Chapter 23

A Lone Raider

July 1943

A rchie made a fist with his right hand, then relaxed it, repeating the action twice more before sinking into the chair at his desk. Within the week, he would be having surgery in London, under the care of his colleague and friend, Rainsford Mowlem. He’d tried and failed not to dwell on it, but the stakes were too high. He should have sought help much earlier before his hands became quite so problematic. What if the condition was too advanced? That could potentially make the surgery even more difficult or impossible, and his hands really were his livelihood.

Right now, he was trying to put everything in order before he took time off. After his operation, he had a party to look forward to. The Chesters had been huge supporters of the Guinea Pig Club since its inception, and they often opened their home to the lads.

He had something else to organise too before he left, and he needed Blackie’s help. George Reid had agreed to set up the workshop in the empty hut in the hospital grounds, and he wished to arrange training for the boys. Manufacturing aircraft precision instruments for the RAF would suit the majority of them, so George thought. The lads needed to be active, to have a purpose, and George had it within his grasp to grant them just that. The sweetener for the boys equated to money. In addition to their RAF pay, George had agreed to remunerate them for their work.

‘So, who’s going to supervise them?’ Blackie asked.

‘They’re sending us one of their head technicians and four female workers to get us started. They have various assembly jobs, though they’re relatively straightforward enough. George said the boys can learn each task in a few hours.’

Blackie seemed doubtful. It was a big step, but Archie had complete faith. ‘If some of them can fly a Spitfire or a bomber, I’m quite sure they can assemble the instruments they’ve been flying with. Besides, it’s going to be excellent therapy for improving hand function and morale and they won’t even realise it.’ Archie knew Blackie could manage, nevertheless, he hated having to take time off in case there were any problems.

At least he’d completed the surgery on Mac’s hands. The boy was as determined as hell to return to his squadron, and it looked as if it might be possible. He’d been incredibly lucky. Archie rubbed his brow. What if he’d left things too late? Visions of an early retirement formed in his mind, and he huffed out a breath.

***

Rainsford was a specialist in this type of hand surgery, but even so, Archie couldn’t disguise his nervousness. ‘There’s really no need to worry. I’ve done this operation before, many times.’ He met Archie’s gaze, and his intense dark eyes flickered.

‘Yes, I know, but not on this hand, and I trust you’ll take extra care. It’s the only thing between the bankruptcy courts and me.’ Archie sank down in the leather wing chair in Rainsford’s office.

Rainsford chuckled. Archie trusted him to do his best, but was it going to be enough? He could kick himself. What a fool to keep putting this off, particularly since his own self-diagnosis had been spot on. He was determined not to lose everything he’d worked so hard for. He always told his patients the truth, and his own words echoed in his head. ‘We’ll fix you up.’ Yes, he always said that, and it was true, although how much a man could be fixed varied widely, depending on his injuries. He hoped to God that his hand could be fixed.

This was how his boys must have felt when meeting him for the very first time, clinging to his words as if they were a lifeline, desperately clawing at each syllable to save them and make everything right once more. To make them well enough so they could fly again. Flying was their life; just as plastic surgery was his. Oh, how the tide had turned . Archie swallowed.

Tomorrow was the day of reckoning. The seventh of July. The day that determined whether his career would be saved or ruined. He was in a precarious position and unused to placing himself in the hands of another. His fate rested with Rainsford, and as reality quickly sunk in, the loss of power and control was unsettling, and he was like a cornered animal, trapped with nowhere to run. Now it was his time to learn to trust another; to lean on a colleague; to take a leap of faith.

***

The air raid siren whined over East Grinstead, an eerie, echoing wail resonating throughout the town. Mac checked his watch. Five o’clock. He glanced at Pete as the nurses halted in their tracks and Bea ran to the window. Stella. She’d left about an hour ago, saying that a walk to the station would do her good. His stomach turned ice-cold, and he swallowed.

‘They’re running to the shelters.’ Bea’s voice was edged with anguish.

‘Keep calm, nurse.’ Sister Jamieson stood like a rod of iron; her thin lips pursed.

‘Probably a false alarm again.’ Pete cast a glance at Mac. ‘Don’t look so worried. It’s always a false alarm.’ He looked at the cards in his hand, then placed them down on the table. ‘Full house, boys,’ he proudly proclaimed, a smug grin forming on his lips.

‘Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me, not again.’ Mac flung his cards onto the table, and they splayed out. He glanced over at Bea and an icy chill gripped his shoulders. False alarm or not, he wouldn’t be happy until he knew Stella was home and safe. The sirens persisted. A few minutes later, a low distant rumble filtered in, creeping nearer, growing mightier. The boys rushed to the windows and looked out as the rumble transcended into a thundering drone.

