Bombers’ Moon

by Iris Gower

  ‘All right, all right, don’t get so heated about it, I’m only teasing. You can dish it out about George but you can’t take it, Hari, where’s your sense of humour gone these days?’

  ‘I think I lost it somewhere in the war,’ Hari murmured.

  ‘Ta-ta for now then, I’m making tea for George.’ Violet smiled happily. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  That night Georgie didn’t come back at all. Hari didn’t mind, let him make Violet happy while he could. George would always be the fat little boy who teased Meryl but Hari recognized he was much changed. Discharged from the army because of wounds he sustained in the last battle at the front, he worked in Swansea now, in the munitions factory making the shell cases that were sent to Bridgend for filling; his job was dangerous if only because the German bombers saw Richard Thomas and Baldwins as a factory in need of blowing up.

  It was a relief to settle to a new day of work in the quietness of her office; to listen to the messages being sent across the airwaves and try to decipher them. By now she could tell the difference between various German signallers: they all seemed to have their own ‘signature’ their own hesitancies, their own rapidity, all different and identifiable. Some Germans were careless, believing no one would be listening or at least understanding the messages they sent. At Bletchley they had been just as careless, not realizing that their codes could be broken.

  Once she thought she recognized a woman’s hand, the staccato beat of the Morse seemed to be handled less forcefully, but there was no message from Meryl, no Welsh language words mixed in with the coded message.

  When she returned home that night, it was to find Violet and George sitting snugly together on the sofa. There was no sound from the kitchen, no boiling kettle on the stove.

  ‘Where’s Jessie?’

  Violet giggled. Your dad’s taken her to the pictures. They’ve gone to the Plaza to see some sentimental picture or something.’

  I didn’t know Jessie was sentimental, or Father either.’ Hari sank into the armchair. ‘How about a cuppa for a working girl then, Vi, you’ve had the day off remember?’

  Violet obligingly made tea but she treated herself and George to some home-made wine. It looked and smelled revolting.

  ‘Come on then, George, I thought you were taking me for a walk,’ Violet said. George responded with alacrity, putting down his unfinished drink and trying to wipe the grimace of disgust from his face at the taste.

  ‘See you later then.’ Violet grasped George’s arm, winked at Hari and then they were gone, leaving Hari sitting alone in a cold, empty and unfriendly house.

  She had the fire glowing in the grate and a pile of toast and jam ready when Jessie came bustling into the house with Father in tow.

  ‘Something smells good.’ She beamed at Hari. ‘How did you know what time we’d be back?’

  ‘I made a guess,’ Hari said dryly. ‘Actually I consulted the paper and read what time the show was ending.’

  ‘Duw, I haven’t been to the pictures in years—well you don’t, stuck out on a farm in the country, do you?’

  Hari saw Jessie glance at Father with a look of affection and felt a wash of something very much like envy. Everyone had someone to care for except her. She made a fresh pot of tea and then went up to her bedroom. She washed in cold water and climbed into bed and hugged herself, feeling lonely and unloved.

  The Sunday bells were ringing when she woke. The sun was shining into the bedroom and with renewed energy Hari got up to face the day and dressed quickly. After breakfast she would take her bike and ride to Bridgend and watch the prison camp. Some of the German prisoners went to St Mary’s church for Sunday worship and if Michael was alive he would most certainly go with them.

  It was a fine day, the autumn sun warming her back as she rode towards Bridgend. Questions reeled through her head: could Michael have survived? Was it another pilot who bore a resemblance to him? But no, it was Michael she’d seen, she was sure of it, but he’d looked at her without recognition. Had he lost his memory when his plane crashed on to Welsh soil? She wished all her questions could be answered. But today she would make sure she saw Michael even if she had to question every guard in Island Farm.

  When she arrived at Bridgend she parked her bike and waited outside the church, glad to sit down on the warm stone wall. Her legs ached and her head ached through tension. And then it began to rain.

  Hari unpacked her cape from the saddlebag and draped it around her shoulders. Soon her red hair curled into damp tendrils but, doggedly, she waited until the church bells rang out at the end of the service.

