Cess handed him an umbrella. “Here.”
“I thought you said fog, not rain.”
“Light fog. Clearing towards morning. And wear an army uniform, in case someone shows up in the middle of the operation. You have two minutes. I want to be there before dark.” He went out.
Ernest waited, listening, till he heard the outside door slam, then swiftly unlocked the file drawer, pulled out the folder, removed several of the pages, replaced the file, and relocked the drawer. He slid the pages he'd removed into a manila envelope, sealed it, and stuck it under a stack of forms in the bottom drawer of the desk. Then he took a key from around his neck, locked the drawer, hung the key around his neck again under his shirt, picked up the umbrella, put on his uniform and his boots, and went outside. Into an all-enveloping dark grayness. If this was what Cess considered a light fog, he shuddered to think what a heavy one was. He couldn't see the tanks or the lorry. He couldn't even see the gravel driveway at his feet.
But he could hear an engine. He felt his way toward it, his hands out in front of him till they connected with the side of the Landrover. “What took you so long?” Cess asked, leaning out of the fog to open its door. “Get in.”
Ernest climbed in. “I thought you said the tanks were here.”
“They are,” Cess said, roaring off into blackness. “We've got to go pick them up in Tenterden and then take them down to Icklesham.”
Tenterden was not “here.” It was fifteen miles in the opposite direction from Icklesham and, in this fog, it would be well after dark before they even got to Tenterden. This'll take all night, he thought. I'll never make that deadline. But halfway to Brede, the fog lifted and when they reached Tenterden, everything was, amazingly, loaded and ready to go. Ernest, following Cess and the lorry in the Landrover, began to feel some hope that it wouldn't take too long to get unloaded and set up, and they might actually be done blowing up the tanks by midnight. Whereupon the fog closed in again, causing Cess to miss the turn for Icklesham twice and the lane once. It was nearly midnight before they located the right pasture.
Ernest parked the Landrover in amongst some bushes and got out to open the gate. He promptly stepped in mud up to his ankles and then, after he'd extricated himself, in a large cowpat. He squelched over to the lorry, looking around for cows, even though, in this foggy darkness he wouldn't see one till he'd collided with it. “I thought there weren't supposed to be any cows in this pasture,” he said to Cess.
“There were before, but the farmer moved them into the next one over,” Cess said, leaning out the window. “That's why we picked this pasture. That, and the large copse of trees over there.” He pointed vaguely out into the murk. “The tanks will be hidden out of sight under the trees.”
“I thought the whole idea was to let the Germans see them.”
“To let them see some of them,” Cess corrected. “There are a dozen in this battalion.”
“We've got to blow up a dozen tanks?”
“No, only two. The Army didn't park them far enough under the trees. Their rear ends can still be seen poking out from under the branches. I think it'll be easiest if I back across the field. Help me turn around.”
“Are you certain that's a good idea?” Ernest said. “It's awfully muddy.”
“That'll make the tracks more visible. You needn't worry. This lorry's got good tyres. I won't get her stuck.”
He didn't. Ernest did, driving the lorry back to the gate after they'd unloaded the two tanks. It took them the next two hours to get out of the mudhole, in the process of which Ernest lost his footing and fell flat, and they made a hideous rutted mess out of the center of the field.
“Goering's boys will never believe tank treads did that,” Ernest said, shining a shielded torch on the churned-up mud.
“You're right,” Cess said. “We'll have to put a tank over it to hide it, and—I know!—we'll make it look as though it got stuck in the mud.”
“Tanks don't get stuck in the mud.”
“They would in this mud,” Cess said. “We'll only blow up three quadrants and leave the other one flat, so it'll look like it's listing.”
“Do you honestly think they'll be able to see that from fifteen thousand feet?”
“No idea,” Cess said, “but if we stand here arguing, we won't be done by morning, and the Germans will see what we're up to. Here, lend me a hand. We'll unload the tank and then drive the lorry back to the lane. That way we won't have to drag it.”
