Tears of Autumn, The (15 page)

Nobody could have got out of that.

Great columns of men, like ants, were queuing in orderly rows to the beach edge, then wading out to smaller craft that ferried them out to the bigger ships.

He got away on his third day, 31 May, sitting on the deck of a paddle steamer with a hundred others as they passed the mast of the destroyer still sticking up out of the water, like a giant cross, stark monument to the graves of the men below. He landed at Folkestone in the early hours of the morning, was given a mug of scalding-hot, sweet tea, and a huge wedge of a sandwich, then he was pushed on to a train, lying on the dirty floor, propped against the wall of the lavatory which was in
constant use. Heavy boots were clomping around him, and sometimes on him, but he slept so deeply that he had to be shaken roughly to wake him up at Waterloo.

He ended up at a transit camp at Mill Hill, where he was issued with a shaving-kit, toothbrush and paste, and new underwear and uniform. Stinking as he was, the first thing he wanted to do was get word to Rosemary that he was all right. He went to the office, frantic with people coming and going and telephones ringing. He picked one up and got the operator.

‘Hey, you can’t use that.’

A young flying officer had come along with a sheaf of papers.

Biff just looked at him. The man saw the expression, the almost dead eyes, the broad shoulders. He faltered. ‘Well – be quick about it.’

Rosemary had been worried sick. His letters had abruptly stopped, and the daily news was confusing, increasingly unbelievable and dreadful. She’d telephoned the squadron office, but nobody could or would give her any information. She apologized to the estate agent, but said she had to stay at home in case … in case there was any
news
. They understood. There was hardly any business anyway, except for an increase in homes for rent. So she sat at home, her heart jumping into her mouth every time she saw the postman, or anybody coming along the lane on a bicycle who could be a telegram boy.

So it was a fright when a man she didn’t recognize got off his bicycle, undid his trouser clips and walked up the gravel. He wasn’t a postman – unless he was an official, come because nobody else wanted to deliver the news.

Feverishly she opened the door, advanced towards him, hardly able to breathe.

The man touched the brim of his trilby.

‘Mrs Banks?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve got some very good news for you.’

Had she heard him properly?

Like an idiot she repeated: ‘Good news?’

‘Yes. Your husband is safe. He is in a transit camp in London, and will get a letter to you as soon as he can.’

At last it dawned on her.

‘Oh!’ She threw her arms around him and kissed him soundly on the cheek as the man held on to his hat.

‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘thank you.’

He smiled.

‘My pleasure, my dear.’

It was then she said: ‘Mr…?’

‘Shelton.’ He touched his brim again. ‘I’m the manager of the shoe shop in the High Street.’

Apparently Biff had phoned her estate agent office. They had been unable to do anything, but a bit of judicious asking among the other shop owners had produced Mr Shelton, who was only too happy to oblige.

She invited him in for a cup of tea, but he declined – he was on his way home to see his own son, who was due home on embarkation leave before he went to the Far East. He smiled and tapped his nose with a finger and winked as he added: ‘Or so I believe.’

So she sat alone in the kitchen, then suddenly rushed up the garden to the lavatory, and brought up all the food she had forced herself to eat for breakfast.

But it didn’t matter.

Two days later she waited at the station for him. He had been given a week’s leave. The lines began to hum, and then a dark shape with wisps of white steam came round the bend in the distance, gradually getting bigger, the red buffer beam clearly seen.

At last, with a rumble that shook the platform, and with the clanking of its wheels and coupling-rods, the locomotive slowed past her and with a scream of metal on metal braked to a halt in a surge of steam.

Crowds got off, a porter pulled a trolley past with galvanized milk churns on it. She couldn’t see him. Then, out of the clouds of steam rising up from beneath a carriage, he appeared, wearing a brand-new blue greatcoat and a hat, a gas mask slung from one shoulder, a cheap weekend case in his hand. She rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him, uncaring whether it was seemly or not.

‘Oh, darling.’

Although he dropped the ghastly case and held her, he didn’t seem as excited as he should be.

She pulled back, worried and puzzled.

‘Darling, are you all right?’

‘Yes. I am. I don’t know why, but I’ve been spared.’

She suddenly understood, seeing in his face the tiredness and the guilt, at surviving when so many had not.

‘Come along. Let’s get you home, have a nice cup of tea.’

