Our Yanks

by Margaret Mayhew

  Here at thy feet none other may we see;

  Lift up your hearts! E’en so, with one accord,

  We lift them up, we lift them to the Lord.

  They’d all woken up now but they’d soon be dozing off again in the sermon. During the final verse Tom watched the rector climbing the stairs slowly to the pulpit, as if he was going to his execution. There was a lot of shuffling and coughing as everybody sat down. ‘May the words of my lips and the thoughts of our hearts be now, and always, acceptable in Thy sight, Oh Lord, our strength and our Redeemer. Dear friends, once again we are approaching the celebration of the nativity of our Lord – a time when all Christians try to pay special heed to the doctrine of goodwill towards all men taught to us by Christ himself . . .’

  Dick, Robbie and Seth in the choir stall opposite had their heads bent over something – probably teasing the beetle Dick kept in a matchbox. Tom groped under his surplice for the copy of Boy’s Own that he’d pinched from the shop when nobody was looking. He slid it carefully downwards so he could see part of the front page. There was a colour drawing of a Spitfire shooting down a German seaplane in flames. ‘The Secret of Nordstrand’, it said (beginning inside). He turned the corner of the page to where the story began. The sermon only reached him in bits. Something about being nice to the Yanks. About how everybody in the village ought to ask them into their homes over Christmas as they were so far away from their own homes. There was a lot of fidgeting and muttering and Brigadier Mapperton was making that growling noise in his throat again. He knew Mum would ask the Yanks, only they wouldn’t have any food to spare. Tom opened the page a bit more and went on with the story which was about a German secret weapon being built in a cave on a deserted island in the North Sea, off the coast of Denmark. It was a sort of rocket, powerful enough to destroy the whole of London at once and the Germans were going to launch it within a week. An RAF Spitfire pilot, flying alone over the island, had just happened to spot a Jerry seaplane taking off from near the beach . . .

  Something stung his cheek. Seth was firing dried peas from a peashooter at him but the rest of them missed and he stuck his tongue out. The rector had got to the end of his sermon at last and everybody was struggling to their feet for the final hymn. Tom shoved the comic back under his surplice and opened his hymn book. The organ had got going again and they were just about to start when he heard the fighter coming. He knew by the sound that it was one of the Yanks’ Lightnings. It went roaring low over the church spire, drowning out the first bars of ‘All my hope on God is founded’. The stained glass in one of the transept windows shattered into pieces and fell inwards onto the floor.

  Four

  The mobile canteen – converted from an old Skegness charabanc, with the seats taken out and a hatchway cut into one side – chugged up the hill towards the American air base. There had been a light snowfall the day before and a hard frost during the previous night. By mid-afternoon the temperature was still well below freezing. ‘I should watch out for ice patches, if I were you, Lady Beauchamp.’ Mrs Vernon-Miller, an impressive figure in her WVS overcoat, beret and badges, was riding behind the driver’s seat, standing like Queen Boadicea in her chariot and gripping the back with one hand. ‘These country roads can be treacherous. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to take over?’

  As usual, there had been a polite but prolonged argument between them over who should drive. Mrs Vernon-Miller had, apparently, driven ambulances through thick and thin during the First World War but had never quite mastered the art of changing gear. Whenever she took the wheel, the charabanc leaped along like a kangaroo, the china mugs dancing a wild fandango in the back. This time Erika had moved firmly into the seat and refused to budge. She negotiated the slippery hill successfully and once they’d reached the top it was straight and flat to the aerodrome.

  ‘Roman road,’ Mrs Vernon-Miller bellowed above the engine’s faulty rumble. ‘Did you know that, Lady Beauchamp?’

  She hadn’t. It was one of the many things she didn’t know about King’s Thorpe. What an irony to think that Roman soldiers had once marched where American airmen now drove. A jeep, approaching fast, shot past them with a whisker to spare. The Yank at the wheel grinned and waved and Mrs Vernon-Miller shook her fist after him. ‘Some of those young men have no consideration. I’ve written twice to their commanding officer about the way they drive around here but it doesn’t seem to make the slightest difference. No proper discipline, if you ask me. And their flying is just as reckless. It was an absolute disgrace about the church window.’

