by John Kerr
Churchill strode across the room and reached across the desk to take Roosevelt’s outstretched hand. ‘Mr President,’ he said warmly. ‘How good to see you here again. And Harry, a pleasure, as always.’
‘Please, Winston, sit down,’ said Roosevelt. ‘And tell me about your crossing.’
Churchill’s eyes were drawn to the boughs of the stately trees outside the tall windows and the lush green lawn. ‘I can’t help but remember, Mr President, when I was last here.’ A far off look came over Churchill’s face. ‘What striking changes have taken place since I received the news of the fall of Tobruk in this room. I shall never forget’ – his voice quaked with emotion – ‘the way in which you sustained us in that desperate time.’
Precisely at one o’clock, the President’s study began to fill with military and political advisers. Roosevelt remained at his desk with Churchill opposite him while the men from both sides of the Atlantic took their seats in a semicircle before them. ‘Let me begin, Mr President,’ said Churchill in his slight lisp, ‘by congratulating our victorious armies in Tunis. Today, we can proudly say, Torch is over. And the great question now before us, is what shall the next prize be? I submit that it is Sicily. And following its successful capture, all of Italy lies at our feet. There is no question, Mr President, that the cross-Channel invasion must be deferred to the spring of 1944 at the earliest, because of the critical shortage of landing craft. On that point, I believe we are in agreement. And therefore, possessing a mighty, victorious Anglo-American army in North Africa, having triumphed over the hitherto invincible Afrika Korps, what are we to do? Sit idle while we await the liberating invasion of the Continent?’ Churchill paused and peered at the impassive faces of his listeners before answering his rhetorical question:
‘No, Mr President. We must strike against Sicily. And when Sicily is won – and won it shall be – we must move against Italy. Ah, think of it! Italy out of the war. The Italian fleet no longer a danger in the Mediterranean. The Turks, the Balkans . . . The possibilities, Mr President, are intriguing.’
Roosevelt rocked back in his chair with an inscrutable smile. ‘But Winston,’ he said after a moment, ‘should we risk delaying the cross-Channel invasion with an adventure in Italy? Suppose we’re bogged down? Certainly we agree there’s no possibility of an invasion before the spring of 1944, but we would prefer to set a date and concentrate all of our efforts on ensuring its success.’
After several hours of at times acrimonious discussion of the arguments for and against an invasion of Sicily, General Ismay entered the room and approached Churchill. ‘What is it, Ismay?’ asked Churchill with a worn expression.
‘Two telegrams, Prime Minister. The first is from Station X and the second from Alexander’s HQ in Tunis.’ He handed two envelopes to Churchill. Donning his reading glasses, Churchill tore open an envelope and read:
Personal stop Most Secret stop Prime Minister stop Eyes Only
The following communiqué was deciphered this date from General Von Armin to Berlin OKW: ‘We have fired our last cartridge, We are closing down forever’ stop
Churchill arched his eyebrows imperceptibly and refolded the cable in the envelope. He then read Alexander’s cable to Ismay: ‘The end is very near. Von Armin has been captured, and prisoners will most likely be over 150,000. All organized resistance has collapsed.’ Churchill removed his glasses and dropped the telegram in his lap. ‘Mr President,’ he said in a loud voice.
Roosevelt paused in his conversation with Hopkins, turned to Churchill and said, ‘Yes, Winston?’
Churchill smiled broadly. ‘I have just received word of the Germans’ capitulation in Tunisia. We have taken over a hundred and fifty thousand prisoners.’
At the conclusion of the conference, Roosevelt invited Churchill to accompany him for a weekend at Shangri-La, the Presidential retreat in the Catoctin Mountains of Maryland. After a good-natured debate between Churchill and Eleanor Roosevelt over which of them should sit next to the President, the motorcade made its way into the Maryland countryside. As they entered the town of Frederick, Churchill turned around to face the President and First Lady. ‘I wonder whether it would be out of our way, Mr President, to drive past the home of that magnificent woman who defied the Confederates by waving the Union flag from her upstairs bedroom window?’
