They were to support a raid on Stettin.
The weather was foul when they took off and it got steadily worse, the cloud thickening and cross-winds battering the ship as he climbed through 10,000 feet.
As they penetrated further into Germany the turbulence grew, and to make matters worse, icing started to occur. Short transmissions from other pilots indicated that some were aborting the mission because engines were running so rough that they couldn’t stay in formation.
Bill expected the group leader to call it off, but no such order came. Cursing, he struggled with the controls, worried that any moment the turbulence would hit so hard that the artificial horizon would topple – then he’d be in big shit in this cloud.
Abruptly the radio crackled with an urgent voice. ‘Cowboy Green section to Horseback. Bandits all around, seventy plus. Are you receiving, Horseback?’
Cowboy was one of the unseen bomber formations. Horseback was the escorts.
The radio continued to crackle on.
‘We’re in clear sky – looks like they’re coming down for a head-on attack.’
Almost immediately combat messages started to jam the airways. One desperate wit said it all.
‘Jeez – the whole fucking Luftwaffe’s out to get me.’
At that moment the order for the bombers to turn back was given at last, since the thick clouds and general confusion precluded any effective hit on the target.
The group leader’s voice came over the airways: ‘Horseback one calling all Mustangs – let’s go help Cowboy.’
Bill took his formation to the right, eventually breaking cloud to find themselves right in the middle of the mess.
The Germans had put up everything they could, including twin-engined Me110s and Dornier 217s. They were fighting with desperation and immense courage to defend their homeland – just like the RAF boys in the Battle of Britain.
Bill led the attack down on a gaggle of 110s, which immediately went into a defensive circle so that each one covered the other’s tail.
Bill went in head-on, and saw hits on one 110, which broke away. He was lining up for a second shot when another Mustang cut in front of him and sent it down in a flaming dive. From then on, like all the others, he was turning and twisting, sweating and cursing as he fought more to stay alive than anything else.
The Germans were firing rocket salvos into the massed formations. Airplanes, American and German, were going down in every direction, gas-tanks burning with intense orange flames, streaming like great fiery rockets towards the earth. And then, as so often happened, the sky was empty, leaving only an awful spectacle to strain his shattered nerves. Someone, German or American, there was no way of telling, had taken to his ‘chute. He drifted slowly, swinging gently from side to side – on fire, his body emitting flame and smoke like the kid’s dummy he’d seen on a daylight bonfire in England. The flames licked up the shroud lines and started on the canopy. Mercifully it folded up, and the blackened corpse fell away to earth, was lost from sight.
His engine sounded rough. Bill checked his altitude.
The instrument showed 25,000 feet. He radioed his problem and turned for home, soon joined by two others from the same squadron.
The cylinder-head temperature gauge started to climb steadily. Bill’s mouth felt as dry as sandpaper, but he remembered how one of the guys had told him he’d got back by enriching the fuel mixture, which helped the engine run cool. Keeping as much altitude as possible, he followed the Kiel Canal to the coast at Schleswig-Holstein.
Nervously, Bill ran his swollen tongue over cracked lips. Only the North Sea to get across now.
The others began weaving over him. Bill told them to leave – they would need all their fuel. ‘Go home – I’ll be OK. I’ll call Air-Sea Rescue.’
He looked down at the expanse of water. It looked flat, but he could just see white flecks. Bill knew that down there it was probably running a heavy sea. Rescue would be most unlikely.
One of them flew his ship under his and appeared on the other side.
‘How’s it look?’ Bill asked.
When there was no reply Bill suddenly realized what was going on. He flicked over to the emergency ‘May Day’ channel. As he suspected, the man was talking to rescue giving Bill’s altitude and heading, and adding, ‘There’s oil everywhere – he’s not gonna make it. He’ll have to bale out soon.’
‘Can he give us a long transmission so we can get a fix on him?’ said a clipped, steady English voice.
Bill butted in. He meant it to sound flippant, although his heart was in his boots, so what came out of his mouth took him by surprise.
‘’Course I can. Mary had a little lamb….’
Mary. Oh god Mary.
He made an effort, dragged himself back to the task in hand and finished the rhyme, then repeated it over until the English voice said: ‘That’s fine. You’re a long way out and the weather conditions are bad but we’ll do our best. Good luck.’
Bill waved the others away. All alone, he was left with his thoughts of Mary. Would be ever see her again? Mercifully he had to keep a tight watch on his instruments, on the temperature, the altitude and heading. It didn’t allow for such terrible thoughts.
He was making for Martlesham Heath airfield by Ipswich on the east coast. Half-way across and he was down to 9,000 feet. He was flying on the proverbial wing and a prayer.
At 2,000 feet he reckoned he should be sighting land, but all he could see was grey blending into darker grey. At 1,800 – still nothing. The prayer increased.
