by Mary Nichols
‘There you are, one cheese and pickle sandwich.’ She put the plate in front of him and sat down again, putting her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. ‘Tell me about yourself.’
So he did and she listened attentively and at the end she said, ‘What will you do after the war?’
‘I dunno. I haven’t thought that far ahead. Go back to work in the factory, I suppose. We’ve got to win the war first.’
‘We will,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to.’
‘Yes, of course.’ It was easier to agree than point out how bad things were. Singapore had fallen to the Japanese and thousands of Allied troops had been taken prisoner; the Germans were almost at the gates of Moscow and were advancing in Libya. Malta was under constant siege and shipping sent to relieve it suffered horrendous casualties; three German battleships had made a sudden dash from Brest where they had been holed up and made it through the Channel to the safety of German waters in spite of the efforts of the Royal Navy and the RAF, some from Swanton Morley, to stop them. The future looked bleak and it was only the RAF bombing of German cities that gave anyone anything to cheer about. Even that had its downside: losses were heavy, and after a huge raid on Cologne, Hitler decided on reprisals and sent his bombers to Britain’s historic cities. Canterbury, Bath, Exeter, York and – near enough to worry the inhabitants of Norfolk – Norwich were all bombed.
‘It’ll make a difference now the Americans are in with us.’
Japan had attacked the American fleet at Pearl Harbor the previous December, taking the Americans by surprise, and there had been a lot of casualties, not to mention ships sunk, but as a result the war had become truly global.
‘Unless they come and help us in Europe, it won’t make a lot of difference,’ he said.
‘Oh, you are down in the dumps, aren’t you?’
‘Sorry, I’m a bit tired.’ He made an effort to cheer himself up. Civilians on the ground could have little idea what the aircrews were going through, night after night. ‘How long have you been working here?’
‘In The Papermakers? Not long. I used to work for my father at the bakery all day but he really only needed me in the mornings, so when Greg Powter – he’s the landlord – said he was short-staffed, owing to all you RAF bods coming in wanting to be served, I thought, Why not? Now I do both jobs.’
‘That must be hard work.’
‘There are plenty of people working a lot harder than me and not even able to live at home, so I’m lucky.’
‘You’ve got a boyfriend?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice.’
‘Go on, pull the other one. You’re one pretty girl surrounded by a crowd of handsome men. Don’t tell me you haven’t had offers.’
‘Offers galore, but it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a bit of fun. I don’t take them seriously.’
‘Very wise of you.’
‘I’ll probably get directed into war work before long. I’ve only escaped this long because my father needed me.’
‘If you do, what will you choose to do?’
‘Land Army, I think. I’m hoping to get taken on locally, then I might be allowed to stay living at home. Norfolk is good farming country.’ She laughed. ‘Or it was before it became one vast airfield.’
‘I expect it will revert back after the war.’
‘Are you on duty again tonight?’
‘No, we’ve been stood down for twenty-four hours. Weather’s not good enough, hence the noisy party.’ He finished his sandwich, swallowed the last of his beer and stood up. ‘I’d better see that lot back to their beds or they’ll be in trouble. How much was the beer and sandwich?’
‘Have it on me.’
‘Go on, you can’t treat every lonely airman who comes in.’
‘Not every lonely airman, just one who seemed as though he could do with some company. Don’t insult me by insisting on paying.’
‘Then I won’t. Thanks.’ He picked up his cap and put it on. ‘I’ll be seeing you.’ Then he strode over to the crowd of airmen, as the landlord called, ‘Time, gentlemen, please.’ They rolled out of the pub and set their feet towards the airfield, weaving erratically along the country road, singing as they went.
‘You looked very cosy in the corner,’ Tim Harrison said. Unusually, they had stayed together throughout their service so far. Tim was his pilot and now a squadron leader. Harry was wireless operator-gunner and the crew of four was completed by Ken Moreson, the navigator, and Bill Repton, the bomb aimer, who were walking ahead of them. Tim was not quite as drunk as the others, feeling a kind of paternal interest in their welfare.
