The Great Escape

by Megan Rix

  Lucy knew the mask could save her life if there was a gas attack, but she still loathed it. Just the thought of wearing it made her feel sick, and once she had it on she felt suffocated because there wasn’t enough air coming through the filter to breathe easily and all she could smell was rubber.

  Even worse, her class had to have a gas-mask drill twice a week. They’d all been given Ministry of Safety leaflets, which explained how to put the masks on:

  Hold your breath.

  Hold your mask in front of your face with your thumbs inside the straps.

  Thrust your chin well forward into the mask and pull the straps over your head as far as they will go.

  Run your fingers round the face part of the mask to make sure the head straps are not twisted.

  Miss Morrison blew a whistle. ‘Gas-mask practice,’ she announced. ‘Take your gas masks out of their boxes.’

  Miss Morrison always wore a whistle round her neck now so that if there was a war and she got buried by rubble, people would be able to find her.

  ‘I want you to put your gas masks on with your eyes closed today. A gas attack might come at any time – day or night.’

  ‘Can’t see out of the bloomin’ thing anyway,’ grumbled a boy behind Lucy, who’d already put his gas mask on.

  And he was right. Lucy always found that just about as soon as she put her mask on, the Perspex misted up. Rubbing soap on the window, which they’d been told would help, made it worse and you got soap in your eyes too. There was only one thing the masks were really good for.

  ‘On the count of three …’ Miss Morrison said. And everyone picked up their masks, ready to put on the much-hated things.

  ‘One … two. … three!’

  Lucy blew out through the rubber instead of in, to make a long, loud fart sound.

  Miss Morrison was furious.

  ‘Who did that? Who was it? Who did it?’

  She stared at a sea of children in gas masks. It was impossible to tell who’d made the sound.

  Other children blew out too and Miss Morrison looked as though she was going to explode.

  Behind her mask Lucy grinned, until Miss Morrison announced that she was keeping the whole class in at breaktime as punishment for their ‘disgraceful behaviour’.

  Robert and Michael were two of the very few children at their school who weren’t going to be evacuated with the rest of their classmates. Robert was going to stay with his gran in Devon and Michael wasn’t going to be evacuated at all. He was staying in London with his family.

  Michael’s father was an Animal Guard and had been issued with a NARPAC – National Air Raid Precautions Animals Committee – registration book to write down the names and addresses of all animals that were reported lost or missing during air raids, should the war come. He also had an armband and a tin hat with NARPAC written on it.

  ‘So what else will your dad be doing if there’s a war?’ Robert asked Michael over their fish-pie school dinner.

  ‘Patrolling the local area and helping any animals that have been injured in the air raids. And taking injured animals and strays to the rescue centre. I’m going to help him.’

  One day, if he passed enough exams, Michael hoped to be a vet.

  Robert was fascinated by Michael’s dad’s work as an Animal Guard and now a NARPAC volunteer; he wished he could be doing something useful to help with the war effort too. But the other kids in Michael’s class made fun of him for it.

  ‘You smell like a dog, Michael,’ a boy in the next row of desks said.

  Michael didn’t care. He liked the smell of dogs.

  ‘Your parents are crazy for letting you stay in London, Michael,’ some kids at the next table said. ‘Don’t they read the posters?’

  There were posters everywhere telling parents it was better for their children to be moved out of London and away from the risk of bombs to the safety of the countryside. One showed Hitler whispering to an unsuspecting mother that she was wrong to send her children away. ‘You’re doing what Hitler wants by letting them stay,’ read the caption.

  ‘You’re playing right into Jerry’s hands, Michael,’ said Mark Talbot. Everyone had started calling the Germans Jerries.

  ‘Don’t let them get to you,’ Robert told Michael.

  Michael just shrugged. ‘I won’t.’

  Most people in the class were looking forward to being evacuated and saw it as a great adventure. They didn’t think it would last long. ‘It’ll just be for a few weeks and then Hitler will surrender and the Jerries will go crying back to their mums and we’ll come home victorious,’ Mark Talbot said.