At 1,600 – something: a low dark line. Bill strained forward, on the edge of his seat. Slowly the sandy marshland of Orfordness came into view, but at this angle of approach he was sinking too fast, he would never make it. When he eased the stick as far back as he dared, the plane began to shudder, on the point of stalling.
He nudged it fractionally forward again, aware that there was less than 600 feet between him and the winding estuary below. Bill was preparing to belly-in when he suddenly saw the strip was dead ahead. He dropped the undercarriage, prayed it would get down in time, and heard it thump home just as he eased the stick back, cleared the boundary fence and dropped heavily on to the grass. When he rolled to a halt, Bill sagged in his straps, did nothing until his heart, literally banging in his chest, finally slowed down.
Wearily he slid back the hood, unstrapped and climbed out on to the wing. He pulled off his helmet and ran his hand through his wet hair. The crash truck found him, relieving himself against the hedge.
He flew back later that afternoon, getting in just before dusk – risky, as most flying had to be completed an hour before sunset to minimize misidentifications.
The crew chief was looking worried.
‘What happened, sir?’
Bill patted his ship’s nose. ‘Went all temperamental on me – oil loss.’
He was debriefed by an Intelligence Officer in his hut, had his slug of whisky and was about to go for a shower when an orderly found him.
‘Sir, Lieutenant Riley at Wing headquarters has been trying to reach you all day. Says he’s going to be in the office late if you’d like to see him.’
Bill forgot about the shower. Still in his leather flying-jacket he knocked and entered Riley’s room. Riley was at a bookcase consulting a text. He looked up.
‘Hi there.’
Bill wasted no time.
‘What have you got?’
Riley put the book back on to the shelf.
‘You won’t believe it.’
‘Try me.’
‘Your petition went through channels to General Spaatz, but he’s Stateside on R and R.’
Bill groaned. ‘That’s it then – we’ve got to wait?’
‘Not entirely.’
‘What do you mean – who else can it go to? He’s the top.’
Light flashed off Riley’s glasses as he leant back, clearly enjoying himself.
‘I got in touch with Colonel Clark – he’s the legal adviser to US Forces in Europe and….’
Bill began to be irritated. It had been a hell of a day.
‘Come on.’
‘OK. Currently your application to marry Mary Rice is on the way to SHAEF HQ, to no less a person than Ike himself. You should get a reply in twenty-four hours.’
Bill felt as if the ground had opened up and he was about to be swallowed.
‘Ike? Now? With all that’s going down?’
Riley nodded. ‘Yep. He still insists on getting through all the day-to-day running of his army – when he can.’
Bill left the office in a daze, not sure he wasn’t hallucinating from fatigue and stress.
Mary pored over the transcripts. Something in the phrasing was not right, not making sense, at least not to her. She played with it for half an hour or so, then dug out a manuscript from an earlier intercept. At last she realized what it was that was bothering her.
She found Sir George in the canteen, sedately sipping his tea. He looked up in surprise. ‘Doctor Rice. Is there a problem?’
‘I think you need to come back to the hut, Sir George. The whole meaning of one of the transcripts to the Waffen SS takes on a new slant if you restructure the sentence – the punctuation, that is. The operator was from southern Germany.’
He knew Mary was not one to exaggerate, so he finished his tea less sedately, folded The Times and stood up.
‘Very well. Lead on, MacDuff.’
Back in the hut, on the main table where they could lay out the work under a low suspended light taken from a billiard table, she took him through what she had found.
Afterwards, Sir George stayed motionless. After some moments he straightened up.
‘I’m going to take this upstairs – see what they make of it.’ Sir George’s little moustache received a brush with a finger. ‘Whatever they say, very good work indeed, Doctor Rice.’
Flushed with the praise, generous indeed from Sir George, Mary said she’d be in the canteen if he needed her. She’d been very hungry recently.
He didn’t come and fetch her, but was waiting for her in his little cubicle of an office with the door open. He called to her as she entered the hut.
‘Close the door behind you.’
He indicated a chair. As she took it she asked: ‘Is this about the translation?’
Sir George nodded.
‘They’re very pleased with you. As you know, intelligence work is like putting together a jigsaw when you haven’t got a complete set and guessing what’s in the blank spaces. Well, my dear, I’m pleased to tell you that what you construed from that passage of German fitted one of those spaces. I’m not permitted, of course, to give you the full picture, and indeed, they don’t tell me any more than I need to know, but it was an invaluable pointer and they are delighted. They have asked me to thank you personally. Your name is being forwarded to some committee or other that might one day see you honoured for your services.’
Mary was flabbergasted. Sensing the interview was over she started to rise but he motioned her down. ‘Care to join me in a celebratory snifter?’
He swivelled in his chair and, with a set of keys, opened a little mahogany wall-cabinet, and produced two cut glasses and a bottle of sherry. Setting them on the desk top he delicately poured out the dark tawny liquid that seemed to sparkle with the sun that had been part of its birth.
