The Way Ahead

by Mary Jane Staples

  For a moment, Annabelle and other shoppers were paralysed themselves. Annabelle, appalled by the fact that the casualties were RAF officers, that Nick might be among them, came to and rushed across the street. She saw the driver, doubled up and unconscious. The other men were all on the pavement, inert, their caps off and blood oozing from one man’s cracked forehead.

  Annabelle’s horrified eyes searched frantically for Nick, since she was sure the car was the one he’d spoken about, even if it had appeared well before three o’clock. The grocer himself was on the scene, but only for a few seconds, when he then ran back to his shop to phone for ambulances.

  ‘Oh, Lordy, Lordy, what can we do?’ gasped a woman.

  ‘They’re hospital jobs, that they are,’ said an elderly man, ‘and I don’t think we should try to move ’em. There’s broken bones, that’s certain sure. Can anyone bring blankets to keep ’em warm? That’s the most we can do for the poor chaps till ambulances come.’

  Two shoppers hurried off to get blankets. Annabelle was suffering for the casualties, but shaking with relief at realizing Nick wasn’t among them. She also felt grief and helplessness that so little could be done for the injured until ambulances arrived with a medical team. People stood around, numbed and shocked, staring at limp bodies that eventually began to stir and twitch. At least the officers were alive, thought Annabelle, but how tragic and yes, how foolish, if a car crash had crippled these men of the skies.

  The blankets arrived, and willing hands helped to cover the casualties.

  The afternoon bus pulled up at the stop outside the Post Office opposite the crash. Three people alighted, one of them an RAF officer. Annabelle, turning, drew a loud noisy breath and made another wild run. Pilot Officer Nick Harrison, her husband, saw her coming. He dropped his valise and Annabelle rushed into his arms.

  ‘Nick!’

  ‘Annabelle—’ Nick checked as the overturned car came to his eyes. ‘Oh, my God,’ he breathed.

  ‘Nick, it crashed,’ gasped Annabelle. ‘They’re all badly hurt, they were thrown out – is it the car you spoke about?’

  ‘Christ, yes, it is, but I got out and caught the bus about a mile from here.’ Nick raced across to the car, and the knot of people made way for him. He went down on one knee beside groaning men. ‘Oh, Christ,’ he said. There had been just that mile to go when the police constable stopped the car. Just a mile that was all, for himself. But Bloggsy, a wild and reckless character, really had been driving like a madman. So even a mere mile offered too many risks to a man whose wife and children were expecting him. Further, the police constable’s advice touched an instinct. So Nick left the car and waited for the bus, Bloggsy derisive of his caution.

  He felt distraught as he regarded the faces of the blanket-covered men, his fellow pilots. He used his handkerchief to wipe away blood that was oozing from Johnny Gardner’s forehead, Bloggsy, unconscious, was breathing stertorously, the others issuing small painful groans. One man, Ian Kipling, opened his eyes and regarded his immediate world in a vague and puzzled way.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked faintly.

  ‘Crash landing, Kipper,’ said Nick. ‘Bloggsy did it in, the careless bugger.’

  Bloggsy was beginning to groan.

  Annabelle was there, down on one knee beside Nick, her hand pressing his arm in a gesture of compassion.

  ‘Perhaps it’s only broken bones, darling,’ she whispered. It was spoken fervently, but it was, of course, a wish and a prayer, and they both knew it.

  More time went by before two ambulances arrived, a doctor aboard. A police car turned up soon after.

  When Philip and Linda came out of the village school, their mum and dad were waiting for them. Seeing their father, they yelled in glee and ran to him. Nick put aside feelings of lingering shock to give his kids the kind of welcome they wanted, boisterous and affectionate. Philip had the lively, beguiling nature of Nick’s father, once a con man who’d come unstuck and served a prison sentence. Linda was a bundle of cuddlesome fun who liked attention, especially from her father. She had the large brown eyes of her maternal grandmother, Lizzy Somers. She clung possessively to her dad’s hand as they all walked through the village to the small cottage being rented for the duration. The battered car had been towed away, and the four casualties were in hospital. Philip and Linda were ignorant of the crash.

