Crystal's Song

by Millie Gray

  Danny had responded by roughly pushing her hand away. “You’ll get what’s left when I decide to come – and that’s if I decide to come hame.”

  “That right? And you’ll get …” she responded as she raised her hand to hit him.

  “Look, Danny,” the barman intervened. “Tak oot your pocket money and fling the rest at her. Ye ken, if ye gie her the bloody nose she’s asking for, we’ll end up wi’ the polis in here.”

  “Look, sonny boy,” Patsy sneered, “if he tries slapping me he’ll end up sleeping on a slab while Alex Stoddard shrouds him.”

  “That right?” cackled the barman, as he enticed all the men in the pub to join him in jeering at Patsy.

  Unperturbed, Patsy now individually eyed each of the men in the bar by turn and her steely stare silenced every one of them. “That’s better,” she said, flinging back her head when the cat-calling stopped. “And don’t any of you forget that I’m the daughter o’ the prize fighter, Shaun O’Leary!”

  From that day on, Danny Kelly always went home with his weekly pay packet which he handed over to Patsy unopened. Once she had opened the packet she gave him his pocket money and then he went off to put his feet in the sawdust. Senga knew that, for all Granny Patsy’s waspish tongue and fierce demeanour when dealing with Granddad Danny, she had a soft streak when it came to dealing with her mother Dinah, willingly taking on all her responsibilities. And of course, for her grandchildren she would have readily lain down and died. Oh aye. Wasn’t she always saying, “The very reason for living – so my grand-bairns are.”

  On entering the house, Senga was immediately greeted by a big grin from her Granny who leapt across the floor and grabbed her in a tight embrace. “Gosh! Are you not a treat for sore eyes!” But then she quickly released Senga and asked, “Why are you not at school, my lass?”

  “Mammy says it’s more important for me to look after Phyllis than trying to keep up with the class. And then there’s Elsie to see to when she gets back from nursery.”

  “Aw, aw, aw, aw,” groaned Patsy, shaking her head. “Look here, lassie, you need to get an education. Surely you don’t want to be like your Daddy and no be able to read or write?”

  Senga just shrugged. She had missed so much schooling by now that there was word of her being put in the duffers’ class and she knew that was what would certainly happen – provided she wasn’t sent off to the bad girls’ school first.

  “By the way, I met your Granny Glass in the pork butcher’s queue the day and she was asking if there’d been any word yet from your Daddy?”

  Senga shook her head. Poor Granny Mary, she thought. Just like Granny Patsy, she was small in stature but she was so thin, careworn and round-shouldered that she always looked ten years older than her years. She was regularly bullied by her husband, Jack Glass, a big strapping scunner of a man. And, to add to her problems, he always stayed so long in the pub on pay night that there was very little of his pay left when he staggered out. The lack of a decent share from Jack’s earnings resulted in Granny Mary taking on any jobs she could get. She did anything: scrubbing stairs, washing, ironing and looking after bairns. And as if a bad husband, whose gas she couldn’t put in a peep, was not enough for her to be going on with, she also had one son, Billy, who was a jail-bird, and another who wasn’t quite the full shilling. And as luck would have it, the one she was so proud of, Senga’s dad, Tam, was now missing in France. Senga sighed, thinking how daft it was for Granny Mary to ask if there was any word from her dad, when she well knew he couldn’t write. It was only then she remembered that she hadn’t told Granny Patsy how the war was catching up with them and, come next Monday morning, she, Tess and Johnny were all to be evacuated.

  On hearing this, Patsy nodded thoughtfully. “Not a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all. You three being away means your mother will have to stay in at night – and you’ll get some proper schooling in reading and counting.”

  Senga just nodded before realising it was high time for her to tell Granny that Mammy had nothing to confess this Friday – or (to be truthful) nothing she would really want Father O’Riley to know about! However, before summoning up all her courage by taking deep breaths, she looked around the room and noticed the brown paper bag on the dresser. “Good,” she thought to herself. “Granny Glass has sent us a bag of Crawford’s Rich Tea broken biscuits. That’ll please Phyllis. She just loves having somebody dunk them in tea for her.”

