Motherland

by William Nicholson

  ‘You give that beautiful child of yours a kiss from her grandpa.’

  He goes on into the kitchen. When Kitty is halfway up the stairs she comes to a stop. Her father is speaking to her mother in a cold clear voice.

  ‘I told you never to tell Kitty I minded about her wedding.’

  ‘But Michael …’ Her mother’s voice wheedling, placatory.

  ‘You’re a fool. What are you?’

  ‘A fool, Michael.’

  Kitty continues up the stairs, not wanting to hear, not wanting to feel. Little Pamela senses her coming into the room and is lying awake, big eyes gazing up at her from her cot.

  ‘Did you have a lovely sleep, sweetheart? Would you like to have a nice clean nappy? Then we’ll go out for a walk by the river and see the swans.’

  Mrs Teale, though in many respects a fool, has undeniable skills when it comes to household management in wartime. As soon as she knew of Kitty’s pregnancy she set about preparing for the baby. In this way, when Kitty arrived in the house in Malmesbury, heavily pregnant, she was presented with four cotton baby gowns, four vests, three matinée jackets, three pairs of knitted woollen bootees, and two knitted shawls. Most magnificently of all her mother had tracked down a reconditioned prewar Marmet perambulator, for which her father paid £10.

  This is the pram in which Kitty takes her baby out for walks along the River Avon; attracting as she goes admiring and envious glances from other young mothers. There are large concrete blocks all along the river bank to stop tanks, which people say are there to defend the secret factory at Cowbridge. No one knows what goes on at Cowbridge. The rumour is that rich people pay to send their sons there so they can get out of being called up.

  Kitty no longer believes in the war. She never says so, that would be defeatism, but all she wants is for it to be over and Ed to come home. It’s gone on too long and she no longer feels part of it. The world has become tired. She wants to start all over again.

  The hardest part is that she’s finding she can’t remember Ed. Their time together was so brief. She remembers the feeling of him, the intense excitement she felt when he was with her; but his face has become hazy, little more than an expression, which is itself little more than a feeling. The way he looked at her, smiling with his mouth but not his eyes. That sense that he was always out of reach. She has his photograph, of course, but she has gazed at it for too long, and her gaze has drained it of life. His photograph no longer looks back at her.

  She wheels the pram down the river path, and returns up the High Street. The queue outside Mallards is shorter than usual so she joins it, and smiles as the other women coo over her baby. One woman gives Kitty a shy smile and says, ‘I was told your husband got the VC.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Kitty.

  ‘You must be so proud.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  It’s almost her turn now. She takes out her ration book and the baby’s ration book.

  ‘You make sure you get your share,’ says the woman to little Pamela. ‘Your dad’s a hero.’

  As Kitty arrives home again her mother is looking out for her.

  ‘You’ve got a visitor,’ she says.

  Kitty gathers Pamela up from the pram, letting her mother take the shopping and the pram itself, which lives in the shed down the side path.

  ‘Who is it?’ she says.

  ‘I didn’t catch his name,’ says Mrs Teale.

  Kitty goes on into the house. The visitor is not in the parlour. She goes through to the kitchen, and finds the back door standing open. There’s a man at the far end of the garden.

  She goes out into the sunshine, Pamela wriggling in her arms. The visitor is in uniform. He hears her, and turns.

  ‘Larry!’

  A wave of joy passes through her. He too is grinning with delight as he comes towards her. He’s taken his cap off and his curly hair is all golden in the sunlight, like a halo over his cherub face. A freckly cherub with a snub nose and a worried look, like a pug dog.

  ‘Oh, Larry! How wonderful to see you!’

  ‘Well, I promised I’d come and visit the little stranger, didn’t I?’

  He gazes intently at the baby. Unusually for her, Pamela stops wriggling and gazes just as steadily back.

  ‘Hello,’ he says softly. ‘Aren’t you a beauty.’

  ‘You can hold her if you want.’

  ‘Can I?’

  She arranges the baby in his careful arms. He clasps her too tightly, like all men with babies, as if afraid she’ll jump out. Then he paces back and forth over the small lawn, swaying slowly from side to side. It makes Kitty laugh to see him.