As a way of explanation he said;’I’ve had this bottle since nineteen forty – only toast our little victories in this department with it.’
He handed her one of the glasses.
‘Well done. Let’s hope that’s another step, however small, to the end of this beastly affair.’
Mary nodded as they touched glasses.
‘Please God.’
Even as they spoke, Bletchley Park was warning SHAEF HQ of a strange request for American-accented English-speaking troops to be sent immediately away from the main front line, to near the quiet Ardennes sector.
But Mary’s work, by its very nature a secondary intelligence evaluation, was already being overtaken by events.
Those ‘American’-speaking soldiers, equipped with American Jeeps, uniforms and weapons, were already behind Allied lines.
General Dwight D. Eisenhower had just finished some routine paper work when the first news came in of the Germans’ Ardennes offensive.
The weather all over northern Europe was bad, with low cloud-bases, freezing fog – and snow.
News trickled through to the squadron of the German offensive, and the inability of the Allied Tactical Air Force to intervene.
Men were mooching about, uneasy, the taken-for-granted victory suddenly less sure, at least in the near future, all plans, all dreams, on hold.
They were all raging with frustration that they couldn’t get into the fight, even from England. Weather was predicted to be bad for days – even longer, with heavy snowfalls.
Bill, with his large overcoat on, was stretched out on his bunk writing a letter to Mary when a knock came on the door.
He looked up. ‘Come in.’
Riley stood there.
‘You guys not flying for Uncle Sam today?’
Bill, suddenly tense on seeing Riley, still managed: ‘No. Has the weather escaped you in that fine warm room of yours?’
Riley opened his greatcoat and shook and stamped off some of the snow.
‘Touché.’
But Bill was already swinging his legs to the floor and standing up.
‘Well?’
Riley moved to the window, looked out at the drifting snow. ‘You going to try to see Mary? This isn’t going to ease up for days, is it?’
Impatiently, Bill said: ‘Just waiting for a general stand-down to be announced.’ He paused, then added: ‘Are you trying to let me down gently or what? I don’t have you down as a sadist.’
Riley slid his hand into a pocket and produced a message sheet.
‘Just got this.’ He unfolded it, cleared his throat and read:
‘From Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force, to First Lieutenant William Anderson USAAF. You have permission to marry Miss Mary Rice – no one else.’
Riley looked up, smiled and finished: ‘Signed, personally, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Commander SHAEF.’
Bill let out one terrific yell, grabbed Riley and danced around shouting: ‘Riley, you old bastard, you’re the greatest lawyer on earth. Come to the club – drinks on me.’
When the initial euphoria was past and he let go of Riley, the latter said: ‘You may not be popular with the CO of your squadron.’
Bill grinned. ‘He’ll be fine. If we get a forty-eight I’ll be married before he even knows it – and with this …’ he took the message from Riley’s fingers … ‘he can hardly complain.’
His face suddenly clouded. ‘Say – can we marry in a civil office – quickly?’
Riley shrugged. ‘If that’s what your lady wants, I’m sure I can fix it.’
Bill held his arms wide. ‘Riley, is there no end to your talents?’
Neither of them could know that forty years later Riley would be a Supreme Court judge.
Mary was on High Table, dining with the Master and Fellows when the door at the far end burst open. At the clamour, everybody stopped eating, looked around, down the two long candlelit rows of tables to the entrance where Bill, with the porter hanging on to his arm, stood shouting:
‘Mary, Mary … Marry me. Ike himself has given us permission.’
Startled she dropped her spoon, said to the Master: ‘I’m sorry … I must….’
The goatee-bearded patrician, the foremost authority on ancient Persia in the land, laid a hand on her arm.
‘My dear, his name?’
Mary gulped. ‘Bill Anderson, Master, he is a lieutenant in the American Air Force.’
The Master waved. ‘Lieutenant Anderson – please come and join us.’
There was a ripple of surprise. College servants scrambled to set another place as one of the Fellows moved to let Bill sit beside her.
Bill strode up the hall, stepped up on to the platform on which was the High Table.
The Master rose to meet him and took his hand, smiling and introducing Mary.
‘I think you already know Doctor Rice?’
Bill looked into her eyes.
‘I do, sir. And I await her reply. Will you marry me – on this leave – right away?’
One could almost hear a pin drop in the centuries-old hall.
Unintentionally she kept him waiting several seconds until she could trust her voice.
‘I will.’
Cheering, the students threw all their napkins in the air as the Master warmly clasped them both on their shoulders.
Later, when they were walking on their own, with her arm through his, they talked and talked like the excited youngsters they were.
Suddenly serious, Mary said: ‘Bill, can we get to see my parents – I really want you to meet them?’
