Beneath Us the Stars

by David Wiltshire

  Bill was with Mary who had a little baby in her arms, his baby, which she was rocking from side to side in the warm sunlight.

  He was tickling it and making baby-talk, when the ground shook and an explosion engulfed them in an orange flame.

  Bill came to as the ground shook again. Ice and snow rained down in a dense cloud from the trees. Disorientated and half blind he struggled up into the fog. Voices were shouting and screaming. It was seconds before he realized that they were German. Bill sank down again, behind the tree, trying to make sense of his surroundings. In the blueish gloom he suddenly realized that it had grown late, and that a German convoy had obviously risked pulling back – and had been caught in a strafing run. As if to confirm his conclusion the snarl of an aero-engine, whining in a dive, grew louder. It was another attack. He burrowed down in the earth and snow as other figures ran into the woods, doing the same. Bill was among the enemy.

  The cannon-shells and rockets started ripping into the convoy. As the first plane flashed past he recognized it as a British Typhoon.

  Explosions shook the earth he was clinging to, black acrid smoke drifted between the trees, machine-gunfire kept up a continuous background clatter. With deafening roars more low-flying Typhoons swept past at fifty feet, white stripes on their wings showing that they were from the Second Tactical Air Force.

  It lasted less than a minute. When silence returned he cautiously raised his head. Black columns of smoke rose into the air from several points. His ears slowly perceived the sound of crackling flames, shouts and swearing.

  Bill watched as German troops, their field-grey uniforms a shock to his senses, ran back to the column, and began pulling bodies from the wrecked vehicles.

  An officer barked orders as he directed the work. Bill waited, terrified of discovery. He knew that if he was found, they’d shoot him out of hand, or beat him to death with spades. Troops who’d just been strafed would have no pity on a downed flier.

  With much shouting and crashing of boots the convoy was sorted out. In less than ten minutes those vehicles that were still useable were pulling out, troops riding on every available space, their faces pale, drawn, unshaven, the glazed eyes those of soldiers on the edge of extreme fatigue.

  A defeated army in retreat.

  Only the blackened, still-smoking carcasses of vehicles remained. And the dead.

  Bill crawled in closer, waited, despite the overwhelming urge to search for food and warmth.

  Eventually he got up to the remains of a half-track troop-carrier, its blackened hulk containing charred bodies, eyeless bony faces frozen in grinning horror. A smell of cooked human flesh filled the air. Bill thanked his bloody stars he was in the Air Force.

  He stood near to the steel plating, which was still glowing with heat. He began to feel his frozen body grow warm and pain come into his limbs. He kept a constant look-out, but nothing moved except for a couple of crows searching through the carrion.

  Later, he found some rations. He fought down the urge to stuff himself, found a knapsack and crammed in chunks of black bread and cheese, all the time looking around.

  What to do next?

  Bill looked at the woods, and then down the long straight road towards the front line – which had gone eerily quiet. He would have liked to carry on, but his body was incapable.

  With the decision to stay, the realization came that he had to be warmer than he had been last night.

  He went to the next wreck, a truck, aware of the rapidly failing light. The Germans would be coming out in droves soon: retreating.

  Bill put a foot on the burnt out, tyreless wheel and hauled himself up. As his eyes reached the top a German soldier lunged at him. With a scream Bill fell, landed heavily on his back. Winded, he couldn’t move.

  But no figure appeared above to finish him off. No sound, no nothing.

  When he got his breath back he crawled around to the other side, stood up, swaying, and then cautiously climbed up.

  The dead soldier had fallen on to his face, and then rolled over on to his back, hands clasped to his belly, intestines spilling out. He was stone-dead, sightless eyes white in the gloom. When Bill got over the shock he began to search, finding a couple of half-burnt blankets, a sergeant’s greatcoat, albeit flecked with blood, and a trenching tool.

