Beneath Us the Stars

by David Wiltshire

Their physical hunger after their separation drove them to a sudden frenzy.

  Mary wrapped her arms around his neck and clasped her legs behind his back as he penetrated deeper than ever before, his cold testicles battering at her skin as he rutted like an animal that knew its only hope of mortality in a dangerous world was through this woman.

  When it was finished they fell violently apart, Bill gasping for air, Mary rolling on to her face, bare bottom exposed, breasts hot against the cold floor.

  She had never before felt so alive.

  Eventually Bill crawled to her, pulled her on to him and kissed her plastered hair, stroking it gently, tenderly, out of her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She put her finger to his lips,

  ‘Shush, don’t spoil it. You’re a beast, my beast, and I love you.’

  She got around at last to buttering the crumpets and spreading home-made strawberry jam from the WI on the tops. Two mugs of steaming hot tea completed their little supper.

  Taking a deep breath Bill told her about the CO’s refusal, and his petition to Wing Headquarters.

  Mary sat back on her legs, soles of her feet sticking out behind her, both hands cupping her mug. Anxiously she asked: ‘What happens if they don’t give you permission, Bill?’

  He shook his head. ‘We’ll find a way, don’t you worry, and in any case after the war nothing can stop us.’

  He paused, realized that that sounded so far away, and added: ‘The move to France means I don’t think it will be long now before it’s all over, but we might not be able to see so much of each other for a while.’ He wished he hadn’t added that, though it needed to be said.

  They lapsed into a miserable silence, broken only by the wireless, tuned low to the American Forces service. It was coming from the Granada Theatre in Bedford.

  In the winter of 1944 there was, for many servicemen and women, in the music of Glenn Miller and the Band of the AEF a sort of hope, a glimpse of an ordinary life beyond the war: a magic spell born from the mouths of the golden saxophones and waving trombones, the steady resonance of the double basses, and the soft unstraining voices of the singers; it was timeless magic, and yet so much of their time.

  After a while she whispered: ‘I’m not a scientist, thank God. There is no conception of love in the physicist’s universe.’

  She raised herself and leant over him. Her head was framed in the faint light of the window, her hair hung down to touch his face. ‘What is the point of our creation if this is all there is? Life for me is an interlude in a spiritual existence that was there before and will be after this life on earth. Should anything happen – we’ll never be separated now – ever.’

  Bill was taken unawares by her sudden seriousness, but then she was, after all, a ‘bluestocking’ as she called it, used no doubt to intellectual debate at the university about such matters.

  He pulled her gently down to him and rocked her soothingly.

  ‘No, we won’t, will we. But I’ll be all right darling – trust me. It’s not as bad as you think.’ Could she detect anything in his voice? In truth he wondered how long he could take it, how long he would be around to take it.

  They slept at last, held in each other’s arms.

  Slept, as the sperm and the egg fused, the complete and final ‘union’ of their bodies; slept – while a new life grew in size and strength inside her, whilst thousands died in the ruins of ancient and once noble cities of Europe.

  The Nazi empire was beginning, ever more rapidly, to crumble.

  Sleep was still with them when in the warm dark morning bed they made love again, side by side, tenderly, equally, quietly, except for the melodic accompaniment of the springs of the old bed, which left them helpless with laughter when the seriousness of the business was done.

  The crept like naughty children to the shared bathroom beneath the stairs, the giant wall-mounted copper geyser making noises that frankly scared him to death, made him fearful that an explosion was imminent.

  Mary teased him. ‘Don’t you have these in that wonderful US of A you are always on about?’

  He looked at her in disbelief. ‘You got to be kidding. Looks like something the RAF boys drop over Berlin.’

  Laughing and joking, they were sitting together in the bath, washing each other when someone tried the door handle several times.

  Frozen, Mary called out: ‘I won’t be long.’

  Bill added in an artificially deep voice: ‘Just my back to do.’

