Knife Edge (2004) (33 page)

“Tomorrow, sir?”

Parsons glanced coolly at him. “You are the duty N.C.O., I believe?” He did not wait for an answer. “I mean now!”

The same messman entered with a tray and a silver teapot.

Parsons said, “Good show. You could die of thirst in this place!”

Harwood saw the messman give him a look.
Watch your step.

Forester stared at the cup of tea which had been placed at his side.

“Major Blackwood will be back very shortly. He wants all N.C.O.s here in an hour. Put the word about. I want
everybody
, no absentees, right?”

Harwood said, “Right,” and cleared his throat. “Has the balloon gone up, sir?”

Forester turned blank eyes on him, surprised, or angered into silence. Parsons banged his cup into the saucer.

“Well, why not? You’re a part of it, Sergeant.” He was smiling. “‘Lazarus’ has risen again. It is a full emergency. For
us
, in any case.”

That would be something to make them all sit up in the sergeants’ mess.
And I said to the Boss-Man . . .

He saw another messman come in with a telephone, and plug it into a wall socket. Forester had a file of papers open on his lap, and was staring at them, but his eyes were not moving.

Parsons took the telephone, and covered the mouthpiece. “Don’t hang about. Get more men if you need them. That’s an order.” He turned his back. “From
me
!”

Harwood left the room, still grappling with what he had seen and heard. Piece by piece, as if he was describing it. All those faces, some he had known on and off over the years; it was like that in the Royals. Others just walked into your life, and after that it was up to you. You laughed it off, or you hit back.

He saw the duty corporal running to meet him. It was no longer a secret. A full emergency. Soon the whole place would be jumping.

He did not know why, but he was glad the waiting was over. And that he was a part of it.

Reeves, the W.O.2, the senior and also oldest marine stationed at Poole, drew his heels soundlessly together and reported, “All present, sir. Sarn’t Harwood on special duty.” Big, heavily built, and known as ‘Tosh’, but only behind his back, he was an impressive figure. He had barely raised his voice, and yet it was as if he had crashed his boots and shouted at the top of his powerful lungs. One of the old school: he did not need to do either. He was in charge.

Ross Blackwood walked to the edge of the low platform and looked at the waiting faces. It had taken longer than expected to get here. A truck overturned in the road, angry exchanges, unmoved police taking notes. Some one sobbing.

He lifted his hand.

“Sit down, please. You’ve been hanging about long enough.” He felt the tension slipping away, the resentment also. This had to be close, personal. It had to be right.

Captain Forester and a lieutenant he scarcely knew were by the wall. Parsons was still around, but out of sight. His mind repeated it.
It has to be right.

Faces with names; others he knew only by sight or caught in some aspect of memory. All part of it. Young, some very young, but all individuals.

‘Tosh’ Reeves might be remembering when the Royal Marines were very different. As one old instructor had said,
So long as you can salute smartly an’ shoot straight, you’ll do for me!

Now, even the inner strength of the commando was changing. Acting as one, or standing together, each man was a separate unit. Professionals. Sergeants and corporals. It was no longer enough merely to obey orders, and die.

“You’ve all been following the news about events in the South Atlantic, and in the Falklands. You have been on
stand by, and you have probably used and heard more curses and gained more cuts and bruises than even Mr. Reeves knew existed!”

A few smiles; the lieutenant was leaning over to answer or ask Forester a question.

“There have been more reports,
verified
reports, about Argentine ship movements. These are not something you can hide. And the official reason is that the Argentine navy is on a combined anti-submarine exercise. I am informed that most of the naval berths and moorings are empty. So, if it
is
only an exercise, it will certainly prove a damned expensive one.”

He had their full attention; they were very quiet now, and he saw one man turning to say something to another behind him, exchange nods. A grin, too.

“Most of our armed forces are on leave. I could hear you lot moaning about it from the main road!” There were some laughs. He saw the sergeant known as Smiler prod his companion’s arm, perhaps to ask him something. The other man nodded, very definitely.

“The situation is officially unchanged. A watching brief, you might call it.”

He thought of her voice on the telephone. “I
knew
, Ross. I had a feeling. I want you to know. I understand. I love you. I’ll wait to hear . . .” The rest had been lost. What must she really think?

