by John Kerr
20 September 1942
Dear Mrs Kennedy,
Thanks so much for your letter. I am so sorry to hear about poor Anna and the loss of your husband. I cannot comprehend the pain you have been through. To have faced the death of Corporal Duthie after everything else must have seemed an unendurable blow. Not having children of my own, I can only imagine the depth of your suffering.
I am pleased that you’re an American, though Irish born, as I admire the Americans greatly. And though I am sorry you have been drawn into the war, it fills me with hope to know that the vast resources of the United States are now committed with us.
It is such a shame that hatred for the British should blind the Irish to the threat of the Nazis. And that your neighbours should have turned on you merely because you showed compassion for a young soldier is terribly wrong. But, having been brought up in a small town, I am only too well aware of the petty jealousies and prejudices that rule the hearts and minds of so many.
And what of the progress of the war? At the moment I fear we are losing it. If the Germans succeed in their conquest of Russia, I question whether we will ever defeat them on the Continent. Herr Hitler is unquestionably bent on far more than the acquisition of territory. In my opinion, the most sacred values of Western civilization are at stake. We must pray our Russian ally survives, buying us the time needed to build a great Anglo-American army.
I should tell you something about myself, Mary. I am a married man, but not for long. Upon my return from Africa, I learned that my wife is demanding a divorce. And so it seems that we both, through no choice of our own, have found ourselves quite alone. As for returning to the front, for the time being I’ve been reassigned to staff duty in London.
I hope this letter finds you in good spirits and that you will write again.
Sincerely,
Charles Davenport
Davenport put down the pen and read the letter. Was it too long and full of sentiment? Yet, he was attracted to her and wanted to encourage her to write again. For the first time in months, he forgot completely about his wound, about Frances, and the war.
CHAPTER SIX
By November the days were shorter, and despite the fact that the air raids had long since ceased, the charred ruins and the continuing blackout only added to the gloom in the capital. After more than three years, Hitler’s grip on the Continent seemed stronger than ever, there was no let up in the appalling losses in the Atlantic and little hope the Russians could survive the Wehrmacht onslaught. Nor was there much cause for hope in the vast struggle against Japan that stretched from Burma across the Chinese frontier to the Southwest Pacific, and as far north as the Aleutians. After months at the War Office, Davenport’s routine had become depressingly predictable, arriving at his cramped office by eight each morning and working well past dark before walking back to the barracks with a stop along the way at the local pub, or occasionally at the Officers’ Club when he felt able to withstand the unspoken social strictures. An inner circle had formed among the men at Special Planning Group B, consisting of those like Leslie Ashton-Gore who shared Colonel Rawlinson’s public school, Oxbridge pedigree. They treated Davenport with grudging respect because of his intellect and experience commanding troops, but it always stopped short of comradeship. The constable’s visit to the barracks one morning to serve Davenport with a writ had added to his sense of exclusion. When the man appeared at the front desk, Davenport at first felt humiliation, but that had given way to brooding anger. There was a general understanding among the other officers that he had married the socially prominent daughter of a rich banker, and the fact that she was suing him for divorce merely deepened his ostracism.
Davenport took solace in his work, mastering the complexities of logistics, weather, tides, and enemy dispositions that would determine the outcome of any attempt to land hundreds of thousands of men on the French coastline. At the end of long days immersed in these studies, he would usually find himself in a quiet corner of a pub drinking enough whisky to dull the pain and help him to sleep. The only real relief came in the form of the blue envelopes, which arrived with regularity and filled him with such pleasure that he had grown increasingly dependent on them. Though she never complained, the fact that Mary had lost so much always helped Davenport to shake off his troubles. There was something about her quintessentially American attitude – fiercely independent, yet passionately idealistic – that he found so refreshing in contrast to the archly superior, morally vacuous class of officers surrounding him.