As they made their way out of the station entrance into the forecourt a civilian man going in suddenly spat at him.

‘Bloody cowards, where were you?’

Rosemary was shocked rigid, but Biff kept walking, finding his handkerchief and wiping the spittle off his new coat.

She tried to look back but he pulled her along.

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Biff – he just called you a coward, a perfect stranger. What’s it all about?’

He told her then. There was a lot of bad feeling against the air force. Why hadn’t they protected the beaches? Where were they when the soldiers and sailors were dying in their hundreds?

Rosemary felt tears coming.

‘But it’s not
your
fault. You’ve been through hell as well, don’t they realize that?’

He shook his head.

‘Our contribution in the débâcle was useless – worse than useless. For all the bravery – and by God there were so many sacrifices – the bloody aircraft were useless. Men died doing
their duty but with nothing to show for it. It was terrible.’

He shook his head.

‘It’s serious, Rose. The German war machine is …’ He winced, not wanting to say invincible, but that was what it looked like to him, ‘so brilliant that if they ever get across the channel we’d be lost. The word is that Hugh Dowding is holding back all the Spitfires and Hurricanes he can to defend these shores, so he didn’t waste any on us lot.’

Rosemary listened with a sinking heart. Things were even worse than she – and the general public – knew.

After a couple of days, something of the old Biff returned. They started to go to the pictures, though he tensed when newsreel shots of returning troops from Dunkirk were shown.

She got the long galvanized bath off an outside wall and put it before the fire in the sitting room. In the scullery she heated the water in the boiler used for the laundry.

Biff helped her ladle it into the bath. She went first, Biff soaping her back and shoulders, watching the suds slide down her breasts and over her nipples, her skin glowing in the flickering light of the fire.

Later, in their dressing-gowns, with mugs of tea and cigarettes, they listened as Winston Churchill’s growling voice came from the wireless.

Rosemary had been upset when Italy had declared war on Britain on 11 June. The memory of all the lovely people she had met on her honeymoon was fresh in her mind as if it were yesterday.

As were Konrad and Anna.

She wondered what they were doing just then, what were
they thinking after Germany had driven the British into the sea, and with the fall of France, the Nazis’ rule of nearly all Europe. The sight of German troops marching through the Arc de Triomphe had been shocking, unbelievable.

What was Konrad doing in this awful, stupid war?

Had they changed? She discounted that with a snort of disgust for even thinking it in the first place.

Rosemary’s thoughts turned to their plans to meet, and the date. They had said they would
definitely
make the 1 October, 1943. Surely everything would be resolved by then?

As the end of Biff’s week drew closer they didn’t go anywhere, just stayed together all day every day, walking the fields and estuaries, doing some gardening, simple everyday things. He helped her peg out the washing. At night they made love, sleeping until the dawn, then gently once again reaffirming the union of their flesh.

On the last morning he dressed once more in his uniform. She straightened his tie, and brushed the back of his tunic. He was now Flight Lieutenant Banks.

The time came to go to the station. He was being sent to a conversion unit on another type of aircraft – the twin-engined Wellington. Apparently strategic bombing was the next priority, after fighter strength.

Rosemary folded his greatcoat, ready to put it over his arm. The weather was far too hot for him to wear it.

‘Are they safe, Biff?’

He tried to reassure her with a smile.

‘Positively indestructible. They are built in a special way, something called geodetic, makes them very strong.’

She didn’t look very convinced. She picked up his hat.

‘Biff.’

He looked up, sensing something was coming.

‘Yes, what is it?’

She took a deep breath.

‘Biff, I can’t go on like this, doing nothing, just waiting, waiting,
waiting …
worrying
about you.’

Frowning, he prompted: ‘So?’

Rosemary steeled herself and said:

‘I’m joining one of the women’s services. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Which one?’

She swallowed. ‘I didn’t think it fair to be in the WAAF for obvious reasons; it could embarrass you. I’m reporting for training with the WRENS; they’re recruiting at the moment.’

For a second Biff didn’t know what to think. All he could say was ‘When?’

Guiltily she winced.

‘Next Monday. I report to Euston Station at 0 nine hundred hours.’

He just reached out and they hung on to each other. Over her shoulder he said: ‘You take care now – no volunteering for anything hazardous.’

