Free Dust On the Sea by Douglas Reeman Page B

goat was munching something by the entrance, but paused to stare with yellow eyes as if it had sensed the nearness of danger.
    It was unreal, like a badly made film running in slow motion. Blackwood was not sure what he had been expecting, possibly a bugle, like the sounding of Colours on board a cruiser or a battleship in those other, impossible days of peace. . . . Instead, it was a shrill whistle, like that of a railway guard.
    He heard the stamp of boots, and then saw the Italian green, white and red flag jerking to a spindly masthead outside the largest building. He leaped forward, the Sten gun level with his hip as he shouted, ‘
Now!
’
    An Italian N.C.O. was saluting, and a sentry was presenting arms to the flag as the marines burst in on them. If it had not been so vital it might have been comical, the expressions of utter incredulity and shock, Sergeant Welland pausing only to snatch the rifle from the guard as he yelled, ‘
Stand still!
Anybody who moves is a dead ’un!’ It would have sounded the same in any language.
    Weapons clattered down, and Blackwood ran past the confusion and kicked open the door, his finger tight on the trigger, his body stiffened, as if anticipating the crushing agony of a bullet.
    One shot echoed across the yard, and he swung round in time to see a shadow drop past the window; the marksmen must have seen somebody on the roof. On and on, feet pounding behind him, doors kicked open, grenades with pins drawn ready to silence any-one reckless or stupid enough to show resistance.
    And all at once it was quiet. Just the faint hum of electricity, and someone groaningunhappily from the wireless room. Exactly as the plan of action had described.
    Welland snapped, ‘Somebody’s in there, sir!’
    Blackwood nodded, and levelled the Sten. Welland poised like a rugby forward converting a try and kicked the door with all his strength. It burst open and Blackwood raised the Sten, his mind excluding everything but the man who was sitting bolt upright in the bed. The officer, who never presented himself for the daily flag-raising. His uniform tunic hung on a chairback, and he seemed unable to speak as the marines dashed into the room and positioned themselves by another door and the shuttered window.
    Welland rasped, ‘
Up!
’ and stared as another face appeared over the crumpled blanket. A woman, and naked by the look of it. Not young, but ‘Sticks’ Welland licked his lips approvingly. Not to be sneezed at!
    There was a battered wardrobe on one side of the room. Blackwood opened the door and poked at the hanging clothing with the Sten’s short snout.
    â€˜Get dressed! Cover yourself!’
    He swung round, his mind cringing to the shot, and saw the Italian officer falling slowly from the bed. In one hand was a heavy pistol, which he must have been pulling from beneath the pillow when Welland had seen it. Thewoman did not scream; she was beyond it. She did not even attempt to hide her nakedness as someone dragged her from the bed and threw her a blanket.
    Despard had appeared in the doorway, his eyes everywhere, his gun quite steady as he glanced from Blackwood to the dead officer, and then to the woman by the bed.
    Then he stooped and tore the pistol from the dead man’s hand.
    He said, ‘Useful.’ He looked at Blackwood again. ‘She’ll have to find another companion, eh?’
    It was there again. Blackwood tried to clear his racing thoughts. Despard remembering, perhaps. Or comparing . . .
    A marine burst into the room, and skidded to a halt as he saw the small drama, Welland’s gunsmoke still hanging in the unmoving air, the dead Italian’s blood shimmering on the floor.
    â€˜A boat’s bin sighted!’
    Welland glared at him. ‘A boat’s bin sighted,
sir
! Where the hell do you think you are?’
    He was so angry that Blackwood wanted to laugh, and knew if he did he would be unable