Dive in the Sun (16 page)

‘They’re goin’ to load some gear on to the ship,’ said Duncan. ‘Looks like they might be sailin’ soon, eh?’ He smiled slowly, the leathery skin about his eyes bunching into broad crowsfeet. ‘We still goin’ through with our plan, Ralph?’

Curtis studied the lorry, noting the travel stains across its broad bonnet.

‘We’ll take her whatever happens. Unless they’re embarking a regiment of troops!’ He smiled slightly, but inwardly he was already considering that such a possibility would smash his flimsy plans to nothing.

‘Another truck on the way,’ announced Duncan suddenly. ‘An’ there’s some more behind that!’

The dust rose in a thick cloud as the four lorries manoeuvred into a ragged line on the edge of the soft sand and halted. The fishermen were listening to a tall officer in a dove grey uniform, who was waving a stick vaguely towards the boats and then at the schooner. The fishermen walked back to their boats and stood in a silent group, while the officer held up his stick like a sword and pointed at the lorries. He was smiling, his teeth gleaming whitely beneath a neat black moustache. He was apparently shouting some sort of a joke to the onlookers, but until the soldiers laughed, none of the villagers moved or spoke, and the tension could be felt by the three sun-baked figures at the top of the hill.

The tail-boards of the lorries fell with a series of dull thuds, and some of the soldiers climbed up inside the tall vehicles.

Curtis swore and squinted fixedly at the scene, wishing that they would finish their job, whatever it was, and leave the beach empty once more.

‘Bloody Eye-ties!’ Duncan rolled his tongue across his lips. ‘Always make such a shindy over everything, I shouldn’t be surprised if——’ He stopped, and Curtis felt his fingers dig into his arm.

Neither spoke as the first khaki figure half fell, half staggered down on to the sand. He stood swaying dazedly from side to side, feebly trying to support himself on a piece of boxwood. One of his feet was encased in a great wad of bandage, and he tried to hold it clear of the ground by leaning on the little piece of wood. His bent swaying shape threw a queer twisted shadow across the white sand, like a caricature of a man.

Another soldier climbed down and cannoned into him, and for a moment they swayed together, in a frantic embrace.
This
man was whole, but for the bandage across his eyes and most of his face. His hands gripped the other man and held on desperately, as the cripple fought to hold his balance and at the same time pacify his blinded comrade.

One of the drivers laughed and kicked away the wooden prop, and both of the tattered figures rolled over in the dust. Curtis drove his fingers into the grass until they were buried in the coarse dirt, the heat of his rage and anguish almost blinding him, as one by one the ragged, khaki scarecrows fell, or were dragged from the four lorries.

Duncan was crouched by a bush, his thick arms rigid, like a runner waiting for the gun, and his jaw moving silently as he cursed and swore under his breath in a savage chant.

There were altogether about thirty wounded men on the beach. Some sat dejectedly in the sand, their heads hanging practically to their knees, while others clung together for support, their bandages stained either with dirt, or by the bright red patches which marked the pattern of their combined suffering.

Some just laid where they had fallen, crumpled shabby forms, which had once been British soldiers.

A driver shouted hoarsely, and some of his comrades climbed back into one of the lorries and dragged two more figures down over the tail-board.

The officer shouted angrily and waved his stick, but the driver merely shrugged and prodded one of the bodies with his foot.

A figure suddenly detached itself from the khaki huddle and limped stiffly towards the officer. He carried one arm in a sling and only one eye was visible from beneath the massive dressing about his head. No one moved to intercept him, as with his good arm swinging in almost military precision, he marched up to the Italian officer, who stood swinging his stick idly against his polished boot, as if he had been hoping for and expecting just such an encounter.

The soldier halted, his head twisted on one side so that he could see the other man. A set of sergeant’s stripes hung loosely from his sleeve, and as Curtis watched with sick horror, he could see the glint of campaign ribbons on the soldier’s chest.

The sergeant pointed stiffly at his companions and then at his own injuries. His mouth opened and closed slowly, as if he was trying to explain his requirements in that peculiar pidgin English which British troops use when confronted with a foreigner.

The officer yawned elaborately, and in obedience, some of his men laughed. The sergeant’s red face seemed to get redder, but he brushed the sweat away from his face and continued to speak and gesticulate. The officer was evidently getting bored, for he called to the men by the boats and turned on his heel.

