Supply of heroes, p.34
Supply of Heroes, page 34
Then he stepped out from behind the boulders, applied his glasses once more to the broad bay, memorizing it through the filter of the blowing rain. When he lowered the binoculars, he stood there impassively, looking down at the cottage, the beach, Tralee Bay, the Dingle peninsula, the Magharee Islands, the bleakness of it, the despair.
The rain streaked his face. After a long time he said to himself, Right.
18
The crucial meeting was held in Sir Matthew Nathan’s office in Dublin Castle. In addition to Nathan, General Friend and Major Price were present, as Douglas expected they would be. That Admiral Hamilton, the naval intelligence chief, had come over from London to hear his report underscored the Admiralty’s continuing concern.
This time it was Douglas who stood at the map of Ireland, ruler in hand. Dressed in a dark suit and tie, he looked more like a barrister briefing clients than an army officer to his superiors. “The assumption that the German landing will take place at one or more existing harbors”—he pointed at Westport, Galway, and Kilrush—“is incorrect. There are no facilities to receive oceangoing vessels in those harbors, and what few boats that might off-load the ships at anchor are controlled by men who have no sympathy with a German-sponsored revolution.”
General Friend interrupted. He and the other two military men were seated in stiff-back chairs flanking Nathan, who, by contrast, leaned casually back in the large leather seat behind his ornate desk. This was Nathan’s turf, but Friend seemed to challenge it suddenly by challenging Tyrrell. “How do you know that, Captain?”
“I know it, General, because I’ve spent the last three months talking to them.”
“All of them?”
“General, the west of Ireland is not the west of England. There are barely fifty motor-powered workboats from Kerry to Mayo.”
“And you want me to believe their crews are all loyal?”
Douglas shrugged. “Loyalty is a relative matter. Corner boys in Dublin can spout slogans, even treasonous ones, but they never have to confront the reality of a German alliance. In the west such slogans have a specific meaning: an active collusion with England’s enemy. However much they may squirm under London rule, men of the west are not throwing in with Berlin. That’s why the leaders of the rebellion have kept their dealings secret not only from England, but from Ireland. Ireland won’t support it.”
Major Price sat forward. “That conviction of yours, Captain—”
“Not a conviction, Major. A conclusion.”
Price waved the distinction off. “—is what justifies your refusal to identify by name the coastal insurrectionists?”
“The names I could give you are of the Irish Volunteers in Cork, Limerick, and Galway. You have those names. Those men are quite public. You’ll find them on their parade grounds wearing their homemade uniforms, drilling with broomsticks, every Sunday. My point to you, sir, is that the Germans will not need a large shore party because they won’t off-load their ships at anchor.”
“Then there will be no German landing, is that what you’re saying?” General Friend made a show of his impatience.
Douglas stared back at him. “No, sir. I’m saying the opposite. The rebels are planning an elaborate landing, but not the one that you expect. The ships will beach themselves. They will off-load what cargo must be kept dry—weapons and ammunition—in their own lifeboats. The troops will go over the bows into shallow water. The only Irish-based support required will be a pilot boat to rendezvous with the ships offshore, to guide them in, and a handful of Irishmen to direct the invaders to their first bivouac. You said in our meeting in London, sir, that the period of transfer from ships to shore will be the period of absolute vulnerability. I’m telling you that period will last from midtide to high, a period of less than three hours. The transfer itself will cover not a half-mile of open water, but a few dozen yards of lapping surf.”
“Ridiculous!” Friend snorted. “Ridiculous! The west coast of Ireland is all rocks. There’s no such beach.”
“There is.” Douglas poked the map with the ruler. “It’s here, at Fenit in the lee of Dingle, in the Bay of Tralee.” Tralee. The name hung in his mind. Now Tralee meant Jane—the place where he had witnessed his sister’s perfidy. And he hated himself now for thinking that she might even be there to welcome the bloody Germans.
General Friend was still snorting. “It’s impossible!”
Douglas turned away from the general toward Admiral Hamilton. He sat, his hands pursed at his mouth, staring at the map. After a long silence, he asked, “What’s the slope of the beach?”
