She stood in the doorway holding it in both hands. It was very heavy.
‘It’s like Christmas,’ Joyce said, thrilled by it. ‘What’s in it? Ain’t you going’ to open it, our Barbara?’
They could hardly unpack the thing in the hall because there was nowhere to set it down except the floor, so they all trooped upstairs again. Luckily Bob was at work and Heather had gone to the pictures with Sis, so they had the kitchen to themselves. Barbara put the box on the table and all four girls scrambled to unpack it. It was full of tinned food, all of it rationed, peaches, pears, spam, corned beef, three different kinds of jam, stewed steak, powdered egg, even sweets. A cornucopia.
Victor was hovering beside them, watching Barbara’s face. ‘D’you like it?’ he asked.
But she didn’t answer him. I can’t take all this, she was thinking. Thass much too much. Thass embarrassing. Why couldn’t he have brought me a couple of tins? Half a dozen maybe? That would have been acceptable. But this …
Betty was stunned by the sight of it. ‘Good God!’ she said. ‘How d’you get hold of all that? It’s enough to feed a regiment.’
‘Ain’t it lovely, our Barbara?’ Joyce said, fingering a tin of peaches. The mere thought of such a feast was making her stomach ache to eat it.
Hazel had been reading the labels in her studious way. ‘This is American,’ she said, holding up a tin of sweets. ‘USA, it says here. Have you been to America?’
‘Surplus stock,’ Vic explained easily. ‘War damaged. I work for a middle man. He let me have it. That’s where I was last week, as a matter of fact. Seeing as I stood you up I thought I ought to make amends.’
Barbara was thinking hard. It didn’t look damaged at all. What if he’s a spiv? she wondered. That could be nicked or bought on the black market. Either way it certainly wasn’t right. ‘I can’t take it,’ she said at last. ‘That wouldn’t be fair. Not when everything’s rationed. I mean, if I have it, somebody else’ll be going short.’
He was quite unmoved by that argument. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, shrugging his padded shoulders. ‘If you don’t have it, that’ll only get thrown on the scrap heap.’
That caused an outcry. ‘You can’t throw it on the scrap heap,’ Hazel protested. ‘That’s good food.’
‘Oh have some of it,’ Joyce begged her cousin. ‘A tin a’ peaches or something. That wouldn’t matter, would it? A little tin a’ peaches.’
‘Quite right, littl’un,’ Victor said. ‘If you want it, you have it. I brought it for all of you. Better’n throw it on the scrap heap, that’s what I say.’
‘Oh it is!’ Joyce agreed. ‘Ain’t it, our Barbara? We couldn’t throw it on the scrap heap.’
Torn between their hunger and her own conscience, Barbara came up with a possible compromise. ‘Orl right then,’ she said. ‘We’ll share it between us then. Four quarters. Three for you lot and one for me.’ That would be fair and it would cut her own share to manageable proportions.
‘It’s all good stuff,’ Victor said, as she and Betty began the division. ‘You’ll love it.’
Having made her decision, Barbara was cool again. ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve ate some of it,’ she said. ‘You never can tell with tins. Specially when thass war damaged.’
Good old Phossie, Victor thought, as he watched them. He’d said food would be the best present. ‘Nobody’s gonna turn their nose up at a bit of extra, you mark my words. Not when the rations are so microscopic.’ And he’d been right. She’d only accepted his offering on sufferance, he understood that, but she had accepted it. ‘Who’s for the flicks?’ he said happily.
Joyce and Hazel were eager but Barbara’s share of the tins had to be stacked away inside the cupboard before she was ready. To have left them on the table for Heather to find when she got home would have been too like deliberate provocation.
As it was, the goods weren’t seen until the following morning, when the kettle was coming up to the boil and Heather opened the cupboard to get the tea-caddy. Then they provoked a quarrel.
‘What’s this?’ Heather said. ‘Where did all these tins come from?’
‘Victor brought them last night,’ Barbara explained, a bit too boldly. ‘Thass surplus stock. Betty’s got some too. He brought it here for us an’ we divided it up.’
