by James R Benn
“Why attach so much importance to identifying a dead man?” Kaz said as he drove. “And only one of several, at that.”
“There have to be more out in the Channel,” I said. We’d picked up comments from the crew about seeing other ships torpedoed by E-boats. The E stood for enemy, which was the Allied designation for the fast attack craft. Bigger, faster, and more heavily armed than our PT boats, they could be deadly in the close waters of the Channel. Not could be—had been, only a few hours ago. “I wonder what he meant by ‘nine to go’?”
“We may be close to finding out,” Kaz said. “Look ahead.” A line of MPs waved Harding through a checkpoint a few hundred yards short of the railway station, with us on his tail. He pulled up near two armor-plated coaches guarded by more MPs, and we fell in beside him.
“Bayonet,” I said, recognizing General Eisenhower’s mobile headquarters, the special train he’d christened himself. It was outfitted with sleeping quarters for staff and an office for the general with full telephone and radio gear. Well protected, it was the perfect place to spill top-secret info.
Plush, too, I was reminded as we entered the stateroom. Thick curtains draped the windows, and the wood paneling was lit by the glow of lamps. At the far end was a single desk, where Uncle Ike sat dictating to Kay Summersby, his chauffeur, secretary, and close companion. How close? “None of your business, pal,” is how I usually answered that one. The fact that I had to reply to that question fairly often was hard to take. After all, my mom’s family is related through Aunt Mamie, so technically I was closer to her than Uncle Ike. But he and I had been through a lot over here since the early days in 1942, and I’m a loyal nephew, so let’s drop the subject.
“William, how are you?” Uncle Ike asked as he stood to greet us and Kay departed. “I heard you were injured in that mess at Slapton Sands.”
“A few scratches, that’s all, General,” I said. I hadn’t seen him in a couple of weeks, and they must have been rough ones. He looked pale, and the bags under his eyes were heavier and darker than ever. The invasion had to be weighing heavy on his shoulders, and I didn’t want to add to his already fearsome burden. “I’m fine. Ready for whatever you need.”
“That’s good to hear, William,” he said. “You know how much I’ve come to depend on you. It’s so good to have family close by, family I can count on.”
“Always, Uncle Ike,” I said in a low voice. I didn’t like people hearing me call him that. When I first showed up in England, the scuttlebutt went that I was a politically connected relative looking for a plush assignment. Truth be told, it wasn’t too inaccurate, and I got the cold shoulder from a bunch of people, including Sam Harding. A lot of water had gone under London Bridge since then, but I was still sensitive enough to whisper.
“You writing your mother regularly?” Uncle Ike asked. I told him I was and promised to give her his best in the next letter. Then he asked Kaz how he was, lighting up one of his ever-present Lucky Strikes. Kay returned with a tray of coffee and set it on a table between a long couch and a line of armchairs in the narrow carriage.
“How’ve you been, Billy?” she said, giving me a wink. “Have you seen Diana lately?”
“No,” I said. “She’s off doing some training.”
“Too bad,” Kay said, with a glance at the general, who was whispering with Harding. “Like they say, the course of true love never did run smooth.”
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Kaz said. “It is difficult to escape the Bard, it seems.”
“I didn’t know that,” Kay replied. “I thought it was just one of those things people said. I’m off, loads of work to do.” She gave us a wave and departed, a smile on her lips. Kay was a beautiful woman and had the virtue of always being happy and upbeat, or so it seemed. She could light up a room and coax a laugh out of the grumpiest of brass hats. I could see why the general liked having her around. I did.
“Have a seat, boys,” Uncle Ike said, taking one of the armchairs. Kaz and I sat on the couch opposite Harding and the general. The aroma of coffee filled the room, and after the long, mysterious morning, it smelled like salvation. I waited until Uncle Ike lifted his cup, then went for mine. He nodded to Harding, who managed to take one sip before he launched into his speech.
