‘He’s an awfully sporting man.’
‘He’s going to send my name in for transfer to the Training Depot. It may take some time, but he thinks it’ll go through.’
‘I hope your wife will feel relieved.’
‘Uncle, do you think I’m behaving pretty poorly?’
‘It’s not my business.’
‘I can see you do. Well, so do I.’
But he had not long in which to face whatever shame attached to his decision. That night, a warning-order arrived and everyone was sent on forty-eight hours embarkation leave.
4
GUY went for a day to Matchet. It was summer holidays for the school. He found his father busy with North and Hillard’s Latin Prose and a pale blue Xenophon ‘brushing up’ for the coming term.
‘I can’t read a word of it unseen,’ said Mr Crouchback almost gleefully. ‘I bet the little blighters will catch me out. They did last term again and again, but they were very decent about it.’
Guy returned a day early to see that everything was well with his company’s arrangements. Walking through the almost empty camp at dusk, he met the Brigadier.
‘Crouchback,’ he said, peering. ‘Not a captain yet?’
‘No, sir.’
‘But you’ve got your company.’
They walked together some way.
‘You’ve got the best command there is,’ said the Brigadier. ‘There’s nothing in life like leading a company in action. Next best thing is doing a job on your own. Everything else is just bumf and telephones.’ Under the trees, in the failing light, he was barely visible. ‘It’s not much of a show we’re going to. I’m not supposed to tell you where, so I shall. Place called Dakar. I’d never heard of it till they started sending me ‘Most Secret’ intelligence reports, mostly about ground-nuts. A French town in West Africa. Probably all boulevards and brothels if I know the French colonies. We’re in support. Worse really – we’re in support of the supporting brigade. They’re putting the Marines in before us, blast them. Anyway it’s all froggy business. They think they’ll get in without opposition. But it’ll help training. Sorry I told you. They’d court-martial me if they found out. I’m getting too old for courts martial.’
He turned away abruptly and disappeared into the woodland.
Next day the move-order was issued to entrain for Liverpool. Leonard was left behind with the rear-party ‘pending posting’. No one except Guy and the colonel knew why. Most supposed him ill. He had been looking like a ghost for some time.
Something of this kind had happened in Captain Truslove’s regiment. A showy polo-player named Congreve sent in his papers when they were under orders for foreign service. The colonel announced at mess: ‘Gentlemen, I must request that Captain Congreve’s name shall never again be mentioned in my presence.’ Congreve’s fiancée returned his ring. From colonel to drummer-boy all felt tainted and many of their subsequent acts of heroism were prompted by the wish to restore the regiment’s honour. (Not until the penultimate chapter did Congreve turn up again, elaborately disguised as an Afghan merchant with the keys of the Pathan fortress where Truslove himself awaited execution by torture.) But Guy had no shame about the defection of Leonard. It seemed, rather, as their train moved spasmodically towards Liverpool, that it was they who were deserting him. Their destination was not the Honolulu-Algiers-Quetta station of Mrs Leonard’s film-clouded imagination, but it was a warm, highly coloured, well-found place far from bombs and gas and famine and enemy occupation; far from the lightless concentration-camp which all Europe had suddenly become.
Chaos in Liverpool. Quays and ships in absolute darkness. Bombs failing somewhere not far distant. Embarkation staff officers scanning nominal-rolls with dimmed torches. Guy and his company were ordered into one ship, ordered out again, stood-to on the dockside for an hour. An all-clear siren sounded and a few lamps glowed here and there. Embarkation officers who had gone to earth emerged and resumed their duties. At last, at dawn they numbly climbed on board and found their proper quarters. Guy saw, them bedded down and went in search of his cabin.
This was in the first-class part of the ship, unchanged from peace time when it had been filled with affluent tourists. This was a chartered ship with the Merchant Marine crew. Already Goanese stewards were up and about in their freshly laundered white and red livery. They padded silently about their work, arranging ashtrays symmetrically in the lounges, drawing the curtains for another day. They were quite at peace. No one had told them about submarines and torpedoes.
