Beneath Us the Stars

by David Wiltshire

  Somewhere near 2 a.m., just as he lapsed more into unconsciousness than normal sleep, he was suddenly terrified, he couldn’t remember her face. The nightmare continued. The more he tried, the more impossible it was. Then, mercifully, oblivion descended.

  He came to at eleven o’clock, lying for some time on his side looking at the strange room from that angle, utterly confused. For a while he thought he was back home somewhere.

  At last he sat up and saw his uniform jacket draped over a chair. It all came back with a rush, including the awful feeling of not being able to remember how Mary looked, and with that came guilt. He could see her now as though she had been etched into his brain. How could he have forgotten? He must get a photograph – that torment could not be repeated.

  The fact that the mental exhaustion the flight-surgeon had diagnosed was affecting him never dawned on him.

  There was no shower, so he tried the tub. The water was cold, but the quick plunge and brisk rub-down left him tingling with life and excitement at the prospect of seeing her again.

  He remembered, rashly, that he’d said he would take her to the Glenn Miller show, which was in town that night. Guessing it might be difficult to get into, he resolved to ask around.

  Dressed, he came down the stairs to find a lady with a headscarf on using a hand-pushed carpet-cleaner. She looked up and grinned, the cigarette that was stuck to her lower lip wobbling up and down as she said: ‘Oh, hello darling, awake at last.’

  Bill apologized. ‘Sorry, I don’t normally do that.’

  She stopped what she was doing.

  ‘I’m afraid breakfast finished long ago, but I can make you a cup of tea and toast. Or, knowing you Yanks like your coffee, you can have that if you prefer.’

  Bill suppressed a shudder at the thought.

  ‘No, thank you. I’ll get myself something at the American Red Cross Club, I’ve got to go there as it is.’

  He wandered into Cambridge, standing for a while outside her college, trying to imagine her teaching somewhere inside.

  At the Red Cross Club he bought a sandwich and coffee, and had a think about that evening. When he’d finished he took his cup and plate back to the counter. The girls in their crisp blouses and neat skirts, with little forage-caps on their heads, were a breath of home, speaking in American accents, one from the Midwest, the other from the Deep south.

  He enquired about the Glenn Miller concert and found it was open to all Allied servicemen. The girl from Tennessee gave him a dazzling smile.

  ‘Get there early, Lieutenant – it’s the only way – or you can get a ticket, I believe, if you go to the Guildhall beforehand.’

  ‘Gee, thanks for the information.’

  It was then that he thought about transportation: it would make it easier to get there early if nothing else. But a car was out of the question – gas was strictly rationed.

  But he was a fighter pilot – full of resourcefulness – or supposed to be, wasn’t he? And he loved the thought of doing something for her – something that would impress her.

  Bill checked which was the nearest base. When told he implored the Southern belle: ‘I wonder, could I use your phone, or rather, would you mind calling for me? I need to speak to the adjutant, rather urgently.’

  She gave him a guarded look. ‘We’re not officially allowed to use the phone for personal calls, Lieutenant.’

  Bill frowned. ‘Oh, this is very official. I promise you.’

  She made up her mind and lifted the counter hatch. ‘Come on through – the phone is in the office.’

  He followed her trim figure into a small, obviously newly partitioned area. She picked up the receiver and ran a hand down a wall chart of bases and other facilities and found the number she wanted.

  The finger she used to dial on the rather ancient-looking black phone was well manicured. It finally found the last hole and the disc whirred back.

  When she spoke Bill could well imagine her accent was even more noticeable at the other end of the line.

  ‘Hi there, this is the Red Cross Club in Cambridge. Can I have the adjutant’s office please. Thank you.’

  She placed her hand over the speaker. ‘Who shall I say is calling?’

  Bill had been thinking furiously, and had come up with the one person that fitted the situation.

  ‘General Myers.’

  She nearly dropped the phone, began hissing ‘I can’t—’

  He could hear a voice bark at the other end. Caught out she spluttered:

  ‘I … have General Myers for you, sir.’

