Bombers’ Moon

by Iris Gower

  ‘We’ve had intelligence—’ the colonel looked at her shrewdly—‘that Michael Euler is flying German planes against us. What more proof do you want?’

  Hari put her head in her hands. The colonel’s voice was hard. ‘Face up to facts, girl, they are both traitors to this country and your job is to pull in any messages you can to try and trap them.’

  Hari lifted her hand. ‘I know.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You go home now, Colonel Edwards, you look very tired.’

  ‘I am very tired. Sure you can manage?’

  ‘I can manage.’ She looked up as he stumbled to his feet. ‘And you can trust me, I give you my word.’

  ‘If I didn’t know that I wouldn’t be handing over to you.’

  He left the office and Hari put on the headphones. She thought of her friends in Bletchley Park and wished she was there with them. A voice came over the air; she caught just enough German to take in the message. Quickly she wrote it down. As soon as her shift was over she would have to send any important messages to the hall in case they had been missed by the radio officers there. And she would ask the girls to listen out to any unusual coding from a strange ‘fist’ as they called the mark of the individual radio operator. Her sister maybe.

  A wave of nostalgia washed over her, she wished she was back in the Park with all her cheerful friends; at night in the boarding house they’d been like schoolgirls, eating at midnight, putting beetroot juice on their lips in the evenings when they went out dancing, rubbing cheeks to make them red; it had all been such fun. Now that she was back home she had time to think about Michael and her sister, their betrayal of trust, and she felt nothing would ever be right again.

  She didn’t feel like going straight home after work so she called on Kate. Little Teddy was crying, stumbling round the kitchen on plump legs. Hilda was slumped in a chair looking old and drained.

  ‘Kate, how are things?’ Hari sat close to Kate and held her hand. ‘How are you feeling, baby moving yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Kate said softly. ‘I hope it never moves. I don’t want it, Eddie doesn’t want it, only Stephen wants this child.’ She put her hands over her sightless eyes.

  ‘We saw Stephen, he wants to keep in touch. He’s doing well, car, everything, but he sounds so sad. Oh what a horrible mess my life is. Why did I give in to the men, let them do, well… you know.’

  ‘You were young, you only wanted to help and comfort the boys because that’s all they were before the war got them, boys!’ Hari squeezed Kate’s hands.

  ‘Don’t think of the baby as a burden, it’s your child remember, yours, you’ll love it when it comes.’

  ‘I hope to God and all the saints you’re right, Hari, because I don’t love it now, that’s for sure.’

  Hilda stirred herself from her half daze. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ She rested her hand for a moment on Kate’s shoulder. ‘You can’t help what the Good Lord chose for us, girl, this baby was meant to be, you can’t change it and I for one will love it whatever it is.’

  Hari marvelled at Hilda’s forbearance: a child was coming into her world, into her home and she was accepting it with good grace. She seemed to read Hari’s thoughts.

  ‘Stephen is a good lad. He worked and kept us all while Eddie was missing; he generously kept my Eddie’s son, gave him his name, fed and watered the babe; we owe him a debt for that and don’t you forget it, any of you.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Kate said, ‘I’m a horrible pig, I must pull myself together and stop feeling sorry for myself.’

  Hari hugged her and kissed her soft cheek. ‘Night, dear Kate, I’d best get home, if I still have a home after the air raid this afternoon.’

  Kate held on to her hand. ‘Any news?’

  Hari knew what she meant.

  ‘They’re both safe,’ she said gently. ‘That’s all I know.’ How could she tell Kate how her sister was betraying her country?

  She walked home in the darkness, instinct leading her through the familiar streets towards her house. Good thing she hadn’t let it yet or she would be homeless. She felt her way inside, into the passage and shone her torch into the darkness. She closed the door on the world and followed the beam of light towards the stairs. She paused; should she make some tea, should she light the fire and stay up and read a book or listen to the gramophone?

