Chapter Fourteen
The rainwater dripped through the roof of the hut, splashed onto Smithy's face, and woke him from a fitful sleep. Lying on his bunk, wearing all the clothes he possessed, and wrapped in a scratchy blanket, he was still cold. It was early morning, but everywhere was still in darkness and, for a moment, his mind turned to the dream he had just left. He was back at RAF Milton with Kinders and Berry, and they were talking about the next operation. Kinders was calculating the odds of returning as one in ten, Berry was arguing against this, whilst Smithy had simply dismissed the argument altogether and said that any of them would be lucky to return at all. He closed his eyes and tried to picture himself back with the crew, but the dream had gone.
Luck! In the last six weeks, there had been plenty of time to consider how fortunate he believed himself to be. The German doctor who had treated him in the hospital when he had been picked up after baling out, had told him in thickly accented English, "You are a very lucky man." A statement he qualified by informing Smithy that one of the best orthopaedic surgeons in Germany was based at the hospital and had saved his arm and his life. Smithy knew he would always be grateful, but he didn't consider himself lucky to have been shot-up, forced to bale-out leaving the rest of his crew behind, captured by the enemy, and now incarcerated for the duration of the war. To this, he added the fiasco with Molly. He tried not to think about Molly too much, but there was little else to do here but think.
After baling out of the Lancaster, Smithy had no memory of his descent beyond pulling the ripcord of the parachute. He had been told by doctors in the hospital that his parachute had been seen descending by a detachment of Hitler Youth on fire watching duties, and he had landed in a field only a few hundred yards from the centre of a small village. The proximity of the landing site to the village had saved his life. Unconscious and badly wounded, he had been found within a few minutes. Despite being one of those dubbed a 'Terror Flieger' or terror flyer, human decency had won out, and the local doctor had been called immediately. He had done his best to keep Smithy alive until an ambulance could take him to the main hospital, where he had been treated promptly and with care. In this respect, he knew he had been lucky.
After three weeks in hospital, Smithy was judged fit enough to transfer to a Prisoner of War camp and had ended up, after a journey of three days, half of it in a cattle truck, deposited at Stalag Luft I at Barth on the Baltic Sea. Before leaving hospital, he had been visited a few times by Luftwaffe intelligence officers who spoke excellent English and treated him with a sympathetic and friendly respect that he and other aircrew had been warned about by intelligence officers in England. Their aim was to loosen the tongue of unsuspecting aircrew through friendly chat and conversation. Those not on their guard could let slip seemingly harmless information which might help the Luftwaffe piece together useful operational intelligence. Smithy was wary, particularly when the Luftwaffe Major named some of the officers within his bomb group and dropped them casually into conversation. Smithy tried to maintain the friendly attitude recommended, replied non-specifically to any question, and gave nothing away other than his name, rank and serial number.
He remembered his arrival at Barth in company with other aircrew that had come from the Dulag Luft Interrogation Centre near Frankfurt. It had been a strangely unsettling feeling, arriving at a camp full of British, Canadian and American inmates, to be met by a largely silent group of on-lookers, weighing them up, torn between sympathy for them coming to terms with their plight as prisoners, and envy that they were the most recently arrived from England. Smithy had been struck by the strange appearance of many of the men, wearing unusual combinations of clothing, most of which had at one time or other been their uniforms. This morning, as he lay listening to the mutterings, rustlings and snores of his five fellow room occupants, he shivered and wondered if it would be possible to get hold of any warmer clothing.
The rain was falling on the roof and dripping through gaps where the roofing felt had been worn away. Smithy shifted his position in the wooden bunk. The creaking caused the Scottish rear gunner sleeping below him to groan at being disturbed. Smithy wasn't bothered. Morrison was never happy unless he had something to complain about, in which case, Smithy thought to himself, Morrison was definitely in the right place. He had noticed how people here were irritated by small things which would barely have raised an eyebrow in his crew at RAF Milton. Being cooped up with so many other men, and without meaningful activity, brought petty squabbles to the surface. In the short time he had been here, he realised that the biggest struggle they all faced now was boredom coupled with a lack of all those minor things in life which were normally taken for granted but meant so much when they were absent.
