“Do you suspect that this person was local?” Meredith asked.
“It’s hard to say. We spoke to some fishermen who said the tides and currents could have carried him in from some distance.”
“Talk to Crawford,” Sir Rupert offered. “As I said, he fished the Channel waters. He might have an idea or two.”
“Good idea,” I said. And then the bread-and-butter pudding was served, and once again my attention was momentarily diverted. There was more talk of the indispensable Crawford, and how he kept the household in milk, butter, and eggs from the few cows and chickens on the estate. Given that the current weekly ration allowed two ounces of butter and one egg per person, Crawford was practically worth his weight in dairy products.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I’m still not sure what to make of that bunch,” I said to Kaz too damn early the next morning. We’d left before dawn for the Dartmouth police station. I’d thought about packing my bags and staying in town, but that would have put Kaz in a bad spot.
“David will fill me in, once we have a chance to talk,” Kaz said, buttoning the top collar of his trench coat. It was a crisp morning, the sun a distant promise of warmth as it began to crest the horizon. “I am sure your own family might appear strange at first to an outsider.”
“Doesn’t everyone have an uncle in the IRA?” I said, taking his point. There was little traffic at this hour, and in no time we pulled up in front of the police headquarters, where Tom Quick was waiting.
“Didn’t expect to see you fellows again quite so soon,” he said.
“Sorry for the early hour,” I said as he squeezed into the rear seat next to the radio equipment.
“No mind, I’m not much for sleep,” he said. “What’s this all about then?” We filled him in on Harding’s orders and the little we knew about the upcoming maneuvers.
“Doesn’t take much to make the high and mighty nervous,” Quick said after we’d finished. It was hard to disagree. As we neared the coast, a thick fog rolled in, the breeze pushing the salt-scented air in from the Channel.
“Please don’t drive us into a ditch,” Kaz said from the passenger’s seat. “I can barely see the road.”
“Up ahead,” Quick said. “Lights.” I slowed and pulled over, glad to have found the roadblock without crashing into it. MPs stood at the closed gate. Ambulances, tow trucks, and other heavy vehicles were parked off the roadway, GIs nodding off in the cabs, waiting for the fun to begin. It looked like the army planned on something going wrong, which was sensible, since it always did.
“We have orders to check the beach after the bombardment,” I said, showing my papers to the MP sergeant. “Still on for zero six hundred?”
“You got me, Captain,” he said, handing the orders back. “They don’t tell us much. It’s supposed to end at zero six thirty, then the beachmaster goes forward to inspect. That’s all I know.”
“Is the beachmaster here?” I asked, buttoning up my M-43 field jacket. No field scarf or low-quarter shoes today. Combat boots and a wool shirt and sweater did the trick for this damp, chilly English spring morning.
“No, sir, he’s inland with some troopers from the 101st. I can let you through at zero six thirty, but you might want to take it slow. You never know with the navy. Meanwhile, they got a field kitchen set up on the other side of those trucks. Help yourself.”
We did. Coffee and bacon sandwiches made the early morning fog bearable. As we finished up, a sea breeze wafted through the fields, thinning out the greyness, but not by much.
“It’s five past six,” Quick said, checking his watch as we settled back in the jeep. “Or am I fast?”
“I have six after,” I said. “We should be hearing the bombardment by now.”
“Would the fog delay it?” Kaz asked.
“Not likely,” I said. “Everything is strictly timed. The troops are coming ashore at zero seven thirty. Besides, the cruiser has radar; they could hit the beach in the dark of night.” We waited another five minutes. The silence was broken only by the distant crashing of surf.
“We should radio Colonel Harding,” Kaz said. I agreed, put on the headset and fiddled with the radio until I got the right frequency and gave our call sign. I got an ensign aboard the Hawkins who sent a message to Harding.
“Did he know anything?” Kaz asked when I’d signed off.
“Only that the rocket attack by the fighters has been called off due to fog,” I said. “He said he’d track Harding down but that the brass was all in a tizzy. Ike decided to go back to Dartmouth when he heard the air attack was cancelled.” It looked like the old hotel on Slapton Sands had had a reprieve. But if fog grounded aircraft for the real invasion, the reprieve would be for the Germans. Not an auspicious start.
There was nothing to do but have another cup of joe. As we drank, zero seven thirty rolled by. Still nothing.
“Can you radio the beachmaster?” I asked the MP sergeant.
“Don’t have a radio, Captain. Don’t even know what frequency he’s on. Like I said-”
“Yeah, I know. They don’t tell you anything. I know the feeling.”
There was nothing to do but wait, which was typical of the army. Hurry up and get somewhere before dawn, then wait for hours for something to actually happen. When zero eight hundred came around, the MPs shrugged, opened the gate, and let us through. “Guess the bombardment was called off,” the sergeant said. “The landing craft should be on their way to the beach by now, so it ought to be safe.” He waved us forward.
“We’re the only ones daft enough to drive in here,” Quick said, hanging on to his seat in the rear as the jeep negotiated the ruts in the road.
“No reason for them to,” I said. “Those are emergency vehicles.”
“Then shouldn’t they be closer to a possible emergency?” Kaz asked.
“It’s the army, Kaz,” I said. “No one moves unless they’re ordered to. Don’t worry.” I hadn’t been worried myself until Tom brought up everyone else staying behind. All of a sudden, it felt damn lonely to be driving through a deserted landscape in a restricted area, heading for the site of a canceled bombardment from a heavy cruiser.
We drove through Strete, past untended fields and cottages, and watched a herd of deer bolt for the woods as we disturbed their morning feed. The road curved along the coast, hugging a rise a few hundred feet high. I pulled over, the heights a ringside seat to watch the landings once the fog cleared. The Channel was dotted with LCVPs-Landing Craft, Vehicle, Personnel-or “Higgins boats” as the flat-bottomed tubs were commonly known. Each one carried thirty-six combat infantrymen, and there were dozens and dozens crashing through the surf, coming closer to the shingle at Slapton Sands.
“I can’t see the cruiser,” Kaz said, scanning the horizon with binoculars.
“It’s too far out,” Quick said. “Those big naval guns can lob shells for miles.” Large LCTs and LCIs stood offshore, with smaller landing craft circling as they formed up for the run in.
As the Higgins boats drew closer, they were overtaken by half a dozen fast patrol boats-odd-looking craft, shorter than any PT boat I’d ever seen, about ten or twelve yards long at most. Three hundred yards from the beach, they stopped, and in seconds a terrific volley of rockets launched from each boat, bright flames coursing above the waves and slamming into the barbed-wire entanglements we’d seen put up yesterday. Most of the rounds hit, blowing gaps in the wire, leaving openings for the GIs about to land. The craft turned and made smoke as they headed back into the Channel.
“That’s something new,” Kaz said. “Very effective, but of course no one was shooting back at them.”
“You can’t have everything,” I said, and started the jeep. “Let’s head closer.”
“Perhaps they canceled the naval bombardment in favor of those rocket boats,” Kaz suggested.