Our Yanks (13 page)

‘I don't know how you can stand working for that old cow.'

‘I wouldn't, if it wasn't for young Lady B. She's nice. Not a bit stuck-up. And I like Master Alexander. He's nice too. Anyway, soon as I'm eighteen I'm going to join the ATS, or something. If the war isn't over.'

‘Me, too.'

‘Bet your dad'll try and stop you.'

‘He won't be able to, will he? It's the law.'

Doris giggled again and then suddenly went serious. ‘Will you really help me make a blouse, Sal? Another time?'

Sally nodded. Fair was fair. She owed it to Doris. And she felt sorry for her, with her dad killed by the Germans in France and her having to work as a servant and not having much fun. ‘Course I will.'

Colonel Carl Schrader arrived at King's Thorpe to take over as the new group commander three days before the end of 1943. The men had been shaken up by the loss of his predecessor together with four other pilots on the Ruhr mission, but morale, he judged, was good. Major Peters, the group adjutant, summoned to put him in the overall picture, agreed.

‘There's no problem operationally, Colonel. The men're up for it, no question. They want to do the best job they can.'

‘Living conditions aren't too healthy, I've noticed. Seems like I've been lucky so far. The RAF pre-war bases I've seen are pretty good. Solid buildings, central heating, proper roads. None of that here, though.'

The adjutant said drily, ‘You should have been here when we first arrived, sir. This place was knocked together by the RAF in a big hurry in 1940 when they thought they were going to be invaded. They didn't waste any time on frills. We've made some improvements but there's still plenty to be done. Mud's a big problem, too. It rained most of November and everything got bogged down. The cold weather's helped dry the ground out but it's still bad.'

‘Hell of a climate.'

‘I'm from Minneapolis, sir. It seems rather mild to me.'

Schrader smiled. ‘I'm from St Louis, myself. So I guess I shouldn't complain too much either.'

‘Speaking of complaints, Colonel, we do have another problem that maybe I should tell you about.'

‘Shoot.'

‘The folks of King's Thorpe village – with some exceptions – aren't too keen on us being here. There's been a lot of ill feeling and complaints from them.'

‘What about exactly?'

‘The usual ones – aircraft noise, low-flying exercises, traffic through the village – things we can't do a whole lot about. Then our electricians blew the power out locally for three days while they were trying to figure out the British system. That sure didn't help cement Anglo-American relations. And there've been other things . . .'

‘Such as?'

‘Public-house brawls. Our boys getting into arguments with the locals at the Black Bull, or the White Horse or any one of the seven pubs in the village. Sometimes it's our guys shooting their mouths off, sometimes it's over a girl, sometimes just nothing much. One of the landlords was overcharging every American that came in before they finally cottoned on that they were being rooked. There was a big row over that. I guess some of the British figure any Yank is an easy mark. And, so far as the folks in the village here are concerned, we're Big Talkers and Little Doers. You can understand it, Colonel. The Group's been here nearly four months and only just gone operational.'

‘That's something time should cure soon enough. What else don't they like about us?'

‘Drinking all their beer. Taking their women. Being paid better than their servicemen. And, I guess, just being here. We got off on the wrong foot, right from the start, unfortunately.'

‘How so?'

‘Well, the villagers organized a Welcome Party for us in the village hall when we first arrived – mostly the rector's idea, I gather. He's a real nice guy, incidentally. On our side. They were all pretty much willing to give us a fair try. Only Colonel McLaren made a speech that didn't go down too well. Along the lines of the British wouldn't have to worry any more now we'd come over to win the war for them. He didn't mean to give offence but, frankly, diplomacy was never his strong suit. That was the start of the trouble and things have gone downhill ever since.'

‘Fill me in, Major. What else?'

‘A while back when one of our P-38s flew low over the church here, a stained-glass window fell in. The locals reckoned the plane had caused it and kicked up a big fuss. We offered to pay for a new one, of course, but that only made things worse. Apparently, the glass was around five hundred years old and irreplaceable. I guess we looked kind of crass.'

‘So, did it get sorted out?'

‘Not so far. It's tough to get any work like that done right now so they've boarded the window up for the duration. We'll have to sort it out later on, when the war's over.'

