He was thankful that his burning Spitfire had carried on flying for several miles after he had bailed out. He hoped that if the Germans searched around the crash site – as they undoubtedly would – they wouldn’t think to come this far to look for the pilot.
He had a compass, but if he didn’t even know where he was to start with, it wasn’t a lot of use. If he was still somewhere near their target, he would need to head north-west to reach Calais or Dunkirk, but those towns would be heavily guarded. He wouldn’t stand a chance travelling on his own. Unless he could meet up with a member of the Resistance who could direct him to an organized escape route, there wasn’t much he could do other than surrender to the Germans and spend the rest of the war in a prison camp somewhere.
‘Not an option,’ he muttered.
He stood for several minutes beneath the shadow of the rustling trees, scanning the countryside. On this side of the copse the land sloped down into a shallow valley. At the bottom, he could see a farmhouse and people moving about the farmyard. But no one seemed to be coming to look for him. Perhaps they hadn’t seen the parachute and where his plane had crashed was some distance away. He wondered if the cows in the field where he had landed belonged to the farmer. Perhaps he could approach him when he came to fetch them for milking. Born and brought up in the countryside, Luke knew the cows weren’t yet ready to be milked, so he decided to use the time to reconnoitre the land from each side of the copse.
By the time the afternoon light was fading, Luke had found out that on the other three sides of the copse the land stretched away to the far distance with no sign of a village or even lone houses. The only dwelling he had seen was the farm in the valley below on the west side of the trees. He returned there and sat down, watching for signs of life. Then he heard a dog bark and saw a collie running up the slope, followed by a farmer carrying a stick. He swore softly. He hadn’t reckoned on a dog being about, but then it stood to reason; farmers always had a dog or two. The animal seemed to be about to run straight past him to where the cows were, but suddenly it stopped and sniffed the air. It glanced back towards its master, who was plodding slowly up the slope. Then it came closer. Luke got up slowly and stood very still, but kept his gaze fixed firmly on the sheepdog. If it was going to attack him, he needed to be ready.
A shrill whistle halted the dog in its cautious approach. It listened for a moment, but then came on. The farmer came level with the dog and whistled again. Then he shouted, but the dog ignored him. It lay down only a few feet in front of Luke and stayed still, just like a well-trained sheepdog. But this time, Luke thought, wryly, he’s herding a man. Luke was still standing beneath the shadows and could not be easily seen by the farmer. He held his breath, hoping the man would call the dog away, but instead the farmer with a muttered oath turned towards them.
There was no use in running away; the dog would follow him and then probably attack him and the last thing Luke wanted was to be bitten. As the farmer neared the dog, he bent to pat it and spoke in a language which Luke didn’t understand. Then the farmer looked up and saw him. He gave a start and raised his stick, pointing it at Luke. He spoke again but because he didn’t understand, Luke used the only universal language he knew. He raised his arms above his head in surrender.
The man gestured him to move forwards. With one eye on the dog, Luke moved out from beneath the trees. The animal was now standing docilely beside his master awaiting any instruction, but not moving. The farmer’s glance raked Luke and then, suddenly, he smiled. ‘RAF,’ he said in a guttural voice.
‘Yes, sir.’
In precise English, though with a strong accent, the farmer said, ‘You were in that plane?’
He gestured with his head in the direction where Luke’s Spitfire had crashed.
‘Yes.’
The farmer glanced about him. ‘Parachute?’
‘I’ve hidden it in the bushes,’ Luke said slowly and clearly.
The farmer nodded. ‘Later, I will burn it.’
Did this mean the man was going to help him? The farmer’s next words confirmed Luke’s hopes. ‘You must stay here. Too dangerous . . .’ He gestured towards his farm. ‘I will bring you food and clothes. We must burn your uniform too. Tonight, I will get in touch with someone who can help you.’
Carefully, Luke lowered his arms.
