The chief bell-ringer seemed to think that Cotton might know something. ‘Why does Mr Churchill want us to ring the bells anyway? There’s no sense. If there’s thousands of them parachutes coming down surely it would have leaked out by then, the word would’ve got around.’
Cotton said he had not been informed of Churchill’s war plans. One of the other men in the ring said: ‘I ’eard that they parachuters is given a pill, a fog pill they call it. They pops it in their mouth and a cloud like fog comes around them so you can’t see them.’
Cotton laughed. ‘Did the same man tell you that the Jerries have dug a tunnel under the Channel and are coming up from it any moment?’
‘Where d’you reckon they’ll come out?’ said the man seriously. ‘We ought to be there waiting for the buggers.’
‘They’re all just tales, fairy stories,’ said Cotton soberly. ‘As long as you know what you’re doing with the bells.’ A skinny youth began to descend from the void at the top. They waited for him to reach the ground. He touched his cap, knocking it sideways. ‘They look all right,’ he said. ‘I counted them.’
‘We know what we be about with the bells,’ said the chief man. The others murmured and nodded. ‘We’re going to ring a Plain Bob Major, ain’t we, boys. Better than any steeple in Kent.’
Cotton led the other policemen out into the night. They were on their way to check the isolated houses above the beach to the east of the town. ‘There are times,’ said Cotton as they got into the car outside the church, ‘when I wonder if this whole country is not gone stark raving mad.’
Cartwright sat in the Roman latrine in the cliff tunnel on a stool placed in front of a collapsible table, a heavy Underwood typewriter before him and a voluminous notebook open on the floor. The odd scene was lit by a single bulb on a lead slung from the chalk passage outside that cast black shadows on the damp, tiled walls and concave ceiling.
‘Nice and cosy in here, sir,’ said a corporal appearing in the rough entrance Cartwright had opened in the wall.
‘No choice,’ said Cartwright. ‘I’ve been turfed out of my office by some gas squad.’
‘There’s everything and nothing going on, sir.’ He put an untidy bunch of letters on the table beside the Underwood. ‘Charging about, staring out to sea, saying that Fritz is on his way. But there’s no sign of Fritz.’
He regarded with interest Cartwright’s notebook and the paper in the typewriter. ‘What they got you on, sir, something dead secret?’
‘Not really, corporal, unless you can call the ancient contents of Kent churches a secret. I’ve had to write them down in case the Boche takes a fancy to them. When he eventually turns up.’
‘Sounds like a useful job,’ said the corporal. ‘And there’s not many useful jobs around at the minute. Everybody’s rushing around doin’ nowt.’
‘It’s not useful yet. But it may be. Like that gas squad.’
‘You could be right, sir, you could just be. I’ll be on my merry way.’
He saluted and left. Cartwright picked up the small wad of letters. He knew they would be mostly detailed returns from vicars, church wardens or parish councils. They were impressively conscientious. But there was also an envelope stamped: ‘Embassy of the United States of America.’
‘Darling,’ Sarah had written. ‘I’ve been desperately trying to get in touch with you . . .’
He had been trying to reach her too, only to have his calls rejected by the embassy switchboard. He read on:
I don’t know how long I am going to be able to stay here. They are sending people home and when they tell you to go, you have to go. So we must meet again soon. Some days I go to a little café for lunch. I’ll go every day next week so if it is possible for you to phone between 12.30 and 1.30, then I’ll be able to pick up the call. It’s Belgravia 429 – the people say they don’t mind as long as we’re not spies! I love you.
‘I love you too,’ murmured Cartwright thoughtfully.
Despite Britain being a confined island there was ample room for panic. The code word ‘Cromwell’ was known through the military chain of defence and had filtered easily through to the civilian population. Like many well-prepared strategies, however, and basic and simple as it was, it was widely misinterpreted. It meant that an invasion was thought to be imminent but many believed it signalled that an invasion had already begun. Few people believed that anywhere apart from the obvious south coast would be the target of a German invasion from the sea but, once the code word was out, areas of remote Scotland and the safely quiet borders of Wales were thrown into confusion.
Even in a front-line town like Dover the response was garbled; some had received the ‘Cromwell’ call, some had not – and those who had frequently misunderstood its warning.