‘Anything else I ought to know about?'

‘Well, lately we've had several letters objecting to the naked women painted on the fighters and on some of the boys' A2s. The village has more than its share of elderly maiden ladies. They see the fighters going low overhead and the backs of the jackets walking along the streets.'

Schrader smiled. ‘You figure maybe I should issue an order, telling the guys to paint clothes on their girls? Think that'll do the trick?'

The adjutant smiled as well. ‘King's Thorpe is a real backwater, sir. Life goes on pretty much like in the last century. And probably the one before. Maybe the one before that as well. Most of them had never set eyes on an American before we arrived to disturb their peace.'

‘The reverse is true for most of us, too, Major. This is my first time in England.'

‘Mine, too, sir.'

‘So, how many people live in this backwater?'

‘Somewhere between eight and nine hundred.'

‘Huh. They're outnumbered.'

‘About two and a half Yanks to every villager. Like I said, Colonel, we have a public relations problem.'

Schrader thought for a moment. The adjutant was an old hand, around ten years his senior, and he clearly felt the situation needed dealing with. ‘The way I see it, Major, is this. Fighting this war comes first because, in the end, that's what counts – not what a bunch of British villagers think of us. If they don't like having us around, then that's just too bad; plenty of our boys'd sooner not be here either. At the same time, there's no sense us having to fight the British as well as the Germans. Our orders from the top are that we're to like them and see to it that they like us because that's the only way this job's going to get done. So, let's try and see if we can do something to mend the fences. How about asking some of them to a party up here?'

‘Great idea, Colonel. We could get a list drawn up of the bigger fish in the pond and send out formal invitations.'

‘Would they come, do you think?'

‘I think they might, sir. If only for the food and the drink.'

Schrader nodded. ‘OK, we'll really lay it on for 'em. Thanks, Major.'

The adjutant paused as he was leaving the office. ‘A letter came for Colonel McLaren the same day he was KIA. A dinner invitation from Lady Beauchamp. She lives at the Manor in King's Thorpe. One of the big fish.'

‘Have you met her?'

‘Well, there are two of them. One older and one younger. I'm not sure which one the letter was from but I'd make a guess it was the younger.'

‘How come there're two?'

‘One's the dowager, I think you'd call it. The other's her daughter-in-law. They're both widows. The “Sir” is the son, and he's only a kid.'

‘You think it's an olive branch?'

‘Very likely, sir. If it's from the younger one. From what I remember, she's very pleasant.'

‘How about the older? Is she an old battleaxe?'

‘Not a bad description, sir.'

‘Well, I guess we should take up the offer. It might do some good. Lady what, did you say?'

‘Beauchamp, Colonel. They spell it B-E-A-U-C-H-A-M-P, but they pronounce it Beechum.'

‘Sure they do, Major. They would.'

‘And where do you think you're off to, my girl?'

‘Round to Doris, Dad. Same as usual. She wants me to help her make a blouse.'

‘Why can't she come round here?'

‘We've got everything out on the table there and we don't want to have to move it.'

‘What's that you're taking, then?'

She glanced innocently at the brown paper package under her arm. ‘Magazines. We're going to copy something out of one of them.'

‘Hmm. Well, what time will you be back?'

‘Depends how long it takes. I promised her we'd get it finished this evening cos she wants to wear it soon.'

‘I don't like you being out on a New Year's Eve, Sally. The pubs'll be full of drunks and Yanks.'

She gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘I'm not going
near
the pubs, Dad. I'm only going round to Doris's.'

‘Well, see you're back by ten o'clock.'

‘I won't be. That's not near enough time to get it finished. Eleven, more like. Night, Dad.'

She whisked out of the door before he could say another word. He'd be fast asleep long before then, she knew that. He was always in bed and snoring by ten because of having to get up so early to light the furnace and get the dough mixed. Up in Doris's icy bedroom she changed into the frock she'd made out of a pair of old curtains that Mum had got at a jumble sale. The materials was soft velvet, the colour of a ripe Victoria plum. She'd used the best bits, where it hadn't faded, and made it with long, tight sleeves and a heart-shaped neckline, like in a picture she'd seen in Mum's
Home Notes
. Doris held the candle up for her while she tried to see herself properly in the small looking glass on the wall, bending down and then standing on tiptoe.

