8.30 p.m.
The house on the corner of Homefield Road and Lyndhurst Road still had the plane embedded in it. The house was called Reydon and belonged to a Dr Marjory Davies, a GP, and a popular one at that, which was most likely why so many people had turned out to help. Their relief was palpable when word got round that the doctor was on leave and staying somewhere in the Bournemouth area on holiday, but by then the body count had already reached seven. Five German airmen and two other men were dead by the time the fire crew found a survivor in the rubble. He was alive, but only just.
‘Take it easy, old chap,’ said the fireman. ‘We’ll soon have you tucked up in bed.’
The fire chief had seen some terrible injuries in his time, but he’d swallowed hard when the fellow was pulled to safety. He looked like a huge stick of charcoal, black from head to toe, his clothing still smouldering. He was trembling uncontrollably, but the first-aider, called over to help, knew he probably wasn’t in that much pain. With several thicknesses of skin so severely damaged, the nerve endings would have perished as well. As soon as they saw the remains of his uniform, they knew he was one of the soldiers from the First Canadian Army, which was under the command of General McNaughton. One of the locals mentioned that he had been billeted in the doctor’s house.
The first-aider could tell at once that the victim hadn’t a hope of survival, though that didn’t stop him barking out his orders. ‘Put him on this stretcher. Gently. Gently does it. Now get this man to hospital immediately!’
9 p.m.
When Lillian found Flora, she was appalled by her injuries. When the plane came down, Flora had been in the garden looking for Mr Floppy, her cuddly rabbit. They had been late for tea after their excursion to Goring, and consequently, Flora had been late to bed as well. Lillian had thought she would sleep straight away, but how could she? Mr Floppy was missing. They searched the house, and then Flora remembered leaving the rabbit outside.
‘I left him by the shed, Mummy,’ she’d said.
It was still light, so Lillian was happy to let Flora look for herself. She’d waited by the back door until she had been distracted by a knock on the front door by what turned out to be two Jehovah’s Witnesses. As luck would have it, having both doors open at the same time saved the windows from being blown out, but when the plane came down, all three women were knocked off their feet. The Jehovah’s Witnesses didn’t stay long. As they ran down the street, Lillian staggered to her feet and went to look for her daughter, a search that had eventually ended in the dilapidated shed of the derelict house.
Flora had been burned. It was clear that aviation fuel or perhaps some debris from one of the bombs had fallen on her head. Lillian guessed that was why she had run in the opposite direction. Her hair must have been on fire, and in the child’s mind she had to get away from it, but of course running had only made matters worse. The lovely golden curls on the right side of her head had gone, and her ear was blackened. When her mother came into the shed, Flora was in shock, trembling, very pale and limp, but she still clung to her rabbit.
Pip, who was as white as a sheet herself, took her children home, while Stella helped the distraught Lillian to get her child to the hospital.
When they arrived, the entrance to Worthing Hospital was like a war zone. People milled around, some in a daze, some with visible injuries, ranging from cuts caused by broken glass to severe burns. It was obvious that the medical staff on duty were overwhelmed.
Because she was a child, Flora had priority. A doctor saw her and gave her a sedative. After examining the child’s head, he decided she should stay in hospital and told the nurse to clean up her injuries. There were no beds on the children’s ward, so there was no option but to take Flora into the female ward. The nurse put the child to bed and pulled the screens round.
‘Perhaps you could wait outside,’ she said kindly, ‘while I put a bandage on.’
Lillian didn’t want to go, but as Flora was quiet, Stella was able to persuade her to wait in the corridor. They hadn’t been there long before the ward sister, a dragon of a woman, ordered them to leave.
‘But she’s the child’s mother,’ Stella protested.
‘Visiting time is over,’ said the sister, tight-lipped. ‘She can come back tomorrow at three.’
‘I’m not going until I can kiss my daughter goodnight,’ Lillian said defiantly and through gritted teeth.
The two women squared up to each other until the sister grudgingly backed down and said, ‘Very well. Two minutes,’ and turning to Stella, she barked, ‘You stay here.’
Lillian returned to her daughter’s bedside. Her face had been washed, and she had a large white bandage on her head. She looked so little in the adult-sized bed, so young, so vulnerable. Lillian was torn. How could she leave her baby like this? What would happen if Flora woke up in the night? She’d be scared. She’d want her mummy. She tucked Mr Floppy beside her and pulled the covers up to Flora’s chin; then she leaned over and kissed her cheek. One of her tears dropped onto her daughter’s face. Lillian wiped it away very gently with her finger.
‘Night-night, darling. See you in the morning.’
Flora didn’t stir. Her eyes were closed and her breathing steady.
The nurse came back to take the screens away. ‘It’s not as bad as it looked,’ she said, glancing behind her with a smile. ‘Don’t worry. A good night’s sleep and she’ll be as right as ninepence.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lillian, her eyes bright with unshed tears and her voice cracking.
‘Nurse Stokes!’ The sister’s sharp tone sent the young nurse scurrying.
Lillian made her way back to the corridor.
‘Let me take you home,’ said Stella gently as she reappeared. Behind them, they could hear the sister’s caustic remarks as she told off Nurse Stokes.
