‘Determined to finish what they started,’ John said as he scanned the sky with his binoculars. ‘Sent the buggers over from France, I expect. They’re too bloody close for comfort these days. Trying to soften us up. Reckon the invasion’s still on the cards.’
Sitting together in the darkness, watching the sky, Billy was tempted to tell his father the real reason for his recent special training weekend. He had been allowed to join the Home Guard when he’d turned seventeen and he’d turned out with them for training ever since. But a few weeks ago he’d been ‘invited’ to a special meeting. He had been down in Cheddar collecting supplies for his mother and had stopped at a pub for a quick pint of cider before going home again. As he sat at the bar nursing his pint, he was joined by an older man, wearing a Home Guard uniform.
‘Billy Shepherd, isn’t it?’ said the man as he hoisted himself up on to an adjacent bar stool.
Billy turned to find himself looking at Mr Tavistock, who had taught him history at school. Billy hadn’t seen him since he’d left school, though he’d heard that ‘Old Tavy’, as he’d been known, had retired soon after. Billy hadn’t been surprised; after all, Old Tavy was old, at least fifty. He’d been in the last war.
‘Mr Tavistock?’
‘Surprised to see me in uniform, lad? They’re calling on all of us old men these days. You in the Home Guard?’
Billy said that he was.
‘Thought so,’ said Mr Tavistock. ‘Thought I heard you were in the Wynsdown lot. Still farming up there with your dad, are you?’
‘Yes,’ replied Billy cautiously, wondering how the old man knew, or remembered, so much about him.
‘Important work that,’ remarked Mr Tavistock, signalling to the barmaid for a pint for himself and another for Billy.
‘Not much to do, if you ask me,’ Billy said. ‘A lot of parading and drill and that, and some exercises on the hills, but nothing exciting.’
‘Getting fed up with it, are you?’
‘I think we all are,’ answered Billy. ‘I mean, defending our country is vital, I know, and we have to stay in training, but at the moment most of us are bored with the whole thing.’
‘Well, there are ways of making it more interesting,’ Mr Tavistock said as he took a pull at his pint and smiled, savouring the first mouthful. ‘Special duties.’
Billy’s curiosity was piqued and he said, ‘What sort of special duties?’
Mr Tavistock tapped the side of his nose. ‘Can’t tell you that, lad. But if you think you might be interested, come to the Cliff Hotel on Saturday night and maybe you’ll find out.’ Then, inexplicably leaving the rest of his cider almost untouched on the bar, Old Tavy had slipped down from his stool and said, ‘Must be off. Think about Saturday. Come on your own. I’ll be there.’
Billy had thought about Saturday all week, and when Saturday evening came he’d ridden his bike down to Cheddar and made his way to the Cliff Hotel. Mr Tavistock was in the hallway and when he saw Billy he greeted him with a smile and led him upstairs into a room where three other men were waiting, sitting in awkward silence on the chairs which had obviously been set out for them. One of them, Kenny Blaker, had been at school with Billy and greeted him with a nod, but said nothing. As he took one of the seats, Billy wondered if Old Tavy had sent Kenny along, too. Didn’t he work for a builder? A few minutes later an officer came into the room and they all stood up.
‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ the officer said and, moving to the front of the room, looked round at them all. He didn’t introduce himself, simply said, ‘Thank you for coming.’ He continued to stand although a chair had been placed for him.
‘What I am about to say to you is extremely hush-hush,’ he began. ‘You will not repeat any of it to anyone. You’ve been asked here because we think that you are the men we need for one of our local auxiliary units. It means extra training and some secret and almost certainly dangerous work, in defence of your homes and your country, but each of you has been recommended by someone who knows you, which is why you’re here. If you are interested in hearing more about what we want you to sign up to, then stay and listen; if not, you should leave now and no one will think the worse of you. But I have to emphasise, we’re only asking for volunteers.’ He waited a moment, watching them. Billy looked back at him. This officer was asking him to do something secret and special in defence. He didn’t know what, but if he volunteered, he thought, he’d be doing something real for the war effort.
