Dust On the Sea (41 page)

His muscles were still bunched, unable to relax, to accept that the sudden stammer of machine gun fire and then the louder explosions were quite detached.
Nothing to do with us
. Was he the only one, he wondered, or had the others, the more experienced marines, known from the beginning that they were not the target?

He heard the other two officers talking to the landing craft skipper, a young R.N.V.R. subbie who looked as if he should still be in school uniform. Despard's voice was unhurried, measured. Making a point which he needed to know was understood. And Lieutenant Capel, a sharper tone, impatient, or perhaps less confident now.

One thing stood out above all else. One landing craft had been destroyed. That final explosion had demolished hope and doubt alike. He had even seen the outline of this small, desolate island named Angelo for the first time, albeit briefly, until the fiery glow had died, and men with it.

Suppose it had been the leading craft? Gaillard and
Mike Blackwood together? He guessed that was what the young subbie was thinking. That his own superior, the tough Lieutenant Dick Stuart, had bought it.

Despard pulled himself hand over hand along a rail to join him.

‘The rest of our main party must be ashore. It'll be light in an hour or so. They'll need all the help we can give them.' He gripped his arm. ‘We can't beach the thing here, it's too rocky. Our skipper seems to think so, anyway.'

There was no anger or sarcasm. If anything, Despard was only voicing his thoughts, facing what seemed inevitable to him. It was his decision.

Steve Blackwood said, ‘We've got the rubber dinghies.' He felt Despard's grip relax and then withdraw. Relief? Had he expected him to back down? To insist that they pull away while there was still a glimmer of hope?

He said quietly, ‘I can do it.' Just like that.

Despard cursed as the hull rocked dangerously in the swell. ‘
We'll
do it! Just tell me what you need.' He saw that Capel had joined them. ‘Get your climbers ready. We're going in now! Dinghies!'

Capel was staring at him. ‘We don't know for sure that they're able to hold out! We could be walking straight into it!'

Despard groped past him and called into the wheelhouse, ‘Close as you can!' The young subbie said something and Despard retorted harshly, ‘And
I
say, damn your bloody orders!'

The engines increased speed. Where was the tail-end landing craft? Keeping well out of it, probably.

He saw Despard's powerful figure striding amongst the
landing party, his voice rallying them, dispelling uncertainty. And hope. Despard had known that this might happen, but had not known how to share it.

Winches squeaked, and he knew the two big dinghies were being swung outboard. He saw Sergeant Godden dragging one of his packs of explosives and said, ‘I'm taking this one. You stay on board.'

Godden showed his teeth. ‘What, miss all the fun? With respect, sir . . .'

They both stared at the sky as a flare exploded on the other side of a ridge of land. Like a moonscape, stark and vivid.

Godden exclaimed, ‘There's our other boat! I thought they'd done a bunk!'

Despard was here again. ‘I'll lead. Mr Capel will keep with you.' It sounded so formal that the closeness of danger seemed secondary.

Steve watched Despard leap into the long rubber dinghy and found time to wonder at the speed and confidence with which the marines used paddles to manoeuvre the cumbersome craft clear of the side.

He said, ‘Over you go, lads!' He dragged his eyes from the fresh outburst of tracer which clawed towards the other landing craft. He saw sparks, and could imagine the havoc caused in such a small, overcrowded hull. But it was still moving, turning now, perhaps to follow them, an ancient Lewis gun firing blindly at the land.

Despard's dinghy slewed round and almost overturned as it drove over a low ledge of rock. Men were already scrambling out, some with packs of explosives, others dropping down to offer covering fire if the enemy was waiting for them. There seemed to be plenty happening on the far side of the ridge, small arms fire and some
grenades, but nothing nearer. Steve Blackwood was flung on his back by the rearing dinghy, and felt hands grabbing him. ‘Sticks' Welland was spitting out sea water and saying, ‘Bloody pongos – I don't know, I'm sure!' He was actually laughing.

And here was the ridge. A cliff, a wall of rock. No wonder the enemy thought it was a good hiding-place for their boats.

