The Way Ahead

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Pa, no.’

  ‘Have you got a good argument?’ asked Pa Kirk.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Spill it, Patsy.’

  ‘I don’t want to go.’

  ‘That’s an argument?’

  ‘Pa, I’m not going.’

  ‘Well, I guess I’ve got a problem,’ said Pa Kirk.

  ‘Pa, we’re settled here, we’ve got friends, and anyway, it’s not what we ought to do, fly off to the fleshpots of Rome and Italian ice cream.’

  ‘It’s an assignment I don’t want to turn down, honey.’

  ‘But if you accept, it’ll – it’ll be like an act of desertion,’ said Patsy, patently upset.

  ‘Desertion?’

  ‘Yes, and I couldn’t do it, Pa. I’ll go on strike, I’ll burn all my clothes, everything, and go to bed unclothed and empty-handed, and stay there.’

  ‘You’ll do what?’ said Pa Kirk.

  ‘All that, and I will too,’ said Patsy.

  ‘Unclothed and empty-handed?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Patsy, where’d you get that from?’

  ‘The preacher at this morning’s service,’ said Patsy. ‘“Oh, my good people,” he said, “come unto me thus—”’

  ‘Thus?’

  ‘Yes, without any belongings. “Come unto me thus,” he said “and you shall be welcome.” That’s what Jesus said to the multitude. “Come unto me all ye who are heavy-laden and I will give ye comfort.” Heavy-laden meant laden with dire poverty, and not even a spare pair of pants. Pa, if you try to make me go to Rome, I’ll ask the preacher for sanctuary.’

  ‘You’ll run to his church unclothed and empty-handed?’ said Pa Kirk.

  ‘In a flour sack,’ said Patsy.

  ‘Well, Patsy,’ said Pa Kirk, ‘we’ve both got problems. You sleep on yours and I’ll sleep on mine, and we’ll hit the high road of compromise or agreement over breakfast.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Pa, but there’s not going to be any breakfast.’

  ‘That’s a fact, Patsy?’

  ‘I’m going on strike at midnight pronto,’ said Patsy.

  ‘Well, before that happens, Patsy, is there any chance of a coffee now?’

  ‘Yes, you can have that, Pa. It’s ready. But don’t think I’m weakening. Pa, have you got a cold?’

  ‘No, Patsy, I’m just coughing fit to bust.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  THE INVASION ARMADA was on the waters. The first landing-craft, laden with British and American troops, had been launched late on the night of the fifth of June to reach the beaches next morning.

  Prior to that, bridges over the Seine and the Loir had been bombed and destroyed by thunderous waves of Allied planes. Attacks on railway bridges, lines and roads had been effected to cripple the movements of any German units intent on reinforcing the defence forces in the Normandy landing area.

  Paratroops and airborne Commandos were on their way before one in the morning.

  East of a town called Montebourg, the commander of a German infantry battalion, disturbed by the continuous drone of aircraft, left his bunker to investigate. He could not, for a moment, believe his eyes. Several giant aircraft, clearly visible in the moonlight, were heading directly for his headquarters. From them spilled what at first seemed to be little white clouds.

  ‘Mein Gott!’

  He knew then what he was seeing, an airborne landing.

  ‘Achtung! Achtung!’

  Down, down to earth dropped hundreds of American paratroops.

  Fifty miles away, a German sentry patrolling a bridge over the Caen canal stood rigid as a strangely soundless aircraft glided downwards only a short distance from him. He stared, he blinked. It disappeared, it crashed, but with only a splintering noise. A stricken bomber that had lost engine power, he thought. Bombers had been roaring in from the coast for longer than he cared to estimate. He shouted, and his comrades came up from their dugout to be told an Allied bomber had crashed close by, and then came the spectacle of land and earth being invaded by giant birds from the sky. Gliders. The moon disappeared behind clouds, and by instinct and at random the German soldiers fired in all directions. Out of the darkness came phosphorous grenades that burst into searing white flame, blinding vision.

  Commandos landed. Colonel Lucas landed, Tim landed, and their detachment landed. They put the men in the nearby German pillbox out of action by tossing explosive grenades into its aperture.

