Dust On the Sea (31 page)

Joanna had taken her into her room, had undressed and bathed her, and had eventually got her into her own bed. But not before she had seen the weals on her shoulders
and thighs, the marks of a parachute harness, when a body is dropped without protective clothing or flying gear. Simply because the parachutist would have no time to hide them.

She had never mentioned it, but, in her silence, she had shared it.

It was Major Porter, alert as usual. Did he never sleep?

‘Glad I caught you up.'

She peered at her new watch. It was past midnight. What did they think she got up to at this hour?

Porter said, ‘Could use a bit of help, if you can spare the time.'

She stared at a crack in the wall until it seemed to move.

A bit of help.
The code. The invasion was on.

‘Still there?'

She shook herself. ‘Sorry, sir.'

He laughed. ‘There'll be a car. Twenty minutes suit you? Good show.' He hung up.

She dressed unhurriedly and with care, and was ready when the car drew up outside the house. Before she left she opened her cupboard and held the khaki drill uniform for several minutes, until the doorbell rang.

Then she closed the cupboard and picked up her small bag.

A quick glance around. This was different. It was not only a dream.

She put on her cap and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She was ready.

Under cover of darkness the invasion fleet, with the landing and support craft which carried the Royal Marine Commando, finally reached the lee of the Sicilian coast. Maintaining formation had been a nightmare for every watchkeeping officer and lookout, and in a gale which had raged all day many had given up hope of proceeding with the landings.

Hampered by their weapons and equipment, the marines suffered in silence, while around them seamen ran cursing through the darkness, replacing lashings, hosing away vomit, and generally making it known that they would be glad to see them leave.

Lieutenant-Colonel Gaillard had held a conference to which even the senior N.C.O.s were invited, which had put paid to any more doubts.
Husky
was on. Another lengthy examination of maps and photographs followed; every man must know exactly what to do once he got ashore, and others must be prepared to take over if the first attack was too costly.

Blackwood had watched his companions, eager, serious, troubled, and some with blanched, perspiring faces on the verge of seasickness, who were too wretched to care very much what happened. The contrasts were stark,
from Despard, who had seen and done it all, to young Fellowes, preparing for his greatest role yet. And Sergeant-Major Craven, as smart as paint in spite of his weapons and combat uniform, and remaining quite apart from everyone else.

Gaillard had seemed different in some way, no less thorough with his briefing and details for his officers, but at times almost jovial, which was unusual if not unique.

Blackwood thought he knew why. At the final officers' conference in Alex, Brigadier Naismith had made it clear that Force
Trident
would be kept in support of his main assault group. Quite suddenly, that had changed. While an unheard-of north-westerly gale had whipped the sea into a raging barrier of waves severe enough to pose a real threat to some of the low-slung landing craft, Gaillard had received new orders. In his mind's eye, Blackwood could see the map. The U.S. Seventh Army was to land on the south-west beaches, which would favour their small, fast-moving troop carriers. The British Eighth Army would land on the south-eastern coast, then strike inland to capture any airfield which could be used for supply and reinforcements.

One other landing area remained between the two major armies, on the southernmost corner of Sicily. The First Canadian Division would overcome all opposition, believed to be Italian troops, and press inland to Ragusa and Pachino. The planners had considered everything, the suitability of the various beaches, the experience and, of course, the rivalry of every major unit. The Canadians were well trained, but without combat experience. In addition, Intelligence had discovered a last-minute obstacle to the line of advance from the beaches where the Canadians would be landing, and several carefully
prepared strong points had been located on the headland to the west of those same beaches.

The weather had been bad enough, and nobody would know the full extent of the confusion it might have caused until the nakedness of daylight. The Americans' landing should have been a sheltered one; the gale had changed that. With strict communications silence imposed, it was impossible to assess the damage to ships and to morale.

Gaillard had exclaimed, ‘History, gentlemen! Once again, the Royal Marines will be the first to land!' He did not mention Naismith. He did not need to.

