When We Were Warriors

by Emma Carroll

  ‘Haven’t you had the letter? Mr Jackson sent one to everyone.’

  ‘Mum opens all our post,’ he replied, the confused look now a worried one. ‘What are we meant to do? Leave our pets on their own? Because I won’t do it, not for anything.’

  Velvet softened. Anyone who cared this much about his dog was all right in her book. She remembered how he’d stared at her mum that day in the street like she was some sort of saviour. Robert Clements wasn’t all prig, she supposed.

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to work out,’ she explained. ‘We need somewhere big enough for all Barton Street and Portland Place’s pets – and their owners. Can you think of anywhere?’

  ‘No, not everyone together. That won’t work.’ He’d started to back away. ‘Count me out. I’ll look after myself, thanks.’

  Turning, he set off across the grass, the dog lolloping at his heels.

  ‘How? What are you going to do?’ Velvet called after him. But he kept walking away from them as fast as he could.

  *

  The incident left Velvet baffled. Robert Clements was a bit of a strange one.

  ‘Where’s Mr Clements? Does anyone actually know?’ she asked as they rejoined Mo.

  ‘Isn’t he in prison?’ Mo said. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s what my mum said.’

  Velvet didn’t know. From what she’d seen it only seemed to be Robert and his mum, and for some reason people didn’t much like them.

  ‘Perhaps he’s a murderer!’ Mo gushed. ‘He might’ve chopped up people and made them into pies!’

  Velvet laughed. ‘That’s Sweeney Todd, you goof.’

  ‘He could be away fighting,’ Lynn suggested. A lot of people’s dads had joined up to fight – Lynn’s dad had – so it seemed a very likely scenario.

  Yet some dads went away for reasons other than war, and sometimes didn’t come back. Even the people closest to them, who were supposed to know why, couldn’t always explain what had happened: this was certainly the case whenever Velvet tried asking about her own father. She was beginning to wish she’d not brought the subject up.

  ‘Let’s have our picnic, shall we?’ she said.

  The lemonade was lukewarm, the bun so sticky that with every mouthful they got equal parts paper bag and cake. Once they’d finished, it was back to the shelter business. Licking her fingers, Lynn pulled a notebook from her satchel. She carried it everywhere – pencil attached with string – and was forever making lists in it.

  Velvet was still thinking about something Robert had said. ‘It’ll probably be best to start with just our street, won’t it? If there’s too many of us it might not work.’

  Mo agreed. ‘It’ll be tricky to find a space big enough.’

  So they decided, just for now, to stick with Barton Street.

  ‘What do we need to know first?’ Mo asked.

  ‘Exactly how many animals we’ve got on our street,’ Lynn replied.

  One by one Velvet reeled them off. When the list was complete, Lynn showed them what she’d written in her notebook:

  Next, they discussed potential places for the shelter. It was Lynn who brought up Mo’s parents’ cellar: theirs was the only house on Barton Street big enough to have one.

  ‘Could you fit everyone in?’ Lynn asked hopefully.

  ‘Maybe,’ Mo replied. ‘Though I don’t think my parents will be very keen on having dogs in the house.’

  The old railway arches by the bus depot were another favourite, but these were open-fronted, like caves, and rather grim.

  ‘It’d be super noisy,’ Velvet worried.

  ‘And stinky,’ Lynn agreed.

  Which brought them back to Mo’s cellar.

  ‘So you think your parents will say no?’ Velvet asked. Mo’s parents, very nice though they were, kept an immaculate home. Their hallway floor was so polished you could see your face in it. She doubted they would agree to their house being used as a shelter.

  ‘And before you ask,’ Mo said, reading her expression, ‘I’m not doing it behind their backs.’

  ‘But once your parents are at the public shelter, couldn’t we sneak people in?’ Velvet pressed him. ‘They’d never know anyone had been there.’ Though she knew it was a long shot. The state of the hallway floor would give the game away, if nothing else.

  Lynn, who had her thinking face on, said nothing; it was Sprout who belly-crawled across the grass and nuzzled Mo’s hand.

  ‘All right!’ he caved in. ‘I’ll give it a go: but don’t blame me if I’m grounded till my eighteenth birthday.’

  Velvet beamed. ‘Next time there’s a raid, then? Everyone to yours?’

