When We Were Warriors

by Emma Carroll

  ‘D’you hear that?’ I hissed. ‘It’s them again! They’re back!’

  Mrs Drummond sighed. ‘It’s the sound of a boat, Olive, my dear. How on earth do we fight a noise?’

  She was right, of course. We couldn’t see a boat, but we could hear one, and it was terrifying. I remembered something from school about how the Ancient Britons did battle with the Romans, when they knew they were massively outnumbered and didn’t stand a chance. If your enemy couldn’t see you, you tricked them. You made them think you were powerful, making a heck of a lot of noise. It was misinformation of a sort.

  ‘We’re going to fight back with our noise,’ I said, because it stood as much chance of scaring off the enemy as a stupid garden rake.

  ‘Now, miss.’ This was Eddie, who’d been quiet until this point. ‘I can’t say that’s a swell—’

  The sloshing was getting louder again. There wasn’t time to argue. I shouted into the fog: ‘WE HAVE WEAPONS! I WARN YOU!’

  The oar-noise kept coming.

  ‘THE POLICE ARE ALL ALONG THE BEACH HERE!’ Queenie yelled. ‘TAKE ONE STEP ON TO BRITISH SOIL AND YOU WILL BE ARRESTED ON SIGHT!’

  Out in the fog, someone coughed. The rowing slowed, then started again in earnest.

  ‘THIS IS OUR HOME!’ Esther yelled. ‘AND WE’RE NOT AFRAID TO PROTECT IT!’

  ‘JUST TRY IT! OUR WEAPONS ARE SHARP AND AT THE READY, AND BE WARNED, WE’VE GOT SPIFFINGLY GOOD AIM!’ Sukie hollered.

  ‘WE HAVE YOUR MAN AND HIS RADIO!’ Mum added. ‘WE KNOW EXACTLY WHAT YOU’RE UP TO!’

  Now Eddie joined in. ‘AND DON’T THINK OF TRYING YOUR LUCK FURTHER DOWN THE COAST, PALS. THE AMERICAN ARMY HAVE GOT DEVON COVERED!’

  I held my breath, hoping we’d scared them just enough to make them think twice about coming ashore. But the boat sounded closer than ever.

  ‘Oh heck,’ I muttered. ‘They’re still coming.’

  ‘AND WE HAVE A FEROCIOUS GUARD DOG!’ Cliff bellowed. ‘WHO WE’RE LETTING LOOSE RIGHT AT THIS MOMENT …’

  Pixie did her biggest, gruffest bark, then raced down the beach. We heard a curse in German, a scrabble in the water, and then the sound of a boat quickly rowing away.

  We waited. We listened. Pixie padded back up the beach, her tongue lolling, tail wagging. The boat, though, didn’t return.

  *

  Only one person complained when, the next morning, Budmouth Point’s post office and shops were all late to open. We were woken by him pummelling on Queenie’s front door, and for someone with such small fists, he was terrifically loud.

  ‘Good grief, woman!’ Mr Spratt fumed. ‘What on earth’s going on? Has the whole village died since yesterday?’

  Queenie, who’d stumbled to the door in her dressing gown, didn’t invite him inside. We heard everything from Esther, who’d sat on the stairs to listen in.

  ‘Last night we faced an enemy invasion.’ Queenie was chilly, to say the least. ‘You were needed here, Mr Spratt, yet you didn’t come.’

  ‘An enemy invasion? What tommyrot!’ he blustered. ‘The message I received mentioned a body, nothing else.’

  ‘Anyway, we dealt with it,’ Queenie told him.

  Mr Spratt laughed in disbelief. ‘You? Dealt with an invasion? That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in some time!’

  Queenie didn’t exactly shut the door in his face, but Esther said it wasn’t far off.

  Though I couldn’t ever see myself agreeing with Mr Spratt, it did sound a bit of a tall story: us scaring off a boat full of Nazi soldiers with only garden implements and Pixie as weapons. But it had happened, hadn’t it? Pretty much all of Budmouth Point was witness to the fact.

  As we went into the kitchen to make tea, there was no sign of Sukie. When Cliff let Pixie out into the backyard, he came back saying the dead German had vanished too. I wasn’t sure if this was good news or bad. Things still felt very much up in the air and would do until Ephraim came home.

  The Americans had taken the body, we soon found out. And when Mrs Henderson arrived, we heard about Sukie’s movements too.

