Roland Moore - Land Girls - The Homecoming - A moving and heartwarming wartime saga

The men were moving fast, jittery nervous movements almost parodying those of the bird, as they worked on the track. They glanced around at regular intervals to see if anyone was coming, checking the line for oncoming trains, the fields for any passing walkers. Somewhere in the sky – some distance away – there was the bumble-bee buzz of a Spitfire’s engine. Even this far-off sound made the taller man nervous. He craned his neck and started scanning the clouds. Would they be seen?

“Quick, hurry up –”, he urged.

“Don’t keep on!” The shorter man didn’t need telling. He knew they had to be quick. They both knew that the consequences of being caught would be severe. They couldn’t let that happen. But this bad-tempered exchange mirrored much of the conversation that they’d had since they’d set off in the early hours on this mission. Ever since the taller man had packed the red sticks into his holdall, along with the timing wire and detonator and they’d walked across the fields, feeling butterflies thumping around his belly.

The short man worked on the track while the taller one kept watch. The short man’s stubby fingers were trying to finish something that he’d been shown only once the night before. He hooked a pair of red wires around the metal bolts that fixed the device to the sleeper, trying to remember how the contraption should work. Was that right? It had looked a lot easier when he had been shown this in the woods around the camp fire, the convivial laughter of his friends spurring him on to think that this would be a great victory for their cause. He felt the pressure to get this right, but pressure was something he didn’t respond well to.

The tall man sank to his knees, craning his ear near to the track.

“I don’t know if I can hear a train.”

“Don’t be stupid. It’s not due yet. Shut up, I’m doing it as fast as I can.” The shorter man increased the pace, stripping the ends of a wire with a pair of pliers. There shouldn’t be a train for forty minutes. They’d planned this well so that they would have time to plant the device and get away before it came.

The short man finished his work and indicated he was ready. The taller man delved into the canvas holdall. Carefully he produced the explosives: a bundle that looked like red seaside rock bound with thick, black tape. The shorter man was sweating now in the evening sun as he laid the sticks on the track. He turned them upwards so he could easily stick the wires into the detonator charge that was already in place, his hand shaking from nerves. The back of his neck hurt, a tension headache on its way. He wished he’d paid better attention around the camp fire, when this had looked so easy and straightforward.

“Careful.” The tall man was good at making redundant and obvious statements. “Don’t blow your hand off.”

The short man scowled at him through his balaclava. “The clock. Give me the clock.”

The tall man pulled the alarm clock out from the holdall and handed it over.

The short man fumbled it and it fell onto the tracks – the chimes clanging, the first seconds of an early-morning alarm call. He retrieved it, checked it wasn’t damaged and put it into place. Finally the short man pressed the exposed wire into the putty around the connection.

“Thirty-eight minutes?” he asked.

“Thirty-eight minutes. Yeah. The train will be here then,” the tall man confirmed, checking his own watch. The Brinford to Helmstead line was run with regimented efficiency, but even if the train was late, it wouldn’t matter. The track would still be wrecked and the train would derail. It’s just that, if possible, their masters wanted the train to be caught in the explosion as well. The two men hadn’t asked any questions as to why but they assumed it was to garner maximum exposure in news stories. Maximum disruption and casualties.

Soon they had finished their grim task and were scampering off the tracks and across the fields to the seclusion of a copse of conifer trees. The tall man and the short man barely exchanged a goodbye as they went their separate ways. Once on his own, the short man stopped to breathe properly for the first time, the tension in his neck causing his temples to erupt in pain. But it didn’t matter. He’d done it and he’d got out in time. He hoped no one had seen.

Back on the tracks, the bird hopped near to the explosive charges, searching the earth that had been disturbed by the men’s boots. After a moment, it flew off to find dinner elsewhere. It had no idea what would happen in thirty-seven minutes time.

Connie Carter’s legs were attracting attention.

Of course, most of the time she was used to this, because men would give her a top-to-toe appraisal whether she wanted it or not; their eyes darting quickly, sometimes almost imperceptibly, especially if they were married men, from her long black hair, past her high cheekbones and soulful brown eyes all the way across her ample bosom and down to her toes. Connie knew that most of the time this perusal was motivated by lust or at least an appreciation of the female form. But today, Connie’s legs were attracting attention for another reason. It was because her feet were leaving a trail of thick mud on the train platform. The railway guard – a red-faced jowly old codger with a whistle hanging from his lips like a forgotten Woodbine – scowled at the clods of dirt falling from Connie’s boots.

“I’ve been workin’ in the fields, ain’t I?” Connie answered his unspoken question, her incongruous East-End voice cutting through the countryside air with the shrillness of an air-raid siren.

The guard shook his head and walked down the platform.

“Someone’s got to sweep it up,” he muttered. “That’ll be me, won’t it?”

Connie didn’t have the energy to argue. Her back was sore and her feet were throbbing from digging all day at Brinford Farm, where she and some of her fellow Land Girls had been seconded. She’d been at it since six in the morning and now it felt that even her blisters had blisters. Connie just wanted to get back to Helmstead: the picturesque village on the edge of the Cotswolds, where she was usually billeted as a Land Girl. The twin delights of a hot bath and her husband would be waiting. Helmstead had been home for the last year – a place where she was finally part of a family, of sorts. A place where she’d married Henry Jameson one month ago.

Connie and Henry were an odd match in a lot of ways. She was a worldly young woman from Stepney in the East End; he was a naive vicar from the countryside, a man who had never even been to London. Some likened it to a wild cat marrying a tortoise. She’d try to shrug off the disapproving looks from the older members of the village; those who thought she wasn’t good enough to be a vicar’s wife. But the sour expressions and the comments hurt Connie deeper than she’d ever let on. Sometimes she’d close the bathroom door and confused thoughts would race through her head. What if they were right? Why couldn’t they just accept her? She was trying her best. All she wanted to do was fit in. There was a nagging feeling that she didn’t belong here and that one day she’d have to accept that fact and move on. It was difficult to put down real roots when you felt they were going to be ripped up soon.

But when she could shut those thoughts out of her mind and focus on herself and Henry, she liked the stability he brought into her life. She thought that perhaps he liked the spark that she brought into his. Perhaps her lust for life inspired Henry. Certainly his sensible ways tempered her from getting into too much trouble. Certainly, in a lot of ways, they would infuriate each other and Connie was mindful never to push him too far. If he didn’t want to do something spontaneously, Connie would back down. She knew she wasn’t an easy fit for the world of village cricket and afternoon teas at the vicarage and she didn’t want to risk losing that. So she’d keep her thoughts to herself while secretly thanking her lucky stars that such a warm, decent man had taken her to his heart. It was too good to be true and she had to pinch herself for the chocolate-box turn that her life seemed to have taken.