Come the Hour

by Peggy Savage

  Tessa arrived after lunch, looking, Amy thought, quite blooming. She flung her arms around Amy and Dan and Charlie and shook Tim’s hand. Amy watched her. She couldn’t detect any change in Tessa when she looked at Tim, but Tim’s expression was unmistakable. I wonder, she thought, what went on in Cambridge?

  Tessa and the boys went out to have a look at the hole in the garden. Amy watched them out of the window, laughing and chatting.

  Dan came up behind her. ‘Seems like a nice young man, Tim,’ he said. ‘I’m glad Charlie’s got a friend.’

  She took his hand and he put his arm around her. ‘He likes Tessa,’ she said. ‘I can tell.’

  ‘That’s not surprising,’ he said. ‘Everybody likes Tessa.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ she said.’ ‘I can tell by the way he looks at her.’

  ‘And do you think she likes him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s not a good idea, is it? The way things are.’

  ‘Amy,’ he said, ’they’re young and full of life. You can’t stop nature. You can’t stop young people doing what they do.’

  She leant against him. ‘I know. It’s just … all those boys in the last war. Oh Dan.’

  ‘Amy, you can’t stop people loving each other – thank God,’ he said. ‘It gives us a reason for living, doesn’t it? War or no war. It didn’t stop me falling in love with you.’

  She turned and put her arms around him. ‘I love you,’ she said.

  Charlie and Tim changed into civvies and helped Dan to wrestle the corrugated roof over the shelter and cover it with earth. ‘It’s horrible,’ Tessa said. ‘I hope we don’t ever have to sleep in it. It smells.’

  They came in to tea.

  ‘Would you two go and bring it in?’ Amy said. ‘Mrs Lewis will be busy with dinner.’

  ‘I’ll go and wash.’ Charlie disappeared upstairs.

  Tessa went into the kitchen. ‘Hello Sara,’ she said. ‘Still at it?’

  Sara was sitting at the table, a book in front of her. She nodded, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Still want to be a doctor?’

  Sara smiled broadly. ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘You can always ask me,’ Tessa said, ‘anything you want to know.’

  Charlie came in. ‘I’m famished,’ he said. ‘Hello Sara. I’m Charlie.’

  ‘How do you do,’ she said.

  He leant over her shoulder. ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘Biology.’

  ‘Another brain,’ he said. ‘I’m surrounded by brains. You must be very proud of her, Mrs Lewis.’

  ‘Oh, I am,’ Nora said. ‘I am.’

  They carried in the tea. ‘How about going out this evening?’ Charlie said. ‘A bit of dining and dancing. We could go to the Café de Paris again.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Tessa said. ‘We don’t get much dancing, do we?’

  ‘Are they having the May Balls at Cambridge this year?’ Dan said.

  ‘I think so,’ Tessa said. ‘That’s if there are any men around to take us.’ Amy saw her glance briefly at Tim, and saw his quick smile.

  In the evening the three of them came into the sitting room. Amy’s heart turned over. They look so beautiful, she thought, the boys in their uniforms, and Tessa in an evening dress, so fresh and pretty. ‘Have a good time,’ she said.

  Dan tucked a five-pound note into Charlie’s pocket. ‘Thanks Dad,’ he said. ‘We’re not exactly overpaid.’

  They arrived at the Café de Paris and were given a table and ordered dinner.

  ‘Wartime food,’ Charlie said. He took out the five-pound note. ‘Still, we can afford champagne.’

  Over coffee Charlie looked around the room. ‘There’s a nice-looking girl over there,’ he said. ‘The redhead. I think I’ll ask her to dance.’

  ‘You don’t know her, Charlie,’ Tessa said.

  ‘Wartime.’ Charlie grinned. ‘Anything goes.’ He tapped his chest. ‘And I’ve got the wings.’ He set off across the room.

  ‘I think you’re stuck with me,’ Tim said.

  They stood up together; Tim slipped his arm around her waist and drew her close. ‘That’s nice,’ he said.

  She said nothing. Slowly she leant her head against his shoulder and he rested his cheek against her hair.