  ‘As a trial run,’ Mo said very firmly. ‘If it doesn’t work out we find somewhere else, got it?’

  ‘I’ll spread the word on my way home,’ Lynn decided.

  With no lemonade left for a toast, they made do with a cheer. It was then Velvet noticed how everyone else in the park seemed to be staring and pointing at the sky.

  ‘Wow! It’s a dogfight!’ Mo said, getting to his feet.

  The aeroplanes were so high above them they were tiny glints of silver. Moving really fast, twisting, turning, trailing white smoke, it was as if they were writing messages in the sky.

  ‘That’s amazing!’ Mo cried.

  ‘Depends on who wins,’ Velvet reminded him.

  ‘Hitler’s not finished with us yet,’ mused Lynn. ‘That’s why all those American soldiers have been brought in.’

  Velvet’s mum had mentioned this the other day. A whole trainload of American GIs had set up camp at Budmouth Point, the place with the lighthouse just up the coast. They were expected here in Plymouth any day, and it made Velvet wonder why.

  ‘Hitler’s not going to invade us though, is he?’ she asked.

  ‘’Course he won’t,’ said Mo. Seeing Velvet’s pinched, worried face he pointed at the sky. ‘See our chap up there? You think he’s running out of fight?’

  Velvet watched, hand over her mouth. It was horrible to think of the pilots fighting to the death. But she couldn’t not look, either, and kept watching until the planes swooped away over the sea, out of sight.

  4

  A day later, the planes were back – bombers this time, so lumbering and heavy-sounding it seemed impossible to believe the sky could hold them up. By the time the siren went just after tea, all the pet owners on Barton Street knew exactly what to do.

  The Plan – they still hadn’t thought up a better name for it – was to wait ten minutes for the Husseins to leave their house. The back door was always unlocked, Mo assured them, so this was the way in – oh, and could everyone please take their shoes off. They’d find the cellar door on the right in the hallway, the cellar itself down some steps. And could they remember to tidy up any crumbs, sandwich wrappers, etc. afterwards, and absolutely NOT touch Mrs Hussein’s jars of onion pickle, which were arranged on the shelves down there in strict date order. When the All Clear sounded they must leave immediately.

  ‘Won’t people notice if they’re not at the public shelter?’ Lynn had asked.

  ‘They could use Mr Perks’s excuse,’ Mo replied.

  ‘But he’s staying at his sister’s,’ Velvet said, surprised. ‘That’s not an excuse, that’s a fact.’

  Mo shrugged. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Velvet was suspicious.

  ‘Only that he and Nipper were seen last night at the bus station.’

  Which struck Velvet as rather odd.

  *

  The Plan started to go wrong almost straight away. After she’d waited the agreed ten minutes, Velvet went to Mo’s. She wasn’t expecting to find his parents still on the doorstep. Luckily, they hadn’t seen her yet, so she hid in the neighbours’ doorway and waited, holding her breath.

  In amongst the footsteps, tutting, and – finally – the closing of the front door, the Husseins left the house. Her relief became panic when she realised Mo was with them. He wasn’t meant to be. He was suppose
d to be here, with her, for when the pet owners arrived. So was Lynn.

  She couldn’t shout out and stop him, either. If the Husseins saw her lurking, the whole top-secret plan to use their cellar risked being blown. She sank deeper into the doorway, her brain reeling. And where was Lynn? She was never late for anything.

  Had they agreed to meet here? Did anyone say as much? She really wasn’t sure any more. There was no sign of the pet owners, either. A horrid sinking feeling came over Velvet that she’d got the wrong end of the stick.

  Only the grown-ups with pets were coming. She didn’t need to be here, nor did Mo, or Lynn. No one had actually said so because it was so obvious. Mo’s parents would know if he wasn’t at the shelter; so would Lynn’s mum, who was off work with bronchitis. And as for the pet owners, well, of course she hadn’t seen them: they’d been told to use Mo’s back door, not the front.

  Feeling stupid, frustrated and very near to tears, she set off for the public shelter. With any luck, Mr Khan would still let her in. Already, the first German planes were darkening the sky. She started to run.

