Winter of Discontent (12 page)
Merrifield nodded, a look of compassion on his face. “I was so sorry for your loss. I seldom saw Bill of latter years, even when he moved to Heatherwood House. I seldom see anyone except nurses, indeed, and my son, of course. They will have told you I’ve become quite a hermit. I am not suited to the communal life, I fear. After my retirement, my dear wife and I gloried in the privacy one could never achieve in the Air Force. However, I do of course hear the news that circulates, and I was stunned to hear of Bill’s death. I thought he was in excellent health.”
Jane simply nodded.
Merrifield looked around the room. The two old ladies were still slumbering peacefully, but the old man shook his head. “I was about to go for a little walk. I walk every afternoon, rain or shine. One must keep moving, I find, or the joints cease operating altogether. If you’d care to accompany me, we could talk privately.”
My pulse quickened a little. If he desired privacy, did it mean that he had something to tell us that was off the record?
A DOOR LED FROM THE SUN PORCH STRAIGHT OUT INTO THE grounds. There was a graveled path leading to a rose garden, now sere of leaf and barren of flower, but beautifully tidy. I wondered in passing how much it cost to live at Heatherwood House. They obviously had a complete and hardworking staff, and that doesn’t come cheap.
“You’ve asked about Bill’s war experiences,” Merrifield began. “I’m afraid I knew him for only a few months. He joined up early in 1943, April if I recall correctly—”
“March,” said Jane.
“Ah, yes, you would remember better than I, of course. He had just turned eighteen, I believe.”
Jane nodded.
“He was assigned to my squadron. We flew out of Luftwich Airfield, not far from Great Yarmouth in Norfolk. You’ll remember that, I expect” He looked at Jane, who nodded again.
“The field is long gone now, of course. It was all a long time ago. A long time ago.” He was silent for a moment, then resumed his narrative tone. “Bill was very young, but boys grew up fast back then. They had to. So many of them died or were wounded before they ever saw their twenty-first birthday.” He sighed. “At any rate, I was dubious when Bill was assigned to my wing, but I soon learned that he was an excellent flyer, and reliable, as well.” He hesitated for a moment. “There were some young officers commissioned at that time who—well, shall we say they never seemed quite to understand the responsibilities of an officer. Bill was quite different. Although his background was perhaps somewhat lacking in polish, he learned quickly, not only the technical aspects of what we were doing, but the social niceties as well.”
I stole a glance at Jane behind Merrifield’s back, wondering how she was reacting to his comments about Bill’s working-class origins. I’m often uncomfortable about England’s class structure, which I find a good deal more rigid than what I was used to in America. Apparently, though, Jane was unperturbed. Well, she’d lived with it all her life, after all.
“So he got along well with the other officers?” I asked.
“And with the men as well. He was quite popular in the mess, though he was a quiet chap. Not at all hail-fellow-well-met, but friendly, and with a sense of humor. He had a tendency to fraternize with the lower ranks a bit too much; I had to call him down a time or two about that. It wouldn’t do, you know An officer must be respected. I suppose you find that undemocratic?” he added to me, smiling.
The man was perceptive, wasn’t he? “A little, perhaps, but I do understand. When an officer gives orders, they have to be obeyed without question. Especially in wartime.”
“Precisely. Well, as I say, Bill was with me for only a few months, but he was a valued member of the wing. I was extremely sorry to lose him—especially because, of course, I thought he had probably been killed.”
“Can you tell me what happened, exactly? When the plane went down, I mean.”
Merrifield smiled a little. “No, I can’t, exactly. I’ve never been sure myself. I don’t imagine you can picture what it was like. We had completed our mission, quite successfully. It was a bombing raid on Berlin, did you know?”
“I know a little about it,” I said. “One of Bill’s buddies told us the bare details.”
“That will have been Rutherford, I expect. How he did hate me, to be sure! His account may have been a trifle skewed, and of course, he wasn’t there.
