by S C Worrall
The men brace themselves then lift and carry the rail to where Cripps and two other men are waiting with welding gear. The blue acetylene flame of a blowtorch lights their bare torsos and faces. Bringing the flame closer, Cripps slices the rail into four-foot sections.
Martin takes a canteen and chugs it back. The water dribbles from the side of his mouth, down his chest. He crouches down and grips another rail. Braces, lifts, his muscles straining like hawsers. The iron bites into his hands. But his body is charged with a new power and determination, and a deep sense of comradeship with his men.
He suddenly spots a line of twenty German bombers skimming the rooftops of the town and flying low towards them.
‘Take cover!’ Martin shouts, as a machine gun opens up from the roof of the orphanage.
They dive to the ground, pressing themselves into the cobblestones, as the planes bank and come in low over the railway yard. Bullets ricochet against the walls, blasting off chunks of brick and plaster. Then comes the whistle of a bomb. Martin’s heart beats wildly in his chest. But the bomb explodes several hundred yards away. The planes fly off.
Martin waits thirty seconds, then gets up. ‘Back to work, lads.’
They work on steadily through the afternoon, cutting and shaping the rails, then transport them back to the town where they embed them with concrete into key road junctions. They have also found half a dozen lorries full of 50 lb bags of sand, which they distribute to key buildings; hundreds of bags of cement; and a storeroom containing five hundred French landmines, which will reinforce the roadblocks they are building.
‘That should hold up the Germans,’ says Martin, proudly surveying the men’s work. Over the roofs of the town, the sun is beginning to set. ‘Well done! When we have finished, this place will be as secure as the Tower of London.’
He is about to stand the men down when a runner arrives, out of breath. ‘Sir!’ He salutes Martin. ‘Orders from the adjutant.’
Martin takes a chug from his canteen. ‘What now?’ he asks, irritably.
‘You are to lead a patrol along the railway line to search all wagons for ammunition that may have been left behind.’
‘We could use some more of that.’ Martin nods to the runner. ‘Thank you, Private.’
Martin leads his men across the town to the station, where they set off in single file along the tracks. They move gingerly, without talking, rifles at the ready. The report of field guns from the direction of the village of Morbecque signals that the Germans are already launching their assault.
After a quarter of a mile, they find a group of trucks in a siding. Martin leads the men forward and opens the doors. Nothing. They trudge on past a deserted signal box, where another railway wagon has been shunted out of sight behind a line of trees. Unlike the last one, the sliding door is fastened with a heavy padlock.
Martin signals to Cripps to use a crowbar to open the door. He inserts the tip under the flange holding the padlock. There’s a metallic clang as the flange snaps off. Martin orders Cripps and the rest of the men to stand guard on the tracks while he searches the wagon. No ammunition. Just boxes of documents, piled to the roof.
Martin picks out a folder and stares at the red stamp: GCHQ, Top Secret. Inside it are lists of weaponry and vehicles; names and contact numbers of field commanders. Martin pulls out another file. This one is thicker than the others. Across the top are the words: Personal Copy/Lord Gort.
Gort? The Commander-in-Chief of all British forces? Who until recently had been here in Hazebrouck? Martin feels nervous opening it, as though he will make himself privy to information he should not have. But after a few moments hesitation, he rips open the file. Inside, are pages of instructions: list of towns in Belgium and France, maps showing their layout; British troop dispositions and strengths, with coded instructions for their deployment; enemy forces and positions.
Martin’s eyes widen in disbelief. This is Gort’s complete Order of Battle, the same document that Winston Churchill and the chief of staff of the French Army have. Abandoned in a railway wagon? Everything the enemy needs to know about where and when the British will fight. How many troops they have; where they are dispersed; all their equipment. A blueprint for enemy victory. A death sentence for his men and thousands like them. No wonder they are already losing the war, with clowns like Gort in charge.
Cripps whistles from outside the wagon. ‘German patrol, sir. Six of them. Coming down the line.’
‘Don’t engage them unless you have to, Sarge.’ Martin calls down from inside the wagon. ‘We have to destroy all this paperwork before it falls into their hands.’
A volley of bullets thwack into the wagon.
