by Debbie Rix
5th October 1944
Blickling Hall,
Norfolk
Dearest Ginny,
How lovely to get your letter and how right you are – my tennis is as terrible as ever! You’ll be glad to hear, however, that my flying is improving, which is fortunate because otherwise I’d have ended in the drink several times by now. As you can see from my address I’m now based in Norfolk – we’re part of a new squadron. I can’t tell you much more than that, as I’m sure you realise, but things are going well. Believe it or not I’m now a fully-fledged officer in charge of a magnificent plane called ‘The Flying Fortress’. She’s a beauty – big and bold and feels like home whenever I get behind the controls.
I’m glad to hear you’ve landed on your feet in Paris. You lucky thing! I hear it’s wonderful and I long to go there myself. I spend my life flying thousands of feet up in the air over places I yearn to visit. One day maybe you can show it to me?
I’m so relieved you understand what I was trying to say when we last met. It wasn’t easy to say. You know, I think, what I feel for you. No one can hold a candle to you and that’s the truth. You’re a very special girl Ginny and I’m lucky to know you. You must know – from your own work – that there’s a feeling in the air that this thing is nearly over. The Germans are losing ground everywhere. One more big push and we’ll win. The end’s in sight and with luck we’ll all be together again soon.
Take care of yourself dearest Ginny, and here’s to the end of the war.
All my love,
Freddie
It wasn’t a declaration of love, but it was as much as she could hope for in the circumstances. At that moment she knew she had been right to finish with Ben. It was Freddie she still loved, and reading between the lines perhaps he loved her too. She was smiling, and re-reading Freddie’s letter with tears in her eyes, when the Admiral arrived.
‘Is everything arranged,’ he asked, ‘for tomorrow?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, slipping the letter into her office drawer. ‘Your plane leaves at 0900 hours from the airport down the road. I’ve arranged a car to collect you at 0830. You should be in Brussels by lunchtime.’
‘Good. And everything all right with you?’ he asked affectionately.
‘Oh yes, sir. Everything’s very good indeed, actually.’
‘Excellent. And you all had fun last night – New Year’s Eve and all that?’
‘Yes. The others went into the village. I went to Paris.’
‘It lived up to expectations I hope?’ he asked with a smile.
‘It was decisive, thank you sir.’
‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Well, I’d better get on.’
‘I’ll put a file of papers together for you, sir – to take with you tomorrow.’
That evening she wrote back to Freddie, explaining that his letter had been delayed. It was a happy letter filled with news of her work and her life in France. She told him how much she enjoyed working for the Admiral.
He’s one of those men who says a great deal with very few words. I’m sure you know what I mean. He’s utterly loyal and kind and courteous to everyone around him.
Of her life with the other Wrens, she wrote:
We live in a hut in the gardens of a chateau. It’s freezing and rather grim, but somehow we just get along. We played hockey in the snow over Christmas – can you imagine? It was marvellous. And we have a beautiful ballroom, and put on dances – Scottish reeling is popular! Write soon.
All my love,
Ginny
The following morning it was snowing hard. As Imogen dressed, putting on her old fawn duffle coat and boots, she picked up her letter to post at the chateau. She thought fondly about Freddie and realised that if she had received his last letter before Christmas, she would probably have ended with Ben straight away. Now, she felt free to return his affection. It was too soon to declare love, but they had a chance to allow their relationship to develop over time, and she had a feeling of optimism as she clambered into the bus heading for work.
The bus took its normal route between Chateau St Cloud and their work headquarters in Saint Germain en Laye. The road was icy, and at one point got stuck at the bottom of a hill. The Wrens had to get out and push.
‘We’ve got to get a move on,’ Imogen said to the driver, anxiously checking her watch. ‘The Admiral’s leaving in half an hour and I’ve got to give him some papers.’
‘I’m doing all I can,’ replied the driver irritably. ‘Push harder.’
