by Debbie Rix
‘Liebling…’ it was her mother, knocking on the door. ‘Can I come in?’
‘No!’ Magda cried. ‘No… leave me alone. I don’t deserve your sympathy. I’m a fool – an idiot. What was I thinking?’
‘Magda…’ her mother said gently, through the door. ‘I understand – I do. You loved this young man – I see that now. But if it was Otto who did this to you… your father will kill him.’
‘No…’ Magda cried, rushing to the door and opening it – her hair wild, her face stinging with salty tears. ‘Mutti… I beg you. Don’t tell Papa – please.’
‘Magda,’ Käthe said, holding her daughter’s hands, ‘we can’t keep it from him – he will notice soon enough…’
Later that evening, as she lay on her bed listening to her father sweeping the yard, hearing the door to the kitchen slamming shut and the muted voices of her parents deep in conversation, Magda dragged herself from her bed. She felt exhausted, her eyes red and raw from crying. She splashed water on her face, and brushed her hair. She would go downstairs, and explain everything to her father. He loved her, she knew that. He would understand, and she would get through this – somehow.
Coming quietly downstairs she stood listening at the kitchen door.
‘I don’t know which one I hate more…’ Pieter was saying, his voice uncharacteristically harsh and so unlike her own dear, gentle father.
‘I know,’ her mother said gently. ‘But at least she loved Michael – whereas Otto, he’s always been a bad lot, an evil boy. She swears she and the English boy were careful. But Otto… he had no thought for her. They say he got Erika pregnant and then deserted her, did you know that?’
‘That bastard,’ Pieter said. ‘I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him.’
Magda listened as he stamped across the room. She heard the jangle of keys as he unlocked something.
‘Pieter…’ her mother was saying. ‘Please calm yourself – put the gun down. Otto’s not even in the village any more. He went back to the front the next day. What are you going to do – travel hundreds of miles to hunt him down?’
Magda pushed open the kitchen door, just as her father sank down onto his chair, the shotgun laid across his lap.
‘Little Magda – my little girl,’ he sobbed. ‘We weren’t here… we let her down, Käthe. What shall we do?’
‘Mutti… Papa…’ she stood in the doorway – a ghostly figure, her blonde hair a halo of gold above her pale face. She knelt down by her father and lifted the gun carefully from his lap, placing it on the floor. ‘There’s nothing you can do, Papa. If I’m pregnant then I shall have a child. And yes, it’s true – I don’t know who the father is. If it’s the child of one, then I will be happy. If it’s the child of the other, I don’t know what I will do… but either way, it’s not the child’s fault, is it?’
‘Oh Magda,’ her mother began.
‘No, Mutti, it’s all right. I’ve had all afternoon to think about it. And I’m not going to feel sorry for myself any more. Terrible things happen in war. People are killed and maimed, whole families are destroyed. Right now, cities are being bombed, thousands and thousands of people are homeless, whole communities have been imprisoned, and worse. But we are safe, at least for now, on the farm. We have food, water, and a roof over our heads. And all that’s changed is that I’m expecting a baby, just like millions of other women. We must just go on, and one day – Mutti, Papa – one day this will all make sense, I promise.’
She hugged her father to her, as he sobbed into her shoulder like a child being comforted by his parent.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Fort Southwick, Portsmouth
June 1944
Imogen’s initial disappointment that she wasn’t working in the main plotting room with other Wrens, was soon replaced by a real enthusiasm for her new job. As the only Wren amongst a group of high-powered naval officers, she felt a little lonely at times. With no other girls to chat to, she was certainly isolated, but at lunchtime she had a chance to meet other Wrens in the cramped underground NAAFI canteen. And the Commander was a hard-working man whom she came to admire and respect. He rarely left his post and was unfailingly polite. She soon got to grips with her role – keeping a chart of the movements of every single vessel that formed the invasion fleet.
One afternoon, she returned from her lunch break to find the Commander waiting patiently at her station. Standing next to him was the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill.
‘Ah, Wren Mitchell, I wonder if you could show us your chart, please?’
