Snapshots of War Michael Gouda
Part 8
Wednesday June 4th 1941
Ever since that first time with her grocer, Alfred Dent, Theresa had pondered on the morality of the situation. It was adultery, she knew that, and adultery was one of the deadly sins, wasn't it? Even if it wasn't, she knew that what she had done was wrong. She did, however, fear the wrath of the stout-armed Mrs Dent rather more than the wrath of God. She had tried to excuse herself by reasoning that she had only done it for the children - food for the kids - but even that was wrong. In wartime when everything was scarce, rationing was fair, as long as everyone kept to the rules, but she knew, that there were others who bought from the Black Market, had a little spiv down the road who could lay his hands on anything scarce - for the right price. Not that that made it right. Trouble was - as she finally admitted - it wasn't really for Adele and William that she wanted the food. It was she herself who craved the delicacies that Mr Dent had in such abundance in his back storeroom and which appeared so infrequently on the counter. Jean met her as she was coming out from Dent's shop. "Has he got anything off ration?" she asked. The half a pound of mature Cheddar cheese in Theresa's bag weighed more than a hundredweight on her conscience. She shook her head and Jean sighed. "You ought to have taken up that offer he made," she said smiling. She changed the subject - much to Theresa's relief. "How's life as a clippy?" she asked. Theresa considered. "I like it," she said. "Though the shifts take a bit of getting used to. Takes me out of the house anyway. They say travel broadens the mind." Jean looked thoughtful. "Perhaps I ought to join up as well," she said. "Get a job. Help the war effort." "You should get out more. You enjoyed that trip to the pictures with William and Mr Kees, didn't you?" She still couldn't get used to calling Peter by his first name but Jean had no such qualms apparently. She smiled. "That Peter," she said. "He's a real charmer." "You a little sweet on him?" Theresa's tone was light but it seemed Jean took her seriously. "Why? Do you think he's too young for me?" she asked. They passed a bomb site - one of the earliest of the Blitz - and already some Rosebay Willow Herb - or Fireweed as it was called - had taken root on the burnt, bare ground and was flowering with its tall spires of magenta blooms. It provided a splash of brilliant colour against the dull grey of the remaining walls. A blackbird chinked his warning cry and flew off. Theresa thought how swiftly Nature had taken advantage of War's depredations. "What is the difference in your ages? Four years?" "Six," said Jean. "I'm thirty-two." Privately Theresa considered that the man in a marriage should certainly be older than the woman. Her Bert was eight years older than she was, but she didn't want to disappoint Jean. "Sounds all right to me," she said. "How are you going to get in touch? Or did you make a date when you last met?" Suddenly she didn't want to carry on the conversation. She felt a great craving for the cheese in her bag. On fresh white bread with butter. At the thought she felt her mouth begin to salivate. It would have to be the National loaf of course and a scrape of margarine but that crumbly cheese with its sharp taste. She could barely stop herself from running up the road. Jean was talking but she scarcely heard what she was saying. ".... come in for a cuppa," Jean finished. Theresa pulled herself together. "Sorry, Jean. I must start getting the tea for the kids. And the house is a mess." She ran indoors and was cutting a slice of bread - why did the National loaf have to be so grey-looking? - even before taking off her coat. The cheese crumbled on her tongue, sharp and tasty. She crammed it into her mouth. So delicious. Before she knew it, almost all the cheese was gone. Suddenly realising, she paused, horrified at her greed. What was the matter with her? She hadn't felt like this, this insatiable craving for food, for years. Not since - the realisation came as a horrifying shock - not since she had been pregnant with William. Almost automatically she switched on the wireless to listen to the news. There was a mixture of both good and bad. The main news was that the huge German battleship, Bismarck, had been sunk after a running battle which had lasted three days and covered a distance of 1700 miles. The bad news, that in the course of the battle the British battle cruiser, Hood, had also been destroyed, a German shell landing in the ship's magazine and blowing it to pieces. All those sailors, thought Theresa. She tried to remember when she had had her last period.
