Night Thoughts of a Country Landlady

by Edith Olivier

  The experienced Matron now pronounced that the ship might possibly be sunk on the voyage, and she instructed her flock to take off their skirts and prepare to swim. During those stormy three days in the Bay of Biscay, modesty and security came uppermost by turns. Those skirts were taken off and on, according to whichever was predominant at any given moment. The passengers expected to be taken to Liverpool, but on the voyage, the Captain decided on Plymouth, and they landed at that port at six o’clock one morning. No one was there to meet them, for they had been despaired of by their families.

  As I listened to the story of the Polish ambulance drivers, I was watching a young airman, who seemed disinclined to talk of his own experiences. His round boyish face was made for gaiety and fun, and he listened with appreciation to what the others said. But all the time, there was a shadow in his eyes. He did not want to remember what he himself had gone through in those very same weeks. I knew about him, for his mother was for many months one of my lodgers. He had belonged to that heroic squadron which spent six weeks on a frozen lake within the Arctic Circle in the north part of Norway, during that desperate spring of 1940.

  Twice over had these boys flown eighteen Gladiators across the North Sea to hold the Luftwaffe with their gallant onslaughts. The first expedition lasted only five days. At the end of that time, the eighteen planes were reduced to five, although not one of them was brought down in combat. The squadron had been obliged to go to Norway in a fleet of out-of-date, and practically obsolete, machines, which were all that could be spared at the time to face the most modern and powerful German aircraft of the day. The Gladiator squadron found that the frozen lake was completely exposed to the enemy with no possible shelter, or means of keeping the planes out of sight. The Norwegians could offer no other site. At night the cold was so intense, that it sometimes took hours to start the engines, and the poor old machines were often stuck helplessly on the ground, exposed to attack from the air. The Germans must greatly have enjoyed bombing these out-of-action non-combatants; for whenever the British squadron did manage to send up one or two machines to face the overwhelming numbers of the enemy, by sheer brilliancy of flying, they fought the Germans out of the sky, without losing in battle a single plane. The thirteen aircraft which failed to return to England after this first expedition were all put out of action, either by engine breakdowns, or by being bombed when they were unable to fly. Their officers burnt the remains of the machines they left behind, so that no parts could be of use to the enemy. Then they patched up their last five machines with spare parts mostly taken from German planes which they had brought down. So they made their way home leaving the Luftwaffe twenty-nine planes the worse off for their visit.

  In less than three weeks these pilots returned with another eighteen Gladiators, to demonstrate once more that the German superiority in machines was more than outmatched by the British superiority in skill. For another fortnight, they continued the unequal conflict: unequal, because the Germans had now got such a wholesome fear of these Gladiator pilots, that they could very seldom be compelled to stay up for a fight.

  Now the Englishmen were called home to share in the Battle of Britain. This time there were ten Gladiators left, though most of them were patchwork machines made out of parts collected again from shot-down planes. These gallant wrecks, with their still more gallant pilots, were put on board the Glorious, and two hours after they left Norway, the aircraft-carrier was sunk by enemy action. All those boys were drowned.

  Two pilots out of the original eighteen had been left behind to bring over the ground staffs, and the crews of the planes which did not return. One of these two was the boy in my house. As he heard the others talking, he seemed haunted by the memory of those few, that happy few, that band of brothers now beneath the North Sea. He did not tell his own story, but when somebody asked him about Norway, he said he couldn’t think how anyone could wish to go there on a holiday to see the midnight sun.

  “It is much too light,” he said, “ with its everlasting shining. And you never can tell whether it is three o’clock in the morning or three o’clock in the afternoon.”

  He said no more about it.

  When I overheard what one of the guests at this party said about Dunkirk, I felt, more than ever, that the whole thing was miraculous, an “Act of God,” in the words of the old verdict at inquests, in the face of an inexplicable event. Someone in France planned the evacuation of the British Army, though he could never have known whether or not his plan would come off. He had somehow to arrange that those scattered thousands of men should be moved to the coast; though once there, he could not tell what might become of them. Then each brigade, each battalion, each unit, and sometimes each individual must make his way as best he could, knowing nothing of the plan and perhaps simply remembering the words: “ Theirs not to reason why.”

  Meanwhile, across the Channel, someone else was planning the counter-move. He suddenly called upon hundreds of little craft—excursion steamers, yachts, fishing-boats, river motor-boats, even rowing-boats, to leave, within an hour, their peace-time moorings in seas, rivers, streams, or canals, and to embark upon some important national work. They were not told what it was. On both sides, these moves were made in total darkness; by which I do not only mean the darkness of ignorance, but the darkness of night. This blindfold pilgrimage calls to mind the Blind Man in the Gospel—I see men as trees walking.

  But when my lodger spoke of his own party and their stumbling trek, I learnt that he was not one of those who “left everything behind”. He possessed something which he could not leave.

