The family had been plucked from poverty by Carson who, up until then, had no idea of his half-sister’s existence. Carson was by nature the kindest of men, some said too kind, and his home and purse were always open to those in need of shelter and succour.
Having flourished in a style to which she quickly became accustomed, Elizabeth – who was as selfish and imperious as her mother – subsequently married a solicitor, Graham Temple, and lived in comfortable circumstances in a large house near Blandford. For most of the time she chose to ignore her Woodville relations and her natural mother, Agnes, who she held responsible for all her woes.
Jack was an engaging, if rather withdrawn, young man of twenty-six who still lived with his mother and stepfather for whom he worked as an articled clerk.
To his chagrin Jack had been turned down for military service because of a suspected heart murmur, which pleased his mother but left him feeling useless and humiliated as all his young friends streamed off to the war.
Accordingly, when in May the War Minister Anthony Eden appealed for all men between the ages of seventeen and sixty-five to join a volunteer defence force, Jack didn’t hesitate and presented himself at headquarters in Blandford. There he found his uncle, Carson, a retired major, in charge of proceedings and energetically preparing the local force to do its duty, if need be with their lives, to repel the enemy.
One morning towards the end of May Jack was summoned from his breakfast to take a phone call from Carson whose voice fairly hummed with excitement.
“Jack?”
“Yes, Uncle Carson?”
“Your boat in Poole Harbour. Is it serviceable?”
“For what?”
“To go over to Dunkirk and help rescue our boys stranded on the beaches. I’ve had an urgent request from London.”
“Well,” sensing the magnitude of the task Jack hesitated, “it’s not very big.”
“It doesn’t matter how big it is. Does it work? I’ll come and pick you up in an hour.”
“I’ll have to talk to Father,” Jack said weakly, but Carson had already rung off. Jack made his way slowly back to the breakfast room where Graham sat with his head in the newspaper while Elizabeth poured the tea.
“Who was that, dear?” she asked turning her head.
“Uncle Carson, Mother.”
“Oh? What did he want?”
“Well,” Jack sank into his chair and looked nervously at his stepfather, “he wants to use my boat to rescue the soldiers stranded in Dunkirk.”
“What?” Graham put his head over the top of the paper.
“He says a call has gone out for everyone with a boat to help rescue the men.”
“But yours is a tiny yacht, dear,” Elizabeth said dubiously. “Besides can Carson sail it? I didn’t know he could.”
Jack felt his courage returning, “I’ll have to go with him, of course.”
“But you can’t possibly.” Elizabeth banged the cosy on the teapot. “Not with your heart condition.”
“You know my heart has never given me any trouble, Mother. It’s just what the doctors say.”
“Well if you’re not fit for active service you’re certainly not fit to sail a small boat across the Channel which is being bombed to bits by the Germans. I won’t hear of you putting yourself in such danger. I’m surprised at Carson even asking such a thing.”
“Uncle Carson said he would be here in an hour, Mother.” Jack squirmed. “What shall I tell him?”
“I’ll tell him ‘no’,” Elizabeth said firmly, “if you’re such a coward. I never heard of anything so ridiculous. You’d be shot out of the water and killed.”
Graham, who had been listening to the conversation, put his paper on one side and his arms on the table. “I think Jack should do as Carson asks, Elizabeth. I’m proud of the boy. He’s no coward, just the opposite.” Graham rose and put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Well done, Jack. When duty calls you don’t hesitate.”
Jack lowered his head and blushed.
“Thank you, Father. I’d like to have a go.”
“Carson will look after him,” Graham said briskly trying to reassure his wife. “Carson is a very capable man.”
“Carson will be in no position to look after him,” Elizabeth said heatedly. “He can’t even sail, can he Jack?”
“But I can sail, Mother.”
“But do you realise what danger you’ll be in?”
Jack’s pale face again coloured with anticipation.
“I’ll be doing my bit for the war, Mother. Please don’t try and stop me.”