Saturday June 14th 1941 There was a black van parked in the alley which was only just wide enough to allow it to enter.. "It's Cyril's," said Stringbean. William hadn't wanted to visit Lucky's warehouse again but Stringbean had persuaded him. Lucky wouldn't bear a grudge, he had said; he wouldn't try on anything again. He'd spoken to Lucky. Nothing would happen, and this order was a big one. He needed William's help. Nevertheless William was uneasy. The activities he and Peter indulged in, William enjoyed. Imagining doing them with Lucky was horrible. Each of the boys carried suitcases. They had to squeeze past the van to get to the door. The sun was hot almost directly overhead and the boiled cabbage smell in the alley was even stronger than usual. It made William feel slightly sick. Stringbean knocked. They waited for a while but no one came. He turned the knob and the door opened inwards. After the brightness outside, it was difficult to see in the gloom of the warehouse but, unlike last time, a small lamp was lit on the table. In the small pool of light it looked as if Lucky was asleep, his head casting a shadow on the surface over the scattered papers. "Lucky," said Stringbean. Nothing moved. They took some steps forward and then they saw - "Christ," said Stringbean. The shadow was a pool of blood. One side of his head was gone. "Oh God! What's happened?" asked Willieam, nausea stirring in his stomach. Stringbean stared horrified. "Shot," he said. "Where's Cyril?" as if Stringbean would know - but he did. He pointed towards the back wall where a dark shadow sprawled on the floor. "I bet that's him." "Let's get out," said William. But before they could get to the door, they heard running footsteps from outside. "They're coming back," said Stringbean, not having to specify who 'they' were. Obviously William thought, whoever had killed Lucky and Cyril The two boys stared at each other in horrified terror. "Jesus. What can we do?" Stringbean looked around wildly. "Hide. Behind those stacks." They scurried behind the boxes and as they squatted down, an increase of light told them that the door had been opened. William's heart was beating so loudly he was sure it could be heard. His legs felt weak and his breath was panting. He forced himself to breath deeply, but he knew his whole body was trembling. Beside him he could feel the warmth of Stringbean's body. There was more than one person coming in. "Strewth. They've made a right mess of them," said one voice. Another answered, educated, cool and clipped. "I want both bodies out and away. Don't leave anything behind." "Shall we take them in the van, Mr Carlisle?" asked the first voice. "Yes. And get rid of that too. I don't want anything found. Ever." "Understood, sir," said a third voice. Christ, thought William, how many of them are there? There were some sounds, bumps, a grunt as if something heavy was being picked up - Cyril's body? "What about all this stuff?" asked the first voice. God, were they going to search the boxes? "Leave that. I don't want it touched." More sounds. A bump as if something had been dropped. "Careful. I don't want any blood on the floor. And clear up those papers. We'll take them with us." "Should I have a look around, sir?" William froze. Beside him he felt Stringbean tense as well. "No need," said the voice of the man in charge. "I want you away with the bodies as quickly as possible. It's time we were off." William knew it was foolish but he couldn't stop having a peek round the corner of the stack. There were three male figures silhouetted against the rectangle of light from the door. Two stood back to let the third one out first, deference to the boss. There was no way of course that William could make out any features but the man was tall, stood straight, had almost a military bearing about him. Stringbean grabbed William by the shirt and pulled him back. The door slammed shut and there was once again darkness. William made to stand up but Stringbean stopped him again. "Wait," he said. There was the sound of a vehicle starting outside, the ignition firing once and then stopping. The second time it caught and the engine revved. Finally it faded down the alley. "Who were they?" asked William. Stringbean shrugged. "They weren't the killers anyway. I think they knew who'd done it. Sounded a bit like police." "Why would the police take the bodies away and remove the evidence?" asked William. Stringbean shrugged again. "What did the man call the boss?" "Sir," said Stringbean. "No. He called him a name. Mr. something. Carlisle I think it was." "Let's get outta here," said Stringbean. But he insisted they fill the suitcases with stuff before they left.
