The Very White of Love

by S C Worrall

  He raises the rifle. Then, to Cripps. ‘Monsieur, please hold the rope as tight as you can.’

  Aided by another soldier, Cripps tugs on the rope, holding the elephant’s neck and head still. The other soldiers pin down its legs. Martin strokes its leathery flank.

  The circus owner takes aim at the side of the elephant’s head, braces himself, then fires. A flock of pigeons clatters out of the woods.

  19 MAY 1940

  Tournai, Belgium

  Less than a week ago, Martin had glimpsed Tournai’s famous belfry in the distance, as they headed east towards Waterloo. Then, they were full of confidence. After all the months of waiting, they couldn’t wait to get to grips with the Wehrmacht. Now, they are retreating back along the same route, with their tails between their legs, having hardly fired a shot.

  The magnificent belfry still stands. But little else. And as they drive through what was once one of Belgium’s most beautiful, historic cities, Martin sees for the first time what twenty-four hours of German saturation bombing can do to a city. Piles of debris litter the pavements: shattered masonry, broken glass, overturned cars and lorries lie on their sides, their windshields blown out, their doors gaping open. His thoughts arc across the Channel to Nancy, like electricity. Will this one day be what London looks like?

  Leaving the shattered remains of the city behind them, they head towards the Escaut Canal. Villages scroll by with names half French, half Flemish. Eyre. Vez Brunehaut. Taintignies. The constant fear of aerial bombardment makes every yard seem like a mile.

  At St Maur, they buy a crate of Belgian beer to lift their spirits.

  ‘God, that’s good!’ Cripps enthuses, as they get back into the Panopticon, his upper lip decorated with a white line of froth, like a stencil.

  ‘Belgium’s gift to the world,’ says Martin, chugging back his bottle. ‘Some of the best brews come from a Trappist monastery near the coast.’

  As they crest a hill, the wind gusts across the open ground, rippling the canvas on the Panopticon’s sides. The diesel chunters. Then, they drop down into a fertile landscape of intensively farmed fields. These are the famous pépinières: the fruit nurseries of Lesdain, first planted under Napoleon at the beginning of the nineteenth century, and still producing some of the best strawberries in Europe. A Belgian version of Kent, thinks Martin. Dung heaps steam in the sun. Columns of wooden stakes stick up from the rich alluvial soil, like toothpicks. The spars of an empty fruit tunnel could be the ribs of a whale. A statue of the Virgin Mary smiles down from a painted alcove in the wall of a farmhouse.

  A few miles further on, they arrive at the convent of St Charles, in the village of Wez-Velvain. It’s an imposing, brick complex set in a park, dating from the sixteenth century. Though the Luftwaffe razed Tournai, less than a dozen miles away, the convent so far remains untouched. Even the Germans draw a line at bombing nuns. Now, lorries decant bloodied soldiers onto stretchers. Nuns in black and white habits move among the crowd, ministering to the wounded. A crook-backed sister hobbles over to the Panopticon on a walking stick. ‘Take your men in through that door.’ She points to a side entrance. ‘And up the stairs to the dormitories.’

  The smell inside the convent is nauseating. Two hundred refugees from surrounding towns and villages have taken refuge in the cellars. The corridors are crammed with exhausted soldiers. The adjutant pushes his way through the crowd. ‘We need you for some translation, Martin.’ He points to an anteroom halfway down the corridor.

  Martin follows him to a small, wood-panelled room, crammed with leather furniture. A crucifix hangs on the wall. A novice pours tea.

  ‘The milk is from our own cow,’ says the Mother Superior, a trim, compact woman in her sixties, with a round face and doe-like, brown eyes. In her lap is a sandalwood rosary. Heyworth and the other officers sit round her in a circle, smoking pipes or cigarettes. Martin takes notes.

  ‘Pendant la premiere guerre mondiale . . . ’ Martin begins to translate the Mother Superior’s words. ‘During the First World War . . . ’

  Heyworth stops him short. ‘I can manage by myself thank you, Lieutenant.’

