The War Before Mine

by Caroline Ross

  ‘I certainly hope so.’

  ‘If they thought we wouldn’t, they would have given us maps and compasses, surely?’

  ‘Why didn’t you get that organised, Jimmy?’

  ‘Don’t blame Jimmy,’ Murray said. ‘We’re all in the same boat.’

  Or not, Philip thought.

  Dear Jimmy,

  I want to go into property when this is over, but I need the money to get started. If you could see your way to loaning me three hundred quid, that should cover it.

  R. Anderson

  They went up singly to practise with the guns. Anderson came down from his session with the news that the motor gunboat had gone ahead to sink two French trawlers. ‘But they’re on our side!’ protested Philip.

  ‘Can’t trust the Frogs, can you? Could be Jerries on board. Or spies.’ Philip looked out of a porthole, heard a burst of fire and watched the vessels tip sideways and submerge quickly, like toy boats in the bath. Smaller shapes bobbed in the water. Philip could make out a head, and an arm, curved over a piece of wood. ‘We’ll pick them up, won’t we?’ he said to Jimmy.

  ‘The escort might.’

  ‘The French are on our side!’ Philip composed an angry speech in his head. Not what he’d joined up for. Their livelihoods, and possibly their lives, so ruthlessly destroyed. But half an hour later, when Tucker was daydreaming out loud about fish and chips, he realised he’d forgotten all about the fishermen. In between packing and re-packing his rucksack, Philip wondered how much their progress occupied the minds of those at the top – the Big Noise and the rest of them. Were they asking each other how the show would go off? Would it be a bracing little show, or a bit of a damp squib?

  He thought of Rosie, and was troubled by the realisation he did not know her full Christian name. Was it Rosemary, or Rosalind, or even Rosamund? So much about her he wanted to ask. How did her mother die? How many brothers and sisters was it? Five. Jean and John and then twins, who were called… With a sense of rising panic, he found he could not remember their names. And the baby…? If he couldn’t remember, the worst would happen. Tucker interrupted his thoughts with a joke.

  ‘What do you call a man with a dick in the middle of his face?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Fuck knows.’

  Strang snorted and made to peer down his serge trousers, ‘My dick’s safe in my trousers.’

  ‘They should provide you with a box, like in cricket,’ said Tucker.

  Murray smiled and tapped his groin.

  ‘You’re not, are you? Listen everyone! Murray’s wearing his box!’

  Alf and Robbie, Philip thought, feeling the panic subside. Susie. So did that mean the worst would not happen?

  Six hours to go. Philip craved a space where he had absolute control. The others felt the same. With hardly a word spoken, they began to clear up the cabin. Anything in the way was thrown out of a porthole. Philip broke open his revolver, removed the bullets, cleaned, oiled, reloaded. He transferred bullets from the pouch on his belt to his right breast pocket. Moved them to the left pocket, where they felt more accessible. He unpacked his rucksack, unrolled the waterproof wrappings around the charges, rolled them up again, repacked the rucksack, felt with his hands that everything was in the right order. He pulled on clean socks, followed by rubber boots, specially issued so they knew the sound of heavy footsteps meant the approach of the enemy.

  Jimmy gave them a final briefing. Portholes were to be covered and only the lowest of lights permitted as they neared the Loire estuary. They could go on deck during the next half hour, but, from then on, were to stay below until the order was given to prepare for disembarkation.

  Dusk had deepened by the time they went up. Philip peered over the bow rails. The shadow of France was not visible, yet Strang claimed he could smell land. ‘What does it smell of then, Rick?’

  ‘Spring grass. Sort of sweet.’

  Philip sniffed the cool air. Yes. There it was, underneath the tang of salt and sea. He wondered if, soon, he would be able to smell the guns. A thin black line appeared on the horizon. Quickly, the line became an uneven hump and then France filled all their vision. A distant stuttering sound turned into definite explosions, sending a wave of excitement through them all. The RAF were bombing the docks. Philip and Strang exchanged reckless grins. Let’s get on with it! The stranded ruins of a ship loomed out of the gloom. ‘What the hell’s that?’

  ‘That,’ said Ross, ‘must be the wreck of the Lancastria. Bombed by the Germans, remember? All hushed up, but I have it on good authority, 6000 drowned, civilians and soldiers.’

