Cardigan Bay

by John Kerr

  Davenport thought for a moment and then said, ‘We could try Scott’s. The best seafood in town.’ He thought of his frequent dinners there with Frances before the war.

  ‘Fish,’ said Peg in a disappointed voice. ‘I was ’opin’ for roast beef.’

  ‘Beef?’ said Jenny with a roll of her eyes. ‘Mutton, more likely.’

  ‘Bottoms up,’ said Davenport. ‘Let’s be on our way.’ Standing in the blacked-out street, he peered at an oncoming vehicle. ‘Taxi,’ he called out, raising a hand. A black Austin veered over and came to a stop.

  ‘Dear, dear,’ said Peg, ‘ain’t we ritzy tonight, ridin’ in a taxicab.’

  As Davenport watched her ample behind disappear into the back, he leaned down to the driver and said, ‘Scott’s on Mount Street.’

  They were seated at a banquette in the crowded dining room, a half-empty bottle of cheap South African bubbly resting in an ice bucket. Next to Charles, Jenny pretended to listen to the joke Hanes Butler was telling as she watched him out of the corner of her eye, observing the way he held his silverware and wineglass. All evening she’d paid close attention to the way he spoke, the way he enunciated the words, the words themselves – though he wasn’t aware of it, she was sure of that. When a smile appeared on his lips at the punch line to the joke, she smiled back at him, thinking him not only the handsomest man she’d ever known, but the finest, a man who could teach her, show her how to act proper. A waiter appeared at the table and asked, ‘Will there be anything else? Dessert, perhaps, or a liqueur? We have an excellent trifle.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Butler, ‘for the ladies. And I’ll have a cup of coffee.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Davenport. After the trifle and coffee were served, he sipped his champagne and watched as Peg happily attacked the creamy dessert. ‘Champagne and trifle,’ he said mildly. ‘Who could ask for more?’ Jenny looked up and gave him a pretty smile, thinking I could . . . there’s so much more I could ask for.

  When they had finished, Butler downed the last of his coffee and reached into his pocket for a roll of bills. Counting several out on the table, he said, ‘That should take care of it. This one’s on me. C’mon, Peg, let’s take a stroll around the block. We’ll see y’all later.’

  Once they were alone, Davenport turned to Jenny and said, ‘I suppose we should be going. I’ve got an early start in the morning.’

  Looking down into her lap, she said, ‘Will I be seeing you again?’

  ‘Why, I’m sure . . .’

  ‘But you’ll be leaving.’

  ‘I should be back from time to time. I’m sure we’ll see one another . . .’

  ‘Oh, Charlie,’ Jenny said softly, impulsively taking his hand. ‘I wish you weren’t going! We was just getting started. Can’t you change your mind?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he admonished her, immediately regretting his schoolmaster tone. ‘It’s the war, Jenny,’ he said gently. ‘I haven’t any choice.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ she said, thinking, he’s moving on . . . the good ones always do.

  Outside, in the cold December air, Davenport put his arm around Jenny’s slender waist. Unexpectedly, she threw her arms around him, silently embracing him with her face pressing against the scratchy wool of his coat. For a moment, inhaling her perfume and feeling her soft curls on his face, he imagined she was Mary. She pulled away and looked up at him. ‘I never knew anyone like you, Charlie,’ she said softly. ‘You’re so . . . I don’t know how to say it. Such a gentleman.’ Standing on tiptoes, she lightly kissed him. After a few seconds, he broke away, staring at her on the blacked-out pavement.

  The jeep slewed in the mud as the tyres fought for traction, the driver bidding the machine to keep moving through the deep, rain-filled ruts. Ahead through the unrelenting downpour, a column of troops appeared out of the hedgerow, slogging forward under the weight of rifles and heavy-laden packs. ‘It’s no use, sir,’ said the driver, turning to look back.

  Davenport stared through the mud-spattered windshield. ‘The question is,’ he said, ‘if we’ll ever get moving again.’ Davenport watched the column of soldiers staggering across the road. With few exceptions, they were young and seemed surprisingly small. Well, he thought, perhaps it’s just the amount of gear on their backs that made them seem so diminutive. When the last stragglers crossed, the driver revved the engine and released the clutch, but it was pointless. ‘Forget it, Sergeant,’ said Davenport. ‘Let’s give it a push.’

