The Waiting Hours

by Ellie Dean

  It had been a shock to see Felix striding into the pub earlier that evening, his expression grim, his words terse as he’d told her what had happened. Her first instinct had been to go to the farm, but Felix had been adamant she should wait until tomorrow. He’d left as soon as he’d passed on the news about young Herbert, clearly not in the mood for pleasantries, or even curious as to whether she’d spoken to Carol – and so she’d gone straight to bed, her dreams troubled by the sound of gunfire and images of young men lying too still on a beach.

  Restless and unable to settle to anything, she dressed and then paced the small bedroom, impatient for the dawn. Her troubled thoughts veered from the conversation she must have with Carol to her worry over Marie-Claire, then on to what might be happening to Brendon out at sea – and finally to Felix.

  He would no doubt be blaming himself for what had happened on the beach that morning even though he was merely an observer, and had therefore taken no part in the planning and execution of the exercise. But she’d seen from his expression earlier that the loss of his young men had hit him hard, and that he would demand to know how things had gone so very wrong.

  Dolly stubbed out her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and went to lean out of the open window in an attempt to clear her head. The world was in chaos, the future for all of them hanging in the balance, and at the mercy of the commanders in charge who were proving as ineffectual and disorganised as the ones during the last shout.

  She gave a deep sigh and reached for yet another cigarette as the distant gunfire echoed through the stillness. The waiting hours before dawn were always the longest.

  47

  Convoy T-4, HMS Azalea

  Radio silence was the order of the night, for it was vital the Germans didn’t get wind of the convoy, or the reason it was in the Channel. Brendon stood on the bridge of the corvette as his commanding officer, Lieutenant Commander George Carlow Geddes RNR, followed the convoy of eight heavily laden American LSTs through manoeuvres in Lyme Bay. It was after one in the morning and bitterly cold; visibility was non-existent in the darkness of a moonless night, but the water was reasonably calm, and Geddes was a highly decorated and experienced commander who’d seen action on this corvette in the North Atlantic: the Azalea and her crew were in safe hands.

  The convoy was strung out in a line at 700-yard intervals, moving at a steady six knots as the ships executed the wide, looping route out into the Channel before they turned back towards the landing point at Slapton Sands. This manoeuvre was to get the men below the decks of the American LSTs used to being at sea for the length of time it would take them to get to France for the actual invasion, but Brendon shared Geddes’s concern that they’d be sitting ducks if Jerry spotted them.

  He looked through his binoculars, scanning the black Channel waters where the cruiser USS Augusta and the three British destroyers formed a line of defence ninety miles off the French coast, accompanied tonight by a flotilla of British Coastal Service MGBs and MTBs, along with two more LSTs. There had been reported sighting of the swift E-boats patrolling the Channel off Cherbourg during the week, and it was vital that the Germans didn’t suspect what was happening in Lyme Bay.

  Geddes seemed to read his mind. ‘There was an enemy spotter plane sighted two days ago, and with all the American radio traffic coming out of Lyme Bay, it’s highly likely Jerry’s picked up that something’s going on there. It’s a damned nuisance HMS Scimitar was holed while in port and ordered to stay there. We could have done with the added protection.’

  ‘The Saladin should be on her way by now,’ said Brendon, still scanning the Channel.

  Geddes grunted. ‘For all the good she’ll be. It takes her half a day to turn round, and four knots is about all she can make without falling to pieces. She’s held together by rust, and it would be a kindness to break her up.’

  It was now two in the morning and they were west of Tor Bay and steaming NNW for their final approach to Slapton Sands.

  The radio suddenly crackled into life, and a calm English voice said, ‘Nine enemy torpedo boats spotted north of defence screen. Advancing at thirty-six knots. Scatter. Scatter.’

  Geddes called for battle stations, and shouted down to the engine room for full steam as he began a sharp turn in order to get his powerful guns facing the oncoming enemy.