When she finally arrived at the chateau, the Admiral had already left. The file of papers she had collected for him still lay on her desk.
‘Damn,’ she said under breath.
Imogen was typing up some notes, when a rating rushed into her office.
‘Have you heard the news?’ he asked, breathlessly.
‘No,’ she said, suddenly anxious. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s the Admiral. His plane crashed as they were taking off – snow, or ice on the propellers, or something.’
‘Is he hurt?’ asked Imogen, instinctively putting on her coat, preparing to go down to the airfield to help.
‘Oh no,’ said the rating, ‘he’s dead I’m afraid… they all are – no survivors.’
Imogen felt numb at the news; the Admiral had been such a kind man. In spite of her grief, she worked tirelessly – helping to arrange his funeral in the cemetery opposite Chateau d’Hennement. All the senior military personnel were invited, and there was a flurry of excitement when General Eisenhower arrived in his jeep, his outriders wearing their customary white helmets, gauntlets and gaiters.
‘Here come the snowdrops,’ whispered Joy when they saw his party arrive.
Imogen, in tears, barely noticed her friend. In gently falling snow, the funeral party assembled – the Admiral’s family first, then the top brass, and finally the Wrens.
‘He was such a good man,’ Imogen whispered to Joy, at the graveside, ‘I just can’t believe he’s gone.’
The following day his family were due to spend some time alone at the graveside before flying home to England. Imogen and some of the other Wrens went out to the cemetery to check everything was tidy before the family arrived and found the grave covered in over a foot of snow. As they shook the snow off the wreaths, the air was filled with the scent of fresh greenery and Christmas roses.
Over the following weeks, Imogen and Freddie struck up a correspondence.
In spite of the war, and the constant danger he was in, his letters were filled with positivity. He was busy and loving life.
We play squash every day if we can, he wrote, especially when waiting for an op to start. It helps to fill the time and use the adrenalin.
He included a charming drawing of Blickling Hall – a stunning little pencil sketch of the Elizabethan building, which clearly demonstrated his enormous talent. Imogen replied, sending him a drawing of Chateau d’Hennement – a complex Neo-Gothic structure with turrets and crenellations, its arched windows edged in pale coping stones. She was proud of her sketch; it was almost as good as his, and she expected a letter by reply – perhaps with some encouraging comment about her drawing ability. But as the weeks went by, none came.
In early April, she received a letter from her mother.
Gosforth
My darling Imogen,
Not to beat about the bush, I have news of Freddie McMasters. I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible that he’s MIA. He was shot down a couple of weeks ago – somewhere near Stuttgart. The RAF have let his parents know, and Marjorie is in terrible distress, as I’m sure you can imagine. There’s no way of knowing what happened exactly. His plane did not return to RAF Oulton, so one assumes it was shot down. None of his fellow pilots saw it happening, so information is sketchy. We can only hope and pray that he and his crew got out in time.
Do write to Marjorie. I’m sure she’d appreciate a kind word at this terrible time. And pray for Freddie.
Your loving mot
her
Imogen burst into tears as she read her mother’s letter. She lay on her bed sobbing. Joy, returning from the bathroom, rushed to her side.
‘Darling – what on earth’s the matter?’
‘It’s Freddie,’ said Imogen. ‘He’s been shot down over Germany. He’s missing.’
‘Oh no,’ said Joy. ‘I’m so sorry. I know how fond you are of him.’
‘I’m not just fond of him, Joy, I love him. And I never told him, not really. And now he might be dead and he’ll never know what I felt.’
‘Oh Ginny,’ said Joy, lying next to her friend and wrapping her in her arms. ‘You can’t be sure of that. And he did know you love him – he’s always known. Don’t lose faith. Missing is not actually… well, you know.’
Imogen looked up at her friend. ‘You think he might be alive?’