“Gradual, sir. Twenty degrees, sloping out from low water three hundred yards.”
“What is the range of tide?”
“Maximum of eleven feet between low and high water.”
Hamilton let his gaze drift to Douglas; it conveyed the experience of his awakening. “And next month’s maximum falls . . .”
“Right, sir. Easter weekend. In point of fact, Good Friday.”
The date registered with all of them.
Hamilton looked at Friend. “Not impossible, General, not at all. Wooden-hulled ships beached themselves all the time. Iron is less resilient than wood. One doesn’t want to take a metal vessel ashore like that every day, but for proper cause . . .” Hamilton shrugged. What was proper cause for the Germans if not the blow to England this landing would be? “Given the right slope, suitable weather, and perfect timing with the tides, it’s not impossible at all. Of course, every naval operation requires perfect timing.” He looked back at the map, and now his amazement showed itself. “I didn’t think such a beach existed in the west of Ireland.”
“Well, by God, we’ll have it covered!” Friend turned to Sir Matthew. “Now will you get me proper reinforcements? I need real soldiers. Not Irishmen. I need Tommies!”
Nathan sat forward, his chair snapping under him. “You know what our job is, General. It’s to handle this without asking London for troops. The German victory occurs in Ireland the moment we draw off forces from the Front to defend against it. We will not do that. There are no troops for Ireland.”
“There must be troops! Give me the Ulster Division at least. Do we leave this to the RIC? They’re Catholics!”
Tyrrell slapped his own hand with the wooden stick he held. “General, I must protest. The Royal Irish Constabulary has proved itself again and again. It serves no one’s purpose to lump every Irish Catholic in with rebels but the rebels themselves.”
“Captain Tyrrell, you’ve made your report, such as it is.” Friend glared at him. “What we wanted from you were the names of the insurrectionists. Unless that’s what you have to give us, further comment from you is unnecessary and shall be regarded as insubordinate.” He faced Nathan. “I tell you, these Irish will welcome the Germans! They’ll pull them ashore!”
Admiral Hamilton, with a supremely patronizing touch of General Friend’s sleeve, said, “The Germans won’t be pulled ashore by anyone, my dear General. They won’t get as far as the surf. Now that we know where to await them, those ships will be intercepted”—he gestured at the map—“as they steer between Kerry Head and, what are those islands, Captain?”
“Magharee Islands, Sir Edward.”
Hamilton nodded. “The British navy will stop them there.”
“The British navy!” This was too much for Friend. “It’s everything the navy can do to keep a supply line to the BEF open across the Channel. The British navy can’t even protect the east coast of England from German attacks! The Germans shell Harwich and Ipswich! They cruise at will off Great Yarmouth! How the hell can you protect the west coast of Ireland?”
“Not the west coast, General.” Hamilton nodded at Tyrrell. “Because of your army man here, the navy’s task is simpler than that. Quite within our competence, believe me.” His finger shot up toward the map. “What your man has brought us is worth far more than the names of rural malcontents. Tralee Bay! If nothing else in this trying season, Tralee Bay will be secure!”
Sir Matthew tapped his desk nervously. “Still, General Friend has a point. We must, of course, reinforce our garrisons in the southwest, even if it means leaving the country elsewhere undermanned. And we must preempt the rebels’ initiative with Defense of the Realm arrests everywhere.”
“Absolutely not!” Hamilton bellowed. “We must do nothing to alert the Germans to our foreknowledge. They would call the landing off. Don’t you see, we want them to try it. They must fail, of course. But we want them to try it.”
“Why, in God’s name? If we can demonstrate ahead of time a level of readiness that deters them?”
“Because Ireland joins Belgium then as a small nation they are trying to devour. A German attempt to invade Ireland for whatever motive makes our point better than anything we can say or do ourselves.”
“Makes it to the Americans,” Friend said.
“Of course, to the Americans, General. Imagine the effect of it when our destroyers escort half a dozen German ships, flying false flags and carrying weapons and gray-uniformed German soldiers, into the harbor at Queenstown! We won’t sink them, we’ll capture them. And then we’ll turn the newspapermen loose on them, like red ants. A German assault not only against Ireland, but against the shipping lanes of the North Atlantic! This event will bring America into the war, which, gentlemen, I’m afraid to say, is our only hope of winning it.”
