The Open Arms of the Sea by Dorgan Jasper

Author:Dorgan, Jasper [Dorgan, Jasper]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jasper Dorgan
Published: 2012-10-31T00:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

Major Ford-Forrest sat behind his desk reading the contents of the thin file with meticulous attention. He flicked his tongue on a rigid finger and turned the pages slowly, arranging them into a neat and exact pile at his elbow. A lance corporal with blue eyes and razor-cut hair stood stiffly to attention beside the desk with a leather file case tucked under his arm. Deacon sat in his chair and waited for the major to finish his papers.

The room smelled of lavender-oil and whisky. Out beyond the grassed quad and the parade-ground Deacon could hear the bells of St.Thomas’s church tolling. He realised it must be Sunday morning. He had lost some days somewhere, or had muddled them up. The monotonous days at Checkpoint Seven had melted into each other and he couldn’t quite believe that his Viking sortie into Crater was now four nights ago. For three days he had been checking trucks under a scorching sun and hearing the sound of the Old Arab’s last wistful sigh, like a distant sea in a shell pressed tight to his ear. He felt his tiredness eating him.

Major Ford-Forrest unscrewed a large fountain pen and signed the last paper with a stuttered flourish. He handed the papers to the lance corporal.

“See that Stores gets a double duplicate and get the slackers to sign for it. Can’t have a Waterloo Ball without bunting. Mrs. Jennings likes a good show of flags. And make sure it’s all Union Jacks this time. None of that Frenchie Tri-colour arse-wipe like before. Diplomatic coves had a blue fit.”

“Sir.” said the lance corporal. He saluted, gave Deacon a wink and marched from the room.

Major Ford-Forrest took another file out of his drawer and placed it carefully on his desk.

“And what on earth are we going to do with you, Lieutenant Deacon, eh?”

It was what Old Bobby always said when starting his fortnightly duty meeting with Deacon. Deacon always remained silent. The major opened the file and read the pages with slow care. When he had finished he sat back and studied Deacon without interest.

“Well, it seems you haven’t shot anyone this week. Or wrecked any of Her Majesty’s transport. What’s this request for a sergeant?”

“We don’t have one, sir.”

“Well, neither do I. So you’ll just have to make do. There is a war on your know.”

“I did hear a rumour, sir.”

The major eyed him. “Got a truck?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you are running stores for a few days. Khormaksar airfield depot. And make sure your men don’t get light-fingered. Lost a crate of Rothmans and ten of single malt last week. Ranks nothing but a bunch of thieves and shirkers.”

The telephone on the desk rang. The major answered it. There was a moment of listening.

“From the Brigadier’s office?” said the major. He sat up in his chair. “But I am the Brigadier’s office. What’s that? Yes, he is. Are you sure? This is highly irregular.”

The major looked at Deacon and handed him the phone.

“A call for you. From the Brigadier’s office.

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