Cast No Shadow, Peter Sharp [books to get back into reading txt] 📗

Kelly stayed with Megan for two more nights, sightseeing by day and enjoying her company and lovemaking at night. Then on the fourth evening when Kelly met Megan near the admiralty building, she looked fraught and unhappy.

“What’s wrong?” asked Kelly.

In reply, Megan gave him a single sheet of paper. “This is a copy of a letter I had to send to your digs in Devonport today,” she said. “It’s a movement order.”

The letter effectively cancelled the remainder of Kelly’s leave and ordered him to report to Eastney Barracks in Southsea for Pre-Commando training three days hence. Posted that morning, the letter would arrive at his digs with the first delivery the next day. Kelly had no option but to leave immediately in order to be in Devonport when the letter arrived.

“I had no idea you had accepted Archie’s offer,” Megan said quietly.

“I wired him the very next morning. It seemed like a good idea at the time!” They laughed together and linked arms, strolling to Megan’s apartment. Kelly threw what few bits he had into his holdall and they hailed a cab to take them to Paddington to catch the evening train to Plymouth.

There were no tears or protestations of love. Both of them knew it wasn’t that sort of relationship, but they equally felt that a strong bond had formed between them. They promised to keep in touch. No letters! Megan had insisted. Instead, she told him, “If you are in London, just call me at the admiralty building. I would really love to hear from you Dan.”

And with that they parted.

Commando!

“Right, everybody off! Come on, move yourselves!” The voice was Scots and loud.

The train had pulled into the tiny station at Spean Bridge with much hissing, screeching and amid clouds of acrid smoke. The journey had been long and tiring but otherwise uneventful.

Kelly moved towards the door on the platform side of the station, unbuttoned the window strap, lowered the window, and leaned out to turn the door handle. The same Scots voice bellowed, “Not this side, idiot! The other side!”

There was a slight pause while the source of the Scots voice internalised the fact that this particular idiot was wearing a Royal Navy officer’s epaulets on his battledress, after which the voice added a belated “Sir!” but in no less a threatening tone.

Kelly looked up in surprise. The owner of the voice was a short but stocky sergeant major clad in an immaculately pressed khaki battledress, black polished gaiters and web belt. His spit and polished boots shone like mirrors even on this murky day. On his head he sported the much-coveted green beret of the commando. A brass ‘globe and laurel’ cap badge was set in the beret and worn the regulation two fingers above the left eye.

The face was tanned and worn, with steely blue eyes peering out from deep sockets set beneath bushy ginger eyebrows. An equally bushy moustache completed the almost character-typical picture of a Royal Marine sergeant major.

The Sergeant Major was twiddling one end of his moustache as he stared in disbelief at Kelly.

“Are yee deef, sir?” he inquired menacingly, “Get oof the train now!” He screamed the final word.

Kelly was about to enquire why he couldn’t simply alight from the platform side of the train when a glance at the Sergeant Major’s reddening face persuaded him against that course of action. Instead, he opened the opposite door, hoisted on his webbing, grabbed his kit bag and Lee Enfield rifle, dropped onto the track below and scrambled across the down line towards the opposite platform.

Only he and a few stragglers were still crossing the track. Others, perhaps like himself, who had needed convincing of the logic of this course of action. Kelly heard the gravel crunch behind him and cast an eye over his shoulder. It was the Sergeant Major. Kelly was astonished to see him crunching his way across the gravel in his highly polished boots. Kelly reached the platform and scrambled up, hauling his kitbag and rifle with him. As he did so, he saw the Sergeant Major throw himself at the platform edge and deftly spring into the upright position. His boots were now scratched and dirty and his uniform trousers creased and grimy with the dirt from the platform.

At once Kelly knew what this was about.

An enterprising NCO was mustering the men into some semblance of order. Kelly noticed that every man wore the globe and laurel badge set into a red patch on a blue beret. They were all Royal Marines, a tough looking bunch, most sporting one or more medal ribbons—in a few cases several rows—above the left breast pocket of their battledress jerkin.

The Sergeant Major interrupted the corporal’s efforts, “Well done, Corporal, but not yet. What’s your name?”

“Corporal Jackson, Sarnt Major!” bawled the NCO, springing to attention.

“Right Corporal Jackson! Let’s have these men formed up outside the station, in three ranks, sized and numbered. At the moment we have a rabble. In thirty seconds’ time, I want to see a squad of Royal Marines – MOVE!”

“Aye Sarnt Major!” Then, turning his attention to the ‘rabble’, Jackson barked out a series of orders. “You heard the Sarnt Major, out onto the road! Get formed up!”

There was a confused bustle as everyone tried to be the first to comply. Kelly was caught up in the excitement and general rush. Once outside, on the road running alongside the station, the corporal again took charge.

“Three ranks! Tallest on the right, shortest on the left!”

This time there was a clear purpose to the actions of the marines; this was bread and butter to them. In seconds they had formed up into three ranks, sized as ordered, all that is with one exception. Kelly found himself on the left of the formation, despite being one of the tallest there. He wasn’t sure if he should stay apart from the ‘ranks’, his officer status suggested as much, but he didn’t want to appear stand-offish, not one of the