Cardigan Bay

by John Kerr

  As Davenport entered the room, the assorted staff officers were chatting in twos and threes or taking their seats. Davenport walked to the lectern and opened his folder. After a few moments, he called out, in the manner of a professor addressing his students, ‘Gentlemen, be seated. We have a great deal to cover.’ Once the men were in their chairs, he began, ‘You are all aware that in approximately one week we depart for the Quadrant conference, where we shall be meeting the American high command, including General Marshall and the President himself. I needn’t tell you that this is the culmination of all our hard work. The final go-ahead for Overlord. Some of you recall the humble beginnings of this operation in ’42 when it was termed Round-up.’ Davenport paused and surveyed the attentive faces. ‘Lieutenant, the map if you please.’ An officer unfurled a large wall map. Davenport leaned his tall frame on the lectern. ‘The planning conference commences in Quebec on 17 August. Some of you will be onboard when we sail from Glasgow. It is therefore essential that we complete our work before embarkation, in a scant week. This morning we shall have a full dress rehearsal, beginning with Third Division concentrations at Newhaven and Shoreham and Fiftieth Division at Poole. Then we shall turn to the detailed plans for the landings on Gold and Sword Beaches. Mr Mallory, if you please.’

  At the end of the long day, Davenport returned to his office where he discovered among the memoranda in his in-box a letter from his barrister in the divorce proceedings. Leaning back in his chair, Davenport read: ‘I am pleased to enclose the final order granting your divorce, entered by the court on 25 July With this order, these proceedings have now been finally concluded.’ He let his eyes fall on the formal legal document enclosed with the letter, which ended, ‘Do hereby declare that the marriage of Charles Foster Davenport to Frances Meade Haversham is dissolved.’ Davenport looked up to see Hanes Butler in the doorway.

  ‘Good news?’ asked Butler.

  ‘Yes, Hanes, good news. A letter from my lawyer. My divorce is final.’

  ‘Hell, that’s great news. I’ll buy you a drink.’

  ‘All right,’ said Davenport. ‘A drink to the bloody lawyers.’

  Hanes took a sip of beer and said, ‘Try one of these,’ extracting cigars from his breast pocket. He turned around to pat a passing barmaid on the rear. ‘Hey, sweetheart,’ he said, returning her disapproving frown with a smile. ‘We could use another round. Two pints of bitter.’

  Davenport bit the tip from his cigar and struck a match. He drew deeply and expelled a cloud of aromatic smoke. ‘Well, Hanes,’ he said, ‘here’s to the single life.’ The barmaid returned with a tray and placed two brimming glasses on the scarred table.

  ‘To the single life,’ repeated Butler, pausing to take a swallow of beer. ‘Wine, women, and song. And to victory.’

  Charles sipped his beer and took another drag on his cigar, the effects of which, combined with the alcohol, made him light-headed. Butler rested his elbows on the table and said, ‘Another couple of weeks, and this goddamn planning will be finished. I’m so sick of logistics I can’t stand it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Davenport. ‘And then . . . we sit and wait.’

  ‘Hey, waiting’s not all bad,’ said Butler.

  ‘What worries me,’ said Davenport, ‘is the longer we wait, the stronger the Germans become. Especially if they put someone energetic, like Rommel, in command. The big show doesn’t come off till May, ten months from now.’

  ‘That’s true,’ agreed Butler, gesturing with his cigar, ‘but the flip side is we’ve got more time to assemble an even larger force and get those boys ready.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Mr Butler. The landing force is already as large as it can be.’ Butler shot him a puzzled look. ‘We still don’t have enough landing craft,’ said Davenport, ‘to put even six divisions ashore on day one, let alone a larger force. I’ve seen all the figures and with the demands you Yanks have for the Pacific, there’s no way to make a significant increase in the number of boats in time for the May target date. This battle’s going to be won or lost,’ he continued in a lower voice, ‘on the first day. On the beaches.’ He sucked on the cigar. ‘And if the Germans bring up their armoured reserves, we’ll have a helluva fight on our hands.’

  ‘And what do you suppose we can do to avoid that?’ asked Butler.

