Cardigan Bay

by John Kerr

  ‘I’ve actually met the man,’ said Charles. Evan looked at him with surprise. ‘On board the Queen Mary,’ said Davenport, ‘en route to Quebec. Churchill was quite taken with him and dragged him along. Odd looking chap with a beard and gleam in his eye.’

  ‘You astonish me, Charles,’ said Evan. ‘The Queen Mary, Churchill, and the mysterious General Wingate. Pretty heady stuff. I’m desperate to hear all about the plans to win the war. Later, of course,’ he added quietly.

  Davenport finished his coffee and said, ‘And I’m anxious to learn more about your work, which, frankly, is far more important than my lowly staff work.’

  ‘Lowly staff work,’ said Evan. ‘At the right hand of General Morgan, no less. Tell me, Charles, what’s the latest in your divorce proceedings?’

  ‘Well, I’m single again, thank God. No more of Frances and her barristers.’

  ‘I should think that’s terrific. And what about that lovely American girl Mary? You’ve been to see her, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Davenport. He paused to take a sip of coffee. ‘Well, we’re still friends.’

  ‘Friends?’ said Evan with a curious expression. ‘Perhaps there’s someone else?’

  ‘Oh well, I’ve met a girl, if that’s what you mean. One of the men on my staff, an American, lined me up with a girl from Lambeth.’

  ‘From Lambeth,’ said Evan. ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s nothing, Evan. She’s pretty . . . no education, of course.’ Abruptly Davenport pushed back his chair and said, ‘It’s nearly three. I suppose we should be getting back.’

  A half-empty bottle of port sat on the table next to Evan’s wheelchair. Davenport was warming himself by the fire with a glass in his hand. ‘It was all settled at Quebec,’ he said. ‘The invasion is definitely set for Normandy.’

  ‘Have they set a date?’

  Davenport nodded and gave Evan an inscrutable look, thinking there were some things he should not divulge, even to someone as thoroughly trusted as Evan. ‘Normandy,’ he continued, ‘has the great advantage of surprise. At the moment, the beaches are only lightly defended. But it suffers from one great disadvantage.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Evan, ‘it lacks a deep-water port. There’s none between Le Havre and Cherbourg.’

  ‘Churchill has this daft scheme for an artificial harbour,’ said Davenport. ‘Anchoring a massive breakwater to a line of ships sunk off the landing beaches. It actually might work. But the trick,’ he continued, ‘is to convince Hitler’s generals that the invasion is coming at the Pas de Calais.’

  ‘Well,’ said Evan, ‘I believe my colleagues at Bletchley can help with the deception. We’re planning to launch a steadily mounting pattern of radio traffic directly opposite Calais. And then we’ll monitor the Ultra intercepts from the German high command in response to the perceived build-up. A simple matter of reinforcing their impression that the main attack will be at Calais.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Davenport. ‘I knew we could count on your group.’

  ‘I needn’t remind you,’ said Evan, ‘that you mustn’t mention a word of this to a soul.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Evan, ‘it looks as though we’ll have to sit back till spring and hope for the best.’

  Davenport sipped his port and said, ‘It’s a good enough plan. But what if the Germans were to put someone really energetic in charge of the Atlantic defences? What if the number of troops defending Normandy were doubled? We can’t put any more men ashore on the first day. I worry that the right commander would bring his armoured divisions into action to hold our men on the beaches. It could be a bloody disaster.’

  ‘Yes,’ Evan agreed. ‘And we could only stand one go at it. If that fails, I doubt we’d have the nerve to make another try. Where would that leave us?’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Davenport. ‘We’ve got to get our men in control of the beachhead on the first day. It’s our only chance.’ He looked Evan in the eye. ‘There’s something I should tell you,’ he said in a serious tone. ‘I don’t intend to watch this show from the grandstands.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve asked General Morgan for a transfer,’ said Davenport. ‘To command a battalion in the Third Division.’

  ‘What role have they been assigned?’

  ‘Sword Beach, on the far left of the landing area. The first wave on D-Day.’

  Evan seemed lost in his reflections, staring at the fire. ‘Has General Morgan given you his answer?’ he asked at length.

