Free Dust On the Sea by Douglas Reeman Page A

were several local craft about, just as Carson had described them, sailing vessels, some with colourful rigs which made them look like butterfliesagainst the dark, heaving water. ‘Our guide seems to think the Germans will arrive at noon or thereabouts. He’ll be off like a bloody rabbit when that happens, I’ll lay odds on it!’
    Blackwood glanced at the strong profile. If anybody dared to help the enemy, the Germans would show no mercy. There would be bloody reprisals, like some of the horrific cases he had heard about in Yugoslavia and in France. Despard had spoken without pity for the unknown guide. Was he thinking of his own home in the Channel Islands? Were there traitors and collaborators there also, ready to betray friends and neighbours merely to gain some advantage from the occupying power?
    Despard had made no comment about the absence of the third section under Gaillard. Perhaps he was too well trained, hardened against the unexpected. The third schooner might have been too late for a stealthy approach; it could have broken down. Blackwood said, ‘It’s up to us.’ He was ticking off the objectives as he spoke. ‘Guard hut first – the wireless transmitter is supposed to be in there. Then the road from the village. Look, where those goats are.’
    Despard steadied his glasses, his beret tugged forward to keep the light from his eyes.
    â€˜That’s not too difficult.’ He grinned. ‘They’ll have a fit when they see us!’
    Blackwood smiled. Then he beckoned to their guide, wondering briefly how Carson had come to know him, and to trust him.
    He was aware of the man’s anxiety, as if he were only used to this kind of work by night. He was older than expected, with dark, liquid eyes: the face of a scholar, notof a fisherman or a labourer. Blackwood could smell his fear, and felt a sudden pity for him.
    â€˜I shall move forward in half an hour.’
    The man nodded, barely able to swallow. ‘The Italian guards hoist their flag soon. They will all be there. Except the officer. He is in the house with the Germans.’ He almost spat out the word. ‘There are two other men down by the jetty. They watch the boats.’ He stared at the sky until his eyes watered. ‘Tonight is better.’
    Blackwood saw Despard grimace.
    â€˜That is too late. For us.’ He looked across the man’s bent shoulders. ‘Warn the others, George. We don’t want to be caught with our pants down.’ He turned back to the Greek, and did not see Despard’s rare revelation of surprise, that he had called him by name. ‘When we fall back . . .’
    The guide patted his arm, nervously, fearfully. ‘I will be ready to take you to the boats, Capitano.’
    Blackwood raised himself on his haunches and watched a file of marines moving into a shallow gully. Not the sick, complaining men with whom he had shared the last few days. Loping along the uneven ground as if they knew it well, each man with his weapon held across his body, eyes moving from sector to sector. Ready for anything.
    He said, ‘You are a brave man. Try not to forget that!’
    He stood up slowly and looked down the slope. Not a place, only another objective, but it seemed to challenge him. People lived here, as best they could, no matter what flag flew or which cult dictated the orders. They had so little to sustain them; why risk it because of someone else’s war?
    He sensed that the Greek was shivering. No one wouldcare if men like him lived or died. No one would even hear of it. Perhaps, after all, theirs was the highest kind of courage.
    Sergeant Welland was beside him again. ‘Ready, sir.’
    Blackwood looked from right to left, but could see only two men, one already prone with his Ross rifle trained on the houses. He measured the distance to the low wall. There were no gates, only a barbed-wire barrier which had been pulled to one side. A