  The combat teams of the British 6th Airborne Division all landed. In very short time, at the expense of a few casualties, the bridge was in their hands.

  The Commandos formed an arc of defence to retain their hold. Colonel Lucas peered at Tim.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Tim, is that blood all over your face?’

  ‘No, Colonel Lucas, it’s a faceful of sweat,’ said Tim, taking a breather. God, what a night this was going to be. Were the landing-craft and the naval escorts at sea yet? How long before the Jerries bring up a unit to try to shift us from here? ‘Luke, I’m going home. When’s the next ferry?’

  ‘Christmas.’

  ‘Might get there by Boxing Day, then.’

  ‘Save your jokes, Charlie Chaplin.’

  ‘You think that’s a joke? I tell you, I wish I’d never joined. How far’s Berlin?’

  The fight for a foothold in Normandy had begun, the advance airborne troops detailed to capture and hold strategic objectives, and so create conditions that would help the main invasion force to establish important footholds.

  These objectives were numerous. American and British airborne units took them in rushing sorties, and held them against German troops who, recovering from confusion, became certain the offensive by the Allied paratroops presaged an invasion. Local German commanders, telephoning higher authorities, were told they must be mistaken. German Intelligence had long possessed information to the effect that when the invasion did come, it would be in the Pas de Calais area.

  ‘You are dealing with a feint.’

  ‘It’s a damned widespread feint that’s costing us bridgeheads and casualties.’

  ‘Don’t panic. Retake the bridgeheads.’

  * * *

  The landing-craft, the supply ships and the escorting warships were on the broad surface of the heaving Channel, the moon alternately coming and going, the wind chilly, the vast armada of a thousand vessels heading on a hugely broad front for the coast of Normandy. Conditions were appalling for the men packed into landing-craft, which rolled, pitched and staggered through the high swell. Seasickness hit thousands of stomachs, causing the troops to vomit. If they had had qualms about what awaited them on the designated beaches of Normandy, those qualms disappeared beneath a Godalmighty urge to feel land, any kind of land, under their feet, never mind if they ran into a hell of fire. Any kind of hell was preferable to that of constant vomiting. Husky Americans, all built like John Wayne, were green, groaning and vilely sick. Lean, toughened British soldiers cared not if their landing-craft sank.

  Nevertheless, the armada sailed on, early morning beginning its approach to dawn, the skies roaring to the thunderous waves of Allied bomber formations that never stopped coming.

  The officers of 30 Corps Headquarters, Boots among them, were making the crossing aboard an escort ship. That did not prevent some of them being sick. Boots escaped that by positioning himself amidships, the least affected area of the heaving vessel. He thought of his wife Polly, his twins Gemma and James, and his son Tim. Polly and the twins were in the haven of Dorset, but where were Tim and Colonel Lucas and their Commando team? Already there, already in France. Boots was sure of that. Wars asked a lot of some men, those whose fighting qualities were of a kind that influenced commanders to detail them for participation in one hair-raising action after another. It asked even more of a man whose blinded wife needed him just as much as his country did.

  Telephones were dancing a ringing jig in the Paris headquarters of Germany’s Naval Group West. Report after report from Normandy r
adar stations concerned huge numbers of blips on screens.

  ‘It’s some kind of technical interference, it must be.’

  It was not possible that these blips represented ships. Never. There were hundreds.

  The Chief of Staff suggested that what was not possible in such inclement weather might very well be happening. He made up his mind that it was, and signalled the Fuehrer.

  ‘Allied invasion force on its way to Normandy coast.’

  Hitler, sceptical, said that if this was true, the armada was to be blown up and sunk. No-one cared to mention that the concentration of guns was sited in the wrong area, the Pas de Calais. After all, as the Fuehrer himself suspected, the signal might be based on mistaken conclusions, and it was known that the weather over the English Channel was entirely unsuitable for a seaborne invasion.

  At grey dawn the sea off the coast of Normandy presented an unbelievable picture to German lookouts. It was covered with ships of every description. Formidable battleships, sleek destroyers, flak ships, supply ships, minesweepers and countless landing craft. And the landing-craft were coming in to disgorge men whose immediate needs were to find terra firma and then to engage with the Hun, very much in that order. Tanks were swimming ashore. Swimming!

