Cardigan Bay

by John Kerr

  ‘Well, well,’ said Davenport quietly.

  The man looked back at him said, ‘Yes . . . I say, it’s Davenport, isn’t it?’

  Davenport stared menacingly and said, ‘That’s right. I should think you could remember the name easily enough.’ He moved another step, so that only a foot separated the two men. The colonel inched backwards, a hunted look in his eyes.

  ‘Well,’ he began again, ‘I’ve no doubt that you’re, well, terribly upset about this . . .’ Davenport continued to stare, clenching his fists at his side. ‘But of course, these things happen, and frankly, there’s really nothing more to say.’ He turned away and picked up his drink.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Davenport said in a low voice. ‘These things happen, is that it?’ He spat out the words. ‘So you’re enjoying yourself with my wife, in my house, while I’m picking black flies out of my stinking rations and sand out of my ears—’

  ‘Now, see here—’

  ‘No, you see here!’ Davenport suddenly grabbed the man by the lapels, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him against the wall, striking the back of his head and his glass shattering on the floor. Davenport let go and watched him crumple back against the bar. The entire room fell silent.

  ‘Damn you,’ the man almost shouted, ‘I should have you court-martialed!’

  Davenport stared at him contemptuously and said, ‘I should like to see you try.’

  A week had passed since New Year’s Eve, and Mary and Chelsea had been forced by the bitter cold to remain indoors. Just when she was beginning to feel desperate, the weak sun emerged and the temperature began to rise. As she donned her heavy coat, hat, and gloves, she silently prayed that the car would start. When the first feeble attempts failed, Mary slapped the steering wheel in the freezing car and bitterly considered the prospect of walking into the village. Then, with luck, the engine laboured one last time and sputtered to life. Mary fought the gearstick into reverse and backed out of the small wooden enclosure. Icicles hung from the eaves and dripped as she started down the slippery track. She thought of the reception she was likely to receive from her neighbours, none of whom she had seen since the dreadful encounter. It was one thing to have stood up to the odious stranger but why, she wondered over and over, had she found it necessary to rebuke virtually the entire community? If she was an outsider before, she was now certain to be treated as a pariah.

  Mary carefully slowed to a stop and turned onto the road into Castletown. Much of the snow had melted as she drove past The Forgery, home of the Dillons, the largest landowners for miles. On the side of the road ahead Mrs Dillon was taking advantage of the thaw to walk her retriever. As Mary drove past slowly, Mrs Dillon turned and, with a smile of recognition, gave her a cheerful wave. Mary drove the remaining half-mile to the intersection of two country roads leading into the village where Mrs Fitzgerald, likewise out for some air, called out, ‘Good morning, Mary. Thank heaven for the sunshine. On your way into town?’

  For a moment, Mary stared in surprise before she smiled and called back, ‘Yes, indeed.’ After being shut in for so long, Mary piled the counter at McDonough’s high with groceries, a large box of puppy food, and lastly, the London and Dublin papers. She frowned at the neatly lettered sign behind the counter: ‘Sorry – no tea today’. Donald’s father, in shirtsleeves with braces, eyed her coldly as he looked up from his newspaper spread out on the counter. Despite his father’s aloofness, Donald was his usual antic self, vying for Mary’s attention as he helped pack her purchases and carry them to the car. Even Mr Coggins bade her a sheepish good morning when she stopped at the post office to deposit her neat stack of letters to her family and, of course, to Charles. When she picked up her mail, her heart skipped a beat at the sight of a letter with the familiar army return address. It was only when she was back in the car that an explanation for her neighbours’ goodwill occurred to her. Thinking back to her outburst at the pub, she realized that many of them must have agreed with her, sharing her loathing for the Nazis and possibly the outlawed IRA as well. A smile lit up her face as she considered that she might actually have won some of them over. In her ruminations she almost forgot about the intersection, suddenly braking to avoid a tall, young man in the road, the same man, she now could see she had almost run down driving home on New Year’s Eve. Wearing a soft tweed cap and heavy corduroy coat, he approached the car as she rolled down the window. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said with an embarrassed smile. ‘I never saw you.’