In an hour or so, they would rise, and the unvarying routine of camp life would begin. After Roll Call, breakfast would be prepared by each room in turn on the small stove within the hut. The meagre German rations would have to be eked out with the small amount of Red Cross parcel food that arrived each week. Later, they would stroll around the compound, walking in twos next to the warning wire ten yards from the perimeter fence, chatting idly about everything under the sun or the latest camp gossip. There were many attempts to relieve the boredom of life here such as football, cricket, rugby games or attending lectures on a wide variety of subjects given by those with expertise in civilian life. There was a Red Cross library, and many prisoners read voraciously. Smithy had learned that the camp inmates called themselves 'Kriegies', a short version of the German for prisoner of war, 'Kriegsgefangene'. They called the German guards goons and the friendly English-speaking camp staff, who wandered around keeping an eye on activities, 'ferrets'.
Smithy had been able to send a short postcard home to his mother in Newport as soon as he was well enough to write, and, like so many others, now waited each day for mail to arrive. Sometimes, there was nothing for anyone. On other occasions, several letters would arrive at once. He had quickly learned that the four main areas of interest to all 'Kriegies' seemed to be the mail, weather, food and news. Mail was the only link with home and a chance to catch up with loved ones, although letters were censored. The weather made a huge difference to all of them. When the weather was bad, they spent even more time in close proximity to people with the potential to irritate them. Food either cheered people or depressed them, depending on its quality or availability, and news was something that spread around the camp like wildfire. Although the goons were always carrying out searches, ingeniously home-made radio sets were concealed in various places around the camp and the 'kriegies' seemed to be surprisingly well-informed. Smithy, and all the new camp arrivals, had been interrogated by their fellow inmates for news of everything from military advances to the latest films and jokes on the radio. When Smithy had given up to them all the news he had about the war, he was surprised at how much they already seemed to know.
After eating his breakfast, and taking several turns around the camp, the chill wind from the Baltic drove Smithy back inside to the relative warmth of the hut. He was still wearing his left arm in a sling and sometimes found it difficult to manage everything, consequently he was still excused some of the cleaning and cooking duties which others undertook on a rota basis to share the workload. He wandered down the corridor to his room, hoping that it might be empty and was in luck. For once, he could enjoy having the space to himself. He climbed up onto his bunk and lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. At least it had stopped raining and the water was no longer splashing on his face.
The only problem with peace and quiet was that it encouraged him to think too much. He had run through those final events on the last operation so many times. He knew that being hit had been simple bad luck, but he kept wondering whether he would be have been back at RAF Milton now, if he had been sitting in the cockpit where he was supposed to be, when the flak had hit the Lancaster. There was no doubt in his mind that he regretted the exchange with the Skipper. He had lost control of himself. He'd had six weeks to think about everything that had happened that day. The truth was nagging uncomfortably at him, and he knew now that there was something he needed to do. He left the room and went out into the communal part of the hut. Lying on a central table was some paper and a few blunt looking pencils. He pulled out a chair, sat down, and began to write.
ooOoo
Molly turned up the collar of her greatcoat against the chill of early November and shivered. She couldn't decide if it was due to the frost in the air, or the sight of St Hilda's Children's Home, a large forbidding Victorian house in the Gothic style of architecture so popular eighty years earlier. The house stood some way back from the road, at the end of driveway over-arched by trees, and giving the appearance of a dark tunnel leading to the front of the house. She pushed open the ironwork gate, which creaked on its hinges, and stepped onto the gravel driveway beyond, leading to the grand portico at the entrance. Molly looked up and decided that whoever had designed this house was fond of turrets and gargoyles, as it seemed to be half church, half castle.
At the large wooden entrance door, a notice proclaimed that all visitors should report to the Matron. Molly rang the bell and waited for what seemed like an age before she heard the door unlocked and unbolted and it was opened by a middle-aged woman in the starched dress and apron of a children's nurse.
"Yes?" she said rather officiously. and Molly was taken aback.