And then there had been the unexpected letter from Evan Hockaday, who had written to say that he had been discharged from Rushlake and reported for duty at a new assignment. The letter was strangely obscure, though Evan had mentioned the opportunity to put his university studies to some use other than ‘bracketing an enemy battery’. He was anxious for news of Davenport’s job and eager to find a time when they might meet. Davenport had looked for a clue in the letter’s postmark, the town of Bletchley in Buckinghamshire. He had immediately written that he could think of nothing more appealing than a weekend away from London and a good long meeting, that Evan should merely tell him a time and place. Within days Davenport received a telegram, but it was not what he expected. It merely read:
JOIN ME IF POSSIBLE WEEKEND OF 10 NOV STOP
TAKE 800 TRAIN TO CHELTENHAM STOP YOU WILL
BE MET AT THE STATION STOP YOURS EH
As his train sped along, Davenport gazed out at the Cotswold hills, here and there a flash of orange or yellow in the clumps of trees, and the pastures the colour of pale straw. He closed his eyes, content that he had left behind everything that oppressed him: Frances and her blasted lawyers, the men in his section, even the war itself. In another half-hour the roofs of Cheltenham came into view. When they arrived at the station, Davenport, alighting on the platform, was approached by a man in a chauffeur’s uniform.
‘Major Davenport, sir?’ he asked politely.
‘That’s right.’
‘Right on time, sir,’ said the chauffeur, reaching for Davenport’s suitcase. ‘This way. Master Evan’s expecting you.’
Davenport followed the driver to a Bentley. Within minutes they left the streets of Cheltenham and were speeding through a thick forest that rose to a high ridge. After another half-hour, the driver turned onto a gravel drive flanked by massive oaks and elms. Rounding a curve, Davenport was surprised by the sight of a magnificent stone castle, with square, Saxon towers at each end and a reflecting pond in front. The driver brought the Bentley to a stop before the entrance, where a grey-whiskered old Lab bounded down the steps to greet them. Evan Hockaday waved from his wheelchair at the top of the steps. ‘Halloo, Charles,’ he sang out. ‘Welcome to Marsden Hall.’ Davenport climbed out and reached down to nuzzle the dog panting at his feet. ‘Let’s go inside,’ said Evan as Davenport mounted the steps. ‘Father is so looking forward to meeting you.’ Davenport held the heavy oak door as a servant turned the wheelchair and steered Evan inside. They passed through a large hall, the walls of which were adorned with escutcheons and portraits of Evan’s ancestors, into a spacious library. At the far end Evan’s father sat by an arched stone fireplace with a plaid blanket on his lap. Davenport paused to survey the room. Bookshelves reached almost to the ceiling and leaded windows commanded a view of the rose gardens on the lawn and blue hills in the distance. Davenport followed behind Evan and, as they drew nearer, could see that Evan’s father was very old, with blue-veined hands folded in his lap and skin the texture of parchment.
‘Father,’ said Evan as his wheelchair came to a stop, ‘this is Major Davenport.’ Davenport stepped forward, smiling awkwardly. ‘Charles,’ said Evan, ‘my father, Lord Hockaday.’
‘Hello, sir,’ said Davenport. ‘Pleasure.’ For a moment he was unsure whether the old man had heard him, for he merely looked at him with a faintly benevolent smile.
Lord Hockaday then reache
d a hand to take Davenport’s and, in a surprisingly strong voice, said, ‘You’ve no idea, Major, how grateful I am for your kindness to Evan. I’m pleased you were able to come.’ The servant drew up another chair, and Davenport sat. The sunlight streaming in the tall windows formed a bright square on the carpet between them, adding to the warmth from the embers in the fireplace. Lord Hockaday looked at Davenport with penetrating blue eyes and said, ‘Evan tells me you’re a scholar of Elizabethan poetry. That you taught at university.’
‘Yes, your lordship,’ replied Davenport, ‘at King’s.’
‘Ah, the Elizabethans,’ said the Lord Hockaday. ‘I’m so fond of Wyatt and Sidney.’
Davenport beamed and said, ‘How splendid. They happen to be two of my favourites.’
‘Well,’ interjected Evan, ‘I feared if I got the two of you together, the rest of our time would be taken up with a discussion of long-dead poets, a subject I find . . . how should I say it? Positively soporific.’
