The Silent War (33 page)

Ronnie’s funeral was a low-key affair held on a cold weekday afternoon in the village church in Ridgewell. Apart from Sunday, Jinx, and the girls from Cloy’s Farm, there were several crewmen from the base amongst the congregation, including Gary and Erin. The chief mourners were Ronnie’s family, who took up most of the front row amongst a scattering of other villagers. Throughout the entire service, Arnold Cloy never once looked at the small coffin that had been placed on a pedestal in front of the altar. His face, which was usually fat, blood-red, and heavily lined, was now grey and drawn. But his expression was, as always, dour and ungiving, which disguised his true feelings. The explosion in the woods had devastated him, and he had not slept a wink since it happened. However, it wasn’t guilt he felt, just a sense
of
loss. But his real loss was not being able to say all the things he knew he should have said to the boy a long time ago. Sitting next to him was his wife, utterly distraught, and being comforted now by her own mother. As Sunday watched the Cloy family in their time of distress, she felt nothing but hate and despair.

Once the service was over, everyone gathered around Ronnie’s grave in the churchyard outside. The vicar said a few prayers, and the mourners observed a few moments’ silence. But as soon as that silence came to an end, Sunday astonished everyone by saying out loud, ‘I’d like to say something.’

All eyes turned in shock as Sunday moved to the head of the grave. Then fixing her eyes down at Ronnie’s small coffin, she began to use her voice and her hands to pay her own last tribute.

‘Ronnie was my friend,’ she said, her strained speaking voice echoing around the snow-capped graves. ‘He was the best friend any person could ever have. Ronnie told me all about the countryside. He told me about birds, and rabbits, and frogs, and all kinds of things. If only he’d been given the chance, he could’ve been a friend to a lot of people.’ As she continued to peer down into the grave, tears began to stream down her cheeks. ‘I’ll miss you, Ronnie,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘Thanks for everything.’

Gary stepped forward, put his arms around her shoulders, and led her away.

Cloy and his family then turned, and after shaking hands with the vicar, started to leave. The other mourners slowly followed.

‘May God forgive you,’ Jinx said to Arnold Cloy, as he shuffled past her and Erin. ‘No one else will.’

Later that day, Sunday asked Sheil if she would draw a picture for her. She said that what she wanted was a picture of one of her favourite views in the fields outside, a very special view that would help to remind her of her friendship with Ronnie.

During March, the first welcome signs of spring were everywhere. After the early crocuses had managed to push their way through the snow, frost, and ice, the familiar yellow daffodils took over, and as the sun grew a little stronger each day, they began to display themselves proudly in window pots and boxes around Ridgewell village, and in small clumps all along the perimeter fence of the base. Sunday loved the thought that the nights were drawing out again, for it meant that she and Gary would be able to stroll down to the King’s Head together in daylight.

After Ronnie’s funeral, Sunday, relieved that Arnold Cloy had not reacted to Jinx’s bitter remark, saw very little of the farmer and his wife. Owing to the considerable repairs needed to the farmhouse due to the ‘doodlebug’ explosion, the couple had moved to a small bungalow on the far side of Cloy’s land. This suited the WLA girls just fine, for it meant that the only time they saw Cloy was when he came along to assign them new jobs. The bulk of the building work on the house was carried out by a small local firm, who were helped by some of the Italian POWs under the supervision of an armed British soldier. Several times, Sunday exchanged a passing smile with the young POW who had once helped her to release sheep trapped in the snow, but they didn’t speak again until one afternoon when Sunday was in the middle of feeding the pigs outside in the main farmyard.

‘Lady?’

Sunday hadn’t noticed the young Italian until he stood in front of her. ‘Hallo,’ she answered, with a smile.

‘For you, please.’ The POW held out something for her.

Sunday looked at the small bundle, which was wrapped up in a single sheet of newspaper. ‘What is it?’

‘For you, please. Gift.’

Sunday looked apprehensively at the bundle, and before taking it, she wiped her muddy hands on the dungarees
she
was wearing. Inside the bundle she found a cotton shoulder bag, complete with straps, made out of different pieces of coloured cloth. She looked up with a start. ‘For me?’ she asked.

The young Italian nodded his head. ‘I make.’

‘You – made this – for me?’