Now those same faces were scattered throughout the ship. Watches checked, weapons and equipment ready to move. The human brain could only stand so much preparation.

Blackwood heard the sea sluicing along the hull. The gale had dropped soon after sunset, leaving a steep and heavy swell. It would make the final approach no less hazardous.

Gaillard joined him by the chartroom.

‘Any ideas, Mike?'

Blackwood knew it was no casual question. He was sounding him out. Testing his nerve, his combat attitude, as the instructors termed it.

‘Being swamped will be a major risk once we embark, sir. We should leave more space for them to work the pumps if need be. They're difficult little craft at the best of times.'

‘Good thinking. Tell Mr Craven, he can deal with that. I want our people to be on top line, not waddle ashore like seasick day-trippers at Eastbourne!'

Blackwood could not see his face in the shadows. Was he so certain, so confident? Nobody could be sure of
anything at this stage. Half the invasion fleet could have been scattered, or swept miles away from their allotted positions. And if the enemy knew they were coming it would be a hard slog. He almost smiled. Not a bit like Eastbourne.

Gaillard said abruptly, ‘Been so busy lately, I've not had much of a chance.' He seemed to be making up his mind. ‘Meant to ask you, Mike. When we were in Burma giving the Japs a bit of stick, did you have anything to do with a marine named Finch?' One hand tapped impatiently on a chart cabinet. ‘He was sent with a landing party from the cruiser
Genoa.
'

Blackwood thought of the men he had met, most of them for the first time, except for the few like Paget. Faces stamped with strain and fatigue, shocked by seeing friends killed. Holding together because of what they were, because of what, in their different ways, they were all proud of.

‘I don't think so, sir. Is he joining this commando?'

Gaillard sounded surprised. ‘No. I just thought you might remember the fellow.'

‘I could ask Sergeant Paget, sir. He was there. He might know.'

Gaillard snapped, ‘
No.
Forget about it.'

A bell tinkled somewhere and he said, ‘Midnight.' He seemed to take several deep breaths, like a sprinter on the blocks. ‘Time to go!' He strode away to speak with the ship's commanding officer, and Blackwood saw marines getting out of his way. Like him, hate him, it made no difference now.

He found Craven and told him about the pumps.

Craven listened intently and said, ‘I remember my
colonel in the Norway caper, sir. Keep 'em busy an' keep 'em smart, they'll do the rest!'

Blackwood joined Lieutenant Fellowes on the starboard side and found time to marvel that men could work so smoothly in total darkness while the ship dipped and swayed around them as if bent on self-destruction. Beyond the rail it was black, with only leaping spectres of spray to show the sea's heavy motion. The landing craft were alongside, their screws and rudders painting the water with streams of phosphorescence.

‘All right?'

Fellowes tried to smile. ‘Nearly threw up, sir. But I'm more bruised than sick in this rust-bucket!'

Blackwood touched his arm. He spoke like a veteran already.

He looked towards the land. If the calculations were correct the ships were some eight miles south-east of the Sicilian coast. He tried to recall the map. The jutting spike of the peninsula, Punta Castellazzo. The cove almost adjoining it on the western side. Just like one of those hairy exercises, except that this time they would be shooting back.

He said suddenly, ‘Keep with Sergeant Paget. If he says hit the deck, you do it. Don't ask questions.' He smiled and hoped Fellowes would see it, and that it might reassure him.
Blackwood's not bothered, so it must be okay.

He could hear the marines slithering and kicking out with their boots to lower themselves into the little landing craft. No time for mistakes now. He hoped they would all remember what Despard had told them about falling into the sea fully loaded. Nothing left to bury.

He said, ‘You might feel scared.' He waved down the
protest he knew would come. ‘Don't let it throw you. The first time is always a sod. It'll pass.' He thought suddenly of his father. It must have been the last time he had seen him. ‘Remember, they'll be looking to
you.
'

A voice called, ‘“A” Troop embark! Come on, move your bloody selves!'

