by Mercy Levy
Stella banged through the kitchen half-door, holding it open with her hip as she carelessly dumped Yorkshire Greenings into the apple basket just inside the kitchen. She took one look at her mother and shook her head.
“You’ve that worried look on your face again, Mum.” She observed. Her mother turned away to school her features into something pleasant, and Stella took the opportunity to steal a slice of freshly baked bread. She tore it in half and stuffed it in her mouth, puffing out her cheeks like a squirrel. “Aww, Mum.” She mumbled around the mouthful of bread. “Don’t be sad. I’m stationed in a hospital in London. I’ll be perfectly safe, and I’ll be home in three months.” Her mother turned at the garbled sound of her daughter’s voice, and broke into surprised laughter when Stella grinned, crumbs falling from her lips as she tried to finish chewing and swallowing.
“Oh, you!” She gasped, fluttering her apron at Stella and chasing her out of the kitchen. “Go finish packing, before there’s no food left for dinner.” She chided. She watched Stella’s honey-blonde ponytail bounce out of sight before she relaxed and let her posture sag. It was small wonder the girl was as wild as she was.
Charles had never even considered suggesting that he would have preferred a son to his unruly only child. Instead, he had encouraged her passions, however, fleeting they may have been in her childhood. As such, Stella had learned archery, horseback riding, and farm machine maintenance, as well as the dance and sewing her mother forced upon her. Mallory sighed over the steak and kidney pie she was preparing. As if she’d been reading her mother’s thoughts, Stella snuck back into the kitchen and wrapped her thin arms around her mother’s ample waist.
“Don’t worry, Mum.” She mumbled into the older woman’s back. “I’ll come home and you’ll get to rest while I take care of the kitchen for a while, I promise.” Mallory sniffed and patted her daughter’s hands. “Well, I don’t post for two more days yet.” Stella reminded her mother. So, tomorrow, you and I will do whatever you want, just the two of us.” Mallory smiled through her tears at her daughter.
“What am I going to do with you?” Mallory admonished her daughter. “How are you going to find a husband if you waste away taking care of invalid soldiers?” She added. Stella laughed. She could hardly bear the thought of leaving her mum and dad again after being home just one short month, let alone fathom sparing a romantic thought toward any man. But, with war creeping ever closer to her beloved England, she knew she had to do her part, especially in a family with no son to send.
“I cannot adequately express how uninterested I am in finding a husband, Mum.” Stella snorted. “I just want to do my part, and come home to tend the horses and eat your famous apple pie, and go shooting with Dad.” She sighed and Mallory saw her shrink in on herself for a moment before she forced her face into a smile. “Ay-up Da!” Stella called out the tiny kitchen window. She watched the tall lean farmer walk along the garden path, his grey, threadbare flat-cap pulled down over his forehead. His shoulders stooped from years of hard labor and slouching to appear shorter, but at her voice he straightened and gave her a wave.
Realizing he was nearly done his chores and would be in soon, famished and tired, Stella hurried to help her mother with the last of supper. She scurried to the cold room to retrieve a fresh butter and to pour off a pint of the apple beer her mother brewed regularly for her father, and assisted her mother in setting the table. By the time the patriarch made his way to the head of the table, his wife and daughter had served him a mountain of steak and kidney pie, the savory aroma of meat and gravy tickling his nostrils as he sat down. He grunted in approval at the addition of golden, fatty bacon laid neatly across the plate.
After a brief thanks over the food, Mallory watched anxiously as her husband deftly tucked the thick bacon between two crusty slices of homemade bread and tore into it with his teeth, whilst simultaneously dividing off a generous mouthful of the flaky meat pie with his fork. The only sounds he made as he tucked in were the grunts and sighs of satisfaction, long-familiar to Stella. Just as familiar was the careful concern with which her mother watched him eat. Once upon a time, Stella had thought it odd that her mother would wait to eat until her father was leaning back in his chair, rubbing a disgorged belly and taking long, happy pulls from his apple beer.
