1939

1939

by

Rodney St Clair Ballenden

Copyright © 2018 by Rodney St Clair Ballenden. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Dedicated to all woman in conflict and shame

As a young boy I scanned my father’s photographs. The photographs were arranged in a very hard covered album some of them stuck by their four corners and some were not. Most were black and white, some had aged and were brownish-yellow, and many were torn and frayed. The images showed young people having fun. A few had names on the back. One had an address in Brussels. The title of the album was 1939. And a tall dark man, in the uniform of a foreign country, intrigued me. When, I showed it to father he pointed at mother, meaning, ‘She knew him. I did not’. Mother told me, that the man was the father of her friend, and then added, ‘Neither of them made it’My father selected a photograph of a young man in a blue overcoat, and said, ‘He joined the RAF early on and was killed. I don’t know where. He just went down’. My mother tapped on the Belgian address, saying, ‘He was nice’. That was all. Her sad eyes told the rest. ‘None of those friends survived,’ she said, and closed the album.Inspired by that information I now fill the missing pages.

Acknowledgement

I would like to thank the many woman who served in the Auxiliary and Yeomanry Forces of World War Two. Long may their memory survive. We are privileged, as human beings, to experience a moment of life on this planet, whatever the circumstances, and in whatever passage of history we so happen to pass this way. Be it choice or fate, that moment affords us an opportunity to express our highest intellect and maturity. We may only pass this once, yet we leave a legacy. As each succeeding generation feeds off the preceding one, that which we accomplished, becomes the story of our one moment, over and over again. My story 1939 shares many thoughts, morals and coincidental lives of that time. And the story is true today, whatever the year. Those who died, gave their lives that others may live. And those who now live, share, that others may grow, and in growing aspire to the better world of our hopes and dreams, that there be no love lost, no matter the cost.

DRIFTERS

Jerzy Kowalski drove fast, his two hands on the wheel, holding every curve in the road, and changing through the gears with exact precision. The speed of his new MG TB taking him to the edge of the risk, not beyond. Ahead two children tossed a ball, playing on the side of the road, just playing. The situation unpredictable as the children laughed, their eyes focused on the ball. Jerzy braked, braking hard. The car skidded. He swung wide, gunning the engine, and spun across the grass verge.

And the children froze, suddenly alert.

The one child, held onto the ball.

Jerzy, spun passed, avoiding the danger, and the children stood, each clutching the other, watching as the car sped away.

England 1939 came as no surprise to Jerzy. War cursed through his Polish blood. He moved in war. He knew himself in the collision of one adversary against another, each equal until that split second of a trigger pulled. One soldier would pull it first and the bullet would separate the living from the dead. Jerzy was born in Poland, and still in nappies when he arrived in England, his sickly mother cuddling him and his wounded Papa lagging behind. Later, at twenty two years of age, Jerzy’s inner savvy warned him to prepare, that he would never return home. He saw this war coming. His father saw it coming too. Alas, not so his mother. She died infirm and confused, supposedly too young to die but relieved of the years of suffering she had been destined to carry from childhood to the grave. Her one allotted fortune was Jerzy, her only child, and the blessing she clung to, like an iron lung, breathing in life for as long as it took to breathe it back into her loved one again.

Like his father, Jerzy, paid attention to his appearance, not in obedience, but in the exact measure of his intention. Jerzy was a man of honesty, true to himself, his lips sealed against betrayal, and his soul set in the singular purpose of a life well met and well given. He drove with the same intensity. The wind whipped at his hair. His uniform rippled. And his eyes narrowed against the glare, his lips taut, focused on the next split second ahead of him. His fingers elegant and decisive, neither white nor straining against the wheel. He adjusted his touch with every bump, quick to slide the gear stick up or down, and back onto the wheel, meeting every challenge; the curve in the road; the narrow edge; and the bridge over the canal, with the same exact measure of calm, as the intensity of his upbringing. Suddenly, the hedgerow closed him in, narrowing his vision to a single point. And he burst through that single point, the countryside opening up, then speeding into the village of Wansworth, the rows of old houses flashing passed.