  The great guns of the battleships were booming, the extensive bombardment pinning Germans down. Fighters and bombers were at their own kind of work.

  On their respective beaches, the seasick Americans and British began to land, some to throw up for the last time before engaging with the enemy.

  The invasion from the sea, an effort of colossal magnitude, had begun, and there was a day’s furious fighting ahead to establish an invincible foothold.

  London and Washington were awaiting the morning’s outcome. Neither Churchill nor Roosevelt realized that the German High Command and their defensive units covering the North-West coast of France were in a stage of hopeless confusion. This state, engineered by the brilliant work of Allied Intelligence, was such that there was no move by the Germans to despatch reinforcements from the Pas de Calais to Normandy, since Hitler and his generals still believed the Normandy landings were a deceptive ploy.

  This confusion helped the British units to sweep aside opposition and to begin a first day advance that was beyond Churchill’s happiest dreams. The Americans were having a tougher time, suffering heavy casualties, but they were sticking it out and gradually pushing forward. General Eisenhower was receiving reports minute by minute, and so far no deeply worried frowns had creased his handsome brow. Montgomery was ebullient, chirpy and confident.

  Churchill’s cigar kept going out. Not that he was short of puff. In his exultation, he was simply unable to determine which was his cigar and which was his glass of Scotch.

  The old boy wasn’t counting his chickens. There had been too many setbacks, too many disappointments and too many failures. But the years of endeavour, the protracted and difficult planning of Overlord, the need for secrecy and colossal bluff, all had at last culminated in a successful landing, and with the unstoppable air might of the Allied Air Forces pounding the Germans, Field Marshal Rommel was faced with the task of a lifetime to push the Americans and British back into the sea.

  In a mood of fresh exultation, the Prime Minister treated himself to a new cigar, from which the smoke rose with positive buoyancy.

  Chapter Thirty

  THE APARTMENT PHONE rang. It woke Patsy. Sleepily, she checked the time. Seven. Seven? Who was calling at this time? She slipped from her bed, padded into the living-room and picked up the phone.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Patsy?’ said Pa Kirk. He was often not back from town until the early hours. This time, he’d been out all night. ‘It’s me, honey.’

  ‘Oh, is that a fact?’ said Patsy. ‘Well, this is a lousy time to get me out of bed. What’s kept you in town all night, and why—’

  ‘Patsy, listen.’ There were vibrations drumming through Pa Kirk’s baritone. ‘They’re over, they’ve made it.’

  ‘Who’s over where, and who’s made what?’

  ‘The Allies. Press and radio have been standing by all night here on the promise of a sensational news flash. Patsy, we’ve landed an army in Normandy. A whole armada made it, and put the GIs and the Brits on the beaches. There’s been a total clampdown on any news until this morning. Switch the radio on now, if you want, and you’ll find there’s nothing but continuous communiqués being broadcast. Patsy, we’re over there, we’re in Hitler’s back yard. There’s a million Allied warships standing off and shelling the German positions. Patsy, the Krauts are throwing in everything, but they can’t shift the boys. We’re there, honey, and we’re staying. Patsy? You there?’

  ‘Pa, I’m here and I’ve lost my breath. We’re really over there, we’re in France? It’s the Second Front?’

  ‘It’s the end of the loudmouth Nazis, Patsy, the end of German totalitarianism. It’s only a matter of time. Naturally, I shan’t be going to Rome, I’d be crazy if I left London now, particularly as there’ll be a chance of moving across to France with the Press and radio corps when Ike’s armies are well on their way to Germany. Paris, Patsy, how does that grab you? Not tomorrow, of course, but sometime, if I can slip you through as an interpreter or secretary.’

  ‘Pa, I’m dizzy, I’m standing on my head,’ said Patsy, ‘I never heard anything more exciting. A landing in France, isn’t that great?’

  ‘The planning, the operation, Patsy. Titanic. Stand on your head all day, if it suits you.’

  ‘I’m so pleased for our friends, for all the Brits, Pa, and I’ll be pleased for you too, if you make Paris eventually. Sure, you go and cover the war from there. I’ll follow when it’s all over. Listen, if you meet up with a nice, well-preserved Paris lady who’ll take your shirts to a French laundry for you, I’ll honestly root for you.’