‘They’ve spotted us, sir,’ Cripps calls. ‘We’ll hold them off as best we can. But you’ll have to hurry.’
At that moment, there is a deafening explosion as a mortar lands on the tracks. Martin is thrown to the floor of the wagon. Outside, Cripps and the rest of the platoon open up with their rifles.
Martin takes a lighter from his pocket and sets fire to a pile of documents, then another. In seconds, there is a roaring blaze.
‘Pull back, men!’ Martin jumps down from the wagon as the rat-tat-tat of machine gunfire from the German patrol opens up.
It’s answered by the blast of a field gun from the station. The battalion’s gunners have spotted the Germans and are pouring down fire on them. Martin and his men run back along the railway track, ducking and weaving, as bullets whine around them. As they approach the station, Martin turns back. A plume of black smoke rises from the wagon.
Back at the orphanage, Martin stands under a steaming shower in the communal bathroom on the first floor. It’s the first time he has been out of his uniform since the battalion left Wahagnies almost a fortnight ago. His skin is caked in dirt and scaly as a lizard. He is still in shock at what they found in the railway wagon, but as he lifts his face and lets the water pour over him, all he feels is the hot water on his naked limbs.
He wishes he could write Nancy a letter. Postal services have been suspended during the withdrawal. But all day, as he worked with the men, he has been composing a letter in his head.
You should see me now, darling. All this hard labour has made me look like an Irish navvy. You will hardly recognize me! I feel such pride in the work, though, and I’m learning so much: I doubt I will ever need to build a roadblock in Beaconsfield, but there are so many other things, building work and the different qualities of wood. Joe (Cripps), the master carpenter I told you about, has shown me how to set a plumb line, and put up a timber fence, so I’ll be useful around the house when we start to live together.
The men continue to amaze and impress me. It’s just a disgrace that the generals have not equipped them better. Some of the men don’t even have rifles! You mustn’t worry, though, my love. We are all in good spirits and I know we will prevail. And when I get back, you will see the improvements. That old life in Oxford feels like a million years ago, the callowness and superficiality of it. Now, I see how spoilt and selfish we all were, and though we thought we knew everything, how little we actually did. Here, I have seen things I will never forget, they’ve changed me and made me more aware of the preciousness of life, and how we have to live each day intensely and fully, as though it were our last. You see, your Tino has finally grown up, and is now ready for the responsibilities of married life!
He pauses, as the memory of the afternoon’s events flood his mind. The feeling of fear and confusion as they arrived in the town; Heyworth’s orders to hold the town until the last man standing; the deserted orphanage; and the shock of finding top secret documents abandoned on the railway line. The thock of bullets as they whacked into the wooden wagon. The rumble of German field guns, growing closer, like thunder before a storm. The bombers circling the town. The attack could begin at any moment.
He takes a bar of soap and massages it into his scalp, eyes closed, letting the delicious sensation of the hot water sluicing down his back and b
uttocks wash away his anxiety. He imagines he is back on the train from London with Nancy, that night they went to the theatre. They are in a First Class carriage, with the blinds pulled down. They are lying on the seat, kissing. The clack-clack-clack of the speeding train is like a drumbeat in their ears. Their clothes are in disarray. Nancy’s dress has ridden up to her thighs. His shirt is hanging out of his trousers. He rolls over on top of her and presses his lips hard against hers.
He lifts his head to the shower head and lets the hot water sluice over his face, into his mouth, and down over his loins. He wants her so badly, he could scream.
Part Two
ENGLAND & FRANCE
MAY 1940 – SEPTEMBER 1941
3RD SEPTEMBER 1940
Blythe Cottage
Nancy waits anxiously for the postman to ring the doorbell. It’s a day of anniversaries. Molly Preston’s wedding anniversary. One year since war was declared. Most importantly, it’s the second anniversary of the day she and Martin met. But it’s almost four months since she last heard from him, from France. In that time, she has written half a dozen letters. As she no longer has an address, or any idea of his whereabouts, she sent them, as she has been instructed to do by the War Office, to The Officers’ Mess, 1st Bucks Battalion, B.E.F.
