A handset buzzed, `Twelve thousand yards, sir!’
‘Very good.’ Nothing more.
Beaushears said thickly, `They’ve started to make smoke!’
Sure enough the two small destroyers were weaving across the monitor’s bows, parallel with the beachless coast, whilst from their squat funnels billowed a languid pall of black, greasy smoke. It hung across the water, shutting out the sun and darkening the smiling seascape like a curtain.
Chesnaye could feel his nails biting into his palms as he watched the destroyers’ efforts and matched them against the Saracen’s slow and painful progress. They were nearer the coast now, but there was still a long way to go. He stiffened as he caught sight of more waterspouts beyond the smokescreen. More this time. Maybe six or seven.
Above the bridge the gunnery team would be watching too. Calculating and waiting. It could not be much longer.
The Captain spoke. `Prepare to lower boats.’
The order was passed, and below the bridge Chesnaye could see the frantic efforts to get the big cumbersome launches slung out over the side.
Royston-Jones added testily : `Pulling boats first. They can be taken in tow with the rafts.’ He shifted briefly in his chair and glanced at the watching midshipmen. `Well, off you go.’ He waited as they saluted. `And good luck.’
Chesnaye could feel his stomach muscles tight against his belt as he pushed his way through the marines who were milling excitedly around the davits. Half the night they had practised this manceuvre, but already the situation looked tangled and near disaster.
Co:ror sander Godden stood by the rail, his face grim as he watched the first boat squeaking down the falls. ft hit the water and was soon drifting clear of the crawling monitor. Rafts, lowered over the side for once heedless of paintwork, were immediately taken in tow by the whaler, and as the power boats were lowered alongside, momentarily pinioned to allow more men to scramble aboard, Chesnaye suddenly realised the enormity of their task.
He caught sight of Tobias and then Pickles in their allotted places beside Major De L’Isle, and he felt himself scrambling with the desperation of the men he had just been watching like an onlooker.
The Major of Marines was standing up in the launch, his face scarlet as he yelled at his Colour Sergeant, who was in another boat. `Keep those men quiet, d’you hear? God damn your eyes if I hear another word!’ He flopped down on the thwart beside Chesnaye and banged his short leather-covered stick against his boot. `Let them save their energy, that’s what I say!’
Spouting smoke and fumes, the power boats gathered up the cutters and whalers with their attendant rafts into three separate tows. At a signal from De L’Isle they formed into lines and turned towards the shore, some of the men cheering and shouting in spite of the threats from the N.C.O.s.
The boats gathered way, so that the Saracen’s jagged shape seemed to grow small and indistinct in minutes. Only the three great ensigns stood out clear and bright, while the ragged hole left by the mine was already lost in the haze.
There was a great whistling roar, and for a few seconds Chesnaye thought that the Saracen had opened fire. As he twisted his head to watch he saw a blinding light burst alongside the monitor’s low hull, so bright that he winced and shut his eyes. But not before he had seen the tall topmast quiver and then plunge over the side. The blast of the explosion fanned across the flat water and deluged the small boats in noise, so that most of the men could only gape as the falling mast slithered into the sea followed by
its attendant tangle of rigging and men.
De L’Isle was the first to recover his wits. `A big ‘un, I should say. Fourteen-inch at least!’
Chesnaye’s heart sank. No wonder the Turks were confident about this part of their coast. With a well-sited gun of that calibre, and with their target silhouetted against an empty sea, it was just a matter of time.
He dug his fingers into the boat’s warm gunwale and gritted his teeth as another fountain of water burst abreast the monitor’s bridge. Still she did not return fire, and Chesnaye could feel himself almost weeping at the ugly ship’s slow progress.
De L’Isle sniffed and moved his holster on his belt. `At least the bloody Turks won’t be expecting us to arrive like this, what?’
Chesnaye turned with difficulty amidst the close press of bodies and looked at Pickles. He was surprised to see that the young midshipman was apparently calm, or was he resigned? He tried to grin at him, but his jaws felt stiff and enlarged.