  She shot the phone out to him as though it was red-hot.

  Bill took it, made his voice more authoritative and deeper.

  ‘Myers here.’ He knew the general to be on leave in the States. ‘I’m in Cambridge, staying at the…’ He put his hand over the receiver, spoke to her. ‘What’s the best hotel in town?’

  Reluctantly she shrugged. ‘The University Arms, I suppose.’ He repeated it into the phone.

  ‘I need a vehicle for tonight. I’m attending a group conference and my transportation has gone belly-up.’

  She listened as he made a few grunting replies, then: ‘I’m much obliged, Major. I’ll see that your helpfulness does not go unnoticed. Eighteen thirty hours. That would be fine. Thank you.’

  Grinning, he lowered the phone.

  She had one fine eyebrow raised, arms crossed, fingers tapping her blouse.

  ‘Lieutenant, I don’t know what you’re up to, but don’t involve me in future – right?’

  ‘Right.’

  But there was softness in those Southern eyes.

  Satisfied with himself he wandered out into the town and found the Guildhall. To his relief he got three tickets.

  Bicycles were everywhere, hundreds of students in short gowns were cycling all over the place, mingling with working men in cloth caps carrying haversacks, and women in headscarves, with big wicker baskets hooked to their handlebars over the front wheel. The air was full of the sound of tinkling warning bells, and once he stepped out unthinkingly into the road and was bumped quite badly by a speeding bike, the man shouting something that Bill could only guess was a rebuke as to his not knowing which side of the road civilized people travelled on.

  He spent an hour looking into beautiful Victorian shop-windows, all polished glass and wooden framed, with white canvas sun-blinds drawn down over the sidewalks. But after nearly five years of war, there was very little on display that could actually be bought.

  There were a lot of GIs around, some in clusters, others with girls on their arms. The RAF were present, and some servicemen of other nationalities, all wandering aimlessly.

  Eventually he found a path that took him down by the river. He sat on a bench, enjoying the weak sun on his face.

  He was thinking about what might happen at the end of his leave, how they would manage, when a young voice said: ‘Got any gum, chum?’

  Startled, he turned to find a boy in short grey trousers and long socks, a blazer with a badge on the breast pocket, and wearing a peaked school cap on his head. He had a satchel on his back.

  Bill smiled.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’

  The boy grinned, ‘Got a free period, just on my way home.’

  Bill fished in his pocket and pulled out a fresh pack. ‘Here you go, son.’

  The boy’s face lit up, exposing teeth full of gaps as he caught the packet.

  ‘Gee, thanks, that’s great.’

  Almost immediately three more boys, all in short trousers, came from nowhere. What was it with the English, putting their kids in short trousers in winter?

  He waved them away.

  ‘Hey, that’s all I’ve got this time.’

  It was true, he wasn’t a big gum fancier, but like many, he always slipped a strip into his mouth before flying at altitude to combat the dry mouth caused by the oxygen.

  He turned back to the boy.

  ‘You live round here, son?’
r />   ‘Yes.’ The boy pointed. ‘Over there.’

  ‘What’s your daddy do?’

  ‘He’s in the army.’

  Bill pulled his chin in. ‘Hey, that’s impressive. Is he over in Normandy?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘No, he’s a prisoner of war.’

  Bill was taken aback, then remembered Dunkirk. ‘Was it when the British had to leave France?’

  ‘Oh no, he’s in the Fourteenth Army.’

  The boy seemed to think that was sufficient explanation in itself, and was momentarily puzzled when Bill prompted: ‘Where are they?’

  The boy began to open the gum packet.

  ‘He was taken prisoner in Burma.’

  The awful truth dawned on Bill. The boy’s father was in a Jap POW camp. He’d heard of the way things were in them. Like most Americans, though Nazi Germany was seen as the primary threat to the US and democracy in the West, there was a special hatred of the Nips – ever since Pearl Harbor. Most servicemen assumed that if they survived the European theatre, they would end up being shipped to the East.