  The row over the transept window – an incident on a par with the three-day electricity power failure – was still smouldering on. The beautiful fifteenth-century stained glass had been judged beyond repair and the Americans’ apology and offer to pay for new glass to replace the irreplaceable had by no means smoothed the ruffled feathers in the village. Since there were no materials available for the job and nobody qualified to do it, the window had been boarded up for the duration. Brigadier Mapperton had been specially vociferous and there were plenty of others who agreed with him, including Erika’s mother-in-law who was convinced that the pilot had flown low over the church with the express purpose of shattering windows. The fact that the window in question was known to have been in drastic need of leadwork repairs cut no ice and the rector’s plea in his sermon for Christmas goodwill towards the Americans had fallen on stone deaf ears. Without consulting Miriam, Erika had sat down and written a letter to the group commander with an invitation to the Manor. Richard, she knew, would have done precisely that.

  They were approaching the first entrance to the base and she slowed down to turn in and then stop. The sentry raised the striped pole and waved them through with a sort of casual salute. Mrs Vernon-Miller snorted. ‘No idea how to salute properly. Not the faintest. If my husband were alive to see how slack they are he’d have a heart attack.’

  They drove past a group of Nissen huts and out onto the concrete perimeter track. Their route would take them all the way round the edge of the aerodrome, stopping at each dispersal point and then at the main congregation of the station buildings and, finally, out by the main gate. The first lot of fighter hardstands were empty and the ground crews emerged from tents and the makeshift shacks that they’d built out of wooden packing cases. Mrs Vernon-Miller peered out. ‘It looks just like a native shanty town. The RAF would never allow it.’

  ‘At least it helps to keep them warm. The poor things must get absolutely frozen out here.’

  They opened the hatchway and began dispensing hot coffee and doughnuts – Mrs Vernon-Miller with the brisk efficiency of a school matron dealing with delinquent boys. As she frequently remarked, she couldn’t see why Americans couldn’t drink tea and eat ordinary buns, like everybody else. Outside the air was arctically bitter, the wind scything brutally across the heathland. The aircraft mechanics, heavy sheepskin coats over their greasy overalls, mud-caked boots on their feet, peaked caps on their heads, some with brims turned up – another bone of contention with Mrs Vernon-Miller – stood by the canteen chewing the doughnuts and warming their hands round the mugs. It must be a ghastly job, Erika thought. Out in all weathers. Miserably cold. Filthy dirty. Long hours, most probably. Vitally important not to make a single mistake because other men’s lives depended on the job being well done. And none of the glamour or thrill of actually flying the planes. Normally, there were grins and wisecracks but today there were only grim faces. There was a big combat mission on, the boy that she had come to know as Chester told Erika. A tough one. A real bastard, if she’d excuse the word. Nearly all the Group’s fighters had gone and they were waiting for them to return.

  ‘Will they be back soon?’

  ‘They don’t tell us guys things like that, ma’am. We never know the target. Just have to sweat it out.’

  They were getting ready to drive the charabanc on to the next dispersal point when Erika heard the sound of aircraft in the distance. The men had all turned
their heads in the direction, intent as gun dogs. Some of them scrambled up the sloping sides of a blister hangar and balanced on the top for a better view. She bent to look through the windscreen as the fighters came into view from the south-east, gradually descending towards the airfield. Twenty, thirty, forty of them, perhaps more . . . it was impossible to count at that distance. The sound increased and she watched them bank and turn to make a circuit. They swept low overhead, rocking the bus and making the crockery jump and jingle. The circuit completed, they started coming into land in quick succession at the far end of the runway. The leader swung onto the perimeter track and went by close to them, engines roaring. Erika could see the pilot clearly through the perspex dome of the cockpit – his leather-helmeted head, his mask, his gloved hands. She could see, too, that the aircraft had been badly damaged. There were jagged tears along one wing, a big hole in the fuselage above the American star and several more holes towards the tail. Other fighters followed, also with battle damage, and three of them turned off onto the concrete hardstands near the charabanc. Mrs Vernon-Miller was shouting something at her but the ear-splitting din of the engines drowned whatever it was. Propellers windmilled to a stop and the mechanics ran to swarm over the planes.