“You should be proud of him dear,” Graham said stooping to kiss Elizabeth’s cheek. “I am.”
“I shan’t have a moment’s peace,” Elizabeth said tearfully, “until he gets back safely. And if anything happens to my boy, Carson Woodville will pay dearly for it.”
If ever there was an inferno this was it, Carson thought not for the first time as Jack, the sails of his craft already in tatters, moved her close up to the beach which was crowded with men running towards the boats as they came inshore. The deafening noise of screaming planes engaged in deathly combat overhead vied with the massive roar of gunfire coming from the shore. There British artillery tried to hold off the German enemy whose task had been made easier by the collapse of Belgium, leaving a vast gap between the French and British armies which they poured through.
A huge pall of smoke in the sky almost obscured the sun. The hulls of many boats stuck out of the sea which was thick with floating corpses. Three British destroyers had been sunk and six more badly damaged and the Admiralty had issued orders that all modern destroyers should withdraw from the area.
This was the fourth run Jack and Carson had made in two days, the tiny little craft plying manfully across the Channel with its cargo of defeated, and sometimes seriously wounded, men. Two had died on the way home.
They had scarcely slept or paused to unload their human cargo on the other side before returning to Dunkirk, Carson at the helm Jack operating the sails. This must surely be their last trip, the jib was torn and the mainsail fluttered helplessly in the wind, so the boat had to be driven by a small outboard motor and was already taking in water.
The two men spoke little as they went about their task, but a strong camaraderie had grown up between them and Carson’s respect for Jack, whom he had always slightly despised, now knew no bounds. It had become gratifyingly clear to him that Jack, contrary to the impression he made, was a tough-minded, determined character and not the weakling he had taken him for. He resolved to advise him to break away from his mother’s apron strings and start a new life as soon as he could. Jack had shown a strength of character and qualities of almost superhuman endurance which had amazed and gratified his uncle.
Suddenly, through the smoke a group of men carrying another struggled towards them, their faces blackened with fatigue and the dirt and grime of war. One was near collapse and, reaching out, Carson hauled him into the boat. Then dropping anchor, he and Jack jumped into the sea and began to help the others aboard.
“Quick, quick,” Jack urged them looking at the threatening skies thick with smoke and tracer bullets as RAF planes recklessly engaged the enemy. Every now and then a plane, flames pouring from it, took a nosedive into the sea. It was almost a miracle that they hadn’t been hit, though the hull was pitted with bullet holes through which the water was able to seep, which made a perpetual baling-out operation necessary.
It had seemed as though someone was smiling on them during the last few days as they sailed perilously close to the shore dodging the repeated bombardment from batteries along the coast as far as Calais. This was in addition to the threat from the air and the occasional German U-boat surfacing and spraying death upon the water. Jack pushed the last man aboard and was preparing to jump in after him when he stubbed his foot against something squelchy and, looking down, saw the body of a British soldier lodged between him and the boat. He bent to move it out of the way and then saw signs of
movement: the man tried to raise an arm. Jack called urgently to Carson, “This one’s alive!”
“We’ve no more room,” Carson shouted. “We’ll capsize. You’ll have to leave him.”
“I can’t,” Jack shouted back. “I can’t do that,” and, calling to the last fit soldier aboard to help him he raised the man from the water and, between them, they lowered him over the side of the boat resting him gently on deck.
Then Carson kicked the outboard motor into life and they sped out to sea. The boat was overloaded keeling heavily to starboard, slowing their progress. Two men had constantly to bail out to prevent the boat sinking lower in the water, and the heavy swell of the Channel, the waves crested with foam, seemed a frightening and formidable obstacle. To increase their misery several of the soldiers were sick, adding to the stench of oil and smoke that drifted over from the coast.
There were a few provisions on board, flasks of tea, cake and cigarettes which Jack distributed as the soldiers who were still fit saw to their wounded comrades.
