Cast No Shadow

by Peter Alderson Sharp

There was a scrum as the marines complied. In seconds, the squad was reformed, Kelly was in his correct ‘sized’ position and in the front rank. He was determined not to be seen as the weak link. The Sergeant Major looked at him, said nothing, but there was clear approval in the slight nod.

  “Stand at ease! Stand easy!” barked the Sergeant Major. “Remove headdress and tuck it into your epaulet. Sling your rifles, make sure your webbing is comfortable.”

  Kelly wasn’t quite sure what ‘sling your rifles’ meant but he copied the marines as they loosened off the rifle slings and then slipped their right arm and head through the sling, positioning the rifle across their backs and leaving their hands free.

  CSM Abrams waited until the shuffling stopped, then addressed the men again.

  “It would have been easy to have the three tonners follow us, but then you wouldn’t have seen them, and you may have forgotten they were there! Instead, they will go off in front of us, so that they are always in view. You can at any time climb onto one of the vehicles. If you do you will be returned to Spean Bridge tomorrow morning with a ticket back to your current unit and no hard feelings. It’s that simple and it’s your choice.” His eyes glittered. “Easy or difficult!” he reiterated.

  Without pausing he brought the squad to attention, turned them left and moved them off, calling the time for the first few paces.

  Kelly soon settled into the rhythm of the march and was able to shut his mind to all discomforts, which included the drizzle, or ‘Scots Mist’ as it was known locally, and the constant attention of the midges.

  He had been well-prepped by Marine Major Tom Foley, a friend of Archie Jenkins, who had set him a fitness regime and prepared him in many other ways including fitting him out at the QM’s store in Eastney Barracks. This had included a khaki battle dress and a brand-new pair of ‘AP’ hobnail boots.

  The first time Kelly had worn the boots, Tom had taken him for a brisk five-mile march around the outskirts of Portsmouth, concluding on Southsea seafront, to break them in. They stopped near Clarence Pier and Foley pointed out to sea.

  “Okay Dan, in you go!”

  “What?” Kelly had exclaimed.

  “You heard, Dan! Just up to your knees for about five minutes.”

  Not sure whether this was some elaborate joke or initiation rite, Kelly nevertheless complied and strode up and down in the cold water, much to the amusement of several passers-by.

  After the requisite time had elapsed, Tom gave him the signal to come out, and they jogged back to Eastney Barracks, Kelly squelching loudly in his now sodden boots.

  “Right!” said Foley, once they were in Kelly’s room in the Officer’s Mess. “Take off your boots and leave them to dry away from the heat, stuff them with paper, but be careful not to change the shape. Kelly complied then Foley examined Kelly’s feet for blisters.

  “Not a single blister! Good show. We’ll make a marine out of you yet!”

  Kelly replied with something caustic but was inwardly pleased that he had passed this first test.

  There had of course been a method to Tom Foley’s madness, Kelly mused. The boots, once dried, had been a perfect fit and their subsequent marches had been completed in relative comfort. He wondered if every marine marching with him today had endured the same ritual. Probably, he thought.

  Then there had been the rifle range training where he had learned to use his recently issued Lee Enfield 303 rifle. Kelly had taken to this easily and had rapidly become a good shot under Tom’s tutelage. As well as learning to shoot he had learned everything about the weapon. How it worked, muzzle velocity, range, how to clean and maintain it. His final test had been to strip and assemble the weapon wearing a blindfold.

  In total, the preparation had only taken three weeks, of which Foley had contributed three days in the first week and two days in the second and third weeks. On the other days Kelly had worked hard on his fitness and stamina, and had practised his cross-country navigation skills.

  Being a natural sportsman, he had found the fitness regime relatively easy and had in fact enjoyed it. By the end of the three weeks, he had considered himself ready for Achnacarry. Now, as he returned from his reverie, he was beginning to question that assumption.

