Even after they’d finally gone and I’d slid back into bed, for me that night there was no more sleep. I kept on feeling that panic-stricken girl, with the black patch over the eye she’d lost in the London raid plastered practically on my own face, quivering in terror round my neck. She had cause enough for it, there was no doubt—the burned-in memory of the night the heavy timbers of her home had come crashing down on her and her babies wasn’t exactly conducive to stoic acceptance of more falling bombs. But as a neighbor to fighting men, she was exactly what Barton had said of her—a nuisance. As I tossed sleeplessly through the rest of that night, I also heartily wished she’d find some habitation she could go back to in London till at least we and our Mulberry harbors were all gone from Selsey Bill.
Morning came finally. Three very tired men, all completely willing to omit comment on the night just gone by, silently got their own breakfasts, and washed and put away the few dishes and utensils used. Then even more silently as they went by the neighboring cottage, they departed for the beach.
Not until all of us were again back on the sands did I inform Barton of what might be wanted of him that day. While not overly happy at the prospect of losing the services of one of his Dukws for an indefinite period, nevertheless with his usual bluntness he assured me I could count on his seeing a Dukw was laid on anywhere on the beach I designated, for those V.I.P.’s on next to no further notice to him, once they had arrived on Selsey Bill. And then without any more ceremony, Barton turned to with his trio of Dukws on what was to him of far more importance than the visit of any number of V.I.P.’s—the task of getting food enough aboard each Phoenix for the fighting men who were to take passage on it to the Far Shore—its coming crew of Seabees and anti-aircraft gunners.
A few hours went busily by on the beach. Then a new note broke into the symphony of sounds the men on the sands had grown accustomed to—three British M.P.’s astride unusually noisy motorcycles came roaring down the road from Chichester, outriders for a cavalcade of motor cars which, flanked by more M.P.’s on more motorcycles, swiftly turned eastward onto the beach to come to a halt before NOIC’s office. Here, evidently, were our V.I.P.’s arriving. I turned to wave to Barton, down at the water’s edge, to get a Dukw up on the sands, somewhere near those cars.
Then I started myself across the sand toward the door to NOIC’s headquarters for whatever welcoming ceremonies there were to be. I was curious, of course, as to who might be the V.I.P.’s whom Admiral Stark had managed to flush from their desks in London for this (to them) wholly useless visit to Selsey Bill. The two cabinet ministers involved most directly would be the British Secretary for War, under whom as part of the Army came the Royal Engineers; and the First Lord of the Admiralty, who, I trusted, might somehow if only he were forced to be present, be inveigled into agreeing to have the Navy take over. Had Stark managed to get these two ministerial aces included in the hand dealt out for this inspection? Or had he been forced to settle for Under Secretaries only, and their corresponding military and naval subordinates? None of these august personages, either civil or military, now starting to descend from the cars, did I know by sight. I should have to wait the introductions to learn whom we had drawn.
And then I saw I needn’t bother. Admiral Stark had managed by some miracle to get us dealt for that inspection a hand, so to speak, with all thirteen spades! There, getting out of the first car was Winston Churchill himself, Britain’s Prime Minister!
My heart skipped a beat. If Winston Churchill felt the problem at Selsey Bill was of such importance as to warrant his personal attendance at the examination into it, then this inspection was most unlikely to be only a perfunctory confirmation of the previous decisions. Whoever else now might be in that party made not the slightest difference to me. The one man in Britain to whom the rising of those Phoenixs must mean the most had come to look them over.
I got a dazed impression as I was hurriedly presented to the party, that there were other cabinet ministers there, and certainly many of the higher brass hats of both British Army and Navy (I was the only American present). But, save for one exception, who they all were I never got clearly, nor cared much either, for that matter.
