by Jenny Holmes
‘Just let me get my hands on Jerry.’ It was Horace Turnbull’s grating, reedy voice – over to the left, deadened by the fog. ‘I’ll give him what for!’
‘If we ever find our way out of here.’ Cliff was as lost as the rest, waving his torch wildly at the trees that surrounded him. ‘Who knows the bloody way? Where’s Roland? I thought he was meant to be leading us.’
Brenda was back on her feet but now the torch battery had failed completely. They were in the dark when the airman broke away from them.
Hearing angry voices in the fog-bound woods below, he seized the moment and started to stagger back the way they’d come.
Una gasped. ‘No – stay here!’ She was the first to give chase. His injured leg slowed him down and she soon gained on him. ‘Stop!’ she cried. A glance over her shoulder told her that Brenda and Joyce were already lost in the mist.
He gritted his teeth and pushed on through the snow. The voices belonged to a group of angry men. The enemy was hard on his heels but he wouldn’t make it easy for them. Rather than be captured, he would run and run until his lungs burst and he breathed his last breath.
‘Wait,’ Una pleaded. Should she follow him or let him go? She lost vital seconds as she tried to make up her mind – he’d reached a wall and was intent on clambering over it, but he lost his balance and fell with the high, wailing cry that she’d heard when he’d been trapped in the shattered fuselage. She made her decision and went on alone.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Down in the valley there was confusion. No one took the lead so the Burnside men split off in different directions, blaming the darkness and the fog for their lack of progress.
Jack Hudson stayed with the Baxendales and convinced them that they should stick close to the hostel and search the grounds for survivors of the crash. ‘If Jerry had any sense, he’d come straight down off the fell and head for the nearest shelter.’
‘I agree with that.’ Maurice had his own reason for staying within the grounds – he was keen to keep an eye on the Land Girls and make sure that they stayed inside the building while they conducted their search. He and his brother readily fell in with Jack’s plan, taking young Neville Thomson and a couple of other lads with them.
Meanwhile, Cliff, Roland and Horace blundered on through the wood.
‘Hold your horses – I can’t see a flipping thing.’ The owner of Winsill Edge had come without a torch and relied on the dim light from a paraffin lamp that Cliff had hurriedly picked up on his way out of the pub.
Cliff held the lamp high over his head. The trees seemed to crowd in on them through the fog and it seemed impossible to find a way through. ‘This is a dead loss. I vote that we head home and try again when it gets light.’
Their grumbling voices drew two other men from the village who gathered to discuss the pros and cons of turning back. One of them pointed out that the delay would give the enemy a chance to get clean away. Then again, what hope was there of anyone surviving the crash in the first place?
‘Not if it flew slap-bang into the hillside,’ Horace agreed with disturbing relish. ‘There’d be bits of plane and dead bodies everywhere.’
‘If it was me in that plane, I’d have used my ejection seat.’ Roland made a point that no one else had thought of. ‘Once I knew the game was up – that’s what I’d have done.’
‘In that case, Jerry and his parachute could have touched down anywhere between Thornley and here.’ That was it – Cliff had definitely decided to give up. He swung the lamp in the direction of the hostel but before he and his group had taken more than a few steps, they bumped into Grace, Edgar and Bill.
‘You’re going the wrong way, Dad.’ Grace had kept her bearings in spite of the fog. Arriving to find that the hostel hadn’t taken a direct hit had been a great relief but when she’d learned from Elsie that Joyce, Una and Brenda had all disobeyed orders and were out on the fell searching for survivors, she’d grown anxious once more. She spoke quickly and urgently to her father. ‘Come with us. They think the plane came down about a mile to the north.’
Cliff resented being told what to do. ‘Is that so? Well, you young ones can stay out here and catch your deaths – it’s up to you.’
‘Why – where are you going?’
‘Home,’ he snapped. ‘And so would you, Edgar, if you had any sense.’
Grace glanced questioningly at her brother who had remained silent ever since he’d identified the plane for Bill. His pale face was partly hidden behind the turned-up collar of his greatcoat.
