The Dearest and the Best

by Leslie Thomas

  Elizabeth smiled kindly at him. ‘It’s listed in the Binford War Book,’ she said. ‘You know, the list we’ve had to compile of all our resources. We may need it in an emergency.’

  She could tell he wanted to say something to her.

  He began to unbuckle his shining leather revolver holster. She watched in amazement while he handed it across to her as though in some token surrender. The butt of the service weapon was poking out. It was heavy in her hands.

  ‘Give that to your husband,’ said the major-general, avoiding her eyes. ‘Hate to see a chap like that not properly armed. Damned silly if he came up on a Hun and all he had in his holster was cardboard.’ He laughed gravely. ‘Just for the duration,’ he added. ‘I’ll have it back after the war. I’m too old to use it now. Properly that is.’

  She thanked him sincerely. She looked about her for somewhere to put the gun. ‘Only one drawback,’ said Major-General Sound. ‘Only one round of ammunition. Handed all the rest in.’ He paused, a little shamefaced, then added: ‘Kept that in case it might come in useful sometime.’

  Outside Millie walked across the vacant fête, paper and a balloon blowing over the grass, towards a perambulator in which a baby had been left howling. She rocked the pram by its handle but the child still cried.

  As they clambered across roadside fields and then up into the tree-line, the Local Defence Volunteers managed to pull back the agile and excited children who were leading the charge towards the fallen parachutist. ‘Back! Back!’ ordered Robert. ‘Everyone back behind the military.’

  The voices of mothers sounded. ‘Come back, Betty. He’s a German. Come back . . .’ ‘Herbie, don’t you go no further. He’s got a gun . . .’ ‘Bill, Bill . . . No showing off. You come here this minute.’

  Robert, clutching his empty holster as if leaning on it for support, puffed behind his men. He had a passing hope that the LDV would never be called upon either to advance or retreat too quickly. Purkiss, Petrie and the Dove brothers were ahead, Lennie with the unit tommy-gun. As they ran up the inclining forest land, the trees replaced by high, prickly gorse, so the column languished, the children in their bright clothes and the women straggling and panting. ‘I want to see ’im!’ puffed a rural wife. ‘I ain’t never seen a German afore.’

  Robert, pausing for breath and because his legs ached, looked towards the ridge and saw a swift green figure scampering far ahead of everyone. ‘That boy!’ he gasped. He turned, looking for someone who had more breath for shouting.

  ‘Oakes!’ called Petrie in his best coastguard hailing voice.

  ‘Tommy Oakes.’

  The wolf-cub paused and turned. He swore to himself and sat down moodily on a stone, to let the LDV men catch up. When they did he went with them to the immediate skyline. The parachute was lying like a fallen flower in a bowl of ground, a place of wild berries and brambles. As the men’s heads peeped cautiously over the ridge so a breeze moved the silk and they saw it was no man but a box-like container. ‘Good God, supply drop,’ said Robert hoarsely. ‘This could be it. This could be it. They’ve started the invasion.’

  Stevens had just caught up. Holding his ribs he lay flat and panting alongside the others. The women and children were pressing forward up the slope behind them, eager to see. Tommy Oakes was alongside the men. So was the boy Cubbins.

  Stevens took in the scene. ‘Get everyone back, Mr Lovatt,’ he said quickly. ‘That’s a land-mine.’

  Robert’s eyes widened. ‘Are you sure?’ he said. Then: ‘Everybody keep down!’

  The warning was none too soon. As the heads went down below the escarpment, so, with a red roar, a blast that shook the trees, and a gush of smoke, the land-mine detonated. Few of the people had ever heard an explosion like that before. Robert closed his eyes as the ground shook and his ears drummed. He was suddenly back twenty-five years and in the trenches.

  Stevens, clenched-faced against the ground, felt pieces of earth dropping around him. He needed only a shorter memory. The LDV men lay stiffly, hands over ears. Behind them some of the women began to cry quietly. The children were silenced by fright.

  It was Tommy Oakes who was the first to look. ‘There’s a great big hole, Mr Stevens,’ he called towards his schoolmaster. The heads peered over the ridge again. Where the wild berries had been was a blackened crater, the whole floor of the little valley was charred, some of the brambles were burning idly. Stunned, the Binford villagers advanced to the line of the ridge and looked down at the destroyed earth.