Drifters, the local pub, dominated the village square. Once the cowshed of a nobleman’s estate, the old double-size stable door was now permanently locked, and a smaller replica built alongside it. The front façade was strapped together by thick black planks, the walls freshly painted white, and the tiled roof covered by a matt of moss and lichen. A canal ran along the western side, meandering peacefully through the farmlands of the Northern Yorkshire countryside, and linking the pub to Jerzy’s air base at Catterick, less than two hours drive away.

Inside the pub, Arthur and Sylvia sat at the window table.

Both of them were singularly unattractive and thankful of the other’s tolerance. Their grim looks hardened as Jerzy braked alongside Drifters. Strangers were not welcome, especially a pompous one such as this jerk. Jerzy waited, still clutching the steering wheel, the engine purring sweetly. He stared into the pub, unflinching, directly at Arthur.

And Arthur drank a measured gulp from his pint.

He stared back at Jerzy, equally unflinching.

Sylvia snorted, her fingers in her nose not to smell the rubbish.

Jerzy spun the car across the square. He reversed back towards the front door, inching closer and closer until the bumper touched the wall. He cut the engine and stepped out. The image he presented was of a grand nobleman. His Royal Air Force uniform immaculate and tailored perfectly to fit. He leaned against the car, scanning the pub, still undecided. Then, he scooped his cap from the front seat and, on the walk, placed it on his head and with just one twist placed it exactly where he wanted it to be.

As Jerzy entered the pub Arthur and Sylvia stared him down, every inch of him, withering him to a mere smudge on the floor. He nodded at them, the faintest of nods, and headed for the bar.

Gary, owner of Drifters, waited for the new customer, his arms spread across the counter.

Jerzy touched the tip of his cap in greeting.

Afternoon, sir, he said. Sherry. No ice, please.

Sylvia swivelled to face Jerzy her legs spread, deliberately adopting a manly pose, not bothering with decorum. Her long trousers baggy in the crotch, her hands square on her knees, fingers flat.

Jerzy took his drink and walked over to a table in the corner. He placed his cap on the chair beside him and sat facing the front door. He didn’t touch his glass. He waited.

Arthur spoke, his voice distant and sombre. We knew he was a cut above us. He didn’t have to show it off like that. Not everyone’s lucky enough to have what he’s got.

Handsome fucker, Sylvia snarled, reading Arthur’s thoughts.

Arthur shrugged. So are you. Not the same…just handsome in an odd sort of way, he said.

Thank you, Arthur. Sylvia smiled, gobbling the compliment.

She knew he twisted the truth. She’ll take the compliment, even a full on lie like that. It could be her only compliment for the rest of the year, if she survived another year. Sylvia had not been lucky when the phials of beauty were mixed. She got the empty phial. Her dad had slapped some semblance of a face between her ears, just for eating, he warned her, and added that she needed a face to hold her features in place. To make matters worse, the acne got her. She never had a boyfriend. She screwed every boy brave enough to sit beside her for a drink, and fought the rest. The single grace allotted her came in her laugh. And she laughed often. Not always a funny laugh, mostly an outrageous sound. Her sense of humour unique to herself.

A kiss is still a kiss, and Sylvia nudged Arthur, reminding him of their conversation; the one they had before the arrival of that handsome fella. Even the ugly bastards, like you and me, get to be knocked up. Huh! she said, and laughed.

As time goes by that’s all we get, Arthur replied. Just a kiss. I get to wonder if I may have to settle for less before I die.

Just the fundamentals for me. Church style, Sylvia said. No more schmuck arse fuckers. Look at this, and she pulled a face to frighten the worst of them off, making sure her loud behaviour carried over to Jerzy.

Jerzy remained unmoved, staring at the front door.

Enough, Arthur snapped at Sylvia. You scare me. You look better just the way you are.

And Sylvia heard it first.

She stood, knowing that trouble had arrived.

A rowdy group of local boys crowded the front door, jostling each other to be first into the pub. Then, a young man in army uniform came hurtling in, followed by the rest. They jeered and nagged each other, nothing making sense, their coherence warped by several pubs on the way to Drifters.

In the midst of this commotion, Beryl breezed in, vivacious and beautiful, dazzling in her gaiety and unbridled joy. Stewart followed closely behind immaculate in his RAF uniform, a navigator of Bomber Command based at Driffield. The rest of Beryl’s friends, Henry, Tremaine and Priddy, held their place a polite distance behind. Claire waited right at the back, the last one in, clutching her pet hamster.

