Dust On the Sea (16 page)

The fierce-looking major-general with the battered face had picked out one marine, only a few months in the Corps and pleased with himself for making the grade. A little too pleased, Vaughan had decided.

‘Ready to go, are you, lad?'

‘Not half, sir! We'll show the bastards!'

Vaughan had tapped his arm quite gently and had said, ‘See that you do!' He had looked over at the others, their filthy denims and cradled weapons. ‘But you've never killed a man, have you? Well, I have. It's not that easy, not the first time. And if you screw it up, there
is
no second time, of course.' Some of them had laughed, but the cheeky marine had not.

Porter said cautiously, ‘It probably seemed a good idea at the time, sir. Captain Blackwood is an experienced officer. Perhaps it was some inter-service exercise.'

Vaughan stared unseeingly at a map.

‘I'll lay odds that Brigadier Naismith was behind it.' His mood was quite calm again, like a departing gale. ‘I'm surprised that Gaillard agreed to it, though.' He sat
in silence for a moment. ‘But to send Blackwood off on some crack-brained scheme, dishing out B.C.S. to a bunch of trigger-happy bandits – anything might happen!'

Porter tried again. He knew this was personal, because of the past, a part of Vaughan somewhere back there in Flanders, when the badly wounded Jonathan Blackwood had given the battalion to him.

Vaughan sat on one corner of his desk and stared at the dried mud on his boots. It was probably still raining over London. Here, in this bomb-proof, air-conditioned bunker, it could be doing anything.

‘When the Germans are out of North Africa, and out they will be, our commandos will be on the prongs of any major attack.' He almost smiled. ‘We should be damned used to that, eh, Claud? But much of the military engaged will be new, untried, vulnerable. They'll need all the skilled leadership we can find. I went along with the
Lucifer
raid because it could have been vital. Even the second one might have been useful, but Darlan is dead and the French have accepted General Giraud in his place. Given time, we might get some support from the French warships at Alex, although I'd not dine out on it just yet.' He was on the move again. ‘It's all dropping into place. The Germans agreed not to invade Vichy France, but they did. They promised to stay out of Toulon where the other French ships were based, but they broke that promise, too. So the French admiral at Toulon . . .' he snapped his fingers and Porter murmured, ‘De la Borde, sir,' ‘. . . scuttled his fleet, so neither side gets the benefit. Yes, it's all dropping into place.'

In the outer office a telephone rang, and was instantly silenced. Porter had noticed that there had been no sound from that usually busy place, and imagined every man
and woman listening intently to Vaughan's powerful voice.

Vaughan said suddenly, ‘I met de la Borde a couple of times. Fine man. But he hated Darlan almost as much as the Germans. He'll be for the high jump now, poor fellow.'

Porter chose the moment with care. ‘The other dossier, sir, concerning your proposed visit to Alexandria. The admiral seems very keen on it, and especially the Chiefs of Staff.' He hesitated. ‘And of course the Prime Minister is taking such an interest in the present situation.'

Vaughan recognised the bait and accepted it.

‘Arrange it, will you, Claud? Might be just what they need. A good boot up the backside!'

‘If you agree, sir, I shall remain here at S.O.H.Q. It might be wise.'

‘Don't know what I'd do without you, Claud, damned if I do.' His voice hardened. ‘But no matter where I am, I want to know when Blackwood's back, with that company!'

He looked at the files on his desk.

‘I'll go and see the admiral now.' He raised one hand. ‘No, I'll walk. Do me good.'

He picked up his cap with its bright scarlet band and halted by the door.

‘That girl – the W.A.A.F. officer.'

Their eyes met, and Porter was almost tempted to play him along. Almost.

‘Flight Officer Gordon, sir.'

‘Yes. That's the one.' He thought of his wife, at home in Hampshire. She had a lot to put up with. He was usually here, or inspecting some special unit, as in ‘that bloody awful place'. She had remarked only recently,
‘When you were at sea, Ralph, I saw more of you than I do now.'

