Under the Apple Tree (23 page)

off her. It’s heavy, but we’ve got to be very careful not to

hurt her any more, or even take things off too suddenly.

You stay beside her, make sure all that sick’s wiped away

out of her mouth.’

Polly began to lift bricks away, passing them to Judy to

toss into the corner of the room. Together they worked

while the man cradled his mother’s head in his hands,

imploring her not to go, not to leave him, not to die, for Gawd’s sake, not to die…

The blood continued to seep from under the rubble,

soaking their clothes. How much has she got in her, Judy

wondered, and how much can she afford to lose? She tried

to remember what she’d been taught in the First-Aid classes

all the WVS staff and volunteers had done. Was it eight

pints? A gallon? But this woman looked so tiny and

withered, she surely couldn’t have that much blood in her

body. And how much had she lost already? She’s going to

die, she thought suddenly, and her heart seemed to drop.

She’s going to die.

The old woman was rambling now, swearing at the

Germans, at the Government, at the bombers, at the ARP.

She called out for people she must have known during her

life - Johnny, our Moll, Fred and Rags, presumably the

family dog. She went further back and cried for her father

and mother, who must have been dead for years. Her son

pleaded with her to come back to the present, to know that

he was with her: ‘It’s your Jack, Mum, don’t you know me,

your Jack what’s looked after you all these years. Don’t say

you don’t know me, Ma, I can’t bear it … It’s your Jack,

your Jack…’

Their voices went on and on, calling and shouting against

each other, and the anguish of it tore at Polly’s heart. It

might be a slum, but this was a mother and son who’d stuck

together through who knew what bad times, and now they’d

come to this terrible end. Like Judy, she was sure the old

woman was going to die. Too much blood was being lost,

too much injury suffered. And yet she could not give up. As

long as the old heart could still beat, as long as the tattered lungs could still draw breath to scream, there must be hope.

While there was life, there must still be hope …

At last there was nothing left on the crumpled body but

the beam itself. It lay across the woman’s abdomen,

crushing her body and one leg which was curled beneath

her. Polly stared at it. She saw the mess of torn flesh and

broken bone, the twisted internal organs that should never

be revealed, and wondered sickly how the old woman had

survived this long.

‘Oh Polly,’ Judy whispered in her ear. ‘Whatever are we

going to do?’

Chris had been the first to spot the approaching wave of bombers.

He had been working overtime in the Dockyard until

noon, then gone home for his Sunday dinner. He’d had a

wash at the sink, grabbed his tin helmet, fastened his

brassard to his arm and then cycled out to the hotel, looking

forward to his date with Judy later on. She was a real

smasher, he thought, his heart quickening a little, but it was

a shame she was engaged. Still, she’d agreed to go for a walk

with him so maybe it wasn’t really that serious. If it was,

Chris wouldn’t push things, but he couldn’t help hoping…

He arrived at the hotel and went straight up in the lift,

thinking of the hour or so he and Judy had spent trapped

inside. Good old lift, he thought affectionately, watching the

walls as it creaked its way up. At least you were on my side.

The lift shuddered to a stop and he got out and climbed the

fire-escape ladder to the roof.

The roof was a large, flat area with a variety of small,

square buildings planted apparently at random over it. Some

were water tanks, one was the Fire Brigade lookout and one

was the ROC Observation Post - little more than a shack,

with a table inside on which lay a map with the pivoting

plotting instrument mounted on top. The Observers also

had a small wooden ‘caboose’ where they had a chair or two,

a stove and a kettle. Spud Murphy, Chris’s fellow Observer,

was already inside, brewing up.

Chris took a quick look around. The view from up here

must be the best in Pompey, he thought. To the north, you

could see the green bulk of Portsdown Hill, pocked with

chalk pits, with the whole city spread between. You could

see all the bomb damage — streets of demolished houses,

huge piles of rubble, the ruins of churches, shops and, worst

of all, the Guildhall, a gutted shell amidst the desolation.

His heart grew cold as he gazed at it.

Turning west, he could see the broad, glittering harbour,

always crowded with naval ships, and the Camber, driving

into the heart of Old Portsmouth, where the fishermen and

small commercial ships came. The square, white tower of

the cathedral looked deceptively strong and tranquil in the

late afternoon light and he wondered how long it would be

before that too was blasted to smithereens.

The Royal Beach faced south, over the Solent towards the

Isle of Wight. On an April Sunday afternoon in peacetime

this would have been thronged with yachts and sailing

dinghies and the beach crowded with families bathing and

having picnics on the shingle beach. Today there were just a

few, probably people who lived close by. Most of the others

who might have come out would be staying at home,

wanting to be within reach of shelter in case of a raid, and

South Parade Pier itself was almost deserted. Chris had been

to a good few dances there; like most young men and

women he was keen on the big bands and had never failed to

be there when Joe Loss, Ambrose or Sid Phillips were

performing. He wondered if Judy had been there on those

nights too - maybe with that fiance of hers - and thought

wistfully of taking her himself. He hoped that nothing

would happen to spoil their date tonight.

Spud poked his head out of the caboose. ‘Tea up, mate.

Anything in sight?’

Chris shook his head, turning to gaze eastwards across the

sweep of Langstone Harbour, smaller and shallower than

the main harbour and used mostly by fishermen and leisure

sailors. It was from that direction, over Hayling Island, that

enemy attackers usually came, or sometimes from the Isle of

Wight. The two Observers who had been on duty came out

of the shack. There was nothing to report, they said, and

clattered off down the steel ladder, leaving Chris and Spud

in charge.

