by Thomas Wood
I tried earnestly to move my head around, to rotate just a little, in order to see if I could make out the ground, or Mike. But there was no sign of either, although I knew of both presences.
Mike would be around me somewhere, completely terrified and yet wonderfully invigorated, as he made his way to earth.
I had relished in every second of freefall that we had been given, whereas Mike spent the whole time in a panic, a frantic worry that his chute would not open, only relinquished at the moment that the wind began to calm down tremendously.
He was always quite the worrier, was Mike, which gave him the awful tendency of opening his reserve parachute too early and putting himself in even more danger than he needed to. I, on the other hand, loved the feeling of rushing through the air, the overwhelming chill of the sky buffeting and bashing away at my eyeballs.
Frequently, I would leave myself far longer than I needed to reach for the toggle that would release my parachute. I liked it better that way. If I was to die with a failed chute, then at least it would all be over in an instant for me.
For a brief second, the tumbling figure, still dressed in the royal blue of the air force, his silk scarf flapping around in the wind fell just behind my eyes. For the first time since I had heard the news, I pictured Teddy Higgins’ face as he rushed to the ground, the realisation that his life was to be over in the next few seconds.
It was a look of resignation, but also one of complete defeat. Shock. He knew what was coming, and he did not know what to say. Which, for Teddy, was an unusual phenomenon as he often spoke with such garrulity that it would frustrate the other chaps no end.
“Ah!” I screamed, at the top of my lungs, as I finally felt the piece of cord reach the end of the static line. One end, faithfully attached to the bomber from which we had fallen, had been yanked downwards, hard, which ripped the top of the bag that was strapped around my chest.
I had a brief moment of complete discomfort as I felt the bumbling mess above me begin to spread itself out, before a peaceful silence descended, with only the low drone of the Whitley engines moaning off into the distance.
There was nothing around me. There were no other sounds, there was no light from what I could see and for a fleeting moment, I was the only living creature on God’s earth. Just me. What a thought.
I had often entertained the thought that I would very much appreciate being the last human to roam the earth. With nothing and no one able to distract me or make a noise that I did not want them to. I liked the idea of locking myself away in some ramshackle old shepherding hut in the Highlands, never having to see another person again if I did not want to.
I was aware that it made me something of an anomaly, as man has spent centuries trying to better connect himself with fellow man and here was I, desiring the opposite. It truly was a marvel that we could speak to another chap in America, thanks to the wonders of the telephone, but there was something innate in me that desired to be isolated, craved to be left alone.
For a moment, as I drifted through the inky black midnight sky, I dreamed of what it must be like on that evening, on the glowing sphere which was the moon. I wondered how peaceful it must have been up there, and whether he was taking pity on me, a lone man, drifting through the sky, who wanted nothing more than to be on top of the steely grey ball.
Maybe one day man might get up there, I thought. And maybe then I could have my peace and quiet.
Gazing from one glowing white mass to another, I searched above me to check that my chute was fully opened, as I didn’t take much pleasure from the thought of ending up like poor old Teddy Higgins.
I was certain that the same sort of thoughts would be galloping their way through Mike’s head, as we now gracefully fluttered to the ground.
It was this part of the descent, the slowest part, that always made me feel at my most vulnerable. We were dangling around in the sky, gradually making our way to the ground in the most conspicuous way possible.
All it would need would be for one lonely, desperate and slightly odd German to look up into the sky, towards the moon, and wish that he was there, for the whole game to suddenly be up.
As far as we knew, however, there ought not to have been too many enemy soldiers in this small region of France, particularly in the area that we were hoping to land in.
Restigné, the small village that we were slowly descending on, was a small, rural community in central France. There were few people there, which was both a blessing and a hindrance.
“The fewer people to spot us,” Mike had chimed, when we had initially been briefed.
“But far easier to spot the outsiders, Mike.”
“True, true,” had been his melancholic reply. “How far from the Loire are we there?”
“About six or seven miles, I’d say.”
Mike stared at me for a few seconds, waiting for me to spot the glaring error of my ways.
“Sorry Mike,” I spluttered, my cheeks reddening the minute I began to correct myself. “Kilometres. About eleven or twelve kilometres. We’ll be dropped just north of the river.”
“Mistakes like that will get us killed, Johnny.”
“I suppose it’s best that I make them now, before it really matters.”
“Don’t make them at all, Johnny.”
I had made them frequently, but fortunately only in private with Mike. It was as if he had some sort of nervy influence over me, like whatever I did mattered far more in his presence than with the officers who were in charge of our evaluation.
They could get me ejected from the course, and back flying Hurries in no time at all. But Mike, it seemed, put a far greater pressure on my mental capability.
I watched with both astonishment and relief as the ground of Restigné came up suddenly to meet my feet. I pushed my knees together and squeezed, preparing myself to land and trying with earnest to remember everything that I had been taught.
“Slightly bend the knees. Then, when you feel the ground, tuck in, roll and flick the legs over to your right side. It distributes the impact far more effectively and will make your landing far more enjoyable and comfortable.”