Sunday June 15th 1941 Operation Battleaxe (First Day) "Well, Chalky," said Bert. "It's the big day today." He stretched his legs in his sleeping bag. It was still dark through the canvas of the tent but he knew it was nearly dawn. The night had been cold but in a couple of hours it would be roasting as always. He pulled himself out of the warmth and started dressing, shivering for a moment as the cold touched his naked skin. "What a life, eh, Chalky?" He dressed, making sure he shook his boots before putting them on and went out through the tent flap. Towards the east a thin pink line marked the edge of the desert, the base of the sky. "Another of those brilliantly self-indulgent desert dawns," said Chalky. Bert lit a cigarette and waited for the sun to rise. He wondered whether Chalky would have ever made such a remark. The Duty Corporal moved from tent to tent rousing the troops, received as always by the ritual of groans and curses. "Couldn't sleep, Bert?" he asked as he passed. Bert wondered whether the implication was that he was scared. "Wanted to be first in the breakfast queue," he said, flicking his dog-end away. He walked towards the mess tent. "I'd like to have seen Theresa again," he said to Chalky. "And I'd like to have seen Adele." "What's it like being dead?" but Chalky wouldn't answer. There were sausages and bread and jam for breakfast but Bert wasn't all that hungry. He did drink two mugs of tea though. You were always told to take liquids before and after the full heat of the day rather than in between. What you drank then you just sweated out straight away. After that there wasn't much time for morbid thoughts. Shit, shave and shampoo (well he didn't bother with the last). Getting weapons and equipment together. Sergeants shouting. Boarding the trucks and off north with the sun glaring on the right hand side and perspiration already prickling the skin. The men were quiet. There was the pulsing drone of aircraft overhead and away to the left they could see the tanks rumbling parallel with them through the sand. Private Trent sat next to him on the uncomfortable wooden seating that ran each side of the length of the lorries, his rifle clutched sweatily in his hands. His young face looked strained. Bert knew how he was feeling. He gave him a smile and a thumbs up. Trent returned the smile, though it only reached his mouth. The actual attack was scheduled to begin at 0900 hours and as the hour approached, the lorries stopped and the men jumped out deploying to groups consisting of a bren-gun, several rifles and a spotter with a telescope. They filled sand bags, stacked them up and lay down behind them, rifles at the ready, bayonets fixed. Ahead they could hear the sound of gunfire and more tanks rumbled forward. Somewhere out there lay the Mediterranean port of Tobruk, its white sun-washed buildings shellholed and the harbour clogged with sunken ships. The semicircle of German and Italian forces lay siege to the south but it was hardly a case of the enemy being surprised by an attack from the rear. Rommel's forces were in well prepared positions and the allied tanks drove into stiff opposition. "What's happening, son?" asked Bert to the man with the telescope. "They're dropping bombs on them, Corp. They're giving 'em 'ell." In the distance, even through the heat haze, Bert could see the plumes of dust and sand raised by the exploding bombs. But they weren't having it all their own way. There was the sharp crack of the 88mm anti-aircraft guns and, even as he watched, he saw a plane spiral down, smoke pouring from its fuselage. It nose-dived into the ground and he couldn't see a parachute. More tanks came from behind them and advanced into the heat and haze. The sweat ran down from under his tin helmet and made his eyes sting. Flies buzzed round. The soldiers waited. The sky overhead was cloudless and the sun rose, a gold furnace, shriveling and burning everything under it. They sweltered. Bert looked at the way the heat shimmered on the sand so that it almost looked like water. Water! Bert imagined diving into the sea, feeling the cold water close over his head, the cool liquid around his loins, under his arms. "Remember how we swam while we waited for the little boats at Dunkirk?" asked Chalky. "It wasn't you. You weren't there." "Weren't where, Corp?" asked Private Trent. In the open air, away from the claustrophobic lorry, he looked excited rather than scared. Bert was reminded of another young face, staring at him before falling face down into the waves. "How old are you, son?" he asked. "Seventeen, Corp." The same age as William, thought Bert. He wished he'd been able to get back for his birthday. "Bet you never thought you'd be in Africa." "I always thought it would be jungle. You