'You don't want to worry about them, Billy. They're all stuck on boats out here, same as us.'
Somewhere outside, just discernible above the howling wind, we can hear someone shouting.
'Mightn't be so bad though, if it were a Yank. I mean, they're a lot better-paid than us, aren't they? So if anything were to happen to me —'
'Billy, nothing's going to happen to you.'
'Caaaaaarrdddd,' goes the shouting voice again, much nearer now.
'What's he saying?' says Ted.
'Sounds like Coward,' says Billy.
'Oh, very funny,' I say.
'COWARD, YOU CUNT, WHERE IN CHRIST'S NAME ARE YOU?'
'Chaps, I'm going out,' I say grimly, as I pull back the tarpaulin. 'And I may be some time.'
'COWARD, ARE YOU FUCKING DEAF?' bellows my troop's Lt. Ponsonby Truelove — wiry, red-faced, terrifying — about as unlike a Ponsonby Truelove as a chap could possibly be. 'I'VE BEEN CALLING YOUR NAME FOR THE LAST FUCKING HALF-HOUR.'
'Sorry, sir.'
'Save your apologies for the Colonel. He wants your arse for breakfast.'
Truelove leads the way across the lurching deck, with the stealth and sure-footedness of a panther stalking its prey.
Struggling to keep up, spray in my eyes, buffeted and mauled by gale-force winds, I wonder which of my myriad misdemeanours might have attracted the Colonel's wrath. Not sleeping below decks; failure to shave; a top button undone; insufficiently shiny toe-caps . . . With a stickler like Partridge it could be anything.
'Coward. In.' Lt. Col. Partridge is seated at a small table in a cabin so tiny that there's barely room for two of us. Lt. Truelove has to stand in the corridor outside.
'Sir!' I give him my sharpest, smartest salute while he squints at me in the pale orange light. Thank God it's too dim for him to find fault with my uniform.
'Coward, it has come to my attention that our destination is no longer a secret. Now, apart from designated officers, only two men on this ship were privy to this information on embarkation. Yourself and Sarnt Price. Is that correct?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Having spoken to Sarnt Price I have satisfied myself that this breach of secrecy had nothing to do with him. Which leaves only you, Coward.'
'Yes, sir.'
'I understand from your troop commander that you have not settled in well since joining our unit. That your section hasn't taken too well to your habit of sounding off at every opportunity, even on matters you know nothing about. That you are a blabbermouth. Is that correct?'
'No, sir.'
'It's your word against those of several others. Men I have got to know well since this commando was formed. Men whose judgement I have come to trust. Are you asking me to believe that they are all liars?'
'Not liars, sir, no. Just — mistaken.'
'Coward, let me reiterate. I consider the breach of secrecy regarding our destination quite inexcusable. A slip of the tongue like that, whether designed to curry favour with men who have so far found your character wanting —'
'Sir!' I protest.
'Or whether through sheer witless incompetence, could easily jeopardise the whole operation. Do you understand that, Coward?'
'Yes, sir, but —'
'And were it not for the pressing circumstances in which we find ourselves, let me tell you that I would have no hesitation in having you court-martialled forthwith. As it is, I'm prepared to offer you the alternative of a week's field punishment just as soon as operational demands allow.'
'Sir, if you'll permit me to —'
'I think what Coward is trying to say is "Thank you very much, sir" — isn't it, Coward?' hisses Lt. Truelove.
'Yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir.'
'I shall be watching you, Coward. Any more incidents like this and I shall not be so lenient. Understood?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Very good. Dismissed.'
A sharp salute. An inward curse. Back down the passageway, trying to keep up with Lt. Truelove.
'Word of advice, Coward, born of personal experience,' growls Truelove once we're out of earshot. 'The Colonel's always right and never more so than when he's wrong.'
'Thank you, sir,' I say. 'You know, then, that it wasn't . . .'
'Course I bloody do. I was there when Ross from "I" section blurted out the name for all to hear. And don't worry. I shall be sure to let him know he owes you a favour. Just as you owe me one for interrupting my leisure hours. Now, you sound like the sort of fellow who might know how to play bridge?'
'I do a bit.'
