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

drills. Clearly, thought Kelly, we are training for a beach assault.

As well as exercises and night patrols in the hills around the camp, they also practised speed marching, covering a mile every ten minutes in full battledress.

During the last week the squad was tested, both as a team and as individuals. The tests consisted of a final test of speed around both the assault course and the aerial course, a nine-mile speed march in ninety minutes, a six-mile endurance run through bogs, tunnels and water obstacles in eighty minutes, and a thirty-mile cross country march over difficult terrain in eight hours.

Eventually, sixteen of the original squad of twenty-four lined up in three ranks on the drill square. Sergeant Major Abrams beamed at them like an overprotective father.

“Well done lads, I’m proud of you. Mind you, I expected nothing less from a squad of Royal Marines, even with the odd matelot thrown in!” This last with a beaming glance at Kelly.

Everyone laughed, but it was a laugh generated from respect. Kelly had proved himself to these old sweats and they had welcomed him to their group. He had become one of the lads and a fit and tough one at that.

Abrams settled them again before bringing them to attention. He turned and waited for a short period while the reviewing officer made his way onto the parade ground. When the officer had halted, Abrams took a pace forward and saluted him. After a brief exchange of formal salutations followed by another salute, the reviewing officer wheeled around and carried out a cursory inspection of what remained of the squad.

He then marched back towards a table, previously prepared, and took his place behind it. He stood the squad at ease, and then easy, before embarking on a short address. Later, when Kelly recalled this moment, he could not remember all that was said. Certainly, there was praise for their efforts and commitment, but the part that Kelly did remember, at least in part went …

“You are about to embark upon an adventure, not quite unique, but almost. Your predecessors were a bunch of Boer farmers who terrorised the British in the Transvaal with their lightning attacks and shock tactics.

“To them the word ‘commando’ simply meant ‘unit’, but you and your colleagues who wear the green beret will bring a whole new meaning to the word ‘commando’. You have received the training. You have attained the highest combat skills and you have proven yourselves to have the courage and determination to make a significant difference to this war.

“You will take the fight to the enemy and wherever German or Italian is spoken they will fear the green beret and will breathe the word ‘commando’ with awe.

“I will now present you with the symbol that will mark you out as one of Britain’s elite. Please come forward and receive your green beret.”

One by one the squad marched up to the table, removed their ‘caps comforter’ which they deposited in a dustbin by the side of the table and received from the reviewing officer a brand new green beret.

Kelly placed the beret on his head, adjusted it and saluted the reviewing officer before returning to the squad. Almost despite himself he felt a sense of great pride, as did every man in that now much-depleted squad.

After they were dismissed there was general light-heartedness among the squad and much shaking of hands and mutual congratulations, born of relief and the sudden removal of the tension they had endured for those five weeks. Kelly joined in and, for a time, was ‘one of the lads’, but he wondered to himself if he really was a team player. Sometimes during the gruelling exercises in the Scottish mountains, he had felt as if he would have managed better on his own. He knew this wasn’t a criticism of the men he was with, they really were part of Britain’s elite, it was an internal thing within him.

It worried him.

That night he was invited to the Officers Mess where he again met up with the reviewing officer.

“Didn’t take them long to draft you, old boy! I received your movements order this afternoon.”

“Really?” Kelly was genuinely surprised. “Where am I off to?”

“Seems you are to directly join the RM Commando. Looks like they are getting ready for a bit of a do!”

Part II

Dieppe

Dieppe

Kelly returned the salute of the sentry as he walked into the barracks, replacing his ID card in his wallet as he did so. The whole camp seemed to be alive, with vehicles parked everywhere and men moving purposefully around carrying equipment and supplies. There was a definite buzz about the place.

Kelly moved in the direction of the headquarters building as directed by the sentry. He glanced at his posting order again. Report to Capt Owen (adjutant) at 09.30 hrs on 2 July 1942. Kelly looked at his watch, 09.20, just in time. He reached the building, entered, and walked down a corridor to his left, reading the names on the doors as he did so. Quartermaster, he read, Regimental Sergeant Major, getting warm he thought, Commanding Officer - Lt Colonel Phillips, then next door Adjutant – Capt G Owen.

Kelly tapped on the door.

“Come!” An angry and harassed voice.

Kelly opened the door and walked in to find the adjutant perched precariously on a chair removing pins from a huge map of the French coast which covered almost the whole of one wall.

“Kelly,” said Dan Kelly. “Second Lieutenant Dragan Kelly. You are expecting me.”

“Am I?” the adjutant responded. “Let’s have a look.”

He dismounted the chair, not without danger, and crossed the short distance to his desk, which was littered with papers. Kelly scrutinised the young marine captain as he shuffled through the papers strewn over his desk. He was fairly short, about five foot eight, with tousled, curly black hair, a straight aquiline nose and tanned skin, obvious testament to time spent out in the open. His build was slight except that his shoulders were broad, an