  She shone the beam of light up the stairs and crawled fully dressed into bed too tired to light the fires. Her stomach heaved as she thought of Michael lying with Meryl, making sweet love to her.

  Her heart turned over. How could she still love him now after all he’d done to her? And yet she did, she loved him with all her heart and soul. And now, now he was married, to her sister, and he was nothing more than a traitor to her beloved country. Hari didn’t know what upset her most, Michael’s betrayal of their country or the betrayal of her love.

  Forty-Four

  I didn’t think I could love Michael any more than I already did but once we were lovers I realized what closeness really was. He possessed me and I possessed him. He became part of me, one flesh, and at last I knew what that meant. And if I felt a pang of guilt and pity for my sister it soon passed, it was a different life now, a different world.

  When he was leaving the farmhouse to return to his squadron he held me close. I breathed him in, the smell of him, the faint scent of the grass and the flowers and the fresh air. And beneath it all the musk, the scent of love and of passion—even as he pressed me close I could feel his arousal.

  ‘Goodbye, Liebling.’ It was our habit now to speak only German; it would be too easy to be caught out. He held me a moment longer and then he left. I could hear the rumble of his motorbike engine and I stood quite still until it was silent again.

  I would not let myself cry; this was a dangerous world, an enemy world, in spite of the friends I’d made. I had a duty to my own country, to Britain. I had a duty to myself as well. I couldn’t let myself be seduced by the countryside, the fondness I was beginning to feel for my ‘father-in-law’ Herr Euler, who had done all he could to help me. To my colleagues at work, all of whom were human beings and had their own problems. Even Frau Hoffman, for all her hardness, was just being patriotic.

  I could not understand her attitude though, to Herr Hitler; she seemed to worship him as though he was a messiah saving the world; to me he was doing his best to destroy it.

  I poured a glass of wine from the bottle Michael had brought me and smoothed the glass gently, lovingly, as though it was his skin. I sat for a good hour watching as the sunlight moved in different shades and patterns, the light lower in the sky as evening drew closer. I had never been so happy and then the euphoria faded as I knew that soon I would go out to the field where I killed the chicken and try another one. I shuddered at the thought but it was something I would have to get used to if I wanted to stay strong, able to serve my country.

  I lingered until it was almost dark and then I made my way to the spot where I had killed the bird and where I had met the woman who tried to kill me and my loved ones. I caught a chicken with ease this time and killed it almost cold-bloodedly, it was nothing after what had happened with Rhiannon.

  Later, I found the spot in the shrubbery where I had hidden the case. I brushed away the leaves and earth and hurried back to the farmhouse. The case was locked. I broke it open with a knife and there inside was my prize: a fully functioning radio. I hadn’t dared show it to Michael as I knew he would have been afraid for me.

  I examined the set minutely and I realized then I’d have had little chance of building one like this. It had metal valves and when I switched it on it sprang to life. I heard a German voice gabbling, talking quickly, excitedly. I pressed the earphones close and turned pale with excitement and fear. Something big was going to happen—and soon.

  I listened for a while, took down the coded message and tried to work it out. The shadows were filling the room, I had only the light from the fire but as the words danced in my eyes and became legible I si
ghed with relief; I’d made out the code. Mussolini had been arrested—not of great import to the war but at least decoding the message was practice for me.

  I went back to work the next day and was greeted by my friends with such warmth and companionship it was hard to remember that these people were the enemy. But no, the enemy were soldiers with bayonets and bombs. I thought of Michael in a plane, perhaps over Wales, and tears burned my eyes.

  That night I went to the pictures and in the middle of the programme was a short film about how well Germany was doing in the war against Britain. A powerful German voice emphasized how many planes were in the sky. I saw tanks with soldiers smiling and waving and it seemed an Oder bridgehead had been breached but I didn’t know what that meant.

  I went home on my bike and the long ride wearied me. I was missing Michael so much it was like toothache. I climbed into bed too tired even to touch the radio and fell instantly to sleep.