  Brendon braced himself as he turned his binoculars on the LSTs still strung out in front of them. ‘Why aren’t they scattering? They must have received that—’ His words were cut off by a massive explosion.

  LST-507 had been hit amidships by two torpedoes and was on fire, the flames quickly becoming an inferno as they reached the full fuel tanks in the many jeeps and trucks that were chained topside on the deck. The lifeboats were burning, so the men abandoned ship by diving into the freezing water or scrambling down the cargo net that had been dropped over the side. Within minutes the raging blaze reached the storage containers of petrol and boxes of ammunition stored below deck, and the ship exploded, broke up and sank.

  The Azalea’s guns opened fire as the convoy finally – and swiftly – broke formation. But the enemy boats were painted the same black as the night and the water, and were invisible.

  LST-531 blew up, and as Brendon watched in horror, it sank so quickly there was no chance anyone had survived.

  The sky was lit up with red tracers and bright magnesium flares as the convoy’s guns continued to boom. Fires were quickly extinguished; lifeboats, landing craft and cargo nets were lowered to try and rescue the floundering men in the water.

  In the utter chaos the LSTs lost their bearings, while the swift and deadly E-boats hunted their prey in pairs, firing indiscriminately, their torpedoes slicing through the water towards ships, landing craft, lifeboats and helpless men. LST-498 fired on LST-511 in the confusion, while LST-58 was hampered by the two pontoon causeways she was towing. Screaming men leapt from their burning ships to plunge into the water that was now alight from the spilled oil and petrol.

  LST-289 was hit by a torpedo, and as the crew raced to put out the fires, she slowly turned away in an effort to limp back to port, the lifeboats jammed in their rusty hawsers as cargo nets were slung over the side to pick up survivors.

  Brendon and the other officers had gone on deck to back up the ship’s guns by shooting at the enemy they could hear but couldn’t see, and they all breathed a sigh of relief as the welcome bulk of HMS Onslow loomed out of the darkness, all guns blazing.

  The E-boats put up a thick screen of black smoke and used their speed and agility to make their escape. The booming guns eventually fell silent, and now the night was filled with the sound of men pleading for help.

  Geddes ordered the lifeboats to be lowered and gave Brendon permission to leave the bridge to organise a rescue party from the deck.

  Brendon checked his life jacket was fastened correctly and went back outside to the pitiful sound of the desperate men crying out in the water. As the lifeboats were swiftly launched, he got the remaining crew to form two chains down the cargo net, with others waiting topside to carry the survivors inside, and then clambered down until the water reached his waist.

  Desperate cries came to him out of the darkness as hands reached out, clawing at him, threatening to pull him into the water now churning from the wakes of the ships.

  Brendon and the crew worked swiftly, for the sea was freezing, the men exhausted, injured and smeared in oil. But as time went on the cries for help faded, and all they could see were the hundreds of bodies, most of which were soldiers with their heads deep in the water, their feet in the air, top-heavy from their packs because they hadn’t worn their life jackets correctly.

  The lifeboats returned with a few injured survivors, while Brendon and the others pulled in as many bodies as they could. But the task was hopeless. The number of dead was overwhelming.

  And then Brendon saw something pale moving in the gathering light of dawn and thought he heard a cry for help. He ordered the crew to be silent, peered i
nto the half-light and listened hard, praying he’d hear the cry again.

  When it came it was youthful and faint, the boy too far away and too weak to swim towards the Azalea. Brendon took off his boots and swam out to him awkwardly, for the life jacket made movement difficult, and the freezing water had already cramped his muscles from the waist down.

  He found the boy clinging to a piece of wood, his life jacket the only thing that had kept him afloat. ‘It’s okay, wee wain,’ he said, grasping the life jacket and turning him on his back. ‘You’re safe now.’

  He spat out the oil-infused saltwater and crabbed back towards the Azalea, the youth resting against his chest, so limp that Brendon feared he’d lost him. But as willing hands lifted him away, he opened his eyes and smiled before passing out again.

