Mohinder's War

by Bali Rai

  He sprinted towards the fuel drums, and I kept pace. We ducked behind them just in time. Two Germans appeared from a side door of the aerodrome. They stood by some smaller wooden crates, and one of them picked up some matches to light their cigarettes. They stood for five minutes, chatting and laughing, before going back inside.

  ‘This time you wait,’ said Mo, pulling a length of rubber tube from a drum. ‘I will check the fuel.’

  The Bücker Bü 131 was nearly twenty feet long with wings that were slightly wider. It looked even more comical close up, but what did I know? Mo was the pilot, and he seemed convinced of its worth. Who was I to question him? Instead, I kept an eye on the door, praying that more Germans didn’t appear. When Mo returned, he smelt of petrol. He gave me a thumbs up and smiled.

  ‘It’s good,’ he told me. ‘They must keep it ready to fly.’

  ‘How did you check the fuel level?’ I asked.

  ‘The rubber tube,’ he explained. ‘You push it into the tank and suck until the fuel hits yours lips. The quicker the fuel appears, the fuller the tank.’

  ‘That’s why you reek of it?’

  Mo smiled.

  ‘What’s the harm in another odour now?’ he asked. ‘We smell like farm animals already.’

  ‘Won’t the Germans hear the engine starting?’

  ‘Yes, they will,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got a plan for that as well.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  Mo told me to get into the rear cockpit of the plane and wait.

  ‘But…’

  ‘Just listen,’ he insisted. ‘Please, Joelle! You’ll find goggles and a flight jacket. Put them on. There’s a helmet too. We’ll be flying low, but it will get very cold up there.’

  ‘How cold?’

  ‘Just do it!’ he snapped.

  Annoyed, I trudged over to the plane and used a wooden step to clamber into the cockpit. Close up, I could see that the wings were made of wood and fabric, while the body was metal of some sort. The cockpit was small, with a single seat, but big enough for me. As I put on the goggles, jacket and helmet – all way too big for me – I watched Mo. He pushed a fuel drum over and the viscous liquid began to slop on to the ground. Then he slowly heaved the drum towards the plane, leaving a trail of fuel. Just before he reached me, he let the drum go and ran over to where the Germans had been smoking. The matches were still on the crates, and he grabbed the entire box.

  He sprinted back to the plane and clambered aboard, and put on his own jacket, goggles and hat.

  ‘Hold tight,’ he told me. ‘Things are about to get a little hot.’

  He took several matches, struck them, and dropped them to the ground. Instantly, the fuel took light. Grinning, he threw the whole box into the flames.

  ‘Time to go!’ he shouted, gunning the engine.

  The plane exploded into life. It sounded like a bomb on ignition, and very quickly, he was steering us away from the aerodrome and towards freedom. Behind us, the Germans came running, but suddenly a real explosion rocked the earth beneath us. There were nine or ten fuel drums in the path of Mo’s flames and half them had exploded. The rest went up in ones and twos, and suddenly everything around them was ablaze. A siren began to howl and then the gunshots started.

  ‘Hold on!’ Mo yelled above the din.

  He gunned the throttle and soon we were racing away from the aerodrome. And then, without any warning, the plane’s nose tilted skywards, and we were climbing into the air. My stomach somersaulted and I felt sick, as a gust of wind buffeted the plane. The ground beneath us zinged with gunfire, and then the bullets whooshed past us.

  ‘JUST A FEW MORE SECONDS!’ Mo shouted.

  ‘WHAT?’

  His reply was lost in the rush of air and turbulence and engine noise. The wings rattled and the plane’s body creaked. A bullet hit the rear, inches from where I sat. A second one whizzed past my head. I closed my eyes and began to pray.

  NINETEEN

  When I opened my eyes, we had escaped the airfield and were flying high above open countryside. Here and there I could see faint lights, but little else on the ground. It was just a mass of black. Above us were dark grey clouds and the wind buffeted us all the way, blasting my face and making breathing difficult at times.

  ‘HOW LONG WILL IT TAKE?’ I yelled, but my words were instantly lost. The noise from the propellers and engines, and the wind, made conversation impossible.