  They sniggered childish giggles as they heard a woman’s voice say: ‘Well, really,’ and footsteps recede down the passage.

  Dried, they donned the dressing-gowns found in the flat – both female. Mary was in a plain yellow towelling, Bill in a fetching pink silk affair with ruffles and feathers.

  Creeping along, they were just at their doorway congratulating themselves on not being seen when they became aware of an elderly, military-looking gentleman, morning newspaper under his arm, a fierce eye behind his monocle, staring at them. He suddenly roared out: ‘Damn Yankee pervert. Don’t you know there’s a war on?’

  It was too much. Roaring with laughter they ran in and closed the door chanting: ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on?’

  In the bedroom Mary said, suggestively: ‘The old boy is right – you do look very nice.’

  He fluttered his eyes at her.

  They made love yet again, a newly liberated Mary on top.

  The fog was still about, but visibility was increasing. He called the operations room. All pilots had to be back on base by 2100 hours that evening.

  The weather was expected to continue to improve and, with all planes in the squadron returned, offensive action was going to resume next day.

  They had lunch in a British Restaurant. Something he’d never heard of, called shepherd’s pie, with semolina as dessert, was being served.

  He looked around at the wartime crowds, women in turbans and overalls, workers, clerks, shop-assistants, all queuing at the self-service counter, pushing their trays obediently along, not stopping as dollops of food on plates were pushed out by hairnetted women behind the banging, shouting, supply point. Tea was dispensed from huge metal kettles – whole rows of mugs were filled as the girl traversed them, pouring without stopping. Sing-along music blared out from loudspeakers.

  ‘Why on earth did we come here?’ he grumbled.

  She grimaced. ‘Best place for a square meal if you want it quickly. We can go to a pub later.’

  He did as he was told, sitting in a corner, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible as Mary queued for both of them. Later, in an old Victorian pub with opaque glass windows, which was situated on a corner, they sat opposite each other in a booth. Mary sipped her drink, steeled herself ‘Bill – we need to talk.’

  ‘Darling, I know.’

  For the moment that seemed to silence them both.

  At last Bill relented. ‘I’m asking one of the padres and the adjutant to have your address.’ He shot out his hand to cover hers as her face began to crumple.

  ‘Darling – darling – listen – it could be anything. But you want somebody to tell you what’s happening, don’t you?’

  Miserably, fighting back the tears, she nodded. Between sniffs she managed:

  ‘Of course. I’m being silly. Forgive me.’

  Bill frowned, hung his head.

  ‘Anyway – that’s what I’ll do, and my parents – this is their address.’ He opened his billfold, took out a card and gave it to her. ‘I’m writing to tell them all about you, how we’re going to be married as soon as possible – that I want them to look upon you as family right away.’

  In the beginning their parting was almost matter-of-fact, both pretending to the other that everything was just fine. Bill said not to come to the station, but that was a step too far for Mary.

  They walked slowly through an afternoon of gathering gloom, but the fog was nearly all gone. When it came time to say goodbye, they lingered so long, c
ouldn’t bear to part, that he nearly missed the train, had to run for it when the guard’s shrill whistle got through to his senses.

  She watched from the ticket-inspector’s gate as he took the footbridge stairs two at a time. The carriages jerked, began to move as his face appeared at a window.

  The ticket-inspector, seeing her misery, flicked his head. ‘Come and stand through here.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She moved on to the platform opposite as Bill dropped the window.

  ‘Take care,’ she called.

  ‘I will,’ he answered. ‘I love you.’

  But before she could respond the ground shook as the great clanking bulk of a freight train going in the opposite direction obscured all view of him.

  By the time the fifteen low-loaders, each with a new tank on board, had ground past, the brake van finally hissing away into the night, his train had gone, the track opposite was empty.

  Only the last section of it was still in sight as it disappeared around a bend, the red tail-light eventually extinguished from view.

  Mary turned and thanked the inspector, who nodded sympathetically. A great dread filled her heart as she walked away. She hadn’t been able to say she loved him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  They were to support a raid on Stettin.