  ‘You’re a dangerous woman, I think,’ he said with a boyish grin. ‘I shall have to go round with a bell on my neck.’

  Mary thought about saying something about his being more careful but instead extended her hand and said, ‘I’m Mary Kennedy.’

  He smiled in a pleasant way and took her hand. ‘The name’s Eamon,’ he said. ‘Eamon O’Farrell. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Well, goodbye then,’ said Mary. She rolled up the window and started for home. He seemed a nice enough fellow, though she was sure she had never seen him in the area. It was curious; one seldom met strangers in rural Ireland, and it was the second time she’d found him out walking near Kilmichael Point and her secluded cottage. The next time she came across him she must remember to ask what brought him to this seldom-travelled track.

  Returning to the cottage, she put away her purchases in the larder and went about the day’s chores, stopping every so often to pat the pocket in which she carried Charles’s letter. She made bread, pleased by the warm yeasty smell of the rising dough. The aroma was like no other, transporting her back to her mother’s side on baking day . . . thick loaves of hot bread, watching the slowly melting butter . . . times she had hoped to share with Anna. Waiting for the bread, she set the kettle on the stove and turned on the radio, just in time to catch the BBC news bulletin. The German Sixth Army, the announcer breathlessly reported, was completely encircled at the Russian city of Stalingrad, and the Red Army commander was demanding its immediate surrender. Could it be, thought Mary, the mighty German army defeated? And the Allies’ hopes for ultimate victory depended, as Charles had explained, on the Russians repulsing the German onslaught.

  Switching off the radio, Mary’s thoughts returned to his letter. There was no more running home to tear them open. Now she waited all day, as long as she could, before settling on the sofa in the living room. The salutation ‘Dear Mary’ alone brought a bright smile. Dated December 28, Charles recounted the Christmas leave he had spent at home with his father, their first time together since his return from North Africa. Mary was moved by his loving description of the kindly man, a retired schoolteacher, living alone after the death of his wife. She was intensely interested in Charles’s detailed account of the weekend he’d spent with Evan Hockaday at Marsden Hall; Evan, whom Charles regarded as such an exceptional person. But a frown darkened her face as she read of his ‘unfortunate encounter’ with the man his wife Frances was seeing, how every man in his section had either witnessed the ugly scene or heard of it within hours. He closed with wishes for the New Year and, in his careful hand, several lines of verse, in his habit of including lines from his favourite poetry in each letter.

  She loved his letters . . . perhaps, she mused, she was falling in love with him, although no such thing had been admitted by either of them. They were careful to avoid that territory. Every letter told how wonderful it was to receive the last . . . what it meant to both of them on long, lonely days, but never a word about their feelings.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The minute hand clicked on the numeral 12 – eight a.m., on 1 March, 1943. Davenport, at a desk in the centre of the map room, glanced at the clock. Amid the soft murmur of conversation, his mind wandered to the time with his father over Christmas, feeling a pang of regret for his dilatoriness in writing to him. The thought of writing, however, brought to mind the letter he had received the day before from Mary. At the sound of footsteps, he looked up as Col
onel Rawlinson walked briskly to the lectern. Rawlinson cleared his throat and the room fell silent.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he began.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ the men answered in unison.

  Rawlinson surveyed the faces and rearranged the papers on the lectern. ‘Today,’ he said in a loud, clear voice, ‘we have reached a critical juncture in the planning for Round-up: our preliminary report to the Chief of the General Staff, who will in turn be meeting with his American counterpart. The recommendations we put forward will play a large part in the momentous decisions that will soon be made with respect to the conduct of the war. It goes without saying’, – Rawlinson paused for effect – ‘that these considerations loom very large over our discussion today. I cannot over-state the gravity of these decisions.’

  Rawlinson clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. ‘As you are all aware,’ he said, ‘our task is to submit recommendations on the following issues. First, the selection of the landing beaches. Second, the timing of the landing. And third, the logistical considerations to effectuate the landing and the resupply of men and matériel in the days and weeks following.’ Rawlinson looked out at the expectant faces. ‘We are to assume that six infantry divisions will be put ashore on the first day. Where such men will be found and how they are to be trained and assembled are outside the purview of our report. Now,’ – Rawlinson resumed pacing – ‘I have received many excellent reports, and you are to be congratulated for your hard work. Mr Smith-Dorrien. Your report on the proposed landing beaches.’

