‘Full ahead!’
The bridge seemed to rear like a surfboard as the engines bellowed into full revolutions. Spray dashed over the screen, stinging Despard’s face like sleet.
The boat was weaving slightly, and he wondered how the machine gunners would manage if something unforeseen happened. He swallowed. Here was the tracer. Out of the darkness, like the displays after fleet regattas in peacetime, where he had seen his officers with pretty women, wandering beneath the taut awnings while the band had played.
He thought of ‘Sticks’ Welland, remembering what he had heard about the ace drummer. Some of it was the usual bullshit, but Sticks did have a way with women.
The third boat was moving up now; Despard saw her bow wave rising in a white crest, the hull almost hidden by the churned water.
More tracer, much nearer this time, and from higher up. From the land.
He felt his Sten beneath the cover he had draped over it. A handy little weapon, and provided you stuck to single shots you were pretty safe. Give a Sten to some green recruit, and he always wanted to be James Cagney . . . .
He tried to recall the chart and the diagram which Blackwood had shown them. Shallow water to port, and not too much anywhere else, either. A fortress by the first houses of the little town. He tensed; the boat was weaving again, more violently this time, and he saw the skipper up beside the coxswain, pointing into the darkness.
Somebody gave a nervous shout as the bridge quivered to a solitary crack. But nothing happened, and he heard a sailor call out to his mate on the opposite side.
It was a small shell, had to be. And it had gone right through the boat without exploding. Despard found that he could consider it with dispassion, like a problem at the training depot. An armour-piercing shell, probably an anti-tank gun, or even a tank.
It never left you. Observation, conclusion, method, attack!
He grinned, and it felt as if his jaws were glued together.
Not bad for a bloody ranker.
More shouts. The boat was slowing down, but not much. There were more shots, and metal ricocheted from the paper-thin plating around the bridge.
‘Target! Starboard bow!’ The deck tilted over again. ‘Open fire!’
Flares were exploding over the water, but whose Despard did not know or care. They worked just as well for everyone.
He gripped his Sten and watched. He was quite calm; he was not afraid.
And there was the enemy.
Major Gaillard seized Blackwood’s arm and shouted above the roar of engines, ‘What’s that bloody fool playing at? He knows he must hold his fire!’
Blackwood could feel the intensity of his anger, transmitted by the steel grip on his arm. The flickering lights in his eyes were the reflection of a sudden burst of tracer from the second M.G.B.
Falconer said, ‘Probably saw something.’ His tone suggested, well, it’s too bloody late now!
A starshell exploded almost directly above the fast-moving hull, searing the eyes, and making the mind cringe as the water opened up on either beam like a stage. There were three boats right enough, big lighters, which had been used by both the Italians and the Germans in their constant efforts to supply their troops ashore, all the way across Libya to El Alamein, and now back again. There was the pier, too, a frail-looking construction in the glacier light, but enough for unloading supply boats under cover of darkness.
Falconer crouched against his coxswain and Blackwood felt the boat sag forward as the power was reduced, the bows swinging towards the lighter which was already lying against the pier.
‘Ready, on deck!’
Blackwood felt Gaillard punch his arm. ‘Get to it, Mike!’ He grinned, so that in the glare he looked as if he was laughing. Enjoying it.
Blackwood left the bridge, feeling his men forming around him. Minds probably blank, treating it as another drill. It could be fatal to think beyond that. A tiny, unknown anchorage on the coast of Tunisia, protected by God alone knew how many Frenchmen who were only obeying orders, with little thought of the consequences. Just like us. And out there, inland, beyond this mark on the chart, was the real enemy. The whole coast would soon know of this raid.
He raised his Sten and saw the side of the lighter rising above the M.G.B.’s flared bow. Some seamen were already flinging grapnels over the rails, and although the light had almost died he knew the boat’s guns were ready to fire. They must have done it often enough. Despard’s section should be near the other end of the pier. Should be.
‘Now!’
He flung himself at the rails and heard the water frothing angrily between the two hulls. One slip and you were done for.
At any second there would be resistance, gunfire; the lighter’s crew must be fully aware of what was happening.
Bullets were whining overhead, some hitting either the M.G.B. or the moored supply vessel. Blackwood was on the unfamiliar deck, his feet slipping on discarded mooring wires.
He stared around, his finger resisting all caution, and already too tight on the trigger.
A voice yelled, ‘They’ve scarpered, sir! Two of ’em ’ave jumped in the drink!’
Then Sergeant Welland, in control, unruffled, as he had been when he had gunned down the Italian officer in his bed.
