by Maureen Lee
For the first time, it dawned on everyone that there was a possibility they might lose the fight against Hitler. The idea of being invaded, of life thereafter spent under the heel of the Nazi jackboot, seemed a prospect so horrifying as barely to be contemplated.
Feeling against Chamberlain, who seemed content to sit back and let this appalling thing happen, turned from contempt to hatred. The newspapers led the attack. Is this another case, thundered one, of lions being led by donkeys?
At the beginning of May, a debate began in the House of Commons on a motion of confidence in the Government. After several days of heated argument, the vote was taken, and the Labour and Liberal opposition parties voted solidly against the motion. They were accompanied into the ‘No’ lobby, by thirty Conservative MPs. A further sixty abstained, to the accompaniment of shouts of ‘rats’ and ‘quislings’ from their fellow Tories.
Chamberlain had no alternative but to resign, and on 10 May, 1940, Winston Churchill became Prime Minister of Great Britain, and leader of a coalition government.
The country had found its soul!
Also on 10 May, Hitler invaded Holland and Belgium and began to proceed through the Maginot Line, previously thought impregnable, towards France.
It was, thought Eileen Costello, as if the entire country had taken a deep breath and been renewed. Despite the setbacks overseas, the effect of having a new leader was almost tangible. There seemed a spring in the step of people she saw in the street, and new hope in their faces. Even to consider defeat now seemed traitorous. She conceded sadly that, though the whole idea of war was sickening, there was no alternative. Britain and France couldn’t just sit back and see Europe swallowed up by a dictator, nor not fight back when their own freedom was threatened. She remembered the words of the solicitor, ‘When rape is inevitable …’ Well, she had no intention of lying back and enjoying it, whether it be Francis or Hitler.
She went to work at Dunnings with renewed enthusiasm, as did all the girls. According to Alfie, output soared throughout the entire factory after Churchill came to power.
Miss Thomas called Eileen into her office one day. ‘I’ve come across a solicitor who will treat your case sympathetically, Eileen. What time would be most convenient for me to make an appointment?’
Eileen shifted uneasily in the chair. ‘Somehow, this doesn’t seem the right moment to think about divorce.’ It made her feel she was putting her own selfish affairs before the war effort. Even as they spoke, a terrible battle was being waged as the Germans fought the Allies for every inch of French soil – and it seemed as if the enemy were winning.
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Miss Thomas said understandingly, ‘but life must go on. We still have to eat and sleep and try to act as normally as possible. Who knows, it seems unlikely, but now Hitler is up against a proper army he might beat a hasty retreat, the war will be over, and your husband will be home again.’
Faced with the prospect of Francis Costello back in Bootle and still her husband, Eileen said reluctantly, ‘I suppose you’re right. Mornings would be best. Will you please make an appointment for the week after next, when I’ll be on the late shift again?’
This time, Nick accompanied Eileen to see the solicitor. The new man had a far less pleasant manner than the first. His questions were clipped, almost rude. Yet when she finished, he said, ‘You do indeed have grounds for divorce on the basis of cruelty, Mrs Costello. Your husband has behaved abominably. Nevertheless, I would advise against it at the present time. When the case eventually comes to court, you would lose a great deal of sympathy when it was shown the defendant was sued whilst engaged on the field of battle, no matter what the grounds.’
‘What if he could be persuaded a divorce was in his best interests?’ asked Nick.
The solicitor frowned. ‘I don’t understand?’
Nick turned to Eileen. ‘Tell him about the letter your father offered to write.’
She explained Francis’s political ambitions which needed the co-operation of Jack Doyle. ‘That’s why he married me, you see. One of the reasons he was so violent when he last came home, was he realised me dad knew all about him. But, if he got a letter promising to go ahead with the nomination as planned …’ She left the sentence hanging in mid-air when she saw the solicitor give a little shudder.
‘Thank God I don’t vote Labour,’ he said, allowing a smile at last. Then he slowly shook his head. ‘A man, however stupid, who hopes to become a Member of Parliament, would hardly agree to being divorced for cruelty, would he?’
Eileen hadn’t thought of that. ‘I don’t suppose so.’
