by John Kerr
Davenport reached for his cane, rose, and said, ‘Thank you, sir.’ He looked Rawlinson in the eye and gave him a brisk salute.
As Davenport turned to leave, Rawlinson said, ‘Your superiors at division HQ recommended you highly. General Bradford wrote that you have a fine intellect, quite the scholar at university.’
‘Thank you, Colonel,’ said Davenport, feeling slightly embarrassed.
‘Oxford or Cambridge?’ asked Rawlinson. ‘I was Balliol, class of 21.’
‘Neither. I’m a graduate of King’s College.’
Rawlinson imperceptibly arched an eyebrow and said, ‘I see. And what did you study?’
‘Literature. I intend to teach.’
Rawlinson briefly studied Davenport and said, ‘Well, Major. Goodbye.’
CHAPTER FIVE
The Bachelor Officers’ Barracks on Wilfred Street was a poor substitute for the comforts of Charles Davenport’s flat in South Kensington. Yet he was indifferent to comfort now. The pain of Frances’s infidelity and rejection had burned right through his soul, filling his mind with poisonous jealousy and bitterness, robbing him of even the most fleeting happiness. The cold rain caused his thigh to throb painfully. Leaning heavily on his cane, he walked slowly into the barracks foyer. A private at the counter said hesitantly, ‘Major Davenport?’
Davenport looked wearily at the young man and said, ‘Yes?’
‘Here you are, sir,’ said the private, handing Davenport a letter.
Davenport was confused, staring at the blue envelope in the boy’s outstretched hand. ‘Oh,’ he said dully as he accepted it. ‘Thanks.’ He trudged up the stairs and made his way to his room where he stripped off the waterlogged trench coat and slumped on the bed. He studied the envelope, at the unfamiliar stamp and postmark and the neat script, obviously a woman’s. Davenport smiled and tore open the letter like a schoolboy. After reading it quickly, he kicked off his shoes, stretched out, and slowly read Mary Kennedy’s letter over again, picturing the anguished young woman in the hospital, with tear-stained cheeks and the handkerchief knotted in her lap. Now he understood. No wonder she had sought him out. She was strikingly beautiful, in such a different way than Frances’s carefully made up and coiffed good looks. And what about her accent? He imagined her reading the letter out loud. Ah, she was an American. The letter fell on his chest and he closed his eyes.
Later that evening, after returning to his room following supper and a few pints, Davenport switched on the lamp and placed several sheets of ruled paper on the desk and took a fountain-pen from the drawer. After drumming his fingers on the desktop, he wrote:
8 September 1942
London
Dear Mrs Kennedy,
I’m sorry it’s taken so long to answer your letter, but it was sent to the hospital and has just now made its way to me. I’ve been discharged and sent to a new duty post in London. Thank you so much for writing. It saddens me to hear of your other losses. You have suffered far more than your share of life’s tragic blows. I certainly understand why you were so upset over the loss of the young man, and I hope the few details I was able to provide were of some comfort to you.
By the way, it may surprise you to learn that your visit actually was one of the highlights of my stay in hospital. I know it was out of your concern for the fate of Corporal Duthie, but it nonetheless did me a world of good to have someone to talk to about our experience. It can be awfully lonely for the injured soldiers recovering far from home and loved ones.
I hope your journey back to Ireland was a safe one, and especially that the pain of your losses may lessen.
Sincerely,
Charles Davenport
PS Should you have any reason to get in touch with me, I may be reached at the address on the envelope.
The map room resembled a schoolroom, with a large wall map that showed in intricate detail the south coast of England, the Channel ports, and the French coastline from the Belgian border to the Cherbourg peninsula. Colonel Rawlinson stood before it with a pointer in one hand, the other casually stuffed into the pocket of his trousers. He surveyed the men, withdrew his hand from his pocket and checked the time. Davenport was in the third row between a heavy-set captain and a diminutive young lieutenant wearing thick glasses.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Rawlinson began in a loud voice. ‘Welcome to Special Planning Group B. Each of you has been carefully selected to participate in what may prove to be the single most important planning operation of the war.’ Rawlinson paused as a collective murmur passed through the room.