  ‘I saw that sister of yours on the back of some soldier’s motorcycle,’ Mrs Henderson said to me as we stood at the stove frying bread and eggs for breakfast. ‘First light, it was, as I went to milk the goats.’

  ‘A motorcycle?’ Mum looked up from her tea. ‘Would that be Eddie’s?’

  ‘Might be,’ I said, thinking how daring it sounded. ‘He’s not allowed to drive a van.’

  ‘Which direction was she heading in?’

  ‘Out of the village on the Plymouth road. Going like the wind, they were,’ Mrs Henderson replied.

  ‘And she’s taken the German radio and all Ephraim’s papers,’ Esther confirmed after getting up to search her coat pockets.

  My heart gave a little skip. I caught Mum’s eye. Things were definitely looking up. ‘You don’t suppose, if they let Ephraim go—’

  Mum glanced at the clock. ‘It’s nine o’clock now. The church is booked for two.’ She blew out a breath. ‘They’ll be cutting it fine.’

  ‘But it’s possible?’ I pressed.

  Mum smiled. ‘You know your sister, Olive. Anything’s possible.’

  11

  Yet even Sukie couldn’t make three people fit on one motorcycle. When they did return, it was in slightly less glamorous style on the lunchtime bus. Cliff and me, ever hopeful, had been on lookout since breakfast, so the sight of Sukie and Ephraim coming in through Queenie’s side gate made us rush out, squealing. And even then, Pixie still reached them first.

  There wasn’t time for explanations. By now it was gone one o’clock. Mum, taking Sukie’s hand, whisked her off upstairs to get ready. For someone who just two days ago had wanted the wedding plans to slow down, I was relieved at how fast she was moving now.

  ‘Olive, Esther!’ Mum called over her shoulder. ‘Hurry up! Come and get changed!’

  Esther, giggling excitedly, bounded up the stairs after them. I didn’t follow straight away. In the kitchen still was Ephraim, who was about to return to the lighthouse with Cliff. Seeing him now felt different, somehow. I supposed it was because I knew a little more about him – about his parents, his Jewishness, his never having known his mum. Yet in amongst it all he was still the same quiet, gentle Ephraim, and the least likely German spy I ever saw.

  ‘I’m glad you’re back,’ I said.

  ‘So am I.’ He frowned a little. ‘Though I’m not sure I should thank you for going through my private things.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I replied, blushing. ‘But it helped in the end, didn’t it?’

  He smiled. There were tears in his eyes. ‘What helps more than anything is being part of a family again.’ He opened his arms and I went to him. And that hug – in that moment – was as good as any from my dad. I hoped Ephraim felt better for it too.

  *

  By two o’clock the little church was full to bursting. In the front pew were Queenie, Mrs Henderson, Esther and me. Behind us were Jim, Mrs Drummond, the local teacher, Mrs Simmons, and on it went, with those who couldn’t squeeze in spilling out into the churchyard and the lane beyond. Amongst the summer hats and printed frocks were the khaki-clad Americans. They’d come back from Plymouth, rather baffled by the dead German’s maps.

  ‘It was misinformation,’ I heard Queenie trying to explain to Colonel Bagatelli before we went in. ‘They tried to land here, to the east.’

  Yet though the colonel was more courteous than Mr Spratt had been, I could tell he didn’t quite believe Queenie’s version of events, either.

  ‘Do you have proof of that, ma’am?’ he asked. ‘I’d be very interested to see.’

  But proof was the one thing we didn’t have. We couldn’t even describe what the Germans looked like. All we had to go on was our word.

  Meanwhile, only one of the Americans was invited inside the church and that was Eddie, who was so tall he could hardly fit his long legs into the pew.

  ‘Look at Queenie,’ Esther whis
pered, as Eddie sat behind her.

  I already had a hunch about Queenie and Eddie. The smile on her face, the way she’d pinned her hair and worn an actual dress for once, confirmed it.

  ‘Good for her,’ I said happily.

  The church organ started up then, and turning in our seats, we saw Cliff coming inside with Ephraim, who was nervously smoothing his hair. He was in his best suit and tie, wearing a white rosebud in his buttonhole. Taking his place at the altar, he flashed us a quick smile.

  ‘Good luck!’ I mouthed.

  ‘Break a leg!’ Esther whispered, loud enough for all the front row to hear.

  Sukie came in next, beaming, on Mum’s arm.