He remained seated, as did Kenny Blaker and the other two men.
The officer looked pleased. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a brief outline and then over the next few weeks you’ll be called for additional training to join a new signalling corps. At least, that’s how you’ll explain the additional training you’ll be receiving beyond the usual Home Guard exercises.
‘The possibility of a German invasion is still with us,’ the officer went on. ‘And we must be prepared. We’re training a secret resistance force, men who will continue to resist in the case of German occupation. They will be the men who disappear underground when the Germans arrive. They will be the men who continue to fight; who harry the invading troops, attacking, and running. Sabotage will be the order of the day, destruction of anything and everything that might aid the Germans in their occupation. They will be putting their lives on the line in every operation they undertake. Many of them will not survive, but we will not allow the Nazis simply to walk in and take our country from us.’ He paused and looked again at the young men seated in front of him. ‘You will be among these men. In the case of invasion, you will simply disappear. You men have been chosen because you know your own area inside out. Preparations are already being made locally, with hidden dumps of weaponry, ammunition, explosives and, of course, food and water, for your survival. You have been recruited into this resistance force, but you must never, ever, reveal to anyone else that such a force even exists. You are the Home Guard, but you are more, much more. You are our secret underground army and your very survival may depend on no one knowing that such an army exists. What people don’t know they cannot betray – even under pressure.’
‘You mean under torture.’ The words were said softly, but the officer pounced on them.
‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ he said. ‘When you return home after this training, you will say nothing of where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing. You will maintain absolute silence on the matter even with your closest friends and family... your wives and children, your parents and siblings, your girlfriend, your lover... none must have an inkling of what you’re being trained for. This is what you’re signing up to, this is what must be maintained, for your own safety, for the safety of us all.
‘If the worst comes to the worst, many people will be against what you’re doing. There will be German reprisals, as there have been in France, and people may well turn against such a resistance force. That is why you will never be able to tell anyone what you’ve been trained to do. As far as your friends and family are concerned, your wives, particularly your wives, you’re in the ordinary Home Guard. This is for your security, but also for their own.’
Later, as he’d ridden back up the hill to Wynsdown, Billy knew a strange mixture of pride and fear that had been with him ever since. He had been chosen to fight to the last. If the Germans landed he would be among the last defenders of his country.
A week later he’d been called for extra training, duly explained as a signalling course. It was training totally different from anything he had done previously, and before he returned to Wynsdown he was accepted into a secret force, unknown to the outside world, unknown to anyone not directly involved, and had signed secrecy papers.
Despite the insistence on total secrecy, as he and his father sat in the observation post, watching the bombers unloading death on those beneath them, Billy was sorely tempted to tell his dad what he’d signed up to. Surely he would never tell anyone? Except perhaps his mother. And she wouldn’t tell...
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br /> At that moment they heard the sound of a plane approaching very close and very fast. Its engine shrieked as it came diving towards them.
‘Christ almighty, it’s on fire!’ bellowed John, and even as they watched they saw a dark figure fall from the cockpit and hurtle towards the ground until, with a jerk, its descent was slowed as a parachute opened up above him. The plane continued its screaming descent and crashed beyond the ridge in a ball of fire.
John snatched up the field telephone and reported back to base.
‘Enemy plane down above Charing Farm!’ he shouted. ‘On fire. Crew unlikely to have survived. One bailed out. Parachute opened. Headed for Charing Coppice.’
He listened for a moment and then said, ‘Right, sir. We’re on our way.’
As his father reported in, Billy watched the parachute continue to drift down, the man hanging from it, a limp form like a broken doll. As it neared the ground the wind carried it away from the observation post and into the patch of woodland known as Charing Coppice on the far side to the next field. The parachute became entangled in the top branches and the airman was left dangling twenty feet above the ground.
