Citizen Survivor Tales (The Ministry of Survivors)

by Denham, Richard

  How were you able to run with your injury?

  I don’t know if you could call it running, I don’t remember. Whether the adrenaline had kicked in, but I was going as fast as I could, that’s all I know.

  Was there any moment you thought the battle could have been won?

  There was a brief moment; I remember the scream of a group of Spitfires strafing up and down the beach when I was in the trench and I thought the battle was turning, this didn’t last long though, all of them had been shot down in one way or another within a few minutes. I spoke to the man next to me, but he was in a daze, I think he was still alive at that point but his neck seemed to be open, as if it were an open door. The men were firing, blindly it seemed, into the direction of the beach and I remember feeling completely exposed from all angles in that trench. It was only when we heard the rumblings of the tracks of Panzer Tanks that we decided to move, we saw one pull round the corner, and a moment where it just seemed to stare at us, and then it fired, sending smoke and debris into the air and landing just in front of us. ‘Run, run!’ one of the men shouted, and at that point at least four of them were taken out by German soldiers from one of the high-storey hotels, the one I was defending I think and we stumbled into a baker’s shop.

  We ran through the back of the building and could see the defences above us in the cliffs. There was hand to hand fighting going on everywhere, but we couldn’t shoot without hitting our own men. It was the ferocity that shocked me, they were lunging at each other desperately with anything, bayonets, rifle stocks, bricks, stones, shovels. I saw a bunker burnt out by a jet of flame from a flamethrower, and screaming men running out and collapsing, it truly was hell on earth. These men must have been the parachutists from the night before.

  We headed towards the town centre and there were only two of us left now, I was soon on my own when I turned round to notice the other soldier sobbing, kneeling down, looking for his left arm. I remember running around a corner to see another Panzer Tank staring at me, it shot just behind me and the wall of the building collapsed and landed on me, and for me, the Battle of Brighton, and the War, was over.

  What happened next?

  I woke up on my back inside the rear of an open field truck, travelling at speed down some muddy track. I couldn’t see it; I could just feel it. I found myself back at Cambridge hospital believe it or not. It turned out that somehow, I had been blinded, I was honourably discharged by the army. I offered to stay on but they confessed they had no use for me. My current situation? Let’s not discuss that, I suppose I should consider myself lucky I got out of Brighton alive, there are people much worse off than me. Still, I find it hard to be grateful for my current state.

  I’ve spoken to other veterans, and do forgive me for this, but their accounts of the battle are completely at odds with yours.

  Well, well war is what you see in front of you isn’t it.

  Some people have said that your account – which you have given over and over to the press – is very like some war films which have done the rounds. What do you have to say to that?

  Bugger off.

  With that final riposte, Mr Sponge reached unerringly for the glass containing the dregs of his drink and left, turning at the door to greet an old comrade. For a blind person, he gets around almost miraculously well and his limp is often completely cured, if it isn’t in his right leg or occasionally his left. This reporter was left to conclude that actually William Sponge – whose name occurs nowhere in the written record – is an actor of the first water and is rather wasting his time living as a down and out at the Colliery. [Legal – can you have a shufti at this for me before it goes to print, there’s a dear.]*

  *Ed: We believe this is a ‘rough’ draft of the article, which was never actually used in the newspaper.

  Witford Radio – 1570kHz MW

  Putting the spunk back in Blighty

  Spike Jones - Pack Up Your Troubles In Your Old Kit-Bag

  George Jackley - Ain't It Grand To Be Bloomin' Well Dead?

  WEATHER REPORT

  Charles Jolly - The Laughing Policeman

  George Formby - A Farmer's Boy

  EVACUATION UPDATES

  Lily Morris - Don't Have Any More, Missus Moore

  Florrie Forde - A Bird In A Gilded Cage

  OBITUARIES

  BRISTOL BLITZ UPDATES

  Bobby Comber - La Di Da Di Da

  George Formby - Mother, What'll I Do Now

  UPDATES FROM THE MINISTRY

  Harry Champion - A Little Bit Of Cucumber

  Billy Williams - When Father Papered The Parlour

  THE WIDOW

  Name: Catherine Lowe

  Location: Trafford Grove, Manchester

  Occupation: Retired

  Threat level: 1

  Article clearance: Bronze

  Case file: 82/3235/GBW

  It was a delight to meet Mrs Lowe, a woman who can quite honestly be called the salt of the earth. She lives alone now and is the last resident in the street where she brought up her family and where she was living when she sadly lost her husband. But she isn’t bitter; she sees the best in every situation and if the Ministry had its wits about it, Mrs Lowe would be on posters the length and breadth of the country, as an example to all the weary Willies and tired Tims who are dragging our morale into the gutter. However, the best person to speak for the Mrs Lowes of this world is the lady herself.

  How long have you lived on Trafford Grove Mrs. Lowe?