But not all were at peace. Turning a corner in search of his cabin Guy found a kind of pugnacious dance being performed in and out of his cabin by Halberdier Glass and a Goanese of distinguished appearance – thin, elderly, with magnificent white moustaches spanning his tear-wet nut-brown face.
‘Caught this black bastard in the very act, sir. Mucking about with your kit, sir.’
‘Please, sir, I am the cabin boy, sir. I do not know this rude soldier.’
‘That’s all right, Glass. He’s just doing his job. Now clear out both of you, I want to turn in.’
‘You aren’t surely going to have this native creeping round your quarters, sir?’
‘I am no native, sir. I am a Christian Portuguese boy. Christian mama, Christian papa, six Christian children, sir.’
He produced from his starched blouse a gold medal, strung round his neck, much worn with the long swing and plunge of the ship rubbing it year by year to and fro on his hairless dark chest.
Guy’s heart suddenly opened towards him. Here was his own kin. He yearned to show the medal he wore, Gervase’s souvenir from Lourdes. There were men who would have done exactly that, better men than he; who would perhaps have said ‘Snap’ and drawn a true laugh from the sullen Halberdier and so have made true peace between them.
But Guy, with all this in his mind to do, merely felt in his pocket for two half-crowns and said: ‘Here. Will this make things better?’
‘Oh yes, sir, thank you. Very much better, sir,’ and the Goanese turned and went on his way rejoicing a little, but not as a fellow man at peace; merely as a servant unexpectedly over-tipped.
To Glass Guy said: ‘If I hear of you laying hands on the ship’s company again, I’ll send you to the guard room.’
‘Sir,’ said Glass, looking at Guy as though at Captain Congreve who let down the regiment.
The men were given a ‘long lie’ that morning. At eleven o’clock Guy paraded his company on deck. An unusually large and varied breakfast – the normal third-class fare of the line – had dissipated the annoyances of the night. They were in good heart. He handed them over to their platoon commanders to check stores and equipment and went to explore. The Second Battalion had done better than the others, who were close packed in the ship moored next to them. They had their transport to themselves except for Brigade Headquarters and a medley of strangers – Free French liaison officers, Marine gunners, a naval beach-party, chaplains, an expert on tropical hygiene and the rest. A small smoking-room was labelled OPERATIONAL PLANNING. OUT OF BOUNDS TO ALL RANKS.
Lying out in the stream might be descried the huge inelegant colourless bulk of an aircraft carrier. All contact with the shore was forbidden. Sentries stood at the gangways. Military police patrolled the quay. But the object of the expedition was not long kept secret for at midday an airman jauntily swinging a parcel charged ‘Most Secret. By hand of officer only’ allowed it to fall asunder as he approached his launch and a light breeze caught, bore up and scattered abroad some thousands of blue, white and red leaves printed with the slogan
FRANÇAIS DE DAKAR!
Joignez-vous à nous pour délivrer la France!
GENERAL DE GAULLE.
No one, except one of the chaplains who was new to military life, seriously expected that these preparations would bring anything about. The Halberdiers had been too much shifted, exhorted and disappointed during recent weeks. They accepted as part of their normal day the series of orders and c
ancellations and mishaps. Shore leave was given and then stopped; censorship of letters was raised and reimposed; the ship cast off, fouled an anchor, returned to the quayside; the stores were disembarked and re-embarked in ‘tactical order’. And then quite suddenly one afternoon, they sailed. The last newspaper to come aboard told of heavier air-raids. De Souza called their transport ‘the refugee ship’.
It seemed barely possible that they would not turn back but on they steamed into the Atlantic until they reached a rendezvous where the whole wide circle of grey water was filled with shipping of every size from the carrier and the battleship Barham, to a little vessel named Belgravia, which was reputed to carry champagne and bath-salts and other comforts for the garrison of Dakar. Then the whole convoy altered course and sailed south, destroyers racing round them like terriers, an occasional, friendly aeroplane swooping overhead and gallant little Belgravia wallowing on behind.
