Date: Thu, 14 Apr 2011 15:27:23 +0100
From: Michael Gouda <michael@tanyardbank.plus.com>
Subject: Snapshots of War (Part 10)

Snapshots of War
Michael Gouda
Part 10

Monday June 23rd 1941 (later)
In the time that it had taken William to walk the half mile down to
the 'Goat and Compasses', have his little banter with the barmaid,
walk back and make his abortive phone call to Peter, Adele had caught
her tram and been joined by Mavis on the upper deck. They heard the
siren and the two girls looked out of the window at the beams of the
searchlights, occasionally lighting up the wallowing sides of the
barrage balloons. Then the firework-flashes as the bombs exploded away
to their left.
"Somebody's caught it," said Mavis, as usual puffing away like a
smokestack on her Craven-A.
Adele looked anxiously out of the window but after the flurry of
explosions, everything went quiet. The tram moved slowly in the
direction of Woolwich. Searchlights groped into the sky but didn't
seem to be able to find any planes. The ack-ack gunfire fell silent.
"I've been thinking about old Charlie," said Mavis, picking a shred of
tobacco from her lower lip.
"You don't really think he's a spy, do you?" asked Adele.
Mavis pointed up to an advertisement in the tram. It showed two women
sitting in tram seats, chatting away. Behind them sat two figures
obviously intended to represent Hitler and Göring. The caption read,
'Careless Talk Costs Lives'. "They could be anyone and anywhere," said
Mavis.
The tram suddenly drew up and the conductor, an elderly man with a
grey face and matching moustache, climbed upstairs.
"You'd best get off," he said. "There's a street shelter just opposite."
"Where are we?" asked Mavis, peering out into the darkness.
"Plumstead High Street," he said. "Corner of Warren Lane."
"Oh we can walk from here," said Mavis.
"Better off in the shelter," said the conductor, but the two girls got
off and started walking. The searchlights were still criss-crossing
the sky in a vain attempt to find the plane again but it had
disappeared, having unloaded its bombs, and even the drone of the
engine had vanished. They walked through the darkness and the silence.
"He could be the father of my baby," said Adele.
"All the more reason to find out if he's a spy or not," said Mavis.
"And if he is..." The thought was too preposterous for words. Charlie
Leverton, Old Charlie, their boss - a German spy. The man who had
danced with her at the Palais and now was her lover, passionate,
golden-haired Chalky - what was she thinking about? It was Charlie who
was the father, and the bastard, when he or she was born, would, no
doubt, have bright red hair. What a mess. But Mavis was right. She
must find out.
"But how?" she asked.
They turned into Plumstead Road. Soon they would be at their usual
place on the bench, surrounded by the noise and the dust and Vera and
Maud and Ella and private conversation impossible.
"Have you ever been to his home?" asked Mavis.
"No."
"Get him to invite you. Say you're fed up of doing it on the floor of
the office. Say you want a real bed. Once you're there you can find an
opportunity to have a bit of a nose around. There's bound to be
something there as evidence. Look how careless he was with the blotter
in the office."
"I wouldn't know what to look for."
"Anything that links him to Germany. I don't know. Code books, a
transmitter, disguises. His hair is so distinctive, he'll want to hide
it sometimes. Anything that looks suspicious."
It all sounded a bit vague, thought Adele, too melodramatic, the sort
of thing that happened in films. Nevertheless she nodded, forgetting
that Mavis couldn't see her.
"What do you say?" asked Mavis.
"I'll give it a go," said Adele.

Monday June 23rd 1941
William looked at the pile of rubble which had been his home. Mum had
been in the living room when he had left. The old living room with the
faded floral curtains and cretonne-covered suite, which was - had been
- at the back of the house and was now under tons of debris. There was
no way she would have survived that surely. But - a thought struck him
- might she have gone to the cupboard under the stairs when the siren
had sounded? The stairs still remained, the upper flight of which was
still visible, though the lower flight and the cupboard itself were
hidden by the pile of wreckage, William could work out where it ought
to be.
He clambered up the pile and began pawing at the bricks, throwing them
behind him and down the slope.
"Oi, son. What are you doing?" said a voice from the darkness. A torch
flashed. An ARP warden, elderly grey-haired chap whose face seemed
slightly familiar, stood at the base of the pile, looking up at him.
"It's my mum," said William. "I think she's under here."
"You're young William Salter, aren't you?" said the man. "Just hang on
there, lad. I'll get on the phone and get the Rescue chaps round.
They'll be able to find her better than you can."
William continued scrabbling in the debris. "I can't just stand here,"
he said.
"That lot's dangerous," said the man, shining his torch on the heap.
