Date: Sun, 27 Feb 2011 16:10:49 +0000
From: Michael Gouda <michael@tanyardbank.plus.com>
Subject: Snapshots of War Part 5

Snapshots of War

Michael Gouda

Part 5

Monday 12th May 1941

Though no one knew it then, Saturday the 10th May marked the last mass
bombing run on London of the Blitz. The Luftwaffe however finished in
grand style. Bombs rained down and there were many casualties, the
Mayors of both Westminster and Bermondsey being two of those killed on
that last night. In all there had been over 40,000 people killed in
the Blitz, half of these in the bombing raids on London.
Though there was much talk of the population 'grinning and bearing
it', of 'we can take it', of 'business as usual', many civilians felt
demoralised. The rationing, the blackout, the sleepless nights, the
worry - for their own safety as well as for that of their loved ones
overseas, in the Far East, in North Africa - all combined to lower the
morale, to spread the fear of an imminent German invasion.
Probably the mood of the British people was at the lowest of the whole
War. Britain had been bombed into submission, it was felt. All it
needed was the invasion force - which surely was being assembled in
the French ports on the other side of the Channel - to make that short
crossing. Who or what was there to stop them? Old men with out-of-date
rifles, some of them indeed with no more than agricultural tools, hoes
and sickles, as weapons.
William had listened to a comic on the Home Service only the day
before. It was one of his favourites, Robb Wilton, who gave monologues
in a countryman's voice which always made Theresa laugh. He was funny,
of course, but his stories had more than a grain of truth in them,
like the one they had heard,
"The missus looked at me and said, 'What are you supposed to be?' I
said, 'Supposed to be? I'm one of the Home Guards.' She said, 'One of
the Home Guards, what are the others like?' She said, 'What are you
supposed to do?' I said, 'I'm supposed to stop Hitler's army landing.'
She said, 'What you?' I said, 'No, not me, there's Bob Edwards,
Charlie Evans, Billy Brightside - there's seven or eight of us, we're
on guard in a little hut behind the Dog and Pullet.'"
It was funny but they knew they stood alone.
Britain waited.
London waited.
The Salter family waited.
William waited in the Lyons Corner House in the Strand.
Peter was late. He had promised to be there at 5.30 but it was already
ten to six and the waitress - a middle-aged woman with an
unsympathetic frown and an unsuitable frilly apron - was regarding
William with irritation. A cup of tea could only be allowed to last
for a certain length of time, her expression said. He would have liked
to have ordered a poached egg on toast - the very thought of it made
his mouth water - how long had it been since he had last had an egg? -
but he couldn't afford it. Apprentice pay was hardly generous and he
only had a threepenny bit in his trouser pocket.
As he sat there, he thought back over the time he had known Peter. It
had been seven months since that first eventful episode in the
Elephant and Castle underground station, three months since the first
night in Peter's house. In  five months time he would be eighteen, old
enough to be a soldier like his Dad. Not that his mother would ever
let him volunteer. He would have to finish his apprenticeship and even
then he would have an important job, a 'reserved occupation' they
called it, so that he wouldn't have to go even when he was twenty and
of the age when conscription applied.
Peter of course worked in a 'hush-hush' job and wasn't supposed to
tell anyone anything about it but he had revealed to William that he
was in what he called Anglo/Dutch liaison. The strange wireless in
Peter's house was used for short-wave communication to Dutch
resistance groups. William had sworn his secrecy on his mother's life
and felt very proud of Peter's trust - proud, pleased and gratified.
Yet most things that Peter did gave him pleasure. The physical
relationship was of course satisfying, yet Peter seemed to have given
him something more than physical delight. William could himself
appreciate that somehow he had gained more self-confidence, didn't
feel so embarrassed in company, didn't even blush anymore when his
workmates teased him.
He quelled the indignant look the nippy gave him with one of his own
but had to admit he was a little relieved when he saw the slim figure
of Peter making his way between the tables towards him, smiling his
gap-toothed smile.
"Dear Wim," he said as he sat down. "A million, million regrets that I
am late. A little trouble at work, I'm afraid."
"Trouble?" asked William, anxious.
"Not real trouble. I am making a mountain out of a molehill. Just too
much work and also I had to contact Charles before I came here. But
all is resolved now. So - " he peered at the menu " - what will you
have to eat? Sardines on toast? Sounds horrible."