  ‘Few weeks’ free holiday,’ grinned Dick Holmes.

  ‘My mum says I’m to make the most of it,’ said Emily Clarke.

  ‘Shame Sloggings has got to come though,’ everyone agreed.

  Mr Sloggart was their form teacher. He was a short bald man who always wore a mortar board hat and gown, and had round-rimmed glasses. His face went very red when he got in a temper. Robert tried not to be one of the ones who riled him because Mr Sloggart could be pretty free with the cane on your hand or backside if you got on the wrong side of him.

  ‘Bet you wish you were coming with the rest of us,’ Dick said to Robert.

  ‘It looks like it’s going to be fun,’ Robert said. But he was more envious of Michael being allowed to stay in London and help with the war effort than of those who were being evacuated with the school. He wished he could stay too. But all those parents who had relatives in the countryside who could look after their children had been advised to send them there.

  Mrs Edwards had been worried about it at first.

  ‘Make sure you and Lucy are no trouble to your gran, and help out as much as you can. She’s very frail and hasn’t been finding it at all easy since your grandfather passed away.’

  Robert and Lucy both promised that they’d be no trouble at all.

  There was a letter from their gran waiting for Robert when he got home from school that day. He took it up to his room where he found Tiger curled up on his bed. Robert shifted him over a bit to make some room.

  ‘What’s it say?’ Lucy asked, coming to stand in the doorway, with Rose behind her. Gran hadn’t written a letter to Lucy.

  Robert tore the envelope open.

  My dearest Bertie,

  I hope you are well and have the warm socks I made you. I heard that the trenches can get terribly cold. The chicken with the damaged wing laid three speckled eggs this week.

  I’m so looking forward to Robert and Lucy’s visit and have made some cakes for them. If only the Great War was over and you could come home. I do miss you …

  ‘It doesn’t make much sense,’ Robert said, as he handed Lucy the letter to read.

  ‘Who’s Bertie?’

  ‘Uncle Bertie – Mum’s older brother. He died before we were born.’

  ‘So the letter wasn’t really to you?’

  ‘She sent it here.’

  Lucy frowned. ‘Gran’s not really OK, is she?’

  ‘We’ll manage.’

  ‘But will she be able to look after us?’

  ‘Course. And anyway, we can look after ourselves.’

  Lucy nodded. No need to show the letter to Mum. She’d only worry.

  Chapter 3

  Tension filled the air as Robert and Lucy sat on the floor by the wireless waiting to hear the prime minister, Mr Chamberlain, address the nation. Robert watched his mother squeeze his father’s hand.

  ‘Does it really have to come to this?’ she said softly.

  Two days ago, on September the first, Germany had invaded Poland. Yesterday Mr Chamberlain had issued an ultimatum to say that if the German troops were not withdrawn, then war would be declared. Everyone had known that Britain could be forced to declare war to stop Hitler’s attempted takeover of Europe, but no one wanted ano
ther world war. Many people’s memories were still full of horrific recollections of the first one.

  Robert thought Britain would be right if it went to war. Mr Hitler was a bully and Britain couldn’t let the bullies win. Sometimes he found himself wishing he was old enough to go and fight. But he never said so because he knew his mother’s elder brother – who he was named after – had died during the Great War. He felt a bit guilty for not telling his parents about Gran’s odd letter, but they already had so much to worry about. They didn’t need him adding to it. This wasn’t like a fight at school; people, possibly millions of people, were going to be killed.

  At precisely 11.15 Mr Chamberlain started to speak. His voice was sombre.

  ‘I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at 10 Downing Street. This morning the British ambassador in Berlin handed the German government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by 11.00 a.m. that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.

  ‘I have to tell you that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.’

  Lucy gasped and put her hand to her mouth. A tear rolled down Mrs Edwards’s face. The news she’d been dreading had come.