‘What if he could be persuaded to divorce her?’ suggested Nick.
‘On what grounds?’
‘Adultery.’
‘And has adultery taken place?’ The solicitor looked at them over his half-moon glasses.
‘It has,’ said Nick calmly. Eileen hung her head in embarrassment and envied his confident manner. Whilst she had felt unsure of herself throughout the interview, he had probed and queried, even argued from time to time, not the least inhibited by the fact the man was a solicitor. I suppose, she thought ruefully, that’s what a good education does for you.
The solicitor tapped his teeth with his pen. ‘I think that particular path holds out a great deal of hope,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘To sum up, a letter will be written to Mr Costello suggesting the political shenanigans continue, so long as he promises to divorce you on the grounds of your adultery.’
‘And that I keep my little boy,’ prompted Eileen.
The solicitor nodded. ‘And that you keep the child,’ he agreed. Then he added, somewhat grimly, ‘I trust you are prepared for the public odium that will ensue?’
‘I am,’ said Eileen, just as grimly.
On the stairs outside the office, Nick and Eileen flung their arms around each other.
‘This time next year we might be married!’ Eileen crowed.
‘Will your father definitely write the letter?’ Nick asked anxiously.
‘Of course, it was all his idea.’
‘What happens if it all goes wrong? We’ll still be together, won’t we?’
‘It won’t go wrong,’ she said confidently. ‘Not if I know Francis. But even if it does, yes, Nick, we’ll still be together. I’d sooner we were married, but if we can’t be, then it’s just too bad.’
It would mean leaving Pearl Street and her family, but nothing on earth would prevent her from spending the rest of her life with the man she loved.
When Eileen got home from Dunnings that night, she found Annie hunched in a chair listening to the wireless. It was all she seemed to do when she was home since Hitler had invaded France.
‘Annie, luv,’ she said gently, though she knew it was a waste of time, ‘you’ve got to be up at half past four in the morning.’
‘I can’t sleep, even when I go to bed.’ Annie’s red-rimmed eyes seemed to have sunk back into her head. ‘I’m waiting on the midnight bulletin.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Fighting, fighting and more bloody fighting,’ Annie said despairingly. ‘The Maginot Line might have been made of paper for all the good it did. The Jerries have got more troops and better equipment and our side don’t stand a chance.’
‘You still haven’t heard from your lads?’
‘How could I? They don’t have postboxes in the middle of a battlefield.’
‘I’ll just pop up and look at Tony, then I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.’
Tony was fast asleep, looking like an angel in the light of the candle flickering on the dressing table. How would I feel, wondered Eileen, if Tony had been called up? If Tony was, right at this very minute, at risk of being slaughtered by a German bayonet? She doubted if she could stay sane.
She went down and made a pot of tea, then listened to Annie, reminiscing over her lads. It seemed to do her good, talking and remembering.
‘You didn’t know them when they was little, did you,
Eil? Pair of little divils they were. Up to all sorts of mischief, particularly when I used to take them cleaning with me. There was one house I remember, the woman was awful fussy over her floors. As sure as eggs were eggs, the minute I mopped the kitchen, our Joe would run across it in his boots and leave a trail of marks. I’d pray it’d dry before the woman came home, else I’d have had to mop it all over again.’
‘You did them proud, Annie. They couldn’t have had a better mam than you.’
‘They did me proud, too,’ Annie said, glowing. ‘The minute they started work, they made me stop cleaning. “It’s time for a rest, Mam,” they said. “Time to put your feet up for a change. It’s our turn to earn the money now”.’
‘They’re good lads,’ murmured Eileen. ‘The best.’
‘Aye, the best,’ agreed Annie, ‘but it don’t seem fair, does it, Eileen, to have them taken off me, just when they were about to become men? The struggle I had, raising them, filling their bellies, rooting through Paddy’s Market for clothes for their backs. And all for what?’
‘Oh, don’t ask me, luv,’ Eileen cried. ‘I just think the whole world has gone mad. I met Rosie Gregson the other day. The baby’s only eight weeks off, and who knows if Charlie will be alive to see it? Funnily enough, Rosie seems quite unconcerned. I don’t think she quite understands what’s going on.’