‘No bloody wonder, sir! This boat is full of ammo!’
Blackwood ran past him. ‘See to it! Set the charges!’ The intelligence report had been correct: the enemy was running supplies through neutral territory. That should put the boot into the French admiral’s chances, he thought.
It was suddenly very quiet, and he could imagine the French soldiers groping through the darkness, wondering how many attackers they were facing, and probably very aware of the floating bomb which was moored here.
More figures thudded along the pier and a solitary shot brought a sharp scream from somewhere, which ended abruptly. It was Despard, one arm pointing out positions to his section of marines. Some haphazard shots from the land brought an immediate burst of cannon fire from the gunboats.
Blackwood turned as a man called, ‘The third boat’s in trouble, sir!’
He jerked up his Sten, but lowered it again as the crouching figure below the lighter’s small bridge was revealed as a flapping canvas dodger.
So hard to think, to remember. The faces in the third boat. The young lieutenant was called Robyns. Very keen. All for it, as they said in the Corps. The boat must have stopped altogether, and there were staccato bursts of small arms fire, flashes on the water by the heavier bulk of another vessel. Not a lighter; too cumbersome. What then?
Despard strode past, his gun at his hip. ‘They’ve got a bloody boom here, sir! Nobody said anything about that!’
In daylight they might have seen it, but maybe not. The third gunboat must have hit the boom even as some brave souls were trying to close it. To keep us out? To trap us in? They might never know.
He heard Gaillard’s voice, clear and controlled, as if he were right beside him.
‘Break off! Set the charges!’
Welland said harshly, ‘Martin’s caught one, sir. In the leg. Pretty bad, by the feel of it.’
Blackwood said, ‘Get him aboard. We leave nobody!’ The second M.G.B. was already thrashing astern from the pier. If they got out of this one, Falconer’s boat would be standing room only. Blackwood wanted to laugh. Would anyone ever know about this, let alone care? Would she see a dusty report in one of her files and remember their only night together? He heard the wounded marine cry out in agony as he was hoisted on to another man’s back. He reached out impetuously and gripped the dangling hand. It was sticky with blood. Pretty bad, Welland had said.
It was something like a shock when he felt his grip returned. Not much, but it was there. A link. And the man named Martin knew it.
Blackwood dashed his wrist across his face. A small thing, a fragment, some might say. But it saved me.
Faintly, he heard Falconer’s voice through the commotion of scrambling figures.
Blackwood felt the hulls jar together, and then heard Despard ask with acid humour, ‘You staying then, sir?’
He reached out, and felt a mooring line snake past his legs as hands hauled him on to the gunboat’s deck like a sack of potatoes.
His mind grappled with it. Depth charges. Common enough when attacking small coastal craft. Minimum settings, maybe ten feet. But in this place they might easily all go up together.
Gaillard was beside him again. ‘Well done. Time to go, I think.’
‘What about the others, sir?’
‘The second boat lost three. Killed outright, apparently. Not surprised after all the row he made coming in!’
Blackwood rubbed his eyes, feeling the ache, the grit, aware only of Gaillard’s dismissal, a mild irritation, if that.
When he looked again, the moored lighter had been swallowed in darkness. A floating bomb. No wonder her people had all baled out.
The other gunboat was already in position, screws thrashing, a solitary machine gun raking back and forth over the boom vessel.
Gaillard snapped, ‘I ordered them to pull out!’
Falconer replied quietly, ‘I told the skipper to do what he could to get our lads off.’ He turned away without further comment. ‘Stand by, depth charges!’
There was a loud explosion, and Blackwood saw fragments of wood and metal splashing down near the cluster of vessels by the invisible boom. He did not know who commanded the third boat, or even if he was still alive. If he was, he would be feeling it now, seeing his own command being destroyed to avoid capture.
The hull twisted violently and the bows lifted again, eager to be free and in open water. The crews of the two drifting lighters must have realised what was happening, and that they were next. Some would jump overboard as their comrades had done, and when the charges exploded they would be caught in the blast. Falconer would know that. He had served in the Atlantic, and would have seen men struggling for survival and caught in a pattern of depth charges flung into the air, human remnants, gutted like fish.
Somewhere, as though it were a thousand miles away, a bell tinkled and Blackwood heard the metallic clang of the charges being released. The bows were rising higher and higher, the engines so loud that it was impossible to think. But they heard the depth charges, and they felt the explosions rebound against the hull like sledgehammers.