The one exception was Brigadier Bruce White, the Royal Engineer in charge of the Phoenixs, whom I was meeting for the first time, and in whom therefore, I had a special interest. For Brigadier Bruce White himself I had great respect, due to the magnificent job he had turned out in producing the Mulberries. My only regret regarding him was that he didn’t seem to realize when he had finally gone in over his head and the time had come at last to let go his hold on his beloved Phoenixs, lest the whole project founder.
It turned out to be a most informal inspection. Hardly had all hands descended from their cars, than Winston Churchill, to the last detail matching my impressions of him—cane in hand, cigar in mouth, Homburg on his head—took a swift look about Selsey Bill and then indicated with his cane that we would go—that way.
That way, turned out to be to the eastward along the sands in the direction in which on our right rose from the sea the panorama of sunken Phoenixs. And hardly had he pointed out the direction in which he desired to go than the Prime Minister started out going along it.
A couple of civilians (other cabinet ministers, I supposed) flanked him, one on each side. The rest of that group of perhaps a dozen, mostly military, fell in close behind them by twos and threes, while NOIC and I brought up the rear, sometimes accompanied by Brigadier Bruce White (who was apparently junior in that array of gold lace) and sometimes not, as the Brigadier moved up to just behind the front row in case he should be wanted for questioning.
Ordinarily, to have let the Prime Minister stroll off in the lead over those once-mined Selsey sands would have been something NOIC, in spite of his indecisiveness in other matters, would never have allowed—it would be shaking dice with sudden death for Britain’s least expendable citizen. But by now, in that direction an impromptu road had already been beaten into the sand by endless heavy truck tires; what unremoved mines were there had long since been exploded; those particular sands were safe enough. What else it might be that had NOIC so jittery as he trudged along with me at the tail of the procession, I had no idea. But what kept me fidgeting as I watched Churchill and his entourage staring intently seaward at that stupefying vista of Mulberry Units, was marshalling in brief phrases the points involved pro and con the continuance of the Royal Engineers in charge of the lifting of those Phoenixs.
For inevitably the questions must begin to flow respecting the need for any change at all. The decision on that, Churchill had obviously decided should be left in no lesser hands than his. And Churchill, as I’d heard, was from a long life in Parliamentary debate, a most incisive questioner. The prospect before me was enough to keep anyone fidgety.
We plodded along the sands for perhaps a mile in Winston Churchill’s wake, pausing occasionally at some vantage point which gave an unusually good vista of that prodigious sunken city seaward of us, a vast mass of disjointed concrete looking no more movable than the Pyramids at Gizeh. At each pause, Brigadier Bruce White moved up expectantly toward the front row should he be wanted, since very evidently he was the one on the defensive. But so far as I could judge during any one of these pauses, Churchill contented himself by puffing only more vigorously on his cigar; there was never a question.
The party turned about. Still led by Churchill, it started back, westward this time along the same sands, moving no faster than before, pausing quite as frequently. As we came nearer again to the halted string of cars, I could see Barton’s huge figure, marked by his sweatshirt, standing near his Dukw, waiting impatiently to fulfill his part in the inspection. I had been a bit puzzled so far on our walk by the lack of any questions at all about the lifting of the Phoenixs. Now it came to me that Churchill must be waiting to see the Phoenixs from close aboard afloat, and perhaps even to board the Dutch schuits anchored beyond to see what the Royal Engineers had provided on them, b
efore beginning his inquisition on the factors involved in Phoenix lifting.
We got back at last to where the Dukw waited on the seaward side of the stopped motor cavalcade and its motorcycle convoy. It would be a little crowded in one Dukw for all the officials in that party, but it seemed to me undesirable to separate them. And then besides, it had evidently appeared unnecessary to Barton, even after he’d seen how many there were present, to yank another one of his little squadron of only three Dukws off his task for no more reason than to give a lot of V.I.P.’s a little more elbow room afloat, when one Dukw would certainly take them all aboard with not overmuch crowding. At any rate, there ready, stood one Dukw.