‘You are very kind, but I wouldn’t want to put you in danger.’
The man shrugged. ‘We are glad to help the British. They helped us last time and again this time.’ There was bitterness in the tone and Luke felt sympathy for the man and all his compatriots whose country had been invaded for a second time in only twenty-five years. ‘Now, I must get my cows. Carry on as normal. Stay hidden. Sometimes patrols come by.’ He turned and moved away, calling to his dog. He did not look back. If anyone had been watching, they could not have seen Luke beneath the trees, only a farmer and his dog.
As darkness came, Luke moved back to the edge of the copse, watching for any movement from the farmhouse below. He wasn’t quite sure whether he trusted the farmer. Perhaps he would bring a German patrol and Luke would be captured. But right at this moment, Luke had no choice but to stay where he was and take his chances. He didn’t know where he was and to set off blindly in an occupied country with no help was madness.
He would just have to put his faith in the farmer and his dog and wait until nightfall.
Forty-Three
Back at Hornchurch at the debriefing it was discovered that Luke was one of the missing fighter pilots. Each returning Spitfire pilot was asked what they had seen.
‘Last time I saw Luke,’ Tim reported, ‘he was being chased by a Focke-Wolf.’
‘In which direction?’
‘North-west, I think.’
‘And you didn’t see him hit? Or go down?’
Tim shook his head. ‘I was a bit busy myself.’
‘Quite,’ the officer debriefing the crews murmured. ‘So, he could have come down in northwestern France or even just into Belgium. Is that right?’
‘Yes, sir, I think so.’
‘Very well. We’ll see what intelligence can tell us, but I’d better inform the CO. He likes to tell the families before they hear anything from another source. Do you know any of his family?’
‘Only his girlfriend. She’s an ATA pilot. She sometimes comes here to deliver aircraft.’
‘Ah, yes, now you mention it, I’ve seen them together. Well, Millerchip, not a word to anyone until the CO’s had time to get in touch with his immediate family. I see we have a telephone number for him. Will that be his parents?’
Tim shook his head. ‘No, sir. He lives in a small village in Lincolnshire and that number is the hall. A family called Maitland live there, I think. Luke’s related to them by marriage, but it’s not his home.’
‘But he’s given this number as a contact number in case of – well, in a case like this.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thank you, Millerchip. That will be all.’
As darkness shrouded the airfield and there was no sign of a damaged Spitfire limping home, the CO decided he must make the telephone calls – or write letters – to the loved ones of the pilots who had not returned. In due course, the parents would receive an official notification from the War Office, but he liked to send a more personal message before then. He regarded all his pilots as being in his care and he felt the loss of each and every one.
He sighed as he picked up the receiver of the telephone on his desk and asked the operator to put through a call to Lincolnshire.
‘I’ll get it, Wainwright,’ Robert said, rising from the dinner table. ‘It’ll probably be for me anyway and we’ve all finished.’
As he picked up the receiver the rest of his family went into the parlour, apart from Alice, who, sensing bad news at this late hour, followed him to the telephone.
‘What is it?’ Alice asked at once as he replaced the receiver.
His face solemn, his eyes anxious, Robert turned
to her and put his arm about her shoulders. ‘It was Luke’s CO. Luke was escorting bombers on a mission to northern France. He’s – he’s not come back.’
Alice stared up at him. ‘Oh no! Is there – is there no hope?’
‘There’s always hope, my darling. No one saw him go down, so they don’t know if he bailed out. Or he might have had to land if his aircraft was damaged or he ran out of fuel. There are all sorts of possibilities, so at the moment he’s just posted as “missing”.’
‘Is it usual to telephone?’
‘I’m not sure. The CO – he seemed a very caring man – said he liked to get a personal message to relatives before the official telegram or letter arrived.’
‘He must have a very difficult job.’
‘He must. I wouldn’t want it.’
‘So, what do we do?’
‘I’ll go and tell Peggy and Sam right away.’
