Pinkie says, “Everyone likes Colonel Morley, don’t they?”
“Everyone,” agrees Symes, enthusiastically. “Why the whole Battalion would follow him through hell—and he’d be in front, too, he wouldn’t be shoving the men on from behind—in the very front is where you’d see him . . . We’re off to Egypt soon,” adds Symes.
“Really?” I enquire, somewhat surprised to hear this piece of news, for Tony has not mentioned it.
“Yes,” says Symes. “Oh it’s quite right, Miss. Everyone knows about it in the Battalion, only of course we’re not supposed to talk about it to outsiders. It will be interesting to see a bit of the world . . . the Sphinx and the pyramids . . . wonderful they must be!”
Tim is waving to us, so we move on, and I am glad to find that Tim has two birds to his credit this time. . . . We take a cast round the shoulder of Fingal and come back through a wood, and George Craddock has timed his manoeuvres so well that we arrive back at the road and the waiting cars at one o’clock precisely. Everyone is ravenous by now, so no time is lost in finding a sheltered spot, spreading mackintosh ground sheets and opening the picnic baskets. Tony has provided an excellent lunch with ample food for everyone—but not too much—and I realise afresh what a capable person he is, for I know from long experience how difficult it is to steer a course between the two extremes. Symes is given a large packet of sandwiches and a bottle of beer and goes back to the cars to enjoy his meal in solitude. The morning’s bag has been spread out on the ground in front of us—nine and a half brace of grouse, a pigeon and three hares—and the shooters admire the results of their efforts as they eat . . . “but we ought to do better in the afternoon,” says George Craddock hopefully.
“We ought to have another gun,” Tony says, “and I suppose we could have got Jack MacDougall or Ledgard—but I just felt that it would be much nicer without them—”
“It is much nicer,” agrees Tim, “and if only I were pulling my weight . . . I mean I should have got a brace out of that last covey that broke back over my head . . . in fact I missed several absolute sitters. I haven’t done any shooting since last year,” he adds apologetically.
“You have been otherwise engaged, sir,” points out George with a smile.
“Bigger game—” murmurs Tony.
“Yes,” says Tim with a sigh, “Bigger game . . . you wouldn’t think there was a war on, would you?” and he waves his arm round the peaceful hills.
It is so peaceful and friendly and pleasant that I am glad to be alive, and I wish we could stay here forever amongst the hills—where the only other living creatures are the birds and the black-faced sheep—and never return to the world and its cares. Nothing here is troublesome or confusing, there are no problems here . . .
I am thinking about this, and wishing that I had been born a black-faced sheep, when Tony suddenly remarks, “I wish we need not go back.”
“So do I,” agrees Tim. “It’s simply heavenly. It’s all the more delightful because it’s so unexpected . . . we appreciate it more . . . we’ve snatched a day from peace-time if you know what I mean.”
“Oh yes!” cries Pinkie. “That’s just what I’ve been feeling all the morning—you’ve put it into words, Major Tim.”
“Peace all round us,” says Tony.
“Yes, sir,” agrees George, “But there’s more in it than that. Don’t you think that the reason we’re enjoying it so much is because—well, because we all like each other?”
Tony smiles and says, “Good companions—eh? I believe there’s a good deal in that.”
“We could have another day, sir,” says George eagerly, “I mean any time that you think we could get a day’s leave . . . the moor needs shooting badly—”
“But you’re going off to Egypt, aren’t you?” I enquire.
Tony looks at me in amazement.
“Well, aren’t you?” I ask, and add a trifle diffidently, “I thought you were.”
Tony says “Well . . . well, that beats the band. How on earth did you hear that, Hester?”
Everyone is looking at me and I feel somewhat uncomfortable, but I pull myself together, and inform Tony that Symes told us, and that the whole Battalion is under the impression that it is destined for the land of the Pharaohs.
“Good Lord!” exclaims Tony. “It was only last night that I heard it myself . . . and it’s supposed to be strictly confidential . . . How do they get to know these things?”
Tim says, “They always know before we do.”