  A short, stocky major with wire-rimmed glasses rose from his desk and walked to the lectern. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said as he selected his paper from the stack. Rawlinson walked over to the map and picked up his pointer. Davenport drummed the eraser end of a pencil on the desk. What will it be, he wondered? He had submitted his own recommendations to Smith-Dorrien, an intelligent, serious officer. ‘Well,’ said Smith-Dorrien, ‘this has proved to be a most vexing question. For obvious reasons, the logical place to stage a large amphibious landing is the Pas de Calais. Calais has an excellent deep-water port, and the entire area is well within striking distance of our RAF bases in the south-east. The beaches are wide and flat with clearly marked exits accessible to heavy vehicles. The short distance from Dover greatly reduces the likelihood of mishaps at sea for the naval task force. In short, the Pas de Calais is the perfect invasion site. And for that reason we have ruled it out. The Germans have deduced that it’s the most likely place for an invasion,’ continued Smith-Dorrien, ‘and are presently building the most formidable section of the Atlantic Wall at that very place. And their heaviest concentration of forces is located immediately to the rear of Calais.’ Smith-Dorrien paused to adjust his glasses. Davenport nodded with satisfaction. So far so good.

  ‘There are two other deep water ports along the French Channel coast,’ Smith-Dorrien continued, ‘Le Havre and Cherbourg. We have extensive intelligence from both aerial reconnaissance and resistance reports on beach conditions and defensive fortifications the length of the Normandy coastline. The beaches surrounding Le Havre are quite narrow, with rocky, almost vertical, cliffs behind them, making it difficult, if not impossible, to secure a lodgment inland of the landing area. Hence we considered but likewise rejected the Cotentin peninsula.’ Davenport sat up straight. ‘While Cherbourg is an excellent port, and the beaches on the eastward side of the peninsula would be acceptable for landing a large body of men, we were deeply troubled by two problems: first, the weather – always a concern in any large-scale operation in the Channel. But the Cotentin peninsula bears the brunt of the Atlantic gales, which bear down from the west, which could spell disaster for the invasion force. But even if the landing were successfully executed, the geography of the peninsula, sticking out, as it were, like a thumb into the Channel, makes it susceptible to being sealed off by the defenders in the days following the landing, especially as the low-lying areas are susceptible to flooding.’

  ‘So that left us with the long stretch of Normandy beaches facing north from the mouth of the Seine to the Cotentin peninsula.’ As he spoke Rawlinson traced the line of beaches on the wall map. ‘The beaches are generally wide and sandy and, with few exceptions, the bluffs which rise up from them are not terribly steep and should be passable by heavy vehicles. The Cotentin peninsula at the western end acts as something of a breakwater to shelter the area from the Atlantic gales. But by far the most important advantage is the fact it’s only lightly defended. In contrast to the formidable fortifications the Germans are erecting farther to the north, the beach obstacles and heavy gun emplacements along these beaches are relatively few and far between.’ Davenport smiled inwardly. He had arrived at the same conclusions in his own study of possible landing sites and forwarded his views to Smith-Dorrien.

  Rawlinson returned to the lectern. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, with a tight-lipped smile, ‘any questions for Mr Smith-Dorrien?’

  A young captain at the back spoke up. ‘What about the question of a deep-water port? How have you addressed that concern?’

  ‘You’ve hit on the single greatest weakness in the choice of this landing site,’ answered Smith-Dorrien. ‘It will be necessary to resupply the invasion force through the port of Cherbourg. The right wing will have to penetrate inland and execute a ninety-degree turn to the northwest to capture Cherbourg. This may prove to be the most difficult aspect of the plan. Other questions?’

  The room fell silent.

  ‘Now for the question of timing,’ said Rawlinson. ‘Your report, Mr Harwood.’

