge of relief when he had seen him pulled clear of the body.

‘I could say no, sir, but I'm not that certain. Not any more.' He turned away as the air quivered to far-off gunfire. He was almost glad of the interruption.

Gaillard shouted down, ‘E-Boats, engaging two of ours!'

The marines forgot their wounds and apprehensions, and pressed against the side to watch the vivid flash of short-range weapons, tracer, green and scarlet, crisscrossing and knitting together against the first horizon.

Blackwood heard the skipper say sharply, ‘We could give assistance, sir. What
they're
doing for us.'

Gaillard was watching the flashes; there was smoke visible now. It was going to be another fine day. For some.

He said, ‘We could lose everything we've won. Think of that, eh? We have prisoners who will be interrogated by our intelligence people, wounded to be treated.'

There was a more intense flash, and seconds later the explosion rolled across the water like something solid.

Blackwood watched until his eyes watered. The destroyer escort had made its appearance, and shells were already falling amongst and astern of the E-Boats as they speeded away from another unexpected attack.

The feeble sunshine explored the sea. It was a common enough scene in this hard-disputed Strait. One of the motor gunboats had vanished, the second was badly down by the bows.

The destroyers were wheeling like thoroughbreds, and
a diamond-bright signal was flashing in recognition and welcome.

A seaman at one of the gun mountings exclaimed, ‘Jesus, just in time!'

Blackwood watched the smoke, and remembered.

He said quietly, ‘For us, anyway.'

Wren Diane Blackwood ran a soft cloth over the car windscreen and lowered the wipers. It was a powerful-looking vehicle, a Wolseley 14, barely four years old, and despite the drab camouflage paint it still turned a few heads when she drove it past the sentries at Eastney Barracks. It was used mostly by the Colonel, a courteous and correct man in every sense. She smiled at her reflection. So far.

She barely heard the tramp of booted feet across the parade ground now, or the snap of rifle-bolts at yet another inspection for new recruits. All in all, she had settled in well, although she still found it odd when some of them tried to explain the Corps and the mystique to her. They usually gave up in embarrassment when someone mentioned her family, as if Colonel ‘Jono' Blackwood was still keeping an eye on her. She hoped so.

She looked up at the flag whipping out above the old red tower, and imagined she could feel warmth in the air, although the Solent was as grey as ever, with a hint of mist towards the Isle of Wight. Spring seemed possible, and there was new hope and excitement on the wireless, and in the scanty daifsly papers.

GERMANS OUT OF NORTH AFRICA. THOUSANDS
SURRENDER TO VICTORIOUS ALLIES. ROMMEL ON THE RUN.
It was heartening and infectious, like her thoughts of spring. People you didn't know grinned and spoke; marines gave a thumbs-up to one another. Each a part of it in his own way.

She smiled again.
As I am.

There had been letters from Mike, but as usual he seemed more interested in how she was getting on than with his own problems. No mention of his wound at all, not that that would have slipped past the censor.

A trio of Spitfires roared overhead, their familiar whistle making a few glance up.
Brylcreem Boys. Showing off as usual.
But she had learned to differentiate between resentment and pride. You soon did. On mornings like this it was almost impossible to grasp that the enemy was so close, and so vast. Just across the Channel, only a short flight to those three young men.

The whole of the promenade, the Front as the locals called it, was one great mass of tangled barbed wire, a constant reminder of the enemy's nearness. But the wire was rustier now, and the grim notices like
IF THE INVADER COMES – TAKE ONE WITH YOU!
or Churchill's now famous
WE SHALL FIGHT THEM ON THE BEACHES!
seemed less final.

Security was good, but not beyond personal involvement. There had been a party of Royal Marines here in Southsea, training night after night in nothing more warlike than cockleshell canoes, preparing for some secret operation ‘over there'. It was all so secret that information only leaked out long afterwards that those same marines had carried out a daring attack up the Gironde to Bordeaux against enemy shipping. It was now
known that only two men had survived; the others had died on active service.

The old sweats in Eastney knew better: they usually did. Many of those marines, despite their uniforms, had been put against a wall and shot. Inevitably, she thought of Mike when such subjects were mentioned.

And he worries about me!

And there was her second officer, too. She had gone to see her about clothing issue, and had been so surprised, so shocked, that she had forgotten the purpose of her visit.

The fierce, grey-haired guardian had been alone in her office, and in tears. Diane was not sure which was worse, her distress, or her anger at being unmasked as a human being. Someone she knew, or had once known, had been reported missing, presumed killed. It happened every day, every hour, and you made light of it. But not when it touched people like their second officer.

‘Ah, here we are then! Wren Blackwood, I believe?'

She turned, still remembering a lonely woman's hurt and loss.

The second officer even had a word for this one, she thought. Colour-Sergeant Harwood, the recruits' nightmare, and tipped to be the next sergeant-major. Big, impeccable, the perfect Royal Marine.