  Must be forty years now, I would think. I’ve been a Manchester girl all my life. Reg was a cheeky chap on my street, always up to mischief, harmless mischief mind. He got a job in cotton when he left the school and I remember us being on the same bus home, we got chatting, and the rest is history! We moved here when I married Reg and I’ve always liked it, it was a lovely place. You could leave your front door open or unlocked and never have any bother. There was such a good community, we’d help each other out where we could, a few of the young lads would run errands to the shops for me if I asked, we even had the odd street party into the late hours. Oh I doubt there was anything unusual about my road really, it was probably the same up and down the country, wasn’t it?

  Do you ever feel frightened or alone?

  That’s the thing, isn’t it? It would probably be less odd if all of the other houses were boarded up or lying as ruins, but most of the houses are still intact on my road. You could be forgiven for thinking everyone has just gone away on holiday and will be back soon. If it wasn’t for the odd bit of vandalism, smashed windows and graffiti scattered about you wouldn’t have an inkling something was up. My neighbours may very well have every intention of coming back one day, I don’t know. I have never seen any of them since as none have made a trip to come back and see their old homes.

  I won’t lie, I don’t think there is any shame in it, but I have helped myself to supplies from the other houses, just to top up what I grow in the garden. I always make a note in my book of what I’ve taken from where, though, it was something Reg started, he’s always been good like that. I make a note of everything I take and from where so I can pay the owners back if they ever return or when things go back to normal. Every now and then there’s the odd tinker selling his wares too, young lads they are.

  I like to go for a walk when my knees are up to it, it’s quite ghostly, especially at night. How quiet it is, but the silly thing is, I suppose it’s a bit like a graveyard, I can’t ever work out if I find it scary and haunting or peaceful and serene. I don’t venture too far though, there are a lot of bad sorts in the town centre, you can hear them from miles off. A lot of times I thought it was foxes, but it was actually people crying out due to whatever mischief they’d found themselves in.

  When did people start leaving?

  Oh there was no one occasion that stands out, a lot of the children went in the government evacuations. Others left when they heard about Brighton, then Crawley. Out of forty or so families, half of them were still
around, though. The atmosphere changed, people seemed to keep to themselves, they stopped trusting each other, doors were locked, heads kept low, a shame really, no need for any of that at all. I suppose most of them went when everyone on the road received some scaremongering nonsense from London through their door. By the end of that week, there was only me, Reg and one other family left.

  How did you feel when you realized you and your husband were the last people left on the street?

  I remember the night where the last of ours neighbours, the Sealey family, moved out. Reg was out fishing or something like that I think, yes it must have been fishing. The Sealeys were in a complete panic bless their hearts. Mr. Sealey was always a nervous man, even before the troubles, he worked at the grocer’s. People gossiped he saw some nasty stuff in the Great War to make him how he was, but we didn’t delve, it would be improper for a war hero. He was banging on my door, ‘Mrs. Lowe, Mrs. Lowe, come on we’re getting out of here! We’re not leaving you and Mr. Lowe behind!’. His face was white as snow, God only knows what had just happened, ‘Where are you going to go?’ I said. I tried to speak calmly and matter of fact, he was in that much of a fluster, pacing back and forth, ‘I don’t know, I don’t know, somewhere safe!’ ‘You daft beggar,’ I laughed, ‘nowhere is safe. If you need to go I understand, but me and Reg are just fine.’ The poor man shook his head and then paced off with his wife and three children in tow, all of them carrying suitcases and luggage. I’d love to know what happened to them.

  When Reg came home he said his usual, ‘Get the kettle on dear I’m back,’ always made me chuckle that did. I told him the Sealey family had gone and I remember he just tutted and said, ‘Oh that’s a shame, nice family they were.’ And in his way, he just beamed a broad smile and presented his catch, fish for supper! We had our dinner, listened to the wireless and then, you’ll never believe it, Reg had a little party for us, just the two of us, he was funny like that. He put the gramophone on, ‘Now is the hour’ by Vera Lynn I think it was. He was dressed up to the nines in his old uniform from the Great War and he told me to get changed into my Sunday finest. When I came back down, he’d somehow come across a few bottles of wine and some whiskey. We got through them all that night!

  We cleared the living room table and just danced, danced we did like two young love birds in each other’s arms, it was a lovely night. Somewhere in the distance we could hear sirens but Reg, in that way he did, just laughed, perhaps we were too drunk to care. Do you know what he did? The silly beggar. He opened the windows to the living room and blasted the music as loud as it would go, and he handed me a gas mask. So there we were, two old buggers in our best, in our gas masks, dancing in each other’s arms in an empty street while somewhere far away the skyline was lighting up red, smoke was blowing down our road and the sirens whined. What a sight we must have looked to anyone if they saw us, but Reg and I didn’t mind. It was a perfect night, a lovely little memory for me to cherish.

  If you will forgive the question, when did Reg pass?

