worse with each op. There’s always a price for both sides and I may be one of the ones who pays it.’
‘No, please . . .’ She tried to steer him away from these gloomy thoughts. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’
He continued regardless. ‘When I’m with you, I can live for a few hours as if there’s no war. When I’m high over the North Sea I think of you safe, going about your life, doing everyday things. It gives me such strength and now, with Clare, we are a family no matter how far away I am. When I hold you both, I can forget what tomorrow may bring, the fear I may not return in one piece or that there may be no happy ever after for us.’
Ella wept at his words. How could he say such things? ‘Don’t cry, you’re the best thing in my life, everything I ever wanted. You light up a
room with your smile, your hands create beautiful things and you care for people. How can I not love you? When I think how easy it would have been never to have conked out in that field, never to have met you. I feel so lucky so blessed. Many chaps never got the chance to be loved by a woman. We’ll pull through, we will, so don’t worry.’
‘You’ve done your tours. It’ll be a training post soon, surely?’ she asked. ‘I hope so, but only for a while, darling. I can’t sit at a desk, knowing what I know.’ ‘Promise me you’ll come back to us,’ she pleaded, clinging to him. ‘If I don’t, I want you to get on with your life, your art, find another chap. Don’t become
a nun. My parents will see to Clare’s education. You are not to worry about money,’ he in-sisted.
‘Stop it. Just keep yourself safe for us.’ She hated him talking like this. It was bad luck to talk about dying. She felt as if someone had walked over her own grave.
‘You have to face facts, Ella. The odds are stacked against us. Sometimes I get a feeling in my bones . . .’ Ella flung her arms round him and halted his words with her kiss.
‘Come on, let’s go for a walk. You’re just tense about leaving. Fresh air will do us all good. We can walk down the towpath and take the baby to feed the ducks.’
As they walked slowly, they heard planes droning overhead on their way back to the Operational Training Unit at Lichfield, returning from doing ‘circuits and bumps’, the routine training flights around the district, getting the hang of how to work as a crew, test-ing their skills. She could never escape from the roar of their engines. They even haunted her dreams.
So much had happened so quickly for them. Clare was a honeymoon baby. Love in a war was indeed love in a rush but she wouldn’t change a day of it. Anthony must survive for Clare’s sake. She must have a father. Clare must have what Ella had never known, a proper family with two parents to love and provide for her. Nothing else would do.
109
August 1942
The summer picnic for the evacuee children had been exhausting. The WVS had organized an outing to Hopwas Wood for sports, games and fresh air, with extra hands provided by mothers, grandparents and able-bodied volunteers in the city. Celeste was helping to organ-ize the picnic tables, ready for the bun fight when the hordes of city children made a dash for the sandwiches and cakes they would wash down with bottles of fizzy pop, which had been carted up the hill in wooden crates. The pent-up enthusiasm of these boisterous children was exhausting just to witness.
Ella and little Clare were entertaining the few young mothers who had stayed with their children, most of whom were finding Lichfield too quiet, sleepy and remote to their liking.
At the back of Celeste’s mind she was still chewing the cud over Roddy’s last letter. He’d revealed his training was over and he’d got a commission into the army and was looking forward to seeing action in the Far East. Now she had no idea on earth where he was in the world.
They’d had an influx of American troops into the local barracks at Whittington. What with the boys in blue at the air base at Fradley, Lichfield was now a busy garrison town. She only wished Roddy were here.
At night they crowded into the public houses; raucous, noisy boys, accompanied by some Waafs in uniform, spilling out onto the streets, drunk, making the most of their leave. The whole city was geared up for war with convoys once again trundling down the main streets. The traffic passing Red House was so loud at night, it made the windows rattle, and over-head was the ever-present drone of planes on night-time bombing missions.
Celeste couldn’t believe they’d had nearly three years of war, three years of rationing and coupons, travel restrictions and blackouts, with no sign of an end. Sometimes she felt every one of her fifty years, her legs constantly aching from standing, and the drabness of make-do-and-mend shabbiness had taken its toll on her spirits.
