Down Wilcoombe Hill they played and marched. Their effect on the West Country people was to be seen in the faces. Tom Barrington at the head of his Home Guard stiffened angrily, the Women’s Voluntary Service ladies turned, tumbling against each other as they did so. Mrs Mahon-Feavor tried to shout an order but nobody heard. The Wilcoombe band gurgled to a not ungrateful stop. The youth of the town were in no doubt. They broke ranks and cheered and laughed as the foreign coloured men advanced, the Brownies scattering to the roadside, followed by the Cadet soldiers, sailors and airmen. The milk-float gun-carriage broke loose and bumped down the hill before mounting the pavement and colliding with the post box.
There had never been such excitement in that place. Doey Bidgood and Lenny Birch spilled their cider in their efforts to get a better view of the approaching phenomenon. Minnie Smith began to shout hysterically and Fat Meg all but fell dramatically from the window. Everybody was shouting, waving and suddenly singing. The parasite girls who had followed the Yanks began to jitterbug with each other on the pavement.
There was no doubt, the band was wonderful. They clashed and smashed into the jazz rhythms, their march became dance as they came down the slope, syncopation in every step. The Jingle Johnny, a beaming ebony man, jumped and jangled. The landgirls bell-ringers in the band swung their bells hopefully in unison. One shouted sideways to her companion: ‘There’s no stopping they Yanks, Rosie!’
They reached the broad foot of Wilcoombe Hill with the people avalanching after them. The ragged but sedate parade had, within minutes, become riotous. People were leaping like grasshoppers and clapping their hands; the abandoned girls were still jitterbugging; Doey’s cider, tipping sideways as he eagerly hung from the public house window, cascaded on to the entranced Brownies below. Even the Wilcoombe band, overtaken with the excellence and enthusiasm of the playing black men, beamed and bounced modestly as they watched. Only Mrs Mahon-Feavor and Tom Barrington were less than pleased. ‘This is what is going to happen, I suppose,’ foresaw the lady helplessly. ‘They’ll just take over everything. And ruin it.’
At the rim of the quay the American band spread into a circle. It was apparent even to Mrs Mahon-Feavor that the parade was at an end. The rustic people pressed around, there were shouts demanding more room for the players, on every face was a smile, a new excitement, something that had not been seen for a long while in that wartime place. The saviours had indeed come. With trumpets.
Then, at the pitch of the rapture, with the band bending, dipping and high-stepping, all in the confines of their circus, a new sound gurgled across the Sunday morning air; the air-raid siren. The English people, used to false alarms or the times when the raiders never came within miles, scarcely noticed it, but the Americans, including, indeed led by, the band, broke ranks and scattered in all directions, up the hill, in between the houses, even under two boats which sat, keels-up, on the quay. One man blew his horn wildly as he ran like the trumpeter of a panic-fraught cavalry. Schorner, amazed and angry, glared around to see his soldiers fleeing in all directions. ‘Bombers! It’s the goddamn Nazi bombers!’ bawled one man as he scuttled past. The colonel grabbed the man by the tunic and tugged him to an abrupt stop. He almost heaved the frightened soldier in front of him. ‘Halt!’ shouted Schorner, the order meant for any and every man who was scattering. Only the GI he had grasped and held prisoner heard him. The soldier’s face was shivering. ‘I’m halted, sir,’ he replied, his tone vibrant with complaint.
The villagers were rolling across garden walls with laughter. They embraced each other with merriment at the novice fright of their allies. The poacher’s wife, Minnie Smith, was hanging her great fat form from the pub window, arms spread out as wings, lips quivering in a grotesque impersonation of engine noise. ‘Look out, Yanks!’ bawled Doey from the next window. ‘’Ere be a Jerry comin’ for ’ee!’
Even as the words were howled across the sunlit street, a wide cross-shaped shadow flew low across the housetops, its loud engine-noise arriving after it. ‘Christ!’ howled Doey. ‘’Tis a bloody Jerry.’
Everyone saw the plane within the same moment. Blindly the civilians scattered with as much haste and as little dignity as the American soldiers. The area round the quay cleared in seconds, everyone running outwards to doorways and crannies already occupied by the cowering troops. The bass drummer of the Wilcoombe band fell off the edge of the quay and was only saved from drowning by his buoyant instrument. The bell-ringing landgirls rolled their bulky bodies beneath the turned-up boats, making the GIs hiding there gasp and then take on, even in peril, a grin of pleasure and proprietorship.
