Dust On the Sea (32 page)

Blackwood called, ‘
Ready!
' They were pressing behind him, and somewhere abeam the other craft would be doing their best to cover the last few yards. The ramp was being lowered; it always left you feeling naked, ready for the sickening, crushing blow, or worse, the realisation that you could not hide it from those who followed.

There was a great lurch, followed by several more which seemed to shake the hull from ramp to stern.

Blackwood knew that the landing craft had beached crookedly, that water was surging past him, flooding the hull, choking the pumps.

He felt his boots slide, and would have fallen but for his hand on the ramp. ‘Forward, Marines!' Did he speak, or was it all in his mind? But he was wading waist and sometimes chest deep through the water. When he glanced back he saw the others following, in sections, as they had been trained to do, without panic, and remembering to hold their weapons high. Others carried cans of drinking water, ammunition, grenades, the tools, as Churchill had called them.

Disjointed thoughts flashed through his mind. Robyns, the lieutenant who had died, who had been drinking his precious water just minutes beforehand. The wounded Corporal Sharp, who had not wanted to leave his unit. Pleading to stay with his friends. Even his words, ‘Just get me to the bloody sea!' seemed to sum it all up.

He heard sharp, controlled orders being passed, men
fanning out, weapons cocked and ready, probably not yet able to grasp what they had done. Another machine gun came to life, but again the sound was distorted.
Not our party.

It was a shelving, sandy beach, but beyond it there was no cliff as described in the intelligence pack. Blackwood heard his men running up a hard slope of what felt like limestone. Maybe they had landed in the wrong place after all? He could almost hear Vaughan's rage all the way from London, or wherever he was at this moment . . .

Gaillard was beside him, staring into the darkness as more marines scrambled over the rough stone, child's play after what they had been trained to do. Most of them were carrying packs of supplies as well as their weapons.

Gaillard turned as one of the landing craft started frothing astern. Their part was done. This would be no place for an undefended ‘shoe box' when daylight found them.

He said, ‘Bloody good show, eh, Mike? Enemy soil, the first step into Europe!' It was like hearing a newspaper headline.

Blackwood said, ‘And we did it.'

Gaillard was still looking towards the sea. ‘Get the machine guns sited. We have to assume that nothing has changed, but I want to hit them where it hurts. We'll see what the youngest general since Wolfe will have to say about
that
!'

‘Ready to move, sir!' That was Paget's voice. He hoped that Fellowes would remember his advice. ‘M.G. section closed up, sir!' Despard and his beloved Bren guns, thinking of nothing but the job in hand, certainly not of the home he had once known in the Channel Islands. That might destroy him.

Archer was beside him again, his rifle in the crook of his arm, like a gamekeeper out for a stroll. Blackwood thought of the exploding fuel, and Archer's comment about Gary Cooper. Maybe more like a poacher . . .

Archer said quietly, ‘You've got a smile a mile wide, sir.' He sounded surprised.

Blackwood watched a file of men climbing up the slope, where a cliff should have been.

He said, ‘I'd forgotten. It's my birthday today!'

Force
Trident
had landed.

Sergeant ‘Sticks' Welland flopped hard on the ground and winced as a sharp stone tore into his elbow.

‘The bastards are awake now, right enough.' He groped down to fix his bayonet, wondering why he had got himself stuck with one of the new lieutenants.

Lieutenant Bruce Hannah said, ‘Where are they? I thought the other troop was covering that side.'

Welland strained his ears. He heard the muffled vibration of engines, the next wave of landing craft moving into the cove. He grinned into the darkness.
Well, we were bloody first.

He ducked as several shots echoed around the headland. No flashes, so somebody must have blundered into an enemy patrol.

He said, ‘We'd better get closer, sir.' It was all he could do to keep his patience. Bad enough when you
knew
an officer, but this one he didn't know from Adam. Straight from commando training in England, keen as mustard, and he heard he was supposed to cut quite a dash with the girls. They must be bloody hard up, he thought.

Hannah said, ‘We'll send a runner to the Colonel.' He was thinking aloud. Like an exercise.

