One night in March Kezzie came home around eight o’clock. Lucy was already bathed and in bed.
‘I warmed the stone pig and put it in the bed for ye,’ said her grandad. He hugged her as he left for his firewatching. Every family was the same. Working all hours to keep the troops supplied and their spare time taken up with voluntary work. Her grandad’s post was down by the docks.
‘Good job I like ships, isn’t it?’ he’d commented.
The shipyards would be the first to get hit if Clydebank is attacked, Kezzie thought, and they would almost certainly come off worse.
She was wrong.
That Thursday night, the thirteenth of March, Kezzie gave her grandad his sandwiches and a bottle of cold tea. She smiled as she watched him pack it in with his gas mask and helmet. She’d bought him a vacuum flask, but he rarely used it. It was an old miner’s habit. He insisted that cold tea, which would be chilled by the time he drank it, had special reviving powers.
She shut the door behind him and peered into the bedroom. Lucy was asleep. Kezzie took some soup from the pot, then undressed quickly and slipped into the warm bed in the little windowless room off the kitchen.
She was fast asleep with the door closed when the first alarm sounded.
CHAPTER 15
1941: The sirens go off
THE NOISE OF the air-raid siren woke Lucy almost at once. She sat up in fright, clutching the rag doll in her hands. What was it? A dreadful screaming noise pierced through her head, the wailing going on and on, like an animal being tortured. She slipped out from under the blankets, shivering as her bare feet touched the cold linoleum, and trotted quickly through to where Kezzie lay asleep.
‘Kezzie,’ she whispered, ‘Kezzie.’
Her sister’s eyes were closed fast. Dark smudges of exhaustion showed beneath the sockets. Lucy shook Kezzie gently.
‘Kezzie,’ she whispered again.
Kezzie didn’t stir. Her mouth was partly open and her breathing was regular and deep. Lucy waited a moment or two. She could still hear the awful sound echoing round the streets, coming right into her house, climbing higher and higher. She held her doll more closely to her and whispered in its ear.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What is it, Kissy?’
Then suddenly Lucy knew what it was. It had been weeks, months even since she’d heard that particular noise. It was the warning. The one Grandad had told her about. She had laughed, and thought it was a great game when he’d made her practise what to do. Go into the hall, put on her coat, take her gas mask and run all the way downstairs. Right out the back entrance of the close, and she hadn’t to stop until she reached the concrete shelter. They had races to see who was the fastest. She usually won.
Lucy puckered her face. It was definitely the warning noise, the air-raid siren to let you know that the enemy was coming. They would be in the sky now, flying towards them to drop bombs on their head. Yet … it didn’t seem right. The noise wasn’t the same as before. Perhaps it was a trick, a joke, a made up game. Lucy shivered again. She didn’t like this game. But now there seemed to be more noise. Other sirens were joining in, one after the other all over the town.
So … she should wake Kezzie and go downstairs.
Her grandad’s voice was in her ear. ‘If a siren sounds you must go to the shelter. Promise me you will go, Lucy. No matter how tired you are, no matter how cosy and warm in your bed. Don’t snuggle under the blankets. Promise me that you will get up at once and hurry outside.’
And she had promised. Standing solemnly in front of her grandad, she had promised.
But now she couldn’t wake Kezzie. What should she do?
Lucy took a handful of Kezzie’s hair, and tugged gently. It didn’t seem to bother her. She shook her shoulder and called her name. Nothing. She grabbed a great chunk of Kezzie’s hair and pulled hard. Kezzie turned and pushed her sister’s hand away. She moaned something in her sleep, then settled down again. Lucy closed her own eyes. ‘Sorry Kezzie,’ she said, and yanked the long brown hair even harder.
‘Don’t,’ said Kezzie sharply. She moved across and drew the bedclothes around her.
