Dust On the Sea (14 page)

Sergeant Welland was one of them, as he had expected it would be.

‘How is he?'

They all looked at the face on the pillow, the marine named Martin, who had been wounded in the exchange of fire on the pier. Not a man he had found time to get to know, but he had done well during the raid.
And he saved me
. Just a handshake. A link. A bond.

Welland said, ‘Doing fine, sir. He'll be up and about in no time.'

Blackwood took the marine's hand, and thought how hot and dry it felt. Even the face was changed, the skin tight across the bones. He watched the eyes open, and saw recognition in them.

He said quietly, ‘Looking after you, Martin?'

The marine moved his head, and winced at the effort.

‘Not too bad, sir.' He attempted to smile. ‘Proper home from home!'

Welland glanced at the wire cage beneath the scarlet blanket and murmured, ‘Took off his leg, sir, the bloody bastards. Never give him a chance.'

Blackwood had rarely heard such anger, such bitterness, and certainly never from ‘Sticks' Welland.

He felt the dry hand tremble in his and asked, ‘Anything I can do?' Martin stared at him. Hanging on, remembering, it was impossible to tell.

‘You could write, sir. I'm not much of a hand at it. It would help . . . coming from you, sir.'

Welland murmured, ‘His mother, sir. Lives in Devon-port.'

‘I will.' He squeezed the hot hand, but it felt lifeless now. ‘She'll be proud of you.' He stood. ‘As I am.'

At the foot of the bed he paused and looked back. He must never forget.

Sergeant Welland said, ‘I'll walk with you, sir.' The other marine, a friend of the wounded man, sat down again.

Welland glanced at the beds as they passed, falling into step with his officer.

‘You did the right thing, sir. He'll remember that.'

‘It was bloody awful, and you know it.'

Welland smiled. That was more like it.

‘You know what they say, sir.'

‘“You shouldn't have joined if you can't take a joke!” Yes, I know!'

The same nurse was still at her little desk, and looked up as they appeared.

‘Here he is now, Lady Duncan!'

Blackwood turned, the girl's description of ‘Tinker' Duncan as clear as if she had just spoken aloud.

She was not old, but definitely not young, with short grey hair.
A bit of a battle-axe
. Now, dressed in a starched white coat, she looked all of that. He could not imagine anyone daring to call her by such a frivolous nickname.

‘Captain Blackwood? I heard you were in the hospital.' She thrust out her hand. It was a very strong grip, especially when compared with the wounded marine's. ‘I missed you at the house in Rosetta. Joanna told me about you.' She studied him calmly. ‘Not married?' He said nothing. ‘Thought not. Good.'

‘I've been trying to make contact since we got back.'

‘Yes.' She glanced at the ward. ‘I heard something about your recent escapade. It was good of you to come.'

‘He's one of my men.'

She shrugged. ‘A lot wouldn't give a toss, believe me!' She walked to a window and stared at a passing ambulance. ‘Never stops.' Then, without turning, ‘You care, don't you?'

He knew she was watching his reflection in the dusty glass.

‘About her?'

‘Of course.'

‘Yes.' He was surprised that it was so easy; he felt no resentment, not even a sense of intrusion. ‘Very much. I know what they say about the risks in wartime . . .'

She faced him, and sniffed. ‘A lot of people say stupid things about “wartime”, my own husband for one!'

Sergeant Welland drew his heels together very quietly.

‘Beg pardon, sir . . .' He did not look at Lady Duncan. ‘I'll be outside with the transport.' Then he saluted, with great formality; he could have been mounting guard at the palace.

She said, ‘Another one of
your men
, I assume, Captain?'

He smiled. ‘Yes. A forceful character.'

She took his arm and guided him to the opposite side of the lobby. The nurse had pulled up her apron to smooth out a wrinkle in her stocking, and he thought it was a pity that Welland had gone. He would have enjoyed that.

‘She left under orders. There was no easy way she could have told you, even if she had wanted to.'

Don't hope for too much
. The touch of her skin beneath the robe when the car had come for him, an hour early. And now she was gone.

