by John Kerr
Davenport unfurled a finely detailed map which he hung over the first. Taking a cue from McLean, he said, ‘The invasion flotilla will assemble here, offshore Portsmouth, and proceed to this point at 0400 on D-Day. Following naval and air bombardment of the German fortified positions, the first wave will come ashore. The British and Canadian sector, comprised of the Third Division, the Fiftieth Division, and the Third Canadian Division, will be landed here, on beaches designated Sword, Juno and Gold.’ He paused, aware that Churchill was studying the map intently. ‘At the same time,’ Davenport continued calmly, ‘the American First Division will come ashore here, at Omaha Beach, and the American Fourth Division will land here, at the eastern extremity, designated Utah Beach. The mission of the first wave will be to neutralize the German defenders, secure the beaches, and open the exits for the tracked vehicles and trucks. Meanwhile the second wave will land.’
Churchill silently pondered the map. ‘Tell me,’ he said at length. ‘What is the size of the German force defending this sector of the Atlantic Wall?’
‘Our intelligence estimate is one division,’ replied McLean. ‘At the moment. So long as they continue to believe that the likely point of the invasion is the Pas de Calais, it seems unlikely that they will reinforce Normandy.’
‘How do you mean to resupply them? You haven’t a deep water port anywhere between Le Havre and Cherbourg.’
‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ said McLean with a tight-lipped smile, ‘that’s where the mulberries come into play.’
‘Mulberries?’ asked Churchill.
‘Precisely, sir. The name chosen for the artificial harbours you suggested some time ago as a means of getting heavy equipment and supplies ashore.’
‘Excellent,’ said Churchill, springing up from the bed with surprising agility. He bent over the map and peered at the minute details. ‘Very well done, McLean. An excellent presentation. However,’ – he paused and cast a significant look at the three men – ‘We shall need more men. And for more men, we shall need greater numbers of landing craft. Landing craft,’ he repeated solemnly. ‘That’s been our curse. We simply can’t seem to get enough of them.’
Davenport cleared his throat and said, ‘Sir, if I may . . .’
Churchill gazed at him. ‘Yes, Lieutenant Colonel?’
‘To address the shortage of landing craft, sir, what we need are Higgins boats.’
‘Higgins boats?’ repeated Churchill.
‘Yes, sir. The Americans are producing them in great numbers for their Marine Corps in the Pacific. They’re plywood, you see, and avoid the critical shortage of steel .’
‘I see,’ said Churchill. ‘I shall have to remember this.’
‘If I might offer a suggestion, sir,’ said Davenport. ‘Perhaps it would be useful to mention the possibility of Higgins boats to President Roosevelt.’
‘Yes, Davenport,’ said Churchill with a smile. ‘I shall.’
Following dinner and a tedious evening of cards in the bar, Davenport ventured back out on deck, a drink in hand. All of the lights normally blazing on the Queen Mary’s upper decks and funnels, the chandeliers illuminating its dining salons and lounges, had been doused or blacked out, leaving the ship a dark, massive ghost on the invisible surface of the sea. A thin layer of cloud drifted across the dark sky, obscuring the rising moon as a billion stars sparkled brilliantly overhead. Clutching his coat tightly, he listened to the water rushing far below the railing. What would it be like, he wondered, to be standing watch on a merchant ship in the middle of the Atlantic on a night like this, when suddenly the ship erupts in the fireball of an exploding torpedo, plunging him into the frigid water, in suffocating bunker fuel? The thought made him queasy. Serving in a staff assignment, enjoying the luxuries of an ocean liner and the amenities of Norfolk House, were a far cry from the perils of ordinary seamen or the poor, miserable sods at the front. Taking a swallow of his drink, feeling the sensation of the whisky spreading through his chilled frame, he thought about the job they were sending the infantry to do, storming the most heavily defended beaches in modern warfare, taking risks so great that even Churchill had seemed shocked. And he would be in London, safe and secure . . .