Lucy was now completely at a loss. She couldn’t wake Kezzie up, and she had tried, really tried. She looked around the little room. It was very dark, with no windows, the only light coming through the kitchen from the tiny oil lamp left burning in the hall. Perhaps if she closed over the door and crept in beside Kezzie then the planes in the sky wouldn’t see them, and they would be quite safe. Just the same as being in the shelter, she thought. In fact, better, because here it was warmer and not so smelly and damp.
In fact … maybe it was only another false alarm. Lucy raised her head and listened. Faintly in the distance she could hear yet another wail starting, rising and falling like some dreaded banshee.
She touched Kezzie again. She didn’t stir. She would have to give up. Nothing was going to wake her sister.
Lucy went out of the small room and into the kitchen. She slid quietly between the curtains and the window and edged the blackout board to one side. Far away across the roofs she could see lights in the sky. Long white pencils of white stretching across the darkness, moving, crossing and recrossing. In the distance she saw a strange sight. Big white mushroom shapes floating down, dropping behind the houses and across the river and then suddenly the sky was full of colour. Great sparklers and cartwheels and rockets everywhere.
It was very exciting. Like a party with special fireworks. She could hear noises now, thuds and cracks and loud booms, mostly in the distance but coming nearer to her.
Lucy watched for about a minute longer and then turned and slipped back into the room. She was cold now. Perhaps she should just go back to bed. Kezzie was too tired to get up. She worked long hours, first in the café and then in the ambulance, driving. And if this noise didn’t wake her then nothing would.
On her way back to bed Lucy passed the kitchen table, where the bowls and spoons and the jug of milk were set out for breakfast in the morning.
Kezzie slumbered on, in a deep untroubled sleep. She was walking in the park. It was sunny and warm, and she was hand in hand with someone, but when she turned her head she couldn’t see the person’s face. She could hear noises, like children crying, and she knew it should worry her, but she didn’t care. She was happy.
Michael Donohoe was in her dream. He couldn’t be there, for he was far away, yet she was not surprised to see him. He was standing by the fountain, and he was laughing. Smiling and joking the way he always did. And there was an ache in her heart because she knew he wasn’t real. And then he said something to her. But she couldn’t hear him. And he called out again and turned to look at the fountain, at the falling water. And the water was falling, falling from the sky. There was rain on her face, soaking her hair, running down her chin, and she was laughing because she was so wet. But the liquid on her face was not pleasant. She wiped it away in annoyance.
‘Don’t,’ she said in her sleep. Her neck and the top of her dress were soaked. She tried to dry herself. Her hands touched the soft fabric of her nightdress. Kezzie opened her eyes.
‘Lucy! What are you doing?’
Lucy looked at the empty milk jug in her hands. She took a quick step backwards.
‘Kezzie,’ she gabbled. ‘The sirens are making an awful noise. Grandad said we must get up and go to the shelter if the siren went off. I couldn’t get you awake so I …’ she looked again at the jug in her hand.
Kezzie lifted her old Gladstone bag which they kept by the front door. Inside it had the family papers and photographs, birth certificates and ration books.
‘Wait,’ said Lucy. She ran back and picked up her dolly.
They passed Mrs Sweeney’s house. She was locking her front door.
‘Bother,’ she said and turned back.
‘What have you forgotten?’ called Mary Price from the next landing.
‘The ration books,’ said Mrs Sweeney. ‘I’ll just run back for them.�
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‘You go on, Kezzie,’ Mary said. ‘I’ll wait for Mrs Sweeney.’
Kezzie went down to the first floor. The three little boys were lined up outside. Their mum was getting the pram out of the lobby.
‘Need a hand?’ asked Kezzie.
‘No,’ she smiled. ‘My man’s at home tonight. Thanks anyway.’
Kezzie went down to the ground floor. The noise increased as she got lower, fire bells mixing with sirens and police horns. This was no false alarm or ARP practice. She went to the close mouth. The baffle wall was directly opposite the exit. It blocked her view of the street and the sky. It really was very noisy, she thought. Now that she was almost outside she was more aware of the thumping vibration in the air. Kezzie craned her neck forward and looked at the sky. Huge fingers of light criss-crossed the skies above her. She could hear the ack-ack battery at Duntocher and out in the river a warship was firing away for all it was worth. She saw a plane quite clearly, an enemy raider flying low almost directly above her. Grey metal glinting in the beam of the searchlight. It appeared to be trapped in the blinding glare, another locked on to it, and then another, and then, just as suddenly they lost it, and it was gone.
