by Nancy Revell
The women chuckled on seeing Angie’s and Dorothy’s serious faces.
Hannah shuffled her stool nearer to Martha and patted the two free ones next to her.
Angie flumped down, followed by Dorothy.
Gloria pushed their drinks in front of them.
‘Thanks, Glor,’ Angie said, taking a sip of her port and lemon.
Dorothy looked around at the women and raised her glass.
‘To Peter!’
They all looked at Rosie.
‘And to Gordon!’ Martha said.
Everyone’s attention went to Gloria.
‘And to Tommy!’ Hannah said.
They all smiled at Polly.
There was a mass clinking of glasses.
‘And,’ Angie said, looking at Hannah, ‘to getting yer mam ’n dad back.’
The women looked at Hannah, whose smile was sad. She hadn’t talked much about her parents of late, which they thought might be because of the increasing number of reports making it into the news of the sickening atrocities being committed at Auschwitz and other Nazi death camps.
Dorothy shook out the newspaper she was holding and spread it out in front of her. She was not the only shipyard worker reading a paper. The pub was full of workers doing likewise. It was clear the whole town felt part of what was presently happening on the other side of the Channel. Not surprisingly – they had, after all, built the vessels that had taken troops and tanks to the starting line of what everyone hoped would mark the beginning of the end.
Dorothy took a sip of her drink and then cleared her throat.
‘“Deliverance day has dawned. D-Day begins with the landing of 155,000 Allied troops on the beaches of Normandy, France.”’ She read down. ‘“Allied soldiers break through the Atlantic Wall.”’
‘What exactly is the Atlantic Wall?’ Martha asked.
‘Hitler built coastal defences all the way from Norway, along the Belgian and French coastlines to the Spanish border,’ Hannah explained.
‘“Breathtaking details,”’ Dorothy continued, ‘“of the mighty effort now being put out by the forces of the United Nations were revealed in the House of Commons today by the Prime Minister Mr Winston Churchill.”’ Dorothy again looked at her workmates to ensure they were paying attention. They were listening intently.
‘“In a brief statement, in which MPs literally hung on his every word, Mr Churchill, who was greeted with tremendous enthusiasm, spoke slowly and deliberately.”’
Dorothy put her hand on her hip and mimicked smoking a cigar.
‘“Reports are coming in in rapid succession. So far the commanders who are engaged report that everything is proceeding according to plan. And what a plan! This vast operation is undoubtedly the most complicated and difficult that has ever occurred … ”’
Dorothy scanned the article.
‘“Nothing that equipment, science or forethought could do has been neglected, and the whole process of opening this great new front will be pursued with the utmost resolution both by the commanders and by the United States and British Governments whom they serve … ”’
She paused again.
‘“During the night and the early hours of this morning the first of the series of landings in force upon the European continent has taken place. In this case the liberating assault fell upon the coast of France. An immense Armada of upwards of four thousand vessels, together with several thousand smaller craft—”’ Dorothy broke off and looked up at her audience. ‘Like the ones made in J.L. Thompson and Sons.’
Martha’s face lit up. ‘Does it really say that?’
Dorothy hooted with laughter.
‘She’s being silly,’ Rosie said, looking up. ‘Go on, Dorothy. Just read what it says. No improvising.’
Dorothy read the next headline: ‘“Mass airborne landings have been effected behind the enemy lines.”’
Everyone looked at Rosie. Nobody said anything. No one had to. Those men being parachuted in would be helped by agents like Peter.
‘“Frenchmen are warned.”’ Dorothy again looked at Rosie, then back at the paper. She cleared her throat. ‘“Allied bombers roaring over at dawn gave British people the first hint that big events were under way. Almost simultaneously the BBC’s French transmission began to warn French people to get away from coastal areas and to avoid road, railways and bridges.”’
‘Why’s that?’ Martha asked.
‘Because they’ll be targets,’ Rosie explained, her knee jiggling up and down. ‘To stop Jerry in their tracks.’ She looked at Dorothy. ‘Go on.’
