When We Were Warriors

by Emma Carroll

  ‘And we’ve done some investigating,’ Esther added, ‘which we think should really help.’

  ‘Does Mum know you’re out here?’ Sukie asked sharply.

  ‘Umm, not exactly,’ I admitted.

  Sukie stuffed her hands in her trouser pockets. She was breathing hard through her nose like she was trying to calm down.

  ‘I know you want to help, Olive,’ she said, sounding bitter. ‘But things are bad enough without you and your pals sticking your oar in.’

  Esther tutted. ‘Charming!’

  ‘But we’ve got proof,’ I insisted. ‘That our Ephraim is the real one, with parents and a birth certificate. They’ll be able to check all that out, won’t they?’

  ‘Not tonight,’ Eddie cut in. ‘Now, how about you make my life easier by going home to bed?’

  *

  Back at Queenie’s, Mum was thrilled to see Sukie. It didn’t last, mind you. Once Sukie told her where she’d found us, Mum blew her top.

  ‘I blame you, Olive!’ she cried, pointing a shaking finger right at me. I wanted to shrivel up on the spot. ‘I expressly told you not to do anything stupid, didn’t I?’

  I nodded miserably.

  ‘And taking your little brother along with you! In his pyjamas too! Where’s your sense of responsibility?’ she raged.

  I glared at Cliff. He knew the truth, that we’d gone with him, not the other way round. But he looked so glum I kept quiet.

  ‘I suppose you thought searching the lighthouse for Ephraim’s paperwork was a good idea?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Actually, Mrs Bradshaw, we did,’ Esther said, and emptied her pockets on to the kitchen table. ‘We found out Ephraim’s father was German – a German Jew. But his mum was English, and she died a day after having him.’

  Mum and Sukie both looked shocked. Esther’s directness probably didn’t cushion the blow.

  ‘All it proves,’ Mum pointed out, ‘is that Ephraim has German connections. I’m not sure how that’s going to help him.’

  Yet pulling up a chair, Sukie started picking through the papers on the table. Her hands were shaking – all of her was.

  ‘It’ll come right, you’ll see,’ I said, sitting down next to her.

  ‘Will it, Olive?’ She looked completely out of her depth. And very, very scared.

  Not knowing how to help, I took out the contents of my pockets too, and the table was soon covered in bits of scrunched-up paper, all claiming to be about the same person: Ephraim Pengilly. It was a complete and utter mess.

  By Queenie’s wall clock, the time was a little after one in the morning. There didn’t seem much more we could do tonight.

  ‘Bed,’ Mum said, firmly.

  Following Colonel Bagatelli’s instructions, she tended to the back door, while Queenie saw to the front one. The sound of locks turning and bolts sliding made me think of poor Ephraim in his police cell. Just as we were leaving the kitchen, Pixie suddenly wanted to go out again.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ Cliff announced. ‘She needs another piddle.’

  I don’t know why we all waited on the back doorstep for Pixie to do her business, but we did. At some point, we realised she’d been gone a rather long time.

  ‘She’ll have found a rat,’ Cliff guessed. He called her, but she didn’t come. What we could hear was the snuffling sound of a dog digging.

  ‘My runner beans!’ Queenie cried, and pushed past Mum.

  We all knew what Pixie was like for digging. She’d burrow down to Australia if you left her to it. As the noises were coming from where the German lay, we followed Queenie outside. Sure enough, Pixie was digging at the dead man’s pocket.

  ‘Off, girl! Off!’ Cliff cried, grabbing her by the collar.

  Whatever she’d found was now sitting on the path. It was too dark to be certain what it was, but it looked small, with a long curly tail.

  ‘Is it a rat? Has she killed it?’ Cliff asked eagerly.

  Esther picked it up, which was mightily brave considering she didn’t like rats.

  ‘It’s not a rat,’ she said, turning it over in her hand. ‘It’s a radio.’

  Which proved everything. In a flash.

  All that climbing ladders and searching secret boxes, and here was the best piece of evidence of all.

  ‘He’s been passing on information!’ I cried, though Esther, holding the radio by its loose wire, indicated it was as dead as the German who’d been carrying it. ‘Or that’s what he was planning!’