  ‘That many?’ The ghost ship seemed to crane after them as they surged on. ‘Bastards.’

  ‘Better get below,’ said Ross.

  Thirty minutes to go. The sound of bombing had petered out almost entirely. Surely it had been supposed to go on much longer? A black-faced Anderson passed a piece of burned cork to Philip, who rubbed his face and hands with it. Philip hoped the RAF had done enough, but even if not, he knew they were past the point of turning back. The removal of that possibility was somehow fortifying. It’s going to happen, he thought. Jimmy relayed the news that they were entering the Loire estuary. Within two or three minutes, Jimmy said, they would be within range of the guns. It’s happening.

  Clicks. Dixon’s lot inserted magazines into their rifles.

  Don’t let me cock it up. Don’t let me cock it up. He felt his heart hammering, panic mounting. Words. He needed words. Our Father, who art in Heaven. You had to see each word in your head for it to work. Calmer, he realised it was the first time he’d used a prayer. Subconscious insurance policy, probably. He hadn’t been talking out loud, but Murray paused in wrapping surgical tape around his fingers and whispered, ‘Got a prayer for us, Seymour?’

  ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful,’ Philip murmured. Murray laughed softly.

  Clunks. Cartridges rammed into chambers.

  Please God, don’t let me cock it up.

  A swathe of white light swept across the boat. Philip waited for the guns to open up as surely they must do, but the only sound was the engines and the swish of water across the bows. The searchlight went out. The signaller must have convinced the Germans the approaching convoy was friendly. Jimmy’s harsh whisper from the steps. ‘Two minutes to target. Get on deck.’ Another searchlight swept across, briefly illuminating hunchbacked men rising and moving into line, Strang mouthing some silent incantation; then darkness wrapped them once again. Philip climbed, his head nudging Strang’s pack. It’s happening. I’m going to do it.

  Then the German guns opened up. The noise deafened. Pulverised. Paralysed. Philip wanted to pull his head inside his body, but could hardly move at all. Tracer laid stripes of blue, red, green and yellow on Jimmy’s blackened face. ‘Get forward,’ he screamed through a mouth stretched wide open, ‘ready for disembarkation.’

  Everything slowed. Dis Em Bar Kay Shon. German, surely? Philip watched himself turn, saw his foot lift off the ground to move forward, caught a glimpse of the most amazing thunder-and-lightning-all-at-once firework display; and then the world shrank.

  He was in a cocoon, a fragile invertebrate, able to see only the narrow path he must now wriggle along. A giant finger flicked him hard into the railings and he rolled helplessly on his back, legs kicking to right himself, to turn the humped weight of his pack and crawl forward. Another swat tumbled him over and over. Painfully he righted himself, aware of burning in his throat and an acrid choking taste of petrol that meant – some remote part of his brain informed him – the boat had been hit, and was on fire. This seemed to have nothing to do with him, focused as he was on breathing, moan in, moan out, and the sound of his huge larval heart, thum thum thum.

  Dixon’s insect whine intruded, The drum’s jammed! The drum’s jammed! Then Dixon’s body arched gracefully backwards across Philip’s little porthole of vision, his throat pure white, a trailing boot beetle-black. Philip’s b
ody vibrated with Dixon’s fall, but he saw only his comrades in front of him, now bunched like woodlice at the disembarkation point. The boat lurched sideways and there was a glimpse of pier, and Jimmy flying, legs kicking in the air. Then Tucker’s giant hop. He had only a few more feet to crawl to be there with Murray and Strang, ready to jump. But how will he jump? How will he get free his legs? A huge fist crunched into the deck, bouncing Philip into the starboard railings. Turn yourself over. Get your legs underneath you. Move forward. He sat up to find Wilde’s surprised face lying in his lap.

  Wilde lay still, staring up at him, asking Why? The cocoon shelter disintegrated. Philip squirmed backwards to get out from under Wilde, and the head slid away, leaving behind a lapful of what looked like pink vomit and pieces of china. He stood up and some of the mess detached itself and dropped to the deck. Philip pulled himself upright. He must get off. He had to get off.

