The Very White of Love

by S C Worrall

  Martin peers through the windscreen, watching the white eye on the axle of the lorry ahead bobbing up and down, like a fishing float. As he drifts in and out of sleep, he flashbacks to England, and Nancy: their dinner at the hotel in Mousehole; their day on the beach; their trysts at Church Path Wood; dancing to jazz in London; their passion on the late night train home to Beaconsfield after seeing a play; the sound of Fats Waller’s piano as they slow-danced round the living room at Whichert House; her laughter as they rowed down the River Isis in Oxford last summer.

  Abandoned farmhouses loom out of the darkness at the side of the road. The rhythmic tramp of the men’s boots on the cobblestones sounds like the pounding of corn in a mill. There is no singing now. The men’s only thought is to place one foot in front of the other. One hundred and forty-eight times per minute.

  Ahead of them, the flashes of gunfire grow brighter, and louder. Here and there, the road is pitted with fresh bomb craters. In Hal, they stop for a tea break. The town has been freshly bombed from the air. Several buildings are on fire. Corpses lie strewn across the cobblestones. As they enter the square, Martin spots some kind of fruit hanging from a branch, the size of a melon, but the colour of flesh.

  ‘Is that what I think it is, sir?’ Cripps’ voice chokes.

  Martin peers up into the tree. His mind can’t believe what his eyes are seeing. Because what he thought was a fruit is actually a human lung that has been blasted up into a tree, after a bomb annihilated a British soldier. It’s Martin’s first sight of the horror of war and he turns away, feeling nauseous. ‘My God . . . ’

  A motorcycle outrider pulls up alongside the Panopticon. ‘Better keep moving, sir,’ the patrolman says. ‘Jerry’s planes are still nearby.’

  ‘What happened here?’ Martin points to the tree.

  ‘A group of our boys were standing in the square watching a dogfight between a Spitfire and a Stuka.’ The patrolman shakes his head. ‘Silly buggers were cheering the Spitfire when suddenly the Stuka dive-bombed the square.’ His face darkens. ‘Bloody mess, it was.’

  14 MAY 1940

  A Road Near the River Ath

  Martin drifts in and out of sleep in the front seat, trying to banish what he has just seen from his mind. It’s almost two in the morning and, as he watches the lamp swinging under the lorry in front of him, an image of that grotesque fruit that wasn’t fruit, hanging in the tree, superimposes itself on the white disc painted on the axle. It’s like an image from a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. And again he feels that nauseous surge of disgust in his stomach. He struggles to replace it with an image of Nancy, standing in Church Path Woods, innocence in place of horror, but his mind is a jumble of jagged edges and he drifts off to sleep.

  A high-pitched screaming rouses him, coming from the direction of the front line, some thirty miles away. Out of the moonlit sky, a plane appears, spiralling towards the ground in a nosedive, corkscrews, then lands with a tremendous crash in a field about half a mile away. A fireball lights up the sky.

  A few minutes later, Gibbens appears at the side of the Panopticon in an ambulance. ‘I need a couple of men to accompany me,’ he says, urgently. ‘There may be fatalities.’

  ‘What if it’s an enemy plane, Trevor?’ Martin calls to him.

  ‘The Germans are just as deserving of medical attention,’ replies Gibbens, then waves the ambulance on.

  Martin grabs Cripps and Jenkins, and sets off on foot towards the orange glow, pistol drawn. The ground is soft underfoot and he has to lift his boots high, like a sprinter doing the hundred yards. Next to him, Cripps and the two other men lumber along, panting, their rifles crossed over their chests.

  A bullet whistles past Martin’s head. They throw themselves to the ground, pulling their helmets down over their heads for protection. Martin counts to twenty then looks up. Silhouetted against the orange glow of the flames, he can see two figures advancing towards them. His heart beats in his chest with an almost childish excitement. After the months of training, he is about to come face to face with a real German, armed and ready to kill him.

  ‘That must be the fliers,’ Martin whispers to Cripps.

  ‘Shall we fire?’

  ‘Let’s try and get a bit closer.’

  Martin gets up on one knee. ‘Advance.’ He waves the men forward.

  They run fast across the field. Other soldiers from the battalion are coming from the other direction. Shots ring out. One of the fliers falls to the ground. The other one starts to run, but stumbles and falls. Martin and his men run over to him and overpower him.