"Poached egg, please," said William firmly.
"Good choice. I will have it too. And then we will go back to the flat
and I shall make love to you."
Increased self-confidence William might have gained, but that remark,
in a public place, with a frowning waitress hovering in the background
and possibly overhearing, was too much.
William blushed.
But it didn't stop him enjoying his tea.
As they went outside on the streets a news-seller, a little old man
with a face like a monkey, was shouting his wares. "News, Star,
Standaaaard! All the latest! Stop Press News! Tobruk holds out against
German/Italian siege."
Peter bought an Evening Standard and they huddled together in a shop
doorway to study the report.
"I think my dad's in North Africa," said William. "That's where Tobruk
is, isn't it?"
"It is, my dearest Wim," said Peter, "and that Rommel is no mean
General. They call him the Desert Fox you know. But if the Allies can
hold him then that's all the fewer troops for Hitler to make an
invasion here."
"Do you think there will be one?" asked William, his mind suddenly
filled with images of German troops goose-stepping down Piccadilly,
into Trafalgar Square, Hitler sitting on the throne in Buckingham
Palace.
"If America should come into the war, that would make a difference.
President Roosevelt seems to want to but the American people are
against it. Little Europe must get on with her own affairs."
William giggled as always at Peter's quaint English.
"Come, let us go home. Charles will have finished his messages by now."
They turned into Charing Cross Road where the office workers were
streaming out of the buildings and heading for the queues at the bus
stops and underground stations on their ways home. Peter said it
wasn't worth their while trying to get onto an already over-crowded
bus so they walked. The setting sun sank behind some clouds and the
sky became a dusky pink. Pigeons swirled and settled in the crevices
of the stonework.
"Red  sky at night, welder's delight," said William, and had to
explain what he meant to Peter.
"So I give delight to my little apprentice-welder?"
"Abso-fuckin'-lutely, guv," said William, as Cockney as they come.
"Did you say Charlie would be in when we get there?"
"I hope he will have finished and gone."
"I hope so too."
They reached St Giles's Circus and turned left down Oxford Street and
then into the little side streets which led to Wentworth Mews. It was
getting dark now and the streets were empty. They held hands.
"Heard anything from your father?" asked Peter casually.
"Mum got a letter from him last week. He wrote about the sand and the
heat. That's why we think he's in North Africa," said William.
"Do you consider it is a good idea that I meet with your mother?"
"Christ!" William had never thought about this and the idea pulled him
up short.
"So you think it is not a good idea," said Peter and got out his front
door key. It was still just light enough for him to see the keyhole.
"It was just the surprise, but I think I would like it. I'm sure she
would like you - and probably Adele would fancy you."
Peter laughed and opened the door. They slipped into the tiny hall and
in the darkness at the foot of the stairs Peter held William and
kissed him on the mouth.
"Is that you, Piet?" asked a voice from above.
"Shit," said Peter.
"Can't we slip out and come back later?" asked William but it was too
late. The door opened upstairs and a rectangle of light spilled out
into the staircase well. Charles' red head appeared framed in an
aureole of light, peering down at them.
"Oh it's both of you, is it?" He sounded cross.
"Haven't you finished yet?" asked Peter and climbed the stairs,
William following. He had never got on well with Charles, right from
the first time they had met in the Fitzroy Tavern and further meetings
hadn't improved matters. William wasn't sure if Charles was jealous of
his relationship with Peter or if there was something else, something
deeper. Peter and Charles had never been lovers - or so Peter said. In
fact he stated that Charles was perfectly normal. Perhaps William's
appearance had sparked off an innate detestation of Peter's queerness,
which he had been able to ignore before.
"Yes. Yes. I have finished now," said Charles.
"Good God. What have you been doing here?" asked Peter, and William,
following him into the room, saw the place was a mess, coffee cups,
newspapers, some books, a plate with the remains of a meal and a knife
and fork, cigarette ends. The cushions from the sofa were scattered
about on the floor and some papers with writing on them lay about on
the table. The whole place smelled stuffy with smoke.
"Oh you're such a housewife," said Charles. "I'll clear it all up."
"No leave it," said Peter. "We'll do it. We want to be alone." He
ushered Charles out of the room and down the stairs.
William heard them talking in the hall and then the front door open.
