On a Turning Tide

by Ellie Dean

  As far as Ron was concerned, his dog deserved the Dickin Medal, which was awarded by the PDSA for outstanding acts of bravery by animals, and he’d been very miffed when Harvey had lost out again this year to a couple of carrier pigeons.

  The Home Guard would be officially disbanded at the end of December, and they’d all been promised a certificate to thank them for their sterling work in helping to defend the country. There would also be a medal for anyone who requested it, but Ron scorned the idea and refused to apply despite Rosie’s urging.

  He was relieved that he no longer had to man fire-watch stations, or teach youngsters how to handle a rifle and play silly war games, for it freed up a lot of his time. However, he’d been sharply reminded on the Wednesday that he still had some military responsibilities and unfinished top secret business to deal with which he had to see to without delay.

  The letter from the War Office GHQ had arrived this morning in a plain brown envelope, ordering him, as the local leading officer of the Special Reserve Battalion 203, to check over and then destroy the underground bunkers and miles of escape tunnels that had been hidden away in the hills at the very beginning of the war. The ordnance had reportedly been removed shortly after they’d been abandoned, but it was vital that the general public remain ignorant of their existence, for they were now deemed to be dangerous.

  Ron had little doubt of it, for they’d been disused for years, but as he burned the letter to ash, he was worried that this dangerous task had been thrust on him too close to his wedding, for if anything went wrong, he’d really get it in the neck from Rosie. But orders were orders, and as an old soldier he was bound to obey them. In fact, he was rather curious as to how bad it actually was down there now, and quietly looking forward to blowing everything up.

  He prepared for his task carefully, and as he cleaned the Sten gun and checked the sharpness of the Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife he should have returned years before, the memories of how he’d become involved in this covert mission came flooding back.

  Very few people knew about those secret bunkers or the specialised battalions, for the recruits had been made to sign the Official Secrets Act after they’d been approached by Colonel Gubbins who was acting commander of the newly formed Special Operations Executive.

  Following the fall of France back in May 1940, the likelihood of an enemy invasion seemed inevitable, and Gubbins had been ordered by Churchill to create a special force of civilian volunteers. It had been decided that the ideal candidates should be First World War veterans, farmers, foresters, gamekeepers and poachers whose knowledge of their particular area was indisputable, and who either had, or could be trained in, the necessary skills for guerrilla warfare and the silent kill.

  Their task was to operate from secret underground bases, and if Britain was invaded, to be the front line of defence and carry out attacks and sabotage against enemy targets such as supply dumps, railway lines, convoys and enemy-controlled airfields, and to harry and disrupt supplies and lines of communication. Ron had joined up with alacrity, for he’d fitted the bill perfectly and was keen to use the skills he’d learned in the trenches, and in his long poaching career, to play his part in defeating Hitler.

  Ron waited until the household was asleep before leaving Beach View with Harvey. He hitched the large hessian bag over his shoulder, feeling the heavy weight of the equipment he would need to set up a string of controlled explosions that would fill in the miles of tunnels for all time with the minimum of disruption to the land above them.

  Harvey seemed to sense that this was no ordinary walk, and instead of dashing off to hunt, stayed close to Ron’s heels as they kept to the deeper shadows away from the skyline and skirted the few anti-aircraft gun emplacements that were still being manned by the regular army. Ron hadn’t come here since the threat of invasion had waned after the Blitz, but old habits die hard and he still remembered the way as if it had been yesterday.

  Walking down into the deep, dark valley and past the high wire fencing that surrounded the Cliffe estate, they continued on into the dense woodlands where gorse grew in thick clumps beneath gnarled trees and brambles deterred walkers. Like Harvey, Ron possessed excellent night vision, and he trod carefully through the clinging goose grass and tangled tree roots, making sure he left no trace of his passage as he followed the path only a very few knew.

