by Nevil Shute
This plan was considered and discussed at Combined Operations headquarters, and it was decided to adopt it. If it were successful the electrical modification to the firing circuits would be good for many months. It was therefore decided to do the job about a month before Overlord so that if it were detected by the enemy there would be time to try some other way of neutralizing the mines. As regards the diversion, there was a launching site for the V-1 weapon about a mile from Le Tirage to the south, and it was arranged to stage a night air raid on this by a few aircraft of Bomber Command at the time when the frogmen were entering the river, to distract the attention of the German defenders from the waterfront.
The electrical gadgets to be fitted to the mines were prepared by the department which specialized in explosive fountain pens and lavatory seats, and Warrant Officer Finch told me that they spent a couple of days practicing in attaching them to a similar German mine which was in our possession. The latter part of this practice was carried out in darkness under water, working under similar conditions to those under which the operation must be carried out, with men watching from above to see if the frogmen could be detected in the work. When they were perfect in the relatively simple technique that was necessary a date was set for the operation, when there would be half tide in the entrance channel at one o’clock in the morning and no moon.
These conditions were fulfilled on May the 5th, and Sergeant Finch and Bill left Gosport in an MTB at about eight o’clock that evening, with a folboat on board, a sort of kayak built of waterproof canvas on a wooden frame that would carry them ashore on to the beach. They reached the other side at about midnight and lay to about four miles offshore, and put the folboat in the water. It was arranged that the MTB should lie there for two hours, till 0215 and she would then stand in towards the town upon a certain bearing if the frogmen by that time had not returned, running on her quiet, low-powered engines. If nothing had been seen of them by 0245 the MTB would have to return to base.
Sergeant Finch and Bill got into the folboat and paddled it ashore, landing about two hundred yards to the west of the river entrance. Conditions were not too good for their venture. It was a calm, cloudless night and the moon had only just set; there was still moonlight in the sky and visibility was relatively good. They would have preferred a windy, rainy, overcast night, but they decided to go on and do the job. They tied the folboat to one of the beach obstacles, adjusted the cylinders of oxygen upon the harness round their bodies, and entered the water.
Their plan of action was that Bill was to swim in first past the sentries at the mouth of the river and proceed up the half-mile entrance channel. Finch was to follow him five minutes later if all was quiet; if Bill were detected or if there were any firing Finch was to use his own discretion whether to go on or to abandon the attempt. Bill was to go on up to the lock gates and do the job on both mines, and Finch was to stay in support, resting in the water at a certain point about a hundred yards from the gates on the east side of the channel. If the job were not as they expected, or if Bill found himself growing tired before it was finished, he would come back and consult with Finch.
They had timed their movements accurately, for they only had to wait in the water for a couple of minutes off the beach till the air raid on the V-1 launching site commenced. Bill then waded forward till the sand fell away below him as he reached the river scour; he then dived and swam in under water, guided for depth by the pressure in his ears and for direction by occasionally touching the channel side. Both swam through the entrance to the river in this way and surfaced quietly well inside, and made their way cautiously up to the lock gates.
Bill came back presently to Finch and paused beside him, whispering in the darkness. He said that he had done the job all right but he had used most of his oxygen, for he had been under water for a considerable time. Finch had plenty of gas left, but they had no means of transferring gas from one man to the other. By that time the air raid was over, and everything was quiet again.
They decided that Bill should swim out first and make his way back to the folboat, postponing the dive under water as late as he dared to get the maximum distance out from the sentries on his remaining gas. Finch would follow him a few minutes later since he had more gas and could stay under water longer if the sentries were aroused. They were to meet at the folboat if all was quiet and go back to the MTB in that. If an alarm were raised they were to swim out along the bearing that the MTB would come in on to get picked up; they had small electric lamps attached to their suits that they could light for recognition as the ship drew near.
That was the last that Finch saw of Bill. He went off down the channel swimming on the surface; Finch followed him about five minutes later. He did not see Bill dive, but shortly before he reached the point where he had planned to dive himself firing broke out from the shore, directed at the point where Bill would probably have had to surface. Finch dived at once, and swam forward under water.