  Halfway up the street came a blinding flash. Instinct made her cover her head, but when she heard the familiar whistling sound, she knew it was too late. A terrific boom made her ears pop. The ground shook. Velvet fell forwards on to her hands and knees.

  This is it, she thought, this is the bomb with my name on it.

  When the air cleared a little, she saw rubble blocking the entire road. A wall had come down – the front of someone’s house by the look of it. There was glass everywhere, roof tiles, bricks and shreds of curtain, a singed rug.

  But no more noise. No more planes. The sky was peaceful again but for the searchlights and the barrage balloons, floating in the dark like gigantic chefs’ hats.

  Velvet stumbled to her feet. Her hands stung and she’d cut her knee, but she wasn’t badly hurt, just shaken and disorientated. The heap of rubble literally split Barton Street in half like a giant wall – the public shelter at one end, her at the other. There was no way of clambering over it. The whole lot looked smoky and hot as if it might, at any moment, burst into flames.

  Then she saw the body.

  It lay in the road just in front of her, close enough for her to see dust in the man’s hair. The shock made her dizzy. There was a funny whooshing in her ears. She’d never seen a dead person before, and this one looked so lifelike she half expected him to move. He was wearing a khaki-coloured uniform and had, to her even greater surprise, skin darker than hers.

  His hand was open, as if he was reaching for something he’d dropped: looking closer, she saw he had. Just beyond his fingertips was a little red jewellery box. Dazed, she picked it up, brushed the dust off. The lid opened with a tiny click. Inside, on satin padding, was a diamond ring.

  ‘Hey! What you got there?’ said a voice from the ground.

  Velvet jumped out of her socks. ‘Oh my word! You’re alive!’

  ‘I think so.’ The man stood up shakily. It was like watching a ladder unfold – his long body seemed to go up and up. She had to blink to stop herself staring.

  ‘May I have that, miss?’ the man asked, pointing to the ring box. ‘I must’ve dropped it when I fell.’

  ‘Gosh, um, yes, sorry.’ Flustered, Velvet gave it back to him. He looked very relieved, tucking it away in his shirt pocket and buttoning down the flap for good measure. She also noticed he had an accent – American, maybe?

  ‘Now,’ he said, bending a little so he was almost at her height. ‘Can you point me in the direction of the docks?’

  She nodded, aware she was still staring. ‘You’re a soldier, aren’t you? An American one.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m Eddie Johnson, here with the United States Army, miss, and a little lost on my way back from ring shopping. And you are …?’

  ‘Velvet. The docks are just down—’ She stopped, hearing engines. Not just the throb of one or two, but a whole skyful. ‘Uh-oh, can you hear that?’

  ‘Darned Luftwaffe!’ Eddie cursed. ‘We need to get us under cover, miss. Where’s the nearest shelter?’

  ‘That way.’ She pointed at the blocked street. ‘But I know a decent cellar that’s much nearer.’

  *

  By the time they reached the backyard, bombs were coming down like hailstones. Thankfully, just as Mo promised, the door was unlocked.

  ‘Come in, then,’ Velvet said, when Eddie hesitated on the step.

  ‘They’ll think I’m missing. I’d better report back,’ he answered, then stumbled forwards, a hand on his head. ‘I’m sorry. I think I’m hurt.’

  There was something wet running down the side of his face.

  ‘You definitely need to come in,’ she pleaded, tugging his arm. She’d no idea what she was going to do with him once she’d got him to the cellar, but it was the safest place to be by a mile.

  Somehow, he stayed upright as Velvet led him inside. All the time the bombs kept falling, the windows rattling, the floor quaking under their feet. The house was very dark. She’d never been so relieved to find the hallway and the cellar door. Opening it, Velvet caught the familiar waft of Mrs Hussein’s onion pickle. There was another smell too – sort of doggy.

  As she helped Eddie down the steps, a small furry body hurled itself at her. It almost knocked her flying.

  ‘Sprout!’ Velvet knew the greeting immediately.

  A sharp click in the dark as a torch went on.

  ‘Looking after him for your pal Lynn, I am.’ The speaker was Mr Huxley, owner of Dot the sausage dog, who was tucked snugly under his arm. ‘Perhaps he’ll settle now you’re here.’