Tyrrell said, “In which case, the Irish rebels will have saved England.”
Hamilton nodded, but said, “A debt we won’t acknowledge.”
The group fell silent.
Douglas alone remained standing. After a moment he shifted his weight awkwardly.
General Friend said to Sir Matthew, as if no one else were present, “I understand the Admiral’s concern, but we simply must have a force at standby in the region.”
Hamilton began, “General, please indulge my—”
“I was addressing the secretary for Ireland!”
Nathan shook his head. “Sir Edward represents Lord Kitchener, General, and not merely the Admiralty. He has authority in the matter.” It was a concession made without animus. Nathan had learned nothing in all his years of colonial service if not when to step aside for London. And he knew better than to step between military men who had their pistols cocked.
As if the secretary’s announcement freed him to display his authority, Hamilton stood up. “I had hoped not to make you feel intruded upon, General. But you give me no choice.” He crossed to the map as Douglas stepped aside. “The RIC has normal jurisdiction throughout this area. They are to maintain it. As the date approaches, we will bring the chief constable in and, with him, establish a special service unit that will move, simultaneously with the naval operation, though not before, against the rebel shore party.”
“I’m telling you the RIC can’t do it.”
“Of course, there should be overall army authority, if that’s your point. An army man in charge—your coachman on the box, so to speak. What rank would it require?”
“Major at least,” Friend snapped. His eyes shot quickly toward Major Price.
Hamilton turned to Tyrrell. “I want you in charge.” Then he looked stonily at Friend. “I’ll rely on you to arrange Captain Tyrrell’s promotion, General.”
Good Friday dawned, as it often does in theological Ireland, chill and bleak. Douglas Tyrrell had posted a dozen mufti-clad RIC men each in Fenit, Spa, Derrymore, and Blennerville, the towns ringing the shores of Tralee Bay. He had taken up his own position at Church Hill, a promontory jutting out into the bay above Fenit. It wasn’t far from the place, marked by three boulders, from which he’d first watched his sister leave Curry’s cottage. From his new vantage he could see the whole of Tralee Bay out to Kerry Head and the sea beyond. He could still see the cottage, but he knew that Curry wasn’t in it. Curry had spent the night on board the Sea Lark, a thirty-foot fishing boat that had been tied to the small wharf at Fenit. Now, in first light, Tyrrell watched through his binoculars as the boat headed out to sea with two men aboard, the helmsman and Curry. If he could keep the Sea Lark in his glasses, Tyrrell knew, he would see everything.
He scanned the open water beyond Kerry Head for signs either of the German ships or the British force that was waiting for them—two heavily armed destroyers, HMS Zinnia and HMS Bluebell, and two lightly armed but swift eighty-foot motor launches, HMS Sand Lance and HMS Minnow.
He saw nothing. The gentle swells of the bay became choppy water beyond the sheltering reach of Dingle, but the mists of dawn made it impossible to see much farther than the mouth of the bay. Not even the Magharees were visible.
He lowered his glasses and looked at his watch. It was shortly after six, nearly an hour before low water. The Germans would be planning to steam into the bay proper in three hours, hitting the beach in four, getting off with the tide in seven. It consoled Tyrrell to realize that everything would be over, one way or the other—the nightmare of these six months would be over—by early afternoon.
With his naked eyes he watched the Sea Lark steadily moving away, growing smaller, yet pitching more severely as it left the lee of Dingle. He pictured Curry holding on to a stanchion, his bearded face in the wind. He tried to imagine Curry’s feelings, and realized they would be something like his own. Douglas wondered suddenly what Curry had told Jane. But he ruthlessly put his sister out of his mind. At least Jane had not reappeared in Tralee. Douglas had not had to repeat the ignominy, for which he still loathed himself, of turning his glasses on her.