Davenport smiled at the image of Churchill lying on the bed with the playful cat. He had been in the presence of the great man, actually conversed with him. In his college days it had been fashionable to think of Churchill as a dangerous eccentric whose railings about Hitler had been scornfully mocked. Those sentiments, Davenport considered, had disappeared rather abruptly during the Blitz. Had he been wrong to say something about Higgins boats? He had been taken aback by Churchill’s keen grasp of the central problem presented by the shortage of landing craft. And his manner had seemed so informal . . . why not offer his opinion?
Davenport debated a nightcap. How many drinks had he had? Too many. Without thinking, he tossed the glass over the railing. He thought about the letter he’d slipped into the post box the day he left London. Perhaps it was wrong to have pleaded with her, but if she really loved him, it made no sense for her to refuse even to visit him. He worried that her reasoning masked a deeper reluctance. But he had to know, and so he had written, almost begging her to change her mind. Shivering in the cold, he made his way unsteadily way to his stateroom.
The rich Irish soil yielded a bumper crop. Basket after basket of fresh, healthy produce – tomatoes, beans, potatoes, cucumbers and marrows – had been harvested during the warm days of late summer. Now Mary was picking and bottling the last of it. Her life was a blur, passing back and forth between kitchen and garden. What could not be stored in the cool darkness of the cellar had been processed into row upon row of jars neatly aligned on the pantry shelves. Marmalade abutted pickles, followed by an impressive array of vegetables. Mary exhausted herself in an effort to gain sound sleep, free of Charles’s face that sometimes haunted her dreams, where other faces sometimes ventured. She lost weight to the point that the trousers she wore in the garden had to be cinched two notches tighter. Her hair, rather than hanging loosely on her shoulders, was bunched up in a knot, and she was forever pushing back the wisps from her face with her callused hands. After cleaning the kitchen for the last time at the end of a long day, she stood on a chair to lift the last jars to the top shelf of the pantry with a scraping clatter. In the morning, she decided, she’d take a selection of fresh and bottled vegetables to Eamon, whom she regarded as another lost soul, living alone in town, without family or friends, or even a job so far as she could tell. She chose a variety of jars from the shelf – bread-and-butter pickles, cut beans, and tomato chutney. Yes, tomorrow she would pay a call on Eamon.
The next morning, Mary added fresh vegetables to the basket, and, fastening a lead to Chelsea’s collar, started into town. It was early September, and the wind off the water carried a chill and rattled the drying leaves in the trees. By the time she reached the cluster of humble buildings that was Castletown she felt warm from the exertion. As she strolled past the post office, the few people she passed paid her no notice; what might they say, she wondered, if they knew the overflowing basket on her arm was for Eamon? Well, they were both odd-man-out in the village, so let them talk. Eamon lived in a dilapidated boarding-house on a side street and, as she walked up, she stopped to straighten a dangling wooden post on the fence. After tying Chelsea’s lead to the gate, she hesitantly approached the two-storey house. A door opened to a narrow staircase. The name ‘O’Farrell’ was one of three roughly scrawled on a card indicating the upstairs rooms. Standing at the foot of the stairs with the basket on her arm, Mary thought back to the threat that had been uttered at the Golden Anchor and briefly considered turning back. No, she had come this far and was determined not to allow the petty jealousies of the townspeople, or the threats of the IRA, intimidate her. She slowly ascended the creaking stairs to a hallway lit by a single naked bulb. There were three doors; but which was Eamon’s? She examined the door on
her left with a grimy smudge around the doorknob. From the end of the hall, she could just make out the sound of a man’s voice. Taking a deep breath, she walked slowly and softly to the end of the hall and stopped at the door.
The voice inside the room was muffled and indistinct. Then she heard a different sound, an electronic chirp and scratch. The man began speaking again. It was Eamon’s voice, she was sure of it. She placed the basket on the floor and raised her hand to knock. Then she heard the strange electronic sound again. Mary felt oddly apprehensive and gently leaned her ear against the door. Now she could hear clearly; footsteps on a wooden floor, a chair being dragged back, a man’s voice, though she couldn’t make out the words, and then static followed by a distorted tone . . . a radio signal. Her heart racing, she inched even closer. Now she could hear another man’s voice through the static, speaking in a foreign language. ‘Ja, ja, ich verstehe,’ said the man. Mary held her breath as she struggled to make out the strange words. ‘Bitte, etwas langsamer,’ the man continued.
