Dust On the Sea (22 page)

Once, he glanced back. The sea had gone.

Always the worst moment. He felt his lips crack into a smile. Even for a marine.

He could feel Archer's fresh bandage around his thigh. There was no pain. He thought of the girl, with her injured arm. Or had she been deliberately tortured; was that what Vaughan had been trying to tell him?

He quickened his pace. Fifteen miles to go before first light.

They had all done it; they would not let anybody down.

But it did not help. All he could feel was hate.

‘All in position, sir.' Blackwood propped himself on his elbows and stared past the darker shadows of the men around him. They had accomplished it without incident,
and his eyes had become so accustomed to the gloom and unfamiliar surroundings that it seemed like early morning. He was not even breathless, but his mouth was bone dry and his stomach muscles felt like iron against the rough ground. The usual signs; you never got used to them.

He could hear some of the marines cursing quietly, moaning, as all servicemen did in the presence of danger. The long ridge would provide good cover when daylight found them, even from low-flying aircraft, but comfortable it was not, and it was covered with tangles of rough scrub with thorns as big as knitting needles, or so they felt to the unwary.

And beyond them was the sea, whereas before it had been at their backs. The Sicilian Strait, dark, shark-blue, still black where night lingered. Flat, calm and deadly.

He pulled out his binoculars and adjusted them carefully. Soon the sun would show itself over his shoulder; even the smallest reflection from the lenses would warn a sentry, and leave them naked on this ridge.

He held his breath, and heard Gaillard murmur something. He had seen it, too, very pale against the sea's backdrop. It looked alien here, like a folly. Who had decided to build an observatory in this wilderness?

Gaillard said, ‘Pickets in place?' He did not wait for confirmation. ‘Let's hope they keep their eyes open.' Then, ‘So that's the bloody thing. Can't see any vehicles so far. Not too well guarded, maybe.'

Blackwood thought of the night sky as they had marched in single file, section by section, the first tension giving way to curiosity as the sounds of battle had reached them. Artillery like distant thunder, on and on, war at a distance. It was unlikely that the Germans could
spare fighting soldiers to guard something so remote, so outwardly harmless.

The two lieutenants dropped down beside them, Robyns more his usual self. Despard lay on his back and stared at the sky, but one hand still held his Sten gun.

Gaillard said, ‘We shall have to stick it out here until we get the lie of the land. According to my notes, there's another ridge to our left, and some derelict houses. The refugee camps are further along the coast, but we take nothing for granted, right?'

Robyns said, ‘I could pick some men and get closer to the target, sir.'

Gaillard ignored him. ‘There will be guards – how many is anybody's guess. The Brens can cover us when we move in. The right side of the building is a ruin. My guess is that the equipment is in the other part.' He nodded, as if to confirm it. ‘Makes sense.'

Blackwood said, ‘We'll get a better idea soon, sir. I'll take a look with these.'

Gaillard lay on his side. ‘Suit yourself. I'm going to try and get some rest. Make sure the pickets are changed, one hour per man. They'll all be asleep otherwise!'

Despard rolled over. ‘It's too quiet, sir.'

Blackwood glanced at Gaillard's shadow, half concealed by the treacherous thorns. ‘You feel it, too? Tell me.'

Despard hesitated.

‘Something missing.' He might have smiled. ‘I'm not sure what I mean.'

Blackwood heard Robyns opening his water flask. He would regret it when the sun was up.

He saw his own hand resting on the binoculars: he could even see the faint scars from the exploding
skylight, before he had dropped the grenade and fallen in his blood. He watched the sun creeping across the tangled undergrowth. Brown, like the land; was nothing ever green in this place?

It was like seeing a film develop, murky and slow at first, and then with surprising haste. Texture and colour, even warmth across his neck. And the sea was alive again. Dark blue, unmoving, like something solid.

He trained his glasses again and winced as a thorn pierced his elbow. The landscape and the ruined building hardened into shape. There was a kind of tower still standing; maybe they had mounted a telescope there.