  ‘Oh my word!’ Esther gasped. ‘She looks like Ava Gardner!’

  I’d always thought my sister was magnificent, but I’d have bet even Ava Gardner wouldn’t look this beautiful in a dress made out of curtains. No offence to Esther, but she and I certainly didn’t carry off the pale yellow brocade in the same way.

  ‘She looks incredible,’ I sighed.

  To save fabric, the dress fell only just below Sukie’s knee. The waist was nipped in, the neckline what Mrs Henderson called a ‘sweetheart’, and at the side were gorgeous little glass buttons that Queenie had paid for with her clothing coupons. On her head, she wore summer flowers in a band that Esther had made.

  ‘Nothing’s going to top that outfit,’ Esther remarked.

  Though pretty quickly she had to eat her words.

  ‘Bring ’em here!’ Cliff called out, and Pixie bounded down the aisle, carrying a little basket in her mouth.

  Though she stopped for a quick sniff of someone’s shoe, when she reached Cliff she lay perfectly at his feet. Inside the basket, nestled in hay, you could just about see two gold rings, glinting. Ephraim looked overjoyed. Sukie laughed. And Cliff was as pleased as punch. Before, on the beach when he’d showed me the trick, well, let’s just say it hadn’t gone to plan. Thankfully now, when it mattered, it worked.

  *

  Later, we had afternoon tea at the village hall. Last spring we’d had another party here to welcome our Jewish friends to England. Today we were celebrating similar things – friendship, family, hope, and, if you were Cliff and me, how much food you could fit on your plate in one go. The goat butter wedding cake wasn’t actually too bad. Inside its rice-paper covering, it was smaller than it first looked, and the currants were really chopped-up prunes from a tin. But it was cake, so no one minded. Besides, there was plenty else on offer thanks to people pooling their rations – spam sandwiches, jam tarts, hard-boiled eggs from Mrs Simmons’s chickens, and everyone’s favourite, carrot fudge.

  Later still, as the party went on into the evening and teapots were swapped for jugs of cider, Esther, Cliff and me took a stroll down to the sea. Pixie had refused to come. She was suddenly glued to Ephraim’s side again, which made Cliff a bit sad I could tell.

  Instead of staying on Budmouth beach, we took the path over the clifftops to Tythe Cove. In the fading sunlight, it was a pretty walk now the fog had cleared away, with splendid views out over the sea and along the coast towards Salcombe. Down on the beach itself it was quiet, and when we found a spot to sit, the shingle still felt warm through my frock.

  ‘I wish I had a dog,’ Cliff said to no one in particular.

  ‘I’m sure Pixie still loves you,’ I told him.

  He hugged his knees. ‘It’s not the same as having your own, though, is it?’

  ‘I s’pose not.’

  Thankfully, Esther changed the subject. ‘Funny how the weather changes so fast along this coast. It’s like another world down here today.’

  She was quiet – dreamy almost – as she sat, skimming stones out across the water. It was a side of Esther most people never saw, and made her even more dear to me.

  ‘That’s one of the reasons why Budmouth Point has a lighthouse, so Ephraim says,’ I replied. ‘It’s not an easy place for boats to navigate.’

  ‘Can’t say I’d try it, if I was a Nazi,’ said Cliff.

  ‘Mr Spratt and Colonel Bagatelli don’t believe they actually did,’ Esther commented, then suddenly sat up straight. ‘Hey! That was a fantastic skim! It bounced four times!’

  ‘Show-off,’ Cliff muttered.

  To be honest, I wasn’t even looking. I’d spotted something red and gold down at the water’s edge. A bit of rubbish, that’s what it looked like, sopping wet and all scrunched up. Getting to my feet, I went over, picked it up, smoothed it out a little. It was a chocolate wrapper.

  A German chocolate wrapper.

  Racing back up the beach, I showed the others.

  ‘Look!’ I cried. ‘There were Germans here last night!’

  Cliff whooped, stared, then passed it to Esther, who held it at arm’s length like it was dirt.

  ‘I can’t wait to see the look on Mr Spratt’s face when we show him,’ she said triumphantly.

  ‘Maybe.’

  Personally, I wasn’t so sure we needed to: we all knew what we’d done. We’d heard those church bells ringing and been ready. We’d been our own little army. We’d seen off the Nazis, and we’d found out the truth about the drowned man. I’d say that wasn’t bad for an evening’s work. We didn’t have to prove anything to Mr Spratt: what mattered was we’d proved it to ourselves.