  2

  Tam Glass, his long thin bones aching in the blazing sun, was finding it hard to resign himself to his fate. Here he was, at the age of thirty-two, seated on the hard paving stones of a French village square and faced with the certainty of captivity. “How long did they say this business would last?” he asked himself. “Last year they told us it would all be over by Christmas.” He laughed bitterly. “Aye, that was just what they said in the last war, but Christmas 1914 came and went. It didn’t end till November 1918 and there were millions dead or maimed afore they declared a cease-fire!”

  “Tam!” The voice of young Eddie broke abruptly into Tam’s train of thought. “How d’you think it’ll go for us?”

  Eddie was a mere stripling of nineteen years, whom Tam had befriended from the very day they’d joined up. So close had they become that Tam now knew a great deal about Eddie, who had grown to have complete trust in the older man. Tam soon learned that the young fellow had been adopted and reared by an elderly couple who felt it was their Christian duty to drum the fear of God into him – but he knew nothing about the lad’s birth mother. No doubt Eddie himself was completely in the dark on that subject. All he’d ever said was that he’d been quite lonely before he met up with a lassie called Betty at the Church Youth Group. Now that his adoptive mother was dead, Betty had come to be Eddie’s sheet-anchor in life and it was his firm resolve to marry her (if only she would have him) because she was so beautiful and vivacious.

  Tam chuckled when he heard that. It was obvious that a handsome young fellow like Eddie was a catch that any sensible girl would jump at – even a much sought-after redhead, as Betty must surely be from Eddie’s enthusiastic description. Tam’s mind went back to the lad’s question about the war and he wondered if he should speak the truth and say that he simply didn’t know how they’d be treated as prisoners of war and that he too was every bit as shit-scared as his young pal. But before he could answer, the voice of authority boomed out: “Right now, my lads! Stack all your rifles here by the wall. The last-ditch defence is over for us.”

  Tam nudged Eddie and they both stood up to obey the order from Sergeant Fred Armstrong, the most senior soldier left with the rearguard.

  Andrew Young, who preferred to be known as Andy, stayed firmly seated on the ground and, instead of obeying the order, gallantly squared up to the sergeant. “Are you telling us Royal Scots, who are the First of Foot – Right of the Line –”

  “– and the pride of the British army no less,” butted in Charlie Tracey, who in turn was interrupted.

  This time the continuity was broken by George McIntyre who added zealously, “And with us being the oldest regiment in the British army, and well-known to have been Pontius Pilate’s own bodyguard to boot, you’re wanting us to surrender like a bunch o’ yellow-livered cowards, are ye?” George then looked contemptuously towards the English squad.

  Fred shook his head wearily. “Look here, lads. It’s no about being seen as cowards – it’s all about survival! About living to fight another day – when we will win!”

  “But we could make a stand right here,” protested George.

  “Now, let’s just get this straight. There are seventy-five of us men here, and that’s counting the twenty-four English and Welsh lads. Most of you are raw recruits and we’ve only got some pesky rifles whose ammunition is running out. So d’you really think we could take on three crack infantry divisions who’ll be backed up by at least a hundred German tanks manned by battle-hardened experts?”

  The men all looked from one to the oth
er. Some had felt quite proud to be the expendable flank that would take on and delay the enemy so that the greater part of the British Expeditionary Force could retreat to Dunkirk and await rescue there. Others were seething, feeling they’d been sacrificed and abandoned by all their officers without a backward glance; and, as Charlie had remarked: “Look, if a hundred thousand gutless French, who’re waitin’ at Dunkirk to do a bunk, dinnae think their country’s worth fighting for – then why the hell are we still here?” Every man there nodded his head and voiced agreement.