‘This bit’s been printed in bold,’ Dorothy continued. ‘“Latest German claims are that at least four Anglo-American parachute and airborne divisions are engaged, that the airborne landings in Normandy have been made in great depth and that a big Allied warship has been set on fire.”’ Dorothy suddenly stopped reading, wishing she could take back her words.
Everyone looked at Gloria.
‘It doesn’t say which warship?’ Gloria asked, her face ashen.
Dorothy looked down and scanned the article. ‘No, sorry, Glor, it doesn’t.’
‘It won’t be Opportune,’ said Rosie.
‘It probably won’t be any warship,’ said Hannah. ‘If the information is coming from the Germans, it’s most likely propaganda.’
‘Yeah,’ Angie said angrily, ‘they shouldn’t even be printing what Jerry says.’
Rosie stood up. ‘My round, I think.’
‘I’ll give yer a hand,’ Gloria said, pushing her stool back.
‘You all right?’ Rosie asked when they reached the bar.
‘No,’ said Gloria.
Rosie squeezed her arm. There was nothing she could say.
‘You?’ Gloria asked.
‘No,’ said Rosie, causing them both to laugh – laughter that was wholly without mirth and tinged with more than a hint of hysteria.
As Peter and the two Resistance fighters, Jacques and Louis, walked through Sainte-Mère-Église, they passed soldiers standing smoking or waiting by the side of the road, guns to hand should there be a counter-attack. The village, which he was sure had once been pretty, was now a wreck. The remains of buildings stood with their innards showing. Dead bodies were still lying in the street. Casualties were being hauled onto stretchers. Trucks trundled down the street. Peter saw a Sherman tank that had been blasted and now had two holes in its side the size of Christmas puddings. A few stray dogs were rifling through a demolished building; a sign poking out of the debris showed it had once been a boucherie – a butcher’s shop. An old woman dressed from head to toe in black hurried down a side street.
Peter, Jacques and Louis edged their way round a group of American soldiers who had stopped to chat to a gathering of jubilant young garçons and were handing them chewing gum. Peter smiled at them. The town, which had been occupied by German soldiers since 1940, had been liberated and it was clear by the looks on their faces that the local people were as happy as they were grateful to the soldiers of the 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment.
Peter heard one of the young lads excitedly telling the paratroopers that ‘A big plane, all lights ablaze, flew right over the treetops!’ The young boy was demonstrating with his arms in the air. Seeing the soldiers’ puzzled expression, Peter stopped and translated while Jacques and Louis rested on a nearby wall.
‘“And the plane, it was followed by others. They came in great waves. Almost silent! It was like a giant shadow covering the earth.”’ Peter continued to translate, thinking that the boy was quite the storyteller. ‘“Suddenly, what looked like huge confetti came out of the bottom of the plane and fell quickly to earth.”’ Peter stopped as the boy paused for dramatic effect, before pointing at the American soldiers. ‘“Paratroopers!”’
Everyone laughed as the soldiers gave them more sticks of gum, ruffled the young boy’s hair and told them all to ‘scram’.
Peter chatted for a little while to the airmen, who told him that it had not been th
e easiest of victories due to what they said was ‘a bad drop’ in the early hours of the morning. A house just off the main square had caught fire – they had guessed probably due to a flare sent down by a pathfinder aircraft. The fire had become a blazing inferno, illuminating the sky and making the paratroopers who were descending easy targets. As a result they’d suffered heavy casualties; some were cruelly sucked into the fire and others had been forced to land in the middle of the town. They’d been sitting ducks for the hundred or so German soldiers desperately trying to keep command of the town. Many paratroopers had been left hanging from trees and utility poles and were shot before they could be cut loose. One man had actually got stuck on the church spire, but, miraculously, had lived to tell the tale.
Walking further on, Peter saw that the unit’s colours had been raised in front of the town hall, although it was clear that the taking of this town was still precarious and there was an expectation that they might well have to fight off sporadic counter-attacks from Jerry.