  When, minutes later, Robert led a party of men forward down the smoky slope, George Lavington found a hare, teeth showing, sitting bolt upright, stiff and dead. He showed it to Clakka, the rabbit catcher, who took its ears and held it up in wonder. ‘Dead of fright,’ he said wonderingly. ‘Never did see that before.’

  Fifteen

  SUNSET WAS LATE, for it was getting towards midsummer, and as the dusk of each day drifted in so the volunteers went out from their homes to keep amateur watch on the coast, to man road-blocks fashioned from farm carts and other unlikely obstacles, and wait to spring novel booby traps under German feet. All day they had worked at their normal occupations. They slept in fitful shifts for a few hours during the night before returning to their homes for breakfast and then out to another day’s work. The workers from the fields and farms were at their most occupied at that season but they unfailingly reported for duty and went trudging the nocturnal country. In Binford there were training sessions each evening with instructions for the ill-assorted troops of the Local Defence Volunteers on how best to stop an armoured division.

  ‘I have a circulated order which I am instructed to read,’ announced Robert Lovatt, standing before his group at the evening training session in the village hall. He held the paper like a shield before him.

  Robert, his wife had observed wryly, had done no recent editing of his book The Front Line: Personal Stories from the Trenches. He was now so occupied with this war that he had no time for the last. He had, in addition, unreluctantly given up his air-raid precaution activities to concentrate on the LDV. The former organization, with its civil role, had appealed to him little. In the LDV, at least, the opportunity might occur to shoot someone.

  Now, his solemn soldiers stood in three ranks, drawn up crookedly in their bits and pieces of uniform, bicycle clips, poaching jackets, shotguns, hoary rifles, and the tommy-gun. Robert wore his new revolver with a deep satisfaction. He had written a moving letter to Major-General Sound. This evening he was aware of the grip of the weapon protruding like a grey nose from the holster. His brother’s uniform, still with its touch of mothballs, completed his outfit.

  ‘This order,’ he waved the square of paper, ‘reads as follows: “In the event of an invasion, civilians will not be expected to attack large military formations.” ’

  They glanced at each other. ‘Is that us, then, Mr Lovatt, sir?’ asked Purkiss. ‘Are we reckoned as civilians?’

  Robert squinted at the paper as if it might yield a further clue. ‘I hardly think we can be,’ he grunted eventually. ‘Otherwise why are we armed like this? I am convinced that this order concerns women and children only. And people like air-raid wardens. They would not be expected to launch any sort of offensive against an aggressor.’ He glared at them solidly for he had made up his mind: ‘But that does not include this force.’

  They looked generally pleased at the ruling and the ranks straightened. Firmer expressions set in, eyes hardened. ‘Right,’ said Robert. ‘That’s understood then. Platoon!’ The men stiffened. ‘Stand . . . easy.’ The shoulders fell away as if strings had been loosened. ‘Fall out and gather round, chaps.’

  They formed a half-circle about him, some squatting gratefully on the dusty floor, some with the faces of lads expecting an adventure story. He said importantly: ‘Promotions: Private Alan Stevens has been promoted at once to sergeant-instructor. As you may know, he’s a very experienced chap and we’re lucky to have him. Fought in Spain, right through, and kno
ws everything there is to know about mines, booby traps, ambuscades, guerrilla warfare and so on. He is going to prove invaluable to this unit and he’s coming here, right away, this evening, to give a lecture and demonstration on the making of the Molotov cocktail and its effective use against tanks. He had to do something else at the school first.’ He paused and took up another slip of paper.

  ‘In the meantime, there’s another bit of bumf from the War Office.’ His familiarity brought careful smiles to the faces about him. ‘You can bet your socks that as soon as Whitehall can start sending out a few more bits of paper, they’ll be delighted to do so. The formation of the Local Defence Volunteers must have been like striking a new seam of gold to them.’

  He shuffled with the paper, turning it one way then the other. ‘I don’t know whether this is a joke or an insult,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it’s both. Nevertheless, I have to pass it on to you. It concerns men on road-block or ambush duty. It spells out the drill for actually shooting at a vehicle or a person who does not obey a challenge to halt. It also contains the information that any member of the LDV who shoots anyone out of a grudge must be immediately suspended.’ He looked up at their wondering faces. ‘So . . . no shooting out of grudges – understood?’