'You'd better do more than a fucking bit because you're now my fucking partner.'
We can't have been playing more than three-quarters of an hour and already, Lt. Truelove and I are seventeen down. Which at 100 francs a point is looking quite expensive — or would do if we knew how much the wad of French money we've all been issued is worth at the moment, which we don't, not really, not after four years of German occupation. What we can be sure of, though, is that the opposition — Capt. Dangerfield and Lt. Frost — is getting smugger and smugger, while my partner is getting angrier and angrier.
'For Christ's sake, Coward,' snaps Lt. Truelove after yet another unopposed rubber. 'Couldn't you see the ten of diamonds I led to your queen was a singleton? If you'd led me another back we'd have had them one off, doubled and vulnerable, you arse.'
'Sorry, sir, I thought you wanted a club.'
'Fuck clubs. I wanted a ruff. And for the purposes of this game, it's Ponsonby, remember?'
'Well, you did call me Coward.'
'Jesus, Coward, you've got an answer for everything. Listen, I'll start calling you Dick just as soon as you stop playing like one. Jack, stop smirking and get on with it, it's you to deal.'
While Lt. Frost deals, Capt. Dangerfield watches me curiously. It has taken him a while to grow comfortable in my presence. I don't think he liked it when Lt. Ponsonby suggested at the beginning that we might as well suspend rank and converse on first-name terms. But a succession of outrageously decent hands, finesses and unlikely splits has raised his spirits no end; as too have the tots of exceedingly good brandy Frost is using to doctor the mugs of tea one of the seamen has kindly brought us.
'I know I’ve asked you this before,' he says, eyes narrowing, 'but are you absolutely sure you're no relation of James Coward?'
'Nice chap, is he?'
'Terrible shit. But if you did know him I was going to ask you to pass on my thanks, because I owe him an awful lot. Everything, in fact,' Capt. Dangerfield says.
'A shit taught you everything? I don't believe that for a second, Guy,' says Lt. Frost.
'It's a long story.'
'Well, I don't know how else we're going to pass the time,' says Lt. Truelove sarcastically. 'Not playing bridge, clearly.'
'I beg your pardon, Ponsonby, one no trump,' says Lt. Frost.
'Two spades,' I say.
'My partner putting his foot in it again?' Lt. Truelove muses aloud.
'Pass,' says Capt. Dangerfield.
'Ah well, nothing ventured. Four spades,' replies Lt. Truelove.
Capt. Dangerfield leads a five of hearts.
Lt. Truelove lays down his cards, which include a singleton club and five spades to the jack.
'If you mess this one up . . .' he warns, head swaying like a cobra about to strike.
But I don't; it would be almost impossible. Lt. Frost's ace of hearts falls straightaway to my two of spades. Our only losers are the ace of spades and the ace of clubs. Game made with tread to spare.
'Played, Dick,' says Lt. Truelove, as I deal the next hand. 'So, Guy, I must say I'm as puzzled as Jack. What exactly did you learn from this shit James?'
'It had to do with a girl,' says Capt. Dangerfield, slightly hesitant.
'Say no more,' says Lt. Truelove.
'Why do shits always prosper?' says Lt. Frost.
'They don't always have to. That's what this James fellow taught me,' says Capt. Dangerfield. 'You see,
when I was growing up, I wasn't very sporty and I wasn't very rich, and one summer, I went to stay with my cousins and ended up among a lot of children who were both those things, and I don't mind telling you it felt awful. There was one boy in particular who gave me a jolly hard time. Good-looking, good at games, big house, the works, and, of course, it was just my luck that he should be sweet on the same girl I had rather a soft spot for. But what chance did I stand of competing against this James Coward? Well, I didn't. The more he teased me, the more I withdrew into my shell and it got so bad that one day - we'd been over at his place, huge pile he had in the Welsh borders, father was a general, difficult chap, won a VC in the last war - I seriously thought about ending it all. I was standing on this bridge, looking down into the churning water below this big water wheel they had, and I thought to myself: "Why not? Why not end it all now?" And I might have done too if I hadn't glanced down to the millpond, where she and James were playing, and for some reason, she wasn't looking at him, she was actually looking up at me. And she smiled. And I smiled back. And I realised: "No. There's a better way. I'm going to win this one. I can win this one." And over the next few years that's what I prepared myself to do. I couldn't make my father any richer - a vicar's stipend is a vicar's stipend. But what I did discover was the sporting skill I never realised I had. I ran a lot. I swam. I kicked balls around and hit 'em with bats. And before I knew it, I was in the school second XI, then captain of the first XI; and the first XV; and head boy; and victor ludorum. And I dare say I might have gone to do similar things at Cambridge, if Herr Hitler hadn't helped steer me down a different avenue. And, well, that's it really. I'm sorry it took so long but you did ask. That's why I'm grateful to this chap James Coward, who you don't even know so it's all pretty irrelevant. But I've been holding you up. Shall we play?'
