Fleming, Leah - The Captain's Daughter

by The Captain's Daughter (mobi)

  If he managed to sleep, nightmares would haunt his dreams; he’d see a boy clutching the Union flag, pleading to live. ‘Don’t let me die, Padre. I don’t want to die.’ There was nothing he could do but hold the boy’s hand as his eyes glazed over into blessed uncon-sciousness. Frank saw once more the German soldier who had held a photo of his child to his lips, crying. ‘Father, help me, hear my confession.’ He had prayed over him, giving him the last rites as he would to any of his men. How did he know whether the man was here out of choice or drafted, coerced, sick of war and pain and battle?

  Some of his troops cursed when they saw him approaching – ‘Get out! Go some place else. We want none of you’ – but they were the exception. Mostly they were relieved when he turned up like a dog sniffing the scent of where they were hiding, handing over mail, delivering messages, listening to their complaints or just sitting with them, having a smoke.

  The toll on his fellow chaplains was beginning to show and there were few replacements. The Catholic priests never filled their quota. Those remaining felt they weren’t doing enough, unable to reach all the men who needed them. For every moment of action there was an hour of boredom and waiting, when services could be held to give men strength and hope.

  Frank was hoping the next push would lead them north. He wanted to visit the Holy See, listen to Italian voices delirious at their liberation. His father’s language rang in his ears. There would be a few precious days of leave and recuperation while they caught up with all the bureaucracy that was demanded of them. But while he was away, who would take his place? There was no time for the luxury of grand silences and spiritual retreat into some monasteries. He would take off only as much time as these men, not an hour more. How could he look them in the eye if he returned well fed, in clean uniform, refreshed when they were exhausted?

  He wondered how Paul, one of the Jesuit fathers whom he’d met on training, was faring further up the line. He envied the Jesuits their military discipline. They had a head start over him and they were the largest cohort of Catholic priests out here, close to the men yet set apart by their calling. He’d seen such bravery from them, such sacrifices. They were just human, after all, fallible, fearful men, wondering who would make it to the next Mass or how many of their men would ever return back home. Fear was a great leveller.

  As he ducked into his foxhole he felt ashamed to find himself touching the little talisman deep in his pocket, the scarpetta d’Angelo , the baby shoe. At first it had smelled of home and the scent of Mamma’s soap. Now it was grubby with dust and mud from his fingers, but it was still there and so was he.

  His men viewed him as indestructible. ‘Stick with Father Frank, he’ll see you right,’ they’d say, introducing rookie replacements to him with a grin.

  They looked on him as a kindly parent, even though he was not much older than many of them. The Cross on his lapel set him apart but not so far apart that they couldn’t joke and fool around in his presence. There was time for personal stuff, talking about a letter from home with bad news, a boy with a niggle in his groin that meant a trip to the VD clinic and subsequent confession. He looked over them as they prepared to defend their trench, knowing mothers had laboured to bring these boys into the world, had brought them up with care.

  There must be a better way than this, he prayed. When this war was over he’d work to make sure no more boys had to pay such a price as the lads at the Anzio beachhead. Being in the forefront of battle had changed all his views, opened his mind to the possibility that just because a man wasn’t born a Catholic he was destined for Hell. There were good men of all faiths and none, living brave lives here. They were on the right road too. Nothing was black or white any more. If he got out of here alive, how would he ever be able to settle back into the old rigid beliefs?

  ‘Anzio Annie is giving us hell again, Padre,’ yelled another voice, suddenly blotted out by a huge explosion and cries for help. It was time to go over the top and search them out. Frank scrambled to his task, trying not to let his hand shake as he crossed himself. ‘In mano tuo, Domine,’ he prayed, crawling on his belly for what seemed miles in the direction of the moaning.

  If there was one thing he hated it was to hear a boy crying out in pain with no one to administer morphine. Dying alone in a crater didn’t happen on his watch if he could help it.

  Bullets whizzed past him, but on he crawled. His men said he was their bird dog, able to sniff out the wounded by instinct. He didn’t know about that. It was more dogged fear and determination that made Frank crawl on as the voice in front of him grew weaker even as he drew closer. He saw two boys hunkered down, one shot through the head, his eyes staring at the sky in surprise, the other shivering in shock and clutching his belly.

