Comet
Andie J Fessey
Comet
Text copyright © 2017 Andie J Fessey. All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the prior consent of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. This book is a work of fiction; all resemblance to actual persons living or dead, places and names is coincidental or are used fictitiously.
Cover Photograph by Kersti Nebelsiek
Cover Design by Andie J Fessey
Dedications
For Josh, Martin, Gemma, Harley and BBE.
Love you with all my heart.
and
Many thanks to my eternal friend TJ
“Come What May”
A special dedication to all of those who have lost somebody they love and hold dear in their hearts.
Our parents brought us into this world and live on through us.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Epilogue
Authors Notes
Prologue
Seventh of May 1941
Flying in formation alongside their fellow countrymen, their purposeful craft penetrated through the night air, high above the city below, its inhabitants waiting fearful and nervous, unsure as to whether they would suffer another attack this night.
Though the cloud cover lay dense this evening of their sortie, the men within the aircraft saw clearly the devastation earlier raids had brought to the streets below.
Outside of London, the city of Liverpool now became the most bombed area of the country.
The bombing known as ‘The Blitz’ from the German word ‘Blitzkrieg’ literally meaning ‘lightning war’, designed to destroy Britain, demoralising its people into surrendering.
The bright conflagrations of flames arising from below, appeared to the crew like demonic pyres from hell itself. In the distance below, they saw clearly the huge inferno caused by one of their fellow bombers successfully striking a match works factory.
In silence, they watched as another colossal eruption brought forth its own fiery message of illumination, reaching up to them as monstrous fingers of flames, intent on grasping them from the safety of the sky.
From the ground far beneath them, searchlights shone their own beams of light, crisscrossing across the night sky.
To the crews manning the lights and remaining AA guns scattered throughout the city, the view above looked a petrifying sight, as throughout glimpses gained through the breaks in the dark clouds above, they caught sight of the aircraft, their frightening forms darker than the clouds they flew within.
Their campaign of bombing originally began on the Twenty Eighth of August Nineteen Forty, when one hundred and sixty of their bombers attacked the city below, continuing throughout the year until there existed a lull.
Until now.
Several evenings ago, on the First of May, their homeland renewed their attack on the beleaguered city with a whole week of perpetual bombing. This coastal city being a vital element in the planning of this Blitzkrieg due to its huge port bringing much needed food, fuel, weapons and raw materials into the country, in addition to being Britain’s main link with their American allies.
Using thick curtains, the people below minimised their use of light, attempting to prevent themselves from becoming targets. But the bombs dropped over the last several evenings did not discriminate the targets they hit.
The odours filling the cramped cockpit pervaded his nostrils, stifling even through the heavy mask he wore. Thick aromas of oil, fuel, magnesium and human odours, a sensation of smells though he long before became accustomed to, still made him feel like retching at times, especially the longer the length of their flight.
“Sweet Jesus, it is like Dante’s Inferno itself down there Herr Hauptmann.” the voice crackled through his head set.
“I know Markus, I know,” he replied grimly, looking through the cockpit window towards the dreadful sight below.
Silent moments passed by, save for the terrible din of the aircraft, before the voice spoke again.
“How long are we to keep this up for sir?”
“As far as I am aware, this is the last night of this madness.”
“That is certainly good news for the poor wretches below us Herr Hauptmann,” Markus’s voice said, his relief not disguised from his superior officer, nor his fellow crewmen.
Johann Grueller, recipient of a Wehrmacht-Dienstauszeichnung medal for his long years of services in the Luftwaffe, in addition to several other medals, including the diamond encrusted, gold Luftwaffe flying clasp left at home with his beloved wife, stared through the cockpit window into the night sky before speaking to his comrade.
“Good news indeed maybe for them, but not for us I am afraid mein freund. Once we have returned to France we have only a few hours’ sleep before we have to get ready to ship out again.”
There emitted only the persistent, annoying background crackle of the radio, before Markus spoke again.
“Ship out? But where too Hauptmann?”
“If rumours are correct, we are off to prepare to fight the Russians,” Johann replied.
“Fight the Russians?” Markus asked, the tone in his voice clear with uncertainty now, not with relief.
Though his skin normally possessed an ashen tint, this sudden, fearful news paid only to turn it paler.
“Yes. Apparently, the orders come directly from Generalfeldmarschall Kesselring himself.”
“But the Russians scare me even more than my wife’s Mother does.” Markus replied, laughing nervously.
“Yes, mein freund, but at least the Russians will have military targets for us hopefully, unlike these poor souls below.”
