The Silent War (28 page)

‘I suppose wot I’m tryin’ ter tell yer, Sun, is that when somebody yer love ain’t around no more, it don’t mean yer ’ave ter stop lovin’ ’em.’ She took one last pull on her fag, then flicked it into the river. Then she put her mug down on the parapet wall, and turned back to Sunday again. ‘You’re ’avin’ a rough time, mate, don’t fink I don’t know it.’ Her eyes were glistening in the cold. ‘But yer’ve got a good ’ead on yer body. Just always remember that yer ’ave ter do wot yer ’eart tells yer ter do. An’ never ever look back over yer shoulder.’

Sunday and her old friend turned to look down into the river. With elbows leaning on the parapet wall, they could just pick out the strange patterns the lamplight was creating on the fast-flowing tidal water beneath them. On the south bank side, a coal barge was chugging its way upriver, and just before it reached Westminster Bridge, it sounded its warning horn.

A few minutes later, Bess bundled Sunday off into a taxi, and paid the driver three shillings to take her back to ‘the Buildings’. Once the taxi had disappeared off in the direction of Blackfriars Bridge and Ludgate Circus, Bess returned to the refreshment stall to share a fag with the two black GIs.

It was the start of yet another hard night’s work.

When Sunday got back to Cloy’s Farm, one of the first things she did was to register for speech and sign language therapy at the Colchester General Hospital. This involved attending evening sessions twice a week at a clinic in Halstead, and together with other patients, she started to build on what she had already been taught by Gary. It was a slow, laborious task, for the therapist in charge of the sessions did not have the real flair needed to bring the complications of two-handed sign language to life.

Meanwhile, during the Christmas holidays, Jinx and Erin had managed to take a belated weekend honeymoon to Clacton-on-Sea, and, with the exception of Sheil, the other girls had spent the time at home with their respective families. When everyone got back to the barn they had quite a shock, for Sheil had decorated the place with all the sketches and coloured drawings she had been working on. The sketches were absolutely beautiful, and ranged from portraits of the girls themselves to winter landscapes and cows grazing in the meadow. It had taken Sunday a long time to forgive Sheil’s behaviour on the evening when Ruthie had suffered an epileptic fit. At the time, she had no idea that Sheil had been undergoing psychiatric treatment for the trauma she had gone through during the London Blitz, and that on three separate occasions she had tried to kill herself. Since then, Sunday had felt tremendous sympathy and compassion for Sheil, and recognised that she was using her sketches and drawings to release all the complicated tensions that were pent up inside her. In fact, Sunday was fighting the same kind of
battles
within herself, for it had now emerged that Gary’s B17 had been shot down, with little chance that any of the crew had survived.

The first few days of the New Year soon turned into a nightmare. During the Christmas period there had been little or no activity from V-1s or V-2s, but quite suddenly all that changed, and the skies above East Anglia were again streaked with the trailing flames of these final attempts by the
Luftwaffe
to turn the tide of the war. And as if that were not bad enough, it started to snow again, and within just a few hours, drifts had reached almost a foot deep, cutting off roads and villages within a wide radius, and causing extensive power cuts throughout the region. Ridgewell Airbase was one of the first casualties, with all planes grounded and a lengthy cessation of combat raids on enemy-occupied territory.

Heavy manual help was now desperately required to clear the deep snowdrifts from the roads leading to and from the airbase. And at Cloy’s Farm, the girls had a real struggle to retrieve cows and sheep that were stranded in the fields. This problem was eventually solved when a group of Italian prisoners of war were sent over from the Golden Meadow Camp in Halstead. Although some of them were resistant to helping out in any way, most of the men, aware that their country was now being occupied by the Allies, were only too willing to do what they could.

Sunday got her first glimpse of the POWs in their distinctive green battledress uniforms and topcoats when she and Jinx were desperately trying to shovel a path through the snow to rescue a small flock of sheep who had taken refuge in the woods beyond Cloy’s now bare sugar beet field. In the far distance, the POWs looked like a pack of green insects cutting their way in a single line across the densely covered meadow, where a herd of cows were huddled together in a panic trying to keep warm. Behind them followed a snowplough from the aerodrome, operated by a couple of GI maintenance men who had been loaned by their commanding officer to help out in the emergency.

‘Bloody lazy lot, those dagos!’ gasped Jinx, as she struggled to free one of the sheep, and herd it and the rest of the flock back towards the farm. ‘That’s why they’ve lost the war. Too much like hard work for them, fightin’ our boys!’