  ‘He supported my request. I’m waiting to hear.’

  ‘I must say, it doesn’t really surprise me. You’ve been in combat and know what it’s all about. But you’ve asked for an awfully dangerous assignment. Surely there’s some other place you might . . .’

  After a moment, Davenport said, ‘I oversaw the planning for Sword Beach. I’d like to take part in the actual landing. And besides, with my marriage finished, and what happened with Mary, I’ve got no one—’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Evan with surprising vehemence. ‘You’re talking rot. I know there’s one special girl who cares very much for you. I only wish . . .’ – Evan hesitated. Davenport studied his slender, broken frame, the eye patch and limp sleeve pinned to his jacket – ‘That there was a woman in my life,’ Evan said quietly. ‘I’d like to think that perhaps someday . . .’ He turned to Davenport and said, ‘I don’t know what happened between you and Mary, but I’m certain she cares a great deal about you. After losing her husband, don’t you suppose she fears something will happen to you? Don’t give up on her.’

  ‘I don’t know, Evan,’ said Davenport morosely, before downing the rest of his drink. ‘I mean, she left me there in Wales. Simply up and left.’ Both men silently stared into the fire. After a while he looked at Evan and said, ‘How do you manage the way you do? Where does your strength come from?’

  ‘You know about my faith,’ Evan said quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Davenport, ‘but you’re not like these other chaps who . . . well, what I mean is, you’ve got an education. And look at the war. God only knows how many more are going to die. Considering all that’s happened, not only with Hitler, but in the First War as well, how do you make any sense out of it? In terms of God, that is?’

  ‘I grew up very much as you did, I suppose,’ Evan replied. ‘Services on Sunday mornings. But things changed for me at the university, thanks to one man. And I began to read the Bible, the Gospels and St. Paul. And, just as Jesus promised, I found a new life.’

  Davenport stared at Evan, trying to understand. ‘I’m sorry, Evan. I’d best go up to bed.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  With the closing door, Mary’s world changed again. How could Eamon have left so quietly after all that had gone before? Even passing her the smeared, rain-soaked letter had seemed almost an act of contrition. Suddenly he had seemed so sad. Trembling again, she lifted the gun from her lap, broke open the barrel, and carefully removed the shells, slipping them into her pocket with shaking hands. She awoke the next morning to the pungent smell of the wool clothing she had laid across a chair in front of the fire before going to bed. There was a surreal feel to things, as though the events of the last evening had never happened. Only after stirring the milk and sugar into the single cup of tea she allowed herself did she return to the letter she’d left on the kitchen table to dry. She carefully extracted the pages, as crisp as fallen leaves, but it was apparent that little would be salvaged from its drenching.

  ‘Mary, how are you my . . .’ was legible, and then the words disappeared in a blur of blue ink until her eyes fell on the phrase ‘with a heavy heart’. Without reading another word she assumed he was about to tell her goodbye. With a long sigh, she tried to make out the next words, but only the phrase ‘try to get leave to see him’ was legible, presumably a referen
ce to Charles’s father. She thought of her own father, seriously ill in Boston, and the fact there was no way to return home to be with him. Resting her forehead on the heel of her hand, Mary carefully studied the last page. Almost all of the words were washed away, but she could make out just enough to follow the thread. ‘So many months . . .’ followed by a string of blotted words, and then ‘after endless hours our planning . . . essentially complete’. The next fragment, ‘hoping to find something more challenging’, was a puzzle. She briefly closed her eyes, and when she looked again at the wrinkled page, a ray of sunlight shone through the curtain, forming a square on the table. She stared at the words love you in the bright square of light. It was enough. She sipped her tea and stared at the words, daring to hope again.

  Only later, after writing a long letter to her father and mother, did she sit at her bureau and begin a brief note to Charles, but after a moment she stopped, caught up in memories of the weekend in Wales, the way the breeze had worried the curtains, the scent of fresh flowers, how he hushed her when they made love. After finishing the letters, she read a long piece in the Irish Times about the confusing situation in Italy. The thought of American troops battling the Germans in the streets of Naples or, like her brother Bill, fighting the Japanese in the Pacific, made her feel so isolated, with no one to talk to, surrounded by the rural Irish, untouched by, and largely indifferent to, the war raging around the world. If only she were in London with Charles. With a heavy sigh, she rose from the kitchen table and clapped her hands to summon Chelsea.