Pickles moistened his lips and then reached across a seaman’s bent shoulders to touch his hand. His lips moved very slowly, and Chesnaye realised he was trying to tell him something. The scream of the next shell made further words impossible, so he merely squeezed Pickles’ hand and then turned back to watch the boats and the nearness of the smokescreen. But his hand, long after he had released Pickles’, was still ice cold from the contact.
The beach at the foot of the tall brown cliffs was smaller than it had first appeared, and consisted not of sand but of broken stones and rubble washed or blown down over the centuries to form a narrow, treacherous slope. It shelved steeply and immediately into deep water which surged in the cliff’s black shadow in a constant, angry maelstrom of short, steep waves. Singly and in pairs the boats staggered and lurched against the loose stones while the packed men leapt and stumbled ashore, their heavy packs and rifles adding to the confusion. All about them, wafted by a fresh off-shore breeze the remnants of the destroyers’ smoke screen made some of them cough, others curse noisily as they peered anxiously for their comrades and correct positions on the beach. The sun was much higher, but beneath the tall, threatening cliff face the air seemed tinged with ice, so that some of the sweating marines were shivering and stamping their feet.
Keith Pickles felt the water draining from his trouser legs and stepped unsteadily towards the brown crumbling wall where Major De L’Isle and half of his men were already examining the means of reaching the top of this natural barrier. Pickles again tried to examine his inner feelings, to face some thought or idea which he could recognise, but nothing came. He felt light-headed, as if he was gliding from one phase to the next as in a dream. Time and distance had shortened, so that the long and agonising passage through the oily smoke to this shore now seemed the same length as climbing from the pitching launch or adjusting his belt and revolver.
He turned to watch as a section of marines led by Lieutenant Keats, De L’Isle’s willowy second-in-command, moved briskly around a short spur of rock and began to scramble up the cliff face. Like mountaineers, they were silhouetted darkly against the pale colours and hues of the next bay, far beyond this overcast place, their bent bodies like bronze sculptures on a memorial.
He heard De L’Isle bark to no one in particular `Damn’ fine landing ! Not a. man lost ! Must have caught John Turk with his breeches dangling, what?’
Some of his men laughed shortly and nervously, as if they were out of breath. Pickles watched them narrowly and saw the way they were fingering their rifles and peering up at the moving section of marines. Nervous, afraid even.
Pringle’s voice was here, too, loud and blustering as he yelled at the wallowing boats : `Stand off the beach ! Wait for further orders!’ It was odd, but Pickles was able to listen and calculate Pringle’s words without nervousness. The shouted orders seemed empty and meaningless, extra and unnecessary. It was strange he had never realised that so much of Pringle’s world was pure show. Perhaps he was afraid too? He watched the man’s flushed and angry face and wondered.
De L’Isle waved his leather stick. `Close up! Lively there !’
Obediently the officers and N.C.O.s drew round him, their expressions mixed and cautious.
De L’Isle was speaking fast and sharply. `Right. No time to lose. Second section move off to the left. Sergeant Barnes!’
The tall Colour Sergeant, who looked as if he had just prepared himself for an admiral’s inspection, stiffened to attention on the loose stones. `Sir?
’
`You take ‘em off at the trot right away. You know the picture, but things may be different once we get over this ridge. The Turks’ll not be expecting our little lot, but it won’t take ‘em long to move up a force of some sort.’ His bulbous eyes flashed meaningly. `Your orders and mine are to hold off any local attack until the spotting team have homed the guns on the enemy’s flank.’ He spoke to the group at large. `That fourteen-inch gun which is trying to knock hell out of the poor old ship is probably intended for our lads up the coast. That, and any other battery, must be wiped out, and quick.’
The Colour Sergeant was well over six feet tall and as broad as a door. His big-boned face was decorated with a ginger upturned moustache which gave him the appearance of one of Wellington’s grenadiers, and he looked entirely calm and unmoved as he listened to his superior. At a nod from the Major he swung round and slung his rifle across his shoulder, his hard eyes already searching out his own particular section of marines. As they moved clear Pickles heard the sergeant say angrily : `Keep your distances ! Don’t huddle together like a lot of bloody matelots !’ Then they were gone.
