Cardigan Bay

by John Kerr

  Evan massaged his chin with a thoughtful expression. ‘We’ve wondered for a long time whether there might be some such rising against the Nazis from within.’

  ‘That reminds me of something,’ said Davenport. ‘Mary gave me the name this fellow says the Gestapo uses for the conspiracy.’ Davenport handed Evan a slip of paper.

  ‘I don’t know anything about this,’ said Evan, ‘but one of my people might. Wait here, Charles. This shouldn’t take long.’

  Davenport dozed but awakened at the creak of Evan’s wheelchair. He rubbed his eyes, sat up, and said, ‘Were you able to make any sense out of it?’

  Hockaday waited for his attendant to park the chair and excuse himself. ‘This is highly irregular,’ he said. ‘You must swear that under no circumstances will you divulge the fact that you’ve seen this.’ He then handed Davenport a typewritten sheet.

  ‘Who is General Beck?’ asked Davenport, his eyes dropping to the bottom of the page.

  ‘General Ludwig Beck,’ said Evan, ‘was the only member of the general staff with the courage to speak out against Hitler. He resigned from the army in 1938 rather than serve under him. If there’s anyone with the stature to lead a coup, it would be Beck.’

  Davenport quickly read the decrypt, looked up, and said, ‘This is incredible.’ He read aloud: ‘Determined to rid the world of the scourge of Hitler and restore Christian civilization to Europe and a legitimate democratic government to the people of Germany . . . unalterably opposed to war with the Christian nations and determined to effect an honourable peace with Britain and the United States immediately upon the elimination of the Nazi regime. Good Lord, Evan, do you think it’s the real thing?’

  ‘My instincts would say, no, it’s another crackpot scheme, except for three things. First, the Enigma prefixes match. There’s no getting around the fact that this letter was encoded on an Enigma machine in Berlin. And the name Schwartze Kapelle – the Black Chapel. Our man was astonished to see those words. It seems the Gestapo has been trying to penetrate this conspiracy, without much luck, and that’s the name they’ve coined for it. There’s no way some lowly Abwehr agent in Ireland would know it.’

  ‘Amazing. To think that Mary . . . But you said there were three things.’

  ‘Look at the closing paragraph,’ said Evan.

  Davenport studied the document. ‘You mean this reference in what looks like Latin?’

  ‘It is Latin,’ said Evan. ‘The translation is, ‘By this we shall be known’ with the citation “19 REV 1”, a reference to the Revelation of St John, Chapter nineteen, Verse one, the passage that describes the final victory over the Anti-Christ.’ Davenport gave Evan a bewildered look. ‘I believe these men,’ continued Evan, ‘are part of a small group of dedicated Christians, led by Dietrich Bonhöffer, the Lutheran theologian, who consider Hitler the Anti-Christ. The reference in Latin is a signature, Charles. I believe them. But the question remains, will they succeed?’

  Davenport rose from the sofa, stretched, and said, ‘What will you do with the letter?’

  ‘I’ll make certain the right people see it. What they do with it will depend on what, if anything, these men are able to accomplish.’ Evan took back the paper from Davenport and said, ‘Now, tell me one more thing before you go. Are things ready? Are you taking your men across?’

  ‘Yes, we’re ready,’ said Davenport grimly. ‘With any luck Rommel will be expecting us elsewhere.’

  Evan smiled. ‘I’ve no doubt of that. We believe they’re convinced the blow is going to fall at Calais. And when it’s all over will you go back to her?’

  ‘Mary,’ he said. ‘How remarkable that she brought this letter to us. I’m afraid I’ve made quite a mess of things.’ Evan gave him a concerned look. ‘It’s out of my hands now. Just promise you’ll pray for me. That would mean a great deal.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Evan.

  Davenport took Evan’s hand, looked into his piercing blue eye and said, ‘Goodbye.’

