Motherland (13 page)

Kitty’s mother talks in a ceaseless stream.

‘If only Harold could be here, but even if he could get leave
it would be no good. He’s in North Africa, you know, with the Eleventh Hussars, they call them the Cherry Pickers, they were in the Charge of the Light Brigade, but they drive armoured cars now. I remember when my mother got the news about Timmy, he was behind the lines at Passchendaele, but there was a shell and that was that. Of course it was happening to everybody, but even so. And now here’s Harold out in the desert when he should be here with us, and I can’t help thinking it’s just all wrong.’

‘Now then, Molly,’ says her husband. ‘This is Kitty’s day.’

*

The newly-weds have booked a week’s leave for their honeymoon, which they take in Brighton.

The Old Ship Hotel is one of the few on the seafront that hasn’t been requisitioned for war personnel. The hotel is very rundown, its paintwork cracking and its wallpaper peeling. The only porter is old and sick. A girl called Milly offers to carry their bags up to their room, but Ed says he can manage. The stairs creak as they climb.

The room has a double bed, and a window that looks out over the promenade. Outside they can see the beach with its concrete anti-tank blocks and its undulations of rolled barbed wire.

‘The beach will be mined,’ Ed says. ‘We won’t be going swimming.’

The Palace Pier is deserted, its walkway broken in the middle so that it can’t be used as a landing stage. The seafront is under curfew by the time they arrive. The sea gleams in the light of a golden summer evening, but there’s nobody about.

‘Maybe we should have gone to a B&B in the countryside,’ says Ed.

‘I don’t care where we are,’ says Kitty.

Ed is quiet, looking round the shabby room. He seems to be almost at a loss.

‘What is it, Ed?’

‘I wanted everything to be perfect for you,’ he says.

‘And for you too.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind. So long as I’ve got you.’

‘Well, you have got me. You’d better think of something to do with me.’

He takes her in his arms. She leans her body against his.

‘I love you so much, Kitty.’

‘Just as well.’

‘I love you so much I can’t think or move or hardly even breathe.’

‘That’s too much,’ Kitty says. ‘You’d better love me less and breathe more.’

He kisses her.

Later they lie in bed together, and every time they move the bed makes a pinging noise. They try to stay still but it isn’t easy. They start moving again and the pinging returns. They try lying in different places on the bed, and find one position, right on the edge, that almost silences the noisy bed-spring, but it’s hard not to fall off.

Ed stops moving, holding Kitty close in his arms.

‘We have a choice,’ he says. ‘We lie doggo, or we jangle.’

‘Let’s jangle,’ she says.

*

On Sunday morning they walk along the seafront as far as the big Bofors gun outside the Grand Hotel. A crowd of Canadian soldiers are playing football on the promenade, using kitbags for
goalposts. Kitty holds Ed’s arm and leans a little against him as they walk, and loves him so much it hurts. The sun shines on the sea, and on the patches of black tar on the pebbles under the barbed wire, and on the dull metal of the big gun. Ahead the West Pier has been severed like its sister. Across the water lies France.

I’m married, thinks Kitty. He belongs to me now. His body belongs to me.

She loves his body. She loves the feel of it pressed against hers all the way down. She wants to tell him so but there seem to be no words and she’s shy. So instead she squeezes his arm and strokes the small of his back. They come to a stop by the Bofors gun and kiss. The soldiers playing soccer pause in their game to clap.

*

Later that Sunday afternoon all leave is cancelled and all personnel are recalled to their units. On Tuesday August 18th Admiral Lord Mountbatten, Commander-in-Chief Combined Operations, gives the order for Operation Jubilee, the largest military assault on mainland Europe since the disaster of Dunkirk.

It’s a clear night, and the sea is calm. Larry is up on deck with Johnny Parrish to escape the thick fog of tobacco smoke below. He looks through a gap in the tarpaulin at the dark coast of England as it recedes. On either side of the troopship other craft reach as far as the eye can see, their low rumble filling the night. Bulbous transport ships carrying invasion barges; tank landing craft lying low in the water; the sleek forms of destroyers.

‘Bloody big show,’ says Johnny.

Over the lapping of the waves against the hull they hear the sound of a motorboat drawing alongside.

