by V M Knox
In Spite of All Terror
V. M. Knox
Dedication
Also by V. M. Knox
England 1940
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
Copyright
Dedication
For Sarah and Elizabeth
Also by V. M. Knox
Coming Soon
If Necessary Alone
“Victory at all costs,
Victory in spite of all terror,
Victory however long and hard the road may be,
for without victory, there is no survival.”
Winston S. Churchill
Speech to The House of Commons
13th May, 1940
England 1940
Chapter 1
Tuesday 3rd September
‘Clement!’
He heard her calling but he did not lift his head.
‘Clement! There’s a telephone call for you!’
He took a deep breath and looked up. Of course he would go. That was his job. He laid the shovel down and, reaching for his handkerchief, mopped his brow before walking down the path towards the back door. Perhaps it was the warmer than usual September weather, but he felt every one of his forty-nine years.
His wife had already left the doorway as Clement entered the house. She was standing beside the kitchen table stringing some runner beans. He glanced at her hands. It always amazed him how her fingers prepared the vegetable; the swift, deft act-ion of the sharp kitchen knife cutting and slicing with the precision of years. He walked along the corridor to the small table by the stairs and lifted the receiver.
‘Reverend Wisdom speaking.’
‘Clement, this is John Winthorpe.’
He thought for a second.
‘Johnny Winthorpe. Say you remember seminary school, Clement?’
‘Of course, forgive me. It must be more than twenty years, Johnny.’ He paused. All the fun and fellowship of his younger days at Oakhill Theological College flooded back and he found himself smiling at the memories. Johnny Winthorpe, voted the man most likely to advance. Intelligent and good-looking, he could always attract the attention of people, his charm equally effective on men as it was on women. But Johnny was ten years Clement’s junior and, unlike himself, had been too young to fight in the Great War. That distinction alone made Clement feel like he inhabited a different generation.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely! Archdeacon Winthorpe, actually.’
‘Congratulations,’ Clement replied, but he couldn’t resist a smile; nothing, he mused, had changed in twenty years. ‘What can I do for you, Johnny?’
‘I’ve put your name forward for inclusion in a new initiative. Can’t say much about it at this stage. Would you come up to London on Thursday? We could meet, have some lunch and I can fill you in. It would be good to see you again, Clement.’
‘Thursday?’
‘Yes. It may be best if you stay overnight, what with the blackouts. You can stay with the rector of Christ Church, in Mayfair. He’s a friend of mine. Can you be at Victoria Station around eleven on Thursday? I’ll have a driver pick you up. Just stand at the cab rank. He’ll find you.‘
‘I suppose so.’
The Archdeacon hung up.
Clement replaced the telephone receiver. An “initiative” Johnny had said. He must mean a council, Clement thought, one that wanted him! He had finally admitted to himself that All Saints Anglican Church, Fearnley Maughton, East Sussex and tending the garden was his present and his future. But the war was changing everything, and the unexpected call from Johnny Winthorpe had made his heart race. He felt the smile fall from his face. Perhaps it had more to do with shortage of manpower than any special ability he may possess.
‘Clement?’ Mary called. ‘Are you going out?’
‘That was Johnny Winthorpe,’ he said walking into the kitchen. ‘Do you remember him? We were at theological college together. He’s an Archdeacon now.’
She stopped stringing the beans, the knife held in suspended readiness. ‘What did he want?’
Clement stared at the prepared beans floating in a bowl of water on the table in front of her. Whilst admitting, even if only to himself, that he felt excited at the prospect of being involved in something bigger than the Church Wardens’ Committee, he remained perplexed at receiving such a call at all. ‘He’s put my name forward for some committee. I have to go to London on Thursday.’
‘What sort of committee?’
‘He didn’t say.’
He saw her lips tighten at the corners. It was the smallest of reactions, but he knew from experience what it meant. Thursday was their day together.
‘Well, I better get the rest of those potatoes dug.’
‘Lunch will be ready in half an hour,’ Mary said.
He nodded. Placing his hand on the doorknob he paused, ‘Perhaps we could go to Lewes on Saturday?’
‘You have a wedding and a baptism on Saturday, Clement,’ she said, her hand reaching for the next bean.
Leaving the house, he walked back along the path. He would make it up to her and her disappointment would not last - that was one of the things he loved about Mary. A vicar’s life was never routine and she knew that. Especially so in wartime. He picked up the hoe, pondering the new initiative. He could not imagine why Johnny would ever think of him. Swinging the implement, he chipped out a cluster of potatoes and brushed the soil from their skins. He had been the vicar of All Saints for twenty years and he had long given up on career advancement. He raised his head and looked over the roof tops of the houses and shops of the village. Not that he was un-happy. Quite the reverse, in fact. He had found contentment here with Mary. Fearnley Maughton was a pretty village and every season brought its own special delight; in winter the snow made the village like a Christmas card scene while in spring and summer the potted flowers and long hours of daylight brightened the most tedious day.