“For us, things have been upgraded. Tomorrow the first sections will be moved to Plymouth, Devonport, where you will embark aboard a transport.” He looked along the faces, wishing he could reach each one individually. This was a technique, an interpersonal skill, which could never be gained by training. They never told you . . . “As of now, we are at combat readiness.” He must have been making some gesture; he let his arms fall to his sides. “People will be
proud of you.” He wanted to smile, or offer something profound, some sentiment they would remember, but all that came was, “As I am.”

He walked from the platform, leaving behind a silence so intense that he could have been back in the underground War Room.

They were all on their feet, not at attention, but turning to watch him leave.

One voice shattered the stillness.

“Good on you, Major! We’re on our way!”

The tension seemed to snap. They were stamping and cheering, and he felt some one reach out to touch his arm as he passed.

He did not remember finding the door, the escape. He was glad only that they could not see his face.

Captain Toby Forester leaned over a guardrail and peered along the full length of the ship. Like most of the Royal Marines, especially commandos, his sea experience had been limited to small warships, frigates or the mixed collection of launches and patrol vessels of the Special Boat Squadron, where you knew every face and could relay an order without even raising your voice.

The Royal Fleet Auxiliary
Manxman
was huge by comparison. Built along the lines of a freighter, and used for carrying every kind of equipment, fuel and stores for the fleet at large, she was almost overwhelming.

The two launches were dwarfed, side by side on the main deck. Above and around them derricks hovered like storks, ready to hoist and then lower them alongside under almost any conditions. One of
Manxman
’s officers had said, “We’ll put ’em where you want ’em. After that it’ll be your problem!” Like the ship’s stocky, bearded captain, he had seen and moved just about everything.

To them, the commandos and their kit were just another cargo.

It was almost done. N.C.O.s had reported their sections allotted to messing areas, muster points for any emergency, and places where they could exercise or drill as events dictated. Devonport was next to and a part of Plymouth itself, although local people insisted there was a distinct, if invisible, barrier between them.

To the marines, Plymouth was a part of their own particular world, and Forester had seen several of them looking wistfully at the land, maybe thinking of risking a run ashore, despite rigid orders to the contrary.

A long day: Forester could hardly remember a busier one since the so-called emergency. Ever since Parsons had burst into their lives.

He was up on the massive bridge right now. Studying the ship’s navigational aids, “getting the feel of things”, as he put it. Maybe if the emergency proved to be a false one Parsons would be sent elsewhere, to make some one else’s life a misery.

Forester moved along the rail, if only to avoid some seamen who were hoisting yet another crate of stores from one of the carefully marked hatchways.

It was getting dark. He shivered. Darker than usual. He could see a procession of headlights passing between two blocks of buildings. People going home for the long weekend. Or maybe, like most of the armed services, heading away on holiday. No wonder he had heard some of the marines complaining about it. ‘If you can’t take a joke’ did not carry much weight at the moment aboard the
Manxman
.

He thought suddenly of Blackwood, and his address to the N.C.O.s. He had not bragged or boasted; he had simply talked. Shared it. Forester always felt that he had the measure of his men when he was called upon to speak about
company matters and daily routine. If you went beyond that, you could so easily make a fool of yourself if you stepped over the line. Keep your distance, and your self-respect remained intact.

He heard voices below him and saw Hamlyn with a corporal, studying a sheet of paper and ticking off one of the items. The corporal laughed, and Forester saw him touch the lieutenant’s arm. “You owe me a tot for finding that one, sir!”

That sort of familiarity disturbed him. When he had been a young subaltern he had found himself in hot water with his commanding officer because one of his marines had let him down. He had trusted him, and had got the rocket because of it.

Hamlyn seemed to cope with it. Outwardly easygoing, but never casual. He knew where to draw the line.

He turned toward the dockyard again. It was darker still, and some lighted windows were coming to life by the road. Probably a pub. There would not be much business this evening. Everybody was on leave.

He thought about Lois, considered what she might be doing. Maybe visiting the people she knew at the tennis club. They had been married less than three years, and he still noticed the looks they got when they were together. She could turn anybody’s head . . . He could guess what some of the glances implied. In a strange way, it excited him. Something he always remembered when they were alone together.