Heather sniffed her derision. ‘Surplus stock my eye,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday. That’s off the black market.’
‘Thass what he said. I’m onny tellin’ you what he said.’
‘We shall have the police round,’ Heather warned. ‘The black market’s illegal.’
‘Better eat it quick, then,’ Bob grinned. ‘Before they catch us red-handed.’
Heather closed the cupboard door and busied herself with the tea. ‘Well you can count me out,’ she told them. ‘I’m not eatin’ black market food an’ that’s flat. I don’t hold with the black market. Set of crooks they are. You don’t want to have anything to do with them. They’re just a flash in the pan. Bob’ll tell you. Steer well clear of them. That’s my advice.’
But her advice wasn’t taken and the flash in the pan turned up at regular intervals to escort the girls to the cinema and the dancehall and to provide chocolate and toffees and yet another collection of tins. And as the weeks went by and the tins sat temptingly in her cupboard, she gradually came round to the notion that a steak pie would be preferable to yet another plateful of sausage and mash and that the food might as well be eaten ‘now it’s here’.
‘I still don’t approve, mind,’ she said, as she dished up the pie. ‘I just don’t like to see things go to waste.’
‘Quite right,’ Bob said, holding up his plate.
Joyce and Hazel had no qualms of conscience at all. By the time they broke up for the long summer holiday at the end of July, their share of the loot had long since been eaten and forgotten. When Vic turned up at the cinema with a box of chocolates they were simply and plainly delighted.
‘He ain’t half nice,’ Hazel said, when she and her sisters were out shopping with Barbara the next day. ‘Don’t you think so, our Barbara?’
‘He’s orl right,’ she allowed. ‘He’s got deep pockets, thass what t’is.’
‘Has he?’ Hazel said, and determined to look at them the next time they were out together.
But Heather went on fretting and the more often he appeared at her gate the stronger her disapproval grew. ‘She should send him packing,’ she complained to Bob. ‘She’s got no business gallivanting off with another man, not now she’s married to our Steve. It’s not fair. I still think someone ought to tell him.’
‘He’ll be home soon,’ Bob hoped. ‘I mean the war can’t go on for ever. There has to be an end to it sooner or later.’
She sniffed her scorn at his naivety. ‘You’re an optimist!’
‘Well maybe they’ll let him have some leave then. You never know. Wait till he’s home an’ let him sort it out for himself.’
Three days later the news bulletins justified his optimism. ‘Germans in full retreat’ the headlines yelled. ‘Broken army scrambles for Falaise exit.’ ‘Chaos as sky armada smash choked roads.’
Chapter Sixteen
‘This is more like it,’ Steve said, grinning at his mates in the TCV. They’d been travelling at speed all morning and there was no doubt that the Germans really were pulling back at last.
The sudden change of pace had lifted their spirits. They felt like conquerors, as the foreign fields rushed past them and the vehicle yawed excitingly every time it took a corner and rocked like a ship along the empty roads, the whine of its four-wheel drive high-pitched with effort.
‘Berlin by teatime,’ Dusty grinned. ‘This is the life.’
In fact, life in their high-sided vehicle was extremely uncomfortable, even at that moment with the sides down to give them more air. Respirators and packs hung from the roof bars in the ceiling, their rifles were propped against their knees and the tip-up seats grew harder by the mile. But it had
been their home since they landed and they were used to it. They’d eaten there, dozed there, smoked, played cards, joked, grieved. They hadn’t stopped for anything, not even to answer the call of nature. They’d simply stood on the mounting steps, usually with a mate to hang on to their webbing straps to stop them from falling, unbuttoned their flies and sprayed the road. The first time necessity had forced him to do such a thing, Steve had been embarrassed. Now he was even used to that. It was the way things were on active service and nothing compared to being under fire.
‘All we need’s that port,’ he said, ‘and then we can really get cracking.’ Lack of a proper port had put an immense strain on their supply lines, as they were all aware, because everything they needed was still being brought in through the Mulberry harbours or straight onto the beaches. As they drove along, they’d been speculating about which port would be captured first. Steve favoured Cherbourg, Dusty thought the Yanks would go for Brest.