  ‘Am I doing it wrong?’

  ‘No, no. I think she’s a bit surprised.’

  Pamela starts to cry. Hastily, Larry gives her back.

  ‘I’m afraid she does a lot of crying,’ she says.

  Once in Kitty’s arms, the baby closes her eyes and goes to sleep.

  ‘Luckily she does an awful lot of sleeping too,’ Kitty says.

  Larry beams at her.

  ‘It really is good to see you, Kitty. I’d have come sooner. But you know how it is.’

  ‘How’s your wound?’

  ‘Oh, that’s all sorted. I get twinges, but as you see, I’m up on my pins. Desk jobs only, of course.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  Kitty knows her mother will be looking out from the house, consumed with that strange greed for company that afflicts her; but she wants Larry to herself.

  ‘Let’s stay out here for a bit,’ she says. ‘It’s such a beautiful day. Do you mind?’

  They sit side by side on the iron bench by the wild garden and talk about the few short weeks when they were all together in Sussex.

  ‘It seems like another life, doesn’t it?’ Kitty says. ‘And one day it just ended.’

  ‘Over three thousand men were killed or captured in that show,’ says Larry. ‘People don’t talk about it much, but it was a pretty bloody mess.’

  ‘Oh, Larry. Sometimes I think I just can’t bear any more.’

  He pulls a thin newspaper out of his satchel.

  ‘I brought you this.’

  It’s a copy of the official publication, the London Gazette, that carries the citation for Ed’s award. He’s folded it open to the right page. Kitty reads it, only partly registering what she reads.

  The King has been graciously pleased to approve the award of the Victoria Cross to Lt Edward Avenell, 40 Commando Royal Marine. At Dieppe on August 19th 1942 Lt Avenell landed under heavy fire … During a period of approximately five hours … carried wounded personnel across the open beach under fire … utter disregard for his personal safety … saved at least ten lives … refused a final opportunity to leave the shore … The calmness and courage of this heroic officer will never be forgotten …

  Larry says, ‘You have to have at least three witnesses for the VC. Ed had over twenty.’

  She gives the Gazette back to him.

  ‘No. It’s for you. And for Pamela.’

  Kitty looks at him with tears in her eyes.

  ‘I know he’s a hero, Larry. Everyone keeps telling me so.’

  She wants to ask the question that haunts her: why didn’t he get on that last boat and save himself?

  ‘He’ll come home,’ says Larry, understanding what she doesn’t say. ‘You’ll have him back.’

  ‘He’s in a camp near a place called Eichstätt. I looked it up on a map. It’s north of Munich.’

  ‘It could take another year. But he’ll come home.’

  ‘Another year,’ she says, looking at her baby asleep in her arms.

  ‘So how’s motherhood? You look well on it, I must say.’

  ‘It’s like nothing else in the world,’ says Kitty. ‘It’s utterly, utterly different. I keep on bursting into tears for no reason. My heart wants to explode with happiness. I feel like I’m a thousand years old. I want to scream with boredom. I long to be young and silly again. But if I lost her I’d die. It’s
as simple as that.’

  ‘Very simple,’ says Larry.

  ‘Darling Larry. I’m so glad you came. How long can you stay?’

  ‘I’ll head back after lunch. I hitched a ride with a chap in MI who’s visiting some facility near here.’

  Kitty’s face falls.

  ‘So little time. Let’s not talk about the war.’

  ‘What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘I finally got round to reading that book you gave me. The Warden.’

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘I wasn’t all that gripped by it, to be honest. I think maybe I see enough of clergymen in ordinary life.’

  ‘It’s a bit plodding, I grant you. It’s a sort of moral thriller, really. Everything hinges on the power of a good but weak man to find the courage to do the right thing.’

  ‘Yes, I do see that,’ says Kitty. ‘I did read faster towards the end. But poor Mr Harding is so fearfully drippy, isn’t he? And I do think Trollope could have done more in the way of punishing the archdeacon. I wanted to have him be publicly humiliated.’

  ‘Ah, you’re a harder judge than I am. I can find it in my heart to pity the archdeacon, with his secret drawer and his secret copy of Rabelais.’