  The weather was foul when they took off and it got steadily worse, the cloud thickening and cross-winds battering the ship as he climbed through 10,000 feet.

  As they penetrated further into Germany the turbulence grew, and to make matters worse, icing started to occur. Short transmissions from other pilots indicated that some were aborting the mission because engines were running so rough that they couldn’t stay in formation.

  Bill expected the group leader to call it off, but no such order came. Cursing, he struggled with the controls, worried that any moment the turbulence would hit so hard that the artificial horizon would topple – then he’d be in big shit in this cloud.

  Abruptly the radio crackled with an urgent voice. ‘Cowboy Green section to Horseback. Bandits all around, seventy plus. Are you receiving, Horseback?’

  Cowboy was one of the unseen bomber formations. Horseback was the escorts.

  The radio continued to crackle on.

  ‘We’re in clear sky – looks like they’re coming down for a head-on attack.’

  Almost immediately combat messages started to jam the airways. One desperate wit said it all.

  ‘Jeez – the whole fucking Luftwaffe’s out to get me.’

  At that moment the order for the bombers to turn back was given at last, since the thick clouds and general confusion precluded any effective hit on the target.

  The group leader’s voice came over the airways: ‘Horseback one calling all Mustangs – let’s go help Cowboy.’

  Bill took his formation to the right, eventually breaking cloud to find themselves right in the middle of the mess.

  The Germans had put up everything they could, including twin-engined Me110s and Dornier 217s. They were fighting with desperation and immense courage to defend their homeland – just like the RAF boys in the Battle of Britain.

  Bill led the attack down on a gaggle of 110s, which immediately went into a defensive circle so that each one covered the other’s tail.

  Bill went in head-on, and saw hits on one 110, which broke away. He was lining up for a second shot when another Mustang cut in front of him and sent it down in a flaming dive. From then on, like all the others, he was turning and twisting, sweating and cursing as he fought more to stay alive than anything else.

  The Germans were firing rocket salvos into the massed formations. Airplanes, American and German, were going down in every direction, gas-tanks burning with intense orange flames, streaming like great fiery rockets towards the earth. And then, as so often happened, the sky was empty, leaving only an awful spectacle to strain his shattered nerves. Someone, German or American, there was no way of telling, had taken to his ‘chute. He drifted slowly, swinging gently from side to side – on fire, his body emitting flame and smoke like the kid’s dummy he’d seen on a daylight bonfire in England. The flames licked up the shroud lines and started on the canopy. Mercifully it folded up, and the blackened corpse fell away to earth, was lost from sight.

  His engine sounded rough. Bill checked his altitude.

  The instrument showed 25,000 feet. He radioed his problem and turned for home, soon joined by two others from the same squadron.

  The cylinder-head temperature gauge started to climb steadily. Bill’s mouth felt as dry as sandpaper, but he remembered how one of the guys had told him he’d got back by enriching the fuel mixture, which helped the engine run cool. Keeping as much altitude as possible, he followed the Kiel Canal to the coast at Schleswig-Holstein.

  Nervously, Bill ran his swollen tongue over cracked lips. Only the North Sea to get across now.

  The others began weaving over him. Bill told them to leave – they would need all their fuel. ‘Go home – I’ll be OK. I’ll call Air-Sea Rescue.’

  He looked down at the expanse of water. It looked flat, but he could just see white flecks. Bill knew that down there it was probably running a heavy sea. Rescue would be most unlikely.

  One of them flew his ship under his and appeared on the other side.

  ‘How’s it look?’ Bill asked.

  When there was no reply Bill suddenly realized what was going on. He flicked over to the emergency ‘May Day’ channel. As he suspected, the man was talking to rescue giving Bill’s altitude and heading, and adding, ‘There’s oil everywhere – he’s not gonna make it. He’ll have to bale out soon.’

