"Pull in here," Harding said as we came upon a long, narrow two-story building that seemed to be the only intact structure around. The stucco was worn off and the exposed brickwork was crumbling Weather-beaten wooden doors and shutters hung loose on their hinges. Light leaked out from the rooms around blackout curtains as figures went in and out of the main doorway. There were tents every- where else, arranged around other buildings that had long since colllapsed or lost their roofs. I could make out the docks and pier about fifty feet away, clear enough in the faintly reflected moonlight which danced on waves as they lapped the shore. Low, still, dark forms blotted out the light, six of them, high speed Motor Torpedo Boats. Even at rest, they looked like sleek, impatient killers. They bobbed slightly as the waves rolled under them, as if they were uneasy, straining to be let loose. I already knew something about MTBs, more than I wanted to know, or remember.
I pulled the jeep up in front of the building, killed the engine, set the brake, and let out a long sigh. It just never ended. Things that I thought I would never have to think about came around again and again. They were never gone. It was warmer here right on the coast, but still shivered. I couldn't shake the cold, just like the last time, out the North Sea.
"Let's go, Boyle," said Harding. He got out and jumped up down a bit, trying to shake the sand out of his clothes and gear, seemed to be about to order me to get a move on, when he came around to my side of the jeep and put a hand on my shoulder.
"Don't worry. It won't be like before. This is just a short hop down the coast," he said. He patted my shoulder like a coach after a pep talk and bounded up the steps to the door. Jesus H. Christ.
I did my own sand dance and followed him in.
We found the exec and gave him my orders. He told me where to find a tent with a spare bunk in which to stash my gear and that we had thirty minutes to grab some chow before the briefing. Of course he was English so it all sounded a lot nicer than that. Unfortunately the food was also English, so after a plate of boiled beef, stewed tomatoes, cabbage, and Brussels sprouts, we happily left the field kitchen behind for the briefing tent.
The sentry standing guard at the tent lifted the canvas flap for us.
The red band around his cap marking him as a Royal Marine made me think about redcoats and that made me think about how my Uncle Dan would curse me out for consorting with the British. Colors were important to Uncle Dan. Green, of course, was good; orange was bad. I remember Uncle Dan, when I was maybe seven or eight years old, explaining why I must never wear orange. That was the color of the Orangemen, he said, and they were even worse than the English, since they were Irish-born. It wasn't until later that I understood they were Protestant Irish. In my child's heart orange was still the color of the devil. My world was divided up into many colors: black and white, green and orange, khaki and blood red, police blue and every other hue. Uncle Dan was a good Irishman, a great cop, and a loyal American, roughly in that order. I had always looked up to him, but in a different way than I looked up to my father. It wasn't merely because he was my uncle, it was because of who he was: a fighter, a rebel, a man who stood his ground. Now he seemed almost quaint, like an old man telling stories of fairies and the little people. This war made everything else fade into the past, losing value as the hard, grinding realities of combat, death, and destruction sunk in.
A gale blew up and the sides of the tent flapped, pulling at the rope lines, straining to rise up and blow away. Pieces of paper flew into the air and half a dozen khaki arms rose up to catch them as they floated around inside the tent. About twenty folding chairs were set up with a narrow aisle in the middle. Up front was a bulletin board with a long map of the coastline tacked on it. We grabbed two seats in the back row and watched the last few stragglers come in. They were a seedy bunch, dressed in a variety of wrinkled and faded khaki or corduroy pants with sweaters and field jackets in various combinations. They wore crumpled white naval caps, various styles of beards, and looked more like pirates than officers in His Majesty's Navy. Of course, these were MTB guys, like our PT boat crews in the Pacific. Which according to the newsreels were all part buccaneer, by way of Ivy League schools and yachting clubs. Rich kids who knew how to sail and handle small boats, and who were used to giving orders. Probably no different in England.
The oldest guy in the room, almost forty, walked over to the map. He pulled out a pipe and lit up, watching the group as he did so. The chatter subsided and he nodded approvingly. "All right, chaps, listen up. For the benefit of our American visitors, I am Captain Charles Mannering, Royal Navy Reserve. Welcome to Motor Torpedo Squadron 18. Glad to have you along for this little show!"
Mannering smiled and lifted an eyebrow at his audience. "You Yanks will have to excuse appearances here. I'm sure we look like ragamuffins, but the supply ship with our cold weather gear didn't make it. Rather disappointing. So here we are, still kitted out for a nice cruise to Crete or the sunny Aegean. Not that we mind a change of scenery, right boys?"
This was greeted by a chorus of boos, jeers, and laughter. Mannering joined in with the rest of them. He had an easy way with his men, and I could tell they liked him. He pointed at one guy in the audience, raised both eyebrows, and the room rippled with laughter again. A private joke, no words needed, the shared bond of silent understanding. Then he casually raised his hand, a smile still playing on his face. The room fell silent. All eyes were on him. He stood quietly, looking at his men. Something seemed to pass between them, something out of my grasp, perhaps born out of long days under the sun, longer cold nights riding out rough water, and the occasional sudden explosion of water, flame, and steel. Pride and sadness, perhaps, I don't know. Maybe this is what it's like after fighting a war for three years, for those left alive, anyway.
Another little smile and a nod, as if they had all been praying, and the spell was broken.
"We've been over this before, but one more time, if you please," said Mannering.
He picked up a pointer and whacked the map. "Bone. This is the objective. Two destroyers will land 6 Commando at the docks and they will deploy to the town. Bone has intact docking facilities and a key railhead which must be taken. It is our job to cover the landing and insure that no vessel-German, Italian, or French-interferes with 6 Commando getting ashore."
He then went over details of rendezvous points, patrol areas, departure times for each boat, and a lot of other stuff that I didn't pay much attention to. I must've rested my eyes a bit because the next thing I knew Harding nudged me with his elbow.
"… and that brings us to our American friend," Mannering was saying. "76 Boat will make for the piers at the west end of town, near the warehouses and the French Army supply depot. Lieutenant Dickinson and one crewman will escort him ashore and return to the boat as soon as practical. I'm sure it's all very hush-hush, but good luck to you Yanks. Dismissed."
With the mention of the name Dickinson I scanned the room. Could it be? Last time I'd seen Harry it was off the coast of Norway. Could he be in North Africa? Harding looked at me, his eyebrows knitted in a question that didn't need asking.