‘That’ll be the CO,’ says Johnny. ‘Better get below.’

The troop deck is packed and buzzing with excitement. Larry joins the crowd of officers by the companionway. Shortly after, the brigadier enters, with General Ham Roberts. Roberts wastes no time in preliminaries.

‘We’re on our way, men,’ he says. ‘You’ve been told this is another training exercise. Well, it isn’t. This is the real thing.’

A great shout goes up from the mass of soldiers, followed by hoots and cheers. The officers look at each other and grin.

‘Our destination is Dieppe. We will land at dawn, hold the port for a maximum of twelve hours, and withdraw. This is not an invasion. This will be the very first reconnaissance in force of the enemy mainland. The port of Dieppe is well defended. This isn’t going to be a picnic. But it’s our first chance in this war to get a poke at the Hun. So let’s see we give him a poke he won’t forget.’

The men cheer again. Roberts departs, to repeat his short speech on the next ship in the great armada.

Larry retreats to the wardroom, where he and the crowd of other officers are joined shortly by Brigadier Wills. Orders are now opened and given out, complete with maps, schedules, and aerial photographs. Jevons talks them through the plan.

‘RAF air cover will be in place by dawn. Naval bombardment of the beaches will begin at 0510 hours. At 0520 hours our landing craft will hit Red Beach, here. Our mission is to seize and hold the Casino, which is here.’

Larry listens attentively. The plan is so detailed, so specific, that it has an air of inevitability. But what is it all for? Why are they to attack this fortified port, and then go home again? All round him, beneath the grave faces and the air of businesslike concentration, he feels wild pulsing excitement. They’re going into battle. No one asks to measure the risk against the reward. All they require is the assurance that the cause is just.

‘Just point us at ’em,’ the men say, ‘and leave us to do the rest.’

Larry feels it too, but he doesn’t yet understand it. All he knows is it’s nothing to do with love of England, or hatred of Germany. He isn’t on this mission because he wants to die for his country. He’s here because his whole world is on the march,
and it has become impossible to stand on the margins and watch the parade go by. He sees on the faces of the men around him the same conviction that possesses him: we’re on our way at last.

*

Shortly after midnight the fleet enters a minefield. The order goes out for all men to inflate their lifejackets. The command ship, the Hunt-class destroyer HMS
Calpe
, enters the minefield first, following the channel cleared by navy sweepers. The convoy falls in behind, guided by the faint green lights of marker buoys.

Larry stands at the ship’s rail on the open deck, now packed tight with silent men. All watch the white froth of the ship’s wake as the engines drive them fast through the danger zone.

‘The old man’s gone through first,’ says a voice. ‘He’s got guts, give him that.’

‘They lay these magnetic mines,’ says another. ‘You don’t have to hit them. They come and hit you.’

‘Just like me and the girls.’

‘Me, I’m old-fashioned. I like to hit the girls first.’

Subdued laughter ripples outwards in the night. The ship veers suddenly to starboard and the men fall silent. Then the ship veers again, to port. A light on the water ahead comes nearer, and then passes away into the darkness.

A bell jangles. Voices and laughter break out again. The troopship is safely through the minefield. The tension lifts. Brigadier Wills, doing the rounds, finds Larry still leaning on the rail.

‘Try to get some sleep,’ he says.

‘Yes, sir, I will,’ says Larry.

‘Good to have you along. The boys appreciate it.’

Larry finds a space to lie down below deck, but he knows he won’t sleep. He’s in a state he’s not experienced before, a strange
combination of stillness and intense inner excitement. He takes out a cigarette and lights it, noticing now that all round him glow the tips of other cigarettes. He inhales deeply, and feels a tingling sensation pass through his body, followed by a deep powerful languor. Unthinkingly he gives a sigh of pleasure. His neighbour says out of the darkness, ‘Always fresh,’ and Larry follows up with a laugh, ‘And truly mild.’ The slogan of the Sweet Caps he smokes these days, to show his solidarity with the Canadian forces. As he exhales he can see the cigarette smoke shivering in the air above him, shaken back and forth by the vibrations of the ship’s engines.