  Petrie and Stevens walked across the evening field towards the village hall. ‘Tonight,’ said Stevens, ‘I am going to divulge the recipe for making a Molotov cocktail – guaranteed, if you do it right, to set fire to a tank and brew up every man inside it.’

  The coastguard waited, then said: ‘What made you change your mind?’

  ‘I haven’t,’ answered the schoolteacher. ‘I still think it’s all madness. I had a Spanish wife and she died in the bombing of Barcelona, you know, and that sort of thing is hard to forget, but . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But, as has been pointed out, you can’t be an island. I realized that. I watched that kid, Tommy Oakes, the eternal wolf-cub, practising drill outside the school wall one evening, and he made me realize. The bell tolls for me as well.’

  Petrie laughed. They were almost at the steps of the pavilion. ‘They’re not going to toll for anybody now. Did you hear the news tonight?’

  They reached the door and opened it to find themselves facing the assorted guns and grim faces of the Local Defence Volunteers. ‘Stand easy,’ ordered Robert hurriedly when he saw the two men. ‘Well done, though, well done.’

  Stevens almost pointed out that the Germans might consider entering through the windows, possibly with a diversionary attack through the pavilion scullery, but he decided against it. He and Petrie were scarcely in the wooden room when the door opened behind them and an anguished face appeared. It belonged to Cyril Pusey, captain of the church bell-ringers. He was aghast. ‘They’ve . . . stopped the bells,’ he started as he stumbled in. He looked at each face in turn. ‘The bells . . .’ he said advancing on Robert. ‘The bells . . .’

  ‘Out with it, man,’ snapped Robert. He did not care for Cyril Pusey, who had refused to join the LDV on account of his first-aid classes.

  Pusey looked injured, but said: ‘It was on the news. All church bells have got to be stopped.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’re only to be rung if parachutists come. German parachutists.’

  ‘We know they won’t be New Zealanders,’ answered Robert gruffly. ‘Sounds like a good idea. Hear them for miles.’

  Pusey looked ragged. ‘But surely . . . surely,’ he muttered, ‘somebody would notice if there were thousands of parachutists falling. It would be bound to leak out, wouldn’t it? Why use the bells?’ He regarded the local faces around him like someone who has arrived by mistake in a strange land. ‘It takes years to learn,’ he said. ‘Years. And practice. Hours we spend in that belfry, all day Sunday, weddings, funerals, and every Thursday practice. And now we’ve got to stop. Why pick on the bells?’

  Robert looked at the poor man irritably. ‘Orders, Pusey,’ he said, ‘are orders. At a time like this.’

  More creases made the man’s face like an old balloon. ‘Church bells make people happy,’ he muttered. ‘They keep up the spirits.’

  He was staring into the distance, his gaze going far beyond the wooden walls of the pavilion. ‘And we walk, you know, Mr Lovatt. Our team have walked miles, ringing in churches all over the forest, through Hampshire, into Sussex, and we’ve been to Kent. Twice. What will we do now? It might be years.’ He paused. ‘People will forget how to ring,’ he said huskily.

  ‘Can’t you do it with blankets, like, wrapped around the clappers,’ suggested Lennie Dove.

  Pusey regarded him witheringly and did not answer. ‘I think it’s madness.’ He eyed Robert challengingly. ‘I think it’s showing Hitler that this country is really down.’ He said it darkly. ‘We’re as good as beaten.’

  ‘The Molotov cocktail,’ recited Stevens steadily, watching the eager expressions, ‘is an effective weapon, cheap and easy to manufacture. The Finns invented it for use against the Russians, and as a sort of joke called it after Molotov, the Soviet foreign minister. It was also used widely in Spain by both sides. Correctly assembled and correctly employed it can set a tank on fire.’ The faces about him solidified.

  ‘The recipe for making the weapon is this.’ Stevens reached below the table and, like a conjuror producing a box of tricks, lifted a cardboard carton which he placed on the green baize cloth. He took a wine bottle and a beer bottle and set them on the cloth. ‘Officers use wine bottles,’ he said glancing up, ‘other ranks beer bottles.’ It was some moments before anyone saw it was a joke and laughed. ‘The bottle,’ continued the teacher, ‘is thoroughly cleaned and then you add ingredients as follows.’ Their eyes were fixed on the table.

