Beneath Us the Stars

by David Wiltshire

  She found Sir George in the canteen, sedately sipping his tea. He looked up in surprise. ‘Doctor Rice. Is there a problem?’

  ‘I think you need to come back to the hut, Sir George. The whole meaning of one of the transcripts to the Waffen SS takes on a new slant if you restructure the sentence – the punctuation, that is. The operator was from southern Germany.’

  He knew Mary was not one to exaggerate, so he finished his tea less sedately, folded The Times and stood up.

  ‘Very well. Lead on, MacDuff.’

  Back in the hut, on the main table where they could lay out the work under a low suspended light taken from a billiard table, she took him through what she had found.

  Afterwards, Sir George stayed motionless. After some moments he straightened up.

  ‘I’m going to take this upstairs – see what they make of it.’ Sir George’s little moustache received a brush with a finger. ‘Whatever they say, very good work indeed, Doctor Rice.’

  Flushed with the praise, generous indeed from Sir George, Mary said she’d be in the canteen if he needed her. She’d been very hungry recently.

  He didn’t come and fetch her, but was waiting for her in his little cubicle of an office with the door open. He called to her as she entered the hut.

  ‘Close the door behind you.’

  He indicated a chair. As she took it she asked: ‘Is this about the translation?’

  Sir George nodded.

  ‘They’re very pleased with you. As you know, intelligence work is like putting together a jigsaw when you haven’t got a complete set and guessing what’s in the blank spaces. Well, my dear, I’m pleased to tell you that what you construed from that passage of German fitted one of those spaces. I’m not permitted, of course, to give you the full picture, and indeed, they don’t tell me any more than I need to know, but it was an invaluable pointer and they are delighted. They have asked me to thank you personally. Your name is being forwarded to some committee or other that might one day see you honoured for your services.’

  Mary was flabbergasted. Sensing the interview was over she started to rise but he motioned her down. ‘Care to join me in a celebratory snifter?’

  He swivelled in his chair and, with a set of keys, opened a little mahogany wall-cabinet, and produced two cut glasses and a bottle of sherry. Setting them on the desk top he delicately poured out the dark tawny liquid that seemed to sparkle with the sun that had been part of its birth.

  As a way of explanation he said;’I’ve had this bottle since nineteen forty – only toast our little victories in this department with it.’

  He handed her one of the glasses.

  ‘Well done. Let’s hope that’s another step, however small, to the end of this beastly affair.’

  Mary nodded as they touched glasses.

  ‘Please God.’

  Even as they spoke, Bletchley Park was warning SHAEF HQ of a strange request for American-accented English-speaking troops to be sent immediately away from the main front line, to near the quiet Ardennes sector.

  But Mary’s work, by its very nature a secondary intelligence evaluation, was already being overtaken by events.

  Those ‘American’-speaking soldiers, equipped with American Jeeps, uniforms and weapons, were already behind Allied lines.

  General Dwight D. Eisenhower had just finished some routine paper work when the first news came in of the Germans’ Ardennes offensive.

  The weather all over northern Europe was bad, with low cloud-bases, freezing fog – and snow.

  News trickled through to the squadron of the German offensive, and the inability of the Allied Tactical Air Force to intervene.

  Men were mooching about, uneasy, the taken-for-granted victory suddenly less sure, at least in the near future, all plans, all dreams, on hold.

  They were all raging with frustration that they couldn’t get into the fight, even from England. Weather was predicted to be bad for days – even longer, with heavy snowfalls.

  Bill, with his large overcoat on, was stretched out on his bunk writing a letter to Mary when a knock came on the door.

  He looked up. ‘Come in.’

  Riley stood there.

  ‘You guys not flying for Uncle Sam today?’

  Bill, suddenly tense on seeing Riley, still managed: ‘No. Has the weather escaped you in that fine warm room of yours?’

  Riley opened his greatcoat and shook and stamped off some of the snow.

  ‘Touché.’

  But Bill was already swinging his legs to the floor and standing up.

