by John Kerr
The officers’ club at Norfolk House was elegantly appointed, with worn Persian rugs, green-shaded lamps on the library tables and thick, red curtains on the windows looking out on the square. Davenport and Butler sat in leather armchairs by the fireplace sipping pint glasses of beer. ‘So you’re sick of it?’ said Butler in his soft Carolina drawl.
‘More than,’ said Davenport, as he placed his glass on the table beside him. ‘I’ve had it with this bloody desk job. Ever since Quebec I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve made up my mind.’
‘To do what?’ asked Butler, leaning forward in his chair.
‘To request a transfer,’ said Davenport.
‘A transfer to . . .’
‘Third Infantry Division,’ said Davenport. ‘I want to command a battalion.’
‘Jesus, Charlie,’ said Butler with a short laugh. ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘No, Hanes, I’m not kidding.’
‘Even if you ask,’ said Butler, ‘I doubt Morgan will let you go. Why should he give up one of his best officers?’
‘Well, that may be, but I intend to find out.’
‘But what I can’t figure out is why, after what you went through in North Africa, you’d give up a great assignment like this?’
‘Somebody’s got to do it,’ said Davenport in a low voice. ‘Hell, we both know exactly what’s going to be involved in this operation. The most spectacular operation in military history. Rather than sitting here behind a desk, I want to be part of it.’
‘Well, it’s not for me,’ said Butler with a shake of his head. ‘If they assigned me to it, that would be different. I’d be just like the next dumb bastard who figured, well, just my luck. And I’d do it, and pray to God I’d live through it. But volunteer? Sorry, not me.’
Davenport took a sip of beer and stared into the distance. After a moment he said, ‘Do you believe in God, Hanes?’
‘Course I do,’ said Butler without hesitation. He gave Davenport a puzzled look.
‘I mean really believe,’ said Davenport. ‘Not just in some vague, general way . . .’
‘Heck, I don’t know,’ said Butler defensively. ‘I don’t know what you’re driving at, but, yeah, I believe in God and in Jesus. It’s what I was raised to believe. My mother taught Sunday school and Bible classes as long as I can remember, and my dad’s a deacon at the same church where my great-grandfather preached. It’s all I’ve known and been taught since I was a boy.’
‘But what kind of God would allow all this to happen?’ asked Davenport. ‘I’m not sure what to believe any more. So many innocent people killed and maimed, and it’s a long way from being over. Where’s your God in this bloody war?’
‘So that’s it,’ said Butler with quiet anger. ‘Blame God? What about Hitler? What about the Japs?’
Davenport raised a hand and said, ‘Sorry, Hanes. I didn’t mean to start an argument. I just can’t seem to make any sense of it .’
‘Listen,’ said Butler, looking Davenport in the eye. ‘I remember something my grandfather told me. He came home from the war with only one arm.’
‘The First War?’ asked Davenport.
‘No, the War Between the States. Our war. Said the one thing that got him through all the fighting and killing was his faith. You see, Charlie, it’s got to be real, not just some general notion. I sometimes think y’all look at God and the church the same way you do the king, like it’s just part of your heritage.’
‘I suspect you’re right,’ said Davenport wearily. ‘I just wish I had your conviction.’ He finished his beer and said, ‘Enough of this. On Monday I’m going to see General Morgan.’
Morgan sat at his desk opposite Davenport, tamping a cigarette on the face of his watch. ‘What worries me,’ he said, ‘is the readiness of the men they’re sending us.’ He took a lighter from his pocket and lit his cigarette.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Davenport. ‘The Americans, you mean.’
Morgan exhaled smoke from his nostrils and said, ‘Correct. Conscripted troops who’ve never been blooded in combat, going up against battle-hardened Germans.’
‘Not entirely, sir,’ said Davenport. ‘A large part of the German forces in France are Volksgrenadier divisions comprised of over-age and poorly trained men.’
Morgan smiled abruptly and said, ‘You have a point, Colonel. And by the way,’ – he paused to take a drag on his cigarette, – ‘General Brooke tells me we should be receiving an allotment of those landing craft of yours.’
‘Of mine?’ said Davenport.