The sergeant dragged himself painfully after him, anxiety giving him sudden energy.

‘Christ! The poor devils are dyin’!’ Duncan’s voice shook as the words were dragged from him. ‘That stinkin’ bastard’s makin’ the guy crawl!’ He half rose to his feet, one hand groping for his pistol.

Curtis dragged him down beside him, his face set in a bitter mask. ‘Get down, Steve! We can’t do anything for them yet!’

‘Yet? You mean we’re goin’ down to have a crack at those yellow apes?’

Curtis nodded, his throat clogged, as the wounded men began to stagger to their feet. ‘We’ll help them, if it’s the last thing we do!’ He slammed his hands together. ‘Look at them! God, why doesn’t someone give them a hand?’

The officer walked away towards the sea, and one of his men pushed the sergeant towards the boats.

Duncan ran his fingers through his hair and pulled at his jacket, as if he could no longer breathe. ‘All those blokes bein’ packed into that one crummy ship? How long’ll they be aboard for Chrissakes? They need medical attention, and quick!’

Curtis narrowed his eyes, as he looked towards the still forms which lay by the lorries. ‘Not them,’ he said softly. ‘They’re out of it.’

One of the watching women was crying into her apron, and Duncan looked down at her, his face hard.

‘Yes, cry, you bitch! When the Eighth Army comes through here, you’ll remember all this!’

The boats pushed off from the beach, but as one of them
bumped
against a sandbank, weighted down with its heavy load, one of the khaki shapes half rose from his seat, and the silence was split by a terrible cry of pain.

In the bows of another boat a stocky figure scrambled precariously on to the gunwale, his head bandages gold in the sun. Curtis groaned aloud; it was the sergeant again. His groan faded into a sob as the sergeant’s cracked voice floated across the painted water.

‘Bless ’em all, bless ’em all! The long an’ the short an’ the tall!’

The schooner’s captain waded after the nearest boat and climbed clumsily over the stern, while behind him, alone on the beach, the officer danced up and down with rage, screaming and waving his stick at the sergeant, ‘
Silenzio! Silenzio!
’

An old fisherman standing by his cottage door saluted with sudden gravity, and a woman pulled her child closer to her skirt.

Curtis watched the boats bump alongside the schooner, their shapes blurred and indistinct.

‘We’ll board her tonight,’ he said quietly. ‘Whatever happens now, we have to take that ship!’

Duncan stared down at the officer, his face tired and heavy. ‘I hope he’s around, when we go!’

They looked at each other, both aware of the new implication and the coldness which had enclosed them like a shroud.

They waited until the bodies had been removed from the beach, and the lorries had departed, and then settled down to wait for the darkness. The waiting had been made easier by the hatred which waited upon each of them with persistent greed.

The grass around the hilltop rustled uneasily as the cold breeze from the north tested its strength momentarily on the side of the slope, before passing on with mounting strength to fan out across the bay and bring the dark water alive with dancing whitecaps. Occasionally the moon showed itself in a feeble silver crescent, and tinged the edges of the black racing clouds with its fading brilliance, so that they looked angry and solid as they scudded purposefully across the late evening
sky
. As the moon darted an occasional ray upon the shoreline, the distorted shapes of the cottages shone like large lumps of sugar, before fading away into the blackness of the surrounding hills, and the sand spit seemed to rise from the sea in an effort to hold the passing light, before it, too, joined the shadows and the unsettled noises left by the wind.

Curtis stood up and stamped his boots in the dust, while he attempted to study the luminous dial of his watch.

Taylor stood at his side, his face an indistinct blob against the sky. He was buttoning his jacket, and carefully going through his pockets.

‘We makin’ a move soon, Skipper? There don’t seem to be anybody about.’

‘Yes, soon.’

Curtis stared towards where the schooner lay, but against the constant movement of the water and the rearing and falling of the short, white-crested waves, he could no longer see the vessel’s hull. The nagging doubts persisted, and he had only half heard Taylor’s question.