  ‘I do want to believe that goodness wins in the end,’ says Kitty. ‘But you have to admit, in real life it doesn’t always seem that way.’

  ‘That’s why it’s our duty to make it be that way,’ says Larry.

  ‘Oh, Larry.’ She takes his hand with her free hand. ‘I am so glad you came.’

  Larry joins them for a simple lunch. Kitty’s father returns from the abbey promptly at one. He too is all smiles to see that they have a guest, and better still, a male guest.

  ‘What do you make of the bombing of Pantelleria, eh? I’ve been saying for weeks the invasion will begin in the Med. Sicily is the open door.’

  Kitty shows her father the London Gazette with Ed’s citation. Both he and her mother read it, taking in every word.

  ‘If ever a man deserved a VC, that’s the man,’ says her father.

  ‘Larry was there,’ says Kitty. ‘He saw him.’

  ‘Oh, my Lord!’ exclaims her father. ‘The tales you must have to tell! And here I am, worrying myself to death over the repairs to the abbey.’

  ‘The war will be over one day,’ says Larry, ‘and when it’s over we’ll still want to see the grand old churches, and the cornflowers in bloom.’

  ‘Larry is such a romantic,’ says Kitty, smiling across the table at him. ‘He’s an artist, really.’

  ‘An artist!’ exclaims her mother.

  ‘I like to paint,’ says Larry.

  ‘You should paint Kitty,’ says Mr Teale. ‘I’m always telling her we should have her portrait done.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t dare attempt portraits,’ says Larry. ‘That requires skills I have yet to acquire.’

  ‘Larry paints like Cézanne,’ says Kitty. ‘All blotchy and wrong colours.’

  ‘A very accurate description,’ says Larry.

  When it’s time for him to leave Kitty walks with him to the road junction, leaving Pamela in her mother’s care.

  ‘You know I’m not really so silly about your painting, Larry. I’m only teasing.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Thank you for being so sweet to Daddy.’

  Larry glances at her as they walk.

  ‘You find it hard, don’t you?’ he says. ‘Ed being away.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. Oh, Larry. I’m so afraid I’m forgetting him.’

  She feels she’s about to cry and knows she mustn’t. But then he puts his arms round her and it’s so good to be held in a man’s arms that she does cry, just a little.

  ‘This time will pass,’ he says.

  ‘I know. I know it will. I have to be strong, for Pamela.’

  He kisses her gently on the cheek.

  ‘That’s from Ed,’ he says. ‘He’s thinking of you right now. He loves you so much.’

  ‘Darling Larry,’ she says. ‘Can I kiss him back?’

  She kisses Larry on the cheek, as he kissed her. They stand still for a moment, saying nothing. Then they part, and walk on to the junction.

  Larry’s friend is waiting in his car. As he climbs in the back Kitty says to him, ‘I heard from Louisa the other day. She’s turned into a lady of the manor. She’s practically taking soup to villagers.’

  ‘Hurrah for Lady Edenfield!’ says Larry.

  Then the car is driving away, down the road to Swindon, and Kitty turns to walk slowly back.

  13

  After the Dieppe raid, a number of German soldiers are found dead, shot in the head, with their hands tied behind their backs. This is believed to be the work of commandos. In reprisal, the German High Command orders that all commandos held in prisoner-of-war camps are to be shackled until further notice.

  A later commando raid on the island of Sark leaves more German soldiers dead, also with their hands tied. Hitler, enraged, issues a secret order known as the Kommandobefehl. Only twelve copies are made. The order states:

  For a long time now our opponents have been employing in their conduct of war, methods which contravene the International Convention of Geneva. The members of the so-called Commandos behave in a particularly brutal and underhand manner … I order therefore: from now on all men operating against German troops in so-called Commando raids … are to be annihilated …

  The Kommandobefehl does not go unchallenged. Field Marshal Rommel refuses to issue the order to his troops, believing it to be a breach of the code of war. In prisoner-of-war camps its implementation varies with the character of individual commanders. In Oflag VII-B near Eichstätt captured members of commando units are shackled, but they are not handed over to the Sicherheitsdienst, the Security Service; more because of inter-service rivalry than out of any wish to save the men from execution.

