The Magic Army

by Leslie Thomas

  Deaf Mrs Bewler and her son Bob, the simpleton of Telcoombe Magna, arrived next and headed, with much fuss but no questions, towards their normal pew. Sissons reflected that for years he had been trying to move them further back where their combined singing – hers loud and tuneless, his mad –would interfere less with the choir. There would be no need for that any longer. He watched them sideways as more people came through the door and saw the widow and her poor son drop to their knees and pray with rivalling fervour. They sat up and knelt down together three times. Sissons wished he could pray with so little impediment.

  The people began to come through the door in greater numbers. To the vicar came the sad reflection that they had never arrived like this for services. The faces were puzzled, annoyed, worried, excited. They had been brought from their homes and their work for what? ‘I heard it’s the King visiting,’ said Mrs Katlin, a widow who had lived, the only permanent resident, at the Beach Hotel for twelve years. ‘Is it His Majesty?’

  ‘No,’ replied Sissons. ‘It’s not … not really.’ He wondered where she would go when they were moved out. Where would they all go?

  In thirty minutes the church was fuller than he had ever seen it, even at Christmas. The people’s collective breath in the chilled air rose above the pews like a strange universal halo. Tom Barrington came through the door, set-faced, his expression hardening even more when he saw the people occupying every pew. ‘Pity you can’t take a collection,’ he muttered to the vicar.

  ‘I fear we might have to give it back,’ replied Sissons. He felt annoyed at Barrington’s bitterness because his own was just as sharp and deep. Barrington strode into the church and only then did Sissons see that Jean, his wife, and Annette his daughter, who managed the dairy herd on the farm, were behind him. They walked by dutifully like a Victorian family. The vicar imagined Barrington had told them. The girl smiled shyly at him. She was eighteen. She might be relieved to be away from the farm and the timetable of cows.

  Horace Smith, the little poacher, came through the door next with Minnie, his large wife. He was nervous of the church, which he never attended, and went down the side-aisle timidly, his wife holding his hand, like a son with his mother.

  Doey Bidgood and his sister, Beryl, who had been engaged for as long as anyone could remember to Lenny Birch, came in almost last. Doey winked towards someone in one of the pews. ‘What’s goin’ on then, reverend?’ he asked. Then shrewdly: ‘They Yanks going to take us over?’ He went jauntily on without expecting an answer.

  Almost everyone in the village was now crowded into the nave. The exception was remedied just before two forty-five when the government people were due to arrive. Sissons sensed the presence of Mrs Mahon-Feavor outside the door; it was something he had learned to know. Opening it to its fullest extent he saw that he was right.

  Mrs Mahon-Feavor of Telcoombe Manor, feathered hat squatting like a tatty bird of paradise above the aloof and lined face, fur coat coming apart at the skins, and walking stick raised as if to assault the door, stood in the porch. She was regally flanked by her two sons, Jolliffe and Andrew, both Guards subalterns, and followed by her uniformed daughter Bridget, an adjutant in the WRAF. It occurred to Sissons that she looked like someone under military arrest. Without a word, and yet on some sensed sign, the echelon moved into the church and proceeded down the nave. Barrington turned with the rest of the heads to witness the entry. The two sons wore Sam Browne belts which must have belonged to their father (who had been the type to have a spare Sam Browne) because they had not been available to officers since nineteen-forty. They proceeded to the family pew at the front, under the lectern, and sat with tidy ceremony. Mrs Mahon-Feavor squatted, eyes open and unblinking, while her three children knelt for the statutory prayer, apparently, Sissons thought, saying hers by proxy. When they were seated the church became restless though silent. Nobody spoke but the Devon people began to look around expectantly. Sissons remained by the door. Doey, who was in the back pew, leaned towards the front and whispered waggishly: ‘What we waitin’ for, reverend? Jesus?’

  Sissons, smiling wanly, shook his head. ‘I wish it were, Doey,’ he replied. ‘It might answer a lot of questions.’

  ‘And it’d be nice for you,’ said Doey matily.