Davenport smiled at Evan and said, ‘We should hate to put you to sleep. Perhaps your father and I can continue our discussion over tea.’
‘I should welcome it, Major,’ said the old gentleman. ‘But now, I shall leave the two of you and enjoy my afternoon nap.’ A servant stepped from the shadows and helped him to his feet and slowly out of the room.
‘Goodbye, Father,’ called out Evan. ‘Rest well.’
The earl excused himself after an excellent dinner, leaving Davenport and Evan to enjoy a bottle of vintage port in the study, where a fire crackled in a corner fireplace. Davenport sat in an armchair opposite Evan, whose wheelchair was parked beside the fireplace. Lightning flashed outside followed by a reverberating clap of thunder.
Evan started and said, ‘I’m not quite used to unexpected crashes.’
A servant appeared with a salver, the bottle of port and two crystal glasses. Bowing to Evan, he asked, ‘Shall I pour, sir?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Evan, now relaxed.
Once they were served, Davenport swirled the liquid to film the sides of the glass and took a sip. ‘Umm,’ he said, ‘that’s wonderful. Must be older than we are.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ said Evan. ‘I suppose you’ve been wondering about . . . all this.’ He gestured vaguely with his one hand. Davenport merely nodded. ‘Well,’ said Evan, ‘it’s a bit embarrassing, but, there it is, and there’s nothing to be done about it.’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Davenport. ‘Why should you feel embarrassed?’
‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t want you to think I invited you here to impress you. And I’m sorry I never said anything about all this when we were at Rushlake.’
‘I understand. But this really is a magnificent place. How did it happen to come into your family’s possession?’
Evan appeared to relax and took a swallow of port. ‘Marsden Hall is the estate of the Earls of Hockaday,’ he explained, ‘as the result of a royal grant by George III in 1763. My father, a truly kind and generous man, is the seventh in the line.’
‘I see,’ said Davenport, ‘which would make you, Evan, the eighth . . .’
‘No,’ said Evan with a smile. ‘That makes me the younger brother of the eighth earl. My brother, Rob, will inherit the title. Which frankly suits me, as I have more important things to do than look after all of this.’ He sipped his port and said, ‘Now, you must tell me about your new assignment.’
‘I’m in the Office of War Plans,’ said Davenport. ‘To be perfectly honest, I detest the place. With a few exceptions, they’re all staff officers who’ve never been close to combat. Our CO, a colonel named Rawlinson, is a soft, arrogant man who favours the public-school men no matter how lacking they are in ability.’
‘But what exactly is it you’re doing?’ asked Evan.
Davenport stared into the fire for a moment. ‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘the truth is, I’m not supposed to discuss it.’ He looked into Evan’s good eye and smiled. ‘But I know anything I tell you will be held in the strictest confidence. I’ve been assigned to something called Special Planning Group B. About twenty chaps working out of nondescript offices in the War Office.’
‘I see,’ said Hockaday. ‘And what does Special Planning Group B do?’
Davenport paused and then said, ‘We’re planning the invasion of France.’
Evan drained his glass. ‘Are you really?’ he said with an admiring look. ‘How exceptional. Tell me, how long before this invasion takes place?’
Davenport reached for the decanter. ‘Churchill has committed to sometime next year,’ he answered. ‘I can’t say as I blame him. After all, the Russians are fighting for their lives, and if they’re gone from the picture, the situation is hopeless, as far as I’m concerned. So the timetable is set for the summer of ’43, assuming the Red Army can hold on till then. But . . .’ Davenport paused. ‘I’ve been studying the logistics. I can’t see how we could possibly mount an invasion until 1944.’
Evan stared pensively into the fire, listening to the rain dripping from the trees outside the windows and the occasional rumble of far-off thunder. Davenport took another swallow of port before rising and walking over to stir the fire. He turned back to Evan and said, ‘I was certainly pleased to see that you’ve returned to active duty. Tell me about your new assignment. Just what is the army up to in the village of Bletchley?’