‘That’s not one of ours.’ Pete pointed to the dark outline of a large aircraft.

‘Hell no. It’s a Jerry.’ A lone Dornier circled low above the small town, a black and white cross on its fuselage. ‘And I think its bomb bay doors are open.’ Seconds later, dark shapes plummeted from its belly. Tremors from the explosion rumbled beneath them, and the glass rattled in the window frames.

‘Mother of Mary, that’s in the town centre! There’ll be people shopping.’ Bea turned to face Sister Smith, her eyes wide, lifting her hand to her mouth. ‘The Friday matinee’s on at the Whitehall. They’ll wipe them out.’ She was trembling, and her face paled as she spoke.

‘Nurse, pull yourself together. You may be needed later.’ Sister Jamieson seemed to falter too as she watched from the window, wringing her hands tightly, her mouth gaping. The Dornier circled around as plumes of black, thick smoke billowed with fury into the sky. No doubt the pilot had scored a direct hit.

‘Jerry’s coming round again. Lord, I bet they’re firing at people in the streets.’ Pete glanced at Mac.

A surge of adrenaline pumped through Mac’s veins and his heart raced. ‘Stella.’

‘She’ll be fine, Mac. She’s probably caught the train by now.’ Pete didn’t look convinced.

‘That’s what I’m worried about. That’s the station over there.’ Mac sucked in a breath.

Whatever damage the Dornier had done was now over as it turned and headed out towards the Channel. Mac rushed to his bed and grabbed his tunic jacket. He recalled all the missions he’d flown, all the bombs they’d dropped, and wondered how many innocent people had fallen. A lump rose in his throat.

‘Wait up, Mac. I’m coming with you,’ Pete said.

***

The sirens caught her off-guard. Her heart pounded against her ribcage and the breath hitched in her throat. She’d much rather be with Mac until the all-clear, but she didn’t have time to turn back now. In London Road, a small trickle of people, mainly children, filed out of the Whitehall Cinema. Others hurried off up the road and Stella followed behind, assuming they were headed for the nearest shelter. An ARP warden rushed towards them, his face beetroot red beneath his black tin hat, his breathing hard.

‘Come along, now. Hurry up, love. Off to the shelter with you.’ He pointed up the road, the way everyone was headed, and Stella nodded and carried on.

The droning sound of an aircraft cut in and grew steadily louder. At the end of the road, out of nowhere, there was a flash of khaki as someone lunged at her and a man’s voice yelled, ‘Get down!’ Dragged to the ground, Stella twisted her ankle and cried out. She wasn’t sure whether the soldier now lying partially over her was American or Canadian, but he didn’t sound British. His tunic jacket brushed her mouth, and a mix of stale cigarettes and cologne drifted beneath her nose. The drone of the engines grew into a roar, and the thrum juddered through Stella’s body. She froze. It wasn’t one of theirs, and an icy prickle crept up the back of her legs as she turned her face to the sky. The dark shape loomed low. Her mouth gaped as bombs fell from its belly and the soldier stared into her eyes.

‘Keep your head down, ma’am.’ His eyes bulged from his reddened face, and his weight pressed down on her chest, squashing her lungs, and she snatched breaths. She stiffened and steadied herself for the impact. An ear-splitting crump roared all around, and the ground shook beneath her as debris fell about them, some of which showered her, and something sharp hit her head, grazing her skin. Her stomach churned. The soldier raised his head briefly, then tightened his grip on her and positioned himself over her chest and face, shielding her further. More crashes thundered, more ear-splitting booms and she tasted dust and grime, and the acrid smell of smoke wafted in the air. A dark shadow slithered across them as the aircraft sailed overhead. The soldier sprang to his feet, and Stella heaved in a deep breath as her lungs sighed with relief.

‘I don’t think he’s leaving us just yet. He’s coming about again. Stay down, ma’am.’ He crouched low.

Stella raised her chin as the aircraft made a sweeping turn in the distance. Several people stood in the street, their faces turned upward, and a young boy crossed the road, his clothes grey with dust, his eyes filled with fear, locking onto hers. As the aircraft approached once more, it flew low enough for her to glimpse the gunner aiming his machine gun at the people in the street.

‘Dear, God, no.’ Her body trembled as her teeth chattered and her saviour gripped her tight.

‘It’s okay. He’s done his worst now.’

His voice was all she could hear before her ears popped and the siren cut in along with the screams and cries of people, and the mighty roar and crackle of flames. The soldier helped her sit up. Her knees were bloodied patches, her stockings ripped. Her uniform was grey with dust, and something wet trickled down her cheek. She raised a hand to it and glanced at her fingertips, now streaked crimson.

‘Best not do that, ma’am. Here you go.’ He took a handkerchief and pressed it to her temple. ‘Hold it there and keep the pressure on.’ He smiled warmly. ‘What’s your name?’