He swam out of the entrance to the river without difficulty, but when the channel scour in the sand petered out and was no longer a guide to him, he lost direction. He thought that he was swimming out to sea, but when his gas was nearly finished he found himself in shallow water. He surfaced very cautiously and breathed fresh air, and found that he was on the beach opposite the town, about two hundred yards to the east of the entrance, on the opposite side to where the folboat lay. He saw nothing of Bill, but searchlights were playing on the water at the entrance and very close to him. He dived again and swam out seawards, surfaced once more for an instant to check his direction, and swam on till his gas was all used up.
He surfaced then for good, and found himself a quarter of a mile from shore. He looked around for Bill and called out once or twice, very cautiously, but got no answer. He jettisoned his harness, gas cylinders, mask, and helmet to make swimming easier. He did not dare to go back to the folboat, for the searchlights were playing all around the entrance and discovery of the boat seemed certain. He set himself to swim out on the bearing that the MTB would come in on, and presently he saw her and lit his lamp for a few moments, till she slowed beside him and men helped him up a scramble net on to her deck.
About that time a searchlight picked her up, and fire was opened on her from the shore. She could not stay to look for Bill, and put on her main engines and made off to sea, in which of course she was quite right.
I think Bill may have been quite close to Finch at one time in the water. His body was picked up by the Germans ten days later floating in the water about five miles out from Ouistreham. He had jettisoned his cylinders and mask, as Finch had done. There was a bullet wound in the left shoulder, but death was due to drowning.
That is how my only brother came to meet his end. His body, when it was recovered from the sea, was taken to Caen for examination by the German intelligence and medical officers, and according to the French it was buried there. Caen, however, was fought over and very largely destroyed a month later, and I have never succeeded in discovering his grave. For a memorial of Bill, who died in the black sea off Normandy a long way from his home at Coombargana in the Western District, let the record stand that when the Canadians took Le Tirage in the assault exactly a month later the lock gates were captured intact and our supply lighters began to use the river immediately.
When I met Warrant Officer Finch at Eastney years later and he gave me that account, he also told me that he had written to Janet Prentice to tell her of Bill’s death, and that he had taken the dog Dev to Mastodon. I found his letter with some others that she had thought important enough to keep, in her case, at Coombargana, and Viola Dawson told me what had happened to the dog. His letter ran.
4th LCOCU,
C/o GPO
Dear Miss Prentice,
I don’t know if you will remember me but I was with Bill Duncan the day the tank was flooded over at Newtown. I’m sorry to say I have bad news for you. We had a sort of operation at a place abroad and Bill did not come back. I am afraid he bought it. That�
��s all I’m allowed to say and I know you will understand about that.
I am very sorry to have to write a letter like this to you but I know that poor old Bill would have wanted one of his friends to tell you, because I know that you and he were such great friends. I am so sorry.
We don’t know what to do about his dog Dev that he called after de Valera, could you make a home for him? He said once you had said perhaps you could if he got moved away. The captain said to shoot him and I will do that and see it all done decent for Bill, but before I do that I thought I would ask you if you wanted him and if so I will bring him over to you. Please let me know.
I am so sorry to have to write you a letter like this.
Yours sincerely,
Albert Finch
Viola Dawson told me that Janet gave her this letter to read half an hour after she got it; they must have been very close friends. She said that Janet was dry-eyed and quite composed, though very quiet after she received it. Viola didn’t think she cried at all, and she remembered that particularly because it worried her a bit. She explained it to herself, and to me years later, by the reflection that Janet had seen more of death than most Wrens in the Service, and she no longer had the feeling, “This can’t happen to me.” When Viola gave her back the letter with some words of sympathy, she sat silent turning the letter over and over in her hands, looking down at it in her lap. Presently she told Viola very quietly that that was all over and done with, and that she would never marry anybody now. Viola Dawson would have been a great deal happier about her if she had cried.