He started to tidy up the papers. There was a document on the table
that the wireless stood on. In fact there were two, one in English and
the other in some sort of foreign language. Different handwriting but
obviously the same text as the same figures appeared in similar places
in both. He didn't really intend to but the words at the start of the
English version made an impression. 'Mined areas in the North
Atlantic,' it was headed. 'Disposition of recently-laid beds of
minefields,' he read. Then followed a whole series of figures,
presumably co-ordinates of whereabouts in the Atlantic the mines had
been laid.
It didn't make much sense. What was the point of giving information
like this to Dutch partisans who, if interested at all, would want to
know where the mines in the North Sea were, not the Atlantic.
"What a slut that Charlie is," said a voice from the doorway and Peter
entered, smiling his loving smile, his blue eyes, clear and innocent.
He took the papers from William's hand and screwed them into a ball,
tossing them into the wastepaper basket. "Now how much time have we
got?"
"I promised Mum I wouldn't be back any later than nine," said William.
"Even though the bombing raids aren't nearly as heavy, she worries so."
"Then we must make good use of what time we have," said Peter. He
gathered William into his arms and for a while he made him forget
everything.

Thursday 15th May 1941
"Sorry, Mrs. Salter, it's them bloody U-boats," said Alfred Dent, High
Class Grocer as the sign stated over his shop window. "The convoys
can't get through, you see. They say our ships are being sunk at a
rate of three a day, crossing the Atlantic. And of course it's the
only way we can get the stuff we don't produce at home." He gave a
despairing sigh as if it was just one of those things that couldn't be
grumbled at, was almost unpatriotic to grumble at, and wiped his hands
on his apron.
Theresa Salter knew full well that there were other women, perhaps
younger and more attractive than she was, who got that little bit
extra over the ration - but at what cost? She wondered whether Mrs.
Dent (High Class Grocer's wife) knew about these arrangements and what
- with her muscled forearms - she might do to Alfred if she ever found
out.
But there was a queue behind her, impatient women who, like her,
worked the whole week and wanted to get the week's shopping over as
soon as possible on Saturday morning.
"Thank you, Mr. Dent," she said, smiling her nicest smile. "I DO of
course quite understand."
Mr. Dent gave her a calculating look. He lowered his voice. "Perhaps I
could find a little something, some tea perhaps... If you came back
this afternoon, after closing time at one o'clock."
There was a Ministry of Food poster on the back wall. It said: 'Food
is a munition of war - Don't waste it'. Fat chance of that, Theresa
thought. She smiled again, promising nothing. "Good morning, Mrs.
Dent," she said loudly to the big woman behind the cheese counter as
she went out.
Summer again but, unlike last year's remarkable one, this June had
reverted to normal. It was raining, that fine drizzle which soaked
through clothes almost without seeming to. Flaming June, thought
Theresa crossly.
Jean from next door popped in through the back door almost as soon as
Theresa had got home.   "You look as if you could do with a cup of
tea," she said as soon as she opened the door and stepped in. Theresa
was drying her hair on a towel.  "No need to say you 'aven't got any,
I've brought my own. Enough for a couple of cups anyway." She held up
a screw of paper and started to fill the kettle before Theresa could
say anything. "I know the ration doesn't go anywhere. Two ounces a
week, I ask you. Hardly enough to last for a couple of days."
It reminded Theresa of the incident in the shop. "That Dent creature,"
she burst out, anxious to confide, "he offered me some tea in exchange
for... favours!"
"Oh him! He's 'armless. All he wants is a little feel. He's too dead
scared of that missus of his to do anything more. I bet he'll give you
a quarter of tea for a touch of your titties."
Theresa was shocked. "That's awful," she said.
Jean shrugged. "You do what you 'ave to do," she said. "Alternative is
the Black Market. And you know what they're askin' for a quarter of
Empire Blend Indian? Four shillings! Four bleeding shillings a
quarter. And the proper price at the Co-op, when you can get, it is
only 6d."
"I can't afford to pay that," said Theresa. "As it is what Bert sends
back from his pay goes nowhere. Poor William's hardly getting anything
and we're mostly living on Adele's pay. It isn't fair on her. Between
you and me," she confided, getting closer to Jean and lowering her
voice though there was no one else in the kitchen to overhear, "I'm
thinking of getting a job as a bus conductress. They're advertising
for them down at the depot."
Jean laughed. "I can see you on the number 39," she said. "That'll be
useful. Goes right past the Army and Navy Stores. And the uniform's
very fetching, and the hat. You'll look good with that cocked sexily
over one eye. Fares please. Pass right down the bus. Hold very tight.
