A Spectre on the Shore

The first time I met Ken Small was in 1990; he was up to his ankles in shingle and adjusting the volume for his metal detector’s headphones. Ken’s doctor had recommended exercise and fresh sea air to restore his well-being following an all-consuming twenty-year obsession and consequent divorce. It was on this beach that he’d unearthed the remnants of warfare and the truth about the needless deaths of nine hundred and forty-six soldiers prior to D-Day.

#

I’d visited Devon for a peaceful weekend in late September; a welcome respite from my hectic life in London. The onset of gusting winds that hurled dried leaves into the air had replaced the balmy days of the summer and reduced roadside trees to bare sentinels with twisted dark limbs. 

I’d arrived at Ken’s hotel in Slapton Sands after an early start and sought advice concerning local attractions. The housekeeper who opens the door has a loose grasp of the English language. She wafts her hand towards the beach. Her husband intervenes and advises me to consult their employee if I want tourist information. He informs me I can find Ken amusing himself down on the shoreline.

#

I leave my cases at the reception and wander through the spacious dining room. They’ve set eight tables for the morning guests and any hungover patrons recovering from an indulgent Friday night quaffing pints of Scrumpy Jack. The yellow velvet flocked wallpaper looks as though it’s survived two decades of all day breakfasts. It’s both balding and glazed with a hint of cooking oil, like the gaggle of middle-aged English visitors by the bay window. They’re preparing themselves in the vain hope of a scorching day at the seaside. 

Around the room are displays of brass bullet cases, exploded grenade fragments and battered dog tag IDs. The accompanying information typed onto neat index cards shows the items were all found on the beach in front of the hotel. There are photographs of soldiers, faded military documents and salt-water stained personal effects; a leather wallet, silver cigarette case, and crumpled letters. 

Guarding the far exit is a featureless polystyrene mannequin sporting a green helmet tilted at a jaunty angle. The pale figure is shouldering a Lee-Enfield rifle and wears a threadbare khaki uniform. It hovers like a guest who’d attended a ghoulish V.E. Day celebration and refused to go home.

I enter an elevated glass conservatory that overlooks the property’s private beach. It has four bulging sofas in swirling floral designs with matching cushions. The lounge area is south facing and decorated with seashells in glass vases, knotted ropes mounted onto boards and paintings of dinky fishing boats sheltering in stony harbours. There’s an impressive view out to sea and my fellow guests assure me the French coast is visible on a clear day. On the foreshore below is a shadowy figure sweeping a handheld metal probe over the pebbles; it’s Ken, I assume.

#

“Mr Small?”

“Call me Ken.” He removes his headphones. “Ken’s fine by me,” he says and offers his liver-spotted hand. Ken has a firm grip and dark eyes that glint behind tinted aviator glasses. He could’ve been mistaken for Roy Orbison ten years ago, but not today. Ken presents a cordial smile, but his laughter lines belie a troubled soul. “Welcome to Devon,” he says. “Please enjoy my humble dwelling and full use of the beach.” He smiles once more. “No grockles allowed here.”

“I’m just up from London and---”

“We serve a breakfast all day if you’re famished,” he says. “Fish supper at the Start Bay Inn is excellent and a short walk beyond the cove.” He nods his head at the two storey building further down the shore. “I can recommend the rock salmon. It’s caught fresh daily and comes in three sizes.”

“I’m used to small or medium---”

“You’re in Devon now,” he says and chuckles. “We have large, larger or largest.” 

“There’s good fishing here, then?”

“Of course,” he smiles. “There are plenty of boats in the Channel and they make shore most days.”

“The beach here reminds me of France’s Normandy coastline.”

“Yes, there are similarities,” he says and looks out to sea.

“I spent last summer over there and—-”

“They both have long shingle beaches that shelve off at a steep angle.” 

“That’s true, they’re—-”

“Perfect for landing low profile craft, amphibious vehicles and troop carriers,” he says and his smoker’s growl drifts to a hoarse whisper. Ken turns to face me and I notice he’s lost the bright twinkle in his eye. The colour has drained from his face. It’s as if he’s experienced a painful memory or witnessed an apparition.