Presently Janet got up and walked over from her hut to the mansion and asked a wardroom stewardess if she could see Third Officer Collins. Miss Collins was hardly older than Janet herself, and from much the same class. When she came out Janet said, “Could I see you privately for a minute, ma’am?”
“Of course.”
She led the way down to the office that she shared with another Wren officer in what had been the butler’s pantry of the mansion; it was empty at that moment. “What is it, Prentice?” she asked.
Janet handed her the letter. “I’ve had this about a friend of mine,” she said.
The officer read it quickly through. “Oh, my dear, I am sorry,” she said. “Do you want to go on leave?”
Janet shook her head. “No. I’d rather carry on here. There’s nothing to go on leave for. He was an Australian — I didn’t know his people, only him. What I wanted to see you about, ma’am, was the dog.”
Third Officer Collins re-read the last part of the letter. “I see . . .” This was much more difficult than compassionate leave. “Do you mean you want to have him here?”
“It wouldn’t matter, would it? I could keep him out of the way. There’s lots of places here, in the grounds I mean, where one could keep a dog.”
The Wren officer hesitated, hating what she had to say. She braced herself to add to the burden of the girl before her. “I don’t believe the captain would allow it, Prentice. In fact, I know he wouldn’t. Second Officer Foster asked the captain if she could have her dog with her here, and he wouldn’t let her. He won’t have any dogs in the ship. You see, if you allow it for one you’ve got to allow it for them all.”
“You mean, he’s got to be shot?” asked Janet.
“I only mean it isn’t possible for you to have him here, my dear. Couldn’t you go on compassionate leave and take him home with you and leave him with your people?”
“They don’t want him,” she said dully. “Daddy’s away with the seaborne Observer Corps, and Mummy couldn’t cope with him on her own, on top of all the other things she’s got to do. No, he’ll have to go. I’ll write and tell Sergeant Finch. Thank you, ma’am.”
Third Officer Collins went back to the wardroom, worried and depressed. Lieutenant Parkes, the ordnance officer, was there reading a copy of For Men Only. She stopped beside his chair.
“I’ve just been speaking to your Leading Wren Prentice,” she said. “Her boy friend’s been killed.”
He looked up at her quickly. “The marine sergeant who used to take her out? I say, I’m sorry about that. How did it happen?”
“They won’t tell her. He was in that Combined Ops party — you know.” He nodded. “She’s just had a letter from one of his pals.”
His mind turned to the work. “Does this mean that she’s going off on leave?”
“No — she doesn’t want to do that.” Third Officer Collins went on to tell him about the dog.
Lieutenant Parkes was very angry indeed. “I never heard such bloody nonsense,” he exclaimed. “There’s bags of places here where she could keep a dog. I bet this place was stiff with dogs in peacetime. Why, there’s a great range of kennels behind the stables!”
She said, “The captain wouldn’t hear of it when Foster wanted to have hers here.”
He got up from his chair. “He’s not going to hear of it now.”
He was a cigarette smoker, which meant that he did not use the half pound of duty free pipe tobacco which he was allowed to draw from naval stores each month. He had found this useful to him in his duties, because the construction of his armament workshop and the track that led to it had brought him into contact with the head gardener more than once. The house was let to the Admiralty for the duration of the war upon a purely nominal rent, but a clause in the lease required that the magnificent gardens should be kept in order and repair by the owners of the property. Gardens that in peacetime demanded the services of nearly fifty gardeners to tend the hundred acres that they covered still required the attentions of fifteen ancient men even in 1944, and the head gardener was a power in H.M.S. Mastodon. Lieutenant Parkes had realized this very early in his appointment and had kept Mr. McAlister sweet with an occasional half pound of Navy tobacco. Burning with indignation, he went straight from the wardroom to the greenhouses.
From there he went to the Wrennery. He stopped a girl going in and said, “Ask Leading Wren Prentice to come out, will you? I want to see her.”