They practised doubling to ‘action stations’ twice a day. They carried ‘Mae West’ life-belts wherever they went. But they took their tone from the smooth seas and the Goanese stewards who tinkled their musical gongs up and down the carpeted passages. All was peaceful and when the cruiser Fiji was torpedoed in full sight of them a mile or two ahead, and all the naval detachment became busy with depth-charges, the incident barely disturbed their Sunday afternoon repose.
Dunn and his signalmen had reappeared and were on board with Brigade Headquarters, but Apthorpe ignored them, perhaps never was aware of their presence, so deep were his colloquies with the specialist on tropical medicine. The men did Physical Training and boxed and listened to lectures about Dakar and General de Gaulle and malaria and the importance of keeping clear of native women; they lay about on the forward deck and in the evenings the chaplains organized concerts for them.
Brigadier Ritchie-Hook, alone, was unhappy. His brigade had a minor and conditional role. It was thought that the Free French would find the town beflagged for them. The only opposition expected was from the battleship Richelieu. This the Royal Marines and a unit of unknown character called a commando would deal with. The Halberdiers might not land at all; if they did it would be for ‘cleaning up’ and relieving the Marines on guard duty. Little biffing. In his chagrin he quarrelled with the ship’s captain and was ordered off the bridge. He prowled about the decks alone, sometimes carrying a weapon like a hedging implement which he had found valuable in the previous war.
Presently the heat grew oppressive, the air stagnant and misty. There was an odd smell, identified as that of groundnuts, borne to them from the near but invisible coast. And word went round that they were at their destination. The Free French were said to be in parley with their enslaved compatriots. There was some firing somewhere in the mist. Then the convoy withdrew out of range and closed in. Launches went to and fro among the ships. A conference was held on the flagship from which Brigadier Ritchie-Hook returned grinning. He addressed the battalion, telling them that an opposed landing would take place next day, then went to the transport carrying his other battalions and gave them the stirring news. Maps were issued. The officers sat up all night studying their beaches, boundaries, second and third waves of advance. During the night the ships moved near inland and dawn disclosed a grey line of African coast across the steamy water. The battalion stood to, at their bomb-stations, bulging with ammunition and emergency rations. Hours passed. There was heavy firing ahead and a rumour that Barham was holed. A little Unfree French aeroplane droned out of the clouds and dropped a bomb very near them. The Brigadier was back on the bridge, on the best of terms with the captain. Then the convoy steamed out of range once more and at sundown another conference was called. The Brigadier returned in a rage and called the officers together.
‘Gentlemen, it’s all off. We are merely awaiting confirmation from the War Cabinet to withdraw. I’m sorry. Tell your men and keep their spirit up.’
There was little need for this order. Surprisingly a spirit of boisterous fun suddenly possessed the ship: Everyone had been a little more apprehensive than he had shown about the opposed landing. Troop decks and mess danced and skylarked.
Immediately after dinner Guy was called to the room marked ‘Out of Bounds to all Ranks’.
He found the Brigadier, the captain and Colonel Tickeridge all looking gleeful and curiously naughty. The Brigadier said: ‘We are going to have a little bit of very unofficial fun. Are you interested?’
The question was so unexpected that Guy made no guess at the meaning and simply said: ‘Yes, sir.’
‘We tossed up between the companies. Yours won. Can you find a dozen good men for a reconnaissance patrol?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And a suitable officer to lead them?’
‘Can I go myself, sir?’ he said to Colonel Tickeridge.
This was true Truslove-style.
‘Yes. Go off now and warn the men to be ready in an hour. Tell them it’s an extra guard. Then come back here with a map and get your orders.’
When Guy returned he found the conspirators very cheerful.