  He’d just got his little hoard into the wood when he heard the sound of another convoy. Hidden, he waited, watching the column drive past before he stirred.

  Bill got the overcoat on over his flying jacket, spread one blanket into the depression he’d dug, got into it and brought the other one over him, putting sand and pine needles back over him as much as possible.

  He was not unaware that it was like a shallow grave.

  He ate some bread and cheese, took a swig of water and tucked down, head under the blanket, feeling pleased with himself. Bill went to sleep so quickly it was like passing out.

  But only for a couple of hours. When he awoke with a start, he thought at first it was because of the awful cold coming up through the earth. He struggled upright, used both blankets to cover his shoulders and head, and huddled back against a tree. But then he realized there was something else. The ground shook again, like an earth tremor, and he saw that the sky to the north east was angry red, a shepherd’s delight – except that it was man-made, with sudden beads of intense light expanding out with lightning speed in widening rings to the stars.

  Seconds after each one the earth quivered, followed further seconds later by deep detonations.

  The RAF was pasting something – using their fearsome Tall Boy bombs by the feel of it.

  Behind and to his left the night sky was also rent with great flashes, flickering like sheet-lightning: the front line.

  Eventually he was aware of smaller sounds – the steady roar of traffic on the road half a mile away, and, incongruously, an owl screeching like a madman in the wood.

  Bill tried to get down under his blankets again, overcome with the feeling that the whole world was coming to a violent end.

  Götterdämmerung: the twilight of the gods: of one god.

  Hitler.

  The madman in the woods screamed again. Bill could only guess at the unimaginable horror that was going on all around him.

  Would he ever see Mary again in this life?

  Mary decided that she could take the waiting in her room no longer. She called the squadron office yet again, was told there was still no news, and then informed them of what she proposed.

  The adjutant came on, sounding concerned. ‘My dear, is that wise? We can contact you so easily where you are.’

  Unseen she nodded. ‘Yes, it’s what I want.’

  The adjutant relented. ‘I’ll send someone down into the village straight away.’

  When she rang off, the adjutant sat back, chewing on a pencil. He liked the girl very much, what he’d seen of her, but he wondered if she was really grasping the reality of the situation. Other pilots in the squadron had seen Bill’s plane go barreling down and explode. No sighting had been made of a ’chute.

  That was several days ago now. It wasn’t looking hopeful. He’d already given orders for Bill’s effects to be boxed, ready to give to her.

  Now she wanted to come and live in the village, to be nearer. It didn’t sound healthy to him. All the same he sent a trusted PFC, on a bike down to the village to ask around, starting at the local pub. He really didn’t want her around the squadron: it wouldn’t be good for moral.

  He called her back later in the afternoon, saying quickly, without preamble, so that she wouldn’t jump to the wrong conclusion and think it was news about Bill:

  ‘We’ve found a room – on a farm, right beside the airfield. They’d be happy to have you – it’s five shillings a week, and I gather that includes home-grown and cooked breakfast and dinner.’

  The adjutant had had a change of heart, and arranged transport for her from the station. He wanted to do what he could for Mary, because arrangements for the transfe
r to mainland Europe had now been finalized.

  By the time that took place, or earlier, they should be in a position to know for certain what Bill’s fate had been.

  The Germans were falling back steadily, although with occasional pockets of resistance, but the area where his ship had gone down should be in Allied hands in days, and the drawn-out agony for her would be over.

  For Mary it was strange, the first sight of his base with its MPs manning the barrier, their helmets and webbing white, which was why they were called ‘Snowdrops’ – said her driver.

  This was home to Bill, where he had lived when she first met him.

  After they passed the main gate she could see aircraft and huts in the distance. The adjutant had promised that he’d arrange for her to visit soon.

  The car turned up a drive set in trees. After about half a mile they emerged in front of a half-timbered farmhouse adjacent to the airfield, its thatch roof sadly in need of repair. The jeep stopped in front of the oak door. As she got out, a flight of three Mustangs roared over the house, peeling off to land one by one in the far distance.

