Time’s up, I must go on my way
All my best as I wave you goodbye
Give a smile, a fond word, I can’t stay
Keep a prayer just for me all the while
In parting, I wrote,
I hope the war will end soon, with victory. Granted, the Nazi war machine may be expecting us. After all, the point of attack, right across the narrowest part of the English channel, is quite easy to guess. But they have no idea of the size of fire power that’s coming their way at Pas de Calais.
I can’t wait for that battle. It would be the gateway to coming home.
Until we meet again, keep a prayer for me all the while.
Yours, Lenny
❋
When I presented the draft of my letter to Captain Smith, he removed his glasses and wiped them over and again, only to take another look.
Apparently he was surprised to see the mention of General Patton. “How did you know he’s coming to England?” he demanded.
“I didn’t exactly know, sir. Just heard some rumors—”
“Well, I don’t know about inspiration and how it helps you write, but what I do know is this: collecting information through rumors is one way of coming up with a shaky story—”
“Sorry, sir.”
“—Unless, of course, there’s truth in them.”
“Is it true, sir? Is he really coming here?”
“Really, he is. All because of a slap!”
“A slap, sir?”
“Yes. So far it’s been suppressed, as much as possible, in the media.”
“What happened, if I may ask, sir?”
“You may not, but I’ll tell you anyway. During the Sicily campaign, General Patton entered the tent of a military hospital. He approached a soldier, who was huddled and shivering but not visibly injured, and asked what the trouble was. Upon learning it was a case of nerves and battle fatigue, Patton became enraged and slapped him across the face.”
“Patton is notoriously famous for his passion—”
“Yes—but this, I hear, was truly over the top! He began yelling, ‘Your nerves, hell, you’re just a coward. Shut up that crying. I won’t have these brave men who have been shot at, seeing this yellow bastard sitting here crying.’ To that he added, ‘You’re going back to the front lines and you may get shot and killed, but you’re going to fight. If you don’t I’ll stand you up against a wall and have a firing squad kill you on purpose. In fact I ought to shoot you myself, you whimpering coward.’ Then, the general pulled out his pistol and waved it threateningly, prompting the hospital’s staff to separate the two.”
“Oh no,” I said.
“Oh yes,” said the officer. “Word about this incident got out, and it’s now coming to the attention of the media. They’re howling for Patton's scalp, even though he’s indispensable to the war effort.”
“So that slap, it’s going to cost him?”
“It is, dearly. General Patton has been passed over to lead the invasion in northern Europe. Instead, he’ll be in charge of a fake battle. From what I hear, he’ll be named commander of the First United States Army Group, a largely fictitious unit, as you already know, known to be preparing for an invasion of Pas de Calais.”
In a flash, the magnitude of this imposture became clear to me. The name of General Patton would add gravity to it, as well as boldness. With him in charge, the Nazi war planners would have little choice but to believe, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we were about to go for broke; that we would, come hell or high water, push across the narrowest part of the English Channel.
And so, heavy German forces would have to be stationed in Pas de Calais, even if Allied troops would land elsewhere on the French coast.
“I don’t know how you did it: your letter is right on the mark,” said the officer. “We want the Germans to know about Patton coming here, to England, and I don’t even mind that you’ve named yourself an expert, someone to provide him with military advice.”
“Thank you sir, I wasn’t sure about that bit, but it allowed me to give the necessary detail—”
“It’s all good. Now mail this thing, and then, on your way you go, to the town of Fauld in Staffordshire.”
❋
Later that day I went to Mrs. Babcock’s home. Standing outside I caught sight of Natasha through a window. She was sitting there by her instrument, rehearsing. There was a patch of sunlight on the wall, under which the upright piano stood, and by reflection it lit her shoulders and her face—but the glow about her came from elsewhere, from inside.
The notes were muted, because there was glass and wall between us, but I could absorb the music, by some magic, through the expressions on her face, which changed with each motion, each sway of her body as her fingers danced their way across the keys.
I waited until she got up from the piano bench, before ringing the doorbell.
“Hey,” I said, when she opened. “Want to join me?”
“Where to?” asked Natasha.
“I’m heading north,” I said, without providing any details. “Want to come?”
“Sure,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll be the one riding the bike.”
To Take a Chance on Love
Chapter 16
To my surprise, Natasha rode the Harley as if she were born to do it: with a daring spirit and yet—a steady hand. Rarely did I need to correct the way she was handling it, other than to point out where to turn along the way. Over her shoulder I watched her fingers, those long, delicate fingers of a pianist. They were glistening in the light rain as she handled the controls. The beast seemed to be listening to her. It was humming along, obeying her will.
We were flying ahead, or so it felt, in-between drops. All around us, the gray Midlands landscape of plowed fields, meadows, and elm trees, stretched far out into the mist.
After a few hours of riding, we stopped at the Red Lion, a pub in the village of Newborough, which was close to my destination: located at the side of Needwood Forest, it was about three miles away from RAF Fauld, formerly a large gypsum mine which was now used to store ammunition.
