'What about the exercise book, was that you?'
'You mean the missing pages? Yes, I'm afraid it was. I began to think that maybe I'd panicked a little, but you must realise, I had already seen what she'd written about Pearce. I'd already suggested to her that she should remove those pages. After consideration, she agreed with me – for the sake of both our sons. That's why I felt it would be all right to tear them out.' He gazed about sadly. 'God knows, I'm not proud of all this Billy, but please don't judge me harshly.'
'And you burned the torn out pages in the cold grate using a match. What about the secret drawer, did you look inside it?'
'Yes I did, and I found something truly awful. Something that will clear up everything, and prove you were right all along. I'm afraid I can't tell you about it yet. I need some advice first. That's why I'm on the train. I'm going to Nottingham to see my brother. He's a barrister. I get off in a few minutes.' He looked at Billy, his expression sad and thoughtful. 'There's a tin box too. It's locked. It feels as if it's got papers or photographs in it. I haven't been able to get at them. However, now that I can prove who killed her, there's no need to trample further through the poor lady's secrets. For her sake, I shall leave the tin box and its contents untouched. I think they're probably letters from her husband, because I didn't find any elsewhere, and I'm sure she must have some.' He sighed and shook his head. 'Oh Billy, what a poor example I am for you. A thief and a liar; and in God's house. Please don't think too badly of me.'
'I don't, sir. You did it for your son. Then you owned up about it, and that shows you care about what's right. It was a brave thing to do, and anyway, you said you're going to the cops, so that makes it all honest and not sneaky. I bet God's pleased with you – even though you are a proddy.'
'Thank you, Billy. I pray you're right.' He took out his handkerchief again and blew his nose noisily. 'There is something else.' From his inside jacket pocket he pulled out some folded sheets of paper and opened them up, smoothing them out on his knees. I was not sure what to do with this. It's from my son. It's his account of the night over France when they were shot down. I'd like you to read it – err - if you have a mind to. I think Robert would have liked that. You can return it to me at the vicarage.'
Billy accepted the pages carefully. 'Thank you. Did you keep the folder that the other papers were in?'
'Yes, but I shall give everything to the police. You needn't worry, Billy.'
'What's it like? What sort of folder is it?'
The reverend shook his head. 'I don't know really – just a home made cardboard thing.'
'Did it have a bird and lion on it?'
'I don't recall.' The train suddenly started to brake, almost tossing the Reverend Hinchcliffe into Billy's lap. He recovered and peered out of the window. 'This is my station. Don't worry, Billy. I'll be seeing Sergeant Burke just as soon as I get back to Sheffield. I intend to tell him everything.' He extended his hand and took Billy's, shaking it warmly.
'You're a good boy, Billy. I'm proud to know you. I owe you more than you can imagine.'
………
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
As the train pulled out of Nottingham station Billy closed the compartment door and pulled the blinds. Cocooned in first class, he unfolded the letter the Reverend Hinchcliffe had given him and began to read. The deep soft seats, polished wood and warm light from the reading lamp above his head felt luxuriously soporific. There was little comfort however, in the words penned by the young RAF sergeant, now dead and buried in some distant war cemetery. Tears glossed his eyes as he read the story of a crew's last flight together, and the death of their aircraft.
His eyes grew heavy as he read. He remembered the photograph he had found. How young and happy they had all seemed, playing cards in the sunlight. Now at least two of them were dead. And what about Pearce? He was one of them. He too had been wounded and traumatised by war; his cheek bore the scars to prove it. Did it really matter about a bit of shiny metal on a coloured ribbon?
Billy read the pages, his eyelids drooping; the words swimming before him and gently rocking to the rhythm of the train's wheels on the track. When he had done he sagged back, and closed his heavy eyes, trying to imagine the fear and horror of that night …,
………ragged strips of fabric lashed the Wellington's woven ribs. Icy wind tore through the fuselage, whipping away shouted orders, spraying them out into the black sky through dozens of shrapnel holes. Front gunner, Charlie Leedham, was dead - gone - blown away by the last shell. The skipper ordered them to bail out; Lana, was dying.