‘Oh, you mean Pam.’
‘Yes, the delectable Pam. I should say you’ve made a hit there, Harry my lad.’
‘Rot. She was only being friendly.’
‘Very friendly, I should say. She was hanging on your every word. Shooting her a line were you?’
‘No, just talking.’
Tim laughed. ‘That’s how it usually begins. What do you think, Ken?’
‘I think she’s a bit of all right,’ Ken called over his shoulder. ‘I should make hay while you can, old boy.’
Harry laughed at their banter. He had enjoyed a little respite talking to Pam. It even helped to talk about Julie and George; she was a good listener, perhaps because she, too, understood about loss. That didn’t mean he was ready to fall into bed with her. He had a feeling she wouldn’t have it anyway.
Harry’s gloomy forecast that the Americans would not help in Europe proved to be wrong when nine bomber crews arrived in Swanton Morley to begin training with the RAF. They caused quite a stir in the village. Thirty-six men, plus their support staff, in a different uniform, talking in an accent only previously heard in the cinema, chewing gum and calling the women ‘ma’am’, as if they were royalty, and driving too fast on the winding country lanes, often on the wrong side, so that others on the road had to take evasive action. They were noisy and brash when together, but taken one by one were often shy and polite. They had very little idea of what the people of Britain had been through in the previous three years and were often tactless about the general war-weariness and shabbiness which afflicted its inhabitants. They appeared to have an endless supply of cigarettes, chewing gum, chocolates, beer and nylon stockings, things which were unobtainable in Britain, or in such short supply it made the villagers resentful. It was only when they appeared ready to share their bounty, especially with the children, attitudes softened. They were invited into the people’s homes for meals and came gratefully, bearing gifts of tinned fruit or canned meat, sometimes oranges, which hadn’t been seen since the beginning of the war. In return their hosts and hostesses listened to tales of family left back home.
Harry, together with the rest of the squadron, had problems of a different sort. The American discipline was easier-going than that of their British counterparts and the flight procedures, though the same in essence, differed in the detail. It was important that they learn to work together because they were aiming for combined operations. RAF personnel, like Harry and Tim, who had trained in Canada, found it easier to understand them, and the pair often found themselves breaking up an argument and even stepping in between fist fights. ‘We’re supposed to be on the same side,’ Tim would say. ‘So pack it in.’ But both had the same aim, to defeat the enemy, and with a willingness on both their parts to try to get along, they were soon making practice flights and gelling into a fighting force.
They knew something was up at the beginning of July, when Winston Churchill and General Eisenhower appeared on the station and walked round inspecting everything: the living quarters, the new hangars and hardstanding. They were in the briefing room in Bylaugh Hall, joint headquarters, when six RAF crews and six American crews were briefed for a combined bombing raid on targets in occupied France. It did not take Harry and his crew long to realise they were going to be guinea pigs for this kind of operation.
It was the Americans’ first taste of being over enem
y territory and having to dodge flak and be on the lookout for enemy fighters. Harry could tell by their voices over the intercom that they were nervous, and their reaction to the German fighters’ latest tactic was to exclaim ‘Jeez!’ It was understandable; the enemy fighters had managed to get above them and were dropping flares so that the night sky was lit up like day, making them sitting ducks for the guns below.
Tim reminded them of the drill they had been practising, and told them to dodge about a bit, which they did. They dropped their bombs and turned for home, though their vigilance had to continue until they were safely back over the English coast. Not all landed safely: one of the RAF Bostons was lost and one American crash-landed on the airfield. The debriefing over, they fell into their beds and slept the sleep of the exhausted for several hours, until woken by hunger and the feeling it must be near dinnertime. Afterwards they set off for The Papermakers, to celebrate and drown their sorrows at the same time.
