The Forgotten

by Mary Chamberlain

  ‘What’s up, Corporal?’

  ‘The bridge is down so we have to detour. There’s a Bailey bridge a bit further along, but we won’t make Kiel before nightfall.’

  ‘Have you informed HQ?’

  He nodded. ‘They suggested we bivouac somewhere. Commandeer a dwelling of some sort.’ He shaded his eyes from the low sun. ‘There’s habitation ahead.’ John nodded, returned to the truck, passed the information on. They’d have to be on their guard, watch out for snipers, a unit or a loner, still loyal to Hitler. The war wasn’t over yet. They were sitting ducks.

  ‘Roll down the tarpaulin,’ John ordered. It was close to dusk, and with the sides covered the interior was dingy save for the lights from the cigarettes. The truck slowed and stopped.

  ‘All out.’ The Bailey bridge was ahead and John watched as the driver manoeuvred the vehicle onto the tracks before ordering the men to follow. Ahead of him, silhouetted against the cobalt sky, were the ruins of a village. They piled back into the truck and drove in silence along the road, alert, charged.

  They stopped in a small square in the centre of the village. Half had been bombed out, the walls of the buildings little more than rubble, the ruins picked over for anything worth saving. The rest of the buildings looked uninhabited, save for half a dozen white sheets fluttering from the windows. So far, John thought, so reassuring, but he was jittery, could feel anxiety curl and tighten. He watched as Arthur walked towards one of the empty houses on the square. It was his job to requisition accommodation, but it could be a trap. Any of these houses could be an ambush in waiting. After Private Nash, they were doubly cautious. Behind Arthur was his corporal, rifle at the ready.

  Arthur kicked the front door and it opened. He slipped into the building, the corporal at his side. John wanted to shut his eyes, waiting for the explosion, the tripwire, the booby trap. Another soldier guarded the entrance as the others looked around, surveying the side streets. Arthur and the corporal were out of sight. And gone. John checked his watch. Was it ten minutes? Too long. A silent ambush. Garrotted. No sound. Waiting.

  The corporal appeared, beckoned to the soldier guarding the entrance. John saw him nod, run across the square.

  ‘Lieutenant,’ he called, ‘come over here.’ He was panting as he drew close. ‘A man’s injured. Bring the kit.’

  John reached in for the first-aid bag and ran across the square. Please, not Arthur. He wasn’t sure what he’d do without his sergeant to keep him steady. He jumped the steps to the building, over the threshold.

  ‘In here, sir,’ the corporal said.

  The shutters were half closed. In the gloom John saw a figure lying on a stretcher made from old bedsprings, supported by two chairs. A woman was standing at one end, Arthur at the other. Alive and well. Thank goodness.

  ‘Mein Herr,’ the woman said as John came in. ‘Bitte, hilfen Sie ihm.’ Her voice was weak, keening.

  ‘Open the shutters,’ John said. The last of the daylight filtered through. The room was bare, apart from the stretcher and a stove covered in cracked ceramics. John stepped towards the figure. A lad, not much younger than John. He lay trembling, his lips blue from shock and cold. His eyes were open, unblinking. The woman was stroking the boy’s temple. John wasn’t sure if he was conscious.

  ‘Was ist los?’ John said. What’s the matter?

  ‘Mein Sohn…’ she said. She began to talk, too fast for John, her dialect unfamiliar, tumbling.

  ‘Slow, slow,’ John said, raising and lowering his hands, conducting the tempo.

  The woman nodded.

  ‘Mein Sohn.’

  She lifted the blanket. One foot hung by its sinews, bones poking through the flesh. The skin was brown, the wound smelly. John clasped his hand to his mouth, afraid he’d retch or worse.

  ‘Mein Sohn,’ she was saying. ‘Ein Schuss. Sein Fuß.’

  ‘Gangrene, sir,’ Arthur said, matter-of-fact. ‘Nothing we can do.’

  She was holding a handkerchief in one hand, screwing it tight then fingering out an end, twisting it.

  ‘Gnädige Frau,’ John said, ‘he must see a doctor.’

  She walked over and tugged John’s sleeve, crying, out of control. ‘A doctor, please, mein Herr, bitte, bitte.’ She sank to her knees, rummaging in her blouse, pulling out a wad of banknotes. ‘Take it.’

