Roland Moore - Christmas on the Home Front

Henry came over to watch and they all peered intently, trying to glimpse the action.

Joyce instinctively ducked down slightly from the window. Esther put a comforting hand on her shoulder. The truth was that they were far enough away to be out of danger. The bullets wouldn’t reach the village hall from that distance. But a basic innate need for survival meant that they shied away nonetheless.

Joyce craned her head. At the corner of the window frame, the second Spitfire looped round, cutting off the escape path of the German bomber. The Spitfire fired its guns and there was a flash of fire on the wing of the bomber. It banked sharply away, an erratic movement that told Joyce it wasn’t an evasive manoeuvre but a sign it was out of control. Sure enough the bomber spiralled down and away, with the awful whining sound that signified an imminent crash. Joyce could just about make out a plume of black smoke from the rear of the plane. Fire was gripping the rear section. It disappeared behind some trees several miles away. The Spitfires pursued it over the canopy to check they had completed their task. After a few moments, a smoky mushroom of fire billowed up from behind the trees. Esther looked solemnly at what she had seen.

‘There’s one for our boys.’ But there was no hint of celebration in Esther’s voice. They knew it could have so easily been a loss to the allied side. They both knew that death wasn’t anything to celebrate. Instead this was a grim tallying up of a minor victory in a war that was dragging on above the skies of Helmstead. Another mother would be getting a telegram.

Joyce continued to put up the celebratory bunting; an action that seemed darkly poignant now. But for now, she didn’t think any more about the German plane or what had happened to it.

Twin paths of blackened, smoking grass etched their way into a copse of trees on the edge of Frensham Fields. And there, its nose smashed into an ancient oak tree was the German plane, one of its engines whirring in a death throe of aviation fuel and smoke. The fuselage was already sparking with fire and the fuel caught alight suddenly, sending a dense cloud exploding into the sky like some nightmarish purple and black peony. The men in the cockpit were frantically trying to escape. One of them smashed open the canopy, sending it cascading down the side of the plane. He was up and out, falling over the side onto the singed heather beneath. His partner quickly followed, but being nearer the fuselage, he found his arm engulfed in burning fuel.

The man screamed and fell hard onto the ground. The first man was on his feet, scrambling to his aid, rolling the burning man over and over until the flames subsided. Then he pulled the man away from the wreckage, getting only twenty feet away before he collapsed on his back from the effort.

‘ Kapitän ?’ The younger man had concern etched on his face, terror in his eyes. His name was Siegfried Weber. He was twenty-two and although this has been his third mission, he had never been to England before.

The older man winced and clutched his right arm. His name was Emory Mayer. He was forty and this had been his eighteenth mission. He had worked as a tailor in England for two years in the 1920s and if sartorial thoughts were foremost in his mind right now, he’d have registered the state of his uniform, which was partially burnt away around the arm, the skin underneath blackened. Siegfried couldn’t tell whether it was from the burn or from dirt from the fuel. He didn’t want to rub it to find out. Instead, he lifted his captain as best as he could and shuffled them both even further away from the plane. It was burning brightly, and Siegfried knew it would be a beacon for anyone trying to find survivors. They had to get away.

Siegfried hoisted Emory’s good arm over his shoulder and walked them across the scrubland, inching slowly away. Every now and then he would risk a look behind him, hoping that the wreckage would be a small dot on the horizon. But the progress was such that he stopped looking behind him, knowing that the continued proximity of the plane would sap his morale and rob him of the impetus to keep going.

The plane exploded in a final, epic fireball, plumes of black smoke reaching fleetingly into the sky before disappearing forever. Siegfried risked a look back, feeling a burst of heat on his face. And then the fire was gone, the hulking remains continuing to spew black smoke into a black sky. He hoped that the explosion had signified the end of the plane acting like a beacon for the enemy.

In the distance, Siegfried could hear dogs barking. They sounded close, but he had no idea how close. How could the search have been coordinated so quickly? Siegfried tried to calm his nerves, taking deep breaths as he hauled his captain along. No, the searchers were probably a long way away and the sound of the dogs had carried in the wind.

Siegfried knew that he couldn’t be certain of any of that. He knew that his life was hanging by a thread. He had to find shelter soon; a place to give medical treatment to his captain. They had to find somewhere safe.

Joyce Fisher stood on the front step of the village hall, staring up at the sky. She thought she’d heard an explosion in the distance, far off in Frensham Fields. But it could have been soldiers on night manoeuvres. Esther came out to join her and they looked out into the night sky together. A chill wind was blowing gently, carrying a faint rainfall and Joyce felt her face getting slightly damp. It was oddly refreshing and she didn’t immediately think about going back inside. Sometimes it was good to feel nature and enjoy a light rain against your face.

‘We should be getting back to the farm,’ Esther commented.

‘I know,’ Joyce replied. She and Dolores would have to be awake by six and out working by half-past. Late nights weren’t something you could keep doing when you were a land girl, not unless you wanted to fall asleep on your shovel.

By the time they got back to Pasture Farm it was nearly ten o’clock. Joyce locked the back door. The light flickered slightly.

‘Probably the rain,’ Esther commented. ‘I keep telling Fred that the junction box gets submerged when there’s too much water.’

Joyce turned out the light and she and Esther trudged up the stairs to the bedrooms. Joyce could hear Dolores murmuring in her sleep and she wished Esther a hushed goodnight and went into her own room.

‘See you in the morning,’ Joyce whispered.

‘I wish it was really the morning. It’s still the middle of the night when we get up, isn’t it?’ Esther replied. They shared a smile as Joyce closed the door behind her.

She dropped her dress to the floor and carefully folded it over the back of the chair. Walking to the window, Joyce closed the curtains. Outside she could hear the plaintive cries of a fox somewhere in Gorley Wood. She got her washbag and sat on the bed, waiting for the sounds of Esther in the bathroom to fall silent before she ventured out to see if it was free.

Joyce stared at the dressing table. A dog-eared photograph of John was propped next to her rollers and hairbrush. Seeing his face warmed her heart and made her smile. She hoped he was resting and taking it easy and not having too many chores to do for Teddy. But more than that she hoped he would be back soon; back on the train.

She hoped he’d be back in time for Christmas.