  ‘Well?’

  Riley moved to the window, looked out at the drifting snow. ‘You going to try to see Mary? This isn’t going to ease up for days, is it?’

  Impatiently, Bill said: ‘Just waiting for a general stand-down to be announced.’ He paused, then added: ‘Are you trying to let me down gently or what? I don’t have you down as a sadist.’

  Riley slid his hand into a pocket and produced a message sheet.

  ‘Just got this.’ He unfolded it, cleared his throat and read:

  ‘From Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force, to First Lieutenant William Anderson USAAF. You have permission to marry Miss Mary Rice – no one else.’

  Riley looked up, smiled and finished: ‘Signed, personally, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Commander SHAEF.’

  Bill let out one terrific yell, grabbed Riley and danced around shouting: ‘Riley, you old bastard, you’re the greatest lawyer on earth. Come to the club – drinks on me.’

  When the initial euphoria was past and he let go of Riley, the latter said: ‘You may not be popular with the CO of your squadron.’

  Bill grinned. ‘He’ll be fine. If we get a forty-eight I’ll be married before he even knows it – and with this …’ he took the message from Riley’s fingers … ‘he can hardly complain.’

  His face suddenly clouded. ‘Say – can we marry in a civil office – quickly?’

  Riley shrugged. ‘If that’s what your lady wants, I’m sure I can fix it.’

  Bill held his arms wide. ‘Riley, is there no end to your talents?’

  Neither of them could know that forty years later Riley would be a Supreme Court judge.

  Mary was on High Table, dining with the Master and Fellows when the door at the far end burst open. At the clamour, everybody stopped eating, looked around, down the two long candlelit rows of tables to the entrance where Bill, with the porter hanging on to his arm, stood shouting:

  ‘Mary, Mary … Marry me. Ike himself has given us permission.’

  Startled she dropped her spoon, said to the Master: ‘I’m sorry … I must….’

  The goatee-bearded patrician, the foremost authority on ancient Persia in the land, laid a hand on her arm.

  ‘My dear, his name?’

  Mary gulped. ‘Bill Anderson, Master, he is a lieutenant in the American Air Force.’

  The Master waved. ‘Lieutenant Anderson – please come and join us.’

  There was a ripple of surprise. College servants scrambled to set another place as one of the Fellows moved to let Bill sit beside her.

  Bill strode up the hall, stepped up on to the platform on which was the High Table.

  The Master rose to meet him and took his hand, smiling and introducing Mary.

  ‘I think you already know Doctor Rice?’

  Bill looked into her eyes.

  ‘I do, sir. And I await her reply. Will you marry me – on this leave – right away?’

  One could almost hear a pin drop in the centuries-old hall.

  Unintentionally she kept him waiting several seconds until she could trust her voice.

  ‘I will.’

  Cheering, the students threw all their napkins in the air as the Master warmly clasped them both on their shoulders.

  Later, when they were walking on their own, with her arm through his, they talked and talked like the excited youngsters they were.

  Suddenly serious, Mary said: ‘Bill, can we get
to see my parents – I really want you to meet them?’

  ‘Sure, honey – tomorrow – OK? Is it far?’

  She squeezed his arm. ‘Thank you, darling. No, we can do it in a day. But I’m feeling guilty about your mum and dad.’

  Wistfully Bill shook his head.

  ‘I daren’t cable them – they would get such a fright, thinking it was from the War Department. Anyway, there is no rush. I can tell them more about you in a letter – enclose a photo.’

  Mary winced. ‘Do you think they’ll be upset? I mean, they don’t know anything about me – probably think I’m a little English gold-digger or something.’

  Bill gave a snort.

  ‘No way. They trust me. I’m a big boy now.’

  She stopped dead.

  ‘How old are you, Bill?’

  ‘Twenty-one last March – and you?’

  She looked sheepish. ‘You sure you want to marry an older woman?’

  He pulled a face. ‘Hell, that bad?’

  She nodded. ‘Afraid so, I’m twenty-two.’