"You might bring the whole lot down on you." It seemed though as if he
realised how impossible it would be for William to stand around doing
nothing. He took off his ARP helmet and handed it over. "Put this on,"
he said. "And take it carefully. Don't try to move anything big. That
could start a real landslide and cause more problems than you solve.
Right?"
William nodded, peering out at him from under the metal rim of the
helmet. It felt oddly heavy and the canvas webbing strap cut into the
flesh under his chin.
"I'll be back very soon," said the man, "and  remember, Take it easy.
I don't want to come back and find YOU buried under half a
hundredweight of rubble." He went off down the road at a loping sort
of run.
Left to himself, William continued with his clearance. The bricks were
rough and soon his hands were grazed and sore. Mindful of the warden's
warning, he left the big pieces but then realised that, removing small
bricks from under the larger pieces would be more likely to bring them
down in a thunderous fall. He scarcely recognised  pieces of wood and
scraps of material which were part of the upstairs furnishings. His
hands located and picked up an object. Though rectangular it wasn't
harsh and gritty like a brick. It was, he realised, a book. By the dim
light of the moon he could just make out the title. 'The Maltese
Falcon', the book his sister had bought after he had vainly tried to
tell her the plot of the film.
It appeared to be undamaged - even the paper dust cover was intact -
only a grey smudge of dirt or cement dust gave the picture on the
front - the detective Sam Spade with his trilby hat pulled down over
his eyes - a slightly more sinister look.
He did not know why he didn't throw the book behind him with the rest
of the rubbish. No one would have guessed that it had been in a bombed
house, and if, thought William as he, almost reverently, picked it up
and put it in the pocket of his coat, if a construction of paper and
card had escaped undamaged, surely his mother, a much less impermanent
object, could also have survived.
He suddenly realised that there were other people around, standing in
the roadway, dark shapes in the darkness, people from the road. One of
them detached itself, large, broad-hipped, the woman from number 24,
Mrs Dent from the grocer's shop on the corner.
"What's going on, love?" she asked.
"It's mum. I think she's buried here. I'm trying to find the cupboard
under the stairs."
Mrs Dent rolled up her sleeves to display her massive forearms. "Come
on, you lot," she said, turning to the group of people who were
standing around. "It's Mrs Salter. Young William here thinks she's
under this lot. And you, Alfred, nip back home and fetch a torch." Mr
Dent, the grocer, hurried away looking, for some strange reason,
rather relieved.
She organised the group into a line passing the stone and mortar,
bricks and wood from hand to hand so efficiently that by the time the
ARP warden returned, he was surprised to see, in the light of a torch
held, somewhat tentatively, by the local grocer, a group of civilians,
men, women and children, engaged in bomb rescue, and the pile of
debris much reduced.
"What you think you're doing?" he demanded. "Put that light out.
There's still a raid on." As he said this, as if to prove him wrong,
the All Clear wailed into the night.
  "All right," he said, making the best of the situation. "The local
Rescue Squad are busy at the moment. Carry on as you're doing - and,
son, can I have my helmet back?"
For a while they worked away in silence. As the level was slowly
reduced, William began to worry again. He had of course no idea
whether his mother had actually taken refuge in the cupboard. They
might be digging in completely the wrong place.
He had a feeling - if he - or Adele had been at home they might well
have stayed in the living room, giving each other courage as it were
or rather not liking to admit to each other that they were scared. If
he had been on his own though William might well have decided to
crouch in the cupboard with the Hoover until the drone of aircraft
passed and the gunfire died. He just hoped that mum had felt the same.
The digging, or rather passing the debris, had become almost
mechanical now, a regular lift, pass behind, release, turn back, bend
down, lift... Every so often he was able to step down a foot or so as
more and more of the staircase was revealed. They were - he stopped
for a moment to count the stairs in the fitful light of Mr Dent's
torch, the beam now noticeably more feeble - five steps down of the
lower flight. Surely the top of the cupboard would be visible soon. He
pulled at a thin piece of wood which seemed to be stuck at right
angles to the staircase. It wouldn't move.
The warden saw him straining and stepped over to have a look.
"I can't shift it," said William.
"I think it's the top of the wooden door," said the warden.
William realised that was exactly what it was - the door of the
cupboard under the stairs - locked open by the debris which had fallen
and filled the space under the steps.
"Let's take it easy now, son." The warden showed to rest the space to
clear. Was the cupboard itself completely full of debris , wondered
William, and almost panicked.
Suddenly someone shouted. "Here's a shoe -" then followed it with -
"and a leg."
"Quiet," said Mrs Dent nodding at William who was staring open-mouthed
at his mother's legs sticking out parallel to the open door, the rest
of her body underneath the stairs.