We ate supper in the beer garden, where one of the dairy farmers asked if we had a long way ahead of us.
“No, not too long,” I said. “I plan to get there tomorrow morning, then come back here to pick up my girlfriend.”
“Ah! American accent,” he noted, and glanced at my uniform. “You a marine?”
“Yes, I am.”
“D’you need lodging for the night? I would gladly invite you over.”
So we followed him home—a rustic little place—and had tea with his family, after which we went out to the yard, even though it was still drizzling.
Breaking intermittently through the clouds, the sun could be spotted arching its way down. I sniffed the cold, fresh autumn air. Inside, someone turned on the radio. Natasha wrapped her hands around mine, and together, we listened.
This is my promise, this—my vow
As a rainbow bends over the bough
For you I’ll always dare
To take a chance on love
❋
At dawn I heard the cattle moo, out in the distance. Thinking she was still asleep, I covered Natasha up to her ears with the blanket and touched my lips to her cute, freckled nose, ever so lightly. Then I took the package, which I had to deliver to the RAF Fauld, and prepared to leave.
And just before closing the door shut behind me, I heard her calling, “Wait!”
I turned to see her rising up from the bed and running barefoot across the room. Then she clung to me.
“Don’t go,” she said.
“I must,” said I. “It’s my job.”
“Stay here, just a little while longer,” she said. “Stay with me.”
“What is it, Sweetie? You worried about something?”
“No, not exactly. Just had a bad dream.”
“Oh,
it’s nothing, Natashinka,” I said, feeling a slight shudder going down her spine. “Calm down, just forget it.”
“You’re right,” she said, casting a look outside through the half-open door. “What was I thinking? It’s a lovely day out there.”
“I’m going to leave the bike here, with you, and take a walk to deliver this thing. It shouldn’t take long,” I said. “You look so sleepy, go back to bed. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Again, she held out her hand and said, “No, wait—”
“There’s something on your mind,” I said. “I know there is. What is it, dear?”
“It’s Ma.”
“What about her?”
“Yesterday, she sent me a telegram.”
“And?”
“And, she says she’s not feeling well.”
“Oh, how timely!” I said. “As soon as she hears we’re about to get married she starts feeling sick. Isn’t that just what we should’ve expected!”
“I knew you’d say that, but—”
“Oh, sorry. I may sound a bit sarcastic, but what can I say? Somehow this doesn’t surprise me a bit.”
“You’re right, Lenny. I won’t deny it: Ma may be putting on a little show—this is not at all unlike her—simply to slow us down, so she may have time to think up some trick of derailing the wedding. But on the chance that she’s sick for real, I’ll have to go back to take care of her.”
“I can only ask you what you’ve asked me earlier, sweetheart. Stay here, just a little while longer. Stay with me.”
“I know how you loved your Pa, bless his soul, so let me ask you this, Lenny: if he were alive today, and if it were him who’s ill, what would you have done?”
At that I stopped complaining. Of course, Natasha was right. Just to be sure that he was well, I would have gone back to see him. Of course, my Pa would never have pulled such a stunt on me, quite the opposite. If anything, he would have claimed to be in perfect health, even if he was not, just to spare me the trouble of flying to visit him.
Finally I said, “You’re right, Natasha, I wasn’t thinking straight. How about we talk about all this when I come back?”
❋
RAF Fauld was, in a way, what its name suggested: part of a suit of armor, located at the base of the breastplate, protecting not an individual fighter but rather, an entire nation. Dug underground, this ammunition depot was the main repository of high explosive ordnance.
At the entrance I was given some protective gear: a helmet and a pair of boots. A roadway passed through the center of each tunnel. Going down I found myself astounded by the engineering marvel of this place. Shining white, its tunnels were carved out of gypsum and supported at regular intervals by huge metal arches, which gave a sleek, modern spin on what felt like medieval vault architecture.
Along the way I saw numerous groups of soldiers as well as civilians, working together. Some were taking bombs out of store and priming them for use. Others removed the detonators from unused ones and stacked them up. Clearly, the tunnels were stocked to over-capacity, in preparation for the Normandy invasion.
Having handed the package to the RAF sergeant in charge, I waited to see if he needed anything else from me.
He took a careful look through the papers, marked this order and that on them, and then said, “Tell your officer it’s alright. We have everything ready.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
And just like that, the conversation was over. He escorted me part of the way to make sure I knew how to head out. We shook hands, and he went back to the pit.
Spotting the glow of daylight at the end of the tunnel I headed towards it, satisfied to have done my part, happy that all that remained for me now was simple: a walk across the lovely meadow, spreading out there in the open. A nod to the dairy farmers, to boys leading their herds to green pastures. A knock on the door. A climb into bed. A kiss.
I quickened my step. My sweetheart was there, above ground, waiting.
But then something unusual happened.
It started with a hiss.
A cloud of dust came from behind, overtaking me and darkening what was, until now, the gate to the outside world. I wondered what was that sound, rumbling like thunder down below, somewhere in the bowels of the mine, rolling towards me with great menace.