There were a few sea-birds, but nothing else moved. Far away, like a dirty smear across the brightening sky, he saw smoke. But not from guns. They were cooking fires, hundreds of them. Refugees.

The place was dead. They had been told that even the refugees had abandoned it. Another foul-up . . . He shifted his glasses again.

There were some wrecked vehicles, rusty or burned out, it was hard to tell. Victims of air attacks or discarded, they added to the sense of decay. He adjusted the range, and saw a small notice-board beside a carelessly erected barrier of barbed wire. The red paint had been blistered away by the sun, but there was no mistaking the skull and crossbones. He could not read it, but it would have displayed the grim warning
Achtung! Minen!
for the foolish or the unwary. He tensed as he saw what appeared to be some rags dangling from part of the barrier. Rags now, but once a human being who had failed to heed the death's head by the wire.

Despard muttered, ‘
He
won't be on church parade this Sunday!'

Robyns was crawling over to them, his eyes full of questions. ‘There's nothing here, is there? After all we've done . . .'

He gasped as Blackwood seized him by the collar of his battledress and slammed him down on the ground.

‘Shut up, and
listen
!'

It seemed a metallic hum at first, and then with a throaty roar the morning air quivered to the beat of engines.

Despard ducked down. ‘Christ! Tanks!'

Blackwood released the lieutenant and pushed himself through the thorns. His hands and cheek were bleeding, but everything else was unimportant. He raised the binoculars and waited for his grip to steady again.

There it was, basking in the pale sunlight like something from a horror film. A solitary tank. He felt the sudden anger and despair. It was more than enough. It might have been waiting just for them.

He sensed Gaillard lying just below his legs, his barely suppressed disbelief.

It was a medium-sized tank, not one of Rommel's famous Tigers; he could even see the Afrika Korps insignia, palm tree and swastika displayed on the side of the turret. Its long gun was pointing almost directly at him.

‘What are they doing?'

Blackwood watched the haze of fumes above the tank's armoured flanks. If they broke cover, its machine guns would cut them down without effort. If they remained in hiding in the thorns, they would be squashed to pulp.

He swallowed hard as a hatch opened and a soldier stood upright, and after a glance around, gave a huge
stretch and yawn to match. Then he climbed down and walked purposefully towards the next ridge. He was carrying a spade.

Despard murmured, ‘Nice and tidy, like the Desert Rats. Going for the morning crap!'

Gaillard was on his knees. ‘What the
hell
are you talking about?' He raised his own glasses, his habitual self-control suddenly gone.

Blackwood moved his binoculars again. The marines must be told, otherwise someone might break cover.

He said, ‘That tank hasn't moved for ages. Look at the ground around it.' He saw the turret move slightly, so that another man could climb up through the command hatch itself. No cap, jacket undone; any soldier anywhere in a safe area. Away from those reflected bombardments, and the din of war.

He listened to his own voice, so level, so able to conceal the madness.

‘I think it's because it
can't
move.' Gaillard was saying something, his tone angry, contemptuous; he found he could ignore it. He saw the second soldier's head and shoulders spring to life in the powerful lens. Sun-tanned.
About my age.
He seemed to be looking directly towards him.

He made himself explore the scene still further. Not like the Japs in Burma; this face looked ordinary. It was sometimes better not to see the enemy.

‘Got it!' The others were staring at him, and he knew that Archer had risen to his knees, his thumb already on the safety catch of his Lee-Enfield. He lowered himself to them, surprised that his limbs were not trembling. He had thought he was shivering, like that night aboard Carson's schooner.

‘There's a cable, sir. Remember Vasili?' Of course, Gaillard had not been there to see it. Welland with his smoking rifle, the dead Italian officer, the naked woman . . . he smiled, and knew they would think he was round the bend.
And the generator.
‘The tank provides the power for the spotting gear, sir. Right there, on that ridge.' He could feel the maniac laughter dangerously close to the surface. ‘Where the Kraut just headed off to answer the call of nature!'