  By the time the jeep rounded the last bend, the broad expanse of canvas tents and wooden huts was enveloped in a thick, grey murk. The words ‘Whitekirk 2 miles’ were barely legible on a road sign. The driver pulled to a stop before a low structure with ‘HQ Second Battalion – KSLI’ stencilled over the door. As he entered the hut, the corporal on duty snapped to attention. Davenport briefly raised his hand to his hat and muttered ‘At ease’. The rain kept up a steady drumbeat on the roof. ‘If anyone should ask,’ said Davenport, ‘I’ve gone to wash and get into some dry clothes.’

  Later, after a dinner of beans and lamb stew, Davenport turned to the two officers at his table and said, ‘What do you say to a drink at the O.C.?’

  ‘An excellent idea, Charles,’ said the young captain seated beside him.

  ‘Not for me,’ said the third man. ‘I’ve got that report to finish.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Davenport. ‘We’ll see you at 0500.’ He took his greatcoat from the rack and stepped outside into the winter darkness. A thick layer of cloud blotted out any star light, making it difficult to see the duckboard from the mess hall to the Officers’ Club, a simple wooden hut warmed by a wood-burning stove. Davenport and the young captain hung up their jackets and walked to the bar. ‘What will it be, Alfred?’ asked Davenport.

  ‘Half and half,’ said Alfred Pearson, resting his elbows on the bar, cheeks glowing pink from the cold.

  ‘I’ll have a whisky and soda,’ said Davenport. Once they were served the two men moved to a table near the stove.

  Pearson lifted his pint glass and said, ‘Cheers.’

  Davenport repeated the toast and sipped his drink. Pearson leaned forward and said, ‘Tell me, Charles, what’s your opinion of General Eisenhower?’

  ‘I was surprised when he was given the command,’ said Davenport. ‘Not that I wasn’t impressed by him at our planning conferences, but he hasn’t any experience commanding troops in combat. I will give him this, though,’ he paused to take another sip. ‘Ike took one look at our plan and immediately insisted on more men.’

  ‘Why weren’t more men, more divisions, provided for in the plan?’

  ‘In our scheme?’ said Davenport. ‘No way to get them on the beaches. As simple as that. We were constrained by available landing craft.’

  ‘And how does Eisenhower plan to deal with that?’

  ‘Through adroit political tactics, I expect. He’ll find a way to pressure the politicos to divert more landing craft to Overlord, from Italy or the Pacific.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got Monty,’ said Pearson. ‘That should more than compensate.’

  ‘Montgomery,’ said Davenport after taking a sip, ‘is a careful general, I’ll give him that, but what an egotist. And some of his victories in Africa weren’t as spectacular as they appeared.’

  ‘But, Charles,’ said Pearson, ‘he chased Rommel all the way across the desert. And look what he did in Sicily.’

  ‘Well, let’s just say he had some unusual help. At any rate, he strikes me as a cautious, methodical commander. And frankly, I’m not sure that’s what we need. Especially now that we’re facing Rommel.’ Pearson gave Davenport a questioning look. ‘We’ll need daring and surprise,’ explained Davenport. ‘We won’t catch Rommel with his trousers down, I assure you.’ He downed his drink and stood up abruptly. ‘We should turn in. We’ve got an early morning.’

  Later he sat on his bed star
ing at a small, framed photograph. He wasn’t sure why he had chosen this particular one – his father standing by the front steps, holding his pipe in one hand and his small hand in the other – to keep with him. Like most little boys, he hadn’t liked being photographed and looked away from the camera. But his father wore a proud expression, his face still young and strong. Davenport carefully placed the photograph on an empty crate, turned off the light, and slipped under the covers. Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on the next morning’s exercise, but his thoughts turned to Mary. He knew he should write to her and confess that he’d been transferred, but how could he? He turned his face to the wall and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

  Adjusting his helmet he glanced at his watch. Tugging at the shoulder harness, he walked to the head of the column, his boots cracking the thin glaze of ice on the Scottish mud. The thousand men of the K.S.L.I. stood in formation, six abreast, the column stretching far out of sight in the early morning darkness. ‘Sar-major,’ commanded Davenport in a loud voice. The burly sergeant stood rigidly at attention at the head of the column. ‘You may give the command.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Battalion!’ shouted the sergeant. ‘Forward . . . march!’