  ‘Surprise, Hanes,’ said Davenport without hesitation. ‘We’ve got to make sure the Germans think the invasion’s coming somewhere else. At the Pas de Calais,’ he said, in almost a whisper. ‘So they don’t commit their Panzers to Normandy. And I happen to think we’ve got a bloody good plan for fooling them.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said Butler. ‘Anyhow, to hell with the war. We’re here to celebrate.’ He finished his beer and said, ‘OK, Charlie, tell me about this gal of yours. You haven’t said a damn thing since you came back from your weekend.’

  ‘There’s very little to tell. Things didn’t . . . well, didn’t work out.’

  ‘She’s an American, right?’

  ‘Yes, from Boston. And she’s a very lovely woman. Married, but a widow.’

  ‘Was her husband killed in the war?’

  ‘No, in an accident. Anyway, she moved from Boston to her family’s home in Ireland, on the coast south of Dublin.’

  ‘So you didn’t hit it off,’ said Butler, ‘on this weekend together?’

  ‘That wasn’t it,’ said Davenport. ‘I don’t know what her problem is. Something about the war.’

  ‘Women,’ said Butler. ‘How are you supposed to know what they’re thinking? And she’s not just a woman . . . she’s a damn Yankee.’ Davenport nodded glumly. ‘Well,’ said Butler, ‘we need to get fixed up with some local beauties. There’s just so much competition.’

  ‘You go ahead,’ said Davenport, ‘but forget about me.’

  Butler pushed away his glass and said, ‘C’mon, Charlie, let’s go,’ tossed a ten shilling note on the table and said, ‘That should take care of it.’

  ‘But Hanes,’ Davenport protested.

  ‘Forget it. You can get the next one.’

  A solitary figure walked along the darkened road. As he passed out of the village, Eamon O’Farrell picked up his pace, hoping to make it to the farmhouse before the storm. Arriving at the dilapidated porch just as the cold rain began to fall, he rapped sharply on the door. After a few moments the door opened a crack, revealing the nervous face of Tom O’Connor. ‘It’s him,’ said O’Connor, turning his back to Eamon. The door swung open and Eamon stepped inside.

  ‘Come in, O’Farrell,’ said Sean Mulcahy, standing with three rough looking confederates by the remains of a fire. ‘Take off your coat.’ Mulcahy’s legs were planted slightly apart and his hands rested lightly on his hips, close by the pistol in his waistband.

  Eamon shrugged off his coat, casually placed it with his hat on a chair, and walked to the centre of the small, squalid room. ‘Well, Sean,’ he said, ‘now that you’ve summoned me here on this lovely evening, perhaps you’d care to tell me what it’s all about?’

  Mulcahy stared contemptuously and said, ‘What it’s all about, Mr O’Farrell, as you prefer to call yourself, is that we were fucked. And we aim to find out who done it. Who tipped off the bloody Brits. They were waiting for us, and—’

  ‘Listen, Mulcahy,’ interrupted Eamon in a tone of feigned indifference. ‘It’s not my affair. I lived up to my end of the bargain. The rifles were delivered as promised, and God only knows who betrayed you in this land of whispering informers. Or what bungling incompetence on the part of the IRA . . .’

  ‘God knows, all right,’ growled Mulcahy, ‘and maybe you know, too.’ He took a step toward Eamon and raised his fist.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ said Eamon calmly, ‘if I were you.’ The others standing behind Mulcahy shifted uneasily. Mulcahy lowered his fist and took a step back. He walked to a battered pine cupboard and poured a shot
glass of whiskey. ‘OK, Mr O’Farrell,’ he said with a crooked smile. ‘I’ll leave you be. For now that is,’ he added, casting a wink at his plainly nervous comrades. ‘But from now on, it’s a simple business proposition. Cash for arms. Clear enough?’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Eamon with a shrug. ‘The less I know about your intrigues, the better. But don’t forget the coast watchers, Mulcahy, on both the southern and northern approaches.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Mulcahy, downing the glass of whisky. ‘It can be arranged easily enough. Now, boys, pull up a chair for our guest and let’s see if we can reach an understanding. We’ll be needing another shipment of rifles and ammunition.’