Well, to be honest, I'm torn. On the one hand, all the while he's been talking I've been looking at the hand I've dealt myself, which is by far the best of the evening — five good hearts and nineteen points — and I'm itching to play it. On the other, I'm quite curious about the identity of this girl he fancied. My immediate thought is Caro Ashenden. She really was a cracker in her day —
'You bidding, partner?' says Lt. Truelove.
'Er. One heart,' I say.
Capt. Dangerfield passes.
'Three hearts,' says Lt. Truelove.
'Double,' says Lt. Frost.
After a nervous pause I say: 'Four no trumps.'
The look Lt. Truelove shoots me says: You'd better know what you're doing . . .
The contract we eventually settle on is seven hearts doubled and the game play is so tense I find myself half-wishing I could somehow skip forward twenty-four hours so that I might find myself doing something less nerve-racking. Storming the Atlantic Wall, say.
Lt. Truelove's commentary is not much help. And we're fucking vulnerable,' he says, when Capt. Dangerfield shows out on the very first round of trumps, meaning Lt. Frost has all five missing ones, including the jack, and if you're unfamiliar with the rules of bridge it really doesn't matter, the point of all this is that the contract I'm trying to make is awfully difficult and more important than life itself.
'Well done,' says Capt. Dangerfield sullenly, once I've made it.
'You bugger!' says Lt. Frost.
'You, Dick my lad, are a fucking genius and if ever I have the chance to lay down my life for you I surely will,' says Lt. Truelove, leaping from his chair and twisting round my head with his muscly arms so he can plant a huge kiss on my forehead.
Bridge. What a marvellously useful game it is. Wards off boredom when you're young; keeps the brain active when you're old; holds couples together (and the opposite, I'll concede); cements friendships; quickens the senses. But what I like best about it is the way it transports the mind to a place where your quotidian anxieties seem suddenly irrelevant, for all that now matters is the next deal and the next bid and the next card and the next game and the next rubber. Time slips by. The real world is miles away. For all you care, you could be anywhere — in the grandest mansion or the meanest hovel, in a luxury hotel or a prison cell; for, so long as you are playing, your universe extends no further than that square of green baize.
All of which doesn't half come in handy when you're in a cramped, musty cabin on a rusty, swaying old ship as dawn breaks on what may quite possibly be the last full day of your life. Of course the four of us should be trying to get some sleep, we all know that. But when you can count the remainder of your life in hours, you don't want to waste any of it in oblivion, do you? You want to wring it out, like an orange, and extract every last drop of sweet juice. And with hindsight, how right we were to do so! I don't want to spoil the story but I can tell you right now that two of us aren't going to come out of this mission in one piece. One dead; one wounded; which, out of four people, is a pretty fair representation of the casualty rate 47 Commando is going to suffer in the next few months.
If you want chapter and verse on this you should have a look at the book our medical officer 'Doc' Forfar wrote, called From Omaha to the Scheldt. Our casualty rates, he shows, were damn near the equal of those in the First War.
From 6 June until VE day on 8 May the following year an
Other Rank (i.e. non-officer) in one of the five fighting troops stood an 86 per cent chance of being wounded and a 32 per cent chance of being killed. For an officer, meanwhile, it was odds-on you weren't going to make it. You had a 75 per cent chance of being wounded, and a whopping 63 per cent — that's two out of every three officers - of being killed. Or, put another way, that's a casualty rate of 116 per cent for fighting-troop Other Ranks and 132 per cent for fighting-troop officers, meaning that anyone in 47 Commando who didn't get killed or wounded wasn't merely lucky, they were an out-and-out freak of nature.
