For All Our Tomorrows

by Freda Lightfoot

  She smiled up at him then, that lazy, seductive smile that always turned him on. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Watching them from where she sat with her mother and Cory, Sara felt her heart sink. Some things wouldn’t be solved by the end of the war. Some problems had no solution.

  What would she do when it was all over? Would Hugh allow her to take the children with her if she left him? Sara rather thought not. She was tied to him as firmly as ever.

  And where was Charlie? What was happening to the boys on the ships? If only she could be certain that he was safe, that would be some consolation at least.

  Charlie, along with his comrades was enduring the unendurable. The noise was deafening as the bombardment continued, the roar of guns, tanks and ship’s engines; the screams of the dying in some macabre contest of sound, each trying to outdo the other. The dead floated in a churning mass of green, stinking water, quickly turning red with their blood, the living sheltering amongst them as they struggled to reach shore. Soldiers still waiting to disembark from their landing craft checked and re-checked their weapons, touched their rosaries, kissed pictures of their girl friends and thought of their mothers.

  Barney too sat patiently waiting beside his buddies, oblivious of the water washing around his knees until they heard a cry ring out.

  ‘We’re sinking, we’re sinking. Start bailing. Unload.’

  They were too far from shore to wade in, and too loaded down with equipment to swim far. Barney took off his helmet and began to bail. In desperation they tossed overboard all unnecessary equipment, entrenching tools, gas masks, and with it, by accident, went Barney’s lucky charm and his picture of Bette which he’d fixed to his first aid box for safe-keeping. He watched in misery as it sank although this indulgence lasted only a matter of seconds before his buddy was pushing him over the side too.

  ‘We’re done for. Start swimming!’

  They floundered in the water, sitting ducks under a blistering fuselage, some men sinking instantly under the weight of equipment, others screaming for help, praying they’d be spotted by rescue craft. The lucky ones were quickly picked up but when the rescue boat was full, the rest were resolutely left behind. ‘We’ll come back for you, if we can.’

  Barney and his buddy were two of the unlucky ones and he didn’t hold out much hope of rescue. Only a blind fool would willingly venture into these seas a second or third time.

  Minutes after the boat had gone, he watched in horror as his buddy slipped down below the waves, his last words, ‘Help me, Barney, I’m drowning. Help me for God’s sake!’

  Knowing he hadn’t a hope in hell of saving him, not weighted down with equipment as they both were, Barney was in despair. He managed to catch hold of a piece of flotsam and swim over to a twisted piece of wreckage, or perhaps it was some obstacle placed there by the enemy. He didn’t greatly care but hung on and took cover behind it, desperately trying to keep out of sight. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done bit, as he saw it, it was every man for himself in this war.

  Charlie was about to disembark, the ramp was let down and his Captain and comrades instantly swarmed into four or five feet of water, wading through heavy surf with weapons held high, strafed by machine gun fire with many men mowed down before ever they’d had chance to retaliate. Death could come in a seconds for some, while others reached shore easily and crossed the beach with a sense of spurious safety.

  ‘Keep moving! Keep moving!’ Charlie roared. ‘Don’t look back.’

  Artillery roared, rockets whooshed overhead and mortar shells rained down all along the four miles of Omaha, yet still the German gun fire pummelled the Allies with uncompromising ferocity.

  But that didn’t stop them. The beach was barely visible, swathed in a haze of fire and smoke. Filthy, cold and miserable, some vomiting from sea-sickness and terror, the men slogged bravely on, calling upon every ounce of courage and experience they possessed. Many had crossed beaches before: North Africa, Sicily and Salerno. For them this was just another bloody beach, another bloody battle.

  For Charlie, this was his first experience of frontline action, though he resolved to do his utmost, to give his life for freedom if necessary, he could only marvel at the fortitude and courage he saw all around him. Prayed he could emulate their bravery.

  ‘Come out and fight, you bastards!’ yelled one young soldier, while another began to sing ‘Roll out the Barrel’, as they valiantly clung on to their morale. He was sickened to see that poor boy go down, but his mates took up the song and kept on singing, and from some distance away came the wail of bagpipes.