‘I’ll stay,’ he told her through gritted teeth.
‘Aye, well, if you find Jerry, give him a good hiding from me,’ was Horace’s parting shot as he and the others followed in Cliff’s footsteps.
Their ugly mood set Bill’s teeth on edge. ‘Perhaps it’s just as well they’re heading back. At times like this we can’t let our feelings get the better of us.’
Grace gave a faint smile – typical Bill to keep his emotions in check. But he was right, of course. ‘We still outnumber Jerry, probably by ten or fifteen to one.’ She pulled herself up over the use of the jingoistic term. ‘Sorry – I sound like Horace.’
Bill smiled encouragingly. ‘No – take it from me, you don’t.’
‘What I mean is – there’s no guarantee that everyone in this search party will be able to keep a cool head.’
They didn’t notice Edgar slipping away as they talked, walking on between the trees, leaving a trail of footprints in the snow.
‘Edgar?’ Grace’s muffled call drew no response so she and Bill attempted to follow his tracks. ‘He doesn’t have a torch,’ she realized with a flicker of panic. ‘Edgar, wait for us. Where are you going? Come back.’
Two hundred yards away, just clear of the trees, Joyce and Brenda were still searching for Una and the runaway gunner in the icy blackness of the early hours. They’d set off after them and reached the wall where he’d lost his balance. The trampled, flattened snow showed them that an incident had taken place and they were able to pick up the trail again on the far side – two sets of prints skirting the wood instead of heading back up the hill to where the plane had come down.
‘What was she thinking, going off without us?’ Brenda’s fears for Una’s safety mounted.
‘That’s just it – she wasn’t thinking.’ Joyce realized that their fellow Land Girl had acted on the spur of the moment. ‘The scene inside that cockpit was bad enough to addle anyone’s brain.’
‘All the more reason for us to catch up with them.’ Brenda felt a knot tighten in the pit of her stomach as the trail disappeared down a steep gulley with a stream at the bottom. She slid down on her haunches, catching hold of bushes to slow her descent and glad to be wearing wellingtons when her feet landed in the water with a splash.
Joyce stayed at the top of the bank and cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘Una!’ she yelled.
Brenda waded across the stream. ‘There’s blood in the snow here,’ she called back to Joyce as she reached the far side and bent over to examine the ground.
‘Wait there – I’m on my way.’
‘Hurry up. Let’s hope it’s his blood, not hers.’
The sight spurred them on. Now the trail led them back towards the wood, weaving between trees but staying close to the edge, skirting the hostel grounds.
Brenda paused and tried to visualize the way ahead. ‘This leads towards the road. If I’m right, it should come out close to Peggy Russell’s farm.’
‘How would the gunner know that, though?’ Was his gut instinct at work here as well as Una’s?
‘Maybe he forced Una to show him the way.’
They shuddered as they thought how easily power could shift – how Una the rescuer could turn into Una the enemy in the German’s eyes. After all, he was a powerfully built, desperate man fighting for his freedom. Who knew how quickly the tables might have turned?
Gripped by this new notion, they hesitated uncertainly as a solitary figure
materialized through the fog. He walked straight towards them from the centre of the wood without speaking.
‘Edgar, is that you?’ Recognizing him by his RAF coat, Joyce ran to meet him. ‘Are you part of the search party? Where have the others got to?’
He ground his teeth and clicked his jaw before he spoke. ‘The plane – did you find it?’
‘Yes – a mile up the hill, split into two halves.’
‘How many dead?’
‘Two – the pilot and one of the gunners.’ She saw in his eyes that he was back in the moments when his own plane had crashed. His eyelids flickered as he looked up at the branches over their heads. ‘The other gunner made it out alive.’
A volcanic explosion of anger made Edgar form a fist and punch a nearby tree – once, twice, three times. Overhanging branches released their burden of snow, which thudded softly onto the ground. He gazed at his bleeding, trembling hand.