  Orders came from the Brigade Major that his small unit of about forty men must proceed at once to Dunkirk. It was the late twilight of a June evening, and everyone had immediately to shoulder his kit and be off. My officer was ready to leave everything behind except himself, and that self did not only consist of so many feet of flesh, blood, and bones, equipped with boots and uniform, razor and revolver, tooth-brush and cigarettes. It included the outward and visible sign of his making into an officer, in a special technical corps. With him were the books containing the notes on his studies during the past three years. It was the new personality which had been built around him, by his training from the time he left school. He was not going to leave that behind. He valued it too highly, and no doubt the Germans would value it still more. He put the books into his pack and swung it on his back. Yes. It was heavy, but not too heavy to carry for the two and a half miles which they were told was the distance to Dunkirk.

  The night was far darker than seemed justified by actual clock time. It was a darkness which could be felt, hanging over them like a heavy black substance, and it soon explained itself. The sky was completely hidden by columns of rolling black smoke. Behind them very far away, was a red glow which now and again flamed up suddenly. If those fires were in Dunkirk, it was much more than two and a half miles away. Towards these fires, the little party groped their way through the blinding black pall. Quite nearby, a battery suddenly began firing. Bang. Bang. Bang. Was it our own, or the enemy’s? They hesitated. Finally the guns stopped. The party went on. Now they were on a deserted beach, beyond which there seemed to be boats out at sea. A voice from nowhere called instructions. Were they reliable! They ignored them.

  The two and a half miles turned into seventeen, and with every mile, the pack of books grew heavier. That load was hell; and at each halt the same half-submerged question pushed itself to the surface. “ What can I do with these confounded books; Bury them? Hide them? Burn them? How? or where?” There was no answer, except to shoulder the books once more, although, like the Old Man of the Sea, they almost broke the back that bore them.

  Now the darkness took a new shape. It became a queue of soldiers, a full mile long, and mumbling to one another in the French language. The bombs and fires were now quite near—too near to be pleasant, for this really was Dunkirk. The seventeen miles trek was over, and they were on the pier, among dead and dying men. The night had
been so fantastic that it seemed that it could hardly be real life. Yet, it was.

  They marshalled their men on to a waiting destroyer, and as they stumbled on board, they found an unbelievable welcome in the shape of a pint of beer for every man. It was pure nectar; but they could hardly swallow it, still less appreciate it as it deserved, before they were overpowered by sleep. Dover came too soon, for there they must pull themselves together and step off the boat. It was surprising to find people expecting them, waiting for them, and evidently thinking they were not complete failures. The strong cup of tea was now provided, with other refreshments, by a party of women; and one strange kind old man received our officer with a telegram form in his hand which he wrote out and addressed to his parents telling them that he was safe and at home.

  There was no doubt that the general favourite at our party to-day was a young man who had been a wireless operator in a merchant ship, lately sunk by enemy action. She was carrying over five thousand passengers including troops and hospital staff when she was torpedoed, and, although the ship went to the bottom, less than two hundred of those on board were drowned. Our wireless operator had been on duty in the middle watch of the night, when a colossal report resounded, and a huge explosion shook the ship. All the officers at once reported to the Captain, to receive their orders; and among them came the Chief Engineer. In everyday tones, he now regretted to report that the engine-room had been hit, and the damage was serious. The ship was obviously in imminent danger. As the Engineer finished his report, the Captain’s eye fell on him.

  “Good God, Chief,” he said. “What is the matter with the top of your head?”

  Everyone turned to look.

  The Chief Engineer’s cap was wobbling up and down in the most extraordinary manner.

  “It’s only ma twa canaries. I thocht they’d be safer in ma cap then in their cage.”

  Here, then, was another man who would not leave everything behind, whatever the enemy might be doing.

  Everyone now hastened to boat stations and, on the way, the wireless operator met the storekeeper hurrying along with, in his hand, a moving sack, tied with a piece of string.

  “What the hell have you got in there?” he asked genially, as I am sure he would.

  “These are my three tabbies. I am not going to leave them behind for anyone,” said the storekeeper, while a harsh catawaul from inside proved that the three tabbies were by no means quiescent in their sack.

  Everyone now took to the boats; and as the last boat moved away from the ship several more cats were seen crowding together on the deck with fire blazing behind them. No Englishman could resist these panic-stricken animals. The boat swung round again and went near enough to the ship for all the cats to spring to safety.

  The wireless operator was stationed in a boat which was supposed to accommodate sixty-five people, but which was soon crowded with ninety. Unfortunately it immediately appeared that the little engine was out of order, so the various men on board took turns with two pairs of sculls, which was all they had in the way of navigation. They worked very hard for eleven hours, and thus they kept the boat’s head in the right direction, and saved her from shipping water, and so from sinking.

  Shortly after they left the liner, there passed them, in the sea, a valiant little nurse, swimming for all she was worth towards a raft just beyond them. As she approached it, a voice from it called out to her:

  “We are full. Better swim to the next raft.”

  Not in the least disturbed, a small treble voice trilled out:

  “O.K. How far?” and on she swam into the night.

