by Clare Flynn
A Letter from Aldershot
To Aldershot
The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the postmark was Aldershot. Wondering who might be writing to him from there now that the regiment had transferred to Sussex, Jim opened the envelope. Flicking the page over to see the signature, he was surprised to see it was from Ethel.
Dear Jim
I hope this will reach you. They told me to write care of your regiment and it would find you.
I thought you ought to know that Joan is back in Aldershot and living again at her mum’s. She has left the ATS. Can’t go into the reasons why in a letter and anyway it’s not my place to tell you and she’d murder me if she knew I was writing to you. The thing is she heard this morning that Pete was killed in the western desert. I think you should get in touch with her. I can’t say any more.
With kindest wishes
Ethel
That was it. A few short lines penned in a schoolgirlish handwriting. Jim screwed the paper into a ball and hurled it at the waste basket. If Joan thought he was going to drop everything and chase after her now that she was free, he wasn’t going to do it. Then he realised he was being uncharitable. It wasn’t Joan who was asking him. And the poor woman was probably beside herself with grief over her man getting killed. Spare a thought for poor Pete too. Jim had never met the man but couldn’t help but feel sorry for a fellow who had copped it out in the desert, so far from home. He’d seen the newsreels and he didn’t envy those buggers stuck there in the blistering heat.
Jim lay back on the bed. Joan hadn’t entered his thoughts in months. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about her. There was no point mooning over a woman who was going to marry another man. When he thought of her he felt ashamed at what had happened between them. It had been so pointless, desperate even, seeking comfort in sex to avoid being cold. He’d assumed Joan was a good-time girl, ready to jump into bed with anyone who took her fancy but set on marrying her fiancé.
What if she wasn’t the woman he thought she had been? Could she have been a virgin after all? But why then would she have let him make love to her? It didn’t make sense. But then nothing made sense to him any more.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and went to retrieve Ethel’s letter from the basket. Reading it again he wondered why she had written it. Why had she been so vague about Joan leaving the ATS? No, not vague, deliberately enigmatic. And how would she have been able to get out? Conscription for unmarried women under thirty had been in force since the end of 1941, so the army wouldn’t have let her go. Unless she’d done something wrong that justified her dismissal? But in that case surely she would have been punished not discharged. If it was something really bad she wouldn’t be back home in Aldershot, but banged up in prison awaiting trial. For God’s sake, Jim, stop inventing things. Ridiculous things! If he wanted to know what happened he’d have to ask her. But why would he want to know?
Two days later Jim set off for Aldershot, having secured a day’s leave and a travel warrant.
The train pulled into Aldershot on time. Jim never ceased to marvel at the efficiency of the British railway system. The trains may have been tiny compared with the behemoths they had back in Canada, but they ran on time and they were a darn sight faster. When the express trains whistled past without stopping at a station they practically sucked you off the platform. And the high pitched whistles the station staff blew to announce the departure of a train were piercing – like having a dentist drill through your skull. But Jim acknowledged, as did most of his countrymen, the British knew how to run a railway. It augured well for their management of the war – although as Jim had never been on a German railway he wasn’t well placed to judge.
He walked from the station to the street where Joan lived with her mother and stepfather. He was nervous approaching the house and prayed that her mother wouldn’t be the one to answer the door. He wanted to talk to Joan alone. For a moment he contemplated calling on Ethel first and getting her to arrange the meeting but rejected that idea as being too formal and organised. He wanted Joan to believe that this was a casual thing, that he happened to be in Aldershot and thought he would drop by.
In fact, Jim still didn’t know what he was doing here in the town. Why had he allowed himself to waste a precious twenty-four hours of leave to high tail it across southern England to see Joan Kelly? He tried to convince himself it was to make sure she hadn’t done something terrible to get thrown out of the army, that he wanted to pass his condolences onto her at the loss of her fiancé, but his real reason was to find out whether she would behave differently towards him now that Pete was no longer in her life.
Outside the house he hesitated, the nervous feeling that Joan always raised in him coming to the fore again. He knocked and waited, fists squeezed inside his pockets, unaccountably nervous. There was no response from inside and he was about to turn away and head back to the station when he heard a sound behind the door. A narrow crack opened.
‘I thought you lot had all left town long ago,’ said Joan from behind the door. ‘What do you want, Jim?’
‘I came to see you. I’ve got a day pass.’
‘You should have better things to do with your time off.’ She started to close the door.
Jim caught the edge with his hand and felt her pushing hard against it. ‘Come on, Joan. Don’t be silly. Open the door. I’ve come all this way to see you.’
All he could see was half of her face and he could feel the weight of her body against the door.
‘Well, you’ve seen me now. So bugger off.’ Her eyes looked puffy as though she had been crying.
‘I heard what happened to Pete. I’m sorry.’
‘No, you’re not. You can't be. You never even met him.’ There was a catch in her voice and Jim was afraid she was about to cry.
‘No, but I’m sorry for you. And sorry the poor guy didn’t make it. It’s too bad.’
‘Please. Go away, Jim. Go back to the seaside and carry on playing soldiers with your friends and leave me be. Now take your hand off my door before I slam it on your fingers.’