  OPERATION GREYHOUND

  1

  Velvet Jones hated air raids. They made her feel like a coconut in a shy at the fair, just sitting there waiting to be smashed to smithereens. Not that there was much left of Plymouth to bomb any more, but the Luftwaffe kept coming – she’d lost track of how many times. In the city centre the one shop left standing was Marks and Spencer, and only because it was propped up with poles.

  The worst thing about air raids was the noise – the siren, the deadweight drone of planes, the terrific whump you felt through the soles of your feet when a bomb hit its target.

  ‘Doesn’t Hitler ever have a day off?’ Velvet groaned as, just after tea that evening, the siren sounded yet again.

  ‘No and nor do I, thanks to him,’ Mrs Jones replied. Her mum worked nights as a firewatcher, putting out incendiaries dropped by German planes. She’d been asleep when the siren went off – Velvet could tell from the bad-tempered look on her face. ‘Go on, then, get yourself up to the shelter, Vee!’

  Mrs Jones had called her daughter Velvet precisely because her dad had begged her not to, and when he’d sailed home to St Lucia, she’d been stuck with an angry mother and a stupid name. ‘Vee’ wasn’t much better, though her mum seemed to find it easier to say with force.

  So Velvet grabbed her gas mask, her cardigan, a book. With a mum who worked all hours, she was used to looking after herself.

  *

  Barton Street, where the Joneses lived, stood a couple of streets back from the quayside. The houses were mostly little two-up-two-downs, with front doors that opened straight out on to the pavement, and windows that were permanently blurred with sea salt. It was once where the fishermen and sailors had lived when their feet touched dry land.

  Out in the street as the air-raid siren wailed, people weren’t exactly rushing for the public shelter. It was more of a grim, resigned plod up the hill because this was the third raid in a week, and everyone was tired. Some were still in their housecoats, or swallowing a last mouthful of supper. Like Velvet, most of the children hadn’t yet changed out of their school clothes.

  On the opposite side of the road, she spotted her best friend, Lynn.

  ‘Hey, wait for me!’ she called, running over to where Lynn was dragging her dog up the street.

  Lynn wanted to be a vet when she was older. Where Velvet had a tendency to get in a flap about things, Lynn was quite sensible, with the look of a person who made constant lists in her head. But tonight she was having real trouble with her terrified dog, Sprout. He hated air raids too.

  It was the same for lots of animals. Some people reckoned their pets could sense the planes before the sirens even starte
d. Together, with a combination of more pulling and the biscuit crumbs from Velvet’s pocket, they somehow got Sprout up the hill.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sprouty,’ Velvet told him, crouching down to tickle his chin. ‘The raid’ll soon be over.’

  Lynn grimaced. ‘I hope you’re right. Poor Mum’s dead on her feet.’ Mrs Parsloe, Lynn’s mother, also worked nights – in her case driving an ambulance – and came home each morning so dirty and exhausted she often fell asleep in the bath. Lynn’s father was away fighting in Egypt, somewhere. Occasionally, he’d send home photos of himself with a sunburnt nose.

  At the steps down to the public shelter, a straggly queue was forming – of people with dogs, cats and numerous baskets, boxes, bulging bags inside which were smaller creatures of the furry and feathery kind. Luckily, the residents of Barton Street had an understanding warden called Mr Perks, who let them bring their pets to the shelter.

  ‘Can’t leave the little blighters at home alone, can we, eh?’ he’d say, and lead his own old brindle bull terrier, Nipper, into the shelter to make himself comfortable on someone’s lap. It meant the shelter was more cramped, smellier and noisier than ever. And Nipper was a great lump of a thing. But for Velvet, who loved animals, it made the long nights almost bearable. Other people’s pets were the next best thing to having your own.

  ‘Busy tonight,’ said Betty, who ran the pub on the corner of their street.

  Mrs Gable from number six shifted her box of hens on to her other hip. ‘It’s them lot from Portland Place,’ she said knowingly. ‘They’re bombed out, aren’t they? Can’t even use their own shelters, poor devils.’

  Portland Place was a couple of roads away. The houses there were bigger and had gardens in which most people had their own Anderson shelter. At least they did until last week, when a bomb took out half the street.

  Just like the animal lovers of Barton Street, the Portland Place people had brought their pets with them. There were almost more cats and dogs than people in the queue, which to Velvet’s mind was no bad thing.