  ‘He’s a spy, then!’ Cliff chipped in. ‘He must be!’

  ‘I thought as much,’ Queenie said.

  Sukie took a huge, relieved breath.

  If anything could prove our Ephraim’s innocence, then surely this was it. All the other parts of this queer set-up began to take on new meanings.

  ‘That’s why they named the German Ephraim Pengilly,’ I said, working it out as I spoke. ‘So the authorities would get suspicious of the real Ephraim, and take him away. A lighthouse without a lighthouse keeper—’

  ‘Makes it easier to land something on the beach,’ Esther agreed. ‘And you know what I said about the German not having drowned?’

  I did.

  ‘I bet he was already dead when they threw him in the water. They dressed him up, gave him a bag and a made-up name.’

  ‘But where did they get Ephraim’s name from?’ Cliff asked.

  ‘Hamburg, I guess.’ Esther told him. ‘This man came from Hamburg and so did Ephraim’s father. That’s probably the link.’

  ‘So really he’s just a decoy to throw us off the scent.’ I added.

  ‘And a listening device too,’ Queenie agreed. ‘This is a classic case of misinformation. It’s an intelligence tactic used to confuse the enemy.’

  Before she could say any more the gate swung open. Behind it was the broad outline of Eddie.

  ‘Now come on, you guys,’ he said, sounding a little fed up. ‘Either that cute dog has got a bathroom problem or you’re just playing around here. Get yourselves inside, like the colonel said.’

  None of us moved.

  ‘Are we going to tell him?’ Queenie asked.

  ‘Tell me what?’ he wanted to know.

  There was a tense pause before Queenie cleared her throat. ‘This is all fake: the man, the papers, the set-up, it’s just a ruse to misinform us.’

  That wasn’t the worst of it, either, I realised with growing dread.

  ‘That map the German was carrying,’ I said. ‘The one showing where the incursion is meant to be happening just down the coast – where all your soldier chums have gone – it’s a fake! It’s all a fake!’

  ‘What?’ Eddie stiffened. ‘But that map showed the exact place – to the west of the lighthouse. I saw it myself!’

  I’d been expecting Mum would tell me to be quiet, but now she moved to stand beside me. ‘Olive’s right. So’s Queenie. It’s all a set-up to make sure this bit of coast is clear of anyone on lookout.’

  ‘So if they’re not landing to the west of the lighthouse, where are the Nazis coming?’ Esther asked, bewildered.

  ‘It must be near here. Near the lighthouse,’ Queenie said.

  ‘Could it be like a code?’ I suggested. ‘They might’ve told us opposites. The west of Budmouth could actually be the east.’

  In other words, the next cove along: Tythe Cove.

  If I was right, it also meant Eddie was the only soldier for miles around.

  No soldiers, no lighthouse keeper – exactly as the Germans wanted it. And now they were coming, with just us here to stop them.

  9

  Eddie told us to find a weapon. I grabbed a rake, Esther took a spade. Mum and Queenie both seized axes from the woodshed. Cliff was given a rolling pin. And, just like she’d promised a few weeks ago, Sukie carried a garden fork.

  Seven people weren’t an army, though. So while Queenie went to rouse Mrs Henderson, who had the keys to the church bell tower, the rest of us ran through the village knocking on doors and shouting through
letter boxes.

  ‘Wake up! You’re needed!’

  ‘Emergency!’

  ‘The Germans are coming!’

  We raced up and down the main street, then along by the school, and as far as Salters Cottages at the very top of the village. The church bells were ringing. Just as I’d thought it’d be, the sound was horrible – so jarring and out of place. It was like hearing the air-raid sirens back home, and the same cold fear swamped me. But I kept running. Kept shouting.

  ‘Get up! The Nazis are coming!’

  It was so pitch-black, you could hardly see your hand in front of your face. But as people started to stir and threads of light appeared under blackout curtains, I remembered what Dad used to say when life got tough: ‘Look to the light.’ And so the dark night turned a little greyer.

  I was scared still, but I knew I could fight. With all of Budmouth Point working together, those Nazis had better watch out.