  On the morning of 1 June 1944, the thousand men of the K.S.L.I. set forth from their six-week encampment near Haywards Heath in Sussex. Loaded in the back of two-and-a-half-ton lorries, they were driven to Lewes, whence they would march to their designated point of embarkation. Under a pale summer sky, the column stretched for half a mile along the road to Newhaven, the men straining under the weight of eighty-pound packs over-filled with ammunition, mines, knives, rations, and Bibles. All along the eight-mile march, the road was lined with clusters of men, women, and children, not cheering, flag-waving crowds, but sober faces expressing pride, hope, and the unuttered prayer that the massive force descending on the coastline might soon bring an end to almost five years of war. The young soldiers marched silently, acknowledging the waves of the children but averting their eyes from the baleful glances of the women too much like their own mothers. Davenport marched at the head of the column. Over the brow of a hill, beyond the rooftops and steeples, he observed a remarkable spectacle: an enormous flotilla arrayed on the sparkling sea. In all the planning and preparation, he had never imagined anything on so vast a scale.

  The 17,000 men of the Third Division were converging on the Channel ports, from Newhaven to Portsmouth, where a long line of LCIs, the vessels designed to transport the infantry to the landing beaches, awaited their arrival. ‘Well, Sergeant,’ said Davenport to the heavy-set Scot at his side, ‘there they are. Those sardine tins are going to be home for the next several days.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ said the sergeant with a grimace. ‘Though why we should be forced to sit aboard them for days is a mystery to me.’ A landsman through and through, the sergeant was deeply disquieted by the prospect of inhabiting a cramped space aboard ship.

  ‘Simple logistics,’ explained Davenport. ‘First the men must be loaded. Then the amphibious vehicles, tanks and ammunition, and lastly, the escorts. It will take days, and that’s just for the troops going ashore on the first day.’

  The regiment tramped through the village, past the pubs and shops and the weathered headstones in the churchyard until at last they reached the quay. Davenport studied the beehive of activity, lorries overflowing with supplies of every description, black coils of telephone line, stacks of jerry cans, and wooden crates packed with grenades and bangalore mines. MPs directed the steady flow of vehicles and tanks clanking across the concrete aprons onto the wide steel ramps of the LCTs. It seemed impossible that such a massive build-up could possibly go unnoticed by the enemy, whose reconnaissance planes still ventured into the RAF-patrolled skies. Davenport looked up at an approaching jeep, recognizing the frowning face of the regimental CO.

  The jeep screeched to a halt, and the short, compact brigadier alighted. ‘All right, Davenport,’ he said briskly, acknowledging the salute with a touch of his hand to his hat, ‘you’re familiar with the loading procedure. Last on, first off. Take your men to the far pier and report to the loadmaster. We need to get the battalion embarked by noon to make room for the Royal Warwickshire and Royal Norfolk. Battalion commanders’ briefing is at 1700 hours.’

  The five LCIs assigned to the regiment were berthed in a close-packed row at the end of the Newhaven docks. After receiving their assignments from the loadmaster, Davenport instructed his company commanders to march the men to the ramps and on board the 160-foot vessels. The mood among the men in the queues in the late morning sunshine was almost festive. Despite the obvious perils, they were anxious to be going at last, to get across, and get it over with. Davenport boarded with the officers and men of A Company. Brightly coloured signal flags fluttered on the halyards; the hull and squat, round superstructure wore a fresh coat of dull grey. As the men inched along the line, a naval crewman distributed cartons of cigarettes. There was scarcely room to walk, so jammed were the decks with provisions and equipment. Below, there were only enough bunks for a third of the 200 men, requiring them to sleep in three, eight-hour shifts. They unslung t
heir packs, made themselves as comfortable as possible and settled in for a long wait. Once the loading was complete, the LCIs weighed anchor and steamed out into an assigned place a mile offshore in the midst of the vast Allied armada. There, bobbing on the heavy swells, they would wait . . . and wait. 2 June came and went, then 3 June, and still they waited . . . eating the decent navy rations, fighting boredom with endless games of dice and cards, reading cheap paperback novels as they sat wedged into some nook or cranny of the crowded deck, or in solitary moments in prayer, some of the men reading Bibles.

  Davenport awoke on the morning of 4 June with the restless, stomach-churning realization that the time had come at last. Within twenty-four hours they would be on their way to Sword Beach. He crawled out of the cramped bunk and bounded up the gangway. The sky had turned dull grey, and a cold drizzle was falling. His heart sank. Before the assault could be launched, it was crucial for airborne troops to penetrate the enemy’s rear, by parachute and glider landings, operations Davenport knew would be scratched by low cloud, rain, or fog. He leaned on the railing and stared through the mist at the line of ships that stretched as far as he could see. Throughout the day the weather worsened, heavy downpours and gale force winds churning the seas and tossing the landing ships like matchsticks on a pond. The men could find no relief from the constant rolling and pitching decks. By nightfall the salt spray and rain mingled with vomit on the slippery decks, the stench only adding to the misery. The storm intensified during the night. Davenport tried sleeping with his face buried in a pillow, but it was no use. He listened to the wind moaning above the groans of his seasick men and the rain lashing the deck. Surely the operation would be cancelled. In the darkness, a sailor appeared and said, ‘A message, sir, from General Smith.’