"I wondered if it would be possible to see Hattie Tyler."
The nurse regarded her suspiciously, taking in the sight of her WAAF uniform.
"And you are?"
Molly wondered how to describe herself and settled on, "A friend."
"Do you have a prior arrangement?"
"No." Molly confirmed. "I just came on the off chance."
"I see." The woman looked doubtful and Molly thought she was about to turn her away, but she was determined to make some progress and, remembering the notice on the door, she said firmly, "Please could I speak to the Matron? It's important." She looked directly at the nurse who appeared to have made a decision.
"You'd better come in and wait. I'll see if I can find her."
She ushered Molly into the hall and shut, locked and bolted the door behind her.
Away in the distance, along a corridor branching off to the right of the hall, she could hear children's voices. A door opened and closed, and she caught the sound of young children singing a nursery rhyme. She concentrated hard and recognised 'Ring-a-Roses'. She listened for the final shout of 'We all fall down!', and heard it followed by laughter. She glanced around her and saw a noticeboard filled with instructions for children and visitors alike; a comprehensive list of do's and don'ts. Everything felt like the nurse's apron; starched and unbending.
When Molly had approached RAF Police Sergeant Jones and asked him if he could find out what had happened to Hattie Tyler, he had been surprised, but after she had convinced him that all she wanted was to satisfy herself that Hattie was settled, he had been willing to make some enquiries with the civilian police. Two days later, he had given her the name of St Hilda's Children's Home in Danesbury, five miles north of Grantley. As soon as Molly got a half-day pass, she had set off for Danesbury, determined to see for herself that Hattie was well.
Weeks before, soon after the crash, on the afternoon when she had been sitting at Charles's bedside, feeling dismayed by the events which had occurred, she had resolved to do something. She hadn't been sure at that time what the 'something' would be, but she had determined that the least she could do would be to visit Hattie and ensure that she was well cared for.
Five minutes after Molly's arrival, a tall, respectably dressed woman in her forties, came across the hall towards her. She wasn't wearing a uniform, and she didn't smile, but she spoke with a calm air of authority.
"I'm Miss Tyndall, the Matron. Can I help you, Miss…?"
"Dawes," Molly supplied.
"Miss Dawes," she repeated, "I understand that you're enquiring about Hattie Tyler."
Molly nodded. "I wondered if I could see her."
"Are you a relative?" Miss Tyndall asked.
Molly shook her head, "No. I met Hattie before she came to live here. I was wondering how she was getting on."
"I see." Miss Tyndall appeared to be considering something. "How did you come to know her? I ask because Hattie's father was involved with some unfortunate people."
"I know." Molly replied. "It was me who put the police on to him."
"Oh!" Miss Tyndall's expression changed, and her manner was decidedly more friendly. "Why don't you come through to my office? We'll be able to talk there."
She led Molly along the corridor and into a ground floor office with a large arched window facing out onto the garden. She moved behind her desk and indicated the visitor's chair for Molly. They both sat down.
"Forgive me for the questions, Miss Dawes, it's just that you're the first person to enquire about Hattie since she arrived here, and she's been abandoned in rather tragic circumstances."
Molly nodded. "I know."
She judged it unwise to give Miss Tyndall the details of what had transpired shortly before Bill Tyler had died or the fact that she had been with him. She took a deep breath and continued: "I've been worried about Hattie, you see, ever since. I went to the Police and then her Dad scarpered and abandoned her and…well…he died. It's played on my mind."
She saw a kindly understanding on the woman's face. "You feel a sense of responsibility?"
Molly nodded.
Miss Tyndall spoke slowly and carefully: "Hattie is being well cared for. She is a quiet girl, but all the years with her father have taken their toll, I'm afraid. By all accounts, he wasn't a very nice man." She stressed 'nice' with a sense of irony which didn't escape Molly.
"Does she really have no family?" Molly asked.
"Well, none we can trace. I understand that no one seems to know what happened to her mother."
"Has anyone asked Hattie?" Molly enquired.
