Knife Edge (2004) (35 page)

Maybe Leach was watching or listening to the two soldiers who were positioned each side of the helmsman, the three of them swaying and bowing as if in some ritual dance. They were both S.A.S., and had been brought out to
Manxman
as key players in the operation. Hamlyn touched his chin, still smooth from a last shave before he had changed into his combat gear. All these men had probably done likewise. It was no use asking why; you might be dead before you needed another shave. It was their way. You could hardly say that about the two S.A.S. men who were to be their guides for the first leg of this attack.

He tested the word in his mind. An attack. It was no longer an operation, on paper, or in some one’s head at Northwood, ‘the hole’. They looked the part, dirty and unwashed, their combat gear stained and torn. And unshaven.

As one marine had muttered, “Wouldn’t care to meet those guys on a dark night!” He doubted if it would deter Ginger Leach next time. If there was one.

They had lived on South Georgia for days, watching and reconnoitring Argentine positions and defences. Now
they were going back. Volunteers. A different face to the same conflict.

He heard another voice: Lieutenant Colin Ash, from Aberdeen. A good all-rounder, he must have taken to his first ever commando training like a duck to water. Climb, swim or march for miles in full kit, he seemed tireless. Always ready to answer questions or demonstrate something difficult to one of the new faces. Captain Forester did not seem to approve, but then, you were never quite sure with the captain. He stiffened as Forester’s voice reached him above the boat and sea noises.

That was the strange part. Smart, reliable, unswerving when there was a job to be carried out. Again he felt his stomach muscles tighten against his belt. Like this morning.
Now.

Guilt, then? He had tried not to let it get to him. A couple of times he had caught Forester staring at him. Or was that, too, part of it?

That afternoon would not go away. He could still see the room. There had even been a framed photograph of them together on a chest of drawers near the bed. Next door there had been children playing in the garden. Home from school, a sound he knew so well.

She had deliberately drawn the curtains, and then with that slow, provocative smile, had turned the photograph face down.

They had kissed, like the last time. No, not like the last time. It was like nothing he had known. She had pretended to fight him off, but had kissed him again and again, then she had fallen back on the bed and watched him, opening her legs.
Come on, Peter. Take me. Rape me.

There would be some one else now. It was how she got her kicks.

He would put her out of his mind. He heard the louder
sound of sea against the land. It could have been his own heart beating. He could not forget her. Or want to.

He heard the chink of metal. Somebody had not taped his loose gear properly. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

They had arrived. Tromsø Cove, probably named by one of those long-gone Norwegian whalers. And there was no shooting. They were going in. The second launch would be waiting to follow, or stand away if the worst happened. He pictured Blackwood; he would be out there watching, listening.
He would not run.

“All set, Peter?” So calm. He could have been discussing the cricket score.

“Yes, sir.” He looked through the open screen. Still dark, but it was land. “I’ll check the others.”

“Do that, will you.” He turned away as the engines took on a lower note, but louder as the land reached out on either side.

Forester climbed up to join the helmsman, and added, “Just watch your step.”

It was no longer a secret.

Sergeant Dick Harwood winced and bit hard on his upturned collar as the hull shuddered against his hip. The launch had either touched bottom or scraped against a wreck of some kind. It could be just about anything. Somebody had dropped a weapon and he heard one of the marines cursing him for his sloppiness. Lucky the safety catch was on, whatever it was; they seemed to be making enough noise without a burst of gunfire. And there was another sound, some kind of pump. They might as well have a bugler playing
Wakey Wakey
and make a proper job of it.

He wiped his face with a sleeve as wet and cold as everything else. He could hear the sea: movement all
around, like steering into a trap. Tromsø Cove looked small enough on the map, as if it had been hacked into the coast by a giant axe. You could feel the land, and the spray like heavy rain.

He reached down to test the lashings on their cargo. Explosives, packed and ready to use, if or when they reached their target. One stray bullet in this lot and they would go up, not down.