Lady Duncan watched his face, his emotions. It was hard, sometimes impossible, to see such men as Blackwood in those other circumstances. Like the young marine who had lost his leg, like another, only an hour ago, who had wept in her arms when he had heard that he had been recommended for a medal. Then, like so many others here, he had died, without making a fuss.

She said, ‘She told me you had given her courage.'

He turned it over in his mind. ‘I don't understand.'

She put her hand on his sleeve. ‘I think it was something dangerous. Say or do nothing which might harm her, or yourself. But I imagine you know all about risks, Captain Blackwood?'

Doors swung open and more white-coated figures strode into the lobby: the P.M.O. doing his rounds, the gleam of a stethoscope, the faint smell of gin. Someone said sharply, ‘What is that officer doing here?'

Blackwood walked to the window and watched the ambulances, the orderlies hurrying to them with stretchers, their faces like masks.
Something dangerous
. Why had he not seen it? Was he so blind,so full of his own uncertainties?

She had been warning him, preparing him.
Don't hope for too much.

Lady Duncan, Tinker to her close friends, watched him walk out into the sunlight, past the ambulances with their glaring red crosses. A man who might turn any woman's head.

But a casualty, as much as all these others.

Commander Walter St John looked up from his desk only to wave Blackwood to a canvas-backed chair. A petty officer writer waited beside the desk, his features
expressionless while he passed letters to be signed, signals to be initialled, or untidy clips of notes in a steady stream. Blackwood thought he would have made a good butler.

Nobody had spared him so much as a glance when he had entered this building, and yet he had the feeling that everyone knew exactly why he was here.

He gazed at the calendar on St John's desk.
1943
. Was it possible? Another new year of war.

There had been no word from Joanna Gordon and he had given up trying to tell himself that it was because she wanted their relationship to go no further. Perhaps she had made that plain from the beginning, but he did not believe it.

He looked up from the calendar as the petty officer writer moved away with two armfuls of files and signal pads. Glided, would be a better description.

St John stretched and peered at his watch. ‘Never stops, does it?'

Blackwood was reminded of the formidable Lady Duncan.

St John said, ‘I have a job for you. Major Gaillard has no objection, and Brigadier Naismith put your name forward himself. I'll bet that surprises you.'

Blackwood attempted to relax, and waited.

‘I must say that 1943 has begun a lot more promisingly than last year.' He glanced towards the wall map. ‘The Eighth Army is still driving the Germans to the west – they'll be in Tripoli in no time at this rate. The German army was held at Stalingrad, and they're in full retreat there, too.' His eyes hardened slightly. ‘We're established in North Africa, and when the weather gives us a break things should improve for the Americans, and the enemy
will face defeat in Tunisia as well. Not bad. Not bad at all.' He displayed a second's irritation as one of the long-bladed fans overhead faltered and squeaked to a halt. ‘We can hope for big things this year. I'm informed that the Prime Minister is adamant that Italy must be knocked out of the war as soon as possible. When that happens Germany will have her forces stretched to and, one hopes, beyond the limit. But to accelerate all this, we must help all those who are willing to stand up and fight against the enemy. Partisans, Resistance, opportunists, call them what you like. The policy will be to back those people in every way we can, irrespective of the colour of their politics.' He was referring to the extreme divisions in occupied Yugoslavia. At the beginning it had been decided to drop military supplies to General Mihailovich's Chetniks, mainly because he was a royalist. It was soon discovered, however, that Marshal Tito's Communist partisans were fighting most effectively against the Germans, despite savage reprisals and executions, and the Chetniks had been co-operating with the occupying forces. So Tito was the one who would receive assistance.

