The story of Boy’s record-breaking purchase had appeared in yesterday’s press, but today the
And the Fitzherbert family wealth came from coal mines.
Boy said: ‘My father is furious. He was hoping to be Foreign Secretary in the postwar government. This has probably ruined his chances.’
Daisy said in exasperation: ‘Boy, kindly explain why this is my fault?’
‘Look who wrote the damned thing!’
Daisy looked.
BY BILLY WILLIAMS
MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT FOR ABEROWEN
Boy said: ‘Your boyfriend’s uncle!’
‘Do you imagine he consults me before writing his articles?’
He wagged a finger. ‘For some reason, that family hates us!’
‘They think it’s unfair that you should make so much money from coal, when the miners themselves get such a raw deal. There is a war on, you know.’
‘You live on inherited money,’ he said. ‘And I didn’t see much sign of wartime austerity at your Piccadilly apartment last night.’
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘But I gave a party for the troops. You spent a fortune on a horse.’
‘It’s my money!’
‘But you got it from coal.’
‘You’ve spent so much time in bed with that Williams bastard that you’ve become a bloody Bolshevik.’
‘And that’s one more thing that’s driving us apart. Boy, do you really want to stay married to me? You could find someone who suits you. Half the girls in London would love to be Viscountess Aberowen.’
‘I won’t do anything for that damned Williams family. Anyway, I heard last night that your boyfriend wants to be a Member of Parliament.’
‘He’ll make a great one.’
‘Not with you in tow. He won’t even get elected. He’s a bloody socialist. You’re an ex-Fascist.’
‘I’ve thought about this. I know it’s a bit of a problem—’
‘Problem? It’s an insuperable barrier. Wait till the papers get that story! You’ll be crucified the way I’ve been today.’
‘I suppose you’ll give the story to the
‘I won’t need to – his opponents will do that. You mark my words. With you by his side, Lloyd Williams doesn’t stand a bloody chance.’
For the first five days of June, Lieutenant Woody Dewar and his platoon of paratroopers, plus a thousand or so others, were isolated at an airfield somewhere north-west of London. An aircraft hangar had been converted into a giant dormitory with hundreds of cots in long rows. There were movies and jazz records to entertain them while they waited.
Their objective was Normandy. By means of elaborate deception plans, the Allies had tried to convince the German High Command that the target would be two hundred miles north-east at Calais. If the Germans had been fooled, the invasion force would meet relatively light resistance, at least for the first few hours.
The paratroopers were to be the first wave, in the middle of the night. The second wave would be the main force of 130,000 men, aboard a fleet of five thousand vessels, landing on the beaches of Normandy at dawn. By then, the paratroopers should have already destroyed inland strongpoints and taken control of key transport links.
Woody’s platoon had to capture a bridge across a river in a small town called Eglise-des-Soeurs, ten miles inland. When they had done so, they had to keep control of the bridge, blocking any German units that might be sent to reinforce the beach, until the main invasion force caught up with them. At all costs they must prevent the Germans from blowing up the bridge.
While they waited for the green light, Ace Webber ran a marathon poker game, winning a thousand dollars and losing it again. Lefty Cameron obsessively cleaned and oiled his lightweight M1 semiautomatic carbine, the paratrooper model with a folding stock. Lonnie Callaghan and Tony Bonanio, who did not like one another, went to mass together every day. Sneaky Pete Schneider sharpened the commando knife he had bought in London until he could have shaved with it. Patrick Timothy, who looked like Clark Gable and had a similar moustache, played a ukulele, the same tune over and over again, driving everybody crazy. Sergeant Defoe wrote long letters to his wife, then tore them up and started again. Mack Trulove and Smoking Joe Morgan cropped and shaved each other’s hair, believing that would make it easier for the medics to deal with head injuries.
Most of them had nicknames. Woody had discovered that his own was Scotch.
D-Day was set for Sunday 4 June, then postponed because of bad weather.
On Monday 5 June, in the evening, the colonel made a speech. ‘Men!’ he shouted. ‘Tonight is the night we invade France!’
They roared their approval. Woody thought it was ironic. They were safe and warm here, but they could hardly