It all depended on surprise. Blow up the target and fall back. It would open the way for the main attack by commando and S.A.S. units, covered by gunfire from two frigates. He wiped his eyes again. Provided they could find their way through this appalling weather.

But first, the target: powerful recoilless guns, said to be 105mm, which would make short work of any landing attempt, and the frigates too, if they came into these restricted waters.

He could not see the low wheelhouse but imagined the major there with another S.A.S. guide and the helmsman, who must be wondering what miracle he would be asked to perform next. Some one touched his knee: no words. Like a warning. It was Lieutenant ‘Daisy’ May. Harwood had his own golden rule where most officers were concerned, especially junior ones. And especially now that he had three tapes on his sleeve. Let the officer prove himself first, and not the other way round.

Unlike most of the others, May was still a stranger and had been training with anti-tank launchers for much of the time. With a youthful, polished face, he did not need to shave yet.
He walks in a strong wind, to blow the fluff away!
But he took life very seriously indeed. Perhaps it was his defence.

“Coming in now, Sergeant. Have your sections ready to land, port side. There is a small gully . . .” one hand moved
vaguely toward the land, and an unbroken line of surf. “Single file after that.”

“Looks as if we’ll get our feet wet again.”

May might have shrugged. “Better than around the headland. The glacier would be ten times worse, believe me!”

Harwood smiled. It was as if the lieutenant had already been over the ground before.

The hull gave another lurch, and a voice exclaimed, “Oh,
shit
!”

May snapped, “Take that man’s name!”

Nobody answered.

He said abruptly, “Of course, you’ve known Major Blackwood for some while. Ulster, wasn’t it? Mr. Hamlyn mentioned it. I . . .”

The rest was lost in another surge of water over the side. More curses.

Harwood thought about it. May was a fully trained commando, otherwise he would not be here. But there was always a first time. His own had been in Cyprus during the troubles there. He had been on foot patrol, with a sergeant called Arthur; he could not remember his full name. A shotgun in an alley, just like that. Arthur had died in his arms, coughing blood. He had not even had time to get off a shot at the killer.

It would be different now. But the first time . . . that was something else.

‘Daisy’ May was young, and it showed. Like his formality:
Major
this and
Mister
that.

He said, “If you get in a tight corner, there’s none better.”

It was a start. He had not even offered May a ‘sir’.

Then May remarked, almost sadly, “Not much use for anti-tank launchers here.”

Harwood heard the marines moving into position. He could not see it, but the picture was there. A last word, a grin, a thumbs-up or a joke. Being close to a mate or a particular oppo. Like a pattern. You needed it.

He turned back toward May; he could see the youthful oval of his face now against the dark backdrop. It was May who needed it now.

“We didn’t know that the Argies would have a sub or two here, either. We’ll take it a step at a time, right, sir?”

May was still looking at him. “Thanks.” One word, but Harwood was satisfied. It was enough.

He said, “If I say
down
, sir, fast as you like, see?”

The launch grated over another ridge, and the engines stopped.

Harwood shouted, “Go, lads,
go!
”

They were all scrambling and wading through swirling water, weapons held high, some of them wheezing like old men as the cold took a ruthless grip.

Harwood almost fell but regained his feet, his mind snatching at essentials and shouted commands. Ammunition, clips in position, commando knife within reach for instant use. His hand groped around his streaming waterproof. Two days’ rations, always a joke with the lads. But not now.

He punched a man’s shoulder. “Move it, Thomas! Jump about!”

He could almost hear his thoughts.
Bloody sergeants, why don’t they shove it?

They were on hard, slippery ground, and the launch was lost in the gloom. It might have sunk, for all they knew.

Nothing mattered now but to keep going. Harwood bared his teeth. Even the air tasted different.

They were in the gully. Funny how you knew, even though you had never seen it, except on that bloody map.

They were keeping together, boots hammering and
splashing, as if something ruthless and impersonal were driving them.

Harwood saw a flicker of light, perhaps a reflection from the ice they had been discussing. Then the sound of a shot, and another, or an echo.

