In Spite of All Terror

by V M Knox

  Hurrying, Clement ran down the pitch-black corridor and out of the house. Sirens were shrieking. Standing on the top step he glanced up. A faint orange glow was starting to rise in the east. In the darkness, he heard the sound of a car moving slowly along the street. He waited as it pulled up beside him.

  ‘Have you seen the vicar?’ the Constable called.

  ‘I am a vicar. Clement Wisdom. Reverend and Mrs Moore and about fifty others are in the crypt under the church. Do you need a priest?’ he asked still clutching the bread and paraffin lamps.

  The man nodded. ‘Some houses in Trebeck Street have been hit. Is there room under the church for more?’

  ‘Of course. Let me give these to the people underground and I will be with you directly,’ he said.

  Clement looked up at the large dark form that was Christ Church. Flashes of reflected light from the incendiaries were bouncing off the stained-glass windows. He ran across Down Street and into the church. Inside, the great edifice was dark and cold. He hurried towards the narrow steps to the crypt and descended them like a child.

  Within minutes he had returned. The car had barely turned the corner before Clement was confronted by another world. Whole buildings had been obliterated. The devastation shocked him. While Down Street looked exactly as it did yesterday, Trebeck Street was nothing but rubble.

  The car stopped and Clement and the policeman got out. Shells of houses were all that remained in Shepherd Street and fire was taking hold in some of the gutted dwellings that only half an hour ago held sleeping families. In the flickering light of the flames he could see that complete walls were missing and upper floors had disappeared. A picture still hung on a wall thirty feet above him. A man of his own age stood shaking on the footpath, a woman was sitting on what was left of the front steps, the remains of their home behind them.

  ‘Anyone else in the house?’ Clement asked. The man looked up at him; the face devoid of reaction. He had seen that expression before. It came from shock. ‘Anyone in the house?’ he shouted.

  The man stared back.

  Clement ran up the steps to the non-existent front door. He saw the bottom stair tread and the first three balustrades of the staircase. Lifting his gaze he saw the night sky, the search beams still strobing above them.

  ‘Reverend!’ the policeman shouted.

  Clement turned, more from instinct than any sense of self-preservation. He felt the shudder. It was more a groan than anything resembling impending doom. He ran back into the street as the side wall of the house collapsed. Falling bricks, cracking timber and shattering glass crashed around them. The clanging bells of an approaching fire brigade filled the dust-filled air. Reaching for his handkerchief, he held it over his mouth and nose.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said to the man and woman.

  Behind him, the policeman was telling the ARP warden about the crypt in Christ Church.

  ‘As soon as you hear the All-Clear, Vicar, we could use you up here,’ the Warden called to him.

  ‘Not before?’ Clement asked.

  ‘We have enough to worry about, without a missing Vicar. Besides, you’re more use to us where you are,’ the Warden shouted.

  Turning the corner into Down Street was like seeing normality where there has been none. He looked at the group that had followed him out of no sense of purpose, like obedient children. Opening the church door, he ushered them in and down the stairs.

  Helen Moore stood at the base of the stairs handing out slices of bread to the growing crowd. Clement glanced at James as the young man moved around the crypt checking on everyone. A woman was crying. ‘We’ll find him. I will come with you,’ James was reassuring her. ‘As soon as it is light enough for us to see.’

  ‘Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name,’ Clement began, his voice echoing around the stone walls.

  A chorus of people joined him. But James’ words about his unexciting life flashed into Clement’s mind. Was this what James and Helen Moore had to look forward to every night until either victory or the Germans came to England? It was just as valid a ministry as any clergyman on the battlefield or any minister engaged in more covert activities.

  He knew what he had to do.

  Chapter 4

  Friday 6th September

  A chill wind greeted them on surfacing from the safety of the crypt. Clement pulled his coat around him. The morning sky was overcast, but nothing would be the same. The vicarage appeared undamaged except for a few broken window panes. James was busy dispatching those who still had homes to go to and assisting the ARP Warden with the rehousing of those who didn’t.

  Looking along Down Street, Clement could see an ambulance. Beside it, blankets covered low forms lined up along the pavement. A pair of lady’s feet wearing high-heeled shoes protruded from under one blanket. ‘Helen, do you think the people from the crypt could wait in the vicarage? James is needed,’ Clement said, his head inclined towards the line of bodies.

  ‘Dear Lord,’ Helen whispered and fetching the remaining group ushered them into the house.

  Clement checked his watch. If the plans made the day before were still to be followed, Johnny would be arriving within minutes. He wondered whether he should stay to help. While it was the right thing to do, the events of last night had convinced him that his war was now elsewhere.

  James joined him.

  ‘There will be people you know there, James,’ Clement said pointing to the line of corpses. He saw the young vicar blench and realised how little experience he had to draw on. ‘Have courage. Remember, the grieving need you to be strong.’

  Moore took a deep breath.

  ‘And James, if I may offer a suggestion?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Prepare the crypt for other such raids. Blankets, food, a means of boiling water, beds if you have any spare, stretchers and some medical supplies.’

  James Moore frowned. ‘You think they will come again?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, thinking of Gubbins.