  Mo turned his head and gave me a thumbs-up sign, which I reciprocated. Then, with little else to do, I sat back and tried to make out what was below us. It took a while for my eyes to adjust, but there was not much to see. In front of me were several dials, none of which made any sense except for the compass. This showed that we were flying north-west, at a steady angle. I assumed that Mo knew which way to go but wondered how he would know for sure in the darkness.

  The wings creaked and groaned once again, and then I heard a slight ripping sound. Alarmed, I considered tapping Mo on the shoulder, but didn’t. He must have heard it too, and it didn’t seem to bother him.

  Suddenly, Mo changed direction, to our left and upwards, and my stomach flipped over and the breath caught in my throat. The move left me shaken, and I wondered why he’d made it, until I heard the roar of faster and more mobile planes. Mo gestured below and I peered into the night, but despite the new engine noise, I could not see any planes. Three of them must have passed close to us, and then all was normal once again.

  Mo lowered our altitude, re-setting our direction by the compass. We were flying due north now, with just a slight western variation after a few minutes. I longed to ask him about flying the plane, but there was little point. Instead, I thought of Maman and Papa. They had talked of flying as a great dream to be fulfilled someday. Here I was, living their dreams for them, as they lay buried under the soil of our beautiful country.

  I began to cry then, sobbing uncontrollably and without embarrassment. Up there, amongst the dark clouds, no one could hear my wailing, and no one could judge my tears. Every emotion I’d held since that awful day exploded, until there was nothing left inside me. My eyes stung and my throat grew hoarse, but a great burden had been lifted. I was not free of sorrow, of course. That would never truly leave me. But I did feel better, and that was worth a great deal.

  Soon, I closed my eyes again and began to drift off, my head lolling, until everything faded away…

  An abrupt rush of turbulence snapped me from my dreams. The plane was tilting to the right and Mo seemed to be struggling. I had no idea how long I’d been asleep, nor where we were. I felt dazed, still half asleep, and unable to think properly. Below, there was only darkness and nothing in the skies all around us. I wondered how far we had come, and how close England was.

  The plane lolled sideways again, and then it began to descend rapidly. My insides churned and I thought that I might vomit, but finally Mo managed to rectify the problem. He turned to me and smiled. I could not smile in return. He gestured below and shouted something. I gestured to my ears and shook my head. He tried again, and this time I understood.

  ‘ENGLAND!’

  My eyes widened. I pointed downwards and nodded. Mo nodded in return. Had I slept for the entire journey, I wondered. Or had it been that fast?

  A sudden blast rocked the plane. It veered leftwards and sank at pace, and I screamed. Mo spun around and began struggling with the controls once more. Another blast exploded to my right and I saw a cloud of smoke. I had no idea what was being fired at us. I only knew that we were under attack.

  Mo managed to wrestle control, but now he was taking evasive action. The plane shuddered and screeched, and I feared that it might break in half. The metal beneath my feet flexed and squealed. He turned to the right, then left, then right again. The plane was rigid and did not respond quickly. And the projectiles continued to rain in.

  Mo tried to bring the nose up, to take us higher and away from the missiles, but it would not respond…

  And then, just as
my head cracked against the instrument cluster, the engine died, and I fell unconscious…

  When I came to, I was being carried on a man’s shoulders. I struggled to move but my left arm was broken. The pain caused me to vomit.

  ‘MO!’ I screamed through the pain.

  The man did not reply, and then I heard more people. English people. They had gathered by a farmhouse, and when I was laid down, a woman’s kindly face appeared above me. She had blonde hair and pale blue eyes. She smiled warmly.

  ‘Stay calm, young lady,’ she said. ‘You’re safe now.’

  She cleaned my face with a damp rag and stayed until a medic arrived. He was old and gruff in appearance, but he smiled too.

  ‘You’re very lucky,’ he told me. ‘Only a broken arm. We’ll have you fixed up in no time.’

  ‘My friend…?’ I croaked. ‘Mo?’

  ‘The pilot?’ asked the kindly woman.

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘He’s in the wreckage. The military police will get him. Dirty Nazi…’

  I shook my head.

  ‘No!’ I said. ‘He is British. Mohinder Singh, RAF. We escaped!’

  The two of them looked puzzled.

  ‘RAF?’

  ‘YES!’ I said, wincing in pain. ‘Please, help him!’

