Beneath Us the Stars

by David Wiltshire

  Should she tell them about Bill? Mary was a very private person. She was worried about what they would say, what anyone would say, and the thought of the teasing she would get – the remarks of ‘You a Yankee Basher’ was too appalling to seriously consider saying anything. Only her parents need know. She frowned. That wouldn’t be easy – not as regarded her father.

  Mercifully, further thought was cut off as simultaneously the house lights dimmed and with a click the curtains started to open; the projector was already showing the crowing cockerel of the Pathé News on the still rippling-material, accompanied by stirring music and rousing commentary. Pictures of the Queen visiting soldiers injured in battle since D-Day followed, then an item about a dog show.

  After the news came the trailer for next week. There was a rustle of anticipation when it ended, and the house lights stayed down. It was time for the big feature.

  Love Story filled the screen, starring Margaret Lockwood, Stewart Granger, and her favourite: Patricia Roc. The popular theme music, Cornish Rhapsody swelled from the soundtrack – violins and woodwind, and a piano – not like the organ.

  As soon as he’d finished debriefing Bill took a shower. Then, dressed in fresh kit, he made his way to see the adjutant.

  When he came out of his hut it was dusk and bitterly cold, the wind coming across the airfield from the north-east. He pulled his collar up and held it with his fist, under his chin.

  The squadron office was in darkness. Cursing, he stumbled over a bicycle in the gloom.

  Once inside, with the blackout curtain redrawn, he released his collar and pulled it down.

  The sergeant behind a desk stood up and saluted.

  ‘How may I help you, sir?’

  Bill returned the salute.

  ‘My name is Anderson. I wish to see the adjutant, he’ll be expecting me.’

  Something in the sergeant’s look when he heard his name made his heart sink.

  ‘Yes, sir. Just a moment.’

  He tapped at the door behind him and put his head around the edge.

  ‘Lieutenant Anderson to see you, sir.’

  Bill didn’t hear any reply, but the sergeant pushed the door further open and stood aside.

  ‘Please go in, sir.’

  The adjutant’s face confirmed his suspicions.

  Without saying anything the major fished a sheet of typewritten paper out of a folder, and with two fingers pushed it across the desk at him, turning it around as he did so.

  Only then did he speak.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bill, the Old Man has turned down your application. Request for permission to marry – denied.’

  To Bill, it felt as if a cold hand had suddenly squeezed his heart.

  He looked up. ‘I have to see the CO. I must see him.’

  The adjutant shook his head.

  ‘Pointless, and in any case impossible. In the next couple of weeks this squadron is being transferred to France, we’re joining Nineteenth Tactical Air Command to support the troops. The CO has already left – there is a lot to sort out.’

  His world fell apart. Not only was he not being allowed to marry Mary, but he wouldn’t even be able to see her regularly – might never see her again.

  Whether it was the exhaustion of the day or what, but he almost did a bunk, back to Mary, perhaps to the cottage, maybe somewhere else. But being AWOL? It would only be a matter of time before the MPs came a-knocking. And where would that leave Mary? Humiliated.

  Devastated, he wandered out into the night. He had no conscious thought of what to do next, but the severity of the cold drove him to the officers club. Mechanically he ordered a beer. He hadn’t touched it when a guy climbed on to a stool beside him.

  ‘You OK, Bill, you look pretty beat?’

  He grunted, eventually managed: ‘They’ve refused me permission to marry.’

  ‘Who has?’

  He explained what had happened.

  The other first lieutenant frowned. ‘I should check it out. Go and see somebody in the judge advocate’s office at Wing HQ.’

  Bill looked at him, hardly daring to have his hopes raised. ‘On what grounds?’

  The man spread his hands on the bar top. ‘Hell, I’m no lawyer, but I heard of a guy at Kimbolton who had similar trouble, and he ended up marrying.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Unfortunately he bought the farm the day after he came back from his honeymoon.’

  ‘You say at Wing HQ?’

  ‘Yes. Hey, aren’t you going to finish your beer?’

  But Bill was already outside the hut that housed the club and grabbing one of the many base bikes from its concrete slot. Despite the gloom he pedalled like hell in the direction of Wing, dark shapes yelling at him as he brushed past, then he was out of the main gate, wobbling around the barrier, down the road to some brick buildings on the outskirts of a village.

  He threw away the machine and entered the main door, throwing a quick salute to a startled major who was just leaving.

  A snowdrop and a corporal were talking by the reception desk. Both looked up in surprise as he burst in.

  He returned their salutes.

  ‘The judge advocate’s office – is anybody there? It’s important.’

  ‘Just a moment, sir.’

  The corporal plugged in a lead on the switchboard.

  Waiting, Bill could hardly contain himself. Eventually the connection must have been made as the corporal spoke into his handset. ‘Desk here, is there anyone who can see….’

  He looked up. ‘Sorry Sir – your name?’

  Bill told him.

  ‘… a First Lieutenant Anderson, sir.’

  There was a pause as the corporal listened, then he turned to Bill. ‘Major Jenner has left, sir, there is only a Lieutenant Riley. He’s new, came in from Stateside less than forty-eight hours ago, says he may not be able to help you if it’s anything to do with English civil law.’