  The guns had slackened a little but the burning boat was spinning out of control. Ross shouted, ‘We’ve lost the steering, we’ve lost the steering!’ Orange light flickered over bodies of the dead and the living and in the water, patches of oil burned fiercely. He must get off, but the boat was spinning so giddily it was hard to find his bearings. Where were Murray and Strang?

  They were where he’d left them. Murray was propped against his pack, his head tilted back, as though star gazing. Strang knelt beside him.

  ‘Murray?’ The eyes were open, but dull as stone. Murray was dead. Strang was kneeling in Philip’s way, shaking and moaning, ‘Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.’

  ‘Rick! We’ve got to jump!’ Then he saw with horror that Strang’s hands clutched his stomach. Philip’s heart started pounding violently. Ross’s voice shouted behind him, ‘Get ashore, Seymour!’

  Strang turned his dying child’s face up to Philip’s. An explosion blasted the boat towards the pier and Strang’s curled body shot sideways, dropped into the water, and was gone.

  The boat crashed into the pier and ricocheted off. Ross’s voice came again, ‘Now’s your chance! Go!’ Philip jumped, but his feet slipped in Strang’s blood and he flailed through the air, his outstretched fingers catching a lace of seaweed clinging to the wall. The water swirling over his head was full of screaming. He kicked hard, broke the surface and felt his pack seized and pulled; Tucker was in the water, grasping an iron ring with one hand and stretching out the other to his friend. Moments later they were lying on the dock, panting. The launch, its stern on fire, was 30 yards out, rotating slowly.

  Tucker’s face flickered red. ‘Come on.’

  They ran along the wall. No Murray, no Strang, no Anderson. But there was the pumping house, its door hanging open. They threw themselves down the stairwell. Torchlight flickered up and Philip shouted the passwords. ‘War weapons week?’

  Jimmy Burns’s voice rose from the deep. ‘Weymouth!

  ‘Hurry! I’m nearly done.’

  Philip set down his pack and dug into it for his torch and the charges. His right hand, smashed against the wall, refused to cooperate. His wet torch wouldn’t work. And he’d forgotten to start counting. He couldn’t do it. Cock up! Cock up! Calm down. Say out loud. Words came. I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and earth. His fingers found the familiar contours. Using his right hand to warm the plasticine, he started on the delicate stuff with his left. And in Jesus Christ, his only Son our Lord… Thank God they had practised one-handed and blindfold. He finished the moulding and ran out the cordtex.

  ‘Come on Phil!’

  Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead and buried. He stood for a moment caressing the joints. Yes, everything felt all right.

  ‘Seymour? Get out of there!’

  He descended into… Up the steps, into the din, Tucker and Jimmy taking cover behind a shattered truck. ‘Dive!’

  Jimmy pulled the igniter pins. The ground shivered and the pumping house seemed to jump into the air. Blocks of masonry, illuminated by exploding shells and searchlights, soared upwards and crashed to the ground. A hail of grit and dust pelted the three men. Silence. He was deaf. Jimmy shook his head, grinned, brandished two thumbs. The third day, he rose again… Sound returned. ‘Done it! Bloody done it!’

  They laughed hysterically. High-pitched, unnatural laughter, more like shivering. Philip realised his teeth were chattering.

  Footfalls. Soft ones. Jimmy challenged, ‘War weapons week!’

  ‘Weymouth.’ Two commandos they recognised as demolition boys from the Campbeltown came round the side of the truck. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yeah! Hit the gates full fucking tilt.’

  ‘And your other targets?’

  ‘Fucking smithereens!’

  ‘Cover us,’ one of the Campbeltowns said. ‘See you at the rendezvous point.’ Philip levelled his pistol, following the two as they flitted to the next cover. Germans appeared, lots of them. Shots. One Campbeltown writhed on the ground. Philip’s finger slid on the trigger, the bullet going wide. ‘Come on!’ Jimmy led them out in the opposite direction. They sprinted from cover to cover until at last they had a wide view of the docks and the planned rendezvous point.

  All the launches they could see were on fire or helplessly adrift. The darkness was thick with grit and smoke and patches of sea blazed fiercely. They stood on the brink of hell listening to the screams of men burning in water.