‘Not at all, Winston,’ replied Roosevelt. ‘Barbara Frietchie, of course, the most famous citizen of Frederick. About whom the poet Whittier wrote,’ he added, with schoolboy pride, ‘if I remember correctly, “Shoot if you must this old grey head, but spare your country’s flag, she said.” ’
Eleanor Roosevelt laughed and said, ‘Excellent, Franklin.’
Still facing them, Churchill said, ‘Ah, yes, Mr President . . . “A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, over the face of the leader came. . . .”’ And then, to the Roosevelts’ astonishment, Churchill recited the remaining verses of the famous poem.
Two men sat near the back of the otherwise empty pub on the outskirts of Castletown. The only sounds besides the low hush of conversation were the hiss and crackle of the coal in the grate. Sean Mulcahy hunched over the table opposite Eamon O’Farrell, cradling a glass. Mulcahy took a swallow of straight whiskey and smiled, baring an uneven row of teeth. ‘Now, listen to me, Mr Eamon O’Farrell,’ he said in a low, threatening tone, ‘or whatever your name may be. Let me be perfectly clear.’ He wiped his mouth and reached for a pack of cigarettes. ‘I’ve had it up to here with your excuses.’ He extracted a cigarette and, lighting it with a match, took a deep drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘We need the goddamn rifles, and we need them now. How in the name of Jesus do you suppose—’
‘Relax, Sean,’ interrupted Eamon. ‘As I’ve told you repeatedly, you’ll have the rifles and ammunition. And they’ll be delivered on schedule.’
Mulcahy drained his glass and glanced around the room. ‘Boy,’ he called out, and a lad of about fifteen popped up behind the counter where he’d been drying glasses.
‘Sir,’ the boy responded immediately. Eamon recognized the McDonough boy from the store and made eye contact briefly.
‘Bring us another round,’ said Mulcahy. ‘Now, O’Farrell,’ he began again, ‘the men are all set for the raid.’ He paused as the boy approached the table with the drinks. When he was gone, Mulcahy took a drag on his cigarette and said, ‘We’ll hit the Armagh garrison at the first light of day. The Brits won’t stand a chance. And so you see, Mr O’Farrell . . . we’d better have those rifles. On the 25th and not a day later. I’m not sure we can trust you, with the company you’ve been keepin’.’
‘What company?’
‘The American woman. The feisty one,’ he added with a wink.
‘You can count on me,’ said Eamon. ‘At all events, you should create quite a sensation. I don’t suppose there’s been such a daring raid on British soil since the glory days.’
‘British soil,’ Mulcahy responded angrily. ‘British soil my arse. Listen to me, O’Farrell.’ He reached inside his worn, black coat for a revolver. Waving it in Eamon’s face, he added with a smile, ‘No more excuses. Understood?’ He sat back and slipped the revolver under his coat. Eamon remained silent, staring calmly. Mulcahy downed his drink in a swig and abruptly stood up. ‘Let’s go,’ he said roughly.
Once outside, Eamon fell into step alongside Mulcahy, whose felt hat was pulled low and whose hands were stretched deep into his pockets. They turned the corner and walked in a steady rain down a side street along a brick wall. Eamon suddenly grabbed Mulcahy by the shoulder and twisted his right arm behind his back, slamming him against the wall. Eamon stood behind him, pinning him against the wall while he twisted his arm behind his back.
‘Aargh,’ said Mulcahy in a strangled cry. ‘You’re breakin’ my arm!’
Eamon increased the pressure and leaned close.
‘Let me go!’ Mulcahy pleaded.
E
amon twisted even harder, bringing another howl of pain. ‘Now, Sean,’ he said, ‘you listen very carefully. Don’t ever threaten me again.’ Mulcahy tried to nod with his bloody face pressed against the wall. ‘All right,’ said Eamon, releasing his grip and shoving Mulcahy away from him. Without another word, he turned and walked away.