‘Higgins boats, I believe you called them. The order evidently came directly from President Roosevelt.’ Morgan smiled. “Who the devil is Lieutenant Colonel Davenport?” Brooke wanted to know. It seems you managed to stir up the PM on his favourite subject. Now, what is it you wanted to see me about?’
‘Well, sir,’ Davenport began, ‘you’re aware that I was assigned to the original planning team for Round-up.’
‘Yes, and one of the few decent men in the lot.’
‘That was a year ago, and we’ve now completed the detailed planning for Overlord . . .’ Davenport hesitated.
‘Yes?’ said Morgan impatiently.
‘Well, sir,’ said Davenport, ‘I’ve come to request a transfer.’ Morgan eyed him coldly. ‘To the Third Division.’
‘You know, Davenport,’ said Morgan, ‘we don’t get many men of your intellectual depth at the highest levels of our service. It’s a damned shame. Too many mediocrities promoted up in the ranks based on schoolboy connections and things of that sort. But I also understand,’ Morgan continued, narrowing his steel-grey eyes, ‘that promotion to higher rank, in wartime, depends on commanding troops in combat. You could have a fine career ahead of you in the army.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Davenport, ‘but it’s not so much that as a feeling that I ought to be involved in the landings, having done so much of the planning.’
‘Your sense of duty,’ suggested Morgan.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Davenport quietly.
‘But this business about the Third Division,’ said Morgan with a frown. ‘No point in that. I’m willing to recommend you for a battalion command with the Forty-Fourth Guards Division, which is scheduled to reinforce the Fiftieth Division on D-Day plus two.’
‘But sir,’ Davenport politely objected, ‘there’s no one more familiar with the details of the landings on Sword Beach. If you’re willing to allow me to transfer from your staff, I’d far prefer the opportunity to participate in the landing on Sword with the Third Division.’
General Morgan stared briefly at Davenport and then said, ‘Either you’re very brave, or foolhardy. Commanding a battalion in the Third Division means going in with the first wave.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Morgan said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
When Davenport arrived at his office two personal letters were in the in-box, one in Mary’s familiar hand writing and the other with the return address ‘Marsden Hall, Gloucestershire.’ He looked at the letter from Mary with a feeling of self-reproach. His last letter had been so lacking in feeling, filled with anecdotes about the trip to Quebec and his encounter with Churchill. The raw emotion of his earlier letters, begging her to reconsider, had been expended. Nor had he hinted, even obliquely, at his request to be transferred. Putting the blue envelope aside, Davenport sank in his chair and read the letter from Evan Hockaday. After vaguely alluding to his mysterious duties at Bletchley Park, Evan wrote that he was planning a weekend at home in October and invited Charles to join him. Davenport smiled; he could think of nothing more appealing than a weekend with Evan at the lovely castle in the Cotswolds. He glanced up at the sound of singing, Hanes Butler’s pleasant Southern baritone echoing in the hallway. Butler opened the door, poked his head inside, and said, ‘Lieutenant Colonel Davenport, sir. Top o’ the
morning.’
‘To what do we owe this sudden outburst of cheerfulness?’ said Davenport with a grimace.
Butler slid into a chair and said, ‘I’m afraid it’s a simple case of insanity.’
‘Insanity?’
‘As in girl crazy. Can you believe it? I’ve got a girl.’
‘A girl,’ said Davenport. ‘How extraordinary.’
‘Yep, by the name of Peg. Peg o’ my heart.’ Davenport clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back. ‘This buddy of mine from back home,’ Butler continued, ‘took me to this dance hall over in Lambeth. And, sure enough, I met Peg. Sweet as could be.’
‘That’s great, Hanes. I’m happy for you.’
Butler sprang up and leaned his hands on the desk. ‘Listen, Charlie,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to meet her.’
‘Sure. Some day—’
‘No, I mean tonight. There’s some kind of benefit dance, for the orphans in the East End, you know, from the Blitz. I promised Peg we’d come.’
‘No, Hanes,’ said Davenport, ‘I’d prefer—’
‘We’ll have a ball,’ Butler insisted, ‘and there’ll be lots of cute girls, and none of these high-falutin’ West End types.’ Butler stood up and turned to go. ‘I’ll come by for you at seven,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Look sharp, Charlie.’
