The Girl With No Name (48 page)

‘If the worst comes to the worst, many people will be against what you’re doing. There will be German reprisals, as there have been in France, and people may well turn against such a resistance force. That is why you will never be able to tell anyone what you’ve been trained to do. As far as your friends and family are concerned, your wives, particularly your wives, you’re in the ordinary Home Guard. This is for your security, but also for their own.’

Later, as he’d ridden back up the hill to Wynsdown, Billy knew a strange mixture of pride and fear that had been with him ever since. He had been chosen to fight to the last. If the Germans landed he would be among the last defenders of his country.

A week later he’d been called for extra training, duly explained as a signalling course. It was training totally different from anything he had done previously, and before he returned to Wynsdown he was accepted into a secret force, unknown to the outside world, unknown to anyone not directly involved, and had signed secrecy papers.

Despite the insistence on total secrecy, as he and his father sat in the observation post, watching the bombers unloading death on those beneath them, Billy was sorely tempted to tell his dad what he’d signed up to. Surely
he
would never tell anyone? Except perhaps his mother. And she wouldn’t tell...

At that moment they heard the sound of a plane approaching very close and very fast. Its engine shrieked as it came diving towards them.

‘Christ almighty, it’s on fire!’ bellowed John, and even as they watched they saw a dark figure fall from the cockpit and hurtle towards the ground until, with a jerk, its descent was slowed as a parachute opened up above him. The plane continued its screaming descent and crashed beyond the ridge in a ball of fire.

John snatched up the field telephone and reported back to base.

‘Enemy plane down above Charing Farm!’ he shouted. ‘On fire. Crew unlikely to have survived. One bailed out. Parachute opened. Headed for Charing Coppice.’

He listened for a moment and then said, ‘Right, sir. We’re on our way.’

As his father reported in, Billy watched the parachute continue to drift down, the man hanging from it, a limp form like a broken doll. As it neared the ground the wind carried it away from the observation post and into the patch of woodland known as Charing Coppice on the far side to the next field. The parachute became entangled in the top branches and the airman was left dangling twenty feet above the ground.

‘Come on, Dad,’ Billy cried, jumping down from the shelter. ‘We can catch this one.’

‘On our way,’ John shouted. ‘Major Bellinger’s going to the plane. He’s sending reinforcements up to us as well.’

They grabbed their rifles and scrambled down the hill and across to the trees, where the parachute caught in the branches showed white in the moonlight. Below its canopy hung the figure of a man, twirling gently in the wind.

They approached the scene with care, creeping in through the shelter of the trees, unsure if the man was armed, injured or possibly dead.

‘Keep him covered, Billy,’ murmured John, ‘while I see what’s happening.’

Billy edged forward through the undergrowth until he had a clear line of fire, while his father circled round to the other side of the tree, his own rifle aimed at the gently twirling body. For a moment he didn’t know what to do; there was no sign of life, so he called out.

‘Are you alive? We’ve got you covered.’

For a moment there was no response and then far above them came a faint groan. John pulled his torch from his pocket and shone it upward. He could see the man’s face, twisted with pain, but his eyes were open and he was staring, terrified, down at the man with the rifle below.

‘No shoot,’ he called. ‘
Beine kaputt
.’

‘No,’ John called back. ‘No shoot.’ Keeping his eyes firmly on the man above him, John said, ‘Come out, Billy. We have to get this bloke down. He’s been hit in the leg, I think.’ He was looking at the man’s ragged trousers and could see blood trickling on to his flying boots. The man’s face was a mask of pain and he groaned again.

‘What are we going to do?’ asked Billy as he set his rifle aside and looked up at the airman.

‘Have to cut him down,’ replied John. ‘But it’ll be a difficult operation in the dark. We may have to wait till daylight.’

‘I could climb up and cut his harness away,’ Billy said, ‘but then he’d simply crash down to the ground.’

‘Needs two of us up in the tree, so we can lower him down. But we need someone on the ground, too.’

‘I’ll climb up and have a look,’ Billy said, and watched by the German he began to scramble up the tree. When he got level with the dangling man he called, ‘Shine your torch this way, Dad.’ John directed the torch beam at the parachute harness and Billy studied it carefully.

‘We can cut him loose from the parachute and then ease him down to the ground.’ He looked across at the man and gave him a nod. ‘You’ll be OK, mate,’ he said.