Beryl danced over to Sylvia and Arthur, twirling as she reached their table to pirouette in front of them. He did it. Look, she said, holding out her ring finger for Sylvia to admire. And don’t kiss it…it’s mine. Ha!

Sylvia leapt to her feet, and kissed Beryl on the lips. A big kiss. Flush and wet with admiration. Congratulations, my darling, she cooed. I’m so happy for you…so…so happy, and her cooing became a trill.

Then, Arthur rose and kissed Beryl, just a peck, once on the cheek, his admiration dark with jealousy. What a time to get engaged, he muttered. 1939 the worst of times.

And he sat, slumped in a heap.

There’s a time for everything, and today’s all mine, Beryl corrected Arthur. And with this ring the future is mine too. Everything’s mine. I can have it all…all of today, and every day is mine, she chirruped.

Beryl was ecstatic in her moment of bliss.

Well…how many times has he promised? And Arthur continued to scythe through the tender grass of love. You deserve it. That’s true, a little true, so make happy while it lasts.

Today counts. He’s always promised and now he’s done it, Beryl said, and turned to wrap Stewart in her arms, kissing him all over, ruffling his hair, and twisting his cap to face backwards. I’m so happy…happy, happy, happy, she trilled.

Me too, and Stewart rolled her back in his arms and onto the table.

The rowdy boys shrieked their delight.

They had been watching, edging closer, eager to take part in tipping the lady over a table. As they approached they set up a cock-a-doodle-do of bravado, claiming Beryl as their own. She’s a thing. Wow! Look at that, and the boys crowded around Beryl, forcing Stewart out of the way. Such a twister. Look at those thighs. They sang their praise of this toy they wanted, touching and fawning over her. Come with us sweetheart. We are the men here. We are soldiers. The bravest of the brave. Come on…there’s a good girl.

Robert, the young brother of Stewart, appeared in the doorway.

He saw the mêlée around Beryl and Stewart, and leaned against the door post to watch. The beauty of Beryl was undeniable, equally so the calmness of his brother. Stewart seemed detached, allowing the boys to have their fun. And Robert chuckled to himself. They may be brothers, but they handled situations in quite the opposite manner. Robert, the flamboyant and dashing one, always up front, not to fight but to manipulate himself into a favourable position, and then slip away. Stewart, the strong, and shorter than Robert, keeping to himself and guarding his options until that moment, a one split second moment that always came.

Not so the young man in the army uniform. He held nothing in reserve, especially his opinion, and above all his opinion on manhood, and that the army was for men and the air force for sissies. March, feet on the ground and face the enemy, those were his rules for manhood. And march into the spit and blood of battle. All army men knew that airmen in fancy uniforms were pushovers. No woman deserved such a pathetic escort. Women were the prize of battle, and battle gave the soldier the right to claim their prize.

The young man stepped forward.

So! Pretty boy, he said, face to face with Stewart. What’s the deal here, and he grabbed Beryl by the arm. You going to stop me, boy. She don’t want you…look, and he swung Beryl to face him. See! Now, she’s gone all soft. She can’t resist. Hey! Sweetheart, and he pulled Beryl into him.

The rest of the gang egged the young man on.

Come sweetheart. You’re too good for that bloke. Ease yourself over to our side. We won’t touch you. Promise babe. He’s yours, and they allowed the young man full rights to Beryl.

Stewart stood his ground, square on, his face in the young man’s face, not a muscle flinching.

An airman, huh! The young man continued. She doesn’t want you. Look! and he shaped to turn away. See. She’s coming.

Then, he swivelled.

He punched Stewart in the face.

A single blow, flush on the jaw. And then, another. Stewart did not defend himself. His arms limp by his side. He took the first punch, and took the next. Then, he exploded. He hit that young man between the eyes. The man fell backwards. Out. Flat across the table, slithering to the floor without a twitch.

Stewart squared up to the rest of the gang.

They backed off. Not a word. Not a brave one left, their cock-a-doodle having fled. And they picked up their fallen warrior and slunk back into the corner. Not a whisper, and not a fight left amongst them.

