In the late afternoon of Monday, June 5th, the officers and n.c.o.s aboard ship were called to another briefing. They were firstly given an outline of the whole operation, with the British and American sectors being shown to them on a huge map, the areas of airborne attack on the flanks, and the exact position of their own beach; then they were given maps – large-scale topographical maps of the area into which they were going to attack, and special, wonderfully-detailed, mauve-shaded maps of the German defences in the same area. Business-like, a little self-important, and more confident than ever, they dispersed to talk to their men.

By evening the convoy was on the move, the endless lines of ships passing slowly down the Solent while Spitfires from airstrips which were plainly visible on the shore swooped and snarled overhead.

The men felt the ship vibrating and saw the coast moving past them, looked at each other meaningly, and bent again to their cards.

A couple of hours later they were out in the open Channel. A few of the men stood listlessly at the rails, watching the Needles slowly drop back and become indiscernible in the dusk. There was a strange, flat feeling, a sensation as of living suspended between two planets, as the ship crawled with maddening slowness across the grey, bleak sea, against the grey, bleak, evening sky. There was no shore to be seen, only the walls of purple dusk creeping in from the farthest limits of the sea; no sound to be heard but the thudding of the engines below decks and the snarling of Spitfires in the clouds that thickened overhead.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Shannon ain’t so tough

THE DAVITS ON THE BOAT deck groaned and the men lining the railings on the deck below saw the landing craft come jerkily down to their level. It hung motionless for a moment, then descended slowly until it was bobbing on the grey swell below, with the scummy white foam swirling round it.

Charlie Venable shivered. ‘Bleed’n cold,’ he complained. ‘Lousy mornin’ for a battle. We oughta complain to the union.’

‘You should ha’ worked in t’mills,’ said Sergeant Shannon. ‘Fourteen year old, up at five on a raw mornin’ an’ off to work.’

‘We’re too wide for that in London, Sarge,’ grinned Charlie Venable.

Mister Paterson, the platoon officer, came up and began to talk quietly to the sergeant. They checked their watches. It was growing lighter; the strip of white light across the eastern horizon had spread like a sliding roof across the sky, and now it was daylight.

The sergeant turned to Charlie Venable. He asked: ‘Sorry you come back to the battalion, Charlie?’

‘Nah,’ said Charlie. ‘Wouldn’a missed this for a million quid.’ He looked out across the grey waters to the mist that hid the shore. ‘Ever been down the East End, Sarge?’

‘Not since the war.’