Dust On the Sea (35 page)

Most of the wounded had been moved to the beaches and were probably in hospital by now. Lieutenant Hannah had been given a hero's send-off, and was expected to make a good recovery.

Gaillard had mentioned the incident only once. ‘He was a bloody fool to risk his life for a man already as
good as dead.' He had looked up, his eyes like dark buttons in the sunlight. ‘And you were an even bigger one for going after him! As my acting second-in-command you are important, not only to me but to the men who rely on us. Bear that in mind in the future!'

He was right, of course, and Blackwood knew it from his own experience. He also knew that he could not have acted otherwise.

There were reports of more reinforcements arriving shortly; there was never any shortage of rumours. Eat, sleep, keep your head down, and survive. The rest was rumour.

Archer watched him over the rim of his own mug. It was so quiet compared with the past few days he could hardly credit it. Like all the traffic stopping on Armistice Day in the East End; no matter what you were doing, you all stopped. He could remember his father in his police uniform, very erect and strangely sad. Bus and tram drivers getting down from their cabs to stand in silence. He had often thought about the Great War as it must have been . . . not the war the boozers bragged about in the Salmon and Ball on a Friday night after they'd been paid, but the unspeakable truth. And the officers, what had made them different? Archer had once competed for a Blackwood medal at the barracks, and thought it must be quite a load to carry, coming from a family like that. He thought of his friend, Ted Pratt, whom he had seen earlier cadging food from the army. He smiled. Pratt . . . it was the right name for him. But even he had his moments. Like the buzz he had started. Sergeant Paget had heard him going on about it, and had shut him up smartish. He knew that the sergeant and Captain Blackwood were
pretty close. You could feel it. Like old mates, with only the barrier of rank which no outsider could ever grasp.

If it was something outside the mob, it was best to leave it there. Even in the Corps, and the navy too for that matter, there were always those ready to drop you in it, just for the chance of getting a couple of tapes for their sleeve. Or working a fast one to grab a nice cushy billet ashore every night, feet under somebody's table if you were lucky. Crawlers, too. He grimaced. Like Bull Craven.

Being a copper's son in the East End of London was sometimes hard to live down. Especially if, like his father, he was taking the drop from the local bookmakers.

But in this lot, the Commando, it was something else. They didn't care what you were or what you'd done. It was what you were now that counted. Who you could look to when the going got rough. Like Blackwood.

He said, quite suddenly, ‘Somebody says the Colonel was askin' about some marine called Finch, sir.'

Blackwood turned with the empty mug.

‘I'd forgotten. What about it?' He had not forgotten, but there had been no time for idle speculation.

Archer busied himself with his jug of tea.

‘Burma, it was, sir. Where you was before you come to our lot.'

Blackwood rested his head against the wall, feeling the sun's warmth against his cheek. Burma. Just the word brought it back. Those ancient launches full of wounded troops and terrified civilians. Snipers and fanatical bayonet charges, the horrific sight of a soldier's head on a spike beside the river, hacked off by one of those Japanese swords so prized as souvenirs.

He thought of the girl in the
souk,
their pleasure at being together.

He said, ‘Finch? No, I can't say I recall anyone of that name.'

‘It's just that they say 'e went missin', or 'e might 'ave done a runner, o' course. But now 'e's puttin' it about that 'e was left to die, by an officer.'

Blackwood stared at his hands. Clean for once. But still one scar from the broken glass when he had pitched the grenade.

He should not even be listening to this. It was probably just another bit of gossip. Nothing had been posted about it. He looked away.
Don't be such a bloody fool.
Archer was all kinds of things, but he was no muck-stirrer, except possibly where Bull Craven was concerned. It was no use.

He said, ‘There was so much going on at that time. Marines joined us from various ships, from everywhere. All we had to hold us together was the Globe and Laurel, and
that
would never appear in any infantry training manual.'

Archer was satisfied. He had done the right thing. No matter what divided them, rank, class, breeding, Blackwood was all right. He had guts too, standing up for Corporal Sharp when the Colonel said he should be left behind. And poor Mr Hannah, thick as two planks, but he hadn't deserved to die. Not like that, anyway.