The look on the instructor’s face told me everything that I needed to know. Even if I nailed every single one of his instructions, the chances of my landing being anywhere near comfortable were closer to zero than zero itself.
As for the enjoyable aspect, I found that, no matter how I ended up connecting with the ground, I found the whole experience utterly exhilarating. I was not so sure that it was the landing itself that had made each jump enjoyable, but the fact that I had made it, my skull and ankles completely intact, that I revelled in.
My last jump in, however, came to a swift and abrupt end.
Without much warning, my ankles gave way, rolling over in opposite directions, as I felt my knees buckle in a similar fashion. The crushing weight of my upper body collapsed in as much an undignified manner as my lower body and, before I knew it, my chin was slamming into the top of my left knee.
I let out a low growl as my teeth sank into my tongue, the odd twang of blood instantly rushing to my taste buds.
Instantly, my head felt like it was splitting in two, as a torrent of pain began to surge forward and engulf every inch of my brain.
Before I could feel sorry for myself, I had to sort out the chute. It was tugging away at my shoulders, the straps working their magic on the undersides of my arms and cutting them savagely. Slowly, like a rag doll tied to the back of a motorcycle, I bumped and smacked my way across the field, as the last few breaths of wind attempted to push the parachute as far as possible.
I tugged and pulled as much as I could, trying to dig my heels in like a stubborn child. Fumbling around as if I had forgotten everything that I had ever been taught, I finally remembered the small box that was strapped to the front of my chest. Hitting it as if swatting at a fly, I felt the harness fall away quickly and, as I wriggled free, I came to a halt, no longer at the mercy of the falling silk
chute.
My ankles throbbed and I could already tell that they were turning a deep purple in colour. My tongue was dripping blood intermittently, forcing me to spit large mouthfuls of it away, while simultaneously wiping blood away from my nose, which had begun to bleed inexplicably. It was probably to do with the nerves.
There was no time to catch my breath or feel sorry for myself, so I quickly grappled with the parachute, bundling it back into my chest, until it was no larger than a two-year-old child.
It was only then, in the sickening silence that had enshrouded me, that I realised what an awful racket I had been making thus far. I had shown no real concern for the grunts and growls that had escaped my lips. Nor had I really attempted to quieten the chute as it had flapped in the wind.
I suddenly stood stock still, bolt upright, in the middle of the field, as I tried to listen out for anything that resembled something hostile.
There was nothing; no movement, no sounds, no features. It seemed as though this patch of land that I had bundled into was nothing more than a barren wasteland.
But then, as I strained, I could have sworn that I had seen movement. Straight ahead of me. There was no end to the field, no trees to mark the perimeter, not even a fence from what I could tell. I had no reference point for the movement, to the point where I was almost able to spin in a complete circle simply trying to find it again.
“You alright, vieux fruit?” He had been especially proud of himself for learning that phrase, having gone to our translator to determine whether it conveyed exactly the same meaning as ‘Old Fruit’ had done. “Blimey. Tough landing?”
I said nothing. I dared not even look at him. I simply stood there, parachute cradled in my arms, my nose and mouth staining small patches of it in scarlet.
There was nothing for a few more seconds. And then, I saw it. Definite movement.
I threw myself on the ground, the chute cushioning my fall wonderfully. I dragged Mike down with me. He knew to keep his mouth shut.
Not knowing if he could even see me, I stretched my arm out and pointed.
Then, there it was again. A lone figure, coming towards us. Armed.
11
As the shadow drew closer to us, I began to wonder whether it was a person at all, or if it could have been some sort of spectral apparition. But ghosts don’t tend to laugh. Nor do they regularly acquire a Karabiner 98 K rifle.
I recognised the outline of the weapon, before I had even distinguished the features of the woman’s face who was coming towards us. She was on our side at least, as I was still to hear of the Germans employing women in an anti-parachutist patrol capacity.
The rifle looked worn and well-used, presumably by whoever had used it prior to the woman who now stood in front of us, as I could hardly imagine that she had been engaged in as much fierce fighting as the rifle suggested.
The Karabiner was a sturdy, dependable weapon and had, in fact, been one of my personal favourites out of all the foreign weapons that we had tested in the North of England. It had a strange looking bolt attached to it, which seemed to droop downwards whenever it was pushed forwards. It was fiddly to reload, especially as it could only take five rounds at a time, and so you frequently spent your time pushing stripper clip after stripper clip into the internal magazine.
But it worked, and it worked well. Which is all that concerned me about the one that was slowly coming to greet us.
I flinched suddenly, as I watched it move quickly, as I pictured the irate farmer’s wife, incensed that we would have the indecency to land in her field. But how would a farmer’s wife have got her hands on a German rifle?
I opened my eyes, cautiously. The rifle was no longer in such a threatening position, as if it had been stripped of all its life-taking powers. The barrel was poking up from behind the small lady’s head, like some sort of ant’s antenna.
“You are my delivery?” She spoke in English, so perfect that for a moment I thought that the navigator had made a monumental error. Neither of us spoke, for fear that we had been set up in some way. It was always better, we had been taught, to say nothing, that way we were not able to incriminate ourselves.