  As her eyes grew accustomed to the torchlight, she could see seven, maybe eight people sitting against the far wall. They’d brought blankets, cake, tea and, of course, their pets. Dogs sat in their owners’ laps, eyes glued to the food packets and the cat baskets that were being kept at a sensible distance on the opposite side of the cellar. Somewhere in the dark, a hen was clucking.

  They were all here, Velvet saw with pride – and surprise. The Plan had worked.

  ‘Who’s this, then?’ Mr Huxley’s torch swooped across Eddie’s face, then down to his feet. Mr Huxley whistled. ‘Big fella, you are. Hurt your head too, by the looks of it.’

  ‘Bring him over here,’ called Betty. ‘We’ll sort him out.’

  With Eddie lowered carefully to the floor, Barton Street’s pet owners got to work.

  Velvet hovered anxiously, torn between wanting to help and feeling a bit sick. She wasn’t good with injuries or blood. In the end, she distracted herself with Mo’s rat, Sherlock, whose cage was behind some coal sacks. She got him out, let him run up and down her arms, before putting him in her skirt pocket where he promptly went to sleep.

  Meanwhile, with hot water from their flasks, Betty and friends cleaned up Eddie’s head wound, then dressed it with a handkerchief, bound it with a stocking and gave him a cup of tea.

  ‘With them Yankees at the docks, are you?’ Betty asked him. ‘Got caught out in the raid?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Eddie looked ashamed, as if being in the US Army he should know better.

  ‘He was ring shopping,’ Velvet explained.

  Betty smiled. ‘In that case, love, you’re forgiven.’

  For the next hour, poor Eddie was bombarded with questions: who was his intended? Had he asked her yet? What did she look like? When would they be married? Where would they live?

  ‘My girl’s called Queenie.’ Saying her name made his whole face light up. ‘My unit’s leaving soon for Europe, and I want her to know I’m serious, that I’ll be back for her, you know?’

  ‘That’s so lovely, that is,’ Betty said.

  When they’d passed the ring around and cooed over it, Mr Huxley cleared his throat as if he’d had enough soppy talk for one evening.

  ‘How do you two know each other, Velvet? Some relative of yours, is he?’ Mr Huxley asked. He meant their skin colour, which was what folks always saw first. Put two b
rown-skinned people together and they had to be related, though no one ever seemed to think it if you were white.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ Velvet mumbled.

  ‘Though I do have English family, sir,’ Eddie told him.

  ‘Oh well, then,’ said Mr Huxley, looking confused.

  Eddie gave Velvet’s arm a very gentle punch, as if to say he was always hearing stupid assumptions about his skin colour, so he knew what it felt like. Though Velvet tried to smile, her eyes started to water. It was, she realised, the first time she’d met someone who truly understood.

  Despite Mr Huxley being embarrassing, she let herself, just for a moment, imagine Eddie was one of her family – her dad or an older brother – and supposed it wouldn’t be so bad. At least he’d promised his lady friend Queenie he’d come back. Later that night, when he had Sprout, Dot, Joey the whippet and Bill-Boy the Jack Russell all gathered round him begging for fuss, she saw he was a great dog lover too. And that, in a person, was always a good sign.

  5

  With a rat snoring in her skirt pocket, Velvet somehow fell asleep. She awoke to the sound of the All Clear. As people around her gathered their things, Mr Huxley’s slightly stooped silhouette was already waiting in the daylight at the top of the cellar steps.

  ‘Quickly now,’ he said, hurrying them along.

  On the way out, Velvet gave the hallway rug a straighten. Everything had to look exactly as the Husseins had left it.

  ‘So long,’ Eddie said, shaking her hand. He’d taken off the makeshift dressing. There was no blood on his face any more, but his right eye was puffing up nicely. ‘Thanks again for saving me.’

  She blushed. She hadn’t saved him, she’d just known where they could shelter. If anyone had done the saving it was him, because she’d never slept right through an air raid before.

  ‘You’re getting a shiner,’ she told him.

  Once Eddie had gone, and she was wandering back to her house, Velvet suddenly remembered Sherlock. To her horror, he wasn’t in her pocket any more. He must’ve crawled out in the night and the obvious place to look for him was the cellar. Knowing she didn’t have long – minutes at the most – Velvet tore back into the Husseins’ house. Now the blackout was over, and having found the cellar light switch, she flicked it on.