Pulling the last letter from Charles from her pocket, Mary read it again. She could sense how much happier he was in this new assignment, the excitement and interest it held for him. As usual there was no news of the divorce, which went on endlessly. She smiled at Charles’s description of his visit to Evan – what a fine friend he had made in the hospital . . . what two fine friends he had made, she considered. Lost in that thought, she put the letter in her pocket and let her mind wander to how it would feel if they were actually together. After an hour of rest and reflection on the sun-warmed boulder by the sea, Mary summoned Chelsea and together they set off, clambering over smooth rocks, slick with sea-spray, and worked their way around the base of the cliffs to the sandy beach. Chelsea bounded ahead, dragging seaweed ropes and kelp bulbs back for Mary’s inspection. She stooped to inspect something in the shallows and gingerly lifted a cardboard box with a distinctive blue cross on one side and the words Kriegsmarine – Deutschland on the other. Mary tossed the box aside and gazed out at the tranquil sea, thinking back to the recent storms, her mind filled with images of some poor sailor struggling to stay afloat.
As she walked with the dog along the beach, she noticed someone else far in the distance, dressed in dark colours and walking towards them. As the figure drew within several hundred yards, Chelsea gave a low, throaty growl, and Mary feared it might be Eamon O’Farrell. Deciding to start back for her cottage, she said, ‘Chelsea”, as the dog continued to growl. The man could no doubt recognize her now, and walking away would be perceived as cowardice. So she continued on in his direction, and shortly he waved and called out: ‘Good day to you, Mary.’ As Eamon walked up he slipped off his cap and said, ‘Still angry about the other day?’
Ignoring the question, Mary said, ‘You certainly seem to spend a great deal of time wandering the beach all alone.’
‘That’s true enough, I suppose. But now that the weather’s turned so delightful, it’s better than—’
‘Holding down an honest job?’
He gave her a look of surprise. ‘Now, what makes you think that I—’
‘Please, Eamon,’ she interrupted, ‘don’t think you can tell me some sad story, how you’re down on your luck. I know more than you may realize about you and your . . .’
Eamon stood listening, scratching his chin. ‘Yes, go on,’ he said. She turned away angrily and began walking towards the cliffs. After a moment, he trotted after her. ‘Mary please,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?’
She stopped and turned to face him, the freshening sea breeze furling her long, dark hair. ‘I know about you and that man,’ she said. ‘I saw you coming out of the Anchor together, very chummy. The man’s little more than a . . .’
‘So that’s it.’ He stood with his hands on his hips. Chelsea ran up with something clenched in her mouth, her long ears and underbelly thoroughly wet. ‘Listen, Mary,’ he said. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘Don’t “listen Mary” me!’ she said with surprising vehemence. ‘Don’t you see the kind of men they are?’
Eamon took a step closer. ‘Although I don’t agree with their bully boy ways, I see no other option to get our land, our country, back. You know the history and the politics. Nothing ever changes, never has, without a bit of pressure.’
‘Don’t lecture me about my history,’ she said hotly. ‘This Sean you’ve been hanging about with and his ilk are no good. They’re murdering criminals. Why would you get involved with them?’ Eamon looked in exasperation at the gulls wheeling overhead. ‘You can’t dismiss the terror these men practise,’ Mary insisted, ‘as a bit of pressure.’ Her hands in fists, Mary leaned forward and said, ‘Eamon, these men are fools enough to think it’s in their interest if the Germans win the war! Do they really think Hitler will stop at the Irish Sea?’
Eamon smiled, noticing the sunlight on her face and her flashing blue eyes. ‘Well,’ he said pleasantly, ‘I must say, I admire your fire. A true Irishwoman. But there’s one thing you should understand,’ he added, his dark eyes narrowing and hard. ‘I’ll have nothing to do with helping Hitler. Sure, this is neutral soil, and there may be some foolish enough to think the defeat of Britain would aid the Irish cause. But not I.’ He slipped on his cap and began walking down the beach away from her.
As she watched him go, for a moment Mary regretted her angry outburst and then chided herself for thinking she could trust him. After waiting until he was no more than a speck in the distance, she summoned Chelsea and started for home.