  ‘There’s two more in the cockpit.’ Gibbens emerges from the direction of the plane, his face lit orange by the flames. ‘Burned to death.’

  Martin stares down at the wounded man. It’s the first time he has ever seen the enemy up close. He half expects to be greeted by an ogre with three eyes, and hairy knuckles. But the airman staring up at him is a young man the same age as him, with a shock of blond hair and a pink face dotted with acne. ‘Koennen Sie mir hoeren?’ Can you hear me?’

  ‘You speak German, as well?’ Gibbens is impressed.

  The airman stares blankly at Martin. ‘Ich heisse Alfred Dorfmann. Mein nummer ist 7349488.’

  ‘Woher Sind Sie gekommen? Where have you come from?’

  ‘My name is Alfred Dorfmann.’ The airman recites mechanically. ‘My number is 7349488.’

  Hugh comes running up out of the darkness with two men from his platoon and salutes Gibbens. His boyish face is flushed, his eyes wild. He points to the edge of the field. ‘There’s another one over there.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes.’ Saunders points at the young man on the ground. ‘How about this one?’

  ‘Broken leg, I think. Maybe a fractured rib.’ Gibbens looks down at the flier. ‘Refuses to speak, though.’

  One of Hugh’s men steps forward with his rifle butt raised. ‘This is probably one of the bastards that bombed our lads in Hal this evening. Shall I soften him up a bit, sir?’

  Gibbens raises his hand. ‘That won’t be necessary, thank you, Corporal.’ He points to a pair of stretcher-bearers. ‘Just accompany Hopkins, here, and get this man to the ambulance.’

  An explosion makes the ground shake. Bits of the plane’s fuselage are thrown, burning, into the air. Gibbens turns to the lieutenant. ‘Well, I suppose they have paid their price.’

  The bearers lift the wounded man onto the stretcher. Martin stares down into his face. For months, they have been gearing up to this moment, pumping themselves up to feel hatred for the Germans. But, as he stares down at this baby-faced, blond boy, the only emotion Martin feels is sympathy. The flier probably has his own Nancy back in Stuttgart or Hamburg, a Gertrud or Anneliese, who will be anxiously worrying about him and praying he comes home safe. As the bearers prepare to take him back to the field hospital, where Gibbens will attend to him, he pats the young German on the sleeve. Then he waves for his men to follow him back across the moonlit field.

  The next morning Martin leaps out of bed in the darkness and runs to the window of his billet: a small, brick cottage on the edge of the town of Alsemberg. He rips back the curtains. Through the window, he watches a Messerschmitt fly low over the rooftops, strafing the town. They are now only five miles from the front. Tiles on the roofs of adjacent houses shatter. Bullets ricochet off the brickwork. It’s almost beautiful, he thinks: a kinetic montage of destruction, like a film.

  He reaches inside his tunic to touch Nancy’s locket. But it’s not there. A wave of panic shoots through him. He pulls off the tunic, turns it inside out, checks the floor by the bed. Surely, he can’t have lost it. He hurls the bedding onto the floor, gets down on all fours and looks under the wardrobe. Checks his pack. All his pockets. But the locket is nowhere to be found.

  He sits back down on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. Since burning all her letters, the locket has been the one tangible connection that he has to Nancy. The little twist of hair inside the silve
r casing still smelled of her perfume. It was a piece of her body. A memento that, when he touched it, made him feel as though she was there, with him.

  All the pain of their separation focuses itself into this moment. He begins to cry. Great, shuddering sobs that tear at his stomach and make his shoulders heave. Suddenly, the hard shell he has forced himself to wear as a soldier cracks open and he becomes in this moment of loss what he has fought so hard to overcome: a twenty-year-old boy, far from home, in a foreign land, in love and broken-hearted.

  A loud rapping on the door snaps him back to reality. Martin jumps up from the bed, puts his shirt and tunic back on, wipes his eyes on his sleeve, and takes a deep breath. ‘Come in!’ he calls.

  Hugh Saunders appears, looking flustered. ‘Have you heard? The Dutch have surrendered.’ He leans against the wall. ‘It just came over the radio.’ He frowns. ‘So it’s just us now. And the French.’

