Put Out the Light

by Terry Deary

  Chapter 4

  The pilot took his charts and left while the boys tidied the classroom and walked out in silence.

  As they reached the yard, Manfred and Hansl heard screams – screams of excitement, screams of rage. They were not supposed to run in the school yard, but they sprinted over to the main gates.

  They saw a crowd of girls from the school next door, gathered in a circle around something on the ground. Some girls were hurrying to the side of the road to pick up stones and mud. Then they rushed back to the circle to hurl the filth down.

  Manfred pushed through the crowd and saw a small girl lying on the ground. Her eyes showed no fear and her face no pain, though her head was bleeding and her rough grey dress was torn.

  The schoolgirls howled like wolves and some risked the stones to jump forward and aim a kick at their victim.

  Manfred shouted in protest and forced his way to the front. As he dragged the small girl to her feet, a big blonde girl glared at him, her red face fierce. ‘Traitor!’ she screeched. ‘Traitor! Helping an enemy of the state!’

  Suddenly, the attacker’s face vanished. Hansl had dragged her away and was now pulling at Manfred’s arm. ‘Let’s go, Manfred,’ he cried.

  Manfred let Hansl lead him out of the circle, but still he gripped the small girl’s wrist and dragged her after them. The schoolgirls began to follow the boys down the street, picking up stones and clods of grass on the way.

  The red-faced girl raised an arm holding half a brick. Manfred waited to see if it would hit him or the small girl. But slowly she lowered her arm. The brick fell to the ground.

  The other girls let their stones drop. They turned their backs on the boys and hurried away. The small girl in grey looked up at Manfred, sniffing back tears.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Manfred said. ‘You’re safe.’

  The girl shook her head and looked past the boys’ shoulders. For the first time she looked afraid. Manfred swung round to see what had scared her. A policeman was walking towards them.

  Manfred smiled at him. ‘Good afternoon.’

  The policeman ignored him and looked at the small girl. ‘Why are you on the streets?’ he asked. He was old and his face was parchment yellow.

  The girl stood silently.

  ‘You are making trouble.’

  Manfred gasped. ‘She wasn’t doing anything, sergeant.’

  ‘Constable. Constable Horst.’

  ‘Constable Horst. Those girls were stoning her for no reason.’

  The policeman glared at him. ‘They had every reason. She is from the prison camp. See that red triangle sewn on her dress? You know what that means?’

  ‘The prisoners who are enemies of the state wear red triangles,’ Manfred shrugged. ‘But a skinny girl can’t do any harm!’

  The policeman said, ‘She probably came here with her family from Poland. Most red triangles are Polish prisoners. Is that right, girl?’

  The girl gave a tiny nod, but her pale-grey eyes were as blank as ever.

  ‘If her parents are in the camp, she should be working as a servant in the town. She has no right to be on the streets. Camp brats attract trouble like filth attracts rats. She could be spying.’

  ‘Spying!’ Hansl laughed.

  The policeman’s face turned red. ‘Yes. Do not laugh, boy – a man was hanged in Munich last week for making a joke about the Nazi Party. I will report you to your block warden and he will visit your family to make sure they punish you.’

  Hansl swallowed hard. The block warden looked after fifty families to make sure they were true to the Nazi way of life. A visit from him was a fearful event. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he muttered.

  The policeman went on, ‘There is a munitions factory in Dachau making bombs and shells and bullets for our troops. The prisoners work there. A girl like this can make a map. When the British bombers arrive, they will know exactly where to drop their bombs. Isn’t that right, girl?’

  The girl stared straight ahead.

  ‘That is why you’re on the streets. We are taking you into custody until we find whose house you work in and why you are out,’ the man said.

  ‘But she’s just a kid!’ Manfred gasped.

  ‘You want to join her?’ the policeman growled.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then shut your mouth or you will.’

  ‘I work in the factory,’ the girl said suddenly. She spoke German with a strong accent.

  The policeman sneered. ‘You are too skinny to work with the machines. You’re lying.’

  ‘I sweep the floor. I make the tea.’

