by Ronald Cove
*
DI Selby pulled up short. “Look Bill, d’yer see that?” he asked with surprise. “Course I bloody saw it, the bleeders dodged into that bloody ‘ouse” I told him. Dave gave me a nonplussed glance. “Well, what yer got in mind then?” I queried. “Go straight in after the sod I suppose, what d’yer reckon?” he came back with. “No, ‘ang about, let me foller ‘im in, you nip round the back Dave, just in case” I almost implored him. I see him hesitate, so I quickly added, “after all it was me he clobbered with that bloody tin ‘elmet”. At this point Dave relented “Ok mate, it’s your call” he granted. Although not completely at ease with the situation, it was nevertheless at that moment when I barged through that front door, in Nicholas Road, Dagenham, thereby putting my life at risk on entering the aforesaid bomb-damaged house, is when a wave of trepidation ran through me.
On hearing a door bang upstairs, I quite naturally headed for the stairs. Once at the top I flung open the first room door I came to, which to my cost turned out to be a careless mistake. As I then stood framed in an open doorway, a broom handle was thrust into my solar plexus. I went to my knees gasping for air whilst telling myself this must be your bloody lot Auger.
35:
HE JUST FADED AWAY
Martin stood in an upstairs room deliberating what he should do next. As he did so the front door of the house crashed open. He knew at once someone had followed him in, but how many he wondered? It was then Martin remembered the gun still snugly tucked away in his waistband. However, he decided not to rely solely on the gun, reasoning that with the limited amount of ammunition he possessed, it would perhaps be prudent of him to use this weapon only as a last resort, so with this thought in mind, his eyes began searching the room for an alternative means of defence. Although at this moment it had occurred to him that if more than one man had come through that front door, he might very well have need of the fire-arm. Meanwhile, he selected for his purpose, a broom which stood just behind the room door, which at that moment was flung open. Martin did not hesitate, he jabbed the handle of said broom into the man’s midriff as he entered.
*
I began to feel slightly faint, but from a distance I heard a voice say, “Not you again!” this was followed by a low chuckle. I made a gigantic effort to suck in as much oxygen as I possibly could, in order to revitalise my now tired limbs. Then another voice growled “Grab the bastard Tony” and to my relief my two partners had rejoined me.
Alas, sad to say that’s when our luck swung the other way. Now once again back on my feet it was Tony’s turn to take the brunt of this mans’ rage. As Tony rushed forward to grab our man, he received a vicious straight left hand jab on his jaw which instantly sat poor old Tony on his backside. Of course by the time he and I had recovered our senses, this friendly bastard, we’d spent what seemed like a lifetime chasing halfway across England looking for, now stood facing us holding a bloody gun, which is something us silly sods hadn’t even thought of carrying. So here we all were, Tony nursing a seemingly broken jaw, me still struggling to breathe and Selby no doubt thoroughly frustrated, and the bugger us three silly sods were supposed to be arresting, standing there with a bleeding big grin on his face, while trying to decide which one of us he should shoot first. Anyway what followed, I still regard as plain trickery. “You and you over there” he indicated Selby and I should join Tony who was now seated on a large window sill, so we joined Tony. The gun waved at us again, the man holding it said with conviction “Now boys, you stay here, I’m off to Dover and back to the Fatherland” and with that, he stepped through the bloody door, which he closed and carefully locked behind him. I at once tried opening a window with no bloody luck, however on squinting between the strips of brown sticky paper that criss-crossed each pane of glass, in order to prevent any glass flying about from the blast of a bomb, I immediately noticed on looking down it was bloody obvious we were up way too high for any heroics, like throwing ourselves out of a top floor window. Tony stood, and while caressing his jaw, mumbled, “‘Ow the bloody ‘ell we gonna get out then?” For a reply, I gave him a knowing smile, gently guided him to one side, snatched up this unfriendly bloody broom and began prodding the ceiling with the handle. In minutes we were through the ceiling and down through the loft hatch. Once again back on the street, where we all made stringent enquiries of various police officers as to whether they’d seen our gun-toting playmate legging it off somewhere, and as per normal, apparently no-one saw a bloody thing. So our next move was a trip to Dover. Willis somehow managed to snatch a car and off we went.