‘Come on, Dad,’ Billy cried, jumping down from the shelter. ‘We can catch this one.’
‘On our way,’ John shouted. ‘Major Bellinger’s going to the plane. He’s sending reinforcements up to us as well.’
They grabbed their rifles and scrambled down the hill and across to the trees, where the parachute caught in the branches showed white in the moonlight. Below its canopy hung the figure of a man, twirling gently in the wind.
They approached the scene with care, creeping in through the shelter of the trees, unsure if the man was armed, injured or possibly dead.
‘Keep him covered, Billy,’ murmured John, ‘while I see what’s happening.’
Billy edged forward through the undergrowth until he had a clear line of fire, while his father circled round to the other side of the tree, his own rifle aimed at the gently twirling body. For a moment he didn’t know what to do; there was no sign of life, so he called out.
‘Are you alive? We’ve got you covered.’
For a moment there was no response and then far above them came a faint groan. John pulled his torch from his pocket and shone it upward. He could see the man’s face, twisted with pain, but his eyes were open and he was staring, terrified, down at the man with the rifle below.
‘No shoot,’ he called. ‘Beine kaputt.’
‘No,’ John called back. ‘No shoot.’ Keeping his eyes firmly on the man above him, John said, ‘Come out, Billy. We have to get this bloke down. He’s been hit in the leg, I think.’ He was looking at the man’s ragged trousers and could see blood trickling on to his flying boots. The man’s face was a mask of pain and he groaned again.
‘What are we going to do?’ asked Billy as he set his rifle aside and looked up at the airman.
‘Have to cut him down,’ replied John. ‘But it’ll be a difficult operation in the dark. We may have to wait till daylight.’
‘I could climb up and cut his harness away,’ Billy said, ‘but then he’d simply crash down to the ground.’
‘Needs two of us up in the tree, so we can lower him down. But we need someone on the ground, too.’
‘I’ll climb up and have a look,’ Billy said, and watched by the German he began to scramble up the tree. When he got level with the dangling man he called, ‘Shine your torch this way, Dad.’ John directed the torch beam at the parachute harness and Billy studied it carefully.
‘We can cut him loose from the parachute and then ease him down to the ground.’ He looked across at the man and gave him a nod. ‘You’ll be OK, mate,’ he said.
The airman latched on to the word ‘OK’ and rasped, ‘No OK. Beine kaputt.’
‘Sorry,’ Billy said gruffly, ‘don’t speak German.’ He turned his attention back to the parachute lines and then called down to his father. ‘Not too difficult, Dad. Once we’ve got manpower on the ground, two of us can manage this end.’
While they waited for their reinforcements to arrive, Billy went back out into the field where there were some sheep hurdles stacked against a wall. He heaved one of them free and carried it back to the edge of the wood.
‘Need something to carry the poor bugger on,’ he said as he laid it on the ground.
‘Good thinking,’ said his father. ‘Shouldn’t be too long before help gets here.’
It was only fifteen minutes later when three more members of Wynsdown Home Guard arrived at Charing Coppice. Led by a puffing Charlie Marston, with Bert Gurney and Frank Tewson bringing up the rear, they pushed their way through the bushes into the wood. Daylight was beginning to creep into the eastern sky, and in the half-light of dawn they all surveyed the airman, suspended in the tree.
‘Shoot the bugger and be done with it, I say.’ Bert was his usual bullish self.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Bert,’ snapped John. ‘He’s a prisoner of war.’
‘Whatever he is, he’s up a gum tree,’ said Frank and then laughed at his own joke.
‘He’s wounded,’ Billy said, ‘and he’s losing blood. We have to get him down.’
‘Diddums!’ said Bert. ‘Poor little Jerry! Is he hurt then?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Bert, put a sock in it,’ said John. He turned to Charlie who, wearing his corporal’s stripes, was the senior man after himself. ‘Right, Charlie. We’ve worked out what to do, all we need is for you three to wait here at the bottom of the tree and we’ll lower him down to you. He’s wounded in the legs, but we don’t know how bad. You have to catch him and ease him on to the ground. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Billy was already back up the tree and John climbed up beside him.