  It was a relief to learn that the next raft was more hospitable and welcomed her cordially.

  When the order was given to “Abandon Ship’’, it was expected that she was on the point of sinking, but it was not till nearly morning when the boat-crews watched her last moments.

  Like other vessels in war-time, she had been painted a battleship grey, and now, while all eyes looked on from the boats, a miracle took place. The grey garment fell away, pealed off by the intense heat, and for one brief moment before she went down, the original colours came back in all their purity, and the ghost of the long-lost peace-time ship shone out in her gay holiday dress. Just for a few seconds, and then she heeled over on her side, and vanished from sight. From all the boats, they watched her go. It was a poignant moment, especially for the Captain, who had sailed in her from the day she was launched. It was like the vision of the bride in her wedding dress, appearing to the eyes of a husband watching at his wife’s death-bed. So will Beauty find a way to clothe Tragedy, till the heart is uplifted and comforted. The lovely ship left her last message behind: “I do not leave you with the picture of dismal war before your eyes, but of something more truly my own—my gay and gallant colours of Peace.’’

  NO BELLS TO-NIGHT

  Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

  The flying clouds, the frosty light,

  The year is dying in the night;

  Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

  Ring out the old, ring in the new,

  Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

  The year is going, let him go:

  Ring out the false, ring in the true.

  Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

  The faithless coldness of the times;

  Ring out, ring out, my mournful rhymes,

  But let the fuller minstrel in.

  Ring out old shapes of foul disease;

  Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

  Ring out the thousand wars of old,

  Ring in the thousand years of peace.

  Ring in the valiant man and free,

  The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

  Ring out the darkness of the land,

  Ring in the Christ that is to be.

  There, in those verses, is New Year’s Eve, as it was when we were children. The first four lines of Tennyson’s poem exactly recall the keen, clear, brilliant voices of the bells, as they swung free among the flying clouds. There was nothing human in that music, although it was made by men. It was a festival of the universe. I believe that, even then, people in other places were making merry at balls and parties, but we were merrier than they, and also nearer to life. We stood in the village street, with, over our heads, this music miraculously and for ever out of reach. The music-makers were invisible—bell-ringers and carollers both hidden in the church tower. It was exciting and supernatural.

  But it was not many years before a new sound crashed in to interrupt the harmony. Then, when we opened the door to let the New Year in, we found that the bells and the carol-singers had monstrous rivals—the sirens in the factories of the nearest town. Who can have been the first to conceive of anything so frightful as this mocking travesty of the angelic music of the spheres? It seemed to be a hideous uprush of discord from the underworld. And yet, for years, civilised people tolerated it as an appropriate greeting for the opening year.

  To-night, as I watched the New Year in, I heard no sound at all. Only the stars looked in at my window. The bells have been silent for over three years (except for two blessed occasions), and the sirens, for the same length of time, have been put into what is surely their more appropriate place—only allowed to speak as presages of an expected and diabolical visitor. To-night we were alone with the stars, and I think that when the war is over, and we joyfully hear the bells again, we shall beg for the sirens to return to their rightful work as only factory time-keepers.

  This train of thought came into my mind when I was walking in the Park to-night. My lodgers were at their various parties, and I had spent the evening at a Parish Whist Drive, which ended early, as old-fashioned country parties always do. Whether the day be the first or the last of the year, village people must get up early in the morning; and they know that a late night makes a bad start next day. How wise they are! and how near to Nature, the Nature of the birds and beasts and flowers, who follow, as closely as possible, the se
tting sun, in the choice of their bed-time! So our whist drive ended well before ten. We gave the prizes—parcels of groceries, packets of cigarettes, a pottery vase or two. Then came a few New Year wishes, spoken with a deeper intent than in ordinary years; and after this, the assembly drifted out into the lane, casually talking over the events of the evening, or perhaps the events of the past year. I drifted with them, but I soon left them behind, as I had farther to go than most.

  Then followed my own secret and very beautiful farewell to the year 1942, and not only to that particular calendar year, but to a year in my own personal life. For this day had been my birthday.

  At the Park gate, I was challenged by a sentry—that most romantic of ceremonies.

  “Who goes there?”

  “Friend.”

  “Advance, friend, and be recognised.”

  Now came two or three steps forward, into the tiny circle of light from the sentry’s torch, so that my face and my identity card could be scrutinised. My appearance was, of course, quite familiar to the guards, but the regulations must be obeyed. I passed the test, and then, with “A happy New Year” on either side, I went on alone into the darkness of the Park. “ Time and the hour” were left outside.

  Here was the old familiar darkness which I had known from childhood, and only in one thing did it differ from the New Year’s Eves of the old days. That silence. “There are no bells to-night.” Those words occur in a little poem written by one of my lodgers when he was on duty on a Christmas Eve during the war. He was then struck, as I was to-night, by the fact that the silent bells still do speak to those who knew and loved them of old. Yes. No one is ringing the bells to-night, but how beautifully they still fill the silence.