It worried her that Clare wouldn’t know anything but blackout curtains and gas masks, home-made toys and cut-down clothes. She was the one bright spark in their day with a
ready smile to light up their darkness. Ella had proved to be a natural mother. She also found time to work on her sculpting and she’d made pen and ink drawings of Clare to send to Anthony. One of Anthony’s friends had introduced her to some of the leading artists in the Midlands, and a gallery in London had bought two pieces, which was such a boost to her confidence. The war wasn’t dampening her talent, even if her materials were harder to come by.
The picnic was going so well. It was as if there was no war in the woods, just the screams of children enjoying themselves. The sun was shining and it was a perfect summer day until they heard the roar of engines overhead as if a dogfight was breaking out above them. They whipped up the children, dragging them under the cover of the woods just in case there was strafing. To her relief Celeste saw it was no more than a Wellington limping slowly back to Fradley with smoke coming out of its backside.
But then she watched in horror as it stuttered and spluttered lower and lower. There was nothing they could do for the stricken plane but pray. It was still too far off the runway to make a safe landing. It was too low, and the barracks at Whittington had some sort of landing strip. Celeste willed the pilot might make it down safely but then it dropped out of sight, and they heard a sickening explosion as it burst into the ground, a great pall of smoke rising up. Those poor men in that bomber were doomed.
Death had marred a beautiful holiday. Celeste wanted to scream out loud, and then she saw Ella’s face, white with fear in the agony of wondering if this was how Anthony and his crew might end their lives one night.
‘Come on, everyone,’ shouted the committee chairman, rallying her troops. ‘Home, James; let’s pack up. Time to head back. There’ll be lots to do at HQ.’
Keep busy was their motto when things were dire. Keep busy, keep calm and keep going, no matter what. Everyone scurried about packing baskets, folding tables and chairs, finding blankets and making the silent children pick up litter, distracting them from the stench of smoke and what they had all witnessed.
There was nothing they could do for those men in the wreckage. The fire service would see to their bodies. Tonight some poor mother would receive a telegram telling her the worst had happened. All over the world such telegrams were winging their way to families. What if her Roddy ended up like that?
They drove back into Lichfield in silence. The outing that had begun with such jollity had now ended in sadness.
‘Are you all right?’ Celeste whispered to Ella. ‘It can’t be Anthony. He’s transferred to Coastal Command now.’ Not that this was any comfort to Ella. He was being stationed fur-ther north and she couldn’t stay with him often.
‘I know, but to be so close to such a horrible thing. It brings it all home. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to live a normal life.’ Ella was close to tears.
‘It’ll end one day and we’ll soon forget the bad times, you’ll see,’ Celeste lied, knowing she’d never forgotten those terrible images of the Titanic splitting in two and the screams of the dying in the water. They still haunted her dreams.
When they reached Red House, the door was wide open and Selwyn was hovering in the doorway with a
strange look on his face.
‘What’s happened?’ Celeste asked. ‘Is it Archie?’ She felt weak at the knees, fearing the worst.
Selwyn broke into a grin. ‘Nothing like that. We’ve got a visitor.’ ‘But I’ve got nothing in the house but leftovers,’ she began. She was so tired she couldn’t
be bothered with entertaining, not after what they had just witnessed. But there, standing in the hall, she glimpsed a tall officer in American uniform, his cap
cocked over his eyes at a rakish angle.
‘Hi, Mom.’
‘Roddy, oh, Roddy.’ She fell into his arms, all weariness instantly forgotten. My son has come home at last. Oh, thank you, thank you, she prayed. ‘The last time I saw you, you were in short pants,’ Ella laughed. ‘Look at you now, the all-American Boy. I can’t believe it’s over twenty years ago.’
‘And you were a pain in pigtails,’ he quipped, eyeing her up and down. ‘And who is this little beauty?’
‘This is Clare. Say hello to your uncle Roddy.’ But Clare clung onto her, burying her face in her shoulder. ‘She’s just shy; she’ll get used to you. I can’t believe it’s you! How did you pitch up here?’