The man Jack had rescued last lay inert on the deck with his eyelids closed. He was covered with a thick layer of oil and mud that completely obscured his features. One of his legs was bent at an awkward angle under him and his other arm seemed completely useless. Jack knelt beside him, carefully putting his hand to support the man’s head and held a mug of hot tea to his lips.
The man opened his eyes but had difficulty focusing. However, he eagerly opened his mouth and gulped the welcome liquid, perhaps his first nourishment for days. Then he flopped back on the deck as though the effort had been too much for him.
“Do you think he’ll be all right?” Carson asked bending over the man while one of the soldiers took the tiller. “He’s in a very bad way.” Jack put a finger on the pulse at the man’s neck. “But he’s young and I think he’ll make it.”
Carson screwed up his eyes and studied his face, gently wiping some of the grime away with a rag. Then he leaned even closer to inspect the victim and there was a catch in his voice as he looked up at Jack.
“It’s Sam, Sam Turner!” Putting his mouth close to Sam’s ear he said, “Sam, it’s Carson. Carson and Jack. You’re safe. You’re on your way back to Blighty. You’ll be all right, boy.”
Sam’s eyes fluttered again, but did not open. He raised his good arm, groped for Carson’s hand and gently squeezed it. Carson and Jack exchanged joyous glances.
This was the best, the most reassuring thing that could have happened as far as the two men, his uncle and his cousin, kneeling beside him were concerned: Sam would live.
Crouching beside the wireless at their home near Rheims on 17 June, Dora and Jean Parterre listened to the new leader of France, the revered Marshal Petain, hero of the 1914-18 War, telling his fellow countrymen that he was negotiating with Germany for an armistice.
Before he had finished Jean switched off the wireless with an oath.
“Armistice! Knee-grovelling surrender. We are completely and utterly humiliated. We are finished.”
The Germans were already in Paris, the army set to defend it having scattered. Its citizens were fleeing in droves and the French government had moved its headquarters to Bordeaux.
The situation was made all the more unreal by the normality of the scene outside, here in Champagne. It was a beautiful day and the tiny little grapes were forming on Jean’s beloved vines. Would they ever ripen and be made into fine wine? In the yard the hens clucked contentedly watched by the family cats basking in the sun. To pit this tranquillity besides the undoubted horrors of war, the scenes of carnage and devastation in northern France and Dunkirk required an almost superhuman feat of imagination.
Dora felt exhausted. The last weeks had been dreadful as the news got worse and worse, with the German army sweeping all before it. The miracle was that so many British and Allied soldiers had escaped from France and would live, if necessary, to fight again. Mussolini had entered the war on the side of Germany so now there were fears too for Connie and Paolo.
“Thank goodness Carson’s children are in the country with him.” Dora lit a cigarette with a shaking hand. Jean put a hand on her shoulder.
“You must join him too. You and Louise. You must leave today. The Germans will soon be in occupation of the whole country.”
“I will not leave you, Jean.” Dora reached out for his hand. “I will never leave you.”
“You must go, for Louise’s sake. I will never forget what the Bosch did to women and children in the last war. I will drive you myself to Marseilles or Toulon. And we must find a ship there. To go north is hopeless, it is completely overrun by the Germans.”
“Jean, I won’t go.”
“I order you to go,” he said fixing her with a stern gaze. “If not for yourself think of our daughter and what will happen to her.”
Following the fall of France the Prime Minister Winston Churchill, who was instilling a new feeling of resolution in a people still reeling from the catastrophe of Dunkirk, told the nation that the battle of France had ended and the battle of Britain had begun.
He spoke prophetically. On 11 August the Luftwaffe began a prolonged and sustained offensive against Britain beginning with the south-east coastal towns and shipping on the English Channel, and then proceeding inland.
The Germans thought that four days would be enough to destroy British air defences, and four weeks would finish off the RAF. They reckoned without the Spitfires and Hurricane aeroplanes, the men who flew them, and radar which could detect enemy planes long before they appeared.