‘They say ignorance is bliss. Perhaps I should stop living beside your bloody wireless,’ Annie said wearily.
The twelve o’clock bulletin began just then, and they listened intently. The Germans had advanced even further into France. British and French troops were being driven back towards the coast, and heavy losses had been sustained on both sides.
That was all.
‘They don’t tell you much, do they?’ Annie complained bitterly, as Eileen turned the set off.
‘Well, they can’t, can they, luv? I suppose the Germans are listening in. They don’t want to give anything away.’
‘It said in the paper that the Luftwaffe are machine-gunning refugees trying to escape the fighting. If they’ll do that to innocent civilians, what on earth will they do to our boys?’
‘Now that’s enough, Annie,’ Eileen said sternly. ‘It’s time you went home to bed and tried to catch up on a bit of sleep.’
After Annie had gone, she took the Daily Herald into the back kitchen and studied both it and the wall map pinned behind the door. It wasn’t possible for the Allied troops to retreat much further. What would happen when they actually reached the English Channel? Would they be left to the mercy of an enemy who murdered refugees? Would Joe and Terry Poulson, and all the thousands of brave and innocent young men of the British Expeditionary Force, be massacred on the beaches of France?
As May drew towards its bitter end, an armada set sail. From the port of Harwich round to Weymouth, ferry craft, naval drifters and small coasters were commandeered by the Admiralty and, along with ships of the Royal Navy, sent to rescue the troops who were fighting a desperate rearguard action as they were driven back towards the coast and the French town of Dunkirk.
Although the Royal Air Force fought a desperate battle in the skies to keep the Luftwaffe at bay, enemy planes got through and strafed the weary soldiers as they lay exhausted on the beaches. Amidst the carnage, even the rows of dead were machine-gunned and the badly injured, who’d been carried for miles by their mates, were casually finished off by bullets from the Stukas which buzzed like carrion overhead. Men who achieved the sanctuary of a rescue boat were still not safe, as the boats were bombed to smithereens with their precious human cargo on board, until the harbour of Dunkirk was blocked with the wrecks of British vessels.
It was then the ordinary citizens of Great Britain showed their true mettle. In response to a call from the BBC that there was an army urgently in need of rescue, off to sea went fire tenders and barges and Port of London tugs, cockle boats and drifters, pleasure boats and river cruisers and hundreds and hundreds of little boats that could carry no more than a handful of men, manned by the very young and the very old and all ages in between. They came from up river, from yachting harbours, from pleasure beaches and fishing ports, and set forth across the Channel, regardless of their own safety, to pluck the troops from under the noses of the enemy. Backwards and forwards they sailed, by day and by night, bringing the troops back to fight another day on other foreign soil. The little boats needed no navigational aids. They sailed towards the thunderous sounds of gunfire, of exploding shells and bombs, towards the black smoke spiralling into the sky above Dunkirk, where it seemed as if the entire town was ablaze.
By 4 June, nearly 340,000 English and French soldiers had been rescued, their tanks, weapons and equipment abandoned across the Channel. The Royal Air Force had lost an incalculable number of planes in the abortive campaign. Many thousands of men had lost their lives, and now only two British divisions remained behind to carry on the battle against Hider, joining their French comrades on the new front along the Somme, where so many men had spilt their life blood during the Great War which was to end all wars.
Winston Churchill warned, ‘Wars are not won by evacuation.’ Nevertheless, in the eyes of the British people, Dunkirk was a triumphant victory snatched magically out of the jaws of defeat.
When it was all over and the men were back, Annie Poulson still had no idea whether her lads were alive or dead.
Dear Mam,
Seems a bit daft to begin this like usual with, ‘hope this finds you as it leaves me’, because my feet are swollen and full of blisters due to having no shoes for nearly a week. Also, I’ve got a bit of a bald patch where a bullett whistled past. It was a close shave, I can tell you.
Anyroad, you’ll be pleased to know our Joe’s okay and all in one piece. We got separatted on the shore, but I saw him land in Dover, though don’t know where he got to after that.