  The main bunker had been constructed by the Royal Engineers who’d thought it was for emergency food storage. It was made of preformed corrugated iron segments, sunk into the ground with concrete pipe access and a maze of tunnels leading to other bunkers and escape routes. Well hidden by tangles of brambles as deadly as barbed wire, wild honeysuckle and sprawling gorse, it had been built so deep, the roof was simply a low mound beneath this natural camouflage, the air vents disguised as old bits of drainage piping.

  Harvey sloped off to relieve himself in the bushes and Ron carried on, knowing he’d soon catch up. Five minutes later, he paused and peered into the darkness, searching for the trapdoor which had been cunningly set in the earth and hidden beneath yet more brambles.

  Having found it, he began to wonder why it was necessary to destroy the place, for unless you knew where it was, it would be impossible to find. But orders were orders, and he was quite looking forward to using explosives again.

  He ordered the returning Harvey to sit and keep quiet, pulled on his thick leather gloves, drew out the killing knife and wrestled to cut away the overgrown brambles, tree roots and weeds so he could get to the lever as well as clear the main air vents that were clogged with vegetation and broken piping – he certainly didn’t fancy running out of clean air down there.

  It took him some time, for Mother Nature had been very busy these last four years, but he at last cleared everything away and opened the trapdoor, which screeched quite alarmingly on its dry, rusting hinges. The stench of damp earth, rotting vegetation, weeping concrete and rusting iron greeted him, and he waited for the worst of it to clear before venturing further.

  ‘Down you go, boy,’ he whispered to Harvey.

  The dog sniffed warily at the opening and after shooting Ron a questioning look, went slowly down the moss-covered concrete steps into the inky black of the tunnel.

  Ron fumbled the torch out of his poacher’s coat pocket but didn’t switch it on until he’d negotiated the first two steps and closed the hatch firmly behind him. The bright light hurt his eyes after being in the darkness for so long, and he paused to let his sight adjust before making his way down to where Harvey was waiting uneasily at the bottom.

  ‘Good boy,’ Ron murmured, patting his head and then leading him along the short, narrow tunnel which took a sharp right-angled turn into a large, iron-clad cavern with a low concrete roof.

  Ron half-expected to see Rear Admiral Maurice Price sitting in his deckchair, waiting for him to help relieve the boredom, but sadly, like so many of the more elderly guardians of this secret place, he’d passed away.

  Maurice had been a jolly companion during those long hours of waiting for something to happen – which thankfully never had – with lots of amusing seafaring stories to tell as they’d played endless games of cards and drunk gallons of tea heavily laced with rum in the dim glow of a hurricane lamp. They’d always been aware of the huge arsenal that lay down there with them, but as long as it was out of sight, it was out of mind – although neither of them dared break the strict no-smoking rule in case they blew themselves to kingdom come.

  Harvey sat at his feet as he flashed the torchlight around the cavern. The deckchairs were still there, neatly folded against a wall, the card table next to them – all mildewed and rotting from the seepage water which had been running down the corroded sheets of iron for years and now lay in murky pools on the crumbling concrete floor.

  The main area was still kitted out with wooden bunks, and rusting pipes for ventilation still traversed the roof, along with the remains of the frayed wires that had once carried the signals from their wireless and conne
cted them to HQ and the outside world. The wireless had long gone, and neither was there any sign of the boxes of rations and jerry cans of fresh water that had been down here to sustain the men for fourteen days should the invasion come. Which was a shame, for Ron could always find a use for tinned food.

  He swept the torchlight over the bunker, now fully understanding why GHQ wanted this place destroyed, for it was clearly a death trap to any untrained civilian who might find their way down here. The corrugated iron which lined the earthen walls was beginning to succumb to the pressure of the tree roots which were determinedly pushing against them. There were more roots poking through the collapsing concrete roof, and wild honeysuckle and ivy had trailed through the cracks to entangle themselves in the machinery of the small generator which had once circulated fresh air from the vents.

  Quite why the generator had been left behind was a mystery, and Ron made a mental note to give it the once-over before he detonated the charges to see if it would be of any use to him.