  Oh don’t be silly dear, I remember Reg was in the living room and I was in the kitchen, he was shouting out to me about ‘the nonsense from Whitehall’ he was reading at the time. We heard the sound of clattering, like sticks rolling across metal railings. Reg went outside to have a look and there was a gang of half a dozen teenagers with their faces covered with hessian sacks with mouth and eye holes so they clearly weren’t up to any good. They began moving into the houses in pairs, smashing windows, kicking down doors when they had to and helping themselves to whatever they found. Reg and I couldn’t really judge I suppose; we’d done the same thing just in a politer way. Eventually they walked up to our house and Reg stood in the doorway, very polite but firm he was. ‘Alright, lads, you’ve had your fun. You can carry on doing what you’re doing, but not this house, we still live here.’ The lads paused and mumbled between themselves, and began to walk off, much to our relief. One of them must have had a change of heart though because they came back and threw a stone through our front window, the noise was horrible. Reg ran out and told them to clear off, which they began to do, but again one of them then came running along and smacked Reg clear round the head with his staff. Reg collapsed to the floor, at least at that point they had the decency to run off.

  I checked on Reg, and I’m no nurse, but he was gone. Had his age caught up with him, was it the strike alone, did his heart give in I don’t know. I was bereft, distraught, I spent the whole day, alone on that street, cradling him in my arms, weeping as if I was his mother. Reg wasn’t like that though, wasn’t one to hold a grudge, he’d think his murderer was a daft kid rather than a monster. Even then I knew he was upstairs, God hopes, smiling on me and telling me to pull myself together.

  I won’t lie, I was in a daze, the world seemed completely silent, I walked, just walked, don’t ask me why or where I was going but I eventually came across five lads working the land. Heaven knows how long I had been walking for. I told them that Reg was dead and they offered to bury him for me, for a sack of vegetables and some of his cigars. I wouldn’t smoke them, filthy habit.

  The lads were very kind and said they were sorry to hear my husband had been killed, I never told them that, but they must have guessed, word travels fast, don’t it? They offered to take me in, they were based out of an old factory but I told them no, they’d have no use for me and I’ve had no use for them. No, Trafford Grove is my home. And that’s that, I’ve been here alone for the last few years now.

  Would you ever consider evacuating your home?

  Oh no, perish the thought. Too many happy memories I’ve got here and what on earth would I do elsewhere? No, no, I’m absolutely fine dear, I’ve had a good run and some lovely memories to keep me busy. It’s the youngsters I feel sorry for; they’ll never know the Manchester I did.

  ‘Oh yes sir, I joined the Church of the Remnant voluntarily. I’m not desperate at all’

  - Southern Herald

  MOS Archives, ref. INF9/422 (illegal)

  THE REVEREND

  Name: Alexander Green

  Location: Hartley Wintney, Hampshire

  Occupation: Vicar

  Threat level: 4

  Article clearance: Silver (amendment 2.4 applies)

  Case file: 13/4563/GBR

  Regular readers of these pages will know that I frown on overt religious beliefs, as I think that everyone should be allowed to believe in just what they please, when they please as long as they keep it to themselves and don’t do it in the street and frighten the horses. That said, the Reverend Green seems very dedicated and committed to his place in our society as it functions nowadays, although a bit less time spent pontificating on street corners and a little bit more time helping people like last weeks’ interviewee might make us all feel less ambivalent to the religious maniacs which infest our country. [Legal – check please? Thanks; you’re a lamb]

  Reverend Green, you were one of the few people to witness the Church of the Remnant in the early days without being a member. Can you explain how that came about?

  If truth be told, I don’t even know where to start. I suppose I should explain my background first, I was born in Guildford and educated at Oxford University. I have been Reverend of St. John’s Church in Hartley Wintney, in north east Hampshire for thirteen years now. Despite the fact the A30 runs through the village, it is a quiet and pleasant corner of England. Well, as quiet and pleasant as things can be nowadays. As a rural area, I am very grateful that the events of the Great Tribulation have not had such a devastating effect on my parishioners as had been experienced in other parts of the country. In fact, I suspect this village has endured very well, all things considered.

  There were rumblings about The Church of the Remnant which were, in my view very foolishly, disregarded as a nonsense, a passing fad and a knee-jerk reaction to the events in Britain. The synod of the Church of England began emergency meetings in York and they were viewed as a secular problem. Then Archbishop Farthing decla
red that to acknowledge them was to legitimize them, and so they were to be ignored, as best as could be.

  Do understand this wasn’t taken lightly by those who were strongly opposed to the Remnant. Horror stories were shared, and we were all aware of the information on them that had been disseminated by the Ministry. Ultimately though, we had to respect the Archbishop’s decision.

  There was a fear behind the Remnant, the fact we were so ignorant of its motives, its leadership and above all, its ability to attract people to its flock. With my parishioners in the village, they would ask me about them and I would do my best to play it down. They were like the boogeymen some would say, who would steal children in the night; or who would lure desperate mothers and their babes into their ranks, never to be seen again.

  The Synod continued to meet three times a year, a preposterously inadequate amount of time in hindsight. I remember that each time I arrived, a few people had disappeared, what had happened to them I do not know. Whether these men couldn’t get there, had given up on the Church of England or perhaps even joined the Remnant I don’t know. There was certainly a solemnity with the Archbishop, the last synod I attend there must have been but an eighth of those who were meant to be in attendance. Archbishop Farthing announced his retirement then, and I simply stopped attending after that.