Cardigan Bay

by John Kerr

  ‘I shouldn’t have come here,’ said Eamon. ‘But I thought—’

  ‘Thought? What did you think?’

  ‘That you wouldn’t mind, and as you were out . . .’ He took a half step toward her.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said, tightly gripping the wooden handles. ‘Go on with what you were saying.’

  ‘My bike’s broken down on the path. Mary, put those down. You’ve nothing to fear. I just came to borrow some tools, and never thought that you might—’

  ‘Eamon, you scared me half to death,’ said Mary with a sigh of relief. She lowered the shears. ‘Take what you need and be gone. And I’ll thank you to ask before entering my house.’

  He raised his hands in a gesture of conciliation. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It was foolish, and I’m sorry I frightened you.’ He took a wrench and pair of pliers from the shelf and walked quickly past her and up the stairs. He paused at the top and said, ‘Goodbye, Mary,’ and then was gone. Breathing more easily, Mary laid the shears on the bench, took the nails from her pocket and placed them on the shelf, pulled the chain to extinguish the bulb and hurried up the darkened stairs.

  On a clear, cold morning Charles Davenport reported for duty at Norfolk House, home of the Chief of Staff to the Supreme Allied Commander – COSSAC. As he entered St. James’s Square, he gazed at the bright green treetops in the privately maintained park and searched for No. 31, a handsome brick building with an elaborate stone façade located on the south-east corner. Within days of reporting for duty, Davenport concluded that the atmosphere at COSSAC was as unlike the suffocating elitism of Special Planning Group B as he could have imagined. From the sentry at the entrance to the high-ranking officers on COSSAC staff, Americans were everywhere. And while they observed the same military etiquette as the British, there was a casual, irreverent quality to the Americans he couldn’t quite put his finger on. In his small windowless office during his first week, Davenport drummed a pencil on the desk and struggled to name this distinctive American quality. He decided they simply weren’t impressed by the badges and trappings of British rank and status and surmised they possessed a distrust of class and privilege as old as the Revolution. After the seven months he’d endured in the Office of War Plans, the spirit of enthusiasm and confidence that pervaded the COSSAC staff was infectious.

  Although COSSAC was dominated by Americans, there were many British officers, and Davenport found that, with a few exceptions, the men of both countries got along well. Despite their boundless self-confidence, the Americans were slightly in awe of the combat record of the British, especially following the embarrassing American defeat at Kasserine Pass in Tunisia. After long days of tedious work, Davenport would regularly accompany the young staff officers to a neighbourhood pub for pints, darts, and endless discussion of the war, while the senior Americans were often guests of their British counterparts at the exclusive clubs on St. James’s or Pall Mall.

  Within days of his new assignment, Davenport cabled Evan Hockaday to inform him of events and express his hope that they might find time for another visit. Returning to his room late one evening, Davenport found a telegram, an invitation to join Evan for lunch in the town of Bletchley, suggesting he make arrangements to stay overnight at a hotel. This puzzled Davenport, as he supposed that he would be afforded the usual courtesy of a guest bed in the officers’ quarters. On Saturday Davenport boarded the train. Mary, thought Davenport to himself as the train rattled along. My God, he’d only seen the woman once. He thought back to that encounter, which seemed a long time ago, and imagined he could see her face. He felt an extraordinary lightness in his chest, a sensation he hadn’t felt in a long time. Was he falling in love? Before long, the spires of Oxford appeared in the distance and, with a shrill whistle the train slowed to a stop at the station. The normally bustling city seemed almost abandoned. Several boyish students in short black gowns whizzed past on bicycles, and a few ageing dons strolled the pavements. After buying a cup of tea at the depot, he slumped on a bench in the waiting room before boarding the bus to Bletchley. The trip along narrow, twisting roads lasted little more than half an hour, during which Davenport reread Mary’s last letter. There was a subtle change in her writing that revealed a changed heart. She had seemed so forlorn at first, consumed by her grief, but now there was a certain lightness; describing in long, descriptive paragraphs the pleasure she took in the flowers blooming in her garden, the romps with Chelsea through the new grass along the pathway above the cliffs. But more than anything, he sensed a subtle change in her feelings. Rounding a corner they entered the town of Bletchley. Davenport gazed out, expecting to see men in uniform out walking on a Saturday morning. But to his surprise there was none. The bus pulled into the small bus station, and moments later Davenport was standing on the pavement in the warm April sunshine. After walking a few streets he found the small hotel.