  When I arrived in the radio room the next day I was greeted with silence. For a moment I thought I’d been caught out. I was so frightened I nearly forgot to speak German, nearly but not quite. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘We had to disarm the Italians,’ Frau Hoffman said, ‘we’ve seized military control of Italy and our forces have rescued Mussolini. We will punish the enemy, we will beat them into the ground, their humiliation will be final and death will follow for those who dare to oppose the righteous regime of Herr Hitler.’

  I held my breath—this information could be of use to my countrymen. I would have to send a message home that night.

  It was easier said than done. I decided I would call Bridgend, the only radio operation I was familiar with. Perhaps my sister would take the message. Would she know it was from me? Perhaps better not.

  I eventually remembered the sort of code she and the colonel used and tapped out a message hesitantly over to what I imagined must be a Bletchley Park receiver, expecting loud boots at the door and a pistol to my head at any minute. There was some response, which I didn’t understand, and I sent the message again more confident with the Morse this time and then closed down the machine and packed it away.

  Forty-Five

  Hari sat beside the hospital bed staring out of the window afraid to look at Colonel Edwards’ grey face. He was sick, gravely sick. He had no relatives and he had wanted her beside him when his moment came.

  Outside, the hospital blocks staggered downwards to a dip in the hillside. Old House Lodge had once been a hospital only for those unfortunate people afflicted with infectious diseases, but now it was wartime it had been turned into a hospital for the sick and wounded from the services.

  The colonel opened his eyes. ‘Hari,’ he said softly, ‘don’t grieve, I’ve had my day and I want to say I love you, my dear. I would like to add, as a daughter, but it wouldn’t be true. I love you as a man loves a woman; that’s why I sent you away you know, to Bletchley.’

  Hari rubbed his hand. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know, David.’ It was the first time she’d spoken his Christian name and he smiled beautifully.

  ‘You’re a good lady, Angharad Jones, and I want you to have all the happiness in the world.’ He touched her cheek. ‘You’re just a young slip of a girl, you’ll meet the man who loves you and you will love him and I know you are going to be very happy one day.’

  ‘I have already met the man I love,’ Hari said painfully. ‘And he’s just not meant for me.’

  ‘My dear Hari.’ There were tears in the colonel’s eyes and, too late, Hari realized he’d misunderstood. He kissed her hand. ‘You’ve made me the happiest man in the world dear, dear little Hari.’ He closed his eyes and with her hand against his lips, he died, softly.

  Hari began to cry, tears for him, but also tears that she knew were self-pity. The nurse touched her on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry about your father, dear, or is he your granddad? He had a good life and you saw him happily on his way. God bless ye and look after ye, not many are there for their loved ones at the end.’

  Hari stumbled out into the night and sagged against the railings fronting the lodge. She had a sister and a father and neither of them were there for her when she needed them. Hari slid to the ground and began to cry. Around her the tang of autumn sharpened the air, the leaves, gold and bronze in the sun, looked sullen and dull in the evening light.

  Overhead, the clouds cleared. Through the chill air came the faint drone of planes. The sound intensified, filling the world. Hari ran instinctively for shelter. Bullets hailed down as though searching for her. They spat on the ground at her heels. She dived for the sparse cover of the bushes on the outskirts of the lodge and threw herself flat, the smell of earth in her nostrils and the tears she was still shedding sinking into the ground.

  Was that Michael up there in one of the bombers? Would he fly over Carmarthen as well as Swansea and bomb the farm and even his mother into oblivion?

  And then the lodge itself took a direct hit. The walls were gone, huge chunks of masonry flew like massive missives towards her. One whole wall landed within inches of where she lay; flames shot into the darkening sky, licking at the night, illuminating the surrounding area.

  Hari stayed on the ground feeling leaves crackle against her cheeks as she turned her head to look at the devastation that was occurring all around her. The bombers, their targets lit and exposed by the flames from the old hospital buildings, dropped more bombs, easily hitting the surrounding houses. The whole world seemed to be in flames. Hell had come for her before she was even dead.

