by Ian Lindsey
“That is quite a tale. American history only goes back a couple hundred years, so the old stories aren’t quite legends yet.” Dylan noted with a small smile.
“Are you aiming to make yourself a legend with your adventure over here?” Clara asked sternly, but with a look of tender concern in her eyes.
“Absolutely not.” Dylan answered quickly and sternly.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. That may be the second time I’ve done so when asking why you are here.” Clara sighed after realizing the brashness of her question. “It’s just, I seem to like you more than I should. I’d hate to see you try for something foolish and get hurt.” She quietly admitted.
“Do you think your father would mind if I took you for a walk now?” Dylan asked in his most chivalrous tone masking the increasing pace of his heartbeat.
“I don’t care if he does. I’ll just tell the butler that we are stepping out.” Clara said in a fashion true to what her brother had warned Dylan about in London.
Without much thought the two stepped out the front door moments later. Dylan felt a little embarrassed to not know much of where he was, so he was forced to let Clara take the lead. The night held just the smallest hint of a chill, so Dylan offered his jacket to Clara mostly because he thought it the gentlemanly thing to do. He hadn’t noticed that it capably covered up her red dress that had drawn the attention of other passersby. Both the tall boy and striking red haired girl failed to notice much else as they hovered in the glow of the first inclination that both felt the same about each other.
“How on earth did we end up here?” Clara wondered in amazement after several blocks.
“Um, I was following you.” Dylan said a little confused. The generally self assured military man acted less so in the presence of this particular Irish girl.
“No, I mean how did you and I end up walking together tonight? You’re an American from Oregon, graduated from WestPoint and yet you somehow ended up in Dublin with my brother and I just met you walking out of the library at Trinity. Somehow I meet a boy at school who isn’t actually from my school.” Clara explained her wonder to Dylan.
“I’ll just consider myself lucky. You’re brother did try to warn me off while we were in London.” Dylan teased.
“Funny, he tried to warn me off of you as well before dinner last night.” Clara laughed.
“I think he might have been trying to play the reverse match-maker. Apparently we both fell for it.” Dylan cried out with a deep belly laugh. “I’m now required to trust you, though, as I have no idea where we are. I'm not usually this bad with directions, but I guess I usually have my brother to co-pilot us back home. I guess I’ve only been looking at you this whole time.”
“We are almost to the bridge. The River Dodder isn’t big, more of a small canal most of the time, but the bridge provides a nice view out towards the south of town. We’ve also already passed your embassy and a couple of others.” Clara said sweetly. Dylan looked ahead and saw for himself that she had led them to the namesake bridge of the town. The short two arch bridge couldn’t have been more than thirty feet across and ten feet high, but the craftsmanship of the old grey rock bridge belied its age.
“This is such a pleasant evening. You’d hardly believe there’s a war on.” Clara said as she leaned against the side of the bridge with her back to the water. Dylan leaned over the side to look out at the river and bent at the waist with his elbows planted on the rock parapet.
“Calm before the storm. Tomorrow you’ll head to Dover and I’ll be on a boat I have yet to see.” Dylan cautioned. “I’m happy to just think about tonight. Tomorrow will bring what it may bring.”
“Very philosophical of you, my dear. Do they teach you to trust the fates at WestPoint?” Clara teased.
“We have a world class English and Philosophy department, but I only took the one critical thinking class required for graduation. The rest of the time I was looking at machines or playing baseball.” Dylan declared.
“And yet I still seem to like you.” Clara chuckled.
“I’ll take that as a compliment, and count it along with the rest of my blessings tonight.” Dylan wryly responded.
“Where do we go from here?” Clara asked.
“Again, I’m still fairly lost, so you’ll have to lead us back.” Dylan deadpanned back.
“No!” Clara cried. “I mean, you leave tomorrow on my father’s boats. I’ll hopefully see you in Dover, but I don't know.”