  There was no time to waste. Pressing the first-aid pad onto the wound and giving him a shot of morphine, Frank just had time to close the eyes of the dead boy and say a few words of prayer as best he could. ‘No, Father, he’s Jewish,’ the injured boy whispered only half conscious. So Frank prayed the Shema over him, suddenly aware of a shadow blocking his light. When he looked up he saw the muzzle of a rifle and the grey-green pants of an enemy soldier, watching him. Then he heard the words that chilled his heart: ‘For you, Father, the war is over.’

  111

  Italy, 1944

  Captain Roderick Parkes stared up at Death Mountain, his hands frozen to his binoculars, eyes half shut with fatigue after night upon night of a sleepless bombardment. For two months they’d been stuck here right in the firing line from the fortress on the Apennines. What a hellhole of slaughter it had been with some battalions now down to single figures. How much more punishment could they stand before they snatched Santa Maria Infante, the surrounding hills and moved northwards?

  Now the roar of engines roused a thin cheer as bombers flattened the ancient fort, build-ings crumbling to dust and ashes before them. It was the only way.

  Roddy was hoping for news of a breakthrough at Anzio, but they were pinned down and Rome hadn’t fallen yet. Their own push had ground to a halt, stuck in this godforsaken mud, scrabbling for cover, but just glad to be alive.

  He stared up at the barrier of mountains, knowing it would take weeks to clear them. Why had he volunteered when he could have been sitting safe back home? Was it for just this mo-ment, for the chance to look death in the face, to lead his men to slaughter, to live like filthy animals exposed to frost and snow and covered in vermin? Was this what it was all about? This Italian campaign felt like a forgotten front, all mud, mules and mountains. They’d spent a miserable Christmas holed up in a bombed-out chapel and someone had started out playing ‘Silent Night’ on a mouth organ. He’d felt such a pain of sadness and longing for home. As these weary troops bowed their heads, he sensed tears flowing, the fear that so many would never see home again.

  Above them, the peaks loomed like a Cyclops’s eye. A diligent muzzle searched out any movement, ready to pounce if they gave themselves away. As they watched the air attack and every explosion of orange flame, there was no feeling for anything but relief that they had been spared. War did this to a man, stripped him of humanity and pity. Monasteries, churches, castles, beautiful hilltop villages crushed by guns, testaments to the glory of God; all must be destroyed if they were ever to chase the enemy back over the Alps.

  As the dust, smoke and the mist cleared Roddy could see they’d hit their target and knew they must take advantage of the hill and move forward ready to reclaim the ground they’d already lost. But in the scrum and rocks of the shattered village there might be Allied troops waiting, ready to join forces and seize more positions. If only they could link up and move as one unit.

  ‘Forward,’ waved their commander. ‘We’ve got a hold up there,’ he yelled as they formed a ragged line, pulling the mules up the craggy path, sure of a welcome from Allied troops.

  It was the colonel who took the shot in his chest as he yelled, ‘Hold your bloody fire. We’re Americans!’ The bullets whizzed by as t
hey hit the ground, ambushed, surrounded, outnumbered. Roddy felt sweat on his brow, his hands clammy with fear. So this was it, a futile end on a filthy ledge in a foreign country where he couldn’t even speak the language. What a bloody mess. They’d led their men right into a trap. Now they were all going to

  be shot and there was not a thing he could do but pray. 112

  December 1943

  Another wartime Christmas was coming, another make-do-and-mend affair. Each year it got harder to raise enthusiasm, except now there was Clare. A child’s excitement lifted the fest-ive season. December was a month of celebration with Clare’s birthday, and then Christmas to follow. Clare was too young to understand much, but nevertheless out came the decor-ations, tired and torn as they were; the paper chains and tissue bells and all the Christmas tree baubles. They’d hoarded enough dried fruit, sugar and precious lemon peel to attempt a half-decent fruitcake.

  All Ella was praying for was good enough weather for Anthony to snatch a few days at home. His leaves had become more haphazard. He’d been transferred to Coastal Command, 144 Squadron in the far north of Scotland. All he told her was that he was now on anti-sub-marine patrols, preventing attacks on Allied shipping coming from Scotland. His last letter hadn’t sounded promising.