  Davenport decided to wait in the bar adjoining the dining room. When the grandfather clock struck twelve, Evan Hockaday appeared in the lobby in a wheelchair. Davenport, surprised that neither Evan nor his attendant was wearing a uniform, rose from his chair and motioned to Evan, who rolled up with a bright smile and extended his hand. ‘Charles,’ he said with a firm grip, ‘how splendid to see you.’

  ‘Well, Evan,’ said Davenport, ‘you’re looking well, though I’m surprised to see you in civvies. I hope they haven’t thrown you out.’

  Evan raised a finger to his lips with a conspiratorial look and said, ‘I’ll explain everything. Let’s repair to the dining room.’

  Davenport followed Evan into a sun-lit room with a view of the garden, where they were seated at a table in the corner. Evan’s attendant, a pleasant-looking young man, said, ‘Will there be anything else, sir? Shall I return with the car at two?’

  ‘No, thanks, Corporal,’ said Evan. ‘Two should be fine.’

  Davenport gave Evan an expectant look. When they were alone, with the dining room virtually to themselves, Davenport said, ‘Evan, perhaps you’d care to explain.’ Before Evan could answer, a waiter appeared and they each ordered a pint of the local bitter, a bowl of soup, and sandwiches.

  ‘The fact is,’ said Evan quietly when the waiter had gone, ‘no one in town has any idea there’s an army presence nearby. It’s a well-guarded secret. That’s the reason for this.’ He lightly touched his suit jacket.

  Davenport silently studied Evan for a moment. The waiter returned with two glasses of golden ale, said, ‘Two pints of Theakston’s,’ and withdrew.

  Davenport raised his glass and said, ‘Cheers. Tell me about this secret army installation.’

  After taking a sip, Evan said, ‘Station X.’

  ‘What? Station X?’

  ‘That’s the code name,’ explained Evan. ‘It’s actually Bletchley Park, a Victorian mansion on the outskirts of town. No one has any idea what goes on there, and believe me, no one gets close enough to ask any questions.’

  The waiter returned with their soup and a plate of corned beef sandwiches. Leaning across the table, Davenport quietly said, ‘You told me about this cipher machine, and the extraordinary fact that you’ve broken the German code. And I see how carefully this has been kept under wraps. But what’s the point of it? It seems almost like, well, a game of chess.’

  Evan gave Davenport an affectionate look and said, ‘Let me see if I can explain. Take, for example, Monty’s recent battle with Rommel at Medenine in Tunisia. A smashing victory, I’m sure you would agree.’

  ‘No question. An absolute rout.’

  ‘We operate in Hut 6,’ said Evan. ‘Our job is to intercept and decipher communications between German commanders in the field and Wehrmacht headquarters. At the end of February, Monty’s lines south of Mareth were very thinly defended, only a single British division.’ He paused to sample the soup and said, ‘Quite good. Some sort of leek and potato. At any rate, on 28 February, we deciphered an Enigma intercept from Rommel
to Berlin stating his intention to attack Medenine with three armoured divisions and thus encircle the British in front of the Mareth Line.’

  Davenport put down his spoon and stared at Evan. ‘Do you mean to say. . . ?’

  ‘There’s more I could tell you,’ said Evan, ‘but frankly it’s not in your interest that I do so. Suffice it to say, Monty had advance notice of the particulars of Rommel’s plan and, when the attack came, was able to repulse it with overwhelming force, rushing the New Zealand Division into the line, as well as the 201st Guards, some four hundred tanks and a great mass of guns.’

  ‘Evan,’ said Davenport in a hushed voice, ‘what you’ve just told me is unbelievable. It may very well have altered the course of the war. If it weren’t for the fact that you were reading Rommel’s mail, Monty may have suffered a major defeat. Why, it’s almost like cheating at cards.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Evan. ‘And the bloody Huns haven’t a clue what we’re up to, in lovely old Bletchley Park.’