The airman latched on to the word ‘OK’ and rasped, ‘No OK.
Beine kaputt
.’

‘Sorry,’ Billy said gruffly, ‘don’t speak German.’ He turned his attention back to the parachute lines and then called down to his father. ‘Not too difficult, Dad. Once we’ve got manpower on the ground, two of us can manage this end.’

While they waited for their reinforcements to arrive, Billy went back out into the field where there were some sheep hurdles stacked against a wall. He heaved one of them free and carried it back to the edge of the wood.

‘Need something to carry the poor bugger on,’ he said as he laid it on the ground.

‘Good thinking,’ said his father. ‘Shouldn’t be too long before help gets here.’

It was only fifteen minutes later when three more members of Wynsdown Home Guard arrived at Charing Coppice. Led by a puffing Charlie Marston, with Bert Gurney and Frank Tewson bringing up the rear, they pushed their way through the bushes into the wood. Daylight was beginning to creep into the eastern sky, and in the half-light of dawn they all surveyed the airman, suspended in the tree.

‘Shoot the bugger and be done with it, I say.’ Bert was his usual bullish self.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Bert,’ snapped John. ‘He’s a prisoner of war.’

‘Whatever he is, he’s up a gum tree,’ said Frank and then laughed at his own joke.

‘He’s wounded,’ Billy said, ‘and he’s losing blood. We have to get him down.’

‘Diddums!’ said Bert. ‘Poor little Jerry! Is he hurt then?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Bert, put a sock in it,’ said John. He turned to Charlie who, wearing his corporal’s stripes, was the senior man after himself. ‘Right, Charlie. We’ve worked out what to do, all we need is for you three to wait here at the bottom of the tree and we’ll lower him down to you. He’s wounded in the legs, but we don’t know how bad. You have to catch him and ease him on to the ground. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Billy was already back up the tree and John climbed up beside him.

‘Take his weight, Billy, while I cut the webbing free.’

Billy took the strain and after some quick work with his knife, John had cut the man free of the parachute and together they held him, still suspended in his harness. The airman moaned, but he seemed only half conscious now and unaware of what was happening to him.

‘He’s coming down,’ called John. ‘Ready, men?’

It was hard to hold the dead weight of the airman as they paid out the harness ropes, but with Billy taking the strain as the anchor man, they gradually lowered him from the tree. Despite the fact that the men below were there to catch him, the airman shrieked with pain as his legs bumped the ground and by the time John and Billy had climbed down again, it was clear that the boy had passed out. For now that they could see his face properly, they could see he was indeed not much older than Billy, possibly about twenty, but no more.

‘Now then,’ ordered John, ‘get him on the hurdle while he’s still out cold.’

Billy fetched the hurdle and three of them lifted him on to it. His legs were covered in blood and through the tatters of his uniform, John could see bone projecting through the pale flesh. He turned to Billy. ‘Run back to the farm and tell your ma to get a bed ready for him. Then on down to the village and bring Doc Masters up to have a look at him. Tell him he’ll need pain killers of some sort. The lad’s legs are shattered.’

Billy nodded and set off at a run.

‘Right, men,’ John said. ‘One on each corner, and try not to bump him.’

By the time they reached the farm, Margaret had made up a bed on the sofa in the sitting room, lighted the fire to warm the seldom-used room and made tea. Hot water simmered on the stove and all was ready when the doctor arrived with Billy only moments later.

‘I saw Major Bellinger, Dad,’ Billy told him as they waited for the doctor to examine his patient. ‘He said to tell you he’s been out to the crash. The plane is burnt out and there are three more crew still inside, well, what’s left of them, anyway. Didn’t stand a chance, poor sods. He’s put a guard on the plane to stop souvenir hunters and rung HQ for them to come and deal with the wreck and to take over our man.’

‘Doubt if our man can be moved for a bit,’ his father replied. ‘Luckily he was out cold all the way back here, but he’s in great pain and unless they knock him out again, it’ll be difficult to transport him.’

At that moment Dr Masters came into the room, looking grave.

‘He’s in a bad way,’ he said. ‘Not a lot I can do for him here, just keep him sedated and try and control the pain. I think it’ll be a case of amputation, certainly for one of his legs. They may be able to save the other.’

‘The poor boy,’ Margaret said.

