Dust On the Sea (29 page)

‘Too hot to jump about.' He looked back through the open door, where marines in full kit were paraded for weapons and kit inspections. It was bloody hot out there; he could still feel it across his shoulders. There was a wind, too, that seemed to scorch the skin.

Beyond the jetty and the moored craft he could see landing ships taking on stores. Soon now, very soon. You could feel it, although it was something nobody spoke about any more.

Sergeant-Major ‘Bull' Craven's voice rasped across the inspection; it never seemed quiet for long. In a barracks or a larger base, Craven would have had other warrant officers for company. Here he was alone, and it seemed to suit him. Craven was no common drill-pig, a tyrant of the barracks square. He was the epitome of the fighting man, hard and lean, as if all the surplus waste had been sweated out of him. He seemed tireless.

A disgruntled recruit had asked how Craven had acquired the nickname of ‘Bull'. One of the older hands had answered cheerfully, ‘'Cause he's full of it, that's why! Surprised he hasn't got brown eyes!'

But here, with a new unit like Force
Trident
, Craven was necessary, the buffer between young officers like Fellowes who, because of their rank, often remained remote from the men, and because they were in awe of old sweats like Craven. Necessary, too, for the sergeants and other N.C.O.s; they were dealing with somebody who knew all the tricks and skives in the Corps, which might otherwise be used against the officers without mercy.

They were out there now in the searing heat, checking through weapons and ammunition, although every single man present was certain he knew it all already.

Lieutenant Despard was with them. Nobody would try to work something past him. And Craven would know it.

He moved to the desk and leafed through the signals pad, aware that Fellowes was watching every move. Young though he was, he had managed to take up acting just before he had joined the Royal Marines. You could see it in him sometimes, an intent curiosity, as if he were learning a part.

Blackwood sighed.
Like the rest of us.

Sergeant-Major Craven had been making his displeasure known to some marines, almost where he was standing now, when Blackwood had finally managed to get the switchboard to find a connection to the old yacht club. The day she was leaving. The day Gaillard had decided to mount a practice boarding of some landing craft in full battle order.

He had tried to picture her in the club, probably waiting with her bag for a car to take her to the airfield. Maybe the same faces all around, watching, listening. He was being unfair and knew it, but it did not help.

Perhaps they had both known it was too much to hope for. Two whole days? It had been only a dream. He would not have been surprised if the Chief of Staff's secretary had dined out on the story, although for some reason he had known he would keep it to himself.

When he had spoken to him about payment for the room, the lieutenant had brushed it off. ‘Bottle of gin will do, Mike. The Dutchman owes us a few favours, remember?' When they had parted he had added, ‘You're so lucky. I'd commit murder for a girl like her!'

The strange thing was, Blackwood could not recall his name.

She had sounded quite calm on the telephone, had shown neither surprise nor disappointment.

‘Nothing can change for us, Mike. I'm your girl, any way you want me. I'll be waiting.'

During that single night, with the ebb and flow of noise from the street below, the buzz of insects against the lamp, she had held him as if she would never let go when daylight found them. She had told him some of it. The rest he could imagine.

They had loved again, slowly, and with a gentleness so
different from her earlier demands, her need. To break the memory, to disperse thoughts he could not contemplate.

And she had gone. He had even called the airfield to ask if she had been delayed, perhaps for another day. They had refused to tell him anything.
There is a war on, you know!
The refusal to disclose information had told him as clearly as any words.

When would they meet again? Was it meant to end there, in that airless room above the place where boats were repaired?

He smiled. It was a beautiful room; and once again they had eaten nothing before they had parted.

His eyes focused on the signal flimsy. Officers' meeting this afternoon. Lieutenant-Colonel Gaillard and Brigadier Naismith would be expecting an early start.

Was it really possible? Only eight months since he had stood in the old church for his father's funeral, and had kissed his sister good-bye. Only two months since the invincible Afrika Korps had quit Tunisia. How could so much have happened?