  Light rain began to fall as Johnny’s car turned into Down Street. Clement pulled his coat collar up against the drizzle. Thanking James and Helen Moore, he ran towards the car.

  ‘Quite a night, Clement!’ Johnny said as Clement got into the vehicle. ‘Everyone alright?’

  ‘There are a number of dead. But Reverend Moore will manage. And he has a capable wife to assist him.’

  ‘I am surprised that this area was hit at all. Until now Jerry has been targeting the airfields and the North. Bombing London’s residential streets is something new.’

  ‘You think it was deliberate?’

  ‘In the East End, yes. But around here?’ Johnny shrugged. ‘It was possibly a leftover bomb or two they dropped randomly on leaving.’

  The image of the dead lined up along the footpath flashed in Clement’s memory. Random or not, one couldn’t escape the wickedness of the act, nor its devastating consequences. The car turned into Piccadilly heading for Whitehall and Clement told Johnny about the events of the previous night.

  ‘Clement, I don’t mean to sound harsh or uncaring. As you have observed, James Moore is a good man with a beautiful as well as capable wife. While the local vicar plays a huge role, especially if we see more of what we experienced last night, I think you can understand that what we are asking you to be involved in is part of the bigger picture. Church matters are important. And grass root support is vital for morale as well as for body and soul. But that is for others now. I do hope you understand that?’

  Clement stared at the passing buildings until his eyes focused on small rivulets of rain meandering their way down the pane. He did understand what Johnny was saying, but he didn’t answer. He felt like he was on the edge of an abyss, turning his back on everything he believed to be the decent thing to do and about to consciously and willingly take a step into oblivion.

  ‘I see you survived last night well enough, Reverend?’ Gubbins said as Johnny closed the door to the inner office. ‘Have you
reached a decision?’

  Clement took the seat Gubbins indicated. His gaze shifted from the grey skies beyond the window to the waiting Colonel. He felt his throat tighten. With his answer, there would be no turning back. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Good man!’ Gubbins replied.

  ‘I may need help with my church duties. A retired minister or curate perhaps?’

  ‘John will arrange it,’ Gubbins said. ‘There are just a few other issues I need to raise with you. We would like you to prepare a list of around twenty names of suitable men to be in your cell. From these you will need to short list about six to eight. Consider their abilities - physical and mental - also their characters and age. Ponder their circumstances as well. Remember you must be self-sufficient. Farmers are good choices and landowners or gamekeepers if you have them, also professional men. You should have a variety of skills but you should all be able to live off the land for some weeks.’

  ‘Will there be any training?’ asked Clement.

  ‘Yes. Once you have chosen your cell, we will arrange for you to attend a course at Coleshill House in Wiltshire. They are usually weekend courses for people otherwise engaged in reserved occupations but after last night I have decided to step up the intake. Members of these Auxiliary Units would ideally already be in the Home Guard but this is not mandatory. Then on Monday morning you can travel to Wiltshire where you will be supplied with weapons.’

  Gubbins looked up and held Clement’s gaze. ‘You will be learning how to use explosives, Wisdom, and of course, how to kill. It is customary for you to have your local, senior police officer vet your chosen men.’

  Clement stared at Gubbins. Inspector David Russell was not a man Clement cared for. And certainly not a man he trusted to interview men for such an enterprise. ‘I have very great reservations, Colonel. Inspector Russell is not a man of character. I must protest about involving him. Is there not another way?’

  Gubbins paused. Clement saw a silent exchange between the Colonel and Johnny. ‘Perhaps Commander Winthorpe could visit you on Sunday,’ Gubbins said. ‘You and he could go over the final list of names and meet with the men. But your police chief must be informed. A sealed list would suffice.’

  ‘With respect, Colonel, must Inspector Russell know at all?’

  ‘The list is for your protection, Wisdom. Imagine if a local found your underground Operational Base, not to mention the weapons you would have at your disposal? They would surely notify your police and perhaps even Special Branch who would arrest you as a collaborator. How would you explain it?’

  Clement didn’t answer. He could see the Colonel’s determined expression. But despite Gubbins’s insistence, it did not change Clement’s anxiety about David Russell having top secret information.

  ‘However, we are getting ahead of ourselves,’ Gubbins cleared his throat. ‘When you receive the “Cromwell” alert - the signal to assemble - your senior policeman is your first victim, for the very reason that he can identify you. If your group is to be effective, and if any of you are to survive long enough to thwart the German advance, your inspector must be eliminated.’

  Clement knew he was staring. He couldn’t help it. He had wrestled with his conscience about killing the enemy. Now Gubbins was asking him to kill a man who, although Clement did not trust, he had known for years.

  ‘Think of it this way, Wisdom; if your police chief was taken prisoner by the invading Germans, your cell would be compromised and your entire group rounded up and shot. The Germans would then know all they had to do was seize the senior police officer in every town and they would have every cell in every county in Britain; our entire guerrilla network taken out by just one man. Unthinkable. There is no alternative, Wisdom. However distasteful, it must be done.’