Ding Ding."
Adele clattered down from her room. "I'm off to the pictures with
Mavis," she said. "Think I'll go on to the Palais after." She looked
very smart in a new Frazerton dress in green rayon.
"We can stretch the brew," said Jean, stirring the pot, "if you'd like
a weak one before you go."
"Please," said Adele.
"My, you look nice," said Theresa.
"Got some Elizabeth Arden powder and lipstick," said Adele vaguely.
"Lucky you," said Jean. "Where from?"
Adele looked evasive. "Oh," she said. "You know..." She seemed
relieved when the back door burst open and William came in, wet
through and shaking his head so that drops of water flew in a great
circle around.
Theresa threw him the towel and he rubbed his head vigourously.
"Your hair's too long," said Theresa. "It needs a short back and sides."
"No it doesn't," said William. His hair hung down over his eyes.
"You look like a sheepdog," said Theresa.
"Makes him look like a girl," said Adele, glad the subject had changed
from her make-up.
"Peter likes it like this," William blurted out without thinking and
then regretted it immediately.
All three women turned on him.
"Who's Peter?" asked Adele.
"A friend."
"We never see any of your friends," complained Theresa.
Jean just looked interested.
"Why don't you invite him here for tea?" asked Theresa. "So that we
can meet him." Tea, she thought. Where would that come from? She felt
almost ashamed that she couldn't provide a decent cup of tea for her
family, for friends to be invited. The War was bad enough with its
killing and destruction, but it was the little inconveniences that
made it so hellish.
"Do you want a cuppa?" asked Jean. "I could add a bit more hot water."
She peered doubtfully into the pot and stirred the contents.
"Gnats' piss," said William. "Isn't there a proper cup."
"It's the convoys," said Theresa. "It's so dangerous for our ships
crossing the Atlantic."
"Mines," said William suddenly as if a thought had struck him.
"Not mines, stupid," said Adele. "It's the U-Boats. Anyway I'm off.
Ask your friend round and I'll give him the once-over. Probably a
spotty kid like you anyway." She went down the hall, her heels
clicking on the linoleum.
William called after her. "You can talk about spots!"
"Don't be unkind to your sister, dear," said Theresa. "She can't help
her face. It's the job she does."
William turned back to his mother. "You've seen him anyway. Remember,
we met in the underground at the Elephant and Castle on my birthday
last year? He's not a kid. He's twenty seven."
"I don't remember your friend but ask him. I'll get some tea and see
if I can make a cake." She glanced at the clock and avoided catching
Jean's amused eye. "I'm just going down to the shops."
She put on her hat.
At least it had stopped raining and the sun was out.

Saturday 17th May 1941
The six girls erupted from the Essoldo Kinema, warpaint repaired in
the Ladies, ready for anything. Through the warm evening they walked
along the pavements in an untidy huddle, chattering and laughing, and
generally causing innocent offence to harassed passers-by who were too
old to remember how good it was to be young and healthy. There might
be a war on, people might be killing each other but it was an
afternoon off from work and they were out with a bunch of mates.
"Wasn't it sad when Bonnie got killed," said sentimental Ella,
"falling off the pony. I had a real good cry."
Maud had brought a bag of mint humbugs and generously passed them round.
"As God is my witness. I'll never be hungry again," said Mavis,
sucking her sweet and quoting from the film.
"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn," said Adele and the girls
shrieked with laughter.
"Well, what shall we do now?" asked Lily.
"Let's all go down the Strand," sang Mavis, with the words of the old
Music Hall song.
".... and have a banana," chorused the rest.
An elderly man in a pinstriped suit and carrying an umbrella gave them
a disapproving look which made them laugh all the more. "It's
disgraceful how the young gels of today behave," he muttered as he
went by.
"Old toffee-nose," said Ella, once he was safely out of earshot.
"Well, girls," said Mavis. "What do you say to the Palais? See if we
can pick up some fellas."
Ella had to go home but the other five clambered joyfully onto a tram
intent on having a good time.
Sitting in the upstairs of the tram and looking out onto the evening
streets, Adele thought a little nostalgically of Chalky. It was fun
going out with the girls, having a laugh, but to go into the Lewisham
Palais, dressed in her best blue frock with the shoulders and the
short sleeves, on the arm of a boyfriend, especially one as good-
looking as Chalky, would have been just that much better. And he'd
been such a wonderful lover, tender and romantic - and very good at
it. She wondered why he hadn't written. It had been - she counted back
the weeks - two months since they'd last ... "Ouch!"