In the thick of the fight to save England was the squadron to which Alexander Martyn was attached, and by mid-August he already counted three enemy fighters shot down and a bomber damaged among his kill. With the advantage of radar the RAF planes were no longer obliged to take to the air at the first indication of the approach of enemy aircraft but could zoom up to the attack when they were in sight. The aim was to engage the fighters escorting the enemy bombers with Spitfires, scatter them and then home in on the defenceless bombers with Hurricanes.
Soon Alexander began to feel almost as at home in the air as he was on the ground. He had found his métier, disregarded the danger and enjoyed every moment. To this was added an uncharacteristic recklessness which somehow seemed to arise from his despair at the strange disappearance of Bart Sadler, and the feeling, as a consequence, that he had lost Irene for good. It was nearly a year since her disappearance and their first wedding anniversary came and went without any celebration.
Between raids the men enjoyed a camaraderie that was unique, as if a feeling of shared danger enhanced life and made them live every moment to the full.
Alexander and Dougie were almost inseparable and, when possible, either went up to London to join Minnie or they all went to Forest House to be spoilt by Lally. It was a curious but workable threesome because, as a married man, even if he hadn’t seen his wife for a year, Alexander didn’t want to become entangled emotionally, and war was a very emotional time. He was able to have fun and enjoy himself with Dougie, Minnie and their friends without complications.
In a very short time they all became attuned to a way of life it would have been impossible to imagine only a few months earlier.
Alexander was reading in his room when the buzzer to action stations sounded. He leapt up and made for the briefing room where most of his squadron had already gathered, some tugging on their flying suits or having a final puff at their cigarettes.
Dougie was already there standing by the squadron leader and Alexander joined him.
“I hope we won’t be long,” Alexander said.
“Oh, plenty of time for that!” Dougie consulted his watch. They were due to go up to London for a birthday party picking up Minnie on the way.
“Good luck old boy,” Dougie said as, the briefing over, they made for their craft. Then, as if he had had a sudden thought, he said, “Oh, and look, if anything should ever happen...”
“Nothing will,” Alexander sa
id firmly, fastening his helmet.
But still Dougie hesitated. “If it should, you know ... see that Minnie’s all right will you?”
“See you tonight,” Alexander called above the noise made by the propellers as they sprang into life.
It was a cloudless sky and Alexander looked down at the countryside of Dorset and Wiltshire far beneath him. Dotted with sheep and cattle grazing contentedly it was an idyllic, peaceful scene. Yet it was midsummer in an England traumatised by war.
As he climbed higher he could see the Channel and then a wave of enemy bombers appearing like a sinister swarm of giant bees homing in with the object of attacking his beloved land.
The sight of the enemy bent on destruction always filled Alexander’s heart with hatred and he squared his jaw, his thumb on the gun button ready to fire as the German fighters flew above the bombers to confront the Spitfires.
As dogfights developed the battle became furious. The enemy Dornier bombers droned on out of sight while their protectors tried to shake off their pursuers. Alexander saw two enemy planes go down and then the fighters banked away and began to scatter. Except for a few puffs of smoke the sky suddenly became clear and the squadron leader gave the thumbs up to his men as he passed them giving orders to return to base. There was some good-natured banter on the RT and Dougie said there would be time for a game of snooker in the mess and a few beers before they left for London. He, too, passed Alexander and gave him the thumbs up.
Alexander, bringing up the rear settled back, relaxed, conscious of a job well done. The sky in front of him was clear, the animals below still safe, grazing as they had been an hour before, the earth undamaged. This part of rural England had been preserved, at least for a while longer. He then happened to glance round and, to his horror, saw several Messerschmitts 110 about 3000 feet above him. They were probably reserves that had been called in and had came sneaking over the Channel. In front of him the squadron continued, some of them well in advance, unaware of the peril.
He shouted, “Look behind you.”
At that moment the Messerschmitts broke formation and screamed down, guns blazing.
In Time of War (Part Six of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 7