  John shook his head. ‘I can’t,’ he said, in German. Nein. ‘We can’t take him to a doctor. Or a hospital.’ He turned to Arthur.

  ‘Can we make him more comfortable?’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘We carry morphine, don’t we?’

  Arthur stared at John.

  ‘That’s not allowed, sir,’ he said. ‘You have to account for every drop used. They’ll never allow it, not on the enemy. There’ll be hell to pay.’

  ‘We can use as much ammunition as we like,’ John said. ‘To kill and maim and wound. But not a drop of morphine to help the suffering.’ He opened the first-aid box and pulled out a phial and a syrette. ‘The War Office have got their priorities wrong.’

  ‘It’s for us, sir,’ the corporal said. ‘The morphine’s for us. If we need it.’

  ‘But we don’t, do we?’ John said. He felt light-headed, as if the weight of youth was lifted and he had grown up, matured, like the rest of them. He stared at the syrette. He knew the theory – shallow angle, into the skin, squeeze the tube.

  ‘I’ll take full responsibility for this,’ John said. He walked towards the boy, breaking the seal.

  ‘Have you ever done this, sir?’ Arthur said.

  ‘I know what to do.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Arthur said. ‘I’ve done it before. That way, sir, we both stand guilty as charged.’ He took the syrette before John could protest, turned, injected into the boy. ‘He’s probably going to die anyway.’

  Arthur left the empty phial on the stretcher.

  ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to alarm you, but look in the corner over there.’

  John followed Arthur’s gaze to the small, oblong object in the corner, its wings folded close to its body. Even from this distance John could see that the safety cap was off and the launcher was fully loaded.

  ‘Everyone out,’ John said, his voice steady. Don’t panic. He waited until Arthur and the corporal had left. He nodded to the woman and her sleeping son, then crept over to the corner, picking up the anti-tank grenade. He backed out of the room, footsteps seamless across the floor, the grenade at arm’s length, gliding down the steps, into the open. The river was not too far away, a quarter of a mile. Maybe less. Slowly, slowly. He could hear the shouts of his men behind him, but not a word of what they said. Steady, steady. One jolt. Blown to smithereens, meat and bone, minced and shredded. John kept one eye on his destination, one eye on the uneven road. Don’t trip, don’t stumble. Beware the rut ahead, the shell hole. The lights of the truck were switched on, full beam ahead. Don’t move. Stay away.

  He saw his shadow grow longer. Walk to the left, steady as you go, his grip clammy on the handle. Hold firm. Don’t let it slip. He could feel the sweat sting as it ran into his eyes, could feel it dripping down his neck, soaking his shirt. The lights faded. Don’t follow me, do not follow me. A hundred yards. Don’t think. Keep walking. A rabbit darted across his path and John jumped, jerking his arm. He stopped, held his breath, his arm trembling. He grabbed his elbow with his free hand. Waited. Nothing. A close shave. Phew. Steady, steady. Could he quicken his pace, get this over with? The road looked smooth ahead. He had been good at running. He could sprint, be there in half a minute, half the time. His breath was light, his muscles taut, the taste of iron and blood flooding his mouth. Fifty yards. Steady as you go. Forty. Could he throw it from here? Thirty yards. He’d been in the first eleven, after all, opened the bowling against Whitgift in the Surrey Schools. Take a run and bowl it? Twenty yards. Could he risk it? Ten yards. Five. Four.

  He raised his arm, flicked his wrist and released the grenade. Turned and ran. Behind h
im he heard a splash. And nothing. Running and running, eyes blind, feet flying. Nothing.

  Arthur was standing by the truck, began to clap as John drew near. They were all clapping. John grabbed the tailgate, sat down on the tailboard, held his head in his hands, his body quivering, out of control.

  ‘That was something, sir,’ Arthur said, handing him a lighted cigarette and a bottle. ‘We’ll have a brew-up, the lads and I,’ he said. ‘But I thought you’d need something stronger.’

  John pulled the stopper, took a swig, expecting a raw, burning liquid to scald his throat, but what he swallowed was warm and smooth. He looked at the bottle. Hermitage. Grand Cognac. 1895.

  ‘Blimey,’ he said. His hand was shaking. He wanted to cry.