Colonel Schorner found himself pressed against the wall of Howard Evans’ cottage. The door opened and Evans himself pulled him inside. Beatrice was already in the passage with three of the Air Cadets who were arguing as to the type and firepower of the enemy aircraft. Fat Meg who had left the pub to join the crowd around the band was also here, her great back heaving at the far end of the corridor. Evans opened the door and peered out towards the sea. The black shape of the German plane was easing in a slow threatening circle out over Start Bay. ‘He’s coming back,’ muttered the doctor. ‘Get on the floor everybody!’
He tried to shut the cottage door, but two of the Cadets, in their eagerness to get a view of the plane, had advanced too far and, obediently, had now flattened themselves on the coconut matting inside the door, making it impossible to close. Evans cursed. Fat Meg abruptly added to the confusion and danger by tramping over everyone in the narrow passage and charging red-legged out of the door. She stood on the short garden path waving her meaty fists at the advancing plane and bawling hideously: ‘Come on, you bastards! Come on then!’
Schorner watched her with astonishment. On his hands and knees he hurried comically forward with Evans just behind him. They swung like a pair of apes, on all fours, down the path, each one grasping one of Meg’s swollen purple ankles. She turned and abused them in the same fury that she had expended on the Germans. They pulled strongly at the ankles and Meg, with a monstrous cry, toppled over backwards on top of them in a great cumulus of skirts, petticoats and scarlet drawers.
The bulging buttocks descended full across Schorner’s back knocking the breath from him. The bomber came on, steady, enlarging all the time, seeming to head directly for the comic trio grappling on the front path of the quayside cottage. Then Evans, in an odd whisper as though he feared the enemy might hear and be warned, said: ‘The gun. Look.’
They remained transfixed in their bundle on the ground. The plane continued on course, its black nose sniffing directly at them. The barrel of the anti-aircraft gun on the quayside swung and Schorner heard orders being shouted above the deep growling of the aircraft’s three engines. They watched, transfixed. Beatrice crawled from the doorway and tugged at Howard Evans’ sock, urging him to get back under cover. Then, in the open, she too saw what was happening. Mouth and eyes set, she watched the approaching plane, so low now it seemed to be crouching. The gun was swinging around as if it were manipulated by someone with a string. Meg staggered to her knees, then to a squat, and began parading violently up and down like a gigantic chicken. ‘Shoot the bastards down, boys!’ she howled. ‘Shoot their German balls off!’
As though this were the command for which they waited, the crew of the gun fired. The bang shook the houses. The plane was passing slightly to the east at no more altitude than five hundred feet. Even the Wilcoombe gunners could not miss a target so adjacent. The single shot they dispatched sent a great flat section of tailplane flying away, sailing down and then bouncing across the sea like a boy’s stone thrown in a game of ducks and drakes. At the same moment, as if in pique, the German bomber jettisoned a single bomb, which struck squarely in the middle of the harbour, sending a fine fountain of water into the air but otherwise causing no disturbance.
The gun crew were dumbfounded. Captain Westerman, relieved beyond dreams that the gun had actually worked, now stood with his hand across his mouth. Sergeant
Bullivant’s jaw descended. The soldiers all turned with mute astonishment. ‘My God,’ stumbled Westerman at last. ‘Whatever have we done?’
The words cut the tension and the gun crew began jumping up and down, shouting with joy, banging each other on the back. People came running from everywhere, British soldiers, American soldiers, men, women, children, pouring into the army compound and surrounding the jubilant gunners. Bullivant and Captain Westerman embraced each other, until they realized what they were doing. Then, standing back a pace, Westerman, ever doubtful, said: ‘I suppose it really was one of theirs, sergeant? I mean … we are sure?’
Bullivant’s enthused, infused cheeks drained to a pulpy white. ‘Christ, I hope so, sir,’ he said.
But there was no doubt. Doey Bidgood arrived on a wild bicycle and announced that the plane had crashed in a field to the north of Wilcoombe. Westerman, steel-faced, husky, soldierlike, ordered: ‘Right, sergeant, let’s take the prisoners.’