So they have come, thought Kezzie. Her heart began to thud heavily but she felt quite calm as she thought out what to do. She looked above her head, at the roof which had been reinforced with thick steel tubing. Should she stay here or make a run for the shelter? Perhaps she should wait for the others? She heard Mrs Sweeney’s door bang and the sound of her shrill voice. One of the boys started crying. Better not to wait, she thought. They would be coming down the stairs in a moment, carrying the wee one with the pram. It would be too crowded here in the close for all of them. Better to go on ahead and set out the blankets for the children.
Kezzie took a firm grip of Lucy’s hand in one of her own and, grasping her Gladstone bag in the other, she took one step outside.
At that precise moment, a high-explosive land-mine scored a direct hit on the tenement opposite and blew the whole street to bits.
CHAPTER 16
Blitzed!
A GREAT BLAST of air plucked Kezzie and Lucy off their feet and slammed them both violently against the side wall of the close. The rag doll was abruptly snatched from Lucy’s grasp and the Gladstone bag from Kezzie’s hand. Then the front of the building sheared off and collapsed into the street, and the remainder tumbled in upon itself.
Neither of them made a sound, not a cry nor a whimper. All the air in their lungs was torn out of their bodies as the explosion impacted through the close. With a shattering roar a huge invisible giant cuffed them both to oblivion.
And then the masonry was falling, floor after floor, crashing down and down, crushing life out of everyone, destroying all in its path. Further down the road the gas main fractured. Seconds later a spark ignited, and with a loud bang the gas caught fire at the point where the pipe was broken. At the far end of the building the gable end remained upright. The whole structure shuddered and teetered precariously. From time to time small pieces of brick and plaster broke off and fell into what had been the back green.
Elsewhere in the town the rescue services were working themselves to a standstill. Among the many fires started, the ones at Singer’s vast timber yard and Yoker Distillery, which had been set alight almost at once, were the worst. The high quantities of inflammable material in both places meant that it was almost impossible to extinguish them. The main bomber groups which followed used the fires as target guidelines. One of the biggest water mains, which brought water down from the hills to the town, was destroyed early on by a bomb, and three of the Auxiliary Fire Service Stations were also put out of action at the start of the raid. A call went out to neighbouring authorities. Sixty-five extra units rushed to help. It wasn’t enough. The inferno raged on.
Then the parachute mines and the high explosive bombs started falling. Whistling down from skies bringing devastation and death.
By the time the all-clear sounded and dawn came, there was hardly a street in Clydebank without a fatality. Hundreds of civilians had been killed, and hundreds more seriously injured.
It was at first light on the Friday morning that a rescue party reached the place where Kezzie’s tenement used to be.
‘Gas main gone here,’ said the patrol officer. He took his notepad and scribbled down some information. Then he tore off the sheet and handed it to the young boy who was the messenger for his team. ‘Here, son, see if you can make it back to HQ and get that one marked up.’ He watched as the boy mounted his bike and wobbled off in the direction of the town hall. He grinned at his deputy who was standing beside him. ‘Jim’s been blown off that bike three times already and he’s still determined to ride it.’
‘With nearly every telegraph line down, it’s just as well lads like him volunteered,’ said the deputy. ‘We couldnae manage without them.’
The two men surveyed the remains of the tenement block. The deputy shook his head. ‘Don’t think anyone got out of that, do you, George?’
George Murdoch shook his head. He consulted his notebook. ‘According to the warden for this area none of them got to the main shelter. So …’ He chewed his lip for a minute. ‘The only chance ye’d have … is if ye were directly under the steel beams at the close mouth.’
‘Even then …’ The deputy shook his head.