  Arthur stood in front of him, silhouetted against the evening sky. ‘We’re proud of you, sir,’ he said, laying a hand on John’s shoulder. ‘I want to say, on behalf of all of us. You saved our lives. And what you did for the boy, that was charity, sir. Pure charity.’

  John nodded, knuckles pressed against his mouth, the enormity of what he’d done beginning to shape itself in front of him.

  ‘We’ve agreed, sir,’ Arthur went on. ‘The lads and me. We’ll let them know your bravery. You’ll be mentioned in despatches. I don’t think any of us could have done that, sir.’

  John looked up at his sergeant and smiled.

  ‘None of you would have been so stupid.’

  ‘And, sir,’ Arthur went on, ‘none of us saw that missing phial of morphine. They must have miscounted it, don’t you agree, sir?’

  ‘I can’t think about that now,’ John said. ‘But I won’t ask you to lie for me.’

  He took another sip of the brandy, filled his lungs with the cigarette. His head began to swim.

  ‘Corporal Lennox here,’ Arthur said. ‘He’s commandeered another house. All clear this time. Not a soul. Not a dicky bird. Not a picture of Hitler or a single swastika. Buried them all, I reckon. They do that, you know, sir. Hide the evidence. Pretend they never swallowed all that rubbish hook, line and sinker.’

  Arthur’s banter danced in John’s head. He was exhausted, a huge wave of fatigue rolling over him.

  ‘I’d like to go there now,’ John said.

  ‘Not long been occupied,’ Arthur was saying as they walked towards the accommodation on a side street off the square. ‘Beds, sheets, the works. Even a cellar. Full of fine brandy. We’ve decided, sir, that you’re to take the master bedroom, with the big fluffy eiderdown.’

  John smiled. Arthur opened the door, led John upstairs. He flopped on the oversized bed, shut his eyes, aware that Arthur was taking off his boots and covering him with the bedding.

  ‘I reckon you’ll sleep like a baby, sir.’

  The pillow was soft, smelled of hair oil, of home.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Hatfield: July 1958

  He was still an athletic man, kept himself in trim, exercises morning and evening. He was on his knees now, poking round the pansies at the base of the old Anderson shelter with a garden fork. Her mother had had pansies in her wedding bouquet, a waterfall of purple and yellow. Mrs H liked pansies too, made posies from them and put them on the breakfast table, like a cheap B & B.

  A newfangled transistor radio rested on the grass beside him. She could hear the reverential timbres of John Arlott rising and falling. Her father’s lips moved soundlessly, as they did when he was thinking. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and was wearing his old grey gardening trousers that were once part of a suit. The lawnmower squatted behind him and the grass smelled sweet and freshly cut. She’d grown used to the purr of the blades as they rotated, the steady rhythm as her father pushed and pulled. It was the sound of England. He cut the lawn twice a week, checking for weeds or moss, neat stripes, up down, up down. How little she knew him really. He had never allowed her inside.

  ‘Who’s winning?’

  ‘England. Cowdrey going into bat.’ He lifted the transistor to his ear. Betty waited a moment.

  ‘No cricket?’

  ‘I’ve done something to my ankle,’ he said. He played cricket on Saturdays and she had the house to herself then. He’d learned to play in the war, so he said, in Sark. Got the locals to teach us and we formed a team. You didn’t know that, did you? That the Wehrmacht had a First Eleven? It was their last Eleven too. We were thrashed. But we took it in good spirit. We played the game, and all that.

  More English than the English. Even in Sark, even in the war. She didn’t know whether to be proud of him, or ashamed. He never mentioned what the Wehrmacht were doing in Sark. Never talked about his war. Or his work before the war, except to say it was at the university. She’d asked him once if he’d supported the Nazis. He’d given a lopsided smirk.

  ‘You had to be a Party member, Betty, if you wanted to succeed.’

  ‘Things that were done in your name,’ she’d said.

  ‘The guilty ones were prosecuted. Why should I take responsibility for things I had no control over?’

  He’d snapped at her. Amnesia was the way he lived with the past, a convenient forgetting.