  ‘Gee, I’m sorry about that, son. What’s your name?’

  ‘Edward Stevenson, sir.’

  ‘Well Edward, enjoy the gum. Do you get enough to eat?’

  ‘Oh yes. Mum’s a really good cook and she gets lots of extra things from Uncle Sam.’

  ‘Uncle Sam?’ But understanding was already beginning to dawn.

  ‘Yes. Al brings it. He’s one of your lot. You are in the Air Force, aren’t you?’

  Bill nodded. ‘That I am. What does this Al do?’

  ‘He’s the boss of something. It’s very hush-hush, you know.’

  I bet it is, thought Bill, and wondered what the friendship of Mrs Stevenson and Al was doing for Anglo-American relations in the district. Not a lot probably. On embarkation they’d all been given a booklet on how not to offend the natives, but it stood to reason that in a case where a man was in a POW camp, feelings might be running high at a wife going out with a Yank.

  Then he thought of the woman, alone, in her early vigorous years with a young son, skimping on food, short of company, short of fun, and worried sick as well.

  It was easy to criticize. Men made war, but women suffered.

  But then there was Mary. Shouldn’t she be going out with a RAF guy? Maybe – but she wasn’t. And it was different.

  He patted the boy on the shoulder.

  ‘Well, you best be getting home. You take care of your mother, now, and tell her not to worry, the Japs will soon have had enough.’ He didn’t believe that for one minute.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The boy cut an American-style salute as opposed to the British open-palm method, and ran off happily.

  Sadly Bill gazed at the sparkling sun-kissed water. There was more misery and suffering to come after this war was over, other than the obvious.

  Just then a swan took off from the river, neck straight out, giant wings straining with the effort of getting airborne.

  He grunted.

  Just like a ‘Fort’ fully bombed-up and taking off for a mission.

  Mary looked at the fresh faces around her, three young men who were not much younger than Bill, but there the similarity ended. Whereas they were still immature, blank canvases on which life had yet to paint, the mantle of war gave Bill a maturity far beyond his tender years. But it would not be long when, with shortened wartime degrees finished, they would be called up, poor things.

  She screwed the top back on to her fountain pen. ‘Well, that’s it for this afternoon.’

  They began to fold up their notepads and put them with their text books. Filing out of her study they all said politely: ‘Thank you, Doctor Rice.’

  They closed the door behind them, leaving her still sitting in the window seat that she favoured for her tutorials – and filled with an infinite sadness.

  Where would they be in a year or so? In fact, would they still be alive?

  Mary could not suppress a shiver. She knew why she was suddenly anxious. That night she had been thinking about Bill, not getting off to sleep until very late and then seeming to wake every hour or so.

  All of a sudden, in the blink of an eye, her whole life had changed.

  It defied logic.

  And with it had come frightful, bone-deep worry about his safety – she had already lost a brother to the great maw of the war.

  So there was an urgency in her blood.

  Later, as she prepared yet again to meet him, surveying her half-clothed form in the mirror, her face and neck flushed as vague, half understood ideas began to form, making her even more unsettled.

  Downstairs she waited in the hall. Mrs Chick gave her a disparaging look as she came out of the dining-room and went into her own ground-floor room.

  After five minutes there was still no sign of him. She looked at herself in the hall mirror. If he failed to turn up after all this preparation she would feel humiliated in front of Mrs Chick and the other girls in the house, not that that would really matter if such a terrible thing happened. But she knew it never would – not Bill.

  Ten minutes later she began to wonder if he had come to some sort of harm. It was then that a car pulled up in the road, a door slammed, and footsteps came up the path.

  Mary didn’t wait for the door-knocker to be used, she opened the door.

  To her relief he stood there, cap off, looking pleased and apologetic all at the same time.

  ‘Mary, I’m so sorry I’m late – but my car didn’t turn up on time.’

  ‘Your car?’ She was incredulous. Nobody had cars – not unless they were very, very important, not even Americans.