At the twice-nightly Hippodrome the early-evening performance was getting into its stride with community singing. On stage a flushed soprano and a man in a baggy brown suit led the songs, and the four-man orchestra played with their customary shortcomings, the violinist at almost appropriate moments leaning over and giving the untenanted drums a crashing blow.
Community singing was always popular. Songs were dredged back from the days of the Boer War, songs such as ‘Goodbye Dolly, I Must Leave You’ and ‘There’s a Long, Long Trail Awinding’, and a popular chorus from the hungry thirties, ‘I Do Like Potatoes and Gravy’. The servicemen in the audience robustly joined in bawling the Lambeth Walk while the two performers on stage strutted like cockneys and everyone shouted ‘Oi!’ in the right places. There was a novelty song, ‘I’ll Rasp Right in the Führer’s Face’, in which the word ‘rasp’ was invariably changed to a spit-spraying raspberry. Then the lady performer took a red boa and sang ‘My Old Man Said Follow the Van’ and joined with the florid man in ‘The Old Kent Road’. The good time was so much enjoyed, that the confused young messenger bearing the emergency word ‘Cromwell’ was ignored and, being one of the few not knowing the importance of his mission, gave it up as a bad job and joined in the singing.
It was not until Carmen from Havana was at the high spot of her contortionist act, rolled into a ball, her face to the audience and her legs tied around her neck, that the message was repeated by telephone and the manager, straightening his bow-tie, strutted on to the stage, hushing the orchestra with his arms. They halted to a slightly hurt silence. Carmen was left tied in her own knot at the front of the footlights.
‘This is a priority coded message,’ the manager intoned while the contortionist rolled her eyes. ‘The warning “Cromwell” . . . repeat “Cromwell” . . . has been given. All servicemen must return to their units at once.’
There was a rush for the exits by sailors, airmen and soldiers, some with rifles, all with gas masks. They were gone in three minutes leaving a scattering of civilians remaining in their seats, including a small man in a collar and sober tie and with a bowler hat placed on his lap, almost face to face with the convoluted Carmen. She looked him in the eye from the footlights. ‘I don’t know why I bother to do this,’ she said.
There were troops everywhere. Half-trained, half-armed, they waited in their dugouts, staring out at the vacant sea, or drove along the Kentish roads and coastal lanes, on a fruitless search for an invading force. But it was a nice evening, the Channel was as calm as the land in the dusky light, animals grazed and men not in uniform went to inns, and drank beer under low beams.
‘We can set the sea on fire,’ boasted a man. Everyone knew this was true. A pipeline, assembled in Dover, had been quickly laid just offshore along the entire south coast of England. Thousands of gallons of oil could be pumped through it. ‘All we got to do is to light the match,’ said the man in the pub, ‘and let the buggers cook.’
A mile away Sergeant Dunphy was urging his men aboard a truck. ‘Look, a brand new lorry,’ he said smacking its side. ‘Mind you don’t get it dirty.’
‘There’s nice, fancy getting a new one,’ said Jenkins.
‘We haven’t got many old ones,’ said Ard
ley.
Once the dozen men were aboard the driver called: ‘Here goes,’ the vehicle coughed and with a grating of gears began the journey through the shadows of the almost deserted town. More than two thirds of civilians had left by now. It looked ready to be invaded. They drove through the lanes. Cows looked over hedges at them. A pub appeared, almost buried in a tight valley.
‘Right, lads, this looks a likely place to conceal parachutists,’ said Dunphy. ‘Hold it, driver!’ The lorry pulled into the yard. There were chickens pecking around some bicycles.
The landlord seemed unsurprised to see them. ‘Half-price for defenders of the realm,’ he said. ‘Be in the mob myself but I’ve only got half a foot from the last war to end all wars.’
‘I’ve got more than half a thirst,’ said Dunphy. ‘Come on, boys. We can’t be looking for the mortal enemy all night without a beer. Anyone got some money left from pay day?’
They dug into their pockets and counted out the coins. ‘Half a pint of ale to each man,’ decided Dunphy. ‘And a pint for me.’ He looked around challengingly. ‘I have to make the decisions.’