‘Gosh, we don’t do things like that, do we?’ She sounded anxious.

He grinned. ‘I mean working late with all those handsome naval officers.’

She gave him a playful slap, but her voice showed her concern.

‘You sure you don’t mind?’

He released her and stood back.

‘Rosemary, I love you. I can see that being here with our world falling around our ears must be awful. You want to do something. I can understand that.’

She nodded. ‘I do.’

‘Fine.’

He waved his arms around. ‘What are we going to do about this place?’

Rosemary sighed. ‘I’d like to keep it if we can. It’s our only home.’

He nodded.

‘I agree.’

Somehow, the war had intruded further into their lives, got a little more personal.

She went with him to the station.

He leant out of the carriage window, smiled.

‘Now you be sure to write.’

The guard’s whistle blasted out, answered by a toot from the engine and a surge of steam. Doors slammed as with a lurch the carriage moved forward.

He leaned out, she reached up and flung her arms around his neck. They had time for one good kiss, then she walked along the platform exchanging ‘I love you’s’, miming the words as the train drew away.

She kept her eyes fixed on him, waving as he grew more and more indistinct, until the train lurched around a curve and he was no longer in sight.

Feeling lonely and frightened she made her way slowly back to the empty cottage. On the table was an envelope.

With fumbling hands she opened it.

Biff had written:

As if to lighten the contents he’d drawn a heart with an arrow through it, and ‘B’ loves ‘R’.

As she read it tears dropped on to the paper, blurring the ‘heart’.

He arrived at No 15 Operational Training Unit at Harwell, set near the meandering River Thames, with the Berkshire Downs in the distance, and the city of Oxford to the north.

As he was driven in a Hillman truck to the mess, he and the five others crammed in the back looked at the Wellington
twin-engined
bombers dotted all around the field, and in the hangars.

Since he’d known he was going on to the ‘Wimpey’ as it was affectionately called in the service, after the cartoon character of the same name in Popeye, he’d read a little about it. The airframe, designed by a man called Barnes Wallis, was of a peculiar geodetic construction and had apparently proved to be able to take considerable punishment. It was bigger than his Blenheim, and could carry eighteen 250-pound bombs.

They passed near one being worked on by the mechanics, its front turret with twin guns pointing starkly at the sky.

‘Handsome bugger, ain’t she?’ somebody said.

Painted black underneath – after the ghastly losses of the daylight raids they were now a night-bomber force – and camouflaged on top, it did indeed look a very beautiful aeroplane.

Two days later he was climbing the short metal ladder under the nose and settling in the cockpit.

Beside him was Flight Sergeant Williams, his instructor, while sitting in their positions were his navigator, wireless operator
and two air-gunners, all familiarizing themselves with their new tasks.

In the following two weeks they flew forty-two hours of instruction, practising single-engined flying and forced landings, instrument flying, and lastly progressing to formation-bombing practice, dropping dummy bombs at Odstone, and letting the gunners fire live rounds on the Aberystwyth range.

He was just on his final approach of the last day of his training when the radio broke in urgently.

‘G for George, G for George. Break right – do not land – break right
now
!’

A red flare fired from the control tower hung brightly in the sky.

‘What the hell…?’

As they swung sharply away, pulling up the gear and with Biff ramming the throttles through the gate, the intercom crackled. It was the rear gunner.

‘Skipper, there are Jerries right behind us, look like Dorniers.’

As if in a dream they had a ringside seat as the formation of enemy bombers passed serenely over the field. Great mounds of earth started to geyser into the sky, then a Wellington blew up in a ball of flame and black smoke. For a split second one of the hangars seemed to expand as if it was being inflated, before the windows blew out and it exploded, fire and smoke roaring up into the sky.

The formation flew on, and was gone as quickly as it had come. The sight of the crosses on the wings and the Nazi symbol on the tail fins were a shock. They were deep in rural England, not in France, not even in the south-east, where the great air battles were being fought.

But the
Luftwaffe
, as he later found out, had switched to attacking airfields in order to overpower the unexpectedly troublesome RAF.

They were ordered to stay airborne for a further twenty minutes, flying to a point near Cheltenham. If Harwell was
ready they could fly back, otherwise they were to land at Staverton.