Her teeth chattered so much she could hardly get the words out. ‘Stella,’ she managed at last.

‘Well, Stella. I’m Dan. Let’s see if we can get you on your feet.’ He put his arms around her and helped her up to stand, but as soon as she put any weight on her foot, a searing pain shot through her ankle, and she cried out.

‘Do you mind if I take a look?’ He crouched down on the ground, with one hand on her injured foot.

She nodded. His brown hair was flecked with grey dust, which also crested his long eyelashes.

‘Well, it’s a little swollen and bruised I’d say, although I don’t think it’s broken. Wait here. I’ll go and get help.’ He pulled off his tunic jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders before he left.

A coppery tang swirled in her mouth, and she ran her tongue over her lips and swallowed. As she waited, she realised she was just around the corner from what she imagined to be a horrendous sight, where the bombs had fallen. The cinema. Oh, Lord, she hoped everyone had got out. The people in the street. The boy. No. Oh dear God, no. She turned to look and saw a small body lying on the opposite side of the road, unmoving, the breeze ruffling his white, blond hair. A sob escaped from her mouth, and tears sprung to her eyes and slipped down her face. What about the hospital and Mac? Oh please, let them be all right .

The minutes ticked by, and she began to wonder if Dan was ever coming back, and bile rose in her throat as she wrestled with the urge to be sick. Her head was muzzy and hundreds of white dots floated in front of her eyes. She lay the jacket on the ground and gently lay down on her side as she took deep breaths.

Next thing she knew, a warm hand was shaking her by the arm, and she opened her eyes.

‘Stella, are you okay?’

Her heart skipped a beat as Mac crouched down beside her.

‘It’s okay, honey. You’re gonna be fine.’ He took her hand in his, lightly squeezing it. ‘We’ll get you to the hospital.’

Thank goodness her teeth had ceased chattering. She wanted to speak, and tried to open her mouth, yet the words wouldn’t come, but at least Mac was here, and he was safe. He’d take care of her now. Her eyelids lowered.

‘Stella, stay awake. You listen to me now. Don’t go to sleep.’

Her eyelids fluttered and she strained to lift them, peering out of narrow slits, but she couldn’t hold them any longer. Her last thought was of the young boy killed in the raid, and her heart contracted as she slipped into darkness.

***

Someone stroked her hand, then a finger brushed her brow. Voices reached her through the darkness. A sudden clang, a trolley rattled, and she jumped.

‘I think she’s coming around. Stella?’

Mac’s voice. Warm, soft like velvet. She turned her head and winced as a sharp pain fired through her left temple, making her head throb. She moved her legs; a pain jolted through her right ankle, and she groaned. Her eyelids fluttered half-open, and a fuzzy face slowly came into focus.

‘Mac.’ Her mouth was dry, gritty, and tasted of dust. She licked her lips.

‘Hey, you had me worried back there.’ He leaned in and kissed her cheek.

‘You’re all right. Thank, God,’ she muttered, her eyes closing.

‘Yeah, it was just the town that got hit. You had a lucky escape.’ He stroked her cheek with his finger. ‘You’ve got a sprained ankle and concussion. Something must have hit you on the head.’

That explained why her head was banging. ‘Where am I?’

‘At the Queen Victoria Hospital. I think we’re stuck with you for now. You need to rest.’

‘Thanks, you certainly have a way with words.’ She wrenched an eye open. He was grinning at her, but his eyes were dark, his face pale and drawn. ‘What time is it?’

‘It’s late, almost eleven o’clock.’

Goodness, the last time she’d looked it was just past five o’clock. She must have blacked out. Her body trembled, and her teeth began to chatter again. ‘You’re tired, Mac. Go and get some rest.’

‘I’m never leaving you again. Jeez, I could have lost you today.’ He gripped her hand in his.

She rested her head back as she tried to recall what had happened. The German pilot had flown quite low on the second pass, and she’d seen the outline of the gunner. ‘Those people, all those people on the road. ‘He . . . he murdered them.’

‘Shh, don’t talk, honey. The doc said you have to rest.’

She released a sob. ‘I saw them. They had nowhere to run.’

The boy . Just a little boy and he’d crumpled before her eyes as the bullets rained down. She shielded her eyes with her hand as she sobbed, and Mac drew her into his arms and held her close. Her chest ached as the boy’s face flashed in her mind, his open mouth and his innocent, wide eyes.

This was what they were fighting. Men who could be so ruthless and inhumane. They had to be stopped. She swallowed and raised her chin, meeting Mac’s gaze. His eyes had seen men cut down too, and he relived those moments with every breath, yet he was determined to do all he could to fight the tyranny that threatened them.

It was either them or us , and she squeezed her eyes shut.