‘Sure, honey – tomorrow – OK? Is it far?’
She squeezed his arm. ‘Thank you, darling. No, we can do it in a day. But I’m feeling guilty about your mum and dad.’
Wistfully Bill shook his head.
‘I daren’t cable them – they would get such a fright, thinking it was from the War Department. Anyway, there is no rush. I can tell them more about you in a letter – enclose a photo.’
Mary winced. ‘Do you think they’ll be upset? I mean, they don’t know anything about me – probably think I’m a little English gold-digger or something.’
Bill gave a snort.
‘No way. They trust me. I’m a big boy now.’
She stopped dead.
‘How old are you, Bill?’
‘Twenty-one last March – and you?’
She looked sheepish. ‘You sure you want to marry an older woman?’
He pulled a face. ‘Hell, that bad?’
She nodded. ‘Afraid so, I’m twenty-two.’
He slapped his forehead.
‘I knew it. You’ll be old and I’ll still be young and handsome.’
She gave him a punch.
They resumed their walk in the snow.
‘We’ll need to catch an early train, and change at Bedford. My parents live in St Albans.’
‘Right.’
It meant nothing to him.
When they reached her digs he started to chuckle.
‘What’s funny?’
He gestured at the terraced house. ‘You’re there – me in my place. Where are we going to meet – tonight?’
Mary rolled her eyes. ‘My God, what am I letting myself in for?’
Bill winked suggestively.
At Bedford they waited on the platform of the red-brick Victorian station that served the main line to London. It was packed with GIs and RAF types, and some giggling girls. Dust blew up into their eyes from the unswept, stone-slabbed platform that elevated them above the greasy, litter-strewn track.
They made their way to the refreshment room, queued for two thick, cracked cups of stewed tea, and two rock-cakes from a woman who drew boiling water into a large kettle from a chromium-plated urn.
She proceeded to fill more rows of cups with a continuous stream of the thick dark fluid as they moved on to a woman at the till, whose wobbling cigarette was stuck to her lower lip. She checked their tray, then said: ‘Eightpence, luv,’ and pressed the keys of the till.
The charge came up, printed on cards inside the glass window of the machine. Bill proffered half a crown and waited for his change as Mary went to look for seats. They were all taken, so they faced each other, using the window-ledge to park their cups.
Mary tried to break off a piece of cake, found it hard going. She pulled a face, and pushed the plate away. ‘Bill, I’d better warn you – my father isn’t easy these days. He’s always in a lot of pain. He was blown up at Dunkirk – lost a leg.’
Bill winced. ‘Hell, I’m sorry – I had no idea. I thought you said he was a printer.’
She nodded. ‘He was, before the war. He was in the BEF. It’s just that he’ll have a go at you – but honestly he’s really very nice, when you get to know him properly.’
He smiled. ‘He’s your father – that’s enough for me.’
She leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
‘I love you.’
A great clatter of boots on the stone outside took their attention. Khaki uniforms were everywhere, together with steel helmets, gas-masks, kit-bags and rifles. Mary noticed the faces of the soldiers, young and soft with the contours of boyhood; the sergeants were older, their skin leathery and creased.
Bill said: ‘Looks like a unit on the move. This train is going to be very crowded.’
They couldn’t see the black, dirty engine when it drew in, only the hissing steam as it rumbled past, shaking the ground. In a scream of tortured metal on metal it ground to a halt at the end of the platform. Doors opened, the crowds on the platform pushing forward even before it stopped.
Shaking his head, Bill said: ‘We’ll never get on that.’
Mary’s eyes flashed. ‘Oh, yes we will.’
They downed the remainder of their teas, left the rock-cakes
and rushed out on to the steam-filled platform.
Mary led the way, found a door at the end of a corridor coach. People were standing in the entrance, apparently unable to go any further.
She got up on to the step and began pushing her way in. Embarrassed, Bill apologized as he followed her into the gloomy corridor, then continued on down its length, all the while shouldering past people and climbing over cases. Half-way along there was a little more space. She leant against the window rail, with Bill hard up against her. He smiled and mimed a kiss. Mary giggled. ‘You can try but somehow I don’t think it’s going to work.’
The carriage smelt of a mixture of engine smoke, cigarette smoke and the dampness of thick serge, and was obviously rarely cleaned.
They remained stationary, packed like cattle in trucks, watching as more troops arrived and went into the station buffet. Feet scuffed on the carriage floor, voices rose in volume, and coughing and roars of laughter came from somewhere.
The train’s eventual departure was presaged by several shrill blasts of the guard’s whistle, the slamming of more doors, and a sudden jerk that would have sent everybody sprawling, if they had not all been jammed so tightly together. Brown suitcases and kit-bags rained down on the people in the compartments.