In the event they were ordered to return. From over thirty miles out they could see the black columns of smoke rising into the blue sky. When he eventually got down they taxied past squads of men fighting numerous fires. Four Wellingtons were still burning, as were several lorries.

The hangar had been blasted apart by the force of several explosions – not only those of the stick of bombs, but from the two aircraft inside that had blown up.

When he climbed down the short ladder he asked the corporal about casualties.

‘Three dead, sir – all Waafs. Abomb scored a direct hit on their quarters, the bastards. Miracle was, the hangar was empty – they’d all been sent to the canteen.’

All Biff could think of was Rosemary. She might be in danger.

It didn’t bear dwelling on.

Rosemary had reported to Euston Station, gathering with other girls as a smart Wren petty officer issued travel warrants and guided them to a train. It was three weeks after her medical and letter of acceptance, a week after Biff had gone back.

In one hand she carried her case which, despite the restrictions on the list she’d been sent, was heavy with everything crammed into it that she thought she couldn’t live without, including the two pairs of Navy-issue knickers that had been given to her at the recruiting office. She carried her gas mask with a strap across one shoulder, and her shoulder bag over the other. She was struggling up the platform when some Navy lads swooped on her, took the case and put her on the train before making off to join their unit which was forming up in the station yard.

The train was full of troops, so it was standing room only. She sat on her case.

People were sitting on the dirty floor all around her and in the
compartments some were even lying on the luggage racks, but everybody was cheerful and helpful. Going to the lavatory was difficult, because it was also being used as a seat, with somebody on the floor under the basin. They struggled out as she struggled in, cracking jokes all the time, but she knew she was blushing.

Rosemary arrived along with the fresh intake at the basic training unit on the shores of Loch Lomond in Scotland on the following day, tired out, feeling dirty and wondering what on earth she had done.

The place was dreadful, full of Nissen huts with deep waterlogged ditches between them.

They were starving, but all that was on offer was one sardine on hard toast which had been in the oven since breakfast two hours before.

It didn’t get any better. There wasn’t enough room for them, so for that night they had to get mattresses to put on the floor in one of the washrooms, stacking them against a wall. Several of the girls found them too difficult to carry on their own, so they all mucked in together – a first sign of what they would do in the years ahead.

In the afternoon they collected their free issue of basic uniform: greatcoat, gabardine raincoat, two suits, three shirts, collars and ties, and two pairs of shoes.

They were told that their pay would be twenty-four shillings per week, with a one-off grant of forty-eight shillings towards the purchase of further naval underclothes, and another pair of shoes worth thirteen shillings and sixpence.

They were also given thick navy lisle stockings, a hat, gloves and a housewife kit (called a hussif), containing needles, cotton, spare buttons and darning wool. There was much banter and talk of ‘passion-killing’ as they examined their two pairs of cotton pyjamas.

They were told that on no account were they to alter any of the items, a rule that was soon to be broken – girls were girls, after all.

They heard a bugle as they were sorting themselves out on the concrete floor, and a petty officer appeared in the doorway and ordered lights out. They scrambled to get into their beds before the petty officer threw the light switch, plunging them into near blackness, the only light coming through a small frosted window.

It seemed strange to be sleeping with so many girls, like being back at boarding school. As she tried to get to sleep she could hear somebody softly weeping into her pillow, just as she had done a decade before.

At 6.30 in the morning the door burst open and a piercing whistle was blown three times by the duty officer. Cold and
half-asleep
they scrambled to the washbasins. It was only then that they discovered that they had been sharing the floor with cockroaches, which scuttled away in the light. Later, they were to find that they shared their food with them too.

Assembled outside, they saw the other Wrens at divisions, looking smart in their uniforms, and they admired their
straight-backed
bearing, their precision marching and crisp saluting as the White Ensign was raised and the Royal Marines band played the National Anthem.

‘How do they know what to wear?’ Rosemary whispered to the leading Wren who had been assigned to look after them.

She nodded at a small flag on the mast.

‘If the ‘0’ signal is at the top, wear raincoats; half-way and you carry them, and if there isn’t one – it’s no raincoats.’

Breakfast consisted of scrambled dried eggs that came out as if they were floating in water, one piece of bacon and piles of greyish-looking bread.