‘Aye, ye’re probably right, Willie. But I’ll just go and take a wee peek.’
‘Watch out for that gable end, George. Ah don’t like the look of it at all.’
The patrol officer squinted up at the wall. It was as though the end of the tenement had been sliced off with a giant’s carving knife. Each floor lay exposed to the world. By the fireplace on the first floor was a wooden clothes horse with little vests and pants hung to dry. On a mantelpiece in one room sat two wally dugs with a clock in between. The clock was showing the correct time. On the top floor the table was set for breakfast. The remains of the tenement shuddered from top to bottom.
George Murdoch smiled. ‘Aye, Willie,’ he said. ‘Ah’ll keep my eyes open. Ah’m none too happy about it myself.’
He clambered over the ruins and among the wreckage to where he judged the safest part of the building had been. He hunted around and called out loudly for several minutes. He waited for a bit, calling again and again, then, squatting down and putting his ear to the ground, he listened. After a while he began to make his way back. Willie came to meet him.
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing.’
‘We’ve got a runner from HQ sayin’ they need us two streets away.’ The deputy handed him the scrawled message.
Behind them the building groaned and shifted slightly. The two men took a last quick look around.
‘There’s somethin’ there, beside that pipe.’ George Murdoch had seen a small object which had been flung aside by the explosion.
‘It’s only a doll, George,’ his deputy said, and kept walking.
‘Well, if there’s a doll, there must just be a child close by.’
George Murdoch clambered over the pile of bricks which had been the baffle wall, erected to protect any bomb blast going through the close. As he bent down to pick up the rag doll he caught sight of a small hand sticking out from under the rubble.
‘Hang on a minute!’ he called. He knelt down and took the child’s hand in his own.
It was quite cold.
‘Oh, no.’ He barely spoke the words. It was now seven a.m. and he had been working since just after the siren had gone at nine the previous evening. He was weary, his body tired and his mind stunned with the cases he’d dealt with during the night. ‘Wee kids,’ he’d told his wife on the one occasion he nipped back to his own house to get a cup of tea and collect a spare tin helmet, ‘that’s the worst to deal with. Some burnt beyond recognition. Whole families have been wiped out. Is this what the world has come to? That we put our children in the front line?’
His big rough hand closed over the fra
il little one.
‘Not another wean,’ he said aloud. He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. ‘I don’t think I can go much more of this.’
‘Come out of there, George,’ the deputy shouted again. ‘That wall’s goin’ to collapse, and you’ll be under it if ye don’t move yerself.’
‘Aye, aye.’ He got to his knees. As he did so, his years of first aid training made him instinctively check the wrist before he let go. Just before he dropped the child’s hand he automatically felt for the pulse.
He had turned his face away. The sight of the small fingers with the rosy pink nails covered in plaster dust had disturbed him. When he thought about it later he reckoned his sense of touch was that bit more alert, his fingertips a fraction more sensitive as they located the point where the child’s life blood throbbed through the artery from the heart.
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered and started to scrabble frantically at the rubble.
‘What are ye doin’, George?’ called one of the team, glancing back.
‘A pulse,’ he yelled. ‘I’ve got a pulse. This wean’s alive!’
‘Ye’ll need tae stop.’ His deputy was beside him now. ‘Look,’ he pointed at the end wall of the tenement. High above them a large piece of flooring had worked loose and the joist ends were slipping out of the wall plate. ‘We’ll get some steel rope and drag it down from the other side. Then we free this child.’
‘How long d’ye think that’ll take?’ asked George.
‘Half an hour, maybe.’
George looked down at the little hand he still held in his own. ‘This wean canny wait half an hour,’ he said.
Willie sighed. ‘Ah thought ye were going to say that.’ He knelt down beside his mate. ‘We’ll need to do it brick by brick,’ he said. ‘Any big movement and you an’ me are goin’ have right sair heids the morrow.’
George Murdoch put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Ye don’t need to wait, Willie,’ he said.
Kezzie at War Page 21