  Mr Chamberlain continued: ‘Up to the very last it would have been quite possible to have arranged a peaceful and honourable settlement between Germany and Poland, but Hitler would not have it.’

  Buster rolled over so his head was resting on Rose. She didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘His actions show convincingly that there is no chance of expecting that this man will ever give up his practice of using force to gain his will. He can only be stopped by force.’

  Robert looked at Mr Edwards’s clenched fist. Mrs Edwards and Lucy looked shocked and bewildered. Only the pets seemed to be at peace. At least they had no idea of what was to come. Tiger was curled up in Mum’s lap, Rose was dozing on the rug in front of the unlit fire with Buster lying with his head resting on her back.

  ‘You may be taking part in the fighting services or as a volunteer in one of the branches of civil defence. If so, you will report for duty in accordance with the instructions you have received.

  ‘You may be engaged in work essential to the prosecution of war for the maintenance of the life of the people – in factories, in transport, in public utility concerns or in the supply of other necessaries of life. If so, it is of vital importance that you should carry on with your jobs.

  ‘Now may God bless you all. May He defend the right. It is the evil things that we shall be fighting against – brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution – and against them I am certain that the right will prevail.’

  At the end of Mr Chamberlain’s devastating news the air-raid sirens sounded and even the pets’ peace was shattered. It was an eerie wailing sound like a banshee heralding death.

  Tiger leapt off Mrs Edwards’s lap and raced away up the stairs to Lucy’s bed. Rose growled and then started to bark, and Buster ran to Robert for reassurance.

  ‘It’s all right, Buster,’ Robert said as he stroked the little dog and the sound of the air-raid siren faded away. But he knew that it wasn’t all right. Not all right at all, really.

  Mr Edwards pulled on his coat. ‘I need to get back to the airbase,’ he said.

  Mrs Edwards ran upstairs to fetch his suitcase, which was already packed with his pilot’s uniform as he’d been due to leave in the morning. Now it seemed there was no time to waste.

  ‘I don’t want you to go,’ Lucy said.

  Mr Edwards hugged her to him. ‘I have to, poppet,’ he told her. ‘We can’t let Mr Hitler win, can we?’

  Lucy shook her head.

  Mr Edwards shook Robert’s hand. ‘Take good care of them,’ he said.

  ‘I will,’ Robert told him. ‘I won’t let anything bad happen.’

  ‘Good lad. And you be good,’ he told Lucy.

  ‘I will,’ she promised.

  Buster looked up at Mr Edwards and wagged his tail.

  ‘You be good too,’ Mr Edwards told him, as he patted the little dog.

  Mrs Edwards handed him his suitcase and he kissed her. Then he pulled the front door open and hurried down the path before they could see the tears in his eyes.

  Rose watched him go from the doorway. Tiger watched him from Lucy’s bedroom window ledge.

  Buster whined and Mrs Edwards looked down. He had one of Mr Edwards’s new slippers in his mouth.

  When Mr Edwards arrived back at the airfield that evening, he was greeted by the voice of Adolf Hitler on the wireless. ‘Britain need expect nothing other than annihilation as an enemy of the nation of Germany.’

  ‘Sad day,’ the wing commander said.

  Mr Edwards couldn’t agree more. It was indeed a very sad day. He put his suitcase on his bed to unpack later and went over to the pigeon loft. His old friend Jim, the pigeon wrangler with the long moustache, handed him a cup of tea in a tin mug. He was just about to feed the birds.

  ‘There’ll need to be more reconnaissance flights now.’

  Mr Edwards nodded and took a swig of his tea. Jim’s tea was so strong people joked that the teaspoon stood up by itself in it.

  ‘More danger to your lot and the WAAFs.’

  Mr Edwards nodded again.