Then—boom!—the lights went out, and the suction from the gigantic explosion bashed me, pushed me forcefully into the ground. There was a gush of air, dust everywhere, distant voices, men crying for help, and then—then, silence.
In a matter of seconds my entire world changed, and it was then that I stopped living and simply began the struggle to exist.
There was blood on my knees, my elbows and hands, but for now, thankfully, I felt little pain. It must have failed to register in my brain, even as I saw the torn clothes, the wounds.
First, I tried to head back down to help those who were trapped. The cave was lit—just for a second—by a burst, as a few boxes of ammunition rattled nearby. I saw that the explosion had taken the roadway with it and caused the rest of the pit to collapse.
That was when I knew that I had to fight for my own survival. Half-crawling, half-clawing my way up, I was nearly choked by smoke. At last I reached the opening, where boxes of incendiary bombs, which had been jolted by the blast, were blazing.
Once there, a soldier gave me a hand, pulled me up to my feet.
“You look as if you were thrown against a wall,” he said. “Wait here, a rescue team is just around the corner, they’ll put you on a stretcher.”
“No, no,” I said, sensing that to him I must sound incoherent. I coughed, which cleared my throat, and went on to say, “Let’s go down together, people are dying there, in the mine—”
“No! Others will, but we can’t,” he said. “I’m told we should go inside only with rubber boots.”
“These boots aren’t rubber,” I pointed at mine, “but they’re real sturdy, with these metal studs in their soles. They’ll do just fine—”
“No,” he said, sternly now. “A single spark from them could cause the whole site to go up in flames all over again.”
I obeyed him and stumbled, somehow, into walking away, no—not walking—running, that’s what it was, running, despite the growing soreness of my limbs. With every step, the swirl of dust and particles around me was lifting, ever so gradually. Then, just as the meadow came hazily into view I heard a tremendous roar down there, behind me.
A mushroom cloud rose over the village of Hanbury high into the sky. And with a guttural sound, mounds of earth were lifted up, then hurled back down into the ground.
Meanwhile, from the meadow came the sound of bleating, followed by gunshots. A bullet grazed my ear.
“Hey,” I screamed, into the mist. “Stop it! What on earth are you doing? You nearly killed me!”
“Didn’t mean to,” said an RAF regiment, now coming into sight, gun in hand. “I was aiming at the sheep, they’re running wild with terror!”
He climbed over some mound—a dead cow—and came nearer to see if I was alright. Then he gave me a pat on the back, which started me coughing again.
“What happened in the mine,” I asked. “It was so sudden! Was it a German attack?”
“Who knows,” he said. “Either that, or something else.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as someone careless or improperly trained.”
I raised an eyebrow—not that it could be noticed, with all the soot on my face—and he went on to say, “Yes, someone who tried, perhaps, to remove an exploder pocket without the right tool. It can be something as simple as that, you know, causing a spark to set off a reaction.”
With that he went off, pointing his gun into the dust.
Then—just over the plaintive bleating of the sheep and the chaotic blasts rocking the mine—came a different sound. I listened to it in disbelief. It was the most wonderful sound in the entire world: a hum, the low, familiar hum of my Harley.
There it was, a silhouette of the beast, with Natasha astride on top of it, hair unfurling in the wind.
I wanted to tell her how I admired her courage, the risk she took, riding it all by herself, without my guidance, to get here. I wanted to tell her she should have stayed away. But by now I knew that for me, she would dare take any chance, come what may.
“Oh Lenny,” she said. “You look... I have no words for it.”
Overcome with sudden joy I staggered towards her.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.”
In confusion I asked, “Where to?”
And Natasha said, “Anywhere, my love. Anywhere but here.”
I’m Dreaming You, I Always Will
Chapter 17
On the way back to London I could barely keep my eyes open, except for the very beginning of the journey. The meadow looked gray, with dead horses, cattle and mattresses strewn all about, covered in falling debris. Of the nearby farm, not a single structure remained in place, and not a brick could be found anywhere near it that resembled building material. And there, rising to the sky, swaying in the wind, hung a mushroom cloud.
The earth quaked. Casting a look over my shoulder I saw a ripple going through it. Then a big depression was being formed out there, with cracks yawning wide. Before long it became a cavernous crater, maybe a hundred feet deep, threatening to swallow us alive. Its mouth spit up dirt and rocks, only to devour them with an incredible crackling sound as they came tumbling down. There was something eerie about this landscape. It was ravenous. Riding at utmost speed, we kept just out of its lip.
Our escape route took us along the high ground, for a good reason: the explosion broke a reservoir, which sent a volcano-like sea of mud down the valley, engulfing everything that stood in its way.
All of a sudden, the Harley started to spurt mud. Natasha had no choice but to bring it to a halt and then, then something else caught her attention. Pointing at the edge of the newly-formed swamp, she said, “Look!”
Dancing with Air (Still Life with Memories Book 4) Page 12