The ROC had been formed in the 1920s, almost entirely

of volunteers like Chris. Until only a fortnight ago, it had

been simply the ‘Observer Corps’, the title ‘Royal’ having

been conferred upon it in recognition of its services during

the Battle of Britain, last September. There was talk of their being allowed to wear RAF uniform as well and Chris hoped

this would happen. He still felt disappointed at not being

able to join up, and to wear His Majesty’s uniform and be

seen to be a part of it all would go a long way to make up for

that.

Carrying their mugs of tea, Chris and Spud went into the

lookout post. As well as the table with the map and plotting

instrument, there was a telephone and a large pair of

binoculars. It was one Observer’s job to scan the skies,

keeping a constant watch for aircraft, while the other plotted

their position and course. The details were then telephoned

through to the Winchester Observation Centre, where the

plotters worked at their large central table, using long poles

to move the counters that represented the aircraft into their

positions. With information coming through headphones

from three posts at once, each observing the same aircraft, it

was possible for the controllers on the dais overlooking the

table to see exactly what was happening in the sky many

miles away, and to take appropriate action.

Chris picked up his binoculars and immediately spotted a

plane, heading for the Fleet Air Arm airfield at Lee-on-the

Solent. ‘Friendly Fleet Air Arm,’ he reported, and Spud

quickly plotted its position and wrote it in the log book. Friendly civil. Friendly coastal. Each one was plotted and reported to Winchester. The overall picture was important,

even when there were no raiders.

The afternoon wore on, the few people who were still on

the beach went home and the sun began to dip towards the

horizon. It looked as though his date with Judy would be

safe. Spud took his turn with the binoculars and Chris made

another mug of tea and began to relax.

His four-hour duty was almost over when he picked up

the glasses for the last time and caught sight of the dark

spots far away over Hayling Island.

‘Raiders,’ he said sharply, and Spud, who was writing up

the log book, snapped to attention. ‘Blimey, there’s bloody

hundreds of them … Get their positions plotted, quick!’

Spud bent over the map which covered the table. It was

marked with Ordnance Survey grid references and, with the

pivoting mapping instrument mounted in the centre, he

could estimate the attackers’ present position as well as their direction. At the same time, reports began to come in from

the post further along the coast, giving details of the

invaders as they passed, and Spud began to set the

Micklethwait in position. ‘Altitude?’

‘Around 10,000 feet. Junker Ju88As … Dornier Do 17s

… Heinkels … They’re sending the bloody lot over - this

is going to be a big one … Coming in fast now — get on to

HQ.…’

Spud grabbed the phone and spoke urgently. ‘3M.3

calling, numerous planes seen 7592, flying north, height

10,000 feet.’ By the time he had finished, Chris was spitting

out more information. Continuing to operate the

Micklethwait, Spud relayed the details, knowing that in

Winchester everyone would be agog, watching the development

of what must be a big raid. But a big raid over which

city? ‘It’s going to be Pompey,’ he said, taking a quick look

through the window. ‘Bugger it, Chris, it’s going to be us!’

Almost before he had finished speaking, the sirens began

to wail. The steel ladder rattled and the Chief Observer thrust his way into the tiny shelter. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Large formation over Hayling, sir.’ Chris handed him

the spare set of binoculars. ‘Looks like a hell of a raid.’

‘You’ve been on to Winchester?’

The question was unnecessary. Spud was still on the

phone, reporting the progress of the invaders. ‘Looks like

they’re coming here, sir.’ He thought regretfully of his date

with Judy. ‘Blimey, they’re like a flock of bloody starlings

coming home to roost!’ The sky was darkening with the

mass of aircraft. In a few moments, the drone of their

engines would be audible; a few moments after that and the

bombs would begin to fall. ‘Hey, look, ours are up now!’ A

flock of wings had risen into the air down the coast,

somewhere near Chichester. ‘That’ll see them off! Atta

boy!’

The three men watched tensely. Chris had forgotten

about going off duty. The chances were that his relief

wouldn’t get here now. Like most of the Observers, the next

two on duty were Portsmouth boys and able to live at home.

If the raid were bad, they might well get caught or be unable

to make it through the streets. Observers had been known to

be stuck in their posts for hours, sometimes days, especially

during the snowstorms of January, and you never left your

post until relief arrived — not if you wanted to remain an

Observer.

Chris continued to watch the planes, still rapping out

estimates of position and altitude to Spud who swiftly

checked them on the map and relayed them to the plotting

rooms at Winchester. There was no time for anyone to think

about being off duty. No time to think of anything else but

the raiders, and the urgent need to prevent their deadly

progress.

‘One’s down!’ Chris could see the balloon of black smoke

and the spurt of flame as a Dornier spiralled into the sea.

‘Oh, bloody well done!’ But one was not enough. Ten would

not be enough, nor twenty, out of the mass of aircraft still

steadily approaching. ‘There’s bloody hundreds of them,’ he

said again. ‘Bloody hundreds’

The siren had wailed into silence. The hotel was almost

certainly deserted now, with everyone in it sheltering in the

basements, just as all those in Portsmouth would now be

crouching in their Andersons or pushing into the street

shelters. Those who could not would be huddled under the

stairs, while some who refused to shelter at all would be

sitting defiantly in their own back rooms, convinced that if a

bomb had their name on it, it would find them wherever

they were. And some, ignoring the danger, would be

to go out into the streets, ready to put out

incendiaries, fight fires, rescue the trapped from bombed

buildings or give First Aid to the injured.