Dust On the Sea (36 page)

The New Zealander said, ‘The same goes for you. I'd sort of like the chance to know you better.' He smiled. ‘A whole lot better, as it happens, Mike.'

Blackwood returned to the room, and saw Archer leaving with the dirty mess tins.

Gaillard said, ‘Seems a decent enough type, for a brown job!' He laughed, and then became quite serious. ‘They're going to regroup the two main Commandos, Mike.
Trident
will be integrated.' He repeated it as if he had been mistaken. ‘Integrated. It means the Royal Marine Commando is here to stay, no matter what
bombastic blowhards like Naismith might have believed!' He moved as if to rise from the old cane chair, but the effort seemed too much for him. ‘'Nother drink, Mike. Have one yourself if you feel like it. That Sicilian muck will rot your guts!'

Blackwood refilled the glass, and thought of Archer's expression as he had hurried out. The bottle was already half empty.

He said, ‘We could see it coming, sir. We did what we came to do, and we were the first seaborne troops ashore. More than some people expected, I imagine.'

Gaillard had not heard him. ‘All I've done, fighting one brass-hat after another, dragging out weapons and the right facilities to use them. Like pulling bloody teeth! And now we're here, right on the threshold of the real events, when the whole world will see the part we've played, and what does some lame-brain decide? Integrate . . .' The word would not form properly and he took another swallow instead.

Blackwood looked at his watch. There was a meeting in fifteen minutes. He would tell the others about tomorrow; they had been expecting it. The Eighth Army might be at the Messina Strait within days. In Sicily, it would be all over.

He looked over at Gaillard but he was asleep, his head to one side, the glass still held in his hand. Empty.

He heard Archer by the door and said, ‘Fetch the Colonel's M.O.A., will you?'

Archer answered, ‘I'll deal wiv it, sir. Keep it in the family.'

Blackwood picked up his beret and banged the dust from it against his thigh. He could feel the wound. Where
she had touched it while they had lain together, and had talked into the night.

He said, ‘Thanks.' Some people might have seen it as a moment of petty triumph; he could almost hear it.
Guess what? The Colonel's pissed!
It might even have made him seem reachable, more human, instead of a faultless machine.

It was neither. It might even become a tragedy. The Corps meant everything to Gaillard. He could not recall hearing him speak of anything else.

Suppose the rumour was true? Gaillard might be recalled on some pretext or other. It had happened to others. It would destroy him . . .

He walked out into the sunlight, and felt it on his face like an open furnace.

He saw small groups of marines moving into patches of shadow; a few nodded to him as they passed.
No saluting here.

Even that seemed to mock him. Only one thing stood out, stark and chilling.

What Gaillard carried in his mind could destroy all of them.

The nightmare was at its climax. She was calling to him, but there was no sound; he tried to move, but he was helpless. Being held down. They were dragging her away, to the room she had once, and only once, described.

He sat up, and would have struck out but for the grip on his wrist.

‘Easy, sir!' Like another part of the nightmare. But as his breathing steadied he saw Despard's face in the torchlight, and realised that nothing had changed.

He said, ‘What is it? Trouble?'

Despard sounded very calm. ‘The Colonel wants you, sir.'

It was all coming back now. Gaillard's strange behaviour, the Scotch, his anger. He felt his head and groaned. The local wine was stronger than he had thought.

Despard said, ‘He was up half the night. Been on to Brigade.'

Blackwood peered at his watch. It was three o'clock in the morning. So quiet; even the distant artillery had fallen silent.

‘I'll bet that pleased them.' He was already on his feet, fully dressed but for his boots and revolver.

He said, ‘God, we're supposed to be moving out of here as soon as the lads have been fed.' He relented. It was not Despard's fault.

‘It's off, sir.' Despard waited, as if to make certain the full impact of his words had reached him. ‘Something else has come up.' He watched Blackwood grope for his belt and beret. ‘He's got a visitor.'

He recalled Gaillard's sudden fury.
Integrated.
Was he being replaced? Surely not at this stage.

He walked out into the coolness before dawn. It would be like a furnace before they knew it. It was misty, too, haze or trapped gunsmoke it was hard to tell.

But so peaceful. In the gloom, even the shattered walls and rooftops lacked menace.