He said, ‘She all right?' He hurried on, not wanting to involve his patient and uncomplaining subordinate. ‘I was thinking, provided that the A.O.C, would agree . . .'

Porter was quite shocked to see him so uncertain, so out of his depth. It was like blundering into somebody's secret.

He answered carefully, ‘She's still in sick quarters, sir.'

Vaughan looked at him directly. ‘In that case . . .' He did not even ask how Porter knew, or why.

‘I think you should take her with you, sir. It might be exactly what she needs.' He flinched under Vaughan's gaze; he could look straight through a man, and he thought with some sympathy of that cocky youngster in Scotland. He said, ‘The Chief of Staff would approve. Give it the right touch.' He looked away. ‘I'll deal with it, sir, if you like.'

‘She might refuse. I think
I
would.' Vaughan gripped the door handle. ‘No, I'll ask her myself.'

The door opened and a chorus of typewriters and telephones burst in like a flood, timed to the second.

Porter regarded the untouched files and sighed. Nothing could ever be quite the same again after today.

The girl walked across the room and stood by the window. Then she opened the heavy blackout curtains and looked down at the garden, the leafless trees, and some small outbuildings where she had seen workmen replacing a few of the tiles. They looked so bright against the older ones, she thought. The gardens must have been quite beautiful in their day. Now, out of necessity, there was only grass and empty beds.

She touched the glass, and knew it was raw cold outside. Everything was grey, the sky, the buildings, the puddles left by overnight rain. There was strong wire mesh across the windows here; to keep prowlers away, or to prevent the inmates from escaping?

She was wearing a loose hospital robe, and beneath it her whole body tingled from a hot shower. Nobody minded how many baths or showers you took. Maybe it was all part of the therapy. She allowed her mind to linger on the word. Something she had thought she would never be able to do.

She tied the curtains back, aware of the bandage on her left arm. At least she did not need a sling any more.

She looked at the outbuildings again. There was a gravel path which ran almost completely around the sick quarters. She could not recall how long she had been here before her first walk in the open air, using that same path, a nurse strolling behind her as if there by accident. The men had been working on the roof then, and she had heard the hammers stop when she passed and knew they were staring after her, with pity, curiosity, or simply relief that it was not one of them.

She turned to face the room. A bed, a cupboard without doors, a small table and one chair beside it, where the doctor usually sat when she visited. They probably thought it was better for a woman doctor to be in charge. They must have dealt with every kind of stress and breakdown in this place.

She stared at the neatly pressed uniform laid out on the bed. Skirt, tie, air force blue shirt. She bunched her hands into fists until the pain steadied her. Her stockings were there, too. Things were like that here. Beds were made,
trays of food came and vanished, and the doctor would look in to check her progress.

Not like the first time. She had struggled with the doctor and one of the nurses, words pouring out of her, her mind reeling to the same torment, unable to accept or believe that it was over. Or was it?

At night it was worse, and she had awakened gasping time and time again, the nightmare refusing to release her.

She glanced at her wrist; she still did it despite the fact that her watch had gone when she had been arrested.

She sat down slowly in the chair and studied the uniform. The doctor had told her that the choice was hers. A few more weeks might make all the difference. She must be given time.

Suppose she was right? She might crack wide open at the first challenge. She thought of the brief visit from the major-general of marines.
I want you to come with me. Do you more good than this place, I shouldn't wonder.

And yet, despite his bluff, angry manner, she had felt that he had cared about her, that she mattered.

As she had sat here, in this chair, she had seen his cap badge, and had forced herself to fight back the tears as the memory had returned. That deserted house, the swimming pool, its surface covered with a film of blown sand. Sheer heaven, she had told him.

Make it a lifetime. Did I really say that?

She folded her arms and leaned forward in the chair, and immediately felt the bandage dragging at her skin.

It would heal soon, they said. She might always have a scar, they said. But she would never forget. She must be able to confront it, and not try to hide in shadows of her own making.