To begin with they hardly went more than a walking-pace, lurching over points, trundling slowly over a steel bridge. Bill looked up the length of the River Ouse at the town of Bedford nestling on its banks as it had since early Danish settlements. He knew that John Bunyan had written his Pilgrim’s Progress from a cell in the town jail.
The train, almost imperceptibly gathered momentum, the engine labouring with poor coal and the grossly overloaded carriages.
Eventually they cleared Bedford, headed south towards London across the flat brickfields with the groups of tall chimneys dominating the skyline.
They plunged into a tunnel. Mary felt his mouth on her nose, tilted her face so that their lips met.
Smoke and steam swirled in through an open window. With a shout somebody grabbed the hanging leather strap and hauled it shut.
When they lunged out into the daylight again Bill chuckled. A dark spot had drifted on to the tip of her nose. With difficulty he got to his handkerchief and rubbed it away.
She giggled. ‘Thank you, kind sir, but you need it too.’
She took the handkerchief and did the same to his forehead and cheek.
The journey was tedious, with many stops and always with the same agonizingly slow resumption from each station. Mary began to feel very tired.
At last they steamed into St Albans. Not many got out. The packed train was still standing at the platform long after they had left the station, crossed over a road bridge, and hand in hand walked out of sight of the railway.
She glanced up at him as they turned into her road. ‘You’re still sure about this Bill? Don’t take any offence at anything Dad says will you? He doesn’t mean it really.’
‘I won’t. Hell, he can’t be that bad.’
The home was an Edwardian red-brick semi, the dwarf wall that had separated it from the road was now without its iron railing, only the stumps remaining after it had been taken for the war effort.
They stood in the porch, its floor tiled in red and blue, the blue-painted door divided by two panels of coloured glass.
He nervously fingered his tie as the sound of footsteps came on the wooden floor on the other side of the door.
It was opened, and a petite woman stood there, dressed in a blue cardigan and jumper, with a single string of pearls and a tartan skirt.
To Bill, her resemblance to Mary was startling.
Her eyes fell on her daughter, and in a second they were hugging each other, the woman saying: ‘Oh darling, it’s wonderful to see you.’
Mary replied: ‘And you too, Mummy.’
It was only after they had hugged again that Mrs Rice said worriedly: ‘You’re looking tired, are you overdoing it?’
Mary shook her head. ‘No more than anybody else these days. At least I’m not in a factory, thank God.’
It was only then that her mother turned to Bill, who had stood patiently to one side, enjoying the warmth between them.
Mary introduced him.‘This is Bill, Mum.’
Mrs Rice held out her hand. ‘It’s nice to meet you. Mary has told us all about you.’
Bill took her hand, found it freezing cold as he shot a glance at Mary. ‘I hope it wasn’t all bad?’
Mary moved to her mother’s side, put an arm around her shoulder.
‘Never you mind. What goes on between a daughter and her mother is sacrosanct. Isn’t that so, Mum?’
Mrs Rice patted Mary’s hand. ‘It was all good, Bill, I promise, and we think what you are doing is very brave.’
Bill winced, and shook his head.
‘If you could see me sometimes….’
When her mother had said ‘we’, Mary had released her hand, her face clouding as she asked: ‘How’s Dad?’
Mrs Rice tried to smile, but it didn’t really succeed.
‘Oh, much the same. The doctor has given him some different tablets for the pain. They seem to be working better. Come on in, he’s in the garden – always did like snow, like a little boy.’
Bill followed the women into the hall from which stairs led straight up, the red carpet held by brass rods at the start of each riser. There was an oak hall table and hat rack, on which he hung his cap.
They walked down the passageway beside the stairs, passing a door that led into a room with a comfortable but threadbare sofa and two chairs grouped around a tiled fireplace. A bookcase and a standard lamp of turned mahogany completed the furnishings.
They passed another door on the same side, revealing a room with a wooden dining-table and four chairs, and a matching sideboard with photographs.
‘Mind the step.’
He ducked his head as they entered a narrow kitchen with a gas-cooker and a shallow white sink with a water-heater above it. From there they passed into a small washroom, similar to that at the cottage, which Mary referred to as the scullery. It contained a mangle with its smooth wooden rollers, one on top of the other, and a long geared handle to turn them with, and a round, gas-fired clothes-boiler. A washboard stood in the corner. A smell of dampness pervaded the room.
Then they finally stepped out into a long, thin strip of a garden with a concrete path running its length.
There was a figure of a man in a wheelchair, his back to them, wearing a coat and with a rug over his knees.
They approached, Mrs Rice leading the way. She stood in front of the chair.
‘Dear – Mary’s here, and she’s got Bill with her.’
Mary knelt down, and threw her arms around her father.
‘Daddy.’
Bill stood beside her, still unable to see the man’s face. He heard the voice of Mr Rice before anything else.