“I was hoping to hire a boat, depending on—-”

“Tomorrow’s forecast isn’t great.” He snorts. “There’s a hefty swell, so unless you’ve got your sea-legs, I’d forget it—-”

“What else can I look forward to?”

“There’s the monument up on the shore, next to the Inn,” he says. “Are you interested in Second World War history?”

#

Ken got to know the fishermen when he moved to Devon twenty years ago. However, his interest in fishing went back to his family holidays here as a child. He went fishing with his father off the coast in the 1950s, and that was when they encountered the abandoned village of Slapton Sands. The boarded-up buildings and vacant properties provided questions for his curious young mind, but no satisfactory answers. Why would everyone leave such an idyllic spot? We’re the locals afraid of a German invasion? What caused them to leave and why did they not move back? 

The fishermen said the Ministry of Defence had paid the villagers to relocate during the 1940s. They believed something had happened during the war, but no one had seen anything and there was no urgency to return. 

There were rumours about ghosts, haunted properties, and legions of restless spirits. Ken had heard stories concerning a terrible accident, but there was little proof and no witnesses. The old folks, who were toddlers during the war years, offered opinions. The authorities had nothing to fear if they broke the silence; they were too young to recall the evacuation. Besides, who would listen to them discussing their experiences? Who would trust their shaky memories and vague childhood recollections?

#

The fishermen told Ken they had problems with their nets around the coastline opposite his hotel. There was a problem about a quarter of a mile out to sea. They said there was a curse on Slapton Sands. That was why everyone had run away. There was talk about a giant cephalopod or a mighty kraken that ripped apart their nets and tugged at the boats’ anchor chains.

#

Ken organised a dive with a fellow ex-serviceman and they searched the seabed to solve the riddle. What they discovered below wasn’t a sea monster, or a devilish water demon, but it was indeed a mighty beast designed to kill. Barnacles covered its robust body. A powerful blackened arm stood proud above a crumpled turret and heavy toothed caterpillar tracks clung to the rocky seabed. The frogmen marked the spot and later returned to take photographs. A military expert examined their images and identified the remains as that of a Sherman tank; standard American Army issue. 

Ken was full of new questions. He’d found brass shell cases on his beach, but this was a different matter. There was no official reason for his discoveries, and everything he was told amounted to idle gossip, superstition, or lies.

# 

Ken and Brenda’s marriage had faltered before they moved to Devon because of his alleged infidelities. Slapton Sands was to be a fresh start and their new life together running the hotel. The evidence on the beach was now testing the fragile union to bursting point. Ken spent all his spare time and resources uncovering what had happened. He neglected his responsibilities in their new business and his wife had to manage the hotel by herself. It took Ken ten long years to unveil the murky details of the wartime tragedy and install the tank on the shore as a permanent reminder. Brenda lost her patience when Ken confessed he’d used their contingency money. He’d given their savings to a salvage team to haul the remains out of the water.

#

The day that they arrived to lift the Sherman clear of the ocean floor, a process server handed Ken the divorce papers; Brenda had sighted the tank as the third party.

The week Ken daubed the rusting spectre on the shore in corrosion-proof paint; Brenda loaded her bags into their car and left Devon forever. 

The following year, the authorities acknowledged the official death toll and mounted a plaque next to the tank; Ken had his first nervous breakdown. 

#

Ken’s hotel remains open in Brenda’s absence and he no longer dwells on her departure. He prefers to consider the event that caused the deaths of all those soldiers and how much it challenged the allies’ readiness for the imminent D-Day landings. 

The joint forces learned vital lessons from the tragic night exercise at Slapton Sands on 27^th April 1944. It was inexcusable that nine hundred and forty-six British and American soldiers had died due to their sloppy coordination, poor communications, and friendly fire. The allied commanders devised a new plan of action that would ensure the successful assault of the Normandy beaches on 6th June 1944, followed by the liberation of Europe and an end to the war.

The End