  ‘Tessa,’ he said. ‘Tessa.’

  For a moment she leant against him, but then she pulled away and laughed. ‘Don’t get serious,’ she said.

  He looked down at her. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because,’ she said.

  He drew her close again. ‘I can’t help it,’ he said.

  This time she didn’t pull away.

  Nora kissed Sara goodnight. ‘Say a prayer for Dad,’ she said.

  ‘I always do.’ Sara bit her lip. ‘I wish he was here.’

  ‘So do I. Maybe he’ll come home soon.’ Nora brightened. ‘They’re nice, aren’t they, the family? Tessa’s nice.’

  Sara nodded.

  ‘And that Charlie,’ Nora went on. ‘I bet he’ll be breaking some hearts.’

  Chapter Twelve

  1940

  ‘It’s started,’ Dan said. ‘We knew this couldn’t go on – this false normality. It’s the end of this phoney war.’

  Amy paled. ‘Why Denmark and Norway, for heaven’s sake? What do they want with those?’

  ‘They can use the airfields to get at us,’ Dan said. ‘And it puts them close to the iron mines in Sweden. They’re just mopping up the edges – closing in on France – and on us.’

  Amy sat down at the kitchen table and held her head in her hand. ‘Poor France. All over again. It’s unbelievable.’

  Tessa telephoned. ‘Do you think I should come home, Dad?’ she said. ‘Don’t you think we should all be together now?’

  ‘No, darling,’ Dan said. ‘The last thing anyone wants is people panicking and running around the country.’

  ‘I’m not panicking,’ she said. ‘I just want to do something useful.’

  ‘Stay where you are, Tessa,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you know if we think you should come home.’

  ‘I’ll want her with us,’ Amy said, ‘if it looks as if they really are coming.’ Her voice trembled, but she wouldn’t give words to her fears.

  She found it hard to sleep. The Germans wouldn’t stop at Norway. Not now. She dreaded hearing the church bells, the signal that the invasion had begun. Church bells, she thought, that most English sound of a quiet, peaceful Sunday morning, now to be the signal for horror and chaos. She hadn’t heard from Charlie for several days. No news was good news, wasn’t it? She didn’t even know whether he’d yet been in action.

  She and Dan listened to the Home Service on the wireless. On 10 May, the Germans took the Netherlands and Belgium, and were advancing into France. Chamberlain had resigned and Churchill was now Prime Minister.

  ‘Thank God,’ Dan said. ‘It was no good Chamberlain patting us on the head and saying Hitler has missed the boat. He patently hasn’t.’

  They listened constantly to the news. The British and French armies were being forced back, retreating, leaving most of their heavy equipment behind them. The roads were apparently packed with soldiers and thousands of French refugees. The Luftwaffe bombed and strafed them, civilians included, as they struggled on.

  ‘The Germans have reached the Somme,’ Dan said. ‘They’re only sixty miles from Paris.’

  Amy was shocked, with a dreadful feeling of déjà vu, with overwhelming memories of her own days in the hospital in Paris in 1914, fearing that the Germans might come any day. She was even more appalled by the realization that the Great War had all been for nothing. Twenty years later exactly the same thing was happening. The next generation, the children of the survivors of that horror, had to go through it all again. Will it never end, she thought? This spiral of destruction and despair?

  Every night they sat, tense, beside the wireless. On 26 May the Germans took Calais, cutting off the British forces. Their only remaining escape was through Dunkirk. ‘They�
��re trapped, Dan,’ Amy agonized. ‘All those boys. Have we lost our army? All our boys?’

  She came home from an evening surgery, tired out from the emotional strain of trying to help or comfort white-faced women with their sick children; women whose husbands were on those beaches; they didn’t know whether they were alive or dead. She found Dan packing a bag.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she said. ‘What’s happened?’

  He took her hands. ‘I’m going to Dunkirk, darling. They’re bringing the men off in anything they can get across the Channel – yachts, barges, pleasure boats, anything. They’re ferrying as many as they can to Naval ships lying offshore. I’m joining one of the destroyers to help with the wounded.’