One day, she’d finally asked her father why he let it go on. He’d explained that no matter how many times he’d tried to make her stop, she refused to eat until she knew he was satiated. Over time, he’d realized that his enjoyment of her cooking brought her happiness, and so, he’d told her, he learned to make sure she knew he loved her cooking, and let her be happy her own way. He’d ruffled Stella’s hair then and laughed, a rare and amazing act that transformed the homely farmer into a vision of the youth and good looks that war and the wear and tear of farming had stolen from him.
As Stella watched them both now, memories of the lessons, both the pleasant and the painful, that her parents had taught her, ran through mind like the moving pictures she’d seen with friends while away at nursing school. An all-too-familiar pang knifed through her chest wall and pierced her heart. She was so afraid to leave, with the impending danger that rode the tide of war straight towards those she loved most. But, as she watched her parents persist in their lifelong habits of a love that no one could deny, she simply prayed that she would be home before anything could take them away from her.
The next day was a blur for Stella. True to her word, she went to town with her mother and they spent the day doing everything they wanted and nothing more. They fed Charles his standard breakfast of coffee and toast, then walked down the hill and into the Dalby market. Mallory bought her daughter a scarf and tied it around her long, mahogany hair, curling one long wavy tendril that had managed to escape around her finger before tucking it away with the rest under the violet silk fabric.
They took lunch at the Dalby Armes pub, where the proprietor, wiry old Mr. Fitzgibbon, redoubled his usual efforts to wheedle from Mallory her apple beer recipe, with comical failure that had every patron weighing in with tips and suggestions, ranging from the fiscal, to the socially inappropriate, the latter of which had the whole pub in stitches. All their friends and neighbors knew that Stella was soon to be leaving for London, and made every effort to lighten the mood for the two ladies while they ate and visited with whoever stopped by their table to chat.
Miss Claudette Pemberley was perhaps the most distraught over her departure. Stella had looked past the young woman’s wealth and befriended her when her parents’ deaths had forced her to move to the county to be raised by her aunt. Under the progressively optimistic, but watchful eye of her aunt, Claudette and Stella had sealed their forever friendship in scraped knees, bug hunts, and every imaginable pleasurable activity that girls should never partake in. Somehow, despite the pranks and mud that made up most of her childhood, the esteemed Miss Pemberley had become a graceful and subdued young woman, who gratefully acknowledged that without her outgoing friend, she was most likely to sit in the big house her aunt had willed to her, and mourn the sunshine that was leaving for London on the next train out.
“Promise you’ll write every week.” Claudette was saying to Stella as she gripped her hands from across the table. “Promise that you won’t meet some soldier and get married and stay in London.” She commanded her friend earnestly. Stella looked at the pale, flawless beauty that she was lucky enough to call her friend.
“Claudie, I’ll write every day, if I can.” Stella solemnly vowed. “And I promise you, I have no intention of falling in love with anything beyond the view of Yorkshire as the train rounds the last bend to bring me home.” She squeezed her friend’s hands and smiled.
Stella hugged her friend tight as she stood, and then accepted rounds of hugs and back pats and kisses from the patrons who had all gathered to tell her good luck on her journey. By the time Stella had said goodbye to her friends, it was time to make the trek home, laden with not only the meat for supper but gifts and
tokens for luck from the townsfolk of Dalby.
Her Dad was even more taciturn than usual during their evening meal and dessert. She sat impatiently by his side, waiting for words of wisdom from him or encouragement, or even chastisement at her choice to go into the Queen’s Service. After dark fell, the three of them ambled along the paths worn into the land by season after season of trudging boots and hooves by starlight. As they reached the high pasture, the moon rose over the trees, lighting the farm with its soft glow.
“Tomorrow is a day of new beginnings, Stella-my-girl.” Her father spoke almost reverently as they looked over the moonlight drenched dale that spread out far beyond their own land, and out of sight into the darkness of the forest. “You will do amazing things, and we are proud of you.” He continued, emotion adding gravel to his voice. He broke off and Stella leaned into his side and reached around him to include her mother in an embrace.