‘Yes, I do. I don’t know him, of course, but from you’ve told me about him, Freddie McMasters won’t go down without a fight.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Färsehof Farm
March 1945
The RAF bombing raids over Germany were increasing. The main targets were oil refineries, railways and marshalling yards. A bomb dropped on any of these would disrupt troop movements and frustrate the development of armaments and equipment. 100 Group, based in Norfolk, supported these raids with countermeasures: Flying Fortresses, filled with jamming gear and German-speaking radio operators, flew high above waves of Lancaster bombers intercepting the Luftwaffe’s own intelligence and diverting German pilots away from the real raids. As a result, more of the Allied planes got through to their targets, and the destruction was widespread. Increasingly smaller towns and villages were also targeted – whether to simply destroy the morale of the German people, or because the Allies had information that German troops were suspected of sheltering in village schools and halls.
In those early months of 1945, Magda was often woken in the middle of night by the sound of planes rumbling overhead on their way back from a raid over Augsburg or Munich, flying very low to avoid the night fighters and German flak. She would take the baby into bed with her, to soothe her.
One night she woke with a start, as a bomb exploded nearby. Her father knocked on her door moments later.
‘Magda, Magda! Wake up. We should get down to the cellar, now. Quick Liebling.’
The family sheltered for the rest of the night down in the cellar, listening to the roar of planes and the crashing of bombs. When they emerged, shakily, early the next morning, they found one of their barns – where they stored the tractor and other machinery – had taken a direct hit.
‘Oh my God,’ muttered Pieter as he and Magda inspected the damage, rubble spilling into the yard. ‘What are we supposed to do now?’
‘Well just be grateful it wasn’t the milking parlour. We could have lost the herd,’ Magda said pragmatically.
Käthe came running out of the house, weeping. ‘Oh no! I can’t believe it was so close – it could have been us! Or the house!’
‘Well it wasn’t,’ said Magda, hugging the baby to her chest. ‘I’m going back inside to get dressed. Mutti, will you look after Michaela, while I help Papa clear up? And we’ve still got to do the milking.’
They rescued as much of the equipment as they could and stowed it in the milking parlour. The cows, which had not yet been turned out into the fields for the summer, were milked by hand, as usual. As the herd rested on their bed of straw in the barn, Magda went outside and sat on the stone bench in the yard, her face raised to the sun. Daffodils and snowdrops poked their way through the melting snow at the edges of the fields. In spite the bombing, she had a sense of optimism.
In the late afternoon, she offered to go into the village to collect some supplies.
‘You look after the baby,’ she said to her mother, ‘I’ll do the shopping. I need a walk.’
‘Be careful,’ Käthe said, as she left.
‘Oh Mutti,’ said Magda, as she threw her coat on over her old trousers and jumper. ‘Stop fussing. The planes have gone now; they won’t be back for a while.’
As she crossed the fields and entered the village, evidence of the previous night’s bomb attack was everywhere. Parts of the village square had been virtually destroyed, including the haberdasher’s shop run by Herr Wolfahrt, which was now reduced to a mangled pile of broken stone, glass, roof tiles and oak beams mixed with rolls of fabric. Magda joined a group of villagers, Otto’s mother amongst them, staring in dismay at the bombed-out shop.
‘Poor Herr Wolfahrt,’ said one old woman, ‘he was such a good man.’
‘Did they manage to get out in time?’ asked Magda.
‘No!’ said Emilia angrily. ‘Poor Herr Wolfahrt, his wife and her mother – they’ve all been killed.’
‘Murdered in their beds,’ said the first woman.
Emilia nodded vigorously. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It’s murder.’
‘I’m really sorry to hear that,’ said Magda. ‘He was a good man. Our farm was hit last night too – just one of our barns, thank god.’
‘Is the baby all right?’ asked Emilia.
‘She’s fine thank you – we’re all fine.’
A small group of bedraggled strangers wandered helplessly into the damaged square.
‘Who are these people?’ Magda asked Emilia.
