The Far Shore

by Edward Ellsberg

  We hadn’t much time left to gamble on the answer. To weight the odds a trifle more on our side, even the little handy-billy pumps the Diver carried were all rushed aboard the Phoenix, lowered inside her, and for what good that might do, set to adding their little streams to the majestic discharges of their big sisters on deck.

  We won. With a shudder in that 6000 tons of concrete that gave those aboard it the impression that a prostrate Titan was rolling over, that Phoenix tore itself loose from the mud, lurched suddenly upward, and in a moment, with its dripping concrete sides still rolling unsteadily, came fully afloat—a happy sight to all aboard the Diver and even more so to those belonging to Operation Mulberry on nearby Selsey beach.

  Barton rushed out with his tugs, to take over from the Diver, which meanwhile was temporarily holding the floating Phoenix up against the tidal current. The Diver began to remove her pumps. In a few hours, Barton had resunk the Phoenix, the Diver had reanchored offshore, and all seemed as before around Selsey Bill. I went ashore with Barton.

  CHAPTER 10

  On the beach, a British bluejacket from NOIC’s office met me with a message. It seemed that Commodore Flanigan, in London, had for some hours been trying to get me on the phone. Would I call him the moment I came ashore?

  I looked questioningly at Barton. What Commodore Flanigan probably wished to discuss with me was nothing I was desirous of airing in NOIC’s office. Barton didn’t have a phone somewhere in that shack of his, did he?

  No, he didn’t, but in the American camp housing his Sea-bees, a mile or so inland, there was one. He would drive me to it.

  By most unusual luck, it was not too long before I was through to London, talking to Flanigan. Admiral Stark, I learned, had already an answer to his recommendation for a change at Selsey Bill. The answer was “No.” The British continued to feel that no change was necessary there. The Royal Engineers, acknowledging their initial trouble with the machinery in the schuits, considered the fault trivial and would soon rectify it. All that was necessary, they reported, was to substitute for the numerous lengths of rubber suction hoses they had first used from the schuits down into the holds of the Phoenixs, some sections of welded steel suction pipes which would eliminate the air leaks which they claimed had destroyed their pump suctions, and then all would be well. They had already ordered those welded steel suction pipes. It would take a week or so yet to provide and deliver them at Selsey—after that, everything would be all right. Flanigan said that Admiral Stark, before accepting that “No” as a final answer, wished to be informed as to what I thought of that as the solution.

  I informed Flanigan I thought nothing of it. The trouble was basic with the whole schuit set-up, which was as complicated and as unsuited to the pumping job in hand as the most freakish design Rube Goldberg had ever dreamed up—it wasn’t just the rubber suction hoses. In fact, we had just completed raising a Phoenix, the first one ever to be lifted, using rubber suction hoses, and they hadn’t prevented our pumps from doing a fine pumping job. I stuck by my original report—all of it. There must be a change, and right now. The change couldn’t wait for decision for a week or so for the Royal Engineers to learn that there was more to it than just substituting steel for rubber in the suction hoses. It would be too late then. The task must be shifted to the Navy, at once.

  Flanigan answered he’d pass that along to Stark, who would pass it along to the British. Meanwhile, as before ordered, I was to continue to wait at the Channel. The conversation closed.

  Lieutenant Barton drove me back to the beach. My conversation with Flanigan left me much depressed, in spite of our success with the Phoenix. Matters in London did not look promising to me. It should not be too difficult for the Royal Engineers to fight a delaying action till they had a chance to try out those steel suctions in which now they seemed to have so much faith and which, in spite of the unbelievable scarcity of steel in England, they had already put on order. And after that, it would be too late, in spite of the failure I could foresee, for a change to do anybody any good. D-day would be too close then.

  The thing was working out about the way I feared. It was dismal.

  Barton dropped me in the high weeds behind his cottage and then continued on to the beach. His day wasn’t yet done, though mine was. I entered the house.