  He slapped his forehead.

  ‘I knew it. You’ll be old and I’ll still be young and handsome.’

  She gave him a punch.

  They resumed their walk in the snow.

  ‘We’ll need to catch an early train, and change at Bedford. My parents live in St Albans.’

  ‘Right.’

  It meant nothing to him.

  When they reached her digs he started to chuckle.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  He gestured at the terraced house. ‘You’re there – me in my place. Where are we going to meet – tonight?’

  Mary rolled her eyes. ‘My God, what am I letting myself in for?’

  Bill winked suggestively.

  At Bedford they waited on the platform of the red-brick Victorian station that served the main line to London. It was packed with GIs and RAF types, and some giggling girls. Dust blew up into their eyes from the unswept, stone-slabbed platform that elevated them above the greasy, litter-strewn track.

  They made their way to the refreshment room, queued for two thick, cracked cups of stewed tea, and two rock-cakes from a woman who drew boiling water into a large kettle from a chromium-plated urn.

  She proceeded to fill more rows of cups with a continuous stream of the thick dark fluid as they moved on to a woman at the till, whose wobbling cigarette was stuck to her lower lip. She checked their tray, then said: ‘Eightpence, luv,’ and pressed the keys of the till.

  The charge came up, printed on cards inside the glass window of the machine. Bill proffered half a crown and waited for his change as Mary went to look for seats. They were all taken, so they faced each other, using the window-ledge to park their cups.

  Mary tried to break off a piece of cake, found it hard going. She pulled a face, and pushed the plate away. ‘Bill, I’d better warn you – my father isn’t easy these days. He’s always in a lot of pain. He was blown up at Dunkirk – lost a leg.’

  Bill winced. ‘Hell, I’m sorry – I had no idea. I thought you said he was a printer.’

  She nodded. ‘He was, before the war. He was in the BEF. It’s just that he’ll have a go at you – but honestly he’s really very nice, when you get to know him properly.’

  He smiled. ‘He’s your father – that’s enough for me.’

  She leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘I love you.’

  A great clatter of boots on the stone outside took their attention. Khaki uniforms were everywhere, together with steel helmets, gas-masks, kit-bags and rifles. Mary noticed the faces of the soldiers, young and soft with the contours of boyhood; the sergeants were older, their skin leathery and creased.

  Bill said: ‘Looks like a unit on the move. This train is going to be very crowded.’

  They couldn’t see the black, dirty engine when it drew in, only the hissing steam as it rumbled past, shaking the ground. In a scream of tortured metal on metal it ground to a halt at the end of the platform. Doors opened, the crowds on the platform pushing forward even before it stopped.

  Shaking his head, Bill said: ‘We’ll never get on that.’

  Mary’s eyes flashed. ‘Oh, yes we will.’

  They downed the remainder of their teas, left the rock-cakes

  and rushed out on to the steam-filled platform.

  Mary led the way, found a door at the end of a corridor coach. People were standing in the entrance, apparently unable to go any further.

  She got up on to the step and began pushing her way in. Embarrassed, Bill apologized as he followed her into the gloomy corridor, then continued on down its length, all the while shouldering past people and climbing over cases. Half-way along there was a little more space. She leant against the window rail, with Bill hard up against her. He smiled and mimed a kiss. Mary giggled. ‘You can try but somehow I don’t think it’s going to work.’

  The carriage smelt of a mixture of engine smoke, cigarette smoke and the dampness of thick serge, and was obviously rarely cleaned.

  They remained stationary, packed like cattle in trucks, watching as more troops arrived and went into the station buffet. Feet scuffed on the carriage floor, voices rose in volume, and coughing and roars of laughter came from somewhere.

  The train’s eventual departure was presaged by several shrill blasts of the guard’s whistle, the slamming of more doors, and a sudden jerk that would have sent everybody sprawling, if they had not all been jammed so tightly together. Brown suitcases and kit-bags rained down on the people in the compartments.

