Beneath Us the Stars

by David Wiltshire

  Mary glanced at him; his voice was hesitant and slightly flat. When it came to an end they sat down. The vicar, bald head surrounded by white fluffy hair wheezed as he climbed into the pulpit, and spent an immeasurable time fussing about with his Bible and spectacles.

  Eventually he looked around at them all, until his eyes fell on Bill in his uniform.

  ‘It is a pleasure to welcome an officer of the American forces to our little church this morning – a man far from home, far from his family and loved ones, fighting to rid the world of a terrible evil. Please God, it will not be much longer before he can return to the bosom of his family. And that brings us to today’s first lesson.’

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see that he had gone bright red.

  An hour later they emerged into winter sunshine. He murmured into her ear as they waited to thank the vicar: ‘I’ll get you for this.’

  She smiled. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

  The vicar beamed when it was their turn, and spoke looking only at Mary.

  ‘Good morning to you both, and you my dear, I don’t think we’ve met before, have we?’

  Mary was quite forthcoming. ‘No, we’re just spending a couple of days in the area – our honeymoon actually.’

  Mockingly she clung to Bill’s arm and looked up adoringly at him. ‘Aren’t we, dear.’

  Bill smiled, though he kept his teeth firmly clamped together. What the hell was she up to now?

  The vicar was thrilled, though the three women with him seemed less so.

  ‘That’s wonderful. You must come to the vicarage – we can arrange two extra for lunch, can’t we my dear?’

  His stern wife looked less than happy at the thought. ‘Of course we can.’ She took a suddenly horrified Mary by the arm ‘Mrs…?’

  Desperate, Bill straightened up, intervened. ‘First Lieutenant Anderson, ma’am, United States Army Air Force. I’m sorry to say I’ve got to report back to my squadron – right away.’

  The vicar’s wife looked triumphant, as did the other ladies.

  ‘Oh what a shame, Mrs Anderson.’

  They were wished long life and happiness and eventually managed to get to their bicycles. Smiling and waving to parishioners, some of whom even clapped, they set off. When they were out of sight Bill said: ‘What the hell got into you?’

  ‘I could see what they were thinking – the women.’

  Puzzled, Bill said: ‘What?’

  Her legs raced around the pedals, making her skirt fly in the wind, setting a pace to carry them away as quickly as possible.

  ‘They kept looking to see if I had a ring on my finger.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Bill looked at her hands gripping the handlebars. For the first time he noticed that she was wearing white cotton gloves. She looked across at him and grinned.

  ‘They wanted to get my gloves off. At lunch.’

  They found a barn full of hay.

  Mary spread a blanket out and unpacked the picnic. With their backs against the wall of hay they dined on Spam sandwiches, some fruit and a little bit of cheese – actually her ration for the whole month.

  From the tartan-decorated thermos she poured coffee in the screw-on cup and gave it to him.

  He tried to make her go first but she wouldn’t have it. ‘After your central role this morning, my husband, you deserve it.’

  He grinned. ‘I ought to put you over my knee.’

  Mary giggled, but the thought made her newly awakened sexuality stir.

  Bill felt a warmth and contentment the like of which he hadn’t had in what seemed a lifetime.

  As he dozed off Mary looked at him, full of love – and pain. This time next week … She got up, went to the barn entrance, looked back at his still sleeping figure – he looked so boyish. Tears began to well up in her eyes at the thought of the future. Mary could bear it no longer and, pulling her cardigan more tightly around her, went for a walk around the field, crying like a baby.

  That evening they stood on the terrace, drinks in one hand, arms around each other’s waists.

  The sky was ablaze with stars that sparkled in the cold air like millions of diamonds spilled on black velvet, with the Milky Way a slash of brilliance directly above their heads.

  Mary murmured: ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’

  Bill kissed the top of her head.

  ‘I’ve never noticed before.’

  She turned to him, smiled suggestively.

  ‘Maybe our senses are different now?’

  He chuckled knowingly, took her drink and put it on the table with his.

  ‘Here.’

  He took her hand and to her surprise sat down on the cold stone.

  ‘Come on.’

  Mary giggled, completely mystified.

  ‘Whatever are you doing?’

  He pulled her gently down, then leant back flat out on the ground and put his arm out for her to rest her head on.

  Mystified, she lay down beside him. Bill pointed upwards as he raised his legs.

  ‘Look, with you I’m walking on the stars.’

  ‘Why – you old romantic.’

  But she did the same, seeing the dark shape of her feet against the luminescent sky. Giggling like children they lay there, pretending to walk the heavens. Eventually she looked across at him, at this man who had literally and metaphorically turned her world upside down.

  ‘It’s wonderful – like flying in space, with the stars beneath us.’

  Tired of their game they stayed still for sometime in silence gazing up at the heavens, sensing a moment that they knew they would remember for as long as they lived.

  Later, in front of the fire, they bathed in a galvanized metal bathtub he’d found on the outside wall of the scullery.