Blackwood removed his beret and wiped his face with it. What had Falconer told him? Only three boats left, in their little squadron within a squadron?
Now there were only two. And a long way to go before they would be safe.
More explosions, but no fires or dazzling blasts of detonated ammunition. That would come later, probably when the local garrison ventured down to look at the damage.
Despard was so close that he could feel him breathing. Dealing with it in his own, very private way. A man who would never break. The only time Blackwood had seen behind the shield was when he had spoken out about his sister.
Their faces, the wet deck and weapons were lit by two vivid flashes, and then came the explosion. On and on, like thunder over hills.
Falconer brushed by them, but paused to peer astern at the reflected glare of fires.
He patted the side of the bridge, his bridge. ‘Made it! But she’s a tough old bird, this one!’ He moved away to attend to his duties.
Tough old bird? Two years, at the most. Blackwood listened to another muffled explosion. In Falconer’s kind of work, that was old.
When dawn found them, they had the sea to themselves. Probably not for long, but they had done it. Blackwood swallowed a mug of something hot, tea, coffee, or that sickly, glutinous cocoa, ki, that sailors seemed to love so much. Whatever it was, he barely tasted it.
They were close enough to the other motor gunboat to see the rescued marines crouching in the first, cool sunlight. Robyns was with them, his face split in a grin. Full of it. There did not appear to be many of his section left.
Blackwood tried to think how he would have described it to his father, or perhaps to Joanna. But the only word that came was expendable.
It was probably better to be like Despard. Don’t ask. Just do it.
‘Aircraft, sir! Bearing Red four-five! Angle of sight four-five!’
Blackwood felt the mug snatched from his hand as the seamen swung their weapons on to the bearing.
Someone gave a derisive cheer, and another exclaimed, ‘Must be another foul-up, sir! It’s one of ours!’
Blackwood saw Despard gazing at him. Comparing again.
He turned to watch the flashing shape against the clouds.
And there was another response. Pride.
6
Faces of War
‘Straight through there, sir. Hut seven.’ The white-jacketed orderly waited while Blackwood brushed the sand and dust from his khaki shirt. ‘They’ll not give you very long, sir.’
Blackwood thanked him and entered a long covered way, part of yet another new wing of this military hospital. It had been completed so recently that he could still smell fresh paint.
There were wounded men everywhere, sitting in cane chairs in dressing-gowns, walking slowly and carefully with sticks or on crutches, encouraged by their friends or the staff. It was a place full of pain. And of hope.
He wondered if it had been like this for his father, or at Hawks Hill during its period as a convalescent hospital for wounded officers. His mother had sometimes spoken of her experiences then, helping men blinded in the trenches to learn Braille. It was still difficult for him to believe that she was dead; it had come swiftly and with little warning. He had been at sea and had not been able to return home for the funeral. At least they were together again now. She must have been very like Diane as a girl . . . that, too, would have been a constant reminder to his father.
He licked his lips, feeling the sand between his teeth. The car which had given him a lift had been an open Fiat, a smart little vehicle; the driver, a lieutenant, said it had belonged to an Italian officer who had beat a hasty retreat in the first heady days of the desert war.
The hut was in view now, and he thought again of the raid. One motor gunboat, twelve casualties. He bit his lip. Five of them had been killed outright, or had died soon afterwards. What had it proved?
Gaillard had remained non-committal, saying only that it was ‘a step in the right direction, at last!’
‘Can I help?’
He stared, momentarily taken aback by the sudden appearance of a nurse in the entrance lobby, very cool and clean in her uniform. It seemed so strange to find English nurses here, although to everyone else their presence was a matter of fact, was accepted.
‘Captain Blackwood, Sister.’
She smiled gently. ‘Staff nurse. Through that door. Don’t be long – the P.M.O. will be round shortly.’ She made him sound like God.
It was a long, plain room, like a giant packing-case. Beds on either side, highly polished linoleum down the centre.
Most of the beds were occupied: men sleeping or trying to read, men with bandaged heads and plastered limbs, several with missing arms or legs. Soldiers, airmen, marines; it was hard to distinguish in this place of anonymous suffering. Some of them were watching him with expressions he recalled from other hospitals, where their eyes had asked, ‘Why me, and not you?’ It was impossible to cover it by saying someone was lucky just to be alive. Here, it was meaningless.
He saw two Royal Marines sitting stiffly on a wooden bench beside one of the beds. They both stood up, and Blackwood said, ‘As you were. Relax.’ But they remained standing. Because I am their officer.
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 don
e 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.
Dust on the Sea (1999) Page 10