But surprisingly, as we came abreast it, Churchill ignored the waiting Dukw completely, and pointing again with his cane, climbed the few steps from the sands into NOIC’s office, to be followed by so many, not all, of his party as could crowd in there behind him. NOIC, as host, wedged his way in also; I stayed out. If Churchill, holding his discussion inside, wanted me, he could send for me; I wasn’t intruding myself on what was otherwise evidently an all-British conference.
However, there couldn’t have been any conference. In so few minutes as practically to preclude that possibility, out came Churchill again. Could he have entered, I speculated, to see whether, as he once humorously observed in another connection, there was a door adjoining NOIC’s office with his initials on it? After all, it was possible—he was not a young man any more.
At any rate, I got ready immediately to get him at least aboard the waiting Dukw. But once again he ignored the Dukw and clambered back instead into the car in which he’d come. And in another few minutes, with all the visiting party similarly re-loaded, headed as before by the three helmeted motorcycle outriders and flanked as previously by more motorcycle-mounted M.P.’s, the cavalcade roared away off the Selsey sands bound again for Chichester and Number 10 Downing Street beyond it.
The inspection of the Phoenixs at Selsey Bill was obviously over. So far as I knew, not one question had been asked of anybody on the beach about the matter in dispute.
Left there on the sands futilely holding the Dukw, so to speak, Barton looked at me in disgust. So these were the English, eh? They’d caused him to lose at least two precious hours at sea with that Dukw, and then they’d scorned it. What did I wish him to do next?
I shrugged my shoulders. I couldn’t understand it myself, but so far as the Dukw was concerned, the answer was clear. He could now proceed to put it back to work. Which promptly Barton did.
As for me, I looked northward at the cloud of dust vanishing up the country road going toward Chichester and began to ponder a question not unlike that one propounded three-quarters of a century before by Stockton in his “The Lady or the Tiger?” In other words, what lay behind Churchill’s swift departure without his ever getting afloat or asking any questions? Change, or—No Change?
Did it mean his view from the beach of those sunken Phoenixs was so overpowering in effect on him as to convince him without more discussion that the greatest salvage skill available—in other words, the Navy’s—would be none too much? Or did it mean simply that he had already decided to rely on typical British veneration for the traditions of the Royal Engineers and allow them to carry through, so consequently saw no point in wasting more of his time at Selsey Bill?
Like Stockton’s hapless captive gazing at the two doors before him and trying from his little knowledge of psychology to deduce behind which lay life and love, and behind which lay death, I stared after that cloud of dust and tried to figure how Churchill’s mind might work. What meant the briefness of that visit? I found no answer.
CHAPTER 13
In a state of suspended animation, almost, I waited on the Selsey sands through the rest of that May day for any indication that might come to me from NOIC’s office or via Portsmouth that a decision had been reached.
Suppose now that it should be adverse? And that this time, worse than before, it should turn out that it was Churchill himself who was saying, “No!”? Would Stark dare to go beyond that? And even if so, where could he go then? To General Eisenhower, perhaps? And would that do him or anybody any good, considering Churchill’s unique position as one of that pair of equals guiding all Allied invasion decisions? And in this case, with Churchill, the only one of the two actually on the spot, having himself made the decision?
Still, over and over again, I could not get away from the thought that the very brevity of Churchill’s inspection gave a certain and definite clue to his decision, if only I, like Joseph faced with Pharaoh’s dream, could correctly interpret it. But which way should that brevity be interpreted?
In the late afternoon, the agony was partially ended. In NOIC’s office, I received a phone call from Mulberry headquarters in the Dockyard at Portsmouth. I was to call Commodore Flanigan in London from some phone on which I could talk privately.
So a decision must have been reached. I hurried by jeep to the phone in the Seabee camp, from which I could talk in such privacy as resulted there from ail-American surroundings. I put in my call. In due course, which meant after a long wait, I was through to Flanigan.