To the very last moment, they had battled with flack and flames, bouncing around the sky like a leaf in a gale. Coaxing her, nursing her, praying she'd make it to the English Channel where, if they ditched, there was at least some hope of rescue, and home. Ditching over France, they'd be killed or captured in hours. If they survived, they'd be incarcerated in some German stalag for the duration. Seeing home again might be years away.
Jacque (Frenchie) Cadell, the skipper, put it to a vote. Nobody wanted to leave Lana to die in France. For what seemed hours, they struggled to keep her in one piece, steadily losing altitude as they edged towards the Channel.
Wellingtons don't give up easily. The cross weave structure of their fuselage can take a lot of punishment, but the shell that had blown away the front gunner had been the last straw. Lana shook and shuddered, control was impossible. It was over; they had to bail out.
One by one they jumped. Frenchie saw them off, grinning, yelling encouragement. First Tommy Loveday, the sparks, then Hinch, helping Willy Glover the tail gunner. He was out cold, his left leg like a twist of blood sodden rag. Frenchie wanted to give them the thumbs up, but he dare not let go of the controls. The French coast was barely ten miles ahead now, but he knew Lana couldn't make it. She was bucking and twisting as though trying to shake them loose to save their necks.
Terror had overcome the second pilot, freezing him in his seat. Frenchie risked reaching out a hand and tried to make him move, but he screamed and fought. Again he tried tugging at his co pilot's jacket. It was useless. He daren't release the controls. Lana was screaming now, falling faster every second. The two men struggled as pointers swept dials. The skipper knew there was nothing left to do but abandon the controls, free his hands to drag his comrade to the hatch. Still the man fought him madly, wild eyed and screaming. The skipper slapped him hard and shook him. At last he moved, seeming to waken in blundering confusion.
At the hatch, Frenchie pushed him out and watched with relief as the parachute blossomed. Now he must jump but the ground was hurtling up towards him. He knew it was too late. There would never be time for his parachute to open. Flames exploded along the aircraft engulfing him, ripping the breath from his body. There were no choices left. He dived into the blackness to escape the flames, and filled his burning lungs on the icy wind. Yanking the rip cord he prayed to feel the jerk of the canopy filling with air. At last it did, but too soon he hit the roof of a farm building and crashed through on to an earthen floor, roof tiles and debris showering down on him.
Ten minutes later Hinch found his skipper unconscious, his parachute still attached, his face blistered on one side like pork crackling. The others arrived, carrying Willy Glover, unconscious and bleeding. Gathering round, each tried to assess their comrades' injuries. Hinch applied field dressings. Tommy found some water and dribbled it onto the injured men's lips before handing it round.
Hinch looked for orders to Noll Pearce the second pilot, now ranking officer. He told them to check the other buildings to see if the farm was occupied. If it was, the farmer was sure to be wide awake after the explosion caused by Lana crashing in a fire ball not half of a mile away.
Flight sergeant Arnold Pearce remained kneeling beside his unconscious skipper, as his comrades left to carry out his orders. He stared sourly at both the injured men. Willy Glover looked almost dead - the skipper was not much better. Pearce feared escape would be impossible
with the two of them in tow. By now every German soldier in the area would be looking for them. How could they hope to get away carrying two unconscious men?
Willy's leg was virtually unattached. His blood was pooling on the ground around him. Pearce loosened the tourniquet that had been applied to his thigh and watched the spurts of blood it released. He considered leaving it off and letting poor Willy slip away peacefully, while the others were searching the farm.
'You need to tighten that again now,' the skipper croaked weakly. 'Loosen it again in twenty minutes for another two.'
'That's what I'm doing,' Pearce snapped, wondering how long the skipper had been awake and watching him. 'How do you feel?'
'Huh terrific. I've just stepped off a burning plane two feet before it hit the ground thanks to you,' he croaked. 'How do you think I bloody feel?'
Pearce felt his colour drain. He glanced around shiftily to see if any of his comrades had heard the skipper's reproach. 'I don't know what happened. It was just ...'
'Forget it. You're not the first to freeze under fire.'