‘By courtesy of Uncle Sam, First Class all the way across the Atlantic, zigzagging to avoid the U-boats. What a trip! Half the guys spent it retching over the side. Not quite the Cunard liner-style in luxury but we got to Liverpool in one piece. My God, what a sight for sore eyes that was, battered but still standing, like most of Britain, from what I’ve seen. I pulled a string or two, and got some leave to see my folks. I just had to see Mom.’
‘I could’ve walked past you in the street. You’re so American. Nothing wrong with that, of course,’ she added hurriedly, ‘but some of the guys stationed here are a bit rich. Candy for the kids, and nylons for the girls . with conditions,’ she winked, ‘if you catch my drift?’
‘Don’t worry, I bought candy for the baby but nothing for you.’ He held out some chocol-ate in his hand. Clare didn’t need any persuading to grab it from him, her shyness miracu-lously gone.
Later, they walked down Market Street, pushing Clare in her folding pushchair. ‘I’ve never seen Celeste so happy as when she walked through the door and saw you,’
said Ella. ‘You are the best gift of all for her. She worries about you.’ ‘I know, but I’m here now. Don’t know where next.’ Roddy looked round in amazement.
‘Nothing seems to change much but it’s all so much smaller than I recall.’ ‘How could it change? There’s a war on. We’re all routine bound. Funny how life just
goes on, war or not.’
‘And your new husband?’ Roddy smiled. ‘You were pretty quick off the mark,’ pointing to the pushchair.
‘Why not? Babies are our future, our hope for a better future. Are any of yours on the streets of Akron?’
He looked down at her with a sheepish grin. ‘Not that I know of,’ he replied. ‘You’ve changed too.’
‘I should hope so. I’m a mother now.’ They were ambling in the direction of Cathedral Close. ‘Remember this? We used to come in here to hear you sing.’
‘Sure. It feels like that was a lifetime ago. Reading our newspapers, I was expecting the whole country to be flattened. This looks untouched.’
‘Don’t be fooled, we’ll all be touched before this is over. At least we’re doing something across the Channel now, giving the enemy a dose of their own medicine. But let’s not talk about the war. How long do we have to put up with your bad jokes?’
They paused to look up at the familiar façade of the West Front. ‘I’ll be off tomorrow. I don’t know where, of course, all hush-hush.’ ‘So soon?’ Ella felt sad as she made for the West Door. ‘Want to go in, for old times’
sake?’
‘Why not? Who knows when I’m back again? Might as well have a last look at the old place. Do you remember how Grandpa Forester always had sweets in his cassock pocket? If you fidgeted, he gave you a mint ball to suck on.’
‘I liked his liquorice Imps, those tiny tic-tacs that hit the back of your throat to help you sing better. He was such a nice old man and he was so kind to my mother.’
‘Mom wrote to me about May. I should have written but I didn’t know what to say.’ ‘I’m glad she told you. I do miss her, especially here,’ Ella added, walking along the
aisle.
‘I miss not having Mom in my life too,’ he replied as he followed her. ‘I feel so happy to have Clare and Anthony, and the Foresters too,’ she continued. ‘Your
mother’s been wonderful.’ She stopped and turned to face him, looking him straight in the eye. ‘Why did you leave us?’ She asked the question that had been unspoken for years.
‘I didn’t. I never intended to go with Pa but it all got out of hand, and I was too young to realize what he was doing until it was too late.’
‘But you could have come back with Celeste. We missed you.’ ‘I know, I was young and didn’t think, and later on it wasn’t that simple. There was
Grandma. She was having a rough time with my father’s drinking. I just stayed until it was too late to return and now I have my business to go back to.’
‘So I hear, and very successful too. Never thought of you as a truck driver.’ ‘Don’t be such an English snob,’ he laughed. ‘I’m an officer now,’ he tapped his lapels.
‘So behave yourself.’
They walked around the rest of the cathedral in silence, just like any other tourists, feet echoing on the stone slabs. Everything of value had been boarded up and removed, and it felt cold and empty. Ella was glad to be back outside in the sunshine.