Looking across at Jacques and Louis, Peter could see they were both exhausted, as was he. None of them had slept, nor had much rest, since leaving the farmhouse yesterday evening after the Radio Londres transmission, but they had achieved exactly what they had set out to do, disrupting an important section of the main railway track, preventing Jerry from transporting troops to combat the invasion, and cutting through phone and power lines, thus stopping any communication between enemy ranks.
When they reached the house on Rue de Carentan, where they had agreed to rendezvous with the rest of their circuit, Jacques and Louis practically fell through the door, followed by Peter. Looking around the empty building that had once been a bakery, it was clear they were the first to arrive. Peter prayed that the rest of his men had made it through the past twenty hours in one piece and would indeed turn up.
Too tired even to speak, the men signalled that they would check the rooms on the ground floor while Peter headed upstairs to check the top floor. Stomping back down the creaking stairs, Peter gave the thumbs up and Jacques and Louis did likewise. At last they could rest. They each found a space clear of debris and sat down on the stone floor, leaning their backs against the wall, faces towards the front door. Peter let out a heavy sigh, which went along with a surge of pride in the part they had all played. They had done it. They had succeeded. And they had survived. They had done their bit to help open the long-awaited second front. This was their last operation together. Possibly the last of this war, God willing. Peter looked at the relief on the faces of Jacques and Louis and knew it reflected his own.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he allowed himself to think of Rosie. He knew she would be proud of him. Despite her initial anger about him leaving for the war, she’d understood. One day he’d like to tell her about his undercover work here in a country that had been infested by evil for the past four years. Thinking of those men – and women – with whom he had worked and who had sacrificed their lives in this war against the forces of darkness, he knew he was lucky to be here now. And luckier still that soon he would be back home – with the woman he loved. Just imagining Rosie’s face – of once again being with her after all this time – brought him a feeling of light and love.
He tried to fight the pull of sleep, but this was a battle he couldn’t win. In the end he gave in and was just on the verge of dropping into a deep slumber when his whole body jumped on hearing a noise. Eyes wide open, Peter put his finger to his lips and looked at Louis and Jacques, who were now also on high alert. Scanning the floor, Peter saw a trapdoor. The house had a cellar. They should have spotted it on arrival. Fatigue was to blame. He got up and raised one hand, showing his palm, telling his two men to stay put; his other hand went to his gun. Treading quietly over to the trapdoor, Peter slowly pulled it open. Taking his torch out of his top pocket, he shone it into the cellar as he carefully climbed down the steep wooden steps. Yellow light pooled over the small area, illuminating a wine rack and a barrel.
Peter jumped for a second time as a rat suddenly came into view and scuttled across the floor, disappearing back into the darkness as quickly as it had appeared. Peter let out a loud laugh.
‘Juste un rat!’ he shouted up the stairs.
Turning to climb back up the steps, he heard Jacques and Louis joking that the rat had nearly finished them off by giving them heart attacks. Peter smiled as he put his foot on the first step. It was good to hear laughter. When his foot hit the second step, he heard a familiar whistling sound.
No, no, no! a voice in his head screamed.
And then there was an almighty explosion.
Peter felt dirt hit his face, blinding him, followed by something heavy and wooden hitting him on the head.
And then his world went black.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Wednesday 7 June
‘Hi, Mam,’ Bobby said as he came striding over to where the women were having their lunch. ‘I’ve just heard that the ship that went down definitely wasn’t Opportune. It was a Royal Norwegian Navy destroyer called Svenner.’
Since hearing the news yesterday that a warship had been hit, Bobby had read every newspaper he could get his hands on, scanning all the articles for news of any naval battles or ships sunk.
‘Oh, thank goodness for that.’ Gloria put her hand on her heart. ‘I’ve been worried sick.’ She blew out air. ‘How do you know?’
‘Jimmy,’ he explained. Jimmy had, of course, given him the full rundown on Svenner – that she’d been built by Scottish shipbuilders Scotts, and had started life as HMS Shark, but had been lent to the Norwegian Armed Forces in exile.