The marines were already swarming up from the ledge where they had smashed unceremoniously ashore. When one of them reached the top he realised that he could see his head and shoulders silhouetted against the sky, when minutes earlier, or so it felt, there had been only darkness.

Heaving lines dropped like snakes, and the heavy packs were soon bobbing up the sheer rock face as if completely unaided.

Despard said, ‘Now you, Steve. After this it's your show. I'll give you all the cover I can.' He did not turn as more machine gun fire clattered and echoed amongst the rocks. His eyes suddenly gleamed as an explosion boomed against the land like heavy surf. The other landing craft had been hit. Drifting now; he imagined he could smell the stench of burning, or high explosives. He added shortly, ‘Either way, we're on our own, so let's make a good job of it!' He clapped him on his soaking shoulder and hurried after his men.

Lieutenant Capel said, ‘Here. Keep with me. We'll go up together.'

Welland was coiling up a heaving line, but paused to watch them begin their ascent.

Even Capel's confidence did not touch him now. He had to admit that, for an officer, he was good at it. But he would die rather than say as much. He stared at the other
marines, moving away like shadows, hearing the occasional click of steel. Trained fighting men. Special. He tried to push the rest from his mind; it had always worked in the past. Bash on regardless, was his motto. But this was different.

He realised that the untidy, red-haired sapper was watching him and said sharply, ‘Well, let's be about it, eh, matey?'

Godden scurried after him. He believed he knew what was troubling the commando sergeant. He thought they were all going to be killed. Killed for nothing which he could recognise. Like risking life and limb to blow open a difficult safe, only to discover that it was empty. A waste of time. But petermen, even good ones, had no traditions or discipline to sustain them if things went wrong. It was all part of the game.

Welland, maybe for the first time in his life, felt cheated, without the prop he had come to take for granted.

A marine corporal who was following him up the rock drove his boot into a niche and called, ‘'Old on, Sarge! Can't afford to lose
you
!'

Godden blinked as grit fell across his face and mouth, and took a firmer grip of the line which had been dropped for him. Not what he had joined up for. Perhaps Welland was right after all. A grubby hand reached down and seized his, the dirt and blood of the climb sealing it like a bond.

The marine said, ‘Cheers, Sarge! Bloody well done!'

It was crazy, but suddenly Godden was glad he was here.

Leaving cover, even the most precarious kind, was always a bad moment. Something you had to force yourself to get used to. Captain Mike Blackwood rested for a few seconds and looked back at the barrier of fallen rock. He could have been quite alone; Tom Paget and his collection of ‘likely villains' had vanished. But he knew they would be watching him right now, and scanning the surrounding terrain for any sign of movement or danger.

He tried again. A few inches at a time, moving his head from side to side to try and assess the lie of the land. The sky was much lighter, but there was no hint of the heat soon to come. Individual rocks and clumps of rough gorse stood out more clearly with each painful movement. He felt an insect cross the back of his hand, and found himself hating this desolate place. There were a few bird droppings, but not many. Even the gulls had deserted the soulless remains of a long extinct volcano.

Here was the edge of the ridge, the headland which had appeared so simple on the chart and action-maps. And water. He thought of the wounded marine.
Just get me to the bloody sea
. Except that this time it was not an ally, but a trap if things went wrong.

He raised himself very slowly, waiting for his body to loosen up, to rid itself of the instant tension of breaking cover, waiting for the sound of a shot, and the sickening impact of a bullet. Merciful oblivion, and not a lingering death up here on this pitiless shoulder of rock.

Then he saw it. An oval-shaped lagoon, no more than half a mile long at a guess. He leaned further forward. The water was still partly in shadow, but he could see the other headland, higher and already catching the first light of morning, like a protective arm. And below it was the entrance, so narrow that only small craft would be able to
use it. He could even see some coloured markers, stark and alien, hammered into the rocky walls, guides for boats entering and leaving, the first sign of human occupation. He smiled, tasting salt on his lower lip. The tracer had been real enough. And the exploding landing craft. A matter of a few hours, and yet it was already in the past. Unimportant.