  To begin with they hardly went more than a walking-pace, lurching over points, trundling slowly over a steel bridge. Bill looked up the length of the River Ouse at the town of Bedford nestling on its banks as it had since early Danish settlements. He knew that John Bunyan had written his Pilgrim’s Progress from a cell in the town jail.

  The train, almost imperceptibly gathered momentum, the engine labouring with poor coal and the grossly overloaded carriages.

  Eventually they cleared Bedford, headed south towards London across the flat brickfields with the groups of tall chimneys dominating the skyline.

  They plunged into a tunnel. Mary felt his mouth on her nose, tilted her face so that their lips met.

  Smoke and steam swirled in through an open window. With a shout somebody grabbed the hanging leather strap and hauled it shut.

  When they lunged out into the daylight again Bill chuckled. A dark spot had drifted on to the tip of her nose. With difficulty he got to his handkerchief and rubbed it away.

  She giggled. ‘Thank you, kind sir, but you need it too.’

  She took the handkerchief and did the same to his forehead and cheek.

  The journey was tedious, with many stops and always with the same agonizingly slow resumption from each station. Mary began to feel very tired.

  At last they steamed into St Albans. Not many got out. The packed train was still standing at the platform long after they had left the station, crossed over a road bridge, and hand in hand walked out of sight of the railway.

  She glanced up at him as they turned into her road. ‘You’re still sure about this Bill? Don’t take any offence at anything Dad says will you? He doesn’t mean it really.’

  ‘I won’t. Hell, he can’t be that bad.’

  But he was wrong.

  The home was an Edwardian red-brick semi, the dwarf wall that had separated it from the road was now without its iron railing, only the stumps remaining after it had been taken for the war effort.

  They stood in the porch, its floor tiled in red and blue, the blue-painted door divided by two panels of coloured glass.

  He nervously fingered his tie as the sound of footsteps came on the wooden floor on the other side of the door.

  It was opened, and a petite woman stood there, dressed in a blue cardigan and jumper, with a single string of pearls and a tartan skirt.

  To Bill, her resemblance to Mary was startling.

 
; Her eyes fell on her daughter, and in a second they were hugging each other, the woman saying: ‘Oh darling, it’s wonderful to see you.’

  Mary replied: ‘And you too, Mummy.’

  It was only after they had hugged again that Mrs Rice said worriedly: ‘You’re looking tired, are you overdoing it?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘No more than anybody else these days. At least I’m not in a factory, thank God.’

  It was only then that her mother turned to Bill, who had stood patiently to one side, enjoying the warmth between them.

  Mary introduced him.‘This is Bill, Mum.’

  Mrs Rice held out her hand. ‘It’s nice to meet you. Mary has told us all about you.’

  Bill took her hand, found it freezing cold as he shot a glance at Mary. ‘I hope it wasn’t all bad?’

  Mary moved to her mother’s side, put an arm around her shoulder.

  ‘Never you mind. What goes on between a daughter and her mother is sacrosanct. Isn’t that so, Mum?’

  Mrs Rice patted Mary’s hand. ‘It was all good, Bill, I promise, and we think what you are doing is very brave.’

  Bill winced, and shook his head.

  ‘If you could see me sometimes….’

  When her mother had said ‘we’, Mary had released her hand, her face clouding as she asked: ‘How’s Dad?’

  Mrs Rice tried to smile, but it didn’t really succeed.

  ‘Oh, much the same. The doctor has given him some different tablets for the pain. They seem to be working better. Come on in, he’s in the garden – always did like snow, like a little boy.’

  Bill followed the women into the hall from which stairs led straight up, the red carpet held by brass rods at the start of each riser. There was an oak hall table and hat rack, on which he hung his cap.

  They walked down the passageway beside the stairs, passing a door that led into a room with a comfortable but threadbare sofa and two chairs grouped around a tiled fireplace. A bookcase and a standard lamp of turned mahogany completed the furnishings.

  They passed another door on the same side, revealing a room with a wooden dining-table and four chairs, and a matching sideboard with photographs.