  ‘They haven’t returned all their mugs,’ Mrs Vernon-Miller said indignantly. ‘There’s six missing.’

  ‘I’ll go and get them.’

  In their eagerness to get to the fighters, some of the ground crews had simply dumped their mugs on the ground. Erika went round collecting them. One was still missing but Mrs Vernon-Miller would have to lump it. As she turned back towards the charabanc, Chester came up with the other mug.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. I clean forgot it.’

  ‘You’ve got much more important things to think about.’

  ‘Yeah . . .’

  ‘Are they all safely home?’

  He shook his head, looking shocked. ‘Some of them didn’t make it.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘One was the group commander. Got hit by flak. Our guy saw him go down. Looks like he’s had it.’

  She thought of the tall, tanned, handsome colonel with his flashing smile. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again.

  Back at the charabanc, Mrs Vernon-Miller recounted mugs and pronounced herself satisfied. She took up her Boadicea stance behind Erika again and they drove on slowly round the perimeter track. A jeep raced past them ferrying some of the pilots, but none of them waved.

  Miss Cutteridge was in a quandary. Seated at her writing desk, fountain pen in hand, her nerve was failing her. Her conscience, though, spurred her on. The rector, who was such a kind man, had preached the need to show goodwill to the Americans. Differences should be put aside, he had told them, first as Christians and second, for the sake of the war effort, and the villagers could begin by inviting Americans into their homes over the Christmas season. They were our allies. They had come from across the seas, a long, long way from their own homes, to help defeat the Nazis. Many of them would never go back again. Miss Cutteridge had been greatly moved by the sermon. She had resolved to do something at once but had found herself making excuses. Her cottage was too small. It was improper for a single lady to invite strange men into her home. With only rations for one it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to provide an adequate meal – especially for Americans who would be accustomed to eating twice as much as any English person. The only one she might manage would be afternoon tea and she had learned that Americans rarely took tea. They didn’t care for it as a drink and they didn’t seem to like the sort of sandwiches that she could provide. The bloater paste at the Welcome Party had not been a great success; afterwards they had discovered a number of half-eaten sandwiches left by the guests of honour. Christmas had come and gone while she thought of more excuses.

  A military lorry was grinding down the street and passed only a few feet from her sitting-room window. She could feel the desk and her chair shaking. Another followed and then another. Americans, of course, on their way to the aerodrome and loaded up with fuel or supplies or men. The peace and quiet of the village had been totally destroyed by an endless stream of American lorries, jeeps, cars, bikes, and by young airmen who monopolized the pubs, the shops, even the pavements so that at times she had had to step into the road to get round them. By now, they must surely outnumber the villagers. And there were so many differences: words used, pronunciation, dress, manners, customs . . . they weren’t cousins at all but foreigners who happened to speak a kind of English. Murdering the King’s English, Brigadier Mapperton called it and, for once, she was inclined to agree with him.

  Miss Skinner, whose opinion she greatly respected, had had grave doubts about their morality from the very beginning and her own first favourable impression, formed from her meeting with the young officer in the church, had not been borne out. Other Americans whom she had encountered around the village had proved rather different and very disconcerting. They chewed gum and smoked in the street, and they left cigarette butts everywhere and chewing gum stuck on gateposts and under windowsills. They talked loudly and boastfully, they used deplorable slang and coarse language. Some of the leather jackets that they wore were painted on the back with pictures of near-naked women and she had observed the way they whistled at girls and how forwardly and familiarly they treated them. She’d heard them calling out things like ‘Any time, lady, any time’ in a shockingly blatant way, even to the most respectable women, though not, of course, to herself. Not at her age. The village was constantly invaded by the most undesirable kind of girls from other towns. They arrived by train and by bus and hung around outside pubs and on street corners, waiting for the Americans. Certain unmentionable things had, apparently, been found in shop doorways in the mornings. And, apparently, the Americans had now started to hold dances up at the aerodrome. Not tasteful ones, such as she had known in her youth with a small string orchestra playing lovely waltzes and foxtrots, but ones where very modern music was blasted out at top volume by a big American band and something extraordinary called the jitterbug was danced.