When Mary drew back he found himself looking down into eyes he already knew. There could be no doubt from which parent Mary had inherited them. Under dark eyebrows they stared back up at him, resentment already present even before he had opened his mouth. His nose was large, his thrusting jaw ended in a cleft chin. A once handsome face was now tinged with sadness, with defeat.
‘So, this is your American?’
He managed to make ‘American’ sound like an insult.
Bill held out his hand.
‘Pleased to meet you, sir’
Grudgingly a large hand took it.
‘Always the polite ones, especially when they want to marry your daughter.’
‘Oh John, don’t be so rude.’
Mrs Rice sounded anxious, as though she had been expecting it.
Undeterred, Bill produced a bag of food he’d scrounged from one of the mess hall sergeants.
‘Not only polite, sir, but I thought I might bribe you with food for your daughter’s hand.’
The eyebrows furrowed. ‘Clever with it as well, eh? But you know what they say….’
Bill nodded wearily. ‘Yes. Oversexed, overpaid, and over here – right?’
‘That’s right.’ There was a note of triumph in John Rice’s voice.
Mrs Rice took the bag. ‘Oh, Bill, that’s very generous of you. Really, you shouldn’t have done it.’
She shot a glance at her husband. ‘We girls need to talk.’
Mary bent down and ostensibly gave her Father a hug, but whispered fiercely into his ear: ‘Be good Daddy – for me.’
The two men were left alone together. Bill shifted from one foot to the other.
‘Very nice family you have, sir.’
Mr Rice grunted, tried to move, pushing at the wheels of his chair which slipped in the snow, failing to grip.
Bill went to help, but was waved off with a testy: ‘I can manage, thank you.’
Mr Rice got himself on to a part of the concrete path that had been swept clear of the snow and wheeled himself along to its end. Bill followed, not knowing what else to do.
At last Mr Rice said: ‘How old are you?’
Bill lied, added a few months. ‘Twenty-one and a half, sir.’
Mr Rice shook his head. ‘I thought so. You’re just a boy.’
Irritated, Bill drew himself up.
‘Old enough, according to Uncle Sam.’
Mary’s father grimaced. ‘My family has already paid a heavy price in this war. Did Mary tell you about our boy? Went down in the Channel during the Battle of Britain. You Yanks weren’t around then.’
Bill was flabbergasted. ‘She never told me.’
Mr Rice took no notice, carried on. ‘Her telling us about you, and getting wed came as a hell of a shock I can tell you. We had her down as a dyed-in-the-wool academic – thought she might never get married. And you – a pilot.’ He shook his head. ‘She was very close to Mark. Now look….’
His shoulders slumped. ‘This war will just about finish this family I can tell you.’
A silence descended as Bill still thought about Mary’s brother.
Suddenly Mr Rice said: ‘The women have got a lot to talk about. Care for a pint? There’s a pub at the end of the road.’
Surprised and relieved, Bill straightened up. ‘I sure would.’
They went out throgh the back gate, the wheelchair bumping along down an unmade lane, at the bottom of which was a small pub. They went into the door on the corner, marked ‘Public Bar’. There was a counter with pump-handles, and a few mismatched tables and chairs clustered on the sawdust-sprinkled floor.
Several men were inside. They turned to look at Bill in his uniform, which stood out in the dingy surroundings. John Rice wheeled himself across the room, Bill irrationally noticing the tyre tracks in the sawdust. He slapped his hand on the bar top.
‘Two pints of your best bitter, Mavis….’
The buxom barmaid eyed Bill appreciatively as she began her work, pulling the handle and releasing the gurgling beer into the mugs which she held at an angle. Every time the handle sprang back upright there was a dull thud. Eventually she set the two glasses of frothing beer down on to the mats and took the coins John Rice proffered. He passed one to Bill and took the other himself.
‘Cheers.’
Bill responded in kind.
After the first quaff John Rice wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and addressed the room.
‘This is … what did you say your rank was, son?’
Bill obliged sheepishly. ‘First lieutenant.’
‘This is First Lieutenant Bill Anderson, soon to be my son-in-law, and he is currently kicking the shite out of the Hun in his own backyard.’
The other men nodded or called out greetings of one sort or another. Bill held up his beer in salute, then drank long and deep. When he lowered his glass it was to find, for the first time, John Rice grinning at him.
‘It’s been that bad, eh?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Meeting me.’
Ruefully Bill ran a hand through his hair. ‘Shall we just say that I was worried that you probably wouldn’t like me.’
John Rice looked down into his glass. ‘I haven’t been easy to live with these last couple of years, Bill, I don’t mind admitting.’
He gazed sadly at the wheelchair. ‘Never thought I’d end up in one of these.’
They moved to a corner. Bill pulled away a chair to allow John Rice to get close to the table, and set down his beer.
They sat back, drinking in silence for a moment as the murmur of the voices in the bar returned to normal. At last John Rice said, in a lowered tone: ‘I’ve had nobody around here I could talk to, nobody who could understand….’