The young Italian nodded again. ‘You like?’

Sunday was overwhelmed, and immediately hung the bag over her shoulder. Then she looked at him again. ‘Why’ve you done this?’ she asked.

The POW shrugged his shoulders, and shuffled shyly from one foot to the other. ‘I like,’ he said.

Sunday studied him for a moment. It was the first time she had seen his face properly, for the last time they had met it had been partly covered by a balaclava. But she liked his face, even though it wasn’t particularly handsome. The best feature was his eyes, which were dark and smiling, and his worst was his nose, which was long and slightly hooked. She could just see that he had dark curly hair beneath his green POW cap, and his ears were slightly too protruding for his thin face.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

The young Italian had difficulty understanding Sunday’s drawled way of speaking. ‘Please?’

‘Your name? What’s your name?’

‘Oh –
si
! I am Mario. Mario Giuseppe Lambini.’

Sunday found it difficult to read the Italian’s lips. But she got the Mario part of it. ‘I’m pleased to meet you – Mario,’ she said, offering him her hand. ‘It’s a beautiful present. Thank you.’

Mario first wiped his hand on his POW overcoat, then shook hands with her. ‘Lady.’

Whilst they were standing there, some of the pigs Sunday had just fed were snorting through the gate of their pen.

‘How long have you been in England?’ Sunday asked.

Mario watched and listened very intently to what
she
was saying. ‘Ah!’ he said, relieved that he had understood. ‘Almost one year.’

‘One year?’ replied Sunday. ‘And soon you go home – yes?’

Mario pulled a face, and shrugged his shoulders.

‘But you want to go home?’

‘Maybe yes, maybe no.’

Sunday was puzzled by his reply.

‘I love my family. I love Italia. Is wrong for my country to make war. But is wrong to make friends with Nazis.’ He nodded up towards his fellow POWs working on the roof of the farmhouse. ‘This is what Nazis do.’

Sunday looked up at the damaged house. ‘Yes, I know,’ she said pointedly. And as she did so, she realised what the young Italian was trying to say, for ever since she first arrived at the farm, she had heard stories of how Italian and German POWs in the area had been kept apart because of the deep animosity they felt for each other.

‘Sometimes,’ he continued despondently, ‘I ask my friends from Italia for why we fight English people. People like you, you are our friends. You can laugh, you can talk, you can cry. But Nazi people . . .’ He shook his head slowly. ‘No,’ he said, firmly. ‘Nazis do terrible things, to you – and to me.’ For a brief moment he lowered his head, before looking up at her again. ‘You are angry for these terrible things?’ he asked.

Sunday flicked her eyes before answering. ‘Yes, Mario, I’m angry,’ she replied. ‘But the war’s nearly over now. The likes of you and me have got to find a way of starting all over again. It won’t do us any good to go on hating each other.’

At that moment, Mario noticed that he was being watched carefully from a distance by his British Army supervisor.

‘Please, lady,’ he said urgently. ‘We talk again – yes?’

‘If you want.’

‘You have no sound,’ said Mario, touching his own
ears
with both hands to explain what he was trying to say. ‘But you
hear
so much.’ Then he held out both his hands towards her. ‘Lady – thank you.’

Sunday used both her hands to shake his. ‘Goodbye, Mario.’

‘
Addio
!’

With a broad smile on his face, the young Italian turned and hurried off.

It was only whilst he was making his way to join his friends working on the farmhouse building repairs, that Sunday noticed he was walking with quite a limp.

She was not to know that one of his feet had been amputated during a battle in the North African campaign, and had been replaced in a British Army Hospital by an artificial foot.

Although the war was clearly entering its final phase, the 381st Bomb Group at Ridgewell was kept as busy as ever, for the last remaining German military installations were being pounded night and day by B17 Flying Fortresses.