“You realize there were hundreds of planes involved in the operation, many from Luftwich. You have never, probably, been involved in any kind of military operation, but believe me, the level of noise and confusion is like nothing any civilian can conceive. Apart from anything else, the smoke from the bombs and, I’m afraid, from a good many planes that had been hit made it impossible to see anything clearly. It was a night raid—we did most of our bombing at night—and I had to rely quite heavily on my instruments to have any idea of where I was.
“You probably know that the planes were extremely primitive compared to anything we have now. The instruments were limited in number and not terribly sophisticated. We flew by sight whenever we could, relying on landmarks to find our way. That was impossible on that particular night. Once we had dropped our bombs I wanted, of course, to get out of there as fast as I could. The Luftwaffe was out in force, naturally, and there was heavy antiaircraft fire from the ground as well. I put the plane on a compass heading for home, but flying by compass alone can be disastrous, because it doesn’t account for wind drift. The wind that night was from the north. I had no desire to find myself pushed southward over France, so I was flying as low as I dared, and just above stall speed, in the hopes of spotting something that would give me my bearings. Of course that kept us below radar range, as well, so it was quite standard procedure.
“Unfortunately, exactly what I had feared was what happened. It was nearly dawn before there was enough light to see anything, and then what I saw was the coast of the Channel—but the wrong coast. I was far off my course, over France, at about Boulogne, I reckoned. I was just making the turn straight north to make for home when all hell let loose. A burst of antiaircraft fire caught us, and the plane caught fire at once.”
A pair of stone benches stood by the path. Merrifield paused. “I’m feeling a little tired. Would you mind if we sit for a little, or will you be too cold?”
“No, of course not,” I said with some dismay, “but should we turn back? They told us—I mean, I don’t want to wear you out.”
“They told you I tire easily, I suppose. It’s true, I do. Only to be expected at the incredible age I’ve achieved. What they don’t realize is that a little rest refreshes me quite thoroughly. So if you really don’t object …” and he lowered himself gingerly to the cold bench.
Jane and I sat on the other. It was freezing. The sun had lost all its warmth and most of its light by now.
“So the plane was on fire,” Jane prompted.
“Yes. If hell is meant for punishment, I shall never have to see it in the next world, for I already have done in this. I won’t attempt to describe it. I haven’t the words, and if I had, they would distress you immeasurably. I could do nothing to save the plane or my crew. I was scarcely able to think at all. The plane was falling to pieces around me, but I managed somehow to get out and inflate my parachute. I hoped the rest of the crew had done the same.
“You probably know the rest. Bill will have told you, or you have Rutherford’s version. I was extremely lucky. I passed out shortly after I landed—I’d been rather badly burned and was in a good deal of pain—but when I woke, I was in a barn, tucked up very nicely in the haymow I’d been fortunate enough to come down on a farm owned by a member of the Resistance. He was an old man, or so I thought then. Perhaps sixty or so. Seems a mere stripling now At any rate, he was kindness itself. My French isn’t bad, so we had no trouble communicating. He dressed my burns, checked me over, and hustled me out of that conspicuous barn to a rather nasty little hole under one of the sheds. The Germans were all over the place almost at once, of course. They’d seen the plane come down and wanted to make quite sure that the crew were all dead. I lay there in my hole trying not to breathe; they came very close to me, but they never knew I was there. I don’t speak German, so I didn’t know what they were saying, and I doubt the farmer understood much either. At least he pretended he didn’t. He played up beautifully, the stupid peasant to the life. Jean Leclerc, his name was. I’ve never forgotten him. I owe him my life.
“At any rate, once they were gone he nursed me for a few days until I could move more comfortably, and then he gave me clothes and organized transport back to England. It was all very dangerous, probably even more for him than for me. He was a brave man. I’ve never known whether he survived the war. After it was all over I tried to trace him, but I didn’t know exactly where I’d been, and records were in a shambles. I’ve never known,” he repeated, and sighed.