Despard said, ‘We would have attacked the wrong place. Been caught in the open. Disabled or not, that bloody thing could take us apart, no trouble at all.'

Gaillard said, ‘Pass the word to the others.' He was breathing sharply. ‘I agree. We'll move before dusk. I might have guessed the mines weren't there just to scare off a few local looters!'

Archer remarked, ‘Old Jerry's comin' back, sir. Feels a lot better, I'll bet!'

The safety valve, exactly when it was needed.

When he looked again, the tank was exactly as before. As if nobody had ever been near it, or, like the tattered remains on the barbed wire, it was just a reminder of something past.

He looked around for some shade from the sun. It would be a long day, perhaps too long for the innocent and the trusting.

And when the time came, the menace would still be there.

Blackwood licked his dry lips and felt the sand grate between his teeth. It took physical effort to shut the temptation of water from his mind, and every time he moved to ease his limbs or use his binoculars he could feel it swilling inside his flask. It was a long day, and with the sun high in the sky there was little relief. Like the rest of the marines he had already consumed his small pack of rations, leaving the chocolate to the last. He could taste it now, and thought of the sailors giving their nutty rations to the children on the Greek island where they had handed over the rifles and ammunition.

He had intended to work his way around all the positions; some of the men would be feeling far more than personal discomfort. Inactivity was always the greatest enemy.

But Gaillard had refused to agree. ‘Let the lieutenants do it. I don't carry passengers!'

He glanced at him now while he was checking his little notebook again. His eyes were red-rimmed and his face lined with strain. It was unusual to see him unshaven, like somebody else.

One of Despard's men had caught sight of a wireless aerial, for only a few seconds before it had been lowered
again. Careful examination with binoculars had also revealed a hide at the top of the adjoining ridge. Invisible from the air, it merged perfectly with the crumbling brown rocks. A freak breeze from the Strait and it had shivered very slightly, Blackwood had thought, like scenery in a school play. Probably painted canvas, but it was all the evidence they had. All they needed.

The tank stood as before, sometimes with the engines running, sometimes not. A few soldiers walked around between the barbed wire and the ridge, stretching their legs, smoking, only alert when they heard approaching aircraft. There were some collapsed and derelict buildings nearby, exactly as described in the intelligence pack, but nothing moved outside this small, desolate place. Even the Germans appeared unwilling to stray very far, and when one of them laughed the sound seemed to hang in the air like a taunt.

Blackwood peered at his watch.
How much longer?

He thought of the house again. Of the swimming pool. The way she had looked at him . . . He jerked his head up angrily; he had almost fallen asleep. He glanced round as Archer moved slightly and raised one hand to his ear.

‘Someone's comin', sir!'

Blackwood wanted to shake himself.
What is the matter with me? I should have heard it.

Gaillard was dragging himself through a patch of scrub, his holster catching on the thorns.

He snapped, ‘What is it?'

Sergeant Welland had joined them. ‘Not another bloody tank, anyway!'

A few of the German soldiers had appeared from the ridge, buttoning their tunics, smartening up.

Somebody said, ‘Must be Rommel payin' a visit!' He was glared into silence.

A small, open truck rolled up to the wire, dust spewing from its wheels like great wings. Two of the soldiers were parting the wire with a crude but effective piece of tackle.

Blackwood watched, his mind recording every move, his aching fatigue forgotten. No mines in that gap; it was unlikely they would have laid many in any case. Two more Germans had joined the others now. He tried to recall how many he had seen, and if they were the same ones.

Gaillard must have been thinking the same. ‘No more than twenty, I'd say.'

Blackwood tried to ignore him. What did it matter? With the tank there, and machine guns and armour to protect them, it would be very dicey.

An N.C.O. had stepped from the truck. Blackwood smiled to himself.
Not Rommel after all.
The soldiers stood listening intently to their orders, while the truck slowly reversed towards the tank.

He felt a chill on his spine, although he knew that his body was almost steaming in the heat.

The truck obviously visited here fairly often.
Routine.
His mind throbbed as he tried to recognise some kind of pattern.