‘Time to go back. Mrs Allen’s Woolton pie awaits us, I fear. You have been warned.’ ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ Roddy said. She looked up at him, puzzled. ‘What?’
He was pointing across the Close to the narrow entrance on Beacon Street. ‘We have to complete the tour, if I’m not mistaken, and go to Museum Gardens to see that old sea dog.’
‘Captain Smith! I thought you would have forgotten him by now?’ ‘Never. We must do the whole tour. Without him, neither of us would be here to tell the
tale,’ he insisted.
It was as if they’d taken up where they had left off all those years ago. Her big brother was back on form. ‘Now let me tell you how I met the captain’s real daughter. You’ll never believe this.’
Roddy pushed Clare as Ella filled him in with her story unaware that he was eyeing her with renewed interest. She would stop the traffic at his base with those looks. Perhaps if he’d stayed in England who knew . he sighed. Now she was spoken for and out of bounds. Served him right for leaving his return so long.
110
The Italian Campaign, 1943–44
‘Hit the dirt, Padre!’ yelled a voice from a foxhole as a mine detonated close by. Frank jumped, automatically covering his head, his face flat down in the mud as he prayed. He knew combat was no respecter of dog collars. He was well blooded now, and bone-achingly tired. The Anzio landings had been easier than they thought, but now they were bogged down after a German counterattack, pinned down against strong defence lines.
The fighting to liberate North Africa seemed a long time ago and so many of his comrades had been lost along the way, blown up, shelled and ground down by overwhelming fatigue. Now a quick route from Naples to Rome was not going to happen. It was going to cost them dear.
His colonel often joked that Frank had taken to battle like a monk to prayer. But he was so numb and felt more and more like an automaton as he jumped from one muddy foxhole to the next, bent double in case of snipers. He’d taken to wearing a Red Cross brassard around his arm. It had already saved the lives of men stuck out there alone, wounded or dying, when he went to give them the last rites, or carry them back. Not all the enemy was heartless. Some infantry soldiers respected the skill and sacrifices made by the other side and held their fire. Others didn’t.
Now, after the last bombardment, he must scour the battlefiel
d for dead and wounded on both sides, dragging the living on his back to safety. It was the least he could do. They were family, brothers in arms, they needed him, but he wondered how long he could keep up his strength, not to mention his courage. The shells of Anzio Annie were coming closer, and his prayers were getting more fervent as he crouched. ‘Better pray us out of here, Father,’ someone yelled.
This was his life. Side by side with the men as they fought their way northwards in clothes that never dried, sodden boots, sleeping on mud, fortified only by dried ‘C rations, since they arrived in Italy. How could anyone sleep in a blanket and shelter when they were waistdeep in water and mud, gunfire their lullaby?
Later he would perform his daily ritual of removing dog tags from the corpses, trying to match their identity, sometimes with so few remains. Ever present was that overwhelming sweet stench of death in his nostrils. Waiting with the bodies as trenches were dug was the worst bit. There were so many sometimes that they were stacked up like logs. They laid the remains in neat rows, arms and legs buried as best they could, adding them to bodies that were limbless. Each burial service got harder when so many young boys he knew were snuffed out in a split second of mortar shelling or by a sniper’s bullet. The slaughter here was more like a massacre.
Sometimes there was only a thumb left with which he could make a decent print for identification. Looking over the row, Frank felt a part of his heart was dying with each burial, each familiar face. How could he say blessings over such a waste of youth? But it was his job. When the canvas covered over the temporary grave it was time to face the mountains of condolence letters he must write. Sometimes he was so weary his pen just wouldn’t move and he stared into space for hours on end, praying for the strength to repeat this baleful duty all over again. They were hunkered down under the mighty guns from the Alban Hills, unable to break through. Only an aerial bombardment would destroy the men-ace of this advantageous placement. The enemy’s sights were fixed on any movement on the beachhead, making progress impossible.
Fleming, Leah - The Captain's Daughter Page 38