Her hands trembling, she laid out her chart, revealing a complete breakdown of every ship, landing craft, motor torpedo boat and minesweeping vessel in the invasion fleet. The great man, puffing on his cigar, leant over the table with the Commander and together they studied the chart. Imogen stood anxiously to one side, hardly daring to breathe, terrified the Commander might spot an error. But he smiled up at her and winked.
‘Excellent,’ he said.
Imogen exhaled audibly. ‘Thank you, sir.’
She felt a combination of relief and pride that the Prime Minister had taken the trouble to come down into the bowels of the operations room and examine her work. After a few moments he too looked up at her.
‘Very good,’ he said. ‘My daughter, Diana, she’s in the Wrens… very well done.’
Imogen glowed. ‘Thank you very much, sir.’
‘Well, Prime Minister,’ said the Commander, ‘if you’ve seen enough?’
Churchill nodded, exhaled cigar smoke, and left.
That evening, as they lay in bed after lights out, Imogen felt compelled to say something to Joy about Churchill’s visit.
‘I had a visitor today,’ she said coyly.
‘Oh yes,’ said Joy, who was reading a book by torchlight.
‘The Prime Minister came down to see what we were doing.’
‘Winnie! Really? He walked past our office earlier, but I didn’t actually meet him. You are lucky – what was he like? Did he say anything, or shake your hand?’
‘Not really. He said well done, which was nice, studied my work, blew cigar smoke in my face, and left.’
‘Well, I think I’d take that as something of a compliment,’ said Joy.
As the weeks went on, the strict instructions to stay in the grounds gradually eased. All the staff worked long hours, but on their rare afternoons off they were allowed to visit the pretty red brick village of Southwick for a game of tennis, or a much-needed walk.
Occasionally they travelled further afield to Southsea, catching one of the battered naval buses, nicknamed ‘liberty boats’. If the weather was nice, they sunbathed on the beach, and on a rare evening off went to see Joe Loss and his orchestra on the pier. As Imogen listened to the band playing ‘In the Mood’, she was reminded of the evening she’d spent with Benjamin dancing at the Grosvenor House Hotel. She had a momentary surge of affection for him. Most of the time she was so immersed in her work that she hardly thought of him at all. But somehow, listening to the band, she recalled how he had put his arms around her, how beautiful he had made her feel. She missed him, she realised.
‘Are you all right, old thing?’ Joy whispered, noticing her friend sniffing slightly, and dabbing at her eyes.
‘Yes,’ said Imogen. ‘I was just thinking about the last time I heard that song. I was at a dance with Benjamin.’
‘You must miss Benjamin terribly,‘ Joy said, as they waited later that evening for their transport.
‘I suppose I do,’ said Imogen. ‘To be honest, most of the time I’m working so hard I hardly have time to think. But this evening, listening to that band, brought it all back. Made him more real, if you know what I mean?’
‘I think so,’ said Joy uncertainly, as they climbed aboard the bus. ‘Do you mean he doesn’t feel real most of the time?’
‘Yes… It’s as if he was someone in a dream. It sounds mad I suppose, but meeting him and getting engaged, it was all such a whirlwind. I sometimes wonde
r if I made him up.’
‘I’ve not heard from Werner since we left London,’ said Joy. ‘And I know I didn’t make him up. We went out a few times; he was fun and I liked him a lot. But now I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. And there was me thinking we might get married one day. I’m such an idiot.’
‘Oh Joy,’ said Imogen, squeezing her hand. ‘Perhaps we just ought to put them both out of our minds. There are more important things to think about, after all.’
‘You’re right,’ said Joy. ‘Work has to be uppermost now. And from what I can see – at least from the messages I type – the big push is coming any day now.’
From the beginning of June the weather grew unseasonably grey and overcast. Joy and Imogen regularly woke to the sound of rain hammering against the Nissen hut windows.
‘Not again,’ said Imogen, as they climbed out of bed. ‘I wonder how long this is due to go on?’