  The Mother Superior smiles affectionately at Martin, then continues. ‘The Germans tried to blow up the bell tower. It’s fifty metres high, you see, and was being used as an excellent observation post. They mined it with explosives. But, at the last moment, our then abbot, Monsieur l’Abbe Delbauffe, climbed up into the bell tower and cut the wires.’ She looks intently around the room. ‘Immediately afterwards, the Germans were ordered to withdraw. And so our beautiful bell tower was saved.’ She smiles graciously. ‘Let’s hope we have another miracle this time.’

  Heyworth clears his throat. ‘Sister Agnes, I would first like to thank you . . . ’

  ‘Ma chere Soeur Agnes, je voudrais vous remercier . . . ’

  ‘ . . . for making your beautiful convent available to us.’ Heyworth looks around the room. ‘The men are tired and hungry. So the chance to rest here for a few hours means a lot to them.’

  A chorus of hear hears echoes round the room. Martin looks towards the Mother Superior to see if she has understood. She nods her head.

  ‘Our convent is at your disposal, Major.’ She twists the rosary in her lap. ‘On one condition.’ She pauses. ‘Actually, there are two. First, your men will remain in the Pension.’ She points across the courtyard to a two-storey, brick building. ‘On no account are they to enter the nuns’ quarters.’

  ‘Of course, Sister Agnes. We will post guards to see their privacy is respected.’

  The Mother Superior nods. ‘The second is even more important.’ She pauses. ‘You may be aware that as well as a convent we also run an asylum for women with – how shall I say? – nervous conditions.’ Heyworth nods. ‘Naturally, the events of the last few days have aggravated their condition. So I must ask that your men refrain from any contact with them during their stay.’ She takes a sip of tea. Heyworth and the other officers make as though to get up. ‘I have one final request.’ From the cellars comes the sound of shouting. ‘That when you leave, you take us with you, Major.’ She looks directly into Heyworth’s eyes. By way of response, Heyworth impatiently taps his swagger stick on his leg. ‘Since 10 May we have been trapped inside these walls,’ the Mother Superior continues. ‘The railway lines are cut, the roads are impassable. For the last ten days, we have also had hundreds of refugees sheltering in the cellars. We have orphans. Many sick and wounded. They sleep on mattresses in the tunnels receiving care from those sisters who remain. But since we had to evacuate a group of injured and sick nuns, we have been short-staffed.’ She twists her rosary. ‘So far, we have escaped the worst of the fighting. But the front on the Escaut Canal is only a few miles away. Yesterday, a stray shell landed in the orchard.’

  She waits for the novice to pour more tea before continuing. ‘I am telling you this not to elicit your sympathy,’ she says, smoothing the front of her habit, ‘but to make you understand the nature of the circumstances in which we find ourselves. We are counting on your help.’

  The corridors echo with the tramp of boots as Cripps, Jenkins, and the rest of the battalion climb the stairs to the Pension and throw themselves on the iron bedsteads. They are well past their physical limits after almost three days on the move. In that time, they have dug in six times, and marched nearly a hundred miles. They have been bombed and strafed. Their clothes reek of sweat and mud. They have hardly slept or eaten in days.

  Despite orders, it’s not long before a group of soldiers break into the nuns’ quarters. They ransack drawers, knock over crucifixes, drop mud on the freshly laundered sheets. Two soldiers go and stand by an open window, calling across to a girl in the mental asylum on the other side of the courtyard. When she spots the men, she pulls her skirt up around her waist, like a can-can dancer at the Moulin Rouge. There are catcalls and jeers from the soldiers.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Martin races down the corridor and throws the men up again
st the wall.

  Martin slams the window shut. ‘Get back to the dormitory, both of you!’ he shouts. ‘We are guests here!’

  The nuns serve lunch in the grounds of the convent. Two cauldrons of soup have been set up on a long, wooden table under a chestnut tree. A line of novices serve the men. The cook slices up two wheels of pain de campagne. A pond shimmers in the distance.

  ‘Merci bien, ma soeur.’ Martin takes a bowl. ‘Thank you, sister.’

  The nun lights up as she spoons a dollop of steaming hot parsnip soup into Martin’s bowl. She’s younger than the others, with jet-black hair and blue eyes.

  It might be called ‘country bread’ but the crusty, flour-covered loaf, with its soft, white interior, tastes better than any bread Martin has eaten in England. The soup is thick and creamy, the colour of oranges.