  Standing at the top of the cliffs in the cold, clear aftermath of the storm, Eamon O’Farrell suddenly sprang into her consciousness. Mary shivered in the wind, glancing uneasily at the drop to the rocks below. It wasn’t really Eamon, anyway. The name was as false as everything else about him. What had he said? Hans . . . Hans von Oldenburg. It didn’t seem possible. Mary forced herself to think back, how calmly he’d sat by the fire drinking his tea. For a moment he had seemed her friend and confidante again. He must have been telling the truth about his mother and the summers in Ireland, considering that he spoke flawless English with as natural a brogue as she had ever heard. But why had he chased her down on the track? He’d openly admitted that he was a German intelligence agent, even explaining his bargain with the outlawed IRA. But why tell her? She couldn’t help feeling that somehow he was a good and decent man. Her head and her heart were at war. No, she decided, he was her enemy, and she vowed not to forget it.

  ‘Come in, Mr Davenport,’ said General Morgan, ‘and have a seat.’ Davenport crossed the carpet to the general’s immaculate desk and sat in an armchair. Morgan eyed him with a tight-lipped smile and said, ‘Well, it looks as though you’ve got your orders.’ He tossed an envelope across the desk.

  Davenport quickly removed a sheet from the envelope and scanned its few lines. He was ordered to report on 15 December 1943 to Third Division headquarters in Scotland, to assume command of the Second Battalion, King’s Shropshire Light Infantry. He looked up and said, ‘Thank you, sir. I know this wouldn’t have been possible without your support.’

  ‘I suppose I should say you’re welcome,’ said Morgan, ‘but the truth is, I’d far rather keep you on my staff, and God only knows what fate I’ve consigned you to. But if this enterprise is going to succeed, we’ll need the very best men in command. And, frankly, the Third Division hasn’t seen combat since Dunkirk. Green as a summer apple.’

  Davenport said, ‘I’m deeply appreciative, sir.’

  ‘Well, good luck. Do your best and perhaps some day you’ll have one of these.’ Morgan lightly touched the red tab on his lapel.

  Davenport rose and stood at attention. ‘It has been a great privilege,’ he said, ‘to serve under your command.’ He hurried along the crowded corridors of Norfolk House like a schoolboy, making his way to a small interior office with ‘Major H. Butler’ stencilled on the door. Flinging it open, he looked at Hanes with a foolish grin.

  Butler leaned back, put his feet on the desk, revealing the holes wearing through the soles of his shoes, and languidly dropped a document. ‘Well, well,’ he drawled. ‘You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.’

  ‘Have a look at this, Hanes,’ said Davenport, taking a folded sheet from his pocket and handing it across the desk.

  Butler studied it briefly and said ‘I’ll be damned. Looks like you got it. The King’s Shropshire Light Infantry. Sounds pretty damned impressive, if you ask me.’

  ‘I don’t know a thing about the regiment,’ said Davenport, ‘other than the fact that it’s attached to the Third Division. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘Well Charlie,’ said Butler, swinging his legs from the desk, ‘this calls for a celebration. A night on the town with the girls.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Davenport with a smile. ‘Something special.’

  ‘I’ll call Peg and she can find Jenny. Let’s show these Lambeth gals the way the other half lives.’

  ‘Tell Peg to take the Tube to Green Park , and meet us in the bar at the Ritz. And wear something nice.’ He turned to walk out.

  ‘Say, Charlie,’ said Butler. ‘Guess what I heard today?’

  Davenport stopped and turned.

  ‘Hitler’s canned the general in charge of the defence of France,’ said Butler, ‘and named Rommel to take his place.’

  ‘Rommel? Are you sure?’

  Butler nodded and said, ‘Yep. The Desert Fox.’ ‘

  ‘Well,’ muttered Davenport, ‘that’s exactly what I’ve been worried about.’