  ‘Probably best if you stay here,’ he muttered to the shivering dog. ‘To be sure, I should never have brought you in the first place.’

  He adjusted the strap of his heavy hessian bag to a more comfortable place on his shoulder and set off to follow the beam of his torch down the mile-long tunnel which sloped deeper into the ground and would take him to the second bunker.

  He hadn’t gone far when he became aware of Harvey padding alongside him, and decided not to send him back, for the companionship made them both feel easier.

  Ron was tall and broad and had to bend a little, for the earthen ceiling was lower here, and crumbling. There were roots poking through on all sides and giant, rusting bolts hung loose from the flat sheets of corroded metal which leaned at precarious angles, on the very brink of collapsing.

  Ron shivered and quickened his pace. He’d never liked enclosed, dark places – not since the First World War – and this low ceiling and tomb-like silence was beginning to give him the creeps.

  Harvey seemed to sense this and stuck close to his heels.

  Ron finally reached the second bunker and came to an abrupt halt. Cold sweat broke out and crawled down his spine as he stared in shock and growing horror. The ordnance had not been cleared.

  He grabbed Harvey’s collar to keep him from exploring, and his hand was not quite steady as he flashed the torch over the hundreds of cases of ammunition, plastic explosives, timing devices, detonators and grenades.

  He ordered Harvey to sit and stay and took a halting step forward to examine the cardboard boxes holding the grenades and explosives, only to discover they were rotting with mildew, and had been nibbled by rodents.

  Ron backed away, not daring to open anything to examine it more closely, for if the damp and foraging rodents had got to the explosives then they would be extremely unstable and any movement could set them off. And if that lot blew, he, Harvey, this valley and half the hillside would go up with it.

  Standing there in a lather of uncertainty and growing dread, his first instinct was to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. And yet there were many more tunnels and another two caverns to explore. It was his duty to find out if they too had been forgotten.

  He set down the hessian bag which he no longer needed. ‘Go back,’ he ordered Harvey sternly. ‘Go back and wait for me.’

  Harvey snorted and sat down.

  Ron pulled him up by the collar and forcibly turned him round to face the way they’d come. ‘Go. Go now,’ he hissed.

  Harvey glanced at him over his shoulder and very reluctantly slunk off.

  Ron waited until Harvey was beyond the reach of the torchlight and then, with his heart in his mouth, eased past the boxes and crates and crouched to follow the gently sloping tunnel ever deeper underground. There was no corrugated iron here, but thin sheets of corroding iron holding back the walls and heavy wooden beams holding up the earthen roof.

  Ron knew which were the escape tunnels, so didn’t waste time exploring them, but hurried on as best he could to inspect the other bunkers. The claustrophobia was beginning to make itself felt, the walls and roof closing in on him, reminding him of the tunnels he’d dug and crawled through during the First World War to lay explosives right under the feet of the enemy – shafts in which he could hear his German opposite number moving within feet of him to lay his own explosives beneath the British lines. They too had threatened to cave in on him at any moment, and when one had, it had been a matter of luck that he’d managed to dig himself out. So many others hadn’t been able to.

  He gritted his teeth, refusing to let those memories unnerve him even further as he pushed on and crouched lower, the torchlight wavering with every step. He’d lost track of the time he’d been down here, but the air was foul and becoming worse the deeper he went, the decay and collapse even more noticeable.

  Discovering that the other bunkers were also still stocked with vast quantities of ordnance, he gingerly closed the heavy iron door to this last one and turned the wheel to lock it. If it did blow, then at least the explosion would be contained – or at least, he hoped it would.

  He hurried back to the second tunnel to close that off and found Harvey waiting for him. Ron didn’t upbraid him for his disobedience but patted his head; he shared the dog’s unease at being alone down here in the dark and knew Harvey was attuned to his own fear of enclosed spaces – in fact he could probably smell it coming off him in waves.