  ‘That’s one thing you can always be sure of in France,’ says Martin, taking a seat beside Saunders. ‘Even at a convent.’ He lifts a spoonful to his lips. ‘The food will be first rate.’

  After lunch, some of the men strip off to their underwear and go for a swim in the pond, splashing and larking about, like children at the seaside. Martin accompanies Gibbens down to the cellars. The tunnels are lined with frightened refugees fleeing the German advance, many from Tournai. People lie on mattresses, or hunched against the walls. A single bulb is the only light. Nuns hurry past with buckets full of urine and blood.

  ‘They’re going to have a typhus outbreak down here if they are not careful,’ says Gibbens, shaking out a thermometer over the head of a small, curly-haired boy.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asks Martin, in French.

  ‘Solly,’ says the boy. ‘It’s short for Solomon.’

  Gibbens sticks the thermometer under his tongue.

  ‘How old are you, Solly?’ asks Martin.

  ‘Twelve, sir.’

  ‘And where are you from, Sol?’

  ‘From Tournai. Do you know it?’

  ‘We just passed through it.’

  Gibbens removes the thermometer, and glances at it.

  ‘When did you arrive here?’ Martin quizzes the boy.

  ‘We left last Thursday. We had taken shelter in the synagogue.’ He shivers. ‘But the Germans set fire to it. Father said we had to leave or we would all be killed. We walked for three days. Sleeping in barns, finding food wherever we could.’

  ‘That’s probably how you got sick.’ Gibbens takes the boy’s face in his hands. ‘Now, let me see your tongue.’

  The boy pokes out his tongue. Gibbens feels under his chin for his lymph nodes, presses. ‘That hurt?’

  ‘No, sir.’ The boy stares up at the light bulb. ‘How long do you think we will be here?’

  ‘Hard to tell, son. But not much longer, I think.’

  The boy stares up at Gibbens and Martin, trusting but confused. ‘Do you think we’ll be able to go back home?’

  ‘I’m sure you will, Sol,’ says Martin, reassuringly. ‘This war can’t last for ever.’

  Gibbens pulls some medicine from his satchel. ‘I want you to take three of these per day, for a week. All right?’

  As the sun starts to set over the strawberry fields, they prepare to move on again towards the Escaut Canal. After their chaos of the previous days, these hours at the convent have been like an oasis in the desert and, as Martin waits in the Panopticon in the driveway, while the transport officers move from vehicle to vehicle, giving out route orders, he feels a wave of gratitude at the realization that, even in the midst of evil, there are still human beings striving to love and comfort their fellow men. Nancy would be moved.

  But there is little room for sentiment in a soldier’s heart. Not during war, anyway. And as Martin watches Heyworth and the adjutant hurry down the steps, followed by Sister Agnes, he knows that the Mother Superior’s request for help in evacuating the nuns is about to be refused.

  ‘Please, Major.’ She tugs at his arm. ‘At least take the novices with you.’

  ‘I am sorry, Sister.’ Heyworth increases his pace.

  Sister Agnes runs after him. ‘The word of an English officer is his bond, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Quite so.’ Heyworth clears his throat. ‘But I never gave you my word.’

  ‘So you won’t help us?’ The Mother Superior rounds on him.

  ‘It’s not a question of won’t, Sister Agnes. It’s a question of can’t.’ He pulls a face. ‘If you follow the grammatical distinction.’

  ‘We have no time to split grammatical hairs, Major. If the Germans come and find the novices . . . ’ She blushes. ‘Well, you know what happens in war better than I do.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sister Agnes.’ Heyworth starts to leave. ‘We barely have enough transport for the men.’

  ‘Only ten,’ the Mother Superior pleads. ‘Small girls.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘But we fed and sheltered you.’

  ‘And for that we will be eternally grateful.’ Heyworth beams at her. ‘But we are fighting a war.’

  Heyworth holds out his hand to the Mother Superior. She refuses it, takes half a step backwards and makes the sign of the cross. ‘May God protect you, Major. And your men.’

  20 MAY 1940

  The Escaut Canal

  Martin puts a wireless up on the bonnet of an armoured car parked in the square of the village of Lesdain, a few miles from the front line on the Escaut Canal. They can hear the boom of gunfire in the distance. But for the moment the Bucks battalion is in reserve, ready to join in the fighting if called upon. It’s midday. Martin tunes the dials. Jenkins has hooked the wireless up to a battery for power. There’s a loud hissing, then a fruity, upper-class voice. ‘This is London.’