‘Take his weight, Billy, while I cut the webbing free.’
Billy took the strain and after some quick work with his knife, John had cut the man free of the parachute and together they held him, still suspended in his harness. The airman moaned, but he seemed only half conscious now and unaware of what was happening to him.
‘He’s coming down,’ called John. ‘Ready, men?’
It was hard to hold the dead weight of the airman as they paid out the harness ropes, but with Billy taking the strain as the anchor man, they gradually lowered him from the tree. Despite the fact that the men below were there to catch him, the airman shrieked with pain as his legs bumped the ground and by the time John and Billy had climbed down again, it was clear that the boy had passed out. For now that they could see his face properly, they could see he was indeed not much older than Billy, possibly about twenty, but no more.
‘Now then,’ ordered John, ‘get him on the hurdle while he’s still out cold.’
Billy fetched the hurdle and three of them lifted him on to it. His legs were covered in blood and through the tatters of his uniform, John could see bone projecting through the pale flesh. He turned to Billy. ‘Run back to the farm and tell your ma to get a bed ready for him. Then on down to the village and bring Doc Masters up to have a look at him. Tell him he’ll need pain killers of some sort. The lad’s legs are shattered.’
Billy nodded and set off at a run.
‘Right, men,’ John said. ‘One on each corner, and try not to bump him.’
By the time they reached the farm, Margaret had made up a bed on the sofa in the sitting room, lighted the fire to warm the seldom-used room and made tea. Hot water simmered on the stove and all was ready when the doctor arrived with Billy only moments later.
‘I saw Major Bellinger, Dad,’ Billy told him as they waited for the doctor to examine his patient. ‘He said to tell you he’s been out to the crash. The plane is burnt out and there are three more crew still inside, well, what’s left of them, anyway. Didn’t stand a chance, poor sods. He’s put a guard on the plane to stop souvenir hunters and rung HQ for them to come and deal with the wreck and to take over our man.’
‘Doubt if our man can be moved for a bit,’ hi
s father replied. ‘Luckily he was out cold all the way back here, but he’s in great pain and unless they knock him out again, it’ll be difficult to transport him.’
At that moment Dr Masters came into the room, looking grave.
‘He’s in a bad way,’ he said. ‘Not a lot I can do for him here, just keep him sedated and try and control the pain. I think it’ll be a case of amputation, certainly for one of his legs. They may be able to save the other.’
‘The poor boy,’ Margaret said.
‘He’s come round again, but of course there’s the language barrier. I can’t explain to him what needs to be done, or even what I’m doing to help until we can get him to hospital.’
‘You could fetch Charlotte, Billy,’ said his mother. ‘At least she could talk to him, try and reassure him. What do you think, doctor?’
‘It might be helpful,’ replied the doctor, but he sounded dubious.
Margaret took this as yes and despatched Billy to Blackdown House to fetch Charlotte. When she saw who was at the door she felt suddenly shy. Would Billy feel the way he seemed to feel on Saturday night, or would it be like last time when everything reverted to normal and he treated her like a little sister again?
‘Hallo, Billy,’ she said, adding as she took in his Home Guard uniform, ‘have you been up all night?’
‘Yes, since the siren went, anyway.’
‘Come in.’
‘I can’t. Look, Charlotte, we need your help back at the farm.’ He told her quickly what had happened.
Charlotte wasn’t at all sure she wanted to speak to a German airman who’d been bombing them one minute and shot down the next. ‘Serve him right,’ she muttered as Billy explained why he’d come. ‘He shouldn’t have been there at all.’
‘Come on, Char, don’t be like that,’ coaxed Billy. ‘If you saw him you’d be sorry for him. He’s going to lose at least one of his legs.’
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