Dylan knew no answer could possibly suffice in such a moment, so he simply stood and pulled Clara close. With one hand on her hip and one hand gently cradling her fine features he kissed her slowly and gently. To Dylan’s great joy, she kissed him back as he felt her body melt in to his. The two lingered in the embrace and glow of their first intimacy for several beats past a usual first kiss.
“You showed great restraint waiting this long to kiss me, but I’m glad you didn’t wait longer.” Clara sighed with a happy smile as she stayed in his arms and linked hers around his waist.
“I’m pleased you liked it. I felt a little forward. Plus, if I was wrong you could always shove me off a boat tomorrow!” Dylan cried with a little chuckle to himself at the relief of avoiding outright rejection. The two held each other for a while longer leaning on the parapet overlooking the small river.
“Walk me home slowly.” Clara stated more than asked. “I don’t want this to end but I also don’t want my father to start wondering too much.”
Dylan took her hand in his and ambled in the right direction back towards the house belying his protests that he was lost. He slowly led her along the sidewalks as she dropped his hand to take his arm and walk more closely to him. Anyone observing the two could quickly surmise the situation of two young people finding love for the first time. They walked slowly and closely, and neither wanted the walk to end.
Chapter 13
May 26th, 1940
Early the next morning Dylan and Payton woke in the comfortable guest room at the O’Ryan household to an unseasonably cold and foggy day. Mrs. O’Ryan provided a brief but filling breakfast for everyone and then they all managed to squeeze in to Timothy’s car and head for Howth. They wound their way north through the center of the city and over the River Liffey before bending north east and aiming around Dublin Harbor. Howth lay a scant 10 miles northeast of the city proper, so the drive took less than an hour. The road to the O’Ryan’s country house passed through the small village of Howth and curved along the high cliffs overlooking the harbor so the twins saw the mist slowly crawl back out to see as the sun began to beat back the grey and bring out the blue sky above. They arrived just as the whole harbor revealed itself and the splendid house shown like a jewel on the cliffs above the water. The main house stood a hundred yards or so inland from a thirty foot cliff that jutted out to the Irish Sea. The small spit of land out in to the water created a small south facing natural harbor below the house and the O’Ryans had built a set of stairs down to a very serviceable dock that the twins only saw once they’d gotten out of the car and walked past the boathouse to the cliff. The secluded dock fit perfectly and aided the clandestine liquor running for the family business. On the North side of the spit the waves crashed below the emerald green carpet covering the estate that gave the island its signature color and lush texture. In all the reading the twins had done on European History during school that included descriptions of Ireland, this spot perfectly fit what they’d imagined Ireland to look like.
“I’m not sure what our ancestors were thinking, leaving this place.” Dylan quietly sighed to his brother as the two stood alone on the bluffs.
“I think lack of potatoes had something to do with it.” Payton wryly noted.
Dylan chuckled a little bit as Clara walked up behind and took him by the arm. She said “I’ll show you around the place. I love it here, and have explored it since I was a child.”
Payton noted the affection between Clara and his brother, which con
firmed the news his brother had shared as they drifted off to sleep the night before. Then and there, Payton gave up on his warning to his brother and with a smile at Clara and glance to his brother mentally wished them the best in their burgeoning relationship.
As they turned back to the house, Clara slipped her arm around Dylan’s waist and he put his around her shoulder. Dylan said “This house is gorgeous. I can see why you love it here.”
Clara led the two boys back past the small boat house toward the immense main house. The original stonework cottage stood out front of a large brick addition with three peaks in the Victorian style. Five white shuttered windows hung on the second level symmetrically with the same pattern repeated on the first floor save for the black door with a small pillar and portico replacing the middle window. The three peaks signaled three dormers on the third floor protruding from the rooftop which must have had splendid views of the countryside to match the awe inspiring cliff top ocean views from the rear of the house.
“Father bought this to try and get us out of the city more when I was five years old.” Clara explained. “I guess it is a second home, but honestly I feel more at home here than anywhere else. I learned to read here, and to swim as well.”
