In Spite of All Terror

by V M Knox

  ‘He no longer matters to us,’ Reg added, voicing what Clement believed others may be thinking. Reg removed his camouflaged suit then, grasping his Sten Gun, sat at a distance from the others, the weapon on his knees, rubbing an oiled cloth over the barrel.

  ‘What’s to report here,’ Clement asked.

  ‘Nothing, other than an unwary vicar,’ Reg answered.

  Clement nodded. He was not proud of his inattention, even if he had good cause. If the Germans had landed, his absent-mindedness would have cost all their lives.

  ‘With one man down I’ll rework the watch,’ Peter said.

  The men dispersed and Clement watched them go about the routine tasks of life in the Operational Base. But there was little conversation. Stanley aside, he had another problem: the whereabouts of the list. So many questions flooded his mind, and yet he couldn’t share any of them, not even with his second-in-command.

  Reaching for the ordnance survey maps of the area, he unrolled them and, spreading them on the table, plotted the evening’s patrol routes. Had the Germans penetrated their wood? Was the invasion even now moving towards Fearnley Maughton? He told himself their village was not on the road to London, but he had to fight a feeling of dread. They had received the universal invasion code word to assemble. The Germans must at the very least be approaching their shores. Plus they would surely be parachuting troops in. But even as such questions invaded his mind, Stanley was never far from his thoughts. He wondered if Clive was correct about Stanley - was the motive anger? If so, Stanley had the most to gain from his father’s death. And Stanley had no alibi other than Elsie, who had disappeared. Had the lad thought that now he knew how to kill, and had protection because of his membership of an elite group, he could get away with murder? Yet if Stanley had opened the safe, it would be for the money, not the list; a list the man didn’t know existed.

  Clement thought of the five pound notes he had seen in the safe. Why would Stanley leave a stack of five pound notes if he had come for his inheritance? Clement shook his head. Stanley did not kill his father. He believed it. So who other than him and Russell knew about the existence of the list? Not his men and certainly not the illusive Elsie. He began to wonder if Elsie were entirely innocent and had also met with foul play. Only he, David Russell, Gubbins and Johnny knew about the list. But they all, except Russell, already knew the groups’ identities. A squeezing knot was forming in his stomach.

  Clement focused on the maps laid out before him and devised the route. ‘We should get some rest. Tonight we need to be on high alert. George, you and Reg take the first watch. We’ll change again in two hours. At midnight we will patrol the area east and south of Firle Beacon. And we’ll check Firle Place on our way back.’

  Clement lay back on his bunk, his head on the hard pillow. His team had been a cohesive unit after Coleshill, but now, with Stanley’s imprisonment and the confined space of the Operational Base, tempers would be quickly raised. Clement glanced at his men from time to time. They were occupied tending to their own areas of expertise, but the tension was palpable. He imagined that with each passing night the routine would become more familiar, and the dynamics of the personalities would, in time, sort themselves out. Closing his eyes, he recited the Lord’s Prayer and asked God for guidance and strength.

  As the afternoon became evening there had been no sightings of any enemy activity within the forest. In fact, each returning watch had reported that there had been no-one sighted in the forest at all. It was as if all England knew the Germans were on the foreshores and had stayed at home, waiting.

  As night descended and the patrol time approached, their nerves were only just under control. It was to be expected. Despite the uniforms, none of them were guerrilla fighters. They were bakers and clergymen and solicitors. Ordinary people waiting to do extraordinary things. Clement wanted and needed to stay focused, as much for himself as the team. He swung his legs over the bunk and went to the table and stared again at the maps, going over every detail. What he found most frustrating was that he didn’t even know where the invasion was taking place. He checked his watch. In five minutes, Peter and Ned would be returning from their watch. He glanced at the men. Reg and George were preparing for their watch and Clive was sorting explosives. Time passed slowly, and no-one spoke.

  At midnight they lifted their packs, and with Sten guns in hand, left the Operational Base in single file, heading south.