“As you can imagine, planning for the invasion of Europe is a huge undertaking; one that requires that hundreds of people know where and when the landings will take place. Some know both, others know pieces of the picture, based on the work they need to do. Everyone with any need to know these details has gone through security clearances and been assigned to the BIGOT list. If you’re a BIGOT, you know some or all of the secrets of D-Day.”
“Why are they called ‘bigots’?” Kaz asked.
“It’s a term the British used, even before we were in the war,” Uncle Ike said. “Stands for British Invasion of German Occupied Territory. A bit outdated at this point, but it stuck.” He lit another cigarette and looked to Harding to continue.
“You two are now on the BIGOT list,” Harding said. “Not because we’re going to tell you any secrets, but because they may come up in the course of your investigation.”
“That’s fine, Colonel,” I said, “but what are we investigating?”
“You saw how badly LST 289 was hit. Unfortunately, two other LSTs, the 507 and the 531, got it worse. Both were sunk in the Channel out in Lyme Bay as they were headed to Slapton Sands. German E-boats caught the tail end of the Operation Tiger convoy and chewed them up.”
“The guy on the 289 was a BIGOT,” I said, the truth finally dawning on me.
“Yes,” Harding said. “There were a total of ten BIGOTs on the boats that were attacked. We need to be certain none of them have fallen into German hands.”
“It would change everything,” Uncle Ike said. “It’s no secret that spring is invasion season. If the Germans got hold of a BIGOT and made him talk, it would endanger the entire invasion, or force its postponement. Either would be a catastrophe.”
“Why were so many BIGOTs on those three LSTs?” I said. “What about the other ships that weren’t hit?”
“There were eight LSTs in all,” Harding said. “The last three had a preponderance of engineer units like the First Engineer Special Brigade and Amphibious Truck companies. These units are responsible for clearing beaches of obstacles and bringing men ashore. They have to know the exact local conditions of the landings. The forward LSTs had mostly combat infantry units from the Fourth Division. The men in those had less of a need to know.”
“Why wasn’t the convoy better protected?” I asked. “It’s well-known that there are German E-boats stationed all along the French coastline.”
“Confusion all around,” Harding said. “There was to have been another destroyer escort, but it was damaged in a collision yesterday. Naval command did not deal with it properly, and there was no replacement. On top of that, radio frequencies weren’t coordinated. Although a warning of the attack was radioed to the lone destroyer escort, the LSTs weren’t operating on the same frequency. But everyone thought they’d been warned, including the destroyer escort. As a result, they steamed in a nice straight line, perfect targets for a night attack.”
“Large Slow Target,” I said. “That’s what the GIs say LST really means.”
“They nailed it,” Uncle Ike said. “Too many men died needlessly out there.” He gestured with his hand, cigarette ash flying to the carpet. “We need the two of you to check the bodies as they are brought in and confirm all BIGOTs are accounted for. It’s gruesome work, I know, but necessary. I hope some of them survived and were picked up by our ships, but we simply have to know none of them are in German hands.”
“Big Mike is coming down from London to join you,” Harding said. “He should be on the next train. And Constable Quick has been assigned to you for the duration of this investigation. Seems like he has a good head on his shoulders.”
“He does, Colonel,” I said, trying to think through the impl
ications of what Harding was asking. “How many do you think were killed?”
“We don’t know yet. I’d guess five hundred to a thousand. LST 515 disobeyed orders and turned back to pick up survivors out of the water. Until we get them sorted out, we won’t have an exact count.”
“What do you mean, Colonel?” Kaz asked. “What were their orders?”
“To proceed to their destination,” Harding said. “Navy protocol is for transports not to linger where there are enemy vessels, until the escorts have dealt with them.”
“But there was only one escort,” I said. “It couldn’t leave the convoy, right?”
“Right,” Harding said. “I don’t want to criticize the navy, but this is a mess. And one we have to keep as quiet as possible.”
“That’s going to be difficult,” I said. “From the little we learned about tides in the Channel, those bodies are going to wash up all along the coast.”
“What about France?” Uncle Ike asked.
“Probably not; the tides don’t run that way. In and out of the Channel, but not north or south.”