  A slender young officer with neatly parted blond hair stood nervously at the lectern. After fumbling for a moment, he read: ‘The timing of a cross-Channel assault is an extraordinarily complex question that is largely dependent on weather and tides. The Channel is notorious for the inclemency of its weather, the severity of its gales and the exceptional length of its tides, with intervals of as much as three hundred yards between the mean low and high tides in certain locations and times of the year. Given the obstacles on the beaches and in the shallows designed to thwart landing craft, we determined that the landing should be timed to coincide with the high tide, in order to float these craft above the obstacles and allow the debarkation of troops in water shallow enough to wade ashore. We also concluded that the landings should occur during daylight hours, preferably at sunrise.’ The officer paused and appeared to be searching for something in his report.

  ‘Now then,’ he continued, ‘the weather. From our study of meteorological data over the past twenty years, we concluded that it would be imprudent to hazard a landing across the Channel at any time before the first of May or after the first of October. The probability of gales is simply too great during the six months from October through to April. And consequently, during the six months when weather conditions are favourable, we identified the few intervals when the high tide coincides with the sunrise, offering the most desirable landing conditions. These windows of opportunity exist in the first week of June and July, the second week of August and the third week of September. Lastly, we are mindful that the German construction of the Atlantic Wall is ongoing and, as each week passes, the fortifications become stronger. Our conclusion, therefore, is that the most propitious time for a cross-Channel assault is the second week of August.’ August of 1943, Davenport considered. Five months hence. He couldn’t quarrel with the man’s analysis. Well, he supposed reality would sink in with the discussion of logistics.

  ‘Thank you, Harwood,’ said Rawlinson, tapping the end of his pointer on the linoleum. ‘And now, Captain MacDonald. Logistics.’

  A tall, broad-shouldered Scot with a shock of reddish-brown hair stepped to the lectern. He glanced briefly at his report, and gripping the sides of the lectern, said, ‘The initial assault will consist of six fully equipped infantry divisions, approximately a hundred and twenty thousand men, with three hundred and eighty medium tanks, four
hundred and twenty-five artillery pieces, motorized transport and so forth. The logistical requirements to support the embarkation and debarkation of a force of this size may be summarized as follows.’ As he droned on, Davenport grew increasingly restive. Get to the point, man, he said to himself. But MacDonald didn’t get to the point. He described, in painstaking detail, a flotilla of ships and boats that existed on paper only.

  ‘Thank you, MacDonald,’ said Rawlinson. ‘Questions?’ For a moment the room was silent.

  Davenport leaned forward and said, ‘Sir.’

  Rawlinson gazed at him coldly and said, ‘Yes, Mr Davenport?’

  ‘What about landing craft?’ asked Davenport. ‘You’ve seen my report, sir. We’ve nowhere near enough to transport a force even a fraction of the size under discussion here.’ Davenport was conscious of a number of whispered remarks but he was determined to make his point. ‘It’s absurd,’ he added, ‘to think an invasion could take place in 1943.’

  ‘That will do,’ said Rawlinson with asperity. ‘Your report has been duly noted. A statement will be included in my report to the effect that concerns have been raised with respect to the availability of landing craft, on which any successful operation would naturally be dependent.’ There were a few snickers from the back of the room. ‘Ultimately,’ said Rawlinson, ‘the question of landing craft is for the Admiralty to decide.’

  Mary spent her midwinter days by the fire with books and needlework, with Chelsea as her constant companion, looking forward always to the letters that awaited her when she was able to make the trip into the village. Soon after the incident on New Year’s Eve with the man from the IRA, she had written to Charles about it, including the details she could remember of the man’s drunken threats of strikes against the British in the north and claims of British plans to move against the Irish, hoping that Charles might help her understand whether to take these frightful sentiments seriously. He had written to her that the IRA had evolved from the paramilitary organization which had fought the British and secured Irish independence, to a small rabble of violent malcontents who would stop at nothing to secure union with Northern Ireland. She was astonished to think, as Charles suggested, that these men might be so desperate as to ally themselves with the Germans in the hope of securing aid, or that the British might actually contemplate military action against Ireland.