  Following lunch, enjoying coffee on the brick terrace, Evan turned to Davenport and said, ‘You’ve told me almost nothing about your new assignment.’

  Davenport studied Evan’s earnest face, thinking how young and innocent he would look were it not for the black patch over one eye. After taking a sip of coffee, he said, ‘The transfer to the staff of COSSAC was a breath of fresh air. Morgan is terribly capable, and he’s surrounded himself with a fine group of American and British officers.’

  ‘I’m confused,’ said Evan. ‘General Morgan is Chief of Staff to the Supreme Allied Commander?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Who is the Supreme Allied Commander?’

  ‘There isn’t one,’ answered Davenport. ‘Not yet anyway. At some point before the final planning for Overlord, Churchill and Roosevelt are supposed to name one. In the meantime, General Morgan has the full responsibility.’

  ‘Overlord?’

  ‘Code-name for the cross-Channel invasion. In any case, I’ve no doubt we’ll do a good job of choosing the landing areas, the date for the invasion, and all the logistics. But that’s not what keeps me awake at night.’ Evan nodded and sipped his coffee. ‘If the Germans are ready,’ said Davenport, ‘if they’re fully prepared, we could be trapped on the landing beaches.’ Davenport finished his coffee and said, ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything your people could do to lead the Germans astray? To lead them to believe the invasion is coming at Calais, for example?’

  Evan scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Am I to assume,’ he asked, ‘the landing will occur elsewhere?’

  ‘Hypothetically.’

  ‘Well,’ said Evan, ‘I’ll tell you this: from all the Enigma traffic, the Germans are clearly taking precautions for a landing at Calais.’

  ‘They’d be fools to do otherwise,’ said Davenport.

  ‘But you’re suggesting something more devious,’ said Evan. ‘Something to convince them that the landing is certain to occur at Calais. A feint.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Evan’s eye shone with intensity. ‘What if,’ he said, ‘we flooded them with obscure radio transmissions concerning the area around Calais? And then listen in on their response and alter the traffic to reinforce the idea that Calais is the target.’

  ‘Very ingenious,’ said Davenport, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘If you don’t object, I’ll take this up with my superiors.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Evan, ‘but that won’t do. As far as your superiors are concerned, or anyone else for that matter, you haven’t a clue as to what’s going on at Bletchley. But let me handle it at my end. There might be a way we could help.’

  ‘I knew I could depend on you,’ said Davenport with a smile.

  ‘There’s one other matter,’ said Evan, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask about.’ Davenport looked at him expectantly. ‘How you’re getting along in the divorce proceedings?’

  Davenport grimaced. ‘Well, you may think me a fool, but after my run-in with the colonel who’s seeing Frances, I decided to expose the fact. . . .’ Davenport hesitated and then said, ‘The fact that he was sleeping with my wife while I was in North Africa.’

  ‘And how does one, as you put it, expose this?’ asked Evan.

  ‘By taking the man’s deposition, as the lawyers call it. Requiring him to testify under oath. Something her high-priced barrister gambled I would never consider.’

  ‘Bully for you,’ said Evan. ‘I’ve no doubt that turned the tables. And look at what’s happened to your career. On the staff of COSSAC!’ He smiled broadly. ‘Tell me, Charles, what of the lovely young American from Ireland?’

  ‘Mary,’ said Davenport. ‘It’s so odd. Despite the fact that I’ve only seen her that one time, we’ve continued to correspond. And I feel . . . very close to her.’

  ‘Then you should see her again.’

  ‘Believe me, Evan, I intend to.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Two men sat facing one another at a corner table in the otherwise empty smoking room aboard the Queen Mary. As the sun slid below the horizon, the walls of the tall room, panelled in burl walnut, glowed in the fading light. The taller of the two, elegantly handsome in expensive tweeds, drew a card from the deck on the table. ‘Bezique,’ he said simply, withdrawing three cards from his hand and placing them face up.