Tommy Loveday returned with some eggs. 'The place is all in darkness, but it looks occupied. I think they must be hiding.' Seeing his skipper awake, he beamed a broad smile at him. 'Frenchie, how do you feel?'
'Great, just like a bloke who's fallen ten thousand feet into a barn full of horseshit and house bricks.'
'Oh – well, that's OK then.'
Hinch returned panting excitedly. 'There's a road and a couple of houses. The sea's that way. It's only about a mile.' He pointed energetically, as if to make the shore seem even nearer. 'You can see a harbour with small boats from the end of the farm's lane. It's all down hill. We could make it – I mean all of us.'
They started making stretchers with any old timbers they could find, a rake and a pitchfork handle, some stall rails. They whispered excitedly as they strapped them together with parachute cord and silk. They worked with a positive air of eager anticipation. They had survived the flack and the bail out from a burning aircraft. They were almost at the shore. There were boats to be had. Home and freedom seemed achievable.
Sporadic gunfire announced the enemy's approach, and the mood suddenly nosedived. 'They're on their way, boys,' croaked Frenchie, wincing as pain wore through the screening adrenaline rush, he had felt on leaping out of the aircraft. 'Take Willy first, and then come back for me.'
Tommy glanced at Pearce and Hinch, his concern revealed on his soot-smeared face. It had just dawned on him that there were only three of them to carry the two stretchers.
Hinch used the last of the morphine to inject Frenchie, the two of them exchanging whispered words.
'What's he say?' asked Tommy, as Hinch came out of his huddle with the skipper.
'He wants us to take Willy first.'
'But we should take the skipper first,' Tommy whispered. 'I hate saying it, but I don't think Willy will make it. The skipper still could.'
'We must help Willy first,' whispered Pearce, joining them. 'The skipper is the strongest. It could be a couple of days before we can come back and pick him up, or maybe HQ can get the resistance to do it. You know what the Marquis are like, they don't take unnecessary risks. They'd take one look at Willy and probably finish him off themselves before the Germans got him.'
The skipper turned his head towards them, evidently he had overheard Pearce. 'Noll's right,' he said. 'Take Willy first, get me later, when it's safe. You'll have to hide me. Leave me some water and the pain killers.'
The men looked at each other in silent consultation, then Tommy spoke. 'We could do it in stages,' he suggested. 'You know, move you down the lane a bit, then come back and move Willy, then move you again. It's only a mile at the most. We could get you both out like that.'
Frenchie had passed ou. He had not heard anything.
Pearce stepped in. 'No, we'll move Willy first, then come back for the skipper. Just like he told us.' He looked his two comrades squarely in the eyes and ....
....The ticket inspector leaned over Billy laid out on the deeply upholstered bench seat, a sneering smile on his mouth. 'Oh excuse me, Prime Minister. I didn't know you were on board today, Sir,' he said, sarcastically. 'Eeer, just a minute you're not Mr Atlee?'
Billy woke up sharply and sat up blinking. 'Err – no – err - I'm sorry.'
'If you're not Mr Atlee get them feet off my cushions and show us your ticket.'
'I don't have one. It's with my dad.'
'Your dad? Well, let's hope he's the Prime Minister then, cos if he's not, you're in big trouble, my lad.'
'He's not a prime minister,' Billy said weakly, adding, as if it might explain everything, 'He's a furnace mason.'
'Oh, a furnace mason. Oh thank God for that. Now you had better tell me why you're asleep with your feet up like the Prime Minister, in a First Class compartment, with the blinds down and no ticket?' The inspector's succinct summary, helped Billy to assess the precise depth of doo-doo, in which he now found himself.
*
Two police Wolsley's and a dark blue van drew up beside the barbed wire stretched around the old Walkley Bank Tilt Wheel. A constable climbed out of the leading car, drew on a pair of industrial leather gloves, and began tugging at the wire fence. A colleague carrying a set of wire cutters joined him. They chopped, snipped and folded the deadly barbed wire, to clear an access. Sergeant Burke climbed from the second car and oversaw their efforts. When it was done, three men in civilian clothes climbed stiffly from the blue van. One was evidently the driver. He lit up a cigarette and leaned back against his vehicle to watch proceedings. His two passengers shook out crisply pressed brown warehouse coats and pulled them on over their dark suits. The overalls were so stiffly starched that the men moved over the rubble strewn approaches to the old mill with a penguin like gait.