  ‘Can he give us a long transmission so we can get a fix on him?’ said a clipped, steady English voice.

  Bill butted in. He meant it to sound flippant, although his heart was in his boots, so what came out of his mouth took him by surprise.

  ‘’Course I can. Mary had a little lamb….’

  Mary. Oh god Mary.

  He made an effort, dragged himself back to the task in hand and finished the rhyme, then repeated it over until the English voice said: ‘That’s fine. You’re a long way out and the weather conditions are bad but we’ll do our best. Good luck.’

  Bill waved the others away. All alone, he was left with his thoughts of Mary. Would be ever see her again? Mercifully he had to keep a tight watch on his instruments, on the temperature, the altitude and heading. It didn’t allow for such terrible thoughts.

  He was making for Martlesham Heath airfield by Ipswich on the east coast. Half-way across and he was down to 9,000 feet. He was flying on the proverbial wing and a prayer.

  At 2,000 feet he reckoned he should be sighting land, but all he could see was grey blending into darker grey. At 1,800 – still nothing. The prayer increased.

  At 1,600 – something: a low dark line. Bill strained forward, on the edge of his seat. Slowly the sandy marshland of Orfordness came into view, but at this angle of approach he was sinking too fast, he would never make it. When he eased the stick as far back as he dared, the plane began to shudder, on the point of stalling.

  He nudged it fractionally forward again, aware that there was less than 600 feet between him and the winding estuary below. Bill was preparing to belly-in when he suddenly saw the strip was dead ahead. He dropped the undercarriage, prayed it would get down in time, and heard it thump home just as he eased the stick back, cleared the boundary fence and dropped heavily on to the grass. When he rolled to a halt, Bill sagged in his straps, did nothing until his heart, literally banging in his chest, finally slowed down.

  Wearily he slid back the hood, unstrapped and climbed out on to the wing. He pulled off his helmet and ran his hand through his wet hair. The crash truck found him, relieving himself against the hedge.

  He flew back later that afternoon, getting in just before dusk – risky, as most flying had to be completed an hour before sunset to minimize misidentifications.

  The crew chief was looking worried.

  ‘Wha
t happened, sir?’

  Bill patted his ship’s nose. ‘Went all temperamental on me – oil loss.’

  He was debriefed by an Intelligence Officer in his hut, had his slug of whisky and was about to go for a shower when an orderly found him.

  ‘Sir, Lieutenant Riley at Wing headquarters has been trying to reach you all day. Says he’s going to be in the office late if you’d like to see him.’

  Bill forgot about the shower. Still in his leather flying-jacket he knocked and entered Riley’s room. Riley was at a bookcase consulting a text. He looked up.

  ‘Hi there.’

  Bill wasted no time.

  ‘What have you got?’

  Riley put the book back on to the shelf.

  ‘You won’t believe it.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Your petition went through channels to General Spaatz, but he’s Stateside on R and R.’

  Bill groaned. ‘That’s it then – we’ve got to wait?’

  ‘Not entirely.’

  ‘What do you mean – who else can it go to? He’s the top.’

  Light flashed off Riley’s glasses as he leant back, clearly enjoying himself.

  ‘I got in touch with Colonel Clark – he’s the legal adviser to US Forces in Europe and….’

  Bill began to be irritated. It had been a hell of a day.

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘OK. Currently your application to marry Mary Rice is on the way to SHAEF HQ, to no less a person than Ike himself. You should get a reply in twenty-four hours.’

  Bill felt as if the ground had opened up and he was about to be swallowed.

  ‘Ike? Now? With all that’s going down?’

  Riley nodded. ‘Yep. He still insists on getting through all the day-to-day running of his army – when he can.’

  Bill left the office in a daze, not sure he wasn’t hallucinating from fatigue and stress.

  Mary pored over the transcripts. Something in the phrasing was not right, not making sense, at least not to her. She played with it for half an hour or so, then dug out a manuscript from an earlier intercept. At last she realized what it was that was bothering her.