  At that moment Sissons saw they were coming, two black, clean cars mounting the short hill towards the church. They pulled up outside the lychgate, shiny limousines like a short but expensive funeral procession, followed by an American jeep containing three officers and a driver. From the black cars came two naval officers, one with sufficient gold braid to be the admiral, followed by various civilians, two gripping attaché cases, and three women in the green uniform of the Women’s Voluntary Service. He took a step towards them, shook hands with the admiral and several others in a confused manner. He almost felt inclined to salute. He did not retain any of the names, although he knew the admiral was called Denning-Pryce. ‘This way, please,’ he said as though there were an alternative, and led the procession down through the packed people in the church.

  The entry of the formation had an electric effect on those in the pews. Had it been a Gestapo captain at the head of his henchmen it could scarcely have caused a greater sensation. The younger naval officer led the way, following the vicar, the admiral came next, head bowed as if he spent much time gazing into deep water, with the ladies and officials wedged between him and the American officers who brought up the rear. Their out-of-step footfalls made their progress even more threateningly official. ‘High-ups. I reckon we’re going to see a bit o’ trouble ’ere,’ forecast Doey in a whisper to the people in his locality. The formation reached the chancel steps where a line of chairs had been arranged on the worn red carpet. A thick silence had covered the assembly. Then Bob Bewler, the simpleton, unable to stand the pressure, began to applaud. Several people helplessly joined in.

  Admiral Denning-Pryce looked embarrassed and the three WVS ladies smiled gently and with understanding between themselves. The clapping was smothered under a chorus of rustic shushing. Colonel Schorner, sitting on the right of the group, hardly heard what was going on. He was staring up at the lovely, simple, ancient roof of the church, the bowed rafters and ribs, black with years. It astonished him that this was, casually, a village church. The walls were thick with age and hung with memorial tablets like heavy pictures in a gallery. Through the pointed windows the tired light of the winter day softly glowed behind the reds, blues and yellows of the stained glass. He turned to look at the east window, a coloured saint on each side, a glowing Christ in the middle. Then his eyes came down to the people, row after row, worn faces looking over the worn pews, all turned eagerly, apprehensively, towards the chancel where he now sat. He felt guilty and sad.

  Eric Sissons had asked Tom Barrington if he wanted to be in the front and introduce the visitors. As chairman of the parish council it was, properly, his duty. Barrington had been blunt. ‘No, I’ll sit in a pew, thanks. You tell them – it’s your bloody church.’

  Sissons now stood haplessly before the people. He seemed to be short of breath. Why did he have to do it? Glancing around him was, he thought, like looking at a Breughel painting, the rough, thick, needful faces, each showing its own small drama. It was terrible, he thought, disgraceful. He opened his mouth but nothing happened. Again he tried. ‘Lost your tongue, vicar?’ called the irrepressible voice of Doey Bidgood over the heads. Some laughed a little; most turned and shushed him.

  ‘Yes, I think I have,’ confessed Sissons more loudly than he had intended. ‘It’s difficult to know what to say, where to begin.’ He looked behind him at the visitors arranged on the chancel chairs. There was no help there. Turning back towards the congregation his eyes caught those of Beatrice Evans sitting beside her husband. She gave him a friendly nod, as if to say, ‘Start now.’ Encouraged, he looked up at the rest of the people again.

  ‘Dear friends, people of this parish,’ he began. ‘As you may have gathered, this is no ordinary meeting
. You have been told to come here for a very special purpose. Something which will, immediately, affect the lives of all of us. The officers and people you see behind me on the chairs have all come to help … to explain things. But first, for a brief statement on what is taking place, I would like to introduce Rear Admiral Sir Arthur Denning-Pryce …’ He glanced at the slip of paper in his fingers. He repeated, ‘Sir Arthur Denning-Pryce, DSO, DSC and RN …’ He fluffed. ‘Royal Navy, naturally. I … I … this … this is Admiral Sir Arthur Denning-Pryce.’

  The vicar sat down heavily, as though worn out. The admiral, a bulky grey man with a double jowl, glowered at him as he would glower at a man cowering under fire. Heavily he got to his feet and with a wounded limp moved forward to the front of the chancel.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began sharply. It sounded like an accusation. Schorner closed his eyes and remembered the British he had seen on the cinema screen. They were true after all. He looked up and caught the glance of a young, dark woman in the front pew, sitting next to Beatrice Evans. The admiral coughed and produced a sheet of paper. ‘First of all I have something to read to you. This is a government notice which will be read at five similar meetings to this in various parts of this district over the next twenty-four hours. Please listen carefully as it affects you all.’

