What the Raven Brings

by John Owen Theobald

  It all rests on the invasion. And it’ll take Timothy Squire’s own luck.

  Do you truly want the war to end? says a voice in my head. What will you do then? I chase away the thought.

  ‘And I’m sorry about everything I said, too. About Canada. I should really like to go some day, and try chewing gum and watch ice hockey.’

  ‘I thought you’d come to Montreal,’ she says as her laugher dies away. Her voice is soft, distant. ‘I would wait on the steps, not even looking up at the giant clock. It was cold, it was always cold, but I didn’t mind. I knew you were coming. Seems mad now, to think it. But then I just knew, knew you’d find the Notre-Dame Basilica, and meet me on the steps – just like you said.’

  I pause, unsure how to answer.

  ‘I wanted to, Flo. More than anything. I tried,’ I say, remembering my doomed attempts to find a boat willing to take a terrified twelve-year-old off to Canada. ‘When the war’s over, we’ll go together. I promise. We’ll drink soda until we’re too sick to move off those stairs. We’ll sleep there, on the stone steps, until the snow covers us up and the world forgets about us.’

  With a smile she says, ‘You are mad, Anna Cooper.’

  Maybe she’s right. But as we sit in that stone graveyard, with faraway smiles, I know we are both picturing it.

  *

  My last visitor today is the most surprising of all: Nell, wearing trousers and smoking a cigarette, her dark hair shorter now, though still longer than mine.

  ‘Fag?’ She offers a pack but I shake my head.

  Together we pace the battlements, venturing into the Inner Ward, crossing on to the high battlements. Nell doesn’t like the ravens – she thinks them ridiculous and loud. All of us take some getting used to. She is mostly quiet, walking and smoking, and I stay quiet, too.

  ‘Sorry about midsummer, Cooper. One too many of those fancy cocktails.’

  She even has the grace to sound embarrassed.

  I try to smile. ‘I’m sorry about Cecil Rafferty. Have you heard anything...?’

  A curt shake of her head. ‘Figured you two would be a hot item now.’

  ‘No.’ I look up and see the clouds have paled, thinned. It will be a glorious sunset. ‘I think he’s looking for someone a little more... polished.’

  She laughs, a rich smoky laugh. I’m certain I’ve never heard Nell laugh before.

  ‘A girl’s got to wonder whether men are worth all the fuss?’

  I am hugging her, aware as always of how beautiful she is – far more beautiful than the violet-eyed Isabel Pomeroy. Cecil will be lucky to have her.

  ‘Great lippy,’ she says as she pulls away. ‘Looking snappy, Cooper. Come and see me at the WAAF sometime. You know the way.’

  When she says she’d better be getting back, she pats me on the shoulder, gives a brilliant smile, and strides off towards the West Gate in a puff of smoke. I watch until she is long gone. Nell Singer.

  Time to feed the ravens.

  ‘I’ll be back. It’s almost bedtime, so no wandering off.’ The ravens give a series of croaks and honks in response. I hoist the empty bucket, letting them know dinner is over.

  I cross the Parade Ground, looking up at the White Tower, the stone glowing orange in the sunset. I walk on, to rid myself of thoughts of the war, how it has changed us all: Oakes, Timothy Squire, Flo, Nell. Me.

  New clouds hang in the sky, white and clean. Soon I will fly again; soon I will have to face Gower. Soon. Turning to the left after Bloody Tower, I follow the stone walls down to the flashing of the river. The empty bucket swings with my steps.

  VI

  ACROSS THE SEA

  ‘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.’

  Churchill, address to the House of Commons, 6 June 1944

  15

  Sunday, 9 April 1944

  After an amazing descent over Stonehenge, and neighbouring the bustling port of Southampton, there is Hamble, the only all-women’s ferry pool. Everyone on site is a woman – the drivers, the office staff, the weather forecasters, the operation officers – more than sixty of us, all together, including Commander Gower herself, taking a short leave from White Waltham.

  No need to worry about trusting the flight engineers here.