The Major grunted approvingly. `First things first.. Don’t fancy having some damned Turk bouncing grenades on us while we’re chatting, what?’
Less laughter this time. Pickles realised that the beach already seemed larger, and the landing force which had been made important by its density now appeared small and insignificant as it broke up into little groups.
De L’Isle glanced at the officers. `Ready, you three?’ Pringle cleared his throat. `I’ll stop here and supervise the shore party of seamen.’
The Major laughed unpleasantly. `Like Jesus you will, boy ! You get up to the ridge with the two snotties an’ double quick!’
Pickles felt his heart thumping with sudden excitement. He turned to look at Chesnaye, but the latter’s face was grave and expressionless.
Pringle seemed shocked. `My orders are to stay here, sir!’
`Damn your orders ! I’m in command here!’ He leaned forward, his polished boots creaking. `I’ve been in more campaigns and trouble spots than you’ve had pork chops ! The men may think this is a picnic, but I don’t. It may happen that once we top the cliff we’ll be for it. If that happens, half our party might get wiped out, see?’ He turned his heavy frame, his mind apparently busy on other things. `In any case, you’re more experienced. So do your job!’
Pringle did not look at the two midshipmen, Through his teeth he muttered, `Come on, then, and no shirking, Pickles!’ But there was no bite in his voice. It was as if he was someone else.
There was a sudden stammer of machine-gun fire from the extreme right, followed immediately by shouts and a ragged rifle volley.
De L’Isle was cursing quietly. He waved his stick and said, `Corporal, get your men up this cliff, right here!’ He stabbed angrily at the crumbling mound. `Come on, lad ! It won’t bite you!’ He waited impatiently as the first men began to climb, and then said to Pringle : `You too. We might as well get started!’
Pickles felt the grit and stones falling on his shoulders as he followed the heavy-booted marines towards the pale bright sky, but he was entirely absorbed in his new thoughts. He felt hot and cold in turns, and once when he looked down at the handful of seamen left on the beach he felt like laughing aloud. It was as if every doubt and agony had left his mind at once. Just knowing that he was going to be killed seemed to make it much easier to bear.
Before, in that earlier landing, it had been different. There had been a small chance of survival, a tiny hope perhaps. It had made living and thinking a nightmare. Even his life aboard the Saracen had been a mere building up for this moment. Now there was no turning back, and the future was suddenly mercifully plain and exact.
Once when he rested in a hanging pattern of gorse he turned to look for the monitor. Small and pale, the ship was still shrouded in smoke. He could not tell what the smoke represented. Her own guns or the enemy’s, or just the vapour from the screen left by the two small ships which darted along the coast. One of the destroyers appeared to be on fire, but her -guns still flashed and her bow wave spoke of her tremendous speed and grace.
Pickles watched the Saracen as if seeing it for the first time. It could have been so different. Or could it? For once he could question his constant defence without a tremor. Pringle had brought an edge to his misery, but there had been his own stupid pride and ignorance too. It had all been so wonderful at first. Home on leave before joining the ship. The uniform, the admiring glances from all the girls he had once known and played with in the road outside his father’s shop. He seemed to have grown to a man while they still appeared gawky and pigtailed. He remembered too the dark sweet-smelling parlour at the back of the shop where his early life had revolved. The mantelpiece crowded with silver-framed photographs of relatives, singly or in groups, of dogs and cats, and all the other faces which had made up the Pickles family past.
His father, short and fat, with a lick of hair plastered across his forehead. He had been proud, too, but more cautious. Perhaps he had known what lay ahead of his son in his new career.
`They might seem different to you, Keith,’ he had said on more than one occasion. `You know, posh homes and plenty of cash. I’ve had to work for what I’ve got here, and I was hopin’ you’d join me one day in the shop.’
