Dust On the Sea (37 page)

Gaillard was standing by his map, which was propped on what appeared to be a schoolroom easel, and probably was.

‘All present, sir.'

Most of the marines, especially the officers, were looking at Major Ellis, the stranger in their midst. As untidy as ever, and badly in need of a shave, he had caused a lot of speculation, and a certain amusement despite the formidable reputation of his regiment.

He saw Steve Blackwood at the other end of the tent, and they exchanged quick smiles; the New Zealander seemed to realise the significance of this meeting. Occasionally aircraft thundered overhead. It was sometimes difficult to remember that Malta was only eighty miles away, and that that small island, which had once been bombed and blockaded almost into submission, was playing its part again and providing full air cover whenever it was needed.

Steve had brought his sergeant with him, and in the hard light Blackwood understood the New Zealander's comment about ‘unsoldierly appearance'. From his frayed
and wrinkled webbing gaiters to the khaki forage cap stained with sweat or hair cream, he looked anything but an example to his men. But in the short time they had been able to speak together, Blackwood had sensed the very real bond between them.

Major Ellis stepped forward, squinting in the glare. He was still wearing the lambswool jerkin, which was even scruffier in daylight, his only concession to the heat being two unfastened tapes.

He pointed at the map, but kept his narrowed eyes on his audience, seeming to assess them face by face.

‘The Lipari Islands,
here.
About midway between the Italian mainland and Sicily, and forty miles north-west of Messina itself. Most of them are too small to be of any use, volcanic, waterless, bypassed by the war until now. Our island, Angelo, is
here.
' Blackwood wondered how his finger found the location so unerringly when he never turned his head. ‘Probably once a volcano itself. Due south of Stromboli, and east of Salina, and avoided even by fishermen, because of rock ledges which can rip out the bottom of any boat trying to use a net.' He paused. ‘A very dangerous place. The raid will have to be carried out at night, and because of the area no escorts will be available. The Germans would up sticks and be away before you got within miles of them. Angelo is little more than a lagoon surrounded by rocks and lava. In it, there will probably be some fifty or more explosive motor boats, of the type already mentioned, enough to cripple a fleet of supply and landing ships. Even if every man-jack of them were killed, the damage to our invasion plans would be disastrous.' He smiled, for the first time. ‘Unlike the Italians who sank H.M.S.
York
at Crete. All six men were picked up on their little rafts, complete with
shaving kit and a change of underwear, the latter probably very necessary!'

That brought some laughter. The safety valve, as always.

‘It is a vital target, make no mistake. The Germans will withdraw the boats only when Sicily is completely in our hands. After that, it might be months before our agents can discover their new hiding-place.'

Blackwood watched his words going home. The Germans had produced several new weapons, even an improved radar, not yet a match for British equipment. But given time . . .

When he looked again Ellis was sitting down, his eyes like glass in the reflected sunlight.

Gaillard took over. ‘We will move to Palermo. After that, and provided I hear nothing to the contrary, we will embark.' He looked at the map. ‘For Angelo. All kit and weapons will be inspected beforehand. Mr Craven?'

Craven seemed to bounce to his feet. ‘
Sir!
'

Blackwood saw ‘Sticks' Welland lean over to whisper something in Sergeant Paget's ear. They both grinned hugely.

Gaillard regarded them distantly, as if he were already planning ahead.

‘You will point out to your Troops and sections that they are not only making a vital contribution to this campaign, they are carrying on a tradition unmatched by any other fighting man!'

He nodded curtly and walked through the assembled marines without a further glance at any individual.

Could any man, even with Gaillard's record, be so confident? Or was it an act? If it was, it certainly seemed
to have worked. They were all chattering again, calling out to one another as if it were all cut and dried.

Blackwood left the tent, grateful for the fresh air. Men were already waiting to dismantle it, until another meeting; different faces, another target.