  All along the crescent shaped beach were littered boxes of ammo, gas masks, field telephones and radios, steel helmets and life preservers. As he turned to check that his Captain was beside him, Charles saw him fall backwards into the water, a look of complete surprise on his face. He might have gone back to try and save him but the next two LCTs to come ramming through the surf took direct hits, bursting into flame, instantly killing everyone on board.

  ‘Lucky buggers,’ said one marine, slowly being swamped by the incoming tide, unable to escape because half his leg had been blown off and no medics were around to come to his rescue.

  Witnessing all of this horror, seeing their Captain fall, some of the men lay frozen in a state of paralysis. They’d lost all their equipment and were huddled together, too terrified to move either forward or back, the stink of gasoline and burning flesh strong in their nostrils, paralysing their limbs as explosions went off all around them, set off by snipers firing at mines. Lieutenant Charles Denham didn’t hesitate, he simply took charge, yelling at them to move, move, move! Jolting them out of their shock.

  ‘Head for the sea wall. We can’t stay here. Run! Run! Run! And when you get there, put up the flag so our own troops won’t shell us.’

  ‘You mean If we get there, sir, don’t you?’

  ‘We’ve no time for jokes, soldier. Get the hell out of here!’ By this time Charlie too was running as fast as he could up the beach, swerving from side to side, yelling at his men to follow. And they did.

  ‘Ok, let’s get the son-of-a-bitch,’ they roared, anger now taking the place of fear.

  He reached the wall and fell on his belly, then something smacked him in the back of the leg and Charlie looked up to see three Germans half hidden in their gun nest, their grinning faces peeping at him over the dune. Before he had time to lift his Tommy gun, his jokey comrade had shot them all dead.

  It was small comfort, for Charles knew he’d been injured. Worryingly, he couldn’t feel a thing, though guessed he was bleeding badly. If he was lucky, he’d catch sight of a medic but, injured or no, he had to fight on, for as long as life remained in his body. If only because he had a damned good reason for wanting to survive.

  Hugh and Iris were heading out to sea too, on their last and final mission. Members of the Secret Intelligence Service had reconnoitred the situation at Juno Beach, preparing the way for bringing returning agents home. Hugh’s boat had joined up with the rest of the group off the Isle of Wight and received their orders: to liase with the motor gun boats who were also engaged in the task. Fishing boats too were involved in the manoeuvre, some of them taking out fresh supplies of munitions for the Allied forces. Unfortunately the weather was not good. Gales were blowing up fast and looking to settle in for days.

  Men were still being taken ashore by the thousand as the invasion continued, and the terrible weather could well have led to disaster on the beaches were it not for the Mulberry Harbours, some of them the size of a five-storey building, and the artificial breakwaters known as ‘Gooseberries’.

  Hugh was simply thankful he didn’t have to go that far and anchored well off-shore, as instructed. He was well equipped with flares and life-jackets, and as usual Iris had stowed the radio on board, just in case someone needed to contact her. Now all that was expected of them was to wait for the signal.

  He was well accustomed to the routine by this time but was
concerned about the weather. Waves were smashing against the side of his boat, threatening to snap it in two, washing over the decks and the pair of them were soon soaked through, despite the waterproofs they wore. Hugh could hardly see a hand in front of his face for the sweeping rain, let alone a red flare on shore, and he swore that he’d wait only until the storm abated, ‘and then I’m going home for the last time, with or without the dratted agents.’

  ‘Have patience and for once in your life, Hugh Marrack, give some thought to others, to those poor lads who want to get home too after the hazardous lives they’ve led.’

  ‘Why the hell should you care?’

  Iris shrugged. ‘I have feelings. I’m not inhuman, like you.’

  ‘When we do get back, you can pay me what you owe me for all the risks I’ve taken. Meanwhile, we’ll have that farewell romp you promised me, just for old times sake, eh?’

  ‘I promised you nothing.’