Joyce made up her mind then spoke quietly to Brenda. ‘You’ll have to go on without me while I take him back to the hostel.’
Brenda saw that it was necessary. ‘If you come across any of the others – Jack or the Baxendales – tell them where I’m headed and why.’
‘I’ll come back with them as soon as I know Edgar is in safe hands.’
Brenda doubted that Joyce would find her way through the wood. ‘Why not bring him this way with me? Once we’re on the road, you can walk him straight back to Fieldhead.’
‘Yes – that’s a better idea.’ As Joyce took off her scarf for a second time and used it to bandage Edgar’s hand, she explained the new plan. ‘The best thing is to get you properly seen to at the hostel. I’ll telephone Grace to let her know what’s up.’
‘Grace is here.’ He felt pain and stared at the new bandage.
‘Where – here in the wood?’
‘With Bill Mostyn. I drove out with them.’
She took in Edgar’s new information. ‘They’ll be wondering where you’ve got to. Come on – let’s go down to the road with Brenda. Grace and Bill have probably gone back to the hostel looking for you.’
Edgar didn’t seem to care where he went. As they followed Una and the gunner’s trail, he rattled off more information about the Dornier. ‘Machine guns to front and rear. Double-drum magazines. Self-sealing fuel tanks to lessen risk of fire.’ He halted on the word ‘fire’ to relive his own escape. Bright orange flames consumed the cockpit. Green trees caught alight, smoke spiralled into the blue sky. He left Billy behind while armed soldiers swarmed up the hillside towards him.
The gunner clutched Una’s arm. He dragged her along, skirting the dense wood and just able to make out some features of the landscape through the fog – a gully below them with an icy stream running through it, then a slight rise, beyond which there was a large house with outbuildings. This meant there must be a road close by. He spoke a few harsh words and forced her on.
Una looked down at the water. His grip was strong and he forced her down the rough banking, only letting go when they overbalanced and rolled helplessly into the stream, cracking the ice at its borders and getting a drenching from head to toe. The cold water made her gasp and flail her arms. Before she knew it, he was on his feet and grabbing her arm with his bloodstained hand, pulling her upright.
She struggled and kicked at his shins without effect. He swung her round so that she was in front of him then hooked his arm around her neck. He spoke again and thrust her up the far bank ahead of him. The girl who had saved him was a hostage now and he must keep her with him, even if she continued to fight. He put pressure on her throat and guided her away from the house.
Everything had changed so fast. One moment Una had been running after him across the dark hillside, hoping to bring him back to safety. He’d overbalanced as he’d climbed the wall. She’d offered him her hand to help him up. Then suddenly he’d tightened his grip and wouldn’t let go. The cruel look on his face had told her that he was no longer the hunted.
And now she was alone with him – a prisoner – choking, trying to prise his arm away and ease the pressure on her throat. He glanced over his shoulder as he thrust her towards the wall that bordered the road. There was no help for it – she had to climb over then go wherever he ordered. With the hostel a safe distance behind them, he held her by the wrist and they set off in the direction of Burnside.
Una was dragged along the packed, white surface. After a few yards they slid off the smooth road into the ditch and climbed out again, this time using the soft verges to avoid the ice and pick up speed. There was a barn ahead and a hundred yards beyond that, Peggy Russell’s farm. And thank God – Peggy’s dog had heard them! He sprang from his kennel, breaking the silence of the night with his furious barking.
The gunner stopped and looked over his shoulder. Through the patchy fog he saw that half a dozen vehicles were parked outside the big house. Men were still there searching for him so it was useless to go back. The dog was out in the road, straining at his chain. They would never get past. Even if they tried, the farmer would see them and alert the search party – he had no notion that the old woman who lived there was without telephone or any means of transport. Now several men with torches walked onto the road outside the big house and were paying attention to the barking dog. One man climbed into a van and switched on its headlights. Once the driver had turned his vehicle in the narrow road, he and the girl would be caught in their beams.
It was time to lie low. He dragged Una towards the barn and shoved at the door. The wooden frame was rotten so the bolt didn’t hold. He pushed her inside then closed the door behind him.