know, Tarzan and all that." The R/T crackled into life. "Prepare to advance," interpreted the Sergeant. They got up and moved forward. "We must be having some success," said Chalky, the sand crunching under their boots. A sandy coloured lizard scuttled away and found refuge under what looked like a piece of dead and shrivelled scrub. The gunfire grew clearer. There was a whistling through the air and an explosion just in front of them. A spout of sand was thrown into the air and cascaded down onto their helmets. "That was close," said Chalky. "We're within range of their heavy artillery." Just over a ridge, a burning tank. Thick, oily smoke wound lazily upwards. Bert was reminded how God had led the Israelites through the desert, a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night, it said in the Bible. Funny how things you heard as a child sometimes came back to your mind. Where was God now when they needed him? The hatch of the tank was closed and there was no sound from inside. The metal radiated so much heat that they could not get anywhere near it. Bert hoped that the crew had been killed immediately by the shell. He shuddered at the thought of being roasted alive in that hellish oven. They marched on for what must have been five or six miles. As they reached the top of a ridge, the R/T crackled again and they were ordered to stop, make more sandbags and crouch behind them, the sand sticking to their legs, flies buzzing round voraciously drinking their sweat. Some Italian planes flew above. They fired their rifles and the Bren gun ineffectually. "Why haven't we got any ack-ack guns?" complained Private Trent. "You want to carry them?" asked Bert. The planes circled, perhaps doing a recky, then returned to the north. They could see tanks in the arena below them, moving like matchboxes and spitting out little spurts of flame. The sounds came later, unsynchronised with the bursts. It looked like a game. "Where's our planes?" asked Bert. "They should be backing up." "Another cock-up," suggested Chalky. They stayed there until the end of the day and when the sun went down, they lit the primus stoves, protected by sheets of canvas so that the tiny blue flames couldn't be observed, and made tea. opened tins of bully beef and had more bread and jam. Someone produced a crate of oranges and they sucked the juice from them. They weren't like oranges you got in England; they were sweet and juicy and tasted like real fruit. Afterwards Bert sat on the ridge with his mug of tea sweetened with condensed milk and his fag cupped in his hand so that the glowing end didn't show, and talked to Chalky. "They're out there" - he nodded towards the star-filled sky and the impenetrable desert - "the 'body patrol', collecting the bodies." "Not yours at any rate," said Chalky. "Not today. Just Jerries and Eyeties and Aussies and Brits. I wonder are they all together somewhere, singing, smoking a fag - or just nowhere. Will you be talking to them this night?" But Chalky didn't answer, so soon Bert stubbed out his Woodbine in the sand and went over to sleep with the other living.
Monday June 16th 1941
"It's his eyes," said Mavis. "They're really yellow. Creepy." she shivered - theatrically. "They're not," said Adele. "So what colour are they?" Adele hesitated. She had to admit that Charlie's eyes were an unusual colour. "Light brown, " she said. "Yellow ! " "No one has yellow eyes - unless they've got jaundice and then it's the white part that goes yellow. Well -" She stopped as a thought struck her. She had been reading 'the Maltese Falcon' after William had seen the film and then got so confused when he was trying to tell them the plot. She had borrowed the book from Boots Library and found that story by Dashiell Hammett was certainly complicated but she remembered that the detective, Sam Spade, did have yellow eyes. "Well, no one outside fiction," she ended lamely. "You seeing him?" asked Mavis. "I see him when he comes round the factory." "You know what I mean. Outside work?" Adele didn't answer and for a while the girls carried on their almost automatic tasks, the belt delivering the next shell case at just the right time, cogs in a well-oiled machine. "You remember," said Mavis, "When you was describing your ideal man on the tram - after we'd seen 'Gone with the Wind'. What you described wasn't anything like Charlie Leverton. You said blonde hair and a big smile and Charlie never smiles at all and of course 'is hair is red as a carrot." "I was thinking of someone else," said Adele wretchedly . "What's the matter?" asked Mavis. "Things not going smoothly?" "It's not that." She was quiet as she expertly ladled the powdered cordite into the shell case in front of her. With the back of her hand she rubbed her right eye.