  Joy is still on medical leave. When I visited her she was well on her way back to us. She’s due to arrive before the end of summer.

  I know something of long recoveries. Eight months ago now. It feels like years. The past few months have left me thinned, drained – but eager. I have also been made a second officer, a promotion that I never thought I’d receive. Especially as I destroyed a Spitfire in the process. Turns out Pauline Gower can change her mind. A narrow stripe is now sewed on next to the broad one. She did not go as far as to honour my ‘sacrifice’, but she did say she was proud of me. And I could tell that she meant it.

  Wearing my uniform is almost beginning to feel... normal. The chase through the sky, the dogfight somewhere over the Midlands, already feels like a half dream.

  Hamble is small, a single-storey brick building, where cold draughts drift through the tall windows. We have a Mess, a fair-sized lounge (much less glamorous than White Waltham), and a locker room. It is small, clean, and quiet. I’ve not had a headache since I’ve been posted here. And Timothy Squire has written me four letters already, the last of which was a full neatly written page. All of them ended with, Take care, Magpie. I love you. Timothy Squire.

  I also received a letter from Malcolm, who assures me that he will track down Westin and see that the foul man rots in gaol. I wish him the best of luck, even if I doubt the outcome.

  Again there are no barracks, so I am staying with a quiet family twenty minutes off base. They have a well-fed dog and let me ride their son’s spare bike to the airfield. Mrs Young is a fine cook, and she smiles and calls me ‘a real hero’ when I leave in the mornings. The house is like a sweet cottage, with coloured shutters and wistaria trained up the stonework. I store my things – including Timothy Squire’s letters – in a drawer next to the small bed. From the square window I can watch the River Hamble as it flows south. Broader than the Thames that runs in front of the Tower, the water is smooth – though Mrs Young says the tide current is strong.

  Not everything is peaceful, especially not today. Rumours swirl about a Second Front about to open up, maybe this very night. Visiting the coast has been banned – no day trips to East Anglia or holidays in Cornwall. Armoured tanks now crunch through the cobbled streets of quiet villages, and motorcycles roar down country lanes. Can I believe the rumours?

  Only certain flight routes are allowed; much of the sky falls under a new ‘restricted area’. The girls say it can only mean one thing. I nod in agreement, my mind fumbling back to the words of Timothy Squire, and Cecil Rafferty. It was only matter of time.

  Our invasion is starting.

  Thursday, 1 June 1944

  Thirty-seven training flights in that bleeding glider – and only twice did I lose my stomach. Now, not one of us so much as frowns as the pressure from the steep dive bores into our ears; simply hold your nose, and blow as hard as you can.

  Back at base, the men are well chuffed, relaxed, even happy. And why not? Cinema shows, increased beer rations, dance music playing from the loudspeakers.

  The men are blind. We have been confined to the base, and all the music and beer in England can’t change what that means.

  ‘Things are looking up, eh, Squire?’

  You’re the worst of them, Lightwood. You’re blind as a worm.

  I knew to be on my guard when Major passed me in the Mess this morning. ‘Fine day, Squire.’

  I almost stumbled. ‘Yes, sir. It is, sir.’

  ‘Keep up the good work, Squire.’

  Something is desperately wrong, even if Lightwood thinks we’re having the time of our lives. He’s
still smiling up at me.

  ‘They’re offering leave passes, Squire.’

  I keep the frown out of my voice. ‘Leave passes?’

  ‘Yep. Twenty-four hours.’

  Lightwood, the idiot, never stops grinning. We have been distracted, deceived, fattened up for the slaughter. Now we are getting our twenty-four-hour leave.

  It is time.

  *

  ‘Here!’

  A pint is thrust towards me. I reach out, the slosh running down my arm.

  The soldier clinks the glass hard, threatening to spill it again, then immediately empties his pint into his mouth. Head tilted back, eyes closed – I can see his throat, swallowing, swallowing.

  He bangs the empty mug on the table and stares at me with red unseeing eyes. I worry he expects me to do the same, but he only laughs – a deep, hearty, terrifying sound – and turns back to the crowded bar.