Pam always sought Harry out when he went into the pub and when they weren’t busy. They would sit and talk together about what had been happening while they had been apart – on his part a guarded résumé of what he had been doing, and a cheerful report of village life on hers. She understood if he wanted to be quiet and did not try to make him talk, and if he felt like joining in with his fellows and getting tipsy and noisy, she did not trouble about that either, knowing he would come to her and have a few minutes with her before he left.
One day in early September she asked him if he would like to have tea with her and her parents the next time he was off duty on a Sunday afternoon. For a moment the invitation took him by surprise. Had things really progressed that far? He hadn’t meant them to. For a start he still thought a lot about Julie, although it was two years since she had died and the raw misery had faded to a gentle nostalgia and a realisation that life had moved on. For another thing the life he led was not conducive to long-term relationships; the squadron was taking heavy casualties and every sortie might be his last.
‘You don’t have to,’ she added, sensing his hesitation. ‘It was only an idea. I talk about you to Mum and Dad and they said they’d like to meet you.’
‘Of course I’ll come,’ he said quickly. ‘I’d love to.’
Two Sundays later, with some trepidation, he left the station and walked into the village and across the green to the house which stood next to the mill and bakery. Pam answered his knock and, taking his hand, led him into a room off the hall. It was an untidy room, a room with a lived-in feel about it. It had a large plain table in its centre, a sideboard along one wall and a sofa and easy chairs before the hearth. A magazine rack was full to overflowing and two newspapers, untidily folded, lay on a side table beside the radio. Beside it was a framed photograph of a young man in army uniform. Pam’s brother, he surmised.
‘Mum, Dad, this is Flight Lieutenant Harry Walker. Harry, my mum and dad.’
The couple who rose to shake his hand were like Jack Sprat and his wife. He was tall and lean and she was short and plump, but both had ready smiles.
‘You are very welcome, Flight Lieutenant,’ Mrs Godwin said.
‘Please call me Harry,’ he said, taking the offered hand.
‘Very well, Harry, I’m Jane and this is Albert, known to one and all as Bert.’
Bert shook his hand. ‘Come you on in, bor; sit down and mek yarself at home.’
Harry sat on the edge of the sofa, wondering what Pam had told them about him. He felt awkward, as if he were being sized up, but Pam made up for it, plonking herself down beside him and telling her parents what she knew about Harry, which resulted in them asking him about London, which neither of them had visited, and before long the tension eased, and by the time they went into the dining room for tea, they were chatting amicably.
After salad, sandwiches and cake and several cups of tea, Pam suggested they went for a walk, and so they strolled hand in hand past All Saints Church and along a footpath by a tributary of the Wensum to Penny Spot, a favourite area of courting couples, children playing and people walking their dogs. It was a warm day, with a blue sky interspersed with an odd fluffy cloud or two, and for once there was no drone of aircraft coming and going; for the first time in ages Harry felt at peace with himself. When the talk ran out he didn’t feel the need to resurrect it, but simply enjoyed her company in companionable silence.
Without either of them suggesting it, they found a quiet spot and sat down on the grass. He flung off his cap and lay back, his hands behind his head, contemplating the blueness of the sky. ‘You’d never know there was a war on, would you?’ he said.
‘Not today. I’ll bet you will tonight. They’re bound to take off again.’
‘Probably, but not me, not tonight. I’m stood down.’
‘Good. You can forget about it, then.’
‘Hard to forget,’ he said. ‘Even when you’re not on duty. It’s always in the back of your mind. Your last op, your next one. Life’s one mad rush. You rush to get into the sky and have a go at the Hun, you rush back to celebrate your little victories, you rush to drown your sorrows, you rush to take advantage of stand-down and get off the base before the powers that be change their minds. In between, there’s hours of being bored to death, waiting for the next call.’
‘I listen for the planes and count them going over the house,’ she said. ‘And then I count them coming back. I think of all you boys, wondering if you’ve made it back safely.’