He took his hand away. ‘Joan…’ But she had already shut the door.
Jim walked back to the station, uncertain whether he was relieved that he had got it over with and wouldn’t have to think about Joan any more, or disappointed that she had been so cold to him.
On the way back to Eastbourne, he puzzled over what had happened. He sat in the draughty train, trying to figure out why she had refused to talk to him, and why Ethel had hinted that he should get in touch with Joan, when it was so evident that she wanted nothing more to do with him. He would never understand women.
As the train made its way on the home stretch between Lewes and Eastbourne his thoughts drifted to Gwen Collingwood. She was undeniably cold, aloof and distant, and yet when he was near her there was an electric current passing between them. She was older, married, out of bounds, but he couldn't help imagining what it would be like to break through that icy exterior to the woman underneath. Why was he always attracted to women who wanted nothing to do with him?
Sharing a Confidence
Eastbourne
Gwen had become friendly with one of the Wrens in the typing pool. Vicky Freeman was, like Gwen, married with her husband overseas. He was an officer, serving in Africa with the Grenadier Guards.
One afternoon they were sitting in the sunshine on the grass of the College cricket pitch, abandoned by the schoolboys, still used for the occasional match between servicemen stationed here, but today deserted. They finished their fish paste sandwiches and lay back on the grass to soak up some sunshine and enjoy what was left of their lunch break.
Vicky sat up, squinting against the sun. ‘How long has your husband been gone? What do you do now he’s away? You know, for you know what.’
Gwen felt herself blushing. ‘Two years, and if you mean what I think you mean, I don’t do anything.’
‘Really?’ Vicky lay back on the ground. ‘But yo
u must miss it, surely.’
‘I miss him.’
‘Come on, Gwen. Don’t be coy. You must miss it as well?’
I suppose so,’ she said, embarrassed to say that she had never liked it that much. Was she the only married woman who didn’t enjoy that aspect of marriage? ‘What about you? What do you do?’ she asked, curious.
‘I have a lodger. He’s married too. Wife and kids are up in Scotland. He’s an engineer, seconded here for the duration to oversee reconstruction after bomb damage. Mostly gas mains and stuff like that.’
‘You mean… you and he…?’
‘Yes. We live as man and wife. It’s an arrangement that works for both of us.’ Vicky’s tone was matter of fact.
‘Do you love him?’ Gwen sat up, her legs curled under her, fascinated.
‘Yes, I do actually. But I love my husband too. And Eric – he’s the engineer – loves his wife. We both know we’re only together while the war lasts. But who knows how long that will be? Live in the moment, Gwen, that’s my philosophy. When it’s all over, Eric will go home to Scotland and Gerald will come home to me, God willing.’
‘But don’t you feel bad? Guilty? It may be wartime, but it’s still adultery.’
‘No, I don’t feel bad. In my opinion when we’re living with the possibility of dying at any moment, all the rules change. Eric’s wife doesn’t know and what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. Eric will return as devoted as ever and she’ll be none the wiser – Scotland’s far enough away.’
‘And Gerald?’
‘Gerald knows.’
Gwen gasped. ‘How did he find out?’
Vicky rolled onto her side and faced Gwen. ‘I told him. We have no secrets. We love each other and that means we trust each other.’
‘But what did he say when you told him?’ Gwen was incredulous.
‘He said he was happy I had someone to watch over me. He says he can sleep easier knowing I’m not alone in the house and I have someone to care for me. He knows how much I love him and I know he loves me. But we both know we could be dead tomorrow so isn’t it better that we grab a bit of happiness? I wouldn’t begrudge him that and he certainly doesn’t me.’
‘Gosh,’ said Gwen, stunned.
‘I don’t like to admit it, with everyone going about behaving like Mrs Miniver, but the war terrifies me. I couldn’t sleep for fear of the invasion happening while I was in bed and since the air raids began I spend my life in abject terror.’
‘I’d never have guessed that,’ said Gwen. ‘You always seem so confident.’
‘I hide it well. But until Eric came into my life I was desperately lonely. I had no one to turn to and I was a blubbering wreck. A big lonely scaredy-cat! Eric is my rock and I love him dearly.’
‘I see.’
‘What about your husband?’ Vicky rolled onto her stomach. ‘Wouldn’t he feel the way Gerald does? Wanting you to be happy? Wanting you to be safe?’
‘Yes, of course he would want me to be happy and safe. But would he want me to be living as the wife of another man? I very much doubt it.’
‘He’s the jealous type, is he?’
Gwen frowned. ‘I wouldn’t say that, but that’s because he’s never had cause to be jealous. I’ve never given him cause.’
‘If anyone laid a finger on me while Gerald was around he’d probably have flattened them, but this is different. War makes everything different.’
Gwen thought of Jim Armstrong and how she had longed to kiss him. The desire she had felt for him was so intense that she was afraid if she gave rein to it she would never be able to stop herself. Maybe that meant she didn’t really love Roger? But she knew that wasn’t true. She loved him very much. But had she ever desired Roger? The question was more had she ever allowed herself to desire Roger?