Davenport paced, a pencil clenched in his teeth, trying to make up his mind. While it was true he was still married, he reasoned, that seemed increasingly irrelevant in the plodding divorce proceedings. And Mary was widowed, without children. Lastly, there was the war, which seemed to confer a sanction born out of desperation on a wide range of otherwise questionable actions. Damn, he thought, just do it! He sat at the desk and after hesitating a few moments, he wrote:
12 June 1943
Dear Mary,
Isn’t it exceptional the difference a year can make? Within weeks I’ll mark the anniversary of our disastrous defeat at Tobruk and my being shot. To think that today we’re preparing for the greatest military operation in history to end the scourge of Hitler. And that my divorce is thankfully almost behind me, and, most of all, that I have found you.
But even with these warm summer days, I am not happy, dear Mary. There is only one thing that will bring me real happiness, and that is being with you. At the risk of being too bold, let me ask you straight out if I may see you. Not in London, nor there, among your prying neighbours. There’s a lovely old hotel, high on the side of a hill overlooking Cardigan Bay on the coast of Wales. We went there often when I was a child, when my mother and father were young. Hopefully you could travel by ferry to Holyhead and take the bus down the coast to Barmouth. Would you meet me there the weekend of 22 June?
Dear Mary, I so hope we can see one another again. As strange as it may sound, you’ve become the most important thing in my life. Please answer me soon.
Affectionately,
Charles
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Curled on the sofa, Mary stared at the neat writing on the plain army stationery. An involuntary sigh escaped her as two fingers came to rest on her partially opened lips. What was the old saying? Be careful what you pray for? There she was, reading the words she’d hoped for, yet somehow her reaction was totally wrong. Of course she wanted to see him; but in her daydreams it had always been a trip to London, meeting for dinner or strolling the parks, not a weekend assignation at a secluded hotel with a man she’d only seen once. The thought both terrified and excited her. Putting the letter aside, Mary took a deep breath, wondering for the umpteenth time what he would think of her if they were actually together, rather than the real but very imagined beings who had taken such intricate shape through their exchange of letters. Would she measure up to the composite picture he had of her? Would he? Mary resolved that there was only one way to find out; that she would see him. With her heart pounding, she went to the bureau and opened the pigeon-hole where she kept the writing paper.
Davenport arrived punctually at 9.00 a.m. at General Morgan’s office, responding to the summons he’d received. Taking a deep breath, he knocked and then opened the door. ‘Come in, Major,’ said Morgan, who was seated at an elaborately carved mahogany desk next to a Union Jack. He reached for a pack of cigarettes and added, ‘Sit down,’ motioning to an armchair. After pausing to light a cigarette, he said, ‘Thank God, Davenport, we’ve got at least a few men like you.’
Durin
g the uneasy silence that followed, Davenport said, ‘Well, ah, thank you sir—’
‘What I mean,’ said Morgan, ‘is that the Americans – well, they. . . . You’re aware that they virtually dominate this operation.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And they’re fine men for the most part. But dammit, we’ve borne the brunt of the fighting till now, and I want our people in leadership positions.’ Davenport nodded, wondering why he had been summoned for this unusual monologue. ‘Well,’ said Morgan, fixing him in his intelligent grey eyes, ‘you’ve done an outstanding job, and frankly, you’re one of the few officers with any experience commanding men in combat.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Morgan paused to expel a cloud of smoke before saying, ‘I’m recommending you for a promotion, to lieutenant colonel, and naming you Section Leader for the British sector in the invasion.’
For a moment Davenport was stunned, and then he smiled and said, ‘Thank you, sir. I assure you I’ll do my best.’
‘Well, that’s all,’ said Morgan with a smile. Davenport rose and started for the door. ‘Oh, there’s one other thing,’ said Morgan.
Davenport stopped and said, ‘Sir?’
‘You’ve been working long hours. Take some leave, get away for a few days. You’ll need all your stamina for the final push.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Davenport. ‘I intend to do just that.’
Each day Davenport’s pulse had quickened as he walked past the young soldier at the desk in the bachelor officers’ barracks. Today was no different as he hurried into the building, reasoning that another day or two would pass before he should expect a reply from Mary. But the young private looked up and said, ‘Major Davenport.’ Davenport stopped and turned. The private handed him two envelopes. Davenport glanced at the familiar blue envelope and looked with curiosity at the cream-coloured envelope addressed to him. After bounding up the stairs two steps at a time, he hurried to his room, dropped on the bed, and tore open Mary’s letter:
