Vinnie's War

by David McRobbie

  ‘Hands up!’ Joey ordered.

  ‘Only one hand,’ the pilot said and held up his right. ‘The other one is not so good anymore.’

  Kathleen was fascinated and horrified at the same time. Here was a German, who’d come in his aeroplane to do damage, to kill, then fly back and maybe brag about what he’d done. She held on to Joey’s shoulders to stop him moving any closer to the man. Vinnie and Dobbs, panting, stood undecided.

  Kathleen asked the pilot, ‘Are you hurt?’ She’d spoken her first words to the enemy; words of care.

  ‘This arm and this leg.’ The German showed them his left side. ‘I will not be very nimble with the walking, so I’ll rest here awhile.’ He looked at the blue sky and the peace that was all around. He nodded. ‘Beautiful.’ The German had fair hair and piercing blue eyes and didn’t seem at all dangerous or menacing.

  ‘Do you want us to get help?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘No, I think your people will be here soon enough,’ the pilot said. ‘Your countryman in the Spitfire will already have reported me. I shall wait.’ He looked at them and smiled again. ‘So what are your names?’

  ‘I don’t think we should tell you,’ Joey said. ‘It’s secret information.’

  ‘What if I promise not to tell the German High Command?’ The pilot solemnly crossed his heart. So one by one, they told him their names. He nodded and said, ‘My name is Helmut Bergman, and I am honoured to meet you. As you can see, my war is over now.’

  ‘But you’re still alive,’ Dobbs said. ‘The war’s over for a lot of people – everything’s over for them. I know because I see the telegrams.’

  ‘Then, Dobbs,’ the pilot said, ‘when you grow older, you must never make war, never fight, but do a lot of talking. Talking’s good, war is not.’

  There came a cry from the gate where they’d entered the field. ‘Get away from him! You people, get away from that filthy Hun!’

  ‘Filthy Hun, eh?’ The pilot was amused. ‘Someone has been reading Biggles. Oh yes, in Germany we have heard of your Biggles.’

  Two red-faced boys came racing across the field, leaving the gate open. One was the well chosen Ralph DuPreis, the other his friend from the train.

  Joey recognised them. ‘It’s Lord Snooty.’

  ‘Where have they been?’ Kathleen almost snorted the words.

  ‘Not helping get the spuds in,’ Dobbs muttered. ‘I know that much.’

  ‘I said, get away,’ Ralph shouted as he ran. He and his friend were dressed in white shorts, shirts and canvas running shoes without socks. Ralph stopped only to pick up a large stick; then he arrived on the scene, out of breath. He said, ‘Hands up, you!’

  ‘His arm’s broken,’ Kathleen said reasonably, ‘And the army will be here.’

  Joey added, ‘And we found him first.’

  Ralph ignored this and stared hard, breathing noisily, thrusting his chest forward. Then he seemed to steel himself. He lifted the stick and made an angry swing at the pilot. ‘This is for Dunkirk—!’

  Dobbs caught Ralph by the wrist, took the stick away from him and tossed it aside. ‘Don’t be a fool, Ralphie. Now why don’t you and your chum just keep running?’

  ‘German-lover! Nazi-lover!’ Ralph spat the words. ‘He should be shot!’ Then he stumped off across the field.

  His friend gasped, ‘I say,’ hesitated for a second or two, and followed Ralph.

  The pilot said, ‘See, Dobbs. Talk is everything. Even angry talk.’

  ‘Army’s here,’ Vinnie said.

  Six older men in steel helmets and military uniform came across the stubble. They carried rifles with bayonets fixed, but were in no particular hurry. Nor were they part of the regular army; they were Home Guard men. The first thing one of them said when they arrived was, ‘That’s a nice bit of parachute silk.’

  The corporal with them suggested, ‘Better nab it then, Alf, before the air force gets here.’

  Kathleen explained, ‘Mr Bergman can’t stand, or put his hands up. He’s injured.’

  ‘Mr Bergman, eh?’ The first Home Guard man shook his head. ‘Charming bugger’s only been here a couple of minutes.’

  The Home Guard men were relaxed and amiable. This wasn’t the first German they’d met since the war began. Three nights ago a Heinkel bomber had crash-landed six miles away in Duffton; the crew had been captured.

  Helmut Bergman said, ‘Maybe you should go away now, Kathleen and Joey, Vinnie and Dobbs. Not stay here.’

  They drew back a little way while one of the Home Guard rolled up the discarded parachute. The others crouched in a circle around the pilot. The corporal asked, ‘You got a gun on you, Fritz?’

  ‘It is still in my aircraft.’ The pilot waved his good hand. ‘All gone.’

  A camouflaged lorry came bouncing across the field, and everyone paused. ‘Oi, oi,’ one of the Home Guard observed without humour. ‘Here comes the air force. Grabbing all the bloody glory for themselves.’

  ‘Good thing, too,’ the corporal said. ‘Means we don’t have to carry him.’

  Four Royal Air Force men jumped out of the lorry. An officer with them saluted Helmut Bergman, who responded, but not with the ‘Heil Hitler’ stiff-armed salute. The air-force men were matter-of-fact about what they had to do. In seconds they produced a stretcher, then carefully loaded their German prisoner into the lorry and climbed aboard themselves.

  The last Vinnie, Kathleen, Dobbs and Joey saw of Helmut Bergman was the smile and the wink he gave them. He called, ‘Remember to talk.’ Then an air-force man put the tailgate up and jumped in and the lorry drove off.

  The Home Guard men trudged off to stand guard over the wrecked Focke Wulf while Vinnie, Kathleen, Dobbs and Joey went across the field to the brook. And there, barefoot, they splashed away the rest of the summer afternoon.

  Dobbs eventually clambered out of the water and sat on the bank, drying his feet with a handful of grass. ‘He was ordinary,’ he said at last, ‘that German pilot. Just an ordinary man.’

  ‘That’s what war is,’ Kathleen agreed. ‘Ordinary people fighting other ordinary people. And I don’t suppose most of them really want to. They’ve got houses, jobs, wives and children. So have we.’

  Vinnie got out of the brook and began rubbing his ankles with some grass. ‘What if,’ he began slowly, ‘and I don’t mean in this war, I mean maybe in ten years or twenty years from now, what if the government said we’re going to war?’

  Kathleen took it up. ‘And what if everybody said, no, we’re not going to do it?’

  Dobbs added, ‘So everybody tells them to talk some more about it. Okay?’

  Vinnie said, ‘So, if they want a war, they can fight it themselves.’

  After a long pause, Joey held up a finger and asked, ‘But we still get to wear uniforms – right?’

  The others put their shoes on and trudged back across the field to their homes in Netterfold.

  On the first Sunday, Dobbs pedalled past Netterfold Parish Church, where the morning service was in progress. This was the only day of the week Henry in the post office didn’t need the bike, so Dobbs could take it for a spin. Regulations stated that bicycles were not to be used for private purposes. ‘In other words,’ Mrs Hall warned, ‘you can ride the post-office bike, but don’t let anybody see you.’

  ‘Fat chance of that,’ Dobbs had said. ‘It’s painted red, and I’m the tallest boy in the village!’

  As he passed the church gates, the front wheel of the bike started dragging more than usual. He got off and gave the tyre a press with his thumb.

  Tom Bradley came by, seated high on his father’s oversized bike, his toes barely touching the pedals. ‘What’s up, Dobbs?’

  ‘Tyre’s soft as a jelly.’

  ‘Pump it up then.’

  ‘Pump’s usel
ess. Washer’s gone.’

  Tom circled around, then dismounted to examine the problem. ‘I tell you what. I’ve got a bit of something in the shed. You can make a new washer. That’ll do the trick.’

  There came a sudden crashing volume of sound from the open front door of the church. It was the organ, blaring out the opening chords of ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’.

  ‘Hell’s bells!’ Dobbs stood wide-eyed at this attack on his eardrums. ‘Glad I’m out here, not in there with that racket.’

  ‘That’s Miss Mimms,’ Tom explained. ‘Deaf as a brick. She plays the organ like billy-o. Come on, I live along there.’

  They wheeled their bikes to the old garden shed around the back of Tom’s house. It was an Aladdin’s cave of old garden tools, spades, hoes, broken machinery and derelict bits and pieces. Rust and mildew were on the attack and spiders reign-ed. There was even a black cast-iron kettle with its broken-off spout lying alongside it. ‘Dad’s going to fix that one day,’ Tom said.

  In the middle of the shed was a solid wooden bench, which had an ancient vice attached to it with square-headed bolts. Tom unclipped the pump from the post-office bike, then with a few expert twists he took it apart. He showed what was left of the pump washer. ‘Seen better days.’ Tom flicked it into a rubbish box, then started laying out the tools he’d need for the repair job – a large wooden mallet and a circular metal punch. From a drawer he casually produced a leather belt and flapped it lengthwise on the bench.

  Dobbs thought this particular piece of leather looked somehow familiar. ‘Um, Tom, isn’t that…?’

  ‘Yeah, old Murdoch’s belt.’

  ‘So it was you who nicked it?’

  ‘No, I confiscated it. See, you vaccies were bombed out of London and lots of folk here were against you from the start. Once I got to know you, I thought it was a bit much. So when the teacher was laying into you as well, I couldn’t have that. Live and let live, eh? That’s what Dad says, and he was gassed at the Somme.’

  ‘Gee.’ Dobbs was touched. ‘Thanks, Tom. But you should have mentioned it at the time!’

  ‘It wasn’t a time for saying things. It was a time for doing. That’s what mattered.’ Tom took the circular punch in one hand and the mallet in the other. ‘Here goes, then.’ He placed the punch on the belt and gave the other end a fierce whack with the mallet. Then he showed a perfect circle of leather, which neatly fitted the tube of the pump. ‘A bit of linseed oil on that and it’ll work a treat.’

  Dobbs held the belt up and looked at Tom through the hole he’d created. ‘If old Murdoch could see it now.’

  ‘Best use that was ever made of it,’ Tom said.

  The pump with its new washer worked beautifully, and Dobbs said thanks again, then went on with his Sunday run. The church was silent, but as he passed the front door another thunderous organ barrage made him swerve.

  ‘Hell’s bells!’

  The tune was ‘Jerusalem’.

  ***

  Kathleen was suffering. The sound of Miss Mimms playing on the Netterfold Parish Church organ almost physically hurt her ears. The congregation did its best to sing along, but no voice could be heard above those crashing chords.

  And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England’s mountain green?

  Finally the worshippers sang the last of the words:

  Till we have built Jerusalem In England’s green and pleasant land.

  Miss Mimms continued blaring out the music for another verse, yet nobody told her to stop.

  Joey put his hands over his ears and pressed his lips together to stop them smiling. Kathleen tried to catch the Reverend Aintree’s eye, but he stared ahead, drumming his fingers on the brass rail around the pulpit. At last the music ended, and with a final blessing from the vicar, the parishioners returned to the peace of their homes.

  Kathleen and Joey had begun attending the Sunday service when they moved into the vicarage. In London, their mother had always said they could decide on religion for themselves when they were older, and the Reverend and Mrs Aintree didn’t apply any pressure either.

  Joey enjoyed the hymns and Kathleen liked the serenity of the old church building, with its dark varnished pews, rough-hewn stonework and stained-glass windows. The date ‘1643’ was carved above the main door, making her picture the people who’d come here over those years.

  What would they think of the events of 1943?

  After the service, the Reverend and Mrs Aintree gathered Kathleen and Joey, then went across the churchyard to the vicarage.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ the vicar sighed. ‘My ears are still ringing. What am I going to do about Miss Mimms?’

  ‘Charles, you must tell her,’ Mrs Aintree pleaded.

  Joey added, ‘Her noise broke one of the stained-glass windows.’

  ‘No, Joey, a bird did that,’ the Reverend Aintree laughed. ‘We mustn’t be uncharitable.’ He shook his head. ‘Problem is, there’s no other organist.’

  ‘Um…’ Kathleen began. ‘I know a boy who plays the piano. He’s very good.’

  ‘But we don’t want to hurt Miss Mimms’ feelings,’ Mrs Aintree said. ‘She’s played the organ here since the early twenties.’

  ‘Not her early twenties,’ the vicar added. ‘They were much earlier again.’

  Kathleen persisted: ‘Could you ask Miss Mimms to give this boy a try-out?’

  ‘Yes, I see how that would work.’ The vicar became thoughtful. ‘She takes him under her wing?’