I was turning to an icicle. I struggled to my feet, my knees even stiffer than usual. “Maybe we should go in?” I suggested.
“Yes,” said Merrifield, rising with less difficulty than I. “The day and the story have chilled us.”
We were nearly back to the house when Jane spoke. “And Bill? When did you hear anything of him?”
“Not for years, actually. He was listed as ‘Missing in action,’ and his parents were notified. The war dragged on, though we all knew that Hitler was defeated. It was only a matter of time. Then after the smoke cleared and we had won the war, we began to realize we now had to win the peace. I planned to make a career in the Air Force, so I stayed in. I was posted to various locations and kept quite busy, though I found time to marry and start a family. I was in Africa in late 1945 when word sifted through channels that Flying Officer Fanshawe had been found in a prison camp, ill and malnourished, but likely to survive. I was delighted, of course. We’d been given the address of the hospital where he was being treated, so I wrote to him, but he replied only briefly. I thought he was still weak and unable to hold a pen for very long, and dismissed the matter from my mind.
“I didn’t return to Sherebury for any length of time until I retired, and by that time Bill was no longer living here. I had lost touch with him completely, so you can imagine my surprise and pleasure when he moved back here and took the job at the museum. My wife had died, of course, and I admit I was rather lonely. We saw a certain amount of each other, although he would never talk very much about his war experiences.”
“Didn’t you think that was rather odd?” I asked. “So many men like to tell war stories, literally.”
“No, I understood. He had suffered terribly in prison, and he felt, I think, that he’d done very little to help his country. He was wrong about that—the Battle of Berlin alone was a tremendous boost for the Allies—but he preferred to talk of other things, and I respected that. And then of course I became unable to keep the house in good condition and had to sell it and move here, and ironically, we lost touch again.”
“Donated some of your war memorabilia to the museum, didn’t you?” Jane put in.
“Yes. I do feel rather strongly that the history of Sherebury’s contribution to the war must not be lost. Bill and I had a few conversations about a special display paying homage to the men—and women, of course—who served in the armed forces during the war. The memorial in the Cathedral honors those who died, but I felt it was important to remember those who served and lived on, as well. Goodness knows what will happen to the materials now that Bill is gone.”
We had reached the sun porch, now deserted in the waning light. As we entered the door I studied it thoughtfully.
“I’m a little surprised that they keep this door unlocked. Surely there is an occasional resident who forgets where home is, and might wander off. I would think they’d limit the exits to those with staff nearby to keep an eye on who comes and goes—not to mention the fact that someone undesirable might come in by a rather remote door.”
Merrifield pointed to the ceiling. Sure enough, a small camera, nearly hidden in the decorative molding, was pointed at the door. “One has the feeling of being watched all the time,” he said with distaste, “except when we’re actually in our own rooms. It’s one of the reasons I dislike living here. It is for our own protection, I know, but it gives me an unpleasant feeling. And for this particular door, it’s unnecessary, in my opinion. The part of the grounds where we walked today is completely enclosed by quite a high wall. No resident could get far, and no outsider could come in.”
“Still, I’m glad the security camera is there. It makes me feel better about the whole thing.”
“Ah, yes, Mrs. Martin, but then you are not the object of the scrutiny.”
“True enough.”
Merrifield sat, rather abruptly, in the nearest chair. “Ladies, I have enjoyed this very much, though I doubt I’ve been much help to you. The people who could answer your questions about Bill’s war would be those who shared his prison time, but I have no idea where you’d find them. Most of them are probably dead by now. I’m among the few who have lived so long. Too long.” He sighed. “I’m afraid I have become a bit tired. Would you mind very much if I said good-bye? I believe it’s time for my nap.”
He looked gray and exhausted. My conscience smote me. “We’ve talked too long, and I promised we wouldn’t. Thank you so much, you’ve been a big help. Shall I send a nurse to you?”
“If you would be so good.” He leaned back in his chair, looking suddenly like the very, very old man that he was.
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