  ‘And why are you outside the camp wall?’

  The girl reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a piece of paper.

  The policeman pulled out a pair of glasses and squinted through them. ‘A coupon from the camp,’ he nodded.

  ‘What is that?’ Hansl asked.

  ‘We can’t pay the prisoners money, can we? They might use it to help them escape. So we give them coupons they can exchange for goods in the shops. This one is for tea.’

  ‘So, she was telling the truth?’ Manfred said.

  ‘Maybe,’ the policeman said. ‘Your papers, girl?’

  She handed over a printed sheet and the policeman read it. ‘Irena Kar—’

  ‘Karski,’ the girl muttered.

  ‘Your papers are in order.’

  ‘So you can let her go?’ Hansl added.

  The policeman looked weary. ‘Commandant Zill would be angry if I arrested the camp’s tea girl. So you can get on with your errand, Polish brat,’ he said and gave her a push.

  The girl ran down the street on legs as thin as a sparrow’s.

  The policeman looked hard at the boys. ‘When the first bombs fall on Dachau, you will remember what Constable Horst told you.’

  ‘My brother Ernst is in the Luftwaffe,’ Manfred said. ‘And he says the British won’t bother with small towns like Dachau.’

  ‘When the first bomb falls, you will remember,’ the policeman repeated and walked away.

  Cambrai Luftwaffe aerodrome, France 24 August 1940

  Ernst Weiss sat in the largest room of the aerodrome waiting for his Luftwaffe commander to appear.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ one of the pilots cried. ‘The weather has cleared. We should be in the air, bombing airfields in England.’

  ‘There’ll be a good reason, don’t worry,’ Ernst told him. ‘You mustn’t be so impatient.’

  ‘But we need to win the air war this week,’ the pilot grumbled. ‘Every day counts. Why aren’t we out smashing the Royal Air Force now?’

  ‘Good question,’ said the commander, coming into the room. He wore an eye patch and walked with a limp, both injuries from the last war.

  The pilots shuffled in their seats to face the front and fell silent.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Mark today in your diary as the day we smash little England. Air Marshall Göring has ordered Air Fleet 2 to bomb the main fighter airfields in the south of England. There will be nothing left of them by the time they have finished.’

  The pilots groaned. ‘But what about us? What about Air Fleet 3?’ someone asked.

  ‘The air marshall has given us the task of bombing the cities where fighter planes are built. But we will bomb them at night, when their Spitfires and Hurricanes can’t stop us. Their blackouts will be useless – our X-Gerat wireless system will guide us anywhere we want.’

  ‘And where are we going to bomb tonight?’ Ernst asked.

  The commander pointed to a map. ‘Castle Bromwich here, near Birmingham, where they make the Spitfires. Another squadron will head for the Portsmouth docks and a third will raid the oil storage tanks at Thameshaven in London. Get some rest and we’ll assemble here again at 1900 hours for final instructions. Dismissed.’

  Chapter 5

  Over Munich, Germany 25 August 1940

  It was hot inside the Wellington bomber. It smelled of burning oil and the booming of its two engines shook the
crew.

  The half-moon shone on the river below. A young man at a desk in the cabin shouted into the microphone in his mask. ‘I know where we are! Head west five points, skipper.’

  ‘West five points,’ Paul Grimley echoed and twisted the control stick in his hand. ‘So where are we, Sergeant Tench?’

  ‘Near Munich, sir.’

  ‘Munich! How did we ever get so far south?’

  ‘It was when we dived to escape those fighters, sir. My maps and compasses were scattered. Sorry – I got us lost.’

  Paul Grimley sighed. ‘Never mind, young Alan. It’s your first flight. You did well to get us to Berlin. Plot the shortest route home, and let’s get some well earned kip, shall we?’

  ‘We’ve enough fuel to get us home … just,’ the engineer said. ‘We need to be a bit lighter though.’

  Another voice crackled in the earphones. ‘We still have a bomb on board, sir.’