  Walking down the path, Mary realized it didn’t matter where in the world you were, a fair was still a fair, a day away from the drudgery of everyday living. She had persuaded Sarah to go with her to the County Wicklow fair. The two women had been spending more time together since Mary had confided that she’d spent the weekend in Wales with Charles and wasn’t likely to see him again, a frank admission that both shocked Sarah and seemed to soften her disapproving attitude. Sarah, whose father had both a car and an allotment of petrol, had picked up Mary, leaving the dog with neighbours, and driven to the fairgrounds outside the nearby town of Arklow. Mary and Sarah sat down at a rickety wooden table by the merry-go-round, watching the joy on the tiny faces as the old carousel went round and round, listening to the calliope. Mary thought back to a long-ago carousel ride in Boston, astride a big white horse as her father stood close by, one protective arm around her waist . . .

  ‘A penny for your thoughts,’ said Sarah.

  ‘I was just thinking about going to the fair with my father,’ said Mary. ‘And wishing I’d had the chance to share it with my own little girl.’

  ‘It must be so hard,’ said Sarah quietly. Rising from the table, she smiled and said, ‘Well, perhaps we should look in on the animal tents.’

  Eamon had waited patiently for his opportunity, maintaining a discreet surveillance, and was sure his chance had come when Mary departed with the dog in her friend’s old saloon. He quickly cycled to her cottage, where, as expected, he found the door unlocked. Certain she would have saved the officer’s letters, he first tried the bureau in the living room, where he found her stationery, but no letters. He then crept down the hall and stopped at a pine chest. He found them in the top drawer, a neat bundle tied with a string. Within minutes, he found what he’d come for: the officer’s name, Charles Davenport, and, to his great surprise, a reference to his position, serving on the staff of General Frederick Morgan, Chief of Staff to the Supreme Allied Commander – COSSAC. Blessing his good fortune, Eamon hastily jotted down the information, carefully returned the bundle to the chest, and silently departed.

  As Mary and Sarah reached the end of the fairground, long shadows were falling and there was a chill in the air. After wandering among the well-groomed livestock, they’d visited the homemakers’ displays of cakes and pies, here and there a beautiful blue ribbon. Mary almost collided with a tall, handsome man with the same intense eyes as Eamon O’Farrell. Despite her misgivings, there was something about Eamon she found so appealing. Walking back to the car, she thought of Charles, wondering for the hundredth time if she’d done the right thing. If he were sent into action and never came back, she would have thrown away the precious time they might have had together. By the time Sarah dropped Mary at her cottage the sun was slipping behind the mountains, spreading a band of mauve tinged with pink across the horizon. Enjoying the spectacular view of the sea, Mary realized that the day away had brought her a semblance of peace of mind. In the fading light, she paused at her garden gate and examined the neat rows of ripening vegetables. She had so much to share, but apart from Sarah and Donald, so few to share it with. She thought again about Eamon, alone and on his own, and decided to take him a basket. With a clap of her hands and brief command to the pup, Mary mounted the steps to her porch.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was Saturday, 7 August, Davenport’s third day at sea. The Queen Mary was eerily quiet, almost empty, with only 200-odd men aboard apart from the crew. He was accompanying General Morgan and the senior staff of COSSAC to the all-important conference in Quebec to reach a final agreement with the American high command on the timing and details of the invasion. Churchill and his senior advisers, including General Alan Brooke and Admiral Pound, were on board as well. Good Lord, Davenport reflected, what a prize it would be for the Germans. Leaning on the railing, he could see the Royal Navy lookouts, training their binoculars on the tranquil ocean for any sign of U-boats. The ship was simply too fast for submarines, too fast even for torpedoes, except for an incredibly lucky shot. And hopefully word of their departure had been kept under wraps.

  As he stared at the horizon, Davenport’s mind wandered to the weekend in Wales, followed by the familiar tightening in his chest. He couldn’t keep his mind from Mary, sitting opposite him in the cosy dining room, her beautiful face framed by thick, dark hair, as the afternoon storm lashed the trees beyond the windows. God, what a waste . . . my dear time’s waste. When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, he silently recited, I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, and with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste. Was their brief time together really a waste? No, but why had she left without even saying goodbye? She was running away, but from what? Davenport looked over the side at the deep blue water with swirls of cream. It was as if staying with him meant she would somehow be destined to lose him, which made no sense.