*

The river gunboat
Locust
emerges from the minefield in its turn, following the long line of troopships and landing craft. Three hundred and seventy officers and men of 40 Commando are crowded onto the narrow deck, either asleep or sitting still and breathing evenly to conserve energy. The commanding officer, Colonel Phillips, is reviewing the maps and photographs of White Beach, and familiarising himself with the layout of the town beyond.

‘You know what Dieppe’s famous for?’ says Ed Avenell. ‘Dirty weekends.’

‘You should know, Ed,’ says Abercrombie.

Ed smiles and says nothing.

Breakfast is served early, just before two in the morning. Beef stew, bread and butter and marmalade, and coffee. The officers eat in silence.

At fleet rendezvous point new orders are received from Operational Command. Phillips announces that 40 Commando is to be held in reserve. A groan goes up from the men.

‘What are we, fucking nursemaids?’

‘We’re to wait for the Canadians to clear the main beach.’

4 Commando’s job is demolition. By the time they’re through, not one port facility will be left operational. Joe Phillips doesn’t like the new orders any more than his men. Commandos are raiders, trained to move fast and light. They’re not assault troops.

‘Try to get some sleep,’ he tells the men.

Ed Avenell remains on deck, leaning on the stern rail, watching the long line of the fleet behind them. Here Phillips finds him, as he does his rounds.

‘Biggest naval operation of the war,’ he says.

‘Looks like it,’ says Ed.

‘You’ve not told the boys you got hitched.’

‘No,’ says Ed.

‘You don’t want any special treatment.’

‘That’s about it, sir.’

Titch Houghton joins them.

‘Lovat and his boys will be ready to go in about now,’ he says.

4 Commando are to make a night landing on Orange Beach to the west, while Durnford-Slater’s 3 Commando makes for Yellow Beach and the big guns of Berneval.

‘Has Lovat taken his bloody piper?’ says Phillips.

‘Of course,’ says Titch Houghton.

‘I don’t like this reserve bullshit. It means we go in by daylight.’

*

At three in the morning, as required by the complex timetable of the operation, the men of the RHLI form up below decks in their platoons to prepare for the transfer to landing craft. They wear their netted tin hats. The inflated Mae Wests beneath their
tunics give them all powerful chests. They carry Brens, Stens and rifles over their shoulders, hand grenades on their belts, knives at their hips. Larry Cornford, armed like the rest, takes his place in the line for Number 6 boat, and waits for the man in front of him to move.

This is what his entire life has become: waiting, moving, waiting again, always in lines, carried along by the great machine of which he is one tiny part. Now the lines begin to move up onto deck, where the night is still dark. Ahead men are climbing ladders into the slung barges, great black masses against the starlit sky. Larry follows in his turn, jumping down onto the benches that run the length of the craft. Men are ahead of him, and all the time more men are piling on after him, and soon he finds himself pushed towards the back of the starboard bench. A voice hisses at him, ‘Sit crossways! Face forward!’ Shortly he is wedged tight on the bench between the packs and weapons of other men.

The barge lurches and swings. The davit gear emits its high-pitched whine. The side of the ship rises above them. Then comes the slap of the water as the long steel craft settles, and the throb of the engine starting up.

A voice from above calls, ‘You’re on your own now, boys! Give ’em hell!’

The landing craft chugs away from the mother ship, taking its place in a line of other assault craft. The coast of France is still fifteen miles to the south-east, two hours and more away.

Larry gazes at the steersman in his armoured box over the bow, and hears the ping-ping of the engine-room telegraph. These are navy boys, their job is to ferry the assault troops, not to take part in the attack.

I’ll be in the attack. I will fight.

This extraordinary fact has filled his being since he left England. Every single moment since then, however tedious, however uncomfortable, has been charged with intensity. All this time is
before
. Nothing has prepared him for the feelings he now experiences. It’s not fear, not yet. The danger he faces has no reality yet. Nor is it that state he’s heard talk of, called battle exultation. He feels sharp, as if all his being has been sharpened to a single point. Gone are all the usual little complications of life. He has no thoughts of his family or friends, no memories of his life gone by. Nothing but this landing craft, the pressure of the man behind him, the juddering of the engine, the twinge of cramp in his leg, the smell of spray on the air, the stars above, and
it
 – the battle to which they sail.