But, on that night, there was no need. We were two men, both covered in bumps and scrapes, one of us still clutching to his parachute, like an overly-attached child. She had all the evidence that she needed.
“You are the men I was told to expect?” There was an agitation to her voice, as if we weren’t quite what she had been hoping for.
“You’d better hope so, darling,” Mike crackled, his throat as dry as mine from the jump. “Otherwise you’re in for a very lengthy stay behind bars.”
“En français,” I urged, my blood boiling at the very fact that the two of them had even dared to use the English language. “Do you want us all to be killed?”
The woman chuckled, as she looked me up and down in contempt. “Relax, plouc Anglais. There is no one around here. We are quite safe.”
“As safe as you can be in a country that is occupied by thousands of Germans?”
“Exactly,” she smiled towards Mike, his sarcastic remark soaring over her head.
“So,” I asked, “What now?”
She looked around her, as if expecting something to come creeping out of the darkness. But there was nothing but the silence and blackness of the fields around us.
“You must hide that thing, to start with, lavette.”
Mike chuckled at her second insult in as many minutes, “I don’t think she’s quite taken to you, old fruit.”
“I do not take to anyone who thinks they are superior to me, just because I am a woman.”
“I don’t think—” I started, raising my voice perhaps two or three decibels higher than strictly needed.
“Let’s talk about this somewhere a little more…enclosed, shall we?” Mike suggested.
“Follow me, crétins.”
“You hear that Mike? I don’t think she’s really taken to you either, has she?”
“Her loss,” he mumbled, leaning into me so she could not hear. “I don’t much fancy these French types anyway.”
The woman sauntered with ease across the fields and the woods that she guided us through. Mike and I tripped and stumbled our way behind her, our heads up so that we could keep sight of her silhouette bobbing and ducking around branches.
My ankle rolled to one side and I ended up on my backside, a pile of dried leaves exploding around me as I did so. Mike helped me to my feet, as I heard the woman mutter under her breath.
“Imbécile.”
Before too long, we found ourselves on a far sturdier track than we had done before, as the fields and forests began to thin out, as houses and shops began to appear.
“We are in Restigné?”
“No, idiot. This is Paris.”
My palms grew moistened, and I rubbed my fingers into them to try and distribute some of the perspiration. I did not like it here, and not simply because it wasn’t home. People were milling about, not many, but more than enough to notice that two new outsiders were making their way into the village. Their accomplice armed with a Jerry weapon.
“These people…Why are they not inside?”
“Most of them have jobs to go to. Others just do not sleep all that much.”
I took a glance at my wristwatch, “It’s four o’clock in the morning. Is there not a curfew?”
“There is. Of course, there is. But there aren’t many Germans around these parts. There aren’t quite enough of them, you see.”
She spun round to face both of us, sensing the shock that was also etched across our faces.
“But, do not worry, héros. You will see plenty of them. Soon enough. Be patient.”
The woman, who still remained nameless and aloof, had a spiteful streak to her, the kind that would pick on anyone, it seemed. I couldn’t imagine her being one of the most popular figures in her local village, but that was probably what made her so good at her job. At least I hoped that it di
d.
She stopped abruptly at one door in particular and, without looking round to see if we were still with her, knocked with such a ferocity that I thought the door might cave in. I certainly saw it wince once or twice.
A middle-aged gentleman, dressed smartly for the time of day, peered back at us from the other side of the reeling door, before flinging it open, as if to greet his long-lost friends. He had a small, pencil-thin moustache, slightly skewed on one side as if he had in fact just scribbled it on in a hurry.
We filed in, as he shook and pulled us in to the warmness of his home.
“Bonjour, bonjour, bonjour,” he repeated, offering each one to the three individuals who were now stood in his living space.
Mike and I both replied, as politely as we could, before a moment of silence descended on us.
“Leave now, Alfred,” the woman demanded, as she began to pull her shoes and socks off, perching on one of the rickety-looking chairs. “Sit,” she insisted, without looking at us, proceeding to massage her feet.
“This is your home?” I asked, innocently, in an attempt to break the silence more than anything else.
“Of course not,” she almost spat at me. “You really think I would live somewhere like this?”
I did not quite understand what she meant by ‘somewhere like this,’ but I took the chance to have a decent swivel around in my chair regardless.
The house was bare and rather non-descript, the walls a blank space, void of anything except a coldness to them that resembled our welcome. There was nothing really to it, nothing in the way of luxuries or comforts, and I wondered if she lived in somewhere far grander. But I gradually got the feeling she did not have a home of her own at all.
I noticed, perched on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, a small picture, in an unelaborate frame and yet, somehow, it caught my eye. It was unusual, I thought, to have a picture of such a young man and yet, not to have him proudly displaying his uniform. I rebuked myself suddenly as the thought crossed my mind that, Alfred’s son, at least that was who I assumed it was, had maybe already perished before the war and as such, had not had a chance to do his duty.