  Mary went first, sitting up in it, the firelight flickering on her nakedness, the suds sliding slowly down over her pink-tipped breasts. She’d tied her hair up. Bill, as naked as Mary, gently, lovingly soaped her back and shoulders.

  Finally, wrapped in dressing-gowns belonging to the cottage, they sat on the floor, Bill with his back to the sofa, she leaning against him. Only the wavering light of the fire and a candle by the wireless lit the room.

  A BBC announcer said: ‘So, from the Corn Exchange, Bedford, the BBC Symphony Orchestra will perform Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.’

  Applause died away, and the music, after a pause, made its dramatic opening statement, the theme of which, repeated on a muted drum and broadcast nightly to all the occupied countries of Europe, brought hope when all else had died.

  On their last night in the little bedroom he’d gone to sleep at last, curled like a little boy – a child – at her breast.

  Again she wondered at the diversity of the act of love; something her sheltered existence had never entertained. Earlier, when they’d slid into the cold bed, she first, it had just happened. It had started as horseplay, tickling and smacking, and ended with her face down, held firmly but gently by his hand on her neck. He made love to her without her once seeing him, her eyes heavy-lidded as with a grunt she was moved forward by the force of their union.

  And now? She kissed the top of his head and gently stroked the curls from his face.

  From master to helpless boy; something a woman obviously had to get used to. She smiled into the darkness, secure in the knowledge that Bill was the gentlest of men, that they would be equals in all they did.

  She came to the station to see him off. They were wrapped in each other’s arms, loath to let go, to be physically parted. She didn’t cry, she’d done that the day before, would do it again, many times, but not now: she’d resolved not to let him see the tears.

  Bill was going to get permission from his CO to get married. They wanted it as soon as possible. She’d got his address, he hers. Both were writing that night – and every night.

  A wisp of smoke in the distance announced the arrival of a train, for once on time. The locomotive clanked past, all hissing steam, the driver leaning out of
his cab, flashing her a glance as he passed by.

  When the carriages had squealed to a halt there was a corridor door right beside them. He opened it, threw in his bag, and then took her in his arms again, holding her tight, his cheek hard against hers. Mary fought back the tears. At last Bill let go, kissed her, then climbed into the coach, tugging the leather strap and dropping the window before slamming the door and leaning out. They kissed again, then with his hands still cupping her face she said: ‘I love you Bill. I love you so much.’

  He looked into her eyes. ‘I know, and I love you even more.’

  A lump was already forming in her throat. She looked anxiously down the length of the train, frightened of seeing the guard with his green flag – the seconds were running out.

  Bill said: ‘I’m going to try and get an overnight pass – as soon as the weather boys say we can’t go. Can I call the college number you gave me – will you get the message?’

  Mary, now losing her struggle to hold back her tears, nodded. ‘Of course – and don’t forget the number of my other digs when I’m on my war work. And I could come to you if you like – even if it’s only for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Great, we’ll work something out, don’t you worry.’

  And then Mary’s fear became reality as the guard waved the green flag and blew long and hard on his whistle.

  There was an answering call from the locomotive. They were in each other’s arms again, Bill almost half-out of the window.

  ‘Excuse me, Lieutenant.’

  Another American grabbed the door handle and began to open it. Bill had to part from her as the man boarded and the door slammed shut.

  He ducked out, and grabbed her again. But now the train was on the move.

  Mary trotted, still holding his hand.

  ‘You won’t leave me, Bill, will you – ever?’

  ‘No. We’ll be together now – always.’

  They had to let go as a station column and a couple of milk churns got in the way, and the speed of the train steadily increased.

  At last she could no longer keep up, her progress being impeded by knots of waving people, mostly women.

  As he drew further away she called: ‘Take care.’

  He continued waving as the coaches lurched around points and curves, until he was lost from sight.

  Mary turned and walked back, giving up her platform ticket and stepping out into the forecourt. Utterly bereft, she made her way into the city. She felt so lonely – something she had never before experienced, she had always been happy in her own company. But now, it was as if a part of her had been torn away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Bill got back to the squadron after dark. Even before he dumped his bag in his room he went straight to the adjutant’s office in one of the Quonset huts clustered all around the field.

  A corporal stood up when he entered.

  ‘Is the adjutant in?’

  ‘No sir. He’s gone into Ipswich with the CO – some sort of civic reception. They won’t be back till quite late, sir.’

  Disappointed, Bill frowned. ‘I guess it can wait till morning.’

  The corporal hesitated. ‘I don’t think he’ll have time, Lieutenant. There is a big flap on tomorrow – max effort – and you’re on the list.’

  He picked up a sheet of typed paper and held it out. Bill took it, noted his name and handed it back.

  ‘Grapevine say where we’re going?’

  ‘No sir. Nothing down from Group yet.’

  Frustrated, Bill returned the non-com’s salute. Outside there was rain in the wind. He wondered what the Met report was. He shared his room in an old RAF wooden hut that had seen better days. As soon as he stepped into the narrow corridor he could smell the damp.

  Kelleher was stretched out on his bunk, reading a cheap paperback with a lurid cover.