  Most of the men, like Tam Glass and young Eddie Gibson, had been called up in December 1939, and had been given the very minimum of basic training before being shipped off to France on 19 April 1940. What was so galling was that word had spread through the ranks that the British High Command already knew the defence of France was a lost cause! And now here they were, being ordered to capitulate and submit to the glorious but merciless Third Reich, just as the French had done!

  Fred was running a quick eye over his men when he discovered young Billy Morrison was missing. “Where in the name of heaven is Private Morrison?” he bellowed.

  “Fraternising with some French chick, for sure,” suggested Tam with a chuckle.

  “The one in Rouen?”

  “Aye, Sarge. And she’ll be his ruin afore lang, nae doot,” quipped Tam, who was still highly amused.

  “But how on earth did he get there?”

  “Billy came across an auld motorbike – and bein’ such a handy wee bloke got it goin’ again in nae time – an’ the last we saw was him riding off some wye yonder,” chipped in George, pointing vaguely westwards.

  The sudden rumble of approaching tanks silenced everyone. Men prayed silently; some crossed themselves; all stood up straight as the usual German calling-card of gunfire heralded the enemy’s arrival. Unnerved by the barrage, eight of the English lads grabbed their rifles and decided to make a dash for it into the cornfield that bordered the village. “Dinnae dae that!” Fred shouted as loud as he could. “If you’re caught with guns at the ready they’ll mow you down. Come back here! It’s useless to make a stand. Believe me, I would take them on if I thought we could win – but I ken it’s useless!”

  The men ignored Fred’s plea and disappeared into the field just as the first tank loomed into view, flanked by a platoon of infantrymen. “Raise your hands, boys,” ordered Fred.

  “Might as well,” conceded Tam. “’Cause let’s face it, lads. We’ve been shafted an’ the bloomin’ war’s over for us.”

  Eddie nodded. “See, if anyone had telt me when we were called up that six months later we’d be throwing in the towel somewhere in the middle of France – what’s the name of this blinking wee place, onyway?”

  “Mauquenchy. Just outside Rouen,” said Fred knowledgeably.

  Once the foremost tanks had taken up position on either side of the square and the German infantrymen were grouped around them with their rifles at the ready, Tam noted that they had left a straight open corridor. He was just about to remark on this to Fred when a jeep-type vehicle driven at speed appeared on the horizon and eventually halted abruptly a few feet from the capitulating British. The driver, whom Tam judged to be a batman, jumped from the vehicle and ran to open the door for the German Oberleutnant, Gunther Wengler. Tam could do no less than admire the man. He was, without a doubt, what the Führer wanted the world to acknowledge: that German officers were all fair, pure-bred Aryans, who wore the Third Reich uniform with panache. In Gunther’s case it was more than mere swagger, for he strode with an air of military resplendence, yet always seemed both cool and debonair. The desired effect was heightened as he rhythmically whipped his cane upon his highly polished boots.

  Gazing at the immaculate officer, Tam thought, “Aye, son, you may have a batman to press your uniform, spit and polish your boots and run your bath, but are you as lucky as me with a lovely Dinah at home?” Instinctively, Tam felt under his armpits where sweat from a long overdue wash mingled with the exudation of the panic he was trying to keep in check. To keep himself under control, he let his mind escape into a dream-world where his thoughts were back home with his beloved Dinah. A sly smile came to his face when he remembered how every Saturday night she would get into the bath beside him and wash the weariness from his back and massage his aching bones until they relaxed.

  Tam’s daydreaming stopped abruptly when he realised that Fred had called on Andy Young, who was fluent in English, Scots, German and French, to act as interpreter for himself and Gunther because, for all his poise, Gunther could speak no English and Fred had no understanding of German.

  “Our glorious Field Marshal Erwin Rommel has instructed me to advise you men,” Gunther explained through Andy, “that you are now all prisoners of war. You will be treated by us in accordance with the Geneva Convention. Along with all our other prisoners you will be taken by truck to Scramen and then you will march to Amstelveen. He also hopes your detention won’t be long.”