“That’s something,” Harding said. “There’s little chance of a man surviving in the cold water this time of year, but if he was on a raft or piece of wreckage, it might be possible.”
“You’ve got ships out searching, don’t you?” I said.
“Yes, they’re collecting bodies right now,” Harding said. “Word is no survivors have been found since LST 515 went back. We know bodies will end up on the coast. Hopefully most will drift into Slapton Sands and the restricted area. For those that don’t, we are saying that one ship was lost to enemy action. That should explain any bodies outside the restricted zone.”
“General, I understand how important this is, but why does it have to be so hush-hush? The Germans know they hit our ships,” I said. “The locals will know there were casualties when bodies start washing ashore. There has to be something else to it.”
“There is, William,” Uncle Ike said. “This is your real initiation into the BIGOT list. Tell them, Colonel.”
“Without revealing the location of the invasion, I can tell you that the beach at Slapton Sands is a close double of one of the invasion beaches. If the Germans even suspected we were practicing full-scale attacks against that beach, they might deduce the actual location. Even if they don’t end up with a captured BIGOT, they could do great harm with that information. If they get both, we’re in for real trouble.”
“It could mean the invasion is thrown back into the sea,” Uncle Ike said. “So I don’t want you to think this is a meaningless detail. This disaster has to be kept quiet to protect the secret of the actual invasion area. And we must know those nine other BIGOTs are accounted for, dead or alive.”
“Here,” Harding said, handing me a file containing sheets of names, ranks, and brief physical descriptions. “As soon as Big Mike gets here, you can head out. Graves Registration is setting up collection points along the coast. Work your way through them. The Royal Navy has patrol boats out picking up bodies. Report back to me immediately when you find a BIGOT. I’ll be at Greenway House.”
“It might be helpful for us to split up,” I said. “I know Kaz doesn’t care for boats much, so maybe he and Quick could work the land side while Big Mike and I find a boat to take us into Start Bay.”
“Good idea,” Uncle Ike said. “You can cover more ground that way. Whatever you need, William, feel free to use my name. I’ve had specific orders typed up, directing all parties, English and American, to render whatever assistance you require. An admiral couldn’t deny you a battleship, at least for the next several days. But then, Operation Tiger needs to be forgotten, at least until after the real invasion.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, standing. “We’ll do our best.”
“That’s exactly what we need, William. Good luck.” He rested his palm on my shoulder, and I felt some of his burden transferred to me. The weight was crushing. I’d complained about being left out of the loop on D-Day, and now here I was, with General Eisenhower telling me the future of the war depended on me finding nine dead men.
AS WE STEPPED on to the platform, the locomotive blew its whistle and the wheels began to turn slowly, the engine releasing a hiss of steam as it pulled the two heavy armored carriages out of the station. MPs climbed aboard or sprinted to their jeeps, ready to speed through the countryside and guard the next crossing.
“He was waiting just to speak to us,” Kaz said, his voice betraying an awe that he seldom revealed.
“These orders make us gods for the next few days,” I said.
“That’s how important this job is,” Harding said. “I’ve got another jeep for you. I figured the four of you would split up at some point. Good idea to go out into the Channel, Boyle. The USS Bayfield is anchored at Dartmouth. See the captain there, he’s got boats that can take you out.”
“Will do, Colonel. Tell me, is Peter Wiley a BIGOT? Is that why you denied him permission to ship out with Operation Tiger?”
“Yes,” Harding said. “He failed to convince me he needed to be there, although he felt strongly about it. The other BIGOTs all had to be with their units, but Wiley is pretty much a one-man show.”
“What does he do, exactly?” Kaz asked.
“You don’t need to know,” Harding said. It was a joke with us by now.
“We get it, Colonel,” I said. I watched Kaz lift a tarp in the backseat of the new jeep. “What’s that stuff?”
“Well, I figured we could requisition that place you’re holed up in, since Big Mike will need to bunk with you. Or do it the nice way, by bribery. If they’re going to feed him, all this will come in handy.”