Miss Tyndall looked away through the window apparently considering an answer. "Sometimes when children have had such a difficult time, it's better to let them settle and put things behind them. I'm sure, in time, that Hattie will come to terms with what has happened."
Molly was torn. She knew Miss Tyndall was a kind woman at heart who meant to do her best for Hattie, but she felt very strongly that she might be wrong.
"But Miss Tyndall, if there's a chance she could be with her mother, surely someone should try to find her?"
Miss Tyndall was unmoved in her opinion. "You mean well, Miss Dawes, I can see that, but I think it could be a mistake."
Molly nodded but didn't agree. "Could I see Hattie before I go, just for a little while?"
Miss Tyndall nodded. "Very well. She should be going out to play soon. You can go out and join her for a while if you like."
Miss Tyndall led her through the house and then out into the garden. It was cold but the sun was trying to break through the grey sky. Out in the garden, Molly saw twenty or so older boys and girls, who appeared to be between the ages of seven and thirteen, running around, whooping and playing chase. Miss Tyndall stopped at the top of a short flight of steps leading down to the lawn.
"There's Hattie. Over there!" She pointed across the garden and Molly saw her sitting alone on a bench. She was warmly dressed in a grey wool coat, the familiar red beret on her head.
"I'll let the nurse know you're here. They'll be out here for half an hour. Why don't you go and have a chat with Hattie." She turned and walked back into the house.
As Molly crossed the garden, she drew the attention of some of the children who ran up to her, eager to talk. She greeted them and patted the little one's heads. They reminded her of her brothers and sisters. It had been so long since Molly had seen them. As she approached Hattie, the girl looked up. Molly could see surprise in her face, but no hostility.
"Hello Hattie. Remember me?"
Hattie nodded.
"Can I sit down?" The girl nodded again and Molly sat next to her. "How are you? Do you like it here?" She tried to sound cheerful.
"It's all right!" Hattie said in a flat tone.
"Have you made any friends?" Molly continued, "I bet there's loads of girls to play with here."
"I play with Josie sometimes." She pointed to a dark-haired girl running around in the distance. "She's all right!"
"That's nice. It's good to have a friend," Molly said quietly.
"Dad's dead," Hattie said suddenly, looking around at Molly.
Molly gazed at her in pity. "I know. I'm sorry."
"I don't really miss him, though. I thought I would but…" she trailed off.
"Well, sometimes it's like that," Molly answered, unsure how to respond.
"I missed my mum, though, when she went."
Molly looked at Hattie and ,remembering everything Miss Tyndall had said earlier, tried to bite her tongue but she couldn't help herself. "Where did she go, Hattie?"
Hattie shrugged. "I don't know. I was only about eight. Dad said she didn't want us anymore. I remember going somewhere just with Mum on a train, to a really big place, like a city, but Dad came and fetched me back and I didn't see her anymore."
They were approached by Josie who beckoned to Hattie.
"Your friend wants to play," Molly said.
She saw Hattie brighten and she stood up to go before turning back to Molly and saying: "She had long blond hair and she smelled like violets – just like her name, she used to say. I used to ask Dad about her, and he'd keep saying we'd go back to the Dragonfly one day. But we never did!"
Josie had taken hold of Hattie's hand and dragged her away. Hattie looked back over her shoulder and called out, "Bye!"
Molly smiled. She had seen for herself that Hattie was well and was being looked after but better than that, she had just told Molly something really important.
She left St Hilda's shortly afterwards, saying nothing about Hattie's information to Miss Tyndall, but as she sat on the bus on the return journey to Grantley, a plan began to form in her mind. She would like to have discussed it with Charles but there was no chance of doing that. She considered the way the discussion would probably have gone had she done so, and she could almost see him casting her that intense, slightly exasperated look whilst telling her in a concerned but stern manner, "Don't get involved." She shook her head at the thought and made a silent mental apology to him. With luck, he wouldn't need to know what she was planning to do, or at least not until it had been accomplished.
ooOoo
Molly had managed to see Charles one more time at the hospital in Grantley before he was moved to an RAF officer's nursing home near Bath in the middle of October. Unbeknown to Charles, his mother had put in a special request and managed to get her son transferred to a nursing home in Wiltshire. When it transpired later that she had pulled a few strings, Charles had been annoyed, particularly when he discovered that the favour had been acquired through Rebecca's Wing Commander. He was annoyed, not only that his mother had sought a favour through Rebecca, but also because it had taken him so far from Molly.