  Martin tries to speak but he is still too much in shock. No words come.

  ‘You all right, old man?’ Hugh asks.

  Martin pulls out a handkerchief and blows his nose. ‘Fine,’ he pretends. ‘Just feel like I might be catching a cold.’

  ‘Don’t get too near me then,’ Saunders looks at his watch. ‘Better get moving. Orders group in ten.’

  Together, they walk over to the farmhouse where BB, the commanding officer, has called the orders group, a meeting where plans and new instructions are issued to the officers.

  BB is dressed in a clean-pressed uniform and spit and polished boots. A strip of medals shines on the chest of his tunic, like a rainbow. His black moustache has been carefully waxed. This outward show of martial vigour can’t disguise the truth, though: despite a spell of sick leave in England, Burnett-Brown’s physical and mental health is breaking down. His face is pasty and sallow, his chest wheezes as he speaks.

  The meeting takes place in the dining room of the farmhouse where BB is billeted. Martin takes his seat at the foot of the table. Their intelligence officer, David Stebbings, nods to him. Martin smiles affectionately at his childhood friend, remembering how they played together in the woods around Beaconsfield as children, climbing trees or firing their home-made catapults at imaginary enemies. Now, they are soldiers in uniform, bracing for real battle.

  It is David who has pinned a large-scale map of the front on an easel next to the commanding officer. The word ‘Waterloo’ is written at the top.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ BB taps the map with his swagger stick. His voice is plummy and bumbling. ‘I have just received news from Divisional HQ, detailing our role in the next forty-eight hours.’ He pauses. ‘As you know, the 48th Division is deployed along a front, er, here . . . ’ He taps the map, then, realizing he has pointed to the wrong spot, moves the swagger stick to the front line near Waterloo. ‘Waterloo. As I am sure you all know, this is where the Duke of Wellington crushed Bogie. Hallowed soil, and all that.’ He taps the map again. ‘Here, in the south-east, on the right of the front, there is strong enemy pressure.’ Martin stiffens at the mention of the Germans. ‘As a result, the Bucks Battalion and the rest of the 145th Brigade may be called on to carry out any of the following roles.’ He picks up a sheet of buff-coloured paper and puts on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘First, relieve Moroccan troops who are under intense pressure in this sector.’ He makes an aside. ‘The Moroccans have been brought in from North Africa. Basically cannon fodder. Half of them haven’t even got rifles.’ He looks back at the paper. ‘Two: counter attack through the Moroccan positions.’ BB looks back down at the paper, clears his throat. ‘Three: remain here in Alsemberg.’ He looks up. ‘Clear as mud, eh?’ There’s a burble of tame laughter. ‘Battalion to be ready to move on immediate notice.’

  Martin hurries back to his billet, stuffs clothes into his pack, grabs his rifle, then hurries down to the buildings where his men are billeted: a group of brick-fronted terraced houses in the south-west of the town. The men are lying on their groundsheets, dozing or playing cards. Jenkins, the driver, and one of the corporals are arm-wrestling on the table, stripped to their underwear.

  In the six months they have been together Martin has come to feel a deep fondness for this band of men. And as he looks round at their faces he realizes that, even though he is younger than all of them, as platoon leader his leadership will now be crucial. It may be the difference between life and death.

  ‘We’ve been ordered to be ready to move on immediate notice,’ he says, firmly.

  A groan goes up.

  ‘Bloody ’ell, sir,’ the corporal says. ‘We only just got ’ere.’

  ‘Welcome to army life, Corporal.’ Martin smiles and goes to the door. ‘Now, get cracking!’

  ‘Where are we going, sir?’ Cripps looks up from the bed where he is lying on his back, reading a paperback.

  ‘The front line.’ Martin pauses. ‘Waterloo.’

  The corporal whistles. ‘Waterloo? In the footsteps of the Iron Duke, eh?’

  ‘We beat them then.’ Jenkins grins.

  ‘We can beat the bastards now.’ The corporal and Jenkins slap hands.

  ‘In case you haven’t noticed, this time we’re actually fighting with the French,’ Martin sighs. ‘Not against them.’

  ‘Same difference, I reckon.’ The corporal gives a belly laugh. The others join in.