  Davenport swung his legs over the side, opened the envelope, and read the note in the blue glare of the ready light: ‘To all commanding officers. Due to inclement weather, D-Day is postponed for 24 hours. H-Hour will be 0630 on 6 June 1944.’ Davenport took a deep breath and braced himself against the bulkhead as the ship rolled twenty degrees. Well, he considered, the brass hats must know more about the weather than the men riding out the storm. Davenport reached for his coat and steel helmet. The stench was little better in the open air. Passing by crouching forms, Davenport did up his jacket and made his way to the bow, where the fresh breeze filled his nostrils with salt air. As they pitched up and down, he stared at the dark shapes on the black sea. Another day and night, and they were going in. His mind wandered to Mary, her blue eyes against her pale cheeks as she sat beside him in the tearoom, earnestly pleading for his help. She seemed so brave, so noble, in her determination and conviction. He forced himself to think about his options. If he survived, what would he do? It still seemed impossible to him that the baby Jenny was carrying was his. But if he survived – not just the landing, of course – what would he do? He stared down at the black water below the railing. There was a chance, he supposed, she might give up the child for adoption, but the idea that someone else might raise his own child seemed totally unacceptable. Besides, she’d begged him to marry her. Poor, pitiful Jenny. Please, dear God, he prayed, show me the way out of this.

  The following night Davenport slept fitfully on a hammock slung beneath the canvas near the aft companionway. The wind and rain had relented, giving the men some measure of relief from the seasickness they’d endured for thirty-six hours. As he dozed he could hear the sound of droning, dreaming that the skies were filled with aircraft. His eyes fluttered open. The noise was real enough, and directly overhead. He climbed out of the hammock and stepped out from under the cover. Through a break in the clouds he could clearly see a low-flying formation of C-47 Dakotas. Davenport checked his watch. It was 12.25 on the morning of 6 June.

  ‘Damn, Colonel,’ said a young lieutenant standing beside him. ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘The sixth Airborne,’ said Davenport as he watched the V-shaped formation. ‘They’ll be getting things ready for us.’ As the last of the aircraft thundered off toward the French coast, he said, ‘It’s on, Iverson. This means it’s really on.’ Davenport hurried below to wash and shave. By 0300 the galley stoves were lit, and the navy cooks were preparing breakfast. The men crowded the deck, leaning on the railings and smoking as they watched the black horizon for signs of activity.

  The navy skipper stepped out from the bridge on to the platform with Davenport. ‘Well, Colonel,’ he said, ‘time to get underway.’ The orders were passed to weigh anchor as the bow swung around and the engines came to life with a deep, vibrating thrum. Somewhere in the distance ahead were the warships – destroyers, cruisers, and ancient battleships – and further beyond them, the line of LCTs, the first to go ashore with their cargo of tanks. The massive armada moved into the centre of the Channel. Breakfast was served at 0400 with a tot of rum. Despite their recent nausea and the fear gripping the heart of every man onboard, the young soldiers filled their steel trays to overflowing and gulped down the grog. At 0430 the chaplain assembled the men in the bow for prayers. Davenport remained on the platform by the bridge. Leaning over the rail, he strained to hear the chaplain’s words. The ship churned along at ten knots, the cold breeze lying at the starboard quarter. The pure, clear voice of a young tenor rose from the men assembled in the bow, rendering a hauntingly beautiful version of the hymn Abide With Me. Davenport’s eyes grew moist as the final refrain died on the breeze: ‘In life, in death, O Lord abide with me.’

  ‘Destroyer dead ahead,’ sang out a lookout. ‘Five hundred yards and closing.’

