Land Girls, The Promise

by Roland Moore

  Iris was aghast. “Please, I can stop the drinking,” she pleaded.

  “You need a fresh start. Away from all the memories of Vernon Storey and Frank Tucker.”

  “Frank is my friend!” Iris said. “I thought Finch was too. They’ve both been -” She wanted to say the words ‘like fathers’ but they snagged in her throat. Just as Finch had felt guilt about asking a new woman to marry him, Iris felt guilt about somehow besmirching her father’s memory. No one could replace him, but the truth was that Frank and Fred had come close.

  “I know, love.” Esther smiled. “And who knows, you might only be gone a few months. Just time to clear your head and put all this Vernon business into perspective.”

  “I’m not making it up. Evelyn was in that photograph with Vernon.”

  “There is no photograph.”

  “There is! And Finch is going to get hurt by her.” Iris broke down. It was all too much. The continued refusal of Esther and Finch to listen to her warnings was exhausting her. “Please, she is up to something.”

  “What? Give me something solid. Some proof?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Esther’s face hardened. She took her hands away from Iris’s elbows and took a step away. “There we are, then. Just rumours and gossip. I’ve said what I had to. I’d like you to pack and be ready to leave by the end of the week. You’re going to East Anglia to work on the fens.”

  Esther walked away. Iris watched forlornly as she went back to the dirt track that connected the two farms. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shelley run to her side, her face full of concern. “What did she say, Iris?”

  Iris didn’t really hear the question. Everything seemed as if it was in a fog. Her own mind was racing with thoughts as her survival instinct kicked in. “I’ve got to put an end to this,” Iris said. “And I’ve got to do it now.”

  Joe Batch was driving a large green US Army truck across the country lanes of Helmstead. His head was buzzing with ideas and schemes. The bottom line was that he needed to keep the gun that was currently holstered on his belt. But the more he thought about it, the harder he knew that would be. He would have to hand the gun and the bullets back by the end of the day, and yet he wasn’t ready to confront Frank Tucker yet. He needed the gun for longer. Or he needed a gun. So he needed to hand his gun back unused in order to not arouse suspicions. What were the other options?

  Joe wondered if he could steal one from the munitions crates, just a single gun. But he realised that wouldn’t be a good plan. There would be questions about the missing weapon. The guns would have been accounted for when they were packaged by keen-eyed soldiers back at the barracks, so the receiving officer at Vasham would realise it had gone missing on the way. And the finger would point at Joe. He could try to brave-face studied ignorance, but he wasn’t sure he could carry that off.

  The logistics of obtaining and keeping a gun whirled around Joe’s head. What would Cosallo want him to do? How should he show his ingenuity? Then he remembered what Cosallo had casually said outside the mess hall. Cosallo had already given him the answer. Good old Caption Cosallo.

  He heard the Captain’s words in his head, ‘But no one knows about this mission, other than the two of us and the receiving officer at Vasham, so I don’t expect any trouble.’

  There it was. The loophole. I don’t expect any trouble. That was very different from saying that there definitely wouldn’t be any trouble. What if someone else knew about Joe’s mission? Someone who Joe could invent in his head? Saboteurs!

  He drove the truck to three miles outside of Helmstead and parked on the side of the lane.

  Joe had been over things in his head a dozen times, checking for loopholes. He went to the back of the truck, opened the doors and slid out one of the metal munitions boxes. It was heavy as it was usually a job for two soldiers and it took a lot of effort for him to haul it out. He staggered with it over to a hedge and pushed it against the foliage. Then using as much leverage as he could muster, he slowly raised his arms, tipping the box up the side of the hedge until it reached the top. With one big final push he managed to tip it over the hedge. Clunk. It fell heavily onto the earth on the other side. Joe struggled to regain his breath and braced himself to repeat the process with the second munitions box. When he had managed to tip that one over the hedge, he felt like collapsing in a heap. But he knew he had more to do.

  The meat box was much easier, much lighter. He tipped it over the hedge and then checked that the road was still clear. Joe went back to the truck and went to the toolkit in the back. He pulled the drawstrings and unfurled a pickaxe, a shovel and an axe. Selecting the shovel, he fastened the tools up again, and wandered over to the hedge. He pulled himself up until he had reached the peak and he was able to look around. There were fields for as far as he could see. No farmhouses within easy reach. That was good. Joe dropped down in the field and began to dig with the shovel. Digging three smaller holes was easier and faster than digging one big hole. After a while, he had managed to bury the three crates, but not before removing one hand gun with thirty rounds of ammunition. This gun could be used as it couldn’t be traced back to Joe. Instead, it looked as if someone had stolen both crates of munitions and the meat, and vanished off the face of the earth with them. He stashed the stolen gun in his rucksack back in the truck. He still had the gun in his belt, the one he would have to hand back. The first part of his plan had gone smoothly.

  He got back in the truck and drove on about a mile. When he was sure there were no witnesses, he grabbed the steering wheel, wrenched it hard to the right and skidded onto a large verge, braking as hard as he could. Joe got out and inspected the tyre tracks, satisfyingly deep furrows across the grass. It looked as if he had been forced off the road. This was where he would say the ambush had happened. It was far enough from where he had buried the munitions and the meat so that they wouldn’t be found by any army investigators. The second part of his hastily thought-out plan had worked.

  He took his rucksack, moved to the front of the truck, took out the stolen hand gun and fired it twice into the wind shield. The powerful hand gun kicked back hard as the bullets exploded from its nozzle. A portion of the glass shattered over the steering wheel and the seats, but some of the glass stayed intact. He put the stolen gun back in his rucksack. That would be useful later for when it came to tracking down Frank Tucker. He calmly walked to the middle of the road where a storm drain was positioned at the intersection. Using the axe from the back of the truck, he prised up the manhole cover, put his rucksack on the small ledge inside and closed the cover again. Putting the axe away in the back of the truck, Joe realised that he had to execute the hardest part of his plan so far. He had to injure himself to make it look as though he had been ambushed and that he had tried to defend the truck.

  Joe braced himself as he put his forehead against one of the metal frames in the back of the truck. They were rigid structures that kept the tarpaulin covering taut and in position. He felt the coolness of the metal against his throbbing temple. There was no going back now.

  Joe closed his eyes, pulled back his head and smashed it as hard as he could into the frame. It was surprisingly effective as it knocked him out cold.

  Chapter 9

  In the North Field, Martin was raking the earth, a faraway look in his eyes. The clouds were forming shapes above him, and he imagined he was piloting a Spitfire through the blueness. Fantasy Martin was dressed in flying goggles and he sported a body, caged within an RAF shirt, which was notably more muscular than Real-life Martin. Fantasy Martin had just shot down fourteen Germans and was coming home to see his girl. He snapped out of his daydreams as he saw Iris approaching. She had a determined look on her face, as if she was on a mission. What did she want? Was she angry?

  “Martin! I need you to do something,” she said, stomping towards him.

  “Sure?” Martin replied, nonplussed.

  “Do you remember the note that told you to come here yesterday?�
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  “The one saying the sheep were getting in?”

  He nodded.

  “What happened to it?”

  “The note?” Martin scrunched up his eyes as he sought to remember. Iris tried to mask her impatience. She knew that obtaining the note would be proof. She was certain that the handwriting would match Evelyn’s. She needed the note. And the longer Martin took to remember what happened to it, the more uneasy she felt.

  “I think John put it in his pocket,” Martin said finally. Iris asked him if he was sure and when he nodded, he was dismayed to see Iris instantly turn on her heels and stomp off back the way she had come. “I might be wrong!” he added. Iris didn’t turn back. “Iris?” He watched her diminish into the distance.

  Fantasy Martin wouldn’t have lost the girl.

  The penlight flickered brightly across the young man’s bruised face as Dr Channing peered into the eyes of Joe Batch. Satisfied that there was no ocular damage, Channing then encouraged Joe to follow the path of the torch as he moved it from side to side. Nearby, a concerned Captain Cosallo and a sergeant watched the examination. They were in the medical hut of the American barracks. Harry knew that Dr Channing would have preferred to have treated Joe at Hoxley Manor, where he had all of his equipment, but Harry had insisted that he wanted Joe at the base. He was worried that one of the bandits might try to finish Joe off to keep him quiet, so keeping Joe secure in the base seemed the safest option.

  Joe had been found by a passerby on a bicycle. He had raised the alarm and Harry had scrambled some troops to go to the scene of the crime. Harry had been shocked by what he’d seen. Joe had been recovering in the back of the truck, his head bloodied, the doors wide open and the front window smashed. It had seemed like a clinical and clean operation. Someone must have known about the transfer taking place. But Harry didn’t know how.

  “Did the guy see anything?” Harry whispered to his sergeant. He was referring to the passerby who’d found Joe.

  “I don’t think so, sir,” the sergeant said, “He’s in the office if you would like to question him?”

  Harry nodded and started to leave. “Let me know when the doc has finished.”

  Channing watched as Harry left and then returned to his patient.

  “You were very lucky, weren’t you?”

  “How do you mean, Doc? I got my head busted open.”

  “Bandits don’t usually leave survivors. It minimises the chances of them being caught.” Channing seemed as if he was being warm, friendly and conversational, but there was an intensity in his eyes that unnerved Joe. He felt as if the doctor was seeing through his whole charade. But how could that be possible? It was probably Joe’s own guilt feeling that people knew what he’d done. He had to shrug it off. Anyway, it made no sense that this medic would be interrogating him.

  But before Joe could say anything, Channing turned with a pair of tongs and a wet lump of cotton wool and started to dab at the wound on his head, the liquid stinging into the cut. Joe winced.

  “Awfully sorry.” Channing smiled.

  John Fisher made a pot of tea. Joyce stood behind him in the kitchen of Shallow Brook Farm. She had sneaked away from working in the fields to have a quick cup of tea with him. John stirred the pot, before brandishing the hot spoon playfully in Joyce’s direction, determined to put it on her nose. Joyce squealed with laughter and fought his hand to get the spoon away from her face.

  “You rotter!” she laughed.

  “Hold still, I’m sure it won’t hurt! Much.”

  “You hold still.” Joyce grabbed the teaspoon from his hand and quickly cupped the end of his nose with it.

  “Ow!” John said in mock anger. “You’re right, that does hurt.”

  He poured the tea into the green utility cups and then pulled out chairs from the kitchen table. Joyce and John were about to drink the tea when a breathless Iris ran into the room. She took a moment to catch her breath. John went to her side.

  “Are you all right?” He flashed a look to his wife. Was the girl all right? Joyce joined them, but Iris indicated that she just needed a moment to get control of her breathing. A moment to calm down.

  “Ran all the way,” she gasped. “I need that note.”

  “That what?”

  “She said note, I think,” Joyce clarified. John looked blank. “What note?”

  “The note that told you,” Iris panted, “to go to the North Field.”

  John nodded his understanding. He moved quickly over to the safe: a small, mesh-fronted cabinet that sat on the kitchen work surface. He unlatched the safe door and took out a small bundle of papers. Joyce gave him a withering look as she noticed what they were.

  “I put the bills there, that’s all,” he protested.

  “That’s just what you used to do at home.” she said, “Put the bills and letters somewhere safe and forget all about them.”

  “Please, I need the - note,” Iris gasped.

  “I’ve not forgotten, though, have I?” John replied to Joyce. “I put the note here while we went off to the field.” He thumbed his way through the letters as Iris waited expectantly. “Everything is here, kept in perfect order so that I can …” He trailed off, a worried look appearing on his face. “That’s odd.”

  “Lost it, have you?” Joyce smiled. “There’s a surprise.”

  “No, it was definitely here,” John said, looking again. “I remember shoving it in there as Martin and me left.”

  “You’re sure?” Iris asked.

  “You’re welcome to check,” John handed her the bundle of letters and paperwork. She quickly scanned through it, looking for anything that could be a note.

  “So you haven’t got it?” Iris said, a note of panic in her voice. John shrugged. That looked to be the case.

  “Why did you want it, anyway?” Joyce questioned.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Iris said, running out of the door. John and Joyce shared a baffled look, before sitting back down to finish their tea.

  Iris ran across the yard of Shallow Brook Farm. She stopped, suddenly aware that she had nowhere to run to. The note was gone. Her only piece of proof had gone. So what had happened? Maybe Evelyn had searched the house before she left. Maybe she had found the note and taken it with her.

  Iris slumped over, exhausted. A bad night’s sleep in an armchair in a stifling hot shed and the emotional drain of her current predicament were taking their toll. She clasped her knees as she fought to control her breathing. There didn’t seem to be any solution. No options were left. It looked as if she was going to the fens and the joys of East Anglia. But still, she couldn’t give up. Not without a fight.

  Iris knew there was only one thing left that she could try. She had to confront Evelyn. And this time, Iris would be ready for her. She set off, determined.

  The girl stumbled, catching her knee on the cobbles. It stung and even before she looked, she knew she’d ruined her Sunday-best long-socks and cut her knee open. She didn’t have time to look. Bravely she hauled herself to her feet and carried on running.

  Harry Cosallo moved through to the office. In reality, it was simply a partitioned area within the metal hangar that housed the medical unit. Waiting at the desk was Henry Jameson, a tweedy young man with a panama hat. As Harry sat opposite, he noticed for the first time that the man was wearing a white band around his neck. A dog collar. So he was a vicar.

  “Hey, padre,” Harry said, offering his hand.

  “I’m a vicar, a reverend, actually,” Henry Jameson stammered. “Is there any reason you needed me to stay, Captain?”

  “I just wondered if you saw anything at all. You might not have seen the actual hold-up, but maybe you saw some men hanging around earlier?”

  Henry shook his head, frowning slightly at the thought.

  “Anything you can tell us would help,” Harry pleaded.

  “I really didn’t see anything. I was on my way back from visiting a sick parishioner and just saw the truck on the verge.”
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br />   “And it was stationary?”

  “Yes, pitched round at a crazy sort of angle.”

  “As if it had been stopped in a hurry?”

  The reverend pondered for the briefest moment before nodding.

  “So the attack had happened before you got there?”

  “Yes,” Henry said, a little annoyance in his voice. Harry knew he’d been over all of this with the sergeant, but it always paid to check every detail.

  “How long ago do you think it happened?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Was there any smoke from car engines? The smell of gunpowder in the air to indicate a handgun had recently been fired? Was the engine of the army truck warm?”

  “I really didn’t think to touch it,” Henry said, shaking his head.

  “Well, okay, but if you think of anything, Reverend -” Harry enjoyed trying the word out for size, “-You be sure to let me know. We need to catch these crooks.”

  Henry stood up, tipped his hat and left the room. Harry followed him out, pointing out the way to leave the building. When the young reverend had gone, Harry returned to the treatment room, where Channing was putting the finishing touches to the plaster on Joe’s head.

  “How is he, Doc?” Harry asked.

  “He’ll live,” Channing said, putting the tape and bandages back into his medical bag. Harry turned to Joe and smiled.

  “Will you go back to your dormitory, Private? I’ll finish up here and come see you.”

  Joe hoisted himself off the medical bed, offered a stiff salute and left the room. Harry waited for a moment and then turned to Channing, who was checking his pen torch as he put it away.

  “How is his mental state?”

  Channing didn’t miss a beat before replying, “Hard to say. He seems upbeat and pretty positive.”

  “It’s just he lost a lot of buddies the other day, another buddy topped himself and now he’s been held up and beaten,” Harry said, shaking his head at all the kid had had to bear. “It’s got to take its toll, right?”

  “You know as well as I do that trauma affects people in different ways. For now, he’s coping. I’d take things easy with him and see what happens. If he has any issues in the next few weeks, let me know. I can recommend some people he could talk to.”