  She put her arms around him. ‘Oh Dan.’

  ‘We’ve got to save as many lives as we can,’ he said. ‘They’ve been bombed and shelled to hell. I don’t have to tell you what’s happening.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘We’ve seen it all before. Is there anything I could do?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You must stay here. The children. Charlie … One of us must be here.’

  ‘We’ll both be here,’ she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.

  ‘Of course we will,’ he said. ‘I’ll be coming back.’

  She kissed him goodbye at the door where a car was waiting to take him to the coast.

  The destroyer arrived off the coast of Dunkirk. Dan looked out, filled with dismay. As far away as he could see, the men stood in lines out in the sea, the water up to their chests. Slowly, one by one, they were picked up by the little boats, shuttling to and fro to the bigger ships. Barges and yachts, pleasure steamers and little motor-launches, their decks crowded with men, set out across the Channel for England and home.

  He watched, horrified, as the men, silent and patient, waited their turn. He watched as the Stukas dived and bombed and the beaches screamed and exploded and men died and disappeared beneath the sea. Hell, he thought. It’s hell, once again, the horrors of 1914 added to and magnified, but with better weapons, better methods of killing. He went below to help the naval surgeons to care for the wounded until they could reach home and hospital. Once again he was handling the hideous, mutilating wounds of war. He was filled with pure rage. Even in 1914 he had never seen anything like this: men waiting in lines, unable to move, unable to protect themselves, with no cover from the bombers and the machine guns. There was no panic, no pushing or shoving, just patient, selfless bravery. They’ll pay, he thought, the Nazis. They’ll pay for this.

  They took aboard as many men as they could pack in; the decks crowded. Dan moved among the wounded, applying dressings, giving morphine, doing what he could. He heard the crump and roar as another ship was hit; he tried not to think of the men aboard. As the destroyer pulled out into the Channel a squadron of Spitfires roared overhead, making for France. Charlie, he thought. One of them could be Charlie. God go with you.

  They were to patrol inland of Dunkirk, to attack any enemy bomber formation approaching the coast.

  Charlie took off with the rest of the squadron. Am I afraid, he thought? His mouth was dry and he had an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was, he realized, more frightened of being frightened than anything else – too frightened perhaps to do anything, to do his job. The squadron around him was reassuring.

  They crossed the English coast. They could see the fires at Dunkirk already – towering clouds of smoke from the burning buildings and from the burning oil tanks around the town. They gained height over France, looking out for any aircraft bearing the German insignia. The hard, vicious outline of the black crosses filled Charlie with repulsion. They were a reflection, he thought, of their nature. He looked out of the cockpit at the red, white, blue and yellow roundels on the Spitfires. Cheerful colours. Nice to look at. Pleasing to the eye and the spirit. They needed to search out the opposition soon, he thought. The Spits could fly for an hour and a half or so before running out of fuel. Sometimes the squadrons came back without finding anything – fed up at the inaction.

  The RT crackled into life, ‘Bombers, ten o’clock high.’ Charlie looked up. He could see the formation of bombers above them, heading for the coast, for Dunkirk, for the helpless men trapped on the beaches, to bomb them to blazes. They climbed above them, still undetected. Sitting ducks, he thought. They broke into groups of three to attack.

  Charlie chose his target. His heart was racing with excitement, elation, the thrill of the chase. He saw one of the bombers hit, the engine on fire, and wondered briefly who had shot it down.

  Then, suddenly, the RT again. ‘God! Messerschmitts – dozens of them!’ The squadron broke off the attack and broke away. In seconds the sky was filled with hurtling aircraft. Charlie, throwing his aircraft around the sky in desperate manoeuvres, could think only of one thing now: taking one of them down. ‘Bastards,’ he found himself muttering. ‘Bastards.’ He latched on to one of the Messerschmitts. He saw glowing tracer coming towards him like a row of tiny, glowing lights. It seemed so slow at first – mesmerizing. He felt fear tightening his chest. He threw the plane into a tight turn and the tracer passed him by. He got the Messerschmitt momentarily in his sights and pressed the firing button. His Spit shuddered as tracer shot out from the wings and he watched the enemy dance away, unharmed. He pulled into a steep climb.

