by John Eider
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountain green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England’s pleasant pastures seen?
How could I resist from singing our unofficial national hymn, to find myself not only back in ‘England’s green and pleasant land’, but on such a ‘pleasant pasture’ within it? From here on in I become vague about town, even county names, and reading on you will discover why.
We were back on British soil, southern England to be more precise; and that the place was so quiet was my first impression. In truth, I couldn’t imagine that this particular corner of Britain had ever been very noisy; but after the chaos I’d become used to, the silence was unearthly – I felt outside of space and time. A bird sang somewhere, and for the first time in a while I wasn’t wary of opening my mouth for fear that no voice would be heard and the illusion would prove complete.
But it was Wareing who spoke,
‘There it is, right where it says on the map,’ he said, scanning the horizon eagerly. ‘We’ll have more time to show you the ropes at the next target tonight; but there doesn’t seem much sign of life down there, so I should be fine alone.’
He wasn’t wrong. From our vantage point, lay on our bellies at the brow of a hill as the sun rose (which was pretty much the worst time of day for such operations, I would soon learn) the town below, nestled in farmland and along the banks of a fast-flowing river, seemed devoid of life, as if it ought to have borne a giant banner reading Closed for the Duration.
My new partner seemed undecided at first, going again through his sheaf of notes and refolding his giant map within its plastic envelope; before jumping to his feet and patting himself down,
‘I think I have all I need,’ he began. ‘Stay here for now. If I’m not back within the hour, then come down to that red building in the town centre.’ He pointed to what from up there on the hill looked like a biscuit factory. ‘It’s on the far bank of the river, so I’d use that bridge nearer to us, and then cut across that field by the fence.’ He pointed out the landmarks as he spoke. ‘Don’t use the other bridge in town – far too visible. If you don’t find me, then just come back up here and wait with the gear till nightfall. Assume I’ve had to hide out somewhere. Our next instructions are all in the sheaf; but no peeking yet.’
With that he was gone, bounding down the hillside, though still too far away to be seen by any but the most focused townsperson. I took all this in as best as I could, having no frame of reference – I still wasn’t sure what we were actually doing there. I was left on lookout – but who for? I had my knife but no gun, and anyway had no idea of who I’d be firing at – we’d hardly seen a soul since landing in Britain the day before. Yet this was it: I may have been left behind on this particular job, and it sounded as though I had more training to come, but there was no mistaking the firm smack of being back on acting duty.
For a soldier’s life is many things: action, danger, panic; but it can also be time spent just sitting around: travelling in transports, waiting for missions, or killing downtime as entertainingly as possible. Mine, since the meal at the chateau, had been spent firstly at a dingy barracks just outside of Calais; my time there divided between sleep, eating, equipping with Wareing, and at the same time receiving a flurry of advice from the Major. Whether this advice came from any textbook or was the result of years of running operations – and at times it could seem odd if not downright contradictory – I would find myself recalling all kinds of unlikely nuggets over the course of the following days.
As for equipment, having hardly anything left after the evacuation and then the fire, seemed to suit the Spartan nature of the task – whatever it was to be. That which was useful of mine I kept: my boots, watch, the civilian clothes I stood up in (complemented by a thermal vest, and with only the underclothes laundered). My knife was found in the apartment, blackened from the flames, though still sharp enough. The only ‘new’ items given me were a worn-looking knapsack, filled with a mass of small bound packages that I’d be told about in due course; and the coat.
The coat and I would never quite get on. It was three-quarter length, buttonable up to the collar, and of a material similar to what our knapsacks were made of; but a darker green almost to the point of blackness, and of a texture which somehow seemed dirty and sooty even as new, with every touch or crease mottling the fabric further. All very inconspicuous for travelling through a country without a working washing machine; yet try and put a knife through it, as I was instructed to do, and the blade merely skidded off, leaving no deeper a mark than would be caused by running a fingernail down it lengthways.
And that, bar the simplest and most concealable items of housebreaker’s equipment – torch, crowbar ‘jimmy’ hung beneath my arm from a cotton hoop stitched into the coat’s lining – was our kit; or mine at least. Wareing wore much the same as me but in different shades, yet had the additional responsibility of keeping hold of the sealable waterproof sheaf containing our instructions.