  Miss Cutteridge put down her pen. Who knew what kind of young men might arrive on her doorstep were she to be rash enough to issue an open invitation? The risk was too great, the prospect too unnerving . . . even for the sake of the dear rector. She rose from her desk, and then sat down again. In addition to all the other talk about the Americans, there had been rumours quite recently of their losses. Several of the American fighter pilots had, apparently, been killed in action, including the group commander. Like so many villagers, she had never quite forgiven him for those unfortunate remarks at the Welcome Party, but he had probably been a perfectly good commanding officer to his men and she had been sorry to hear of his death – and of the others. Young men who, as the rector had so correctly predicted in his sermon, would now never go home again. Miss Cutteridge sat down and picked up her pen again. She braced herself firmly. It was her clear duty to do something and a duty should never be shirked, however reluctant one might feel. She would address the letter, as the rector had suggested, to the station chaplain. An invitation to tea would be the safest. Four o’clock to five thirty and for no more than three airmen. If she saved one egg she could manage a small sponge cake, but she would have to think of something other than bloater paste for the sandwiches.

  ‘He was in again today,’ Sally said. ‘He bought another lot of rock cakes.’

  Doris giggled. ‘He must be sweet on you, Sal.’

  ‘Pr’aps he just likes rock cakes.’ But she knew very well that wasn’t the reason. It was easy to tell when a man was interested. You could always sense it and you could see it in their eyes – even the shy ones, like Chester. He’d come into the bakehouse five times in the past fortnight. By the second time she’d learned his name and where he came from; by the third she knew he was something called an assistant crew chief and that he was twenty-one years old; by the fourth he thought he knew how old she was, and today he’d finally asked
her out. She’d come straight round to Doris in the evening because she was going to need her help. They’d gone up to Doris’s bedroom, where they could talk without her mother overhearing. There was no light or heat up there and they sat on the bed huddled in their coats and with the candle lit. ‘He’s asked me to the Yanks’ New Year’s Eve dance up at the ’drome.’

  ‘Oh, Sal . . . Whatever did you say?’

  ‘I said yes, didn’t I?’

  ‘But what about your dad? He’ll never let you – not the way he is about the Yanks.’

  ‘I’m not going to tell him.’

  ‘He’s bound to find out.’

  ‘Not if you help me, Doris. I’m going to say I’m coming round here, just like I often do, and that I’ll be late back because I’m helping you make a blouse.’ She’d got it all worked out. Dad’d believe that all right because she made all sorts of things for Mum and herself on the Singer, using any old bit of fabric they could lay their hands on. She didn’t need any patterns, she’d just got the knack. ‘I could bring a special frock with me and change here and then change back again when the dance is over.’

  ‘Just like Cinderella,’ Doris said, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. ‘I wish I could come too, Sal. You are lucky. I never seem to have any fun.’

  ‘What would your mum say?’

  ‘Don’t think she’d mind. She doesn’t care about anything much – not since Dad went. What does your Chester look like?’

  ‘Well, he’s tall. And he’s got broad shoulders and sort of light brown hair.’

  ‘What colour are his eyes?’

  ‘Blue.’ She’d noticed his eyes from the first because they were such a lovely deep colour. ‘He speaks slowly in a funny accent. He says it’s how they talk in Virginia.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Don’t know. Somewhere in the south, I think. He lives in a place called Paradise.’