  Chapter 14

  Tuesday 17th September

  With morning, long shards of sunlight penetrated the forest. They had seen nothing unusual and encountered no-one. It was always possible they had skirted advancing troops, but Clement didn’t believe so. Invasions required armoured vehicles and tanks that can be heard and felt miles away. From Firle Beacon, and with the aid of the early dawn light, he had scrutinized the coast but had not sighted any shipping that would indicate an amphibious invasion.

  Clement watched his men remove their packs and stow their weapons before collapsing on the bunks. They had walked for over six hours and covered more than the forecasted eight miles. Full moons are a night patrol’s worst enemy. He thought of his theory about full moons and bombing. He had been right about that. But for them, the strong moonlight had meant staying away from open fields and ridge tops, where their silhouetted forms would make them like ducks at a seaside shooting gallery. Being forced to stay in the valleys and criss-cross fields behind hedges and clusters of trees had turned eight miles into twelve.

  ‘What now, Clement?’ Reg asked.

  ‘Just because we didn’t see the enemy doesn’t mean they haven’t landed. I need to contact Commander Winthorpe,’ Clement told them. ‘He needs to know about Stanley and I want to hear about the invasion. I’ll be as quick as I can but if I am delayed I will let you know by a reverse dead letter drop. George, make sure you visit the bus shelter during the day. Get some rest. All of you. And well done last night.’ He turned to go. ‘Remain vigilant. In my absence Peter is in charge.’

  ‘Clement. Perhaps you should have a gun on you,’ Peter said.

  Clement shook his head. ‘If I was caught either coming or going from here, the Germans may come looking for you. Stanley is in enough trouble, I don’t need to worry about all of you too.’

  Clement walked back through the woodland, alert to the sounds of the forest. Sometimes in the summer, if the weather was fine, instead of playing chess, he and Peter would walk the forest with Boadicea, discussing theology. Then the woodland paths were happy places, an escape from the routine pressures of life. Now Clement saw them as places of concealed death.

  He skirted the village and let himself into the vestry to change his clothes. Ten minutes later he walked down Church Lane and let himself into the vicarage. Closing the door, he walked along the hallway towards the kitchen. It was still early, not yet seven o’clock and possibly too early for Johnny to be in his office at The Admiralty. Even though Mary was not there, her fragrance lingered and Clement breathed it in. Filling the kettle, he placed it on the stove then went to his study. Reverend Battersby had left some correspondence on Clement’s desk. He dealt with church matters until he heard the clock in the hall chime nine. He dialled Johnny's number.

  ‘Nothing to report in our sector. Any news?’ Clement asked.

  ‘Nothing as yet,’ Johnny answered. ‘It’s a waiting game, Clement.’

  Clement could hear the strain in Johnny’s voice.

  ‘We have a problem, Johnny, that you should know about.’

  ‘Not on the phone. Come. Same day, same place.’

  The phone rang off.

  Clement replaced the receiver and returned to his study. In the stillness he heard the droning. As it increased, he stood and went to draw the curtains. They were early today. Even though it was daylight he decided to check the house and close all the black-out curtains. He stood in the middle of the hallway, listening. There was something different about the noise. The sound was higher pitched, more like fighters. An
d they were low. Dorniers, possibly. Within seconds the noise was fierce. It seemed as though an aeroplane was above the house. He waited, hardly moving. Then the unmistakable squeal.

  He ran into the scullery and sat on the floor in the corner, his head between his arms. He stared at the locked scullery door, the Anderson Shelter only yards away. But there was no time to reach it. Then the detonation. The whole house shook and several windows shattered, the sound of the breaking glass sudden and intense. His mind flashed to the scullery at the vicarage in Mayfair. A second later, another explosion. Smaller. Standing, he ran to the front door and opened it.

  Flames were rising from the roofs of the buildings and shops in the High Street. He ran outside into the lane. The noise, though terrifyingly loud, was different now. Short bursts of exploding cracks shattered the morning. Hearing the high-pitched squeal he looked up. A German Stuka was descending out of the sky. Clement stared at it, not sure if it was crashing into the village or strafing it. He could hear people screaming. He ran down Church Lane then leaned against the red-brick wall of the police station and looked up.