The past days had been hairy at times, but they had managed. Muddled through, as Tommy Handley would say. He felt the ground quiver. Miles away, but not for long. They'd be going back.
Up the line,
his father used to call it. He had been with the 60th Rifles in that lot, and had donned a police uniform when he had been released.
He had said it was because he missed the army comradeship, not because he couldn't get any other work, like so many idle buggers claimed.

Archer understood what he meant now, in this shelled and fought-over village nobody would ever have heard of in Bethnal Green. He thought of the W.A.A.F. officer who was sweet on Captain Blackwood. In her perky little cap she looked about fifteen. A woman for all that . . .

A head poked through the shattered doorway.

Archer snapped, ‘Can't you
knock,
Nobby?'

The marine grinned. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. Mr Fellowes isn't sure what to do about some new arrivals.'

‘I'll come.' Blackwood dragged the shirt over his head. It was bone dry. ‘Have you told the sergeant-major?'

He knew that the two marines were exchanging glances. Archer said, ‘Oh, 'e'll know, sir!'

He knew just how far he could go. Blackwood clipped his revolver around his waist. Like the buzz about the unknown marine. But not unknown to Gaillard . . .

He must forget it. Gaillard had been on edge that day. He was in command.
How would I feel if
 . . .

He said, ‘Lead the way.'

Archer picked up his gleaming rifle and jerked the bolt before applying the safety catch. He said casually, ‘I'll stroll wiv you, sir.'

Their eyes met. The danger was always present. So was loyalty.

There were about a dozen tired figures, standing with their kit and looking slightly lost. Soldiers this time, not Royals.

One, a lieutenant, strode to meet him and was about to throw up a salute when Blackwood said sharply, ‘No
saluting here. Dead giveaway to any sniper. And I mean
dead
!'

He relaxed slightly and knew that Archer had turned away, apparently disinterested, but his eyes would be on the empty and shattered houses, a bullet already in the breech of his Lee-Enfield.

He said, ‘Royal Engineers? I'm Captain Blackwood, Royal Marine Commando. Force
Trident.
'

The lieutenant smiled. ‘I know, sir. Same name as mine.'

They shook hands, strangers, and yet with an odd sense of recognition.

‘You're the chap my sister wrote to me about?' He saw some marines emerging from the rubble to watch, to share this small link with home. ‘Getting engaged, right?'

They fell into step, and Blackwood saw a red-haired sergeant who, like Archer, was staring around the broken village, as if very aware of the nearness of danger.

‘I've written to her, sir.' And then, with sudden confidence, ‘I love her very much.'

Blackwood smiled. ‘Come into the mess.' He gestured to the cottage with half a roof and no windows. ‘I'll open the bar!'

The meal, eaten from their mess tins with spoons, seemed to consist of hot mashed corned beef and some kind of powdered potato. But, washed down with the rough local wine, it hit the right spot, although at a guess the temperature outside the ruined house was up in the nineties.

Lieutenant Steve Blackwood found it surprisingly easy to relax with the marine officers who, on one pretext or another, had come along to make him welcome. Young for the most part, and showing signs of strain in spite of
the jokes and the black humour common enough among servicemen.

One lieutenant, Despard, easily the oldest here, outlined to him the general layout of the marine force, and the various army units nearby. Without fuss or exaggeration, like the man himself, he suspected.

When he and his sappers had come ashore from the landing ship he had been astonished by the span of the operations on that and the adjoining beaches. Ships and landing craft of all sizes and for every possible role, soldiers working to layout fresh tracks on the beach to withstand the weight of more armoured vehicles and tanks yet to come. Everyone appeared to know exactly what to do, so that the war had seemed almost an intrusion on their industry.

Until he had seen the wrecked landing craft, some upended by shellfire, others because of collision. There were graves too, many of them, with a bearded naval padre, hatless, smoking his pipe while he checked each identity disc and noted it in his book. Like a picture she had shown him at Hawks Hill.
Where no birds sing
 . . . A different war. The same finality.

He looked at Diane's brother, catching his interest in what one officer was saying to him. Alert, intelligent. And the eyes, green like the eyes of the girl to whom he had opened his heart.
And she had listened.