Sunday didn’t really catch what Jinx was saying, but she guessed that, as usual, she was complaining about something.

Nearby, the cows who had just been rescued from oblivion were making a hell of a row, protesting strongly at the Italian POWs who had finally succeeded in herding them along the path they had cleared for them. But once the poor, terrified creatures were safely back in the farmyard area again, one of the Italians returned to help Sunday and Jinx with the sheep.

‘You leave to me, lady,’ said the young POW, whose sharp Latin features were only just visible behind a green woollen balaclava.

As Sunday was busy struggling to contain a terrified sheep, she hadn’t seen what the man was saying to her.

The POW looked puzzled, and tried again. ‘Lady?’ he asked. ‘You need help?’

‘She can’t ’ear yer!’ snapped Jinx tartly, at the same time pointing to her own ears.

The young Italian still looked puzzled.

‘She can’t ’ear yer!’ she yelled. ‘Can’t yer understand, boyo? My friend is deaf!’

The POW finally understood, but looked shocked. ‘Oh,’ he said dolefully, as Sunday looked over her shoulder at him. ‘I sorry.’

Now it was Sunday’s turn to look puzzled.

Without saying anything more, the young Italian grabbed hold of the sheep that was bucking up and down in Sunday’s arms, and pushed it off with his foot towards the path that the plough had now forged in the snow. Once the panicking creature had escaped, the rest of the small flock followed.

‘Thanks,’ Sunday said to the Italian.

‘Lady.’

The young Italian half bowed to her. He wanted to stay and speak with her, but one look from Jinx persuaded him otherwise. So he turned, and walked back towards his comrades, who were now rejoining their British Army supervisor.

Sunday watched him go. There was something about him that fascinated her.

Jinx thought otherwise. ‘Bloody dago!’ she sneered. ‘That’s wot ’appens when you eat too much spaghetti!’

It was almost a week before Ridgewell Airbase became operational again. Once the runways were cleared of snow for take-off, it was only a matter of waiting for the freezing fog to disperse before orders were received to recommence bombing raids over Germany. And when that order finally came, the heavy winter skies were immediately jammed with wave after wave of B17 Flying Fortresses from the 381st Bomb Group. As Sunday watched the great silver birds heading off towards the East Anglian coastline, she thought of Gary, and of all those air-crews who risked their lives day after day, night after night, many of whom would never return.

Despite the constant Allied onslaught by land, sea, and air, North Essex still faced danger from enemy attacks by V-1 and V-2 rockets. This meant that everyone in the region, including the people of Ridgewell, had to remain on a full state of alert, and after the lull in enemy aerial attacks over the Christmas and New Year period, the reality that the war was not yet over was brought home only too well. It happened early one morning, when Sunday was alone in the chicken huts, cleaning out the runs after the annual slaughter of birds for the Christmas ovens. Unbeknown to her, a sudden barrage of anti-aircraft guns from the aerodrome was blasting the sky with shells and tracer bullets, attempting to bring down a stream of V-1 ‘doodlebugs’ that had infiltrated the coastal defences, and were now making their way through to the London area.

‘Sunday!’

Sunday only turned to see that it was young Ronnie Cloy who had entered the hut, because there was a sudden rush of cold air coming through the door behind her.

‘You’ve got to take cover, Sunday!’ he spluttered urgently. ‘They’re shootin’ down “doodlebugs” – a whole lot of them!’ His hands and arms were waving about wildly. ‘We’ve got to get down the shelter!’

Sunday was flummoxed. The last person she expected to see at this hour was Ronnie, for it was the first time he had spoken to her since his jealous outburst on Christmas Eve. Panicking, she quickly followed him out of the hut.

Outside, it was still dark, but as clear as a bell. Up above, the sky was streaked with vapour trails and puffs of small artificial clouds from ack-ack fire, and jagged pieces of shrapnel were plopping down into the snow all around the farmyard.

Ronnie had grabbed hold of Sunday’s hand, and was dragging her as fast as he could towards the air-raid shelter beneath ground at the rear of the girls’ billet. ‘Quick as you can!’ he yelled, trying to make sure that Sunday could read what he was saying. ‘This stuff’s white-hot . . .!’

