and bridge the trenches in the sandhills on the other side. This, was an obsolete mark of LCT converted as a rocket ship to fire a salvo of nine hundred rounds at one push of the button to blast the shore defences. This, bristling with Bofors guns and Oerlikons, was a gunnery support craft, manned and commanded by Marines. This fast powerful open landing craft coming up the river towards us at speed, manned by American sailors in white, upturned caps, and with the name Dirtie Girtie proudly painted on her bow, was an LCVP, an American infantry landing craft so powerful and well designed that ratings with a minimum of training could handle her. All these were known to Janet and Bill, but there were other things afloat upon the Solent that they knew nothing of, great box-like things of concrete bigger than a cross-Channel steamer floating moored or building on the shore, things like a monstrous reel of cotton fifty or sixty feet in diameter floating on the water, flat rafts with grotesque girders sticking up into the air.
Once Janet said in a low tone, 'I wonder what the hell they're going to do with that?' but neither of us answered her. Bill may have known; if so, he kept his mouth shut, as was right. Each of us had our own secrets at that time, our own part in the affair, dominating our minds. I asked once casually, 'Do you get many German aircraft over here, having a look?' It was always possible that something might have slipped in my office, some information that we might have missed, something the locals might know about that we did not.
The girl grinned and said, 'We've not had a Jerry over here for weeks - two months, I should think. I can't think
75
what he's up to. You'd think that he'd be over every day, photographing all this.'
'You'd think so,' I replied idly. It was all right. The fighter patrols organised from my office were on top of the Germans on the other side of the Channel; nothing had slipped past us. Our combat losses might be averaging three machines a day on these security patrols alone, but nothing had got past us save one Messerschmitt no ten days before, and that one we had got on his way home. The Germans probably knew very little still of what was massing up against them in the Solent.
We reached the end of the river and the West Solent lay before us, blue and shimmering in the April sun. Bill had moved to the stern beside the girl. I turned to say something to them, but they were both looking over to the shore of the Isle of Wight, four miles across the sea. Bill said, 'That Sherman's still on the beach.'
'They're not bothering about it' she said. 'They can't tow it up the cliff.'
I asked, 'What's that?'
They pointed to the beach on the far side of the channel. 'That tank up at the head of the beach, see it? Under the cliff. They were doing practice landings from an LCT on that bit of beach. That Sherman was wading ashore but it went down in a hole.'
The girl turned to me. 'It went right under water' she explained. 'A chap got drowned in it - the driver.'
It was a simple statement of fact, unemotional.
Bill said, 'They could salve it if they took a bit of trouble. They could bring in an LCT and tow it back on board and take it somewhere.'
'It's no good' the girl said. 'Viola heard about it from a Pongo. When it went under, the water got into the engine and wrecked it - blew off all the cylinder heads. It's not worth bothering about. They took the gun off it.'
'When did this happen?' I asked.
'About five weeks ago' said Bill. He grinned at the girl, and said nonchalantly, 'That's how I met Janet.'
I learned a good bit about what had happened on that day
76
when I met Viola Dawson six years later, and Warrant Officer Finch told me a little more when I was talking to him about Bill. It was in March, perhaps about the twentieth of the month. Janet had been in Mastodon for about nine months. When she went there she had thought that she was going to a base of Coastal Forces to service
Once Janet said in a low tone, 'I wonder what the hell they're going to do with that?' but neither of us answered her. Bill may have known; if so, he kept his mouth shut, as was right. Each of us had our own secrets at that time, our own part in the affair, dominating our minds. I asked once casually, 'Do you get many German aircraft over here, having a look?' It was always possible that something might have slipped in my office, some information that we might have missed, something the locals might know about that we did not.
The girl grinned and said, 'We've not had a Jerry over here for weeks - two months, I should think. I can't think
75
what he's up to. You'd think that he'd be over every day, photographing all this.'
'You'd think so,' I replied idly. It was all right. The fighter patrols organised from my office were on top of the Germans on the other side of the Channel; nothing had slipped past us. Our combat losses might be averaging three machines a day on these security patrols alone, but nothing had got past us save one Messerschmitt no ten days before, and that one we had got on his way home. The Germans probably knew very little still of what was massing up against them in the Solent.
We reached the end of the river and the West Solent lay before us, blue and shimmering in the April sun. Bill had moved to the stern beside the girl. I turned to say something to them, but they were both looking over to the shore of the Isle of Wight, four miles across the sea. Bill said, 'That Sherman's still on the beach.'
'They're not bothering about it' she said. 'They can't tow it up the cliff.'
I asked, 'What's that?'
They pointed to the beach on the far side of the channel. 'That tank up at the head of the beach, see it? Under the cliff. They were doing practice landings from an LCT on that bit of beach. That Sherman was wading ashore but it went down in a hole.'
The girl turned to me. 'It went right under water' she explained. 'A chap got drowned in it - the driver.'
It was a simple statement of fact, unemotional.
Bill said, 'They could salve it if they took a bit of trouble. They could bring in an LCT and tow it back on board and take it somewhere.'
'It's no good' the girl said. 'Viola heard about it from a Pongo. When it went under, the water got into the engine and wrecked it - blew off all the cylinder heads. It's not worth bothering about. They took the gun off it.'
'When did this happen?' I asked.
'About five weeks ago' said Bill. He grinned at the girl, and said nonchalantly, 'That's how I met Janet.'
I learned a good bit about what had happened on that day
76
when I met Viola Dawson six years later, and Warrant Officer Finch told me a little more when I was talking to him about Bill. It was in March, perhaps about the twentieth of the month. Janet had been in Mastodon for about nine months. When she went there she had thought that she was going to a base of Coastal Forces to service
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