There was a charge towards the platoon truck, then a second-thoughts rush to get rifles from barrack-rooms. Westerman in his haste strapped his revolver on backwards and scampered towards the truck. Men were piling in. Gilman was already at the wheel and rushing the engine to life. The truck charged through the gate and made for the village hall. People cheered hysterically.
They reached the top of the hill and there, to their dismay, they found themselves in a whole caravan of people on bicycles, on horseback and on hurrying foot, heading towards the crashed plane. Westerman stood up and bellowed in rage at the civilians, but to no avail. Then, as they eventually reached the crossroads beyond the village the British officer’s horror was doubled as he spotted the pennants and helmets of an entire convoy of American vehicles hurrying across the line of the hedgetops, coming at right-angles and due to make the crossroads first.
‘Good God, the f-fucking Yanks,’ stammered Westerman. He looked around, aghast with guilt. He had never said that word in front of the men before and he prided himself on his clean tongue. ‘Beat them to it!’ he shouted at Gilman. ‘Go on, man, get a damned move on.’
The British platoon truck and the leading American jeep, driven by the determined Albie Primrose, reached the junction simultaneously. Albie, with the greater acceleration and mobility of the jeep, threw it round the corner, almost scraping the bumper of the British vehicle. Four GIs in the back of the jeep jeered and Westerman bellowed back ordering them to stop at once. ‘The prisoners are ours!’ he bawled. The Americans drove on, Albie pushing the nose of the jeep through the vanguard of the civilians hurrying to the scene, and then gunning the engine down the narrow country lane. Gilman got the snout of the platoon truck inserted after the jeep and before the next US vehicle, sweating and swearing, with Westerman rattling incomprehensible orders in his ear. The officer still had his revolver strapped on the wrong way. Catermole, observing all with his usual benign indolence, said to Bullivant: ‘Captain Westerman’s going to shoot his own knackers off soon, sarge.’
The field where the bomber had crashed was at the forehead of a slight hill. The plane had landed on the round apex. There had been no fire. It lay there, wings spread, back broken, like a shot crow.
People and soldiers appeared from all directions. Ten American vehicles were quickly there behind Albie’s jeep and Gilman’s platoon truck. They disgorged troops clutching carbines and tugging with awkward excitement at steel helmets. All would have charged across the field had not Westerman, in a rare commanding moment, shouted, ‘Halt!’ He attempted to get a grip on his revolver and, after a contortion, pulled the weapon from the webbing holster. ‘Everyone lie flat!’ he shouted. ‘They’ll turn the machine guns on you!’
In a moment the rush was quelled. The GIs, their expressions transformed, dropped hurriedly into the ditch at the roadside. Westerman, pleased and surprised with his success, shouted at troops in approaching vehicles: ‘Spread out, around the perimeter. And keep under cover.’
Lieutenant Kenholm was the first United States officer to approach Westerman. Clumsily he crawled along the ditch as though it were a front-line sap in Flanders. ‘Get your boys to keep their heads down, lieutenant,’ ordered Westerman dramatically. ‘Or you’ll be indenting for some coffins.’
Kenholm shouted to left and right. ‘You guys – get your dumb heads down. Lie flat. Everybody lie flat.’
Westerman could see soldiers moving all around the perimeter of the large field. ‘You’d better tell your chaps across there also. Otherwise they’ll be shooting and hitting your chaps over here,’ he said loftily. He was enjoying himself. ‘And get some bodies back to block the road. All the riff-raff will be here in a moment.’
‘The riff-raff?’ inquired Kenholm. He thought it might be something to do with the Air Force.
‘The hoi-polloi, the civilians,’ Westerman told him.
Whistles were being blown everywhere now, but order brought about by prudence had quickly spread around the meadow and no one broke cover. Schorner arrived, threading his way through the vehicles jamming the lane. Behind him came Howard Evans carrying his doctor’s bag. ‘What’s the situation, captain?’ asked Schorner. Westerman saluted. ‘Junkers. JU 88. Crew two or three. Have to go steady, they may use the machine guns.’ His teeth gripped. ‘They don’t give up easily.’