George Craddock exclaims, “Do you mean it’s true? We’re really going . . . Gosh, how marvellous! I bet we’ll show the ice cream merchants where they get off . . . Active Service at last . . . Gosh, how absolutely super!” He rolls over on to his back and waves his legs in the air.
Tony is looking a trifle grim; he says, “Well, keep it under your hat, Craddock—though I don’t suppose it’s much good if the whole blinking Battalion knows—”
“Yes, sir,” replies George, sitting up and trying to look serious and reliable. “Oh yes, sir, of course, sir. I won’t say a word . . . d’you know when we’re going, sir?”
Tony says, “Strange though it may appear, I do happen to know the approximate date of our departure.”
There is a short but somewhat strained silence, which is broken by Pinkie saying, “Oh look!” and pointing at a tiny speck in the sky just above the shoulder of Fingal.
“An aeroplane!” says George (somewhat unnecessarily, for the speck has approached and lost height so rapidly that its nature is now quite obvious).
Four of us look up at the plane with casual interest, but Tim leaps to his feet and clamps his field glasses to his eyes . . .
“What—” begins Tony.
“It’s a Jerry, that’s what!” exclaims Tim, “. . . yes, it’s a Jerry. I saw too many of the brutes in France to make any mistake.”
“It’s coming down!” cries Pinkie excitedly. “It’s coming down . . .”
By this time the plane is less than half a mile away and is losing height rapidly. Its engines are making a loud laborious noise—entirely different from the cheerful hum to which we have become accustomed—but I have no sooner noticed this than the engines peter out, and the plane does a gentle nose dive into the ground and tilts over with its tail pointing skywards. Somehow or other it reminds me of a slow motion film, and the noise of the crash, which reaches our ears a second or two later, adds to the illusion.
Tony has already assumed command, “Come, Tim—” he cries, “Craddock can stay with the girls—we must take Symes because he’s the only one in uniform—,” and he starts running across the moor towards the wreckage. Tim picks up his gun and follows, shouting and beckoning to Symes.
The unfortunate George, who has leapt to his feet and seized his gun in readiness, remains standing beside us with an expression of disappointment upon his face, which makes me want to laugh. I suggest that he should go with the others—Pinkie and I will be perfectly all right without his protection—but George says that he daren’t; the colonel said he was to stay . . . “and I like staying, really,” adds the miserable youth, “I mean it’s an honour in a way . . . it’s only . . . well, as a matter of fact it’s the first time . . . I mean I’ve never seen an enemy before . . .”
Pinkie gasps and says, “An enemy here! Isn’t it—isn’t it amazing to think of?”
I have been watching the plane with Tony’s field glasses, and, as it is only about five hundred yards away, I can see it very clearly indeed. . . . Two figures crawl out through an opening in the roof and slide down on to the ground. They appear somewhat dazed. When they see our party approaching they turn towards the plane—perhaps their first thought is to destroy it—but Tony calls out to them in German and they immediately hold up their hands.
Pinkie, who has been hopping with excitement, suddenly announces that she must be there, she can’t wait a moment longer and, as I feel the same, we start walking towards the scene of action with George fluttering r
ound us like a motherly hen and begging us to remember that “the colonel” said we were to stay where we were . . .
“You can’t trust them!” cries George. “And there may be bombs . . . and I’m responsible for you . . .”
The two airmen are now being disarmed, and as we approach I can hear Tony enquiring, in somewhat stilted German, whether there is anyone else in the wrecked plane. They shake their heads and say “Nein,” and one of them points over the hills and says that their two companions descended by parachute. Tony translates this information—otherwise I should not be in possession of it—and adds that he will just make sure. He climbs on to the sloping wing, which has come adrift in the crash, and peers through the smashed window. As he turns to come down his eyes light upon us and he exclaims, “What are you doing here? I thought I told you to stay near the cars,” but there is a twinkle in his eye as he says it—and a twinkle in his voice as well—and I hear George give a long sigh of relief.