  ‘Petrol . . . so . . .’ he said, running the liquid from a can and through a funnel. ‘Paraffin . . . so . . .’ He poured in the thin blue stream. ‘And tar . . . ordinary, everyday tar, the stuff that’s used for the roads.’ He looked up. ‘And that’s it.’ The Local Defence Volunteers, eyeing each other, began to back away. Stevens grinned. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not primed yet. It needs one more thing which we’ll have to scout around and get. I’m sure there must be some in the village – fireworks.’

  ‘I’ve got some in the shop,’ mentioned Hob Hobson. ‘The idea was to save them for victory night.’

  ‘I think we would be justified in commandeering them,’ said Robert. He caught Hob’s expression. ‘Purchased at cost,’ he added.

  ‘We ought to have enough to blow up a Panzer division,’ said Peter Dove, rubbing his large hands. ‘I reckon we ought to set to and start making them now . . .’ He looked quickly at the commanding officer. ‘Don’t you reckon, sir?’

  ‘Have you ever seen a Panzer division?’ Stevens regarded the fisherman.

  ‘No . . . well, only like on the pictures.’

  ‘They don’t look so bad on the pictures,’ said Stevens.

  Robert stepped forward. ‘We’re fortunate in having Sergeant-Instructor Stevens to hand on his knowledge,’ he said firmly. Stevens, until then unaware of his promotion, took it soberly. Robert continued: ‘This is a good opportunity to ask questions. After all, he’s been at the wars recently . . .’ He looked embarrassed. ‘My experience was a long time ago, more than twenty years – ancient history now.’

  Petrie held up his hand. ‘If the Germans should overrun this area,’ he asked, ‘and seeing that it is a forest, one of the wilder places in this part of the country, what do you think of the prospects of carrying out guerrilla warfare from concealed camps and suchlike?’

  To their disappointment Stevens shrugged: ‘Not much,’ he answered. ‘Not much at all. It’s not exactly the Belgian Congo, is it?’

  ‘But there are four hundred square miles of forest,’ put in Robert. ‘People have been lost for days. Riders have gone off on horses that have returned with no rider and it’s taken thirty-six hours of thorough searching to find them. Surely we could hide up somewhere and strike when the time was opportune.
’

  ‘Spain,’ continued Stevens, ‘is a large and wild country. Mountainous, plenty of concealment, and there guerrilla warfare was possible. But not here. Any hideout would be traced in no time.’

  Lennie Dove said: ‘There’s the gypsies, Liberty Cooper’s lot. They could hide till the cows come home. They know parts of the forest that nobody’s seen for years.’

  Stevens answered: ‘An aeroplane, a low-flying spotter, can see tracks across the most overgrown country. And we would leave tracks, even if only a handful of men used the location, and if they covered every twig behind them. After no time it would show from the air.’

  Robert could not conceal his disappointment. ‘What do you suggest then? We would just have to pack up and go home?’

  Stevens faced him and said solemnly: ‘I’m afraid the answer is “yes”. Resistance groups are all right in large conurbations or in truly wild and inaccessible country. Here they would be winkled out in no time. Small villages are also easy for revenge. Everyone knows the hostages personally – or those chosen for execution.’ His eyes went around the abruptly stark faces. ‘It’s not a game,’ he added like an apology. ‘It’s not the boy scouts.’

  At the end of the meeting the men drifted away, over the darkening ground. Robert walked with Stevens and Petrie. At the lane they shook hands and Robert strode up the road. The two younger men remained talking. They had become friends. Stevens said: ‘When I applied to be a conscientious objector some very odd things happened. There’s an organization you can go to, who actually rehearse you in what to say in front of the tribunal.’

  ‘That’s what stuck in your throat,’ decided Petrie. ‘It would mine.’

  Stevens laughed drily. ‘They also said it might be a good idea to join a religious pacifist group or something like the Woodcraft Folk.’

  Stevens walked towards his house behind the school. He felt the loneliness that had now become a familiar companion. It was a sorry thing when you had to use victory fireworks to make fire-bombs. And for what?