Gaillard had set up his H.Q. in the only part of an old chapel which had remained standing. It was very cramped, but the walls were thick enough to withstand a mortar, if anybody was so determined. Maybe they were being pulled out, for good. To prepare for the next step, Italy? Or back to England to regroup?

Gaillard looked up from a table, his face very tanned in the lamplight. He appeared as fresh and alert as Blackwood had ever seen him, shaved, hair neatly combed, and wearing a clean shirt.

‘Sorry to drag you here, Mike.' He waved a hand towards his visitor. ‘This is Major Ellis, Intelligence.' As he made the introductions, his dark eyes never once left Blackwood's face.

Ellis was dressed in various articles of khaki clothing and a lambswool jerkin. It was filthy, and looked as if it was regularly slept in, and when he leaned over to grasp Blackwood's hand he could smell it, too. He wore no badges of rank or any divisional insignia, but his battered
cap, which lay on the littered floor, bore the winged dagger of the S.A.S. Another of the cloak-and-dagger brigade. Blackwood could almost hear Terry Carson saying it.

But his credentials must be of the highest rating; he would not have got this far otherwise, nor would Gaillard have received him.

He looked from one to the other, more disconcerted by Gaillard's transformation than by his visitor's wild appearance.

Gaillard said, ‘Tell him what you told me.' He tapped some papers. ‘It's all here, but I want you to hear it first, Mike.' He even smiled. ‘We'll have some coffee shortly. Muck, but drinkable!'

Ellis said, ‘The enemy are pulling out faster than we thought. Right now, some will be crossing the Strait. When the last Germans leave, their Axis allies will fold up like a pack of cards.' He looked directly at Blackwood. ‘You've had some experience with battlefield clearance stores, I understand.' His eyes were very grey, the colour of the Channel across from Eastney Barracks, and cold. ‘Well, we'll not get much joy here! Apart from weapons taken from surrendering Eye-Ties, most of the arms vanish as soon as their owners have no further use for them.' He shook his head. ‘Not partisans this time, Captain Blackwood. This is for more personal use. The Sicilians hate the Germans because of their ruthlessness and their reprisals. The Italians they'll be glad to get rid of, simply because they represent the authority of Rome and II Duce.' He made a slicing gesture. ‘Here, the Mafia ruled. They intend to do so again!'

Gaillard cleared his throat and said, ‘There is an operation for
Trident.
'

Blackwood sensed the S.A.S. major's irritation, but it was swiftly concealed.

He said, ‘We've been gathering information for weeks. What the enemy would do when we invaded, how he might react when Sicily was in our hands. Invasion of the mainland must follow, and closely, if we're to avoid the consequences of winter. A whole army could be bogged down if it's left too late. The German High Command is well aware of our choices – I'm sure they've discussed them as much as our own staff. Landings, support, supply, the usual order of things. A severe setback at the beginning could give the enemy a breathing space, and make any hope of the Allies invading France and Germany next year out of the question.'

Blackwood watched Gaillard's fingers on the papers.
Tap
 . . . 
tap . . . tap . . .

Ellis frowned, possibly at the sound. ‘Just last month, the German vice-admiral commanding small battle units was in Naples. He's usually more concerned with the Channel ports and the Baltic area of operations. Also, he's known to dislike working openly with the Italian navy.'

Blackwood forced himself to concentrate, imagining he could still taste the coarse wine on his tongue. Not radar this time, but something else so secret that this man, major or not, had come in person.

Ellis glanced at the sacking-shrouded window. It would be light soon, and Blackwood found himself wondering whether he would take off the smelly jerkin in the heat of the day, or was it a permanent fixture.

Ellis said, almost casually, ‘Do you recall H.M.S.
York,
Captain Blackwood?'

Blackwood saw Gaillard's fingers, still at last, press down on the papers.

‘I was at sea. It was about two years ago. We heard about it.' He sensed that Gaillard was listening intently. ‘H.M.S.
York
was an eight thousand ton cruiser. I visited her a couple of times, here in the Med.' His mind sharpened, like a prismatic gunsight. ‘It was during the last days in Crete, before we had to evacuate. She was one of the most useful cruisers in the fleet at the time. It was all kept pretty hush-hush, but the story got out.' He saw Ellis nod, in agreement, or merely because he had given the right answer he did not know. ‘It happened in the early morning. She was in Suda Bay.' He looked at each of them in turn. ‘She was attacked by some Italian explosive motor boats. She was a total loss and had to be beached. She's probably still lying there.'