  Darling,

  Don’t be disappointed if I can’t make it back in time. You know how these things are by now. Hardly time to throw my hat in the door and it’s time to turn round again, but I’ll try.

  Sorry about last time. What could I do? The boys were so keen to see you and have a change of scene. I knew you wouldn’t mind entertaining them for a couple of nights. I should have given you more warning; they did get rather noisy waking Clare and spoiling our night. You were quite right to be angry that we spent so little time alone. I promise I won’t be so thoughtless again, but my crew and I are a family of sorts and I hate to see them stuck up there at a loose end. I sometimes forget I have a real family to cherish on leave. I have also neglected my parents, but they will be coming to join you for Christmas, I hear. All of us under one roof. It’s going to be magical.

  It’s frightful here. The wind and rain must be endured, bleak Scotland at its worst is so cold but we’re doing sterling work out on patrol and reconnaissance. Can’t say where but you can guess. Been doing some extra training and I just wish the conditions were a bit more hospitable. If only I had you to warm my bed each night. Not a lot for the boys to do but drink, read and flirt with the Waafs. (Don’t worry, none of them could hold a candle to you.) I’m counting the weeks till I’m on the sleeper south. Pray there’s no snow to hold us up.

  There’s talk of a ground job coming up for me. I suppose a third tour of ops is pushing it, but experience is what helps get the younger chaps through their first sorties. Firing torpedoes into submarines on a stinking

  night needs training and practice. You get protective of these young boys straight out of school, so green, so enthusiastic and so quickly lost without proper tactical training. Yes, I can do some of this in an OTU but we’ll see how things are in the new year.

  By the way, I heard Simon Russell-Cooke is somewhere up here too. Small world. Do send his mother a card. I shall never forget our precious honeymoon down there.

  Good night, my darling. God willing, see you soon. Best love to all the Foresters. Did you hear anything from Roddy? I think the Yanks and Brits are having a tough road through Italy. Give Clare a kiss from her ‘Daddy in the Sky’.

  Not long now.

  Always and forever yours,

  Anthony

  Time was so short together. He’d leap off the train south, race to Red House for a long soak in the bath, a stiff whisky with Selwyn, a long walk, just the two of them, and then early to bed. Sometimes he was so tired he slept most of his leave. She watched him playing with Clare in a detached way as if his mind was still in the air. He’d aged in the last year; the frown lines over his brow were deep furrows and he would drop asleep at any time.

  She felt ashamed of how furious, how jealous she’d become. ‘You have your bloody crew day in and out; we barely get to see you. It’s not fair. It’s me you married, not them,’ she screamed one night.

  It was hard to swallow the jealousy. She wanted to spend every second with him. It was all she had to get her through the weeks to come. But in some ways she had to admit that his crew were his family now.

  He’d survived two tours. It was good there was a ground job coming up but she feared he would turn it down in favour of a third tour. ‘No one survives three tours,’ she cried to him on the phone only last week.

  ‘There’s always an exception to the rule,’ he’d replied. ‘I’m feeling lucky.’ She dreaded to think what he risked each night flying low over a dark sea, looking for

  targets, taking photographs, dodging flak or wandering in thick fog with hardly any vision, low on fuel, praying for lights to guide him to land.

  ‘It’s what I do,’ he argued, ‘all I’ve ever wanted to do since I saw Uncle Gerald’s bi-plane landing in our field and he took me out for a spin. And I’d go to Cobham’s Flying Circus in the summer holidays when I was a boy. I got to fly an Avro 504. I would cycle miles to sit outside the RAF base just to watch the aeroplanes taking off. It gets into your veins.’

  But fear stalked her. If he didn’t ring or write for days she couldn’t work, settle, eat or concentrate until the phone rang with news. Now there was so much to do preparing work for school, ordering groceries for Christmas, making the house look festive and tracking down little bits for Clare’s stocking. Ella had ordered a capon from the farm. She loved it when the house was full of guests. Their lodger was a young teacher from school who would be visiting her own family, leaving a bedroom free for when Anthony’s parents came to stay.