  *

  Within minutes the main street was packed with people. I lost count of the pitchforks, shovels, yard brooms, saucepans. Mrs Drummond, who ran the bakery, was still wearing her nightcap and ferociously wielding a bun tin. Old Jim the cabbage grower declared if any Nazi touched his allotment he’d not be responsible for his actions. Even grumpy old Dr Morrison was present, fire poker in hand. I felt proud, and terrified. Amongst the crowd, I spotted Mr Barrowman, our schoolteacher.

  ‘The hour’s come, Olive,’ he said, giving his shovel a reassuring pat.

  I grimaced. ‘Good luck, sir.’

  Though Eddie tried to take charge, everyone was talking, shouting, making threats all at once. People were scared and angry. The weather had changed too. A sea fog was creeping up from the beach like a wall of smoke.

  After Eddie tried a couple more times to get people’s attention, Mum nudged Queenie.

  ‘You speak to them,’ she said. ‘They’ll listen to you.’

  So Queenie – baggy-sweatered, bespectacled, scowling – mounted the post office steps. Immediately everyone went quiet. Eddie, I noticed, gazed at her with new-found respect.

  ‘We’ve received some grave news,’ Queenie said in her clear, steady voice. ‘The enemy is approaching from the sea. We’ve reason to believe they’re planning to land at Tythe Cove – tonight.’

  ‘Where’s the bloomin’ Yankees when you need ’em, then?’ Jim asked. ‘Why’s this been left to us?’

  It was a fair point. Yet Queenie didn’t break her stride. ‘The enemy’s fed us the wrong information, Jim. They’ve tricked us into believing Ephraim Pengilly is behind all this, and that they’ve plans to attack further down the coast.’

  A gasp of shock went through the crowd. Then shouts of ‘Shame on Jerry!’ and ‘Well, I never!’ and ‘For crying out loud! As if!’ No one believed Ephraim would be involved, not for a second.

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ someone said. ‘Let’s get cracking!’

  The crowd started forwards.

  ‘Wait!’ Queenie held up her hands. ‘We go quietly, please. In single file along the cliff path. When we get to Tythe Cove, we watch and we listen.’

  *

  The path up over the headland was narrow at the best of times. Now, in the dark, with fog swirling around us, it was hard to know where to put your feet. We were a long thin line stretching along the clifftop, Queenie and Eddie in front, Mrs Henderson in the middle somewhere, Mum and Sukie bringing up the rear.

  ‘Keep an eye on your brother, Olive,’ Mum said to me.

  We made good progress at first, passing the pillbox where tonight’s Home Guard on lookout was Mr Fairweather, a local farmer. He left his flask of tea to join us.

  ‘Can’t see nothing in this fog, anyhow,’ he remarked. ‘You youngsters have got better eyes.’

  After the pillbox, the path got steeper. I made Cliff walk in front of me with Pixie on a short leash. Esther was right behind. Every now and then as she stumbled on a loose stone, I’d spin round to check she was still there.

  ‘Jeez, Olive, stop fussing!’ Esther said crossly, when it happened for about the fifth time.

  As I faced forwards again, the stumbling noises now came from up ahead.

  ‘Oh!’ someone cried, almost in surprise.

  Craning my neck I could just about see Queenie. My heart skipped a beat.

  Our line of people bumped to a halt. She was crouched at the cliff edge, holding a person’s hands.

  Someone who’d gone over.

  In a panic I ran straight to her, dragging Cliff with me.

  ‘He slipped,’ Queenie gasped. ‘I’ve nearly got him.’

  She hadn’t. In fact, she was losing her grip. Two huge straining hands struggled to keep hold of her little birdlike ones. It was never going to work.

  Over the edge, I glimpsed Eddie’s grimacing face. I grabbed his arm at the elbow. On the opposite side, Cliff did the same. Esther took hold of Queenie by the waist. Other people were now crowding round, grabbing hold and shouting encouragement. On the count of three this time, we pulled together. It took everything we had, but as we all tumbled back into the gorse bushes, Eddie came with us.

  There were cheers. A laugh of relief. Queenie sat up, breathless, then surprised me by giving Eddie a very quick, very strong hug.

  ‘Don’t do it again,’ she said, as she got to her feet.

  Eddie stood up, looking rather embarrassed.