The marines, half crouched beneath their loads and wary of the heaving motion, hurried past.

Someone muttered, ‘I'd like to move that big-headed bastard!'

A companion laughed. ‘Never volunteer, Taff!'

Fellowes had gone, and the deck seemed empty of armed marines.

Percy Archer stood watchfully by the cargo port, having heard most of it.

‘All set, sir?'

Blackwood nodded, and thought of the garden at Hawks Hill, where he had walked and talked with his father. For the last time. There had been roses there.

He heard what Archer said, but could not move. He remembered what the girl had told him about the hospital, the officer whose mind had almost been broken by his experiences. How a solitary rose had saved him.

She had told him in the night, her breath warm and unsteady across his shoulder.

He put his hand on Archer's arm.

‘Keep your head down today. We're supposed to make history, remember?'

Together they clambered down and were guided the last few feet by some of his men.

The moon was in the first quarter, but now it was gone.

‘Bear off forrard! Get under way and take station!' That was Gaillard, already in position.

He felt Despard beside him, and heard him say quietly, ‘Like a needle in a haystack.' He might have been grinning. ‘I reckon we'll have the jump on them with any luck!'

He knew the others were listening, straining their eyes in the darkness, although they were all shadows, without substance.

Everyone would know about it. Vaughan and his patient aide, the men and women at headquarters in Alex and in London. And she would be one of the first to know if the worst happened.

H-Hour was two forty-five in the morning, about two and a half hours from now. Before that time Force
Trident
would be overrunning the first objectives. Or wiped out.

He thought of his words to Fellowes. Really, there was no choice at all.

The course to steer for the selected cove was north-west. Had the gale still been blowing they would have been butting head-on into it, probably unable to forge ahead.

Blackwood felt the spray dash over his shoulders like rain; it seemed ice-cold after the heat of the day. It could hardly have been much worse. The swell made accurate steering impossible, lifting the landing craft's stern and causing the blunt ramp forward to plunge dangerously near to the surface. The tightly packed marines were soaked, huddled together, glad of their steel helmets for once, if only to keep their faces free of water. Within twenty minutes of embarking two of the landing craft had had to turn back, one with engine trouble, the other so filled with water that it was unsafe to try and hold formation.

The land was no longer invisible. One horizon was
eerily lit by drifting fires, followed by the flash and rumble of bombs. The R.A.F. were playing their part and keeping to time, lighting up the town of Pachino, a ready marker for the troops once they were ashore.

Blackwood could feel the tension as every lurch and stagger carried them closer to the land. But still no challenge, no devastating bombardment from shore batteries. Perhaps they were waiting for the last moment, when there would be no room to turn and claw away.

Gaillard came up to the forepart of the craft, and clung to a stanchion while he tried to peer ahead whenever the ramp dipped down into another welter of spray.

‘God damn! Where the hell is it?'

Blackwood saw his eyes and face light up as a vivid flash revealed the nearness of land, and for an instant he believed they had been sighted, that their presence was no longer a secret. But there were more flashes and explosions, from somewhere beyond a cliff, the shells bursting far away, in the opposite direction.

Gaillard exclaimed, ‘Shooting at the Raf, not us!' He swung away. ‘Got that, Cox'n?'

Blackwood felt the hull turning slightly; they had not been so far off course after all. It was incredible. He wiped his streaming face with his sleeve and saw the land. He also saw the other craft, black, anonymous shapes, low down on the heaving water. He heard pumps working wildly, in this vessel or the other he did not know. The sound was deadened, and he could sense the nearness of the spike, Punta Castellazzo, reaching out like an invisible protection. He tensed, the rattle of one or maybe two machine guns probing through the din of trapped water and the irregular crash of the bows into solid rollers.

The marines had ducked down at the first sound of gunfire. He did not have to look to know it. Instinct, training, guts.

But no bullets cracked against the hull or whined off the thin plating. Someone else was getting it; there was no time to think about them.