Six weeks of square-bashing followed, and when she wasn’t doing that she scrubbed floors, cleaned basins, taps and lavatory bowls and prepared for kit inspections. Shoes had to be kept polished, especially the heel, and between the sole and heel under the shoe, and all buttons were to be shining and stockings darned if necessary.

They learnt that the floor was always called the deck, the bedroom a cabin, the kitchen the galley, a corridor a gangway, just as if they were on board a ship.

They were all called the ship’s company.

Slowly at first, then with increasing confidence the squad drill improved, and soon they were marching in step, and swinging their arms up in rhythm, which seemed very hard work. But they were proud of themselves.

The stiff collars left red weals on their necks, and were painful until they toughened up – like their feet. Some people took longer than others to get the knack of tying their ties neatly.

One day they were marched to the ranges, and were instructed in rifle shooting. At first some of the girls were very anxious but Rosemary and one other had been allowed to shoot by their fathers. Seeing them do it settled the rest.

Lined up in the medical centre, arms already bared, the staff gave them their tetanus jabs with what seemed like very blunt needles.

It left Rosemary with a stiff arm for a couple of days.

Further training in protecting themselves in an emergency, and what to do in a gas attack followed, and always there was the scrubbing of floors, drilling, keeping fit and barrack inspections. Their blankets had to be removed from the bed and folded in a special way so that the last one wrapped around the other two, then placed tidily at the head of the bed on top of the pillow. All their kit including their tin hats had to be laid out as directed.

At last the day came for their passing-out parade. Rosemary was the front marker, and as they passed the saluting base they all thought they were a very smart bunch indeed.

It gave them great satisfaction to see the dishevelled, disorientated new girls arriving, and to think they had been like that not all that long before.

Now they filed one at a time into the commandant’s office to be given their postings.

The officer ran a pen down the list after Rosemary had given her number only.

‘Banks?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Satisfied that they had the right woman the officer said: ‘You are going to be trained as a plotter.’

Rosemary had to suppress a nervous giggle. Was she to be parachuted into enemy territory to help plot things?

Instead she said; ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ took one step back, threw up a smart salute, did a sharp about turn, and left – to become a ‘plotter’.

Outside, in the corridor, the giggles could no longer be contained.

Biff climbed nervously up the ladder in the gathering gloom, weighed down with his Mae West and parachute, and carrying his bag with his Thermos and sandwiches. This was his first mission against the enemy since the terrible month of the battle of France.

He settled into the co-pilot’s right-hand seat. It was policy for ‘new boys’ to have an experienced captain on the first couple of trips, just to keep an eye on things.

They went through the checks as the rest of the crew: the wireless operator, navigator and the two air-gunners settled in. At 10.00 hours that morning they had assembled at their flights, and had been selected for the night’s operations.

Biff had then gone to his aircraft, and told the ground crew. Engines were run up, the wireless and guns checked and later ‘G for George’ would be bombed up with the ordnance detailed for the operation.

He had had lunch at the mess, and then reported to the briefing room at 14.00 hours.

When the CO had entered they all stood up, but he gestured for them to sit down again.

‘Right, gentlemen, we’re going back to Ostend. Give the invasion
barges another pasting. First aircraft off at twenty-thirty hours will be F for Freddie.’

The order of the following crews had been given, and then other ops on that night were detailed.

After the CO the intelligence officer had briefed them on the aiming point, and given details of the known defences. Special target maps had been issued.

Biff started his engines and they went through the check list.

He wondered where Rosemary was, what she was doing, was she safe? The blitz was in full swing and Churchill had warned that German ships and barges continued to build up for the expected invasion.

They were given the signal to start moving out on to the perimeter track. His gloved hand eased the throttle levers forward, the aircraft shuddering and thumping as they passed over the concrete divisions.

The signals officer had notified them of the position of the airfield identification beacon which was situated eight miles from the runway and was moved each night to a different site. It flashed two letters of the morse code – different for each airfield.

Moving forward, he gently swung the tail from side to side to improve his forward view of the shaded lights guiding him out.

The signals officer also gave them the colours of the day: Very lights which they had to fire in the correct order when crossing the English coast on their return, to be reported by the Observer Corps.

They’d been warned: failure to get it right and they’d be fair game for their own fighters or anti-aircraft guns.

After the signals officer, had come the armoury man, who had briefed them on the bomb load, ordering the right mix of high explosive and incendiaries required for the target.