No kidding, I thought. Big cans of coffee, green beans, canned tuna fish, several bottles of Scotch, sugar, a carton of Chesterfields, and to prove Harding had a sense of humor, four large cans of peaches, heavy syrup. A nod to a case back in London a few months ago. I thought the incident had been forgotten, but apparently not.
“Think that will keep the folks at Ashcroft House happy, Peaches?” Harding asked, a smile cracking his face. It wasn’t something you saw very often, so I didn’t mind the ribbing.
“Nice to see you remembered, Colonel,” I said. “This ought to make them delirious. One question before you leave. What about Big Mike and the BIGOT list? Can he be put on it? It’s going to be difficult if we can’t tell him everything.”
“Big Mike’s been a BIGOT for over a month now,” Harding said, getting into his jeep and starting it. “He had a need to know.” His grin got even wider, and I swear he actually laughed as he drove off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“HEY, BILLY, KAZ, how you guys doin’?” Staff Sergeant Mike Miecznikowski, aka Big Mike, asked as he stepped off the train, stooping to squeeze his six-foot-plus frame through the open door.
“Glad you’re here, Big Mike,” I said as Kaz shook hands with his Polish compatriot. Big Mike was Detroit Polish, and as different from Kaz as burlesque was from Broadway. That didn’t get in the way of them being good friends. Big Mike was pals with the world, at home anywhere. By rights, he should have stopped to salute both of us, but acknowledging senior officers didn’t come as second nature to him. Even in the rarified atmosphere of SHAEF, Big Mike ignored rank as much as he could, and as a result of his good-hearted nature, the brass often fell over themselves to be seen as one of Big Mike’s buddies. I don’t know how he did it, but he had a way with people that made even the powerful and famous want to be in his orbit. Maybe it was his huge biceps, or the way he could always scrounge up whatever was needed without a lot of paperwork getting in the way.
Me, I thought all this saluting was a load of hooey myself, but I thought that about most of the chickenshit stuff in the army. Uncle Ike liked deflating oversized egos himself. Maybe that’s why he gave Big Mike free reign at headquarters. Some general officers criticized him—behind his back, of course—for talking to GIs with his hands in his pockets. Apparently army tr
ousers were not meant to have hands stuffed inside them, for whatever reason. That was the kind of thing that really ticked Uncle Ike off. So he stuffed his knuckles in his pockets whenever the press was snapping pictures, and the dogfaces loved it. They knew chickenshit, and this was a signal that their Supreme Commander was not a big fan of it himself.
“Sam didn’t tell me much on the telephone,” Big Mike said as he tossed his duffel in the rear of the jeep. “Somethin’ about finding nine guys.”
“Nine dead men,” I said.
“Sounds unpleasant,” Big Mike said. “What’s the deal?”
“It’s even worse than it sounds. Why don’t you drive with Kaz, and he’ll fill you in.”
“We headed to the joint where your RAF pal David lives?” Big Mike asked Kaz.
“Yes. We’ll drop off your gear and all the contraband in the jeep. That’s the bribe for them putting up with you.”
“Geez,” Big Mike said, inspecting the contents. “Ain’t Sam ever gonna forget about those peaches?”
They drove off and I followed, glad for the time alone. Time to think about what had been revealed and what was left unsaid. The time and place of D-Day fit into the latter category, but I didn’t really want to know that much. Not that I might shoot my mouth off after a couple of pints. I didn’t want to see men training for the invasion and know the likely date of their death. I had read a report about expected casualties a week before. It was no secret that airborne divisions would play a key role, but there was talk that Air Vice-Marshal Leigh-Mallory had predicted up to 70 percent casualties for the 82nd Airborne. As for the GIs in the first assault wave, wherever the invasion planners sent them, it would be the same. The Germans had been fortifying the French coastline like mad, planting mines, pouring concrete, laying out fields of fire. The Atlantic Wall, Hitler called it: a long line of fortifications that the tiny Higgins boats would advance upon through churning surf and blazing steel. So, no thanks; I don’t want to know when that’s happening. No wonder Uncle Ike looked so pale, his face lined with worries I couldn’t even imagine.