  Joey said, ‘And lets him play all the loud hymns, but softly.’

  ‘So, Kathleen, what’s the name of this boy?’

  ***

  Vinnie had discovered the Weeks. The war cost money, and to raise it the army, navy or air force held displays to show their work to the public. On the Sunday when Kathleen and Joey were risking their hearing and Dobbs was finding a new use for a leather belt, Vinnie went to a Royal Air Force display.

  It was a mix of photographs of action in the air and a chance to see a Hurricane fighter up close. People queued to pay threepence, then were allowed to sit in the cockpit. When it came his turn, Vinnie discovered it was very cramped inside.

  Pride of place in the Royal Air Force display was a Heinkel bomber that a British fighter pilot had shot down a few miles away. The German aircraft looked a sorry sight, its fuselage peppered with bullet holes, the twin propellers bent backwards.

  Vinnie stood awe-struck. Did one of these kill you, Isaac? Did this thing, or one of its brothers, blow away Mr and Mrs Rosen, the pub and all the dreams we used to have?

  Freddie Preston broke unwelcome into his thoughts. ‘Not so frightening now, eh?’

  Vinnie hid his annoyance. ‘But they still are, Freddie. Plenty more bombers up there.’

  Freddie ignored this and wandered around to the back of the Heinkel. He called, ‘Hey, look what’s all over the tailfin.’

  The Nazi swastika symbol had almost been covered with National Savings Stamps.

  Mrs Hall called out from a nearby post-office stall, ‘Come on, Vinnie. Do your bit for the war effort. Buy a stamp and help hide that swastika. You too, Freddie.’

  Vinnie had tuppence-ha’penny left and Freddie had the rest, so they found a bare patch on the tailfin and stuck on their sixpenny savings stamp. Freddie tried to add up the amount of money that was already stuck up there, but lost count at twenty-three pounds and some shillings.

  Vinnie said, ‘I’m heading home now, Freddie.’

  ‘There’s more to see. Lots more.’

  ‘Well, you look at it and tell me tomorrow.’ He started walking. It gave him time to think.

  ***

  Later in the afternoon, Miss Mimms was seated at the organ, but not playing. Vinnie entered the church and approached from behind. He coughed, but she paid no attention
. Then he remembered Kathleen telling him that the organist was hard of hearing.

  He moved to her side so she could see him. Miss Mimms smiled. ‘Ah, you must be the famous Vinnie.’

  ‘Don’t know about famous.’

  ‘Well, Vinnie, this is the organ, keys, pedals and stops.’ She went on without a break, showing how to switch on the electric blower, skimming through the sheet music for a hundred and one hymns, then invited him to sit and play something.

  He played the accompaniment for two hymns: ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’, followed by ‘Jerusalem’. Vinnie loved the way this different sound made by the organ soared around the old church.

  Miss Mimms smiled. ‘You’ll do, Vinnie. You’ll do very well. Now, a secret. I’ve wanted to give up for a while, so to give the vicar a nudge, I started doing…naughty things. And nobody seemed to notice, even when I played at full volume.’

  ‘M-mm.’ He’d heard a different story.

  ‘Now, Vinnie. Are you free on Sunday mornings? For the duration of the war?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Excellent. You are now the organist of Netterfold Parish Church. Good luck.’

  And with that, Miss Mimms took her handbag and left. Vinnie smiled. Just what I wanted. Playing in front of an audience. Not like it was in the pub, but the same idea.

  Since he had the church to himself, he tried out ‘Kiss Me Goodnight, Sergeant Major’, then followed it with ‘Bless ’em All’.

  ***

  On the second Sunday, at lunch in the vicarage, the Reverend Aintree was full of good humour. The new organist’s first service had been a success, with many nods of approval from the congregation.

  ‘Mind you,’ the vicar bubbled with amusement, ‘I’d love to hear Vinnie give us Knees Up, Mother Brown. Wouldn’t it shake them up?’

  In the midst of the laughter around the dining- room table, the telephone rang. Mrs Aintree went out to the hall to answer it, then called out, ‘Kathleen, dear, it’s for you. Your mother, ringing from London.’

  Kathleen took the receiver. A phone call was unusual, and worrying. She whispered, ‘Hello, Mum.’