  “March to Amstelveen?” exclaimed Fred. “But that’s over a hundred miles away.”

  Andy nodded. “Aye, it’s about two-hundred and fifty kilometres in foreign money. So everyone better make sure they’ve all got their heavy boots on – and that’s every man amongst us!”

  “And where to, after that?” came an anxious chorus.

  Andy spoke to Gunther again before answering, “He says he’s been told we’ll then be taken by barge to Wesseling …”

  “Where in Hell’s name is Wesseling?” demanded Tam.

  “Somewhere in Germany,” explained Andy, who went on to add that from there they would then go some three hundred kilometres by truck and train to their POW camp, Stalag XX1B, somewhere in Poland. What he didn’t know was that their journey would take them two months, mostly being frog-marched in the sweltering summer heat with little food and water. Even when they were transported by truck and train they would be so tightly crammed that it would be impossible to lie down. He was just about to tell them that he’d been told that during the march people might try to give them food and water but that if anyone did accept such things they would be shot.

  There would have been a vehement response to this declaration had it not been for a sudden volley of rifle fire that rang out from the cornfield and was obviously aimed at the German soldiers. Everyone dived to the ground, while Gunther snapped his fingers and, without uttering a word, signalled with his right arm to a vehicle at the back, which resulted in a truck reversing towards the field. Once in position, its tarpaulin was raised and a machine gun was menacingly revealed. “Naw, naw!” yelled Fred, rolling across the ground and grabbing Gunther’s arm. “They’re just scared bairns. Let me talk to them.”

  Gunther, quite unmoved, brushed Fred’s hand away and again raised his right hand. A second later he dropped it sharply and the cornfield was sprayed by a hail of bullets.

  The fusillade seemed to go on for ever. When it finally ceased, all that could be heard were a few pitiful moans from the field. Gunther and Fred were the first to stand up and, with Andy’s help to translate, Fred begged to be allowed to go and rescue the wounded.

  By now, the howls of rage that were being screamed by the British prisoners at their captors resulted in them being forced at gunpoint against the wall; and all that Fred could do was to yell frantically: “For heaven’s sake, will you all just shut up!” Once order was restored, he turned to Andy, asking him to intercede yet again with the officer. Eventually Gunther was persuaded that the ambush from the cornfield had nothing to do with the men who were lined up at the wall, but were simply fellow-Britons hoping against hope to save them. After pondering for what seemed an eternity he reluctantly agreed that Fred might go into the field. Only three of the eight lads who had run into the field were still alive. Two were unscathed and the other, a handsome eighteen-year-old, was near to death. Fred cradled him in his arms until he breathed his last.

  Speaking through Andy once more, Fred persuaded Gunther to allow the two u
nwounded men to join with the group rather than have them shot. Fred eagerly agreed to take full responsibility for their future behaviour; otherwise they would be summarily executed – as indeed would Fred himself!

  The verbal contract was finally sealed with the two men formally saluting one another. Then the distant roar of a motorbike approaching at speed drew everyone’s gaze towards the far end of the village. There they spied the errant Billy Morrison whooping and waving his rifle wildly towards them.

  “Billy, Billy! Get off that bleeding bike, you blasted idiot. Throw doon your rifle and get over here,” screamed Fred – as did all the men.

  The chorus of frantic pleas from his buddies, who couldn’t bear to see another young man needlessly shot, resulted in Billy braking so fiercely that he catapulted himself over the handlebars, his rifle flying through the air before coming to rest at the feet of a German soldier. Fred immediately raced over, kicked the rifle out of Billy’s reach, grabbed him by the collar and yanked the bewildered young man to his feet before dragging him over to Gunther, who disdainfully demanded to know where Billy had been. “Is it normal,” he asked, “for British soldiers to behave in such an unruly and unacceptable fashion?” Andy smiled before explaining that Billy was much sought after by the local mademoiselles and, since both the tea ration and the bromide pills had run out, it was impossible to control Billy’s philandering!