  Philip looked at Jimmy; Tucker looked at Jimmy. Jimmy shook his head. ‘We can’t get off.’ Heavy boots approached. ‘Stand a better chance if we split up. I’ll go this way. You try over there. Rendezvous in Gibraltar. Good luck.’

  Jimmy hadn’t really said that, had he?

  The boots were nearly on them. Philip darted away, looking up at the last vibrant squibs of the firework display, searching for the North Star. Where the fuck was it?

  ‘I’m coming with you, Phil!’

  Philip ran, his only thought now to head for the place where darkness was deepest, where perhaps the dock ended and there would be some place to hide. Tucker followed.

  A German, right there. Nose to nose. In the split second before he smashed into the boy’s head with his pistol butt, Philip thought, he doesn’t understand either, and then, as he watched the boy’s pale, dimpled chin fall away sideways, chastising himself, What the bloody hell have you done?

  Tucker was still behind him, but the way forward was blocked by thumping, jackbooted Jerries rushing towards them, fanning out to cut them off, one yelling at them to stop, ‘Alt! Alt!’ Philip felt Tucker falter, slacken speed, but he ran on, fixated on reaching darkness. Something punched him sickeningly in the ribs and he was knocked sideways, his speed propelling him on, on, and off the edge of the dock, turning him over in the air, I never knew I could do that, slipping him into the water in a graceful dive, the sea closing over his head. Oh the cool and the quiet of it down there! And the water spoke to him in a soothing voice, ‘You’re all right, you’re all right.’ And she was there, swimming beside him in the velvet deep, a mermaid with a tail of emerald green, and Rosie’s face, Rosie’s breasts. ‘I’m here,’ she said, touching the wound in his side, the blood threading her white fingers like smoke. ‘You’re all right now.’

  15

  Falmouth, 27 March 1942

  Rosie pulled back the blackout curtains and looked out. She expected to see the little fleet still at anchor, to keep herself close to Philip by playing the game of picking out a tiny speck of a person and growing it into him. But the ships were gone, as if overnight the north wind had puffed out his cheeks and blown the harbour clean.

  ‘One minute they was here, the next minute, whoosh, they wasn’t,’ said the fat woman at the front of the meat queue.

  The butcher was slicing through a slab of ox liver with a broad-bladed knife. ‘That’s right missus, and we all hope they’ll be back soon safe and sound, I’m sure.’ He winked at Rosie and the attention of the queue swivelled towards her.

 
‘Course we do,’ said the fat lady. ‘Or we’ll have ever so many broken hearts, isn’t that right, maid?’

  Rosie’s face flushed pink. She felt hot. No words would come.

  ‘Aw, I hope I haven’t spoke out of turn, dear.’ The woman rested a plump hand on Rosie’s arm. ‘Pretty girl like you, bound to have a soldier boyfriend. I’ve got a terrible big mouth and no mistake.’ But she laughed as though she was rather proud of her big mouth, and Rosie reacted.

  ‘I don’t know any of them. My heart’s in one piece, thank you.’

  The butcher slapped a newspaper parcel on the counter. ‘That’ll be one and three altogether.’

  Outside the shop with her five sausages in her basket, Rosie squeezed her eyes shut and sent a ‘sorry’ across the ocean to wherever Philip was. But she couldn’t admit being in love with a soldier to that nebby cow, have them all oohing and aahing all over her could she? It felt like a precious secret, not to be dabbled about in by other people’s fat fingers. If she showed it to anyone it wouldn’t be pure and beautiful any more.

  For the next three days, Rosie threw herself into spring-cleaning, hauling carpets out of the back door and beating the dust out them, stripping off loose covers and taking down curtains, washing, ironing, re-hanging. She couldn’t sleep, could find no peace, hated it if her uncle made her talk.

  ‘I met Father Power earlier.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘He said they need help making the crosses for Sunday. I said you’d go up tomorrow afternoon. Make a bit of a break for you, I thought.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Is anything the matter?’

  ‘No.’

  But she didn’t want to go. Her new place of worship was Philip’s room. When the house was her own she opened the wardrobe and breathed in the scent of him. She stood at the window, her breasts cupped in her hands, imagining him behind her, holding her, leading her to the narrow bed. She lay on the rough blanket and slid her hand under her skirt to touch herself sinfully.