All the women looked up at Bobby and smiled – all apart from Dorothy, who was getting to her feet, brushing crumbs off her overalls.
‘I’ll tell you if I hear anything else, but don’t worry, Gordon will be fine. And if Opportune does take a bashing, you can rest assured he’ll survive.’ Bobby smiled. ‘Gordon can swim like a fish. He could swim the Channel if he had to.’
Gloria smiled too. Her relationship with Bobby might be strained, but at that moment she didn’t care; she was just glad he was home, safe and sound. Now all she wanted was the same for her younger son.
As Bobby started to turn, he found himself face to face with Dorothy.
‘Now might be a good time to give your mam a hug. She’s been worried sick.’ She spoke out of the corner of her mouth so no one else could hear.
Bobby looked down at Dorothy’s earnest, dirty, oil-smeared face. God, he wanted to kiss her. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He wanted to tell her that he wished he could put his arms around his mam and give her a hug – make everything all right – but he couldn’t. He wanted to tell Dorothy that sometimes things don’t work out how you expect – or how you want them to. That sometimes your mind tells you to be one way, but your heart won’t comply. But he didn’t.
‘I best get back to my squad,’ he said instead, a look of apology etched into his face.
As Dorothy sat back down with the women, she forced herself to smile.
‘You two heard from Toby or Quentin?’ Gloria asked.
Dorothy and Angie shook their heads in unison.
‘They warned us they probably wouldn’t get the chance to call when the invasion started, didn’t they, Ange?’
Angie nodded.
Neither woman said anything, but a lack of communication from their beaux was far preferable to them being overseas. Like Gordon or Tommy – or worst of all, Peter.
Gloria looked at Rosie.
‘How yer bearing up?’
It was a question they had all wanted to ask since they’d arrived at work this morning but hadn’t known whether to or not. Rosie was not one for talking about her emotions.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, before letting out a gasp of laughter. ‘I don’t think I’ll have any nerves left by the time we win this war.’
Everyone chuckled. It was good to hear Rosie still sounding so upbeat. Whenever she
talked about the war it was always when and not if it would be won.
‘Besides, I’m not the only worried wife on the planet, am I?’ Rosie nodded down at the Daily Mirror. ‘Come on, then. Tell us the latest.’
Hannah spread out the newspaper. They all knew their ‘little bird’ was praying for a swift victory. If Europe was liberated, her parents would be freed from Auschwitz; God willing, they were still alive.
‘“Invaders THRUSTING inland!”’ Dorothy read the headline over Hannah’s shoulder. Angie pulled her back and gave her a glowering look.
‘Go on, Hannah,’ Martha said. ‘Read what it says.’
Squinting down at the small print, Hannah started to read.
‘“Reports of operations so far show that our forces succeeded in their initial landings. Fighting continues. Our aircraft met with little enemy fighter opposition or AA gunfire. Naval casualties are regarded as being very light – ”’ she looked up and smiled at Gloria ‘“ – especially when the magnitude of the operation is taken into account. Allied airmen returning from attacks on north France last evening reported that our troops were moving inland. There was no longer any opposition on the beaches now guarded by balloons.”’
‘Hurrah!’ Dorothy shouted out. Seeing Bobby looking over, her smile morphed into a scowl.
‘Gan on, Hannah,’ Angie said, rolling her eyes.
‘“One pilot saw the Stars and Stripes flying over a French town.”’
All the women automatically turned to Rosie. She felt her face flush with excitement and hope. Perhaps Peter was in that town?
As Hannah continued to read the article, which boasted of the British, Canadian and American troops gaining footholds along the Normandy coast as well as several miles inland, Rosie only caught the odd word or phrase – her mind was on the flag flying over a French town.
It’s a sign, she couldn’t help thinking. We’re winning. France is being liberated. Peter is coming home.
Sergeant MacLeod knocked and walked into Toby’s office.