They cleared the rubbish carefully. The warden peered in in, flashing
his torch. "She's inside, and there's a space there. We'll have her
out in a minute."
They dragged Teresa out. She was covered with dirt, the dust in her
hair turning it grey. Her eyes were closed. She looked dead.
"Is she...?"
"She's breathing, son," said the warden. "Can someone get a blanket.
We've got to get her to hospital."
As he spoke there was the sound of police bells as the rescue squad
arrived and with them an ambulance.
"Just in time," muttered Mrs Dent, "though too late to to be of any
help doing the hard work." She brushed her hands on her pinafore
leaving dirty marks on the forget-me-not pattern. Two men with a
stretcher arrived, clambering over the wreckage.
"Only one casualty," said the warden. "She's breathing but
unconscious. A Mrs Salter. This is her son, William."
They picked her up and took her to the ambulance. William followed.
"Where are you taking her?" asked Mrs Dent.
"Lewisham Hospital," said the ambulance man. "Get in, son. We'll soon
have her cosy and looked after."


Monday June 23rd 1941 (later that night)
Teresa swam up into light from some deep, dark, primitive place. She
had no idea where she was, no memory of what had happened to her. Her
head hurt, her right leg felt odd and she couldn't actually move it.
When she breathed in, her ribs hurt too. She tried to call out but no
sound came from her open mouth.
She was in a bed, she knew that, and she was looking up at a white
painted ceiling. There were some blue curtains around her, almost as
if she was enclosed in a sort of fabric cubicle. She couldn't
understand where she was and the effort of trying to work out was
beginning to drive her to the edge of panic when the curtains were
whisked open and two faces peered through at her, one was male, the
other whose red hair was topped with a starched white nurse's cap, was
female.
Theresa's lips were dry, her throat parched. She made sounds and the
nurse held a glass of water for her . She sipped and swallowed
painfully. The liquid cleared her head a little, the light from the
bulb above seemed to become brighter - and increased the pain in her
head - sounds became sharper - someone was coughing, a door slammed, a
squeaky trolley was being wheeled somewhere in the distance.
"There's no need to worry," said the man, presumably a doctor. "Your
leg is broken, you have a cut on your head and your ribs are bruised,
but they will all heal. The important thing is that you haven't lost
the baby."
Baby! Theresa felt a sudden shock. She had known she was pregnant but
had tried to deny the fact to herself. Dent's baby! The very thought
was repugnant to her. What had she done? What had she allowed to be
done to her? How would she tell Bert?
"Baby," she said, despairing.
"Yes," said the doctor. "You're four months pregnant. Surely you knew?"
The confirmation was another blow. Then the significance of the remark
pierced Theresa's confused mind. Four months? That couldn't be right.
It had been scarcely a month since she and Alfred Dent had first...
Four months? She forced herself to think. That was surely when Bert
had had his embarkation leave, back in March. Bert was, must be the
father.
"Thank God," she said, the tears forcing themselves from under her
eyelids.
"They're pretty stubborn things, babies," said the doctor, assuming
she was grateful for the safety of her baby. "They don't shift
themselves unless something really bad happens. Now you've got to
rest. We'll get your leg and these other things sorted out and then
you'll be able to go home."
The Nurse gave him a sharp look and shook her head. but Theresa was
not really attending. The baby was Bert's. That episode with Dent was
over, she determined. Never again! A thought intruded.
"William?" she said.
The doctor looked confused.
"Her son," said the nurse. "He's waiting outside."
"Ah yes, of course. Well I think we'll stretch the rules a bit and let
him see you. Then you must get some sleep."
William was summoned in from the uncomfortable wooden bench he had
been sitting on for the past couple of hours. A nice, motherly WRVS
lady in a green uniform had given him a cup of hot, sweet tea and a
biscuit but apart from that all he'd been able to do was worry.
"Hello, mum," he said. "How are you feeling?"
Theresa smiled. Though she looked pale and weak, she seemed happy.
William wondered why. Their house was destroyed, they had lost
everything. Perhaps, though, now was not the time to talk about this.
"Not too bad," said Theresa. "Tired and a bit sore. The doctor says
I'll be all right though."
"I'll let Adele know. I'll ring the Arsenal."
"Thank you, dear. Oh and could you let them know at the bus depot. I
won't be in for work tomorrow." She smiled but her eyelids were
drooping. William bent over and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll be in
to see you tomorrow," he said.

Monday 14th July 1941
"So that's Sidi Rezegh," said Private Trent.
A small town of white painted, mostly single storey buildings with an
occasional three storey block and the dome of a mosque with, next door
to it, a tall muezzin's tower. Such indeed was Sidi Rezegh to which,
after the defeat of Operation Battleaxe, the British had withdrawn.