‘Not only is it a bore,’ said Joy, ‘but it makes the whole operation a bit of a no-go, doesn’t it?’ She pulled on her shirt and stared gloomily out at the rain. ‘I typed out some missive yesterday,’ she whispered. ‘They’re waiting for another weather report from the Chief Met Officer.’
Down in the operations room Imogen could sense the tension. In the bowels of Fort Southwick they had no way of knowing what the weather was doing hour by hour, but everyone was keenly aware that the invasion’s success depended on clear, dry conditions. The Commander was unusually short-tempered with Imogen, and at lunchtime she decided to avoid the underground canteen with its sense of claustrophobia and catch the bus back to the military canteen parked in the grounds of Southwick House. Queuing up for her tea and sandwich, she was relieved the weather had brightened up since that morning and some of the Wrens were playing a cricket match against the officers on the lawns of the house. As she watched the match, and sipped her tea, a large Rolls-Royce Phantom drew up in front of the house. Welcoming the car were Admiral Ramsay and General Montgomery standing on the front steps. Out of the Phantom climbed King George VI. The three men shook hands and disappeared inside the house.
‘Looks like something’s up,’ said a rating standing next to her.
The following morning at 0415 hours, the decision was taken. The invasion would take place the next day – 6th June. The excitement on the base was palpable, and after breakfast, the Wrens combed the lawns of Southwick House for four-leaf clovers to give to their commanding officers.
‘I’ve got one!’ Joy shouted.
‘Are you sure?’ said Imogen, disappointed to have been beaten to the task by her friend.
‘Yes, come and look.’
Imogen examined the tiny plant lying in Joy’s palm. ‘You’re right! You’ve found one – a real four-leaf clover. Do you know I’ve never seen one before? I always thought they must be a myth. Well done, Joy. But do keep looking – I must get one for Commander Pierce.’
Imogen continuing scouring the grounds.
‘I’ve got one!’ she called out triumphantly.
‘It’s quite ridiculous,’ she said to Joy as they walked towards the house, ‘but the thought of not being able to give a four-leaf clover to Commander Pierce this morning seemed unbearable. As if the success of the landings had anything to do with such a daft superstition!’
‘I know,’ said Joy. ‘But you’ve got one now. And he’ll be pleased – you wait and see.
In the Operations room, Imogen laid her four-leaf clover on the table in front of the Commander.
‘What’s this?’ he said, looking up at her, rather grumpily.
‘A four-leafed clover, sir. We’ve all collected them – all the Wrens. We wanted to give them to you this morning.’
‘Well that’s very thoughtful, Wren Mitchell, I must say. I don’t like to think we need luck. After all, we have planning on our side. But this morning, I think I’ll take all the luck’s that’s going.’
Standing on the roof of Fort Southwick as the vast fleet of ships and minesweepers sailed majestically out of the wide bay, Imogen felt a huge sense of elation and pride. The sea shimmered an opalescent grey-blue in the milky sunlight; overhead thousands of gliders were towed out over the Channel, like a vast flock of birds darkening the sky. Once in France the gliders would disgorge their cargo of paratroopers who would jump behind enemy lines, seize vital positions and, God willing, link up with the Allied forces landing on the beaches. It was plan of such complexity, such daring and bravery that Imogen, watching with the other Wrens, had tears of pride in her eyes.
Back in the operations room the team worked tirelessly for the next twenty-four hours, as they plotted the progress of the invasion force. When they finally took a break, they all felt deflated and exhausted after the excitement and anxiety of the previous few months as the adrenalin gradually seeped away.
When Imogen finally lay down, fully clothed, on her bed she fell instantly asleep. She was woken by Joy rushing excitedly into the Nissen hut.
‘Imogen, Imogen.’ Joy threw herself onto her bunk, and shook her friend. ‘Wake up! Oh do wake up, Imogen.’
Imogen stirred. ‘What is it?’ she mumbled.
‘They’re asking for volunteers to go to France!’
Imogen rolled over and studied her friend, sleepily.
‘To France?’ she said. ‘They want us to go to France?’