  The woman turned and approached another man, this one in a dark uniform, and began to point. I assumed she was gesturing towards the crashed plane. I couldn’t hear her words, but she seemed insistent. The uniformed man nodded and took off at pace. The woman returned to me.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she told me. ‘I told them about your friend.’

  The medic filled a syringe and injected my good arm.

  ‘Morphine,’ he explained. ‘Just close your eyes and the pain will soon be gone.’

  I did as he asked and prayed that Mo would survive. I wanted to get up and help him, but the drug coursing through my veins prevented it. Instead, I passed out once again.

  I did not see Mo again for nearly a week. His condition was critical and he had been moved to a military hospital. I remained behind and stayed with a local family. The Warrens were generous and warm-hearted, but I spent my time worrying about Mo. Praying that he would survive his injuries. I had nothing save for the clothes I wore, and was given no updates as to Mo’s chances of survival. I could not sleep and had little appetite for sustenance or cheer.

  Our time together, however brief, had brought us as close as father and daughter. Our bond of love and trust, and mutual support, was solid. My parents were gone forever. I had left Beatrice behind, and felt as though I’d abandoned poor Mrs Moreau. My best friend had been taken, my home and my country were lost to me. All that remained were memories of a life no longer lived, and Mo. I could not bear to lose him too.

  So, on that morning I was taken to see him, my gloom lifted. Miraculously, he had survived. The nurse explained that he would soon be well enough to leave.

  ‘He might walk with a limp,’ she added. ‘But he’s been very lucky. And brave too.’

  She glanced at my broken arm.

  ‘You as well, by the look of it.’ Her smile was full of kindness and cheer.

  As I sat watching Mo sleep, I wondered what fate would bring. Would we be allowed to remain together? Would Mo stay in England and stay with me? It was a strange feeling – both hopeful and frightening at once. Yet despite my fears and recurrent melancholy, I began to dream of making a new home somewhere. For the first time since my parents had died, a brighter future seemed possible. A tiny sliver of light entered my heart, a little piece of hope renewed.

  Smiling, I took hold of Mo’s hand and thought of Maman and Papa in brighter, happier times.

  EPILOGUE

  When she was finished, Joelle wiped away a single tear. She took hold of my hand and gave it a squeeze.

  ‘I must leave,’ she told me. ‘It’s a long way back to Scotland.’

  ‘No!’ I replied. ‘You have to stay. Please, you need to meet my mum. And what about your story? People should hear it.’

  Joelle shook her head.

  ‘It was our story,’ she said sadly. ‘It belonged to Mo and me. Now he is gone, and I have no wish to tell it again.’

  ‘But someone should write it down,’ I insisted. ‘Like at school, we learn about World War Two, but no one ever tells us about people like my great-grandfather.’

  ‘Then you write it down,’ she replied. ‘You tell our story.’

  ‘But I’ve got so many questions,’ I told her. ‘What happened after my great-grandfather left hospital and where did you go?’

  Joelle stood and took an iPhone from her pocket.

  ‘My granddaughter taught me to use this,’ she said. ‘There’s an app for taxis. Mine has arrived…’

  ‘But…?’

  Joelle took my hand.

  ‘Walk with me,’ she said.

  We strolled down to the main road, where her cab stood waiting.

  ‘The only thing you need to know is that Mo saved me and looked after me,’ Joelle said. ‘He was the kindest and most noble human being I have ever known. What he did for me was so selfless, so brave, that I feel humbled still. That is all that matters, Simpreet. The rest isn’t important. Just make it up.’

  I asked her for her contact information, but she shook her head.

  ‘I live just north of Loch Ness,’ she told me. ‘If you’re ever up that way, find me. There aren’t many Joelle Bretons where I live. Besides, when you go through Mo’s things, you’ll find my address on the letters. Write to me. I’d like that.’

  ‘So, you’re leaving?’ I asked. ‘Just like that?’

  Joelle nodded.

  ‘I’ve been leaving my entire life,’ she replied. ‘It’s what I do best.’

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  First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  This electronic edition published 2020

  Text copyright © Bali Rai, 2020

  Bali Rai has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: PB: 978-1-4729-5837-2; ePDF; 978-1-4729-5838-9; ePub: 978-1-4729-5839-6

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