‘Sometimes we don’t.’
‘I know. It makes me sad to think I’d been serving them beer the night before and now they won’t come into the pub any more.’
‘It’s a fact of life, Pam.’
She began idly picking daisies and stringing them together to make a chain. ‘You do take care, don’t you? You don’t do anything foolish, do you?’
‘No, feet on the ground, that’s me.’
She laughed. ‘Even when you’re flying?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean. When I hear the planes taking off I wonder if you are among them and I pray for your safety.’
‘Do you? That must be why I keep bouncing back.’ It was said with a light embarrassed laugh.
She had a long daisy chain now and set about joining it into a ring, then put it on her head. ‘How’s that?’
He grinned up at her. ‘Lovely. Queen of the May.’
‘It’s September.’
‘So it is.’
She lay down beside him and he put his arm about her so that she could snuggle up against his chest. It was the first time he had held a woman in his arms since the time he kissed Julie goodbye before going to Canada, if you didn’t count those he had met at last year’s noisy Christmas and New Year parties; he couldn’t even remember their names. Pam felt good. She was soothing to be with and didn’t ask anything of him, though he had an idea she was just being patient. Her hair was tickling his chin and he used his other hand to brush it back, and in so doing knocked off the daisy crown. He picked it up and went to replace it. She took it from him and threw it behind her, before taking his hand and guiding it round her. ‘Hold me tight,’ she murmured. ‘Don’t do anything, just hold me.’
He obliged and kissed the top of her head; her hair was soft and smelt of the lavender shampoo she used. She moved her head to look up at him. He bent and found her lips with his own, very gently, a butterfly of a kiss. Neither spoke, certainly not to reveal their feelings. It was too soon for that and he still had a vague notion he should not be doing it.
She jumped up suddenly. ‘Time we were going back. Mum and Dad will think we’ve got lost.’
The moment was gone but not forgotten by either of them. They walked back to the bakery hand in hand in silence.
Pam didn’t know what had come over her. She had always said falling in love in wartime was a stupid thing to do and she didn’t want the heartache, but you couldn’t govern your feelings, could you? She had known Harry was the man for her a
s soon as she set eyes on him, but at first, lost in his own little world, he had hardly noticed her. She had had to take the initiative. She had been surprised and pleased when he responded so positively. But now she had joined the ranks of all those sweethearts, wives and mothers who lived in constant fear. Counting the bombers leaving and coming back became even more important. If anything happened to Harry she did not know what she would do; her world would fall apart. When he walked into the pub of an evening her whole body would lighten, and when he knocked on the door of her home to take her out, she would fling herself into his arms, fighting tears of sheer relief and joy that he was safely back from wherever he had been. Their time together was precious.
Her call-up came and she chose to serve in the Women’s Land Army, for which she received eighteen shillings a week, all found. She was posted to Chepstow for several weeks of training and she missed seeing Harry. She wrote him long letters and he wrote back, at first a little diffidently, but more and more lovingly as time passed. She was not to worry about him; the thought of her waiting for him kept him safe. She would have been a fool to believe that and always listened to the BBC Home Service from which the news was broadcast, or as much as the powers that be were prepared to make public. When the announcers said so many of our aircraft failed to return, she was on tenterhooks until she heard from him again. If only she could be posted near to home, she might see him more often, might count the bombers out and back as she used to do and know when he was safe.
She was a sturdy well-built girl and the hard work did not bother her; brought up in the country, looking after animals did not terrify her as it did some of the girls. Some were city girls, some were hard-working girls from the industrial north, some came from wealthy backgrounds and hadn’t done a hand’s turn in their lives. Why they chose the Land Army Pam didn’t know, except perhaps a belief that it was safer than the other services. It was certainly not the uniform; the khaki jodhpurs and thick knitted socks, the green pullover, the dungarees and wellington boots for working in, were far from glamorous.