‘When I invited you here,’ Evan began slowly, ‘I decided to concoct some cover story about my new job.’ Davenport responded with a puzzled look. ‘Well,’ Evan continued, ‘I’ve changed my mind. What I’m about to share with you is so confidential that I shall carry it to my grave, and you must do likewise.’
Davenport returned to his chair and said, ‘Very well.’
‘When I reported to Bletchley Park, I had no idea what it was all about – something to do with my having taken a degree in mathematics at Oxford.’ He paused to sip his drink. ‘What I am about to say you must never repeat to a soul.’
‘You may depend on it,’ said Davenport.
‘There are several hundred of us at Bletchley, working in an old manor house in a secluded wood, each one a mathematician.’ Davenport nodded and sipped his port. ‘The Germans, clever fellows, have built this contraption that looks like a typewriter in a box. In fact, it’s a highly sophisticated cipher machine.’
‘A cipher machine?’ said Davenport.
‘Yes, for encoding secret messages. And we happened to pinch one,’ said Evan with a slight smile, ‘in perfect condition, from one of their U-boats. They call it Enigma.’
‘Enigma,’ repeated Davenport. ‘How romantic.’
‘The Germans,’ said Evan, ‘cocky bastards, believe the code can’t be broken. Well, we’ve proved them wrong.’
‘Good heavens, Evan. You mean to say you’ve broken their code?’
‘Precisely. Every single order from the OKW, the Luftwaffe, and the Kriegsmarine to the entire fleet is first encoded by Enigma and then decoded with an Enigma machine in the field or on board ship. And, Charles,’ – Evan’s bright blue eye sparkled – ‘we’ve developed the means to intercept and decode almost every message, right at Bletchley Park.’
‘Think of it,’ said Davenport in an excited voice. ‘What this could mean for planning the invasion.’
‘That’s the precise reason – the only reason – I decided to tell you,’ said Evan with a satisfied smile.
The days turned to weeks, the weeks to months. Summer was long past. The crunch of fallen leaves on the lane had been silenced by the rains and winds of autumn. Mary now awakened each day to the sight of lacy frost curling from the corners of her window. Her garden had been turned and mulched, bulbs patted in place to herald the arrival of spring. Then suddenly it was almost Christmas, Mary’s second away from America and her family. A wagonload of freshly cut fir trees had been brought to town from the mounta
ins, and Mary had chosen a sturdy one. With the help of young Donald McDonough, she had hauled it into the living room and raised it by the stone hearth. Mary had fashioned pine boughs into a wreath for the front door and decorated the tree with her grandmother’s collection of glass ornaments. Her mother had written, imploring her to come home, but the time to book passage on a steamer to America was past. With the U-boat sinkings in the Atlantic, and every available ship convoying troops and supplies, it was a virtual impossibility. Mary would face Christmas, and the winter, alone. She struggled to be cheerful, to look forward, not back, and, when the decorating was finally completed and the packages on their way to Boston, she surveyed her surroundings with something like satisfaction.
It was 23 December, and the steady, cold rain of the night before had turned to sleet clattering on her roof. By afternoon, snow had piled into drifts by her porch, the storm had moved out to sea and the smoke from her chimney curled into a sky of pure cobalt. Evening found Mary seated on the sofa by the fire, caressing Chelsea as she reflected on the small bundle of letters in her lap. Charles . . . Charles Davenport. At first his style had been formal, somewhat stilted, but before long she had become ‘Mary’, and she found herself waiting and hoping for his letters. He had vaguely described his new position in London and filled pages with his views of the war’s progress. But eventually Charles wrote to her about his personal life; about his childhood, his mother, now dead, and his father, whom he hoped to visit soon . . . and, at last, his anguish over his failed marriage. Mary had been deeply shocked when he’d confided to her how he had learned, on the day of his arrival at Rushlake Hospital, that his wife had been unfaithful and was demanding a divorce. Through all of his letters a composite picture had slowly taken shape until she felt that she knew Charles Davenport, and, what was more, cared about him.