Commodore Flanigan showed himself a person of rare understanding. Yes, a decision had been reached that afternoon and communicated to Admiral Stark—final, this time. Knowing my deep personal involvement, Flanigan regretted to say I should be both sorry and glad to learn it. Glad to learn that Churchill had announced as his decision—To take the task from the Royal Engineers and give it to the Navy. I almost shouted a “Hurrah!” into the telephone at that. So what Winston Churchill’s brevity meant was that he was no hidebound worshipper at the shrine of tradition, no matter how venerable!
But I should be sorry to hear, continued Flanigan evenly, that in spite of Stark’s urgent recommendations to the contrary, Churchill had further decided to turn the job over to the Royal Navy, not to us Americans. Stark had pointed out that every voice which had ever dared question the situation or take a chance in urging the imperative need of a change—Captain Clark’s, mine, Flanigan’s, and his own—had all been American; not one was British. So in fairness to the Americans, now that the need of a change was conceded, they should be permitted to take over.
But with regard to that, Churchill had been immovable. Having seen it, he agreed heartily with Stark that it was a Navy, not an Army, job. But this job was in Britain, it had been commenced by British hands, and by British hands it must be finished. Consequently, the Royal Navy must have it. As Britain’s Prime Minister he could not order otherwise and leave the Royal Navy any self-respect. And so, Flanigan added as a matter of fact, the Royal Navy already had the assignment and was moving with extraordinary speed to take over. Some time tomorrow, the Senior Salvage Officer of the Royal Navy, already ordered to the job, would arrive in Selsey Bill to relieve the Royal Engineers in the lifting of the Phoenixs.
So with that Flanigan extended his congratulations. I had succeeded in the mission on which I’d been sent to Selsey Bill. On the major point, we had won—the lifting of the Phoenixs, on which success in the invasions vitally rested, was now in hands which could carry it through. On the minor point, as to precisely to whom those hands should belong, we shouldn’t exactly feel that we’d lost either, since this was in Britain and we had to make some concessions to save the feelings of our friends, the British. Still, even on that, knowing my deep interest in the problem, he offered his sympathy that we weren’t to handle the lifting.
I took that disappointment silently and with what grace I could; I hadn’t exactly set my heart on handling the lifting of those Phoenixs at Selsey Bill. Still, as between that job at sea and struggling in London over a desk with the planning of the harbor to come later at Quiberon Bay, I shouldn’t have hesitated a second in choosing, had I really been given any choice.
With the decisions on those two points conveyed to me, we seemed to have covered ground enough for any ordinary discussion of the problem at issue. So the matter was no
w settled. I stifled my chagrin at our not getting the lifting assignment, and casually broke in with what I thought was only a perfunctory question, hardly worth bothering to ask over the phone: Would it be all right with the Deputy Chief of Staff, if, it being now late afternoon, I delayed starting my return from Selsey Bill to Grosvenor Square to resume my work there, until the following morning?
If I had stuck a harpoon into Flanigan, I couldn’t more startlingly have changed the suave nuances of his voice (hardly concluded from expounding to me the need for our diplomatic understanding of the morale problems of our sister Navy) into its habitual brusqueness of command.
No, it was not all right. I wasn’t to start back next morning, nor that same afternoon, nor at any other time. In fact, I wasn’t to start back at all. And had I waited a moment more before breaking in on him, he would have told me so. It was now Admiral Stark’s order to me to stay on as his representative right on the Channel until after D-day, and to act there as consultant to the Royal Navy salvage forces in the lifting of the Phoenixs.
Consultant? That unsavory prospect set me instantly hard back on my heels. Fumbling for a way out of any such as signment, I hastened to recall Flanigan’s attention to that very important task on Quiberon Bay he’d given me; had he forgotten that? I couldn’t possibly handle the complicated planning on Quiberon from my shack on the remote Selsey sands.
It seemed that Flanigan had not forgotten Quiberon, but that from there on out, I was to forget Quiberon—permanently. Someone else still at Grosvenor Square now would handle it. Quiberon being thus clarified, was there anything else I still had on my mind?
The Far Shore Page 10