At Dover some bright spark of a Harbour Master, smugly informed us no one would dare go across to France from Dover now “France is occupied by the bleeding Germans now” he joyously informed us “no mate, he probably had a U-boat pick him up somewhere along the coast” this smart arse added. That’s when DI Selby looked at me, threw both his arms in the air and screamed “The buggers done it again, he’s just faded away”
Next day in spite of being kept awake half the bloody night by bloody air raids, we drove back to Hornchurch in order to re-arrange our accommodation back to how we first found it, and of course to report our miserable failure in losing our man. I also thought it a good idea to say goodbye to my little cockney friend from Stanley Road. So after wishing our respective landladies good luck, I then left Dave and Tony waiting for me at the Hornchurch police station canteen.
I found my little snotty nose bundle of joy swinging on his front gate. “‘Ellow mister wot yer doin’ round ‘ere again?” he asked without me having to decode one word. “Would yer believe, I’ve come lookin’ for you” I told him, and for the first time I really saw this poor little sod for what he was and what he’d gone through so far, and furthermore just what the poor little bugger would have to look forward to at the end of this bloody war. I thereupon hooked out two half-crown pieces, placed them in his small hand. “Blimey, thanks mister, ‘ere, yer can come lookin’ for me any day yer like, if yer gonna throw money about like this” he offered. I smiled “‘Ere what’s yer name, anyway?” I asked. “No” he quickly replied. “No!, what d’yer mean no?” I responded in puzzlement. “Well, it ain’t ‘anyway’” he brightly answered. “Oh bloody funny,” I said. He then added grimly “see my mum says I look like that Errol Flynn actor, so she calls me Albert” he chuckled. I was amazed “Albert! That doesn’t sound nothing like Errol Flynn” I shot back. “‘Ere, yer ain’t arf bleedin’ brainy aintcher,” he cleverly replied. I made to cuff him around the ear. “Yer cheeky little bugger” I warned him. But this streetwise little toe rag had dodged smartly out of reach saying “If my dad was ‘ere he’d ‘ave yer for that” he threatened with a sad look then coming into his eyes. Once again I started feeling sorry for this poor scruffy bugger. “Where is yer Dad?” I jokingly enquired. A half smile cut across this kid’s little face “Oh ‘im, won’t be seein’ ‘im no more, my mum says silly bleeder stopped one at Dunkirk didn’t ‘e,” the little feller said abruptly with a shrug of his small shoulders, and straight away his answer made me wish I’d never asked.
I then regarded this sad little creature with a degree of pity, ruffled the kids’ hair, dug deeper in my pocket for another half-crown coin, gave it to him. I couldn’t say anything; the lump in my throat wouldn’t let me. I turned away thinking ‘fuckin’ war, why do we allow this sort of thing to happen’.
____________
THE BLITZ
London dear London,
just what have they done?
With bombs, bright searchlights,
And those big, booming guns.
People in shelters shivering in fright,
Yet praying for peace,
night after night,
Planes showering death down at a terrible rate,
No wonder old London was so full of hate.
At home they’re nice fellows,
of this there’s no doubt,
But not over here, where they’re bombing us out.
> High in the heavens showing no pity,
They just seemed intent on ruining our city.
With bombs raining down,
blowing old London to bits,
This was the time
which is known as the blitz.
Mothers with babies, oh so much crying,
While old people are asking,
"Is our London dying?"
Now it’s all over, the years have rolled on,
Most Londoners wonder,
Where their dear London’s gone
So if you were there,
now one of the few,
You’ll think of old London,
Just what did they do?
Of course they’ve rebuilt it,
so bright and so new,
Yet old folks still remember,
The London they knew.
Taken from Where the Poppies Grow an anthology of poems about two World Wars by Ronand Cove.
Acknowledgements
Once again I owe a debt of gratitude to my very patient wife, and a daughter that is second to none, for all the help I’ve received from them in bringing this book to fruition. They are both beyond any praise I could bestow upon them.
I would also like to offer my thanks to a helpful understanding lady named Pat, for all the running around she’s done on my behalf.
Last but not least, my thanks to John for always being there when needed.
And to conclude I would like to offer my sincere thanks to my friendly neighbours and the readers who have kindly supported me since I began writing.
Other Books by Ronald Cove
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