‘Yes!’ said Joy. ‘They’ve put a list up on the noticeboard in the entrance hall of the main house. It’s filling up already – so do come on! Get up and let’s get our names down.’
‘Do you really want to go to France?’ Imogen asked, dragging herself out of bed and trying to locate her shoes.
‘Well I don’t want to spend the rest of the war typing boring missives from one commander to the other. So yes, I do want to go, don’t you?’
Imogen sat up straight and ran her fingers through her tousled hair. She felt a glimmer of excitement spreading through her body. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I suppose I do. You’re right – what else would we do?’
As neither girl was yet twenty-one, their parents’ permission had to be sought. Imogen wrote an impassioned letter home to her mother.
Dearest Mummy and Daddy,
I do so hope you are both quite well. It seems an age since we last saw one another, and also since I wrote to you both. I’m sorry for such a long silence. It’s been rather difficult of late to find the time to write. For the last two months I’ve been stationed down in Portsmouth – helping with the planning of something very important. I imagine you can guess what it was. I’ve been dying to tell you, but it’s all been rather top secret; we weren’t even allowed to tell anyone where we were based. Do you remember when I last wrote I had to give my address as Naval Party 1645, Base Fleet mail office, Reading? Well, my dears, that was a complete fib! I was actually living in a Nissen hut in the grounds of a beautiful house called Southwick on the outskirts of Portsmouth. We worked long hours and I felt, truly, that I was doing something important. I even met Mr Churchill and saw the King once or twice.
Now, before I come on to the purpose of my letter, how is my beloved Honey? Is she still behaving? Not getting too many treats I hope. She does so love your biscuits. And how is Edith? Is she well? And you and Daddy – how is Daddy’s indigestion? I do hope you’re not being too bothered by the war.
Mummy, I am writing to ask a huge favour. I’ve been asked if I’d like to go over to France as part of Admiral Ramsay’s advance party. We’re to help set up communications and so on for the senior staff. They will be writing to ask your permission. Please grant it? I beg you. I know you’ll be worried about me, but really – nothing can be as dangerous as living in London during the bombing. I promise to try to write again as soon as we get to Northern France.
Joy is hoping to come with me. If you speak to Mrs Carr – do beg her to agree also. I’d so hate to go alone.
All my love,
Imogen.
PS Have you heard how Freddie’s getting on?
As she wro
te the postscript, she realised she had still not told her mother about Ben. Instead she had asked for news about Freddie. In some way, her parents and Freddie were always linked, whereas Ben seemed alien to the family. Either way, she thought, fingering the ring that hung on a chain round her neck, it wouldn’t be right to break the news of her engagement in a letter.
Permission was quickly granted, and once they had been equipped for their journey – kitted out with bell-bottom trousers, square-necked tops, jerseys and fawn duffle coats – they were allowed a short leave before they departed for France.
‘What shall we do?’ asked Joy as they collected their kit from Portsmouth docks. ‘Go to London? Or back home?’
Imogen felt conflicted. If they went to London there was a chance she might see Ben. Perhaps if she saw him she could rekindle what she had felt about him before she had left for Portsmouth. On the other hand, if they went home, she would see her parents and maybe she would hear news of Freddie. He might even be there.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’d love to go home, obviously. But the thought of going back into the war when one had been at home with all that love and comfort and nice food – how could we do it?’
‘Because it’s our duty!’ said Joy pragmatically. ‘We’ve been chosen to go to France and we’re lucky. Did you see all those others – the ones who didn’t get chosen – all crying their eyes out when they realised their names weren’t on the list, poor things. Oh Imogen! It will be so exciting. But we ought to go home and see the aged p’s first, don’t you think?’
‘Don’t you want to see Werner in London?’ Imogen asked.
‘I’d love to of course, but I’m not even sure he’s there. He was planning a trip abroad when we left. Why don’t we stop off in London and stay in a hotel just for one night? If Ben and Werner are around we can meet up, and then we can head off the next day for Newcastle. How does that sound?’
