Уильям Николсон - Motherland

‘Try to get some sleep,’ he says.

‘Yes, sir, I will,’ says Larry.

‘Good to have you along. The boys appreciate it.’

Larry finds a space to lie down below deck, but he knows he won’t sleep. He’s in a state he’s not experienced before, a strange combination of stillness and intense inner excitement. He takes out a cigarette and lights it, noticing now that all round him glow the tips of other cigarettes. He inhales deeply, and feels a tingling sensation pass through his body, followed by a deep powerful languor. Unthinkingly he gives a sigh of pleasure. His neighbour says out of the darkness, ‘Always fresh,’ and Larry follows up with a laugh, ‘And truly mild.’ The slogan of the Sweet Caps he smokes these days, to show his solidarity with the Canadian forces. As he exhales he can see the cigarette smoke shivering in the air above him, shaken back and forth by the vibrations of the ship’s engines.

The river gunboat Locust emerges from the minefield in its turn, following the long line of troopships and landing craft. Three hundred and seventy officers and men of 40 Commando are crowded onto the narrow deck, either asleep or sitting still and breathing evenly to conserve energy. The commanding officer, Colonel Phillips, is reviewing the maps and photographs of White Beach, and familiarising himself with the layout of the town beyond.

‘You know what Dieppe’s famous for?’ says Ed Avenell. ‘Dirty weekends.’

‘You should know, Ed,’ says Abercrombie.

Ed smiles and says nothing.

Breakfast is served early, just before two in the morning. Beef stew, bread and butter and marmalade, and coffee. The officers eat in silence.

At fleet rendezvous point new orders are received from Operational Command. Phillips announces that 40 Commando is to be held in reserve. A groan goes up from the men.

‘What are we, fucking nursemaids?’

‘We’re to wait for the Canadians to clear the main beach.’

4 Commando’s job is demolition. By the time they’re through, not one port facility will be left operational. Joe Phillips doesn’t like the new orders any more than his men. Commandos are raiders, trained to move fast and light. They’re not assault troops.

‘Try to get some sleep,’ he tells the men.

Ed Avenell remains on deck, leaning on the stern rail, watching the long line of the fleet behind them. Here Phillips finds him, as he does his rounds.

‘Biggest naval operation of the war,’ he says.

‘Looks like it,’ says Ed.

‘You’ve not told the boys you got hitched.’

‘No,’ says Ed.

‘You don’t want any special treatment.’

‘That’s about it, sir.’

Titch Houghton joins them.

‘Lovat and his boys will be ready to go in about now,’ he says.

4 Commando are to make a night landing on Orange Beach to the west, while Durnford-Slater’s 3 Commando makes for Yellow Beach and the big guns of Berneval.

‘Has Lovat taken his bloody piper?’ says Phillips.

‘Of course,’ says Titch Houghton.

‘I don’t like this reserve bullshit. It means we go in by daylight.’

At three in the morning, as required by the complex timetable of the operation, the men of the RHLI form up below decks in their platoons to prepare for the transfer to landing craft. They wear their netted tin hats. The inflated Mae Wests beneath their tunics give them all powerful chests. They carry Brens, Stens and rifles over their shoulders, hand grenades on their belts, knives at their hips. Larry Cornford, armed like the rest, takes his place in the line for Number 6 boat, and waits for the man in front of him to move.

This is what his entire life has become: waiting, moving, waiting again, always in lines, carried along by the great machine of which he is one tiny part. Now the lines begin to move up onto deck, where the night is still dark. Ahead men are climbing ladders into the slung barges, great black masses against the starlit sky. Larry follows in his turn, jumping down onto the benches that run the length of the craft. Men are ahead of him, and all the time more men are piling on after him, and soon he finds himself pushed towards the back of the starboard bench. A voice hisses at him, ‘Sit crossways! Face forward!’ Shortly he is wedged tight on the bench between the packs and weapons of other men.

The barge lurches and swings. The davit gear emits its high-pitched whine. The side of the ship rises above them. Then comes the slap of the water as the long steel craft settles, and the throb of the engine starting up.

A voice from above calls, ‘You’re on your own now, boys! Give ’em hell!’

The landing craft chugs away from the mother ship, taking its place in a line of other assault craft. The coast of France is still fifteen miles to the south-east, two hours and more away.

Larry gazes at the steersman in his armoured box over the bow, and hears the ping-ping of the engine-room telegraph. These are navy boys, their job is to ferry the assault troops, not to take part in the attack.

I’ll be in the attack. I will fight.

This extraordinary fact has filled his being since he left England. Every single moment since then, however tedious, however uncomfortable, has been charged with intensity. All this time is before . Nothing has prepared him for the feelings he now experiences. It’s not fear, not yet. The danger he faces has no reality yet. Nor is it that state he’s heard talk of, called battle exultation. He feels sharp, as if all his being has been sharpened to a single point. Gone are all the usual little complications of life. He has no thoughts of his family or friends, no memories of his life gone by. Nothing but this landing craft, the pressure of the man behind him, the juddering of the engine, the twinge of cramp in his leg, the smell of spray on the air, the stars above, and it – the battle to which they sail.

After this nothing will ever be the same again. I am about to be transformed. Out there in the darkness there waits for me an enemy , men who wish me harm, who will try to hurt me, even though they know nothing about me. And will I try to hurt them? Of course. And because of this, nothing will ever be the same again.

He settles down at last into a doze. All along the benches men grunt and mutter in their sleep, as the craft maintains its course straight ahead. The flotilla, no longer in single file, is spread out over the surface of the night sea, seeming almost not to be moving.

Suddenly there comes a streak of bright light to the northeast, and a flare explodes in the sky. It drops slowly down, illuminating the water’s surface.

‘What the fuck was that?’

Men jerk out of sleep to watch.

Brilliant green streaks arc up into the sky, followed by red streaks, rising, cresting a curve, falling and fading to nothing. There follow bright white silent shell bursts, and shooting stars of gold, and more lazy leaping arcs of dazzling red.

‘Tracer! Some bugger’s hit trouble!’

The landing craft has neither slowed nor deviated from its course. Now the men on board hear the bark of ack-ack guns from the French coast.

‘Sounds like Jerry’s woken up.’

‘That’ll be fun for us.’

The men of 40 Commando are halfway through transferring from the Locust to their landing craft when the tracer battle lights up the sky. Colonel Phillips is on the bridge with the navy team, trying to make out what’s happening.

‘Not good,’ he says. ‘There goes our surprise.’

Wireless traffic between HMS Calpe and HMS Berkeley reveals that the easternmost craft in the fleet, Number 3 Commando’s boats, have run into a German tanker and its escort. Orders are to continue according to plan.