Dust On the Sea (40 page)

He saw the other lieutenant scramble past: Fellowes. Didn't have a clue, but seemed ready to listen to others who did. An actor, they said.
Just what we need in this regiment.

Dead slow. Dead slow. The vibration made everything shake and rattle. Enough to wake the bloody dead. In fact, he knew that their approach would be almost soundless. He gripped his rifle. All the same . . .

‘Starboard beam! One of them's in trouble!'

Another voice snapped, ‘Silence, that man!'

Archer raised himself on his toes. It was probably a sandbar.
That's better.

The flare exploded, a blinding, glacier intensity which made men duck or cover their eyes. There had been no sound, or if there had been it was lost in the growl of the engines. It was like a film suddenly jammed in the projector, motionless, although that was another illusion. The other landing craft had slewed round, almost bows-on, only her frothing wash, sandy yellow in the unwavering glare, betraying their frantic efforts to go astern, to free the hull from yet another treacherous spit of land.

Archer shaded his eyes and tried to see the island. The flare was already dying, and he could just make out the
nearest hump of solid ground. Even that looked unreal, as if it had been transformed by the light; it was pale, like salt. He heard the clatter of ammunition belts as one of the machine gunners swung his sights towards the shining patch of water.

‘Hold your fire!' Archer hurried forward. It was Blackwood's voice. In the blink of an eye, everything had changed. He kept telling himself it was just bad luck; they would tow the poor bastards off and try again. The third landing craft was somewhere to port. They must be wondering what the hell was happening.

Some of the seamen were already running aft; one fell headlong as the flare died, as if somebody had switched it off by hand.

Archer felt the sudden quiver of increasing speed, spray pattering over the side, hitting his helmet. They were not turning. Not going to help the other craft. It was so bloody dark after the searing light he could barely think straight.

And then came the tracer, angled down, but at a guess not from any great height, probably a ridge or a fold in the cliff.

Bright green balls of fire. Flashing above their own reflections on the heaving water, dead straight and flat trajectory: a small but powerful cannon.

Archer's experienced eye had time to take this in, to estimate the range and force of the shellfire, as the invisible gunners found and straddled the grounded landing craft.

Flashes now, and separate explosions, and then writhing banners of flame, fuel and ammunition, and there were men out there, too, burning and dying.

Archer stared until his eyes watered, until the boat
turned again and steel blotted out the scene. Men he knew, like those pressed around him.
Like me
. Who believe it only happens to someone else. There was a loud explosion, and then hundreds of small feathers of spray as fragments rained down in every direction. There was another explosion. Then there was only darkness.

Archer had moved without realising it. As if, like the imaginary hand on the light, some greater force had taken over.

Somebody must still be alive back there. Even if only one.

‘
Prepare to beach!
'

Archer moved his rifle, something so familiar that it was almost a part of him now. It felt slippery, and he knew it was not from spray.

And Blackwood was beside him.

‘All right?'

Archer tried to grin but his jaws felt locked. He knew it was important, perhaps for both of them.

He barely staggered as the ramp came down and water surged amongst them like surf.

He tried again. ‘Never better, sir!'

Somebody only a yard away threw up his hands to his face and pitched into the swirling water. He did not move again, and Archer realised he had not even heard the shot which had killed him.

He ran after Blackwood and tried to empty his mind of everything but the job, stage by stage, as it had always been.

But all he could feel was the hatred.

‘
Get down!
' Blackwood dropped on one knee and peered
ahead and upwards as dark shapes spread out on either side, gasping for breath like old men.

‘Second section, follow me!' That was Tom Paget, keeping his head. If he had doubts, he was giving nothing away to his men after the unexpected turn of events.

A few stray shots cracked and ricocheted from the rough ground, to be challenged instantly by a burst of Lewis gun fire from the landing craft. It was going astern; Blackwood could see it in his mind. The ramp raised like a drawbridge. No way back.

Gaillard was beside him, dragging at his night glasses. ‘How many, d'you think?'