Ernest helped him unload the heavy rubber pallet. Cess connected the pump and began inflating the tank. “Are you certain it's facing the right way?” Ernest asked. “It should be facing the copse.”
“Oh, right,” Cess said, shielding his torch with his hand and shining it on it. “No, it's the wrong way round. Here, help me shift it.”
They pushed and shoved and dragged the heavy mass around till it faced the other way. “Now let's hope it isn't upside down,” Cess said. “They should put a ‘this end up’ on them, though I suppose that might make the Germans suspicious.” He began to pump. “Oh, good, there's a tread.”
The front end of a tank began to emerge out of the flat folds of gray-green rubber, looking remarkably tank-like. Ernest watched for a moment, then fetched the phonograph, the small wooden table it sat on, and its speaker. He set them up, got the record from the lorry, placed it on the turntable, and lowered the needle. The sound of tanks rolling thunderously toward him filled the pasture, making it impossible to hear anything Cess said.
On the other hand, he thought as he wrestled the tank-tread cutter off the back of the lorry, he no longer had to switch on his torch. He could find his way simply by following the sound. Unless there were in fact cows in this pasture—which, judging by the number of fresh cowpats he was stepping in, there definitely could be.
Cess had told him on the way to Tenterden that the cutter was perfectly simple to operate. All one had to do was push it, like a lawnmower, but it was at least five times as heavy as the lawnmower at the castle. It required bearing down with one's whole weight on the handle to make it go even a few inches, it refused to budge at all in grass taller than two inches, and it tended to veer off at an angle. Ernest had to go back to the lorry, fetch a rake, smooth over what he'd done, then redo it several times before he had a more-or-less straight tread mark from the gate to the mired tank.
Cess was still working on the right front quadrant. “Sprang a leak,” he shouted over the rumble of tanks. “Lucky I brought my bicycle patch kit along. Don't come any nearer! That cutter's sharp.”
Ernest nodded and hoisted it over in front of where the tank's other tread would be and started back toward the gate. “How many of these do you want?” he shouted to Cess.
“At least a dozen pair,” Cess shouted, “and some of them need to overlap. I think the fog's beginning to lift.”
The fog was not beginning to lift. When he switched on his torch so he could return the needle to the beginning of the record, the phonograph was shrouded in mist. And even if it should lift, they wouldn't be able to tell in this blackness. He looked at his watch. Two o'clock, and they still hadn't inflated a tank. They were going to be stuck here forever.
Cess finally completed the mired tank and slogged across the field to the copse to do the other two, Ernest following with the cutter, making tread-tracks to indicate where the tanks had driven in under the trees.
Halfway there, the sound of tanks shut off. Damn, he'd forgotten to move the needle. He had to go all the way back across the pasture, start the record again, and he'd no sooner reached the cutter again than the fog did indeed lift. “I told you,” Cess said happily, and it immediately began to rain.
“The phonograph!” Cess cried, and Ernest had to fetch the umbrella and prop it over the phonograph, tying it to the tank's rubber gun with rope.
The shower lasted till just before dawn, magnifying the mud and making the grass so slippery that Ernest fell down two more times, once racing to move the ph
onograph needle, which had stuck and was repeating the same three seconds of tank rumbling over and over, and the second time helping Cess repair yet another puncture. “But think of the war story you'll have to tell your grandchildren!” Cess said as he wiped the mud off.
“I doubt whether I'll ever have grandchildren,” Ernest said, spitting out mud. “I am beginning to doubt whether I'll even survive this night.”
“Nonsense, the sun'll be up any moment, and we're nearly done here.” Cess leaned down so he could see the treadmarks, which Ernest had to admit looked very realistic. “Make two more tracks, and I'll finish off this last tank. We'll be home in time for breakfast.”