  However, when news reaches the camp authorities that Lieutenant Edward Avenell of 40 RM Commando has been awarded the Victoria Cross, there is a reaction of anger.

  The prisoner is woken from his bunk in Block 5 before dawn by two camp orderlies who are themselves still half asleep. They march him out, handcuffed, into the parade ground. Here they order him to stand before the stony bank that rises to the Lagerstrasse and the kitchen block.

  An Obersturmführer arrives from the Kommandantur. He opens a folder and shines a small electric torch on the typed order within. The light reflects off the paper onto his face as he reads the order aloud. Ed understands nothing of the German except that this is how the order for an execution is given. When the voice falls silent, the Obersturmführer draws a pistol and orders him to kneel. Not a firing squad, then.

  Ed feels cold. His spirit is indifferent but his body cares. Dryness in his mouth and throat, a hot loosening in his bowels. He should close his eyes but they remain open, seeing nothing. There are rooks in the trees on the hillside across the parade ground, he hears their cries. Light seeping into the sky.

  He’s aware of the raw pain in his wrists from the handcuffs, and how any time now he’s going to shit his pants. He’d kill for a cigarette, or at least die for one.

  There comes a loud report. The pistol shot echoes down the valley. The rooks burst up in a swarm into the light of the coming day.

  The pistol is lowered once more. The Obersturmführer departs. The orderlies march Ed back to his quarters.

  ‘So what was that all about?’ say the others in his block.

  Ed has no answer.

  The pantomime is repeated the next day. The pre-dawn summons, the reading of the order, the shot in the air. And then again the next day. The process of repetition brings no lessening of the fear. Each time the game could turn real. Each time his body betrays him. But the failure is secret. To outside eyes he remains indifferent, magnificent.

  He understands that it’s not his death they want, but his disintegration. Or perhaps it’s all just a way for bored camp officers to pass the time. There�
��s a rumour they’re laying bets in the guardroom, so many days before he cracks, at such-and-such odds, paid out in cigarettes. You want your life to have value and your death to have meaning, but in the end it’s all just a game.

  The hero doesn’t crack. At least not so you can see from the outside.

  *

  In December 1943, after he’s been a prisoner for almost five hundred days, the handcuffs are removed.

  *

  In April 1945, after he’s been a prisoner for almost a thousand days, the war stutters to its end.

  The American Army is rumoured to be across the Rhine and advancing rapidly. The commandant of the camp calls an early-morning parade of all prisoners and announces that for their safety they will be moving east to Moosburg. The officer-prisoners are issued bulk rations and march out in good order down the road to Eichstätt. Five Thunderbolts of the US Air Force spot the marching column and mistaking them for German troops, dive-bomb the prisoners. For thirty minutes they strafe them with their cannon, oblivious to all the waving arms. Fourteen British officers are killed and forty-six are wounded. The survivors return to the camp.

  Ed Avenell is among the party detailed to bury the dead.

  ‘Fucking typical,’ says one of his companions. ‘Talk about giving your life for your country.’

  Ed says nothing. He’s been saying nothing for a long time now.

  That night the column forms up again, and under cover of darkness they march south-east. At dawn they sleep in a barn. As dusk falls they resume their march. American planes can be heard high overhead day and night. A fine cold rain is falling as they march through Ernsgaden and Mainburg. The prisoners are growing weaker all the time. In the course of the next seven days and nights, four men die on the march. On the eighth day they reach Oflag V, the giant camp at Moosburg. Here over thirty thousand prisoners of all ranks and nationalities have been herded together. There are thunderstorms that evening, and rumours that Bavaria is suing for a separate peace. American guns can be heard. The Seventh Army is said to be as close as Ingolstadt. The prisoners are packed four hundred to a hut. Rations are pitifully low.

  Next morning the commandant goes searching for an American officer of high enough rank to receive his surrender. By noon the camp is liberated. The liberators are C Company, 47th Tank Battalion, 14th Armored Division, 3rd Corps, Third US Army. They raise the US flag and tell the cheering prisoners they will be evacuated in Dakotas, taking twenty-five men at a time, starting as soon as a landing strip can be prepared.