  ‘Fine, Sergeant Kewell,’ Officer Grimley said. ‘Drop it now.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The plane slowed as the bomb doors opened. There was a clatter as the bomb rolled out of the belly of the plane and the crew felt it leap upwards as the load fell away. The bomb doors closed and the plane headed back on the long flight home to England.

  Somewhere, ten thousand feet below, the bomb fell and exploded with a flash. By then, the Wellington was two miles away and climbing into the safety of the high silver clouds.

  RAF Mildenhall, Suffolk, England 26 August 1940

  Landing the Wellington in near-darkness was a tricky job. Paul Grimley brought the plane down gently in a gusty side wind and taxied over to the hangar.

  Wing Commander Parry was waiting for them. He was in full uniform and his thin moustache bristled like an angry walrus. He waited silently while the weary crew climbed down the steps to the ground.

  Paul gave a tired salute. ‘Morning, sir.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ Parry demanded. He had a Welsh accent that gave him a whining tone.

  ‘Bombing Germany, sir.’

  ‘Yes, but the rest of the flight were back seventy-three minutes ago.’

  Paul rubbed his eyes. ‘We usually meet in the morning to talk through the raids, sir. Can it wait till then? The lads are exhausted.’

  Parry’s eyes bulged and his lips curled back. ‘Don’t tell me when we should meet. I am your commander and I tell you. I want an explanation as to why you have been joy-riding around Germany in a valuable RAF plane when you should have been back here!’

  ‘Being chased by a pack of Messerschmitt fighters isn’t joy-riding,’ the pilot said, a spot of red glowing in each cheek.

  ‘Sir.’

  Paul took a deep breath. The rest of his crew seemed to be holding theirs. ‘Being chased by a pack of Messerschmitt fighters isn’t joy-riding … sir.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m very well, sir. A little tired but a few hours sleep and I’ll be right as rain,’ Paul joked and his crew gave small smiles.

  Wing Commander Parry stepped forward and jabbed the pilot in the chest. ‘I meant, well … where is my explanation?’

  Sergeant Tench saw Paul start to clench his fists. He stepped forward. ‘It was my fault, sir. My charts got scattered on the floor when we rolled out of the fighters’ way and it took me a while to get them sorted.’

  Parry turned on him. ‘Of all the stupid things to do. You risk a plane worth tens of thousands of pounds because you’re a clumsy little oaf?’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘You’ll be sorry, all right. I’ll have you on a charge. I’ll have you locked away for a week till you’ve learned your lesson. You’re nothing but a schoolboy. An ignorant, careless schoolboy.’

  ‘Go easy on him, sir,’ Paul put in. ‘It was his first mission – until the war started, he was a schoolboy.’

  Parry turned on the pilot. ‘Don’t tell me who I should or should not go easy on, Grimley, you northern, working-class slum boy.’

  What happened next was so quick that Paul had trouble remembering how Wing Commander Parry ended up on the floor. Parry seemed to raise a hand to push Paul in the chest. Paul knocked Parry’s hand aside with his left hand, then his right fist seemed to come up and punch the officer on the jaw.

  The little Welshman staggered backwards and fell on the seat of his well-pressed trousers in a puddle of engine oil. ‘In the last war they would have shot you for striking an officer,’ Parry crowed. ‘The very least you can expect is a long stretch in jail … slum boy.’

  It took half an hour to drag Group Captain Flynn from his bed, get him dressed and into his office. He heard what everyone had to say and spoke quickly. ‘Ten Wellingtons left here tonight and only nine returned. One crew was reported going down in flames. Young men died tonight. That is war. I flew Sopwith Camels in the last war. We got used to seeing planes go down. Sometimes they were flamers – if the pilot was lucky he was dead before the plane caught fire. If he was unlucky…’ The group captain let the words hang in the still air.

  The crew looked at their boots. They could all picture the horror.

  ‘Anyway, we lost about a pilot a week… Never got used to it. But now, when one of these planes goes down, we lose a crew of six. Six. Gone in one crash. Six families destroyed and six young men dead doing their duty. Do you understand what matters most in this war? Getting home safely.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the men muttered.

  ‘And what are you doing? Fighting like children. Six men die doing their duty and you’re squabbling like dogs over a bone.’