  The Germans came filtering out of the church, the senior officers first and then a few non-commissioned men. There was one pilot at the rear of the trail of men and behind him a British guard. Hari recognized him.

  ‘Morning, James, been to morning worship I see?’ He stopped, but the pilot walked on without looking at her. ‘Is that the man who came down in the German plane?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye, that’s the bastard who came to bomb us trying to send the munitions and the whole of Bridgend up in flames, pardon my French.’ He stared at her bedraggled appearance. ‘What you doin’ here, work on a Sunday do you?’

  Hari improvised. ‘No, but it was a lovely morning when I started out, I thought I needed some exercise and fresh air after being cooped up in an office all week and then it started to rain on me.’ She pushed back her wet hair.

  ‘Anyway, I can see the prisoners are allowed to attend church, that’s very good.’

  ‘Aye, more than they’d do for us I dare say.’

  Hari ignored James’s hostility. ‘How did that pilot survive the crash? I surveyed the site of the crash—no one could have got out of that.’

  ‘He baled out, what do you think? Cowards all of them. But at least he’d got rid of his bombs before he came down. We’re just lucky they fell before they got to us.’

  Hari’s eyes followed the party of prisoners and, as if Michael sensed her gaze, he turned briefly and looked at her. His hand moved in a small gesture and she felt a rush of joy, her heart began to race. He knew her, it was Michael—he was well and strong and, hopefully, he would live out the rest of the war in the safety of Island Farm prison camp.

  Sixty-Seven

  I heard the chanting in the early morning and woke up with my heart thumping. For a minute I thought I was back in Ravensbruck prison camp—the cell I was in was just as small—and then I listened to the monks praying in song and knew I was safe. I ran my hands over the small swell of my stomach. The baby kicked and I smiled.

  ‘We’re going home,’ I whispered in English. ‘I’m taking you to Carmarthen. On the farm that will be your land, we’ll remember your father and your grandfather and I will tell you all about the bravery of the men whose name you will carry.’

  I cried a little and then one of the monks brought me a breakfast of warm, thick brown bread. ‘Today they will come, the resistance men from Belgium, they will take you to the coast and put you on a ship to Ireland.’

  I felt a dip of disappointment; somehow I’d imagined I’d be flown straight to Britain but I could see it would be a long time before I was home again. I thanked the good man and slowly ate the fresh bread. There was a scraping of home-made butter on it melting into the warmth and nothing had ever tasted so good.

  I was ready when the brother came for me. I had no possessions, only the papers Father-in-law had given me, my marriage certificate and a fake passport in the name of Katherine O’Brien.

  He had told me that if the Belgians were caught taking me out of the country I was to show my marriage certificate and make up a story I’d been taken hostage. ‘You’re good at that sort of thing,’ he’d said, with a smile. I bit my lip but the tears welled in my eyes anyway. Biting lips was supposed to bring control but for me it only hurt without any benefit at all so I immediately stopped digging my teeth into my lip and continued to cry.

  We went down a long passageway towards the back of the
monastery where the kitchens were situated. There sat four men eating breakfast, one of them was Fritz.

  ‘Hello, in trouble again,’ he sighed heavily. ‘I’ll be glad to be rid of you, young lady.’

  That remark did more than any biting of lips to stiffen my shoulders. ‘Trust you to be the one to come to my rescue—’ my tone was full of sarcasm—‘you nearly got me killed last time you “helped me”. I’m perfectly capable on my own, you know.’

  Fritz bit into his brown bread and a dribble of butter ran down into his beard, only the beard didn’t look grey now it looked black. His disguise as a tramp had been a good one but now he was just a young man, albeit a brave young man.

  ‘We’ll be making a move in half an hour,’ he said, his mouth full of bread. He ate as if he was ravenous and I suppose he was.

  The others, Belgians, smiled at me once, all of them taking in my round belly and the wedding ring on my finger, and looked away giving attention to their breakfast. I watched them masticate slowly, mentally urging them to hurry up. I wanted to be on my way home as soon as possible.