  If only Lightwood were here, instead of dashing off to visit his brother. I seem to have been stationed with the only fool mad enough not to know what’s going on. These lads here know right well what’s what. The pub heaves with soldiers, wild and roaring, taking their last chance to get drunk.

  No, not their last chance. Not my last chance. I fight it, but the black feeling doesn’t go away.

  Friday, 2 June 1944

  Three nights we’ve been trapped in here.

  Lightwood was as shocked as a fish plucked out of the Thames. Not that the invasion has come, but that he’d missed his own big send-off. ‘We’ll just have to have another,’ I told him. He was still smiling – but that was two days ago.

  Seventy-two hours penned up in this hangar. Nothing to do but stare at one another, and try to avoid watching the Americans, oiling their guns over and over. The Red Cross girls are a fair enough distraction, serving doughnuts and flashing the odd smile, but after another day in this hot, stale air, even they lose interest for us. Some of the lads are gambling on cards, and records blast out music, but nothing makes the air less close and heavy.

  Outside the sun is high, and hot enough to roast a chicken. I chase away the thought of real food. Doughnuts and weak tea.

  Cecil Bleeding Rafferty is in the starboard corner, looking for the all the world like he’s waiting for his subjects to kneel to him. I spotted him earlier in the day – just when I figured it couldn’t get any more grim – and my eyes keep being drawn back to the lordly fool and his shiny little head. Shiny, even across a crowded room, hazy with the drifting sunlight. He’s noticed me as well, staring back with a blank look. Rafferty obviously loves Anna. Did she fall for his pilot’s wings? How could she?

  Thoughts of Flo make me feel guilty. Not that I ever really thought about Flo like that, only... she is pretty, and she says the most shocking things. She makes me feel clever, too; not like Anna, who’s always correcting me. But I don’t even know Flo, and I’ve loved Anna for years. And now I’ve finally told her.

  And now I’m going off with the invasion.

  Still, though. Cecil Rafferty? What a tit. Imagine Anna falling for a tit like that. I can feel my lip curling as I look at him.

  That’s done it. Here he comes.

  There’s nowhere to go, the hangar is too crowded. I bang into a card table to get clear of him. He’s a fast bastard, and has my arm before I can get free. I try to kick him, but he pulls me towards him. One of the Red Cross girls cries out. Where the hell is Major?

  I take a solid punch to the ribs before Rafferty is pushed off and all I see is the beautiful face of Arthur Lightwood. He could be straight out of a poem from school.

  I try not to stare around in panic as he helps yank me to my feet. My ribs scream in pain. Where is Rafferty? Officers have gathered around, including Major. Feeling as if my ribs are broken, I struggle to stand upright. There’s Rafferty, safely behind a few of his toff pals. I look back, salute Major, who looks a quite violent shade of red.

  ‘Right, whatever in the name of Christ is going on here, can you two put it aside for the sake of smashing Hitler?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Rafferty has a bright swelling on his cheek. Attaboy, Lightwood.

  ‘Let us see. If either of you comes within ten feet of the other before you’re on that bloody glider, you are both dismissed with disgrace from His Majesty’s armed forces. I mean it, Rafferty, I don’t care who your father is, I’ll find another pilot in a heartbeat. Another pilot who is not a complete insubordinate fool. And you, Sapper, you can crawl back under whatever rock you came from and take your little enforcer with you. Do you both understand me?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Sunday, 4 June 1944

  My pockets and pouches bulge with chocolate bars, grenades, spare socks and underwear, and a French phrase book. I also carry a shoulder bag with six Mills 36 grenades, four 77 phosphorous smoke grenades, and fuel for the small Tommy cooker, along with a lighter and cigarettes, sheets of toilet paper, and a water-purifier kit.

  Tea bags are stuffed inside both trouser legs. Ruined, if Lord Rafferty ditches us in marshland. The weight of it all is enormous. I take a step, almost fall, find my balance. I will not be moving quickly with this on my back. And with this bruise on my ribs.