Soon the Sea Lark disappeared in the distant fog. Time passed. Again and again his thoughts drifted to Pamela. That distraction he did not resist. He wanted the horror of these events over for many reasons, but none more than to have done with the awful deception of his wife. That was his perfidy. He longed to tell her everything. Only Pamela would understand what these months had cost him.
But even thoughts of Pamela were dangerous now. This was the time for alertness, not consolation; for will, not love. He shut his mind against her.
From where he waited, Douglas could see one of his detachments of RIC men huddled near a ruined stone oratory on the hill above Fenit. He looked over at them regularly, then would check his watch compulsively. He tugged at the leather strap of his Sam Browne, and he nervously fingered the snap on his holster. This was the first time he’d worn his uniform since coming home to Ireland. It contributed to the strange feeling of unreality that now threatened to override his calm. When had he had this feeling before? It haunted him, filled him with dread. Then he remembered that morning in the poisoned trenches at Messines, waiting for the order to go over. Then, at least, he’d had his lads nearby, so that by bolstering them he could bolster himself. Here, he was alone, watching like some divinity from his solitary ledge.
What kind of thought was that? Divinity indeed! He reined his anxiety and channeled it into the simple act of focusing his eyes, as if by an act of will he could increase the field of his vision. Over the next period of time that seemed to happen, as first the dawn hill mists evaporated and then the sea fog rolled back.
Nearly three hours had passed; the time had come. Just as he began to fear that nothing was going to happen, a black form appeared in his glasses, a ship. He watched it grow and waited for others to appear beside it. But none did, apart from the tiny vessel just ahead of it, which he took to be the Sea Lark. Without breathing, Tyrrell watched their progress. They were headed directly into the bay. Soon it was apparent that the ship was a freighter, therefore not one of the British warships. German therefore! A single ship only, but a German vessel! A German landing after all; a deadly cargo—troops and weapons! Tyrrell realized with shock that until now he had not really believed this could happen, as in Trier he had not believed he was really hearing Irishmen coax Irishmen toward treason. Was there a brigade of Irish traitors aboard this vessel? Were some recruited from the men he’d left behind? Suddenly he felt the power of the rage he’d first felt in the prison camp, that compatriots of his would truly do this, and he wanted to see this ship blown to smithereens as the Germans in those very waters had blown the Lusitania.
With a rush of panic, it occurred to him that this ship had somehow eluded the British destroyers and that it was actually going to succeed in coming fully into the bay. It was close enough now that he could see its flag, the flag of Norway—falsely flown, of course. He checked his watch once more. The ship would make it to the beach precisely on the tide and disgorge a force of hardened troops against whom Tyrrell’s own constables would be no match.
Just as he began to think General Friend had been right, there appeared from beyond the jagged hill of Kerry Head the distinctive black bow of a destroyer. As it came fully into view, Tyrrell saw the three smokestacks and the telltale fore-to-aft sloping wedge of the hull. From inside the Magharees a smaller form shot out into the open water, a swift motor launch, converging, with the destroyer, on the freighter. The freighter showed its broadside suddenly, changing course—he could read its name, the Aud—and then a ball of smoke rolled off the destroyer. A second later Tyrrell heard the faint report of a heavy gun, a warning shot. The freighter seemed to stop. The two British vessels bore down on it.
The other warships were nowhere in sight. Tyrrell could only presume that they had intercepted the main body of German ships farther out to sea, perhaps near Skellig—that place which had first led him here to Tralee.
The Sea Lark meanwhile continued to power toward the head of the bay, the British vessels apparently ignoring it. That would have been fine with Douglas—This one’s mine, he’d have said—but then he realized he was going to have to move now against Curry. It was a moment he’d somehow expected would never come.
He left his position, dashing toward the road where the Crossley and its RIC driver waited. He wanted to be at the Fenit wharf before the Sea Lark was. As he leapt aboard the mud-colored military vehicle, waving the driver toward Fenit, his eyes snagged on something in the open water on the opposite side of the Church Hill peninsula. A fast-moving curragh, he thought at first, because of its small, black beetlelike form. But it was moving far too fast for a curragh. He stared back at it as the Crossley jolted under him, headed in the opposite direction.