  Seeing the planes coming home in the evening sky, like birds to roost, was immeasurably sad.

  Bill should have been home, should have been with her. But until he was, she felt nearer to him here.

  And he would feel her presence – fly home to her.

  Bill had started to walk along the middle of the road. Sometimes he realized what he was doing, sometimes he was back home, walking to get gas for his car.

  His leg ached and he knew he was hot, so much so that he had undone his great coat.

  He heard the column coming even before it appeared around the bend, but when he turned his relief broke through his fever.

  It was an American convoy, led by several jeeps with MPs and brass – a colonel or something – in the second one.

  He stood and waved with his arms until they ground to a halt.

  ‘Am I glad to see you guys.’

  Nobody moved for a second, then the colonel got out and, accompanied by two MPs, advanced towards him.

  Bill, swaying, awaited their greeting – then realized he had on a German great coat.

  ‘Hell.’ He tore it off. ‘I’m no Kraut.’ He drew himself up. ‘First Lieutenant William Anderson, sir, United States Army Air Force.’

  The colonel did not react to his salute. Bill frowned, began to get an odd feeling. Then the colonel spoke, in excellent English.

  ‘But unfortunately for you, I am a Kraut.’

  It took a few seconds for it to sink in.

  Shocked Bill suddenly realized it was one of the units that had penetrated behind American lines, causing havoc and outrage. The officer’s face hardened. ‘So, you are a pilot?’

  Bill nodded.

  It was weird, hearing an American officer say: ‘You have been strafing our troops?’

  Through his delirium Bill suddenly realized that he was on a knife edge.

  He lied.

  ‘No, bombing a railway bridge.’

  The colonel’s white face, tired and drawn, was stony.

  ‘So, you are a Terror-flieger. You are a murderer of innocent civilians, of women and children.’

  At that moment Bill knew he faced imminent death. The officer snapped an order in German. The two MPs on either side of him roughly ripped open his shirt top. One produced a knife, and for a split second he thought they were going to cut his throat. All he could think of was that he had let Mary down.

  Having survived the crash he was still going to die, murdered on the whim of a passing Nazi. Then he felt his dog tags pulled violently forward and the cords severed.

  They were passed to the officer who glanced down at them, then tossed them away into the bushes. He flicked his head at the two MPs who stepped aside, and drew out his issue American Officers sidearm.

  The ‘Colonel’ raised it, pointed it straight at his head. At less than five feet he couldn’t miss. Irrationally Bill heard the whine of attacking aircraft.

  He tensed up, but could only feel a great sadness: that he would not see Mary again or ever see his child; be there for school, for university perhaps, and his or her wedding.

  Would there be grandchildren who would never know him?

  There was a deafening explosion, and Bill Anderson’s world ceased to exist.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was a month since Winston Churchill had announced to the nation that Germany had surrendered, unconditionally; since the cheering crowds had blocked Whitehall, the Mall and all the main roads in central London; since his appearance on the balcony of Buckingham Palace with the King and Queen and the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret Rose.

  Mary paused, checked the address of the large Whitehall building and went in through the imposing Portland stone entrance.

  At the reception desk she was directed to the third floor. The corridor was wide, high-ceilinged, with a marble floor and a long Persian carpet. Busts of frowning men in classical robes lined its sides.

  It had obviously been built at the height of Britain’s Empire days, when Queen Victoria, Empress of India, was on the throne.

  She found the door she wanted and went into a small ante-room. Apair of velvet-covered sofas stood against two walls. A man behind a small but exquisite desk stood up and came around to meet her, hand held out.

  ‘Mrs Anderson?’

  She took his hand as he continued:

  ‘Sir Anthony is expecting you – this way.’

  He went to large double doors, tapped and waited, ear near the wood. She heard a garbled: ‘Come in.’