And in time for me to finish the articles and run them over to Sudbury by nine, he thought, aligning the tracker with the other treadmarks and pushing them down hard. Which would be good. He didn't like the idea of those other articles sitting there for another week, even in a locked drawer. Now that he could partially see where he was going and didn't need to stop and check his path with the torch every few feet, it should only take him twenty minutes to do the treads and load the lorry, and another three-quarters of an hour back to the castle. They should be there by seven at the latest, which should work.
But he'd only gone a few yards before Cess loomed out of the fog and tapped him on the shoulder. “The fog's beginning to lift,” he said. “We'd best get out of here. I'll finish off the tanks and you start on stowing the equipment.”
Cess was right; the fog was beginning to thin. Ernest could make out the vague shapes of trees, ghostly in the gray dawn, and across the field a fence and three black-and-white cows placidly chewing grass—luckily, on the far side of it.
Ernest folded up the tarp, untied the umbrella, carried them and the pump to the lorry, and came back for the cutter. He picked it up, decided there was no way he could carry it all the way across the field, set it down, pulled the cord to start it, and pushed it back, making one last track from just in front of the tank's left tread to the edge of the field, and lugged it, limping, from there to the lorry. By the time he'd hoisted it up into the back, the fog was beginning to break up, tearing apart into long streamers which drifted like veils across the pasture, revealing the long line of treadmarks leading to the copse and the rear end of one imperfectly hidden tank peeking out from the leaves, with the other behind it. Even knowing how it had been done, it looked real, and he wasn't fifteen thousand feet up. From that height, the deception would be perfect. Unless, of course, there was a phonograph standing in the middle of the pasture.
He started back for it, able to actually see where he was going for several yards at a time, but as he reached the tank, the fog closed in again, thicker than ever, cutting off everything—even the tank next to him. He shut the phonograph and fastened the clasps, then folded up the table. “Cess!” he called in what he thought was his general direction. “How are you coming along?” and the fog abruptly parted, like theatre curtains sweeping open, and he could see the copse of trees and the entire pasture.
And the bull. It stood halfway across the pasture, a huge shaggy brown creature with beady little eyes and enormous horns. It was looking at the tank.
“Hey! You there!” a voice called from the fence. “What do you think you're doing in my pasture?” And Ernest turned instinctively to look at the farmer standing there. So did the bull. “Get those bloody tanks out of my pasture!” the farmer shouted, angrily jabbing the air with his finger.
The bull watched him, fascinated, for a moment, then swung his head back around. To look directly at Ernest.
“Raid in Progress”
Notice onstage in London theatre
1940
London—17 September 1940
By midnight only Polly and the elderly, aristocratic gentleman who always gave her his Times were awake. He had draped his coat over his shoulders and was reading. Everyone else had nodded off, though only Lila and Viv and Mrs. Brightford's little girls had lain down, Bess and Trot with their heads in their mother's lap. The others sat drowsing on the bench or the floor, leaning back against the wall. Miss Hibbard had let go of her knitting, and her head had fallen forward onto her chest. The rector and Miss Laburnum were both snoring.
Polly was surprised. One of the things the contemps had complained about was lack of sleep due to the raids, and by midway through the Blitz many Londoners had abandoned the shelters and gone back to their own beds, more desperate for a good night's sleep than they were frightened of the bombs. But this group didn't seem bothered by the uncomfortable sleeping conditions or the noise, even though the raid was picking up in intensity again. The anti-aircraft gun in Kensington Gardens started up, and another wave of planes growled overhead.
She wondered if this was the wave of bombers which would hit John Lewis. No, they sounded nearer—Mayfair? It and Bloomsbury had both been hit as well as central London, and after they'd finished with Oxford Street, they'd hit Regent Street and the BBC studios. She'd better try to sleep while she could. She would need to start off early tomorrow morning, though she wondered if the department stores would even be open.