The four men comprising Johann’s crew remained deep in thought and silence, processing this piece of information previously unknown to each of them, save for their Hauptmann himself.
They all overheard or been involved in the conversations taking place in the mess room concerning the rumours their leaders were contemplating an invasion of the Soviet Union.
The end of the Russia-Finland war the previous year, convinced their leaders the Russian military was an ineffective entity and though both their Motherland and the Soviets had been at an uneasy neutrality since they had both signed the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact, the rumours now spread thick and fast amongst most of the Wehrmacht.
The situation appeared destined to change.
“Jug A Four Nachtschwärmer. Are you reading over?” The radio crackled
in Johann’s ears, breaking the silence.
“Jug A Four Nachtschwärmer reading over.” Johann replied into the microphone, knowing the transmission originated not from within his aircraft.
“Jug A Four Nachtschwärmer, what is your current situation, over?”
Shit, It’s the Oberstleutnant himself.
“We are approaching target Herr Oberstleutnant, over.”
“Drop your payload immediately then return to base. Orders have been received you are to ship out earlier than previously stated, over.”
The shit must have hit the fan back home.
He took a moment, to glance at the landscape below.
“If we drop the payload now, we will hit only civilian targets Herr Oberstleutnant, over.”
“Do not question my command,” the voice replied coldly, “they are only British scum, drop the payload immediately, over.”
“But Herr Oberstleutnant, we will only hit more innocent people if we drop the payload now. The city is almost in ruins now as it is, over.”
“I do not care what you think Leutnant Grueller, drop your payload now!” The voice screamed, ignoring radio protocol and causing Johann to move the earpiece away from his ears.
He looked at the sepia photograph firmly affixed to the instrument panel in front of him, the faces of his wife and son stood outside their farm on the outskirts of the town of Fallingbostel, staring back at him smiling.
Staring at the buildings below, he knew these people having families too, suffered enough from his country.
Shaking his head, he turned his gaze momentarily to the photograph.
“Problem with the payload mechanism Herr Oberstleutnant, trying to rectify it, over.”
“Nein! Discharge your payload now!” The voice shouted at him.
“Unable to comply Herr Oberstleutnant, crew attempting to rectify problem as we speak, over.”
The seconds passing before he received a reply, feeling an eternity.
“Make it so.” The reply finally came.
“I’m not releasing these bombs on any more innocent people! This city has suffered enough as it is!” Sven, the bombardier shouted above the noise of the aircraft, from his cramped position towards the rear.
“There will be no ordnance dropped on any more innocent lives by us, mein freunds!” Johann shouted over his shoulder.
“Do we have another target?”
It took only seconds, before he received a reply.
“There is a warehouse two clicks from here at the docks, lets drop a bomb and bugger off home.”
“Agreed,” Johann said, “drop the payload, then take a hammer to the undercarriage mechanism and blame those imbeciles back at the base.”
The aircraft swooped from the skies, the men within its shell unable to hear the cacophony of sirens expelling from the city beneath them, but knowing too well the nightmare the people below were experiencing.
The dark patch of the river ahead, indicated they neared their target.
“Drop the payload sir?” Sven asked, his voice betraying uncertainty, eager for the decision of his commanding officer.
“Yes, try to keep it as far away from the houses as much asyou can then we will head back,” Johann instructed, “these poor bastards have suffered enough as it is.”
The bombardier released the bay mechanism, the multitude of payload on-board, dropping towards the target of the warehouses below them.
Chapter One
1947
“Rag and bone! Any rag and bone?!”
The gravelled tones of the man’s voice resonated through the quiet morning, as the noise of the cart’s wheels punctuated the air.
Harrowby Street sat emptier than normal this morning, save for the several women on their hands and knees as usual, busying themselves with scrubbing and polishing their door steps.
Two middle-aged women stood outside the front doors of their adjoining terraced houses, arms folded and chatting together, their similar aprons worn as uniforms.
“Keep it down Archie,” one of the women knelt near to the cart asked, “our Terry’s a hell of a hangover after last night. It wouldn’t be doing him any good if yer went waking him up or anything like that.”
Smiling, Archie looked down to her from his seat at the front of the cart.
In his seventies, a slim, perpetually gaunt looking man with a shock of silver hair cropped short, accentuating his prominent cheekbones even more. The large green army trench coat he wore, saw far better days, appearing several sizes too large for him, though in the annals of time, it had him perfectly.
His most striking feature, simply his smile, full of kindness though baring a hint of mischief.
The woman, winking at him with a mischievous smile of her own, continued to scrub the step of the terraced house.
“Rag and Bone!” Archie yelled, loudly even by his usual boisterous tones.