  ‘It’s not, and I must see him.’

  The corporal spoke briefly into the telephone, then replaced the receiver.

  ‘The lieutenant says go right on in, sir – room eleven.’

  He strode down the corridor, checking the numbers, feeling almost light-headed. He gave number eleven a perfunctory knock and entered.

  The man had his back to him, leaning forward, hands on a desk. When he turned, Bill saw that he had been studying a large textbook. He was bright-eyed behind his rimless glasses, tall and thin.

  They shook hands. ‘Good of you to see me,’ Bill said. ‘I guess you were about to knock off?’

  ‘That’s OK, I was just boning up a little on local law. I gather it’s busy around here, what with poaching, to say nothing of the ladies and booze. We have a lot of liaison work to do with the courts. Now – what’s the problem?’

  Bill explained. Riley listened, then held up his hand.

  ‘Your friend is correct – in theory. The CO has no right to ban you from marrying anybody – you’re an officer, it’s different for enlisted men.’

  Bill’s heart leapt – then he remembered that the CO was not going to be available for days – maybe a week or two, and somehow, knowing the Old Man, he knew that there would be no changing his mind on the say-so of some junior officer – even from the judge advocate’s branch.

  Glumly he explained to Riley, showed him the typed answer. The legal officer stroked his chin as he thought, then he said: ‘What you need to do, therefore, is petition a higher authority, right up through the chain of command, if necessary to the very top.’

  Eagerly Bill said: ‘Can we do that? Will you do that?’

  Riley grinned roguishly. ‘You bet. Is she worth it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s good, because it might be marked on your record, and blight your career prospects in this man’s army.’

  At that they both laughed.

  After four days there was still no letter from Bill. Disappointed, Mary left Bletchley for Cambridge. There was no letter at her lodgings. Unable to rest un
less she was absolutely sure, she hurried across a foggy Backs and into the college and the porter’s lodge.

  The porter, in his maroon waistcoat and striped shirt-sleeves, was coincidentally just giving a letter to somebody.

  ‘Good evening, Doctor Rice. Did you have a good journey?’

  She nodded and tried to be as casual as possible. ‘Yes, thank you, Sam, and you – how is your wife?’

  He grimaced. ‘This cold and dampness don’t suit her arthritis one bit.’

  He grumbled on for a while, until she could wait no longer.

  ‘Any letters for me?’

  Dobson turned to his oak pigeon-holes and came back with three. ‘There we are, Doctor. Will you be dining in tonight?’

  It took all her self-control not to snatch them, and say as casually as possible, ‘Yes – yes of course.’

  As she hurried away across the foggy courtyard, he shook his head and wondered aloud: ‘Who’d have thought that a serious well-bred girl like that would be so obviously besotted – and with a Yank of all people.’

  Mary looked down at the letters when she was safely round the corner.

  Disappointingly, two were obviously not from him – but the third was.

  She tore it open, her eyes devouring the words. It was so short.

  ‘Darling Mary,

  Have just managed to get this off to you – pretty busy here.

  I have started arrangements for permission to marry you. I love you so much. Please take good care of yourself – for me. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

  Darling, if I am to get this through the censorship boys and into the post-room tonight I’ve got to sign off quick. Will write again tomorrow – or maybe the day after.

  Love you – love you – love you.

  Yours, Bill.’

  Mary held it to her lips, kissed it where he had marked his kisses with crosses. Tears were streaming down her face.

  Tense, and on the edge of his seat, Bill had been flying in atrocious conditions for hours. A huge fog bank had descended over Northern Europe which rose up from the ground to 20,000 feet. They were supposed to be escorting home a large raid on Augsburg, but now the bombers were scattered all over the place, as were their fighter escorts. The Luftwaffe were fortunately in similar trouble.

  They were ordered to turn for home.

  Time seemed to pass agonizingly slowly, and his cramped tense frame and sore eyes from watching the instruments was beginning to tell on him. They flew at a few hundred feet over the North Sea, the fog seeming to get even thicker by the minute. When suddenly all forward view disappeared, Bill panicked. Seconds later his fear turned to soaring relief as he came out of the smoke clouds of a convoy that had been the cause of the sudden complete loss of visibility. Ahead he could just make out the coast of England.

  Passing inland he recognized the huge emergency landing-strip located between Lowestoft and Leiston. He was sorely tempted to land, but the urge to get back, to get news about his application to Wing was too much.

  He set course for base, conscious of others going down to get the hell out of the murderous weather.

  When he landed some half an hour later, he was one of only four in the squadron to do so. The rest, and other squadrons, had landed all over the east of England. Miraculously no one was lost, but it was to be two days before they could all be reassembled for further combat duties.

  Down on the ground, Bill had to be helped from the cockpit by the crew chief and his number one. As he was unable to stand they massaged his cramped limbs as he lay on the soaking wet grass.

  As soon as he could he checked with operations – there would be no flying for at least twenty-four hours, probably longer.

  After waiting in turn, he called Mary’s college – the porter’s lodge – and asked for a message to be delivered to Doctor Rice.