Major Ellis was slumped in a battered scout car, frowning as the driver revved the engine in competition with the Yanks.

He beckoned to Blackwood and said, ‘There might be nothing left when you reach the place. If so, it's someone else's problem.' He seemed uncertain whether to continue. ‘You may be pulled back after this little lot's over and done with. You could do with it, I imagine. Make a change after this. Regrouping, new faces.' He prodded his driver's arm and the car lurched forward, spurting stones and sand in protest.

Blackwood stared after the cloud of dust. Merely being friendly? Or telling him because he was personally privy to some strategy of which the S.A.S., conducting their secret war, had been forewarned? His comments had been drowned by the scout car's engine, as he had probably intended.

But, in his mind, Blackwood had clearly heard the unspoken words.

A new colonel too.

Despard had joined him. ‘Shall I carry on with the inspections, sir?'

‘I'll come with you. May be the last chance I get before we embark.'

Despard watched him gravely. ‘Better than hanging about, waiting for something to happen, sir.' He seemed to sense Blackwood's mood. ‘Don't worry. They'll not let you down, you have my word on it!'

Blackwood looked at him, eyes keen in the hard light.

‘I never doubted it, George. They deserve better, that's all.'

He did not explain, and Craven was already bawling at the marines to fall in for weapons inspection.

Despard turned to follow him, to allow routine and discipline to take over, as it had so many thousands of times during his service in the Corps.

They always said,
if it's got your name on it, there's not a thing you can do to stop it.
He sighed. Like the steel shaving mirror.

But somehow he knew that what he had just heard was very important. And it troubled him that he could be so moved by it.

It was to take another three days before Force
Trident,
frustrated and bewildered after being thrown about in the American trucks on appalling roads, was finally delivered to Palermo. General Patton's army had captured the town early the previous week, but so thorough had been the destruction and the sabotage of streets and bridges that progress had slowed considerably. It was said that the winding clifftop road eastward to Messina and the Germans' final line of retreat was almost impassable.

They had been the longest three days Blackwood could remember, with Gaillard's anger and impatience at each delay stretching everyone's patience to the limit.

As one American major had remarked, ‘Your colonel sure as hell is eager to get his head blown off!'

But there were some compensations. After the usual verbal sniping and mutual distrust, the marines had been surprised by the warmth of the Americans' welcome. Even Craven's eagle eye could not stem the tide of
hospitality, chocolate, ‘candy bars', and gum that found its way into respirator haversacks and ammunition pouches. Even ‘Sticks' Welland had conceded that the Yanks weren't a bad lot, considering . . .

Eventually five landing craft had arrived, not from Malta or Alex, but direct from Tunis.

Gaillard had leafed through his orders and said, ‘Advance planning. That's a bit more like it!' He seemed satisfied, as if he had expected some last minute cancellation or change of plans.

The shipping was so congested and the air cover so complete that the little landing craft were virtually unnoticed.

Blackwood sat in a small American hut and went over the final plan for ‘the Angelo raid', as it was now called. Everything would depend on surprise. Without it they would never set foot on the place. Provided the map and the photographs were accurate, it was not impossible. The Germans had chosen their haven well. Despite the lack of facilities, the explosive motor boats, the lentils, would be simple to maintain, and could be exercised without attracting too much attention from inquisitive aircraft, requiring only the one-man crews, some mechanics, and whatever troops were thought necessary to protect the approaches from any determined agents.

And suppose the birds had flown, as Major Ellis had warned might be the case? Blackwood looked at his folded battledress, the minimum of gear he would be carrying. In one pocket was the letter he had wanted, and had tried, to write. All it said was
My darling Joanna
. It was not much to be remembered by, if she ever saw it. But she had endured enough. A letter would not help if the worst happened.

He allowed his mind to dwell on the operation itself. Not next week; not even maybe. It would be within the next twenty-four hours. He realised that he was gripping his hands together tightly, as if holding on to something. It had taken three days to cover the hundred miles from the wrecked village to Palermo. No wonder Gaillard had been so savage. One wag had commented, ‘Three days? We could 'ave crossed the bloody Atlantic in that time!'

Steve Blackwood would be in the support section; a chance, maybe, to get away if it went sour. There had been a lot of talk about Major Ralf Blackwood in the family, although he had never met him. One thing was certain; had he been alive he would have been proud of his son, soldier or not.

He thought of the final weapons inspection, which they had carried out before climbing into the American trucks. It had been like so much of his time in the Corps; his father always seemed to be nearby in spirit, ready to lend his own experience, the very qualities people said had made him what he was.
Colonel Jono
. He had felt it then, pausing at each man, a smile here, a brief word to somebody else. It was always too late when the firing started. Never come down so hard on a man who is doing wrong that that same marine might, in the future, hold his tongue, and refuse to speak when he has seen something you yourself may have missed.

He stood, and pulled on the battledress blouse and fastened it, his hands moving without thought. Any spare kit would be collected and sent back. Back to where? Like the horizon he had heard his father and Vaughan discussing when he had been only a boy.
The horizon
, the lip of the trench. The first thing they saw each morning in Flanders, and, too often, the last.

He knew Archer was waiting outside, to make sure he had forgotten nothing. He tightened a webbing strap, and felt the unwritten letter inside the pocket.

My darling Joanna
. He might even have spoken aloud.

It was time to go.

He saw Archer as he left the hut, and remembered his father's words.
Looking to you.

He put on what he hoped was an American drawl.

‘Say, Limey, you got any of that candy left?'

Archer laughed, as did some other marines who were carrying a Bren gun between them.

He could imagine it.
Just heard old Blackie cracking a joke! Not a bloody care in the world, that one!

Blackwood walked out into the street, one fist so tightly clenched that it ached.

If only they knew.

He turned his face to the sea.
My darling Joanna
. It was too late now.

Major Claud Porter paused outside the door of the main lobby to regain his breath. He was surprised and rather annoyed that he should be so out of condition. It made him feel old, which was no help at all.

He considered the stupidity of the decision to shut the old lift shaft which led directly down to the Pit. For cleaning and maintenance, the notice said. Of all the idiotic times to do it. He had practically run down flight after flight of stairs, each apparently steeper than the previous one; he had never realised that the one-time wine cellars were so far beneath the surface.

It had all started earlier, on his way back from the Admiralty, where he had gone to speak with Major-General Vaughan. There had been an important meeting
of the Chiefs of Staff; everything was important in that place, he thought. Gieves must be making a fortune from all the gold lace he had seen.

Vaughan had listened without interruption. The signal had been delayed, had gone through channels, doubtless because of its contents. Marine Gerald Finch, last appointed to the light cruiser H.M.S.
Genoa
, who had been badly wounded and partially blinded during the retreat in Burma, was dead. It seemed doubly cruel when you considered it. So many of his comrades had died in the closing stages of the campaign; some had come through unscathed, physically at least.

Perhaps it had all been too much for him. In his mind, he had probably seen no reason for continuing when he had already lost everything. A nurse at the hospital had found him hanging from a tree. There had been no note or letter, no last recrimination. The police were satisfied that it was suicide. Porter thought it was a pity it had taken somebody so long to let them know.

Vaughan had shown neither surprise nor satisfaction. ‘Poor bugger. He's well out of it,' was all he had said. And, as an afterthought, ‘You'd better tell Gaillard. He's off the hook. This time.'

And then, on the way back here, they had run into a road-block. A policeman in a steel helmet had eventually reached their place in the line-up and explained that it was an unexploded bomb. Probably safe, but the sappers were making sure. Until then, etcetera, etcetera . . .

Porter knew then that he had been overworking; they all had. The delay had been the last straw.

He had said sharply, ‘So the war has to wait, does it?'