Some one cried out and fell.

Keep going. Don’t look back.

They had reached the end of the gully. As if a curtain had been dragged away, here was the sky, and the hint of water beyond. Harsh and metallic, the air freezing your lungs. But still running, running.

There were more shots, but they were here at that first pencilled cross. A building, like a large shack, red with rust and buckled with age. Near the old whaling station. It had to be.

Blackwood’s voice then, some one else repeating his orders, as they had done so many times. Sunshine or snow, sand or jungle, who cared? Harwood fell on his stomach, holding his breath, blinking to clear his vision, one glove dangling while he trained his semi-automatic rifle.

Don’t fail me now, chummy.
It was ice-cold, too. But ready.

Ross Blackwood dropped on to one knee, snow or freezing rain half blinding him while he peered from side to side to recover his bearings. He could see the nearest marines in his section spread out on either side, not as individuals any more, but part of the attack. Just pausing for a few seconds was enough. Like hearing something or some one screaming a warning, or feeling the bullet hitting you like a steel fist.

It should have been lighter, something to offer a hint of position. Fragments of ice bounced over his shoulders, like broken glass. He covered his face with his wrist, gripping
the rifle with his free hand. It flashed through his mind.
Officers should not be distinguished from their men by uniform or weapon.
How many had died to drive that lesson home? He looked up, astonished that he could remember such trivial instruction, and he saw it. The ridge, which he was just beginning to believe had eluded him, or that he was leading the others on the wrong bearing. The ridge, like a pile of crude steps, outlined in ice against the sky. Beyond it, a steep slope, then a drop into the sea . . .

He waved his arm and started to run again. Something hissed through the air, a stray shot, or aimed at him, but it meant nothing.

Others were running, the pain and weariness falling away; time and distance had ceased to have any meaning.

He saw another figure crouched nearby, and signalled with his fist. Corporal Tasker knew what to do. A blurred shape, and yet Ross could recognize him. Just promoted; a Londoner with a good singing voice. His father was a Billingsgate fish porter. Pity he could not see him now . . . He loped forward again. Dangerous to allow your mind to play games.

It
was
getting lighter. When daylight came, it would be sudden. If they mistook the direction now, they would be laid bare and helpless, like insects on a fly-paper.
Now or never.
He heaved himself up and ran to the first ledge of rock.

If he were both blind and deaf, he would have known it was the sea. In his mind’s eye he saw the chart again, and the folded map now squeezed inside his jacket. A pencilled cross. Not even that.

He forced his brain to steady, deal only with
here
and
now
.

He began to scramble forward once more. There was a similar ridge on his right. Invisible as yet, but he could
see
it. Any well-sited guns would play hell with men trying to land, and could easily drive off the two promised frigates. He waited for his breathing to slow. Forester’s marines would be fanned out below and behind. To offer supporting fire, or to cover the retreat if the worst happened. Retreat? Where to? One launch damaged or sunk, and the other could be anywhere.

He moved forward again, his knees scraping on rock or ice, against which the protective clothing seemed useless. He could feel the pain in his chest, the crooked scars left by bullet and shattered binoculars. So long ago. The hospital, her shadow beside the bed. Always the pain . . .

He flung out his arm and thought he heard a clasp or buckle clink against the ground.

Harwood was here somewhere, keeping an eye on the young subaltern. Without letting him know it, of course.

He took another deep breath and raised himself very slowly, giving his eyes time to discover and determine.

The map no longer mattered. It was more like a giant photograph, unreal in the grey-blue light.

He levelled his binoculars, new, and still warm from his body. King Edward Point, well to the left, and there was the abandoned whaling station at Grytviken. It could have been anything, but it would soon show itself. Where all this had started. He moved the glasses very carefully. The light was stronger here. Like a camera lens focusing. He could see the outline of the cemetery, and the perfect landmark, the tiny, white-painted church. Nothing moved, not even the water; close inland, it was almost black. Solid.