  As always, when their dad arrived on leave, they received presents from him, and so did their mum. They clamoured for Nick’s attention, which made Annabelle wonder what happened to the affections of children who rarely saw their absent fathers. Would such men eventually become total strangers to their sons and daughters, and even close to being forgotten by their wives? It was common knowledge that in this village alone, the wives of three absent servicemen were having affairs with American soldiers.

  While Nick enjoyed a romping reunion with Philip and Linda, Annabelle wondered if her interests were being looked after by God or Nick’s lucky rabbit’s foot. Well, something had made him leave that car and catch the bus.

  Not until after supper and Linda and Philip were in bed that evening did she and Nick enjoy their own kind of reunion, much as Polly and Boots had a short while before. Hugs and warm kisses prevailed, and Nick said it was wizard to be in close touch with her person again.

  ‘My person?’ said Annabelle.

  ‘That’s you, yourself,’ said Nick, aiming for her lips and kissing them.

  ‘Bull’s-eye,’ said Annabelle when she came up for air.

  ‘Smack on operational target, I’d say,’ said Nick, and let go to look at her. She was definitely her mother’s daughter with her rich chestnut hair and her fulsome figure. Emma was slimmer. ‘My kind of target,’ said Nick.

  ‘Stop making me sound like a dartboard,’ said Annabelle, but she gave him another hug. He had once had a vigorously muscular look, but his time with the RAF had fined him down, giving him lean lines. He still liked soccer and during off-duty days he played for RAF elevens in friendly matches against Army or Navy teams. That is, they were billed as friendlies, he said, but it was often necessary to stretcher off victims of mayhem. ‘Nick, I think you’d like to ring the hospital, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Frankly, I would,’ said Nick.

  ‘Go and use the public phone by the Post Office, then,’ said Annabelle, ‘because I’d like it myself if you’d find out how your friends are.’

  Nick went. He was back in a while and able to tell her that injuries were extensive, but all patients were stable and not in danger. Bloggsy was the worst, with a damaged chest and a fractured pelvis. Broken bones and fractured ribs had laid a painful curse on the others, while Johnny Gardner also had a hairline skull fracture. But he was notoriously thick-headed, said Nick, and just some sticking-plaster would be enough to mend him. Annabelle accepted that comment as an attempt at light relief.

  ‘They’re all in no real danger, Nick?’ she said.

  ‘They’ll live,’ he said, ‘but God knows how long it’ll be before they can fly again.’

  ‘Don’t let’s worry about that,’ she said, ‘let’s begin to enjoy your leave now.’

  ‘Every minute of it,’ said Nick.

  ‘I miss you very much when you’re away, you know,’ said Annabelle. ‘I value the companionship of marriage.’

  ‘Can you hang on until we’ve settled with Hitler and his jackboots?’ asked Nick soberly.

  ‘Yes, if I can trust you not to take unnecessary risks,’ said Annabelle, and Nick thought of the instinct that had induced him to get out of the car and catch the bus.

  ‘I’ll never take the chance of throwing away what means most to me,’ he said, ‘you and the kids.’

  ‘The point is, love, we’d like our post-war future to include you,’ said Annabelle.

  Three days later, Nick was on his way back to the war in Italy, travelling by air in company with other pilots of his squadron.

  Annabelle found consolation in her children, as she always did, a
s she always had to, when Nick was away. Was this war never going to end?

  President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Churchill were presently set on bringing it to a conclusion inside the next twelve months. They not only had millions of war-weary people to consider, they also had Joe Stalin on their backs. The dictator of the Soviet Union had a fixed belief that only the Red Army was fighting the war.

  Chapter Twelve

  Saturday, 8 May

  THE PHONE RANG down in Dorset.

  ‘Phone, Mummy!’ called little Gemma.

  ‘It’s ringing,’ said little James.

  ‘Yes, I’ve called Mummy,’ said Gemma.

  Polly, appearing from the kitchen, picked up the hall phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello?’ The masculine voice was deep, warm and vibrant.

  ‘You old darling, it’s you, isn’t it?’ said Polly.

  ‘Your lord and master, so I believe,’ said Boots.

  ‘Don’t crack the whip, O Mighty Sultan,’ said Polly, ‘or I’ll speak to your mother.’

  ‘As you did a while ago,’ said Boots.

  ‘Noticing my cowed look, she dragged it out of me. However, I’ve assured her I’m still fighting.’

  ‘You’re still fighting what?’ asked Boots.

  ‘My weakness for bowing down to you,’ said Polly.

  ‘Let me know when your next attack is coming on,’ said Boots, ‘I’d like to be there.’

  ‘Unless you are here, it won’t happen,’ said Polly.

  ‘And if I am, and if it does,’ said Boots, ‘watch out for fireworks.’

  ‘Oh, m’lord, could you get here in ten minutes?’ begged Polly. Boots laughed. ‘I hope you don’t think that’s funny,’ said Polly.

  ‘What’s she saying?’ asked Gemma of James.

  ‘Dunno,’ said James.

  ‘Well, who’s she talking to?’ demanded Gemma.

  ‘Daddy,’ said James.

  ‘Crumbs,’ said Gemma.

  Polly was now listening, Boots letting her know he wasn’t returning to Italy, that he’d been transferred to 30 Corps. She stopped listening to interrupt.

  ‘Where is this corps?’

  ‘Here at home, Polly.’

  ‘Oh, really, old sport? In your stepfather’s back garden?’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Boots, keeping to himself the fact that he was now in Essex, and that the corps was constituted of units strongly equipped and ready for the greatest adventure of the war. No specific details had been given to him by a General Richards of the War Office, only that he’d be obliged if Colonel Adams would accept the transfer, since the corps, in view of what lay ahead of it, was in urgent need of one more staff officer of proven experience. When Boots asked exactly what did lie ahead, General Richards replied that was a question the Corps Commander would answer at the right time. Boots felt he did not need an answer, that what lay ahead was the opening of the Second Front. ‘Not to worry, Polly.’

  ‘Not to?’ said Polly. ‘But I do. Listen, old warhorse, you’re mine, not the Army’s. Their claim on you is secondary, so don’t let them muck you about. I’m against you coming back to me and the twins with a hole in your head. Saints and sinners, do you realize the women of your family are living on their nerves instead of relaxing happily with their knitting or whatever? Rosie, Eloise, Annabelle, Lizzy, Vi, your mother and myself? That’s a whole tribe of worrying women.’

  ‘Bake a cake,’ said Boots.

  What a man, thought Polly. She’d given him a hundred words to think about, and what had he said in response? Bake a cake? Dear God, she thought, is this a man who could listen to Hitler delivering a thousands words all at the top of his voice, and then tell him to take an aspirin? Yes.

  ‘I’m a frightful cook, you know that,’ she said.

  ‘Never mind, Polly, give it a go,’ said Boots. ‘I’ll keep you posted. Kiss the cherubs for me. Must hang up now.’

  ‘Wait, isn’t there something else?’ asked Polly.

  ‘Yes. Love you.’

  That night, roads leading to the South of England rumbled again to the passing of troop-carriers, tank-carriers, mounted guns and a host of other armaments. From the West of England, where concentrations of American troops had been conducting manoeuvres for many months, travelled the formidable units of the Stars and Stripes.

  ‘Pretty at night, ain’t it, this old island?’

  ‘You seeing in the dark, Felix?’

  ‘I ain’t Felix. Who the hell’s Felix?’

  ‘A cat that can see in the dark.’

  ‘Listen, it ain’t a question of seeing, Ratty, you can smell it’s pretty.’

  ‘Murphy, you dope, that ain’t this island, that’s Sergeant Tucker.’

  ‘Who said that? Answer up, that man.’ No answer. ‘Gimme his name, Murphy.’

  ‘Honest to God, sarge, all I know is that one of us guys has just jumped out of the truck, and it ain’t me. Hell, sarge, did you hear that?’

  ‘Did I hear what, Murphy?’

  ‘A squelch. I guess he’s just been squashed by a gun carriage. Who’s gonna tell his Ma and Pa?’

  ‘Private Ratcliffe?’

  ‘Here, sarge.’

  ‘Private Ratcliffe, shoot Private Murphy.’

  A letter for Felicity.

  ‘Read it to me, Rosie?’ she said, and Giles came up to listen. Emily toddled up behind him. ‘Is that Giles and Emily?’

  ‘Afraid so,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Well, if I know my bounder of a husband,’ said Felicity, ‘there’s sure to be something your innocents shouldn’t hear.’

  ‘Let’s risk it,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Up to you, you’re their mother,’ said Felicity.

  ‘Here goes,’ said Rosie. ‘“Dear Puss—”’

  ‘Typical,’ said Felicity.

  ‘I am at present in the throes of being given the run-around by other ranks who’ve got aggravating ideas that I was commissioned by Girl Guides, not by courtesy of His Majesty Georgie. As you know, or should know, I was brought up in a family believing in respect, and I’m getting none right now. Just some shocking language. I’ll set down here a list of words you’ve probably never heard of and some of which are even new to me. Rosie will read them out, I suppose.’

  Rosie paused.

  ‘You pass, I pass,’ said Felicity. She heard Emily close by and reached for her. The child turned and Felicity brought her up onto her lap. Emily wriggled until she was comfortable, then settled. ‘What’s up, Rosie, has the letter caught fire?’ asked Felicity.

  ‘Tim’s cheated,’ said Rosie. ‘All he’s put down are rows of dots.’

  ‘That’s not cheating,’ said Felicity, ‘that’s Tim remembering for once that he’s an officer and gentleman. Oddly, I think I like him best as a bounder.’ She applied a little hug to Emily’s warm body. Her world of darkness was still a bitter world at times, but Rosie’s children and Rosie herself were always able to brighten the darkness. ‘Carry on, Rosie.’

  Rosie carried on.

  ‘Of course, suffering does lead to a bit of blasphemy, but I keep telling these cowboys it’s all necessary if they want to grow hair on their chests. You should hear what they say to that – correction, no, it’s not fit for your hearing. While I’m prepared to reason with them, my brother-in-law Luke – Colonel Lucas – prefers to break a leg or two, which lets them know they’re in a war, not a netball match. It’s a special kind of war in this outfit, meaning as ever, and as you’ll remember from Troon, that anyone with a broken leg is still expected to complete a forced march in full kit What our next objective is I don’t know, but I think it’s something like wiping out Berlin and bringing Hitler back with us. I understand it’s a fact that Churchill wants a word with him. I think I’ll go sick and stay where I am. It’ll be safer.’

  ‘Rosie,’ said Felicity, ‘if they’re training for something unusual, what’s your guess?’

  ‘I’d like to guess it’s going to be a month’s leave,’ sa
id Rosie, ‘which is about as unusual as you could get, but they don’t train for leave, do they?’

  ‘You can do better than that,’ said Felicity.

  ‘There’s only one thing that’s obvious to me,’ said Rosie, ‘an objective that’s overdue.’

  ‘Second Front?’ said Felicity.

  ‘Don’t you think so?’ said Rosie.

  ‘It’s going to be—’ Felicity wanted to say ‘bloody desperate and dangerous’. No, not in front of Giles, who’d be quick to pick the word up. ‘For something like that, Rosie, they’ve all got to be hairy-chested men. Finish the letter, there’s a sweetie.’

  Rosie concluded.

  ‘I enjoyed my time with you, Puss, very much I did, and with all of you, so if you’re reading this, Rosie, consider yourself a sister who’s always been the best ever to me, and tell Giles and Emily I love ’em. I can’t wait to see all of you again, but I don’t think it’ll be tomorrow. If it’s summery when I do arrive, let’s go on seaside picnics, and bring your swimsuit, Felicity. Love you all over, as you well know.

  Yours ever, Tim.’

  ‘Rosie, has he put that down in black and white?’ asked Felicity.

  ‘Put what down?’ asked Rosie with a smile that made her children beam at her.

  ‘The “all over” bit,’ said Felicity.

  ‘Yes, what’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Some things are private, and the swine knows it,’ said Felicity.

  ‘But it’s lovely, isn’t it, for the swine to say so?’ said Rosie.

  Felicity laughed.

  ‘Rosie, he’s my kind of swine,’ she said.

  Rosie thought of the first letter she’d received from Matt since his arrival in Italy. He’d said several things like that in his long missive, and she’d loved them all, except that she wondered if an Army censor had seen them.

  She was waiting now for another letter.

  Wives waited. Husbands served. Children asked after them. War did its best – its worst – to keep families divided. That was something Grandma Finch considered more upsetting than many other consequences of war.