“A place to feel at home; you are lucky because that is a special thing.” Dylan said to her tenderly. Clara fairly beamed back at him with a smile so bright it could outshine the lighthouse they saw up the road. The trio continued around the grounds with low rock walls and a small garden in the back. Payton asked what they grew and Clara simply noted that going forward they’d grow more foodstuffs even though Ireland had no rationing issues. Clara pointed at all the places she’d ever fallen off the walls, scraped her knees, or played a trick on her brother. After a good half hour tour they finally made it back to the main house and found Timothy on the back porch waiting for them.
“Gents, I hope you enjoyed the tour of the grounds. I’ll take you down and show you the boats now, if you please.” Timothy said jovially.
“Of course, to the boats. Clara, thank you for the tour, it was marvelous. I hope I can return the favor and give you a tour of our humble farm if you are ever in Oregon.” Dylan said.
“I’d be delighted, but I fear you won’t be there anytime soon to show me around.” Clara replied with a hint of melancholy.
“Splendid, to the docks then.” Timothy interrupted the moment blithely trying to ignore the look he saw between his sister and Dylan.
“I’ll be inside with mother.” Clara cheerily noted while she herself ignored her brother as the three boys walked off towards the cliffs.
Timothy led his American friends to the back of the property and down the wide stairs cut into the cliffs. Hauling cases of liquor up the stairs must have been hard work, even if the stairs were intentionally cut wide enough for the task. That truth revealed itself as they got to the bottom of the stairs because someone tired of hauling had built an ingenious dumbwaiter elevator pulley system to handle the heavy lifting. The platform looked big enough to carry a couple men or a dozen cases of liquor at least.
“Nice little lift you’ve built here. It must save your back.” Dylan said to Timothy.
“Indeed it does. My father and I built that when I was a teenager. We designed it together after I’d complained long enough about lifting cases.” Timothy chuckled to himself. “You’ll see the boats are over here on the dock.” He gestured towards the three covered boat slips tucked beneath the cliffs protecting an unusually calm little cove. The three boys walked out on the docks and came to the first of three identical boats, each bearing a meaningful Irish name. The Eriu was for the goddess of peace, the Eirinn was for the ancient name of Ireland, and finally the Etain was for the heroine of a famed Irish legend. Each boat looked to be about 40 feet long and a third of that or so abeam. The weathered boats looked like the hundreds of other fishing boats that trolled the seas off the Emerald Isle the same as their ancestors for thousands of years before them. The worn white painted hulls sported a thick black strip around the top of the gunnels and the bridge mirrored the hull with mostly white paint and a black stripe on top. Just behind the bridge stood a sturdy two post tower that on most boats would hold the winch and feed the nets out to sea, but on these ships a careful inspection revealed that special modifications meant they could be used as cranes to easily load illicit goods quickly and quietly in to the holds below decks. Instead of fish, these boats carried booze.
“Each boat is equipped with twin screws matched by 300 HP diesel engines.” Timothy explained.
“Seems like a lot for a fishing boat.” Payton smiled.
“We may have modified them in the event that more horsepower is required to evade any entanglements.” Timothy grinned back. “But, in the case of our little mission it means we’ll be able to run in and out of trouble quick enough.”
“There is a lot of room in the stern for passengers, so hopefully we’ll get a few men off the shores.” Dylan noted.
“We usually run these up to the docks of our suppliers, so we’ll see if we can get a pair rubber inflatables for each boat and then recruit a few of the soldiers to run them in and out of the beach bringing back their compatriots. We should be able to get within a couple hundred yards.” Timothy continued. “The small boats should be easy to lift in and out with the cranes, and we can deflate them to store below decks when the boats reach passenger capacity. Each of these boats is rated for 40 men, but I think you can squeeze fifty on, plus yourselves, in relatively calm seas.”
“That’s better than catching fish, I suppose.” Dylan deadpanned.
“Indeed.” Timothy said back matching Dylan’s wryness.
“Do we know the conditions on the beach?” Payton asked.
“Not much information is leaking out.” Timothy replied.
“Best to prepare for the worst, then.” Payton continued. “What can we do to protect both the bridge and the men on the open decks from shrapnel or any Luftwaffe planes lurking about?”