  The plane pulled high and circled and once again came in low, the noise thunderous, the destruction deliberate. Its presence in the village was not just a stray encounter designed to intimidate then fly away; it was intentionally mowing down anyone in the streets. Clement watched, horrified, as the plane once more strafed the village. The bullets cracked the air in bursts of two to three seconds before the plane rose into the sky. Circling, the aircraft lined up for a third run then thundered over the village, the terrifying sound of rapid spraying bullets mingling with screaming. It turned, pulling high, this time disappearing into the sky.

  Clement ran into the High Street. Some of the buildings and shops around the village green were partially destroyed and fire was already taking hold. The scene was something unimaginable. Windows and shop fronts had been blown out onto the streets, and flames now leapt high into the sky. Peter Kempton’s large Georgian office building was nothing more than rubble. People were lying on the footpaths and in the roadway. Others were staggering around in aimless circles, their clothes ripped into shreds. Clement’s gaze fell on a pram, standing alone in the middle of the street, a woman prostrate beside it. His chest felt hollow. Looking up he saw The Crown. It appeared to be undamaged. He remembered it was the emergency assembly point, and thanks to Mary and Phillip Haswell, there were medical supplies there. ‘Go to The Crown,’ he bellowed.

  Clement ran towards the woman lying beside the pram. He recognised the young mother immediately. Mrs Clarke had been shot through the chest and would have died instantly. His eye turned to the baby. He placed his hand on the infant and felt its tiny breaths. Looking up he saw two older women comforting each other nearby.

  ‘Can you take care of this child?’

  ‘Dear Lord! Is Mrs Clarke dead?’ one asked.

  ‘Please take the child to The Crown, I must find Doctor Haswell.’

  Clement ran back up the hill. The buildings at the top end of the High Street appeared not to have been so badly damaged. Without knocking, he opened the doctor’s door and ran in.

  The front hallway was filled with dust. Covering his mouth with his hand, Clement looked into the front room that was the surgery. It seemed to be undamaged except for debris and dust from shattered brickwork. He walked further into the house. ‘Phillip?’ he shouted. Daylight filtered through the dust haze. There was nothing left of the kitchen or scullery. Clement stood at the edge of the brickwork, the rear wall of the house completely missing. Phillip Haswell was standing in what was left of his garden. His Anderson shelter had taken a direct hit and had been completely destroyed. A crater ten feet deep was where the shelter had once stood.

  ‘Phillip? Are you unharmed?’

  The man was coughing and blinking dust and dirt from his eyes. ‘I was in the shed, Clement,’ he said staring at the flattened brick and wooden structure a few feet away. ‘I decided while I was outside to cut a few vegetables for my dinner. If I hadn’t been on my haunches pulling up carrots at the end of my garden...’ Phillip’s voice trailed off. ‘A few seconds earlier...’ Phillip stopped again.

  ‘Many of the villagers are injured. There are several already dead. If you could come. Now?’

  ‘Of course, Clement. I’ll just get my bag.’ They ran into the house going straight to the surgery. ‘Is Elsie in attendance?’

  ‘You didn’t know Elsie has left Fearnley Maughton?’

  Phillip stopped filling his medical bag and stared at Clement. ‘What? Why?’

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me.’

  ‘Can’t be helped. We must make do with what we have. Thank the Lord for Mary’s foresight and planning. Where are most of the wounded?’

  ‘The Crown,’

  ‘Clement, would you call Lewes Ambulance station? Ask them to send all they can. And Clement,’ Haswell paused. ‘I think the villagers will need you, but before you go, can you open the church? We will need somewhere to put the bodies. It is best the dead are not with the living for too long. Bad for morale.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Leaving the surgery, Clement watched Phillip run down the street towards the devastation, then he ran to the vicarage. Why had the Stuka targeted Fearnley Maughton? There were no industries, no railheads or munitions factories. Had it just been a random release of left-over bombs? But the strafing runs had been deliberate. That was sheer wickedness. Clement ran into his house and telephoned Lewes Ambulance, then went to his study. Taking the keys from the drawer in his desk, he ran up the hill and opened the church.