  Mary was in the senior common room, sipping a cup of tea beside the fire, when the boy from the porter’s office came in with a silver salver.

  She looked up as he came towards her, her heart already beating faster even before he said: ‘Doctor Rice – telephone message.’

  She didn’t want to take it. Urgent messages more often than not meant bad news.

  But she did.

  It took seconds for the message to sink in.

  The fog got even thicker at dusk; the train crawled through the deep, dark night, frequently stopping for long intervals. At last, some one and a half hours late it trundled into the dimly lit station and squealed to a halt.

  Bill got out, doors slammed. He made his way with a host of dark, dispirited shapes into the damp, freezing booking-hall with its wooden floor and smell of coal-gas.

  As he shuffled forward in the crowd for the exit he caught sight of a figure in the corner, sitting on a wooden bench, wrapped in a coat with a high collar.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mary saw him at the same time. She flew into his arms as he dropped his bag, and they hung on to each other, saying nothing as the crowd bumped and stumbled past. Eventually the number of passengers dwindled until they were alone. At last their lips met.

  A piercing whistle and a blast of steam heralded the departure of the train on the way north.

  She snuggled into his chest as, still wrapped in each other’s arms, they left the station, walking into the swirling fog as the sound of the engine, it’s smoke exhausting in great chuffs, laboured away unseen into the night. It was so dark it was as if they were the only people in the world.

  Mary said: ‘Darling, I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Neither can I.’ He held on to her tightly. ‘For once the Met people really fouled up.’ He hesitated, then asked: ‘There is no way we can get to the cottage, is there?’

  He felt her shake her head.

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Oh.’ His disappointment was obvious.

  She squeezed him. ‘Don’t worry. You can come and stay in my room.’

  Bill was shocked. ‘You mean – at your digs?’

  She chuckled. ‘No, you dafty – I couldn’t see Mrs Chick allowing that.’

  ‘Where, then?’

  She grinned unseen in the dark against his chest, and said mischievously: ‘I’ve got us a room.’

  Bill stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Hell, where?’

  She kept her face down as she replied: ‘A colleague has a flat she’s not using. Lucky isn’t it?’

  She didn’t mention the fact that she’d positively bribed the woman to move out for the night, by volunteering to do her next two nights of fire-watching up on the cold roof of the college.

  Anyway, the woman darned well knew why she needed it; apparently she had somebody herself.

  The flat was nearer the station than the city centre. It was in a converted Edwardian town house.

  Mary led the way into the communal hall with its grand staircase, and opened the first door on the right – the old drawing-room. Everywhere was cold and musty.

  The front half was now the high-ceilinged sitting-room. A partition made the rear portion into a bedroom and a small kitchenette.

  He dropped his bag and looked around.

  ‘Where’s the bathroom?’

  ‘Down the hall – behind the stairs.’

  He grimaced. ‘I need to freshen up.’

  Mary opened the kitchenette door, looked at the old-fashioned gas-cooker and the wooden meat-safe. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’

  Bill paused. ‘Hell, I don’t want to put you to any bother, just a snack if there is anything. I was on that darned train for hours.’

  ‘Right, I’ll see what we’ve got.’

  Mary kept her coat on, bending to light the gas-fire in the sitting-room first. It sat in the middle of a massive oak fireplace, with brass shell-casings from the Great War standing at either end of the large mantelpiece.

  It lit with a ‘plop’ and blazed up the bars, at first without emitting any heat whatsoever. The kitchenette was so cold that she filled the k
ettle and brought it back to the fireplace. In the hearth was a ring, which she lit, then placed the kettle on it.

  The only food she could find was some sorry-looking apples, a couple of potatoes, a jar of home-made jam and a surprisingly large amount of butter in a dish in the meat safe. The bread-bin revealed a half-loaf and some crumpets.

  When Bill returned he found her before the fire, coat off, wielding a large fork with a crumpet on its prongs, toasting before the bubbling gas-flames.

  He looked down at her, at her slender legs curled close together at her side, her other arm supporting her weight on the floor. Her dress, draped around her lithe body, had ridden up above her knees.

  Bill hunkered down, held her chin and gently lifted her mouth to his. When they parted, he took the fork from her other hand and laid it down.

  Mary stood up before him, crossed her arms, took hold of the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head.

  He watched as her slim figure, dressed in a white petticoat, stretched out above him.

  Bill slumped to his knees, and placed his hands on her legs, ran them up, beyond the top of her stockings, on to the smooth skin of her thighs to the lacy edge of her knickers.

  He drew them down to her knees, where they fluttered under their own weight to the floor. She stepped quickly out of them as Bill drew her to him, arms wrapped around her bottom, head on her belly whilst she ran her hands through his hair.

  They stayed like that for some time before he drew back, gently lifted the hem of her petticoat and lightly kissed the soft skin of her belly, brushing his lips lower, reaching the fine hair that grew there.

  Mary’s breathing became ragged. She pulled suddenly away and sank to the floor. Bill dropped his pants and shorts as she put a cushion under her hips and freed her breasts.

  She held up her arms and he sank down on her.