He dropped his gaze. ‘I was terrified.’
Bill, taken unawares, said nothing, then realized that his future father-in-law was waiting expectantly, that he was being given a rare opportunity, that Mary’s father had started to bare his soul to him.
He swallowed hard, said aloud, to the only person in the world he’d admitted it to before – even, he realized, to himself:
‘If you must know, I turned back on a mission, radioed there was a problem, when really there wasn’t. Nothing was ever said, but at that moment I just couldn’t do it.’ He shook his head. ‘I was overcome with fear, intense, nauseating fear.’ He shuddered. ‘You don’t know how bad it’s going to be until you’re buckling in on the day. That’s when it gets you – dread sits in your stomach like a cold dead animal. Most days you can get on top of it, but sometimes …’ His voice tailed away.
The older man looked into the younger man’s eyes, and in that instant a bond was formed.
Mary came in from the garden, frowning.
‘They’re not there.’
Mrs Rice, laying the dining-room table, paused with a fork in her hand. ‘Oh dear, I expect they’ve gone down to the King’s Arms. Your father goes there quite a lot nowadays.’
Mary came and stood by her. ‘Mummy, are you trying to tell me something?’
Mrs Rice’s lower lip trembled, and tears came into her eyes.
‘Oh, mother….’
That did it. Mrs Rice turned to her daughter, who cuddled her as great sobs racked her body.
‘There, there….’
It all came out. John Rice had been hell to live with, and had taken to going daily to the King’s Arms at lunch-times and then again most evenings. She’d had to put up with a lot of loneliness, and then being with a husband who vacillated between gruffness and great periods of brooding introspection.
‘Damn. Damn this whole bloody mess. It’s killed my son, it’s ruined our health, it’s … ruined our life.’
Mary had never heard her mother swear before. Almost immediately Mrs Rice dabbed at her eyes with a little bordered handkerchief.
‘I’m sorry, Mary – don’t take any notice of me – please. Dad’s all right really. Don’t let it worry you on your day tomorrow. Really, I’m all right – just being stupid.’
Upset, Mary cuddled her again.
‘Don’t be silly, Mum. Is it the wheelchair? Is that what he can’t come to terms with?’
‘No.’
She felt her mother’s head move from side to side. ‘No, no. Something happened in France – when he was injured. He won’t talk about it.’
Frightened, Mary hugged her mother, rocking back and forth.
The ‘something’ that had been eating away at John Rice was now known to Bill Anderson. It was an incident that had lasted less than thirty seconds.
In the heat of battle, on the outskirts of a village, a soldier in his platoon had been injured while the platoon was in a forward defensive position. They had come under heavy mortar fire. The man had screamed for help, but John Rice had found himself unable to move, frozen to the ground in terror. It had only ended when there had been a whoosh, the man’s head had been sliced off and John Rice had found himself staring at somebody’s bloody leg. Then he had realized it was his.
Bill took the empty glasses in one hand. Before he moved to the counter he put his other hand on the older man’s shoulder. ‘Anybody who’s been there knows. You do your best. Sometimes it’s more than enough – sometimes it’s not enough. War is not logical. War is crap.’
Mary and her mother had restored themselves to a sad calmness. There was still no sign of the menfolk. Their eyes met. Mary said: ‘Shall I go down and get them?’
Her mother was adamant. ‘Leave them alone, dear, your father will come home in his own sweet time.’
Mary raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you think is happening? I’m worried for Bill.’
There was a sudden shout from the direction of the garden. Mary and her mother watched in horror as a charging Bill, pushing John Rice in his wheelchair, tore up the path, weaving dangerously from side to side until in an explosion of snow the chair went sideways and rolled over. Its occupant was flung out and Bill fell on top of him.
Shocked, the women ran to help, appalled at the twisted bodies and still-spinning wheels. When they got there they pulled up abruptly and stared down in amazement.
The two men were shaking with laughter, tears streaming down their faces. When at last he caught his breath John Rice looked up at his wife, and for the first time in recent memory, she saw again the man she had married.
Then Bill and he giggled like kids, and the women realized that they were both heavily under the influence.
But her mother’s relief was so overwhelming that Mary’s anger at Bill evaporated. Mother and daughter hugged each other as they joined tearfully in the laughter.
John Rice looked up at his daughter and wagged a finger. ‘You’ve got yourself a good one here, Mary – even if he is a Yank. You take care of him now, or you’ll have me to answer to.’
Mary looked at Bill and raised an eyebrow. With mock severity she said: ‘Oh, I’ll take good care of him all right.’
They enjoyed a wonderful evening. Mary had never known her parents to be so happy.
When the time came to leave the atmosphere became more sober. Her mother was growing tearful again, but with happiness.