  Brendon didn’t know how the lad had survived for so long, for he was freezing after just a few minutes, his body seizing up to the point where he could barely hold on to the netting. But as he struggled to cling to the rope, the crew dragged him out of the water and lifted him onto the deck, where he was immediately stripped of his sodden uniform and bundled into a blanket before being taken inside.

  Brendon was shivering so badly he couldn’t hold the cup of tea that had been thrust into his hands without spilling it. His hands and feet were white and numb, and as he tried to smoke a cigarette, all he could taste was engine oil. ‘How’s the wee boy?’ he asked the harassed medic through chattering teeth.

  ‘He’s lucky; he’ll make it,’ he replied. He jerked a thumb at the many rows of bodies which had been respectfully covered by tarpaulin on the outside deck. ‘Which is more than can be said for those poor souls.’

  The man regarded Brendon through his spectacles. ‘What the devil just happened out here?’

  ‘Hell happened,’ shivered Brendon. ‘And I aim to find out who was responsible.’

  The medic grunted. ‘Good luck with that,’ he said. ‘The top brass will cover it up, you’ll see. Something like this isn’t good for morale.’

  Brendon regarded the bodies on the deck and thought of all the others still in the water. ‘Bugger morale,’ he muttered. ‘The families of all those men need to know why they died.’

  Slapton Sands

  Felix was having the same thought as he watched the extensively damaged LST-289 limp past on her way to Dartmouth to offload her dead and wounded. Almost her entire rear end had been blasted and buckled, and it was a miracle she was still afloat. It was barely dawn, and he paused in his gruesome task of hauling in the bodies to look helplessly out at the hundreds more that were slowly being washed ashore.

  The surviving LSTs and landing craft were coming in as planned, but along with the supplies and vehicles, they brought in more bodies to be laid upon the beach until the sand was all but hidden by them. Ambulances and trucks flooded onto the causeway as stretcher bearers, nurses and doctors rushed to clear away the evidence of the night’s tragedy – no doubt under instruction from the commanders whose incompetence had caused it.

  Felix continued to help the infantrymen and engineers pull the dead men and boys out of the water. There were too many boys – youngsters who’d not been given the chance to grow old; whose lives had been snatched away through sheer carelessness and bad judgement.

  He was seething with anger, trembling with it as he gently laid yet another kid on the sand. He could have wept. But tears wouldn’t bring them back or solve anything, and he knew he had to find the strength to accept that he’d played a part in this carnage by not being more forceful about those life jackets. But he would demand answers from those commanders and ensure that mistakes like this would never happen again.

  48

  Coombe Farm

  Unable to get back to sleep, Carol had clambered out of bed to get dressed and tiptoe out of the barn with Nipper. It was almost four in the morning and the guns had been silent for over an hour, and as she went out into the hazy light of early dawn, she caught the stench of cordite and burning oil in the air, and quickened her pace.

  Arriving at the brow of the hill, she was startled to find Frank, Dolly and Betty standing there, transfixed by something down on the beach. ‘What is it?’ she asked in dread.

  Their faces were ashen, their eyes dull with shock and horror, and Dolly reached out to her. ‘Don’t look, darling. It’s too distressing.’

  ‘Brendon? Has something happened to Brendon?’

  ‘No, thank God,’ breathed Betty. ‘Or at least it appears he’s all right. That’s his ship off Portland Bill, and it looks to be in one piece.’

  Carol ignored her mother’s staying hand and went to look for herself – and immediately wished she hadn’t. With a cry of distress she saw the bodies floating in the water and covering the sand – saw the ambulances, the stretchers, the dazed and bewildered troops milling about as more ships came in carrying the dead and injured. And in the middle of it all she saw Felix. At this distance, she couldn’t see his face, but she could only imagine how he must be feeling as he watched another body being covered by a blanket and stretchered away.

  ‘Dear God,’ she breathed, the tears streaming down her face as images of David lying dead on the desert sands of Africa flashed through her mind. ‘How could this have happened?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Frank, ‘and no doubt we never will. The brass won’t want something like this getting out, even if it was a surprise enemy attack.’