  Time passed slowly in the miserable conditions. Kelly wondered how far they had marched, probably less than he thought; he knew that the mind could play tricks under these conditions. He looked at the three tonners rumbling along only a dozen or so paces in front. Just a small jog would be needed to reach the trailing vehicle and he could return to some form of normality.

  He looked around. The faces were grim and set, some looked resigned, others simply fed up. There were clearly no quitters in this group, these were old sweats. If they can, so can I, thought Kelly and resigned himself to the slog. Even so it was hard going. They were carrying about sixty pounds of kit plus a weapon weighing nine pounds. The straps of the thirty-seven-pattern webbing bit into the shoulders and made the back and shoulders ache.

  “That’s it! That’s the camp,” Kelly heard someone mutter, as they came in sight of an old grey château. He thought this unlikely, but as they approached, he could make out Nissan huts and tents in the grounds of the estate.

  “Squaaaaad, halt!” barked Sergeant Major Abrams, and the squad came to a crashing halt.

  “Right lads! Tidy yourselves up, un-sling your rifles and make sure your beret is on straight. We are about to march in.”

  There was a bustle as the marines hurried to obey. Once settled, the Sergeant Major braced them, brought them to attention and gave the order to slope arms. He marched the squad marine fashion, regulation thirty-inch pace and arm in line with the shoulder, towards the main gate.

  To everyone’s astonishment and delight they were met by a piper, who wheeled in front of them and marched at the head of the column, pipes skirling and kilt swinging from side to side.

  As they passed through the gate, they found themselves flanked by imitation gravestones. These bore a series of simple messages …

  ‘This man’s camouflage was poor.’

  ‘This man’s weapon was dirty.’

  And then a group of three all with the same message ...

  ‘These men bunched.’

  The messages were clear.

  The squad came to a halt just in front of the building and the process began of getting them inducted into the programme. There was a tour of the camp before they were shown to the Nissan hut which was to be their billet for the next five weeks. Finally, they were taken off to the QM’s stores to draw their kit.

  Eventually they ended up in a makeshift lecture theatre where Abrams and a marine captain, who described himself as the Squad Training Officer, explained the programme to them.

  Kelly was glad when, after eating a bowl full of broth in the galley, they were allowed to go to their beds. It had been a long and wearisome day.

  Life at Achnacarry was conducted at a brisk, often brutal pace. With the exception of the almost constant weariness, Kelly largely took to the training and committed himself with enthusiasm. ‘Enjoy’ would have perhaps been too strong a word, but there were very few elements of the training which he disliked, apart from the group PE using logs which he felt achieved very little.

  He became proficient with virtually every small arm used by the axis and the allies. In addition, he received training in the use of a cheese wire and the Sykes-Fairburn dagger.

  He quickly become one of the quickest over both the assault course and the aerial assault course, the latter known affectionately known as the ‘Tarzan’ course. The former consisted of a number of ground-based obstacles such as fences, walls, barbed wire, water jumps, tunnels etc, whilst the ‘Tarzan’ course required participants to climb to about thirty feet, after which their feet literally never touched the ground. The aerial obstacles consisted of rope swings, rope ladders, rope walkways, and narrow planks with no hand support, all of which culminated in the infamous death slide.

  Rock cl
imbing, with and without rope support, was an important part of the programme as well as landing craft disembarkation drills. Clearly, thought Kelly, we are training for a beach assault.

  As well as exercises and night patrols in the hills around the camp, they also practised speed marching, covering a mile every ten minutes in full battledress.

  During the last week the squad was tested, both as a team and as individuals. The tests consisted of a final test of speed around both the assault course and the aerial course, a nine-mile speed march in ninety minutes, a six-mile endurance run through bogs, tunnels and water obstacles in eighty minutes, and a thirty-mile cross country march over difficult terrain in eight hours.

  Eventually, sixteen of the original squad of twenty-four lined up in three ranks on the drill square. Sergeant Major Abrams beamed at them like an overprotective father.

  “Well done lads, I’m proud of you. Mind you, I expected nothing less from a squad of Royal Marines, even with the odd matelot thrown in!” This last with a beaming glance at Kelly.