“I’ll be home before you know it.” She whispered as she let her parents hug her as though she were still a child. “I promise.” They walked back to the house and her mother hurried her off to bed. Stella was sure she was too excited to sleep, but eventually sheer exhaustion won, and she dreamed of air raid sirens and an unending parade of wounded. When she awoke in the morning, she was less excited and more distressed about leaving. With one last look at the farm as the carriage rounded the corner, Stella tried to memorize her childhood home, to carry in her heart while she was away.
The porter ensured her trunk and bags were loaded, and she hugged her parents again. Amid the calls of “All aboard!” from the conductors, Stella waved one last goodbye to her home and boarded the train, making her way to the private car she’d purchased a ticket for.
2. Calais, France
Captain Malcolm Ross was a ruggedly handsome man whose brooding good looks and serious brown eyes made him one of the most popular soldiers stationed at Calais. In spite of all the attention he received, he remained oblivious to the attentions of the females around him and was content to sit in his bunk with the much-read, dirty pages of his regulation book while his squadron laughed and joked across the room over their card game. Within minutes of the poker game starting, the talk had turned from cards to the beautiful French women they had encountered, (or wished they had). Then, the young Captain who remained steadfastly boring and reserved after three successful campaigns together, came up in their beer-fueled conversation.
Gunner Abercrombie was the one who finally suggested a way to get the standoffish young man to loosen up. He lowered his voice to a semi-drunken stage whisper and told the rest of the crew what he intended. Crimmens, the copilot and second-in-command, quickly scrounged up a pen and paper, and the boys put their heads together to write an advertisement for the London “Matrimonial Column”. They figured by the time he found out, letters would be pouring in for him, and perhaps they’d remind him of the allure of the fairer sex.
Timothy Crimmens licked the end of the pencil and thrust his tongue out to one side as he carefully considered which words to put to the page.
“The advertiser, (having recently arrived in France) being isolated from society here, is induced to seek feminine engagement through the medium of the Matrimonial Column. As the advertiser is in earnest, and diligently fighting for Her Majesty’s Airforce, he will be brief in explaining his request. His age is 28, of good family and education, fond of literature and considered by his acquaintances to be of engaging appearance and having moral rectitude. Any lady possessing traits considered complementary accomplishments, wishing to render the advertiser happy by a union, is sought. Money is no object but that it conduces domestic happiness. -All replies will be considered strictly confidential.”
Abercrombie, Badgers, Stillwell, and Knox all carefully read the missive that Crimmens had put to paper for them. Badgers wrung his hands and pursed his lips. He alone was the voice of reason that if return mail came pouring in, they were sure to catch hell from their squadron leader.
“What I want to know,” Abercrombie stated with mock solemnity, “is… exactly how did you know what to write for a matrimonial advertisement, Crimmens?” He waggled his eyebrows at his gunner while the rest of the table stifled laughter behind their hands. Even Badgers ceased his hand-wringing for a moment as a grin split his young, freckled face. They drew cards to choose who would mail the missive back to London, and of course, young Badgers drew the lowest card. With a sigh, he snatched the paper out of Crimmens’ hand and tucked it out of sight until he could mail it.
The men went back to their poker game until Captain Ross reminded them of lights out, and the early morning training exercise they had to be up for in the dark hours of morning. Then he went back to his own bed, and back to the copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “This Side of Paradise” that he had hidden in the torn cover of the Airforce regulations handbook. The stricter the others thought he was, he thought to himself, the more time he could simply spend reading and looking forward to going home and getting back to the business of finding real work, or at least an internship with an actual veterinary clinic.