She glances again at the door, worrying irritably at a hangnail. This is what she does every afternoon when she gets home from work, waiting for the afternoon delivery, as competing emotions – hope, despair, fear, optimism – percolate inside her, like oxygen bubbles. She glances at her watch again. Half an hour. Forty minutes. Forty-five. She gets up, goes into the kitchen and pours another cup of tea. Her third in an hour.
Then the bell rings. Her heart leaps in her chest, like a salmon. She races to the hallway and almost tears the front door off the hinges.
‘Airmail letter, miss.’ The postman, a tall, kindly man with a stubbly face, hands her an envelope. ‘Let’s hope it’s good news.’
She thanks him and closes the door. Is this the letter she is longing for? The letter from Martin telling her that he is safe and well? But when she turns the letter over, it is as though someone has punched her in the stomach. Instead of his beautiful, compact handwriting, it is her own script; the stamps are British; and diagonally across the middle of the letter is an oblong, purple stamp with the words: Undelivered For Reason Stated – Return to Sender. Beneath that, another stamp: Addressee Reported Missing.
Tears well in her eyes. Her head spins. She feels like throwing up.
She turns, runs upstairs to her room, sobbing violently, the letter clutched in her hand, like a dead bird.
An hour later, eyes dried, make-up applied, party face on, she is peddling towards Whichert House, trying not to get her dress caught in the spokes. She so hoped this would be a day to remember. Now, it is another day to forget. For a moment, she considers turning back. But she accepted Aunt D.’s invitation to dinner months ago, and the whole family, including Martin’s mother, will be there.
At the bottom of the gravel driveway, she dismounts and pushes her bike the last fifty yards. Pools of shadow lengthen under the trees. The golden autumn light makes the leaves of the beech trees shine, as though they are made of silk. Everything about the house – the white, chalk-based walls; the oak-panelled dining room; the drawing room with its cushion-filled Chesterfield – reminds her of him. She half expects him to be standing by the Bomb, laughing and flipping the hair out his eyes. ‘Surprise!’
Instead, she finds Michael at the back door, pulling on a Senior Service cigarette. ‘Sixty-five planes! Lost in one weekend!’ His eyes blaze behind his bottle-thick glasses.
‘Ours or theirs?’
‘Ours!’ Michael waves his arms. ‘Thirty Hurricanes, thirty-five Spitfires!’
‘So many?’ The news makes Nancy feel even glummer.
‘Fritz knocked out several coastal radar stations, too.’ Michael cups his hand to his mouth as though it is a pilot’s mask, sticks out his arms like wings. ‘Messerschmitt at twelve o’clock. Dogfight! Jerry climbs. He can’t beat my Spitfire, though.’ He tilts back an imaginary joystick, rattles off words at machine-gun speed. ‘A thousand horse power Rolls-Royce Merlin engine. Liquid cooled. Eight .303 Browning machine guns in the wings.’ He presses an imaginary trigger. ‘Brup-bup-bup! Brup-bup-bup!’
‘Let’s go in for dinner, Michael.’ She touches him on the arm.
He stubs out his cigarette, grins. ‘Don’t want to anger Cook.’
They enter through the side door then make their way to the dining room.
‘Nancy, dearest!’ Aunt D. rises to greet her. ‘I hope you don’t mind us starting without you.’
‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. The train . . . ’
‘Main thing is you are here!’ Uncle Charles gets up from his place at the head of the table and kisses her cheek. He is still in his office clothes: grey summer suit; striped tie; gold half-hunter watch tucked into his waistcoat pocket.
It’s only dusk but the windows have been taped over with black cotton, according to blackout regulations, which gives the room a gloomy, sepulchral atmosphere. Candelabra glow on the heavy, oak table. Nancy goes round the room, kissing cheeks, greeting her other family. She is wearing Martin’s favourite outfit: a blue velvet dress, cinched at the waist with a black belt. Her chestnut hair tumbles over her shoulders. Martin’s engagement ring sparkles on her finger.
‘Mrs Preston.’ Nancy hands Molly a little blue package: a silk scarf from Liberty.