  Davenport sat on the bed rereading the letter from his father. Please son, he wrote, if there’s any way, come before Christmas. I have to confess it’s lonely here. Davenport put the letter aside and thought about his father. When he was younger, engaged to Frances, he had felt slightly embarrassed by his father, comparing him to the bankers and lawyers whose sons attended college with him. He was a lifelong schoolteacher and above all he was devoted to his wife and only child. He was in truth, Davenport reflected, a far better man than almost any he had known. Realizing he should write to tell him about his transfer, he felt a pang of guilt that he’d assured him he would remain on Morgan’s staff, just as, he wretchedly conceded, he’d assured Mary. He was conscious of a flutter of anticipation at the thought of seeing Jenny. They’d been out several times since that first night at the dancehall, doubling up with Hanes and Peg at the pub or cinema. Despite her lack of education and clumsy mannerisms, there was something appealing about her. At first he’d likened her to one of those sad but noble characters out of a Dickens novel, but then decided there was more to her than that. Unlike Peg, who was, more or less, content with her lot, Jenny was determined to find a way out of her grim working-class existence. Davenport stood up from the bed and, locking the door, hurried down to the street, where Hanes was waiting in his jeep.

  ‘Don’t you look swell,’ said Hanes. ‘Hop in and let’s go.’

  The hotel bar was packed with servicemen and their dates, American officers in drab olive and tan predominating. ‘The girls are bound to be late,’ said Butler. ‘Let’s get a drink.’ After a few minutes they found two seats at the bar and ordered whiskies and soda. Once the bartender slid the glasses across the counter, Butler looked at Davenport and said, ‘There they are.’ Peg and Jenny stood nervously on the far side of the room, peering at the crowd. Nervousness accentuated Peg’s rough features, but Jenny was luminous in a dark, tight-fitting dress that showed off her figure to its full advantage, her lips a dark, moist red in contrast to her pale complexion. ‘Sonofagun,’ said Hanes softly. ‘Would you look at Jenny.’

  Davenport slid off his stool and straightened his tunic. ‘Good evening, Jenny,’ he said as she walked up. She smiled and leaned over for a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Let’s find a table,’ said Butler, ‘and get y’all something to drink.’ Once they were seated, he summoned a waiter.
‘What’ll it be, Peg?’ said Butler.

  Looking nervously around the ornate room, Peg said, ‘Oh, Hanes, I dunno. A be-ahh.’

  The waiter deferentially inclined his head and said, ‘Excuse me, madam?’

  ‘Bring the lady a beer,’ instructed Butler. ‘Jenny?’

  She looked at Davenport with an expression of childish delight and said, ‘Charlie – what do you think? Something special.’

  ‘A champagne cocktail?’ suggested Davenport. ‘And we’ll have another round.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  When the waiter returned, Jenny held up the fluted glass and studied the tiny bubbles. Taking a sip, she smiled and said, ‘Mmm. That’s lovely. Would you look at us, Peg? Who would ’ave thought. Out for a night at the Ritz.’

  ‘A bit on the fancy side for me,’ said Peg with a self-conscious smile, revealing her uneven teeth. She took a swallow of beer.

  ‘Aw, c’mon, Peg,’ said Butler cheerfully. ‘Relax. We’re here to celebrate.’

  ‘Really?’ said Jenny, taking a sip of her cocktail. ‘What’s to celebrate?’

  ‘The lieutenant colonel here,’ said Butler, ‘is movin’ on to bigger and better things. He’s being transferred to the Third Infantry Division.’

  Jenny shot a worried look at Davenport. ‘Does that mean you’ll be leaving?’ she asked softly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Davenport with a nod. ‘We’ll be training in Scotland.’

  ‘A toast,’ said Butler merrily. ‘To the King’s Shropshire Light Infantry.’

  Jenny raised her glass as Davenport held her in his steady gaze.

  ‘What’s that, Hanes?’ asked Peg after taking a slosh of beer and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  ‘Charlie’s new regiment,’ said Hanes. ‘Anyway, we need to give him a proper send off. What sounds good?’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Peg. ‘We could go dancin’ . . .’

  ‘No, let’s go someplace special,’ said Jenny with a sparkle in her eyes. ‘Charlie , I’m sure you know a place?’