Welland heard someone shouting, Italian by the sound of it. He half-rose on one knee. ‘Take too long. The first strong point is dead ahead of us. Remember the photos they showed us?' He could not recall them either, but he had to do something.

There were more shots from a different bearing, and he heard another Italian voice. It sounded like surrender in any language.

It was taking too long. He stood up, and sensed the rest of the section following his example, screwed up to the limit. Some of them were in action for the first time. He glanced at the lieutenant.
Like this idiot!

He shouted, ‘
Move!
' and broke into a run, his eyes everywhere, his finger already tight on the trigger.

The tracer seemed to rise from the ground itself, a heavy machine gun by its sound. It would explain the delay in their response to the patrols meeting on the slope. It would take a good while to move a gun like that; there were probably several of them, sited and trained on that other beach where the Canadians would be landing.

He tugged the pin from a grenade and let the lever fly before hurling it over the slope. It sent splinters cracking and hissing past the crouching marines. Welland already had another in his hand when long streams of vivid scarlet tracer zipped past and raked the slope from side to side. He took a deep breath. Despard's Brens; that single grenade had given him all he needed. He nudged the officer. He should have known. ‘Ready, sir?'

The lieutenant got up and ran forward, his revolver in his hand, a man already overtaken by events for which he was unprepared.

More shots, up, and from the left. Welland charged on, yelling at the top of his voice although he did not realise it. A shadow bounded to meet him and steel glinted in the sporadic gunfire. Welland parried the blade and swung his rifle butt, felt bone breaking as he found the other man's jaw. He ran on, and heard a brief, choking cry as one of his marines finished the job.

More figures loomed out of the darkness, arms raised, voices cracking in panic, as if they had just been roused from their beds. It was laughable. And then one of them dropped on one knee, a light machine gun already jammed to his shoulder. There was a savage burst of fire from two of the Stens, and the soldiers, those trying to surrender and the solitary, would-be hero, seemed to pirouette round in the flashes before falling together in an untidy embrace.

Welland peered round, every fibre alert. ‘Good work, Tiny. Now reload, and watch your front!' He turned and looked for his lieutenant and called, ‘Pillbox, sir! Better make sure!'

The lieutenant seemed unable to move as two of the marines lobbed grenades through the weapon slits, and watched as each lit up with a savage flash. There was one frantic scream, before or after the twin explosions his mind would not register.

Welland checked his rifle and grinned.
Mummy never told you about nasty things like this, I'll bet.

He snapped, ‘Advance!' Next objective. Just like they had planned it. He was the sergeant again.

Lieutenant Hannah followed him, the revolver still gripped in his hand. Some of them turned and stared up as a bright green flare exploded almost overhead, but most of them watched the uneven ground. Ready for anything.

Then there was another flare. Second objective taken. Welland could not restrain himself. He gripped the lieutenant's arm and repeated, ‘
We were bloody first!
'

Even when the flares were extinguished it still seemed a little brighter than when they had splashed and stumbled ashore. Resistance mounted accordingly, tracer drifting and intermingling, with the occasional thud of mortars. A runner brought news that prisoners had been taken and most of the fortified positions had fallen. When a marine shouted after him to ask about ‘our lads', the runner had been vague. ‘Some of “B” Troop bought it! They're still out there somewhere!' He had hurried away. Glad to be moving.

Welland waved his men down; they were right in position, or as far as he could tell. Others would be moving past or through at any moment. He turned and looked for his lieutenant again. Daylight would be something else . . . Hannah was having a drink. Welland frowned. It was too early to waste precious water, but officers like Hannah would not be told. Then he recalled what Captain Blackwood had said about sharing experience.
Giving a lead.
He relented. Maybe he was right.

He reached out to touch Hannah's arm and then stopped, motionless. It was Scotch, or something very like it, that Hannah was drinking. Welland was both angry and envious, and, more than that, he felt something like contempt. As if he had been let down.

Hannah seemed to sense it, and asked awkwardly, ‘Care for a tot, Sergeant?'

Welland cocked his head, hearing more gunfire, single shots: men meeting in the darkness, acting out of instinct, out of desperation.

