Harding handed me the clipboard and reached down into the mess of blood, bone, brain and oil to break one of the dog tags from the stainless-steel chain. Standing up, he wiped it on his pants, leaving a smear of black and red.
“Captain Andrew Pritchett,” he read. “One down, nine to go.”
“Nine what, Colonel?” Kaz asked.
He didn’t answer. He stared down at the two dead men, their blood mingling with the oil and salt water. One ordinary seaman and one army captain important enough to have a SHAEF colonel confirm his terrible death. But they were equal partners in this endeavor now, neither one less important than the other, neither likely to be mourned more or less for their rank or standing. Death boils all things down to their essence. Not for the living, but certainly for those who lie on the ground or beneath the sea, indifferent to the struggles they have left behind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
We left the ruined, smoking LST behind as we followed Harding in his staff car a few miles up the coast. We were heading to the Paignton rail station, where he promised secrets would be revealed. All we knew was that a German E-boat had put a torpedo in LST 289 and killed a baker’s dozen of soldiers and sailors onboard, one of whom was important enough to make Harding fish around in a bloody soup to snag his dog tag.
“Why attach so much importance to identifying a dead man?” Kaz said as he drove. “And only one of several, at that.”
“There have to be more out in the Channel,” I said. We’d picked up comments from the crew about seeing other ships torpedoed by E-boats. The E stood for enemy, which was the Allied designation for the fast attack craft. Bigger, faster, and more heavily armed than our PT boats, they could be deadly in the close waters of the Channel. Not could be-had been, only a few hours ago. “I wonder what he meant by ‘nine to go’?”
“We may be close to finding out,” Kaz said. “Look ahead.” A line of MPs waved Harding through a checkpoint a few hundred yards short of the railway station, with us on his tail. He pulled up near two armor-plated coaches guarded by more MPs, and we fell in beside him.
“Bayonet,” I said, recognizing General Eisenhower’s mobile headquarters, the special train he’d christened himself. It was outfitted with sleeping quarters for staff and an office for the general with full telephone and radio gear. Well protected, it was the perfect place to spill top-secret info.
Plush, too, I was reminded as we entered the stateroom. Thick curtains draped the windows, and the wood paneling was lit by the glow of lamps. At the far end was a single desk, where Uncle Ike sat dictating to Kay Summersby, his chauffeur, secretary, and close companion. How close? “None of your business, pal,” is how I usually answered that one. The fact that I had to reply to that question fairly often was hard to take. After all, my mom’s family is related through Aunt Mamie, so technically I was closer to her than Uncle Ike. But he and I had been through a lot over here since the early days in 1942, and I’m a loyal nephew, so let’s drop the subject.
“William, how are you?” Uncle Ike asked as he stood to greet us and Kay departed. “I heard you were injured in that mess at Slapton Sands.”
“A few scratches, that’s all, General,” I said. I hadn’t seen him in a couple of weeks, and they must have been rough ones. He looked pale, and the bags under his eyes were heavier and darker than ever. The invasion had to be weighing heavy on his shoulders, and I didn’t want to add to his already fearsome burden. “I’m fine. Ready for whatever you need.”
“That’s good to hear, William,” he said. “You know how much I’ve come to depend on you. It’s so good to have family close by, family I can count on.”
“Always, Uncle Ike,” I said in a low voice. I didn’t like people hearing me call him that. When I first showed up in England, the scuttlebutt went that I was a politically connected relative looking for a plush assignment. Truth be told, it wasn’t too inaccurate, and I got the cold shoulder from a bunch of people, including Sam Harding. A lot of water had gone under London Bridge since then, but I was still sensitive enough to whisper.
“You writing your mother regularly?” Uncle Ike asked. I told him I was and promised to give her his best in the next letter. Then he asked Kaz how he was, lighting up one of his ever-present Lucky Strikes. Kay returned with a tray of coffee and set it on a table between a long couch and a line of armchairs in the narrow carriage.
“How’ve you been, Billy?” she said, giving me a wink. “Have you seen Diana lately?”
“No,” I said. “She’s off doing some training.”
“Too bad,” Kay said, with a glance at the general, who was whispering with Harding. “Like they say, the course of true love never did run smooth.”
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Kaz said. “It is difficult to escape the Bard, it seems.”
“I didn’t know that,” Kay replied. “I thought it was just one of those things people said. I’m off, loads of work to do.” She gave us a wave and departed, a smile on her lips. Kay was a beautiful woman and had the virtue of always being happy and upbeat, or so it seemed. She could light up a room and coax a laugh out of the grumpiest of brass hats. I could see why the general liked having her around. I did.
“Have a seat, boys,” Uncle Ike said, taking one of the armchairs. Kaz and I sat on the couch opposite Harding and the general. The aroma of coffee filled the room, and after the long, mysterious morning, it smelled like salvation. I waited until Uncle Ike lifted his cup, then went for mine. He nodded to Harding, who managed to take one sip before he launched into his speech.
“As you can imagine, planning for the invasion of Europe is a huge undertaking; one that requires that hundreds of people know where and when the landings will take place. Some know both, others know pieces of the picture, based on the work they need to do. Everyone with any need to know these details has gone through security clearances and been assigned to the BIGOT list. If you’re a BIGOT, you know some or all of the secrets of D-Day.”
“Why are they called ‘bigots’?” Kaz asked.
“It’s a term the British used, even before we were in the war,” Uncle Ike said. “Stands for British Invasion of German Occupied Territory. A bit outdated at this point, but it stuck.” He lit another cigarette and looked to Harding to continue.
“You two are now on the BIGOT list,” Harding said. “Not because we’re going to tell you any secrets, but because they may come up in the course of your investigation.”
“That’s fine, Colonel,” I said, “but what are we investigating?”
“You saw how badly LST 289 was hit. Unfortunately, two other LSTs, the 507 and the 531, got it worse. Both were sunk in the Channel out in Lyme Bay as they were headed to Slapton Sands. German E-boats caught the tail end of the Operation Tiger convoy and chewed them up.”
“The guy on the 289 was a BIGOT,” I said, the truth finally dawning on me.
“Yes,” Harding said. “There were a total of ten BIGOTs on the boats that were attacked. We need to be certain none of them have fallen into German hands.”
“It would change everything,” Uncle Ike said. “It’s no secret that spring is invasion season. If the Germans got hold of a BIGOT and made him talk, it would endanger the entire invasion, or force its postponement. Either would be a catastrophe.”
“Why were so many BIGOTs on those three LSTs?” I said. “What about the other ships that weren’t hit?”
“There were eight LSTs in all,” Harding said. “The last three had a preponderance of engineer units like the First Engineer Special Brigade and Amphibious Truck companies. These units are responsible for clearing beaches of obstacles and bringing men ashore. They have to know the exact local conditions of the landings. The forward LSTs had mostly combat infantry units from the Fourth Division. The men in those had less of a need to know.”