So many faces. Terry Carson and his dreams of Greek islands. Falconer, the ex-schoolmaster, who had seen most of his little squadron perish before suffering the same fate with his eager first lieutenant. Blackwood frowned. Balfour, that had been his name. With a photo of his girl beside him as he had written to her. And so many others.
Had been his name.
Like an epitaph . . .

He thought of the corporal named Sharp, who had been badly wounded in the leg during that last raid. A bunch of them had gone down to the hospital to see him leave for England, and had joked with him about the cushy time he would have on the hospital ship with all the nurses.

Sharp was glad to be alive and in one piece. Given
time, he might be sent back to another unit or ship, but not as a commando. His wound had been a close thing, and yet he had not wanted to go. That had been the hardest part. He had gripped Blackwood's hand, as he had on the night when Blackwood had confronted Gaillard, and had refused to leave him behind.

‘Glad about the medal, sir! I'd have given you one, just for doing what you did for me . . .' Neither of them had been able to continue.

So it was something special.
Something special
, no matter what the barrack room sceptics and Whitehall warriors claimed.

And Joanna understood.

Fellowes broke into his thoughts.

‘Can I ask, sir, is it going to be hard graft?'

Blackwood looked at him.
How many years between us? Four at the most. A lifetime.

‘Just so long as we don't forget. We know why we're fighting this war, so let's not forget
how
we do it, right? Tom Paget's your sergeant. Don't be too proud to share your thoughts with him.' He heard ‘Bull' Craven's voice fading into the distance, until the next time, and smiled. ‘He's a good man. I know. Not like some.'

Fellowes was observing him solemnly, the actor again.

Blackwood saw Gaillard striding towards the building, and added quietly, ‘They'll be looking to you. Not to see how tough you are, we all find that out soon enough. It goes deeper.' He thought of her voice in the night. Reassuring him, after all she had gone through herself. ‘They need to know how you feel. They need to know that you care.'

As he closed the door behind him, Lieutenant Fellowes
walked to a window and saw him greet the colonel in a patch of shade.

He had never met anyone like Michael Blackwood before, and it surprised him. He would write to his parents when he had a moment, and tell them about it.

He half-smiled, self-conscious, even though he was quite alone. The actor came to his aid, and he said aloud, ‘“And Conscience doth make cowards of us all.”'

He turned to face the door, ready.

And I would follow him without question.

The door banged open and Gaillard said, ‘Nothing to do, Fellowes?'

Fellowes seized his beret and almost ran from the room.

Order and discipline were restored.

Lieutenant George Despard waited patiently while the last section of marines stowed their kit. He had been right through it, and had cursed it often enough in his time. But these tough, eager young men would learn the sense of it for themselves, if they lived long enough. Getting the feel of it, the weapons and the tools of their trade, the ammunition, strapped and pouched about their bodies until it felt like part of themselves. And the weight was crucial; it had to be considered at every stage. These men were trained to the limit, to land on an unknown beach anywhere, at any time. Like the Corps motto,
Per Mare, Per Terram
, by sea, by land. But even the most rigorous training could not prepare men for every contingency, like a landing craft dropping its ramp too soon, caught, perhaps, on a submerged wreck or some deliberate obstruction. They could curse Sergeant-Major Craven all they liked, it was what he was there for, but they had to
remember every detail.
The weight.
Apart from the steel helmet, uniform and heavy boots, the ammunition weighed a ton, or felt like it. The Bren gunner's pouches weighed ten pounds each, plus the clips of bullets and entrenching tool, and the rifle and bayonet, which added another ten pounds to the load. It made the haversack or pack seem modest by comparison, a mere five pounds including each man's link with normal life: washing and cleaning gear, mess tins, a change of underwear and shirt, and survival rations. It was not much on which to exist.

But, added together, it was all quite enough to carry him to the bottom if he was called upon to ditch.