‘They’ve come across from the town on the other side of the valley,’ Emilia said. ‘It was completely destroyed last night – razed to the ground. They have nowhere else to go. Some have relatives here, or friends. We will have to take them in, although how we will cope, I don’t know.’
The village grocery just off the main square had survived the bombing with just a broken front window. The owner was sweeping up as Magda arrived.
‘I’m not really open yet,’ he said irritably. ‘What do you want?’
‘Just some flour,’ said Magda. ‘And sugar if you have it.’
‘We have no sugar,’ said the owner. ‘The flour’s over there – but don’t blame me if there’s glass in it.’
Magda paid for the flour and was just about to leave, when a young girl came running into the shop.
‘Come, come quickly,’ she called out, wildly.
‘What is it?’ Magda asked.
‘Some men – some English airmen; they’ve captured them. They’re threatening to kill them.’
‘Who is?’ said Magda.
‘The village boys – Anton, Hans, Christoph,’ said the girl.
‘They’re in the Hitler Youth, aren’t they?’ Magda recognised the boys’ names from her own time in the organisation. They were younger than herself – no more than sixteen or seventeen. ‘Where are they?’
‘Near the school.’
The lane outside the school was thronged with people. Magda fought her way through the crowd and was alarmed to see five British airmen standing in their stockinged feet in the centre of a ring of Hitler Youth boys. Without their boots, the airmen seemed particularly vulnerable. The boys, egged on by the crowd of adults, were punching and kicking the men.
‘Kill them, kill them,’ the crowd jeered. ‘Murderers, murderers.’
Magda looked around frantically for someone to take control. The mayor stood impassively in his doorway, observing the scene.
‘Herr Weber,’ Magda pleaded. ‘You must stop this. It’s not right. These men are prisoners of war; they aren’t allowed to be treated like this.’
‘What can I do?’ he shrugged helplessly. ‘A group of us arrested them last night when they landed. I had them all locked up in the cellar of the school. I was keeping them for the Gestapo to deal with later. But someone must have let them out.
The sun was just setting over the horizon, and one or two of the crowd lit torches, their flames licking into the darkness.
‘They’ve brought them here to kill them,’ Magda insisted. ‘Surely you can see that. You must stop this.’
‘How can I?’ Herr Weber said. His thinning grey hair
was plastered over his skull, his pale grey eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot and his breath smelt strongly of schnapps. He was utterly powerless, Magda realised, and would do nothing to help.
On the other side of the lane, next to the mayor’s house, was an old barn that was used sometimes for village dances. Magda glanced inside and saw in the torchlight – to her horror – five ropes hanging from the rafters with nooses at one end.
She shouted above the noise of the mob. ‘Stop… stop this. We mustn’t do this. Please.’
One or two spat at her, their faces contorted with anger and hatred.
‘They deserve it. They’re murderers – all of them.’
The airmen looked around frantically for an escape route. Two of them suddenly bent double, and charged head first into the crowd. They broke through, and ran up the narrow lane towards the square. Taken by surprise, the crowd splintered, some racing after the two men. The remaining three airmen took advantage of the confusion, and ran in the opposite direction towards the church. The rest of the crowd surged after them and within minutes Magda heard the sound of gunfire. Her heart pounding, she raced to the churchyard, but the mob had already dispersed, evaporating into the night. She found one airman slumped in the entrance of the church itself, as if he had sought sanctuary in the holy place. He had been shot in head and his fair hair was matted with blood. She gently rolled him over, and wept as she touched his pale unlined face. He was no more than nineteen or twenty, she thought.
Regretfully she left him and went in search of the others. She found a second airman draped over the cemetery wall, as if he had been shot in the back attempting to jump over it. She felt for a pulse in his neck, but there was nothing. The man’s eyes were wide open. She closed them, stroking his head as she did so. The third man had died on top of a grave, shot three times – once in the head, twice in the torso. The churchyard was eerily silent, except for the awful screeching of the crows that lived high up in the black alder trees.