  Shopping was always a rushed affair, especially with a toddler in tow, and Clare was being tiresome again, stamping her feet whenever they passed the little sweet shop. There were queues at the Maypole grocery store and at the butcher’s round the corner. The bus was late and Ella had to sit with Clare on her knee until they were dropped off at Streethay. She was hurrying towards the house when she saw a strange car parked in the drive. Anthony had come home without telling her! How wonderful. He’d obviously borrowed someone’s car and petrol coupons to get here quicker, she thought, pushing open the door

  with excitement. ‘Daddy’s home, darling!’

  Selwyn was standing by the telephone. ‘You’re back.’ There was something in the way he was looking at her that made her knees quiver and her heartbeat quicken.

  ‘What’s up? Who’s our visitor?’ She unstrapped Clare from her pushchair. ‘Ella, they’ve come to see you. I’ve put them in the drawing room. Shall I take Clare?’ She knew that second, from the look on his face, the gentle way he said her name, what

  was coming. Oh, no! Dear God, no, she prayed as she opened the door and saw familiar blue uniforms rising up at her entrance.

  ‘He’s missing. There’s always hope.’ That was what they said. Anthony and his crew had been on a routine mission from Wick, looking for enemy shipping. The plane didn’t return but they may have had to make a forced landing in enemy-held territory. They could be prisoners of war. He was only an MIA. There had been no sighting or wreckage, nothing to indicate they had ditched into the sea. She was glad the officers had come and told her in person, softening the blow of a telegram to come. ‘We must pray that it is good news,’ the padre offered.

  Ella sat, numbed, unable to take in much of what was said, unable to breathe. You wouldn’t want me to be hysterical or to break down. You would want me to hold up and be positive for Clare’s sake. She’s too young to understand any of this. Be brave, hundreds of forces wives are going through this. This was the worst day of her life but how cool and logical she was being, how sensible and correct, setting an example just as an officer’s wife must.

  She’d given them tea with shaking hands, acted the hostess, playing her role like an act-ress in a play.
They didn’t linger. They’d seen it hundreds of times before, no doubt.

  It was only when they left that she found herself doubled up with agony. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move or cry out, frozen by this awful news. It just couldn’t be true, not for her – for others, perhaps, but not for her. There was a mistake, the telephone would ring in a minute. She’d hear his voice: ‘Darling, I’m fine. It’s just some stupid mess up at HQ. Got the wrong chappie, another Harcourt, poor fellow bought it, not me. I’ll be home soon. Give Clare kisses from Daddy.’

  Selwyn appeared and shoved a brandy in her hand. ‘Get that down you. I’ve rung Celeste. She’s coming straight away.’

  They would all fuss over her as if she was sick, commandeer Clare to take her out of her hair. She didn’t want Celeste coming, or anyone. She wanted Anthony. He couldn’t be gone, missing, overdue. Any of the words no one dared say: KIA – killed in action – drowned in the sea, blown out of the sky. They were just words. They weren’t real. None of this was real. She would go to bed and wake up tomorrow and this would all be just a bad dream.

  But when the morning came there was no phone call, nor on the day after that. Ella began to write a diary, reasoning that if he was a prisoner of war he’d want to know all that he’d missed while he was away. She’d speak to him on the page, make sure he knew all her thoughts. It would keep him alive, knowing every night she would fill in the journal as if they were talking on the telephone. It would make Christmas bearable knowing she could tell him how they’d tried to celebrate the coming of light into this dark, dark world. Of course it can’t be the same if you’re not here. Nothing is the same now. I can’t seem to pick up a tool or a piece of charcoal or a chisel. We made a snowman and Clare called him ‘Daddy in the sky’. She’s called you that for so long. Are you in the sky or in the sea? It’s so cold in the sea. Where are you, my dearest? I have to know you are safe. Surely I would have known if you’d been taken from us. I have to believe you are safe somewhere and one day you’ll come back to us. That’s why I’m keeping up this chatter. It fills in the awful hole I find in my heart. Not to feel your arms round me ever again, not to touch your lips, is not to be borne. Why have you left us? Why did you keep putting yourself in danger?