The Lambeth pavements were crowded with soldiers and sailors and their girls queuing up beneath a garishly lit marquee as a US Army jeep, driven by a sergeant with Butler and Davenport in the passenger seats, slowed to a stop. Butler jumped out and said, ‘Here’s a couple of quid, Sarge. Have yourself a good time and come back for us at eleven.’ The bold letters beneath the sign ‘Roxy’ announced the Saturday night benefit dance. Butler and Davenport fell into line with the enlisted men, almost all with their arms around young women in tight dresses. Butler slid a few coins across the counter to the woman in the booth in exchange for two tickets. ‘OK, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’ A banner reading Lambeth Benevolent Association was suspended from the ceiling at the far end of the dark, cavernous dance hall. For now the band was silent, and only a few couples milled on the dance floor. ‘Over there,’ said Hanes, raising his voice. ‘Peg promised to come early and save us a booth.’ One side of the room was lined with booths while the space surrounding the dance floor was jammed with tables and chairs. ‘There she is,’ said Butler, turning toward Davenport with a smile. Davenport followed Butler through the crowd to a booth midway along the wall where a young woman with stylishly curled dark hair was waiting.
She flashed a happy smile and said, ‘Oh, Hanes, you look so handsome.’ She rose from her seat to take his hands and accept a peck on the cheek. She was short and plump but cute nevertheless.
‘Peg,’ said Butler, as he slipped into the booth beside her, ‘allow me to introduce Lieutenant Colonel Charles Davenport, in the service of His Majesty, King George the Sixth.’
Peg smiled again, revealing a row of crooked teeth, and said, ‘’Ow do you do,’ in a Cockney accent.
‘My pleasure,’ said Davenport, sliding onto the seat opposite them. ‘Hanes has told me all about you.’
‘Oh ’e has, has ’e?’ she said, with a look of mock disapproval.
‘Well, not quite all, sweetie,’ drawled Butler.
Peg squeezed his hand and said, ‘Don’t you love the way ’e talks?’
Davenport smiled pleasantly, thinking how effortlessly the Americans shifted among classes. ‘There she is,’ said Peg, tugging on Butler’s sleeve and pointing. Davenport followed her outstretched hand to a young woman on the far side of the dance floor. Unlike Peg, she was tall and thin, with one hand at her slender waist and the other shading her eyes from the glare of the spotlight. ‘Jenny. Over here,’ Peg called out. With a smile of recognition, the woman threaded past the tables towards them.
‘We’ve got a little surprise for you, Charlie,’ said Butler with a grin, ‘this is Peg’s friend, Jenny Wilcox. Jenny, meet Charlie Davenport.’ The girl gave Davenport a diffident smile and squeezed into the booth beside him. Static crackled in the loudspeakers and, as the lights dimmed, the band members rose in unison and played a fanfare accompanied by a drum-roll. A short man wearing a wide-shouldered evening jacket bounded onto the stage and strode to the microphone. ‘Ladeeees and gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘Welcome to the Roxy . . .’
‘I know ’im,’ said Peg excitedly. ‘What’s ’is name?’
‘The famous music hall singer,’ said Butler. ‘Eddie somethin’ or other.’
With a tap of the bandleader’s baton, the orchestra played the opening bars of a familiar show tune. ‘When you’re down in Lambeth way,’ sang the emcee in a lilting Cockney accent, ‘anytime or any day . . . you’ll find them all . . . doin’ the Lambeth walk. Hey!’ As the dance floor filled with swirling couples, the mirror-studded globe overhead began to turn in the spotlight, and thousands of pinpoints danced across the room.
‘What’ll you girls have to drink?’ asked Butler.
‘Oh, a lemonade would be lovely,’ replied Jenny, while Peg asked for a beer.
‘Charlie’s a colonel,’ said Peg proudly, as Butler disappeared into the throng.
Jenny turned toward him with an awkward glance and said, ‘All the army boys I know are in the ranks, off some place fightin’ the Germans or the Japs.’
‘I was in North Africa,’ said Davenport, ‘until I was wounded and sent home. I’ve been stuck behind a desk ever since.’
‘Wounded?’ said Jenny in an apologetic tone. ‘What happened?’