She crouched on her hands and knees, soaked to the skin and breathing in the sharp smell of old sheep droppings mixed with fusty straw. There were slits in the walls to let in air and a ladder leading up to a hayloft with a single narrow opening letting in the dim moonlight. The only sound was the man’s breathing and from outside, the fading barks of Peggy’s dog.
‘I can’t see or hear a thing.’ As Grace tried to take stock of where she and Bill were, a sense of hopelessness settled on her.
They’d only been able to follow Edgar’s footprints a short distance before they’d lost the trail and now they’d found themselves at the edge of the wood and didn’t know which way to go.
‘Don’t worry – he’s probably worked out how to get back to the hostel.’ Bill was more concerned about Grace than Edgar. She hadn’t changed out of the dress that she’d worn for the rehearsal and her coat had been hastily thrown over the top. She was hatless and had on a pair of indoor shoes that were caked in snow.
‘What if he went up onto the fell by himself?’
He scanned the hillside and noticed that the fog lay low in the valley, leaving the top of the fell clear. ‘I don’t see any movement up there. But look – there are tracks coming down the hill and skirting the wood – more than one set of prints, by the look of it.’
They crouched to examine the marks in the snow – the thick tread of a man’s boots was mixed up with a much smaller, lighter print made by a woman’s foot, definitely heading down the hill as Bill had said. He frowned and thought out loud. ‘These could belong to anyone for all we know.’
‘That’s true of the big set of prints, but how many women besides me are out here?’ Grace listed the names as she followed the trail down a steep slope. ‘Joyce, Una and Brenda – that’s all.’ She found more sets of prints and areas of the snow that were badly scuffed and trampled, and then across a stream on the far bank a stained area that could be blood. The sight made her clutch at Bill’s hand. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
He shone his torch on the patch and confirmed her fears. ‘That settles it – that’s the way we have to go.’
He descended steadily – ahead of Grace who had grown convinced that the smallest prints must belong to Una. Who else had such tiny feet? But why was the trail so scuffed? Could the other prints belong to a German survivor and was he forcing Una to go with him? And the blood on
the bank – did this mean there’d been violence? Her heart was in her mouth as Bill steadied her to jump across the stream. He kept her hand in his as they followed the trail towards the road.
Brenda heard the dog barking. She was on the road but had lost the trail and was wondering which direction to take. Behind her was the entrance to Fieldhead with the parked vehicles and the sound of men belonging to the search party coming and going. Ahead, a few hundred yards down the road, was Peggy Russell’s farm – a squat, two-storey building with a thin spiral of smoke still rising from its chimney. It was Peggy’s dog who had begun to growl and bark frantically. A light had come on in an upstairs window.
Without further hesitation, Brenda set off towards the farm. The dog’s bark faded so whatever had disturbed it – an animal, a person, an unidentified noise – had gone away again. The men at the hostel had heard the disturbance and, like her, must have decided to follow it up because she heard an engine splutter into life and a glance over her shoulder told her that the driver of a van had begun a three-point turn in the lane.
She would carry on ahead of them and have a word with the old farmer’s wife. By the time they arrived, she hoped to have found out what had made the dog bark.
Peggy was at her door in nightdress and dressing-gown, trying to quieten the dog who set to barking again at Brenda’s arrival. He saw her and sprang out into the lane, teeth bared. Brenda stayed well back.
Peggy shouted at him from the doorway and made him retreat into the small yard where he took up a crouching position. ‘It’s all right – he won’t bite,’ she snapped.
Brenda wasn’t convinced. Any guard dog worth its salt wouldn’t think twice about sinking its fangs into the leg of a night-time intruder. ‘I’ll stay here, if that’s all right with you.’
‘What do you want, anyway?’ With her hand clutching her dressing-gown tight around her throat and stray locks of grey hair falling over her forehead, Peggy made it clear that she didn’t welcome the disruption. ‘What’s all the comings and goings at this time of night?’