  ‘You’re giving me a free hand, is that it, Patsy?’

  ‘Ma’s been gone three years now, Pa, and you’ve paid your respects. Any time you feel like getting married again, you go ahead.’

  ‘Hold your horses, Patsy, I think we’ve still got problems. No way am I going to leave you here alone.’

  ‘Pa, I’m an adult.’

  ‘On several counts, you’re not. It’s either under my wing for you, or a return to Boston to stay with your Aunt Martha in Northboro.’

  ‘Aunt Martha?’ said Patsy in disgust. ‘She’s still living the Revolution. She still sits on her porch with a loaded blunderbuss on her lap, and any guy wearing something red is in danger of having his head blown off.’

  ‘I think I’m listening to slight exaggerations,’ said Pa Kirk.

  ‘Well, don’t push me,’ said Patsy, ‘or I’ll—’

  ‘Hightail it for sanctuary in a flour sack?’ Pa Kirk sounded amused. ‘I’ll pass on that one. I’ll have to hang up in a moment. Patsy, we’ll talk about it, and in any case, a Paris assignment isn’t going to come off for quite a while. There’ll be some tremendous battles to fight as soon as Rommel can fill Normandy with extra divisions. I’ll see you sometime later today. Hang in there, honey.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Pa, and we’ll talk about who does what and who goes where when I next see you?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Pa Kirk, and hung up.

  Patsy stood for a moment, then rushed to switch on the radio, and within seconds it was all coming forth, news upon news of the Normandy landings. Patsy danced barefooted and in her nightie, then ran back to the phone.

  It rang in the house on Red Post Hill, the time just gone seven.

  Sammy woke up.

  ‘Wassat?’ he mumbled.

  Chinese Lady woke up.

  ‘Oh, that blessed contraption,’ she said.

  Daniel woke up, looked at the time, wondered who was phoning and who was going to answer the call.

  Paula woke up and went down to the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello?’ said Patsy.

  ‘We’re not up yet,’ said Paula. ‘Is
that the lady milkman?’

  ‘No, it’s Patsy here, and could you be Paula?’

  ‘Crikey,’ said Paula, ‘have you fallen out of bed or something? D’you want a doctor?’

  Patsy laughed.

  ‘You’re a sweetie,’ she said. ‘Can I talk to Daniel?’

  ‘He’s still in bed, he doesn’t get up till half-past seven, nor me, nor Phoebe, nor Mummy.’

  ‘He’ll get up when he knows what’s happening,’ said Patsy. ‘Could you go up and tell him our armies are in Normandy? Could you do that, Paula?’

  ‘Oh, crikey, oh, lor’,’ breathed Paula, who knew enough about the war to understand what Patsy meant. She dropped the receiver and let it dangle by its cord. She went scrambling up the stairs, intent on running from bedroom to bedroom.

  So it was from nine-year-old Paula that, in turn, Daniel, Susie, Sammy, Granny Finch and Grandpa Finch came to hear that which brought them all out of bed to listen to the wireless. The day of the invasion had already been named.

  D-Day.

  Daniel dashed from the kitchen to find that Patsy was still hanging on.

  ‘You took a long time to crawl out of bed on a day like this,’ she said.

  ‘Patsy, you beauty,’ said Daniel.

  ‘You sure you mean that?’ she said. ‘After all, I’m not eighteen yet—’

  ‘And not quite seventeen, either,’ said Daniel.

  ‘And genuine beauty doesn’t clothe a woman until she’s at least twenty-one, according to artists,’ said Patsy.

  ‘Don’t they paint them in no clothes?’ said Daniel. ‘Anyway, don’t talk yourself out of it, count yourself an exception. You’re worth framing for phoning the news. Patsy, the invasion, they’ve done it, the Second Front’s been opened up.’

  ‘Daniel, it’s exciting, really exciting, isn’t it?’ said Patsy. ‘And I’m proud, aren’t you, your guys and my guys hitting Hitler’s pitchers out of the stadium?’

  ‘You’ve lost me there,’ said Daniel. ‘Now if you’d said knocked ’em for six down the Old Kent Road, I’d be with you.’