Blackwood listened, thankful that his heart was steady again. He wanted to laugh. Steady? How could that be?

More shots, a light automatic, sparingly used.

He winced as someone called out, ‘
Oh, Christ! Oh, Christ!
' Another casualty.

He said, ‘Only a picket, I'd say. My guess is that the main body are on the far side, watching the other craft or what's left of it.' Just something to say. To keep his nerve, to shut out the pitiful cries from the wounded man, rising and edged with fear as realisation drilled through the pain.

‘Don't leave me, lads!
It's me, for Christ's sake!
'

Blackwood heard someone mutter, ‘Stow it!' Then, as the man began to scream, he added almost savagely, ‘Die, you bastard! For God's sake, die!'

It was Archer, of all people.

He heard Paget whistle between his teeth, his private signal. His section was in position, above and to the left. In daylight there would be no cover at all. They had to move.

He gripped his Sten, his mind cringing as the wounded
man began to sob like a child. It was far worse than the screaming.

‘Now or never, sir.' He was prompting him, could not help it. Gaillard lurched to his feet. He did not even flinch as another shot kicked grit from the ground.

He said, ‘Different angle. The bugger's moving back.' He seemed to make up his mind. ‘Advance.' He reached out to steady himself, and might have fallen but for another anonymous figure. ‘Now or never, eh? I like that! We'll show 'em!'

Blackwood waved his arm and felt the marines respond, as if they were all taped together. Show who, he wondered. Naismith, Vaughan . . .? He waved the arm again. ‘Move, lads!
Move! Move!
'

The wounded man must have sensed what was happening and shouted, ‘Don't leave me! You rotten bastards!'

The marines scrambled up the slope, shutting their ears, hating the unknown voice, and one another because of it.

‘Down!' Blackwood gasped as he felt the rock grind into his knee. More shots, tracer this time. He watched it, like blood against the sky. The other landing craft had made it, had pressed on despite the noise and the explosions, and the fate of the third craft. It was little enough. He pressed his face to his forearm and contained his emotion. They were no longer alone.

He thought suddenly of Despard and the supporting party with the sappers and explosives. The whole place would be like a madhouse soon; Despard might stand away. It would be pointless to sacrifice men for nothing. He forced himself to his knees. Despard would never stand away at any time, orders or not. He recalled his own
anger when Gaillard had made his little speech to the officers. It had been like an insult.

‘
Move! Move!
' They were running forward again; it felt more like staggering. One man stopped in his tracks, his knees buckling. He dropped his rifle and fell beside it, as if he was praying. Another marine skidded to a halt, and reached out his hand towards him.

‘
Tim!
'

That was all. Then he ran on, his friend already dead. Nothing. There were frantic shouts, muffled, shielded by a shoulder of rock, and then a wild cheer, drowned out by the concentrated rattle of machine guns.

Blackwood glanced at the sky. Was it lighter already? So soon . . .

The other landing party had jumped an enemy patrol, or perhaps one of the regular guard detail. He shook himself.
We would have blundered right into it.

A figure darted around the rock and fell sprawling to a single shot, and he heard Bull Craven's hard voice.

‘Not fast enough, my son!'

Almost matter of fact. And yet Craven had just killed a man, without even raising his voice.

‘Spread out and find what cover you can!' Blackwood peered down a crumbling slope. He could see nothing, but sensed the water somewhere below him. The lagoon, the anchorage. What was probably an old volcano crater. The target.

They fell flat, faces and fingers pressing into the dirt, bodies tense and vulnerable as more tracer angled across the uneven ground. He saw it reflected in the unmoving water. To move forward would be suicide. To wait for daylight would only postpone the inevitable.

He had seen the close-fitting helmet which Craven's
victim had been wearing. A paratrooper's helmet, just like the one in the recognition manual.
Know Your Enemy
. Hard men, who had proved themselves in Poland and Russia, in France and in Crete. They gave no quarter, any more than they would plead for it.

Gaillard raised his head and watched the probing bursts of tracer.

