Cardigan Bay

by John Kerr

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ moaned the soldier. ‘I can’t take it.’

  Davenport squeezed him lightly on the shoulder and moved down the line. Another young soldier clung to a rosary, softly reciting a Hail Mary in an Irish brogue. Davenport stood on a crate and looked over the railing. They were only 300 yards from the beach, and the breakers, with dark green forms bobbing in the surf, were clearly visible. The mine-studded pilings protruded ominously from the wave tops. Several hundred yards to the starboard an LCI burst into flames with dense black smoke spiralling skyward. All at once the ship ground to a halt. ‘Ramps down,’ bellowed the crew chief. Twin ramps dropped and the men surged forward.

  ‘C’mon, lads,’ shouted the sergeants. ‘Let’s go, let’s go!’ As they splashed into the waist-deep surf, machine-gun fire slapped the water around them. Davenport waited until the last platoon was on its way down the ramp. And then, standing at the top, he surveyed the beach. Bodies were floating in the bloody shallows and a tank lay in smoking ruins halfway up the beach. But the beach seemed strangely empty. The sounds of fighting – bursts of rifle fire and the thud of the tanks’ cannons – were further inland. Davenport hurried down the ramp and splashed into the receding surf with a feeling like joy. They’d made it! He was certain . . . the battle was won.

  ‘Step lively, boys,’ yelled a sergeant. A smile spread across the face of the young private who minutes earlier had been paralysed by fear. The men stood in clumps on the beach, adjusting their packs, smiling at their unexpected good fortune. Davenport took a quick look to his left to observe the rest of the battalion wading ashore. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he strode rapidly toward the soldiers loitering on the beach. The mortar shell fell without warning. Exploding shards of steel cut the smiling young soldier nearly in two. Davenport saw only a blinding field of orange, then all was blackness as he cartwheeled backward. He lay motionless, his legs sprawled beneath him, blood seeping into the cold, wet sand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Mary surveyed the neat rows of her garden and the expanse of sea and sky beyond the cliffs. My third summer, she mused, before turning toward the kitchen where the newspapers lay folded on the table. She glanced at the headlines of the Daily Telegraph, news of the fighting in Italy but nothing about the impending invasion. The clock on the mantel chimed ten. As she turned on the radio, she was surprised to hear the announcer on the Dublin station rather than the usual music. Through the static she could hear his excited voice: ‘We repeat, we have received an urgent bulletin from London. The following communiqué was released by the Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Forces at 9.32 a.m.’ Clasping her arms tight across her chest, Mary leaned close to the radio, straining to capture every word. An American voice broke through the static.

  ‘Under the command of General Eisenhower, Allied naval forces, supported by strong air forces, began landing Allied armies this morning on the northern coast of France.’ Oh my God, thought Mary.

  Then the familiar Irish voice returned, ‘We repeat, ladies and gentlemen, the Allied command in London have announced the long awaited invasion of France. Details remain sketchy at this time, although the official German news agency reported earlier today the landing of airborne troops north of the Seine. We will interrupt our regular programming to bring you further developments as they are reported.’

  Mary stared at the small, round radio speaker now filling her kitchen with music. She slumped in the chair, massaging her forehead in her hands. She stayed by the radio for the rest of the morning, hoping to learn which units were involved, where the landings had taken place, and the progress of the fighting. But there was no more news. In her mind she heard his words telling her, yes, he would be there. At 11.30, again the music was suspended. The Dublin announcer solemnly informed his listeners: ‘We interrupt our scheduled programming for the following live broadcast from His Majesty, King George the Sixth.’ A scratchy recording of ‘God Save the King’ was aired, followed by static-filled silence, and then the carefully enunciated words of the King:

  Four years ago, our Nation and Empire stood alone against an overwhelming enemy, with our backs to the wall. Now once more a supreme test has to be faced. This time the challenge is not to fight to survive but to fight to win the final victory for the good cause. The Queen joins with me in sending you this message. She well understands the anxieties and care of our womenfolk at this time and she knows that many of them will find, as she does herself, fresh strength and comfort in such waiting upon God.

  At this historic moment surely not one of us is too busy, too young or too old to play a part in a nation-wide, perchance a world-wide, vigil of prayer as the great crusade sets forth.

  Mary prayed, fervently, from the depth of her heart, for Charles, for all the men, that they might succeed and return home safely. . . and for Eamon and his cause, wherever he might be. Music resumed on the radio, and after a few moments lost in thought, Mary returned to her chores. Then once again the announcer broke in: ‘It is reported that the British Prime Minister, flashing his usual confident grin and two fingers signalling victory, has just entered the House of Commons to a thundering ovation. Prime Minister Churchill is now addressing the Commons.’ Mary closed her eyes, trying to visualize the historic moment.