Looking with care from the cover of the hedge, Schorner surveyed the broken plane. There was no movement. ‘You’d think they’d quit as soon as the thing hit the ground,’ he said. ‘In case of fire.’
‘They may be dead,’ mentioned Westerman like a veteran.
Schorner acknowledged the remark but added: ‘It landed pretty flat.’ He looked again, cautiously, and Westerman sensed his reaction. ‘There’s movement there now,’ the American said. He called loudly along the ditch. ‘Hold your fire!’
Westerman closed his eyes theatrically. He raised his head and saw the movement at the breast of the plane. An unpleasant thought was growing in his mind that he, as the resident British officer, whose gun had actually hit the aeroplane, might be expected to do something positive, even dramatic. He glanced at Schorner who, by his expression, confirmed the Englishman’s fears. Westerman blinked, coughed politely into his hand, and speculatively handled his revolver, as if to warm it. He was saved from having to lead an advance, however, by the arrival of Police Constable Lethbridge of Wilcoombe. He was as thin as the bicycle upon which he creaked up the lane. He patiently dismounted before attaching a padlock and chain to the back wheel of the conveyance, an action accompanied by a distrustful look at the American soldiers in the ditch. He was wearing his police-issue revolver, the weapon grotesquely big around his wasted waist. His eyes were watery but his face and demeanour calmly determined.
‘Zur,’ he said, addressing Westerman, ‘oi think this be a matter for the civil power.’
Westerman could hardly conceal his relief. ‘Yes, constable, of course,’ he breathed. ‘I thought it might be.’ He looked sideways at Schorner. ‘This is the way we do things in this country,’ he explained awkwardly.
Schorner looked doubtful. He glanced over the hedgerow again. A single figure was standing by the wreckage of the plane. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘If that’s how you want to play it.’ He glanced at the policeman. ‘If there’s any shooting, drop flat on the ground.’
Lethbridge returned the look mildly. ‘Oi know about that, zur,’ he said. ‘Oi wuz trained to defeat the invasion.’
Before the grin had fully formed on Schorner’s face the pokery policeman opened the gate and walked with stiff authority into the field, the eyes of several hundred hidden soldiers on him. They watched, scarcely believing, as the blue-uniformed figure advanced across the grass towards the crashed bomber.
As he neared it his step slowed, but only momentarily. Then they saw the German airman move forward. Every hidden soldier checked his breath and gripped his rifle more readily. They were astonished when the policeman and the enemy flier merely shook hands.
‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered Sch
orner. ‘Now I’ve seen every goddamn thing.’
‘Our policemen are wonderful,’ echoed Westerman smugly.
They watched as the German led Lethbridge towards the broken fuselage. They saw the Devon man climb with difficulty on to the wing and then peer down into the aircraft. He returned to the ground and, walking like a companion alongside the German, he made towards the gate again.
From every side the American soldiers rose from behind their concealment and stood staring at their first sight of the enemy. The German was young, weary. He looked about him startled when he saw the considerable army materialize. Then a faint smile came across his tired lips and he whispered something to his friend, the policeman.
At the gate Schorner and Westerman waited. The American looked into the young, riven face, and felt his heart fall. The German returned the look with a wry smile. ‘There’s two others in the aeroplane, zur,’ mentioned Police Constable Lethbridge. ‘Both dead by the look o’ they. Only bits of boys.’
During the second week in February, three days before the infamous St Valentine’s Day Dance at Wilcoombe, the United States forces staged the first of their mass pre-invasion exercises along the wide shingle of Telcoombe Beach. Until then it had been confined to individual units.
‘The code name is Exercise Eider,’ Schorner shouted across the heads of the men assembled on the square at the centre of the Telcoombe Magna Camp. They were standing in rough order, not in ranks, like a crowd listening to an outdoor politician. ‘The eider is a kind of duck, the hicks among you will know that.’ He ran his eyes along the ranks of attentive, apprehensive faces. ‘One thousand GIs are taking part, coming ashore from landing craft or ending up in the ocean, depending how lucky you get or how you shape up as soldiers. There’ll be a lot of other war games to follow over the next few weeks. But sometime the games have got to end – and then it’s the real thing. So I want this outfit to get it right from the start.’
The Magic Army Page 23