This was the time that Sunday feared most. Each morning was now getting lighter much earlier, and as she made her way across the yard with the other girls to milk the cows or feed the pigs, her eyes constantly scanned the weak grey sky in the hope that she might catch a passing glimpse of Gary’s giant B17 that would just be touching down after yet another night’s perilous mission. Her stomach churned at the thought of losing him at such a time, so close to the end of the war in Europe. Since meeting him, her whole life had changed. He had given her the will to live, the determination to face up to the hardship of being deaf. But Gary had his own fears too. Sunday was constantly aware that when they were together he only ever talked of the present, never the future. Over recent weeks, Gary’s whole attitude to life had become fatalistic, and whenever he gave a parting kiss on the day before a mission, she always felt that he was saying goodbye for the last time. And each time
that
he returned, they seemed to grow closer and closer. Even though they had only managed to spend one night together, there was now never a time when she didn’t think about their two bodies entwined, the touch of his lips against her own, and the warmth of his hands cupping her breasts.

Towards the end of the month, Erin reached the ripe old age of thirty-two, so he invited Jinx, Sunday, and the other girls from Cloy’s Farm to his birthday party in the Mess Hall at the base. To say it turned out to be an unusual party would be an understatement, for the highlight of the evening was a musical entertainment provided by some of Erin’s buddies. This included impersonations of the ‘old groaner’ Bing Crosby, who had himself given a concert at the base the previous summer, and a collection of some rowdy locker-room songs from the crew of
Jane Russell
, which was the nickname of Erin’s own B17 Flying Fortress. However, Jinx, Sunday, and the girls had quite a surprise in store when the main attraction appeared. This turned out to be Gary, dressed in top hat, white tie and tails, in the guise of Fred Astaire, introducing his ‘sexy’ dancing partner, Ginger Rogers, better known as Bombardier Erin Wendell. Needless to say, Jinx nearly had hysterics when she saw her husband step out wearing a ginger wig, high-heeled women’s shoes, and a South American dancing outfit, and when Erin and Gary launched into a chaotic version of ‘The Continentale’, the laughter, jeers, whistles, and applause very nearly brought the roof down. Sunday thought it was the funniest thing she had ever seen, and her big regret was that she couldn’t hear as well as see the whole bizarre performance.

Later in the evening, the tables were moved back, a gramophone set up, and everyone started to dance. Thanks to Gary, even Sunday felt confident enough to join in, but she gave up very quickly after Erin had swapped partners with Jinx and Gary, and, with a cigar butt in his lips and still wearing his Ginger Rogers
outfit
, he stomped around like an elephant with three feet. Under the circumstances, Sunday felt it better to sit that one out.

Although alcohol remained strictly off-limits on the base, some of Erin’s buddies had sneaked in a few bottles of brown ale for the party, so when he and Sunday found a table at the back of the Hall, he made quite sure that they drank discreetly. What Sunday didn’t know, however, was that Erin had a reason for getting her alone for a few minutes.

‘Look, Sunday,’ he said, looking pretty bizarre with his lips still plastered with lipstick from the Astaire-Rogers act. ‘I know this is none of my business, but have you told Gary about this Limey creep who says he wants ter marry yer?’

Sunday struggled to read his lips. Then she shook her head slowly. ‘Does he know?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Not yet, I don’t think. But sooner or later, one of those guys is goin’ ter let slip.’ He drew closer, making sure that he couldn’t be overheard. ‘You’ll have ter tell him, Sunday,’ he said. ‘It won’t look good if yer keep it from him.’

Sunday nodded.

‘This guy,’ Erin continued, keeping his voice as low as possible. ‘Did you know he’s gone AWOL?’

Sunday shot him a startled, worried look. ‘AWOL?’ she asked. ‘What’s that?’

‘He’s vamoosed – you know, absent without leave. His name’s come up on a Brit Army list of deserters. Apparently, he’s been on a posting to some unit out in France somewhere. No idea what happened, but your guys are out gunning for him. When they catch up with him, it’s a court martial – that’s for goddamn sure!’

As they talked, Jinx, who was now almost five months gone, was launching into a hectic jitterbug dance with Gary and two of Erin’s buddies.

Sunday, however, was looking concerned. ‘He frightens me, Erin,’ she said. ‘Ernie’s capable of killing a
person
. If he finds his way back here, I’m afraid what he might do.’

‘If he’s got any sense at all, Sun,’ said Erin, ‘he’ll keep his butt away from here.’

Try as she may, Sunday was unable to feel reassured. She had prayed that after his appearance in the King’s Head back in January, Ernie Mancroft would have forgotten all about her. But she knew she should never underestimate his determination to get what he wanted. And it was Sunday herself that he wanted, and nobody else.