You’d never believe the place I’m in, Mam. It’s a big house on the side of a river and they’ve got a little motor boat which they keep moored at the bottom of the garden. The chap brought four of us over and two have gone next door. I’ve had a bath and it was pink, with a pink lav and sink. I lay there for so long, the woman had to come and knock on the door to make sure I was all right. I’d only fallen asleep!
When I said I wanted to write to you, they gave me this posh paper and the daughter, Sarah – she’s a bit of all right, by the way – promissed to go out and post it the minute I finish.
I don’t know where to begin. Perhaps I shouldn’t begin at all, but just write, ‘Tara, your loving son, Terry’, here and now and be done with it, but I’d like to put a few things down on paper, clear my mind, sort of thing.
You know how excitted me and Joe were when we were first called up a year ago. War seemed a bit of a game, particularly when it began and we were sent to France. We had a fine old time, I can tell you – well, you know, I’ve already said so loads of times. The officers can get you down, they seem to think they’re the bees’ knees, and full of airs and graces, or so I thought. I don’t think that now.
We first saw action when the Jerries invaded Belgium. It was about that time we heard Churchill had become Prime Minister and we was all very excitted at the news.
We were transportted overnight by lorry into Belgium and the first thing we met were lines of refugees. The sight of women and children and old men pulling carts piled high with furniture gave us a fair old shock. Some of them tried to talk to us, but we’d been ordered not to talk back in case they were Fifth Columnists.
Believe it or not, we were heading for Waterloo, which if I remember right from school, was where Napoleon got his comeuppance. We could hear gunfire in the distance, and my stomach, which was empty because our rations hadn’t put in an apearance, gave a funny turn. That night there was a heavy air-raid on Brussells and we could see the fires blazing away and German Stukkas dropped a few bombs on our positions, but luckily no-one was hurt.
Over the next few days, they kept moving us around, and to be
quite honest, none of us knew whether we were advancing or retreatting. According to Sarge, it was ‘sheer bloody kayoss’. (I hope I’ve spelt that right, and excuse the language, Mam, but that’s what he said.) One minute we’d be digging a trench for a new position, next minute we’d be leaving. By now, the roads were even more full with refugees and I could have cried to see them straggling along the road looking so miserable. We even came across the body of an old man who seemed to have given up the ghost and collapsed in a ditch. Every now and then, we’d come to a little shrine where women were praying and I secretly made the sign of the cross and Joe did, too.
By now, we were terrible tired. The lorries had been commandered for other duties and we had to carry everything and it wasn’t half hot, dead scorching, and we’d begun to feel a bit like the Wandering Jew, except there were more of us. There was no food, as the cook’s lorry never seemed to catch up. Sarge told us we were nothing but a rabble and ‘a pitifull sight to behold’, as we tried to march along in formation, but we were past caring by then.
I remember thinking to myself, well, if this is war, you can keep it, but I hadn’t seen the half of it yet.
One morning, we arrived at this little town which we all thought looked familiar. We’d only passed through it the other way a few days before! ‘Cor, luv a bleeding duck!’ says Micky Cohen (excuse the language again), ‘the army’s got us marching round in circles. Very soon, we’ll dissappear up our own arses!’ (He said that, too.)
Anyroad, we camped out in this farmhouse and an officer came in to tell us the Jerries were heavily concentratted across the river. Until then, nothing had seemed very real. It was almost like being in the pictures watching a film. But as the officer walked away across the farmyard, a shell landed right behind him, and I saw him with me own eyes explode to pieces. Oh, Mam, it was terrible! There was blood everywhere and bits of body and a mess pooring out of what was left of his poor head.
From then on, everything turned into a nightmare. The fighting went on all day and by the time it went dark, there were only thirty of us left out of a hundred and ten. There were bodies everywhere, some of them mates, and if they weren’t dead, then they were badly injured. I’ve never felt so frightenned as I did that night. Sarge got a bullett in the chest, though he’s a tough old nut and he was still concious when they carted him off on a stretcher, and he shouted, ‘well, lads! You’ve had your baptism of fire with a vengance!’