  Alone there now, I looked about the living room inside that cottage. It was about as dismal as the prospect facing Operation Mulberry. Its only probable relieving feature ever must have been the view out the front windows over the wide beach to the sea beyond. But now those windows were shuttered and the door opening on the beach was not only tightly bolted inside, but also, I knew, barred on the outside to prevent any inadvertent passage from inside that living room to the barbed wire and the possible mines just beyond.

  My gaze wandered around the dim interior. The shabby, castoff furniture did nothing to relieve the gloom. As a final touch, some stacks of old newspapers and magazines rose practically to table height just beneath the shuttered front windows. I examined them, got a lesson in archeology. Like an explorer digging amongst the earthen mounds covering the ruins of a long vanished civilization overwhelmed by some calamity, it was possible by looking at those stacks of yellowed newspapers to deduce exactly when and why the civilization along Selsey Bill had disappeared. There were layers of yellowing London newspapers for many summers back, the penultimate layer being for the summer of 1938, concluding with editions bearing headline stories in the late September numbers on the Munich Pact, insuring “Peace in Our Time.” Then on top of those, came the final layer of newspapers for the ensuing season at the shore, covering the summer of 1939, ending this time abruptly with the September 1, 1939, editions screaming out Hitler’s attack on Poland. Apparently the “Peace in Our Time” insured by Munich, had lasted exactly eleven months. And after that ominous edition of September the first, there were no more layers. Before the shore season of 1940 had arrived Dunkirk had come. And after Dunkirk, the one-time inhabitants of Selsey, as shown by the absence of any layers of 1940 or later newspapers, had become one with the vanished races of history. Along with the Mound Builders and the Cliff Dwellers, they had departed from the stage and only artifacts were left to give any clue to their manner of life and to the reason for their disappearance. A new race, American Seabees, Royal Marines, British soldiers and sailors, now inhabited Selsey beach, in lieu of that long vanished, and perhaps, superior culture.

  But not wholly vanished, I recalled. There were those two girls next door, relics of that past, who had returned unbelievably, like the coelacanth of paleozoic eras in the seas about Madagascar, to the scene of their former existence. What were they like, I wondered? After all, if I could believe all I had read in post-1914 war novels, the major reason for the existence of wars was to provide for authors with a keen eye toward the best-sellers list, a background of erotic situations in which amorous girls flung themselves into your war-weary arms. Here was a war, next door were two young girls—married, both of them, it so happened—but with their husbands both away, what difference should that make? According to all the novelists since World War I, none at all.

  CHAPTER 11

  Another day passed. I stayed on at Selsey Bill, waiting further orders.

  Until afternoon, nothing happened except that Lieutenant Oakes, Barton’s young assistant, came back to Selsey Bill. This created at once a billeting problem, since there were but two makeshift bedrooms and but two beds in the cottage in which we had established squatters’ rights. Naturally, I tendered Oakes his bed again—he was there on duty. I was but a visitor who might just as well have gone back to Portsmouth and that billet at the Queen’s Hotel.

  But Oakes refused. He would sleep on a couch in the living room—as the much younger of us two, he insisted he could stand it better than I. After a fairly swift survey of that couch, I concluded it was best not to pull rank on this young lieutenant, but to let him have his way—I would not order him back to the bedroom and deprive him of the co
uch, if that was the way he wanted it.

  Late afternoon found me still on the beach, still studying the scrambled Mulberries, still wondering whether D-day would find them on their way to France or still stuck firmly in the mud off Selsey Bill—the war’s worst fiasco. It all depended now on Admiral Stark. How far was he willing to risk his neck to override that “No!” of yesterday?

  A bluejacket from NOIC’s office found me, interrupted my speculations, handed me a sealed note. I opened it. NOIC, it seemed, had something he wished to discuss with me, highly confidential. Would I be so good as to come to his office where we might consider it in more privacy than was possible on the beach?

  As this was the first attention I’d received from NOIC since my original arrival at Selsey Bill, it seemed significant. Something might have happened. I accompanied the seaman.