  As the men moved along the narrow lane, the sound of jangling gear and the tramp of boots filled the air. Davenport set a brisk pace, straining against the weight of his sixty-pound pack. From the rear of the column the gruff exhortations of the sergeants could be heard. The weight of the pack burned into his shoulders. The clank of equipment on the men’s belts was loud above the thump of a thousand footfalls. Over the brow of a small hill, rooftops and steeples came into view in the misty dawn, with the North Sea in the distance. He glanced back at the column trailing far behind him, with gaps where men had been unable to keep up. After another ten minutes the van of the column entered the outskirts of a small village, passing the brick walls, neatly tended gardens and flower-boxes of homes similar to those in which most of the boys had grown up. Davenport looked at his watch. They’d covered the four miles from the camp in an hour and twelve minutes.

  The battalion embarked in five landing craft which bobbed like corks in the choppy sea, and sailed four miles out accompanied by two destroyers and a corvette. A fine mist obscured the beach, two miles in the distance. Davenport checked his watch. Two minutes till H-hour.

  ‘Sergeant, pass the word,’ he said. ‘When the destroyers finish firing, we’re going in.’ All at once the destroyers unleashed a volley, the shells roaring overhead and crashing on the beaches, sending plumes of smoke and debris into the air. A split second later, rocket fire streaked overhead, erupting in fireballs on the beach. The petty officers swung the bows of the LCIs toward the beach, throttling the engines. The stench of cordite, seasickness, and the unnerving roar of the shells was too much for many of the green troops, who retched over the sides as the narrow vessels pounded toward the surf. Anti-tank traps and rolls of razor wire were clearly visible beyond the breakers. The bow pitched high on a roller and, at the moment it crashed back down, the gates opened, lowering the steel ramps into the sea. In the front row, Davenport rose from the bench, his rifle slung over his shoulder, and called out, ‘Follow me, men!’ As the troops splashed into the waist-deep, freezing water, orange tracers from the destroyers’ 50-calibre guns sang overhead, and the whump of mortars drowned out the din of the surf and the chug of the idling diesels.

  ‘Form up!’ yelled the sergeants, at clusters of men fighting their way through the surf under the weight of their packs. As the battalion’s thousand men huddled on the beach, teams of combat engineers exploded gaps in the wire. Regaining some semblance of order, the platoons slogged forward toward the flags marking the exits for the landing exercise.

  Davenport unslung his pack and let it drop. Settling on the cold soil, he removed his helmet and leaned his aching back against the pack, staring vacantly over the tops of his boots. In the distance he could hear the rumble of lorries that would transport his exhausted men back to camp. In another few hours, there would be hot food, dry clothes, and a warming glass of whisky. The men were exhausted, but they had made it. With a satisfied smile, he considered that the boys were becoming soldiers.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Eamon O’Farrell flipped the toggle and removed the earphones. He had been relieved to report his improving relationship with Mary as well as to hear, in carefully coded phrases, of the progress his cohorts were making both within the ministry and the Wehrmacht in the recruitment of men allied to the cause. Everything hinged on the timing of the Allied invasion, which they expected when the Atlantic gales abated. He stood up and lowered the antenna. Glancing at his watch, he realized that he would have to hurry. Something about this rendezvous disquieted him. He had bluffed his way through their accusations about the failed IRA raid on the British compound, but the recent capture in Dublin of the man he knew only as ‘Smith’ within days after Mulcahy had harboured him in Castletown, undoubtedly aroused their suspicions. Of course Eamon had met the senior IRA man to conclude the terms of another arms sale. They could think what they might, but they had no proof. Slipping a switchblade in his coat pocket, he hurried from the boarding house to the Golden Anchor, arriving as the last of the patrons filed out at closing time. He waited a few minutes and then walked to the door and tapped on the glass. A single light was shining behind the bar. Sean Mulcahy appeared out of the shadows and turned the key in the lock.

  ‘Come in, O’Farrell,’ he said with a smile as he held open the door. ‘Have a drink.’

  Eamon glanced around the empty room. He walked behind the counter, patting the knife in his pocket. After pouring a glass of Irish whiskey, he turned to Mulcahy. ‘To your health, Sean,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘And to your bloody cause.’