  The ship’s engines slowed and then stopped with a shudder. Davenport checked the time, 0500. Well, he thought, the show’s about to begin. The men crowded onto the decks and stared expectantly over the heaving black swells. By 0520 the faint glow of dawn appeared on the horizon. Davenport could just make out the ghost-like warships lying dead ahead. He trained his binoculars on the invisible French shore. Suddenly he saw a faint orange flicker on the black backdrop, followed after a few seconds by the sound of distant thunder. The German batteries were opening fire. All at once a brilliant flash erupted from the muzzles of a nearby cruiser followed by an ear-splitting crash. Within seconds a deafening crescendo engulfed their craft as the entire Allied fleet opened fire on the enemy fortifications and gun emplacements. The blast from the fifteen-inch guns of the battleship Warspite was stunning. Up and down the line, destroyers, cruisers, and battleships pounded away, the muzzle flashes brilliantly lighting the sky and the thunder of the guns deafening the almost 200,000 men crammed aboard the landing ships. Above the crash of the guns, Davenport could distinguish the whine and scream of the incoming German shells, sending fountains of spray among the line of ships. Precisely at 0620, the naval guns fell silent. He ranged the binoculars across the horizon. Dense black smoke obscured the beaches. With his heart pounding, he knew that as soon as the minute hand on his watch struck six, the first wave of landing craft, lying five kilometres offshore, would start churning toward the surf to discharge tanks and men.

  As the soldiers of A Company made their final preparations, checking gear, cleaning their rifles, and filling their canteens, Davenport remained at his perch above the deck, straining to hear the sounds of battle. He could visualize every detail of Sword Beach: the pastel Victorian villas beyond the shingle, sheltering German machine-guns and mortars and, further to the rear, the lethal 88-millimetre guns. It seemed inconceivable that anyone or anything could have survived the ferocious naval bombardment, but he was certain they had. He pictured the obstacles Rommel had carefully planted on the beach and tidal flats, the ten-foot high Belgian gates studded with mines and the pilings driven into the sand beneath the surf with explosive charges lashed to their tips. The landing was planned to coincide with high tide at first light, to float the landing craft into the shallows and allow the heavy-laden men to wade ashore in waist deep water. But the murderous obstacles submerged by the high tide could pierce the th
in hulls of the landing craft and blow the men to pieces before they ever set foot on French soil. Then there were the heavy German guns sited on Sword Beach at Merville and Le Havre. The airborne troops who had landed in the dark of night were assigned to take out those batteries, but if they had failed, the big guns would rain death on the troops traversing the beaches.

  Puffs of smoke appeared on the horizon – the British tanks swimming ashore from the LCTs and hammering the German defences. Then Davenport heard the faint rattle of small arms – or was it the chatter of German machine-guns – and the whoosh of the 88s, used by Rommel with murderous effect in North Africa. Davenport gripped the railing and stared at the smoke-shrouded horizon. The first wave, the men of the South Lancs, the Suffolk, and East Yorks Regiments, were in a desperate struggle with the German defenders.

  A launch from the nearest destroyer sliced the waves on the starboard bow. ‘Take positions,’ sounded a voice through a megaphone, ‘at co-ordinate X-47. Move up at 0900 hours.’ Davenport hurried down to the crowded deck. The men stood rigidly along the rails, staring toward the beaches with pale, frightened faces. Few had experienced combat. Davenport found the captain commanding the company. ‘In ten minutes,’ Davenport calmly informed him, ‘we’re moving into position. I want your men ready. Understood?’

  The young officer quietly said, ‘Yes, sir.’ Davenport went below for his pack and rifle. He suddenly recalled the exact moment the attack came on the last day at Tobruk . . . the line of Stukas coming in low from the eastern horizon. Fighting a spasm of fear, he lifted the strap of his pack to one shoulder, grabbed his rifle and hurried up on deck. The sun had broken through the ragged clouds, exposing the vastness of the Allied armada. The LCI surged forward through a narrow lane between the warships. The smoke-filled beaches loomed closer, no more than two kilometres in the distance, and the sounds of the raging battle grew more distinct. ‘Form up!’ bellowed the sergeant majors. The men formed two lines behind the bow ramps. Davenport looked to the skipper on the bridge. Spotting Davenport in the midst of the men, he signalled that they were going in. A heavy wave slapped the bow. ‘Close up!’ shouted the sergeants as the men inched forward. A young private, no more than eighteen and five feet four, trembled against a stanchion. Placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder, Davenport said, ‘Don’t worry,’ as reassuringly as he was able. ‘You’ll be all right.’ A German shell exploded thirty yards from the LCI, showering the men in a cold spray.