  ‘You bloody did. In your eyes, in the way you tease me by flaunting that luscious body of yours.’ He reached for her, grabbing her by the wrist and pinning her down in the bottom of the boat while he shoved his hands under her windcheater and all over her breasts.

  She struggled to fight him off as the boat rocked and bucked on the rough seas. ‘For God sake, Hugh, this isn’t the moment for any of that. Let go of me. Stop it!’ She slapped his hands away, giving him a hefty shove to release herself from his grip. He might well have proceeded regardless, despite her refusal, as his blood was up and the lust hot in him, but something she said next halted him, her words ringing out above the noise of the storm.

  ‘Anyway, there isn’t any bloody money! I said that just to keep you sweet. Why would the Germans pay me when I’ll work for them willingly, for my Klaus? You only did it to save your own skin, because you’re a coward.’

  ‘No money?’ Fury rose into his throat like bile as he thought of the risks he’d taken, the dangers he’d been exposed to. ‘You mean I’ve done all this for bloody nothing? You’d never any intention of paying me?’

  ‘Not a cent. Not a dime, as the Yanks would say. Not even any more how’s yer father.’ Iris laughed as she got to her feet, catching hold of the side of the boat to steady herself, shouting to him over the sound of the crashing waves. ‘I’d never any intention of paying you a penny.

  ‘You did all of this so that the Americans wouldn’t string you up for leaving their men to drown, or to stop the British from putting you before a firing squad for being the traitor you undoubtedly are. You’re no better than me, Hugh Marrack, so don’t pretend otherwise. You’re not the town hero everybody imagines you to be. You’re a bastard of the first quarter. I know that, and so will they if you don’t shut up and be thankful that at least you’re still alive to relish this dratted storm.’

  He hit her. His hand came out and he slapped her full across the face, sending her sprawling across the deck, as he had done once before. This time as she started to scream, he did what he should have done then. He picked her up and tossed her backwards into the broiling seas. ‘You relish it,’ he roared. ‘See how you like it?’ Then he calmly shipped anchor and turned for home.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Had it not been for Chad’s sweetness and good nature, Bette might well have left, just as they all expected her to. There was no further talk of her getting a job, not that she could have done it for long in any case, with the baby coming. And with no offer of a lift into Carreville, few trips anywhere in fact, except to the Episcopal church every Sunday, rain or shine, there was little hope of one in the future either. She’d be stuck at home baby minding, and Bette wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

  Peggy had soon made it clear to her, that she was expected to concentrate on homemaking. ‘You have to learn the American way,’ she would say whenever Bette attempted to protest over some skill or other she was being forced to learn. Peggy even attempted to teach her how to make grits, which Bette loathed.

  ‘You take coarse stone ground grits, chicken paste, a pat of butter and mix it all together with half water, half milk and stir it on the stove till it’s cooked. Takes a while. Do it the night before, then you can finish it off in the morning.’

  Bette did her best but her own efforts were solid and quite uneatable. ‘I suppose these are like oats. In England we make porridge a bit like this, only without the chicken paste stuff,’ she added, wrinkling her nose, ‘and serve it with sugar or golden treacle, if we can get it.’

  ‘This ain’t England,’ commented Peggy, predictably.

  Strangely, once through those first difficult few days, more and more food began to appear on the table, mounds of freshly cooked vegetables, home baked chicken pie, huge steaks and other good things. Far more than anyone could eat and much of it wasted. It was as if Peggy had deliberately starved her in order to make a point: that the family wasn’t wealthy.

  As she’d told Bette on that very first night, ‘If you thought you’d hooked yourself a fine GI with a pocketful of dollars, I hope you’ve realised different now, girl.’

  But now she seemed to want to show off her culinary skills, presumably out of a sense of pride. An abundance of food on the table was meant to indicate that the farm was doing well, and Bette was expected to be suitably impressed, and grateful.

  In truth, quite the opposite was the case. Bette found it hard to reconcile herself to this casual attitude towards food when she thought of her own family back in England. She would watch in dismay as mounds of vegetables, huge portions of steak, even fruit, which had been so precious in England, were thrown away or given to the animals. More food was wasted in the Jackson household than the Tredinnicks were allowed in rations for an entire week. Bette knew better than to make any comment, however. It would only be taken the wrong way.