  At last, Fritz wiped his mouth indelicately with the back of his hand. He saw me looking and spoke defensively. ‘We don’t often get fed and when we do it’s always on the run so forgive our lack of napkins and dinner table manners.’

  ‘I never said a word.’

  ‘You didn’t have to.’

  ‘You’re good for me, you stop me feeling afraid and vulnerable,’ I said. He shook his head.

  ‘You, vulnerable? Don’t make me laugh.’ He got up and thanked the brother who had served the food. Fritz was fluent in several languages, obviously, and under my breath I said, ‘Clever clogs’. He heard me but made no reply.

  The brother led the way along a winding passage towards the rear, through some unused rooms and to a small door in the thick back wall. He opened it with difficulty as if it was seldom used, but it was a ploy to fool the Germans. I knew prisoners escaped from Germany this way practically every month or so.

  We were out in the fields then and I looked round: this then was Belgium, land of the free except that it wasn’t; the country was awash with Germans and we filed away into the nearby trees in silence.

  I noticed that the men, all four of them including Fritz, wore rucksacks; I was spared, so I thought, until Fritz handed me a bag.

  ‘What am I supposed to do with this? I’m pregnant if you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘It’s food—if we all get parted or some of us killed you’ll need to make your own way home.’ His dark eyebrows were raised. ‘You are perfectly capable or so I understood.’

  I sighed. ‘You’re right of course.’

  He helped me on with the bag. ‘You’re not bad you know, for a girl.’ He led the way through the forest where there was a pathway already worn by many other feet. I knew we had days of travelling before us before we reached the coast and I wondered if I, and my baby, would survive the cracking pace Fritz set.

  That night we stayed at a farmhouse. The young lady was obviously smitten with Fritz and after a plain supper they disappeared upstairs. The other three men gave a ribald laugh joking in their own tongue, but I didn’t have to understand the language to know what they were saying.

  Later, when Fritz reappeared, he went out to the yard and I could hear the sound of a pump and the sound of spraying water. When he came in his hair was wet and he shivered a little, his shirt sticking to the dampness of him. The men had a beer and I looked enquiringly towards the lady in charge.

  ‘Come with me.’ She recognized my look of weariness and led me up the rickety stairs to a tiny loft room. But there was a bed and I looked at it gladly. She patted my arm. ‘You share it, with me.’ She laughed and threw back her dark hair. ‘But I no like girls, I like strong men like Fritz so you are safe with me, little one.’

  I knew I was blushing. ‘I don’t care if I have to share with the entire Highland Regiment so long as I can lie down.’

  It was luxury to stretch out, though fully clothed in case we had to move swiftly, and soon, exhausted, I fell asleep.

  The next morning, we had transport, at least some of the way. Gladly I climbed on the back of the lorry and crouched down under some scruffy potato sacks. I heard kisses and a playful slap and I guessed Fritz was saying a fond, if unromantic, farewell to his lady love, one of many if only she knew it.

  The dawn came, the earth warmed and so did the creatures in the sacking. The fleas or ticks or whatever they were bit me and stung, but at least I wasn’t having to walk and I was getting nearer the coast all the time and soon, perhaps sooner than anticipated, I would be home.

  Sixty-Eight

  Hari stood in the register office in Swansea holding a tiny bouquet of flowers. She was witness to her friend Vi’s marriage to Georgie Dixon and she could hardly believe it. Alongside her was one of Georgie’s workmates looking uncomfortable in a shabby suit with a white scarf instead of a tie.

  It was over very quickly. The registrar tried to make the ceremony sound meaningful but there were many hasty marriages made in time of war and usually they ended in a disaster of some kind. Hari could tell he knew that by the sadness of his tired blue eyes.

  Vi was excited and happy and her pretty face was flushed. Even the yellow had been toned down by the application of powder. She clung to George’s arm as if she would never let him go and he seemed to have blossomed under her love, his smile happy but his eyes full of tenderness as they rested on his new wife’s face.

  Jessie had given them leave to use the farm during their honeymoon; Carmarthen was where George grew up and where he would probably want to live after the war. Vi would find it strange and quiet after the town and the company of the people in the munitions works but she would soon adapt to country life Hari was sure.