  He turned away from the railing and began strolling along the empty promenade deck, absently inspecting the lifeboats suspended on davits. Opening a varnished teak door, he proceeded down narrow stairs to the lower decks, where his way was blocked by a velvet rope and a ‘First Class Only’ sign. It might just as well have read ‘Top Brass Only’. Turning to head for his stateroom, he almost collided with an officer with the red lapel tabs of a brigadier general, K. G. McLean, one of Morgan’s senior deputies.

  ‘I say, Davenport,’ said McLean, ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘It’s an awfully large ship, sir,’ said Davenport. ‘I’ve been enjoying the fresh air on deck.’

  ‘It’s a damned good thing I’ve found you.’

  ‘Really?’ said Davenport with surprise. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve been summoned by the old man to present the Overlord plan. And I need your help.’

  ‘The old man?’ said Davenport incredulously. ‘Churchill?’

  ‘Yes, Churchill,’ said McLean irritably.

  ‘But I thought . . .’

  ‘Yes, so did I,’ said McLean. ‘That the plan was going to be presented at a formal briefing. But you know how Churchill can be. Captain Pim came round and said casually, “Oh General McLean, the PM was wondering if you might drop by his stateroom. And bring your maps. He’s keen to hear the plans for the landings.” Just like that.’

  ‘When?’ asked Davenport nervously.

  McLean glanced at his watch. ‘In about twenty minutes. So you’d best get into proper uniform and help me with the maps.’

  Half an hour later Davenport and McLean stood at the door to the first class stateroom with a young lieutenant. The door was opened by a captain who said, ‘Right this way, General.’ Winston Churchill was lying on his bed, clad in a multi-coloured dressing gown, propped up on pillows amid a messy pile of papers. A large black cat was curled up next to him pawing at the embroidery on Churchill’s black velvet slippers. Captain Pim, Churchill’s aide, said, ‘Prime Minister, allow me to introduce Brigadier McLean, Lieutenant Colonel Davenport, and Lieutenant Wigby. From General Morgan’s staff.’

  ‘Don’t mind the cat,’ said Churchill, motioning to the animal. ‘He loves attacking my feet. Now, I understand you gentlemen are here to tell me all about the plans for the invasion. Operation Overlord,’ he growled dramat
ically.

  ‘Quite right, sir,’ said McLean. ‘Lieutenant, would you please set up the map and easel.’ Wigby snapped open an easel and attached a large coloured map of the Normandy coastline. ‘As you know, Prime Minister,’ said McLean, ‘we’ve chosen the Normandy coastline for the landings. From this point,’ he traced a line on the map, ‘at the mouth of the Orne River, to the Cotentin peninsula, a distance of some eighty miles. The force that will be put ashore on the first day will consist of six divisions comprising a hundred and fifty thousand men.’

  ‘When?’ asked Churchill. The three officers exchanged puzzled looks. ‘When?’ Churchill repeated. ‘What time of day?’

  ‘Oh, at sunrise,’ replied McLean. ‘And at high tide. Which demands, of course, the selection of a landing date when sunrise coincides with high tide, to ensure that the landing craft and amphibious vehicles can be floated over the obstacles and mines.’

  ‘Yes, go on,’ said Churchill impatiently.

  ‘During the night parachute troops will be dropped behind the coastal defences, here and here, accompanied by glider troops. Their mission will be to sever enemy communications and secure vital bridges and roads.’

  Churchill sat up. ‘Glider troops?’ he asked. ‘What, pray tell—’

  The young lieutenant spoke up: ‘The gliders are towed by cable, Prime Minister, and then released. Each carries a hundred men and glides noiselessly to a pre-selected landing site.’

  ‘Good God, man,’ said Churchill. ‘You’re telling me they’re expected to effect a safe landing without power in some open field or meadow? In the dead of night?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered the lieutenant meekly.

  ‘Now, then, Prime Minister,’ said McLean, ‘turning to the main assault. Colonel Davenport, the second map.’