The balloon was about to go up, and Despard was surprised to discover that he was almost glad of it. The news about his mother had not been unexpected, but it had still come as a shock. There was nothing now to stir the memories of his youth in the Channel Islands, nothing to hold him. He stared at the long grey hulls and the bustling harbour craft. There was only the way ahead. What he did best.

He heard Sergeant ‘Sticks' Welland's boots approaching. One of the hard cases, good with his men and usually reliable. Always ready to carry a new recruit until he was confident enough to fit in. Despard almost grinned. But give him an inch, and he'd steal the shirt off your back.

Welland stamped his feet together. ‘The last section's finished, sir.'

‘They can line up for their dinner soon.' Another memory. Aboard ship, the pipe was always
Hands to dinner
, and the quartermaster would invariably add, ‘Officers to
lunch.
'

Welland said, ‘Heard a buzz that there's an officers' meeting this afternoon, sir.'

It was probably true. He had seen their newly minted lieutenant-colonel in conversation with Blackwood. Welland would know; the sergeants always did.

‘Can't be too soon for me.' He thought of Blackwood and the W.A.A.F. he was rumoured to be seeing, and wondered if she would ever know the man he knew, whom he had seen kill one of the enemy.

Welland watched him curiously. He, too, knew about the captain's girl. It was too interesting not to know, especially in this mob. Bloody good luck to him, he thought. He was a decent bloke, as far as you could tell with any officer. Welland had never been really serious about anyone for long. He just liked women for what they were. There was a solitary exception, Pam, a N.A.A.F.I. manager at Plymouth. She was married to some bloke stationed in India, so he was no bother. She was not exactly beautiful; she wasn't even as young as most of the scrubbers who hung about the barracks and dockyard gates, but she had something more than all the rest put together. No promises, no ties, and he guessed he wasn't the only caller at her door. But she was special, and she was always glad to see him, no matter how long in between. And each time they parted she made no demands. Welland was a great admirer of Henry Hall's band, which played regularly on the wireless. He always signed off the air with the same song, ‘
Here's to the next time!
' It could have been just for Pam.

He asked carefully, ‘D'you reckon Captain Blackwood will get made up to major? I mean, with promotion flying about in every direction?'

Despard shrugged. ‘Probably not. You know what it's like. I'm glad he's with us, that's all.' He put it down to
the heat. He would never otherwise discuss another officer with Welland, or anyone else.

Welland nodded, a frown forming between his eyes as he saw Sergeant-Major Craven striding amongst the dismissed marines, one hand jabbing here or there as if to reveal some fault. Welland had known Craven as a colour-sergeant. Even then he had been bad enough, full of bullshit, and always shooting off about himself. Of how
Dickie Mountbatten himself turned to me and praised the turnout of my section.
Or the admiral who had died in harness at Whitehall, and Craven had been part of the burial detail.
The admiral's wife was all over me, I can tell you! Soon forgot about her old man!
A right bastard.

‘I'll carry on, sir.'

Despard watched him march away, and knew why.

Craven came up to him and saluted, his heels making little horseshoes in the hard-packed earth.
If it moves, salute it. If it doesn't, paint it white.

‘A good turnout, Sar'-Major.'

Craven eyed him as if considering it.

‘They're learning, sir. Most of 'em. Still need some more time.'

Despard said, ‘We don't have any. They look ready enough to me.'

The eyes flickered only slightly. ‘If you say so, sir.' He waited a few seconds. ‘You must have seen the changes yerself, sir? I mean, when you . . .'

‘I know what you mean, Mr Craven. Yes, I still do. I can live with it.'

He relented, slightly. The next weeks, less for some, might decide everything. And the Royals would be on the
knife-edge of it, that was bloody obvious with all the top brass scurrying around.

He said, ‘They're the best we've got. I hope they think the same about us!'

He turned as the orderly sergeant approached from the wooden building. He did not see the triumph in Craven's eyes, as if he had discovered a flaw, a weakness. Nor would he have cared.

The orderly sergeant said, ‘Just posting this notice, sir.' He held it up for Despard to read.