  The Women’s Auxiliary Air Force weren’t actually allowed to be involved with combat flights as it was felt that life-givers shouldn’t also be life-takers. But they flew the planes from one airfield to another and were part of the ground crew. Their roles included aircraft detection, code-breaking and, most importantly to Mr Edwards, analysis of the reconnaissance photographs that his crew took.

  Many pilots wanted to be fighters in the war, but Mr Edwards knew that the photo reconnaissance missions he was involved in were often more important and more productive than the bombing missions. Information was needed both before attacking the enemy and afterwards to see what had been achieved.

  Jim’s pigeons too had an important role to play. They could mean the difference between an SOS message getting through and the crew from a plane that had been hit being rescued – or not.

  Once a homing pigeon understood that their home was their home, they knew with some amazing instinct how to get back to it, from anywhere. And as the airfield was now their home, to the airfield they would always return, bringing their vital message, written on a tiny piece of tissue paper in the carrier that was attached to their leg.

  ‘See you’ve got some eggs,’ Mr Edwards said.

  ‘Yup,’ Jim said, twirling his moustache. ‘Should hatch in another day or two.’

  These eggs had come from two of his best homing birds and he had high hopes for the hatchlings that came from them. Training the squabs would start even before the young birds had taken their first flight.

  Jim would put food and water in the pigeon loft so the young pigeons would know that was where they were fed. This needed to be done for a minimum of two weeks. Once the two weeks were up, he’d let the birds out for the first time.

  Some of them would fly around crazily. Some of them would flutter about a little and then walk about on the ground instead. But when they were hungry they’d return to the loft to eat.

  Gradually, Jim would increase the distance he took the birds before releasing them and letting them return to the loft, until he was five and then ten and then even fifty miles away.

  The older birds who’d reached the fifty-mile stage still needed to practise regularly, and Jim would drive off with them once a week and release them from different points and places so they could find their way home from any direction.

  ‘The first few weeks are the hardest. More than one of them has caused me to want to pull my hair out and wonder if they had any homing instinct at all. But once it kicks in and the birds start flying home, it’s pretty wonderful to see.’

>   Mr Edwards smiled and put his empty tin mug down.

  ‘See you in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll have two of my best waiting for you.’

  Flight Lieutenant William Edwards was one of the favoured few who was welcome at the pigeon loft. Jim was very strict about who went near it because more than anything the pigeons needed to feel safe there and want to return home when they were released. ‘If you scare the birds by poking your fingers into their loft, then they won’t want to come home, will they? And some poor bloke might be dead because of it,’ he’d say to anyone foolish enough to do so.

  Mr Edwards headed over to the aircraft hangar. He was the pilot of a Blenheim plane that he’d christened Buster. The Blenheims had only been around for a few years and previously he’d flown a biplane that had been much slower. His Blenheim could reach 260mph.

  It was constructed of all-metal materials with the wings positioned midway up the fuselage and, unlike his old biplane, it had retractable landing gear and flaps.

  Buster was a creation of beauty in Mr Edwards’s opinion – although hard to handle, and freezing cold. It had a crew of four, and all the airmen had thick, fleecy coats to wear.

  ‘She’s all ready to go, sir,’ the engineer called out to him from the cockpit window.

  Mr Edwards put his thumbs up.

  There was not a lot of room for the pilot in the Blenheim and the tips of the propellers were only a foot or so away from the cockpit side windows.

  It was so cramped that when he sat in his place, on the left side of the plane’s nose, he couldn’t even see some of the instruments. The propeller pitch control was behind him and had to be operated by touch alone.

  Cramped or not, he loved his plane. But that evening he looked at it and worried. It was better at night flights, but during the day, out on a reconnaissance sortie, would it really stand a chance against a German Messerschmitt?

  Chapter 4

  The total black-out from 1 September onwards meant that no house lights, car headlights or street lights were allowed to be seen. This did not put Tiger or his cat friends off their night-time prowl. Tiger arrived home at a little before dawn, just as Mr Edwards was setting off on a flight to France.