  If it were at all possible, NOIC seemed now an even more befuddled and upset old man than at my first glimpse of him. He invited me to be seated. Then in much agitation, he confided that he had just received in code a signal from the Admiralty—highly important (but unspecified) personages from London would arrive by car in Selsey Bill about the middle of next morning, for an inspection of the Mulberries. He was to make all arrangements, afloat and ashore, to facilitate their inspection.

  It swiftly became obvious from NOIC’s unease as to why he had hastened to ask to see me. Who were these highly important personages? He hadn’t been told; it was a deep secret for security reasons. But he could guess—some cabinet ministers probably, since the comings and goings of lesser lights, especially if military, were shrouded in no such secrecy. Why were they coming? He couldn’t imagine that, either, and for him it made no difference anyway—certainly not to get from him any information on the Mulberries—he had none. But that signal had put him instantly in a quandary—there was that word “afloat”—he hadn’t even a bloody plank to take these V.I.P.’s afloat on, should they desire a close-up view of the Phoenixs. As I well knew, everything in the way of water transportation at Selsey Bill was in the hands of my Lieutenant Barton.

  Would I be so good then, as to order my Lieutenant Barton to make the necessary provisions afloat? NOIC was sure I would appreciate his embarrassment should he, a captain in the Royal Navy, personally have to approach Barton with such a request.

  I appreciated his embarrassment, all right—NOIC would almost, I was sure, by now prefer to go overboard clutching an anchor than to ask a favor of that hulking American lieutenant who had so completely usurped his job. I nodded acquiescence—for me it would be simple; I had only so to order Barton. Was there anything else I might do to help my Royal Navy opposite number respecting this visit?

  NOIC reflected. Since obviously he hadn’t the remotest idea why any V.I.P.’s from London should be interested right now in the Phoenixs, his mind was a blank on what other than transportation might be required of him, or whether in any other direction a little help might be in order. Finally he shook his head. He could think of nothing. I rose to go.

  Then an idea did strike NOIC. What his motivation was—whether to save himself some trouble should he be asked any questions on the Mulberries, or whether in gratitude at my saving him from the need of a personal appeal to Barton, I never knew. Could he have the pleasure of my company as a fellow captain, in greeting those V.I.P.’s tomorrow, and in their subsequent inspection of the Mulberries?

  Whatever NOIC’s motives may have been, I accepted that invitation with alacrity. Even if NOIC couldn’t, I could make a shrewd enough guess as to what it all might be about. Back of that unexpected inspection, somewhere must lurk the figure of Commodore Flanigan. And beyond him must stand that of Admiral Harold Stark refusing to take “No!” for an answer. Matters might be beginning to look up. And it would be worth a lot to the change I saw as imperative, to be right on the spot with those V.I.P.’s should any one of them want to know what was wrong with the idea of letting the Royal Engineers carry through to D-day. I thanked my stars I had decided to keep on doing my waiting at primitive Selsey Bill and not gone back to wait at more ease in Portsmouth.

  NOIC had a last request to make as I was leaving. These security matters, as I must surely know, were all very sticky—he’d overstepped, perhaps, even in letting me know of this visit one day before. However, to help avoid letting anything leak out which might compromise the safety at Selsey Bill on the morrow of those V.I.P.’s, he was telling no one on his own staff. So, on my part, would I promise mentioning their forthcoming visit to no one, absolutely to no ‘one, not even to Barton who must furnish the boat, until tomorrow?

  I promised.

  Stepping out onto the Selsey sands again, I felt much better. So Admiral Stark wasn’t taking any “No!” perfunctorily. However he was doing it, he had already upset British reverence for the infallibility of the Royal Engineers so far as to force some personages of importance into a trip to Selsey Bill, at least ostensibly to take a careful look at the Phoenix situation. And regardless of who those V.I.P.’s might be or what previous fixed conceptions occupied their minds, no one, I felt, could stand the impact of a first actual sight of that enormous mass of Phocnixs sunk off Selsey Bill without instantly getting an impression that the lifting of them from the sea floor was no task to be left to amateurs.