“Good point. What can we add as armament without adding too much weight or slowing us down?” Dylan wondered.
“I thought we’d turn the bridges in to our own little fox holes. The earth is the soldiers best friend. We’ll use some of the pallets in the boat house from moving liquor and line them with burlap. Then we’ll fill them with a lining of mud to disperse any shrapnel and mount them on the windows of the bridge. We can have one smaller piece that is removable in the center so we can see to steer and then put it up when we get close to the beach and just look through a cutout then.” Payton explained.
“That’s not a foxhole, that's a tank!” Dylan exclaimed. “Now we just need something for the open decks. I don’t think the tank theme will work there. Let’s use the same burlap but coat it in lacquer and tar, then arrange it like curtains around the boat using the fishing riggings. We can then raise and lower it around the sides and like a dome over the top to protect against some of the shrapnel. It won’t repel a direct hit, but it will at least provide some protection.”
“Splendid thinking. I never would have thought of armament and probably would have been shot for my troubles!” Timothy laughed. “We’ll need three sets before the tide turns this evening. It will take us at least a day to get to Dover as our jump off point. Best get to work. Payton, come with me and I’ll show you the pallets. Dylan, you can go round up Clara to show you where the rolls of burlap we use for making the sacks are stored.”
Dylan and Payton dutifully complied and set about their tasks with a vigor they knew well from all the early mornings spent attending to the mountain of tasks required of every cadet. Payton took the twelve pallets required for the four boats and began digging up a slurry pit to cobble together the mud and straw mix he envisioned for the make shift mortar inner barrier layer of their armor. He mixed sand, dirt, straw and water with the precision of a drunken master chef mixing the world’s largest soufflé in a ditch with a shovel and pitchfork. Timothy rounded up all the twine and p
acking material he could to enclose the slurry mess and covered all but the top of each pallet and lined them up to receive their slurry infusion. Payton and Timothy worked together patiently until each pallet sat full and drying in the afternoon sun.
Next, the two needed to find a way to easily secure the pallets in to the windows. Dylan remembered an old trick his father taught them for securing plywood sheets over small barn windows during the wicked winter storms that swept down through the Willamette Valley when he was a small boy. His father called them Hurricane Clips because he’d learned how to make them from a friend that had used them in the south before moving to Oregon. Dylan found some old steel flat springs that probably had been used as the suspension on a carriage before his birth and with Timothy’s help cut them in to foot long lengths with hacksaws. They then were able to bend one end in to a rough C shape with the help of a vise while leaving one leg out that they filed some sharp grooves in to form teeth. The odd shape looked something like half of an upside down rocking chair with vampire teeth on one end. Using one clip on each side of their armament they slid the pallets in to the C shaped portion and used the protruding end as a tension leg to press fit the pallets in to the window frames of the bridge windows.
“The beauty of these hurricane clips is that the more pressure you put on the pallets, the harder they will dig in to the windowsills. The tension legs can act like springs as well, which will allow a little give when something hits them and absorb some of the impact. However, if you release the tension just a little bit the pallets will slide right out of the window frames” Payton explained.
“Clever little pieces of hardware.” Timothy said admiringly. “We get some real blows through here, so perhaps when we get back father and I can build out some protection for the windows. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve nailed boards over the seaward windows here.”
Meanwhile, Clara and Dylan had nearly finished installing the protective apparatus for protecting the open decks. They’d used the rest of Payton’s slurry, covered the long reams of burlap, and sealed it in with the shellac that was usually used for sealing in old liquor barrels. The resulting fabric was by no means an impenetrable chainmail, but it had some deflective ability while maintaining its flexibility and lightweight. The two had also fashioned a set of riggings for each boat so that both sides could be raised together with one rope much the way a sail could be raised. When fully extended, the two sides came together in an oblong dome covering the rear of the boat up to the top of the bridge ten feet off the deck. Each ship looked like a turtle with a mottled shell on its back and the bridge and nose of the ship sticking out like the eyes and beak of the famously defensive and steady creature.