Mary raised her hand to her mouth. It was German, she was sure of it. And then she heard Eamon’s voice again, clear and unmistakable: ‘Warten sie ein moment, bitte.’
Her heart pounding, Mary lifted the basket from the floor and hurried down the hall, praying he hadn’t heard her. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ she whispered as she carefully manoeuvered the narrow staircase. At the foot of the stairs she almost stumbled when the basket shifted, every bit as unbalanced as the thoughts in her head. Gasping for air, she was almost out the gate before she heard the whimper from Chelsea. Quickly untying the lead, she hurried through the gate, trying to look as though nothing was amiss. Walking across the street, she turned just once to look back.
Eamon leaned forward, speaking directly into the microphone of the short-wave radio transmitter the antenna of which reached almost to the ceiling. ‘Ja, ja, natürlich,’ he said. ‘Ich bin sicher. Morgan. Leutnant General Frederick Morgan.’ The radio crackled.
‘Hans, sie mussen horchen,’ said the other man through the static. ‘Diese sehr bedeutend ist.’ ‘Hans, listen. This is very important. Are you sure of the name of the other officer?’
‘Of course,’ replied Eamon in his aristocratic, Hannoverian German. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Charles Davenport. I believe he and the woman are very close.’
‘Hans, do you understand what this could mean? If this Davenport reports to General Morgan, as you think, and General Morgan reports directly to the Supreme Commander . . .’
‘Precisely, Herr Trott. Excuse me a moment.’ Eamon stood up and slipped his suspenders over his shoulders. He walked to the window and parted the curtains. He could just make out a woman through the branches of a tree, hurrying out the gate with a basket on her arm and a dog on a lead. After a moment, she paused and looked back over her shoulder. Eamon stared at Mary. What was she doing there? He returned to his desk, adjusted the dials, and said, ‘Now, Herr Trott. You would agree we’ve acquired the perfect contact. Ja? The question is how best to exploit it.’
‘Yes, Hans, I agree. You must take care to use your relationship with her to its full advantage. Und jetzt ich muss diese Sendung enden. Aufwiedersehen.’
Mary was too frightened to feel angry. Rounding the corner on the main road, the tug of the lead as the dog stopped abruptly caused the basket to shift, spilling its contents on the pavement. An elderly couple stared at her, making no move to help. ‘Oh dear,’ said Mary as she watched the glass jars roll into the road. ‘Chelsea,’ she commanded, tugging at the lead. ‘Come, girl!’ With a stamp of exasperation she walked on, leaving behind the contents of her basket as the couple stared in bewilderment. All Mary could think about was the refuge of her cottage. She had so few friends, many still avoided her, and the authorities had no sympathy for the British. Besides, she wondered, was Eamon even breaking the law? Dark clouds blotted out the sun, and the wind had a sharp edge. Free from the weight of the basket, Mary found herself almost running the last quarter mile, tugging Chelsea along, acutely aware of her predicament.
The roof of her cottage appeared in the distance. As she hurried along the track, the image of Eamon entered her mind, a solitary figure wandering the desolate beach or appearing out of the blue on the pathway below her cottage. With her breath coming in gasps, Mary ran the final yards to the house, finding the door unlocked and all the lights out – another power failure, she supposed with a sigh. She unfastened Chelsea’s lead and searched in the kitchen for candles and matches. After lighting one in the brass candlestick on the kitchen table, she took the key from a hook on the wall and locked the door. Shivering in the darkness, she sat at the table, staring into the circle of yellow light from the flickering candle.
Mary thought back to the incident in the cellar. Her pulse pounded remembering her terrified reaction when she had surprised him there. She sprang up, grabbed the paraffin lamp from the pantry and lit the mantle. As she headed for the cellar the wind was blowing hard, the trees swaying as the sky opened. She descended the steps in the lantern’s eerie light and placed it on the workbench where it filled the cellar with a bright, incandescent glow. As she feared, on the far side of the room there was an empty space on the shelf where the strange object had been, a fine line in the dust marking where it once sat. The canvas covering had disappeared as well. It was so clear now . . . Eamon had been back, back for his radio transmitter. Mary felt pinpricks of fear on her skin at the terrible realization. He was a German spy, concealing his radio in her cellar. She’d never felt more alone and defenceless. As she turned to go, in the corner of her eye she saw the glint of a smooth metal surface. Leaning against the wall was her grandfather’s shotgun. She dimly remembered him showing her how to load it. An unopened box of shells was on the shelf near the gun. She emptied the shells into her pocket, picked up the gun, and then lifted the lantern and hurried upstairs.