He remembered what the R.N.R. lieutenant had said about this place and other islets like it. Narrow approaches, but depths out of all proportion to them, making useful buoyage almost impossible. Hence the markers; the German commander had done his homework too.

He shifted his body again, the rough ground dragging at his webbing and holster. The other headland was where Despard's party should be, if they had made it. Despard's resolute features came clearly to his mind. It would not be for want of trying.

There was a big overhang of rock there, and the cliff below was almost cave-like. Perhaps the water had been higher in earlier times. He heard the insistent stammer of a boat's engine. Just the one. Probably the same boat as before, which had made Gaillard so impatient.

If Despard's party could get into position and lay their charges, that overhanging cliff would block the channel completely. If not, the boats would try to slip out and head for open water.

Either way, Force
Trident
, or what was left of it, would be trapped. He glanced at his hand. He could feel where the insect had bitten him; he could see it too. Just a few more minutes . . .

He struggled to pull out his binoculars, and, holding his breath, he trained them along the full length of the lagoon. Dark, placid water. No movement. Dead like the rest of
the place. He tensed as he steadied the glasses on a flaw in the pattern, a long blue-green stain on the surface. Fuel. The boats must be right there. Deep water, close to the protective cliffs, and invisible from the air, according to the R.A.F.

Even if they blocked the channel, they could never dislodge the troops who were guarding the anchorage. He tried to shut it from his mind. The target would be impotent, for a while. Was it really worth so many lives?

It was pointless even to consider it, to compare costs. They had gone through all that and far more in that other war.
To survive
. Not an objective or a chance of glory, but only to live, even after you had gone over the top with friends falling and dying all around you.
To live.

He pushed himself away from the edge, his mind clinging to the quiet water, the silence broken only by the stammering engine.

If these explosive motor boats got amongst the next landing fleet, it would be murder. They would not go for the escorts and the faster warships; they would point their deadly cargoes at the troopers and the supply vessels. He thought of the other raids, and of
Husky
itself, and of all those other blurred faces, the Irrawaddy and Rangoon. It would all have been for nothing if the new impetus came to a halt.

Sergeant Paget helped to drag him through the rocks, obviously glad to see him. Fifteen minutes. But it could be a long time when you think you may have been suddenly left in charge.

‘I think the boats will try to leave quite soon.' They were all crowded round to listen, faces becoming individuals as the first rays of light touched the razor-sharp rocks.

‘What about the Krauts, sir?'

‘No sign. But they'll try something once they realise we're here.' He gestured with his hand. ‘There's a piece of high ground. A good marksman could pin us down from there.'

Paget nodded, already selecting his men.

‘What about Mr Despard, sir?'

That was Marine Pratt, the one they made jokes about. He had done seven years in the Corps before he had volunteered for the Commando. An obvious candidate for promotion on the face of it, but it had so far eluded him. Slow-speaking and lugubrious, he could still come straight to the point. Like now.

Blackwood replied, ‘I don't know. If his party can block the entrance, we'll have done what we came for. If not, we'll have to try and stop the buggers ourselves.'

Pratt nodded, his features as mournful as ever. Blackwood remembered someone telling him that he could read a full page of an instruction manual and repeat it word for word, weapons, blockages, the intimate details of everything from a Browning automatic rifle to assembling an entrenching tool. But if he was asked a question or interrupted in any way he was lost, and had to go right back to the beginning again.

He had also heard Archer telling another marine that if awards were made for gossip, Pratt would be given the star prize.

Paget said, ‘One boat at a time then, sir?' He sounded doubtful. But he was also aware that there was no alternative.

Blackwood gazed at the sky.
Despard's party
. Why had he avoided mentioning Steve Blackwood, the man
who hoped to many his sister? Afraid for him? Or afraid of what might already have happened?

‘Send a message to the Colonel. Tell him we're going down as far as we can.'