  Peggy was a difficult, perverse woman who snatched any opportunity to show American superiority to the British. Even now, despite her best efforts, Bette was no closer to her future mother-in-law than on first acquaintance.

  And she still hadn’t managed to talk to her about the coming baby.

  If ever she should try to start a conversation, Peggy would protest that she was too busy to stand about ‘jawing’, or scold her for wasting time and not concentrating on the task in hand. Or she would simply pretend that she didn’t understand her accent.

  ‘I can’t think what she’s trying to say, Chad, you talk to her.’

  Chad would simply grin and agree that they’d rid her of ‘that darned English accent’ in no time. For that reason alone, if no other, Bette clung on to her Englishness more fiercely than ever.

  One never to be forgotten morning as Bette was pounding shirts in the tub and wondering why on earth the Jackson family didn’t invest in a proper wash boiler, quite out of the blue, Peggy said, ‘Weren’t you sweet on Barney Willert once over?’

  Bette felt as if she’d been slapped in the face, but somehow managed to keep her composure as she scrubbed at the stubborn dirt on the collars, hoping the flushed cheeks would be put down to exertion and steam from the tub.

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea? Barney was a good friend and Chad’s best buddy, a great support to me after we heard he was missing. Everyone needs a friend at such a time, wouldn’t you say? I’m sure you found your family a tower of strength.’

  As Bette glanced up, needing to judge the effect of her words, Peggy picked up the laundry basket and left the room.

  There were other family tensions to contend with. Apart from Jake who clearly adored her and followed her about everywhere like a pet lamb, always anxious to help her carry the logs, or the washing basket, there were times when Bette felt as if she’d fallen into a nightmare.

  Mary-Lou became increasingly peevish and jealous, taking every opportunity to make some snide remark or humiliate her by pointing out her failures and inadequacies. Harry, Mary-Lou’s husband, rarely spoke at all, although he would watch her walk by with the kind of gaze that made Bette’s skin crawl.

 
Pop Jackson, when he wasn’t out working the land, drank a good deal, mainly some stuff he brewed himself in one of the barns. He was sarcastic to both his sons, who were expected to work alongside himself and Harry, most of all he was hard on Chad who he continually yelled at, calling him ‘boy’ and telling him he always had been useless and now with only one arm, he might as well stay home and learn to do women’s chores.

  It broke Bette’s heart to see Chad shrink in upon himself, like a whipped dog.

  All in all, it was perfectly clear to Bette that try as she might she never could think of North Carolina as home, and she really had nothing at all in common with these people.

  Bette’s one trip out each week was every Wednesday afternoon when she attended a sewing bee, held generally at a neighbour’s house some miles away. Harry would take them in the pick-up, one week accompanied by Peggy, the next Mary-Lou, while the other stayed home to mind the children. Bette was not so foolish as to offer to take a turn at this task. The three girls seemed, in her opinion, to be wild, disobedient creatures, heedless of discipline or parental control, only ever being quiet when Peggy set them some bible verses to learn or write out.

  They didn’t even seem to attend school, Peggy insisting there would time enough for that later when the eldest turned seven. Bette had offered to learn to drive, so that she could perhaps borrow the pick-up and drive the children to school in town each day. This helpful suggestion had been greeted with complete silence.

  So for now, she depended for her social entertainment upon the sewing bee. If there was one thing Bette hated, it was sewing, but she dutifully went along, at first in the hope of perhaps making herself a new dress, regretting now all the lovely clothes she’d scorned to bring with her.

  But no, the ladies main task was quilting, which was inestimably dull, sewing endless scraps into squares and triangles.

  Bette endured it because she must, and because she was desperate to find the right moment to speak to Peggy, hoping that one of these trips might offer her the opportunity to do so. Unfortunately, and despite the cosiness of the sewing circle and the undoubted friendliness of the other ladies, which was welcome, things never quite worked out that way.