Twenty Five Million Ghosts

by Steve Aitchsmith

  As the Luftwaffe started to raid RAF airfields, Ed decided he could safely return to London. Even if the Germans turned on the cities he would rather be with his mum and dad than hide by the seaside.

  He stole a bicycle he found leaning against a wall and set off for London. The bike was a single geared basket fronted delivery bike and hard work to ride. He didn’t know the way and just headed roughly east.

  He’d been pedalling for hours and it was dark and chilly, he thought it was probably about 2 a.m. He was enjoying the relief of a down hill run into a village of thatched cottages and a small green. There was a slight night mist and he thought he saw something in the middle of the road in the village as he plummeted towards it.

  The thing he saw was a huge rotund policeman. The officer just stood there as Ed came to a squeaky braked halt in front of him.

  “Hello lad,” said the officer in a thick Somerset accent.

  “Hello sir,” gulped Ed.

  “Now, my boy, why might you be rushing through here at this hour, you’re not a secret nasty Nazi come to enslave us, are you?”

  “No,” said Ed and the policeman smiled. His big broad face seemed friendly. A wide scar on his left cheek and impacted knuckles on both hands suggested that he could be less friendly when called upon.

  “Weston called me earlier, something about a stolen bike. Is that you, is this it?”

  “Yes sir. I’m sorry.” Ed looked crestfallen.

  “Come over here lad,” instructed the law. The policeman went to a rose bush by the side of the road. He parted the foliage and reached in. When he pulled out his arm he was holding a phone handset, the wire reaching back into the bush. He smiled as Ed laughed. “I have him,” he reported into the phone. “In the morning? Good enough.”

  In general, evacuation from London was ineffective. The working class rough-living kids did not fit well with the lower middle class families hosting them. Their lack of petit bourgeois etiquette caused friction with the aspirational emulation of their betters by the hard working white collar middle managers.

  Already the wealthier working classes were referring to themselves as middle class and slowly filling the social gaps left by the carnage of the first war that forced the land owning and long standing middle classes towards extinction. They tried to act the part and this conflicted with the baseness of these not yet prosperous snot nosed gamins.

  In contrast, it is said that the London kids fortunate enough to be lodged with the real country estate owning middle classes, or even the aristocracy, fared well. The securely wealthy felt no social threat from these blunt straight forward urchins and the two groups enjoyed each other’s open and unpretentious presence. The first war, with its mixing of individuals, had given birth to a mutual respect in the two peoples even though it challenged the older assumptions of leadership and service.

  Ed’s captor lived in one of the few occupations that permitted discourse with all social levels while providing some social mobility for the post holder. The policeman and his family sympathised and cared about the determined young criminal. Ed was fed, allowed to wash and given a bed in the family home. Mrs Policeman made Ed a packed lunch for the following morning. The lockable cell at the village police house remained unused.

  The car from Weston-super-Mare arrived early the following morning. Ed and his friendly jailers said their goodbyes and he started the journey back to the town. He wondered how the bicycle owner would retrieve it and felt guilty.

  The two police officers in the car, a man and a woman, were older than he thought they would be. Most young police officers had been transferred to the armed forces and those retirees still physically fit enough to police had taken up their former jobs. He sat in the back of the car for a slow and almost silent journey. They had very little to say to him but he gained the impression that criminals under escort were normally more harshly treated.

  He’d expected to be taken to the police station but was instead delivered directly to the magistrate’s court. He was placed in a cell below the building.

  “Don’t fret, son,” said the old man closing the door on him. “It won’t be for long. You’ll see the beak soon. Don’t be frightened, just tell him what you did and why you did it.”

  Ed was astonished to see his dad in the courtroom. The intimidating formal nature of the magistrate’s court declared its power and influence. The magistrate, an old grey haired man with half moon glasses, spoke to his clerk sitting at a desk in front of him. The magistrate was the personification of the Crown’s regal justice, therefore he sat higher than anybody else in an age worn dark leather chair behind an imposing oak podium. He had to lean forward over it to address his clerk.

  Ed was led to the dock, a short walled enclosure with symbolic short spiked bars on the front and sides. He watched carefully and was intrigued to see the beak smile at his dad. The clerk, a thin ferret faced man, read out the formal charge and asked Ed how he pleaded.

  “I’m guilty,” admitted Ed.

  His hair was ruffled by the large policeman who had arrested him, as he walked past to take the witness box. The officer explained the theft and subsequent capture of the thief to the court.

  “Well then, young Aitchsmith,” the magistrate boomed, his voice full of a vitality that belied his obvious age. “Is that how it happened?”

  “Yes,” whispered Ed.

  “Speak up boy,” the main man peered over his half moons.

  “Yes,” Ed practically shouted.

  “As if we don’t have enough problems, what with that half mad little upstart trying to murder us all. Why lad, why did you do this?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. It’s my mum, she needs me back. I didn’t know how to get to London. I have to be with my mum.”