‘Hold on to yer hats,’ the driver called out. ‘We got a welcome committee.’
They were instantly alert. ‘Jerries?’
‘No. See fer yerselves.’
They looked out over the open sides of the truck and saw that they were driving between an avenue of pollarded trees towards a small, dusty village. It was run-down and dishevelled but it hadn’t been bombed, which was a first, and there was no sign of the Germans, which was another. Instead, standing in line along both sides of the road was a group of local people, mostly women, some kids, a few old men. Two of the women were holding up a large tricolore and they were all waving.
The convoy slowed to a crawl and the company hung over the sides of the truck to wave back, blowing kisses and grinning themselves silly. And at that, there was an eruption of sound, a clatter of clogs as more people came running down the village street, carrying flowers, weeping and calling, ‘Vive la France! Vive les anglais! Vive la liberation!’ as they joined the crowd running along beside the trucks. The air was full of petals, rising and falling, like a scented snowstorm, pink and white roses and hundreds of huge white daisies with golden centres. They fell across the bonnet and into the truck, caught on respirators, hung on upturned rifles, carpeted the floor.
Steve found he had a lump in his throat. We’re liberating them, he thought, looking down at their joyful faces. We’re setting them free. Now we really are the British Liberation Army. It was a wonderful moment.
But there wasn’t time to dwell on it. It was time for happy action. One of the village girls managed to clamber onto the running board and leant across to tuck a white daisy into Dusty’s tunic, and after that there were girls everywhere, clinging on to the sides, standing on the mounting steps, thrusting gifts of flowers and wine into every available hand, kissing every available mouth.
They were escorted through the village in a triumphal procession and by the time the dusty streets were left behind and the TCV finally picked up speed again, they were all quite dizzy.
‘What d’you know about that?’ Dusty said, flushed with kisses. ‘I reckon I could’ve clicked with that redhead.’
‘Do you think they’ll give us flowers an’ things at the next place?’ the newest recruit wanted to know.
‘In this war,’ the corporal said, ‘there’s no telling.’
The next place they came to was a small market town and here they were pelted with fruit as well as flowers. Dusty got hit on the forehead by a large apple, which he said had to be travelling at about forty-five miles an hour, given the combined speeds of truck and projection. It split open on impact and left him with a colourful bruise for which he was teased all the way to the next village. The girls were bolder in the town too and climbed right into the truck to sit on the nearest lap and get down to some serious snogging. And by that time the floor of the truck was like a meadow, completely covered in daisies.
‘This is the life!’ Dusty said. His face was rosy with lipstick smears and he was grinning so widely it was a wonder he didn’t crack his mouth. ‘D’you see the one I had? What a bint! Another ten minutes an’ I could have …’ And he was off into an erotic fantasy.
The others encouraged him, cheering him on. But Steve was quiet. The girls had fallen into his lap too and being kissed had roused him most powerfully. Now he felt ashamed of his reaction, normal though it was. It wasn’t the way he’d intended to go on, not now he was married. He should have been above temptation, true to his darling, not lusting after the first eager woman to wind her arms round his neck. But oh God, the scent of them, after all these months in the field, the lovely warm familiar female scent, the swell of their breasts, the sheer sensation of passionate lips on his. It was irresistible. But it would have to be his secret, he certainly couldn’t tell Barbara what he’d been up to. It wasn’t something anyone could understand unless they’d been through it themselves – like everything else in this war.
Dusty was still gloating, ‘Boy oh boy, what a little cracker! Roll on the next village! This is the life!’
‘Make the most of it,’ the corporal warned. ‘We could be back in action round the next bend.’
In fact their return to duty was a mere three miles further down the road where the truck stopped abruptly and they were ordered to debus.