There was nothing Charles could do about his situation after the fact. He had written to Molly apologising and explaining that it was largely his own fault things had turned out this way. He hadn't yet told his parents about her. He intended to tell them as soon as he could, and he wanted them to meet her. She was pleased, of course, that Charles wanted his parents to become acquainted with her, but she was worried too. The one occasion she had seen Charles's mother, had reminded her that before the war they would have moved in very different circles, and the chance of Molly ever being close to someone like him was very slim. She wasn't sure if his parents would accept her, especially after his previous engagement to Rebecca who was clearly a very different sort of girl to herself. Charles had written to Molly telling her how much he missed her and urging her to visit him the next time she had any leave, and she intended to do so as soon as she could.
Everything was different for Molly now at RAF Milton. The loss of the first C for Charlie had affected her in so many ways. She hadn't appreciated how much her life had become entangled with that of the aeroplane and the rest of the crew, until it was gone. She had been new to RAF Milton and finding her feet, just as 'Charlie's' crew had been newly arrived with an experienced captain. She had seen them going through their first operations, changing before her eyes with their experiences, and come to know them all. Now Charles and Berry were trying to recover from their injuries on the Krefeld operation and neither of them would fly as aircrew again. Mansfield and Nuttall had joined F for Freddy and said that the Skipper was a decent man, but it was obvious they preferred their old Skipper. Kinders had replaced an injured Navigator in P for Popsie, and Fingerson had flown with R for Robert before being hit by some flak over Berlin a week ago, and was currently in hospital himself, although he was expected to make a full recovery.
The one memory which hurt her the most was Smithy's. Whenever she thought of Smithy, she was filled with regret about the way things had turned out. She knew that if she could have gone back in time, she would have changed many things. If, on that very first occasion they had met at the training course dance, she had chosen to leave with her friends instead of staying behind with him, it might have made a difference. However, despite everything which had happened, she realised she missed him, and she wished he could have been here so that they could have had a chance to put everything right.
ooOoo
The beaming smile on Jackie's face as she approached Molly in the WAAF Mess, was a welcome sight. It was the first time in weeks that Molly had seen her friend looking so happy.
"Molly, I'm glad I caught you. I've got really good news." The breathless delivery of this information, told her that Jackie was excited about something and she waited with bated breath. "I just saw Archie Kinders, and he said that news has come through from the Red Cross. Smithy's a prisoner of war. He survived, Molly!"
Molly smiled in relief. Her first thought was to tell Charles as soon as possible. "That's great news, Jackie."
"You'll be able to write to him, Molly!" Jackie continued.
Molly knew that as much as she was not ready to tell anyone about Charles, she had to put paid once and for all to this misunderstanding. She looked earnestly at Jackie. "I don't think Smithy would want to hear from me, Jackie. We're not 'sweet' on each other or anything else. At least, I'm not 'sweet' on Smithy and he knows it."
Molly saw surprise on Jackie's face.
"In fact," Molly continued to emphasise her feelings, "I think I'd be the last person he'd want to hear from!"
"Did you fall out?" Jackie asked at once.
Molly couldn't help smiling. "No, Jackie. We were never together. Everyone just kept thinking it!"
Jackie was looking at her with a degree of curiosity. "So… you're not keen on Smithy?"
Molly shook her head. "No. I never have been, or not in that way, but I am very glad for him and it's brilliant news."
Jackie smiled broadly. "Yes, you're right. It is brilliant news!"
Jackie continued on her way, looking very happy indeed. The news of Smithy's survival was welcome indeed, but Molly suspected the confirmation that she and Smithy were not sweethearts was just as welcome to her friend. She turned to leave and return to the workshop on the far side of the aerodrome, not relishing the chilly ride on her bicycle, when a WAAF Sergeant from Admin called out to her.