He breathed deeply and stretched his back. But spring was past and the autumnal leaves were already changing colour in nearby Maughton Forest. Up to his left, the church and surrounding graveyard stood on top of the low hill. It was only a short stroll from the lychgate to the front door of the vicarage. Down Church Lane was the High Street and turning left, past the police station, was the common. For him, Fearnley Maughton was more than just bricks and mortar. The village was his family. During his twenty years at All Saints, he had shared their sorrows and joys, held their hands and their confidences, baptised, married and laid to rest more than he cared to remember from almost every family in the district. But lately, there were too many memorial services for mere boys who would never have a funeral. He shook his head at the sadness and waste of young life. Returning to his work, he chipped again at the soil and reaching forward, tossed a fistful of potatoes into the nearby wheelbarrow.
'Insanity!' he muttered, his mind recalling his time in the trenche
s. But the current madness worried him. There was something sinister about this war, that despite all the carnage of the Great War, he hadn’t felt then. Perhaps it was his age giving him a more mature perspective, but he didn’t think so.
His mind turned to the villagers whose lives had already been tragically impacted. Clive Wade, the village baker, had lost two sons already. Just boys. One had been a soldier, lost in Norway; the other, a merchant seaman whose ship had been blown to pieces in the Channel. As children those boys had both been choristers at All Saints. Clement visualized their eager young faces, as innocent as fresh snow in their white choir robes. He let out a long sigh.
What had their deaths accomplished? There was no answer. Not in this life. Sometimes, especially when he was alone, walking on the Downs, he silently wrangled with God about the premature passing of innocent life. Yet despite the unanswerable questions, Clement truly believed that God had a plan for His world and it would - in God’s time, not theirs - be achieved. He smiled remembering his own conversion and the man who had changed his life.
Chaplain Edwin Ross had been the army priest at the hospital in Paris where he'd been sent after being wounded in ‘15. Clement recalled the man’s words as though he had heard them only yesterday. “Generals”, Edwin Ross had said, “do not concern themselves with the fate of the individual soldier or they will lose sight of the battle. But God works in reverse. God uses the individual to reach the many.” Those words were etched on Clement’s mind like the sound of his own name. Initially, they had spurred him on, believing that the Almighty’s purpose for him was as a chaplain in the trenches. But by the time he had finished his theological training, the war was over. ‘The time for adventure is gone, Clement Wisdom,’ he muttered to himself chipping at the ground.
He bent down again, his hand reaching for three more potatoes. He stopped, mesmerized by the way his boots had sunk into the earth. In his mind he could see the trenches: death and dysentery; the endless mud; and the sad hollowness which always accompanied those memories leapt from his subconscious. Straightening, he tossed the potatoes into the barrow, then turned his gaze to the wide blue sky above his head and forced himself to think on the happy memories of that time. That was when he had met Mary. While walking through St James’s Park one day, he saw her feeding the ducks. In that moment, he knew there would never be anyone else.
The sound of several aeroplanes overhead broke in on his thoughts. He squinted, his eye searching for enemy fighters. The noise grew louder. Clement waited, his eyes fixed on the sky. But the planes were Hurricanes. He breathed a sigh of relief. Until recently, the war had been confined to Europe but with the withdrawal of troops from Dunkirk, and the increasing number of terrifying air battles he had seen over southern England, he knew this war would be different.
Clement checked his watch and stared back at the sky. The Hurricanes were no more than specks now. It was the third squadron he had seen this day and it was not yet one o’clock.
He looked at the mound of potatoes in the wheelbarrow. It was enough for several day’s meals. Collecting his tools, he pushed the barrow towards the house, put the potatoes into a bin beside the door then wheeled the barrow back towards the garden shed. Beside it was the Anderson Shelter. He glanced at it. He had been required to erect the half-submerged structure, although, in his opinion, erect was not quite the correct verb. Should they ever have to use it, he wondered whether, in fact, the thing could prevent death or if it was more likely to contribute towards it.
Clement scrubbed the soil from his hands in the washhouse sink and went into the kitchen. Sitting down, Mary placed the plate on the table in front of him.
He stared at the sausages. It was the third time this week. He had hoped that they would have some real meat. Remembering the newspaper pictures of Europe’s destitute children, he chastised himself for thinking such thoughts.
‘I’m sorry, dear,’ Mary said. ‘But young Stanley says that we are lucky to have sausages.’
Clement didn’t know how she did it. The woman had a sixth sense that the British Army could only hope to emulate.
‘No doubt his father has better fare for his dinner,’ he said.
The kitchen was silent.