‘We’ve caught up with the tanks,’ the major explained. ‘Fun’s over for the moment. This road’s mined, so we can’t go any further until that’s dealt with, and we want some snipers flushed. Corporal, take eight men down this side road till you reach the wood, then turn right and there should be a footpath. Go down the footpath. Keep under cover as far as possible. If the cover peters out, come back to the road. Your job is to locate and deal with snipers and find out the enemy strength on the other side, if that’s possible. Sergeant Benson, take another eight and clean the snipers out of the wood to the west of the path. You should see the tanks about a hundred yards up. Move off in ten minutes.’
Being back to the old stomach-wrenching fear again after so much joy was very hard to take. But there was a job to do and they got on with it. Brutally.
The first sniper was ridiculously easy to spot. He was up in a tree and they picked him off before he could fire a shot, watching with gloating satisfaction as he fell. The second only revealed his position when he put them under fire and he’d wounded the new recruit before they could flush him out.
After the rattle and terror of their exchange it was suddenly very quiet.
‘Look after Tosher,’ the corporal said to Steve. ‘The rest of you follow me. There could be another bugger. Keep yer eyes skinned.’
‘They’re in the bleedin’ barn,’ a weak voice said.
It seemed to be coming from the ditch a few yards ahead of them and it sounded faintly Scottish but they approached it with caution, just the same. The Jerries were up to all sorts of tricks. But no, it was a Scotsman, a great big fellow, patiently lying on his side and pale from loss of blood which was seeping from a wound in his back.
They questioned him quickly and he told them all he knew. ‘Six, with a machine gun and a panzerfaust, covering the entrance.’ They’d taken him prisoner that morning. Or he thought it was that morning. He was vague about the time. When he’d tried to make a run for it, they’d shot him in the back.
‘Never turn yer back on the bleeders,’ he advised, as Steve put a field dressing on his wound. ‘They’re nae to be trusted.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ Steve promised. And did. Long after most of the other events of the day were blurred by fatigue. It seemed typical of the way the Germans were waging this war, setting up concentration camps, shooting people in the back, sending pilotless planes to bomb civilians. Still, he thought, at least we’ll soon be dealing with the launch sites, if we keep up this pace.
And, marvellously, they did keep it up. By August 15th, they’d reached the river Vie and once across, they had a clear run along the new Route National to another river called the Risle. There they found that all the bridges had been destroyed by the retreating German
s, which was only to be expected, but the Inniskillings were with them and they discovered a bridge near Montfort and another in a fairly good state at Pont Authou, which was a mile upstream, so by the end of the afternoon, the entire Armoured Brigade was safely across. Then there were only a few miles of rolling countryside between them and the Seine. There were still skirmishes to fight, but there was time to eat and time to sleep. There was even time to write home.
Steve’s letters to Barbara were a commentary on the speed of the campaign. By now their progress was so widely reported that he felt he could tell her where he was, if he kept it vaguely general, and what he was doing, if he kept it carefully brief. There were far too many things he couldn’t write about, like the bitter street fighting in Lisieux, or the truck that took a direct hit, or the fact that he never passed a day without being afraid, or the fact that he could now kill his enemy without remorse or pity, the way he’d shot that sniper in the tree. I’ve changed, he thought sadly, as he took up his pen. I’m not the man she married. But he certainly couldn’t tell her that. All he could do was to keep her informed and let her know he was still safe and well. And give her good news whenever he could. As he did that August.
28th August.
We are in the Foret de Bretonne and have reached the Seine. There is a rumour that we have destroyed several of the flying bomb launch sites. Let’s hope so. It’s too much to hope they’ll have stopped but are you noticing a difference?
31st August.
It is pouring with rain but we are still on the move.
7th September.
We have crossed the Belgian frontier and are at rest in a town with a beautiful town hall. Belgian civvies came out in their hundreds to welcome us. The girls were wearing the Belgian national colours, which are red, yellow and black. There was a public lavatory in the square and we all used it. Sheer luxury.
20th September.
Still at rest.
7th October.
In Holland. Very flat polder country. Reminds me of East Anglia. Plenty of food because we have taken a German food depot. You never saw so much meat and butter. No wonder Goering is so fat.
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