  The man shot her a smile, said: ‘Excuse me,’ and led the way in, announcing ‘Mrs Anderson, sir.’

  As Sir Anthony rose with outstretched hand from behind a huge ornate desk, his secretary scurried to place a chair behind the woman who was so obviously with child.

  Mary sat down.

  ‘Thank you for seemg me, Sir Anthony.’

  The man she addressed wore a dark pin-stripe suit, with old-fashioned lapels. A silk handkerchief was draped from his top pocket.

  Although his face was lined with age and good living, his hair was still brushed back in a thick wavy mane.

  ‘Not at all – not at all.’

  He opened a leather-bound, frayed file and shuffled through some papers.

  ‘As you know, Sir George personally asked me to look into your request. He speaks very highly of your service to His Majesty’s Government – your work at Bletchley, I gather?’

  She gave a quick, humourless smile, but said nothing.

  Sir Anthony cleared his throat.

  ‘Now, about this matter of your husband, First Lieutenant Anderson of the American Army Air Force posted missing in action – presumed killed.’

  It was as though someone had kicked her in her swollen belly. ‘He’s not dead. They have found what’s left of his plane – but no trace of him. He must be injured – lost his memory – but not dead. I know it.’

  The Whitehall mandarin recoiled under the unfamiliar display of emotion and, embarrassed, picked up one of the papers.

  He coughed. ‘Quite so. Well, we’ve reviewed the documents supplied by our American allies, and all the other services, Army, Navy, Air-Sea Rescue, and the Commission for Displaced and Missing Persons.’

  He looked up at her.

  ‘Of the thousands and thousands, we’ve narrowed it down to maybe a couple of hundred people, given that he had—’ quickly he changed to ‘has an American accent and concentrating on the area where he was reported missing. Oh, and of course, he doesn’t know who he is and has no means of identification.’

  He felt like saying that it was all rather ridiculous, but refrained. The woman was obviously emotionally unstable. He pushed across the list.

  ‘Pardon me for saying so, but I thought he would have been wearing military identity discs, so I do not see how he could go unidentified?’ Mary dismissed him as she continued to read the list of locations and th
e men held there who could not be identified.

  ‘There must be some explanation.’

  Sir Anthony looked at his hunter. It was time for lunch at his club.

  ‘As you can see, many are in hospitals, both military and civilian, and in holding areas in France, Holland, and of course Germany. I’ve anticipated your need to travel in these areas and have prepared the necessary documents. The Americans and the RAF have kindly found room for you on some of their transports – you can fly like that, can you?’

  He nodded in the general direction of her body.

  Mary frowned. ‘Yes, apparently.’

  ‘It’s going to be pretty strenuous you know. Are you sure it’s wise?’

  ‘Wise?’ Mary folded the paper and picked up the file that he had pushed nearer. ‘Wise doesn’t come into it, Sir Anthony. It’s something I’ve got to do.’

  She stood up and held out her hand, which he took as she continued: ‘I appreciate all you have done for me as I’m sure you are very busy. There is so much to do, isn’t there?’

  Sir Anthony buzzed the intercom.

  ‘Think nothing of it. Sir George says that you were most helpful to the code-breaker people – some nuance of the language, I believe. Do you know, I had no idea you people existed – most still don’t.’

  Mary gave a weak smile, eager to be on her way. The secretary came in, and stood holding the door open.

  Mary said: ‘Thank you once again,’ and left.

  When she’d gone Sir Anthony mused to his secretary: ‘A sad case that I fear will have no happy ending. The Americans have privately admitted that they believe he is dead. I know these are exceptional times, but really, I don’t see the point of letting women take degrees – they remain as emotionally immature as ever.’

  Mary flew from RAF Northolt to a cold, wrecked Berlin. The sight from her small window both amazed and deeply depressed her. Mile after mile of ruins. It was as if some enormous earthquake had devastated the place. What so-called civilized men did to each other was far worse than any savage could devise.