She had seemed keen on Peter Hamlyn from the beginning, teasing him, even scolding him when they played tennis; and he seemed to enjoy it. Who wouldn’t?

He still did not know what had made him do it. She had been writing a letter a few days ago when he had arrived at their rented flat near the Poole H.Q. He had seen her cover
it, so it was something private. It was only later that he began to question it. And then later, when he had seen an envelope in the porter’s lobby, for Hamlyn. The address had been typed, and yet . . . He still could not understand what had made him suspicious, but he had pulled the letter from the rack to examine it. If any one had seen him, it would have been hard to explain, and now he almost wished he had left it alone. He had not recognized the envelope but her perfume had left no room for doubt; it was the same musky, sensual smell she had sometimes sprayed on letters to him. He saw her vividly now in his mind. The way she laughed and moved, and touched her lower lip with her tongue.

I must have been blind. Stupid.

He swung round; there was some one right beside him.

“
Yes?
What is it?”

He hardly recognized his own voice.

“From Major Blackwood, sir. Would you join him on the upper bridge.” He was pointing into the shadows.

“I
know
where it is, man!” He wanted to reach out, apologize. It was not like him; he never lost control. But the messenger had gone, and was probably even now letting off steam about it.
Forester’s got the jitters.
Or worse.

He forced himself to walk unhurriedly toward the bridge superstructure, taking his time, allowing his mind to settle. Some one was testing the starboard navigation light,
on – off – on – off
, like a huge green eye. As if the ship was preparing to get under way.

But all he could think about was Lois. What might have caused this . . . this thing to happen. Beyond imagination and belief.

Something close by gave a metallic shudder, a small generator or a piece of hoisting tackle. In his blurred mind, it seemed as if the entire ship was coming alive. Leaving.

There had never been any rift or misunderstanding in their marriage. People had remarked on it. Friends envied them.

Only once, that he could remember, there had been something trivial, when Lois had had a bit too much to drink, and he had warned her about it. There had been no anger that he could recall, but her words were suddenly as fresh as if she had just spoken them aloud.

Say and do what you like, Toby. But don’t you ever take me for granted.

And now, it was too late.

Ross Blackwood paused on the bridge wing and stared into the surrounding darkness. After the contained world of the chart room it seemed noisy and almost hostile, with pellets of spray hitting his borrowed oilskin, thrown up from
Manxman
’s invisible bows. He could feel the ship trembling to the regular thrust of the screws, as if
Manxman
were glad to be moving, free of the land, now that the uncertainty and frustration were over.

Things had happened quickly. During the forenoon watch today, Friday, the signal had been received, and everything had changed. It infuriated him to think that those in authority had delayed until the very last moment, ignoring the inevitable, until it was too late to prevent it.

In the early hours of the morning Special Forces of the Argentine army and navy had landed in the Falklands, over a thousand troops sweeping into the capital, Stanley, with armoured vehicles in support.

He looked abeam and saw some tiny lights blinking through the darkness. Navigation buoys, the last links with the land. The ship was moving fast, despite her size and bulk; the captain had mentioned eighteen knots, and you could feel it. Down Channel, and leaving the Lizard astern,
into the deep and heavy water of the Atlantic itself. You could feel that, too.

The captain seemed quite unruffled by the sudden demand for action; his ship had been made ready for sea in no time. Ross had been on the bridge when
Manxman
had moved into open water. A few people waving from the dockyard; and he had seen the last mail go ashore. There had been less than he expected. Perhaps the marines, irrespective of age or service, were like the ship, tired of waiting and eager to get on with it. And some had probably thought they would hear it was another false alarm when eventually they reached their first stop. It only added to the sense of unreality. Time and distance: a challenge even to the most experienced sailor. Ascension Island was their first landfall, over three and a half thousand miles away, where they would rendezvous with other ships. Ross could imagine the nightmare this was for operational and signals staff: thousands of men and women to be recalled from leave, many of whom would be out of the country, blissfully unaware of the crisis until the truth burst in upon them. Ships with depleted crews, aircraft standing down for Easter, utter confusion until some one took overall command. A war footing. In the midst of peace, it was almost incredible.