"Dawes!"
Molly stopped short, surprised to be addressed by someone with whom she normally had nothing to do.
"Yes Sergeant."
The WAAF Sergeant, a woman in her thirties not known for her sense of humour, looked Molly up and down, taking in the state of her overalls, the smudge of oil on her face, and the wispy hair which had come loose and been blown around in the wind.
"I suppose you'll have to do," she remarked in a resigned tone of voice.
Molly was none the wiser. "Why Sergeant?"
"The C.O. and Wing Officer want to see you as soon as possible. Double away!"
Molly swallowed hard. She couldn't imagine what she had done wrong to be called before the C.O. and the WAAF Wing Officer.
"Why do they want to see me, Sergeant?" She wanted to be forewarned if she was about to get into trouble.
The sergeant looked at her in exasperation. "How should I know, Dawes? I was sent to fetch you, and you'd better hurry away and not keep them waiting."
"Yes Sergeant."
She took a deep breath and went out of the Mess into the cold bracing wind. She walked as briskly as she could to the Admin block where she would find the C.O.'s office.
It was slightly warmer here inside out of the wind but still decidedly cool. Molly caught sight of her reflection in the glass of a picture frame and grimaced. She wished she had been given time to change but there was nothing to be done about it. She would have to present herself as she was. She found the C.O.'s office and knocked on the door. The Adjutant called, "Come in."
She presented herself before his desk. "Aircraftwoman Dawes to see the Commanding Officer, Sir."
"Very good, Dawes. Wait here."
The Adjutant rose from his desk, knocked on the inner door of the office and spoke to the C.O., Group Captain Peters. Molly saw him nod and then stand aside for her, holding the door open.
"You can go in, Dawes."
She went through the door and saw the C.O. standing behind his desk. To his left was Wing Officer Michaels. Molly stood to attention and saluted both of them smartly.
"At ease, Dawes." The C.O. said in what Molly noted was a friendly sounding voice. "I expect you wonder why you've been asked to come here?"
"Yes, Sir," Molly replied nervously but growing more curious by the minute.
"Well, Dawes, it is my great honour to inform you that in recognition of your actions and bravery on the tenth of May 1943 in rescuing Flying Officer Ramsay and Sergeant Smith after the crash of D-Donald, His Majesty King George VI has awarded you the George Medal. Congratulations, Dawes."
To her great surprise, the C.O. reached out and shook her hand, and this was swiftly followed by Wing Officer Michaels doing the same.
Molly was dumbstruck. She had never expected such an honour.
"Well Dawes," the C.O. said, smiling at her, "You'll be making a trip to Buckingham Palace very soon to receive the award from His Majesty, and I expect there will be a spot of leave for you too."
ooOoo
When Molly finally managed to get through on the telephone to Charles at the nursing home, his voice was very faint on the other end of the line.
"I've got news," Molly shouted excitedly.
"I'm all ears!" he laughed.
"I'm going to Buckingham Palace. The King is giving me the George Medal." She was waiting for his response. When it came it was unexpected.
"So, they are giving it to you, then!"
"Did you know?" she cried almost outraged.
He had no choice but to admit it. "I may have heard Groupie say something in passing about recommending you for a medal?"
"You knew all this time, and you didn't say," Molly started to laugh.
"I couldn't be sure, Molly. I didn't want to get your hopes up. But you deserve it. You really do!" She heard the pride in his voice and knew he was very happy for her.
"There's more good news," Molly said. "I'm going to be given some leave at the same time. I've got a couple of things I need to do, but I think I'll be able to come to Bath to meet you."
Despite the crackle and hiss on the line, she heard the happiness in his voice as he replied, "That's absolutely wonderful! It'll give me something to look forward to."
Author's Note: The George Medal was instituted on 24th September 1940 by King George VI. It was introduced primarily to recognise bravery displayed by civilians, but it was also awarded to military personnel for gallant conduct that was not in the face of the enemy. During World War Two many George Medals were awarded to members of the armed forces who displayed bravery in rescuing other personnel in circumstances similar to the fictional crash in Chapter 5