‘Would you like me to come with you?’
‘Yes, I would. We’ll get Jake to take us in the car. It’s dark now and there’s no moon. But let’s tell Mother and Father first.’
Henrietta and Edwin were saddened by the news. ‘Tell Peggy and Sam to let us know if there’s anything we can do,’ Henrietta said as Robert and Alice left.
‘I’m afraid we’ve bad news, Jake,’ Robert told him as they climbed into the car. ‘Luke has been reported missing, somewhere over France, we think.’
‘That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.’ Jake had received an official exemption from serving in the forces because of his valuable work on the land, but it didn’t stop him feeling guilty every time bad news came to the district. This time it was even closer to home.
‘Don’t say anything to anyone until there’s been time for all his family to hear.’
‘Not a word, Master Robert.’
He drew the car to a halt outside the cottage where Sam and Peggy lived.
‘Are you coming in with us, Jake?’
‘No, Master Robert. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait here.’
‘We might be some time.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
When Sam opened the door to find both Robert and Alice there, he knew at once that something had happened for them both to call this late in the evening. ‘Come in. Peggy’s in the kitchen. You go into the front room. I’ll get her.’
‘It’s all right. We’ll come with you.’
As Sam ushered them into the kitchen, Peggy looked up, stared at their solemn faces for a brief moment and then tears filled her eyes.
‘Which one of them?’ she whispered before Robert could speak. ‘Tell me quickly.’
Robert took her hand. ‘Sit down, Peggy love. It’s Luke. He’s been posted missing over France.’
As his words filtered into her shocked brain, she murmured, ‘Missing? Not – not killed?’
‘No. None of his fellow pilots saw his plane go down so they don’t actually know what happened. Not yet.’
‘And they’ll let us know if they hear any more?’
‘Of course. You’ll be getting an official communication of some sort that will just say the same, but don’t let that worry you,’ Robert said and explained the kindness of Luke’s CO.
‘So,’ Sam said, ‘there’s hope, then?’
‘Yes,’ Robert nodded and repeated what he had said to Alice earlier, ‘there’s always hope.’
Luke strained his eyes through the darkness, watching and listening. A light drizzle had begun, but beneath the trees, he was sheltered. When the farmer had returned his cows to the field after milking, he had brought a basket of food and a bundle of clothes. There was even a rain cape that Luke now had around his shoulders. The clothes fitted him well enough not to draw attention to him; some old clothes of the farmer’s, he guessed, who was just a little taller and broader than Luke was. He’d even thought to bring underwear too, so that now Luke was not wearing anything that was British. The only things he’d kept – which he would have to dispose of quickly, if he faced capture – were his watch, his compass and his dog tag.
‘We’ll hide your uniform with the parachute. Show me where it is.’
Together they’d pushed Luke’s clothes deep into the bushes.
‘When you are safely away,’ the farmer had said, as they walked back to the edge of the copse, ‘I will burn them all.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Now, you must stay here hidden until dark. Someone – a young man – will come for you. Don’t ask him any questions, nor will he ask you any, but you need to tell me where you’d like him to take you, if he can.’
‘Can you tell me where we are, because I have no idea?’
‘Not far from Dranouter in Flanders.’
‘Belgium?’ Luke couldn’t keep the surprise from his tone.
‘That is correct.’
Luke thought quickly, turning over an idea in his mind. ‘Could he get me to Ypres, do you think?’
The man shrugged. ‘That shouldn’t be a problem. It will take about three hours to walk there. Easier, probably, than the normal way to the coast. All the ports are heavily guarded.’
He glanced at Luke but said nothing. Feeling he owed the farmer some kind of explanation, but not wanting to give the man too much information, Luke said carefully, ‘I know Ypres. I’ve been there before.’
‘Ah.’ The farmer was thoughtful for a moment then shrugged again. ‘There will be help there if you need it. You’ll just have to find it. But be careful, the Germans are there.’