‘You look worried. I hope I haven’t offended you,’ said Vicky.
‘No. You’ve made me think.’
Vicky laughed. ‘Oh dear. Have I put ideas in your head?’
‘It’s just that… I don’t know how to explain.’
‘Spit it out. My lips are sealed.’
‘I was wondering… is it possible that the war can change you?’
Vicky smiled. ‘A better question would be is it possible that you can get through this war without being changed! By the time we come out the other end we’ll all be different people. Life’s so intense. I can’t even recognise the person I was before. If you’d told me in ’39 I’d be living in sin with another man I’d have laughed my socks off. If you’d told me I’d be working! And in a typing pool.’
‘I think the war has changed me. Back in ’39 I’d never even have had a conversation like this. I’d have cut you off before you got started. I wouldn’t even have lain on my back on the grass like this. Far too undignified.’
Vicky grinned. ’You and me both. Hell, I was even presented at court. It was another world.’
‘Do you think it’s bad of me to like this world better? Is it terrible of me? With so many people getting killed. Lives disrupted. But do you know, Vicky, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alive.’
‘Me too.’
‘Yet after that terrible night raid on Tuesday, how can I possibly justify feeling this way? The whole town took such a pounding.’
‘But that’s exactly what I mean, Gwen. Live for the moment because you may not even wake up tomorrow morning. I know if I cop it in an air raid I’d rather be lying in Eric’s arms than shivering alone in my bed – and Gerald thinks so too.’
Before Gwen could reply, the scream of the sirens cut into the peace of the afternoon and they ran for the shelter, Vicky clutching Gwen’s arm.
Dieppe
19th August 1942, Eastbourne
Jim woke early, dressed and made his way to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
As he waited for the kettle to boil he stood in front of the window, hoping the whistle of the kettle wouldn’t waken Pauline or the children whose bedroom was next door to the kitchen in the lower ground floor of the house.
Dawn was breaking and the sea lay below a white sky like a smudged grey fingerprint. He was surprised to hear the sound of aircraft so early in the morning. Something was afoot. The Germans rarely bombed the town in the early hours, preferring broad daylight or the occasional night raid under a full moon. He opened the back door and stepped onto the terrace to look up at the sky. It was spattered with aeroplanes heading south over the Channel.
Had it started? The mythical second front? Jim forgot his tea and rushed from the house, heading for company headquarters. Something was definitely afoot. It would explain why so many units had been moved out of Eastbourne in the past days including most of his own company. Jim’s unit was among the minority who had been held back, his commanding officer telling him that their current work took priority. Jim would continue at the listening post and until further notice would be reporting directly to the British, under RAF Sergeant Carrington.
He began to run, anger bubbling up inside him. All this time stuck in Britain and now, as finally Canada was to see action, he was going to miss out.
On the road he ran into his friend Scotty McDermott, now a motorcycle dispatch rider and also staying behind. More aircraft screamed overhead and Scotty had to shout to be heard, ‘It’s started without us. Bloody typical. The second front.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘I had to ride to Portsmouth yesterday. Just got back. There was a ton of men from the Second Division piling onto ships. Lucky bastards.’
Jim shook his head. ‘Do you think we’ll be following soon?’
Scotty shrugged. ‘I sure hope so. As long as the bastards don’t surrender before we get over there.’ He gunned his motorcycle into life then shouted over his shoulder, ‘Your brother was there. Saw him boarding.’
Jim spent the rest of the morning hanging around the mess, hoping for news. He wasn’t due to be on duty at the signalling post until later that day. All morning his fellow soldiers were s
peculating about the action they were missing in France, while overhead the sky was dense with planes. At midday the Regimental Sergeant Major burst into the room and called a roster of men, Jim included, who were to be in full fighting order ready to get onto a waiting truck within the hour. Jim and those colleagues who’d been selected grinned with delight. At last. This was it.
The truck screamed out of the battalion headquarters and headed west from the town. ’Where we going, Sarge?’ someone called out.
The RSM barked out of the side of his mouth, ‘Port of Newhaven.’
A cheer went up in the truck at the word port. It meant sailing. France. Invasion. Jim wished he’d had a chance to say goodbye to Gwen. She’d have no idea where he had gone. Then he realised she’d find out soon enough once news of the invasion of France took hold. It was probably better this way. He’d be back. He knew he would.
The men were all in a state of high excitement. As they rattled along the road, they were part of a steady flow of vehicles – mostly trucks and ambulances – all speeding towards the Channel port.
Their vehicle arrived at Newhaven and parked up. Ships and landing craft were arriving and unloading men, the majority of them wounded. The realisation dawned on Jim that the war games were over and this was it – real war where soldiers got wounded, captured and died, where battles were won and lost. He looked at Mitch and Gordon. They were silent: it seemed the same thought was striking the whole unit.
The RSM got down from the lorry and headed over to a building on the dockside. The men waited in silence, overcome by excitement and anxiety. Eventually he reappeared.
‘Everybody off.’ He handed round clipboards. ‘In pairs. One write names down, one check tags. You need to list every man returning. Get their names and make sure you double-check the tags too. Alive or dead.’