  “Lad,” said the magistrate, his voice still filling the room but without the implied threat that normally accompanies magisterial pronouncements. “Lad, I’ve spoken with your father, a man who gave much in the first war battles and who this court therefore respects. He is willing to pay restitution to the bicycle owner who is willing to accept it and not pursue you in the courts. You should be grateful. Your motives were fine but your plan was criminal. I take into account the exceptional nature of the times in which we live. I also note that the police state that you did not try to hide, flee or deny your wrongdoing. It may seem a small thing, this theft of a bicycle, but it is for the rule of law that brave men are currently laying down their lives. Therefore, I owe it to them to apply the law in your case and not be swayed by the sympathy I feel for you.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I should go to prison.” Ed’s downcast head and dejected looks provoked a small snigger from the public gallery that was quieted by a single glance from the magistrate.

  “You will not, young man. If this war lasts, and God help us I think it will, you’ll be fighting in it before the end. I don’t want to burden you with prison before you face your future. No lad, these are exceptional times and you shall have an exceptional punishment. First, you shall paint the shopfront of Gardner’s Groceries, on the sea front, for it was his bicycle you stole. You will paint according to Mr Gardner’s instructions. When he is satisfied that you have done a competent job, you shall face the second part of your punishment. You shall reside with the arresting officer’s family for three weeks. During that time you will complete such gardening and odd job work around the village as directed by the constable. Your father will then collect you and return you to London. You now have a criminal record, let this be the only entry on it in your life. Should you fail to complete these tasks you will come back to see me and I shall be less generous. Go now, lad. May you survive this terrible time and may God see fit to bless you with a long and fruitful life.”

  Ed enjoyed staying with the police family. He thanked them when he left and promised he’d write from time to time. The big tough policeman sounde
d a little choked up as he said goodbye and his wife gave Ed a stifling hug.

  He barely had time to settle into London again when the Luftwaffe changed its focus onto the capital. His dad gave many possible reasons, such as we bombed Berlin first in response to one rogue bomb on London, or the airfields wouldn’t give in so they chose an easier target. Whatever the reason, the German air force turned its full and massive capability onto the ancient city.

  Too young to either enlist or work with the home guard, Ed was sent to help operate a search light on the roof of the Tate and Lyle factory in North Woolwich. The enemy squadrons would follow the Thames from the estuary to the Royal docks and then star burst across London to deliver their blows. RAF fighters harassed them mercilessly, the German fighter escorts rarely made it this far. Overhead was a real kill fest. The Germans rained explosives onto the people below. The British fighters tore at the bombers from above. The Germans didn’t hang about over London. Most of them were ripped up by the RAF.

  It seemed that endless waves of bombers swooped, bombed, fled, swooped, bombed, fled. A darkened London was illuminated by blast flashes and incendiaries, the sounds of the city replaced by the drone of aircraft engines and explosions with a background orchestra of fire service and ambulance bells and the crackling of combustion. The air filled with the stench of smoke and the almond smell of high explosives. The horizon glowed orange from both air and ground. Overhead the dakka-dakka dakka-dakka of fighters smashing rounds into the bombers provided the beat to this nightly sonata, accompanied by the slow and steady bamp bamp bamp of ground based anti-aircraft fire.

  Once in a while an enemy plane would be trapped in the searchlights. When this happened all of the other search lights would surround the beam illuminating the target, this way it could not quickly hide by changing direction. Then ground based heavy guns would thump away at it. The airburst shells around it threw heavy shrapnel into the aircraft. When caught this way it was never long before the crew bailed out. As they parachuted down the sound of light arms being fired at the men was almost but not quite hidden by the other noise. Mainly though, the job of the search lights and ground guns was just to reassure the people that we were fighting back. They rarely took down more than one or two planes a night.

  “I think they should stop shooting at the crews as they bail out,” he said to his dad. “It’s not fair, it’s like shooting a wounded man.”

  “I know what you mean,” replied his father. “But, they came here to kill us. Me, you, your mum, your sisters. As far as I’m concerned we should kill them all. They came here to do this evil and they should pay the price. I would even shoot them when they reach the ground. They came to murder us, let them suffer the ultimate consequence for that.”

  Ed’s dad’s lungs finally gave out and he died during an operation at the height of the blitz. It was conducted by candle light with dust filling the room as it was shaken from the walls by the blasts. At this point the bombing was unrelenting and there was no other choice but to work in those conditions. His body was moved to a rapidly filling mortuary and he was buried in a mass grave in the basement foundations of a large bombed out rubber factory. The battering from the Germans was destroying more than just buildings and people; it was also impacting on the normal civilised functions of the city. Mass graves went unmarked and unrecorded, known only to the locals and their families.

  Four years into the war Ed was called on to enlist. He was given a nominal five year enlistment but told that in reality it was for as long as he was needed. By coincidence he was sent to a military camp at Weston-super-Mare where he was trained and prepared for war. He took the opportunity to revisit the policeman who was delighted to see him.

  “Come down the Wheat Sheaf and have a pint with me,” suggested the policeman.

  “I can’t,” laughed Ed, “I’m not twenty one yet.”