‘This unit has been formed,’ Rawlinson continued, ‘on the explicit instructions of the Prime Minister and the War Cabinet. Our task is to plan the greatest military operation in modern warfare.’ He paused for effect. ‘Codenamed Operation Round-up. The cross-Channel invasion of France.’ The murmur grew louder.
Rawlinson paced, tapping the pointer on the grey linoleum. ‘Prime Minister Churchill and the President of the United States,’ he explained, ‘have pledged to our Soviet ally that we shall strike Hitler’s armies in Continental Europe in 1943. The Americans have committed a million men, twenty-seven divisions, and we shall add another twenty-one divisions, British and Canadian. The combined armies will launch the largest amphibious operation in history to strike the Germans.’ Rawlinson looked out at the eager faces. ‘Questions?’
‘Sir,’ said a young captain in the front row, ‘has the point of attack been decided? Where will the landings take place?’
‘Let me remind you,’ said Rawlinson said with a stern look, ‘that every word spoken here must be kept in the strictest confidence. Not a word breathed to anyone outside this room. Now, to answer your question.’ Rawlinson turned to the map and extended the pointer to the upper right corner. ‘The invasion may occur at any point from here,’ – he tapped the pointer on Calais – ‘all the way to here.’ He ran the pointer along the curve of the Normandy coastline to Cherbourg. ‘We won’t know the precise location for some time.’
‘But, sir,’ interjected a somewhat older major, ‘how can we possibly plan an invasion on such a massive scale without knowing the length of the crossing, the precise landing conditions, tides, enemy fortifications and a thousand other pertinent factors?’
‘Our job, Mr McGrath,’ said Rawlinson with a tight-lipped smile, ‘will be to evaluate the advantages and disadvantages of various landing sites. With our colleagues in the Royal Navy, and the Americans, of course, we will be sifting through an enormous quantity of information bearing on that fundamental question. But there are several critical considerations.’ He began pacing slowly. ‘One, proximity to a deep-water port. It’s no use landing a large body of men on a heavily defended beach if one lacks the ability to resupply them. And two, the element of surprise. Where is the attack most likely expected? Where is the coastline most heavily defended?’
From that point the questions became increasingly trivial and Rawlinson’s answers like those of a bored university professor. Davenport quietly weighed the scale of the undertaking, wondering how a million American troops could possibly arrive in Britain by the following summer. And where would the twenty-one British and Canadian divisions come from, considering that, at the moment, the British Eighth Army was fighting for its life on the border of Egypt and Libya? When at last they were dismissed, Davenport found his way to his assigned office, a small room with two metal desks and a window with a view of Whitehall Place. He walked over to gaze out at a clear September day, pale-blue sky with a layer of thin clouds, that reminded him of rugby and cricket matches at King’s College. Davenport reflected on his years at the academically excellent university, though it was certainly not Oxford or Cambridge. How simple those times before the war seemed.
‘Hallo, there.’
Davenport turned to face a young captain in the doorway with his hands on his hips.
‘It’s Davenp
ort, isn’t it?’ asked the captain.
‘That’s right,’ said Davenport. ‘And you are. . . ?’
‘Ashton-Gore,’ replied the captain as he shook hands with Davenport. ‘Leslie Ashton-Gore.’ He was of average height and build, with carefully parted dark hair and a thin moustache in the same fashion as Rawlinson’s. ‘Well, Davenport,’ he said, as he took a quick look around, ‘it appears we’re going to be sharing this, ah, spacious accommodation.’
Davenport studied Ashton-Gore, at most 25, and judging from his pink, rounded cheeks and chubby physique, another staff officer who’d never been in the field.
Ashton-Gore walked behind one of the desks and lowered himself into a swivel chair. ‘Tell me, Davenport,’ he asked, ‘where were you before being assigned to this unit?’
There was something about the man’s too-casual attitude as he tilted back in the chair with his hands clasped over his ample middle, and his use of Davenport’s last name, that grated ‘Well, Leslie,’ said Davenport, ‘I was the CO of B Company, First Battalion, Sixth Regiment in the Second Armoured Division.’
‘I say, old boy,’ said Ashton-Gore, leaning forward. ‘Second Armoured Division. Eighth Army, in North Africa?’