Two old men, string tied around their moleskin trouser legs, caps over their foreheads, played darts.
The soldiers stood and drank the Kentish ale. A local came in and sang a short song. The landlord gave him a shandy. ‘We’re all ready for the Jerries here,’ said the landlord. ‘Look at Jem and Harry there. Deadeyed with the darts even if they’re gone eighty.’
One of the old men sniffed and paused with his dart poised. ‘If ’Itler comes, me and Jem ’ere, we’re goin’ to give ourselves up.’
Dunphy drank with appreciation. ‘A man has to have a drink, no matter what state the world is in. The last time I was decent drunk was in Ireland, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. Some piss-up.’
They trooped out after ten minutes when the singer tried another song. Outside, Ardley recognised the surroundings. They drove on and he said: ‘This is where we came to the dance. When I got a lift home on a horse.’
Ahead he saw the cottage. ‘Worth looking it over, sarge?’ he suggested.
‘Why not,’ said Dunphy. ‘There’s nothing else to search around here.’ He banged on the driver’s cab.
They pulled up close to the house. There was no movement, only some worried ducks in the yard. ‘I’ll go, shall I, sarge?’ said Ardley. ‘I know them.’
Dunphy nodded. ‘Front door,’ he said. ‘Let’s screen this properly now. There might be Storm Troopers hiding inside.’ He pointed to Tugwell and Sproston. ‘You two go around the rear. Don’t let the ducks scare you.’
Ardley stepped forward. ‘Shall I knock, sarge?’
‘Not too loud,’ said Dunphy.
As the soldier was about to knock, Tugwell and Sproston reappeared around the flank of the house with their rifles raised above their heads and their faces ashen. ‘Sarge,’ said Tugwell his eyes rolling. ‘This old bloke’s going to blow holes in us.’
‘That’s what he says,’ said Sproston trying to look over his shoulder.
Ardley recognised the grey man holding the shotgun. ‘Spatchcock,’ he recalled. ‘Spatchcock, sir. Do you remember me?’
The man lowered the shotgun and shuffled around the soldiers. ‘Now who’s that calling me Spatchcock?’ he demanded.
Ardley stepped forward diffidently. ‘Me, sir. I was here not long ago. I came here with Rose.’
Spatchcock said: ‘Ah, that Rose.’ He did not interfere when Sproston and Tugwell lowered their rifles and crept around the back of the other soldiers. ‘All the blokes be after ’er. She’s well developed, that’s why.’
‘She took me home on her horse,’ said Ardley.
‘Could be.’
Dunphy said: ‘Mr Spatchcock . . .’
‘There’s no mister. It’s just Spatchcock. I been called it for years.’ He nodded at Tugwell and Sproston. ‘I thought they was Jerries dressed up, like disguised. They reckon they parachutists sometimes dress like nuns, you know. I like nuns.’ His haggard face came up for a moment, challengingly. ‘Nuns do a lot of good.’
The soldiers were silent, standing in the darkening garden listening as though they had found someone wise. ‘When do you think Hitler will come, Spatchcock?’ asked Dunphy. ‘They think he’s coming tonight.’
The old man ruminated, sitting himself on a broken wooden seat. ‘I don’t reckon he’s coming at all,’ he said. ‘Not never.’
‘So we’re all running around for nothing,’ said the sergeant.
‘Like rabbits,’ nodded Spatchcock. He stood and went into the house. Although his shoulders were bent he still had to crouch beneath the lintel. ‘I’ll show you something,’ he called from the dim interior. ‘I’ll find it in a minute.’
The dusk was becoming heavy now, closing like a grey hand over the countryside. They could hear solitary birds piping in different parts of the fields. It was warm and peaceful. The old man returned ducking through the door and holding a square of paper.
‘Right now, sergeant,’ he said to Dunphy. ‘Have you had a sight of this?’ It was a leaflet dropped by German planes. ‘Bought this at the church fête,’ said Spatchcock. ‘Cost me five bob.’
The printed page was headed: ‘A Final Appeal to Reason’. It was a statement by Adolf Hitler to the British People asking them to order Winston Churchill to stop the war immediately.
The squad crowded around. ‘I can read that,’ said Jenkins eagerly. ‘Can’t I, Ardley?’