St John frowned as the fan began to move again. ‘Even amongst the islands, we can help. For the first time there is hope for these people.' He opened a clean file, and said, ‘A cargo of battlefield clearance stores. B.C.S. as the boffins call them, is ready and waiting to be delivered to such a group. Italian weapons mostly, dropped by their army when they were surrendering in droves before Mister Rommel made an appearance, and changed the face of the desert war. Agents have carried out careful assessments, of course, but now it's a matter of putting our hardware where our mouths are!' He became more serious. ‘The final part of it must be official, and seen to
be so by the people in question. Not some half-baked promise which can conveniently be forgotten when the fighting is over. In short, they want an officer to complete the handover. It will be the first of its kind in this particular theatre. Not enough to start a war, but perhaps sufficient to help end one, right?'

Blackwood nodded, wondering why Gaillard had not told him first, or demanded to go himself.

‘And if you're worrying about your duties with the new commando company, let me put your mind at rest. Your company will be in Suez in two weeks. They were delayed at Cape Town while they waited for additional escorts, but it gave them time to get their knees brown, and now they're on the last run in.'

Hard to believe that it had been such a short while ago, on that rain-sodden hillside when Major-General Vaughan had come to tell him about his father, and to ask him to take this appointment. That special, hard-trained company would be here very soon, and he would be with them when their true role was determined.

Of course, he might have been shot on the pier beside the marine called Martin, or been killed on the previous raid on the island of Vasili. But that was not to be considered, let alone voiced in words. It only happened to others. It was well to remember that.

St John had dragged open a drawer. ‘Drink?' He did not wait for an answer, but took out a bottle and two glasses. It was Scotch, and marked
Duty-Free, H.M. Ships Only.

St John was grinning. ‘R.H.I.P.!'

Blackwood took a glass.
Rank Hath Its Privileges.

‘When will I be required to leave, sir?' He felt the neat Scotch burning his tongue.

‘You'll go, then?' He sounded neither surprised nor relieved. Just another job.

A telephone buzzed in a case like a trapped hornet. St John ignored it.

He said, ‘Tomorrow. Everything's taken care of. M.G.B. as before, rendezvous with one of our schooners.'

‘As before.'

St John swirled the drink around his glass. There was not much of it left.

‘You will be advised how to proceed. You'll be in good hands. My own choice, as a matter of fact. You've met him, by the way.'

The telephone buzzed again, and this time St John unfastened the case. ‘I'll brief you before you leave.' He gave him a level stare. ‘There was one other thing.' He spoke into the handset. ‘
Wait.
'

‘Sir?' Blackwood was on his feet.

St John covered the instrument with his hand. ‘I heard you were making enquiries about a Flight Officer Gordon?'

‘Yes, sir.' Somehow he had known it would be mentioned.

‘It's out of my hands, of course. Commander Diamond in London is more in the picture . . .'

‘Is she all right, sir?'

St John observed him with surprise, or the closest he would ever come to it. ‘You know you're not permitted to ask about such matters. In everyone's interests.' He stopped abruptly, and then said, ‘She's safe. It's all I can tell you. Nothing must jeopardise this mission. A lot of people will be depending on you, remember that! If I thought for one second –'

‘Nothing will jeopardise it, sir.'

She was safe. From what, was still unknown. But she was safe.

‘Good.' He stared at the telephone as if he hated it. ‘You'll need one other officer. Simply as a precaution.'

‘Lieutenant Despard, sir.'

‘Thought it might be.' He watched the door close, and spoke into the telephone.

‘On his way now, sir. No, I didn't tell him.' He scowled. ‘Well, she
is
safe, as far as we know!'

He replaced the bottle in the drawer and closed it, thinking of all the faces he had seen across this desk since he had taken command. And of all those who had gone.

He had been in command of a submarine at the outbreak of war, and had seen plenty of action. He glanced around his office. The filing cabinets, the signals
In
and
Out
, the chair where young men sat and listened, in too many cases for the last time.

There was no comparison. Commanding the submarine seemed like child's play.

Blackwood climbed the ladder to the schooner's deck, shivering. After the confined and crowded hull, the breeze from the sea seemed almost icy.

He saw the skipper, Lieutenant Terry Carson, squatting by the tiller peering at his compass. It was nearly dark, the division between the horizon and the sky revealed only by the remains of a fiery sunset, streaks of orange-red, with the vague outline of yet another small island fading abeam.