*
By promising to thrash Billie to within an inch of life, his father was able to placate the ticket inspector. The man went away, content on Mr Perks' assurance that Billy would soon be lying in a London gutter, like a blood sodden rag.
*
Late that evening as they returned after their day in London, Billy sat beside his mother. He felt dusty eyed and weary as he watched the lights of the city slide away into the darkness. Almost everyone in the carriage was asleep. Billy pulled out Bob Hinchcliffe's letter to his father and began reading.
………A German patrol turned up at the farm. Frenchie and Willy Glover were unconscious, so Pearce was ranking officer. Willy was in a bad way. We couldn't stop the blood. The skipper had burns to his left cheek and hand. We'd dressed them OK, but the worse thing was his feet and legs. He seemed to have broken every bone. We splinted them and did the best we could while he was unconscious. We used Tommy's shirt and the field dressings I had grabbed as I'd bailed.
Pearce was an arse. Sorry dad, but he was. He ordered us to hide Frenchie in the barn. He said we could get him picked up by the resistance. He argued that his fluent French would make it easier for him to escape once he could walk again. We didn't like the idea much, but it sort of made sense at the time. And anyway, we knew the Germans would not help Willy. I'm afraid he was too far gone. They'd have shot him to finish him off – so would the resistance for that matter. So we took him with us.
We made a sort of lean-to of some old timbers and junk and hid Frenchie behind it. We piled hay over it to finish it off. Next we threw open the barn's double doors as wide as they would go, in the hope that Gerry might assume nobody would be hiding in there with the doors wide open.
Tommy and I set off to the harbour carrying Willy on the make shift stretcher. A couple of times we thought he was dead and we had to check him out. Pearce stayed behind. He said he was going to hide and watch the Germans. He said that if the patrol passed by without giving the farm much attention, he would come and tell us so we could go back and get Frenchie.
Tommy found a boat. A clinker built lobsterman's, about ten feet long. It had oars and a mast. He swam out and hau
led it in. We put Willy aboard and waited for Pearce. It was a working harbour full of fishing equipment. It reminded me of Cornwall. You remember that summer we had before all this nonsense began? We couldn't tell if people were awake, watching us from behind their windows or not. I just know it felt as if they were. Any moment I expected some angry Frenchman to come out waving a shotgun and yelling at us for pinching his boat. Tommy said that if they did see us they'd guess it was our plane that had crashed. He said they'd leave us to get on with it. Tommy always thinks the best of people. He's like you, Dad.
Next there was an explosion on the hillside. Flames flared up above the trees but quickly died away. A few windows lit up briefly, before their black-outs were drawn again. We heard voices and dogs from the houses.
Pearce arrived breathless. He said the German patrol had tossed a grenade into the hay in the barn where Frenchie was. He said he saw it catch fire. Tommy and I were puzzled by that, but too busy trying to get under way before we came under fire too. We didn't think about it until later.
We heard shots and another grenade up in the trees. When we spoke of it afterwards, we realised we both had our bearings wrong. Our impression was that both explosions had been some distance from the barn. Pearce was furious when we quizzed him about it. He went berserk. He called us lying rats and insisted we were wrong. He said he'd seen it happen and barely got away with his life. I'm ashamed to say that at the time, I was reluctant to argue with him more strongly.
Well dad, you know the rest, poor Willy died just before we were picked up by Air Sea Rescue. What I never told you was that at his debriefing, Pearce told them he had actually seen Frenchie killed by a German grenade. He said he had stayed and watched as the barn caught fire. This of course meant that the resistance would not be asked to go and look for him. We didn't know about this until Tommy and I were debriefed the following day. They asked us if we had seen Frenchie alive after the hand grenade attack. Of course, we had not, and no matter what else we told them they weren't interested. I couldn't say that Pearce was a liar because I had no proof. In any case, they never tell you if the resistance will pick up your crew mates or not.