London businesses had prided themselves on remaining open throughout the Blitz, and Padgett's and John Lewis had both managed to reopen after a few weeks. But what about the day after the bombing? Would the stores which hadn't been damaged be open, or would the whole street be off-limits, like the area around St. Paul's? And for how long? If I haven't got a job by tomorrow night—
Of course they'll be open, she thought. Think of all those window signs the Blitz was famous for: “Hitler can smash our windows, but he can't match our prices,” and “It's bomb marché in Oxford Street this week.” And that photograph of a woman reaching through a broken display window to feel the fabric of a frock. It might even be a good day to apply for a position. It would show the raids didn't frighten her, and if some of the shopgirls weren't able to make it into work because of bombed bus routes, the stores might hire her to fill in.
But she'd also have to compete with all those suddenly unemployed John Lewis shopgirls, and they'd be more likely to be taken on than she would, out of sympathy. Perhaps I should tell them I worked there, she thought.
She folded her coat into a pillow and lay down, but she couldn't sleep. The droning planes were too loud. They sounded like monstrous, buzzing wasps, and they were growing louder—and nearer—by the moment. Polly sat up. The noise had wakened the rector, too. He'd sat up and was looking nervously at the ceiling. There was a whoosh, and then a huge explosion. Mr. Dorming jerked upright. “What the bloody hell—?” he said, and then, “Sorry, rector.”
“Quite understandable given the circumstances,” the rector said. “They seem to have begun again.” Which was an understatement even for a contemp. The gun in Battersea Park was going full blast, and he had to shout to make himself heard. “I do hope those girls are all right. The ones who were trying to find Gloucester Terrace.”
The gun in Kensington Gardens started in again, and Irene sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Shh, go back to sleep,” Mrs. Brightford murmured, looking over at Mr. Dorming, who was staring at the door. The raid seemed to be just outside it, whumps and bangs and long, shuddering booms, that woke up Nelson and Mr. Simms and the rest of the women. Mrs. Rickett looked annoyed, but everyone else looked wary and then worried.
“Perhaps we shouldn't have allowed the girls go,” Miss Laburnum said.
Trot crawled into her mother's lap. “Shh,” Mrs. Brightford said, patting her. “It's all right.” No, it's not, Polly thought, watching their faces. They had the same look they'd had when the knocking began. If the raid didn't let up soon…
Every anti-aircraft gun in London was firing—a chorus of deafening thump-thump-thumps, punctuated by the thud and crash of bombs. The din grew louder and louder. Everyone's eyes strayed to the ceiling, as if expecting it to crash in at any moment. There was a screech, like tearing metal, and then an ear-splitting boom. Miss Hibbard jumped and dropped her knitting, and Bess bega
n to cry.
“The bombardment does seem rather more severe this evening,” the rector said.
Rather more severe. It sounded like the planes—and the anti-aircraft guns—were fighting it out in the sanctuary upstairs. Kensington wasn't hit, she told herself.
“Perhaps we should sing,” the rector shouted over the cacophony.
“That's an excellent idea,” Mrs. Wyvern said, and launched into, “God save our noble king.” Miss Laburnum and then Mr. Simms joined in, but they could scarcely be heard above the roar and scream outside, and the rector made no attempt to go on to the second verse. One by one, everyone stopped singing and stared anxiously up at the ceiling.
An HE exploded so close the beams of the shelter shook, followed immediately by another even closer, drowning out the sound of the guns, but not the planes droning endlessly, maddeningly overhead. “Why isn't it letting up?” Viv asked, and Polly could hear the panic in her voice.
“I don't like it!” Trot wailed, clapping her small hands over her ears. “It's loud!”
“Indeed,” the elderly gentleman said from his corner. “‘The isle is full of noises,’” and Polly looked over at him in surprise. His voice had changed completely from the quiet, well-bred voice of a gentleman to a deep, commanding tone which made even the little girls stop crying and look at him.
He shut his book and laid it on the floor beside him. “‘With strange and several noises,’” he said, getting to his feet, “‘of roaring…’” He shrugged his coat from his shoulders, as if throwing off a cloak to reveal himself as a magician, a king. “‘With shrieking, howling, and more diversity of sounds, all horrible, we were awaked.’”
Nebula Awards Showcase 2012 Page 16