It was a small wonder he hadn’t been conscripted into the Medical Corps, with all his surgical skill. But the thought of dealing with human blood bothered him far more than patching up hurt animals, or at least he prized his animal patients so much he was willing to deal with the ugliness of surgery when it was necessary to save them. At lights out, he made his obligatory rounds of the bunks and counted heads, then turned in for the short four hours or so that they got to sleep. The morning exercise was just routine, but night flying was dangerous, and they all needed practice, especially Abercrombie. The gunner was one of the best Malcolm had seen, and he had only turned nineteen one week ago. It had become his imperative to keep his small crew alive long enough to see the end of this bloodshed and carnage and return to their homes and families.
Malcolm brushed his fingers through his thick black hair. Almost an afterthought, he noticed it was getting long and jotted a note for himself, to remember to get it cut to regulation tomorrow. He dressed down and climbed into his bottom bunk, and fell asleep with one hand around the small paperback under the pillow.
At precisely four o’clock in the morning, the bugle sounded, immediately followed by groans of dismay from men all over the compound. Captain Ross rousted his men and within minutes, they were standing at attention under the floodlights as their aircraft was inspected one last time. Malcolm was so intent on getting the flight underway, he didn’t notice Crimmens and Badger approach one of the mechanics and, after a short conversation, exchange a small envelope. The mechanic saluted Flight Lieutenant Crimmens and strode off the field quickly, while the two crew members joined their pilot, gunner, and navigator aboard the “Gruesome Crewsome” B-17. Ross initiated the instrument check and his men settled down to business without a single word of sarcasm or light-minded joke.
On the ground, Ross’ crew was known for their antics and lightening the mood for everyone around them, in the sky, the were known for getting the job done, cutting swathes through the path of the enemy. As Malcom expected, the flight went off without a hitch, aside from the bumpy ride of a turbulent morning. Abercrombie marked his targets and according to calculations, hit each one dead on, even accounting for the high winds. Malcolm couldn’t have been more proud if they’d been his own marks.
Once they were given the clear to land, Ross and Crimmens fought the wind to set their bomber down on the narrow field that served as their landing strip. Once they had her powered down and the men were safely on solid ground once again, the captain found himself subjected to more than a couple jokes at the expense of his flying prowess. To rid himself of them, he gave them the rest of the day to be on-call, with a check in at the ten o’clock hour, in the event that their commanding officers had other plans for them.
With whoops of joy that rivalled any schoolboy on the first day of summer, Crimmens and company jumped into one of the parked Austin 8 military staff cars and drove the sh
ort distance to town. With a sigh that was at least half relief, Ross made his way back to the offices to complete and file the training exercise paperwork before the officer’s mess was opened for breakfast.
The next two weeks passed quietly enough that the men actually started to worry about their chances for survival. Each mission they flew, they lost more allied planes. Miraculously, it seemed, they kept narrowly escaping the missiles that downed their friends. But, the B-17 was riddled with holes from the last firefight, and Badgers had taken a hit to his shoulder that had him going home, his right arm hanging useless and numb from the elbow down.
While the crew waited for their new member to show up, they patched up the Gruesome Crewsome and added three more tally points to her tail. The men had long since forgotten the letter they’d smuggled past their captain, and the story had even gone cold among the gossips. The stress and unease of the advancing Germans had taken even the smallest pleasures from the entrenched British air force. Then, one morning at mail call, the bewildered Ross was presented with a large, bag of mail, bursting at the seams with floral scented envelopes of every imaginable colour and size
There was an instant of silence, then raucous cheers broke out amongst the ranks. Word spread like wildfire that the moment of fruition had arrived. Mechanics and radio operators left their duties to watch the Captain stride past with his perfumed bundle, as he hurried toward the relative privacy of his deserted bunkhouse, followed by a few stragglers. He shoved the door closed in the face of one persistent private and proceeded to open the bag.
Much to his dismay, he quickly realized why the men were so boisterous about his abnormally large mail call. He opened letter after letter, some obviously scented with perfume, all written by feminine hands. He laid the letters out on the table, stacked neatly, but in no particular order, and left them there unopened, while he waited for his crew to return.