She sat in the old rocking chair by the front door, which was locked and bolted, light from the lantern shining from the kitchen. As Mary leaned the shotgun against the wall, the shells rattled in her pocket with each rock of the chair. Charles had warned her, long ago, about the possibility of German spies operating in neutral Ireland, and possibly working with the IRA. And Eamon was evidently involved with the Republicans. But Eamon was Irish. Or was he? Perhaps the man speaking German behind the door wasn’t Eamon after all. Look at yourself, she thought, barricaded in a dark house with a loaded shotgun. Waiting for what? She rocked late into the evening, the shotgun propped beside her and Chelsea asleep at her feet. She awoke with a start, unsure what was she doing there until it all flooded over her again. She stood up and stretched, deciding she needed a breath of fresh air before going at last to bed. Unlocking the door and casting a glance at the shotgun, she stepped out on the porch and peered into the darkness. The rain had ceased but the sky was filled with thick clouds, obscuring the moon and stars. The sea was as black as the night. Suddenly a red light blinked in the distance. Twice more it flashed and was gone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Charles sat alone on a park bench along the Embankment, staring at the rows of wrecked warehouses and wharves on the opposite bank, stark reminders of the ferocity of the German air raids during the Blitz, three years past. Good Lord, he wondered, how long could the war last? Amid the shouts of deckhands and the gulls’ shrill cries, tugs drove their barges against the stiff current of the Thames, trailing an oily swathe. With a glance at his watch he stood up to stretch. Since returning from Quebec everything had changed. The urgency of the work these past six months was gone, replaced by a dull routine of meetings, reports, and idleness. As he began strolling along the Embankment, he decided he needed a change. He had been far too long sitting behind a desk poring over maps and logistics. Boarding a bus, he mounted the steps to the upper deck and dropped heavily into a seat, staring vacantly at the storefronts. Could he endure this for another eight months? When the bus slowed to a stop at Duke Street St. James, he
climbed down the stairs and bounded down to the pavement for the short walk to the stately Georgian headquarters of the Supreme Allied Command.
He was uncharacteristically late, so quickened his pace as he entered the lobby of Norfolk House. A strong male voice was audible through the transom above the door to the briefing room as Davenport turned the knob. General Morgan paused briefly and shot him a disapproving look. ‘As I was saying,’ said Morgan, standing at the lectern, ‘now that a date has been agreed upon for D-Day, our task is clear. Until the actual transfer of responsibility to the field commanders, some four months hence, we shall continue to be absorbed with tactical and logistical planning at the minutest level. It will be terribly important not to wind down and lose a sense of the urgency of our mission . . .’ Davenport’s mind wandered as Morgan droned on, but he forced himself to concentrate, looking straight ahead and tapping his pencil on the armrest. But the familiar daydream began to form in his mind . . . standing at the railing, looking out over the jade green water as the ferry slipped away from the dock . . . the gulls dipping into the foaming wake as the boat churned across the Irish Sea to the terminal at Kingstown, where standing in the crowd he would find her waiting . . .
‘I say, Mr Davenport,’ said Morgan irritably.
‘Sir,’ said Davenport, sitting up straight amid muffled laughter.
‘Would you be please summarize the discussions at Quadrant with regard to joint naval co-operation in the assembly areas?’
Later, as the men filed out, Hanes Butler walked over to Davenport and clapped an arm around his shoulder. ‘You seem to be having a hard time concentrating,’ he said with a grin. ‘Out last night?’
‘Not likely, Hanes,’ said Davenport. ‘The fact is, I’m sick of the paperwork and endless planning. It’s been over a year now.’
‘Tell you what,’ said Butler. ‘When we finish up, let’s have a drink. You can tell me all about it.’