“I suppose this is the end of our shooting,” says Tim regretfully—and of course it is, for the prisoners must be taken to Donford immediately, and the plane must be guarded until the proper authorities can be informed. After some discussion it is agreed that Symes shall be left to look after the plane, Tony and George will take the prisoners to the Barracks and report the matter to Air Force Headquarters, and Tim will drive us home in George Craddock’s car.
This settled we walk back to the road—and what a curious little procession it is! The two dour-looking Germans in their airmen’s uniforms and our own men in sporting kit. (In spite of their clothes, however, there is no doubt of their profession; they stride along with their guns over their shoulders and their faces have assumed a soldierly mien—stern and unsmiling.) Pinkie and I bring up the rear, and have some difficulty in keeping up with the main body of troops. We rustle through the dried heather, we scramble over walls, we leap from tuft to tuft of grass through the boggy places. The sun is shining as brightly as ever and the wind is blowing billowy white clouds across the azure sky; a lark springs up from our very feet and soars into the air, and from afar off comes the plaintive bleat of a sheep, but the whole atmosphere has changed, for the day’s peace has been broken . . . there is an air of unreality in the scene.
Pinkie pinches my arm and says, “Hester, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry . . . or whether I’m dreaming . . . what do you feel?”
“It’s war,” I murmur sadly.
“But war—here!” she says, fumbling to express her meaning, “I can’t believe it . . . it’s so utterly silly, somehow . . .”
WEDNESDAY 18TH SEPTEMBER
Donford is all agog with a rumour that the Germans have actually attempted an invasion—the rumour arrives at Winfield through the medium of the butcher’s boy. I have just succeeded in persuading Annie that there is nothing in it, and that the butcher’s boy has been pulling her leg, when Grace arrives with an armful of chrysanthemums and a large cabbage and says she has brought them for me, as a present to my body and my soul, and that a proper present should always be of this dual nature. I am delighted with the gifts and agree that a double present is more than twice as acceptable as a single one. Annie takes the cabbage and carries it in triumph to the kitchen, and I proceed to arrange the flowers.
Grace says have I heard about the invasion. The Germans set sail in their flat-bottomed boats and we allowed them to come within five miles of the shore before opening fire . . . it is “absolutely authentic,” because she heard it from the lift boy at the Donford Arms and his cousin was actually there and saw the whole thing with his own eyes. Our Air Force and Navy simply finished them off, and there was not a German left to tell the tale.
Grace’s eyes are like saucers, and I feel as if my own eyes were enlarging rapidly, but I manage to pull myself together and enquire why this extremely reassuring piece of news has not been broadcast to the world.
Grace says, “We don’t want the Enemy to know what has happened—that must be the reason. It’s an absolute fact that hundreds of German soldiers have been washed up on the south coast of England. I know that’s true because Nannie’s sister’s husband is a commercial traveller and when he was down there he saw people digging graves.”
“Oh Grace!”
“You needn’t believe it if you don’t want to,” says Grace crossly. “As a matter of fact nobody seems to believe a word I say. Jack is most annoying at present; he listens to Haw Haw and believes what he says.”
“You shouldn’t let him.”
“I don’t,” says Grace promptly. “We had a blazing row last night over that horrible oily man—his voice makes me quite ill—I wanted to listen to the B.B.C. Orchestra, and Jack wanted Haw Haw . . .” she smiles reminiscently as she speaks, and I feel sure she got her way, but I make no enquiries for I do not want to hear about the row.
“You aren’t going to the Depot, this morning, are you?” enquires Grace. “There’s no need for you to go because we sent off all the parcels yesterday . . . By the way, how did the shoot go off? Did you get a good bag?”
“Yes, it included two German airmen.”
“Hester!”
“It’s perfectly true.”
“Tell me all about it,” says Grace. “Tell me everything,” and with that Grace, who has been on the verge of departure, settles herself in her chair and prepares to listen with all her ears. Unfortunately this does not suit me at all, for I have not been to the town to do my shopping, and, as I was unable to shop yesterday, I am in possession of a list of goods which are required for the household. I explain this to Grace and she rises with manifest reluctance. “Oh well,” she says, “as a matter of fact I ought to pop in and see Ermyntrude this morning. You had better come to tea and tell me about it.”