  He fumbled and pedantically unfolded the sheet of paper like a maid opening a napkin. ‘It is headed: Requisition Order.’ Curiously, he turned the notice round and pointed to the words as though trying to convince them that he was telling the truth. He coughed wetly and went on: ‘This order authorizes the military requisitioning of an area of South Devon bounded by the roads from Wilcoombe to the sea at Start Bay. This includes the villages of Telcoombe Magna, Telcoombe Beach, Burton, Sellow, Normancroft and Mortown but does not include Wilcoombe. All civilians with their possessions, including livestock, must be evacuated from the area by twenty-first January, 1944.’

  A dumbness fell over the church, an eerie stunned vacuum; five hundred wooden people. Some heads craned silently forward like geese as if to make sure they had heard right. Others sat blinking. A whimper came from a woman at the back; deaf Mrs Bewler turned to her fool son and made ‘What? What is it?’ motions with her mouth.

  The first audible words came from Mrs Mahon-Feavor. Scarlet-faced, she abruptly shouted at the admiral, ‘You bloody old fool!’ Her Guards officer sons and her angular WRAF daughter, equally outraged, looked as though they might at any moment attack the elderly naval man. The angry return ignited the whole crowd. In an amazing moment they were shouting and howling and on their feet waving arms and fists. Sissons made flapping motions with his vicar’s hands.

  Schorner had never seen anything like it. He felt as if he were confronted by hostile and primitive tribes. Several men came down the aisle. Admiral Denning-Pryce, who had been at the Battle of the Dogger Bank, stood his ground, fire-eyed now, waving the piece of paper, the proclamation, before him like some invincible weapon.

  Howard Evans was smartly to his feet and gently held the people who had moved forward away from the chancel. Mrs Mahon-Feavor quelled the outcry as quickly as she had begun it. Getting to her feet and clambering on to the seat of the pew, hat feathers dipping, the seams of her coat yawning beneath her waving arms, she shouted: ‘Sit down! Sit down everyone! Quiet! Quiet at once!’ They knew the voice of authority when they heard it. They slumped back into their seats, their protests swallowed in their scowls. Schorner watched with increasing astonishment. He had never experienced the power of the feudal system.

  Within a few moments the church was almost as quiet as it had previously been, a quiet only underscored by some brittle whispering and the sniffing of women. Mrs Mahon-Feavor had climbed down from the pew, assisted by all three uniformed offspring, and now sat, ugly with challenge, facing the paled admiral. ‘I will continue,’ he said.

  He blinked at the sheet of paper again, mouthing the opening words silently, trying to find the place he had reached. He discovered it and drawing a deep breath said, clearly as a preacher, ‘This requisition and evacuation will be carried out with the assistance and direction of the military and naval personnel, the US Army and US Navy, the civilian agencies, and local government authorities. Compensation will be paid for any damage to land or other property, for disturbance and hardship. Alternative accommodation will be found for all inhabitants and assistance given in the disposal of livestock and other farm produce.’ He looked up from the words. ‘The order is signed by the Secretary for War,’ he said. His face had lost its fight. He made to sit down, then rose and merely said: ‘I’m very sorry.’

  Now there was no shouting. They sat stunned, fumbling to try and understand, to take it in. Mrs Mahon-Feavor’s face had dropped almost to her lap. She looked up, great hurt in her wrinkled eyes, and said, almost sulkily, ‘You do realize that includes my home, Telcoombe Manor.’

  ‘Yes, madam,’ replied the admiral. ‘I do.’

  ‘It has been in my family for seven centuries,’ she muttered. But said no more. Her younger son, who was at the Guards depot and had never seen action, looked as if he wanted to fight. The elder one, who was also at the depot but had gone to France just in time for Dunkirk, gave the impression he was already trying to think of a plan.

  From his seat halfway down the church, Tom Barrington rose heavily. His name was whispered across the crowd, people telling their neighbours who he was, although everyone already knew. ‘Are we to be allowed the privilege of asking questions?’ he said. He sat down again.