"Careful," said Mavis, "you get that stuff in your eyes and you'll be crying till we go off shift." Uncontrolled, the tears ran down Adele's cheeks. "Come on, girl. Tell us what the matter is. You know what they say 'a trouble shared is a trouble halved'." Adele glanced around to see if anyone else was listening. The girl on her other side to Mavis was chatting to her friend and the blasting music from the Tannoy and the sound of the belt rumbling along would safely hide her confidence. They were playing 'It's a Lovely Day Tomorrow, Tomorrow is a lovely day' and the song seemed only to increase Adele's misery. "I think I'm ... " she whispered, the music drowning out the words but Mavis guessed. "You think you're pregnant?" she said. "Shhh," Adele said, looking wildly around. "There's no one listening," Mavis said. "Have you missed a period?"
Adele nodded. "But didn't you take - you know - precautions?" "Always," she said, "'e always used a - you know what." "A johnny. They say they make a pinhole in every one out of 10 at the factory." The information didn't add any comfort to Adele's misery. "What am I going to do?" "You'll have to tell him," said Mavis. "It's him what's responsible after all." Adele nodded again and sniffed. "Ain't you got a hankie?" Adele shook her head. "I left my handbag in ... " "Where?" "This morning in his place. In the office upstairs." "You dunnit today? My, you're quite a girl." She looked almost admiringly at Adele but to her the admission felt like a final disaster and the tears rolled down her face. Mavis felt in her own bag and produced a not desperately clean handkerchief which she passed over. "Wipe your eyes, girl. The others'll notice else. Then we'll think what's best to do." In a way the admission to Mavis had been a relief. Perhaps her friend had been right - a trouble shared did seem to make a difference and Adele patted her eyes and then blew her nose. When the hooter sounded for the end of the shift the two girls avoided their friends and slipped off towards the exit doors which led to the canteen and to the staircase upstairs. "Now," said Mavis, "first things first. You can't see Charlie today as he's off nights. So we'll go get your bag and I'll think what's to be done." They went upstairs. The corridor was in darkness as none of the bosses would be in until the morning. "Which room is it? " whispered Mavis. "Third on the left." They felt their way along until they found the third door. For a second Adele wondered whether it would be locked but the handle turned and the door opened without a sound. "Where is it? Where did you leave your bag?" It was already dawn and there was light enough to make out the desk and chairs. "Down there. Down by the desk. There it is." She grabbed hold of it and turned to the door. "Come on, Mavis. Don't hang around. Let's get out of here." But Mavis was looking at something on the desk. "What is it?" "There's some writing - on the blotter. I was just wondering what it said." "Probably something to do with business." "Surely that would be typed." She peered at it closely. "Can't make it out. Looks very odd." Against her will Adele came over to look. "It's back to front. It's where he blotted it. Of course it'll look funny." "Wonder what it says," said Mavis. "Could be a letter to another girl. We'll never know." "You have to look at it in a looking glass," said Adele. "It'll turn it right way round again." "There isn't one," said Mavis looking round the walls. "I've got one in my bag." Adele fished around and found a small hand mirror. Together they tried to focus on the reflected words. "It's certainly writing," said Mavis, "but I don't think it's English." She made a valiant attempt to pronounce the unfamiliar words. "'.... zwei so glückliche Urlaubswochen verbracht ....'. What words. What sort of language is that?" "Come on," said Adele, suddenly nervous. "Let's get out of here before someone finds us. Leave it alone. It's nothing to do with us." But Mavis folded up the sheet of blotting paper and put it in her coat pocket before they left.
End of Part 8