  Martin’s platoon gathers around the radio. Topper takes off his helmet. Cripps leans against the bonnet. Another burst of static, then a low growl. ‘I speak to you for the first time as Prime Minister in a solemn hour for the life of our country, of our empire, of our allies, and, above all, of the cause of Freedom . . . ’

  Churchill’s voice is like brandy, warming and reviving the men.

  ‘A tremendous battle is raging in France and Flanders. The Germans, by a remarkable combination of air bombing and heavily armoured tanks, have broken through the French defences north of the Maginot Line, and strong columns of their armoured vehicles are ravaging the open country, which for the first day or two was without defenders . . . ’

  ‘Fucking Frenchies!’ The sergeant spits on the ground.

  ‘Our task is not only to win the battle – but to win the war.’ The radio screams, like a lobster plunged in a pot of boiling water. Martin twiddles the dials. More screeching and static. Then Churchill’s voice booms out again, shouldering their fear aside. ‘That will be the battle,’ he growls. ‘In that supreme emergency we shall not hesitate to take every step, even the most drastic, to call forth from our people the last ounce and the last inch of effort of which they are capable.’

  A shell sails overhead and explodes in a strawberry field. A Bren carrier races across the square, tracks screeching on the cobblestones. Martin packs up the radio and orders his men to take cover.

  Later that afternoon, Heyworth summons the officers to orders. They have installed themselves in an abandoned house on the edge of the village.

  The dining-room table is covered with maps and folders. Wires from a field radio snake across the floor to the door. Rifles are lined along the walls. The windows have been blacked out with industrial paint. The men sway on their feet, battling to keep awake. But everyone is in a good mood. The quartermaster has just got back from Lille with a lorry loaded with a hundred tins of biscuits, a bottle of beer for each man, and three dozen bottles of champagne for the officers. He’s also managed to get newspapers from London: the first proper information they have received since they left Wahagnies a week earlier.

  A week? To Martin it feels like a lifetime. For months, as they waited in northern France for the balloon to go up, time dragged by. Now, so much
has happened in such a short time that Martin feels like he has been in a speeded-up newsreel film. The Germans have invaded France. Then Belgium. Large parts of the front have collapsed. The Belgian Army has been decimated. France is on the verge of surrender. Fearing total decimation, the entire British Expeditionary Force, almost 350,000 men, has been ordered to pull back to the coast – and safety. The Times claims it is a brilliant tactical manoeuvre. Everyone knows it is a rout.

  But at least they now know where they stand. And what they have to do. Champagne corks pop. ‘Your attention, please.’ Brian Heyworth clears his throat. ‘These have been trying days. But overall, I think you’ll agree, the battalion has performed well.’

  A round of ‘hear, hear’s fills the dining room. Since taking over command from BB, who has been shipped back to hospital in England, Major Heyworth has grown steadily in Martin and the rest of the officers’ esteem. Down to earth, practical, possessed of a wry, Mancunian wit, he has made everyone feel more confident in their capacity to take on the Germans. And beat them.

  ‘So, I would like to offer this toast.’ He raises a tin mug of champagne. ‘To the Battalion!’

  ‘The Battalion!’ Martin and the rest of the officers raise their mugs.

  ‘I’d also like to offer a special word of thanks to Q, our inveterate quartermaster.’

  A cheer goes up. Captain QM Pallett, a modest, self-contained man not given to public displays of affection, answers it by staring down at the ground, flushed with embarrassment. Even after this week of forced marches, he is impeccably turned out, his face clean shaven, his buttons gleaming, his boots spit and polished until they shine like mirrors.

  ‘They say, on a ship the most important person is the cook.’ Laughter and applause. ‘In the Army, it is the quartermaster. In the last war, Captain QM Pallett had to keep his men fed and watered on the Somme, in the most trying of conditions.’ Pallett finally looks up and grins self-consciously. ‘He now brings that experience to bear on this conflict. And I would like you to join me in giving this grizzled veteran . . . ’ laughter ‘ . . . three cheers.’ Heyworth raises his mug. ‘Hip, hip.’