Iris Gower - Bombers’ Moon

‘We came to a checkpoint and Herr Euler waved away the guards impatiently. ‘Let me through, I am on urgent business for the Beloved Leader,’ he commanded. At once the barrier was lifted, the men saluted him, and I knew my father-in-law was a very important man, highly respected, and he was risking everything for me. Shame rushed through me, I felt my face burn. I had been betraying this dear man and all he stood for to those he regarded as his enemy, the British.

We drove for hours before we stopped for a rest. In the end I had to beg Herr Euler to let me out of the car; I needed badly to pee, one of the pitfalls of pregnancy I’d learned.

He opened a flask and we drank hot, sweet coffee without the benefit of a cup, but it was the best drink of coffee I’d had in a long time. I was hungry but now my main bodily needs were satisfied I felt ready to go on. I slid into the car and leaned my head, for a moment, on my father-in-law’s shoulder.

‘Thank you Father,’ I said softly.

Hari sat in her bedroom, the only place in the full house she could be alone, and thought of yesterday’s events. Now she doubted the evidence of her own eyes, she thought she’d seen Michael but she couldn’t have seen Michael; he’d crashed his plane into a Welsh field—ploughed it into the rich earth; No pilot could survive such a crash and yet… and yet.

She heard the siren cut into the night; she heard the scramble from downstairs as Jessie, Father and Georgie, who was home on leave, made for the shelter. Violet was out somewhere, she’d long ago found a little flat she shared with several of the girls from the munitions.

‘Come on Hari, get to the shelter, there’s a good girl. ‘Jessie’s voice rang up the stairs, anxious and with a touch of panic in it.

‘I’ll be there in a minute, I want to make some tea; you lot go on ahead of me, keep me a decent place to sit.’

The door slammed and Hari wondered about the folk who kept the door open all day, leaving the house open to anyone; perhaps they felt that in a raid it was best in order to secure the property—as though the bombs would make a polite entry into the place through the door instead of plunging, screaming as though in agony through the walls and roof, blowing everything, including the door, to tiny pieces of meaningless rubble.

Unhurried, she went downstairs and made a canteen of tea, spooning some glutinous tinned milk into a screw of greaseproof paper. Then she cut some bread and cheese and wrapped them carefully, putting them neatly into an old biscuit tin.

She heard bombs crash around the house, the street outside, heard the voices of the Home Guard as the men, too old for war, rushed about bravely doing the work of putting out fires, saving those they could save and commiserating over those they couldn’t. She didn’t hurry, by now she knew that death was arbitrary, if your name was on the bomb or the bullet you would die wherever you were.

At last, she stepped out into the street in the same manner as if she was slipping out to the shop for bread or potatoes. No use looking back, trying to preserve memories. In any case, foremost in her mind was the face of Michael, or the man she thought was Michael, marching, German-fashion down the street in Bridgend, on his way back to the Island Farm prison camp.

‘Thank God you’ve come at last.’ Jessie sat in the dimness of the shelter hugging her. ‘Duw, cariad, I thought the buggers had got you.’

‘Don’t worry about me, Jessie.’ She put down her bag. ‘Tea and bread in there if you get hungry.’ She hesitated.

‘Jessie, do you think Michael might have survived the crash?’

Jessie’s jaw dropped. ‘What a question, girl, you saw the hole in the ground the same as I did. I loved my son dearly but in my head I’ve buried him so let the dreams go, girl, right?’

‘You’re right—’ there was a catch in Hari’s voice—‘of course you’re right, I’m being silly.’ She didn’t tell Jessie she thought she’d seen Michael in a line of prisoners, it would have only upset her and she was upset enough as it was.

At last the all-clear sounded and Hari, arm in arm with Jessie, and Georgie limping behind, left the shelter.

Everything was flaming; pieces of roof lay across the road burning fiercely, windows were smashed, glass was strewn across the road. An ARP worker lay moaning, clutching his torn stomach, trying desperately to put his innards back in place. One of his friends bent over him.

‘Can I help?’ Hari said. ‘I’m not a nurse but I know some first aid.’ The ARP man shook his head at her and then spoke to the dying man. ‘We’re getting you to hospital Tom, the ambulance is on its way, you’ll be all right, mate.’ There were tears in the man’s eyes as he looked down at his friend.

Hari closed her eyes in pain and caught up with Jessie. She bit her lip trying not to cry.

‘Gonner, him,’ Jessie said flatly, ‘no creature can live, not with his guts hanging out of his belly.’

