“Why wasn’t the convoy better protected?” I asked. “It’s well-known that there are German E-boats stationed all along the French coastline.”
“Confusion all around,” Harding said. “There was to have been another destroyer escort, but it was damaged in a collision yesterday. Naval command did not deal with it properly, and there was no replacement. On top of that, radio frequencies weren’t coordinated. Although a warning of the attack was radioed to the lone destroyer escort, the LSTs weren’t operating on the same frequency. But everyone thought they’d been warned, including the destroyer escort. As a result, they steamed in a nice straight line, perfect targets for a night attack.”
“Large Slow Target,” I said. “That’s what the GIs say LST really means.”
“They nailed it,” Uncle Ike said. “Too many men died needlessly out there.” He gestured with his hand, cigarette ash flying to the carpet. “We need the two of you to check the bodies as they are brought in and confirm all BIGOTs are accounted for. It’s gruesome work, I know, but necessary. I hope some of them survived and were picked up by our ships, but we simply have to know none of them are in German hands.”
“Big Mike is coming down from London to join you,” Harding said. “He should be on the next train. And Constable Quick has been assigned to you for the duration of this investigation. Seems like he has a good head on his shoulders.”
“He does, Colonel,” I said, trying to think through the implications of what Harding was asking. “How many do you think were killed?”
“We don’t know yet. I’d guess five hundred to a thousand. LST 515 disobeyed orders and turned back to pick up survivors out of the water. Until we get them sorted out, we won’t have an exact count.”
“What do you mean, Colonel?” Kaz asked. “What were their orders?”
“To proceed to their destination,” Harding said. “Navy protocol is for transports not to linger where there are enemy vessels, until the escorts have dealt with them.”
“But there was only one escort,” I said. “It couldn’t leave the convoy, right?”
“Right,” Harding said. “I don’t want to criticize the navy, but this is a mess. And one we have to keep as quiet as possible.”
“That’s going to be difficult,” I said. “From the little we learned about tides in the Channel, those bodies are going to wash up all along the coast.”
“What about France?” Uncle Ike asked.
“Probably not; the tides don’t run that way. In and out of the Channel, but not north or south.”
“That’s something,” Harding said. “There’s little chance of a man surviving in the cold water this time of year, but if he was on a raft or piece of wreckage, it might be possible.”
“You’ve got ships out searching, don’t you?” I said.
“Yes, they’re collecting bodies right now,” Harding said. “Word is no survivors have been found since LST 515 went back. We know bodies will end up on the coast. Hopefully most will drift into Slapton Sands and the restricted area. For those that don’t, we are saying that one ship was lost to enemy action. That should explain any bodies outside the restricted zone.”
“General, I understand how important this is, but why does it have to be so hush-hush? The Germans know they hit our ships,” I said. “The locals will know there were casualties when bodies start washing ashore. There has to be something else to it.”
“There is, William,” Uncle Ike said. “This is your real initiation into the BIGOT list. Tell them, Colonel.”
“Without revealing the location of the invasion, I can tell you that the beach at Slapton Sands is a close double of one of the invasion beaches. If the Germans even suspected we were practicing full-scale attacks against that beach, they might deduce the actual location. Even if they don’t end up with a captured BIGOT, they could do great harm with that information. If they get both, we’re in for real trouble.”
“It could mean the invasion is thrown back into the sea,” Uncle Ike said. “So I don’t want you to think this is a meaningless detail. This disaster has to be kept quiet to protect the secret of the actual invasion area. And we must know those nine other BIGOTs are accounted for, dead or alive.”
“Here,” Harding said, handing me a file containing sheets of names, ranks, and brief physical descriptions. “As soon as Big Mike gets here, you can head out. Graves Registration is setting up collection points along the coast. Work your way through them. The Royal Navy has patrol boats out picking up bodies. Report back to me immediately when you find a BIGOT. I’ll be at Greenway House.”
“It might be helpful for us to split up,” I said. “I know Kaz doesn’t care for boats much, so maybe he and Quick could work the land side while Big Mike and I find a boat to take us into Start Bay.”
“Good idea,” Uncle Ike said. “You can cover more ground that way. Whatever you need, William, feel free to use my name. I’ve had specific orders typed up, directing all parties, English and American, to render whatever assistance you require. An admiral couldn’t deny you a battleship, at least for the next several days. But then, Operation Tiger needs to be forgotten, at least until after the real invasion.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, standing. “We’ll do our best.”
“That’s exactly what we need, William. Good luck.” He rested his palm on my shoulder, and I felt some of his burden transferred to me. The weight was crushing. I’d complained about being left out of the loop on D-Day, and now here I was, with General Eisenhower telling me the future of the war depended on me finding nine dead men.
As we stepped on to the platform, the locomotive blew its whistle and the wheels began to turn slowly, the engine releasing a hiss of steam as it pulled the two heavy armored carriages out of the station. MPs climbed aboard or sprinted to their jeeps, ready to speed through the countryside and guard the next crossing.
“He was waiting just to speak to us,” Kaz said, his voice betraying an awe that he seldom revealed.
“These orders make us gods for the next few days,” I said.
“That’s how important this job is,” Harding said. “I’ve got another jeep for you. I figured the four of you would split up at some point. Good idea to go out into the Channel, Boyle. The USS Bayfield is anchored at Dartmouth. See the captain there, he’s got boats that can take you out.”
“Will do, Colonel. Tell me, is Peter Wiley a BIGOT? Is that why you denied him permission to ship out with Operation Tiger?”
“Yes,” Harding said. “He failed to convince me he needed to be there, although he felt strongly about it. The other BIGOTs all had to be with their units, but Wiley is pretty much a one-man show.”
“What does he do, exactly?” Kaz asked.
“You don’t need to know,” Harding said. It was a joke with us by now.
“We get it, Colonel,” I said. I watched Kaz lift a tarp in the backseat of the new jeep. “What’s that stuff?”
“Well, I figured we could requisition that place you’re holed up in, since Big Mike will need to bunk with you. Or do it the nice way, by bribery. If they’re going to feed him, all this will come in handy.”
No kidding, I thought. Big cans of coffee, green beans, canned tuna fish, several bottles of Scotch, sugar, a carton of Chesterfields, and to prove Harding had a sense of humor, four large cans of peaches, heavy syrup. A nod to a case back in London a few months ago. I thought the incident had been forgotten, but apparently not.
“Think that will keep the folks at Ashcroft House happy, Peaches?” Harding asked, a smile cracking his face. It wasn’t something you saw very often, so I didn’t mind the ribbing.
“Nice to see you remembered, Colonel,” I said. “This ought to make them delirious. One question before you leave. What about Big Mike and the BIGOT list? Can he be put on it? It’s going to be difficult if we can’t tell him everything.”