‘That’s right,’ said Davenport. He walked over to the other desk and sat on the front edge. ‘Until I took a German machine-gun round at Tobruk. Since then I’ve been recuperating in hospital.’
Ashton-Gore sat up straight and blushed slightly, as it was obvious he’d never seen action. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Tobruk. How frightful. Well, what do you make of this Operation Round-up?’
‘I think the politicos have gone off their nuts,’ replied Davenport. ‘I don’t know about you, but for the life of me I can’t imagine how the Yanks are going to send us a million trained and armed men in time for an invasion next summer.’
‘Well,’ said Ashton-Gore, leaning on his elbows, ‘I can’t see how it’s our province to question what the CIGS tells us. I mean, old boy, if they say they’re coming, well, then, I should think they are coming.’
Davenport smiled at Ashton-Gore’s earnest expression and public school manners. ‘I learnt a long time ago,’ he said, ‘that it’s one thing sitting here in Whitehall, pushing pins in a map to signify the movement of men and equipment, and quite another in the field, where transports are sunk and lorries sit idle for lack of petrol. A million men.’ He shook his head. ‘We had trouble enough equipping an army of a hundred thousand. But you’re right, Leslie. Ours is not to question why . . .’ Davenport slipped off the desk. ‘What do you say to some lunch?’
‘Damn, damn, damn,’ said Mary as the door slammed behind her. She stamped her foot, sending poor Chelsea, paws unable to find purchase on the wooden floor, skittering across the room for cover. How was it that some ridiculous rumour was circulating? Word of her trip to England to see a British officer had somehow spread among the farmers and the few, mostly elderly, inhabitants of the village, and in the telling the story had inevitably been embellished. Returning to the kitchen, with its inviting aroma of cinnamon, she pulled the gingham apron from her neck and wiped her hands before taking the apple pie from the oven and placing it on the cooling rack.
‘Anyone home?’
Mary turned to see Sarah McClendon at the door and called, ‘In the kitchen.’
‘That smells delicious,’ said Sarah, untying her scarf and shaking out her thick auburn hair. She walked over to the counter and bent down to sniff. ‘Mince?’ she asked.
‘No, apple. American apple pie.’
‘You should bring it to the social. Are you coming?’
‘Social? No one’s said anything to me . . .’
‘It’s Friday evening at the church, and you should come,’ said Sarah, settling into a chair at the table. ‘It might be a way to let people know that you’re, well . . .’
‘Well, what?’ She gazed into Sarah’s green eyes.
‘You know how people love to talk. And what with the trip to London, with Dublin only an hour away. I’ve never been to London.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘And seeing the officer. The British officer.’
‘Oh,’ said Mary. ‘I see. Well, it’s not what you think. I merely wanted to . . .’ Sensing that it was useless to explain, Mary let the sentence die. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll come to the social with my apple pie. And I might even let Jack Healy have a bite.’
Later in the day, Mary decided to cycle into town. When she entered the post office, she smiled politely at Mr Coggins behind the counter, slipped the letters from her pocket, and handed them to him. As she turned to go, her presence unacknowledged, Mr Coggins muttered something under his breath.
She stopped and looked back. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘did you say something?’
‘You have a letter,’ he said flatly, sliding an envelope across the counter. Mary walked over and glanced at the postmark before raising her eyes to meet his cold stare, both of them aware of the British army return address. Blushing in spite of herself, Mary took the envelope and hurried out, her haste no doubt a perceived admission of guilt. Once her bicycle was in the shed, Mary took the letter from her pocket, and with Chelsea at her heels, headed for the knoll of wildflowers at the top of the cliffs. Carefully controlling her anticipation, she settled on the soft grass and studied the envelope. The letter was from Major Davenport, of course. She hesitated for a moment, her heart inexplicably pounding, and then, taking a deep breath, she tore it open and quickly read his note. Mary leaned back, feeling the warmth of the autumn sun on her face with a smile of delight. Letting her gaze fall on the vast, irregular shadows spreading on the flat surface of the sea, she thought back to their conversation in the hospital, remembering the major’s calm, clear description of the last moments of Jamie’s life. That he should write of her visit as a high point of his stay there brought an intense blush of pure pleasure. She felt the need to write to him, to explain about Anna and David and all that had driven her to the hospital that day. Jumping up with a new felt energy, she dusted off the back of her skirt and, giving Chelsea a rub to share her good feelings, was off for paper and pen.