It had all gone so smoothly at first, but it was
unnerving to see German uniforms in the streets where she had lived with her parents, where she had spent part of her girlhood, at school, and later helping at the shipping agency. Marseilles, the Port of Seven Seas, they called it.

She had not been afraid; breathless would describe it better. She had met her guide as arranged, and they had waited separately for the bus with the usual collection of homeward-bound workers. She had watched the German soldiers from her window at the back of the bus. Some were very young, peering into shops, or standing on street corners. She had been aware of resentment among her fellow passengers. Defeat had been bad enough, but the Germans had broken their agreement and had occupied all of southern France, even Toulon. She had seen older troops also, the strained, tired faces of combat, probably enjoying this welcome change from Russia or Poland.

One passenger, a young man of about her own age, had attempted to initiate a conversation with her. She had known that this was dangerous, and she had seen her guide turn his head to observe them.

Then there had been an explosion, more like a dull thud than anything else, and the bus had been forced to a halt. She had heard someone speak of sabotage, and she had sensed the anger, and the fear. Her new companion swore quietly as two police officers had climbed into the bus, shining their torches and demanding to see papers of identity. They were not Germans but ordinary French police, doing their job, turning their backs on a world which was beyond their control, or maybe just filling in time until the traffic started to move again.

They were slow, but thorough. Torches flashed;
nobody spoke. She had felt her heart pounding like a trip hammer.

One gendarme had been almost level with the slatted wooden seat when the young Frenchman had bounded against the emergency door, and had jumped into the street.

She had heard the startled cries, someone blowing a whistle, and the sudden crack of a pistol shot. The two gendarmes had seized her arm and dragged her to her feet. Hazy, broken pictures. She had never believed she would ever be able to relive it.

She had seen his body sprawled in the road, eyes wide and staring in the glare of flashlights, caught at the moment of impact. The moment of sudden death.

She remembered the faces of the other passengers as she had been taken through the bus. Not even pity. It had been more like hatred.

At the police station, she was seen by an inspector who had ordered her into a bare-looking office, where she was told to sit and await further questioning. She even remembered the police station, from those early days; she had gone there once to report a missing tennis racquet.

Looking back, it seemed an eternity, although she now knew it was only a matter of hours. The other officer had arrived even as a further explosion had rattled the windows. She had heard powerful vehicles roaring along the street, and German voices shouting commands.

The police officer was a woman. She wore no uniform, but her heavy jacket and skirt could have been just that.

The rest was still very distorted. It was at that point that the nightmare began.

She could recall the room, the glaring lights, the padded walls, soundproofing. There was a solitary stool,
and a long, bare table, and an electric fire. The woman ordered her to sit on the stool and then to open her mouth while she shone a torch into it, pushing her tongue aside until she seemed satisfied. She had heard since that she might have been looking for a cyanide capsule.

She could remember her smell, stale sweat, just as she still recalled her sense of excitement. In a man it would have been lust.

But now she was on her feet again, fighting it, facing it as she knew she must. She looked desperately at the neatly folded uniform. She must wear it again if she was to escape from here, from the nightmare.

When the doctor here had first examined her, she had felt not her hands but those of the woman in the soundproofed room.

She had stripped her, and those same hands had probed into her; there were threats that she would fetch male officers if Joanna resisted. She had been forced to stand, naked beneath the glaring lights, while she had watched her clothes being examined, each label and cleaner's mark checked for flaws. The woman had found nothing. Even when she had slashed open the lining of the small bag she had been carrying, she had not discovered some last-minute mistake. The people who had sent Joanna Gordon on the mission never made such obvious errors.

But it did not seem to surprise or disappoint her tormentor. She had never stopped speaking, although, looking back, it was hard to be certain if it was in French or English.

A gendarme had entered the room to collect the clothing, and when Joanna had attempted to cover herself the woman had shouted at her not to be shy, or to plead innocence.