  Everyone laughed, but it was a laugh generated from respect. Kelly had proved himself to these old sweats and they had welcomed him to their group. He had become one of the lads and a fit and tough one at that.

  Abrams settled them again before bringing them to attention. He turned and waited for a short period while the reviewing officer made his way onto the parade ground. When the officer had halted, Abrams took a pace forward and saluted him. After a brief exchange of formal salutations followed by another salute, the reviewing officer wheeled around and carried out a cursory inspection of what remained of the squad.

  He then marched back towards a table, previously prepared, and took his place behind it. He stood the squad at ease, and then easy, before embarking on a short address. Later, when Kelly recalled this moment, he could not remember all that was said. Certainly, there was praise for their efforts and commitment, but the part that Kelly did remember, at least in part went …

  “You are about to embark upon an adventure, not quite unique, but almost. Your predecessors were a bunch of Boer farmers who terrorised the British in the Transvaal with their lightning attacks and shock tactics.

  “To them the word ‘commando’ simply meant ‘unit’, but you and your colleagues who wear the green beret will bring a whole new meaning to the word ‘commando’. You have received the training. You have attained the highest combat skills and you have proven yourselves to have the courage and determination to make a significant difference to this war.

  “You will take the fight to the enemy and wherever German or Italian is spoken they will fear the green beret and will breathe the word ‘commando’ with awe.

  “I will now present you with the symbol that will mark you out as one of Britain’s elite. Please come forward and receive your green beret.”

  One by one the squad marched up to the table, removed their ‘caps comforter’ which they deposited in a dustbin by the side of the table and received from the reviewing officer a brand new green beret.

  Kelly placed the beret on his head, adjusted it and saluted the reviewing officer before returning to the squad. Almost despite himself he felt a sense of great pride, as did every man in that now much-depleted squad.

  After they were dismissed there was general light-heartedness among the squad and much shaking of hands and mutual congratulations, born of relief and the sudden removal of the tension they had endured for those five weeks. Kelly joined in and, for a time, was ‘one of the lads’, but he wondered to himself if he really was a team player. Sometimes during the gruelling exercises in the Scottish mountains, he had felt as if he would have managed better on his own. He knew this wasn’t a criticism of the men he was with, they really were part of Britain’s elite, it was an internal thing within him.

  It worried him.

  That night he was invited to the Officers Mess where he again met up with the reviewing officer.

  “Didn’t take them long to draft you, old boy! I received your movements order this afternoon.”

  “Really?” Kelly was genuinely surprised. “Where am I off to?”

  “Seems you are to directly join the RM Commando. Looks like they are getting ready for a bit of a do!”

  Part II

  Dieppe

  Dieppe

  Kelly returned the salute of the sentry as he walked into the barracks, replacing his ID card in his wallet as he did so. The whole camp seemed to be alive, with vehicles parked everywhere and men moving purposefully around carrying equipment and supplies. There was a definite buzz about the place.

  Kelly moved in the direction of the headquarters building as directed by the sentry. He glanced at his posting order again. Report to Capt Owen (adjutant) at 09.30 hrs on 2 July 1942. Kelly looked at his watch, 09.20, just in time. He reached the building, entered, and walked down a corridor to his left, reading the names on the doors as he did so. Quartermaster, he read, Regimental Sergeant Major, getting warm he thought, Commanding Officer - Lt Colonel Phillips, then next door Adjutant – Capt G Owen.

  Kelly tapped on the door.

  “Come!” An angry and harassed voice.

  Kelly opened the door and walked in to find the adjutant perched precariously on a chair removing pins from a huge map of the French coast which covered almost the whole of one wall.

  “Kelly,” said Dan Kelly. “Second Lieutenant Dragan Kelly. You are expecting me.”

  “Am I?” the adjutant responded. “Let’s have a look.”