  ‘Hi there. Have a good time?’

  Bill chucked his bag on to his bed. ‘Yep.’

  ‘What did you do? Any chicks?’

  Bill didn’t want to talk about Mary, especially to Kelleher. He said something non-committal.

  After the train journey he felt dirty and took a quick shower, letting the hot water pour on to the top of his head, keeping his eyes closed. He wondered what she was doing right then.

  At the officers’ club he was greeted by the crowd. He told no one about Mary – he wanted to see the adjutant first. The gossip was that they might be moved to mainland Europe to give tactical support to the armies very soon.

  Apparently the black-and-white recognition stripes of the tactical air force were already being painted on the wings and fuselages of some of the planes.

  Moodily he munched on his supper, a beefburger and fries, and sipped a coke. People drifted away, getting an early night.

  He finished his cigarette and then went to see his crew chief, checking that his ship had completed the overhaul that had been promised.

  That night he stretched out in bed, imagining Mary was with him, holding one of her silk scarves with her perfume in his hand.

  When he eventually drifted off to sleep it was quite late.

  She spent the afternoon in the college library, staring unseen into the winter’s gloom. She kept imagining that first meeting, Bill standing near the books, the sun falling in dusty rays through the window on to his face.

  Mentally she had to keep pinching herself that it had happened – though her body occasionally told her it was no dream.

  She tore a sheet of paper from one of the pads supplied by the War Office for her work, and began her first letter to a man whom she loved dearly, more than life itself, and who she knew loved her. Yet only a week encompassed their entire knowledge of the existence of each other. Unbelievable.

  Tomorrow and the next few days she was at Bletchley Park. There, amongst the quiet but intense activity – at least in her hut – she guessed that some form of normality would return. And the communications she was being asked to assess for their vernacular meaning were becoming increasingly horrendous – things were happening all over eastern Europe in camps, not for prisoners of war, but civilians. They had known of them for some time, but now increased rail activity into them was being monitored.

  She finished her first letter, apologized for its being so brief, but others, she swore, would be longer.

  That evening she packed the few things she needed to take with her to her digs in Bletchley. Her train tomorrow, going via Bedford, was an early one.

  When she eventually got into her bed it seemed so lonely – so cold. A big sob suddenly came from nowhere.

  A hand shook him by the shoulder. Bill groaned, tried to free himself, kept his eyes closed.

  The hand shook him again, roughly.

  ‘Sir, time to rise and shine.’

  He slept on. It happened again, this time the shaking continued until his eyes opened.

  He growled, ‘All right, Melanic, put a sock in it.’

  He pushed himself up into a sitting position, then swung his feet to the floor, holding his sleep-befuddled head in his hands, dog tags swinging like pendulums.

  ‘You really awake, sir?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Melanic, I’m not sleep-walking.’

  Melanic shoved a cup of hot sweet coffee on the floor before him, between his bare legs.

  ‘Breakfast starts in half an hour, sir.’

  Bill grunted and took the mug. His dog tags clinked against the china and dropped into the coffee. He snatched them out, hot drips of liquid splashing his bare chest.

  ‘Oh shit.’

  But it helped to wake him up. He padded to the john in his shorts, then pulled them off and took a towel to the shower block.

  Half a dozen men were already occupying the steaming row. The water was at first bitterly cold when he pulled the chain, but soon it was streaming down over his head and body, making him tingle with heat.

  Showered, shaved and dressed in flying coveralls and his leather jacket, he grabbed his cap and stepped
outside. He took his first lungful of fresh air. For the next few hours he would be flying at altitude on oxygen, mouth parched and lips cracking from the dry gas.

  So he looked upon this moment as his morning drink of the sea-moist, air of England.

  Bill joined the throng eating early-morning breakfast of powdered eggs – they gave you less gas at altitude. The briefing took place in the squadron dispersal hut. The CO with officers from wing and group were present.

  Bill found that they were going to provide the bomber force with top cover over the target and for the withdrawal; the target being Berlin, as it had been with increasing frequency since D-Day. German fighters often waited for the great bomber armadas to turn for home, when their fighter escorts would be low on fuel, before attacking.

  So their group would use drop-tanks for extra gas and arrive over Berlin ready to relieve the fighters who had done the insertion cover. The CO wished them all good luck and good hunting, then left with the briefing officers. There was no way Bill could say anything to him, and in any case there were proper channels to go through. It was two hours before take-off. He went to the squadron office, where he struck lucky.

  The adjutant, an elderly major in his forties, saw him immediately. He rose from behind his desk as Bill saluted. He acknowledged, then held his hand out.

  ‘Get a good leave?’

  The corporal who had followed Bill into the room put some papers before the adjutant, who picked up his pen, indicating for Bill to sit down.

  ‘Excuse me a moment.’

  The pen scratched as the papers were scanned and signed, then picked up one at a time by the corporal. When the signing was finished, the NCO left, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Now, what can I do for you?’

  Bill ran his hand nervously through his hair. ‘I want to get married – an English girl in Cambridge. I’ve come for the boss’s approval.’