  Clement felt sick, the nausea welling up and grabbing his throat. He swallowed hard. He had thought the Auxiliary Units a good idea. And during the previous night he had even been convinced of the need for such groups. Moreover, he believed that God was telling him to do it, but the knowledge that good and decent men cut the throats of others because they knew too much was something he could not countenance, let alone commit.

  Gubbins leaned forward in his chair, his voice subdued. ‘I know, Clement, that it is easier for our consciences to kill someone dressed in the enemy’s uniform. But that enemy is still a man with a mother and father and possibly a wife and family. Pull the trigger or use a blade, the result will be the same. If it helps, Clement, your police chief is one man, but if he talks, his loose lips could kill thousands of brave and decent men and women up and down the country.’

  It didn’t help. Clement leaned back in the chair. He felt confused. He knew he was staring. Gubbins and Johnny were watching him. No one spoke. Only the clacking of the secretary’s typewriter in the outer office disturbed the silence. Clement’s mind hurtled. Murder was still murder. His friend Peter had told him about supposed ghettos in Poland where they were forcefully congregating those of the Jewish faith. Such brutality astounded Clement. He felt his brow knit. There was no honour any more, the last war had seen to that. It reconfirmed his opinion about the second madness. He had killed soldiers in the last war, but never civilians. He thought of the family in Trebeck Street. What had they done to the Germans? The high moral ground is so easily taken in theory or in peacetime. He thought of the verses in Ecclesiastes and Ephesians, the five loaves in Helen Moore’s kitchen and the glow in the east.

  Gubbins and Johnny waited.

  But no matter how dreadful or compromising, evil had to be repulsed and he knew Gubbins was right. It had to be done. He swallowed hard. ‘Very well,’ he whispered.

  ‘A brave and patriotic decision,' Gubbins said. 'John will visit you on Sunday and you can go over the final list of names. You should invite your selected men to a special meeting of the Home Guard on Sunday afternoon. It doesn’t give them much time to contemplate their decision and perhaps that is a good thing. Either way, Clement, you will be a different man when I see you next.’

  ‘I fear you are correct, Colonel.’

  Clement felt drained. The meeting with Gubbins had been relatively short yet, in that half hour, life for him would never be the same.

  Outside there was a hurried tension about London. The bombing of the previous night showed on the faces of the passing crowds. Shopping bags were full of all kinds of rationed foodstuffs. Even small children carried string bags containing bread and tinned food. Clement breathed in the air, glad to be away from Gubbins’s office. A red bus stopped near him. On the outside, written in gigantic letters, was the statement; Loose Lips Sink Ships. People boarded the bus and it pulled away from the curb. He had seen the sign before but now it meant more. He felt his heart pounding. The period the newspapers had called the Phony War really was over. Europe had fallen. Now it was their turn. A profound sense of dread was settling in his chest.

  ‘What about some lunch?’ Johnny was saying. ‘We could go to the Savoy. Special treat before the austerity begins in earnest.’

  Special treats. For a fleeting second Clement wondered what the famous hotels did offer travellers. But it was not what he wanted. He felt hollow. The seriousness of it all had impacted hard. Above all, he wanted to see Mary. Not that he could discuss any of it with her. ‘I just would like to go home, Johnny. While I have one. Could your driver drop me at Victoria Station?’

  ‘Of course.’ Johnny hailed the driver who was waiting on the opposite side of Whitehall and they drove past St James Park and the palace. Clement looked up at the Royal Standard fluttering high above Buckingham Palace. ‘Will they leave London?’

  ‘Unlikely. I can’t tell you how relieved many of us are that we have the King and Queen we now do.’

  ‘Divine intervention?’

  ‘Indeed.’ The cab pulled up outside the station. ‘See you Sunday.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘And Clement, I am pleased to have you with us.’

  The next train south was not for t
hirty minutes. Clement purchased a ticket, then went to the tea room. Names started filtering through his mind and he took a small note book from his pocket.

  By the time Clement stepped down onto the platform at Lewes, two names were already on his list. He strode up the hill towards the bus stop, the bus for Fearnley Maughton not due for fifteen minutes. If the invasion took months, he and whoever he selected would have to work and survive through winter. Underground and bitterly cold. Not his favourite combination. And only two days training to transform law abiding men into saboteurs and assassins. But it was Gubbins’s parting information that had shocked Clement even more than the necessity for eliminating Inspector Russell. Gubbins had told him that, once activated, the cell had a life expectancy of two weeks. That information had already affected his choice of men.

  He stepped from the bus, the doors closing behind him. Clement looked around. Everything in Fearnley Maughton now looked different to him. He wanted to remember it just as it was, like a photograph for his memory and the hard times ahead. Across the village green was The Crown Inn, the face of a young Queen Bess on the placard swinging above the door of the black and white Elizabethan building. Further up the high street was the elegant, blue-painted Georgian building that was Peter Kempton’s legal office. Beyond that, the red-brick doctor’s home and surgery faced the old Victorian police station. And beside it was Church Lane that led to the vicarage and All Saints. As Clement walked through the village he smiled and was greeted by people he had known for years. One of the shop doors suddenly opened and young George Evans, the local postman, stepped out.