  He dismounted the chair, not without danger, and crossed the short distance to his desk, which was littered with papers. Kelly scrutinised the young marine captain as he shuffled through the papers strewn over his desk. He was fairly short, about five foot eight, with tousled, curly black hair, a straight aquiline nose and tanned skin, obvious testament to time spent out in the open. His build was slight except that his shoulders were broad, an archetypal marine officer.

  “Ah, here it is!” he said, the Welsh accent confirming what his name implied. “Do you know, you are absolutely correct. I am expecting you, according to this.” He looked up and smiled. “Not that I ever doubted it for a moment.” Kelly returned the infectious smile.

  “Am I just in time?” asked Kelly, waving a hand towards the window, indicating the frenetic activity taking place.

  “No, you’re just too late. Everything is planned, shipped, transported, stamped and signed for in triplicate. You’ll have to sit this one out I’m afraid.” Owen grimaced but quickly brightened up. “Don’t worry, though. Operations are like London buses in this unit.”

  Kelly frowned his puzzlement.

  “If you miss one, don’t fret, another one will be along in a moment,” Owen explained.

  “Right!” Kelly understood. “And in the meantime ...?”

  “Oh, you’ll be rear party. The QM is staying behind as the IC rear party. I’m sure he’ll find you lots of interesting and exciting things to do. Why not pop in and see him? He’s three doors up.”

  Kelly turned to leave.

  “Dragan.” Kelly turned back from the door to find Owen’s hand outstretched. “Sorry it’s a bit of a mess here at the moment. This sounds like a big one. We’ll touch base when I get back. It’s ‘Gareth’ by the way.”

  Kelly smiled as he shook the Welshman’s hand.

  “Dan. Good luck Gareth. See you when you get back.”

  That evening, from Owen’s office, kindly allocated to him temporarily by the QM, Kelly watched as the three tonners carrying almost the entire compliment of ‘A’ Royal Marine Commando, rolled out of the gates. Six days later on the 8th of July, he watched them as they rolled back in again.

  It was expected of course. The QM had received a signal the previous day to say that operation ‘Rutter’ was postponed indefinitely due to inclement weather. Kelly picked up his green beret, placed it on his head and walked up to the QM’s office.

  “What would you like me to do, Jack?” he asked the rather portly Jack Ba
ker, an ex-ranker, commissioned from the ranks to quartermaster because of his wizardry with anything to do with things logistic.

  “Give them a hand in the G10 store, will you Dan?” Jack responded. “They’ll be pulling their hair out in there this afternoon. Just having an officer there helps smooth the way.”

  “On my way,” said Kelly. He turned out of the office and immediately bumped into Gareth Owen.

  “Dan!” exclaimed Owen. “You’re still here then? I presumed you would have died from boredom. What are you doing at this moment?” Kelly explained what the QM had asked of him. “Oh! They’ll manage,” said Owen poking his head through the QM’s door he called, “I’ve stolen Dan, Jack.”

  “I’ll have you for misappropriation of His Majesty’s naval assets,” called the QM. Owen walked away, laughing, two fingers held in the air. He and Kelly moved into Owen’s office, and Kelly took the seat in front of the desk whilst Owen moved to the other side.

  “How was it?” asked Kelly. “I heard the show had been postponed.”

  “Bloody shambles, Dan,” said Owen angrily, “an absolute bloody shambles. They are talking as if the show is temporarily postponed but they will have to call it off! Security has been breached, so we will have no element of surprise at all.”

  “Have the men been briefed?” asked Kelly. “If so then there is no hope that the plan can remain secure. Some of them are bound to say something when they’ve had a few pints.”

  “Not only have our men been briefed,” explained Owen, “So have about 7000 other personnel, including 5000 Canadians. By tomorrow morning everyone in the USA will know the plan.”

  He banged his fist onto the desk.

  “They can’t still go ahead; it would be bloody madness!” he said, swivelling his chair so that he was peering out the window. He watched the commandos, many of them young men, as they scurried about returning stores and generally being busy, before turning back to face Kelly. “It would be slaughter,” he said quietly.