Robert hugged his brother, lifting him into the air, yodelling, What a man. What a man is this. He kissed Stewart on both cheeks. And he’s all yours, and Robert was not mocking. He folded Stewart into Beryl’s arms. The perfect couple he said.

The whole group erupted in their applause, hugging and kissing Beryl and Stewart, and congratulating them on their engagement.

Everyone wanted her, Arthur said, speaking again in his distant voice, speaking to himself, and not participating in the joyous moment of the group. How do you get in when there are so many better than you? Better in her eyes, he sighed. Anyway, I’m not in control. No one is right now. It’s all a mess. The whole world’s a big fuck’n mess.

Arthur watched Beryl, his eyes flat, not caring, just interested, like a bear over a bug. She sat on Tremaine’s lap, making a fuss over his hair, diverting attention away from herself and onto the young man she had blatantly admired in earlier times as the most dashing of the group.

My God, your hair is so long…and thick, like treacle, she flattered Tremaine, curling her fingers through his hair. So damn lucky, you sexy bastard. And she kissed him hard, then again just as hard, to rub the flattery deeper. I like you, she said by way of explaining her kiss. Bad luck, and she laughed, the mirth of her laughter only half cock.

Me too. Immédiatement je t’aime, Tremaine replied, faking his best French accent, and swooning over Beryl.

Everyone laughed.

Sylvia leaned across to whisper to Arthur, Now, for the babies, and she prodded Arthur in the belly to show him where they came from. All lovers do it immédiatement, and she continued to prod, her finger stiff. Je t’aime…what rubbish, she said, mocking Tremaine. It’s got nothing to do with love. Then, Sylvia turned on Beryl, that manly attitude stuck in her throat. Isn’t that so, Beryl? She gloated. When will you expect, sweetheart, and Sylvia mimed the baby thing. What chance before Christmas. I am sure you can get it done by then?

Can’t wait, Sylvie, Beryl shrieked. Actually, we did agree… and she looked across at Stewart for his approval. Yes, sweetheart, she said. We did…remember?

Stewart frowned his reply.

Well, maybe, a little later, and Beryl changed her tact, slithering off Tremaine to sit beside Arthur.

Stewart slapped Arthur on the back. Let’s drink, mate, he said and he too sat beside Arthur.

Robert leapt onto the table his arms raised.

Listen up…everyone. Listen. Listen. Listen, he hollered, taking centre stage. Me too. Hey! Quiet everyone, and he waited for the noise to die and for everyone to pay him their attention….even waiting an extra second, adding to their anticipation. I’m in, he shouted and pumped his fist, holding his pose.

The group erupted, yelling and clapping.

Two celebrations on the same day. What a day. Such joy. And the drinks doubled up. Everyone celebrating a perfect day, and one which they were determined not to let end.

Jerzy looked on with sadness.

A sadness beyond his dashing exterior. But now he did not sit alone. His two young men friends from Nottingham University had arrived. They spoke little, their attention captivated by the rowdy group centred around Beryl, Stewart and Robert, especially Jerzy, his eyes all over Beryl, his mind on the troubled timing for such a wild afternoon.

Robert forced the pace of their wild celebrations, dancing centre stage, imitating a Greek peasant dancing to the bouzouki. Then, he collapsed into Sylvia’s arms. Then he danced with Tremaine and fell. Stewart picked Robert up, as gently as a doll, and handed him to Beryl. She spun him in a circle. And Robert pretended to be a fighter pilot diving down for the kill, and diving down on Beryl. Then, Robert suddenly veered off to swoop down on Jerzy and his two friends watching from the table in the far corner.

I’m not drunk, sir, Robert said by way of greeting Jerzy. My name is Robert. Robert Campbell. Trainee pilot 609 squadron, and Robert snapped a lively salute, clicking his heels to attention. Reporting for duty, sir.

Jerzy laughed. His laugh coming from deep in his belly.

I noticed your uniform, Robert continued. 41 squadron.

Jerzy nodded.

The first with the Spitfire…

Sit, please, Jerzy implored Robert, pulling out a chair. That is, if your lady and her friends will allow.

Robert sat, swinging his leg over the chair.

Indeed they do. They allow everything, he said. "That’s