The farmer had left him then and the long wait until darkness had begun.
It was gone midnight when he heard a rustling through the grass as someone came up the slope towards him. The figure, clothed in black and with a hood hiding much of his face, paused only a few yards from where Luke was standing, still and silent. The figure cupped his hands around his mouth and hooted softly like an owl. Luke gave an answering call. Trained in following the direction of a sound, the man moved closer until they could see each other through the gloom. They shook hands and the guide spoke in English, though he was not as fluent as the farmer and said only a few words. ‘We go to Ypres – yes?’
‘Yes, please.’
After the farmer had left him for the last time, Luke had pondered whether he should have told him the real place he wanted to go to, but then decided it was safer to say Ypres. He had to trust his life to these strangers – he needed their help – but he didn’t want them to learn too much about him. Besides, he could find his own way from Ypres.
‘About thirteen kilometres,’ his guide was saying. ‘Maybe further. No roads, only country.’
‘I understand,’ Luke said, thankful for the sturdy boots the farmer had brought him. Luckily, they fitted well, otherwise he might get blisters walking that distance.
They set off, his guide walking a few paces in front of Luke, pausing every few minutes to look and to listen. They were fortunate; there was no sound of patrols or of any vehicles. The good people of the district were in their beds and the Germans thought the open countryside hardly worth a look. No doubt, if they were looking for him, it would be near where his aircraft had crashed. As he walked, he thought about those at home and wondered how he could get a message to them that he was alive, if, at the moment, not exactly safe.
Forty-Four
Peggy had made tea for them all and they sat round her kitchen table.
‘What’s Len Dawson going to say to this?’ Peggy whispered.
‘I’ll tell him in the morning,’ Sam said. ‘I’ll see Mrs Dawson too. You go and see your mother, Peggy. I don’t think we should tell anyone else tonight.’
‘There might be more news in the morning,’ Robert said, but he didn’t sound too hopeful. ‘We’ll let you know at once, of course, if we hear anything.’
‘Are you going to tell Daisy?’ Peggy asked. ‘And I’d better write to Harry.’
‘Yes, of course, and I’ll also write to Pips. They’ll probably both telephone us then.’
I
t was still an hour or so before dawn by the time they arrived on the outskirts of Ypres, yet already people were about.
‘I go no further,’ his guide whispered. ‘Germans in town.’
They were near the Menin Gate, the huge white memorial dedicated to all those who had lost their lives in the Ypres Salient in the Great War. Strangely, Luke felt comforted. He felt – foolishly or not – as if all those named there were watching over him. He thought back to when he had been here almost fifteen years ago now at the inauguration of the memorial. That time, his grandfather Dawson had allowed Luke to come to Belgium because Pips had promised to take him to see the graves of his father, Harold, and his uncles, Bernard and Roy Dawson. How sad it was that all these thousands of men had given their lives believing that their sacrifice was to bring peace to the world for ever, only for the same foes to be fighting over the same ground just over two decades later.
Luke shook hands with the man who had brought him here. ‘Move at night,’ his guide warned and then he slipped away into the shadows. As the dawn filtered through the streets and lit the memorial with a rosy glow, Luke walked the length of the towering archway. Still standing beneath its shadow, he looked down the street towards the market square. He could see mounds of rubble and was shocked to think that the city had received yet more damage after it had been so lovingly restored after the devastation of the Great War. But he dared not venture from his current shelter to take a closer look. He pondered what he should do for the day. He didn’t want to run into the enemy and yet he didn’t want to hide. If he were found doing so, it would be a giveaway that he had reason to conceal himself. If only he could find something to do that would look completely normal. He walked back through the memorial, going up the steps on either side and then up more steps in each direction. He marvelled at the massive construction. On every surface there were lists of names. So many, Luke thought soberly, and each one with a family left in mourning.
The Spitfire Sisters Page 27