‘No, thanks. It'd go to my head.' His inner voice said,
go to bloody hell!

A marine murmured, ‘Here comes the skipper, Sarge!'

Blackwood dropped on his knees beside them and tugged out his binoculars.

‘Nice work, Sergeant.' He looked past him. ‘You all right, Bruce?'

Welland tensed; he had never heard Blackwood quite like this. A proper marine, from a marine's family. Nice enough, and a lot better than some he had known, but like a ton of bricks if you broke the rules.

Hannah said, ‘They were heavy machine guns, sir. Long-range jobs. Ready for the landings.' Like someone repeating a lesson, Welland thought.

Blackwood said, ‘Tip that stuff away. I didn't see or smell it.' His voice hardened. ‘If I catch you again, I'll have you broken!'

He stood up as more men padded along the ridge. It was clear. Time to move on. Ready for the next flare.

Welland signalled to his two corporals. Near thing. Hannah had been lucky, this time.

Welland's father had been in the Great War, with the naval brigade, like Captain Blackwood's father and old Boxer Vaughan. He had heard all about it. Men stiff with rum, and officers so pissed they hardly knew which way to look, going over the top together. Together, that was the point. Hannah . . . he smiled grimly . . . 
Bruce
would soon forget. His sort always did.

He shook himself. No room for bloody moaning now. Too dangerous.

He called sharply, ‘Ready to move, you idle sods!'

Then he grinned into the darkness.
Oh, Pam, if only you could see me now!

Sergeant-Major ‘Bull' Craven said quietly, ‘All in position, sir.'

Blackwood looked over at Gaillard, who was leaning on his elbows while he trained his binoculars on the narrow road, and the pale shapes of houses beyond. The village, exactly as described. The last obstacle. Quiet, nothing moving, and yet somehow menacing.

Craven had been almost whispering, as if the enemy was only a few feet away.

But there was nothing wrong with Gaillard's hearing or alertness.

He said, ‘The stone emplacements are on the left. As I expected.'

Blackwood raised his own glasses carefully and saw one of the prone marines turn his face to observe them. It was much lighter now, enough to see the rough stone walls which had been thatched to make them look like farm buildings. Good cover for machine guns. Hard to shift, impossible with a frontal attack.

All the prisoners so far had been Italian, ready enough to fight, readier still to surrender if they got the chance. Blackwood knew that the Germans were strongest to the north-east, towards Syracuse and Augusta; some of them had been reported as being part of a crack airborne division. The best. Their high command probably considered that the narrow Strait of Messina was the obvious main objective for the invaders, a two-mile ditch before the Italian mainland.

He could smell the sea, and imagined the invasion fleet steaming towards the beaches, the Canadians poised for their first attack.

Gaillard was speaking to a runner, his tone clipped, positive.

‘Tell Mr Despard. Rapid fire in five minutes, no longer. And I want Hannah's troop to move in from the left. We'll bypass that strong point if we have to, but I'd prefer to knock out those guns first.' He peered at his watch. ‘Off you go, man! Fast as you can!'

Despard had put his machine guns on the slope to the right. Good for covering fire, and the only way to keep the enemy occupied.

Blackwood watched some chickens pecking at the ground by one of the stone walls, and wondered if Hannah would be up to it. But he was there; there was no other choice. It was to be hoped that Welland would be able to support him.
There was no more time.

Gaillard said suddenly, ‘You go with the main section, Mike. I don't want to have half of the men cut down by our own crossfire.'

Blackwood crawled into a gully and knew without looking that Archer was close behind him.

More faces turned towards him as he reached the main section of the troop. There were a few quick grins, and a nervous wave from Lieutenant Fellowes.

The air quivered and they heard the rumble of gunfire, far away like thunder. Covering fire from warships, probably for the Eighth Army, meeting their first serious opposition.

The magnitude of this operation made him realise how vulnerable they were here, with the Canadians not yet in position and the nearest Allied troops fifty miles to the west at Gela, where the U.S. Seventh Army and their fearsome General Patton would be storming ashore, provided the gale had not scattered them beyond recall.