She was jogged from her reverie by Mavis's elbow. "Come on, dozy. What
yer dreamin' about? Tell us what this fella you're goin' to find
tonight will look like."
"Curly blond hair," said Adele, remembering. "White teeth - "
"All 'is own," suggested Maud.
"And a big smile."
"And a big somethin' else," said Mavis amidst the merriment.
"Ooh you are awful," said Vera, laughing with the rest.
The band, the Teddy Winters Ballroom Orchestra, was hardly 'Big Band'
standard but it played a passable quickstep and had been known to
include its own version of 'In the Mood' to which restrained
jitterbugging, the new craze from America, was allowed. The girls
found seats on one side of the dance floor and stared at the line of
'boys' on the other, discussing their demerits.
There were a few young men in uniform but mostly they were either
young lads, just out of school and embarrassingly aware of it, or
middle-aged men probably having a night off from their wives.
"Doesn't look as if Prince Charming's come tonight," said Maud.
The music changed to a fox-trot, 'A Nightingale Sang in Berkley
Square, slow and sweetly sentimental, Georgie Fisher's saxophone
moaning the tune.
"If no one asks me for a dance soon, I'm going over there to grab one
of them myself," said Mavis.
"There's a Pilot Officer over by the bar," said Ella. "Look at his
'tache. I bet that'd tickle."
"Depends where he's kissin' you," said Vera, sniggering.
"Oh Gawd," said Mavis. "That red-haired bloke. Surely it's old Charlie
Leverton."
"And 'e's coming this way."
And indeed the under-manager of Woolwich Arsenal munitions factory was
making his way across the floor, skirting the dancing couples, the
lights from the revolving mirror-ball, catching his red hair. Adele,
for a moment, felt a spurt of unreasonable panic.
"Well, he's not likely to recognise any of us girls," said Lily. "He
never really looks at us at work, not even when he's tellin' us off."
"Would any of you lovely ladies care for a dance?" he asked, nattily
dressed in a  double-breasted suit and bright green tie.
Mavis restrained her 'smart' answer in case he should somehow discover
that they all worked at the Arsenal. His gaze roamed over the five of
them and finally settled on Adele. He smiled. It made him look almost
human.
Nervously Adele got up and felt herself held in his arms. She was
pleasantly surprised to find that he was a good dancer - more than
that, an excellent dancer. He wasn't one of those types that grab you
in a bear-hug and try to rub themselves up against you, taking
liberties. Nor was he one of the 'pump-handle' brigade who jig along,
only occasionally in time to the music, and try to make up for the
paucity of their footwork with the energy of their arm movements.
Adele felt that they made a good couple, flowing smoothly over the
dance floor and his directions were well-controlled so that he didn't
once bump into another couple.
"You're a good dancer, Mr..." Ooops - she had nearly given it all away
by calling him Mr. Leverton.
"My name's Charlie," he said, "and you're a beautiful dancer. I can't
understand how I haven't met you before at the Palais."
"I'm Adele."
"That's a nice name." It almost sounded as if he meant it.
The lights dimmed and a spotlight roamed the floor picking out various
couples. Adele realised suddenly that it was a spot dance. She looked
at his face under the lights. She hadn't noticed it before but he was
quite good looking. Odd coloured eyes under that red-gold hair. Light
brown, almost yellowish. She suddenly thought of a cat's eyes.
"We've met before," he said, looking at her, "haven't we?"
It was out. Adele prepared to confess. Then suddenly there was space
around them as other couples were picked off.
"Come on," said Charlie," let's give them a show." He took her firmly
and together they glided over the floor. She felt as if she was
floating, giving an exhibition, as her feet followed his, his hips
guiding her closely, her head held proudly.
Then they were alone, the only couple on the floor while the spotlight
lit up the pair of them and everyone around was clapping. The music
finished. He gave her a final twirl and they were done. She stood
there for a moment in his arms, mouth slightly open, breath coming
fast. Then he let her go.
"Thank you, Adele," he said, and took her back to the group of girls.
"Well," said Mavis after he'd gone, "that was nice. Did you ask him
for a rise for all of us?"

End of Part 5