  One of the long, stained glass windows had been blasted inwards. He paused for a moment. The windows at All Saints had survived the Reformation but not Herr Hitler’s henchmen. ‘Such vandalism,’ he muttered and hurried back into the village.

  Rounding the corner from Church Lane into the High Street he passed the police station. He suddenly remembered Stanley and turning back, decided to check on him. Glass from the shattered front windows lay like snow over the waiting room floor. Picking his way through the debris, Clement looked around but no-one was behind the duty desk. Surmising Constable Newson was helping with the injured, Clement went straight to the partition door and pushed it open. The body of a man in a constable’s uniform was lying, face down on the floor in the corridor.

  ‘Constable Newson,’ he called, and bending down, shook the man’s shoulder.

  Clement reeled back. The man was dead. But not from blast damage. A bullet hole, the size of a sixpence, glared back at him from the bloodless visage. It had entered the man’s head through the left temple. But there was no exit wound. Clement swallowed hard. The man’s brains would be nothing but slush, the bullet still within the skull. Most likely subsonic. Special. He stood and ran towards the cells where he knew Stanley was imprisoned. The cell door was open.

  Chapter 15

  Clement stared at the empty cell for what seemed like a full minute. His mind was reeling. He ran from the cells. ‘Chief Inspector Morris?’ he shouted, hoping the man was somewhere in the building. But no-one responded. Stanley’s whereabouts would have to wait. The dead and dying people of Fearnley Maughton needed him. As Clement ran along the corridor to leave, he passed an open door. It was a large cupboard with several labelled items sitting on the shelves. Stopping, he realised it was the police evidence cupboard. His eye scanned the contents for Stanley’s blood-stained Fairbairn Sykes knife. It was not there. Clement licked his dry lips. There was no time for finding the commando knife. Leaving the police station, Clement hurried towards the village green.

  In the distance he could hear the siren of the local fire brigade. ARP wardens from Lewes were already on the scene and appeared to be directing the chaos. Along the street in both directions Clement saw people lying on the ground. Fearnley Maughton, his pretty village, was almost unrecognisable. He ran towards the public house.

  The main bar had been transformed into an infirmary. Tables had
been placed side by side and upon each lay an injured person. Phillip Haswell was running between the tables, enlisting the help of anyone who could wrap a bandage or pack a wound. The barmaid was fetching and emptying buckets filled with blood-stained cloths and blood dripped from the edges of the tables to the floor. Behind the bar, Ilene Greenwood was shredding sheets from the linen store into long strips.

  Haswell looked up as Clement entered.

  ‘They are on their way,’ Clement said, staring at the doctor’s blood-soaked clothes and hands.

  Haswell nodded. ‘Keep the hot water coming,’ he shouted to the barmaid. ‘Wet all the surfaces, we have to keep the dust levels down. And could someone get the ARP to put a sheet or blanket over that open window, please!’

  Clement backed away. Haswell, although clearly finding the makeshift surgery stressful, was managing well enough. And the village women had swung into action. With all the deaths, Clement was going to need assistance organizing the funerals. He should call Battersby, but for now his role was to pray with the dying and take the deceased to the church. His mind went to the team still dug in at the Operational Base. With the Germans not yet on their shores, the men would be alright. His place was here in the village, with his flock, but he made a mental note that if things returned to something close to normal he would telephone Mary and ask her to return.

  Outside, Clement found the ARP warden. ‘Lewes Ambulance is sending all three of their ambulances.’

  ‘I’ll go to the main road and direct them,’ the Warden replied. ‘Can you find a stretcher, Vicar. I understand from Doctor Haswell you are using the church as a temporary mortuary?’

  ‘Yes. There’re two stretchers in The Crown.’ His mind went to Mary and he thanked God for her foresight.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then, Vicar.’