  Winston Churchill surveyed the familiar faces on the green leather benches and assumed his usual oratorical stance, his right hand grasping the lapel of his black jacket. ‘Let me begin,’ he said, ‘with the news from the Italian front. With our recent victory in Rome.’ The tension built as Churchill devoted almost fifteen minutes to a discussion of the Allies’ capture of the Italian capital. ‘Now,’ he said at last, ‘I have also to announce to the House that during the night and early hours of the morning’ – he paused for effect – ‘the first of a series of landings in force upon the European Continent has taken place. So far, the commanders report that everything is proceeding according to plan. And what a plan!’ The Commons erupted in cheers and applause. ‘Landings on the beaches are proceeding at various points at the present time. The fire of shore batteries has been largely quelled. Obstacles which were encountered in the sea have not proved as difficult as was anticipated. There is very much less loss than we expected. The many dangers and difficulties which at this time yesterday appeared extremely formidable are behind us.’ The Members rose as one and broke into a long, ringing ovation. Churchill acknowledged the tribute with a nod and strode triumphantly from the chamber.

  An American army officer stood in a corridor of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, running a finger around his hatband as he waited for the nurse to return. Weak sunlight shone through the windows that looked out on a Georgian quadrangle. Major Hanes Butler watched as a crow landed on the sill, reminding him of the crows in the tall pines of his Carolina home.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  He turned to a middle-aged nurse in a long white dress, with a peaked cap perched somewhat precariously atop her thick brown hair. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Butler in his soft drawl.

  ‘You may go in now,’ she said. ‘Colonel Davenport is on the right-hand side of the ward. But please remember – visits are limited to thirty minutes.’

  Butler nodded and said, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Rows of iron beds, partially obscured by screens, lined each side of the ward. Butler’s shoes tapped on the linoleum as he walked past the beds, averting his eyes from the men, until he was two-thirds of the way down the ward. He paused to look at the man on his right, whose face was obscured by a bandage. His gaze fell on the next man, resting peacefully under the white covers with one leg suspended from a stainless-steel frame and his arms folded across his chest. Despite the bandage on his forehead, Butler recognized Charles Davenport. When he walked up to the bedside he saw that Davenport was sleeping.

  ‘Charlie,’ he said softly. He gently shook his shoulder. ‘Hey . . . wake up.’

  Davenport opened his eyes and a look of happy reco
gnition spread across his face. ‘Hanes,’ he said in a strong voice. ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’

  ‘Well, Charlie,’ said Butler with a smile, ‘y’all did a heckuva job. Whipped ol’ Jerry’s ass.’

  ‘Yes, it was quite a show,’ said Davenport. ‘But how are things going now? I never hear anything in here.’

  ‘They’re still havin’ a tough time breaking out of the beachhead. But I reckon it’ll get done soon enough, with the number of men we keep sending across.’ He glanced briefly at Davenport’s suspended leg, frowned, and said, ‘How bad is it?’

  Davenport exhaled slowly and said, ‘It was a mortar round, right on the beach. I caught the shrapnel in my left shin, and a knock on the head. The docs tried saving it’ – he paused and looked at his leg – ‘but they had to take it off below the knee.’

  Butler shook his head and said, ‘Jeez, I’m sorry. What a lousy break.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s the end of the war for me,’ said Davenport in a resigned tone, propping himself up on the pillows.

  ‘Was it bad? The landing, I mean.’

  ‘Not by the time we came in. Just an occasional mortar round and some sniper fire.’ Davenport sat part way up, leaning on an elbow. ‘Listen, Hanes,’ he said. ‘There’s something I need to ask you . . .’

  ‘Shoot,’ said Butler.

  ‘Does Jenny know anything about this? I mean, have you said anything?’

  Butler gave Davenport a strange look. ‘Listen, Charlie,’ he said, ‘that’s one of the reasons I wanted to see you. To talk to you about Jenny.’

  ‘So you know,’ said Davenport dejectedly.

  ‘Know what?’

  Davenport slumped back on the pillows and said, ‘That she’s, well, pregnant.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but if you’d let me explain—’

  ‘Please,’ interrupted Davenport, raising his hand. ‘There’s something important I need to ask you. That night in Scotland, after the four of us had dinner?’

  ‘Sure, what about it?’

  ‘Well, I know I was tanked, but for the life of me I can’t remember what happened. Did I . . . I mean, did we go up to the room?’

  ‘You were drunk all right, damned near passed out. But no, you didn’t. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I was there, and I’m telling you, it never happened.’

  Davenport lay back on the pillows and closed his eyes. So he’d been right all along.