 From here an uneasy stalemate held for a while, the battle lines
moving one way and then another though no strategic gains were made by
either side.
The three soldiers looked down on the old town from a Bren gun
carrier, one of those armoured cars, like little tanks, which were
used extensively in the desert and elsewhere, their caterpillar tracks
being more stable and manoeuverable over sand than rubber tyres. Bert
changed gear, expertly double-declutching and raced along the top of
the ridge at nearly top speed of 30 mph, the metal tracks throwing up
the sand in high arcs behind him.
"What on earth made them pick you as a driver?" asked Private Trent,
clinging on.
"Don't get cheeky, Private," said Corporal Salter, "just because
you're fucking dead."
"He was a lorry driver in Civvy Street," said Chalky. "When the call
went out for drivers to fill vacant places in the carrier platoon, he
was one of the first to volunteer."
"How did you know that?" asked Bert.
Chalky smiled but didn't answer.
"They're certainly nippy," said Private Trent. "After all that foot-
slogging we used to do, this is a real cushy number."
"The driver's a very responsible job." Bert put on his 'instruction'
voice. "Bren gun carriers," he said, "are used for troop transport,
ammunition carriers, forward reconnaissance, wireless, flame thrower
vehicles, in fact as all purpose vehicles. The armour on them is a
quarter of an inch thick and though its only armament is a .303 Bren
gun mounted next to the driver, this was designed to fire a standard .
303 rifle cartridge from a removable 30 round magazine. The gun itself
can be used as a light group support weapon which could be carried by
a single soldier and deliver a short but powerful burst of automatic
fire.  It can fire full or semi automatically and is almost unrivalled
for its accuracy. A carrier's crew consists of five men, the Commander/
gunner, driver and three riflemen. They are equipped with hand
grenades, flares, extra ammunition, water, food, two Jerry cans of
petrol, spare split pins in case the tracks broke, shovels and
pickaxes." Bert paused, out of breath. "I had to learn that off by
heart," he added proudly.
  Since the death of Private Trent, Bert had become more and more
solitary. He formed no more close friendships and much preferred to be
off alone, when he wasn't actually on duty, either walking or in the
carrier to any sort of get together with his fellow soldiers. Not that
he'd become a bad soldier - nothing that his superiors could really
object to - apart from his tendency to sneak off by himself in his off-
duty periods - hardly against regulations. He still kept a close eye
on his platoon, ensured that the turnout was smart at inspection,
making certain of their punctuality at all times.
But his comrades had noticed - it was sometimes difficult to ignore -
that often he seemed almost cut off from them, that he was prone to
addressing the odd remarks apparently to no one, talking to himself,
sometimes even laughing at jokes they never heard.
He was though an 'old' man in their eyes, certainly old enough to be
many of the younger conscripts' father and old people develop curious
habits - they were perceptive enough to realise that. He was still
Corporal Bert, the one who stood up for them when Sergeant Brookes was
in a bad mood. He was a 'all right' was Corporal Bert.
He accelerated into the heat haze, accompanied by Chalky and Private
Trent. "The house in London is gone," he told them. "Jerry dropped a
bomb on it but the family's all right. Theresa's having a baby. She's
gone to stay with her sister in Muswell Hill."
"Is Adele safe?" asked Chalky.
"Yes, she's fine. She's putting up with a friend, a workmate. A girl
called Mavis. It's actually more convenient for her job. Closer, she
says."
"You said you had a son about my age," said Private Trent.
"William. He's moved in with a friend, Peter Kees. I suppose he's a
mate from work too. Theresa was a bit vague about him. But I expect
he's all right."
"So the family's broken up," said Chalky.
"Yes," agreed Bert. "I can't wait for all this - " he gestured to the
open desert around, the clear sky, the featureless horizon, the
burning sun, the gun emplacements, the military equipment, impedimenta
of war  - "to be over, and I can get back home and sort everything
out. Especially with a nipper on the way." The hot sun beat down on
his uncovered head; the surface of the sand dunes shimmered.
James and Beth Foster, their next door neighbours from Granby Street,
were walking along the ridge in front of them. They looked a little
like two Arab youths. in white djellabas, holding hands. Bert slowed
down. He couldn't quite understand why James Foster was wearing a
white dress.
"Do you want a lift?" he asked.
They climbed in, Chalky and Private Trent shifting up to allow them
room.
"I'm sorry about the red wrapping paper," said Bert. "Theresa wrote me
about it."
The Fosters giggled in puzzled Libyan incomprehension, holding hands
shyly, faces almost hidden under their hoods.
Bert drove on through the burning desert.

End of Part 10