In the last fortnight or so the little town of Donford has undergone a strange metamorphosis; it has become “Polarized,” so to speak. There is a large camp of Polish Troops on the golf course, and there are dozens of Polish officers billeted in the town. There are officers’ wives, and a few children—though how they managed to get here nobody seems to know. Pinkie spoke no more than the truth when she said that the place was “teeming with them”, they seem to outnumber the natives by a proportion of two to one. As one walks down the High Street one hears the staccato sound of the Polish language on every side, for the streets are always full of soldiers, hurrying past on some errand, or gazing into the windows of the shops. They are a cheery lot, and there is plenty of laughter amongst the little groups which congregate at the corners of the streets, but even in the middle of the greatest joke they do not fail to make way for a passer-by—their manners, from the oldest colonel to the youngest private, leave nothing to be desired. Sometimes as one goes upon one’s lawful business one sees a meeting between old friends. A man will stop and gaze at another in joyful amazement, and they will shake hands firmly and cordially and burst into excited speech. I have seen this happen not once, but several times, and it has always given me a thrill of pleasure. It is curious to see how this small Scottish town has taken these foreign soldiers to its heart. The somewhat dour Scottish faces break into friendly smiles, there are bows and signals and gallant attempts to overcome the barrier of language. The Donford girls have all got Polish friends—some of them have two or three—they seem to be able to overcome the barrier more easily than the older people. In most of the shops notices in Polish have appeared; there are Polish newspapers on the bookstalls and Polish dictionaries are selling like hot cakes. . . .
I turn into Simpson’s (the draper) to buy a card of buttons for Betty’s pyjamas and find the whole shop disorganised and business at a standstill. There is a Polish lady here—very smart and nicely dressed—and she is surrounded by shop assistants who are endeavouring to understand what she wants. Mr. Simpson himself has been fetched, but is unable to solve the problem, the counter is piled with goods of every description, but apparently none of them is what she requires.
“It’s shirts—I’m sure it’s
shirts,” declares the first assistant earnestly.
“We’ve tried shirts,” replies the second assistant. “We’ve tried pyjamas too . . . and vests and pants.”
“Try collars,” says Mr. Simpson, wiping the perspiration from his brow, and one of his myrmidons rushes away to carry out his behest.
Somewhat diffidently I approach the little group and enquire whether the lady speaks French. . . . She turns to me at once, with a delightful smile, and overwhelms me with a torrent of such fluent French that I am completely sunk. I shake my head and say in my halting manner that if she will explain her requirements slowly and simply I will do my best to help her. While this conversation is taking place Mr. Simpson and his assistants are standing by ready to receive instructions; they are gazing at me reverently, and I realise that my stock has gone up a good deal. It is to be hoped that I shall be able to play my part as interpreter in a worthy manner or my stock will slump pretty seriously.
The lady spreads her hands and says it is very good of me to come to her aid. She is so grateful. It is very simple really. She requires a “robe de nuit” for her son. It must be of the best quality flannel, because he suffers from the cold. In Poland it is cold—yes—but here it is so damp as well. “That is understood?” she enquires, smiling.
Fortunately for us both it is understood quite easily, and I explain to Mr. Simpson that the lady wants a nightshirt for her son—a flannel nightshirt of the best quality.
“A flannel nightshirt?” says Mr. Simpson. “How old is the child?”
I translate this to the Polish lady, “Quel age a votre fils?” I enquire.
She looks at me in surprise . . . and then laughs heartily and announces that he is twenty-eight years old and six feet tall. The mystery is now solved and everyone is happy. I explain to the lady—as best I can—that the mistake arose owing to the fact that she looks too young to have a grown-up son. She acknowledges the compliment with another delightful smile, and we part on the best of terms. Business in Simpson’s shop is now resumed, and several people who have been waiting, more or less impatiently, to be served are attended to without further delay.
Mrs. Tim Carries On Page 20