  Eventually, the bombers droned away, their task complete. Hari sat up and looked at the still-burning lodge, the funeral pyre for all those inside. Hari cried for Colonel Edwards but was glad that he had died before suffering the indignity of being blown to death by the Luftwaffe.

  Eventually, she staggered to her feet and looked into the basin of Swansea Bay. A ship that was waiting for the incoming tide was on fire. Flares of flames like bonfires showed where houses had been hit. Tiny figures ran about the devastated streets like ants. She waved her fists to the sky in a useless gesture of anger.

  Hari began to walk down the hill, making her way back to the town. If she was lucky her house would still be standing and she would lie in her own bed and sleep all the pain away.

  As she rounded the corner she saw her house was there, solid and welcoming and she closed the door on the carnage outside with a sigh of resignation and relief.

  The talk at Bridgend the next day revolved around Colonel Edwards. Hari was asked many times how he had died. She told them briefly. ‘He passed away peacefully before the bombing.’ And silently she thanked God it was true.

  She went to her radio at last but there was nothing coming through. She sat with her head in her hands until, at last, she heard the tap of the machine.

  The message was being passed on from Bletchley Park; she could tell it was passed on by Babs. After the official code and brief, precise message, the tapping became faltering, the sender clearly inexperienced. Hari took down the coded message with difficulty, the transmission was intermittent and then unbelievably she recognized some words not in code but in Welsh. Her own name, Angharad, the word for darling, cariad, and ‘it’s me, sis. Black Opal.’ And the radio went dead.

  Forty-Six

  The next day I went out into the fields and tried to figure out the radio, wishing there was a book of instructions with it, but of course any official spy would have been properly trained on its use. I had finally worked out that the big dial was the frequency finder. God knows how I had managed to send a message at all I was so ignorant. All I could hope was that someone, hopefully not the Germans, would have picked it up. I didn’t know how useful the information would be and, in any case, perhaps some real spy had sent the message using the transceiver properly.

  I had to hide the case again so I closed it securely and wrapped it in a stiff cotton pillowcase and an old mackintosh, so big it must be Herr Euler’s, and then carried the radio out further into the
field and dug a pit. I went back to the farmhouse then to cook myself some lunch.

  I had the usual eggs and bread and, luxury, a bit of chicken, and sat outside to eat my meal in the quiet of the countryside. I wished Jessie was here to cook with her usual efficiency and chatter at the same time. I was lonely. But tomorrow I would be back at work, among my colleagues, my friends, if I was to be truthful. Friends and enemies—how do you distinguish them?

  The silence was suddenly broken by the sound of cars driving up outside the farmhouse. I got up wondering, with a beating heart, if Michael was home.

  The man who stepped out of the car was a stranger; he stood there shoulders hunched to break down any resistance and stared at me suspiciously.

  ‘I am Frau Euler,’ I said, ‘what are you doing here if I may ask?’ It paid to be polite to big hard men in SS uniform.

  ‘I am Von Kestle. I have to search your house. Anyone else here?’

  I shook my head. ‘My husband is in the skies somewhere bombing the enemy.’ I hoped that he was dropping his bombs in the sea. ‘And my father-in-law Herr Euler is no doubt busy working for the fatherland in his office in Hamburg.’

  The man paused, taken aback, and then he clicked his heels. ‘Forgive the intrusion Frau Euler,’ he said quickly, ‘but we have reports of enemy activity in the area, we have to search.’

  ‘There was a spy here some time ago but Herr Euler got rid of her,’ I said quickly.

  ‘They work together these traitors,’ the man said sternly. ‘There is usually a nest of them—like vipers. Now, I’d like to come inside, Frau Euler.’

  I stepped back hurriedly and waved my arm. ‘Please come in, you are welcome to search my house if only for my own safety. Can I fetch you any refreshments?’

  ‘Nein! Danke.’