‘I’m sorry, Mary. That was uncharitable of me.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to say anything about that,’ Mary added, removing her apron and sitting down.
‘For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful,’ Clement prayed and picked up his knife and fork.
‘I’m not happy about you going up to London, Clement. And it has nothing to do with Thursdays being our day out. You know the Germans are targeting the airfields - especially those in the south - and the train line is so close to Kenley Airfield. If only one Nazi bomber was even slightly off course, the railway line would be destroyed.’
‘I think it would be good for me to see what others are suffering while we live in our quiet and safe corner of England eating home grown vegetables. Even Stanley Russell’s sausages would probably be considered a treat in London.’
‘I would hardly call East Sussex a quiet and safe corner of England.’
‘What our boys are doing in the skies is nothing short of extraordinary. Mr Churchill said we owe them much. But it seems to me that the raids are decreasing every day. Who knows, it may all be over by Christmas.’
‘Just don’t volunteer for anything that is dangerous. You did your bit for King and country last time,’ Mary said.
He reached across and patted her hand. ‘They must be hard up for clergymen if they have called on me.’
Chapter 2
Thursday 5th September
Clement’s friend, Peter Kempton had offered him a lift into Lewes. Crossing the Ouse River, they motored through the narrow streets and down the hill towards the railway station. The place was congested with people and luggage. From his timetable, Clement knew a train from London had recently arrived, but the numbers of people astounded him. For a moment the noise of the excited crowd sounded like the squawking seagulls he remembered from his childhood home in Rye. ‘Poor souls,’ he said, remembering that people were being encouraged to leave the major cities. It was just a precaution, so the authorities were saying. He made a mental note to raise the issue of billeting evacuees at the next church warden’s meeting.
Peter slowed the car as Clement stared at the disenfranchised faces, his heart sinking. Anxiety had orchestrated a degree of chaos. It was palpable. The newspaper photographs of European refugees with defeated eyes flooded his mind. It was unthinkable that the Germans should invade, yet here before him was the portent of things to come. He shuddered, visualizing the people of Fearnley Maughton being subjugated under the Nazi boot. He had never really believed the Germans would reach England, but now he began to feel that it may be unavoidable.
The car pulled up in the only space available, a little distance from the station entrance.
‘I’m sorry, Clement, this is the closest I can safely park,’ Peter said.
‘So good of you to drop me off.’ Clement opened the car door.
‘My pleasure. I had to come through Lewes anyway. I’m in court in Brighton for the next three days.’ Peter closed the boot, his thick wide fingers grasped the handle of Clement’s worn leather suitcase. ‘Don’t forget your gas mask,’ Peter said reaching for the small box. The two men shook hands.
Clement watched his friend drive away.
Clement liked Peter Kempton. For the country vicar, friendships are easily formed in a close-knit community, but only real friendships survived the bane of village life: gossip. And Peter Kempton - the village solicitor and Clement’s regular chess opponent - had become a good friend. They had always been on good terms, but it had been the tragic death of Peter’s wife in a car accident in Switzerland two years previously that had truly forged their friendship. Clement had sat with the grieving many times, but in the privacy of his study he had witnessed the crushing effects of grief in this
stern-faced, unrelenting solicitor of the court room. He suspected it was a side of Peter Kempton few ever saw.
Turning, Clement saw the billowing smoke of the approaching train. He hurried for the crowded platform.
For the first hour of the journey he read The Evening Argus. Censorship kept local papers uninteresting, particularly those around the coastal towns. He put the paper onto the seat beside him and stared through the window at the passing countryside, wondering what lay ahead in London. If the Germans invaded he considered the council would be short lived. He did not believe Hitler to be a religious man. In fact, he had heard that Herr Hitler was removing the Cross from churches and replacing them with swastikas. Clement pursed his lips at such heresy. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes, the rhythmic sway of the train lulling him into a half-sleep.
A sudden jolting of the train woke him. He checked his watch. Two hours had passed. The train inched forward, as the tall metal roofs of London Victoria came into view. Alighting, he joined the flow of people heading for the ticket collector.
Outside a queue was forming for the cabs. Clement scanned the surrounding crowd. He had not expected to see so many people in military attire. Even women wore uniforms he did not recognise. His gaze passed from one to another. Glancing at the buildings on the opposite side of the street, he saw that all the windows were taped and walls of sandbags surrounded doorways. People hurried along as though there was nothing unusual about any of it. He thought London an alien world.
A face appeared in the crowd he recognised; the energetic gait, the broad smile, the extended hand even at several paces distance; Johnny had not changed. But the Naval Officer’s uniform surprised Clement.
‘Clement! How good to see you! You haven’t changed a bit!’
‘Johnny!' Clement said shaking the man's hand. 'I never took you for a perjurer. Or should I say Archdeacon.?’