He realised with a start that the eyes had turned to him.

‘How was she when you last saw her?'

The others might be listening, but they were excluded.

‘She looked marvellous in her uniform. Suits her.'

He saw the slight frown. ‘I've not seen her in it yet.' The other side of him. Wistful almost, suddenly somewhere else.

A marine peered in at them; it was Archer.

‘Colonel's back, sir.' Just that, and yet Steve Blackwood could sense the change in this impromptu gathering.

The others emptied their mugs and said their farewells. Blackwood watched them leave and remarked, ‘A good bunch. I'm quite proud of them.' He smiled, and his face seemed young and vulnerable. ‘They're all well trained, but nothing prepares you for the real thing.'

Steve Blackwood said, with feeling, ‘I'm just finding that out!' There were voices. ‘I'd better shove off, sir.'

Blackwood was looking at the broken door. ‘Call me Mike, for God's sake. We're related, and likely to be even closer soon.'

Steve Blackwood watched him, perhaps looking for doubt or even envy, but there was none.

Then he said, ‘No. Wait and meet him. I'd be interested . . .'

Gaillard strode in, his eyes darting around, missing nothing.

‘This is Lieutenant Blackwood, sir. Royal Engineers. I'm not certain about orders . . .'

Gaillard thrust out his hand and said, ‘I've only just heard myself. Got a whole clip sent across from the flagship. It seems they've nothing better to do!' He looked from one to the other. ‘Two of the family, eh? I suppose I'm stuck with it!' He glanced at the wine jars and cigarette ends. ‘Having a party, eh? Fair enough. Maybe the last for a bit.'

Blackwood watched him, surprised by his mood.

‘Care for a drink, sir?'

Gaillard regarded him absently.

‘D'you know, Mike, I think I will.' He waved Archer
aside. ‘No. In my kit. There's a bottle of Scotch. Thought I'd never get a chance to open the bloody thing!'

Blackwood waited for him to sit down. It gave him time to think, to fathom out what had happened to change Gaillard. On edge, terse one moment, and almost flippant the next.

Archer filled a glass and was peering around for something to dilute it.

Gaillard snapped, ‘No. As it comes. Christ, I think we've all earned this!'

He swallowed the neat whisky and gestured for Archer to refill the glass.

He said, ‘We're going up tomorrow. It's all here in the intelligence pack.' He dragged open his tunic and pulled out the familiar envelope. ‘Intelligence, they call this. Sometimes I think they couldn't find an elephant in an ashtray!'

Then he looked directly at Lieutenant Blackwood. ‘It's why
you're
here. We're up against the German army this time. They've laid mines, booby-traps – you know the score, right?'

Blackwood said, ‘We're under strength, sir. Brigade said we were to await reinforcements.' He watched for some sign, some hint of what had happened. ‘Why we were pulled back.'

‘Yes.' He gazed at the reflected glare, dust floating in it like smoke. ‘Well, that's all changed. We move tomorrow.'

Feet grated on rubble, and Craven's shadow leaned into the room.

‘Permission to take charge of them sappers, sir?' But his eyes were on the soldier.

‘Carry on.' Gaillard waved his hand and some whisky
slopped down his shirt. He did not appear to notice it. ‘Show this officer where they're being quartered, and what to do in an air attack – not that there's much chance of one now, eh?'

Blackwood walked with him to the broken doorway and saw the red-haired sergeant hurrying to meet them.

Steve Blackwood said quietly, ‘He doesn't seem too fierce, Mike, after what I heard about him coming over.'

He looked down, surprised as Blackwood took his arm and held it very tightly. He was to remember it for a long time afterwards.

Blackwood said, ‘Something's happened. I've never seen him like this, not even in Burma.' It was not what he had meant to say. It was nobody else's problem. Not any more.

He said, ‘Just be careful. We've lost some good hands in this place. I want you to promise me you'll look after Diane if . . .' He forced a grin. ‘What the hell! A fine welcome for my sister's future husband!' The mood eluded him. ‘Sorry about that. Really. It's just me.' He did not even blink as a rifle shot cracked out like a whip. Not near, but close enough.