‘My dear, you shouldn’t have.’ Molly lays the package by her napkin. A shared concern for Martin has levelled some of the differences between them, but Martin’s mother remains cool. She is dressed to the nines, as usual: a burgundy red evening dress with a plunging neckline. Her throat drips with pearls. Fingers encrusted with rings. Heavily pencilled eyebrows. Scarlet lipstick. ‘Thank you.’
‘This is a special day for all of us.’ Uncle Charles turns to his sister-in-law. ‘How many years is it, Molly?’
Nancy nervously twists the engagement ring on her finger. This is her day, too. But no one seems to have remembered. For a moment, she feels slighted, undervalued, as though because she and Martin are not married yet, their story takes second place to Molly’s. Childish, needy emotions she immediately regrets. This is meant to be a happy day for Molly.
‘Three years more would have been our Golden.’ Molly tries to sound positive but since she buried her husband in Egypt she has not been a happy woman.
‘To Molly!’ Uncle Charles raises his glass. He clears his throat. ‘I’d also like us to spare a thought for our brave pilots, who at this moment are battling to save this country we love.’
‘Here, here.’ Tom, Michael’s brother, taps the table with his knuckles.
‘It’s the fifty-sixth day of the Battle for Britain. The Luftwaffe got the better of us last weekend, but I am sure we will be giving them a good pasting soon.’
‘Here, here!’ Tom drums his knuckles on the table.
Uncle Charles raises his glass. ‘To our pilots!’
‘Our pilots!’
Michael rat-a-tat-tats just as the door flies open with a bang. Frances, the cook, bustles in and clears the soup plates with a clatter. A heavy-set, termagant of a woman with a red slab of a face and hands like hams, she rules the household like a sergeant major.
She plonks a large silver dish in front of Uncle Charles, lifts the lid. Two roasted pheasants are just visible inside. Aunt D. raises an eyebrow.
‘I was lucky to get ’em,’ Frances says, irritably. ‘So I don’t want to hear no complaints.’
‘They look wonderful, Frances, thank you.’
Uncle Charles begins to carve. The cook slaps mashed potato on everyone’s plates, like a bricklayer towelling cement.
‘There’s sprouts ’n’ gravy here on the sideboard.’ She kicks open the door again and disappears backwards into the kitchen, a pile of soup plates balanced along her arm, like a deck of cards. ‘S
alad on the table.’
Tom gets up and takes Molly’s plate over to the sideboard. Like his father, he is still dressed for the office. Except he has taken off his jacket to reveal a pair of bright red braces, stretched taut as hawsers across a sizeable gut.
‘No sprouts, thank you, Tom!’ Molly raises her hand. ‘I’ve got enough problems with my digestion!’
Tom returns to the table, looks across at Nancy. ‘How is the research going?’
‘There are so many different departments to go through.’ Nancy counts on her hand. ‘I’ve written to the War Office and the Ox and Bucks Welfare and Comforts office . . .’
‘Comforts office?’ Aunt D. pipes up. ‘Is that what they call it?’
‘I know.’ Nancy pulls a face. ‘I am also waiting to hear from the Red Cross. Ultimately, everything goes through them. Perhaps they will have some good news.’
‘Can we talk about something else?’ interjects Molly, crossly.
There’s an awkward pause.
‘It’s been an especially good year for nuts,’ Aunt D. announces, to no one in particular.
Nancy and Roseen exchange looks, and burst out laughing. In the months since Martin disappeared, Nancy has felt even closer to Roseen, as though in their love and concern for Martin, sister and fiancée have developed a new, deeper bond. They are in many ways opposites, but that is part of their friendship. Nancy values Roseen’s analytic mind and common sense. Roseen enjoys Nancy’s exuberance and passion. They both miss and love Martin.
‘Did I tell you about Bryant?’ Uncle Charles addresses the table. ‘He was weeding the driveway when I got back from the station. So I said to him:“Perhaps a weed or two more will make it look as though there’s a war on, Bryant.”To which he replied: “Weeds on the drive won’t win the war for us, sir.”’
Everyone laughs.
‘How did you manage to find olive oil?’ Molly savours the salad dressing. ‘I thought Mussolini had placed an embargo on exports!’
‘I have been saving it up since before the war.’ Aunt D. twinkles.