He had hardly spoken when he and Sunday were virtually blown off their feet by a massive explosion in the nearby potato field. In the towering wall of snow that cascaded across the farmland towards them, windows all around the farm were shattered, tiles and thatch ripped off the roofs, and farmyard machinery toppled over like pieces of cardboard.

When the cascade of snow had finally settled, Sunday and Ronnie found themselves sprawled out face down on the ground, covered by an inch or so of snow and ice.

Ronnie was the first to recover. ‘Sunday!’ he yelled, pulling her up from the snow. ‘Sunday, are you all right?’

Sunday was shaking from both the sheer terror of the
incident
and also the severe cold. ‘W–what happened?’ she asked, clearing the snow from her face and hands.

‘I think they shot it down,’ replied Ronnie, helping Sunday to her feet. ‘In Father’s potato field at the back.’

Almost as he spoke, there was the sound of people shouting from the air-raid shelter, and from the farmhouse. And at the same time, fire engine bells were clanging excitedly as they came racing out from the aerodrome making straight towards the farm.

‘Sunday!’

Jinx was yelling out at the top of her voice. Behind her came the other girls, who were all emerging in a panic from the air-raid shelter.

‘Sunday! Are you all right? Are you hurt, girl? Are you?’

Sunday, still trying to recover from her ordeal, nodded her head. ‘I’m all right,’ she said, trying to allay everyone’s fears.

Behind them, there was pandemonium in the stables, the sheep- and cowsheds, and amongst the few remaining pigs and geese who had survived the Christmas slaughter.

Meanwhile, Maureen was doing her best to draw everyone’s attention to the front of the farmhouse, where a fire had broken out on the roof.

‘Fire!’ yelled Ruthie, who was already rushing back to the barn to collect one of the stirrup pumps.

Within moments, the whole area was frantic with activity, as people rushed back and forth trying to work out what needed to be done. Although bewildered and disoriented, Sunday refused Jinx’s offer to lead her back inside the barn. ‘I’m all right,’ she insisted, immediately looking around to see what she could do to help.

‘Over here!’

Everyone turned their attention towards the rear door of the farmhouse, where Arnold Cloy’s wife, Angela, had appeared and was shouting out almost hysterically.

‘Help me!’ she yelled again. ‘Arnold’s been hurt!’

Ronnie Cloy immediately sprinted off towards the house. Whilst he was doing so, two fire engines from the aerodrome came speeding down the main farmhouse approach, emergency lights flashing, warning bells buzzing.

Sunday had no idea what was going on when she saw everyone rushing towards the house. So she just stood where she was, clutching her ears with both hands and closing her eyes, and telling herself inside that it was happening all over again. She felt as though she was going out of her mind as she clenched her fists and shook them angrily up at the sky. ‘When is it going to end!’ Her strange new voice boomed out loud above the chaotic sounds all around her. ‘For God’s sake tell me –
when
!’

High above her, white vapour from a V-2 rocket streaked across the entire expanse of the gradually lightening sky.

The Parish Church of St Laurence in Ridgewell was so crowded that some people had to stand at the back. Every pew had been taken by local villagers and men and women of the United States 381st Bomb Group from Ridgewell Airbase, all of them there to pay tribute to civilians and air-crews who had given their lives in what had now become known as ‘the endless war’. Sunday and her Land Girl friends were there too, sitting in a neat row halfway back just behind Farmer Cloy’s wife, Angela, whose husband was recovering in hospital from injuries incurred during the ‘doodlebug’ explosion in the field at the back of the farmhouse. Young Ronnie Cloy was sitting alongside his mother, and Sunday was aware of how ill at ease they both were in each other’s company, for at no time did they communicate or even exchange a glance.

Although Sunday couldn’t hear anything of the service taking place, her eyes constantly scanned the grey stone
walls
of the old church, which set off so dramatically the sea of khaki uniforms and the two huge Union Jack and Stars and Stripes flags which were draped across each other above the altar. It was a poignant occasion, and Sunday’s thoughts were miles away, drifting back to those few brief weeks of happiness she had spent with Gary. It was the same for Jinx, who was very emotional and tense, as she tried to picture in her mind where Erin might be at that very moment, bottled up inside his giant B17 aircraft on yet another hazardous daylight bombing raid over enemy territory. And Sunday even felt sympathy for Angela Cloy who had suffered such anguish in the aftermath of the ‘doodlebug’ explosion, which had caused considerable damage to the farmhouse roof.