  ‘A pilot cannot strike an officer, sir,’ Parry said.

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘But, sir –’

  ‘Get out. Now! All of you except Grimley. Get some sleep. You’ll be flying again tomorrow night.’ He looked at the clock on his wall. ‘Tonight, I mean.’

  The men left.

  ‘Sit down, Grimley,’ Group Captain Flynn said. ‘You look ready to fall over.’

  ‘Thanks, Group Captain.’

  Flynn took his chair from behind his desk and sat facing Paul Grimley so their knees almost touched. ‘We need every pilot we can get. The Luftwaffe will attack any day now. It would be a stupid waste to have a good pilot like you locked away because you can’t keep your temper.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘But I can’t let you strike an officer and I can’t have you working with Wing Commander Parry again.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I want you to write me a letter and ask for a transfer. You have a lot of anger, Sergeant Grimley, but I want you to take it out on the Nazis.’

  Paul Grimley looked up into the tired old eyes of his commander. ‘Yes, sir, but can I re-train, sir? Can I switch to a fighter squadron? I could really use my anger then. I don’t like this job, dropping bombs where women and children might get hit.’

  Flynn nodded slowly. ‘Good idea, Grimley. You’re from Sheffield, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Fighter Command’s number 13 group is up there. We’ll have you flying Spitfires and Hurricanes in no time. And Grimley?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Don’t go hitting your new commander. Next time he might hit you back.’

  Chapter 6

  Sheffield, England 26 August 1940

  ‘Put out the light!’ Warden Crane cried a little wearily.

  I stood next to Sally on the corner of the dark alley. The night sky was ink-blue, but the stars burned down on the cobbles and lit the washing-lines that were strung across the lane. A faint stream of light slipped through Mrs Grimley’s curtains. We giggled. It was the same every night. Warden Crane walked to the back door and rapped on it till the ancient paint flaked off.

  A minute later, the door flew open and light blazed over the cracked pavement, showing the warden’s face twisted with pain. ‘“Frailty, thy name is woman”,’ he said to us. He turned to face the owner of the house. ‘For goodness’ sake, Mrs Grimley, how many time
s do I have to tell you?’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘To keep your curtains closed!’

  The old woman waved a bony finger under the warden’s nose. ‘My son Paul is in the RAF. He wrote a letter to say he’s visiting me this week. And do you know what he says? He says bombers like to fly when the moon is full, so they can see where to bomb.’ She raised her finger and pointed at the sky. ‘See? Half-moon – no bombers.’

  The warden sighed. ‘The German planes don’t need moonlight, Mrs Grimley,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t they?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because there are people in Sheffield who leave their curtains open and show them the way – people like you,’ he growled. ‘Now, if I catch you showing a light tomorrow, I will report you to the police. You’ll go to court. You’ll probably be fined five shillings.’

  The old woman folded her arms across her skinny chest. ‘Five shillings? I can afford that. You think I’m poor, do you? Just because I live in this shabby street? Well, let me tell you, young man, I don’t have ten shillings in my best teapot … oh, no … I have ten pounds.’

  The warden turned and looked across the street. The starlight caught his eyes as he stared straight at us. ‘I wouldn’t go shouting that around the street, Mrs Grimley. There are villains around who’ll rob you soon as look at you.’

  The woman sniffed. ‘They can’t rob me,’ she crowed. ‘They don’t know where I hide me money.’

  ‘In your teapot!’ Sally called suddenly.

  Mrs Grimley stepped onto the pavement and glared at my sister. ‘How did you know that?’ she screeched.

  ‘I just heard you tell Warden Crane,’ Sally said.

  ‘Yes … well … my Bert died three years ago and I collected his insurance. Hundreds of pounds. Hundreds. I’m not poor, you know. But it’s so well hidden, no one will ever find it. No one.’

  ‘Mrs Grimley, you really should keep your money in the bank, where it’s safe,’ the warden said, shaking his large head.

  ‘Safe!’ the woman spat. ‘Banks get robbed! I’ve seen them.’