When she came he was shocked at the stony look of suffering upon her face. He averted his eyes after one glance. “Look,” he said, “Third Officer Collins told me that you want to keep a dog.”
She said, “It’s no good, sir. The captain won’t allow it.”
“No,” he replied. “He won’t. But I’ve just been talking to Mr. McAlister, the gardener — you know. He wants a dog to guard the greenhouses. He says the ratings are getting in at night and pinching things. I told him I knew of a good watchdog, and I’d put a couple of ratings on to knock up a kennel. The captain’s got nothing to do with any dog McAlister likes to bring in here to guard his greenhouses, provided that it’s McAlister’s dog. I’ve had a word with McAlister. He’ll say it’s his dog.”
He glanced at the girl before him, smiling, and was alarmed to see a tear escape and trickle down her cheek. “Thanks awfully, sir,” she muttered.
He felt that he must cut this very short if she was not to break down in public. “Get him to McAlister’s house,” he said. “You know where he lives? Let Mac bring him in here — don’t you bring him in. Mac’s expecting him, and he’ll swear blue that it’s his dog.” He turned away. “And look — I’m awfully sorry.”
When I met Viola Dawson she told me a good bit about the dog, both at our first meal together at Bruno’s restaurant in Earl’s Court and later in the course of our many meetings. “She went crackers over that dog,” she told me once. “She spent every spare minute that she had with him. I was very glad to see it, as a matter of fact. I mean it was a sort of outlet for her after your brother’s death. Probably did her good.”
Sergeant Finch took Dev to Mr. McAlister’s house and left him there; he did not see Janet, nor did he want to. “I couldn’t say anything about your brother,” he told me. “It was all hush, if you understand. It makes it kind of awkward when you can’t say anything, and it’s not as if I knew her very well. I just left his dog with the gardener like she told me in her letter, an
d I gave him the packet of letters and the photograph she asked for out of Bill’s kit, to give to her, and then I beat it.”
Within an hour Janet had discovered him in the new kennel by the greenhouses that the ordnance ratings had knocked up for him, and he knew her, and bounded forward when he saw her, and licked her face. Every Wren in the place knew all about him, of course, and in the galley the cooks set aside a huge plate of scraps for Janet to give him for his supper, for she was popular and they were sorry for her. It was a very well fed dog that settled down in his new kennel for a good night’s sleep.
The Commander of H.M.S. Mastodon, an elderly officer brought back from retirement, found him there on the third day and asked about him. The head gardener launched into a tirade in the broadest Scots complaining about the wickedness of ratings who stole flowers that should have graced the wardroom to give to their girl friends, necessitating the presence of McAlister’s own dog to check the depredations. The Commander escaped after a quarter of an hour of ear-bashing, and Dev became a part of H.M.S. Mastodon.
He never did much watchkeeping, because he slept soundly every night. He spent most of the day with Janet in the ordnance workshop or around the pier. Occasionally she would take him in the boat with her to visit an LCT if she knew he would be welcome but did not do this very often for fear that she would meet the captain of Mastodon and be asked about him. On the few week-ends that remained before the balloon went up she used to take him for a long country walk on Sunday afternoon, and once Viola went with them, over the moors in the direction of Hythe. “She’d have been quite happy without me,” Viola said, laughing. “The dog was company enough for her.”
The last month saw a great transformation of the countryside round Beaulieu, with intense activity in every field and copse. Road gangs were at work with bulldozers and graders ruthlessly straightening and widening the country lanes that led down to the hard at Lepe, tearing down the hedges and pushing them aside into the fields, straightening out corners. Every two or three hundred yards along each lane hard stands were made, which were parking places for tanks and vehicles. Temporary airstrips paved with hessian and steel units appeared almost overnight and crowded thickly one on top of another. The U.S. Air Force moved in to these with Thunderbolts and B. 25’s, and Lymington became thronged with American soldiers and American trucks. Overhead it was a common sight to see fifty of their aircraft flying in formation at one time.