  Mulcahy smiled and took a long swallow of whiskey. ‘Have a seat, Mr O’Farrell,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a little chat.’ Eamon unbuttoned his coat and slipped off his cap. The two men sat facing one another in the dark, empty room. ‘Pity about Smith,’ Mulcahy began.

  ‘What about him?’ said Eamon casually.

  ‘Strange coincidence, I should say. Very strange.’

  Eamon remained silent, sipping his drink.

  ‘There was no one else saw him, O’Farrell. No one besides you.’

  Eamon shrugged and said, ‘It’s none of my affair, as you well know. Something happen to your friend? An accident?’

  ‘You might say that,’ said Mulcahy with a menacing glare.

  ‘What was it you wanted to see me about? I don’t have all night.’

  ‘You know, O’Farrell, I’m not sure we’ve got much use for you anymore. We’ve got all the rifles and ammunition we need, and our boys are sick of doing the Nazis’ bidding. Looks to me like you’re losin’ the war, and to the sorry goddamn Brits. So it’s been nice knowin’ you, but it’s time to call it quits.’

  ‘So that’s it.’ Eamon finished his drink in a single swig. ‘Have it your way. I’m sure I can find some other shills.’ He stood up and pulled on his cap. ‘Now if you don’t mind. . . .’

  ‘The front door’s locked,’ said Mulcahy. ‘You’ll have to go out the back.’

  ‘After you, Sean.’ Eamon waited as Mulcahy shrugged on his coat, then followed him to the door at the back. After Mulcahy opened the door and disappeared down the steps, Eamon stood in the doorway holding the knife in his pocket as he searched the small enclosure behind the building in the darkness. As he started down the steps he sensed motion and spun around, pulling the knife and snapping open the five-inch blade. The sight of the glinting knife caused the men who appeared out of the shadows to hesitate. There were three of them, including Mulcahy, armed with clubs and chains. The first man lunged at Eamon, swinging a short, thick shillelagh. Ducking to one side, Eamon slashed the man’s outstretched arm. ‘C’mon, man,’ said Eamon hoarsely. ‘Have at it.’

  The other two circled slowly, keeping thei
r distance. All at once they both rushed in, one of them swinging a chain hard at Eamon’s knees while the other attacked with the club. Deflecting the blow with his arm, Eamon drove the knife into the man’s ribs with a hard, slapping sound. For an instant they were frozen in a silent embrace, until the third man fell on Eamon with the fury of a wounded animal. One sharp blow with the shillelagh found its mark on the side of Eamon’s head. Down now, sinking into unconsciousness, the blows fell on him again and again.

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Mulcahy, clutching his side with dark blood running between his fingers. ‘Get him into the car.’ As they drove out of the village, the only sounds were Eamon’s groans as he lay on the back seat. ‘There,’ said Mulcahy, ‘on the right. Take that track.’ They bumped a quarter-mile along the lane before coming to a stop. ‘Hurry, damn it,’ said Mulcahy, ‘before I bleed to death!’ The other two dragged Eamon from the car and dumped his limp form under a thick shrub. ‘That should do it,’ said Mulcahy as he gazed at the motionless body in the moonlight. ‘Let’s go.’ They piled into the car and disappeared.

  Mary fished in the lukewarm water for the last fork. It had been a strange morning, watching the snow fall in wispy flurries from the kitchen window, surrounded by so many sensual pleasures, her hands deep in soapy water, the warm scent of spice cake filling the room, beautiful music on the gramophone. For some reason, desire had plaited itself to every fibre of her being, moving like honey through all her thoughts. She drew up a chair close to the fire, enjoying the warmth that spread from the blazing logs that had finally caught after considerable effort with the poker and bellows. Her face was obscured by the pages of the Irish Times as she absorbed a long piece on the bloody fighting in the Pacific. She put the paper aside, thinking about her brother at sea on the other side of the world. Bright winter sunshine shone through the lace, and Chelsea slept contentedly on the rug by the fender. The calm orderliness seemed so at odds with the chaos raging across the world . . . the exotic places like Mandalay, the Irrawaddy, Port Moresby. She was desperate to make sense out of it, to understand what was coming next and how it might finally end. If only she had Charles to talk to.