Hari swallowed hard, wishing Jessie’s comment wasn’t so graphic. ‘When will this war ever end?’ To her own ears, Hari’s voice was like the bleat of a lamb.

‘Now girl—’ Jessie’s voice was hard—‘self-pity never did anyone any good. There’s a war on and that’s all there is to it. We endure it till it’s over, girl, and we try to smile into the bargain, right?’

‘Right,’ Hari said with renewed vigour—the last thing she wanted was to lower Jessie’s spirits. But a thought had entered her head: tomorrow she would take an hour off from work and have a look at the prison camp for herself, see if Michael really was there.

Her spirits lightened, she would spend the night planning her approach to the building. Should it be covert, like a spy, or should she brazen it out and pretend to be an official of some kind?

The next morning was bright, a sunny, early-September day. A little mist lay above the area but then it was always misty over the munitions factory as she’d observed many times before.

Hari wore a jacket with a nipped-in waist and a peplum that rested on her curvaceous hips over a pencil skirt. She wore dark stockings and plain, heeled shoes and carried a clipboard. A brightly coloured chiffon scarf and a dash of precious lipstick completed her outfit.

She walked boldly up to the sentry on duty; his eyes lit up. ‘Morning, miss,’ he said. ‘I can’t let you into the camp, you know, those German men are dangerous rascals.’

‘Bore dda.’ She said good morning back to him in Welsh and smiled at him, curling a red hair around her finger. ‘I’ve been sent from the Department of Prisoner’s Rights—’ she spoke in her most girly voice—‘I must just tick off some boxes, look at the men, see they are not being ill-treated and all that. It won’t take long. A good soldier like you will have everything in order I’m sure.’

He looked doubtful. ‘The senior British officers are all in an important meeting in the town,’ he said. ‘I suppose I could call Sergeant Beynon to talk to you, miss.’

‘My name is Angharad, what’s yours, officer?’ He preened himself. He clearly wasn’t an officer but he enjoyed her apparent admiration.

‘I’m James, miss, I suppose I could show you round myself if you don’t take too long.’ He looked round him; there was no one in sight. ‘I really should make a check on your papers, though.’

Hari had thought of that; she had typed up a letterhead with an impressive-looking seal made by candle wax and red cochineal and impressed it with a worn coin that would not stand too much inspection. But the soldier hardly glanced at it; he was watching as Hari hitched up her stocking.

‘Come on then, I suppose it’s all right. What harm can a little dainty Welsh girl like you do?’

The huts were laid out in serried ranks. The soldier glanced across at hut nine, which lay a little back from the barbed wire fencing. His brow furrowed for a moment.

‘Anything wrong?’ Hari looked up at him from under her eyelashes. James shook his head worriedly.

‘I don’t know, Miss Angharad, something is going on in there but do you think the big-headed officers will listen to me?’

‘Do you mean… an escape attempt?’

‘I’ve thought of that but there’s no way the Germans could get out—and where would they go? They got it cushy in here: good food, sitting around gassing to each other in that foreign tongue—yet something’s going on I know it is.’

The first hut smelled of sweat. The prisoners lounged around a table idly chatting but they sat up as one when the saw Hari. Some were wearing old jumpers provided by the camp, some were in worn uniform. Hari stood there smiling and looked around her at the men. The whistles were deafening and then James shouted in a sergeant major’s voice.

‘Shut up you clowns. Treat a lady with respect if you please.’

Eyes roved over her with blatant lust and Hari felt as though she was being undressed.

‘I have some questions,’ she said. ‘Do you all speak a little English?’

‘Not a word,’ one grinning prisoner said in German.

‘In that case some of your friends will explain I’m sure,’ Hari simpered, longing to put her fist into his face. She asked a few questions about food and about sanitary conditions and jotted down replies. Meanwhile, she listened to the conversations, understanding just enough of the language to make out what they were saying.

In the corner of the hut were some young men. They were hardly bothering to look at her and she moved nearer. Her heart almost stopped beating as she heard the word ‘escape’. She didn’t look at the men but pretended to look at a painting on the wall. It was of a woman, a girlfriend, wife—or mother perhaps—and she suddenly felt sorry for the foreigners. But as soon as she got outside she would tell James what she’d heard, that his instincts were correct; there was an air about the camp, something in the attitude of the men. It was clear something dramatic was going to happen. She made a few more notes and then left, smiling at James as he led the way out of the camp. Of the man who looked like Michael there was no sign.