  He pushed himself up and walked towards her, limping. He smiled, and she saw that his mood was warm. She could never be sure whether she’d be sailing with his breeze or knocked sideways by his boom. She’d been six years old when the war started, twelve when it ended. When they’d met again, they were strangers. He was father to her, never daddy. Even now, they were ill at ease, the space in their lives filled with silences, with fantasies, a web of seeming. She guessed it was like that all over Europe, only her father seemed more remote than most, more absent. Stricter, too, with the power to terrorise with a single word, a sharp tone. A stiletto in her gut.

  ‘You should stand up to him,’ Dee used to say, but it was easy for her. She never had to live with a bully, to live to milk the softer moments, like now, to pretend he loved her, and she him, to all the world a devoted family.

  ‘How about a cup of tea?’ he said. ‘Will you put the kettle on?’

  §

  She slipped the cosy over the top of the pot and laid the tray with the Royal Doulton cups and plates, the sugar bowl and the cake that Mrs H had left for them. They’d had to start from scratch after the war and this tea set was one of the first new things her father had bought, after the tablecloth. One or two pieces had since been broken, and the milk jug was chipped, but her father insisted on using it.

  ‘So you can be proud when you bring your friends home.’

  Who could she bring home? She’d no real friends from school. Who wanted to be friends with a Nazi? That’s what they’d called her. Nazi. There had been all sorts in her class. Irish, Italians, Poles. Maltese, Latvians, Cypriots. Refugees, all of them, but not a single German. Nor a Jew. When the other girls talked about the war she bore the brunt of their blame. How could she answer back? She kept her head down and worked hard. She and Deirdre O’Cleary, whom no one liked either as her father was a tinker, so they said, only Dee got pregnant when she was seventeen and had to get married and that was the end of that. Besides, he’d banned Deirdre from coming to the house. Irish.

  She missed Dee. They’d been thick as thieves once but had drifted apart when Dee had her babies and Betty went to college. She should get in touch. Dee’s father would have her address. Go out for a coffee. There was even a brand-new Wimpy Bar opened up in the centre of town. Perhaps they could go there, have a bite to eat, catch up on all the gossip. The children must be quite old now. She’d give Mr O’Cleary a ring later on from a telephone booth, so her father couldn’t eavesdrop, get Dee’s new address. Hello, stranger, long time no see. Yes, that would be fun.

  She opened the French windows from the dining room, took out the portable card table that doubled as garden furniture, laid out a cloth and placed the tray on top. She fetched two kitchen chairs, poured the tea, passed him the milk, cut a slice of cake and handed it to him.

  ‘Dundee,’ he said. ‘My favourite. We’re lucky
to have Mrs H.’

  Mrs H had come with the house. She washed the kitchen floor each day, covering the lino with yesterday’s newspaper to protect it from dirt. She dusted and vacuumed, washed and ironed. She made their meals, baked their cakes and had tried to teach Betty the facts of life when she’d started her period. ‘I know all about it,’ Betty had said. She’d run to her bedroom and locked the door. I know what men do.

  ‘Why don’t you marry Mrs H?’ Betty said. ‘She’d look after you very well.’

  ‘She’s a fine woman,’ he said. ‘And an excellent cook. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, so they say.’ Her father smiled, but it had no substance. His eyes wandered towards the old Anderson shelter and the purple and yellow pansies clustered at its base, like posies in a graveyard. Her mother’s favourite flowers.

  Betty broke off a piece of cake and sat with it poised in her fingers. He never talked about the war, about Mutti or Lieselotte. Even now, after all these years. She’d tried to tell him, when he found her, but he’d said, We do not talk about such things. Nothing will restore the past, or give sight to the blind. She could see his mouth set, his jaw muscles tighten. She wanted to say, Or me. You never asked about me. Sometimes the silence and the pain ballooned inside her, fit to burst.

  He picked up his cup. His hand began to shake and the tea slopped into the saucer.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to drink my tea in peace,’ he said.

  He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the saucer, gazing at the pansies. Was that a conversation, of sorts, with her mother? About her mother? Betty thought he cared more for the pansies than for her. Or his work. She didn’t even know what he did, except that he worked for de Havilland and built aeroplanes and was involved in the Comet, which he said would be able to fly to New York in less than eleven hours and back to London in just over six. Tailwinds.

  She’d leave him to it. Let him sulk. But it hurt, his silence, his denial. She stood up, and a small ceramic CND button fell out of her pocket onto the stone terrace and cracked in two.