‘Oh, the usual,’ said Davenport. ‘Took a machine-gun round in the thigh.’
Jenny let her gaze fall on his leg. ‘Are . . . you all right?’
‘Sure. Just dying of boredom, in the desk job, that is.’ He smiled at her encouragingly.
Butler returned with a tray and carefully slid three glasses of ale and a lemonade across the table. During a pause in the music, he lifted his glass and said, ‘To Peg and Jenny. And victory, of course.’ They all raised their glasses.
When the band started into a lively melody, Peg leaned against Butler’s shoulder and said, ‘C’mon, Hanes, let’s dance.’
After Butler led her away, Davenport turned to Jenny, who said, ‘Well, Colonel . . .’
‘It’s Charles.’
‘Charles,’ she repeated softly. ‘It seems a bit odd to see . . . well, an officer like yourself in a dance hall.’
‘Does it?’ he asked, though the ballroom was overflowing with enlisted men. ‘Hanes and I work together,’ he explained. ‘He asked me to come along.’
Jenny sipped her drink. ‘Still and all,’ she said, ‘it seems a bit strange.’
‘I don’t see why. After all, Hanes is an officer.’
‘Hanes is a Yank,’ she said, with a short, dismissive laugh. ‘Yanks are . . . well, different.’
‘Now there’s a point we can agree upon,’ said Davenport with a smile. ‘But despite what you may think, I’m just an ordinary chap.’
‘Really? Not like the ordinary chaps I know.’ She seemed to be studying his face.
‘Tell me about yourself, Jenny,’ said Davenport.
‘Not much to tell,’ she said with a slight toss of her hair. ‘Live alone with me mum and sister since dad was killed in the Blitz.’
‘Sorry,’ said Davenport.
‘He worked in the dockyards,’ Jenny explained. ‘It’s been a bit of a struggle with ’im gone and my brothers off in the navy. It’s just a shop-girl’s life for me.’
Davenport smiled self-consciously, feeling an attraction to the shy young woman. ‘What sort of shop?’ he asked.
‘Millinery,’ she said with a frown. ‘You know, ladies’ hats and such.’ The band began to play a slow Cole Porter favourite.
Davenport sat silently for a moment, watching pinpoints of light play a
cross Jenny’s pretty face, and then said, ‘Would you care to dance?’
The rhythmic creak of the rocking chair on the loose flooring had always been comforting to Mary but lately it had begun to bother her. In the days that had passed since she walked into town with the basket for Eamon, she had been worrying endlessly. She wanted to report her discovery to someone, but to whom? Considering Ireland’s neutrality, was there anything illegal about a German intelligence agent in their midst? If not illegal, potentially scandalous to the de Valera government, considering the outcry it would provoke on the other side of the Irish Sea. It would do no good to report Eamon to the local authorities, she reasoned, but perhaps to the government in Dublin, but that would necessitate a trip into the city. Damn, she swore, as she listened to the annoying creak. She felt trapped in her own house, afraid to venture into town or go for a stroll on the beach while the mild weather lasted. At the sound of whistling outside, Mary observed Donald as he walked up on the porch. He must have grown six inches, and though he was still affectionate, a quiet earnestness had taken the place of his boyish capering.
‘Morning, Mary,’ he called.
‘Hello, Donald,’ she said as she held open the door. ‘What brings you out?’
‘As you haven’t been by the shop for awhile, I thought I’d look in on you.’ He slipped off his cap and, with a self-conscious smile, stepped inside.
With a questioning look, she said, ‘Well, come into the kitchen. I’ve baked some cookies.’ As Mary poured him a glass of milk, Donald studied the headlines on the week-old London paper. ‘What do you make of this?’ he asked, pointing to the map of the Allied landings at Salerno.
She handed him the glass and then bent over to study the map. ‘They’ve decided to invade Italy proper, now that the government’s changed sides.’
‘Looks like the Allies will be stuck fighting the Germans in Italy,’ said Donald, helping himself to an oatmeal biscuit, ‘rather than going after them in France.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Mary gave Donald an encouraging smile, eliciting the slightest blush, and added, ‘I’m glad you’re keeping up with the news.’