  A slightly smaller bag is slung around the neck – escape kit: map printed on silk, compass, knife, and money. And, of course, my first-aid box: bandages, and two needles of morphine.

  One for pain, two for eternity.

  Base is like a kicked anthill, but Major calls us to order. The gliders are ready for loading. We are set to leave in the hours before dawn. But Major has his customary few words – in fact, he says very little, instead reading us a message from General Eisenhower, the Supreme Commander, every word of which sends shivers running up and down my back.

  ‘Soldiers, sailors, and airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Force! You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, towards which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave allies and brothers in arms on the other fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the German war machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world.’

  So this is finally it; we are going over. Time to go and meet Rommel. Time to board a bleeding glider that’s supposed to carry us to the Desert Fox and his waiting armies. Hold until relieved. Hold until relieved.

  Of course I am afraid – terrified – but I am also committed. I truly am ready, or as ready as I can ever be. All I need is to think of the panic, the fear inside Bethnal Green Station. If I let myself, I can still feel the bodies.

  We can’t go on living like this. We have to go over there and smash these bastards. The eyes of the world are on us.

  I glance down at my watch. My grampa’s watch. It kept him safe; it kept Anna safe. Maybe it’ll give me the luck I need. It is time to go. But no one is cracking on yet. I watch, through the small window, the half-moon rise and rise.

  *

  A grey snarl of clouds surrounds us, filling the sky. Great climbing towers of cloud from the west and gales from the north – the massive downpour and high winds have sent the seas berserk. My prayers did not work.

  Or maybe they did.

  Midnight has dawned with a storm. We are going over, but not in the blasting rain. Not today. The lads sense it. I haven’t the heart to look at them, now that they’re all blacked-up and properly terrifying. Of course we’ve done the same – my face is smeared in soot – but to see them all, the whole group of Ox and Bucks lads, looking like ghosts... I turn back to the clouds.

  ‘Looks like we’re staying put,’ says Lightwood, the relief in his voice too clear.

  ‘Maybe,’ I say.

  ‘Right, lads,’ calls Major’s voice, cracking like a whip. ‘Back inside.’

  My whole body melts with relief, and a smile sho
ots on to my face before I can force it down. Even the pack suddenly feels light.

  Some kind of second chance. For what?

  Monday, 5 June 1944

  ‘Better here than out there,’ Lightwood says. The sounds of rain lash the hangar.

  I nod. I know what he means. It’s difficult to imagine the thousands – the tens of thousands – of men in boats anchored to the coast thrown around and blasted by waves. Just the thought of it makes my stomach lurch.

  The bleeding Phoenix, finally being put to use. I hope to God that the harbours – or whatever they are – won’t sink on account of some dodgy rebar. I tied the steel bars as well as I could. And it’s far too late to worry now.

  But there is little else to do as the slow hours pass. A soldier, looking dead asleep, half-opens his eyes to peek before dropping them shut again. I would wager most of the men with their eyes closed are faking it. No one could sleep, not knowing what’s to come. And knowing what has to come, sooner or later.

  The air sneaking through the window is warm. Summer has chased away the spring chill. A long spring – a good spring. But I am not thinking about the spring. I am thinking, of all things, of a game of Monopoly Anna and I played in her hospital room. Anna rolling her dice and laughing. During the Blitz, we used to spend hours in the study before it burned down, playing games and sharing a Thermos of tea. I can still hear her cackling away at some great move, some lucky roll. Steady on, Squire.

  I light a cigarette. ‘Lightwood?’

  He declines and after another puff, I crush mine out, too.

  A heavy force hits my back and I leap away, certain Rafferty has resumed his attack. But the eyes that meet mine flash with humour. ‘You Limeys need to relax,’ a tall American says. He must be on stilts, looming over me like some great cocky tree. ‘We’ll take care of you out there.’

  He slaps me on the back again and walks away. Lightwood watches him go, likely grateful not to have been manhandled in passing. I am more than thrilled for the paratroopers’ help – they are big, strong, and clearly know what they’re doing with their weapons.