‘Will you listen to that,’ Lillian breathed. ‘What a bloody battleaxe.’
Stella hesitated for a second before saying, ‘I know it’s a cliché, but your daughter is in the best place, and there’s nothing more you can do.’
‘You’re right,’ said Lillian, nodding miserably. ‘And at least she’s got Mr Floppy.’
9.15 p.m.
Everyone was focused on getting the survivor out of the wreckage and to hospital as quickly as possible. Part of the house had collapsed, and there was the constant danger of falling masonry. The fire had died down somewhat, but nonetheless the rescue was hazardous. Men ignored the heat under their working boots as they struggled to manoeuvre the stretcher from the top of the building to the street below. No one was aware that Billy Stanford and Gideon Powell, two of the ‘big boys’ Georgie had been forbidden to play with, had defied the man who had shouted at them to ‘clear off’ and had come back. For them, the race was on to find something worth pinching: a trophy, some spoils of war they could boast about. One of the lads from Clifton Road had a piece of shrapnel, and the choirboys from St Botolph’s Church had a piece of the Heinkel that had come down on High Salvington in 1940, but that was regarded as a bit of a cheat. Apparently, one of the boys’ dads was a first-aider who worked in a garage on the Findon Road. He’d been called out to help and had picked up the trophy to give to his son. The boys from Lyndhurst Road School had a piece of a German parachute, which they’d found in 1941, but so far Billy and his mates didn’t have anything worth bragging about. This wreck was right on their doorstep and far too good an opportunity to miss. What they needed was something that couldn’t be beaten. The trouble was, the fire was destroying everything worth taking. Gideon was trying to grab what looked like a logbook when another man yelled at them to ‘Get away from there.’ When he threatened to cuff them, they legged it, but they went round the back and came towards the house another way.
The pilot must have tried to eject because he was hanging from a tree by his parachute straps. He was quite dead, and unfortunately too high up to get to without being seen. The boys scoured the ground.
‘I thought you were told to clear off,’ came a voice behind them. It was one of the Home Guard from the place opposite. ‘Now, get on home before I tan your hides.’
Reluctantly, Billy and Gideon dragged themselves away.
‘Did you get anything?’ asked Gideon.
Billy shook his head. Gideon opened his hand to reveal a piece from a belt buckle.
Billy took in his breath. ‘Cripes.’
Gideon grinned. ‘I reckon it belonged to the pilot.’
Billy slapped his friend on the back. ‘Just wait until the gang see this one.’
9.30 p.m.
The four volunteers ran down the debris-strewn road with the stretcher. As soon as they arrived at the hospital, the soldier was rushed into a single room, with a consultant and a bevy of nurses following.
The consultant didn’t disturb his patient very much. Turning to the sister, he shook his head. ‘Make him as comfortable as you can,’ and they all heard the hopelessness in his voice.
One of the nurses and the sister gowned themselves up; then the nurse prepared a trolley. When she was ready, the sister began laying gauze strips soaked in an alkaline solution over his burns. He opened his eyes and she was startled to see what a beautiful piercing blue they were. The contrast of his clear eyes staring out from his blacked face wrenched at her heart, but pulling herself together, she quickly became the professional again and smiled. ‘Hello, soldier,’ she said quietly. ‘That was a bit of a bugger, wasn’t it, but you’re in hospital now.’ His lips parted slightly, but there was no sound.
About ten minutes later, the consultant returned to see how they were getting on. The sister stepped to one side as he leaned over his patient. ‘Any reaction?’
‘He opened his eyes a few minutes ago, sir,’ she said.
The blue eyes came back.
‘Hello, old chap,’ the consultant said kindly.
For a moment or two, the body on the table shivered, but he made no sound as they saw him pass away. The change was hardly discernible – just a flicker and then the cornflower-blue eyes became empty, though they still stared at the ceiling. The consultant turned briskly on his heel and left the room.
The sister laid the strip she had been about to apply to his shoulder back onto the sterile tray and sighed. ‘Sixty per cent burns,’ she murmured. ‘He hadn’t a hope.’
‘They say the plane was carrying some of those new phosphorous bombs,’ said the nurse.
The sister took a deep breath. ‘I’ll leave you to clear up, Nurse,’ she said stiffly. She left the room, keeping her back to the girl lest she see the tears standing in her eyes. No wonder the man’s injuries had been so terrible. When in contact with air, phosphorous burned and stuck to any surface it hit. He must have been covered in it. It was a miracle he’d survived for so long, but there had been little that anyone could do. He was very young – nineteen or twenty – but there would be no recognition of his contribution to the war, not when he’d ended up losing his life in a miserable accident in which an enemy plane hit the place where he was staying. What a waste of a life. What a terrible, bloody waste.
On the women’s ward, Flora was sleeping peacefully when the ward sister came towards her bed. She was gowned and masked, and carried a pair of forceps. She glanced around furtively; then, satisfied that no one was looking, she picked up Mr Floppy by the ear and pulled the toy away from the bed with the forceps.
‘Dirty, filthy thing,’ she murmured. Some of the stuffing from the toy’s arm dropped onto the floor. ‘Ugh.’
Holding it out in front of her, she marched down the ward to the sluice room, and as soon as the door closed behind her, she dropped it into the bin.