  ‘But don’t be too hard on Jenny,’ said Butler. ‘Peg says she was pretty broken-hearted when she got the news you had another girl, and then she turned up pregnant.’ Davenport nodded, feeling the overwhelming emotion of the condemned man who suddenly learns he’s been pardoned. ‘She shouldn’t have led you to believe,’ Butler continued, ‘that it was yours. But it sounds like she was desperate.’

  ‘What about Jenny?’ asked Davenport. ‘What will she do now?’

  ‘She’ll be fine. This other fellow, a captain in the merchant marine, came by to see her the other day. Turns out he’s crazy about her, and when he realized what had happened, he asked her to marry him. I gather she feels pretty rotten about laying it all on you.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I better get movin’ or that nurse will run me out of here. You need to take it easy and get well. They need you back on Morgan’s staff.’

  Davenport stared at the far wall. ‘Sure, Hanes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘And thanks for dropping by.’

  Mary was dressed in her Sunday best, anxious to get to church. Despite her exhaustion, she couldn’t rest. The days of worrying, walking, and learning to pray again had brought her back to worship. It was the only place she had found any peace. Her attendance had begun soon after Eamon’s farewell. The first services had an uneasy feel, like a new suit of clothes, stiff and scratchy, not quite right. But as the weeks passed, the Mass felt more familiar, and there came a sense of rediscovery, of old and welcome feelings, and genuine acceptance by the townspeople as she joined them in Sunday worship. The church was an aged stone structure. It looked small and insignificant, standing alone on the edge of town.

  After lighting a candle, she sat on one of the satin-smooth pews and breathed the stone-cooled air, redolent of wood polish and candles. Calm at last, she surrendered herself to the liturgy and ritual, oblivious to the sound of the wooden door scraping open. She sank to the kneeling bench with the rest of the congregation and clasped her hands tightly together. Engrossed in the priest’s solemn incantation, she closed her eyes and began to pray, just as she had prayed each day for weeks.

  He moved as quietly as he was able, leaning heavily on his crutches and swinging his good leg forward. He searched the pews, gazing into the eyes of the parishioners who looked up at the British officer moving slowly down the centre aisle, pausing to smile at a tall boy, perhaps sixteen, who was watching him with a look of intense curiosity. Though her eyes remained firmly shut Mary was intensely aware of a presence that halted at the end of her pew, and she knew, even before looking, that she would find Charles . . . come for her at last.

  EPILOGUE

  On 20 July, 1944, Lieutenant Colonel Count Klaus von Stauffenberg, attending a staff briefing at Wolfschanze, the Führer’s East Prussian headquarters, carefully placed his briefcase beneath a heavy oak conference table and excused himself from the meeting. Hurrying to his waiting car, he commanded the driver to take him to the nearby Luftwaffe airfield where a plane was standing by to fly him back to Berlin. At the airfield he telephoned his contact at Wehrmacht headquarters on Friedrichstrasse. As Stauffenberg was contacting his co-conspirators in Berlin, the bomb hidden in his briefcase exploded at 12.37 p.m., ripping apart the fragile wood structure. Stauffenberg heard it himself. The Führer was surely dead. Operation Valkyrie was on.

  By the time Stauffenberg’s plane landed at Tempelhof, Berlin’s airfield, the carefully orchestrated conspiracy to topple the Nazi regime had sprung into action. Troops were on the march to arrest Goering, Goebbels, and the rest of the Nazi leadership. At Wehrmacht headquarters, however, General Friedrich Olbricht, Stauffenberg’s key ally in the German Army, received an unexpected telephone call from Wolfschanze. Four men in the conference room had indeed been killed in the blast. But Adolf Hitler had miraculously survived. Olbricht and Stauffenberg were immediately placed under arrest and summarily shot. In the days and weeks that followed, the 20 July conspirators – the Schwartze Kapelle – in the plot to assassinate Hitler and topple the Nazi regime, were ruthlessly rooted out by the Gestapo from their positions in the army and civil government. Hauled before the People’s Court, they were publicly humiliated before they were shot and suspended from meat hooks with piano wire for the Führer to view. Adam von Trott, Eamon’s superior in the Abwehr, was among those rounded up and executed in the weeks following the failed coup. Only later, and out of view of his adoring German public, was Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, commander of the German forces that sought to repel the Normandy invasion, implicated in the conspiracy and forced to take his own life by poison.

  There is no known historical record of the response of the British and American governments to the peace overtures of the 20 July plotters or of the action they may have contemplated had the German patriots succeeded in killing Hitler and overthrowing the Nazi regime.

  By the same author

  Fell the Angels

  Hurricane Hole

  © John Kerr

  First published in Great Britain 2014

  ISBN978 0 7198 1695 6 (epub)

  ISBN978 0 7198 1696 3 (mobi)

  ISBN978 0 7198 1697 0 (pdf)

  ISBN978 0 7198 1417 4 (print)

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