‘He’s come round again, but of course there’s the language barrier. I can’t explain to him what needs to be done, or even what I’m doing to help until we can get him to hospital.’

‘You could fetch Charlotte, Billy,’ said his mother. ‘At least she could talk to him, try and reassure him. What do you think, doctor?’

‘It might be helpful,’ replied the doctor, but he sounded dubious.

Margaret took this as yes and despatched Billy to Blackdown House to fetch Charlotte. When she saw who was at the door she felt suddenly shy. Would Billy feel the way he seemed to feel on Saturday night, or would it be like last time when everything reverted to normal and he treated her like a little sister again?

‘Hallo, Billy,’ she said, adding as she took in his Home Guard uniform, ‘have you been up all night?’

‘Yes, since the siren went, anyway.’

‘Come in.’

‘I can’t. Look, Charlotte, we need your help back at the farm.’ He told her quickly what had happened.

Charlotte wasn’t at all sure she wanted to speak to a German airman who’d been bombing them one minute and shot down the next. ‘Serve him right,’ she muttered as Billy explained why he’d come. ‘He shouldn’t have been there at all.’

‘Come on, Char, don’t be like that,’ coaxed Billy. ‘If you saw him you’d be sorry for him. He’s going to lose at least one of his legs.’

‘I’ve lost my family thanks to people like him,’ snapped Charlotte. ‘Not just a leg.’ However, not wanting to cause a rift between them, she put on her jacket and followed Billy back to Charing Farm. There she was greeted by Margaret, who gave her a warm hug and said softly, ‘You’re a good girl to come. It can’t be easy for you. He’s in here.’ She led her through the kitchen and into the sitting room. After a brief hesitation Charlotte went in and Margaret softly closed the door behind her.

Charlotte was shocked when she saw the young man lying on the sofa, his legs hidden under a makeshift cage to keep the covers away from them. His skin was ashen, his eyes huge in the pallor of his face. It was obvious that, despite Dr Masters’s best efforts, he was in tremendous pain. He’d opened his eyes to see who had come into the room and as soon as he saw it was a young girl, he’d closed them again.

Charlotte walked over to the bed and looked down at him. ‘Hallo,’ she said in German, ‘I’m Lieselotte, who are you?’

Hearing her speak to him in German his eyes flew open and he stared up at her, trying to focus on her face.

‘Where am I?’ he croaked, his voice hardly audible. ‘Who are you?’

‘You’re... in England.’ Charlotte hesitated, unwilling to give him an exact place. ‘You were shot down. You were bombing us.’

‘Bombing you?’ he sounded confused. ‘But you’re German!’

‘Not any more,’ Charlotte said firmly, and then remembered she had given him her German name; it had slipped out, she realised, because she was speaking to him in German. ‘I’ve changed my name and I live here now.’ She was going to say, ‘Germany didn’t want me,’ but that sounded too dramatic, so she settled for, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Dieter, Dieter Karhausen.’

‘Where do you come from, Dieter?’

‘Cologne.’ He looked up at her with clearer eyes now and asked, ‘Am I going to die?’

Despite herself, Charlotte felt moved. She shook her head. ‘No, not if our doctor, Dr Masters, has anything to do with it. You’re a prisoner of war, but he’s arranging for you to be taken to hospital in Bristol.’

‘Bristol?’

‘That’s if the hospital there is still standing,’ she couldn’t resist saying, ‘after your raid. He says you may lose your leg; it was badly damaged when your plane was shot down, but he thinks you’ll recover.’

‘And my friends? The rest of the crew?’

Charlotte shook her head again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘They were killed in the crash.’ No need to tell him of the grisly end of the rest of the crew, incinerated in the crashed plane. Even so, the news seemed to suck all the energy from him. Dieter closed his eyes again, turning his head away, but not before Charlotte had seen the tears squeezing out from under his lashes. With sudden, unexpected compassion she said, ‘Tell me your address, Dieter, and we’ll try and send word to your parents through the Red Cross. I am sure Major Bellinger will do that for you.’ She was sure of no such thing, but she felt a desperate need to reassure this frightened young man who yet might die of his wounds. ‘I promise we’ll try.’

Dieter, drifting away again now, muttered an address before his head dropped into a sedated sleep. Charlotte repeated it to herself and then very quietly left the room.