  He came out of the climb and looked about him. To his amazement he could see no one – no aircraft at all. The sky was empty. He remembered that one of the pilots who had been in combat before had described this strangeness. ‘It’s weird,’ he’d said. ‘One minute it’s a madhouse and the next there’s nobody there and you just go home.’

  He turned for home, keeping an eye on his fuel. Strangely, the encounter must only have taken a few minutes. It had felt like most of his life.

  Suddenly, below him, he saw the outline of a bomber, a Junkers. He looked around him warily, his heart in his mouth, but the bomber seemed to be alone, returning to France after bombing the ships in the Channel.

  He took it by surprise. His Spit shuddered again as he pressed the firing button and he saw his tracer explode along the fuselage and bits fly off the tail. Then, strangely, although it continued to fly straight and level for several seconds, the aircraft seemed to change before his eyes, as if all vitality was draining away, as if it were a living thing and its soul was leaving it. Then slowly, very slowly it seemed, it fell towards the sea. It crashed into the water with a great gout of spray. There were no parachutes.

  ‘Got you,’ he shouted, excited and exultant. He could go back and claim a kill. He looked about him again but the sky was clear. He would make it home. He crossed the English coast and blew it a smacking kiss.

  How strange that was, he thought, the way that aircraft had died. It reminded him of a film he had once seen of a bull elephant that had been shot by a hunter in Africa. The elephant had been hit – a mortal shot – but it had stood upright for perhaps thirty seconds. Then, its spirit seemed to leave it, slowly and reluctantly, and it fell to its knees, and was dead. The film had thoroughly upset him.

  No one had jumped from the bomber. The men inside it had died. He had killed them. He broke out in a light sweat. He must not think of that. They were busily killing his countrymen. He was fighting for his life, for his family, for his country. But the memory of the elephant upset him still.

  When he landed the fitters were waiting to help him out and check the aircraft.

  ‘Everybody OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Glad to see you back, sir. One missing, sir.’

  ‘Who?’ he said. ‘Not Tim Crighton?’

  ‘No sir,’ they said. ‘Mr Crighton got back all right, minus a bit of tailplane.’

  Drinks then, in the mess; plenty of beer, raucous songs around the piano.

  ‘You’ve been blooded then,’ Tim said. ‘Lucky beggar to find that Junkers. Where did you get to?’

  ‘I don’t know what happened,’ Charlie said. ‘I looked round and everyone h
ad gone.’

  Tim downed his pint. ‘Tell me, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Were you frightened?’

  Charlie grinned. ‘Terrified,’ he said.

  Before he slept, he thought about the day. Had he been frightened when the tracer bullets floated past him? Not immediately; he had been mesmerized. Perhaps a few seconds later, when he realized how closely death had passed him by. But it was all right. He’d got through, acquitted himself OK.

  The destroyer docked in Dover. The men were unloaded on to the quay, into the arms of waiting nurses and WVS ladies with cups of tea and sandwiches, and crowds of people cheering their welcome. Dan found that his eyes were filling with tears of compassion and relief. The men boarded trains to take them away, to camp or home to rest. Hospital trains festooned with red crosses took the wounded away to hospitals further north, away from the overwhelmed hospitals on the coast, and away from the expected raids on England.

  Dan went back with the ship.

  Two days later he came home, exhausted in body and spirit. Amy met him at the door and hugged him close. She felt his tears on her cheek.

  ‘Darling,’ she said. ‘Oh darling. I’ve been listening to it on the wireless.’

  ‘They can’t describe it,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you …’

  She made him take a bath and go to bed. She brought him a cup of tea and lay on the bed beside him.

  ‘I saw Spitfires,’ he said, ‘going over. Have you heard from Charlie?’

  Amy nodded. ‘Yes. He’s all right.’

  ‘Was he there?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but he’s all right.’

  He smiled and was instantly asleep.

  He came down to dinner in the evening. ‘That’s it then,’ he said. ‘We’re on our own. Just us and the Germans.’