‘I’ve been having a little disagreement with the Force Commander,’ said Ritchie-Hook. ‘There was some discrepancy between the naval and military intelligence about Beach A. Got it marked?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘In the final plan it was decided to leave Beach A alone. Some damn fool had reported it wired and generally impracticable. My belief is that it’s quite open. I won’t go into the reasons. But you can see for yourself that if we got ashore on Beach A we could have taken the frogs in the rear. They had some damn fool photographs and pretended to see wire in them and got windy. I saw no wire. The Force Commander said some offensive things about two eyes being better than one with a stereoscope. The discussion got a bit heated. The operation is cancelled and we’ve all been made to look silly, but I’d just like to make my point with the Force Commander. So I am sending a patrol ashore just to make certain.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well, that is the intention of the operation. If you find the place wired or get shot at come back quickly and we will say no more about it. If it’s open, as I think it is, you might bring back some little souvenir that I can send the Force Commander. He’s a suspicious fellow. Any little thing that will make him feel foolish – a coco-nut or something like that. We can’t use the naval landing craft but the Captain here has played up like a sportsman and is lending a launch for the trip. Well, I’m turning in now. I shall be glad to hear your report in the morning. Settle the tactical details with your C.O.’
Ritchie-Hook left them. The captain explained the position of the launch and the sally-port.
‘Any other questions?’ asked Colonel Tickeridge.
‘No, sir,’ said Guy, ‘It all seems quite clear.’
5
TWO hours later Guy’s patrol paraded in the hold from which the sally-port opened. They were dressed in rubber-soled shoes, shorts, and tunic-shirts; no caps; no gas-masks; their equipment stripped down to the belt. Each had a couple of hand grenades and his rifle, except, for the Bren pair who would set up their gun on the first suitable spot and be ready to cover the retreat if they were opposed. All had blackened faces. Guy carefully gave them their instructions. The sergeant would board the boat first and land last, seeing everyone safely ashore. Guy would land first and the men fan out on either side. He would carry a torch stuffed with pink tissue paper which he would flash back from time to time to give the direction. Wire, if it existed, would be above high water. They would advance inland far enough to discover whether there was wire or not. The first man to come on wire was to pass the word up to him. They would investigate the extent of the wire. A single blast of his whistle meant withdrawal to the boat … and so on.
‘Remember,’ he concluded, ‘we’re simply on reconnaissance. We aren’t trying to conquer Africa. We only fire if we have to cover our withdrawal.’
Presently they heard the winch over their head and they knew that their boat w
as being lowered.
‘There’s an iron ladder outside. It’ll be about six foot to the water level. See that the man before you has got into place before you start going down, All set?’
The lights were all turned off in the hold before the sally-port was opened by one of the crew. It revealed a faintly lighter square and a steamy breath of the sea.
‘All set below?’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Then carry on, Sergeant.’
One by one the men filed from the darkness into the open night. Guy followed last and took his place in the bow. There was barely room to squat. Guy experienced the classic illusion of an unknown, unsought, companion among them. The sally-port shut noisily above them. A voice said: ‘Any more for the Skylark?’ Skylark was the mot juste, thought Guy. They cast off. The engine started with what seemed a great noise and the launch bounced gently away in the direction of Beach A.
It was nearly an hour’s run for the beach lay on the north of the town in a position which, if captured, might have secured the landing to the south. The reek of the engine, the tropic night, the cramped bodies, the irregular smack of little waves on the, bows. At last the man at the wheel said: ‘We must be getting in now, sir.’
The engine slowed. The line of the shore was plain to see, quite near them. The clearer eyes of the seamen searched and found the wide gap of the beach. The engine was shut down and in complete silence they drifted gently inshore under their momentum. Then they touched sand. Guy was standing with, his hands on the gunwale, ready. He vaulted overboard and found himself breast-high in the tepid water. He stumbled straight ahead uphill, waist-deep, knee-deep, then clear of the sea on firm sand. He was filled by the most exhilarating sensation of his life; his first foothold on enemy soil. He flashed his torch behind him and heard splashing; the boat was drifting out again and the last men had to swim a few strokes to get into their depth. He saw shadowy figures emerge and spread out on either side of him. He gave the two flashes which meant ‘Forward’. He could just see and hear the gun pair move off to the side flank to find a position. The patrol moved on uphill. First hard wet sand, then soft dry sand, then long spiky grass. They kept on quietly. Palm trunks rose suddenly immediately in front. The first thing he met was a fallen coconut. He picked it up and gave it to Halberdier Glass, next, to him on the left.