  ‘Damn you, Harriman,’ exclaimed Winston Churchill, expelling a cloud of blue cigar smoke. ‘I should know better than to play cards with a man who owns half the railroads in America and presides over a Wall Street banking empire.’ Folding his cards, he reached for his glass and downed the last of his drink. ‘Waiter,’ he said sharply, and a white-jacketed attendant appeared out of the shadows. ‘Fetch me another. Averell?’ he added, inviting the American Ambassador to the Soviet Union to join him.

  ‘Yes, Winston, I’ll have another.’ Churchill scooped up the cards in his surprisingly delicate hands and began shuffling the thick, 64-card deck. ‘Now, Averell,’ he said as he slid three cards from the top of the deck. ‘I trust I can depend on your unflinching support in our conversations with the President.’ Harriman silently waited for Churchill to finish dealing, then picked up his cards and began sorting them, averting his eyes from Churchill’s gaze. ‘You heard General Brooke today,’ Churchill continued. ‘There’s no question more American men, ships, and equipment are going to the Pacific than to Europe.’

  The waiter returned with a salver bearing two crystal tumblers. ‘There you are, sir,’ he said with a deferential nod. ‘Will there be anything else?’

  ‘Not for the moment,’ said Churchill as he drew a card from the top of the deck. ‘Spades,’ he announced. ‘Your support will prove critical, Averell, on the issue of Sicily.’

  Harriman continued to study his hand, frowned, and drew from the deck. Looking up, he smiled and said, ‘Naturally, Winston, I’ll do what I can. I share your view that the defeat of Hitler has priority over Japan. But I can’t forget who my boss is.’

  An hour or so later, a young British naval officer with a single gold ring on his cuff walked up to Churchill’s table. Churchill looked up with an irritated expression and said, ‘What is it, lieutenant?’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but we’ve just received a flash cable from the Admiralty. From Admiral Pound.’

  ‘Yes, go on,’ said Churchill, his cigar clenched in his teeth.

  ‘A German submarine, which departed Brest two days ago, is believed to be on a course which will cross our path approximately fifteen miles ahead.’

  ‘I see. And what does Admiral Pound suggest we do about it?’

  ‘At our rate of speed, sir, Admiral Pound suggests we are as likely to ram the submarine as it is to see us first.’

  Churchill peered out into the blackness beyond the window. ‘Very well,’ he said at length. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’ The young officer turned and walked from th
e room.

  When they were alone, Harriman put down his cards and said, ‘Good heavens, Winston. How can your navy possibly know these things? The course and heading of an enemy submarine?’

  ‘Suffice it to say,’ replied Churchill with a devilish look, ‘we have our methods. Now, perhaps you don’t realize,’– he paused to take a sip of his drink, – ‘I’ve had my lifeboat fitted out with a 50-calibre machine gun. In case we have to abandon ship. You see,’ Churchill said, leaning back and thrusting out his chin. ‘I don’t intend to be captured. The finest way to die’ – he took the cigar from his mouth and stabbed it in the air – ‘is in the excitement of fighting the enemy.’

  A look of concern clouded Harriman’s face. ‘But surely,’ he objected, ‘I understood that the very worst a torpedo could do to this ship, because of its compartments, is knock out one engine room. Leaving us with sufficient power to steam at twenty knots.’

  ‘Ah, but Averell,’ said Churchill with a smile, ‘they might put two torpedoes in us. In which case you must come with me in the boat and see the fun!’

  The following days and nights in the North Atlantic passed without incident, and on the morning of 11 May, 1943, the Queen Mary eased into the Cunard berth on the lower west side of Manhattan. By afternoon Churchill and his party were on board a special train bound for Washington, arriving in time for dinner at the White House. The next day, after a leisurely morning working on dictation in his accustomed third floor bedroom, Churchill emerged, rested and filled with determination, for the opening session of the conference. Attired in his usual black jacket and charcoal trousers, a silver fob-chain adorning his black waistcoat, Churchill strolled down the hall to the President’s upstairs study. Standing in the entrance, he gazed at Franklin Roosevelt, seated at a large desk flanked by the flags of the United States and the Presidency. As usual, Harry Hopkins was seated in an armchair opposite the President. Roosevelt looked up, flashed his characteristic grin, and said, ‘Winston. Come in, come in.’