  He grinned, stepped to one side and gave an exaggerated courtly sweep of his hands to show her the staff car and driver, waiting with the rear door open.

  ‘Your carriage awaits you, madam.’

  Mary stepped gingerly out and let him escort her to the grinning driver. She stepped into the leathered interior, noticing that the man gave an appreciative nod to Bill as he said: ‘You were right, sir, she was worth it.’

  When Bill settled into the seat beside her and the door was closed, but before the driver got into his seat she whispered:

  ‘What’s he talking about – she’s worth it?’

  Bill murmured: ‘Tell you later. I’ve got tickets by the way, but we need to get there as soon as possible.’ He found her hand, squeezed it and lowered his voice. ‘You look stunning.’

  Mary pulled a face.

  ‘I didn’t know what to put on.’

  His gaze dropped to her knees, exposed as the flared pleated skirt rode up on the shiny seat. He was also aware of the fragrance of the woman next to him. She was so desirable it was painful to be sitting there.

  The driver’s eyes met his in the rear view mirror. There could be no mistake that he thought so too. When he’d got to the University Arms hotel he’d found a humble Lieutenant with a ticket for the Glenn Miller concert for him – as long as he played along. He’d expected a gruff old general and a long wait at some boring conference. The deal was struck.

  They swept into the square. It was jammed with men in uniform and girls, with what seemed scores of white-helmeted American military police and British Redcaps, together with groups of special constables in dark-blue uniforms.

  It took ages for the driver to park, there were so many trucks and military buses in town. He got her out of the car, wolf whistles coming from all sides of the road. Bill scowled, but felt immensely proud. Alarmed, Mary clung to him for protection. As they got to the entrance the milling throng was such that he had to put an arm around her shoulders, then around her waist to stop them being separated. Mary was oblivious to the pushing and shoving, the only thing that mattered to her was the feeling of his large hand just above her hip, pinning her to him.

  Secure.

  Belonging.

  His.

  She was disappointed when he took it away to show his tickets. Inside, the place was heaving, and when they
pushed through some double doors it was to be met by a vast army of men in uniform of all types, and girls in varying dresses, standing before the stage listening, swaying and tapping to the music. On stage was the Glenn Miller orchestra, lines of saxophones and trombones catching the overhead light as the musicians stood up and sat down as they played Little Brown Jug.

  Behind them were two huge flags, one the Stars and Stripes, the other the Union Flag hanging straight down from the roof. They edged further in, the back of the hall was full of dancers, jitterbugging frantically, some of the girls being thrown into the air over the shoulders or through the legs of their partners. Around the edge closest to them couples shuffled on the spot, while above it all, the glass ball hanging from the ceiling sent shafts of reflected light down on to the mass of humanity below that was, for the moment, oblivious to the outside world and its pain and suffering.

  ‘Do you wish to listen, or shall we dance?’ he asked. She giggled and pointed. ‘I certainly can’t do that.’

  A girl, spinning like a top to the left, was then snapped by her partner’s hand to the right, her skirt flying up to give a flashing glimpse of stocking-tops and underwear, the man’s legs kicking one way then another, in time to the beat.

  Embarrassed, Bill shook his head.

  ‘No – me neither.’

  The band came to the end of Brown Jug to roars and clapping, and swung almost immediately into Tuxedo Junction.

  They began shuffling on the spot, until they were violently jolted, sending her hard into him. He wrapped his arms protectively around her. Mary snuggled into his chest, Bill’s face in her hair. They hung on to each other, content at last after a night and a day of frustrated longing. They did not join in shouting ‘Pennsylvania Six-Five Thousand,’ but were lost in their own little world, even when the music came to an end. When there was a great roar and clapping they reluctantly parted, but still held hands as a man in uniform, wearing rimless glasses and carrying a conductor’s baton started to speak into a large flat microphone.

  Excited, Bill jerked his head in the man’s direction.

  ‘Say that’s Glenn Miller.’