  *

  When we set off again, we went slower, and on trembling legs. The sea fog was thicker than before. It was wet, and cold, soaking through my cardigan and making my skirt stick unpleasantly to my knees. And then, quite suddenly, we came to a stile. Either side of it were rolls of barbed wire, and beyond the steep steps cut into the hillside that took you down on to the little horseshoe-shaped beach of Tythe Cove.

  Normally from this spot you could see for miles. It was where Ephraim came last year when the boat he’d been expecting from France had seemed so late. Even in darkness, on a good night, you’d be able to see what was out on the water. Tonight, you couldn’t even tell what was ground and what was thin air: the fog had put paid to that.

  Queenie went first over the stile. Then Eddie. We followed behind. By the time we reached the beach, my thigh muscles were burning from the climb down. It was impossible to walk quietly on the shingle, though we all tried.

  Finally, when the last person was on the beach, a silence settled over us. And that quiet – that listening – was all we had to go by, as the fog swallowed us up. Reaching out, I squeezed Esther’s hand. She squeezed back. Cliff leaned against me, just for a second.

  I hardly breathed, I was listening so hard. But the fog muffled things, made sounds seem different, so it was difficult to know what was what.

  Still, I knew the crackle of a radio when I heard it. I also knew what German sounded like. The voice came out of nowhere, making me freeze in terror.

  10

  ‘What the blazes?’ cried Mrs Henderson.

  Everyone flew into action. But we were bumbling blind, knocking arms, shovels, treading on each other’s feet. The German voice was close. Very close. It was, we realised, coming from Esther’s coat pocket, where she still had the dead spy’s radio.

  ‘Crikey! It’s working again!’ She was as startled as anyone.

  ‘What’s it saying?’ This was Mrs Henderson. ‘Shh! Can we listen?’

  There was a rustle as Esther took the radio from her pocket. The hissing, crackling noise grew louder. The same clipped flat voice that sent a chill down my neck spoke again, this time in English:

  ‘We proceed to the shore.’

  I stared at the thing in Esther’s hand, almost wishing it was a rat. ‘They’re out there, aren’t they?’

  ‘Sounds like it,’ Eddie agreed.

  Queenie gestured that we should spread out in a line again. The message went quickly through the group. We stood, weapons ready, facing the ocean – or at least at the bank of fog where the ocean was meant to be. Straight ahead, you could hear the quiet lap
ping of the sea. We waited, ears straining. A minute went by. Then another.

  Mum touched my shoulder.

  ‘I know I’m usually telling you to keep your nose out of things,’ she whispered. ‘But I’m proud of you, Olive. If only your dad could see you now.’

  I was halfway to a smile when someone cried out: ‘Oh lord alive, there’s a BOAT!’

  How they knew I’d no idea. And not being able to see it felt more frightening, somehow. In my mind’s eye it was a huge great battleship with machine guns trained on us, like those ones you saw on newsreels at the cinema, the hull part would open out and tanks roll on to our beach. I felt weak with fear.

  Queenie hissed for us to all shut up. Weapons at the ready, we went still again. The swishing, sloshing sound was faint at first. I thought it might be the tide. There was a rhythm to it, though, and quickly I twigged it was the noise of oars moving through the water.

  A rowing boat? Hitler’s men were trying to invade the British Isles in a rowing boat?

  It was almost funny. Yet despite the relief that we probably weren’t about to be gunned down, I was angry too. Did the Nazis really think we’d give in that easily?

  The boat was coming closer to the shore. Or it seemed to be. Swoosh-drip, swoosh-drip: my ears stayed trained on the noise. Either side of me, Esther and Mum were poised, ready. I tightened my grip on the garden rake. And just when I expected to see the boat at last, the swooshing grew fainter. Then it died away completely.

  We were back to the creepy silence again. Even the radio seemed to have given up the ghost.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Esther asked.

  ‘Nobody move,’ Queenie replied. ‘Be ready if they attack.’

  ‘But they’re not there, love,’ Mrs Drummond from the bakery pointed out. ‘Perhaps they never were. It might’ve been a fishing boat all along.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Esther countered. ‘You heard the radio just now.’

  ‘And the dead German in Queenie’s garden,’ said Cliff. ‘He’s not come to Devon for a holiday, has he?’

  From the direction of the sea came a faint sploshing sound. Then another.