They had heard the news with some disbelief when it had filtered down the chain of command. The Italians had always been regarded as a bit of a joke, indifferent as fighting men and quick to surrender, as they had shown in North Africa and here in Sicily. But as saboteurs they were suddenly less funny. They had been the first to perfect the use of frogmen and two-man torpedoes, and in Crete they had demonstrated that an explosive motor boat could be just as devastating, if suicidal for its solitary crewman.

The cruiser had been a sister ship of
Exeter,
of River Plate fame. She, too, had been sunk the following year by the Japanese in the Java Sea. If the navy was a family, the Corps was an even closer one, and there was usually some individual you could remember whenever a ship was lost.

Ellis said, ‘They had a few more successes, but it took
the German navy to see the true potential of such a weapon. Cheap to produce, and needing only a single volunteer to point it at the enemy.' He took out a packet of cigarettes and said, ‘And they're here, if the latest intelligence is correct. About a hundred miles or so from where you're sitting, as a matter of fact.'

He looked at Gaillard. ‘I can't tell you how to do it. I can only explain why it has to be done, and at once.' He ticked off the points on his fingers. ‘At the first hint that we're on to them, their admiral will scatter the boats. We'd have no time to discover their new lair. Think of it. They're fast, but smaller than a ship's boat, and the forepart is packed with explosives. They can run beneath radar and be into their targets before a shot could be fired. Big landing ships, troopers, supply ships – I don't have to draw a picture, do I?'

Gaillard said slowly, ‘And Brigadier Naismith believes we should wait for reinforcements?'

‘I didn't say that, Colonel. If we had the time, I might support such a delay. But we do not have the time, nor do we have men like Force
Trident,
who are trained for this type of mission.'

‘Right. Then give me all you can, photographs, defences, obstacles, anything of use.'

Ellis glanced at Blackwood. ‘Any questions? I'm sure your colonel would not object.'

Blackwood said, ‘If the target is so close, we will have no escort, am I right?' He saw the man nod, just as Gaillard's fingers began to tap again.

They were used to taking risks, and seeing men die because of them. Why should he feel any doubts this time? Because of Gaillard?
Or because of me?

Ellis was saying, ‘
Trident
will be transported overland
to Palermo. Security will be better this way. When you leave Palermo, it will be to attack.' He looked at the lamp, his face grim. ‘An invasion of the mainland will make
Husky
look like child's play. If they get a chance to use those explosive motor boats, lentils, the Germans call them, we shall have to postpone the whole thing.' He regarded Gaillard for what seemed like minutes. ‘It's that vital, Colonel.'

Gaillard bit his lip. ‘It will be done. I shall tell Brigade myself.' He turned on his chair and said, ‘Officers' conference, Mike. Put them in the picture. No dramatics, just the bones of it. We'll move today.' He laughed abruptly. ‘In a different direction, but that's the war for you, eh?'

He was still laughing when Blackwood stepped outside, and found Despard waiting patiently for him.

They fell into step together. Despard spoke first.

‘Rough, was it, sir?'

Blackwood thought of her, her infectious smile, the precious moments they had shared. So little time.

To some of the others he might have replied,
a piece of cake,
or
nothing we can't handle.
And they might have been satisfied.

He said, ‘Yes. Rough.'

Blackwood looked around the hastily erected tent. The sun was so fierce that it was almost painful to touch the camouflaged canvas, and it was airless enough inside to dull anyone's mind.

They were all present, officers and N.C.O.s. The latter had been his own suggestion, and he had been surprised that Gaillard had agreed without question. ‘Bull' Craven was as straight-backed as ever; rigid was a better
description, even though his sweat-stained shirt made a lie of his stance. The younger lieutenants allowed themselves to sag in the heat, but each one was very aware of the urgency which had greeted their first call. They could hear some of the huge American trucks manoeuvring noisily near the winding, unpaved road, making a big show of it as if to demonstrate their contempt for British discipline and the King's Regulations. American soldiers were driving them, and at any other time it would have been good to see people who had been fighting their way inland, day after day since the first windswept landings.