  ‘Come on! No time for idle chatter.’ Martin makes a wheeling motion with his hands, as though herding cattle. ‘We’ve got a war to win.’

  They pull out of Alsemberg in the small hours, the men fired up that they may at last soon be seeing action. The road is full of Belgian troops and refugees, fleeing the battle zone. The 48th Division, which the Ox and Bucks is part of, is heading to the front in the opposite direction. The Belgian troops look demoralized and defeated. They hang their heads, barely able to lift their feet as they march along. Many have bandages around their heads, or struggle on crutches. Military vehicles weave in and out of horses and carts piled with baggage. A famer pushes a child in a wheelbarrow. His wife walks beside him, carrying two large suitcases, her face pale and frightened in the moonlight. Some of the refugees have brought their livestock. Cows bump against the vehicles, goats trip the marching men.

  It’s the children Martin feels for most, wrenched away from everything familiar, their lives turned upside down by war. One boy, lying in a heap of sacks on a horse-drawn cart, has polio braces on his legs. Next to him, a girl with plaited hair sobs quietly. Will this be the fate of the children he and Nancy will have one day, if Hitler wins this war? The thought turns his pity for these refugees into anger and determination to fight and defeat the enemy.

  ‘Bloody idiots!’ Jenkins honks the horn at a group of Belgian soldiers walking in the middle of the road. He rolls down his window. ‘Oi!’ He jerks his thumb in the direction of the east. ‘The front’s that way!’

  The Belgians look up at him, with hangdog faces, and stagger on.

  ‘Bloody cowards,’ growls Cripps. ‘Abandoning their own people like that.’

  15 MAY 1940

  Waterloo, Belgium

  The sun is rising as the battalion arrives outside Waterloo. History is repeating itself as farce. The front is less than a mile away. But no one even knows where the battalion is meant to take up its position. At first, they are directed to the village of Roussart, to the south-east of Waterloo. But after waiting there for an hour, new orders come through: take up a position covering an iron anti-tank obstacle at the bottom of a ridge. On the other side of it, a small detachment of German light tanks and infantry are preparing to advance. The Ox and Bucks have been ordered to stop them.

  They park the Panopticon in a copse of birch trees at the foot of the ridge. They have been ordered to dig in on a steep slope on the other side. The boom of field guns from the German lines makes the men edgy as they unload the lorry: shovels, picks, spades, rolls of barbed wire. It’s the first time Martin has heard that sound at close quarter. It goes right through him, reverberating i
n his ears long after it has ceased, making his legs tremble and his senses snap awake.

  ‘Has anyone actually recced what’s on the other side of this hill?’ Topper grumbles.

  ‘No time.’ Martin throws a pick down onto the ground.

  ‘Let me just get this straight.’ Topper drops a pile of shovels with a clang. ‘We’re gonna be diggin’ in, in broad daylight, under enemy fire?’

  ‘Don’t forget the aerial bombardment.’ Cripps points up at the sky, grinning ironically.

  Six Dornier bombers fly low out of the east, in formation, their wings glinting in the morning light.

  ‘Take cover!’ Martin dives to the ground, pulling his helmet down over his head.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ Topper throws himself under the Panopticon.

  A hail of bullets scythes through the birch trees, sending branches and leaves crashing to the ground. Bullets smack into the trunks of the trees, and ping off the Panopticon’s bodywork. Then the planes roar over the treetops and bank away to the south.

  A cuckoo calls from inside the copse. Martin remembers hearing the same sound with Nancy, when they used to meet in the woods above Penn. The memory makes him yearn to see her again. But the memory of that joyous sound is shattered by the whistle of another shell followed by an explosion as it bursts in a field two hundred yards behind their position, throwing clods of earth into the sky. ‘Cripps, Topper. You follow me.’ Martin brushes himself off. ‘The rest of you, carry all the gear up this hill. But don’t go over the top until I get back.’

  Martin sets off through the birch trees. Cripps and the corporal follow close behind. At the top of the hill, they lie on their bellies. Martin takes out his binoculars. Below them, the land drops down a steep, grassy slope dotted with cow parsley. At the bottom of the slope, the land flattens into ploughed fields, stretching to the east. The battlefield of Waterloo. Same fields. Same dome-like sky. Different war.