Suppose the ship pulled out without warning, and without waiting for the German officer to rejoin her? Until the last of the daylight had passed with the sun behind the headland, he had watched the movements in the village, and had waited coldly for the ship to show some sign of departing. Fresh water had been rowed out to the schooner’s side, the operation being carried out in several laborious trips by the fishermen in their boats, but still nothing happened. Like the others, Curtis had expected that a doctor would arrive to attend to the wounded, but the village had gradually quietened, and the ship had become more and more indistinct in the gathering darkness. Perhaps they had a medical officer on board, he thought, and dismissed the idea as unlikely, the gnawing anxiety he felt for the wounded soldiers only adding to the uncertainty of his next move.

A stick cracked, and both men went stiff. They heard Duncan curse briefly from the ground below them, and Curtis moved to meet him.

‘See anything?’ His voice was low, but the urgency was clear in his question.

Duncan shook his head, and held up the water bottle. ‘Just filled this in the stream, an’ came straight back up. All quiet in the village though. ’Cept for a couple of Eye-ties on motor bikes.’ He jerked his thumb towards the main road. ‘Police, I guess.’

Curtis pulled his belt tighter, and adjusted his holster with sudden care. ‘Might as well get started then.’

‘Yep.’ Duncan handed over the bottle, its crude neck cold and wet. ‘Pity about Ian,’ he said slowly. ‘But there’s more to think about now.’

Curtis drank without feeling. ‘Yes.’

Taylor shifted his feet and took the bottle with sudden eagerness. He drank deeply and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Well, shall we go? I’m fair gettin’ the wind up, standing about up ’ere!’

Curtis peered at their dark shapes, and wished that he could see their faces. ‘Well, here goes.’ His stomach contracted and he swallowed hard. ‘We’ll go down now and get one of the boats away. I’ll just go over the drill again.’ He looked at Taylor. ‘You go straight to the poop, by the mainmast. I think the engine-room hatch is about there, so you’ll be ready to get things started if we carry things the way we want them. Here,’ he handed the pistol to him, ‘take this. If anyone tries to enter or leave the engine-room, show him this.’

‘S’pose he won’t stop, what then?’

‘Kill him!’ Curtis was surprised by the chill in his own voice.

‘I reckon there’ll be about ten to a dozen in the crew, an’ there are about three soldiers or coppers on board that we know of as well.’ Duncan’s hand rasped across his chin. ‘We might be able to enlist a bit of support from the Tommies, too, eh?’

‘Maybe.’ Curtis hurried on. Now that he had shown his hand, he wanted desperately to get started. ‘You, Steve, will stay with me. We’ll make for the after hatch, the one behind the wheel, as I think the captain’ll be in there. Once we’ve got him safe, well, we’ll see.’ He paused. ‘Any ideas?’

‘They only seem to have a short cable down, Ralph. We can slip the anchor completely, and get clear without any fuss
at
all, provided there’s no bloody noise!’ Duncan flexed his shoulders. ‘If we can get out of this blessed place, we can be sixty miles clear by dawn!’

Curtis frowned. So many ifs, but there was no other way.

‘’Ere, wot a lark if we made it O.K.!’ Taylor chuckled with something like his old humour. ‘Won’t the blokes be surprised, eh?’

Curtis gripped his arm tightly. ‘We’ll have a go, George. We’ll feel more at home out there anyway.’

Curtis looked up warily, as Duncan’s hand rose like a white glove.

‘Don’t move, blokes!’ His voice was almost conversational. ‘But I think we’ve got company!’

They all stood transfixed in attitudes of surprised watchfulness, each man straining his ears and eyes without moving his head.

Curtis was conscious again of his heart pounding with mounting persistence. ‘Jervis? D’you think it’s Jervis?’ His voice was a mere hiss of breath.

Duncan’s head turned slightly, and as the moon peeped over a cloud, his bared teeth gleamed like those of a cornered animal. ‘No, it’s not him,’ he said slowly. Curtis saw him move his hand, and heard the metallic click of a safety catch. ‘Stay ’ere!’ Duncan sounded preoccupied and strange. ‘I’m a bit more used to this sort of caper. I’ll head the bastard off, whoever it is. Got yer knife, Ralph?’

Curtis nodded and slipped it from inside his blouse. It was still warm from contact with his own body, and he suddenly regretted giving his gun to Taylor.

‘Now keep still. Give me time to get clear. P’raps he won’t come up here, an’ we won’t have to do anythin’. But if he
does
…’ He left the rest unsaid, and as the others watched, his huge bulk seemed to melt into the bushes with hardly a sound.