Pickles remembered now how he had felt embarrassment at the way his father had always dropped his s. But he had been right. All the way. Try as he might, Pickles had met this strange barrier at every stage. He had helped to make it worse by fighting back, by trying to play a part he had never known. He had run short of money two weeks after joining the Saracen, at a time when the new ship was open for one party and celebration after another. He had borrowed ten pounds from a tailor in Portsmouth. Once in debt he had increased his misery until the small tailor had come to the ship to press his demands. It might have been better if the man had gone to the Commander, but instead he had approached Pringle, who with a show of hurt pride had paid the man and sent him packing. From that moment he had made Pickles’ life a nightmare. He had piled one humiliation after another on him, each time with some sneer or jibe at his upbringing and background. The other midshipmen in the gunroom stayed silent and watchful. Taking no sides. They, too, obviously agreed with Pringle.
Then Chesnaye had joined the ship, and a small glimmer of hope had returned to Pickles’ heart. It was rumoured that Chesnaye was under a cloud because his father had failed in some way, that he too was from a poor family. He had felt something like love when the tall, grave-faced Chesnaye had stood up for him against Pringle, but even this had been soured by jealousy when Pickles had seen that the other midshipmen had accepted the newcomer in spite of his alleged faults. He was one of them. He belonged whatever he did.
There was a sudden clatter of feet to his right, and he craned his head to watch the first section of marines reappear on the top of a wedge-sided fall of rock. They were already a hundred yards away, but he could detect the sudden urgency and desperation in their movements.
A burst of machine-gun fire sent the pale dust dancing once more, and three marines skidded down the rock face their bodies torn and bloodied. The young marine lieutenant, Keats, seeing his men falter and hang back from the sun-dappled ridge, leapt forward, waving his stick. `Come on, lads ! Forward, marines!’ He staggered and fell at once as the next burst smashed into his crouched body.
De L’Isle raised his binoculars and dug his elbows into the slope. `God ! What a mess!’ In a louder voice he shouted : `Round to the left, men ! Get that Lewis gun mounted and spray the slope!’
More marines ducked and ran forward. Some made it, others fell writhing before the unseen death which sang and whistled in the dusty air.
In twos and threes De L’Isle’s party reached the top of the cliff and flopped down amongst a long line of smooth boulders. The Lewis gun began to chatter, and some of the men shouted encouragement to the section which was pinned
down on the right.
De L’Isle was breathing heavily as he rested his binoculars on a piece of sun-warmed rock. To Pringle he said sharply : `No need for you to bother about us. Get your party across this gully and up on to that ridge there.’
Pickles listened and moved up alongside the sweating marines to peer at the long, dark-sided ridge which lined the other side of a deep gully. It was slab-shaped with a tall pinnacle at one end, like the steeple of a petrified church. He saw too a small, stone-walled hut, roofless and deserted, at the foot of the pinnacle, perched on the ridge, as if forgotten for many years. He heard De L’Isle say `Make for that. Once up there you’ll get a good view over the ridge and across the valley beyond.’
Pickles turned his head and looked at the rolling panorama of hills and cheerless ragged ridges which undulated away to the south where the high arrogant peak of Achi Baba still dominated the Peninsula. A barren, arid, unwanted place, he thought. Gorse, a few sparse trees and the ever-moving dust. Somewhere to the north the troops were waiting. But did it matter? Did anything count in this cruel land?
A bullet whimpered overhead and passed away over the sea behind him. He shivered and drew his head deeper into his shoulders. A sniper? They were said to be everywhere. On every hill and ridge. No man could move in the open and live. He stared at the dark ridge again. Yet we have to get there, he thought. Three officers and three seamen.
The Colour Sergeant called from what seemed a great distance, `Ready, sir!’
Major De L’Isle wiped the sweat from his eyes. `Must clear those batteries before noon,’ he said. absently. Then, as if having come to a decision, he blew sharply on his whistle and lumbered to his feet. As the Lewis gun sprayed the slope beyond the cliff edge the ragged line of marines rose from cover and began to run forward. Slowly at first, and then when nothing happened faster and more wildly. There were a few unexpected rifle shots from the foot of the ridge, and three more marines cried out and fell face down in their own blood. Even more unexpectedly, as if from the rock itself, a handful of bluegrey figures rose directly in the centre of the small advance, their alien uniforms and dark faces suddenly very clear and close.
HMS Saracen Page 14