  Outside in the late sunshine Hari kissed her friend and hugged her close. She smelled sweet, lavendery, her hair shiny and curling on her shoulders. ‘I know you’re going to be happy,’ Hari whispered, and Violet’s smile was radiant.

  ‘I’ve never been in love before, not with anyone. I really didn’t know what love was till I met George—’ Vi’s voice was breathless—‘isn’t he so handsome and proud in his best suit?’

  He did look handsome, a far cry from the ‘porky pig’ of Meryl’s childhood memories and Hari felt a pain like a stab wound as she thought of her sister. The thought led to Michael and grief and confusion engulfed her. Hari fixed a determined smile on her face.

  ‘So long as he’s good to you everything will be just fine.’ She glanced at George and raised her voice. ‘You be a good husband to my dear friend now George, or you’ll have me to deal with.’

  He grimaced. ‘I don’t want that, not if you’re anything like your sister Meryl.’ He put his arm around his wife. ‘She was a little devil, mind, we used to fight like enemies. She whacked me where it hurt most one day, not that I didn’t ask for it.’ He smiled wryly. ‘But then none of us are kids any more, war makes a man grow up and realize that violence achieves nothing.’ He wandered away to talk to some friends and Hari and Violet watched as Jessie finished making flat Welsh cakes with a little margarine and tiny bits of fruit, mainly bits of apple and dried figs. The cakes steamed hot from the griddle and the spicy aroma filled the kitchen.

  ‘They smell nice,’ Hari said.

  ‘Should have currants and raisins in and a nice bit of sugar but they’re the best I could do,’ Jessie grumbled. ‘She smacked George’s hand away as he reached for one. ‘Go and have the spam fritters first, fill your belly with potatoes and then you can have Welsh cakes, right, my boy?’

  Hari had acquired a bottle of gin from her friend up at the German camp—she had kept in touch with James hoping to learn more about the German prisoners. She knew Michael was alive, had been in the camp, but she never saw him again and the fear was he had grown sick and ill and had been shipped off elsewhere.

  After the meal she raised her glass. ‘A toast to the bride and groom,’ she
said, sipping a little of the gin spiced liberally with Jessie’s home-made pop. ‘May you live happily ever after and have many little ones.’

  Violet blushed and Hari stared at her in concern. ‘Violet you’re not, well… you’re not, are you?’

  Violet looked puzzled and Jessie put it more bluntly. ‘Was this a shotgun wedding, girl, that’s what Hari means?’

  Violet’s blush deepened. ‘Of course not, we haven’t done anything like that—how mean of you, Hari. Don’t you think George married me because he loved me not because he “had to” as they say these days?’

  ‘Sorry, Violet, very sorry,’ Hari said hastily, ‘it happens to so many people.’

  ‘Well, not to me and George.’

  ‘Well, be happy.’ Hari hugged her and Violet relented and smiled.

  George shuffled his feet and glanced anxiously at Violet. ‘We’re taking it steady, aren’t we love?’

  ‘Yes, of course we are George, anything you want.’ She sounded uncertain and Hari wondered if Violet knew the facts of married life. Would Violet lie dazed and fainted with love and delight in her husband’s arms? Would she be raised on a glowing cloud to heaven the way Hari had been when Michael made love to her? She pushed the thought away. All that was over, a thousand waters had flowed beneath the bridges since then. Michael was a married man now and, what’s more, was a prisoner considered an enemy of the British people, spat on and hated by the inhabitants of Bridgend and all the world for all Hari knew.

  Later, she drove the newlyweds to their country retreat. Violet stared out of the back of the jeep Hari had borrowed and looked in awe at the darkening countryside.

  ‘It’s a bit lonely isn’t it? No lights… nothing.’

  George put his arm around her. ‘You’ll love it like I do, you’ll see.’

  Hari left them at the door of the farmhouse and drove away, a lump in her throat. She could picture Michael there, his hair blown into a mop by the wind, his face tanned, his eyes very blue—and she wanted him.