It took barely a few moments before a knocking sounded from one of the upstairs windows of the house, followed shortly by its opening upwards in jerking movements.
It was closely followed by a man’s head peering through the open gap, staring into the street below.
“Ere Archie, keep it down mate please,” the man asked, rubbing one hand through his tousled hair whilst the other wiped across his face, “trying to sleep up ere.”
“I’ll try me best Terry!” Archie called even louder, a knowing smile upon his weather lined face.
Pulling the cart to a stop, he climbed from his seat, placing the large leather reins over a metal bar in front of him, before engaging the carts brake.
“Hey Archie,” the woman said, slowly standing, her hands pushing against her stocking covered knees, “you don’t happen to have a scouring stone on you do yer?”
“Well, if you call them by their correct name, maybe I’ll have a look if I do or if I don’t, Peggy my dear.”
“Oh, I don’t remember what they’re called,” she said, stepping to him, fishing in the pocket of her apron until she produced an apple.
“Here you go Comet,” she said to the horse, approaching him, “been saving that for you.”
“Oh, trying to get around me by being chummy with old Comet,” Archie said smiling broadly, watching Comet gently take the apple from the woman’s outstretched hand.
A wiry, young boy ran from the terraced house she was cleaning the step of, careful not to place his foot on the polished stone.
“Comet!” He cried, rushing to greet the horse.
“Hiya Archie,” he said, passing the aged man, who smiled, ruffling the boy’s hair.
“Hiya Jimmy. Hey, yer mam was trying to remember what one of these is called,” he said, producing a stone from a large hessian sack placed on the rear of the cart.
“That’s a Donkey stone,” Jimmy replied, not missing a beat, stroking the coat of the large horse towering over him.
“There you go Peggy my dear,” Archie said, turning his gaze from the young boy to face her, “at least your Jimmy knows what it is.”
“And how am I supposed to know it’s called that?” Peggy replied.
“Well, you use one most days.”
“I use a few things most days Archie, but that don’t mean I know the proper names for all of them.”
Archie raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, get away with you Archie,” she said, gently pushing him.
Smiling, he passed her the white stone.
“I know I’m going to regret asking you, but my back is nigh on killing me from trying to clean that bloody step and I could do with the rest, so go on Archie and tell me why it’s called a donkey stone.”
“Well, Peggy my dear, a donkey stone is…”
“Hold on Archie,” Jimmy said, stopping stroking the horses coat and sitting on the kerbside next to the elderly man, “tell me again to please.”
“It must be pretty quiet around here, if you want old Archie to be telling you about a stone,” Archie said, kneeling slowly, resting his hands on the p
avement to enable him to sit next to the young boy.
“Nobody else is out yet,” Jimmy said, secretly pleased he would be listening to one of Archie’s tales without the other children being there.
“Well isn’t that a strange one, you’d think they’d be out kicking a ball or something by now on a lovely morning like this.”
“Oh, I think I know why that is,” Peggy said, stood over them, stroking Comets mane.
“Why’s that?” Archie asked, shuffling his legs to make himself more comfortable.
“Oh, the BBC has taken off the morning music program, as Tommy Handley is doing a special show.”
“What?” Archie asked, turning his head and standing.
“Aye, apparently it’s Tommy doing a skit on old Adolf himself stuck in his bunker.”
“For pity’s sake, I can’t believe I’m going to miss it, I’d no idea it was on.”
“Well, it was only mentioned on the radio last night so that’s probably why.”
He thought back to the evening before.
He had been in the Volunteer Canteen, the Volly, in Waterloo, having a chin wag with the locals there after their long week’s work.
“Ahh well, looks like I’ll be missing that one. How come you’re not listening to it Peggy?” he asked, sighing as he settled back onto the hard kerbstone.
“You know what our Terry is like Archie. He’d a skin-full at the Anchor last night and he hates being woken up until his head stops banging.”
“Well, he’s certainly awake now,” Archie said, grinning.
“Can I go listen to the radio now please mam?” Jimmy pleaded, “If me Dah is already awake, it’s not going to wake him, is it?”
She mulled it in her mind for a minute. Terry was not a bad one so he would not moan much, when he finally arose from their bed.
“Aye, alright, but mind it’s not too loud, or yer Dah will take a belt to yer.”
“Thanks Mam,” Jimmy replied, standing and running into the house.
He knew he would not feel the strap of his Father’s belt. His Father had not once raised his hands to his son, his voice maybe, but not his hands.
“So, aren’t you going to go listen to Tommy then Peggy?” Archie asked, watching the retreating boy leap over the porch stone and hurrying along the hallway.
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