  Dusk came at last—late now in mid-May in that high latitude. A very weary Lieutenant Barton and his equally weary assistant, Oakes, called a halt in the darkness to the labors of their little flock of Dukws amphibiously busy in the task of provisioning the Phoenixs against the coming hegira across the Channel. Together, the three of us trudged off the sands, keeping carefully in the Dukw tracks, and then from the safe landward side, we made an approach on the rear of our cottage. Just before entering, Barton paused, scanned the darkening skies a moment, and announced,

  “Air raid tonight. We’d better get some sleep before one A.M.; we won’t get any after.”

  I looked at Barton skeptically. How could he be so certain of Hermann Goering’s intentions?

  Barton gave no reasons; he just knew. So taking his word for it, we wasted no time over our unelaborate supper of warmed-up field rations. Immediately that was over, down came the blackout curtains over all our unshuttered landward windows, off went the lights, and we all turned in—Barton and Oakes, at least, dead tired.

  Sure enough, as a prophet. Barton rated a 4.0. At a little before one, I woke to the shrilling of a siren, warning of the coming of the bombers. Automatically almost, I rolled out of bed, grabbed a flashlight, slid into a bathrobe, and started for the living room. Oakes, who of course, was there already, had by then turned on the lights; Barton, a little slower in his movements, arrived not much after me, armed, as was I, with a flashlight. Should the electricity fail in the raid, which was always a probability, our flashlights would be invaluable.

  Nobody said anything. In the dead silence that followed the dying moan of the siren, we waited as usual. At nearby stations completely ringing Selsey Bill, gun crews, we knew, were rushing to the ack-ack batteries and electricians were manning their searchlights. But for us in that flimsy cottage, no shelter at all from blast, there was nothing to do save wait—the most trying of all ordeals. We waited.

  I’d been through air raids before. All across Africa from Heliopolis on the Nile to Casablanca on the Atlantic, I’d been among the targets present when the bombs came whistling down. I can’t say that to me custom ever staled the quickening of the heartbeat as one waited in silence for that whistling shriek which well might be the last sound one would ever hear. Still, having learned by experience that you’d lived through your first bombing (if you had), you could always feel thereafter that you were just as likely to live through the next one. And having once learned that fact, it took a little, at least, off the agony of the waiting next time for the bombs to fall. So as I waited, I told myself this bombing could be no different from my last one off Algiers.

  But it was.

  Hardly had the terrifying crescendo of the fi
rst bomb to come hurtling down ended in the thunderous explosion that signified to me that at least I’d lived through to hear that one go off, when the cottage door swung violently open. And before the ringing in my ears from that bursting bomb had subsided enough to let me get set for the whistling of the next one, I found myself with a hysterical girl clad only in her nightgown draped around my neck, two shrieking babies clutching my legs, and to top off all, a second girl, also only in a nightgown, clinging frenziedly to Barton.

  The next few minutes were beyond description—the ear-splitting whistling of the falling bombs and their thunderous detonations as they exploded I had lived through before and probably should again, but those shrieks of pure hysteria beating directly in my ears were something I hoped never to be exposed to again, particularly when punctuated by near strangulation from that death grip around my neck each time another bomb detonated.

  And never anywhere, as the roar of the engines of those bombing planes overhead faded away towards Portsmouth, had I heard an “All Clear” wailing out on the siren with the blessed feeling of relief that came to me after that raid on Selsey Bill had ended and I had succeeded finally, aided by Oakes, in getting that hysterical girl quieted a bit and uncoiled from round my neck and her two babies clear of my legs. General Sherman, I felt, in three succinct words had long ago far more honestly characterized the effect of war on the emotions roused in women than had any of our latter day novelists with their erotically glamorized fiction.

  CHAPTER 12

  Barton proved also a first-class prophet in the second part of his forecast for the night—we got no sleep to talk of after the raid.

  It took the combined efforts of all three of us almost an hour after the “All Clear” to get that hysterical mother and her two still more hysterical babies (even with the aid of her less upset younger sister) calmed enough to be willing to leave what slight reassurance the presence of other humans gave her in the face of death. At last, still shivering from fright, they all trooped back alone to their own cottage.