  ‘Do you think that’s what it could have been?’ Carol asked. ‘Is there any way you can find out, Frank? Would Brendon confide in you, do you think?’

  ‘I doubt it, Carol. Whatever happened, he’ll be ordered to keep his mouth shut – and I suggest none of us speak about this again, because we’ve seen something we shouldn’t have, and could be arrested.’

  ‘But they can’t hide something like this,’ Carol protested tearfully. ‘There are so many dead, and I just know that Felix will not let this be hushed up.’

  ‘He’s been an army man and obeyed orders all his life,’ said Dolly, her eyes bright with unshed tears. ‘And with something like this …’ She turned to Carol. ‘Felix is a good man with a deep sense of honour. He’ll tell the brass what he thinks of them if this slaughter was their fault. But in the end his will be one voice, and if Churchill and Ike order complete news blackout he’ll have no choice but to remain silent.’

  Carol turned her back on the carnage, trembling with the horror of it all. The war had finally come to Slapton, and the stark brutality of it was something she’d never forget.

  ‘I need to get to Brixham to make sure Brendon’s all right,’ said Frank. ‘Can I borrow your car, Dolly?’

  She nodded, her attention focused on Carol. ‘The keys are in the ignition, but watch out for that broken handbrake,’ she replied distractedly.

  ‘Can I come with you, Frank?’ pleaded Betty tearfully.

  ‘I’m sorry, wee girl, but you won’t be allowed through without an army pass.’ He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘But I’ll come straight back and tell you about Brendon, I promise.’

  As Frank and Betty headed down the hill, Dolly embraced Carol. ‘I’m so sorry you had to witness that,’ she murmured. ‘I do hope it hasn’t upset you too much and brought things back.’

  Carol dried her tears and tried to find some sort of calm to distil those images still in her head. ‘I hope David had someone to care for him the way Felix so obviously cares about those boys,’ she managed. ‘It’s awful to think he might have died alone.’

  ‘I’m sure his fellow officers were with him and took just as much care as Felix has.’ Dolly lovingly cupped her cheek, and wiped away Carol’s tears with gentle fingers. ‘You’ve come to like Felix, haven’t you?’

  Carol regarded her warily and then nodded. ‘I didn’t tell you because I thought it might upset you, but yes, we’ve become friends.’ She flicked back her fair hair as it was blown by the wind across her face. ‘As you say, he’s a good man, and I find him easy to talk to and confi
de in.’

  ‘And what did you talk about?’ asked Dolly, drawing her slowly down the hill as the other two disappeared from view.

  Carol frowned, puzzled by her mother’s questions, and reluctant to reveal just how close she and Felix had become over the past months.

  ‘You can tell me, Carol,’ Dolly said. ‘I know you’ve become friends.’

  Carol had no idea how she knew that, but it was a relief not to have to keep it a secret any more. She told her about Betty’s run-in with Ken and the night they’d spent in the hospital. ‘We talked about a lot of things that night,’ she finished.

  ‘I suppose he told you that he and I had once been very close,’ said Dolly.

  ‘He didn’t say anything much about your relationship, but then he didn’t have to. I’d guessed a long time ago that you’d been lovers,’ said Carol. ‘But what I still don’t understand is why you were so determined not to talk about him. It’s clear he still loves you and you love him – so why did you turn your back on him?’

  ‘Our affair didn’t end well,’ said Dolly, taking her hand.

  ‘Yes, he did tell me about his wife and son – and I can understand why you broke things off.’ She regarded her mother thoughtfully. ‘He regrets hurting you, and fully admits he should have been honest with you right from the start – but he’s on his own now, and if you still feel so strongly about each other, why can’t you forgive him?’

  Dolly sank onto a patch of grass and hugged her knees. ‘I forgave him years ago,’ she admitted quietly. ‘The person I can’t forgive is myself.’

  Carol frowned and sat next to her. ‘Why, what did you do?’