‘It’s the speed,’ the sergeant said. The others watched him as he chewed his food. ‘It’s overwhelming. They come at you as fast as their tanks can move. If one part of your line holds them up, they go round. It’s like when you’re a boy, trying to dam a fast stream with a few rocks.’
‘What about parachutists?’ I asked, still getting used to the new reality. Until now I’d thought this was just newspapers whipping up fear to sell copies.
The men all shook their heads, looking at each other
for confirmation. Like they had a story they didn’t want to tell.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Word went out,’ the sergeant said. ‘Jerry were dropping people behind our lines dressed as nuns and priests, with their regular uniforms underneath their habits.’
The other two men looked down at their plates.
‘We were told to shoot any civilian dressed as a nun, or a priest, or wearing a long coat.’
I thought of a parachutist lying low in my woods, and I realised in my narrow thinking I’d assumed he’d be wearing a German uniform. Of course he wouldn’t. He’d be dressed like a farm labourer, or a poacher, someone you’d see out in the fields and the woods and wouldn’t think twice about.
The other soldier piped up. ‘My captain said we were to shoot farmers if they were ploughing their fields, because they might be laying out instructions for the parachute drops.’
‘And did you?’ I asked.
The soldier looked down. I turned to the sergeant. He looked me in the eye, defiantly.
‘We did what we were told,’ he said.
‘You can stay in the barn tonight,’ I said. I wasn’t being completely altruistic. I was thinking about the German voice. If therewasa man lying low, likely he’d move on before daylight. Perhaps he’d have arendezvousarranged, a safe house where he could meet up with others, get ready for action. But perhaps not. Perhaps his orders were to engage. Instil fear, spread panic. My farmhouse would look like a soft target.
Keeping the deserters around didn’t sit well with me, but better to have my home front defended.
17
‘The Germans are not the enemy of the working man. We should be making a treaty with Berlin for a peaceful future. If we don’t, we’ll be trapped in this cycle of endless war until there’s nobody left to fight.’
The speaker limped across the makeshift stage, a war wound slowing him down. Not many men our age without some kind of injury. He was dressed in an approximation of a working man’s clothes – starched tweed and a cloth cap – but his voice gave him away. This was a man who’d been educated in all the right places. Probably had a collection of ties that got him into various London clubs. And now he was here to tell us little people what to think.
As he stepped into the dim pool of yellow light that passed for a spotlight, I realised who it was. Vaughn Matheson, the man I’d bumped into on the Forest, underneath the freshly arrived parachute, turning up again like a bad penny. I wondered if he could see me, in the dark of the auditorium.
The church hall was packed. Chairs had been set out in rows, theatre style. Margaret and I had arrived with only minutes to spare and were forced to take seats near the front. It was a warm evening, and we’d had to hurry to get there on time.
The council had been putting on debates once a month. I’d seen the posters around town and ignored them until now.My preferred evening activity was sitting quietly at my local with my old friend Doc, putting the world to rights over a
few pints.
Attending the debate was Margaret’s idea. Said it would be good for us to open our minds to new ideas. I didn’t agree. I liked my own view of the world perfectly well. It had kept me alive through the worst days of the Great War, then through the campaign in India against the Afghan tribesmen. But I liked Margaret, and it was a small price to pay, sitting through an hour of talk before we strolled up to the pub. Could I get away with closing my eyes?
‘The war to end all wars,’ Vaughn said. ‘How many times have we heard that? The ultimate sacrifice, made so our children could grow up in a world without war. That’s what they promised us. The French know. That’s why they gave up so quickly. They lost even more than we did last time. It was their villages that were reduced to rubble. Their farmland turned to poisoned mud where nothing will grow.’
He knew his audience. Rural men and women. Mothers and fathers. Farmers. People who wanted a quiet life with a good harvest and stable prices.
‘Look around,’ Vaughn said, and the packed church hall obeyed. Several hundred people turned to look at their surroundings, an unremarkable space, walls and woodwork painted pea green, dusty windows lit orange by the setting sun.
‘They had church halls like this in Flanders,’ he said. ‘And churches beside them. And villages around them. Pubs. Shops. Houses. Schools. Until the bombing started.
‘Every shell we fired destroyed everything for a twenty-yard radius and left behind a crater ten feet deep,’ he continued. ‘By the time we’d worked out what we were doing, we had one gun for every twelve yards of the front.’
He pointed to Margaret.
‘Would you mind standing up, madam?’