  He closed off the second bunker and together they started to make their way quickly back to the first one. The illuminated hands on his watch told him he’d been down here for over an hour, for it was now five in the morning. It was imperative he get out of here and reported his findings to GHQ.

  The icy sweat of dread had now soaked through his many layers of clothing, and Ron turned up his coat collar to ward off the cold, but the chill came from inside him as he stooped to navigate the seemingly endless miles of low, narrow earthen tunnels back to the main bunker. He must not let his fear make him careless or allow him to forget the map of the tunnels he’d kept in his head since he’d last been down here. One wrong turn in this confusing maze would defeat even Harvey’s heightened senses, and they could be down here until doomsday.

  He’d gauged that they’d almost reached the main bunker when something hit the ground somewhere high above them with such force that they felt deep shock waves ripple through the earth beneath their feet.

  Harvey whimpered and Ron stopped walking, his heart missing a beat until another thump from above ground sent it racing again.

  The floor heaved beneath them as a deep rumble came from far behind them.

  ‘Run!’ shouted Ron, breaking into a lumbering and awkward crouched run as the rumble deepened and clods of earth began to rattle against the iron cladding.

  Harvey, being smaller and fleeter of foot, was soon out of sight.

  Ron tried to run faster but was hampered by his size and the sharp reminder of the shrapnel digging into his back.

  The iron sheets holding the earthen walls back began to slide and slip, more clods of earth fell from the low roof and the rumble became a roar.

  Ron’s entire focus was on the narrow torchlight beam as he forced himself onwards. He was nearly there.

  And then the boom of an explosion came from the very bowels of the earth to shake the tunnels and send iron tumbling amid an avalanche of soil, concrete, lead piping and wooden props.

  Ron could see Harvey now – at the very end of the torchlight beam – barking frantically and dashing back and forth at the entrance to the bunker. He didn’t have the breath to yell at him, but fought his way towards him, his fear of being buried alive giving him almost demonic strength as the ground heaved beneath him and the tunnel began to collapse behind him.

  More explosions thrust him forward in a tidal blast of dust and dirt. And then, with the force of a piledriver, he was punched in the back and thrown into a terrifying whirlwind of dirt, darkness and debris that tossed him a
bout like a rag doll until suddenly all went black, and he knew no more.

  13

  Thursday morning dawned with a clear sky and weak sun, and Peggy was a little put out that Ron wasn’t here, for it was Daisy’s actual birthday, and it had always been a family ritual to open birthday presents at the table after breakfast. Not that he was the only absentee this morning, for Fran was on night shift again, Robert was at the Fort and Rita had yet to return from the fire station.

  She watched Daisy excitedly open the beautifully illustrated story book from Cordelia; the new colouring books and crayons from Ivy and Rita; the jigsaw puzzle from Sarah; and the lovely dress Danuta had hand-sewn and embroidered. There were hair ribbons and pretty slides from Fran and Robert, and Daisy was already wearing the dress, the white shoes from Ron and Rosie, and the hand-knitted cardigan Peggy had finished the night before. Like all little girls, Daisy loved dressing up, and had demanded her mother tie the ribbons in her hair as well as put in the slides.

  Daisy squealed in delight at the beautiful doll her father had sent her from India. With black button eyes and plaited hair, the doll was exquisitely dressed in brightly coloured silks, right down to her underwear and tiny bejewelled slippers. There were bangles on her wrists and more jewels in her hair and dangling from her ears, and when Daisy tipped her on her back she closed her eyes and said, ‘Mamma.’

  Peggy would have given her eye teeth for such a doll when she’d been Daisy’s age, but she’d loved her homemade Polly Ragdoll, which was so precious she hadn’t passed it on to her daughters but kept it wrapped in tissue in a case up in the attic.

  It was such a shame that Daisy was so rough with her things, for Peggy knew that before the week was out, the doll would be naked, her lovely clothes and jewellery scattered about the house and garden. What on earth Jim had been thinking when he’d bought it, Peggy didn’t know – but then he was hardly in a position to understand what was suitable for his three-year-old daughter.