So don't be surprised if, in the course of the next few hours, several of these chaps you've come to know and like end up being mutilated, drowned or blown to buggery. It's what happens in war, I'm afraid. It's why, whenever a soldier is offered the chance to take his mind off things, he'll grab at it as a drowning man grabs at a floating branch. And it's why when, round about seven a.m. on 5 June 1944, a flushed marine from HQ troop comes knocking at our door, we're all still gathered round the bridge table.
We look up, bleary-eyed.
'It's on!' says the marine.
'Fook me. Will you look at that. Poor Jerry doesn't stand a blooming chance,' says Wragg, leaning over the rails on a morning so grey and grim it seems scarcely credible that the people in charge have decided to go ahead. The LCAs dangling from the side of our ship are swinging like a donkey's knackers; the seas are a maelstrom of peaks and troughs and breaking crests and flying spume. If it carries on like this we'll be swamped and drowned long before we reach the shore.
'What?' says Dent.
'That, you blind git. What — is it so big you can't see it?'
Wragg is nodding towards the gargantuan object chugging past our port bow. Even amid the extraordinary variety of strange and wonderful seaborne shapes we have seen passing in line astern across the Solent, this one really does take the biscuit. It's a long, low, very slow-moving craft with no armaments or vehicles and very few men aboard: just this vast, great drum amidships, like some — well, there's nothing to compare it to really. It's simply a huge dark mysterious cylinder.
'What do you reckon it is?' says Calladine.
"Ent it fooking obvious?' says Wragg.
'A secret weapon?' says Dent.
'Oh. Aye. See how well they've camouflaged it,' says Wragg sarcastically.
'Well, I've never seen one before and I'll bet nor have you,' says Dent.
'Aye but I'm not so stupid as I don't know what it is. It's for bustin' bunkers, 'ent it?'
'Is it?' says Calladine.
'Course it fookin is. You rolls it ashore. Shoves it in front of a pillbox. Then boom! Because that whole middle bit is stuffed with high explosives. Needs to be to get through all that concrete
.'
'So which poor sod's pushing it ashore?'
'I dunno. Somebody from t'engineers, I'd think.'
'What? Suicide unit? If that drum's full of high ex, he's never going to make it to the bunker, is he? Not even close.'
'Oh, for fook's sake. It's armour-plated, 'ent it?'
'Then it's not going to float, it'll sink.'
'Hey, don't expect me to know all the details. I didn't invent it,' says Wragg.
'But don't you think -' I begin.
'Oh, 'ere we go. Chad's off,' says Wragg.
'I'm merely pointing out that, if it were for busting bunkers, it's setting sail a little late. The rate it's travelling, the beaches will have been cleared by the time that thing arrives.'
'You know, Chad, you're not just a fookin' know-all, you're a killjoy too,' says Wragg.
'Yeah, sorry, mate, but he's right,' says Simpson. 'Of course it's not a bleeding bunker buster. But we all of us felt a fuck of a sight happier when we thought for a moment it was.'
What the drum actually is, though we don't discover this till long after the event, is a segment of pipeline. That pipeline — known as Pipeline Under the Ocean, PLUTO for short - is to be extended from Ventnor in the Isle of Wight all the way to a carefully selected destination on the French coast. A destination whose capture will be absolutely vital to the success or otherwise of the Allied breakout, because it will be the main source of the million gallons of fuel each Allied army will require each day.
I wonder, perhaps, if you can guess which 420 poor sods out of the 156,000-strong invasion force landed the short straw of having to capture it?
Chapter 9
On the Beach
As I burst to the surface and heave a deep gasp of air, I'm overwhelmed by a surge of shivering elation. I'm alive, by God. I'm alive. The worst that could happen has happened — our LCA has been sunk by a shell or a mine - yet by some miracle I'm still in one piece.
Coward On The Beach Page 12