Mary sat on the porch steps to write another explanation to Major Davenport, though this time she wrote with a lighter heart:
14 September 1942
Kilmichael Point
Dear Major Davenport,
I am so glad you wrote! I recognize the impropriety of saying it, but being an American, I will assume that excuses it. It has been difficult here lately as my neighbours have taken it into their heads that I am loyal to the British, and if you know anything of the rural Irish, you will understand what that means. I have felt somewhat isolated, which made your letter doubly welcome.
With the sunshine drying the ink as quickly as the words poured out, Mary wrote of the loss of her baby Anna, describing her bright smile and fair skin and the weak heart that left her dead at one year and ten days old. She went on to tell the story of her husband’s death, the insurance settlement, and her decision to flee her family and friends in Boston, seeking refuge in her grandparents’ cottage. After pausing to gaze out at the waters sparkling in the midday sun, she finished with an enquiry about the major’s new assignment in London, the indifference of the local population to the Nazi menace, and her frustration at having no one with whom she could discuss it. In closing, she wrote:
Since leaving the hospital that day I feel that I have found my way back to the world, thanks in no small part to your kindness. I do hope you will write again.
Sincerely,
Mary Kennedy
With a sigh, she realized she had filled over three pages of her favorite blue stationery. She slipped them in an envelope, all at once aware of an almost forgotten sensation . . . she was happy!
At the end of another long day studying reams of information about transport capacity, landing craf
t, and other minutiae of military logistics, Charles wearily returned to the barracks on Wilfred Street. As he walked past the desk in the front hall, the young private called out ‘Excuse me, major. You have a letter.’
Davenport reached for the envelope and studied the return address, Smith, Botford & Doakes on Leadenhall Street. He furrowed his brow and tucked the envelope into his coat pocket. No doubt it was from a firm of solicitors retained by Frances. He walked to his room, fished for his key and let himself in. Leaning his cane against the wall, he sat at the desk and tore open the envelope. Dear Mr Davenport, began the letter. Mr Davenport, he thought sourly. With a frown, he slowly read the solicitor’s letter, requesting Davenport’s co-operation but threatening to allege as grounds for the divorce his abandonment and cruel mistreatment of his wife and the filing of a writ to enjoin him from ‘entry into her household’. Davenport carefully reread the letter, shaking his head at the threat of enjoining him from entering his own flat. He thought about the arguments they’d had over it. He had wanted to live near the university, but she insisted on living in South Kensington, to be near friends and fashionable shops. In the end, as with just about everything, she had prevailed, using her own trust funds to furnish the apartment. He stared at the letter. The threatened injunction was just a lawyer’s tactic, designed to intimidate him. Tossing the letter aside, he rose and slipped on his jacket. If that’s what Frances wants, let her sue him for divorce and parade before the court her adultery while he was fighting Germans in North Africa.
The following day Davenport awoke with a splitting headache. Moving his head cautiously, he dreaded the thought of going to the War Office until it dawned on him that it was Saturday. He tossed the covers aside, trying to reconstruct the evening. But the scene in the smoky pub, after God only knows how many Scotch and sodas, dissolved into a murky darkness. After dressing, he headed out on a brisk walk in the mild weather to the Embankment and, when he returned to the barracks the young private at the desk cheerfully said, ‘Morning, sir. You have another letter.’ For a moment Davenport feared another letter from the lawyers but then saw the blue envelope. ‘Thanks,’ he said, staring at the neat handwriting. Once in his room, he sank on the bed and leaned back on the pillow. He carefully opened the envelope, a smile on his face and a peculiar lightness in his chest. The smile vanished when he read her matter-of-fact account of the deaths of her baby and husband. And what of her life in a small, provincial Irish village? Surrounded by ignorant Irishmen with their blasted neutrality, foolish enough to think the British were more of an adversary than the Germans. But Mary was not so foolish. Davenport was indignant about her mistreatment and surprised by the depth of feeling her simple letter evoked. Of course he would write again. He sprang up from the bed and paced back and forth. Then he sat at the desk, took a sheet of army stationery from the drawer and wrote: