The Green Gauntlet

by Delderfield, R. F.

  ‘I’ve noticed,’ she said, ‘and it’s a point in your favour.’ Then, unexpectedly, ‘Afterwards? Will you want to come back here? To settle I mean?’

  ‘God knows! I’m no farmer and what else would I do?’

  She took his hand and spread it out, regarding it intently for a moment and saying, ‘You could do anything very well so long as you believed enough in it, but you won’t bother much with personal problems until there’s hope for everybody’s future. You’re that kind of person and if you weren’t you’d be just another widower looking for a fresh start. How long do you give it, Simon?’

  He had thought about it many times, sometimes optimistically but more often gloomily, when it had looked like a siege that would endure for the rest of their lives. Today, understandably, he took a more cheerful view. ‘Two to three years at worst, eighteen months at best! But you aren’t proposing to keep me waiting that long, are you? I’ll be due for leave again in three months and even if I get posted overseas I’ll get a few days’ embarkation. It’s July now. August, September, October …’ but he broke off because he saw that she was laughing.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, ‘you really are out of practice,’ and she threw her arms round him and kissed him in a way Rachel had never kissed him.

  IV

  The night after he had gone, perhaps because she had felt so cheered by his news, Claire slept more soundly than she had for weeks. Simon’s announcement that he and Evie were to marry almost at once had pushed her consuming worry into the background for a few hours and the steady throb of aircraft hammering across the sky a mile or so to the west did not wake her as it awakened Paul, jerking him upright by its solid thrust. By now he could distinguish most enemy aircraft by the sound of their engines, and he realised at once that these were heavy bombers, crossing the coast near the mouth of the Whin, and in far larger numbers than at any time since the 1940 attack upon Plymouth.

  He switched on the bedside light, automatically glancing towards the window to ensure that the blackout curtains were drawn. Then, with the roar of a volcano, the first salvo of bombs came down and the old house shuddered, plaster cascading from the ceiling round the central light fixture. He said, as Claire cried out in alarm, ‘It’s Paxtonbury. Another Baedekker. My God, I thought we were through all that,’ and then the second shower of bombs exploded and all hell burst loose to the north.

  He shouted, ‘I’ll get John, Mary, the kids …!’ but she clung to him with a dreadful intensity and even allowing for the fact that she had been literally bombed out of a deep sleep he was surprised at her panic. Before he could escape from her grasp the door crashed open and the others were there, John holding little Jerry by the hand, Mary cradling the baby, Sorrel. Mary’s mouth was wide open, as though she was screaming but he understood that she was only urging him to take shelter under the staircase where they had sheltered in 1940. He tore a blanket from the bed, threw it across Claire’s shoulders and made a grab at his own dressing-gown. A glance at his watch showed him it was twenty minutes past two and then Claire pulled herself together and half rolled off the bed so that they ran along the vibrating passage and down the broad staircase in a group, John and Jerry just ahead.

  Inland the inferno of noise continued, breaking into a regular pattern of sounds so that it was possible to distinguish the intermittent thud of high-explosive, the steady drone of night-fighters and the barking cough of anti-aircraft guns firing from the perimeter of the Polish airfield east of the city. Each, of the heavier booms brought down more of the ceiling and they heard it pattering as they huddled together in a compact group in the broom recess that opened onto the kitchen passage. The kitchen was not blacked out in summer and through the panels of the outside door they could see the white flashes in the sky and presently a pinkish glow that seemed to be spreading over the sea but was, Paul realised, a reflection of fires over Paxtonbury. For twenty minutes the uproar continued and then faded to a rumble that lasted another five. In the comparative silence the anti-aircraft fire could be heard more distinctly and a few moments later the scattered throb of bombers recrossing the coast.

  Claire said in his ear, ‘Is it over? Are they going?’ but before he could answer there was a sound that came rushing down on them from much nearer at hand, a long, whistling howl that made each of them shrink and press themselves against the timbered wall of the cupboard. He thought he heard Claire scream but it might have been part of the sound itself and before he could enfold Mary and the baby a tremendous explosion seemed to lift them and blast them into the deepest recess of the cupboard. Then, as though a thousand bells had stopped ringing, there was silence, except for the baby’s whimpers, the dry whistle of Claire’s breath, and the distant throb of aero-engines away out to sea.

  Minutes ticked by without any of them saying anything and at last Paul, switching on his torch, emerged from the recess and plucked up the receiver of the telephone, replacing it as soon as he realised the line was dead. They stayed there saying little until the distant blare of the ‘All Clear’ sounded and was presently taken up by another, presumably at Whinmouth and then a third in Coombe Bay. Paul said, struck by the reediness of his own voice, ‘That was a terrific packet but the Poles were very quick off the mark. It wouldn’t surprise me if they hadn’t got some of them!’

  John spoke unexpectedly and just as Paul had been ashamed of the tremor in his own voice so he was proud of the steadiness of the boy’s. ‘That was a bomber down in the woods, Dad,’ and when Paul said this was nonsense he insisted, ‘It was! I know it was! There was a long crackling sound that went on and on, after the bang and it was quite near our side of the Mere.’

  Paul joggled the phone desperately and Claire, edging out of the cupboard, seemed to have recovered a little of her nerve.

  ‘Take the baby back to bed, Mary. I’ll keep Jerry in the kitchen and make tea,’ and without another word she threw the blanket over the child and led him away by the hand, switching on the hall lights as she went. Paul and John went across to the front door and flung it open. To the south it was still dark but behind the house the sky was like a summer sunset, a great pink and crimson glow over Paxtonbury, fifteen miles to the south-west. Fighters still droned overhead and John said, with his customary politeness, ‘Will they have hit the Cathedral, Dad? They didn’t last time, remember?’

  ‘Last time was a couple of strays,’ Paul said, ‘this time it was deliberate. Are you quite sure about that ripping sound?’

  ‘Yes, Dad, quite sure.’

  ‘As though something was crashing through the trees on the slope down to the Mere?’

  ‘Yes. Oughtn’t we to go and look?’

  ‘We will, the moment it’s light.’

  ‘You mean I can come?’

  ‘Yes, you can come, and I’ll tell you something else, son. You’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve. More than me, more than your mother and as much as any of your brothers!’

  The boy said nothing, sensing humility in the big, grey-haired man. He followed him into the kitchen, where his mother, deathly pale, was retching into the sink.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said helplessly, addressing all of them, including Jerry who had stopped snivelling and was staring at her bowed back, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t stand much more of this,’ and she turned on both taps. John said, quietly, ‘Sit down, I’ll make the tea,’ and gently edged her aside, lifting the big iron kettle and holding it under the cold jet. Paul said, ‘Don’t apologise, it was enough to scare the living daylights out of anyone in their right mind. Would you like a dram?’

  ‘No,’ she said, her eyes on John as he hauled the kettle on to the stove, ‘just tea. Hot and strong!’

  ‘Coming up!’ John said, and Paul thought ‘Great God! Is he only nine? He behaves more like one of those old sweats left over from First Ypres!’ And then, turning to comfort Jerry, ‘It’s all over now and that’s the second time they’ve had
a crack at you, isn’t it? None of us will get hurt if you stay around,’ and he caught Claire’s feeble attempt at a smile as he said it.

  By the time the teapot was empty it was almost day. Jerry was yawning and Mary took him back to bed. John slipped away and came back fully dressed in mackintosh and gumboots, and Claire said, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘To see if that was a bomber down in the woods! Dad said I could, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes I did,’ Paul conceded, adding, ‘there’s no danger and I might need him to run a message. You’ll be all right for half an hour, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be all right but come back right away. Someone is sure to call and maybe they hit the camp this time.’

  She dragged herself up feeling old and defeated. It had been bad enough getting through the last war, with Paul in France and half the Valley dead, but at least the children weren’t under fire. Silently cursing the men who had been so confoundedly clever as to invent aeroplanes she went upstairs and along the passage to Mary’s room.

  Paul buckled on his revolver, more from habit than design, and they went out the back door and up across the dew-soaked orchard to the sunken lane that ran behind the house. If you could forget the lurid colour of the sky it was a soft, pleasant morning but in the presence of two separate dawns, one in the east and another in the west, it was not easy to appreciate hedgerow scents. They went up the lane as far as the gate leading to the long, upsloping meadow and then, turning left, climbed through the scrub towards the first of the tall trees. They were only a third of the way up when John shouted, ‘Look! Over there!’ and Paul, glancing over his right shoulder, saw the billowing parachute, its folds lifting lightly in the breeze where it had come to rest under the hedge.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said, loosening the flap of his holster. ‘Get behind me, John, and keep your eyes open and if I tell you to go back go and don’t argue. We don’t want another Otto Shratt situation.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said John, dutifully, and Paul could tell how much he was enjoying himself.

  The parachute told them little. There was nothing to identify it as German or British but its presence made them cautious and they breasted the slope in Indian file, moving carefully among the summer foliage.

  They were beginning to descend the long, wooded slope when Paul saw that John’s instinct had served him well. Down towards the Mere, looking utterly incongruous among stripped oaks and rakishly tilted smaller trees, was a sprawling tangle of twisted metal and canvas, with a single wing pointing skyward at an angle of about ninety degrees. They stared down at the wreck incredulously. Thin wisps of smoke still rose from it and a wide circle of brown undergrowth showed that there had been a considerable blaze, although possibly a short-lived one, for the timber was thick and heavy and there was very little breeze. Paul said, softly, ‘My God! Now I’ve seen everything!’ and broke into a stumbling run with John beside him but then, recollecting the parachute back in the meadow, he drew his revolver, shouting, ‘Wait! If any others jumped they’re hung up in the trees somewhere.’

  They went down more slowly, glancing from left to right but there was no-one to be seen and Paul, reflecting that there might be roasting bodies scattered around, called, ‘Don’t go too near, John. We’ll just have a look then get in touch with the camp and Observer Corps.’

  It was at that moment he saw the German airman, a forlorn and by no means frightening figure, who raised himself from a clump of dwarf beeches about fifty yards north of the wreck.

  He was, Paul would judge, no more than nineteen or twenty, and was still shaking with shock or fright, for the hands lifted above his head fluttered and from where he stood, on higher ground looking down, Paul could see his throat muscles working and his tongue moving slowly round his lips. His fur-lined flying-jacket hung open and he had removed his helmet, showing fair stubby hair, almost white it looked in the early morning sunshine. He heard John hiss but kept his eyes on the man, marking him with the pistol.

  ‘Hand hoche!’ he called, remembering his First War German, but it was a silly command for the man already had his hands raised in surrender and came stumbling out of the scrub, moving awkwardly in his clumsy flying boots.

  It was clear from the way the German approached that he was no Otto Shratt and expected to be shot. Paul was surprised at himself for feeling no anger. The airman was so young, and so obviously at the end of his tether. He thought, grimly, ‘It’s all mad! A few hours ago he was doing his damnedest to blow us all to hell and here he is cowering in my woods and wondering if I’m going to put a bullet through his head!’ He beckoned, lowering the gun but keeping it pointed. The man seemed dazed and his eye flickered over the wreck so that Paul, remembering that most Germans spoke some English, said, slowly and carefully, ‘How many?’ and pointed to the spiral of smoke below the scorched branches.

  The airman accepted this as a reprieve and fear fell from his face like a mask. Paul saw then that he was a good-looking boy with regular features and light blue eyes.

  ‘Four,’ he said, holding up four fingers. ‘All dead. I came in the field,’ and he pointed up the slope towards the place where they had seen the parachute.

  ‘And by God you were lucky to “come in the field”,’ Paul thought, looking down at the debris, ‘you landed about twenty yards short of the timber. Another puff of wind and you would have dropped in the bay.’ Then he recollected John and saw that he had approached the debris. He called, ‘Come back here. You hear me?’

  John turned and came gingerly up the slope. ‘He’s right,’ he said offhandedly, ‘the others are in there, at least, three are and another is a bit lower down.’ The boy’s nerve again succeeded in astonishing him but he said sharply, ‘Run on ahead and warn the others. If there’s no-one at the house, saddle the pony and ride across to Home Farm. Maybe their telephone is working. If it is get Honeyman to send word to Constable Voysey and the camp. Tell them to send a party over to the house to collect a prisoner and check up on this.’

  The boy looked at him with comical uncertainty. ‘Will you be all right on your own?’

  ‘Of course I’ll be all right. I’ve got a gun, haven’t I? And anyway, there’s no fight left in this one. Hurry along. Do as I say.’

  Reluctantly the boy set himself at the slope and Paul saw him disappear among the close-set timber that grew up to the ridge. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Walk ahead of me and no monkey tricks, Master Race,’ but as he followed the airman up the slope he thought, ‘What the hell am I talking about? My boys have been doing the same job over there ever since it started. We’re all mad, the whole damned lot of us,’ and the reflection pricked the bubble of his arrogance so that he called, when they reached the open field where the parachute still lifted in the wind, ‘Would you like a cigarette?’ and putting his revolver away he fumbled in his jacket pocket and brought out a half-empty packet of Players.

  The German lit one from a curiously shaped brass lighter and then Paul lit one too and they stared down at the parachute.

  ‘Yours?’ he asked, and the young man nodded and smiled, at the same time making a curiously English gesture, closing the fingers of both hands and elevating his two thumbs.

  ‘I should say you’re lucky,’ Paul grunted, ‘you made it by a few feet. What’s your name?’

  ‘Weber,’ the man said, and then, politely, ‘You are a soldier?’

  ‘No, but that’s my house down there. I was a soldier, I probably fought your father in France.’

  ‘Ach so,’ the young man said, like a stock character in a Continental play, ‘but it was a different kind of war.’

  ‘Very different,’ Paul said, grumpily. ‘We didn’t kill women and kids, neither of us.’

  The young man looked thoughtful. Then he said, unsentimentally, ‘My mother and my aunt were killed by bombs in Stuttgart. In this year.’

  The last o
f Paul’s resentment ebbed and with it went the exhilaration of the capture. He felt an absurd impulse to unclip his holster and toss the contents into the wood beside which they stood. Close by was the tree where there were once grey squirrels beloved of Hazel Potter, the mother of Rumble Patrick and he thought fleetingly of Rumble, and of Stevie and Andy and Simon, comparing them with this tall, good-looking boy miraculously saved from that holocaust back there in the woods. He said aloud, but not addressing the man, ‘We’re sick, the whole damned lot of us. We must be,’ and the German said, ‘Please?’ to which Paul gave no answer.

  They went down the long meadow into an erupting household. John, a child once again, pranced out screaming that a jeep had arrived with an officer and two men from the camp. They had orders to search the woods after a report from the Polish Squadron that a bomber had crashed before crossing the coast. ‘Paxtonbury is still burning,’ he said, as though it was something to exult over, ‘but nobody round here was hit.’

  They went into the kitchen, the German making a great effort to look dignified and the Royal Marine sergeant there said, ‘Christ! The boy was right, sir. We didn’t really believe him.’

  ‘This is the only survivor,’ Paul said, ‘the others are back there this side of the Mere, done to a turn.’

  ‘How did Sonny Boy escape?’

  ‘Parachute. The ’chute is back there too. None of your people hit?’

  ‘No, sir, it was a Baedekker on Paxtonbury. There were casualties there I think but it was mostly incendiaries.’

  ‘They didn’t sound like incendiaries,’ Paul said, ‘you’d better fetch your officer. This chap won’t give any trouble,’ and he automatically put the kettle on the stove.