‘We’ll be thinking of you both.’
‘I’m so sorry you can’t be there,’ Mary said sadly, ‘but it’s the only place we can do it really quickly, and Bill will have to return to the Air Force almost immediately.’
Her father patted her hand. ‘We understand, gal – all we want is your happiness. Anyway it’s not as though these are normal times eh?’
Her mother nodded. ‘That’s right, Mary dear, yours and Bill’s happiness.’
They stood in the hall, Mrs Rice with her hand on the blackout curtain, her other around Mary. The two women held on to each other for as long as possible as they talked.
The men made their own farewells. There was no exhortation to glory or the destruction of the enemy by John Rice.
They grasped hands as he said: ‘You take care of yourself, son, for Mary’s sake – and ours. No heroics, now.’
‘No heroics, Dad – that’s a promise.’
They finally left, kissing and shaking hands again in the dark of the front garden. Her parents were still there, despite the cold as they gave a last wave and turned the corner.
Down the next street the moon was riding between wildly scudding clouds, bright between the roofs and chimneys.
Mary had an arm around his waist, one of his was about her shoulders.
‘Bill.’ She suddenly stopped, the moonlight glowed on her upturned face.
‘Darling, I love you.’ It was said very seriously. He kissed her on her forehead.
‘Now, that’s what I like to hear – but why now?’
‘Oh, for what you did back there.’
‘You mean your father?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your old man is OK – one of the best.’
She was going to say something more, but he kissed her, long and hard.
They didn’t even notice a couple of giggling girls, arm-in-arm, who passed by and called out: ‘That’s it Yank, give her one. There’s two more here when you’ve finished.’
They were married by special licence next day at Cambridge Register Office. Bill slid the ring on her third finger, left hand, just after 11 a.m.
They dined at a reserved table at the Garden House Hotel, walked along the Backs, managed to get a punt despite the winter’s day – the old boatman, on hearing they were just married, got it out especially for them, and insisted on poling as they lay side by side under blankets. He joined them in a toast from the hip flask that Bill proffered to him.
‘Long life and happiness together.’
After supper they sat before a crackling log-fire in the lounge, watching the world go by. It was Christmas Eve, 1944.
Glenn Miller was due to broadcast to America later – from Paris.
Mary sprawled in a leather chair, holding a brandy in one hand, her arm languidly outstretched. The flames of the fire were reflected in the glass of the balloon. She murmured: ‘Darling, this is the happiest day of my life.’
Bill sat opposite her, swirling the brandy in his glass as he held it cupped in both hands.
‘Mary Anderson…’ he grinned and paused deliberately. Her heart leapt at the sound of her new name.
‘Mary Anderson – you are a beautiful woman. I have no idea why you have married me, but you have made me the proudest, happiest man on earth.’
They raised their glasses to each other. Mary thought for a while, then, biting her lip, said, ‘Bill….’
He looked from the fire back to her. When she didn’t immediately continue, he suddenly realized that she was finding it difficult. His voice quickened. ‘What?’
She took a quick sip of her brandy. ‘I didn’t want to spoil your day – I didn’t know how you’d take it but….’
Bill frowned. ‘What’s up? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong – but well – I’m expecting….’
Bill sat so unmoving that for a second she didn’t think he had understood her.
To be certain she added. ‘I’m due some time in July – maybe August.’
Bill suddenly stood up, put his drink down and came over and sat on the leather arm of her chair. Pulling her to him he kissed the top of her head and whispered, ‘Darling – that’s wonderful. How long have you known?’
Mary blushed. ‘Soon after our stay at the flat I knew that something might have happened.’
‘Have you been to see the doctor?’
She nodded. ‘Two days ago – everything was fine.’ She chuckled. ‘He said he’d seen more unmarried young ladies in the family way in the last four years than in the previous forty.’
Bill kissed her head again.
‘Well, you’re Mrs Anderson, expecting our first, and that’s terrific.’
Mary blushed. ‘I never in a million years thought that I’d be with child on my wedding night of all nights. I couldn’t tell Mum and Dad – but I will soon.’
Bill hunched down in front of her and looked up. ‘Mary, we knew from the very beginning we were made for each other. Now you are an old married woman, and though I didn’t think it possible I love you even more.’
She ruffled his hair with her hand.
‘Husband – my husband.’
They were just going to bed when the rumour began to circulate through the servicemen crowded into the bar. Somebody said that the news had come across with a group of bomber boys from the Three-O-Six stationed at Thurleigh near Bedford.
Glenn Miller’s plane to Paris had gone missing some ten days previously – the news was only now leaking out. A hush came over the place. What with the Battle of the Bulge still raging, the new V2 rockets causing terror, and now this, the year of 1944 was ending on a very gloomy note after the euphoria of the summer and autumn.
Victory in Europe suddenly seemed further away than ever.