  “Sod that,” said the mighty lawman, “as long as you’re in uniform, nobody cares anymore. If you’re fighting then you are twenty one. Beside, you’ll be with me and I decide who gets in trouble around here and it won’t be you or the publican.”

  The two men staggered back many hours later. They both found it riotously funny when the policeman pointed out that the bike Ed had stolen was now rusty and useless and still in the policeman’s garden.

  After a year or so, Ed was getting bored with being rested at the base. He wanted some action now. The boredom was relieved for a while when his brother, Albert, was also posted to the same camp. Ed had been spending his wages on providing clothing and gifts for his sisters, all still lodged in the town. Now Albert helped that process. They didn’t stay in camp for much longer and were separated by deployments within a few months.

  Nobody in the camp really knew what they were waiting for. There were still some limited exchanges in North Africa, the Japanese were pretty much well entrenched on a thousand islands around the western pacific rim and the southern European theatres didn’t show much promise towards stunning the Reich into submission.

  We’re going to India. We’re going to Australia. We’re going to Italy. We’re going to Gib. We’re going to South America. We’re going to Norway. There were as many rumours as there were places. From time to time the troops from camp were used to search the coastline or chase down some bailed out enemy airman, phantom or suspected saboteur. Still they trained and still they saw equipment being stockpiled before it was trucked away only for the stockpiling to start again.

  One morning Albert’s regiment was gone. The tents and barrack sheds were empty and much of the armour had disappeared. Nobody had seen them leave so it must have been done quietly.

  Ed’s battalion was briefed by a stern looking staff officer. “Men, we move on in the morning. I don’t know where. I am able to tell you that you have an essential role in achieving our victory and you will be informed of your task when we arrive or shortly before. I can tell you we will be put on a ship at Southampton. Nobody may leave the camp before we deploy.”

  The buzz spread around the soldiers. This was it, this was what they’d been waiting for. Suddenly it all felt a little less exciting and a great deal more worrying.

  The following day they took ship at Southampton. After the hustle and hassle of boarding an entire battalion and their transport, the grey painted vessel sailed. The ship cut its way through all of three miles of calm water and docked at Cowes on the Isle of Wight where they disembarked.

  “Excellent,” said another soldier to Ed. “We’re going to the bloody Isle of bloody Wight to bloody fight the bloody squirrels and bloody subdue the bloody local girls in the bloody pub every bloody night.”

  “Yep,” responded Ed. “Truly a bloody engagement.”

  “Bloody Hell,” said another. “Bloody bloody bloody.” Then he walked away laughing.

  The task, it transpired, was to manually heave and shove a long flexible nine inch diameter pipeline into place on the south east side of the island. Pluto, somebody called it; Pipeline Under the Ocean. They struggled to fit this end of the pipe from Shanklin, down a dangerously steep gully everybody kept calling a chine, whatever one of them is. At the sea front they stopped. When another pipe was laid behind a ship crossing the sea it would be joined to this pipe.

  “I know it’s not exactly what you expected, men.” The officer addressed the assembled troops. “It’s done now, well done, and essential. Down this pipe we will pump the fuel needed on the French beaches.” There was an audible collective gasp and a few isolated ripples of applause. “Yes, that’s right, the French beaches. Hundreds of miles to Normandy. While you’ve been working to do this, the first wave hit the German Atlantic Wall and it fell down.” Cheers. “The second wave hit the beaches and pushed inland.” More cheers. “The third wave recently landed and will launch an assault in several different directions, the enemy is crumbling.” Loud cheers. “You ship out within hours, the voyage is long enough
for you to wash and feed on board. You are the fifth wave, the fourth is currently landing, and you will be dropped, shipped, dragged or driven to strategic positions behind the enemy lines to disrupt their defence.” Silence.

  The memory of the first war loomed large and the assorted allies all expressed anxiety at any likely return to trench based attrition. To this end, the fifth wave would prevent the Germans from digging in and keep the invasion mobile. Already the Americans were bogged down by thick intertwined and impenetrable hedges in the Norman countryside. This in addition to major losses on landing.

  The common British view of the American soldier as an overpaid preener very quickly changed. Their courage and tenacity on the beaches and in the fields earned them the eternal respect and compassion of every soldier, even the Germans. They paid for their new reputation with blood and vile death and there was consensus that nobody else could have done it.

  Ed was one of five men in a small army truck, which was itself one of five. The briefing gave their orders as… skim along the coast as far as far as you can, Calais preferred, and disrupt German attempts to establish a defensive line.

  “Sir, doesn’t the enemy shore defence stretch along the entire coast?” Asked Ed.

  “Yes,” the officer confirmed. “Don’t worry, it’s mainly unmanned. The enemy is massing east of Calais to regroup and defend. He is already throwing armour at Caen to disrupt us. You are several tens of small mobile units that will disrupt his retreat. Don’t engage a fortified defended position but other than that, mess him up, keep him panicking. I’ll tell you a secret about Jerry; he’s great in attack but gives up in defence if you hit him hard enough.”