‘You look beautiful, Sal. Ever so grown-up. Wherever did you find such thin stockings?'

She stuck a leg out. ‘They're not stockings. It's Bisto. I mixed some up and painted it on. Then I drew a line down the back with an eyebrow pencil for the seam.' She twisted her leg round to show Doris. ‘I read about doing that in a magazine.'

‘You'd never guess. It looks just like stockings.' Doris sniffed hard. ‘What's that perfume you've put on?'

‘Evening in Paris. A spiv bloke came into the bakehouse the other day and I bought some. He was from up north and he'd got a suitcase full of all sorts of things. Perfume and lipsticks and soap and stockings . . . luckily Dad wasn't about. I'd've bought some stockings but they were five shillings a pair. Mum got some lovely lavender soap but she never told him.' Sally took a last look in the glass, tweaking at he curls on her forehead, and then put on her coat over the velvet frock. ‘Wish me luck, Doris.'

‘Oh, I do, Sal.'

‘Swear you'll never tell.'

‘Cross my heart.'

Chester had told her to be outside the Land Girls' hostel by seven and a truck would come by. She hurried down the high street, finding her way easily in the darkness. She knew every bit of the street: every kerb and lamp-post and wall, every dip or bump. The lorry was already parked outside the hostel, the Land Girls, all dressed up in civvies, climbing in at the back. A Yank sergeant in a white helmet shone his torch in her face.

‘Any more where you come from?'

‘There's only me.'

‘Up you go, then, honey. We're leavin'.' He helped her into the lorry and then hoisted himself up after her and swept the torch along the benches on each side, counting heads. ‘One, two, three . . . ten . . . thirteen . . . fifteen . . . twenty, two, three, four . . . twenty-nine. OK, girls. When we bring you back, I'm gonna want to count twenty-nine of you again, else I'll be in a whole lot of trouble. An' so will you.'

He dropped back down and went up front to sit beside the driver. The lorry started off, jolting and swaying down the street.

‘Ever been to a Yank dance before?' the girl next to her asked.

‘No.'

‘They're wonderful. Wait till you hear the band! First one I went to here was in the Aeroclub but this one's going to be in one of the hangars – as it's New Year's Eve. There'll be loads of girls coming from all over this evening, I should think. Know one of the Yanks, do you?'

‘Yes.'

‘They're so polite, aren't they? Lovely manners and ever such good dancers. Mine's from Milwaukee – not that I've got a clue where that is. I've been invited. We all have. But a lot of girls just go.
Those
sort of girls . . . you know.'

Another one of them said, ‘Play your cards right and you'll get some nylon stockings.'

‘We're not all like you, Rene,' the one beside her retorted and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘
She's
no better than she ought to be.'

‘I'm glad it's the fighters,' someone else said. ‘They don't get the chop so much as the bombers. When I went to the Yank dances over in Suffolk, you never knew if they'd still be there the next week. Mostly they weren't. You'd meet someone nice and look for him next time and they'd tell you he'd had it.'

‘The fighter pilots get the chop too.'

‘Yes, but if a fighter goes down it's only one of them. If it's a bomber it's ten. I knew four blokes I really fancied and every one of them got killed, one after the other. It was horrible.'

The lorry ground up the hill and turned in through the main entrance to the aerodrome. It stopped at the guardhouse and then stopped again, further on, to let them clamber out. There were more lorries parked nearby, unloading more girls, and the Yanks started herding them up, like sheepdogs with sheep. They'd decorated the inside of the hangar with American flags, strung all along the walls and hanging down from the roof. A band was playing up on a platform – not just three of them like at the village-hall hops with Miss Hooper at the piano and two old men, but a dozen, at least, all blasting away on brass things with one of them bashing at several drums like he'd gone mad. And there were hundreds of Yanks dancing with girls, like they'd gone crazy too. Spinning them round, lifting them in the air, making the girls' skirts fly up. Chester was nowhere to be seen and Sally stood tapping her foot impatiently. One of the Yanks came up to her. ‘Hi, there. I'm Rick. Care to dance?'