Ardley said: ‘Have a go.’
He glanced at Spatchcock. ‘I’ve been teaching him to read,’ he said privately. ‘He’s Welsh.’
The old man nodded as if that were understandable. Jenkins took the leaflet and with faltering words and Celtic accent recited Hitler’s proposals. The others listened. The Welshman finished with a flourish. ‘Signed Adolf Hitler,’ he said. Then he threw up his right hand in a stiff salute and proclaimed: ‘Heil Bloody Hitler.’ Everybody laughed as he handed the document back to Spatchcock.
There was a movement on the other side of the wall. Spatchcock said: ‘It’s that Rose.’
She appeared at the gate with a shotgun in one hand and her big horse in the other. ‘Not a German anywhere,’ she said.
‘I know,’ said Sergeant Dunphy. ‘We can’t find any either.’
‘Ah, it’s you,’ she said seeing Ardley. ‘I gave you a lift on my horse back to camp. Never heard from you again.’
Ardley said: ‘Sorry, Rose, but we’ve been busy getting ready for Hitler.’
‘Digging up Kent,’ put in Jenkins. ‘I saw you come by the camp on your horse,’ he added. ‘Beautiful.’
‘He is,’ she replied.
‘We’d better get back to defending England,’ announced Dunphy. They moved towards the front gate.
Ardley said quickly to Rose: ‘I really do want to see you again.’
‘All right. As long as Jerry doesn’t arrive first.’
Spatchcock said to them all: ‘I don’t reckon that Hitler will ever set a foot here. And you know why – because he’s windy. He’s scared of us.’
Chapter Ten
NUMBER THREE COMPANY of the Dover Home Guard had been taken on a seventy-mile route march the previous weekend, a long walk for men many of whom were over-age and suffered with their feet. Captain David Price, the unit commanding officer, had not made the march himself since, as he openly explained, he was engaged on tactical matters at headquarters which was established in the classrooms of the junior girls’ school, the pupils of which had been evacuated to Wales. Grown men had sat at small desks and listened intently.
The route march had been exhausting even for the most active men. They returned so fatigued that many were unable to go to essential war work on the Monday. Blistered feet and aching joints were treated by the local doctors on standby to treat military casualties. Captain Price said the march was a show of strength.
In the late dusk of the placid evening after the Cromwell warning, he led a patr
ol of number three company, those who could still walk, through the streets in the segment of the town his men had been assigned to defend.
There had not even been any German air attacks to add realism that day. A few shells had hit open country at the back of the cliffs, white and sunlit, which presented the only target. The bombardment was desultory. There had never been a time that seemed so unlikely for an invasion.
The Home Guard captain, who was manager of a Dover carpet shop, was determined to go about the task of screening the streets efficiently and his hobbling recruits were encouraged to knock on doors and search gardens and outhouses. There was some doubt and confusion. ‘Sir, when they answer the door what shall we say?’
One of the younger men, a school teacher, interpolated: ‘“Good evening, have you by chance noticed any German invaders?”’
The captain glared in his direction and muttered: ‘Well, just . . . just say “Home Guard. Everything all right?”’
They split into sections and began their search. Between the back gardens of two sloping streets was an alley with entrances into the gardens. Taking one side at a time they climbed fences or went through gates. There were rabbit hutches, pigeon lofts and Anderson air-raid shelters among vegetables and clumps of flowers.
They reassembled after twenty minutes.
‘Anything to report?’ asked the captain. Hopefully he regarded their vacant faces. ‘Anything?’
A few men shook their heads. He asked: ‘What happened when you knocked on the doors?’
‘One bloke said he was listening to the wireless.’
‘A woman asked if we could look out for her lost dog . . . it’s called Spot.’
‘Most people said: “Sod off.”’
The captain coloured. ‘These are the same people who’ll be wanting protection soon, perhaps within a few hours,’ he said. ‘Let’s try the other set of gardens.’
Tommy Handley had finished his weekly comedy wireless programme. Harold sat back disconsolately. ‘Now what do I do?’ he called to his mother. She was washing curtains in the kitchen. Because of the emergency she had told him to stay in the house. ‘Read something,’ she called back. ‘Haven’t you got the Dandy or something?’
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