As I say, ‘Southern England’ had been the best I could get out of Wareing when we’d landed very early the day before, a dinghy dropping us off along deserted coastline. A day and night of fair-paced marching through empty countryside had followed, ending in the climb up the far side of the hill I now lay upon. ‘A nice easy start for you,’ he’d called it; which made me wonder at what followed.
Lying there, I checked for any pain or twinge from my bad leg; and was relieved to note nothing more than the same aching I felt all over – the doctor had called it right. I was out of condition, but had no fear that this mission would soon put that right. I was also learning, as I lay on the dewy surface, that, marvellous though our coats’ material may be at repelling knife lunges, in wasn’t in the very least waterproof, even only on wet grass; nor had it kept me very warm the previous night.
As I waited on the ridge, looking down to the rural idyll which lay before me, I wondered just how different things down there could really have become after E-Day? I recalled a nugget of the Major’s from training: an observation of his, in explanation of why our route had been planned to cover open country and avoid towns. He had told me that many busy, populous places would be almost as empty as rural ones now; yet he wished as much as possible to spare us the ‘difficult scenes’ that we had all been hearing about from the piecemeal reports that had made their way back to France.
And he had said something else to me: ‘Don’t feel guilt at not involving yourself in the struggle, don’t feel shame for needing to move quickly and not wanting to get tied up in local matters.’ I had thought at the time that ‘guilt’ had seemed an odd word for it, for wouldn’t I be more likely to encounter sadness or horror at any awful sights, and that these would be the responses more likely to hinder me? Yet looking back, I wonder if he wasn’t on to something.
I waited for Wareing, wondering if it had been an hour yet, and knowing I’d have to check again soon.
‘Are you bringing us food?’
I nearly jumped out of my skin to find a tiny girl stood beside and just behind me.
‘Are you bringing us food, because Grampy is hungry.’
‘How did you..?’ I asked ridiculously.
‘I followed the path. Are you bringing us food?’ she asked a third time.
‘No, no I don’t have any food,’ I said, looking around. ‘Are you with anyone else?’
‘No, there’s only me and Grampy, and he’s down there.’ She pointed to the town. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m just resting, I’ll be on my way again in a minute.’ And rest I did, recovering from my shock. How did she get so close, I asked myself; before realising she was so tiny she would hardly have bent a blade of grass creeping up to me, much lighter than the average enemy combatant. She seemed almost the picture of childhood innocence: her face was pretty and untroubled, while her dress had a false pocked stitched in it with a dolly’s head and arms poking up out of it. Yet her face was l
ong unwashed, her dress clearly worn for weeks.
‘So why are you here?’ I asked.
‘I often come up here.’
‘Why?’
‘To see if they’re coming back.’
‘Who?’ I asked with a chill along my spine.
‘The people who left, who haven’t come back.’
This girl had a knack for repetition.
Remembering the time, I checked my watch again, just as a low thud like an artillery round echoed up from the town. Looking for the biscuit factory I saw, as I knew I would, a small plume of smoke already rising, the speed of sound being slower than that of light. I looked to my bag beside me on the grass, knowing then precisely what the packages were within it.
‘What’s that?’ the girl asked, turning to the blast.
‘Nothing for you to worry about, no one’s getting hurt,’ I lied, I having no idea what was going on down there. ‘So what is that red building?’ I asked her. ‘It looks like a biscuit factory.’
‘No, silly,’ she laughed, the dirt cracking on her cheeks. ‘That’s where the men have their meetings.’
‘What men?’
‘The Council men.’
‘That’s the Town Hall?’
‘We go there to see the carol singers at Christmas.’
So what was Wareing up to down there? And just what had I signed up for?
‘What’s that smoke?’ she asked me with a child’s innocence.
‘I think someone’s just lighting a fire,’ I said, my mind not coming up with anything more plausible. As I watched though I noticed no flames emerging, no red walls collapsing, no damage seeming to have been done to the structure of the place.
‘Who’s that man?’
Sure enough, looking yonder there was the tiny figure of Wareing, dashing toward us across the field he had pointed out to me earlier, and making his way toward the bridge that would bring him out on this side of the river. And then he stopped, raised his arms, and turned.
‘No, Grampy, no!’ shouted the girl beside me, as we both looked in the direction my partner was now facing. There we saw another figure, tall but even from this distance clearly stooped… and holding what could only be a full-sized shotgun. The little girl was already running pell-mell down the hillside toward the scene, and shouting, her voice echoing through the valley.
Chapter 5 – The Village