‘The other two craft should be here by now! What the hell is Despard doing? If I thought for a moment . . .' He jerked upright again, oblivious or unaware of the spiteful burst of gunfire.

‘Watch it, sir!' Gaillard had not even heard him. And then he knew what had taken and seized his attention like a claw.

The sound was magnified by the natural rock wall of the lagoon. No wonder the intelligence people had claimed it was impossible to destroy, even with fighter-bombers. Heavier aircraft would have been equally useless.

It was the sound of a boat's engine, spluttering at first, as if rudely awakened like the paratroopers who were guarding the place, then steadying into an even murmur.

Blackwood watched Gaillard's silhouette. Unmoving. Stricken. What did these boats do? Thirty knots, more? It could make no difference now. The Germans had probably exercised them over and over again. They would not hang about and wait to be destroyed or captured.

More tracer, feeling its way. As ordered, the marines remained in position, and left the field open to the snipers. It could not change things, but it might confuse the enemy as to their strength and deployment. A waiting game. He moved his Sten until he could see it against the pale rock.
Two hours at the most. The stars seemed fainter, even though he knew he was imagining it.

They should have had a bigger force, more landing craft. The Germans would have gone anyway. He glanced at Gaillard again. He knew, must have known from the start. He thought of the S.A.S. officer in the filthy lambswool jerkin.
Warning me
. That Gaillard needed to carry it through, if only to save himself.

He thought of the screaming marine, and the one who had died with such quiet dignity.
Tim
. A cry of anguish, for all of them.

He knew that if he touched his pocket he would feel the crumpled, unfinished letter. Not even started.
Like us
. He did not; he knew it would finish him.

He said, ‘I can take one section and go down there, sir. Now.' How could his voice sound so level, so devoid of doubt? His entire body was coiled like a spring; lose that, and he would crack wide open. It was what he had tried to explain to her. And she had understood. Had shared it.

‘Death or glory, eh?' Gaillard seemed to be smiling. ‘Let me see, how many V.C.s in your family? Two, isn't it? Out for the next one, are you?'

Blackwood clenched his fists, saying nothing, remembering his first thought when Vaughan had told him about the new posting.
I wanted him dead.

Gaillard said, ‘Might work. Diversion – anything to prevent those bastards from getting away. That must not happen!' Then he removed his helmet and wiped his face with his handkerchief. Blackwood heard Archer draw a sharp breath. A handkerchief, even a khaki one, like the movement of a rifle bolt, was a gift to any sniper worth his salt.

He began to back away. ‘When the sappers arrive, sir . . .'

‘Just do it! I'll decide on the final –' Gaillard turned abruptly as a stray shot sang overhead like a hornet.

Sergeant Paget was waiting for him, as if he had been expecting him.

‘Ready, sir.'

‘Never volunteer.' He gripped his arm. ‘Thanks, Tom.'

Paget hesitated, caught out by the use of his name. ‘I've detailed some likely villains, sir.' He nodded towards another shadow. ‘Marine Archer insisted, of course.'

Blackwood tensed as more stars of tracer floated over the wall of lava rock. Not now.
Not now . . .
And another voice.
It's what we do. What I am.

‘We go down now.' Paget had not named any of the others, and he thought it was better not to know. He gritted his teeth.
Tim
. ‘We'll hold them inside the anchorage until the second party arrives. Sergeant-Major Craven will give covering fire if we have to withdraw.' Someone managed a faint but ironic cheer.

He added simply, ‘I won't ask for questions. I might not have the answers.'

They started down the slope, weapons slung for balance as well as safety. If it went wrong from the beginning there would be no time to pull a trigger.

Paget remained in the rear. It did not need to be shouted out loud.
In case I fall.

He touched his pocket and felt the letter, something he had tried not to do.

It was only her name, after all. He quickened his pace, his mind suddenly clear.

It was enough.

Lieutenant Steve Blackwood held tightly to the side of the small wheelhouse and stared at the intermittent flashes, the occasional drifting balls of tracer. So deceptively slow, distance giving it a sort of cruel beauty.