  Admiral Denning-Pryce nodded tiredly. Schorner, watching him, could see how much the encounter had taken out of him. ‘Yes,’ said the admiral. ‘But individual matters must be dealt with individually. I simply cannot deal with them, nor have I any authority to do so. It was my unpleasant duty to come here to Telcoombe Magna to read that notice. That was all I was required to do by the Prime Minister, Mr Churchill, and the War Cabinet. If, however, I can help to ease matters, I would like to help, believe me.’

  Barrington nodded and stood again. ‘Does Mr Churchill realize that this area, thirty thousand acres, is some of the richest farmland in this country and yet he orders that it must be abandoned, just left, at a time when they’re ploughing damned gravel to try and raise crops? Does he know that – or does he care?’

  An assenting growl went up through the church. Schorner watched the heads above the pews nodding as if on strings. The admiral rose and said: ‘I am sure that the matter was fully discussed before the decision was taken.’

  ‘It weren’t discussed with us!’ shouted Doey from the back. A rabble of voices agreed. Mr and Mrs Hicks, from Telcoombe Beach, stood up pathetically together. ‘Does it mean shops as well?’ she asked tremulously after he had nudged her. ‘We’ve got the shop by the beach.’

  ‘It does, I’m afraid,’ nodded the admiral kindly. ‘Everything, shops, houses, schools, churches, including this one, farms, everything.’ Schorner shut his eyes and imagined the couple’s shop on the beach.

  Now the poacher, hardly higher than the pew, stood, his sharp face and nose thrust forward belligerently. ‘You’ll be taking every man’s living away,’ he said bitterly. ‘What they going to do?’

  ‘Jobs and accommodation will be found outside the area,’ said the admiral. ‘That has been undertaken.’

  ‘Why’s everybody got to get out anyway?’ someone demanded from the middle of the church. Nobody stood to match the voice up. ‘Yes, there’s plenty of room for soldiers as well,’ put in another voice. ‘Nowhere else have they kicked the people out, just because of the soldiers.’

  Schorner suddenly found everyone on the chancel chairs was looking at him. The admiral turned slowly and regarded him. ‘Would you like to say something, colonel?’ he inquired.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ muttered Schorner as he stood up. He walked to the fore. His tongue felt dry. They were staring at him like an enemy. ‘I’m Colonel Schorner,’ he began. ‘I have no authority to comment on these ma
tters. It just happens, unfortunately for me, that I’m in command of the advance party of the US Army engineers in this district. All I can tell you is that the sooner we get this business through, the sooner we can all go home. I’d like just to say, as a farmer in the United States, how very sorry I am.’

  He almost tripped over the seated admiral as he tried to retreat to his chair. ‘But why’s everybody got to get out?’ insisted the voice again. ‘That’s what I want to know.’

  Tom Barrington stood up. ‘Since nobody else appears to want to answer the question,’ he said. It was almost a snarl, ‘I’ll tell you. Nobody has told me to keep quiet about it.’ He looked around the church. A wintry bird could be heard singing in the silence. A woman near the door looked out and said, quite loudly: ‘It’s started to rain again.’

  Barrington turned towards the platform. No one there had moved. No one challenged him. ‘I’ll tell you,’ he repeated. ‘The reason that we all have to clear out, lock, stock and barrel, is because live ammunition is to be used in these exercises, bullets, shells and bombs.’

  Admiral Denning-Pryce unsteadily got to his feet. He waved the piece of paper at Barrington as if it were an indictment. Barrington ignored him. ‘During the next six months or so,’ Barrington went on, ‘this place, this church, our homes and farms, are going to be the middle of a battlefield. Don’t expect to come back – whenever you do come back – and find your houses in one piece.’ He almost threw his head around in defiance. ‘Somebody has to tell the truth – and that’s it.’

  Barrington sat down again, the force of his bulky and angry descent sounding through the church. Wearily the elderly admiral stepped forward. There was one more thing to say.

  ‘You are all aware of the importance of secrecy in wartime,’ he said like someone espousing a lost cause. ‘I have been asked to point out that this whole matter must be kept as … er … quiet, as confidential as possible. The less people outside the area know about it the better for the war effort.’ He made a final effort. ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives.’